Blood And Bone (6 page)

The sucking slop of footsteps in wet mud rose from the surrounding black. The hair on the back of her neck bristled, and a chill tickled along her spine.

Was it Hudson coming back to finish her off? Tic?

What was she doing standing around out here anyway? A woman alone, late at night, on a deserted country road, during a thunderstorm? The scene had slasher flick written all over it.

She started for the driver’s side door, but a low moan rose up from the darkness.

The wind? Had to be. Still, she picked up her pace.

The moan came again, louder this time. Shayne stopped and turned. A dark, hunched figure staggered toward her.

“Christ.” She gripped the door handle and yanked open the door.

The stooped outline lurched in front of her single headlight, and the glare illuminated the ugliest Hawaiian shirt she’d ever seen.

Des Anderson.

Relief swamped her like a tidal wave, turning her muscles soft for the second time in one night. The feeling, however, was short-lived. He may not have been the homicidal maniac she’d imagined, but the jerk had scared the life out of her. And all because he was staggering drunk. Even from this distance, the smell of beer was nearly overpowering.

As he pitched forward, the light cast a ghostly pallor over his face. Dark smudges beneath his left eye, along his lip and circling the edges of each nostril stood out from the stark whiteness of his skin.

Blood.

He wasn’t just drunk, he was hurt.

“What happened to you?” she asked.

Her question stopped him short. He tilted his head the way her sister’s terrier did when asked if he wanted a cookie.

Des opened his mouth, but no sound came out. Instead, he sank to his knees and fell forward, sprawling face-first on the gravel at her feet.

“You have got to be kidding.” Shayne looked down at the man passed out on the ground in front of her. Could this day get any more bizarre?

She knelt next to him and shook his shoulder gently. He muttered something, but didn’t open his eyes. He looked worse close up. His battered face was dirty, and streaked with blood. His lower lip was swollen and cut, and the stink of beer clung to his filthy, torn clothes. Gingerly, she fingered the oozing cut surrounded by bruised flesh beneath his eye.

“Anderson.” She shook him a little harder. “I can’t lift you. You have to get up.”

“I just want to sleep,” he mumbled. He didn’t open his eyes, but at least he was coherent.

“Fine, but you can’t do that out here. Come on, I’ll help you.” She gripped his arm and tried to tug him up, but he jerked away from her touch.

“I got it.” Des pushed onto his knees and shoved his sopping hair back from his face.

Without thinking, she brushed away the tiny stones stuck to his cheek. He didn’t seem to notice. “God, how much did you have to drink?”

“Two beers.”

“You smell like you drank a lot more than two beers.” She grasped his arm and helped him stand.

“I’m wearing a hell of a lot more than I drank. I can walk, by the way.” He shrugged out of her grip and hobbled away from her along the edge of the road.

“Can I drive you somewhere?” she called.

“No.”

Shayne sighed. “You’re in pretty rough shape, and it’s a long walk to town. My place isn’t far. You could call someone to pick you up.”

He let out a humorless laugh. “And what would I have to do for such kindness? Tell you all my family secrets?”

Her cheeks heated. “I’m not evil incarnate, you know. Actually, you don’t have to speak to me at all. At this point, I think I’d prefer it that way.”

He stopped, but kept his back to her. For a moment, he didn’t move or speak. Probably deciding if he could stand to be in her presence for more than thirty seconds.

“Fine,” he said at last, and shuffled to her car.

She opened the passenger’s door for him and he lowered himself onto the seat slowly, as if every movement hurt. If the rest of him looked anything like his face, it probably did.

She walked around the front of the car and slid behind the wheel. Closing his eyes, he leaned back against the headrest. He didn’t say a word as she started the engine and pulled onto the road.

“We can call the cops from my place.”

He opened his good eye. “Cops?”

“Yeah. Somebody obviously did this to you.”

“What makes you think I didn’t deserve it?”

“Did you?”

He closed his eye. “No good deed goes unpunished.”

Whatever that meant. She kept her attention fixed on the road, all the while doing her best to ignore her raging curiosity. Who beat the hell out him? And why? Did this kind of thing happen often? Maybe he was having an affair with a married woman. Someone unhappy with a house they bought or sold? Beating the hell out of him seemed a tad extreme. Maybe he owed money to loan sharks.

When she finally reached her small house, she cut the engine, plunging them into darkness. Rain splattered the leafy canopy of the trees overhead, the only sound in the silence closing in around them.

A strange sense of intimacy crept over her as she listened to the rain mingle with Des’s even breaths in the dark. Unnerved, she opened her door a crack so the dome light turned on. The pale glow did little to improve his battered complexion. His eyes were closed. He must have dozed off.

“Hey.” Gently, she touched his shoulder. He winced and she jerked her hand away. “Sorry. We’re here.”

They both got out of the car, and she came around to his side. She reached under the seat he’d vacated and pulled out a first aid kit.

“Is that yours?” he asked, slowly following her up the wood steps to the deck.

“It’s in my car, who else would it belong to?” She turned her key in the lock and pushed open the door.

Maneuvering her way through the black to the living room, she reached out blindly, trying to remember where the table with the lamp was. Her knee struck something solid and she muttered a curse. Table found.

She flicked the switch, filling the small room with electric light. When she turned around, Des was slumped against the doorframe.

“I’m easily impressed by people so prepared for emergencies.” The sarcasm in his voice relieved her a little. Maybe he wasn’t in as bad a shape as he looked.

“Don’t be too impressed. My father bought it for me. This is the third one since I was sixteen.”

“That’s nice of him.” He shuffled toward the sofa.

“Sort of. Every time I visit, he roots through it for items past their expiration dates, then lectures me about the importance of being a responsible driver. I think he forgets I’m thirty-five, not sixteen.”

“The easiest way to keep from acknowledging one’s own age would be to refuse to acknowledge one’s children’s ages.” Gingerly, Des lowered himself onto the ugly plaid sofa and leaned back with a sigh.

She bit her tongue to keep from mentioning his mud-covered clothes. It wasn’t her couch after all. Besides, most of the mud had already come off in her car. “Are we getting philosophical in our delirium?”

He smiled slightly, then grimaced. “Don’t make me laugh, it hurts.”

Shayne sat across from him on the sturdy coffee table and opened the first aid kit, digging through it until she found an antiseptic pad. With her teeth, she ripped open the foil package.

“Hold still,” she instructed, shaking out the wet cloth and leaning into him. She lifted his hair away from his face, the damp strands cool and soft against the back of her hand. Forcing herself to concentrate, she dabbed at the cut under his eye.

He hissed and pulled back. “What’s on that?”

“Antiseptic.”

“Were you fresh out of battery acid?”

“Stop whining. If you’re going to get into fights, you’re going to have to accept a certain amount of discomfort.” Shayne applied the cloth to his eye once more.

“I’m a lover, not a fighter.”

Now, there was an image she could have done without.

“Obviously,” she muttered, struggling to stay focused on cleaning his cuts.

“There
were
three of them.” He sounded indignant.

“How did you end up in a fight with three guys?”

“Like I said, no good deed…”

“I don’t know what that means.”

He sighed. “Doesn’t matter. It’s a long, boring story, anyway.”

She wanted to ask him more, but he’d probably accuse her of pumping him for her book. Instead, she asked. “Where’s your car?”

“Last time I saw it was at the bar. It’s probably at the bottom of the river by now.”

He sounded so forlorn, she couldn’t help but chuckle.

“I’m glad you find my misfortune amusing.”

“Sorry,” she said, not meaning it. Satisfied the cut under his eye was clean, she wiped the dry blood smeared down his cheek. “If your car’s in town, what were you doing out here?”

“A bunch of rednecks tossed me into the back of their pickup and dumped me in the middle of nowhere.”

“God, how long were you walking?”

“Hours. Days.” He shrugged. “Who knows?”

“Don’t talk so I can clean your lip.”

He did as instructed, and she dabbed at the swollen wound, her finger brushing the smooth, straight line of his mouth. Something fluttered deep in her belly.

Oh, she did
not
need that.

A lot of men had nice mouths. And sure there was his voice, all sleepy and deep. But so what? He was a story. A potential source. Nothing more and certainly nothing to get hot and bothered over.

“Here.” She shoved the wet cloth at him. “You can wipe the blood off your nose.”

He missed the wipe and bent to retrieve it at the same time she did. She bumped his shoulder and he drew back, wincing.

“Take off your shirt,” she told him.

He smirked. “Shouldn’t you at least buy me dinner first?”

“Just do it.”

He unfastened the three remaining buttons and shrugged out of the shirt. She gasped. Blue and purple half-moon bruises ran up his left side. “I think we should take you to the hospital.”

“No, I’m fine. It looks worse than it is.”

“Something could be broken.”

“Nothing’s broken.”

“What did they do to you?”

“This—” he gestured to his ribs, “—is from those morons kneeling on me to hold me down in the back of the truck.”

“Are you sure nothing’s broken? It looks bad.” She brushed her fingertips over the purple flesh. His build was lean and sinewy, like an alley cat, his body hard. He tensed beneath her touch. Goose bumps studded the skin under her fingers. She lifted her gaze to his face and locked with his hungry eyes.

The fluttering returned, along with a simmering heat between her legs.

No, no, no.

She jerked her hand back and looked away at almost the same instant Des pulled his shirt over his shoulders.

What was wrong with her? She’d never experienced such an intense reaction to a man this quickly. Granted, she hadn’t had sex in more than a year, and she was a relatively normal woman. For a while, the endless and unproductive attempts to conceive, followed by her divorce, had killed any interest in the activity.

It seemed said interest had been revived.

“Your skin’s like ice and your clothes are wet. Why don’t you take a shower and I’ll throw your stuff in the dryer.”

“What am I supposed to wear in the meantime?”

She had Travis’s old pajama bottoms and sweatshirt. She liked lounging in them on Sunday mornings while she read the paper and consumed more coffee than any human being should. They’d fit, but she didn’t like the idea of Des dressed in anything that once had belonged to her ex. It just seemed wrong.

Don’t be ridiculous
. “I have something that should work.”

He followed her to her bedroom and waited in the doorway while she dug Travis’s old clothes out of her suitcase. She hadn’t had time to unpack before leaving to shop.

“Here.” She shoved the clothes at him.

He accepted with a short nod. “Thank you. You’ve been pretty decent, but I’m still not going to help you with your book.”

Ouch. There she was lusting for him, and he’d been afraid she was working an angle. She forced a smile. “No problem. You did manage to find me a great rental in a very short amount of time. I couldn’t very well leave you at the side of the road now, could I?”

“Lucky for me you liked the place.”

Spears of pain sliced through Des’s side, stealing his breath. He froze doubled over, his jeans and boxers shoved down to his knees, waiting for the screaming agony to pass.

Don’t let her come for my clothes now
. The way his luck was running, he half expected the door to swing open while he had his ass in the air.

He shouldn’t have stayed. Instead, he should have taken himself away from this cottage and Shayne Reynolds as soon as he could have. But his body was too damned tired to listen to his brain.

The pain receded and he sighed, carefully shimmying free of his wet jeans. Naked, he gripped the edge of the sink to steady himself and caught sight of his reflection in the mirror mounted on the wall. Bloodied, bruised and dirty, he looked like hell. This crap with Tic had to stop.

Des gathered his clothes and dumped them on the floor outside the bathroom, then shuffled to the tub. Gritting his teeth against the dull ache throbbing from head to foot, he twisted the faucets. As the room filled with steam, he stepped beneath the hot spray and yanked the translucent curtain closed.

The water stung his injured skin like tiny, hot needles, but the warmth penetrating his flesh counteracted the hurt. He waited a moment, giving himself a chance to adjust to the temperature, then looked through the assortment of plastic bottles filling the wire basket affixed to the edge of the tub. Hopefully, Shayne had something that didn’t smell too girly. He lifted the container with the plainest packaging and read the label. Green tea body wash? Christ, why couldn’t women just use soap?

He pressed the lid open and sniffed. The same sweet, fresh scent that clung to Shayne’s skin teased his nose. His stomach pulled tightly, the sensation not unpleasant.

He squirted a glob into his hand and lathered the cream over his body.

Of all the people he could have met on the way back to town, why Shayne? He turned, letting the spray soak his hair and sluice down his back. Sure, she’d been decent to him, never looking at him like he might suddenly snap and go on a murderous rampage—a refreshing change—but he didn’t like her motives.