Hearts Awakened (10 page)

Once they were back at the motel, he handed Tori the keys, careful not to touch her in any way. She watched him with big, dark eyes and fiddled with her electronic card key. “I’m really not sleepy yet. I don’t suppose you want to take a walk or something?”

Or something. His skin was crawling, a thousand insects tearing at him with skittering claws, and she wanted to take a nice, little walk. Yeah. He could stand that, like he was going to be able to take Tick’s proud fatherhood when that baby arrived.

He jerked his head toward the bay area. “I’m going to go get a couple of beers.”

She pushed her hair back, the tousled mass falling about her shoulders. “Want some company?”

Hooking his thumbs in his belt, he eyed her, a slow appraisal, and she shifted under his gaze. “Not the kind you’re offering.”

He might as well have slapped her—he saw it in the widening of her eyes, the way her teeth tore at her bottom lip, the half step she took away from him. Remorse crashed through him, followed by a flow of self-hatred. Still, it was better she saw him for what he really was, rather than the shining knight she’d started painting him as. She wasn’t going to be his princess and he wasn’t the one to rescue her.

“I’ll see you later.” He lifted a hand in a half-wave and walked toward the street. He didn’t look back.

Smoke, chatter and loud music made the tiny pub with its hunter green walls and brass wall sconces seem even smaller. Mark leaned against the bar and rolled his longneck between his palms. Images tumbled through his head—sunlight sparkling on water as a pontoon boat skimmed over it, Jenny’s smile and jaunty wave when she walked away that last day, hurt flaring in Tori’s eyes, pain he’d caused with his cruel words.

He really was a first-class son of a bitch.

Weariness dragged at him. He was so damned tired of fighting against what was. Why he’d ever looked at Tori Calvert and thought…hell, he was lower than pond scum, not in her league at all.

“Excuse me.” Smiling, a little redhead slipped in beside him and tried to get the bartender’s attention. Her breasts, pushed high by some miraculous bra and exposed by a scoop-neck T-shirt, pressed against his arm. He closed his eyes for a second. The moves didn’t change, just the place.

“You’re new here.” She had to shout above the music and he opened his eyes. His part in the game demanded that. She rested an arm on the bar, her upper body angled toward him for his optimal viewing pleasure. In the past, that would have given him a thrill. The game might have been fun, once upon a time. Now, all that mattered was the final score, the few minutes of blessed mental blankness he’d get out of the deal.

He nodded, a knot settling in his gut. Didn’t she get how dangerous it could be to approach a stranger? He could be anybody—the next Ted Bundy. He lifted his bottle, a stream of lukewarm beer trickling over his tongue. “Don’t you know you shouldn’t talk to strangers?”

With a self-confident air, she held out a hand, silver bangles dancing up her arm. “I’m Annie.”

He took the proffered hand. The dampness of her palm slid against his. “Mark.”

A pink-tipped finger glided over his wrist and she smiled, a slow, knowing bow of her glossy lips. “So we’re not strangers anymore.”

“Practically old friends,” he said. She shifted closer and he caught a glimpse of a rose tattoo on the upper curve of her breast, just inside the edge of her shirt. He had absolutely no urge to discover the little drawing, not the way he’d wanted to with Tori. Stiffening, he straightened. He wasn’t going there. Not ever.

Annie moved an inch or so closer. “So what brings you to St. Augustine?”

“Work. Attending a conference.”

“What do you do?”

“I’m a cop.”

“Really? How interesting.” Her blue gaze swept over him, measuring.

She expected a similar show of interest. He toyed with the loose wrapper on his beer. “What about you? What do you do?”

A big grin displayed her white teeth. “I’m a kindergarten teacher.”

His kindergarten teacher had been a spindly, graying woman. Annie didn’t look like any teacher he’d ever had. But closeted all day with a roomful of five-year-olds? He shuddered. He’d rather break up a bar fight with no backup. “Bet that’s really interesting.”

Her cheerful laugh was pretty, lyrical. “You have no idea.”

The bartender finally stopped in front of them. “What’ll you have?”

Beneath her lashes, Annie slanted a flirtatious glance at Mark. “A Screaming Orgasm.”

Figured, but at least she knew what she wanted. Mark reached for his wallet. “I’ve got it.”

“You want another beer?”

“Yeah. Thanks.”

The drinks arrived shortly and Annie clinked her glass against his longneck. “To new friends.”

Outside the bar, Annie stumbled, and with an arm at her waist, Mark steadied her. She clutched at his biceps and giggled. She smoothed her hair with her free hand and glanced up at him. Her eyes drooping a little, she turned into him, breasts flattened against his chest. She pushed him against the wall and walked a finger down his throat and chest, stopping just above the point where their bodies meshed.

“I really, really like you.” The slurred words emerged on a high giggle. Shadows darkened the alley behind the pub, but enough moonlight filtered through the cloud cover above to pick out strands of gold in her hair.

“Yeah?” He slid his hands to her waist and pulled her closer. The excitement he’d expected didn’t materialize; the cold, hard knot remained in his chest.

“Yeah.” She pressed even tighter against him and circled his neck with her arms. Her mouth, wet and a little clumsy, sought his.

He fought the instant recoil at the touch of her lips. Her tongue flicked at the corner of his mouth, probed inside. She tasted of alcohol and salt, a remnant of peanuts from the bar. This kiss was neither sweet nor tentative, nothing like kissing Tori had been.

No sense in thinking about her or that kiss, no point in remembering how fresh she’d tasted. Instead, he eased his fingers beneath the hem of Annie’s shirt and up to the curve of her breasts, his movements rough and unsteady. She moaned her approval and hooked her leg over his, thigh over thigh, her foot tucked around his knee.

A little kissing, a little petting, and she’d let him have her right here, public alleyway or not. He kissed her harder, not wanting to think about being almost forty and about to screw a stranger against a bar wall. A tattooed, actually-kind-of-nice, plastered kindergarten teacher, but a stranger all the same. She was drunk and he was convenient. He was hurting and she didn’t matter.

There was absolutely nothing right about this.

He was in the wrong place, doing the wrong thing, with the wrong woman, for the worst reasons in the world.

And knowing that, he was going to do it anyway.

Annie pulled her mouth from his with a trilling, though shaky, laugh. She rubbed at his arms and tilted her head back. “My place is a couple of blocks from here. Let’s go there.”

Her place. He’d always preferred the anonymity and neutrality of a motel room, but he could hardly take her back to the Bayview, not with Tori next door. Just thinking about it made him cringe.

Closing his mind to memories of kissing Tori, to images of her big, dark eyes, he trailed his fingers over the ridge of Annie’s spine, beneath her shirt. “Sounds good.”

Tori stepped into her loose pajama pants, the cotton fabric catching a little on her damp skin. She jerked a camisole over her head.

“Not the kind you’re offering.” She mimicked Mark’s earlier tone, hurt anger making her throat tight. Eyeing herself in the mirror, she twisted her still-damp hair into a loose knot. Between the hem of her camisole and the waistband of her low-riding pants, the rhinestone dangle on her bellybutton ring winked in the fluorescent light.

He was such a jerk, taking her to the Rigsbys’ for dinner, giving her glimpses of himself, making her want to comfort him. She turned away from the mirror and padded into the main room.

“He doesn’t want your brand of comfort.” Frustration gripped her again. He was dwelling in anger and denial, probably hopelessness, not moving through the necessary stages of grief, and she could help him, if only he would let her.

He wouldn’t, though. Instead, he was seeking
comfort
with some available woman. Tori flopped onto her bed and stared at the ceiling. What was he doing, right now? Kissing that other woman? Touching her? More? Eyes burning, Tori blinked. She didn’t want to cry over him again.

She closed her eyes and conjured up the memory of him standing before her earlier, his face bearing the lines and ravages of intense grief. And survivor’s guilt. She’d wanted him to walk with her, to talk about his wife and whatever had happened to her. She’d wanted to offer him surcease.

What if she’d offered him the kind of company he’d gone looking for?

Her stomach lifted, fluttered. If she’d stepped forward and touched him, made herself available, they might right now be together, perhaps on this same bed. She could be exploring the tight muscles she’d felt under her palms when she’d grabbed his arms. His mouth could be on hers, he could be touching her, his body covering—

Face hot, she opened her eyes. “Like that’s going to happen. Get real, Victoria Jean.”

Her body tingled, her breasts seeming heavy and full, the trembling in her stomach settling to a dull ache. The reality would be her entire body stiffening, freezing when he tried to touch her. In her head, the man taking her wouldn’t be Mark. He would be Billy Reese.

She sat up, knees to her chest, hands holding her ankles in a light grasp. In the years since Reese had raped her, she’d tried moving forward, had dated a total of three men. She’d not been able to get past simple good-night kisses, hadn’t wanted their hands on her. None of the three had awakened any genuine hint of desire in her. Even worse, the horrifying lack of judgment she’d made with the last one had frightened her off the idea of dating for two years. She’d been completely taken in by his smooth exterior, had thoroughly failed to see the twisted evil that lurked inside.

Mark made her feel, but deep down, she knew she wouldn’t be able to follow through.

“Face it,” she whispered, resting her cheek against her knees. “You don’t have anything to offer him.”

And he didn’t have anything to offer her, not really. Obviously, he’d locked his heart and his emotions away long ago. He wasn’t the man for her. The best thing for her to do was put Mark Cook right out of her mind and try to get some sleep.

“Sure,” she murmured against her arm. Already, the images of him intertwined with another woman poked at the edges of her brain. “As if.”

Following her up the stoop, Mark fingered a frond on a huge, lacy fern. His stomach muscles were tight, a weird tension hovering over him. What was he doing? He shouldn’t be here.

This was wrong, on so many levels. His steps faltered.

The walk and moist air seemed to have sobered Annie somewhat, but her hand trembled when she tried to unlock the front door. Mark reached for the keychain with its whimsical palm tree. “Let me.”

She surrendered the keys and turned her face up to look at him. Her teeth worried her bottom lip. “I don’t…I don’t do this very often. I want you to know that.”

He pushed the door inward and took a step back. A heavy scent of lilacs wafted out the door and over him. “You don’t have to explain anything to me.”

Her fingers closed around the keys he pressed into her hand. She wrapped her arms around her midriff and leaned against the doorframe. Her gaze dropped from his. “It’s just, well, it’s been a horrible week for me. I needed…someone.” She glanced up at him, her blue eyes luminous in the dim light from the cut-glass lantern hanging above her head. “You seemed like a really nice guy.”

A nice guy? If she only knew.

He paused. Did he really want this? The brief forgetfulness the interlude offered didn’t seem worth it. The pain and guilt would only come rushing in again. And this time, it would be worse because he’d changed things with Tori earlier. Hell, why did he feel committed to her? It didn’t make sense.

He rubbed a hand over his nape. “You know, it’s getting late and I’ve got an early morning. I appreciate the offer—”

“Mark, just say you changed your mind. It’s okay. I’m not going to jump you.” A flush colored her cheekbones. “Although the way I behaved earlier, I can understand why you’d think I would.”

He spread his hands. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. You’re right though. It is late. I think I’m going to try to get some sleep.” She pressed her fingers to her temples. “Something tells me I’ll have a whopper of a headache in the morning.”

Mark turned for the steps. “Good night.”

The top tread creaked under his foot. “Mark?” Her soft voice blended with the whisper of a breeze through the tree branches above. He glanced at her over his shoulder. “Thanks for seeing me home. You really are a nice guy.”

“Sure, anytime. Night.”

The gentle wind flipped dried leaves along the deserted street. The air held a slight chill, raising gooseflesh on his bare forearms. Bright spotlights cast pools of yellow light around the silent, brooding Castillo de San Marco. Water splashed against the bay wall, and music and laughter flowed from one of the nightspots facing the avenue. Palm trees tossed and waved in the breeze.

He stopped. Over the trees on the opposite shore, the lighthouse’s beam flashed. Everything here was familiar, peaceful, but he couldn’t find any appreciation for it. Memories crowded in on him—sharing these same sights with Jenny, sitting on a bench and stealing light kisses, taking her to the middle of the Bridge of Lions to propose with a ridiculously small diamond. He could smile at those, but the others—his first night in their empty bed, her due date coming and going with no news, packing up her clothes and the baby things. Those stabbed at him.

With the recollections swirling in his head, he’d never sleep, not unless he was exhausted. He hadn’t indulged in the usual sexual release and his body hummed with tension. He’d walk for a while and maybe his body would give in to weariness. If he was lucky. More likely, he was in for a long, sleepless night.

With the bathroom light offering slight illumination, Tori lay awake and stared at the ceiling. Outside her window, car doors slammed and disembodied voices moved along the sidewalk. Another car cruised through the parking lot, a spotlight flashing briefly against the heavy drapes. In the room on her east side, the television droned.

She hadn’t heard Mark’s door or his moving around in his room. Restless, she flopped over in the bed. The blanket pulled at her belly button ring and she winced, rubbing the spot. Above her, a deep voice rumbled, followed by a roll of male laughter.

The red numerals on the clock radio glowed. After one in the morning. Where was he?

Like she had to ask. The idea caused a painful clench in her chest and she rubbed at her gritty eyes. Pushing the covers aside, she padded to the window and perched on the ledge to peek between the drapes. Nothing moved in the parking lot. No vehicles traveled on the street.

A figure stood silhouetted on the sidewalk facing the bay. A familiar male build, arms at his sides, head slightly bent. The ache in her chest increased and she clutched the edge of the drape. Everything in the line of his body spoke of intense pain and misery.

Go to him.

“I can’t,” she whispered. He didn’t want her comfort or help. What he wanted was easy, anonymous sex. He was right—he wanted the one thing she couldn’t offer him.

As she watched, he lifted his head and turned toward the motel. She froze, not wanting him to see her watching. Soft footsteps shuffled on the walkway. His door opened and closed, and she breathed a slow sigh of relief. At least he’d come back alone. He hadn’t brought the other woman, whoever she was, with him.

The other woman. Tori shook her head. For there to be another woman, a relationship had to exist, and it definitely didn’t.

His television clicked on and the volume dropped quickly. She leaned against the wall, eyes closed. He was on the other side of that partition, getting ready for bed.

“Stop thinking about that. He’s back, and he’s alone. You can go to bed now. He obviously is.”

She slid from her perch on the window ledge. She’d grab a glass of water and go back to bed, try to get some sleep.

As she passed the second bed, her right foot caught the corner of the platform, under the bedspread. Pain exploded in her toes. She yelped, bent over with the force of the agony moving up her leg in waves.

Clutching her injured toes, she hopped on one foot and bit back a moan. Lord, that
hurt
.

“Tori?” Mark knocked on the connecting door, his voice sharp with concern. “Are you all right?”

She couldn’t speak, tears blurring her vision, her energy focused on breathing and fighting off the burning pain.

Blood leaked between her fingers. Biting her lip, she dropped on the end of the bed, rocking back and forth.

“Tori?” If anything, his voice was sharper, a note of alarm creeping in around the edges. “Tori, I’m coming in.”

Whatever. He could walk to Timbuktu if he wanted. All she wanted was for the throbbing in her entire foot to stop.

“What’s wrong?” He knelt in front of her, his hands running over her. Checking for injuries. She recognized that much. “Tori, what happened?”

His voice wavered. She shook her head, still clutching her foot. “My toes.”

The sharp gray gaze dropped to her foot and he swore. He cradled her heel in his palm. “Let me see.”

“Hit them on the bed.” She forced her fingers to let go. Blood dripped on the carpet.

He lifted her foot. “Oh, honey.”

One strong finger probed at the side of her toe and she sucked in a breath. “Ouch!”

“I’m going to get a towel and some ice. Hang on a sec.”

Gently, he set her foot down and rose to return to his room. In seconds, he was back, carrying two towels and his ice bucket.

“Here.” He lifted her foot again, wrapped one towel underneath and placed the second, filled with ice, along the top of her toes. She flinched. “I know,” he said, his voice soothing. His fingers moved over her ankle in a comforting caress. “It’ll feel better in a sec.”

Under the numbing cold, the pain receded slightly and she stared at him. Barefoot and resting on his haunches, he still wore his khakis, but he’d shed his polo shirt. A fine layer of dark hair covered his chest and formed an arrow down the line of his stomach. A small tattoo lurked between his pecs, an infinity swirl angled to the left, over his heart. He rested her foot against his thigh, muscles rippling beneath her heel. Her breath stopped, but this time it had nothing to do with pain. Her fingers tingled. What would it feel like if she traced the tattoo, ran her hands over his chest? Were those muscles as hard as the ones in his arms?

“Wiggle your toes for me.” She did, her gaze on his hands touching her. Deft and gentle, his fingers moved over her foot and shivers trickled through her, almost making her forget the burning pulsing. “I don’t think anything’s broken. You have a cut, but it’s not very deep. We can clean it up and put a bandage on it.”

“Thanks.” Warmth traveled out from his touch, an odd contrast to the numbing cold at her toes. He glanced up at her and all the warmth died. Deep pink lipstick smudged the corner of his mouth. Leaning forward, she swiped it away with her thumb. “Did she make you forget?”

He froze, staring at her. Slowly, he shook his head. “No. I mean, I didn’t…” A hard swallow moved his throat. “I couldn’t.”

A trickle of icy water dripped down the side of her foot. Tori moistened dry lips. “Why not?”

“Because it didn’t feel right. Because it’s not working anymore. She probably could have made me forget Jenny for a little while…” Another swallow, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “But she couldn’t make me forget you.”

She blinked. “Mark—”

“Let’s get this cleaned up.” His voice turned brisk and he lowered her foot again. Pushing to his feet, he strode into his room and came back with a small first aid kit. “This might sting a little bit.”

It stung a lot. She sucked in a harsh breath and he looked up at her, his mouth quirked. “Sorry.”

“It’s…it’s all right.” The soothing warmth of his touch on her skin was intoxicating. She took a deep breath. “Jenny was your wife?”

The line of his jaw tightened. His fingers hesitated in their gentle ministrations, but he recovered quickly. “Yes. Jenny was my wife.”

She wanted to know more, but the awful pain in his words stopped her questions. He smoothed a piece of tape along the edge of the gauze bandage wrapping her big toe. “I guess we were high school sweethearts,” he said, his voice quiet and matter-of-fact. Tori brushed her tangled hair back, her gaze focused on his face. “She was really smart, but she didn’t want college, even though we all tried to talk her into it. She wanted marriage and a family, what her mother had.”

“There’s nothing wrong with that,” Tori whispered and held her breath. She was afraid to speak, afraid he’d stop talking, when that was what he needed most. “Not if it made her happy.”

“She worked, though. A couple of part-time jobs while I was going to the academy and getting started with the department.” He returned the makeshift ice pack to her bruised toes. “Man, we were young. We got married when she was still seventeen, right out of her senior year. I was nineteen.”

“You’re right. You were young.” With experimental caution, she wiggled her toes. Dull agony tore across them and she bit her lip. She hated pain and didn’t deal well with it. Somehow, she expected she’d used up her pain-tolerance quota healing from her rape injuries.

“Too young.” He laid her foot on his thigh again, his fingertips doing magic to her ankle. The sudden urge to find out what else those fingers could do to her set off the fluttery twinge in her stomach again. “We’d only been married about a year when she got pregnant.”

The breath she’d just managed to catch whooshed out again. He was a father?

“I know it sounds strange, but sometimes it’s the baby I wonder about the most. What he would have grown up to be, that kind of thing. He’d be almost nineteen now.”

She closed her eyes. No, not a father. At least, not one who’d gotten the chance to hold his child. Horrible scenarios clicked through her mind. She opened her eyes to find him rubbing his thumb across the top of her foot. “What happened?”

“I failed them.” His whisper was so low she barely caught the words. “I was supposed to protect them and I failed.”

Her throat tight, she leaned forward and cradled his face. His stubble pricked her palms. “Mark, I’m sure it wasn’t—”

“Yeah, it was.” He took hold of her wrists and pulled her hands away. “I could have walked with her. I could have gone looking for her sooner. There’s so many things I could have done differently and any one of them might have saved her. But I didn’t do any of them. I screwed up.”

Did he realize he still held her wrists, his thumbs moving in slow circles on her skin? “Like I could have taken a different route home or not enrolled in the night class in the first place? Maybe carpooled with someone else so I wasn’t alone? Or I could have stayed in the car, not gotten out to move that branch.”

Fingers tightened and his head jerked up, shadowed eyes meeting hers. “What Reese did wasn’t your fault in any way.”

“You’re right. It wasn’t.” She kept her voice soft. “Just like whatever happened to Jenny and your baby wasn’t yours.”

He harrumphed in disagreement and she twisted her hands so she could take his. Holding his gaze, she smiled, although her lips trembled. “You were a victim too. It wasn’t your fault.”