THAT MYSTERIOUS TEXAS BRAND MAN Page 11

  She got to her feet slowly and paced toward the doorway. "But I still think I can help him. And I should. I mean, he wouldn't take a dime for what he's doing for us—risking his life just to help us out. I owe him for that."

  Marcus was walking to the bedroom when he heard words that made him go utterly still. "God, I could fall in love with him so easily," Casey said. "But I can't let that happen."

  He blinked in shock and turned around, reversed his steps, wound up back in the living room pacing like a caged lion. He should run. Every cell in him was screaming at him to run.

  But he thought about Laura's big ebony eyes and pale, frightened countenance. And then he thought about Casey's kiss. And he knew he couldn't He was trapped right here until this thing ended.

  One way…or another.

  He was still pacing when Casey came back downstairs. His skin felt damp and prickly. It seemed too cold in here, and a dull throb worked its way up the back of his neck into the base of his skull. He couldn't remember feeling the physical symptoms of nervousness or panic ever before. But he felt them now. It was almost funny. He'd taken on armed assailants one by one or six at a time. But he was afraid to face down one small woman. Yeah. Funny. But he wasn't laughing.

  "Thank you."

  It was all she said. She stood at the bottom of the stairs, meeting his gaze from across the room. Her doe brown hair was tousled, and her eyes showed signs of the strain she'd been under. She looked tired, looked like she'd been tired and worried for quite some time, and he wondered how he'd missed it before.

  "Don't thank me. He got away. I'm still kicking myself for that."

  Pursing her lips, she came closer. He stood where he was, wary, wondering if she'd touch him and what he would do if she did. She didn't, as it turned out. She stopped halfway, stood awkwardly for a moment. "He got away," she said. "But not with my sister. If I'd been here alone, I don't think I could have stopped him."

  "No, but you'd have tried, wouldn't you?"

  Her brows lifted. "I'd have been on him like a rash. He'd have had to take the both of us."

  "He'd have killed you."

  She blinked but said nothing.

  "He had a gun, you know."

  "No. I didn't see one so I assumed—"

  "Assuming is always a mistake. Usually a deadly one. He had a gun, just never got the chance to pull it."

  "So you saved my life as well as Laura's." She lowered her head. "Words seem pretty shallow, Marcus. Thanking you … it doesn't even come close."

  "Not necessary. It's what I do."

  "I know, but—"

  "Let me keep doing it."

  She frowned at him. "What?"

  "If you want to thank me, do it by keeping my secrets, Casey. Don't write the article. Let me keep doing what I do."

  Slowly she released all her breath as her head tipped back and her eyes fell closed. "I never intended to write any article about you," she told him. "Never. I wish you could believe me."

  "So do I."

  Her head came down fast, and she met his eyes. "You can, Marcus. Look, take a look at my columns. For two years I've been exposing people's secrets, but only when those secrets caused harm. Politicians on the take or on drugs, or using public money to fund their mistresses and vacations. Dishonest judges, corrupt cops, scam artists. Don't think for a minute, though, that those are the only secrets I've been privy to. People tell me things, Marcus. Sometimes they tell me just to hear themselves talk, and sometimes they think they can use me for revenge. I've known about scandals that would turn your raven hair white, things that would have sold papers, things involving local celebrities. But I never printed them, because those secrets were hurting no one. No one but the people keeping them, that is."

  He watched her as she delivered her little speech. And oddly enough, he found himself wanting to believe her. "That's a lot to swallow, coming from a journalist."

  She nodded. "I know it is. But your secret is safe with me, Marcus. Because it isn't a secret that's causing harm. Except to you."

  "To me?"

  She nodded, started closer, then seemed to think better of it. Biting her lip, she walked to the sofa and sat down instead. It made him wonder what she'd intended when she'd taken that impulsive step toward him.

  "It's no good, this life of secrets you're living. You've isolated yourself from the rest of the world. Don't you get lonely?"

  Those eyes of hers, brown as velvet, seemed to draw emotions out of some hidden cauldron inside him. Feelings he hadn't even been aware of until she'd coaxed them to the surface.

  "Lonely," he heard himself whisper, "is easier." And somehow, he forgot to keep his distance. Before he could think better of it, he'd joined her on the sofa.

  "Easier than what?"

  He blinked, thought about what he'd said and gave his head a shake. "Nothing. I'm tired … not thinking about what I'm saying."

  "With people like you, Marcus, that's the best time to talk. It's the only time every word isn't carefully selected to conceal the truth. Those things that slip out … they're the most honest words you say."

  "Are you a journalist or a shrink?"

  She shrugged. "I don't usually get so philosophical. Only with you."

  "Why do you suppose that is?"

  She smiled at him, and his heart skipped a beat. Her face lit up a little. "That was really clever, turning the conversation around like that. You're good at it."

  "You think so?"

  "Mmm-hmm. But I'm better. And I think that when you said being lonely was easier, you meant it was easier than heartbreak and devastation. The things you felt when you lost your little sister, your family."

  He shrugged and looked away. "If that is what I meant—and I'm not saying it is—then you have to admit it's accurate."

  She turned slightly sideways on the sofa, so she faced him, and again her eyes dug into his soul. "Loneliness might be preferable to heartbreak, Marcus, but those aren't the only two options."

  "Aren't they?"

  Smiling very gently, she shook her head. "You know they aren't."

  "For me they are. Caring … getting involved … is always a risk. No matter how careful you are, how cautiously you go into it, there's still a chance it will fall apart in the end."

  "And there's an equal chance it could turn out to be wonderful."

  "Not worth the risk."

  "And growing old alone is a better option?"

  He lowered his head. They were dancing all around it, but he knew what she was talking about. Not just any relationship, but one with her. He'd heard what she'd said upstairs. He knew. "If you'd ever had your soul ripped right out of your body, Casey, you wouldn't have to ask. Anything—anything—is preferable to that."

  Her hand, trembling slightly, touched his face. A touch as light as an angel's sigh. "I don't think I've ever known anyone to hurt as much as you do."

  He tried not to take so much comfort in the feel of her fingers, inching into his hair, moving in small circles on his scalp. Almost as if she were unconsciously trying to rub his pain away.

  "My hurt is in the past," he told her. "All I want is to keep it there."

  "If you only knew how wrong that is." He brought his head up, and as he did, her gentle touch fell away. "Wrong? About wanting to keep the worst pain of my life in the past?"

  "It isn't in the past. It's with you every day of your life. For God's sake, Marcus, it's in everything you do. That dark coat—that secret identity you cling to—it isn't a disguise, it's a shield."

  He shook his head. "No. One thing has nothing to do with the other."

  She met his eyes and without a word told him she thought he was wrong about that. The problem was, she was right. He knew it. He'd always known it. The other problem was, he couldn't look away from her, and she must see the truth as clearly in his eyes as he could see the knowledge in hers.

  He didn't like her knowing so much … about him, about his secrets. His innermost feelings. His demons.
/>   "You know," she said, "if you talked about what happened, it might help."

  Still her eyes plumbed his. Explored the deepest parts of his soul, places even he no longer visited. "No." A single word, but his tone said more. It said, "No trespassing. Sacred ground. Absolutely no admittance."

  And she heard it. She lowered her eyes, stopped her foray into his forest of illusion.

  "I'm not going to push."

  "I wasn't going to let you."

  Her smile was slight, unplanned, and it didn't quite reach her eyes. "I'm pretty good at pushing. I doubt you could stop me."

  "Don't kid yourself, Casey. If I could handle that bald-headed lug who tried to run off with your sister, I think I can handle you."

  Her head came up slowly, eyes locking on his. But they were dark now. Smoky. "You think so?" she whispered.

  Oh, hell. He swallowed hard, reminded himself that he wasn't going to let this happen. He'd decided it was a bad idea. That a one-night stand with her was far too dangerous to risk. That…

  Her eyes held his, drew him closer. He had no choice. It wasn't a mental thing, it was purely physical, and as impossible to resist as gravity. And so he went, closer, and pressed his mouth to hers. And his thought processes ended the second he felt that soft yielding of her lips. Their gentle parting. Their moistness. The voice of reason, of logic vanished. Alarm bells faded. Desire took over.

  He wrapped his arms around her, because she just wasn't close enough to him. One arm extended the length of her back, and his palm cupped her head.

  Better. He could kiss her more thoroughly this way. And he did. He held her face to his and invaded her mouth with his tongue. A soft sound of yearning escaped from her mouth into his and made his pulse skyrocket. The warm, tight skin of her waist heated his other palm, where he'd slipped it beneath her blouse. He tightened his hold, tilted his head and kept plumbing the moist recesses of her mouth. His head cycloned, and the touch of her fingers burying themselves in his hair only heightened the effect.

  He eased her backward, moving with her. Her breasts were pressed to his chest, her back sinking into the cushions. Hands caressing him, his shoulders, his back, his buttocks, sent him into some other realm. One where nothing existed beyond her mouth, her hands, her body stretched beneath his. He nudged her thighs apart and nestled his hips tight against her, and she clenched her fingers to pull him closer. The thunder of her heart hypnotized him, drew him into her rhythm. His lips trailed from her mouth to her jaw and lower. The pulse in her throat fluttering against his mouth sent him up in flames. He heard a deep moan and realized the sound came from his own lips.

  And then her hands were on his shoulders. Her voice, as breathless and hoarse as if she'd just run a marathon, filled his ears. "Marcus, I told myself I wouldn't let this happen…"

  "So did I."

  He worked his way to her mouth again, kissed her until she managed to turn her head. "I … we should … stop."

  "I don't want to stop."

  "I don't, either, but, Marcus…"

  He heard the plea in her voice, forced himself to slow down, take a full breath, look into her eyes. He didn't find them wide or frightened. Only hooded and glazed with passion. But even so, she whispered, "I want you more than I want to draw another breath, Marcus. But I—"

  Closing his eyes, he finished for her. "You don't do one-night stands."

  "It goes way beyond that, and I think you know it."

  He did. He gently eased his weight from her, then closed his hands on her shoulders and drew her upright again. Heart still pounding, he smoothed her tousled hair with his palms and wondered how she managed to make it feel like silk and smell like wild strawberries.

  "It would mean too much, Marcus. You say you're incapable of feeling anything for me. But I'm not incapable. I can feel. And if we … if we do this … I will."

  He let his eyes roam her face. Traced the line of her jaw and the fullness of her lips. Delved into those incredibly huge brown eyes. He wanted her. And it was more than physical. "You're a smart lady."

  "Too smart to let you break my heart."

  He forced himself to take his hands away, to stop stroking her hair. "Go on up to bed, Casey. I'll, uh, I'll be down here if you need me."

  "If I change my mind," she corrected him.

  "Yeah. And, uh, if you don't … maybe you'd best lock your door."

  She smiled. Nervous, trembling, still aroused. "I trust you, Marcus."

  "I'm not sure I trust myself." He tried to smile, but it felt false, tight. "Besides, I might sleepwalk."

  She got to her feet, stumbled. Marcus reacted fast, springing up himself to steady her. Then he wished he hadn't, because she lowered her head to his chest and emitted a shuddery sigh. Gripping her shoulders, he set her gently away from him. "Good night, Casey." She blinked at him, looking hurt, so he added, "I'm only human."

  Understanding dawned. She nodded, turned away. "Good night, Marcus," she whispered. And she crossed the room, went up the stairs, never looked back.

  Marcus watched her all the way to the top, then he lowered his head, closed his eyes and swore until he ran out of breath.

  * * *

  Chapter 10

  « ^ »

  Marcus thought dying couldn't feel much worse than watching Casey go up those stairs. He had to do something, take some action, both to protect Casey and Laura and to distance himself from them.

  It was Saturday tomorrow, and they wouldn't be going to work. He'd have to stick close … they were entirely too vulnerable in the house by themselves. He didn't like it, any of it. The risk to Laura and to Casey. Being put in the position of having to stay so close. Unable to run the way his instincts were insisting he do.

  He sat on the edge of the sofa, head in his hands. Sweating. Shaking. How could one woman reduce him to this? How could he want her so much?

  Maybe it was as simple as knowing he couldn't have her. Maybe that was what was making him so crazy. He couldn't have her. She'd told him straight-out that she didn't do one-night stands. She wanted a relationship. Some kind of sign on his part that a commitment wasn't out of the question. She wanted caring, trust, a sort of closeness he hadn't shared with anyone since…

  Since that day. He squeezed his eyes tighter. He wasn't going to think about that. Relive it. Not again.

  His eyes burned, and he got up to pace, just to keep himself from falling asleep. Last night he'd been on duty, guarding the two women. Today, Graham's news had kept him restless, and he'd never once closed his eyes. Tonight wouldn't be any better. His head ached from sleep deprivation and his eyes blurred. He paced back to the sofa and sat down. Let his head fall back against the cushions.

  The memories closed in, his deepest terror coming to life again. He fought it. God, if this wasn't hell, he didn't know what was. To be robbed of nearly every memory of his childhood—except for a few snatches that appeared all too briefly, fleeting glimpses of the love he must have known once. And one nightmare. In all its gory detail.

  He knew something was wrong the second his father came through the door. His normally ruddy face was white, his eyes—they just looked so frightened.

  "Dad?"

  He'd pushed past Marcus, shouting for the others. And Marcus's mother rushed in from the kitchen, where she'd been looking for Sara. Sara … playing that stupid hide-and-seek game of hers and making his mom nuts because she couldn't find her.

  "Get some things together," his father said. Even his voice sounded funny. Marcus got a tight feeling in his chest. "We have to leave, right now. Where's Sara?"

  "I'll get her."

  Marcus frowned as his mom hurried off, calling Sara's name. She hadn't even asked what was wrong.

  Why his dad was so upset. It was as if she already knew. As if she'd been expecting this.

  And maybe she had. Even Marcus knew his dad's "business" wasn't an honest one. He'd heard his mother condemn it often enough, plead with him to get out. Even their cousins in Texas disapprove
d, though they tried not to let it show. Marcus wished he'd tried to find out more … he only knew it involved money. Suitcases full of it sometimes. He'd thought he didn't want to know more, but now he knew he had to.

  "Dad, what's going on?"

  "Not now, Marcus."

  "Yes. Now. Tell me, why do you look so scared? What's happening?"

  His father looked at him for the first time, and Marcus saw the fear more than ever. "It's gonna be okay. Your old man screwed up, Marc, but it's not going to happen again. Not ever again, I promise."

  "But—"

  Reaching down, his father rumpled Marcus's hair. "I need you to help, Marcus. Go down to the cellar and bring up those old suitcases your mom keeps there, okay?"

  "Down to the cellar?" Marcus glanced toward the doorway. It was dark in the cellar. He'd always hated the dark. But then he looked up at his dad again and saw that his father was a lot more afraid of whatever was happening than Marcus was of the dark, damp cellar. So he lifted his chin and nodded hard, and then he turned and went down those rickety stairs.

  He'd barely got down them when he heard the crash—like someone smashing through the front door. Whirling to run back upstairs, he glimpsed his father's large hand shoving the cellar door closed. And then he heard that horrible sound—the rapid, staccato explosions of gunfire. Like in some kind of gangster movie.

  He froze on the stairs. Just froze there. And the sounds went on, and he told himself to run up there, to do something, to help his family. But his feet refused to move. His entire body was utterly paralyzed. He didn't even think he was breathing while those machine guns went on and on.