Hiding His Witness (8 page)

“I welcome anyone who’s a friend of my son,” Jane said. Again the word
friend
came with a questioning look to Reilly.

Twenty minutes later his mother had taken Carey upstairs and decided she would sleep in his old bedroom. “You and Harris can bunk in his room,” Jane said with a smile.

His mom was pleased he’d brought a friend to visit, but Jane was as old-fashioned as June Cleaver. No sleepovers with girls, even if her sons were well into their thirties.

Reilly shrugged at his mom, letting her know the arrangement was fine even if the image of Carey stretched out in his bed beside him brought fresh waves of heat washing over him. A ridiculous thought. He and Carey weren’t a couple; he was handling this situation with complete professionalism, and going to bed with her was out of the question. Harris’s room was close enough that he could keep an eye on her and be at her side in seconds if anything happened.

“Get yourselves settled. Dinner is in a few hours.” Jane walked from the room, leaving the door to the bedroom ajar.

“I guess your mom was surprised to see me,” Carey said.

Dang, she was pretty. Those brilliant blue eyes could speak right to a man’s soul. Why couldn’t she have been utterly unappealing? “I don’t bring women around often.”

“You could have explained why I’m here.”

Reilly rolled his shoulders. “I will. Soon. Right now I need a nap.” Alone. To get his thoughts together and focus on the case.

Worry filled her eyes. “When’s the last time you had some sleep?”

He glanced at his watch. “Too long ago. I didn’t want to waste time napping when we needed to get out of the city.”

Carey looked at the floor and the impulse to draw her into his arms rocked him. Lack of sleep was making his thoughts hazy, centering around the idea of her spooned against him, his arms around her. Warmth. Comfort. Happiness.

Simple things he missed having with a woman. Taking naps together on cool sheets on lazy afternoons. Gentle wake-up kisses in the morning. Sleeping in late and having breakfast at noon. Things he hadn’t shared with a woman in years. Hadn’t missed in years.

Years?
Had it really been that long since he’d been in a relationship? He’d had casual flings, quick rolls in the sack to sate his physical urges. He’d had sex with zero emotional connection, but hadn’t shared anything real with a woman in too long.

Yeah, he definitely needed sleep. He was getting overemotional and weepy, thinking about chick stuff. Next thing he knew, he’d be buffing his nails and blow-drying his hair.

“Would it be okay if I took a shower?” Carey asked. “I’ve got two days of grime on me.”

“Do you need help?” he asked, remembering the injuries on her head and arm. Seeing her alarmed expression, he hurriedly added, “With your bandages. My mom could give you a hand.” Though his body responded to the image of her naked, and his hands running soap over her, he quashed it. Wasn’t going to happen. What she needed now was some sense of safety and the freedom to relax. He didn’t want her to feel afraid at the Truman Ranch. He didn’t know how, but he was going to take care of her and give her back her life.

Carey shook her head. “No, I can manage. I’m fine.”

There was that word again.
Fine.
Was she really fine? Or was she hungry? In pain? “I’ll get you a towel. Do you need anything else?”

He knew she’d decline and she did. “No, but thank you for bringing me here. I don’t know where else I could have gone.”

He reached out and cupped her cheek, the lightest of touches, careful to be exceedingly gentle. She inhaled sharply and stiffened, but after a few moments, she relaxed. He’d intended the gesture to set her at ease, to assure her she could trust him. It had the unintended effect of sending desire blazing through him. Every time they touched, the sultry hum of anticipation buzzed in his ears. Telling himself nothing could happen, not now, not ever, didn’t silence it.

“I’ll protect you, Carey. You don’t have to be scared.”

Their gazes connected in a hot, devouring stare. Her eyes never leaving his, she turned her head and kissed the inside of his wrist.

His body flared with heat, excitement pooling in his lower extremities. A kiss of gratitude? Did she think she owed him something for helping her? He’d met women who’d never been given kindness without an expectation of a return favor. Is that what this was?

He dropped his hand and stepped away. No matter how appealing she was, no matter how badly he wanted her beneath him, he had to keep some boundaries between them, maintain a professional distance to let her know she was safe here and no one expected she pay them back.

“I’ll get you a towel,” he said quickly and put space between them before he threw his code of honor out the window, caved to his raging hormones and kissed her.

* * *

Carey peeled off her shoes and socks, grateful for the opportunity to bathe in a spotless shower. The one in her apartment had never made her feel clean. The water pressure hadn’t been good, the hot water lasted only a few minutes, and the stains on the walls and tub couldn’t be bleached away. She knew. She had tried endlessly to scrub them.

The bathroom adjoined Reilly’s bedroom, where she would be sleeping, and his brother’s room, where he would be staying. One door separated the bathroom from where she presumed Reilly was napping. She was careful about every noise she made, trying not to make a racket and keep him awake. Then again, he had needed rest and might have stumbled into bed and fallen dead asleep.

A refreshing shower would help her clear her head and settle her nerves. The terror of seeing Mark’s goons, the adrenaline rush of escaping, the surge of desire when she was close to Reilly mixed in her mind, confusing and exhausting her.

Lifting her arms over her head to remove her shirt made the side of her ribs ache and she squelched a cry of pain that rose to her lips. She hadn’t had time to examine her injuries fully since the incident in the alley. Easing the shirt over her head, she folded it and set it on the floor. She inspected her back and her side in the bathroom mirror, both dark purple with bruises. She pulled her hair free of the elastic holding it and angled a hand mirror to examine her scalp in the bathroom mirror. Thanks to Reilly, the back of her head wasn’t a clotted bloody mess, but it needed to be tended to again.

She looked at herself directly in the mirror and nearly gasped. Her dyed red hair hung limp around her head and dark rings circled her eyes. She looked gaunt and tired, the scrape on her chin red and raw. She hadn’t had a haircut in a salon in a year. Only the grown-out layers lingering in her hair gave it any shape. Trips to the salon for a trendy haircut belonged in her old life; she didn’t have time or money to be vain. She carefully removed the bandage from her arm and examined the cut. The butterfly stitches had held.

The care Reilly had shown her, cleaning her cut, asking about her injuries, amounted to another point in his favor, another reason she liked him. Reilly Truman was the whole package: great career, great family, great protector and gorgeous, to boot. The chemistry between them wouldn’t quit. One touch of his hand had nearly unhinged her.

Powerful, undeniable chemistry with a cop. Just what she needed to make this situation more difficult to navigate.

She was lucky to be alive and grateful to be here with Reilly and his butt-kicking family. She wouldn’t have agreed to come, worried she would lure danger to them, but he’d presented his family like a team of superheroes. They could take care of themselves, and she wouldn’t be around for long. Maybe a few days at most, enough time for the worst of her wounds to heal. Then she could hitchhike to a nearby city and start her life over.

Again.

The idea made her weary, but she’d known her life would be this way when she ran from Mark. His arms extended long and his power was unstoppable. She’d do what she had to to stay alive and keep the people around her safe.

Stepping into the shower, Carey winced when the hot water ran over her scalp. She pressed her lips together and remained quiet, knowing Reilly was trying to sleep on the other side of that door. After all he had done, he deserved some rest and time away from her. She was grateful he’d kept his word and hadn’t pressed to know more about Mark. Carey didn’t have the energy to discuss him.

She turned in the shower, letting the hot water soothe her body. The shower felt heavenly. The tiles were snow white and the grout clean, the tub without sticky grunge coating the bottom, the water pressure perfect to massage her back muscles.

Taking a bottle of shampoo from the ledge, she poured some into her palm and worked it into a thick lather. The contact of the soap to her head stung and her rib cage protested the movements of her arms with pulses of pain. But it felt too good to be this clean, so she ignored her body’s aches. Closing her eyes, she thought of Reilly, of the tenderness of his touch, the kindnesses he’d shown her. If she allowed herself and if her life had been different, falling for him would be easy.

No. She couldn’t go there. Not now. Maybe not ever. Her life didn’t allow her to play for keeps.

Ignoring the heaviness in her chest, she rinsed her hair and scrubbed her body quickly, lingering an extra few minutes beneath the hot water.

Carey turned off the water and stepped out of the tub, wrapping herself in the plush towel Reilly had given her. Even the towels here felt nicer than she’d had in her apartment. They were thick and smelled of fabric softener. After wiping her feet on the bath mat, she scampered to her room and closed the door.

Inside her duffel she had the one luxury she’d allowed herself to save from her old life—her lingerie. Carey rationalized no one except her would see it beneath the shapeless frump of her clothes. She’d tried to outwardly stifle her femininity, figuring a woman was an easier target for a mugging than a man. But she’d needed something to remind her she was a woman.

Sliding on her bra and panties, she tugged on her oversize jeans, using her belt to hold them around her waist. But when she reached her arms up to pull her navy-
and-red-striped rugby shirt over her head, she muffled the scream that came to her lips. Pain shot down her spine, exploding across her arms.

She dropped the shirt and moved toward the bed. If she could lie down and stretch her back, she would be fine. She must have a pinched nerve or a torn muscle.

But she couldn’t bring herself to move. Every muscle twitch was utterly painful. What should she do? Call out for help? She was standing in Reilly’s bedroom in her jeans and bra. How embarrassing was this?

She heard movement in Reilly’s bedroom. Was he awake?

“Reilly?” she called, keeping her voice low. If he didn’t respond to her summons, she would assume he was sleeping and try Plan B. Okay, she didn’t have a Plan B, but she would figure something out. Her mantra played through her mind. “Take it one minute at a time.”

“Carey?” his gruff voice answered back.

Grimacing, she spoke. “Umm, I got a little problem.”

The door to her bedroom banged open in seconds. He swore under his breath at the sight of her bruised body and then averted his eyes. “Why didn’t you tell me you were hurt this badly?”

She was utterly aware she made an appalling sight with her baggy, worn jeans, bruised body and ratty, uncombed red hair. The dark red hair dye had been on sale at the drugstore and after several washings had turned brighter, like the color of Pebbles Flintstone’s hair—not her intention. Yeah. She was a train wreck. Her humiliation spread from the root of her hair to her toes. “You knew about some of it,” she said lamely.

His eyes glimmered with concern. “What’s wrong?”

It took her a few moments to process his question. Reilly had stripped out of his dress shirt and tie and had been sleeping in a tight black T-shirt that made it obvious she’d been right about the muscles beneath his clothes. Roped arms, steely chest, tight abs.
Yowsa.
“My back. I can’t move without shooting pain up my spine.”

He held out his hands in a calming gesture. “Okay, just take it easy. Can I come closer?”

Yes. For heaven’s sake, yes.
Although if he touched her, the fierce need pooling in her stomach might ignite and consume her. “Sure.”

Reilly kept his eyes riveted on her face and an odd sensation of delight roiled through her. Perhaps it wasn’t disgust at her bruises. Maybe this was his way of showing respect for her in her awkward, half-naked form. That thought strengthened her desire. What she needed was for him to do something appalling to turn her off.

Reilly held his hands a few inches from her body. “I’m going to see if you have anything broken, okay?”

“My rib cage hurts pretty badly,” she said. “And my back hurts when I move.”

He set his hand along her spine and then touched her rib cage. Pain shot to her side, followed by excited sparks at the contact.

“Your ribs might be broken or bruised.”

Carey took a deep breath and winced. Even that hurt. “Can I get some more pain medication?” Aspirin. Ibuprofen. Anything.

“My father was a medic for the SEALs. Can I have him examine you?”

“Could I get something to wear? Or maybe a blanket?” It was uncomfortable enough being with Reilly half-naked, never mind in front of his father. Reilly thought for a moment. “Let me get you a zip-up sweatshirt. We can put it on without too much movement.”

Almost before she could blink, he’d returned with a sweatshirt. He slipped it over her arms and zipped the front. “Better?”

Marginally. “Thank you. I don’t feel comfortable with...”

“No worries. I understand.”

An unexpected connection zipped between them. She didn’t have to explain or put words to how she was feeling. He got it. He got
her.

Reilly left and returned a few minutes later with his father, who introduced himself as Doc. He had the kindest eyes she’d ever seen and much like with Reilly, she instinctively trusted him—as least a little bit. She’d made some pretty bad decisions in the past. The latest incident with the Vagabond Killer in the alley was a great example.