Black at Heart

by Leslie Parrish

  You know why.

  She tried to ignore that little voice as she showered late Sunday afternoon. Just as she'd been ignoring it all weekend. But she couldn't fool herself forever.

  She knew.

  In recent months, Wyatt had consoled her and lent her a strong arm. He'd carried her; he'd shielded her. Recently, he'd even begun to verbally spar with her, acknowledging-as Brandon would not-that Lily was strong enough to take it. And, in fact, wanted it.

  But then he had pulled her onto his lap Friday when she'd nearly broken down. He had held her close, letting her feel his hard, muscular form, smell the warm aroma of his skin, even share every breath because their mouths were so close. During that unexpected encounter, everything had changed. Everything.

  It was probably a good thing she had recognized the voice on the tape at just that moment, for any number of reasons. One of which was that her leaping to her feet in shock had prevented her from doing something crazy. Like, oh, wrapping her arms around his neck, sinking her hands into his thick, dark hair, and tugging his mouth to hers for a crazy-hot kiss that she had fantasized about since she'd first set eyes on his strong mouth.

  She'd been fooling herself the other morning, thinking she could ignore the sexual attraction she felt toward the man, or think about it rationally, coolly, and decide if she wanted to act on it. Because there had been nothing rational or cool in that long, intimate moment. And while it had started as an embrace of comfort, she'd known, somehow, that his awareness had been as strong as her own.

  Never in her former life had Lily believed she had a chance with Wyatt Blackstone. Never had she imagined him looking at her with dark blue eyes made darker with want. Yet in that one single moment, when she'd lifted her head and met his stare head-on, she'd seen that want. Maybe even had that chance.

  It had scared the hell out of her. Though she didn't believe there was much that could surprise Wyatt Black-stone, she suspected it had even taken him off guard.

  He wasn't supposed to lust after wounded, innocent little Lily. He'd been so careful around her since Friday afternoon. Watching her closely, yet not coming close. Offering his support, yet never touching her. Providing a comforting presence without really being wholly present, at least not mentally. Because his thoughts were guarded, somewhere far away, and he wouldn't reveal, by word or expression, what he was really thinking.

  Part of her was glad he was holding back, acting as if it hadn't happened. Another part wanted to grab him and demand that he look at her like that at least one more time before he left.

  "Maybe you'll get your shot," she whispered as she got out of the shower and dried off. Because, almost against her own better judgment, she had agreed to go out to dinner with him tonight. Not on any kind of a date, of course. He just wanted to drag her out into the world, away from the beach house for a little while, and knew shed be more likely to go sit down at a restaurant if a familiar face was across from her.

  It was her first step into some semblance of a social life since before last January. The first meal she'd eat in a restaurant since she and Jackie had gone out to lunch a few days before the attack.

  She was nervous. Her hand actually shook as she tried to apply a little of the makeup she'd picked up at the local general store but had never even opened. She'd bought it thinking she might try to disguise the scars around her ear. Not out of vanity, but to make herself less recognizable as someone who'd been shot in the head. Now that her hair had grown in, though, she didn't need to. Yet she still put a little foundation on her face to even out her tan lines and a swipe of mascara across her lashes to make them look a little prettier despite the drab brown contact lenses.

  When she was finished, and looked in the mirror, she saw the woman the world would see. Relief flowed through her. Compact and slender, with her short, dark hair, dark eyes, and serious set to her mouth, she looked nothing like her old self. While it should have been a little disconcerting to see a stranger staring back at her, she liked the feeling.

  Lily felt… anonymous. Free. Confident enough that no one would know her, she was almost looking forward to going out in the world for one evening to try to forget about everything else.

  Maybe she'd be this way forever. Maybe she'd never go back to her old life. She could stay dark-haired and dark-eyed and tough. Could leave here and go prowl the world, seeing what it had to offer, no longer marked by the sadness or the violence of her past.

  Then she thought of Wyatt and Brandon, and everything they'd done for her. She thought of Jackie, of Dean, Kyle, and Alec. They had been more than her coworkers; they had been her friends. They had mourned her. Grieved for her.

  When she did decide to return to the real world, every one of them deserved the chance to tell her to go to hell for what she'd put them through.

  She frowned at her reflection, then turned away. The guilt over keeping her survival hidden from people who cared about her was another heavy weight, one she knew she had to get off her back someday. After that, though, all bets were off Unless somebody gave her a better alternative, she would be free to go out and live whatever life she chose for herself. It was almost something to look forward to, though as recently as a few days ago, she hadn't been able to fathom it.

  What, she wondered, had prompted it? Their breakthrough in the case, knowing they might soon find the man who'd taken her? Or Wyatt's presence? Maybe it had been the realization that whether he wanted to admit it or not, there was something between them, something far more than friendship or gratitude.

  Heading downstairs promptly at six, as promised, she managed not to trip over her own feet on the bottom step as she saw Wyatt waiting for her. Damn, did the man really have to go and put on one of those perfectly tailored suits? In her long, flowing skirt, formfitting tank top, and cropped sweater, she was in no way a match for his elegance.

  "Good," he said, nodding approvingly.

  Not "You look good," she noted. He wasn't complimenting her looks. Just her disguise.

  Typical man.

  "Gee, thanks so much."

  One of his brows quirked at her sarcastic tone. He didn't even realize what she might have wanted to hear from him. And she wasn't about to explain it.

  "We really don't have to do this," she insisted as he retrieved her jacket and came over to help her put it on, the movement so graceful, so Wyatt, she wondered why more men didn't realize the appeal of such basic gentlemanly actions.

  "Yes, we do," he murmured. "Don't tell me you're not exploding with frustration about this wait, because I know you are. And so am I. So let's just go out and try to be normal for the night. All the rest will still be here in the morning."

  She nodded slowly, appreciating the thought, even if his words made it eminently clear this was in no way any kind of date.

  You knew that already, dimwit. She just had to keep reminding herself of that fact. Wyatt wasn't ready to even consider letting their relationship turn into anything other than friendship.

  Even if she knew, deep down, that a part of him wanted to.

  It didn't prove an easy task. As she sat by his side in the car, breathing in the fragrance that was uniquely Wyatt, listening to the soft strains of jazz coming from the car speakers, it was hard to remember this was just a way to kill some time. Arriving at a small oceanfront restaurant a couple of towns away and being seated at an intimate corner table, with chairs placed side by side, rather than across from each other, made it even harder.

  Obviously the seating was designed with the beach view in mind. And it was glorious, watching the purple shades and shadows of twilight begin to descend over the sand and the surf. Under other circumstances, she might be grateful for it. It was hard to be grateful, however, when with every move he made, his trousers brushed her bare calf, or his arm the tips of her fingers.

  By the time their appetizer was delivered, she was actually shaking a little in her seat.

  "What's wrong?" he asked, waiting until the flirty waitress, who'd b
een much more interested in taking Wyatt's order than hers, had moved out of earshot.

  "Nothing. I'm just a little edgy. This isn't easy for me."

  "You're going to have to get used to it sooner or later, aren't you?"

  "To going out to dinner with you?" she asked, the words popping out of her mouth in old-Lily fashion before she could stop them.

  He didn't acknowledge how that must have sounded-like a hint that she wanted this to be more than a simple dinner between friends. Thank God.

  "I meant, you have to get used to being out in the world. Doing such normal things as going out to a restaurant."

  Before, her words had been impulsive, nervous. Now I she put a little thought into them. And still she had to ask, "Going on dates, you mean?"

  She wondered if he'd be able to maintain that cool, impassive front. She shouldn't have. As always, he kept his emotions, his reactions, entirely in check, as if he was so accustomed to guarding them, he couldn't be surprised by anything or anyone.

  "Going anywhere," he told her. His faint smile emphasized the strong curve of his lips and the sparkle in his beautiful eyes. "Not that I think you ever lacked for dates."

  "You might be surprised," she admitted wryly as she reached for a breadstick and snapped it in half. She twirled one half in her fingers, as if it were a big, fat cigarette, and suddenly realized she hadn't even had the urge to look for her lone pack since the night he had arrived.

  "I know things had been pretty bad for a while. But before that, you must have had some sort of personal life. Friends, relationships. Something resembling normal."

  "Do you have anything resembling normal?" she shot back, almost in challenge.

  He hesitated: then the smile widened. "Touche."

  "I don't think it's entirely possible in our line of work," she said, half-glad Wyatt had just admitted he didn't date and hadn't had any recent relationships. Half-sad for the very same reasons, because it confirmed what she'd known about him from the very start: that he was a loner, an enigma wrapped in secrets, surrounded by mystery, and almost untouchable by anyone he didn't invite to get close.

  She had once wanted to get close. Very close. Emotionally, anyway.

  Now she wanted to get even closer. Not emotionally- Lily wasn't about to get her feelings tangled up in anything anytime soon. But physically? Yes. She'd been thinking about it for months and Friday had confirmed it. She wanted Wyatt Blackstone. And if she thought he'd say yes, she'd ask him to take her back to the house right now and spend the rest of the weekend in her bed.

  But he wouldn't say yes. Of that she had no doubt.

  Despite the self-realization, for the next hour, she somehow managed to act normal. Nibble on the bread-stick, sip her glass of wine. Chat lightly, actually laughing a few times when he made one of his dry observations about the not exactly four-star food and service.

  In fact, once she allowed herself to acknowledge the truth about what she wanted-even knowing she'd never get it-she actually managed to let her guard down and start to enjoy herself. Almost enough to imagine this was just a normal dinner date, and they were a normal man and woman.

  "You can't tell me there was no one."

  The sudden change in subject confused her. They'd just been talking about the way the chef must have stock in Old Bay seasoning, since he used it with all the subtlety and lightness of a road crew spreading salt after an ice storm. So at first she didn't follow. "Huh?"

  "Before."

  Before.

  "You haven't been alone your entire life."

  Oh, hell, they were back to personal talk about romance and relationships. Food, bad cooks, spices, and road salt she could deal with; they could cover those subjects all night long. Sex? No way, no how.

  "You have been in love, haven't you? Isn't that something you want for yourself again? "

  The quiet tone didn't disguise the piercing curiosity in his eyes. It was as if all this time, all this light conversation, had merely been the camouflage he'd used to creep in under her defenses, so they could get right back where they'd been an hour ago.

  "You're good," she said, shaking her head ruefully.

  "So they say." Wyatt was never cocky, only confident. So the words that could have sounded wrong coming from another type of man sounded sexy and absolutely right from him.

  He lifted his drink, sipping the martini, watching her over the rim of the glass.

  "I've been in love," she admitted with a shrug. "Or in very strong like."

  "What happened?"

  "He didn't appreciate being with a woman who carried a gun."

  He laughed softly. "Terrified him, did you?"

  It was rather funny. Before this year, she'd fired that weapon only during her bureau training and never removed it from its holster once in the line of duty. "I guess so. I'm terribly intimidating, you know." With an impish grin, she added, "Or so they say."

  His amusement didn't quite reach his eyes. "Didn't he know you were an office nerd, and couldn't hurt a fly?"

  "You wound me."

  "Just stating the obvious."

  "You think you know me so well?"

  His voice intense, thick, he replied, "I hope I do."

  Maybe he did. A year ago, she would have agreed with his assessment. Now, though? Well, she couldn't be entirely sure of who she was anymore. "I guess you never know what you're capable of until you're in the heat of the moment."

  "Heat, yes." He leaned closer over the table. "In the white heat of danger or passion, I believe, anyone is capable of anything."

  She swallowed hard, ignoring the word passion, focusing on the other. "Exactly. In danger, would I pull out that weapon and use it on someone?"

  He waited for her to continue.

  "You're damn right I would."

  "And were you not in danger?"

  She knew what he was asking, where he was going. Wyatt was still carefully dancing around the whole idea of vengeance. Her going after the man who'd attacked her and getting even in the most violent way possible.

  Part of her wanted to lie, to be the kick-ass woman she'd told herself she'd become. But she couldn't. Not to him. Not convincingly, anyway. "No," she admitted. "I couldn't kill someone in cold blood."

  "Even someone vile? Someone you hated?"

  Like she hated Lovesprettyboys? "I wouldn't cry if someone else did it. But no. Not even then. Taking a life is something I simply couldn't do unless I were forced into it. Not even a villain's. Certainly not someone innocent."

  "Taking a life is a very difficult, ugly thing to do. Even if it's your own," he murmured, so softly, so calmly, she at first thought she had misheard him.

  Lily's heart splintered with the pain that suddenly stabbed into it. That was one hell of a low blow.

  She drew in a deep, even breath, not trusting herself to reply. Which was good. Because she almost immediately thought about his words and realized why he'd said them.

  Wyatt would never cause her pain intentionally-she knew that with every cell in her body. He wasn't throwing her sister's suicide in her face. He was simply forcing her to baldly acknowledge what she had only admitted in the utmost silence of the night, in her own head.

  He knew. Somehow, he knew the secret feelings she'd tried so hard to repress. The bitterness. The anger. The fury.

  "Suicide is a contemptible act," she finally replied.

  "Yes, it is."

  "Hateful and cruel. Almost unforgivable."

  Not that she hadn't forgiven her sister. She had. That didn't mean she hadn't cursed her twin almost as much as she'd cried over her in those first few months, when she'd wondered why Laura had left her alone in this world. Entirely alone to grieve all of them.

  "I know," he admitted, something in his voice clueing her in that he meant it. He knew.

  As if he also knew they'd both gone far afield from their original conversation, he managed to move them back on the normal path with a noncommittal shrug and a sip of his drink. "Okay, tough girl.
We have the gun-hating wimp. Who else?"

  Though glad he'd changed the subject, she couldn't help frowning at the description. It was a little too accurate. "I didn't date only wimps."

  "You don't seem like the football-jock type."

  "Hardly," she said with a forced shudder.

  No, she'd been the brainiac type. The kind who'd always had a thing for men who were smart enough to know they didn't need to rely on brawn.

  Maybe that was why she'd always been a little infatuated by this one. The thought made her think twice before continuing. The conversation was a little too getting-to-know-each-other-on-a-first-date-ish for comfort.

  "You know, if I'm going to answer these kinds of questions, you're going to have to as well."

  "I'm not the one who's scared to return to her real life."

  Her jaw dropped. "Scared? Excuse me?"

  "Not that you don't have reason to be scared, obviously; you went through a lot and you could still be in danger." He shook his head slowly. "But it's more than that, isn't it? This whole situation, as ugly as it's been, has been a perfect excuse for you to hide away, protecting yourself physically, but also protecting your emotions." His voice almost hypnotic, he went on. "Safe from grief, from heartache. From risks and expectations."

  She swallowed hard, responses spinning in her mind, so many she couldn't settle on just one. He was wrong. He was right. He was rude. He was sympathetic. He was intrusive. He was intuitive. He was keeping her off balance, unsure what he'd say next, what he'd ask next, relentlessly battering at her defenses to get her to admit everything he wanted her to acknowledge.

  She should feel manipulated. She didn't. Instead, she could feel only a strange sense of relief at finally having someone to admit it to. The truth about how she felt.

  He was that someone. He had been that someone for a very long time. "Yes."