Parker's Passion

by York, Sabrina

  With a gust, Kaitlin stood and made her way to the back of the bar, where her instincts told her Tara had gone. She checked in the ladies room and listened at the door of the men’s room—just in case—but there was no one. Nothing. The only other doors were the one to the broom closet—also empty—and the rear exit.

  She pushed open the door and the brine-scented breeze teased her nostrils. With it, a hint of Tara’s perfume. She’d come out here.

  Kaitlin stepped into the shadows and let the door close behind her, and then closed her eyes and trained her attention on the patterns swirling around her.

  The taste of old beer and rotting trash from the dumpster filled her senses and she dismissed it. A small critter, scurrying through the gloom—also not what she was looking for.

  And then she caught it. A tendril of Tara. Tara twined with a male energy. Devlin. Tara kissing him, teasing him. Rising lust. And—

  Oh Tara!

  Some mix of dismay and amusement rushed through her as she realized what had happened here. And that Tara had taken what she wanted, and left. Returned to the house, clutching her trophy.

  Good gravy. She could have said something. Now Kaitlin would have to make her way back to the house alo—

  A sound. A movement. A new presence buffeted her.

  She’d been so focused on her hunt, she hadn’t realized she was no longer alone.

  With a gasp, she whirled to face this threat. But she knew who she’d see. She’d recognized his psychic odor.

  He laughed and stepped out of the shadows, the disturbing guy with the ascot, now askew. The sound skittered on the breeze, low and malevolent. He stumbled a bit as the door closed behind him. “Well, well, well,” he murmured. “What have we here?”

  A memory swamped her. Clawing hands. Hot, wet mouths. Grasping fingers. Sizzling pain. Panic. Her lungs seized and she fought for breath. It came out in short pants. Her skin went cold, then hot, then clammy. She took a step back and scanned the dingy alley for a weapon.

  She’d taken self defense classes after that dreadful experience in college, but she was very small and he was large. And he was drunk and he had the vigor of a rampant bull. A horny bull. Quickly, she reviewed her options.

  Thumbs to the eyes.

  Heel of the palm to the throat.

  Knee to the groin.

  He lunged.

  She danced away, but blinded by her terror, she banged into the hard metal dumpster. A sharp twinge shot through her wrist and she cried out. She whirled to the left. If she could get into the open alley, she could run. He was drunk and he was big and lumbering. She could outrun him.

  But before she could sprint, his hands closed harshly on her arm, and he yanked her around. His eyes, already piggy, narrowed even more. His damp, thick lips curled. “Come here,” he growled.

  She didn’t. She fought him, a wild thing, scratching and clawing and thrashing in his hold. His grip tightened. He snarled and flung her around, slamming her into the brick wall of the bar.

  She hit hard, and the blow stunned her. She wheezed and struggled for breath, overcome with the pain—the pain of the impact yes, but the pain of his touch as well.

  It was always like this when men touched her. Screaming agony as their thoughts, their memories, their intentions clogged her senses. It was too much. Too much. She couldn’t. She couldn’t—

  And then—ah, God—he whipped her around and pushed up against her fully, sealing them together from chest to groin. The sour stench of his breath and his sweat surrounded her like a cloud. His heat singed her. He pinned her to the cold, hard wall, grabbed her breast, and squeezed.

  “No,” she cried. No!

  “Shut up,” he snarled, fiddling between them. With horror she realized he was unsnapping her jeans.

  Her knee jerked up but she hit his thigh and he laughed, a low chuckle. “Oh, yeah,” he whispered, a pernicious rush. “I like a fighter.”

  He was utterly focused on her. He didn’t hear the door open. Didn’t feel the ferocious force swelling up behind him. Didn’t taste the danger.

  She did.

  She steeled herself for the onslaught.

  “Leave her alone,” an incensed voice snarled.

  It washed through her consciousness, percolating to the depths of her memory, scudding back to that night. She remembered his voice, of course. Though she’d only heard him say three words. Just those three words, growled in a dark tone. Burned on her memory.

  Leave her alone.

  He’d saved her that long ago night with those three words—saved her from God knows what. The boys in that back room had taken one glance at him and scattered.

  He’d saved her that night, and he would save her again.

  Hard hands ripped her assailant away and spun him around. A fist to the gut landed with a heavy thud. A grunt. A wheeze. The rampant bull deflated, dropped to his knees and then collapsed on the filthy cement.

  Parker stood over him, his fists on his hips, his features tight. “God damn it, Richie,” he muttered. And then he turned to Kaitlin. Held out a hand. “Are you all right?”

  She opened her mouth to respond, but couldn’t. Her muscles locked. Her body shook. She teetered, but he caught her.

  The familiar pain engulfed her at his touch, burned through her soul as she tasted his darkness. But then it changed. Warmed. Became something else. Something, gentle and sweet.

  She nestled into his arms, relieved when he wrapped them around her like a blanket.

  Oh, what heaven, the luxury of a touch after a lifetime of denial. She searched for discomfort. There was none. Well, there was some discomfort, but it was different. A dull ache…for more. Hunger, perhaps.

  The realization stunned her. She stared up at him in wonder. His face was, as she remembered it, painfully handsome. Sharp features and wide gray eyes. His cheeks were high, his lips beautifully shaped and his nose, a strong blade. There was a U-shaped scar on his left cheek. His chin was square and had an off-center dent. His shoulders were broad and his neck muscled. A birthmark rose on the left side of it, above the neck of his shirt. And heavens, he was tall.

  “Are you okay?” he repeated.

  She nodded, a jerky bob of her head, but clung to him. He was so…comfortable.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.” Oh yes. She’d never felt better.

  Chapter Three

  Shit.

  Parker’s hand hurt like hell. But goddamn Richie. God damn him for what he’d done. He’d scared her half to death. When she looked up at him, her eyes wide and filled with tears, he wanted to storm over there and pound on him some more.

  She was fragile, tiny and shivering with reaction. It made his heart ache. It reminded him of another woman. Slight and defenseless against a brawny man’s meaty fists—

  Fucking Asshole. Yeah, he was drunk. But that was no fucking excuse for this.

  He tightened his hold on her, ignoring how right it felt having her in his arms. His headache had disappeared altogether—probably the aftereffect of the adrenaline coursing through his system at the sight of Richie pinning this woman against the wall and mauling her. His woman. His—

  Shit. She wasn’t his. Wasn’t his anything.

  But she was shaken, possibly in shock. He couldn’t just leave her here alone. “Let me walk you home,” he said.

  Her head snapped up. Her lips parted. He was possessed of the crazy urge to cover them with his. To soothe her, comfort her with his body. He thrust it away.

  No. He’d already decided this was the kind of woman he needed to avoid. Besides which, the last thing she’d want right now was some other man assaulting her. Gently, resolutely, he set her back, waiting until she found her balance before releasing her.

  “You-you don’t have to do that. I can go myself.”

  Everything in him quailed at her rebuff. First, he didn’t want to let her go. On the most basic level he couldn’t tolerate the thought of watching her walk away. Second of all, she wa
s still trembling like a leaf. It wouldn’t be right to just leave her here.

  “It’s okay.” He cleared his throat as something rose up to clog it. “I won’t hurt you.”

  Her eyes widened and she snorted something that might have been a laugh.

  “I’m Parker.” He thrust out a hand. A friendly gesture. Perhaps the incongruous normality of it would convince her to trust him.

  She stared at his hand. He was certain she was going to ignore it when slowly, she slipped hers into his. The rush of elation at that simple touch, two palms kissing, was devastating. And absurd.

  It was just a fleeting touch. It should not feel so good. Should not fill him, body and soul with such…peace.

  But it did.

  “I’m Kaitlin,” she whispered. Her voice was melodic, as lyrical as the rest of her. She seemed not of this world in that moment, like a mythological creature come to life. A siren perhaps.

  Kaitlin.

  He pressed back the urge to kiss her as it rose once more.

  “Let me walk you home.”

  “I’m sure it’s fine now.” She glanced down at Richie’s groaning form.

  Parker hadn’t hit him that hard; it was probably the alcohol that had done him in. “Of course it is. But I won’t rest tonight until I know you are home safe.” He held out an arm, like a gentleman of old—which was ridiculous because there was not an ounce of chivalry in his makeup. He was a divorce attorney, for Christ’s sake.

  He ignored the gratification rushing through him when she set her hand on his arm and followed him back into the bar. The noise of the place slammed into him and he winced. It hadn’t bothered him before, but this altercation with Richie had frazzled his nerves. He noticed she winced too, so he put his arm around her slight shoulders, reveling in how damn good that felt, and headed for the door.

  He paused as he came even with the waitress and tipped his head toward the back door. “There’s a mess out there,” he said.

  She rolled her eyes and muttered, “Not again.”

  “You’d…better send Darby,” he suggested with a meaningful look. She glanced at Kaitlin, who was still shaken, and nodded, heading for the beefy bartender. Darby didn’t take shit from anyone; he’d probably been in a brawl or two in his life. No doubt he was used to managing recalcitrant drunks.

  Without further delay, Parker whisked Kaitlin from the premises.

  The cool evening breeze was a balm as they stepped out into the night. “How are you doing?” he asked when she stumbled.

  She cleared her throat. “I’m fine. Thank you.” She stopped, suddenly, and turned to face him. Something within him ached when she pulled out of his arms, but her eyes were limpid, gorgeous, glinting in the moonlight. He could swim in them. “I mean, thank you.”

  Heat crawled up Parker’s neck. Part of it was a discomfiting wash of bashfulness at the way she gazed at him, as though he were some kind of hero. He wasn’t. But part of it was the gut-churning horror at what could have happened if he hadn’t had the odd compulsion to follow Richie out to the back. “No worries,” he muttered. “So, where are you staying?”

  She pointed to the north, toward the houses along the beach. He nodded and took her arm again and together they strolled up the path. They didn’t speak as they walked. Indeed, Parker couldn’t think of anything to say, which was totally contrary to his nature. He was used to coming up with slick words for every circumstance; uncomfortable situations were his forte.

  But the moment didn’t seem to call for small talk. And oddly enough, they didn’t require it. She stumbled again when they hit a shadowy part of the path and he grabbed for her hand. She froze for a second or two, and then twined her fingers through his.

  Funny. They walked like that. Holding hands. Like lovers. Or something.

  He pushed the thought away.

  They came to Ash’s house and he followed her lead, to the next house, another one of the large mansions along the road. She stopped.

  “This is it,” she said.

  Great. He could spend the rest of the night lying awake in his bed, suffused with the knowledge that she was right next door.

  “Okay.” How he got the word out, he didn’t know.

  She peeped up at him through her lashes and it hit him again, how goddamn beautiful she was.

  “Thank you again,” she whispered, stepping close. Too close. Her scent engulfed him. Her warmth enrobed him. She set her palm on his chest and leaned in and then—God Almighty—pressed her lips to his. Just to the corner of his mouth, not a real kiss at all.

  It slammed through him like a fist to the gut.

  Instinct took over.

  Damn instinct.

  He cupped her cheeks and held her there, then tipped his head, just a bit, and sealed his mouth over hers.

  Jesus. She tasted sweet. So sweet.

  It wasn’t a passionate kiss. No sucking or tangling tongues. No rabid passion. No thrusting. Just a tender touch of lips. He couldn’t bear to step away. If she hadn’t, he’d have probably stood there all night.

  Though she ended the kiss, her palm remained on his chest for a long while. She gazed into his eyes.

  He thought, perhaps, she might kiss him again. Indeed, she swayed closer. Her lips parted. A cricket chirruped to his left. The moment swelled between them.

  But then the screen door of her house slammed open.

  “Hey, Kait?” A low booming voice shattered the fragile web. “Is that you?”

  She leaped away and glanced over her shoulder. “Hey, Drew,” she called. “I’ll be right in.” She shot Parker a crooked smile. It skewered him. “Thank you again,” she said. And then she left.

  He watched her climb the stairs and greet the muscular man at the door with a nod. He glared at Parker over her head and then, with sharp movements, pulled her inside and shut the door with a decisive click.

  Parker stared at the place she’d been. He should probably leave. Make his way back to Ash’s house and throw himself into bed and work on wiping her from his mind.

  But he couldn’t.

  She was stuck in there. In his mind. In his veins. In his soul.

  Damn.

  “Who was that douche canoe?” Drew asked as he herded Kaitlin down the hall into the great room where the others were assembled playing a game of Movie Charades. She barely heard him. Her mind was spinning, her body still shaking a bit with reaction. Odd that it was more of a response to that kiss, than to the attack. Her muscles tightened as she thought of that.

  She couldn’t tell Drew what had happened behind that bar. She couldn’t tell any of them. The guys would go ballistic.

  She called down a white light and allowed it to calm her. It helped that she saw Tara sitting, calm as you please on the stool. Though annoyance trickled through her, she let out a breath. It was a relief to see her safe, especially after the emotional upheaval Kaitlin had been through tonight—

  “Hello? Kait? Who was he?”

  “That was Parker,” she said, ducking into the kitchen to find her stash of chocolate. “He walked me home.”

  Drew’s brow rumpled. “Walked you home?”

  “From Darby’s.”

  His frown became a glower. Drew was like a guard dog sometimes. A guard dog with a bone. That needed guarding. “What were you doing at Darby’s alone?”

  Kaitlin blew out a snort and popped a square of chocolate into her mouth. “I wasn’t alone.”

  Tara caught her eye and winced, mouthing, “Sorry.”

  “You should have texted me. I would have come and got you.”

  “Honestly, Drew. I’m fine. Besides, I didn’t know you were here. When did you get in?”

  He stilled. “Well, just a few minutes ago, but that’s beside the point.”

  She patted him on the arm and moved out of his embrace. It was unnerving, and he had the tendency to cling. She walked to the fridge, though she wasn’t hungry, opened it and stared inside.

  “Can I make you a sandwich?”
he asked.

  She closed the door. “No. I’m not hungry.” She glanced around the room. “Where are Jamie and Emily?”

  Drew shrugged. “They went to bed, I guess. Do you want to play pool?”

  There was a table downstairs. But he didn’t want to play pool. He wanted to spend time alone with her. That was never wise. Besides, pool made her think of Parker again.

  “No. Thanks.” She shot him a smile, which he returned. He was so handsome. Adorable, really. And he was such a sweet soul. She wished she could return his feelings—she was so tired of being alone—but she couldn’t. She just couldn’t.

  A sudden exhaustion swamped her and she yawned. She should go upstairs and tuck in, but she knew if she tried to sleep now, memories of her recent ordeal would surround her like a thick cloak. Instead, she threw herself on the sofa between Holt and Kristi and nibbled more chocolate as she watched Cam acted out a scene from a movie while everyone tried to guess what it was. Drew sat on the other sofa and stared at her.

  The charades were hysterical. Or, at least Kaitlin assumed as much, judging from all the laughter. She wasn’t really paying attention. She was working on her calm, calling on her spirit guides, marshalling that psychic wall she relied on to protect her from a buffeting emotional storm.

  It helped to be surrounded by friends, all of them with positive, healing energy. And after a while, she found herself laughing too as Bella tried to convey Twelve Monkeys, hooting and scratching her pits.

  Kaitlin knew—knew—it was Twelve Monkeys, so she didn’t guess. She never guessed. It wasn’t fair and it was far too much fun watching the others try to figure it out. Besides, the person who guessed correctly had to go next. If Kaitlin guessed, she would get it right; it would always be her turn. And that would be exhausting.

  “Um…Planet of the Apes?” Cam guessed. Bella shook her head.

  “2001: A Space Odyssey,” Kristi crowed. Bella frowned at her and went into conniptions again.

  “9 ½ Weeks.” This from Holt. Everyone groaned. Holt always guessed 9 ½ Weeks. No matter what.

  Bella propped her hands on her hips. “At least try to pay attention,” she muttered.