by Nora Roberts
"I didn't see that."
"I got pictures."
After rubbing a hand over his face, Devin dropped his feet to the floor. Tussling with Joe, slapping cuffs on him, along with a few bruises—in the line of duty— hadn't taken the edge off.
"I had to take her statement, and pictures for evidence, and she sat there looking at me like she was getting beat up all over again. God knows how she'll handle it if she has to go to court and lay it all out."
Abruptly he pushed away from his desk, paced to the window, where he could look out on town. He'd given his word to serve the town, protect its citizens. Not to relieve his own bitter frustrations by pummeling one of them into the ground.
"I gave her the standard lines," he continued. "Therapy, counseling, shelters. And I put just enough pressure on when she started to waffle, so she'd sign the complaint. She just sat there crying, and I felt like scum."
Rafe studied his coffee, frowned. "You still have a thing for her, Dev?"
"That was high school," Devin snapped. With an effort, he uncurled his fist, turned back to his brother.
They might have been twins, with barely a year separating them. The same bold, dark looks, rangy build. Only Devin's eyes were cooler, more like moss than jade. And the scars he carried were on his heart.
"Sure I care about her," he said, calm again. "Hell, Rafe, we've known her all our lives. I've hated watching what he's been doing to her, not being able to stop it. Every time I got called out to their place, every time she had a fresh bruise, she'd just say it was an accident."
"Not this time."
"No, not this time. I sent my deputy with her to get the kids, whatever stuff she needs."
"You know she's going to stay with Regan Bishop."
"She told me." He drained his coffee, went back for more. "Well, she's taken the first step. It's probably the hardest."
Since there was nothing more he could do, Devin sat behind his desk again and put the matter in the corner of his mind. "Speaking of Regan Bishop, word is . you've been sniffing around her."
"There a law against it?"
"If there is, it wouldn't be one you haven't broken before." Devin rose again, rooted through the side drawer of his deputy's desk. He confiscated two candy bars, tossed one to Rafe. "She's not your usual type."
"I'm upgrading my taste."
"'Bout time." Devin bit into chocolate. "Serious?"
"Getting a woman into bed's always serious, bro."
Mumbling an agreement over candy, Devin kicked back again. "So is that all there is?"
"I don't know. But I've got a feeling it'll be a hell of a start." He glanced over and grinned as Regan came through the door.
She stopped short, as any woman might when faced with two gorgeous men smiling at her. "I'm sorry. I'm interrupting."
"No, ma'am." All quiet country charm, Devin unfolded himself and stood. "It's always a pleasure to see you."
Angling his head, Rafe put a hand on Regan's shoulder. "Dibs," he said in a mild warning.
"Excuse me?" Regan stepped back and gaped. "I beg your pardon, but did you just say 'Dibs'?"
"Yeah." Rafe bit off candy, offered her the rest of the bar. When she smacked his hand away, he only shrugged and ate it himself.
"Of all the ridiculous, outrageous— You're a grown man, and you're standing there eating candy and saying 'Dibs' as if I were the last icecream bar in the freezer."
"The way I grew up, it was real important to stake your claim quick." To prove it, he cupped her elbows, lifted her to her toes and kissed her long and hard. "Gotta go," he said, releasing her just as arrogantly. "See you, Dev."
"Yeah." Too wise to let the laugh loose, Devin cleared his throat. Seconds passed, and Regan continued to stare at the door Rafe had slammed at his back. "You want me to go after him, haul him into the back room?"
"Have you got a rubber hose back there?"
"Afraid not. But I broke his finger once, when we were kids. I could probably do it again."
"Never mind." She shook herself. She'd deal with Rafe later, personally. "I came here to see if you'd arrested Joe Dolin."
"So did Rafe."
"I should have known he would."
"Want some coffee, Regan?"
"No, I can't stay. I just came to see if you had, and to ask, since Cassie and the children are going to be staying with me, if there are any precautions I should take."
Quietly he measured her. He'd known her casually for three years, admired her looks, enjoyed a few conversations with her at the cafe or on the street. Now he saw what had attracted his brother. Spine, good sense, compassion.
He wondered if Rafe understood the difference the combination could make in his life.
"Why don't you sit down?" he told her. "We'll go over some things."
Chapter 5
On Monday morning, Regan was up early, a song on her lips. In a few hours, the first furnishings would be delivered to the house on the hill. With her payment deposited, she would dash to an auction in Pennsylvania scheduled for that afternoon.
It would be well worth closing the shop for the day.
She put the coffee on, popped bread into the toaster. Then turned and nearly jumped out of her slippers.
"Oh, Connor." Laughing, she pressed a hand to her speeding heart. "You scared me."
"I'm sorry." The boy was thin, pale, with big eyes the color of shadows. His mother's eyes, Regan thought as she smiled at him.
"It's okay. I didn't know anyone was up. It's early, even for a school day. Want some breakfast?"
"No, thank you."
She bit back a sigh. No eight-year-old boy should be so apologetically polite. She lifted a brow and took out a box of the cereal she'd learned was his favorite. With a wink, she gave it a shake.
"How about joining me for a bowl?"
He smiled then, so sweetly shy it broke her heart. "I guess if you're having some."
"Why don't you get the milk out, put it on the table?" Because it hurt to see how carefully, how deliberately, he performed the simple chore, she made her voice bright. "I heard on the radio we're in for some more snow. Maybe a big one."
She carried out bowls and spoons, set them down. When she lifted a hand to brush it over his tousled hair, he went very still. Cursing Joe Dolin, she kept the smile on her face. "I bet they close school tomorrow."
"I like school," he said then bit his lip.
"I always did, too." Brisk and determinedly cheerful, she breezed into the kitchen again for her coffee. "I never minded a day off now and again, but I really liked school. What's your favorite subject?"
"English class. I like to write things."
"Really? What kind of things?"
"Stories." He hunched his shoulders, looking down. "Just stupid stuff."
"I bet it's not." She could only hope she wasn't making a mistake, moving into territory best left to the experts. But her heart simply moved her hand. She cupped it under Connor's chin and lifted it gently as she sat beside him. "You should be proud. I know your mother's proud of you. She told me you won a prize in your English class for a story you wrote."
"She did?" He was torn between wanting to smile and wanting to let his head drop again. But Regan had her hand on his face. It felt good there, warm. The tears were in his eyes before he could stop them. "She cries at night."
"I know, baby."
"He was always hitting her. I knew it. I could hear them. But I never did anything to stop it. I never did anything to help her."
"You're not to blame." Letting instinct rule, she lifted him onto her lap, cuddling him close. "You're not to blame, Connor. And there was nothing you could have done. But now you and your mother and your little sister are safe. You're all going to look after each other."
"I hate him."
"Shh..." Jolted by how such fierceness could spurt from someone so small, so young, Regan pressed her lips to his hair and rocked.
In the hallway, Cassie stepped back. Torn in a dozen d
ifferent directions, she swayed there a moment, a hand over her mouth. Then she went back into the little spare bedroom to wake her daughter for school.
Regan arrived at the Barlow place just ahead of the van and movers she'd hired. The cheerful noise of construction blasted her the minute she opened the door. Nothing could have lifted her mood higher.
The hallway was draped with tarps and drop cloths. But the spiderwebs and the mustiness were gone. The dust that lay now was fresh, and somehow clean.
She supposed it was a kind of exorcism. Amused by the thought, she studied the stairway. As a kind of test, she walked toward it, started up.
The cold slapped her like a fist, sending her back two steps. She stood, one hand gripping the rail, the other pressed to her stomach as she struggled to get back the breath the icy air had stolen.
"You've got guts," Rafe murmured from behind her.
Though her eyes were still wide in shock, she looked down and met his levelly. "I wondered if it had just been my imagination. How do the laborers go up and down these steps without—?"
"Not everyone feels it. I'd say the ones who do grit their teeth and think about their paycheck." He walked up the steps to take her hand. "How about you?"
"I'd never have believed it if I hadn't experienced it." Without protest, she let him lead her down to the main level. "It should make for some interesting breakfast conversation among the guests, once you're open."
"Darling, I'm counting on it. Give me your coat. We've got the heat for this part of the house up and running." He slipped her coat off himself. "It's on low, but it takes the edge off."
"You're telling me." Pleased that it seemed warm enough to make shivering unnecessary, she flipped back her hair. "What's going on upstairs?"
"A little bit of everything. I'm putting in an extra bath. I want you to dig up one of those claw-foot tubs, a pedestal sink. Reproductions'll do, if you don't have any luck finding originals."
"Give me a few days. Well." She rubbed her hands together, not from cold, but nerves. "Are you going to show me, or do I have to beg?"
"I'm going to show you." He'd been itching to, looking out the window every five minutes to watch for her. But now that she was here, he was nervous. He'd slaved for more than a week, twelve-and four-teen-hour days, to make that one room, that one spot, that one step, perfect.
"I think the paint turned out." Rather than reach for her hand, he tucked his in his pockets and walked into the parlor ahead of her. "It's a nice contrast with the trim and the floor, I think. Had a little trouble with the windows, but I just had to diddle with the framing."
She didn't speak. For a moment, she merely stood in the doorway. Then, quietly, her boots clicking on the floor, she stepped inside.
It gleamed. The tall, elegant windows, with their graceful arches sent sun streaming over the newly polished floor of lovely old pine. The walls were a deep, warm blue against creamy carved trim in the most delicate of ivories.
He'd turned the window seat into a charming alcove, scrubbed the marble on the fireplace until it shone like glass. The molding along the ceiling bloomed with delicately carved florets that had been smothered and choked by the grime of decades.
"It needs furniture, drapes, and that mirror you picked out for over the mantel." He wished she would say something, anything. "I have to replace the pocket doors, yet." Scowling, he jammed his hands deeper into his pocket. "Well, what's the problem? Did I miss some vital, authentic detail?"
"It's absolutely wonderful." Enchanted, she ran a finger down the glossy trim of a window. "Absolutely perfect. I didn't realize you were this good." With a quick laugh, she glanced back at him. "That wasn't meant as an insult."
"It wasn't taken as one. I was pretty surprised myself, the first time I realized I had a talent for putting something together."
"It's more than that. It's bringing something to life. You must be proud."
He was, he realized, moved, and just a little embarrassed. "It's a job. Hammer and nails and a good eye."
She angled her head, and he watched the sun beam through the window and glow golden on her hair. His mouth watered, then went bone dry.
"You're the last man I'd expect to be modest about anything. You must have killed yourself to get so much accomplished in so little time."
"It was mostly cosmetic in here."
"You've done something," she murmured, and looked around, turning a slow, graceful circle. "You've really done something."
Before he could comment, she was on her hands and knees, running her hands over the floor.
"It's like glass." She all but crooned over the golden planks. "Oh, look at the grain in this wood! What did you use? How many coats?" When he didn't answer, she tossed her head and sat back on her heels. The dazzled smile faded when he only stared at her. "What is it? What's wrong?"
"Stand up."
His voice was raw. As she rose to her feet, he kept his distance. He didn't dare touch her now. If he did, he'd simply never be able to stop.
"You look right in here. You should see yourself, how right you look. You're as polished and perfect as this room. I want you so much I can't see anything else but you."
Her heart did a long, unsteady cartwheel in her chest. "You're going to make me stutter again, Rafe." She had to make a conscious effort to pump air in and out of her lungs.
"How long are you going to make me wait?" he demanded. "We're not kids. We know what we feel and what we want."
"That's exactly the point. We're not kids, and we should be adult enough to be sensible."
"Sensible's for old lady's shoes. Sex may have to be responsible, but it sure as hell doesn't have to be sensible."
The thought of wicked, completely insensible sex with him numbed every nerve ending in her body. "I don't know how to handle you. I don't know how to handle the way you make me feel. I'm usually good at handling things. I guess we need to talk about this."
"I guess you need to. I just said what I needed to say." Unbelievably frustrated, irrationally angry at his own helpless response to her, he turned to the window. "Your truck's here. I've got work upstairs. Put the stuff wherever the hell you want it."
"Rafe—"
He stopped her, froze her before her hand could reach his arm. "You wouldn't want to touch me right now." His voice was quiet, very controlled. "It'd be a mistake. You don't like to make them."
"That's not fair."
"What the hell makes you think I'm fair?" His eyes slashed her to ribbons. "Ask anybody who knows me. Your check's on the mantel."
With her own temper sizzling, she stomped into the hall after him. "MacKade."
He stopped on the steps, turned back. "Yeah?"
"I'm not interested in what anyone else thinks or says. If I were, you'd never have gotten within three feet of me."
She glanced up as an interested laborer poked his head into the stairway. "Beat it," she snapped, and had Rate's lips twitching reluctantly. "I make up my own mind, in my own time," she continued and turned on her heel to open the front door for the movers. "You ask anybody."
When she looked back, he was gone, like one of his ghosts.
Nearly blew it, Rafe thought later. He wasn't entirely sure why he'd reacted that way. Anger and demands weren't his usual style with women. Maybe that, he mused as he troweled drywall compound on a seam, was the problem.
Women had always come easily.
He liked them, always had. The way they looked, thought, smelled, spoke. Soft, warm, fragrant, they were one of the more interesting aspects of life. Frowning, he slapped on more compound, smoothed it.
Women were important. He enjoyed cultivating them, the companionship they offered. And the sex, he acknowledged with a thin smile, he enjoyed that, too.
Hell, he was human.
Houses were important, he reflected, coating another seam of drywall. Repairing them was satisfying, using your own hands and sweat to turn them into something that lasted. And the money that came from the end res
ult was satisfying, too.
A man had to eat.
But there'd never been a single house that was specifically important, as this one had come to be.
And there'd never been a single woman who was specifically important, as Regan had now become.
And he calculated that she would slice him into dog meat if she knew he was comparing her to stone and wood.
He doubted she would understand that it was the first time in his life he'd ever focused on something, and someone, so entirely.
The house had haunted him for a lifetime. He hadn't set eyes on her a month before. Yet they were both in his blood. He hadn't been exaggerating when he told her that he couldn't see anything but her. She was haunting him, just as the restless ghosts haunted these rooms and hallways.
Seeing her there that morning had turned him on his head, set his hormones raging, and he'd fumbled. He supposed he could make up ground. But this was the first time he could remember being tackled by emotion—emotion double-teamed with desire—and he wasn't at all sure of his moves.
Back off, MacKade, he told himself, and scooped more compound out of the bucket. She wants room, give her room. It wasn't as though he didn't have time—or as though she were some sort of life-altering encounter. Maybe she was unique, maybe she was more intriguing than he'd counted on. But she was still just a woman.
He heard the weeping, felt the stir of chilled air. With barely a hesitation, he leveled his seam.
"Yeah, yeah, I hear you," he muttered. "You might as well get used to company, 'cause I'm not going anywhere."
A door slammed. It amused him now, these endless little dramas. Footsteps and creaks, whispers and weeping. It was almost as though he were part of it all. A caretaker, he decided. Making the house livable for those who could never leave.
He thought it was too bad none of the permanent residents ever made an appearance. It would be quite an experience to see, as well as hear. An involuntary shudder worked up his back, as if fingers had trailed along his spine.
And feel, he thought.
Footsteps echoed down the hall outside as he moved to the next sheet of drywall. To his surprise and curiosity, they stopped just outside the door. He watched the knob turn, just as the work lamp behind him went out, plunging the room into darkness.
