GRAY WOLF SECURITY, Texas: The Complete 6-Books Series

by Glenna Sinclair

  “You should go to bed.”

  She glanced at me. “Worried about my health now? How sweet.”

  “Not worried. I just think there’s only so much you can get out of those magazines in one night.”

  She nodded, setting the one she was holding down on the little coffee table before standing, yanking the sleeves of her sweater down over her hands.

  “Well, then. Goodnight.”

  But I followed her across the room, pushing open the door to the bedroom even as she tried to slam it closed in my face.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Do you really think I’m going to leave you alone in here after what you did earlier?”

  “You’re going to watch me sleep? Not even Juan’s goons do that!”

  “Yes, well, you probably never went on a run in the garden with them.”

  “You’d be surprised.”

  She walked across the room and began shuffling through a couple of drawers in her dresser. I stood against the wall and watched her move, admiring the way her hips sort of shimmied with her every move. She was a beautiful woman. I could imagine she had little trouble catching the attention of the men around her. She could probably have any man she wanted.

  Which was the problem, wasn’t it?

  She finally settled on an oversized t-shirt, shaking it out as she carried it to her bed. Then she tugged at her sweater, beginning to pull it off when she glanced at me.

  “The least you could do is turn around.”

  I crossed my arms over my chest, refusing without saying a word.

  For a second, I thought I saw uneasiness on her face. But then she just turned to face the bed, yanking her sweater off and then that concert tee that fit her curves so well. She did it so quickly that the sight of the bruises almost didn’t register before she slid the new t-shirt over her head. But they were there, beginning to green around the edges. Big, dark bruises all along her side and along her back over the place where her kidneys should be.

  What the hell?

  “Where did you get those?”

  She glanced over her shoulder as she struggled to remove her bra under the shirt before sliding her arms through the armholes of the shirt.

  “Where do you think?”

  “He hits you?”

  She didn’t answer. She just remained where she was, struggling with her bra. When she finally had it free, she slipped it out from under the shirt, giving me another peek of the smooth skin along her back and just a snippet of the lower half of one of those bruises. It wasn’t my imagination.

  Why would he…?

  I don’t care how jealous and angry a man might be, there was no excuse for hitting a woman.

  She slipped her jeans off next, exposing the creamy skin of her long, shapely legs. Again I was struck by how beautiful she was. I slid my hands into the front pockets of my jeans, adjusting my stance as my body responded to what my eyes were seeing. She glanced back at me, but the expression on her face wasn’t the confident, ha-ha I’m turning you on look I’d expected. Instead, she looked almost embarrassed.

  This woman was complex. She wasn’t anything like the women I’d known in my life. Yet, on the surface, she was their exact copy. Was there more to her than what Juan had implied?

  I watched as she put her dirty clothes in the hamper and then disappeared into the attached bathroom. When she came back out, she reached up to brush her newly freed hair out of her face. That’s when I saw more bruises, these ones in the shape of fingers on her wrist.

  I crossed the room and snatched her hand, running my finger over those perfectly shaped bruises that were so fresh they were still forming.

  “He did this.”

  It wasn’t a question. I had a distinct memory of watching Juan grab her wrist when she confronted him in the entryway. I remembered the flash of pain on her face, but hadn’t thought anything of it at the time. But now? The evidence was too clear to ignore.

  She averted her face, a blush burning on her cheek.

  “Why do you let him do this to you?”

  “Let him?” She glared at me through narrowed eyes. “You think I just stand there and let him do what he wants to me? You really think that if I had another choice I would be here? That I’d put up with all this fucking nonsense?”

  “You do have a choice.”

  She laughed. “You have no idea.”

  She jerked away from me and stormed over to the bed, crawling under the light covers with all the grace of a ballerina.

  “Would you mind shutting off the lights?”

  I crossed back toward the door, sliding the switch to the off position. Then I pulled a chair up to the side of her bed, slipped off my shoes and propped my feet on the end of her bed. Then I settled back, my arms crossed over my chest, and watched as she settled against her pillows. She watched me for a minute, the pale moonlight reflecting off her pale blue eyes. And then they slowly slid closed, like a baby fighting sleep until the last second. When she fell asleep, a peaceful expression settled over her face that stirred something deep inside of me that I thought Miranda had not only killed, but killed again and again before burying it deep in an unmarked grave.

  Miranda.

  I grew up with a mother who thought that because her husband drove trucks for a living and was gone eighty percent of the year, she had a good excuse to sleep with any asshole who came along. She used to coach me in her lies, using me to back up her stories when Daddy would question them. He caught her in those lies over and over again, but he never got mad, never asked her to leave. And when she finally did leave, when she finally met a man she thought she could be faithful to, it broke him. He became an alcoholic, drank on the job until he nearly killed a man in a late night accident, and went to jail for attempted manslaughter.

  I had no respect for either of my parents. I left home just before the accident, joined the Navy, and never looked back.

  Then I met Miranda. She was a beautiful girl, blond and shapely, the desire of half the men in my SEAL training unit—the other half being married or otherwise committed. And she chose me. It puffed up my chest, knowing this beautiful, desirable girl wanted me. We were married right before I shipped out to Afghanistan on my first tour. I thought we were happy, that our marriage would be one of those that outlasted everything the military could throw at it.

  I was wrong.

  I began hearing the rumors shortly after I returned from that first tour. Rumors that Miranda spent a lot of time on base, watching the SEAL training, like she’d done when we first met. And then I heard rumors that she was particularly close to one of the instructors.

  I ignored those rumors.

  I came home on leave a few months later and heard that she was seeing a guy who lived in the same apartment complex as ours.

  I ignored those rumors, too.

  I finally had to confront her when I heard a rumor that there was a boy who delivered groceries to the apartment that she often invited over at odd times of the night. Miranda didn’t bother to deny it. She said she was lonely when I was gone. And I loved her enough to believe she could stop if we talked it out, if I could make her understand how I felt about cheaters.

  Then there was the school teacher she met through a friend of a friend. Then one of SEAL brothers. Then the husband of one of her close girlfriends.

  She never bothered to hide it. Never denied it when I confronted her. No matter how often we talked about it, no matter how often I begged her to stop, she just kept doing it. She couldn’t help herself.

  I finally packed a bag and walked out on her while she was off with a guy she’d met in a bar, not bothering to leave so much as a note. I went back to Afghanistan, half hoping that the war would take my hurt from me by ending my life. It didn’t. But those divorce papers arriving in the mail almost did. I swore then that I would never commit to another relationship. One-night stands and friendships with benefits were all I would indulge in. I would die a lonely man, but a man who could trust
the people around him. I wasn’t blind to the hurt I left in my wake, but it was better to hurt someone a little now than to commit to something and get my own heart shattered again sometime down the road.

  I couldn’t trust. Miranda had seen to that.

  But this girl? I couldn’t pull my eyes from her face. And when I did, it was to look at those dark bruises forming on her wrist. How could a man do such a thing? As angry as I often was with Miranda, it never occurred to me to hit her. I’d punched a few walls, but not her. Never her. What kind of a man hurts someone so much smaller, so much more delicate than himself?

  I didn’t care about being politically correct. A man should never hit a woman. Period. It was just a simple fact.

  I knew there was a reason why I didn’t like Juan Alvarez.

  ***

  I must have fallen asleep sometime during the night because I woke to the sound of the shower running. I sat up, the sound making my need for a bathroom acute. I made a choice and slipped out of the room, searching for another bathroom down the hall. When I came back, she was standing by the dresser, a bulky cotton towel wrapped around her chest, her dark hair falling in wet strings down her back.

  She glanced over her shoulder, a blush as bright as a sunburn on her cheeks.

  “Sorry. I forgot to take my clothes in with me.”

  “No problem.”

  “You’re welcome to use the shower when I’m done. You can handcuff me to the bed or something.”

  I shook my head even as that image rushed through my head, forcing me to shove my hands in my front pockets again. “I don’t think that’ll be necessary.”

  She inclined her head slightly, glancing at me before quickly looking away. She reminded me a little of a teenager who found herself in a situation she had no experience with. But this woman was married and was likely having an affair. She probably had more experience in this arena than most women. Right?

  She disappeared into the bathroom again, coming out after a few minutes, fully dressed and her hair pulled back into another braid. She wore no makeup, no perfume, but there was a lovely floral scent that followed her around just the same. She threw herself onto the bed, gesturing for me to go to the bathroom.

  “Spare towels are in the top right cabinet.”

  “Thanks.”

  She shrugged, implying indifference, but I could feel her eyes on me as I crossed the room.

  “I won’t go anywhere,” she called after me. “I promise.”

  I looked back at her. “If you do, I’m sure my little security friend will be a big help in tracking you down.”

  She rolled her eyes, making me laugh despite myself.

  I undressed quickly, digging through the duffle David dropped off for me last night for my toiletry bag. I climbed into the shower, shaving before washing up, careful to leave the bit of fuzz that made up my goatee alone. I found myself looking at her toiletries, the shampoo she used and the soap. All expensive brands. Then, as I stood at the sink, I noted her brand of toothpaste, her lotions, noting that she didn’t seem to own much makeup. A little mascara. A lipstick or two. Some blush. Not nearly as much of the drugstore inventory of cosmetics Miranda had cluttered our shared bathroom with.

  I dressed in fresh clothes, carefully tucking my holster under my arm. I checked the gun, a routine that made my morning feel complete. When I finally stepped out of the bathroom, dropping my repacked duffle onto the floor outside the door, Brooks was still lounging on the bed, picking at her cuticles as she waited for me.

  “What’s your plan for today?” I asked.

  She looked up. “You mean I have options?”

  I shrugged. “It’s your life. Your home. Your choice.”

  “What’s the day?”

  “Wednesday.”

  Her eyes brightened. “Yeah? Could we go shopping?”

  My instinct was to say no, but I could see the anticipation written all over her face. And there was something about those bruises still visible—maybe even more so—on her wrists that made me want to be generous.

  “I suppose.”

  She squealed, jumping off the bed. She went into a tailspin, rushing around the room, tearing off the t-shirt she’d chosen this morning and putting on a soft pink shirt that made her pale skin glow, then grabbing a soft gray sweater to wear over it, pulling the sleeves down over her hands to hide her bruises.

  “Let’s go!”

  I followed her, nearly having to jog to keep up, wondering what the hell I’d just gotten myself into. But there was no changing my mind now. She was already perched in the passenger seat of the SUV, smiling as she watched me come down the steps to join her.

  I really hoped I wouldn’t regret this.

  Chapter 5

  Brooks

  We started at the mall. I looked at a dozen blouses I didn’t want, a half dozen fancy dresses I would never have an opportunity to wear. But it didn’t hurt to spend Juan’s money. It felt like the man owed me a thing or two.

  We moved on to a shopping center in downtown Austin, not far from the university. There were college students everywhere, making me feel a little like I was among my peers. I never went to college, but I wasn’t that far off in age to most of these people. It was kind of nice. It was also nice when I caught some of the admiring looks of the coeds toward my bodyguard. I kind of liked being with the hottest guy in the store. But then I remembered how that feeling was what got me in the mess I was in now. The good feelings quickly disappeared then.

  Juan was hot. There was no denying that. He was tall and suave, those eyes and his dark, slicked-back hair was so Errol Flynn, so Clark Gable that he was hard to resist. And when he opened his mouth, all the women around him swooned. He was the ultimate Latino playboy. Everyone wanted him. He’d walk into the kitchen at Romero’s and the female kitchen staff—and a few of the male staff—would flock to him, falling over his every word. When his eyes fell on me, I thought I’d died and gone to paradise. He was the answer to all my prayers.

  But I should have thought twice before I gave voice to that prayer.

  “You like this stuff?” my bodyguard asked, lifting a blouse that had cutouts at the shoulders.

  “It’s okay.”

  “Okay? You might as well wear a shawl as much skin as this covers.”

  “Would you prefer I wore a shawl?”

  The look on his face was priceless. I laughed, skipping away from him as I moved to another rack, looking through the newly arrived cashmere sweaters. It rarely got that cold in Austin, but it got cold enough for some of these light sweaters. I picked through them, picking out a white one with gold thread running through it and a black one with silver threads. I handed them both to my bodyguard and moved on to the next rack. He followed, obedient to a fault. That was one thing he had in common with Juan’s usual watchdogs.

  I picked out a couple pairs of slacks, a few more sweaters, and a blouse or two. Then we headed to more stores, boutiques and large, discount places, just passing time until I knew they would be there.

  It was a little after two when we stopped for lunch. I played with my club sandwich, staring out the window at the people walking by on the street as if they didn’t have a care in the world. I wanted to run out there and join them, to be a part of what they were a part of. I wanted—as difficult as it had been—to go back to the life I had before Juan.

  I watched a couple pass us, holding hands as they watched their toddler run in front of them. It seemed like such a simple existence. Boy meets girl and falls in love. Then comes baby. Or multiple babies. I always wanted to have a big family. Four, maybe even five kids. My mom used to talk about how she wanted a dozen kids, but then the cancer came and that became impossible. But she always swore she had no regrets in the family we did have.

  I didn’t want regrets. But, so far, I’d racked up quite a few.

  “How much more?” the bodyguard asked.

  I focused on him, noting the boredom written in the fine lines around his eyes.


  “Not much more. There’s a drug store across town I heard had this really cool lip gloss. I’d like to go there.”

  “Lip gloss?” He studied my face a second. “I got the impression you weren’t a makeup kind of girl.”

  “Did you now? Or maybe Juan just doesn’t like a lot of makeup on his wife.”

  He arched an eyebrow, as he continued to study me. Then he shrugged. “Perhaps.”

  I picked up a French fry and studied it, thinking how much better I could cook every bit of food on this plate. I pushed it aside, not really as hungry as I’d imagined I was. The bodyguard, on the other hand, had devoured every bit of his like I was making him work out harder than he ever had before. But I’d seen a peek at his SEALs tattoo last night when he slipped out of his jacket before he settled back in that chair he slept in. I knew he was used to a lot of physical work. His muscles kind of gave it away, too.

  I chewed on the inside of my cheek as I studied him, unobserved. He was picking the meat out of my sandwich, clearly not one to let anything go to waste. He was wearing that dark sports coat again, the telltale bulge under his arm still there. I wondered if he would use the gun if my life were in danger. How flattering that would be to have this man step between me and any flying bullets. But, again, he was only doing it because someone was paying him to do it. Not nearly as romantic.

  And then my eyes moved to his jaw, to the angles of his face, the curves of his shoulder. He had the slightest hint of an Adam’s apple that bobbed up and down whenever he swallowed. And his bottom lip was a little puffy, sticking out like it was begging to be nibbled.

  Such thoughts! I’d never had thoughts like this about anyone, not even Juan.

  I sat back a little, forcing my eyes to the window, crossing my arms to cover the fact that my body was responding to the crazy thoughts jumping through my mind. When I first went to work for Juan, there were these fantasies that filled my thoughts. But they were naive fantasies, the innocent kind that came from a girl who never experienced life outside the protective four walls of her father’s home. All I knew about romance and love and sex back then was what I saw in the PG movies my father allowed us to watch and what I saw between my parents before my mom died when I was thirteen. But those fantasies…they kept me awake more often than not when I first met Juan. He never noticed me the first three years I worked in his restaurant. But that didn’t mean I hadn’t noticed him.