by Pennza, Amy
His broad shoulders blocked her. The tools at her back were like a bed of nails. Panic clawed a path from her gut to her throat. She’d never liked being in tight spaces. She brought her hands up and pushed against his chest.
He grunted and captured her wrists. The tools behind her clattered like the warning rasp of a rattlesnake. His pale eyes flashed. “Calm down, Ashley.”
“I said move.” She lurched sideways. Fire streaked across her shoulder. The chisel… Something hot trickled down her back.
He tightened his grip on her wrists. “And I said to calm down. Jesus, is this how women in L.A. act when a man tries to be nice?”
Nice? He thought he was being nice? She tried to inject calm into her voice. “Dean, you’re hurting me. I don’t know what you think you saw at the restaurant, but I didn’t give you any signals. We’re friends—”
His harsh laugh echoed around the small room. “Give me a break. You called me, remember?” He raked his gaze down her front. “Then you showed up with your tits falling out of your top.”
Heat bathed her cheeks. If she could have freed her wrists, she would have slapped the smug look off his face. She tugged against his grip. The wine she’d drunk sloshed in her stomach, and for a second she worried she might throw up. “I don’t feel well. Let me go.”
“Just listen to me.” He pulled her forward, and her hips bumped his. Hardness brushed her thigh.
Her stomach lurched. Enough of this shit. One way or another, she was getting the hell out of the store. She lifted her foot and kicked him in the shin with the pointed toe of her high heel. “Let me go!”
He gasped and released her wrists.
She tried to slide sideways, but he threw up an arm. Before she could feint to the other side, he blocked her there, too. She was pinned against the wall of tools. Fury pounded through her. “Get the fuck out of my way!” She brought her knee up.
He jerked his hips to the side. Her knee glanced off his thigh.
She tensed, expecting a blow, but he went still. Malice transformed his features into an ugly mask. Somehow, it was more terrifying than violence. He said his next words in a low, measured voice that dripped like poison. “You fucking bitch. You may have left Prattsville, but you’re a cock tease just like your whore of a mother.” His mouth twisted in a cruel smile. “No matter how many stupid TV shows you do, you’ll always be Trashley.”
The name crashed over her like a frigid wave. For a second, shock held her immobile.
He smiled. Then, with casual precision, he shoved her into the wall. Her head snapped back and struck something blunt and hard. Pain exploded in the back of her skull, and a cry burst from her lungs. She stumbled forward and clutched the back of her head with one hand. Dizziness swamped her. Her mouth filled with saliva.
Can’t fight him now. Can’t fight him. The thought galloped through her head. She thrust out her free hand to ward him off.
But he didn’t touch her.
Dimly, she registered that he’d stepped back and stood watching her with a curious light in his eyes—like she was an insect he was contemplating crushing under his shoe.
She darted a look at the curtained doorway. “Please…” She stopped when she heard the whimper in her voice. No way was she going to beg this man.
He swept his gaze down her body. “You know what? I don’t want you anyway. Find your own ride home.” He left, the curtain beads clicking together in his wake.
9
Smith tipped the longneck bottle back and let the last of his beer slide down his throat. It was cold and cheap—just the way he liked it.
At his feet, Deuce shifted, his toenails making a scratching sound on the porch’s wood planks. Warm, amber-colored eyes reflected the streetlight that stood sentinel where the house’s driveway met the street.
Smith leaned back on the wicker sofa, the bottle dangling from his fingertips. “What? You don’t approve?”
Deuce yawned—a wide stretch of his jaws that ended in a short wheezing sound.
“Yeah, well, one beer isn’t going to do anything.” Smith wasn’t sure if he said it for his dog or himself. What was it that therapist had said? “The biggest lies are the ones we tell ourselves.” That was a load of BS. Smith had lied to just about everyone in his life. His superiors. His family. Hell, he hadn’t been totally honest with the therapist. But he knew the full, rotten truth about himself.
No, he didn’t believe people could lie to themselves. Self-delusion was another story.
He settled deeper into the sofa and rested his head against the curved back. It was still much too early in the year to sit outside at night, but he’d needed to clear his head after a long day at work. The late January air had a bite to it, but the combination of the beer and the giant dog at his feet created enough warmth to make the porch comfortable.
The fact that the porch also afforded him the best chance of catching a glimpse of Ashley had nothing to do with his decision to venture outside. Nothing at all.
He rolled his head to the side, bringing the old white house into view. Its covered porch was dark. The windows were dark, too.
Where the hell is she?
As soon as the thought entered his brain, another crashed behind it. None of your damn business.
He had no right to keep tabs on her comings and goings. Still, it was unusual for her to be out. In the two weeks she’d been in town, she’d spent most of her time sitting on an old chair on the house’s screened-in porch, her hair bound up in a bright-red handkerchief as she labored over a piece of furniture. He’d also caught glimpses of her moving around the kitchen—until he’d felt like a creepy bastard for standing at the edge of his bedroom window, his eyes peeled for the sight of a pale ponytail.
His observations had started as curiosity—and maybe a little skepticism. For all her talk of refinishing furniture, he’d doubted a Hollywood actress had the gumption to get her hands dirty. Sanding and painting old wood was sweaty, repetitive work. When he’d remodeled his place, dust had coated his skin and hair for months. But she’d surprised him, then impressed him. Not only did she seem unafraid of work, she’d thrown herself into it. She was on her porch when he left for work in the morning, and she was almost always there when he returned at night. She’d put in so many hours, in fact, he’d started to worry about her.
When she’d dragged an old bicycle from the garage, it had taken every ounce of willpower he possessed not to jump in his truck and follow her. Prattsville was as safe as any small town, but the old neighborhood lacked sidewalks. The thought of her pedaling down the side of the road had turned his guts to acid.
He’d done fifteen miles on the treadmill that night.
He turned his head a little more, bringing the detached garage into view. The paint cans were still there. On one of her first days in town, she’d spent a long afternoon carrying them from the garage to the gravel driveway. Watching from his window, he’d winced when she spilled one, then chuckled when she looked around guiltily before using her shoe to brush dirt over the mess.
Mess was an apt description for her. In addition to the paint cans, the area in front of the garage held a tangled assortment of lawn tools, boxes, and other items she’d pulled from storage. Hard as he tried, he couldn’t figure out what she planned on doing with the stuff. It was mostly junk, and it was definitely an eyesore. And while some part of him itched to march down there and demand she clean it up, another part of him hated to see it go. Because as long as it remained, there was a chance of seeing her. Somehow, he’d come to crave the cheerful chaos that seemed to follow her like a stray dog after a bone.
A deep sigh welled in his chest. If there was a stray dog in any of this, it was him. When she’d stood on his porch with those cookies in her hands, it had taken everything he had not to pull her into the house. She’d had sawdust in her hair and a dark smear of what looked like coffee grounds on her forehead.
No woman had ever looked more beautiful. He’d shut the door before he
lost his senses and invited her in.
A scuffling sound on the street drew his attention away from the garage. He straightened and set his bottle on the ground. A lone figure walked slowly past the house.
Deuce shot to his feet, his posture instantly alert.
Smith squinted. Something was wrong. The figure stumbled and almost went down. He sighed. Just what he needed, a drunk on his doorstep. Prattsville didn’t have a jail, which meant he’d have to haul the guy ten miles up the road to the county’s facility.
Deuce whined and cast Smith a frantic look.
“What is it, boy?” Smith reached down and rubbed between his ears. “You don’t feel like working right now, either?”
In an uncharacteristic move, Deuce ducked away from Smith’s touch. Body rigid, he focused his full attention on the street.
The drunk crossed in front of the streetlight, and the figure came into sharp focus. Light spilled downward in a cone and lit up the drunk’s hair like the sun.
Smith caught his breath. He’d know that blonde head anywhere.
Later, he wouldn’t remember leaving the porch. One minute he was standing next to Deuce, the next minute he was in front of Ashley with his heart in his throat. She was dressed in ripped jeans, some kind of strapless shirt, and shoes with heels so high he could have picked a lock with them. But it was her face that made his stomach clench. She was pale as milk, her dark-blue eyes wide and unfocused.
“Ashley? What are you doing out here? Are you hurt?” His hands hovered in the air beside her upper arms. Terror pumped through his veins. Deuce bumped against his leg, then sniffed at her hand, which dangled limply at her side.
She looked at the dog, then up at him. “Deuce… Smith?”
Two things happened. First, she let out a low sob. Then she threw her arms around his neck and squeezed like she’d never let go.
He didn’t even think. He just swung her into his arms and double-timed it back to the house. Deuce bounded ahead.
Smith took the porch steps three at a time and opened the front door with his elbow. Deuce scrambled around his legs and over the threshold. Mindful of his burden, Smith angled his body sideways as he entered the house, then kicked the door shut with his heel. He started toward the front parlor, where there was a deep sofa, then changed his mind and carried her upstairs. She was light as air in his arms, her slight body almost fragile against the hardness of his chest. Deuce clattered up the stairs behind him, his breaths coming in harsh pants.
There were four bedrooms upstairs: the master, his office, and two guest rooms. He took her into the closest guest room and placed her on the bed. Deuce bumped his leg. Smith clicked his fingers and pointed to a spot near the door. “Down, boy.”
As soon as Ashley’s head made contact with the pillow, she winced and tried to sit up. “Can’t…”
His heart pounded like a drum. “What’s wrong, nena? Are you hurt somewhere?” He hovered at her side, his hands twitching with the need to check her over for injuries.
“I hit the back of my head, and I had too much to drink. Please, it’s better if I can sit up.”
He plumped the pillows behind her and helped her shift her hips back. “Ashley, I want to take a look at your head. Is that okay?”
“Yes.” She leaned forward. “I think I hit it against a plane.”
There were no airports in Prattsville. “How did you bump into an airplane, baby?” As gently as he could, he gathered her hair into two sections. The pale strands were like silk in his hands. He lay the heavy mass on either shoulder, exposing the back of her head.
“No,” she said, her voice muffled. “A hand plane. The kind you scrape wood with. It was hanging on a wall.”
The parted hair exposed the long, elegant line of her neck. At her nape, wispy hairs trailed from her hairline to the edge of her black top. There was no blood, but a nasty knot was forming on the back of her skull. He used his fingertips to probe the edges. The swelling was bad, but bumps on the head usually looked a lot worse than they were. There were so many blood vessels in the scalp, even the most minor wounds blew up like a balloon. “You definitely knocked against something pretty good. There’s a big lump just above your occipital bone. Do you feel dizzy or nauseated?”
“A little of both. But I had a few glasses of wine. Is it bad? Am I bleeding?”
He almost said no, but then she shifted. More hair slid forward, revealing one bare shoulder. A long, jagged scrape marred the golden skin. Dried blood crusted along the edge and trailed a thin line down her back. He sucked in a breath.
“Smith? Is it bad?”
“You’re…cut. But it’s shallow.” He pulled her hair away from the wound. “Here, lean against the pillows.”
She let him position her in a way that supported her back but kept her head elevated.
He moved down to her knees and leaned a hip against the bed. There was a story here. Her clothes, her shoes, the fact that she’d been drinking. He tried to make his voice professional and disinterested—a cop investigating an incident. “Ashley, I think you need to tell me what happened tonight. Did you fall?”
The sheen of tears in her eyes turned the blue a dark purple. Her mouth trembled. “No. I was pushed. Shoved, I guess.”
Calm settled over him. It wasn’t the kind of peace a person got from a massage or quiet music. This was a silent, deadly calm—a singular focus that allowed no distractions. Predators had it. Killers too. Smith recognized it. After all, he’d been both. There had been times in his life where his survival had depended on the all-encompassing calm. And while that wasn’t the case now, he welcomed it as a tool that enabled him to do things his conscience would ordinarily prevent him from doing. He opened his mouth and said one word.
“Name.”
Her eyes widened. “I…” She licked her lips.
“What’s his name, Ashley?”
She lifted a hand to her throat. “I don’t think it’s a good idea for me to tell you that.”
“Why not?” He thought it was a wonderful idea.
“Because you look like you’re going to kill someone.”
“You’re bleeding. Your jeans are ripped.” He sank deeper into the calm.
She looked at her long legs stretched before her. “Oh, they’re supposed to be like that.” She met his gaze again. “It’s the style…” Her voice trailed off as she saw his expression.
“Give me his name.”
Her eyes were stark. “Smith, please. You’re scaring me.”
* * *
The sight of an enraged Smith Salvatierra was something Ashley never wanted to see again as long as she lived.
He closed his eyes. His chest rose and fell as he obviously tried to wrestle whatever demons had transformed him from the gentle, considerate man who had carried her inside to the lethal-looking menace that sat before her now. “I’m sorry,” he said at last. When he opened his eyes, his expression was more relaxed. The dead, impersonal look in his eyes was gone.
Tension she hadn’t realized she’d been holding drained from her shoulders. It was as if some crisis had passed.
“I’m sorry,” he said again. “It’s just that somebody hurt you.” He pulled more air into his lungs. “Sweetheart, I need to know if you’re…hurt anywhere else.”
She understood at once. “No,” she said quickly. “It wasn’t like that.”
His throat worked as he swallowed. “That’s…good. Good.” The last of the intense stillness faded from his features. He moved his hand like he might cover her knee, then pulled it back. “I promise I’m not going to kill anyone. But I need you to tell me why you were walking home alone tonight, and who shoved you hard enough to make you hit your head and scrape your back.”
She knew without asking that he wasn’t going to budge until she told him everything. Heat spread over her cheeks and down her neck.
“It’s all right,” he said. This time, his palm landed on her knee.
What was it they said in old detective
movies? “Just the facts, ma’am.” That’s what she had to do—just recite what had happened. No emotion. No embellishments. It was like filling out a police report—even more so because her audience was actually a police officer. She took a deep breath and told him everything, from her initial meeting with Dean at the market to her long, cold walk home after he’d left her standing in the workroom in Mr. Murray’s old store.
Smith’s face remained expressionless throughout. If not for the gentle squeeze he’d given her knee when she stumbled over the part about Dean shoving her, she would have thought the details didn’t affect him at all.
When she finished, he withdrew his hand and rose from the bed.
She pressed her lips together so she wouldn’t blurt out something stupid like please come back and touch me again.
“We can file a formal report in the morning,” he said.
She jerked her head up. Throbbing pain shot through her scalp, and she winced. “A report?”
“I don’t know the county prosecutor that well, but my brother does. He’s a former district attorney in San Antonio. I’ll call him first thing.”
Oh, no. She knew where he was going with this, and she was not on board. “Smith, I’m not filing any report.”
He frowned. “What do you mean? Of course you are.”
“No. I’m not.”
The look he gave her was so incredulous, she might have laughed at any other time. “Ashley, you were just assaulted. Violently, I might add. You are sure as hell filing a police report tomorrow, and we’re going to press charges.”
The hair on the back of her neck lifted. She knew from talking to Pia that police officers could still file a criminal complaint even if the victim didn’t want to. She’d just told Smith everything. If he chose, he could drag her into this whether she liked it or not.
She pushed her body more upright. “Smith, listen to me. You know that old saying, there’s no such thing as bad publicity?”
His frown deepened, but he nodded. “I’ve heard it.”
