Always Mine (2 page)

“I'm a library consultant,” she told Owen's family. She tried out an engaging smile, one she hoped would distract them from noticing she wasn't answering the wife question, even as she stole another look at Owen, trying to better assess his condition. Her hands had gone cold and her stomach ached. Should it hurt so much that
he
was hurt?

“I travel around the country visiting public library systems,” she continued, “to help them modernize their services and increase their ease of use and popularity.”

Owen's brother had risen to his feet when they'd been introduced and his interest seemed to kindle at the words
modernize
and
increase.
A business type, she guessed, taking in his gray suit and starched white dress shirt. “What kind of suggestions do you generally make?”

“Often I propose redesigning to make the library feel and look more like a big-chain bookstore. Comfortable easy chairs, displays of the current bestsellers, coffee bars. That sort of thing.”

“Coffee bars.” Bryce appeared intrigued. “Really.”

“Ask her about the Dewey decimal system,” Owen put in.

Izzy sent him a surprised glance. Maybe he was better than he appeared. Even one hundred percent
injury-free, she wouldn't have thought he'd remember that. They hadn't spent a lot of time together in Las Vegas, and little of it had been focused on their jobs. Instead, their hours had been dedicated to sweet and deep drugging kisses, to memorizing the lines of each other's bodies with sensuous touches that could turn urgent even when they were only swaying together on a dance floor.

“Okay, I'll bite,” Bryce said, derailing the dangerous train of her thoughts. “What about the Dewey decimal system?”

She slid another look at Owen. “Well…”

“The day I met her, she was coming off a five-day librarians' convention wearing a round badge that read ‘Dewey' with a red slash through it.”

Bryce's face—less rugged than Owen's, but not less handsome—lit up with his boyish grin. “No Dewey decimal system?”

It was what labeled her a rebel in bibliophile circles. She was a heretic to some for her views on the archaic cataloging system. “I advocate shelving books in ‘neighborhoods' based on subject matter. It makes more sense to patrons and is easier for them to use.”

Bryce seemed to like the idea. “You must be a very persuasive and busy woman.”

“Busy? Yeah,” Owen confirmed, his voice dry. “So busy it's been impossible for her to call her—”

“Husband?” June Marston said, blinking as if
coming out of a coma. “Wife? The two of you are really married?”

Owen grimaced, looking to Izzy as if he were regretting spilling the secret. His mother rushed toward his bed, apparently interpreting his expression differently. “Owen, what's wrong? Are you in more pain? What do you need?”

Owen flicked another glance at Izzy, then directed his gaze back to his mother. “Look, Mom, I'll explain the married thing later. But right now what I really need is some peace and quiet.” He shifted his shoulders on the pillow as if trying to get more comfortable. “Why don't you and everyone just go?”

That sounded perfect to Izzy. He could explain the married thing to his family at some later date and she'd come back when he was feeling better and they could be alone to discuss what she'd been avoiding the last five weeks. Maybe by then she'd have found some rational explanation for why she'd been AWOL all that time.

Ready to beat a hasty—if temporary—retreat, she went into an immediate backpedal, deciding she'd locate a nearby hotel. From there, she could call her best friend, Emily, the new librarian in this 'burg, and talk over the fastest way to fix this sticky predicament with the man she'd married on a whim in Las Vegas. Izzy's hip bumped into Owen's sister, Caro, who seemed to be guarding the door.

“‘Everyone', Owen?” Caro asked.

“Everyone but—” he lifted his uninjured hand to point a forefinger at Izzy “—
you.”

The Marstons were a clan of tall people. Strong. Possibly domineering. Because one minute Izzy was near the door and the next she'd been herded by a slender blond Amazon—aka Caro—to Owen's bedside. There, he caught her fingers with those of his that stuck out of his bright blue cast. They were long, hard fingers, and as she stared down at the tangle they made with hers, she felt a jolt in her chest. A sting at the corners of her eyes.

Because…it must be because she didn't like to see him harmed in any way. Not because he was her husband, of course—that wasn't really real. She didn't like seeing him hurt because she was a woman and he was a man—no, because she was a
human being
and he was a human being, and that's the way that good human beings felt toward each other.

His fingers tightened on hers. “You shouldn't have run out on me,” he murmured. “Why did you?”

Heat rushed up her neck. She
shouldn't
have run out on him. That's not the way good human beings treated each other, it was true. She'd known she couldn't ignore their marriage forever, she'd known she'd been wrong even as she'd used their brief but blistering argument as the impetus to leave him behind in Las Vegas, but could coming back here and doing this face-to-face make it right? “I heard you were calling my name in the ambulance,” she heard
herself whisper, avoiding another awkward question by posing one of her own. “Why did you?”

Before he could answer—would he answer?—Ross Marston stepped up beside her. “Son, before we go we have to get a few details ironed out.”

Owen rubbed his free hand against his whiskered chin. “What details, Dad?”

“I can get your mother to leave quietly now if you'll agree to come to the penthouse in San Francisco to recover once the hospital releases you.”

His fingers twitched, squeezing Izzy's and then easing up. “I can't—”

“You can't stay at home alone, either,” his mother said, folding her arms over the silk jacket of her expensive-looking pantsuit. “Owen Marston, you've always been stubborn, but you're going to need family around you.”

“Mom—”

“Owen. You can't take care of yourself, not while you have only one working limb.” She turned to Izzy. “Surely as his…his…good friend, or whatever you are, you can help me convince him that he can't go home to his condo by himself.”

Looking at the banged-up and bandaged man, it certainly didn't seem like he should be trying to recuperate without some sort of full-time aid. With both legs like that, and one broken wrist, could he even make his way from the door to his bed? Izzy frowned. “What about Will?” she said, mentioning
the friend who had been with him in Las Vegas the month before.

“He met with some trouble last night, too,” Owen answered.

Her heart caught.
“What?”
Will had been the childhood summer love of her friend Emily, and it was the fault of the other couple, really, that she and Owen had said “I do” under the benevolent gaze of a very bad Elvis. “Is Will injured? Emily didn't tell me that when she called about you.”

“Maybe she didn't want to worry you further,” Owen said. “And he's going to be fine, but I'm not calling him to play nursemaid.”

“That settles it then,” June Marston put in, her voice brisk. “You're coming home to your father and me.”

Owen's jaw tightened. “No. Remember, you're going on that cruise in a couple of days with Caro and her fiancé.”

“We'll cancel. This is more important.” One of his mother's hands wrapped around the rails surrounding her son's bed, and the other gripped her husband's forearm. “A young man lost his life last night. It could have been you.”

This time Izzy's heart stopped. It was all deathly quiet in her chest as she stared at Owen.
A young man lost his life last night. It could have been you.

Did that really happen? But the truth was there in Owen's face, in his eyes. Their summer-sky-blue went bleak and she couldn't believe that the man
she'd laughed with and danced with and impulsively married could look so utterly sad.

His fingers, still entwined with hers, had gone cold. “Owen…” she whispered, as he closed his eyes. She didn't know if he was still aware she was in the room.

“Maybe I should go,” she murmured as he continued to lie like a corpse—
God—
on the hospital bed.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “Go away, Izzy. I've got enough to deal with right now.”

It was permission to do what she wanted. A reprieve, from his own mouth, in his own words. But his fingers were still entwined with hers and she stared at them, the sight turning her insides to mush as a sudden decision tumbled out of her mouth. “I'll take care of him at his place,” she offered, directing her words to Owen's parents.

Something about the man made her impetuous, and she'd yet to understand why or get control of it. “That's what he wants,” she heard herself continue, “and if that's what he wants, he'll be more comfortable there and also recuperate faster.”

Instead of looking at her, June and Ross Marston were gazing on Owen. So she looked at him, too. His eyes were open again and he was staring at her. She didn't have a clue as to what he was thinking. Though…was that a gleam of calculation in his eyes?

“What the hell are you saying, Izzy?” he asked.

She smiled, her extra-special charming one, because she figured she was going to need to be extra-
special charming if she was going to help this man get back on his feet. The way she figured, her subconscious had come up with the idea as a way to atone for the sin of being such a craven coward five weeks before.

“I can rearrange my schedule to free up a few weeks. So I'm saying—” she told him, clasping his fingers in what she hoped was a reassuring grip “—I'm saying, ‘Honey, I'm home,' for as long as you need me.”

N
ice digs,
Izzy thought, as she toured the middle level of Owen's condo while his brother settled him into the master bedroom upstairs. The bottom floor was a spacious garage. They'd parked Owen's SUV inside, but he hadn't allowed her to help maneuver him from the backseat where he'd been stretched out.

“Bryce can get me upstairs,” he'd muttered, giving her a brief, hard look when she started to protest.

So he wasn't grateful to her, she acknowledged as she heard deep-voiced curses drift down the stairs. Or all that comfortable, either—with the pain from his injuries or her presence or perhaps both. But for her part, she thought she could be easy within the
confines of his condo. There was a bedroom near his upstairs that he'd said she could use. She was used to making herself at home in strange hotel rooms, and Owen's abode—with its walls in contrasting shades of blue hung with groupings of framed, brightly colored primitive paintings—was several notches above any place she usually laid her head.

She ran her fingertips along the top of a manly yet soft-looking couch that had plump cushions and was set in front of an old trunk to serve as a coffee table. In the last five weeks when she'd thought of Owen, she'd never considered where and how he lived. Those few days they'd been together had been like a bubble in time. In her mind, after she'd left he'd still been in Las Vegas, standing in some casino somewhere like a slot machine with a better physique and all the flashy lights and tempting bells and whistles.

She crossed to a massive shelving unit built to surround a large-screen TV and that held DVDs, books and an interesting collection of firefighting memorabilia. Her finger slid along the rim of an old fireman's helmet.

“Where's the rest of your luggage?”

At the voice, she jumped and spun around, for a minute confusing the man coming into the room with the man she'd married. Their height was the same, and they had that same dark blond hair and square chin. But it was Bryce, not Owen, and she felt her tight stomach ease a little. She owed the man upstairs,
and she hadn't been able to stop herself from offering to help him, but the idea of actually living with Owen did make her a bit nervous.

I can do this, though. I can dispense with the guilt I feel for running out on him by doing a good turn for the guy.
She thought of the bandages, the cast, the cuts and bruises.
He needs me.

“Where's the rest of your luggage?” Bryce asked again.

“I just have the one bag,” she said, pointing to the small suitcase she'd set by the door. “I travel light.”

Bryce's eyebrows rose. “I guess. I thought that was your makeup case.”

Izzy shook her head. “I'm short. My feet are small. My clothes and shoes don't take up all that much room.”

He was still looking at her one bag. “My brother, the lucky dog, marrying the only woman on planet Earth who can make do with less.”

Make do with less? Izzy frowned. That wasn't how she saw herself. She was efficient. And capable of moving on in a moment—before she ever outstayed her welcome.

“So…you really are married to him?” Bryce asked.

“Well…” She sighed. “It's a long story.”

“I don't need to be anywhere anytime soon.” He crossed to the couch and sprawled onto the cushions.

“At the moment, I'd rather talk about Owen. How's he doing?” Izzy glanced up at the ceiling.

“Down for the count for a while, I'd guess. The
meds and the trip home have done him in.” He forked a hand through his hair. “I've been thinking. Maybe I should stay….”

“I thought you have a job more than an hour away in San Francisco.”

He grimaced. “Yeah. The family biz. Granddad can't do it all by himself, though he wants to, and he and my dad are like oil and water. It's too far a commute, and in any case I would have trouble putting in my usual fourteen-hour days while taking care of Owen, too.”

“But you see, I do have time.” Then there was something else to consider—that chilling glimpse of Owen's desolate eyes that had scared her into volunteering for the gig as his personal home health aide. She was rebellious, yet not usually reckless, so it was still a surprise.

“And he seems willing to let you spend that time with him.”

She held back a snort. “Only because it seemed the easiest way to put off your mother, I suspect.”

Bryce laughed. “Yeah, I thought the same. She's a nice woman, really, but the prospect of having our mom hover could make a man desperate to settle for anyone else.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“Oops, sorry. It's not that you're not incredibly appealing in a chocolate-and-apricot-fairy kind of way—”

“Chocolate-and-apricot fairy?”

“Your hair. Your skin.” He gestured to her and grinned. “Obviously, I'm the romantic brother in the family.”

She'd thought marrying a woman after a three-days' acquaintance pretty darn romantic. Until she'd woken up the morning after the wedding and thought it was ridiculous and that both of them were certifiable. Owen had accused her of being a coward when he'd caught her checking out of the hotel, and she'd stalked off as if insulted—instead of showing her fear that he'd seen through her like no one else ever had.

“Why can't you imagine this might work?” he'd asked. She hadn't answered him, but she hadn't stuck around to end the marriage, either. Remembering the moment, her stomach jittered again with another attack of nerves and her gaze slid over to her one piece of luggage, conveniently resting beside the door. Maybe she should renege on her offer after all. Grab her little bag and get the heck out of town, just like she'd done in Las Vegas.

Leaving Owen behind again.

But this time hurt and needing…someone.

But he had family! Friends nearby! Roots in this town and also this nice home to call his own. She had none of those things, and she did just fine. Surely he would be okay—

“What happened?” she heard herself say, not taking her eyes off her suitcase, as if it were the governor's pardon that she could pick up if push came to
shove. “I don't really know what happened the night of the fire.”

She'd been avoiding finding out about it, too. Last evening she'd checked into one of those anonymous business hotels she was so familiar with—the ones that put a
USA TODAY
outside every door each morning, making it easy for her to avoid Paxton, California's, local headlines.

A glance at Bryce had her finding her way to an easy chair on the opposite side of the coffee table. She sank into it, eyeing him as he rubbed his face with his hands. “I don't like to think about it,” he muttered.

Izzy had spent a lot of time alone as a child. Hence the interest in books. Hence the hyperactive imagination, and she realized that hers was cranking into overdrive without the benefit of facts to rein it in. She glanced with longing at her suitcase and the door just a few steps away. It would be so much easier…

“He and another guy were on top of a two-story house that was burning,” Bryce said. “They were ventilating the roof. There was a collapse and Owen and the other man fell through—and through again, because fire had been eating at the guts of the place, too. They landed on the ground floor, banging up Owen. A beam also came down and…”

“And…?” she whispered.

“And crushed the other guy's chest. Jerry, his name was. Jerry Palmer.”

Jerry Palmer. Izzy cursed her imagination, be
cause she could picture a Jerry Palmer, see some man who was no longer in this world. And knowing the name made it so much more real about Owen, too—she could be a widow right now.

The man she'd married could have died.

Her gaze jumped to her suitcase again, but she dragged it away to focus on Owen's brother. “Bryce, I'm going to take care of him,” she vowed. “I'm going to see him back on his feet. I promise.”

He opened his mouth, but another voice sounded in the room. A little staticky, a lot grouchy. “What? You're going to leave me alone up here?”

“Intercom,” Bryce explained, angling his head toward a device on the hallway wall that led to the kitchen.

“Oh.” She rose at the same time as Bryce and saw him head toward the front door. “Wait. You're leaving already?”

“Is anyone there?” the surly voice sounded over the intercom again. “I'm bored. And starting to get cranky.”

“‘Starting'?” Izzy rolled her eyes and headed for the stairs, but then cast a last glance at Bryce, who already had his hand on the doorknob. “Words of wisdom, at least?”

“Just two.” He gave her a bracing smile. “Good luck.”

 

Owen breathed out a silent curse as the woman entered his bedroom, a tray in her hands. What had
he been thinking to allow Isabella Cavaletti to play nurse to his patient? In a pair of jeans that clung to her petite but curvy frame, a V-necked T-shirt just hinting at those small breasts that had snuggled against his chest on the dance floor in Vegas, clearly she was going to cause new symptoms instead of helping to heal current injuries.

Just a breath of her fresh, sweet perfume and he was dizzy.

“Are you all right?” she asked, hurrying over to place the tray on his bedside table.

“I'm terrific,” he said. No way was he going to let her know that her proximity made him woozy. He'd already spent way too much time at her mercy. Scowling, he admonished himself to hold tight to his righteous anger at her. “Five damn weeks, Izzy.”

Hell. Had he said that out loud? It was all well and good to tell himself he was going to stay tough guy, but with those stupid meds in his system he was not in full control of himself. Five weeks. He hadn't meant to let her know he cared that much to keep count.

But for God's sake! Five damn weeks and not once had he heard from his wife.

She looked down, guilt stamped all over her face, so yeah, he'd definitely spoken his thoughts aloud. “I know how long it's been,” she said, studying the carpet under her feet. “And I imagine you've spent the entire time trying to figure out the quickest, easiest way to undo what we did.”

It took both people in the same place to do that, or at least knowing where both people were to do that. She could have been next door or in the Netherlands for all Owen had known. “More like I've been trying to figure out
why
we did what we did.”

Without looking at him, she slid the tray from the bedside table and held it over his lap. “Scoot up a little bit. I made lunch.”

Scooting up wasn't all the easy with three bum limbs, but he wasn't about to whine for help. And when she placed the food in front of him, he couldn't stop a half-smile from crossing his face. “You didn't forget.”

She'd made him a grilled cheese sandwich that included sliced onions and tomato. His favorite. Sitting beside it was a glass of milk poured over ice.

“It wasn't that I had to remember. They're my favorite, too, right?”

“Right.” That had been the craziest thing about those three days in Las Vegas. So much of it had felt so right. The way she fit against him, the way she liked her grilled cheese with onion and tomato, the way she took her milk over ice. But it was beyond preposterous to marry someone because their lunch choice mirrored your own. He'd realized that when she'd run away and not contacted him for five long weeks.

“I'll never hear an Elton John song and not remember—”

“Yeah.” He shook his head. Somewhere into day two of their time together they'd made the mutual—and surreal—confession that they'd both misheard the chorus to the popular Elton John song “Tiny Dancer” as—

“Hold me closer, Tony Danza,” she sang softly.

Owen winced. “Though it's nowhere close to being as dim as thinking Prince is singing ‘Pay the rent, Collette,' in ‘Little Red Corvette.'”

She frowned at him, her full lower lip pushing into a pout. He'd probably once considered that cute. “It wasn't me who thought Creedence Clearwater's song about a bad moon rising boasts that immortal line, ‘There's a bathroom on the right.'”

Now he frowned. “It's a common mistake.”

Even her snorts had a delicacy to them. “Says the guy who attended
way
too many fraternity beer bashes.”

“Hey…” Well, there was a little truth in that, though how could she know? They hadn't spent time talking about their college years. He grimaced. “We're complete strangers to each other, aren't we?”

A flush rose up her neck and she looked away again. “Eat your lunch.”

He picked up half the sandwich with his good hand. “What about you?”

“I'm not hungry.”

She'd eaten like a bird those days in Las Vegas. And drank like a fish? But no, although they'd spent
a fair amount of time in the bar at their hotel and also poolside with those froufrou, umbrella-topped drinks, he didn't think alcohol had played a major role in the tipsy feeling he'd felt in her company—and in the spur-of-the-moment decision they'd made to say “I do” to the strains of “Blue Suede Shoes.”