by Laura Taylor
Nicholas, suddenly tired of his conflicted thoughts and their verbal sparring, said, "I am nothing if not reasonable, provided you honor your promise."
She sputtered with laughter. "Reasonable? In your dreams."
He scowled at her.
"I knew we could find a compromise," she said hurriedly.
"No compromise. My turf, my rules. I’ll get your luggage out of your van."
"I can help. There’s no need for you to…"
He jerked her against his chest, cutting her off. "I told you, Hannah. My turf, my rules." He spoke over her when she opened her mouth to argue. "Stay put. I haven’t got the time or the patience to put up with much more static from you. Do you get the picture?"
She nodded, unexpectedly subdued as he released her.
"I’ll be back in a few minutes. Do the dishes or sweep the floor if you feel inclined to pull your own weight around here."
"Neanderthal." Hannah smiled broadly as she said the word.
Nicholas smiled, too, but only after he stepped past her and strode out of the kitchen. His pleasant expression soon faded, though, thanks to his awareness that he flirted with danger and seductive temptation as long as Hannah remained in his home.
5
Hannah glanced up from her book as Nicholas walked into the living room. She watched as he sank down onto the couch, closed his eyes, and massaged the back of his neck.
Although she thought he looked tired, she didn’t voice the observation. She felt reluctant to disturb the delicate thirty–six hour old truce they’d managed to forge, in spite of how much she longed to quiz him about Sean.
He’d made his feelings about information sharing quite clear, limiting their time together to the silent meals they shared in the kitchen. Hannah disliked his deliberately aloof behavior, but she quelled the urge to comment on it. She was a guest—an unwelcome guest—in his home.
Drawn to Nicholas on a variety of levels, she recognized that he’d awakened emotions within her she’d never before experienced. She’d pondered her feelings at length during the hours she’d spent alone, finally and very reluctantly concluding that he wouldn’t welcome them. It wouldn’t matter that what she felt for him was both genuine and heart–felt.
Hannah made herself behave with an out of character restraint against which she instinctively chafed. Nicholas was not a man willing to make himself emotionally vulnerable, especially not for a woman who’d intruded on his life and his privacy. She sighed, the sound very soft.
Nicholas opened his eyes. Hannah lowered her book to her lap, tucked a bookmark into it, and switched on the lamp beside her chair.
"Any word yet?"
He shook his head. Flicking a glance at the cover of her book, he frowned and then gave her a probing look.
Hannah straightened in her chair, her fingers curving protectively over the hardcover exterior of the book. "Is something wrong?"
"Not a thing. Is that yours?" Nicholas asked.
She smiled and nodded. "I noticed you have his entire collection, too. He’s one of my favorite authors." When Hannah noticed his surprise, she said, "He’s a wonderful writer. I think TENDER IS THE MERCY OF A LOVER is his best novel yet."
"You’ve read his other books?"
Her smile widened to a grin. "Every single one, and each one at least a half dozen times. The critics don’t always appreciate him, of course, but that’s their problem. I’m a bona fide fan."
Nicholas watched her as she smoothed her fingertips across the book’s cover. "Even though he probably writes for the express purpose of entertaining his readers, he always seems to go a few steps farther than most writers."
"In what way?" Nicholas asked in a subdued voice.
"Most people might consider his books straight forward action–adventure stories, but they’re also morality plays. This book is a particularly poignant story about a man who’s nearly destroyed by his life as a soldier of fortune. I’m only a few chapters into the book, and I already feel as though I’m taking a stroll across the hero’s soul."
"What about the violence?"
"It’s unsettling," she admitted, "but it fits into the broader context of the story, part and parcel of the world contained in the book. Besides, it also shines a spotlight on the violence mankind is capable of, but the author also reminds his readers that humane behavior is a matter of choice and that peace only occurs if it’s a common goal."
Momentarily startled, he managed to conceal his reaction behind a neutral expression. "You’re crediting him with a high mindedness that he might not possess."
Hannah leaned forward, the book cradled against her breasts. "I don’t agree. Edmond St. Gregory is unique, and he stands head and shoulders above his peers. I always gain new insights about myself and the world in which I live whenever I read his books."
Nicholas savored Hannah’s praise. Of course, he didn’t intend for her to discover that his work under the pen name of Edmond St. Gregory satisfied a deep inner need to share the lessons of life and death that he’d learned as a mercenary. It also financed a lifestyle that allowed him to assure the protection of his friends. Despite his status as an internationally–known, bestselling author, he never discussed his writing with anyone other than his editor and closest friends.
"Rumor has it that St. Gregory is a recluse," she continued, "but I don’t think it matters to his readers. As long as he keeps writing powerful stories, they won’t care if he lives under a rock or eats tree bark for lunch. Being shrouded in mystery probably even helps his publisher market his books."
"You sound almost proprietary when you talk about him." Nicholas’s eyes narrowed speculatively.
She shrugged. "I hadn’t thought about it, but he feels familiar, almost like a friend."
"That’s a bit of a stretch."
"Not at all, since I’m not planning to nominate him for sainthood. I just hope he doesn’t ever stop writing. He has a moral compass, and it’s evident in every word he writes. Besides, his skill as a writer is a gift, and he should use it. It’s simple if you think about it, Nicholas. Good writers produce good books. Good books are like friends."
"You have a very unique view of the world."
She shook her head in denial. "I’m simply a product of my environment. I grew up with lots of brothers and sisters, and we looked out for each other as kids. With the exception of Sean, we’re still a very close–knit group. When you have parents who make you feel secure and loved, you can’t help but feel encouraged to work hard as you pursue your dreams."
"What do you dream about?" Fascinated anew by the animation in her facial features and the brightness of her large green eyes as she spoke about her family, he wanted to understand everything about her.
"Now there’s a question that deserves a bit of thought," Hannah remarked.
Nicholas nodded, pushed up to his feet, and wandered to the wall of windows on the far side of the room. He wondered if Hannah grasped his motives for asking such a question. He doubted it. She would be very candid with him. She also didn’t have a clue about his susceptibility to her warmth and accessibility. Small blessings. Or was it his curse to forever suborn his own needs?
Hannah set aside her book and joined Nicholas. They stood side by side for several quiet minutes, both looking out across the snow–dusted valley that stretched for miles below them to the jutting mountain peaks in the distance.
She finally said, "I dream about an end to the abuse of small children who don’t have a prayer of defending themselves. I dream about children whose eyes aren’t glazed over with pain and fear. I dream about finding stable homes for them, because they deserve a chance to be loved the way I was loved as a child, and I dream about them becoming healthy in spirit and in body so that they don’t repeat the mistakes their parents made."
"A crusader," he said quietly, this time without censure or derisiveness.
"In some ways." She met his gaze, a blend of sadness and gentleness in her eyes. "I’m just one woman, Ni
cholas. I know I can’t accomplish miracles, but I give of my time because I care deeply about children. It’s the reason I became a teacher, but even I get tired of the battle. There are times when I want to curse God for allowing people to turn innocent children into victims. Some of the sights I’ve seen just break my heart."
"Then why keep fighting the battle?"
"Because I choose to. Because the alternative… . pretending there is no harm being done to so many children… would be morally bankrupt."
His expression grew troubled as he studied her. Lifting his hand, he stroked the side of her face with his fingertips. He watched her eyes widen, felt her tremble beneath his touch. He already knew she didn’t fear him, and he felt relieved. But he also felt uneasy about the feelings she inspired in him, not just the re–emergence of his own youthful dreams, dreams that harsh reality and even harsher experience had destroyed.
"Have you ever gotten caught in the middle of the violence?" The possibility of someone harming her made his hand shake. He withdrew it, closing it into a fist.
Hannah reached up and took his hand, her touch warm and gentle as she pried his fingers apart. She brought his hand back to the side of her face, covering it with her own. "Only once… about five years ago. As terrified as I was, I don’t regret being there. Otherwise, a wonderful little boy would have died after witnessing his mother’s murder and before his father turned the gun on himself."
"Christ!"
Hannah continued in a quiet tone meant to reassure. "Usually, I witness the aftermath of events like that. During my first year as an inner city teacher, I co–founded an advocacy organization that watches out for abused or traumatized children. Our advocate role starts as soon as law enforcement becomes involved, extends to their time in the hospital, and then continues into the court system. We testify in court, counsel the lawyers and the judges, that sort of thing. In effect, the child has a friend, guardian, and advocate as he progresses through what can be an emotionless and intimidating system. I volunteer my time after school and on week–ends. Once a child is placed in a foster home, we continue to act as an advocate until, hopefully, the child is adopted."
"Don’t you have dreams for yourself?"
She smiled. "Of course."
He lowered his hand, curving it over her shoulder as he peered down at her. "Tell me." His intensity contrasted with the cool slate of his eyes.
"My dreams are quite conventional, probably downright boring to a man who has breathtaking views of mountains and eagles whenever he looks out his living room window."
"I’m interested."
She gave him a quizzical look. "You keep surprising me."
"Why?"
"Why would you care about my life or my dreams? You seem to have abandoned your own dreams."
He flinched.
"Besides, you don’t want me here," she reminded him. "You’ve made it very clear that I’ve intruded on your world, and you haven’t spoken ten words to me since yesterday morning."
Nicholas shrugged, uncomfortable because her comments were justified. He purposely ran hot and cold when they were together, purposely kept her off–balanced. What she didn’t realize was that his efforts to remain aloof where she was concerned were woefully half–hearted most of the time.
"Now you know why I live out in the boondocks. I’m too moody to fit in anywhere else."
Hannah made a rude sound. "I don’t believe that for a minute. In fact, I’m sure you can be ruthlessly charming when you put your mind to it."
She didn’t resist when Nicholas drew her to a position in front of him, circled her midriff with his arms, and tugged her back against his strong, hard body. She relaxed into him as if she’d done it a thousand times before, the back of her head cushioned by his shoulder.
He savored the feel and scent of her. Most of all, he marveled over the fact that she trusted him enough to allow him to hold her. He’d never known a woman like her, just as he’d never wanted a woman as much as he wanted her.
When he heard her sigh, the sound hinting at contentment, he encouraged, "Tell me more about your dreams."
"They aren’t complex. I just want a long, full life with… " She paused, turned in the circle of his arms, and looked up at him.
"With?" he prompted.
"… the right man."
"You don’t already have a man in your life?"
She didn’t answer as she stared up at him.
Nicholas withstood her scrutiny. He knew his face reflected his past. Weathered, even grim, scarred at the temple and beneath his chin by battle, he looked like what he’d once been—and still was, he supposed. A hard man capable of doing hard things to survive and to protect those he valued.
"And what do you dream about, Nicholas?"
Caught off–guard, he answered bluntly, "Things I’d rather forget."
Hannah noticed the scar beneath his chin and skimmed her fingertip over the uneven mark. "What happened here?"
"Shrapnel from an IED… an improvised explosive device, more commonly known as a roadside bomb." He waited for her to recoil.
"Where?"
"Where else? The Middle East."
"It must have hurt."
"I didn’t even feel it when it happened."
She released a shaken breath. "People died."
A statement, not a question. Score one for you, Hannah Cassidy. He answered, "Too many to count."
"I’m glad you didn’t." She stared up at him as she whispered, "So glad." She reached higher to stroke the narrow, two inch scar that paralleled his hairline.
She made him feel as though he’d been sucked into a whirlpool of softness. Although troubled by his response to her, he permitted her touch.
"Another shrapnel wound?"
She healed him in ways she would never understand with her gentle nature and delicate touch. "Yes, but I imagine you’ve seen much worse as a child advocate."
Emotion brimmed in her eyes. "All I see right now is you."
He stiffened at the sight of her tears. "I don’t want or need your pity."
"The only thing I feel is sadness that someone hurt you. You’re the last man in the world I’d pity, although I do still wonder why you live such an isolated life. Don’t you get lonely?"
Suspicion flashed like a neon sign in the depths of his mind. He’d known far too many women capable of offering aid and comfort for their own purposes. As a result, he fought giving Hannah the benefit of the doubt. She had said that she’d do whatever it took to find Sean Cassidy.
"I’ve always been a loner," he said warily.
Hannah turned to stare out the window, watching the steady advance of the dusk as it consumed the rugged terrain stretched for miles before them. "I have the distinct impression that there’s a lot more to your lifestyle, to all of this…" She gestured to the endless expanse beyond the window. "… than your preference for privacy."
Nicholas frowned. He took her by the shoulders, forcing her to face him. "What are you thinking right now?"
She looked on the verge of smiling. "You don’t want to know."
"I don’t ask idle questions."
"Alright then, have it your way. I’m thinking it’s a shame we started out so badly. And I’m thinking that you’re a very special man, even when you scowl at me or treat me like I’m some crazed serial killer. I hate it that you’re so suspicious of me."
Baffled by her candor, anger sparked inside him. "You are not real."
"You keep saying that, but what you see is exactly what you get with me. I’m not giving a performance. I simply am." She hesitated, and then forged ahead. "I’d have to be as emotionally inept as a rock not to realize that you were deeply hurt at some point in your life."
"Don’t add me to your collection of walking wounded. It won’t work."
"What about friendship, Nicholas? Would you allow me to add you to my collection of friends?"
"I’m not some helpless child."
Ground glass, she reflected, c
ertain now that the sound reflected layers of pain. "I know that," she assured him quietly. "I’m not a child, either. You made the point yesterday that there is a certain amount of chemistry between us. You were right, so why shouldn’t I admit it?"
Desire tightened his muscular body, his amazing eyes darkening as they gazed at each other. Currents of heat and hunger seemed to flow between them.
Hannah trembled, forcing herself to look away.
"Are you saying you want me in your bed?"
She laughed. "Leave it to a man to make that kind of mental leap. No, that’s not what I’m saying."
"Then why bring it up?" he demanded.
"To make the point that it seems stupid not to find some common ground with each other. You’re tense, defensive, and you seem preoccupied. I’m bored witless when I’m not sleeping or reading. I’m also very anxious about Sean, but I’m trying to keep a lid on those feelings and not annoy you with incessant questions about him. So, instead of ignoring each other, couldn’t we at least talk when we share a meal? Perhaps getting better acquainted would eliminate some of the tension we both feel."
"Why?" He deliberately goaded her. Perhaps obtuse behavior on his part would help to distract him from the overwhelming urge to suspend his common sense and take her into his bed once and for all.
She muttered her frustration. "This is useless, isn’t it?"
"Is that what you think?"
"You are not going to make me lose my temper," Hannah announced, her stubborn nature evident in her tight voice and the flashing green of her eyes. With more insight into his complex personality than she realized, she continued to speculate aloud. "You know, every time we talk, you remind me of the hero in St. Gregory’s book. He’s deeply troubled by the way he’s spent his life, he’s lonely, and he craves some kind of emotional fulfillment. His problem is that he won’t trust anyone long enough to let them step beyond the barriers he’s erected around his heart and his emotions."
"You’ve been reading too much fiction." He gave her a little shake, something akin to alarm flashing across his hard–featured face.
Stepping back, she shrugged, trying to appear indifferent to his scathing tone. Some sixth sense, however, told her that she’d found a hairline crack in his lone wolf façade. "Perhaps," she conceded.
