Tough to Tame

by Diana Palmer

  Dead-Eye stood aside to let Cappie out. “Wait until one of us makes sure it’s safe,” he told her in a kind tone. “Men who commit battery without fear of arrest are usually not planning to go back in prison, if you get my drift. He might decide a bullet is better than a fist.”

  “Sorry,” she said. “I didn’t think.”

  “That’s what we’re here for,” the other man said, following her out the door and closing it. “We’ll think for you.”

  “Were you thinking, just then?” Dead-Eye grinned.

  The other man indicated his sleeve. The hilt of a large knife was in his palm. He flexed his hand and snapped it back in place. “Learned that from Cy Parks,” he said. “He taught me everything I know.”

  “Then what are you doing with Eb?”

  “Learning…diplomacy.” He said it through gritted teeth. “They say my attitude needs work.”

  Dead-Eye opened his mouth to speak.

  Cappie beat him to it. “And you think I need an attitude adjustment?” she exclaimed.

  The other man shifted restlessly. “We should get to the hospital.”

  Cappie just smiled. So did Dead-Eye.

  When they got to the hospital cafeteria, it was already full. One of the tables was occupied by a somber Dr. Rydel, moving eggs around on a plate as if he couldn’t decide between eating them or throwing them.

  Cappie’s traitorous heart jumped at the sight of him, but she didn’t let her pleasure show. She was still fuming about his assumption of her guilt, without any proof except the word of a man who was a stranger.

  He looked up and saw her and grimaced.

  “Want me to frisk him for you?” Dead-Eye asked pleasantly. “I can do it discreetly.”

  “Yeah, like you discreetly frisked that guy at the airport,” the dark-eyed man muttered. “Isn’t he suing?”

  “I apologized,” Dead-Eye retorted.

  “Before or after airport security showed up?”

  “Well, after, but he said he understood how I might have mistaken him for an international terrorist.”

  “He was wearing a Hawaiian shirt and flip-flops!”

  “The best disguise on earth for a spy, and I ought to know. I used to live in Fiji.”

  “Did you, really?” Cappie asked, fascinated. “I’ve always wanted to go there.”

  “Have you?” Dead-Eye looked past her to Bentley, who had gotten up from the table and was moving toward them. “Now might not be a bad time,” he advised.

  Bentley had dark circles under his eyes from lack of sleep. But he was just as arrogant as ever. He stopped in front of Cappie.

  “I’d like to talk to you for a minute.”

  She didn’t want to talk to him, and almost repeated her words of the night before. But she was tired and worried and a little afraid of Frank. It didn’t matter now, anyway. Her life in Jacobsville was already over. She and Kell would start over again, here in San Antonio, once the threat was over.

  “All right,” she said wearily. “I’ll only be a minute, guys,” she told Dead-Eye and his partner. “You can get coffee.”

  “Finally,” Dead-Eye groaned. “I’m having caffeine withdrawal.”

  “Is that why you look so ugly?” the other man taunted.

  They moved off, still fencing verbally.

  “Who are they?” Bentley asked as he seated her at his table.

  “Bodyguards,” she said. “Eb Scott loaned them to me.”

  “Want coffee?”

  “Please.”

  He went to the counter, got coffee and a sweet roll and put them in front of her. “You have to eat,” he said when she started to argue. “I know you like those. You bring them to work in the morning sometimes when you have to eat on the run.”

  She shrugged. “Thanks.”

  He pushed sugar and cream to her side of the table.

  “I phoned the nurses’ desk on the way here, on my cell phone,” she said wearily. “They said Kell’s having his bath and then breakfast, so I’d have time to eat before I went up to see him.”

  “I talked to him briefly last night,” he said.

  She lifted her eyebrows. “It’s family only. They posted it on the door!”

  “Oh, that. I told them I was his brother-in-law.”

  She glared at him over her coffee as she added cream.

  “Well, they let me in,” he said.

  She lifted the cup and sipped the hot coffee, with an expression of absolute delight on her face.

  “He was about as friendly as you are,” he sighed. “I screwed up.”

  She nodded. “With a vengeance,” she added, still glaring.

  He pushed his plate of cold scrambled eggs to one side. His pale blue eyes were intent on her gray ones. “After what happened to me, I was down on women for a long time. When I finally got to the stage where I thought I might be able to trust one again, I found out that she was a lot more interested in what I could give her than what I was.” His face tautened. “You get gunshy, after a while. And I didn’t know you, Cappie. We had supper a few times, and I took you to a carnival, but that didn’t mean we were close.”

  She stared at the roll and took a bite of it. It was delicious. She chewed and swallowed and sipped coffee, all without answering. She’d thought they were getting to be close. How dumb could she be?

  He drew in a long breath and sipped his own coffee. “Maybe we were getting close,” he admitted. “But trust comes hard to me.”

  She put down the cup and met his eyes evenly. “How hard do you think it comes to me?” she asked baldly. “Frank beat me up. He broke my arm. I spent three days in the hospital. Then at the trial, his defense attorney tried his best to make it look as if I deliberately provoked poor Frank by refusing to go to bed with him! Apparently that was enough to justify the assault, in his mind.”

  He scowled. “You didn’t sleep with him?”

  The glare took on sparks. “No. I think people should get married first.”

  He looked stunned.

  She flushed and averted her eyes. “So I live in the past,” she muttered. “Kell and I had deeply religious parents. I don’t think he took any of it to heart, but I did.”

  “You don’t have to justify yourself to me,” he said quietly. “My mother was like you.”

  “I’m not trying to justify myself. I’m saying that I have an idealistic attitude toward marriage. Frank thought I owed him sex for a nice meal and got furious when I wouldn’t cooperate. And for the record, I didn’t even really provoke him. He beat me up because I suggested that he needed to drink a little less beer. That was all it took. Kell barely got to me in time.”

  He let out a long breath. “My stepfather hit my mother once, for burning the bacon, when they were first married. I was fifteen.”

  “What did she do?” she asked.

  “She told me. I took him out back and knocked him around the yard for five minutes, and told him if he did it again, I’d load my shotgun and we’d have another, shorter, conversation. He never touched her again. He also stopped drinking.”

  “I don’t think that would have worked with Frank.”

  “I rather doubt it.” He studied her wan, drawn face. “You’ve been through hell, and I haven’t helped. For what it’s worth, I’m sorry. I know that won’t erase what I said. But maybe it will help a little.”

  “Thanks.” She finished her roll and coffee. But when she got through, she put two dollar bills on the table and pushed them toward him.

  “No!” he exclaimed, his high cheekbones flushing as he recalled with painful clarity his opinion of her as a gold digger.

  “I pay my own way, despite what you think of me,” she said with quiet pride. She stood up. “Money doesn’t mean so much to me. I’m happy if I can pay bills. I’m sorry I gave you the impression that I’d do anything for it. I won’t.”

  She turned and left him sitting there, with his own harsh words echoing in his mind.

  Kell was lying on his stomach in bed.
His bruises were much more obvious now, and he was pale and weak from the surgery. She sat down beside him in a chair and smiled.

  “How’s it going?” she asked gently.

  “Badly,” he said with a long sigh. “Hurts like hell. But they think I might be able to walk again. They have to wait until I start healing and the bruising abates before they’ll know for sure. But I can wiggle my toes.” He smiled. “I’m not going to prove it, because it hurts. You can take my word for it.”

  “Deal.” She brushed back his unkempt hair.

  “Your old boss came by last night,” he said coldly. “He explained what happened. I gave him an earful.”

  “So did I. He’s back.”

  “I’m not surprised. He was pretty contrite.”

  “It won’t do any good,” she said sadly. “I won’t forget what he said to me. He didn’t believe me.”

  “Apparently he’s had some hard knocks of his own.”

  “Yes, that explains it, but it doesn’t excuse it.”

  “Point taken.” He glanced past her toward the door. “You’ve got bodyguards.”

  “Yes. Some of Eb Scott’s guys. They don’t like each other.”

  “Chet has a chip on his shoulder, and Rourke likes to take potshots at it.”

  “Which is which?” she asked.

  “Rourke lost an eye overseas.”

  “Oh. Dead-Eye.”

  He chuckled and then winced. “That’s what he calls himself. He’s got quite a history. He worked for the CIA over in the South Pacific for several years. Now he’s trying to get back in. His language skills are rusty, and he’s not up on the latest communications protocols, so he’s studying with Eb. Chet, on the other hand, is trying to land a job doing private security for overseas embassies. He has anger issues.”

  “Anger issues?”

  “He tends to slug people who make him angry. Doesn’t go over well in embassies.”

  “I can understand that.” She frowned. “How do you know them?”

  He sighed. “That’s a long story. We’ll have to talk about it when I get out of here.”

  She was adding up things and getting uncomfortable totals. “Kell, you weren’t working for a magazine when you went to Africa, were you?” she asked.

  He hesitated. “That’s one of the things we’ll talk about. But not now. Okay?”

  She relented. He did look very rocky. “Okay.” She laid a gentle hand on his muscular arm. “You’re my brother and I love you. That won’t change, even if you tell me blatant lies and think I’ll never know about them.”

  “You’re too sharp for your own good.”

  “I’ve been told that.”

  “Don’t stray from your bodyguards,” he cautioned. “I have to agree with them. I think Frank’s not planning to go back to jail. He’ll do whatever it takes to get even with you, and then he’ll try suicide-by-cop.”

  “Jail would be better than dead, certainly?”

  “Frank has anger issues, too.”

  She flexed the arm he’d broken. “I noticed.”

  “Don’t take chances. Promise me.”

  “I promise. Please get well. Being an orphan is bad enough. I can’t lose you, too.”

  He smiled. “I’m not going anywhere. After all, I’ve got a book to finish. I have to get well in order to do that.”

  She hesitated. “Kell, he wouldn’t come here, and try to finish the job he did on you?” she asked worriedly.

  “I have company.”

  “You do?”

  “Move it, you military rejects,” came a deep voice from the door. A tall, familiar-looking man with silver eyes and jet-black hair moved into the room, dressed in boots and jeans and a chambray shirt, carrying a foam cup of coffee.

  “Kilraven?” she asked, surprised. “Aren’t you working?”

  He shook his head. “Not tonight,” he said. “I had a couple of vacation days I was owed, so I’m babysitting your brother.”

  “Thanks,” she said with a broad grin.

  “I’m getting something out of it,” he chuckled. “I’m stuck on the middle level of a video game, and Kell knows how to crack it.”

  “Is it ‘Halo: ODST’?” Dead-Eye asked. “I beat it.”

  “Yeah, on the ‘easy’ level, I’ll bet,” Chet chided.

  “I did it on ‘normal,’ for your information,” he huffed.

  “Well, I did it on Legendary,” Kell murmured, “so shut up and take care of my sister, or I’ll wipe the floor with you when I get back on my feet.”

  Dead-Eye gave him a neat salute. Chet shrugged.

  “See you later,” Cappie said, kissing her brother’s cheek again.

  “Where are you going?” he asked.

  “On a job interview,” she said gently. “Brenda’s boss might have something part-time.”

  “Are you sure you want to move back here?” Kell asked.

  “Yes,” she lied.

  “Good luck, then.”

  “Thanks. See you, Kilraven. Thank you, too.”

  He grinned. “Keep your gunpowder dry.”

  “Tell them.” She pointed to her two companions. “I hate guns.”

  “Bite your tongue!” Kilraven said in mock horror.

  She made a face and went out the door, her two companions right behind her.

  Bentley met them at the elevator. “Where are you going now?” he asked her.

  She hesitated.

  “Job interview,” Rourke said for her.

  “You can’t leave the clinic,” Bentley said curtly. “I don’t have anybody to replace you yet!”

  “That’s your problem,” she shot back. “I don’t want to work for you anymore!”

  He looked hunted.

  “Besides, Kell and I are moving back to San Antonio as soon as he heals,” she said stubbornly. “It’s too far to commute.”

  Bentley looked even more worried. He didn’t say anything.

  “Aren’t you supposed to be at work?” she added.

  “Dr. King’s filling in for me,” he said.

  “Until when?”

  His pale eyes glittered. “Until I can convince you to come home where you belong.”

  “Please. Hold your breath.” She walked around him and into the next open elevator. She didn’t even look to see which direction it was going.

  It was going up. She was stuck between two oversize men and two perfume-soaked women. She started to cough before the women got off. The men left two floors later and the elevator slowly started down.

  “Wasn’t that heaven?” Rourke said with a dreamy smile, inhaling the air. “I love perfume.”

  “It makes me sick,” Chet muttered, sniffing.

  “It makes me cough,” Cappie agreed.

  “Well, obviously, you two don’t like women as much as I do,” Rourke scoffed.

  They both glared at him.

  He raised both hands, palms-out, in defense and grinned.

  The elevator stopped at the cafeteria again and Bentley was still there, smoldering.

  Cappie glared at him. It didn’t help. He got on the elevator and pressed the down button.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” Cappie asked him.

  “On a job interview,” he said gruffly. “Maybe they need an extra veterinarian where you’re applying.”

  “Does this mean that you’re not marrying me?” Rourke wailed in mock misery.

  Bentley gaped. “You’re marrying him?” he exclaimed.

  “I am not marrying anybody!” Cappie muttered.

  Bentley shifted restlessly. “You could marry me,” he said without looking at her. “I’m established in a profession and I don’t carry a gun,” he added, looking pointedly at the butt of Rourke’s big .45 auto nestled under his armpit.

  “So am I, established in a profession,” Rourke argued. “And knowing how to use a gun isn’t a bad thing.”

  “Diplomats don’t think so,” Chet muttered.

  “That’s only until other people star
t shooting at them, and you save their butts,” Rourke told him.

  Chet brightened. “I hadn’t thought of it like that.”

  “Come on,” Cappie groaned when the elevator stopped. “I swear, I feel like I’m leading a parade!”

  “Anybody got a trombone?” Rourke asked the people waiting around the elevator.

  Cappie caught his arm and dragged him along with her.

  They took a cab to the veterinarian’s office. The car was full. The men were having a conversation about video games, but they left Cappie behind when they mentioned innovations they’d found on the Internet, about how to do impossible things with the equipment in the Halo series.

  “Using grenades to blow a Scorpion up onto a mountain?” she exclaimed.

  “Hey, whatever works,” Rourke argued.

  “Yeah, but you have to shoot your buddies to get enough grenades,” Chet said. “That’s not ethical.”

  “This, from a guy who lifted a policeman’s riot gun right out of the trunk of his car!” Rourke said.

  “I never lifted it, I borrowed it! Anyway, everybody was shooting rifles or shotguns and I only had a .45,” he scoffed.

  “Everybody else’s was bigger than his,” Rourke translated with an angelic pose.

  Chet hit his arm. “Stop that!”

  “See why he can’t get a job with diplomats?” Rourke quipped, holding his arm in mock pain.

  “I’m amazed that either of you can get a job,” Cappie commented. “You really need to work on your social skills.”

  “I’m trying to, but you won’t marry me,” Rourke grumbled.

  “Of course she won’t, she’s marrying me,” Bentley said smugly.

  “I am not!” Cappie exclaimed.

  “No woman is going to marry a veterinarian when she can have a dashing spy,” Rourke commented.

  “Do you know one?” Bentley asked calmly.

  Rourke glared at him. “I can be dashing when I want to, and I used to work for the CIA.”

  “Yes, but does sweeping floors count as a real job?” Chet wanted to know.

  “You ought to know,” Rourke told the other man. “Isn’t that what you did in Manila?”

  “I was the president’s bodyguard!”

  “And didn’t he end up in the hospital?”