Never Been Kissed (11 page)

“I’m really very tough.”

“I know.”

He reached for her, to help her, and that was enough catalyst to get her off her ass.

Carefully, weak and dizzy, she rose to her feet, heartsick and aching; she walked out the door, past him, aware of her skin and her smell and the distance between them.

Particles of dust floated in lamplight like moons orbiting their planets. “Good for you,” he breathed as she walked past.

She wobbled at the corner and felt him reach for her, which wouldn’t do. His pity was a hard thing to handle, particularly when she was so pitiful. She pulled away from him and stepped into the bathroom.

“You’re going to need help,” he said. “The tub.”

“I’ll manage,” she said and stepped into the white-tiled room. Water was filling the old claw-foot tub and amazingly there were bubbles.

“Did bubble bath come in your bodyguard kit?” she asked, touching one iridescent orb; it popped under her finger.

“Comes with the guns.”

She smiled and turned, only to find him standing in the doorway. He was a man who lingered in doorways, always watching.

“I found it under the sink,” he said. “It’s probably twenty years old.”

“Thanks, Brody. I’ve got it from here.” Unable to take any more, she closed the door on his handsome face.

She took off the blue sling, setting it down on the closed lid of the toilet and then she tried to pull off the tank top she wore, with the thin straps and the shelf bra, but she couldn’t get her right arm to work and the shirt got tangled over one of her shoulders, her head caught in a cloud of smelly white fabric.

She was about to call Brody back in when it was suddenly tugged free, the tank top pulled away, and she could feel him, his breath against her neck, his heat against the naked, fragile skin of her back.

She tried so hard to hold herself still that she actually shook.

I am a bubble. Touch me and I will pop.

But he didn’t touch her, he vanished as quietly as he’d walked in and she felt the absence of energy, the stillness of the air that surrounded her.

She pulled off her pants, her cotton underwear, and turned toward the bathtub. Halfway there, she caught sight of herself in the mirror and she sucked in a horrified breath.

Bones pushed against her skin. Her ribs were terrible mile markers, gruesome statues covered by giant blooms of purple and yellow.

One side of her face was swollen, her cheek, her eye, the black stitches looked like Hollywood makeup for a horror film. Her hair … oh, her shaking hand touched the tangles and snarls.

It would have to be cut. She knew it was just hair, but it still hurt, the idea like a nerve-ending being severed.

I can’t do this.

She wasn’t ready for reality. She wanted to float around in a painkiller haze until she wasn’t such a monster.

She grabbed a towel from the stack Brody had left for her and wrapped it around her thin, battered body. There
had been a time in her life when being this thin would have been amazing. A success.

But all she felt now was frail. She missed her muscles and her belly. Her strong thighs that could walk her around the world. Her arms that could dig holes in the dust and clay of Kenya.

She shuffled out the bathroom door, past Brody, who held a brush in his hands, a stupefied expression tilting toward anger on his face.

“You can’t give up, Ashley,” he said. “You’ll feel better when you’re clean.”

“I’m going back to bed,” she said, ignoring him. Ignoring the truth in his words, the pity mingling with anger in his eyes.

“What about the press conference?”

That made her hesitate but she couldn’t let him win. Didn’t want to let him win. So what if she didn’t see the press conference live, she could find it later online.

She got to her room, closed the door, and was crawling into bed, still wearing the towel, when the door slammed open, startling her off balance.

“You are tougher than this, Ashley,” he said.

“No. I’m exactly this tough.”

“Bullshit. You’re depressed. You’re not thinking clearly.”

“I’m tired,” she snapped at him. “And you’re pissing me off.”

“Good!”

And then suddenly, she was off the bed, lifted in the air. Her legs over his biceps. The towel slipped, her breast revealed, but he didn’t look. Grim-faced, he carried her back to the bathroom. She snarled and fought as best she could, but she was weak and he subdued her like she was a kitten.

“You’re getting in the bath.”

“Make me,” she snapped, trying to bite him.

She didn’t expect him to, the man who had stood at
her door, eyes averted, wouldn’t pull a towel from her body, revealing her nudity.

But he did it.

The man who didn’t touch her unless she was unconscious wouldn’t lift her bodily into the tub, his hand centimeters from her breast, his other hand on her ass.

Her ass!

But he did.

She hissed and her skin sizzled and his face creased with regret.

“Too hot?”

Without thinking she lifted her hand and sluiced it over the water, sending a wave at him, dousing his pants, the bottom hem of his gray shirt.

For a moment he gaped at her. Internally, she was gaping too, at herself, but then she did it again. Harder. Soaking his shirt this time, the thin cotton clinging to the muscles of his stomach and chest. One of his arms.

He smiled.

“I’m mad at you, Brody. It’s nothing to smile about.”

“Mad is better than depressed.”

“What a stupid thing to say,” she muttered, surprised at herself. This was not her. Not any version she knew … or even sensed.

He turned off the water and in the silence she felt the first hint of embarrassment.

Brody had been nothing but kind. Honestly, very decent. Paid or not, that’s exactly what he’d been, decent.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

“It’s okay.”

“Depression and irrational anger are all part of the post-kidnapping process?”

“With everything you’ve gone through, it’s to be expected.”

“Is this … Have you done this before?” she asked, marginally comforted by his words. “With your job?”

“My job is to keep people from getting kidnapped,” he said. “Are you hungry?” he asked. “My brother brought some salad.”

“This brother of yours, he have a name?”

“Oddly, no. Mom and Dad never named him.”

That was a joke. Brody was joking with her. She was so shocked she couldn’t even react.

“Sean,” Brody said quietly. “His name is Sean.”

“What’s he like?”

Brody was silent and she looked over her shoulder at him, where, after moving her sling, he sat on the closed toilet seat, brush in his hand, gray T-shirt turned black by water.

“He’s a good guy.” He put down the brush and grabbed a bottle from the floor. “Tries hard.”

“At what?”

“Everything. I am going to brush your hair,” he said.

“You should just cut it.”

“You want me to cut it?”

She was silent. What did it matter, really? The anger was popping, disappearing like the bubbles.

“Come on, under.” He pressed a hand against her shoulder and she jerked sideways, away from the warmth of his touch, right into the cold enamel of the tub. She hissed.

His silence made her feel stupid. Girlish. So she sunk herself into the water, holding her breath under the bubbles, feeling her hair float around her face.

Using her toes against the far end of the tub she pushed herself back up, her hands carefully over her face. She could feel him move behind her, the heat of his breath against her shoulder, and she braced for his touch.

But either it was amazingly light or her hair was so matted she couldn’t feel it.

Until a sudden tug stung her scalp.

“Sorry,” he murmured. She crossed her legs and slumped
forward, letting the bubbles cover her breasts, trying to give him as much access to her hair as she could. It wasn’t pleasant, imagining what he was seeing. The edge of the bruises and the cut on the back of her arm, the knobs of her spine.

The pungent scent of fake flowers and too sweet vanilla filled the air and she felt something cold and slick on her head.

“What is that?”

“Conditioner. I found it with the bath soap. Should help with the tangles.”

“What do you know about tangles?” She glanced back at him and his short black hair.

“Believe it or not, Ashley, I have known women.”

“And their hair products?”

“Only their hair products, really. I’m strange that way.”

“I don’t—” She shook her head, all turned around by this strange joking version of Brody. “You’re acting weird.”

He was silent and the tension crept back into the room, which was good. Which was the way it should be between her and Brody. In fact, considering she was naked and he was combing her filthy, matted hair, the air in the room should be frigid and filled with glass.

“It’s my brother’s fault,” Brody said. “He makes me think I’m funny.”

“You’re not,” she said, being mean.
I’m sorry,
she thought. Again.

“Tell me about Kate.” Even though he said it in a murmur, his voice echoed against the tiles. She tilted her head, looking over her shoulder at him, though she could only see his legs, the hard muscle and bone of his knee and thigh.

If she were a different woman, one who made different choices, she might lean against that knee. Rest her
head on that thigh. Let his strength bear a little of her load.

She turned away, staring at the tarnished silver knobs, the small pipe that led up to the showerhead. For a year she’d been dreaming of showers and running water and bubble baths—it was time to relax and enjoy it.

“I met Kate in Haiti. She worked for a mission that developed health clinics for women. My family’s foundation teamed up with her, and when she headed back to Kenya last year, she asked me to join her.”

“To build clinics?”

She nodded, and her hair pulled.

“You know this is easier if you don’t move.”

“Sorry.”

The damp smooth skin of her knees slipped against her breasts.

“Was it bad?” he asked. “Dadaab?”

“It’s a nightmare. One hundred and sixty thousand people living in a place built for ninety. Not enough food, not enough safety. Not enough hope. It’s one long sustained scream.”

But even as she said the words, she thought of the gardens that managed to flourish. The healthy babies where there had been so many dying ones. The afternoon teas Ashley had organized so women could learn about AIDS and contraception, the teas that often dissolved into laughter and gossip, as any good tea should.

Children with bright white smiles and a million games to keep the boredom away.

“We built a community, or tried to. A school, a clinic.” His hands moved higher up in her hair, a finger brushed her ear, the back of her neck. Her nipples hardened against her knees, little points she ignored. Her body was often so easy to ignore. “Kate is a nurse and she works with teachers and—”

“You? What are you?”

“Willing to work. An extra set of arms. Rich.” She laughed as she said it. Hard to say which asset was more important; at any given time all of them were.

“I imagine you’re selling yourself short.”

“You do?” She turned toward him, carefully, so it didn’t hurt. She saw him from the corner of her eye, his hands were wrapped in her hair, his face was relaxed. Not smiling. Not frowning. Just … quiet. All that darkness put away for the moment.

“You were always good at that,” he told her, still brushing her hair, not quite looking at her. “And you were good at making a community.”

It was such a surprise, as surprising as his jokes had been. The tenderness of his hands in her hair, these observations that made her breath stall in her chest.

She didn’t know what to do with him like this, with the reaction to his words that bubbled through her chest, under her skin. So she shrank away from it. Distanced herself from anything as ambiguously threatening as physical reactions, as terrifying as attraction. Particularly to this man.

She just set the physical aside, anything she didn’t want to deal with, anything that had personal ramifications, she set it aside until it no longer mattered.

Another thing she was good at.

“I suppose you’re right,” she said. “I was in charge of the gardens, some of the outreach stuff.”

“Did you like that?”

“I liked when it worked. I liked making it work. It was a lot of problem solving.”

“Gardens in the desert. I’d imagine you had some problems.” She heard the smile in his voice and it made her smile.

“Will you go back?” he asked.

She shook her head. “I was burning out. It’s time to do something where the stakes aren’t quite as high. My
family has said I can run the foundation if I stay in the States, and there’s a lot of work here that needs to be done.”

“You won’t miss it?”

“I imagine I’ll miss it every day.”

Water splashed against the enamel tub and the brush made a slick swishing sound through her hair. She closed her eyes. If she tried hard enough she could imagine she was floating. Just lifting up and out of her sore and battered body and evaporating into the mist and steam that filled the room.

“A guy in my unit, Banks,” Brody said, shaking her out of her thoughts. “When we’d do a patrol, he’d hand out seeds. All the other guys were giving these kids chocolate bars and gum. The odd pencil. But Banks handed out pumpkin seeds. Said the soil was good for pumpkins.”

She tried to act casual, like he was a cat that would vanish if it knew how much she wanted to pet it.

“Iraq?”

Ten years ago when he was a bodyguard for her family, she’d known he’d been wounded in the service. But that was all. The Brody Baxter enigma had been impenetrable.

Part of his utterly overwhelming charm. Or non-charm, as it was. Still, he’d been catnip and she’d been one very high cat.

She waited, her breath held, wondering if he would answer.

“Afghanistan.”

“Was that before or after September 11?”

“October. Just after. We were one of the first units on the ground there.”