Honor Bound

Page 22

“What kind of car is this?”
“You after my money now? Gold digger.”
“Gram always said a good man with money was as easy to love as a good man with none.” She sniffed. “But I’m only after your body, Captain.”
“Well, then.” He covered her cold hand with his, squeezed. As he rubbed a soothing thumb over her knuckles, he leaned over, brushed a kiss along the back of her ear, nuzzling there. Sliding his fingers into the seam of her thighs, he pressed until she parted them. “Leave them like that,” he whispered into the microphone of her hearing aid so she caught the sensual purr close up. “I want to play with your pussy while I drive. I’m going to keep you talking the whole way, so I can hear your voice break as I get you hotter and hotter.”
As a distraction technique, it was unbeatable, tangling her nerves back up into full-blown lust until she could barely think. By the time they pulled into the Adlers’ driveway, her breath was fast and shallow. The tiny thong was in danger of dripping, she was sure. But she heard a console opening, a moment before he pressed an absorbent cloth against her, making her start up against his hand and grind herself there like a wanton, her hand falling onto his forearm, gripping it for an anchor.
“I’m making you into a mindless little slut, aren’t I?” He murmured it against her ear again, his body close and hard next to her. Lunging, she met his lips in hot, openmouthed need, and thank God, he didn’t deny her. He captured her movement, controlling it with a hand to her nape. Sucking on her tongue, he thrust his in with a demand that incinerated even hers. When his hand sealed over her pussy, not to stroke but to grip, a reminder of his possession, she moaned against his lips.
“Remember,” he growled as he broke free at last, “that you’re my mindless little slut.”
“Yes, Master,” she breathed, even as she trembled. Her fantasies hadn’t done justice to a Master this dominant, one so overwhelming. The healthy, whole Dana would have loved it, but this Dana wondered if it would be too easy to give in to it, damn him to a life of watching after her physical shortcomings. In truth he seemed completely comfortable—or totally oblivious—to such shortcomings. That might be dangerous, too, because his confidence might make her crazy enough to start believing this was possible.
Peter Winston was as sure as hell of himself, which made her hope all the more painful.
Two days didn’t a new life make. It was only the start, and maybe he really didn’t realize everything that was involved. If she agreed to stay longer, could she handle the agony if he changed his mind? How long would it take before she was strong enough to handle a setback like that? And if he realized it was a mistake, and tried to stay with her out of pity, she’d just die. It was easy to say she wasn’t a coward; far harder to prove it to herself.
He was taking her around the back, through a pool area. Though she smelled the chlorine, he described the area to her in precise military detail. His friends were at a tiki bar about forty feet away, mixing drinks. Vaguely, she picked up greetings, and clearly heard Peter’s response. As he guided her along the concrete, he had a hand at the small of her back, one of her hands in his. Despite that, she tucked her other hand back to touch his fingertips on her hip, trying not to cling or show fear of tripping.
Then another, uncomfortably familiar scent came to her nostrils. Her steps slowed and she cocked her head. “Is there someone to our left?”
“Yes. Cassandra’s brother, Jeremy. He’s sitting in one of the pool loungers, about ten feet from you. I was going to introduce you to him, but he appears to be dozing.” The cautionary note in Peter’s voice needed no translation. She’d been in a hospital long enough to recognize the stench of medical treatments, IVs, and sickly sweat. A combination impossible to erase, no matter how often the nurse bathed her.
“I’m awake.” She heard a sluggish voice, raised to catch his attention and therefore reaching her ears. Then a murmur of sound that Peter translated.
“Jeremy said it’s nice to meet you, Dana.”
God, she hated that, when someone had to repeat something to her. But she supposed it wasn’t the end of the world. Following an impulse, she moved toward the lounger, taking Peter with her by holding on to his hands. He stopped her, guided her around something in her way. Another lounger, according to what brushed her thigh.
Leaning down as the scent grew stronger, she found a thin leg, a drape of cloth that might be a robe. “I’m fine, Jeremy,” she said. “It’s nice to meet you.” See, Gram, I remembered my manners, even while being led around like a cart horse.
“You might not want to touch me.” Jeremy cleared his throat, spoke a little more loudly.
“AIDS leper here. In fact, I could kick off at any time. Sis has to check with a mirror to see if I’m breathing, or if it’s time to take out the garbage.” Peter winced at Jeremy’s usual caustic take on things. Though he could tell Dana had heard him clearly, her hand had not moved from its position on his leg. Cassandra was walking toward them. From her expression of quiet pain, he knew she’d heard her brother’s comment, though he was sure she’d heard his cynical humor before.
Lucas came with her, sliding a hand around her waist. He shot Jeremy a guys-giving-each-other-shit look. Peter thanked God for his sensitive friends when Lucas took his voice up several octaves. “Yeah, knowing his inconsiderate ass, he’ll stay alive a day after the usual trash pickup, so we have to put him on ice for a week.” Dana sank down on the edge of the lounger, found Jeremy’s sleeve, followed it to his hand, and slid her fingers in between his. “Your voice,” she mused. “It sounds a bit like my brother’s. You’re too young.”
“You’re too pretty to be a jarhead.”
“That’s a Marine term,” she said primly. “But thanks.” As Peter watched her, the way her hand moved carefully over Jeremy’s thin fingers, he suspected his curiosity mirrored Jeremy’s. The young man stared at their hands.
“You must really like your brother. You’re touching me, and you don’t even know me.”
“He died some time ago. That’s why I needed to touch you.” A faint smile crossed her face, but there was no humor in it. “Sometimes when you can’t see, you have to touch to be sure. I hear his voice sometimes. I heard his voice for a while. . . .” Her voice drifted off and Peter saw the moisture gather in her eyes, but even as he stepped closer, she shook it off, gave Jeremy an arch look, despite her inability to look directly at him. “You think after being blown up, I’m really worried about you sneezing on me? If someone wanted to kill me, they’ve already tried hard enough. I could show you some scary scars.”
“Though I much rather you didn’t,” Peter put in, instigating a competitive spark in Jeremy’s face, cynicism briefly replaced by wry humor.
“Hey, she may find the emaciated look sexy, versus your beef-cake routine.”
“No doubt,” Peter said dryly.
Aside from Jeremy’s sickly aroma, the subtle sadness in Peter’s tone told Dana the boy looked bad. It was amazing how much she could pick up from voices, even when she couldn’t always hear the words clearly. Ironically, her comprehension improved when she stopped worrying about hearing the response, instead focusing on the emotions she was hearing. Jeremy was frightened. Perhaps that was why, though he was obviously close to slipping into sleep again, he’d wanted to be out here, around people, voices and light, because darkness was closing in.
She’d had the opposite reaction, wanting to withdraw when she knew the loss of light would be a permanent fact of her life, not a transition to death. Gram had always said,
“People ain’t happy with nothing. God blesses them, they complain. Bad things happen, they complain. They can’t think about nothing but themselves, though the whole world’s full of people worse off they could be helping to feel better.” Following impulse, she found Jeremy’s face with her fingertips, leaned in to press her lips against the gaunt cheek, holding herself there. His hand came up, gripped her arm.
Long, skinny fingers. Cold. The boy was so cold. He needed another blanket.
“There’s nothing to fear,” she whispered. “All you’re doing is stepping into God’s arms.” Gram had said that, too, when her brothers were killed. Stepping into God’s arms.
“I’m not all that religious,” he said, voice breaking.
She’d found the right crevice. People were all cracks and crevices. Since people got more of those as they lived and lost, it was sometimes hard to find the right opening to a young heart. But for this boy, it was one large Grand Canyon, easy for someone—she swallowed—easy for someone with the eyes to see it.
I wanted to be a minister. . . .
“My gram said religion only matters to men, not to God. Your heart belongs to Him, and He’s always there to welcome it back, like a mama’s arms. Or a sister’s,” she added, remembering what Peter had told her in the car. Cassandra had raised her siblings.
Jeremy’s breath was a little uneven, his hands gripping her arms hard, a wordless thanks.
As she eased him back, stroked his brow, she could tell even that little exertion had depleted him. He relaxed, sleeping again. When Peter’s hand covered hers, she let him lift her to her feet, guide her away from the lounge chair. His fingers grazed her cheek.
“There you are,” he murmured. “The girl I met in that club. As far as my heart goes, you have it, sweetheart. God’s going to have to fight you for it.”
“Not the only one.” A deep timbre reached out to her along with another male hand, giving hers a squeeze. “Lucas Adler. I’m pleased to meet you, Dana.”
“I’m Cassandra.”
Before Dana expected it, she was eased into a friendly female hug, one with some heavy emotion behind it. Long hair brushed her cheek, smooth skin against the faint texture of her healing scars. “Thank you for what you just did. Because of Peter, you were already welcome here, but consider yourself welcome anytime.”