Just Give In… (9 page)

“Hart seems like a nice guy. He’d understand.”

Of course he’d understand. Everyone would understand. And she would be branded as the Incapable One for life. No, thank you. Brooke lifted her chin. “Once the lawyer returns and the paperwork is signed, Austen is going to buy me out.”

The Captain pulled his cap off his head, pushed it back, and she could see the frustration in his eyes. “And what are you going to do until then?”

“I’ll find a job, If I can’t find one here, I’ll go to Houston, or Dallas. There’s a job for me somewhere.”

The frustration in his face faded and gentled into something that made her dizzy again. “Your brother isn’t in Houston or Dallas. Your home isn’t in Houston or Dallas. You already have a job here. Come back to the house.”

“Why should I go with you?” she asked, wanting to hear the words. Wanting to hear him say that he wanted her, that he needed her, and it scared her how badly she ached to hear those words.

Mutely he stared. Patiently she waited.

Finally, he pointed to the old abandoned farmhouse she’d parked behind. “You can’t live in your car. You could get killed.”

Brooke wanted to scream. Instead, she smiled sweetly. “Your concern for my safety is touching, but unnecessary. I’ve been doing great in my car. That’s the pleasant thing about inanimate objects. Unlike I do with human beings, I don’t expect them to care.” She tried to pull the door closed, but the Captain was not only animate, but immoveable.
Darn it.

“You won’t come back?” he asked, a blinding glimpse of the obvious. “No.”

He scanned the horizon, rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. “There’s laws against public vagrancy. I can tell the Sheriff. Imagine how she would feel knowing that her future sister-in-law lives in a car.”

No!

Brooke pounded on the steering wheel, wishing it were his head. “You wouldn’t dare.”

The Captain only smiled.

He would dare. He was that way.

Brooke closed her eyes, blocking out his image, blocking out the shabby inside of her car. The Impala wasn’t supposed to be home. He was supposed to believe her. Austen should have welcomed her with open arms.

Brooke felt the pain deep in her soul, felt it work through her, and then let it pass. Her world had never been what it was supposed to be, and sometimes, late in the night, she worried that it never would.

Tired, sore and spent, she opened her eyes and saw the Captain waiting for his answer. There was dust on his boots, his jaw was locked and the single gray eye was the color of iron.

In answer, Brooke pulled back her hair, tightened her jaw and met his gaze evenly. “Don’t think I will let you touch me.” Even as she said the words, she knew it was a lie.

“I wouldn’t expect you to. To be honest, it’ll be a lot easier. Things won’t get messed up. Take your job back. I’ll sleep in the shed. The pay will be the same and, in return, I keep quiet.”

And no, even when blackmailing her, he still had to be the gentleman.

“I won’t let you sleep in the shed. It’s wrong.”

His eyes flickered toward her. The steel turned into heat. “Don’t go there, Brooke.”

“Take the couch,” she clarified. She hated this. Hated that she could never be a guest, only a burden. “No.”

The wind kicked in, the smell of dust, dirt and defeat. “Please. This is hard enough.”

“Why is that? Why is it so hard for you to accept random acts of kindness?”

Her shoulders slumped because, in the end, Brooke would never be as strong as she wanted, never be as smart as she wanted. She wiped at the final humiliation—her own tears. “Take the couch. Please.”

For an endless moment, the Captain stood over her, strong and silent, but in the end, he slammed the car door and swore.

Slowly, Brooke repaired her face, shored up the cracks in her dignity and then followed the Captain’s truck home.

T
HE GOLD-LETTERED SIGN OVER
the doorway said “Hiram Hadley, Esquire,” but it might as well have said “Brooke’s Future—Enter Here.” Without knowing it, Austen had given her the best present ever—hope. With the money that her brother was going to give her for her inheritance, she’d have a down payment on a place to call home. This was her chance for the Captain to see her as someone valuable, too. People very rarely saw Brooke as someone valuable.

In Detroit she gotten by on a grocery clerk’s salary until the store had closed. In Minnesota she had waitressed in a bar, until the manager had kept her late one evening and explained her new job resonsibilites, which involved her mouth meeting his penis. She introduced her knee to his balls, and decided that St. Paul wasn’t the place for her. Brooke had spent the last ten years moving from place to place, looking for a spot to belong, but for the first time, Brooke didn’t want to leave, she wanted to stay, but on her own terms, on her own two feet.

Briskly she knocked at the door, but alas, Brooke’s future was not answering.

In case Mr. Hadley had returned and was hard of hearing, Brooke knocked harder. “Hello! Is anyone in there?”

“Good golly, missy. Can you stop the hammering? Even my cat is getting anxious.”

Slowly she lowered her arm and turned, finding the dry cleaner, a pudgy man with a balding, bullet-shaped head, scowling at her. However, contrary to his statement, his cat was definitely not anxious. The round animal was winding his way through Brooke’s ankles, rolling on the cement steps, belly-flopping one way then the other. Brooke reached down and petted the more forgiving feline. “I’d like to speak to Mr. Hadley.”

“He’s in North Dakota.”

“Well, yes, I know that.”

“Then why are you knocking on his door?”

Brooke rose and held out her hand. “I’m Brooke Hart. You’re the dry cleaner? I’ve heard you do very good work.”

Grudgingly he shook her hand, kerosene-like fumes drifting to Brooke’s nose. “Arnold Cervantes. If you need something cleaned, I’m your man. But I still don’t get it. If you know Hiram’s gone, then why are you here?”

His tone wasn’t very nice, but Brooke reminded herself to remain friendly. If she worked with those chemicals all day, she wouldn’t be a happy person, either. “Doesn’t anyone else work in the office?”

“Lizzie’s his secretary.”

“Why isn’t she answering the door?” Brooke asked, which she thought was a very logical question.

“She’s in Dallas while Hiram’s taking care of his dad. He gave her the time off. Seemed silly for her to sit in the office and twiddle her thumbs while he’s gone. Why’re you so all-fired to talk to Hiram?”

“I have some legal matters with my brother that need to be arranged. It’s regarding the Hart property. Mr. Hadley called me.”

“Why didn’t you call him back?”

“He doesn’t have an answering machine.”

The man began to laugh.

“This isn’t funny,” Brooke told him, deciding that pretend-friendly had gone on long enough. “I drove a long way to talk to Mr. Hadley and everybody here thinks it’s normal that his office is shut down.”

Looking somewhat ashamed, the dry cleaner blew out a breath. “Sorry, missy. Give me your name and a phone number and I’ll call his father’s place.”

“You could just give me the number and I’ll save you the trouble,” Brooke suggested, not wanting to admit that she didn’t have a phone and not exactly sure that Mr. Cervantes would do it anyway.

The man picked up his unhappily mewing cat. “You know those trusting folks who believe everybody is who they say they are and want to chat all day on the phone?”

“Yes.”

“Hiram’s not one of them. Got to check everybody out. Probably why he went into law. Give me your name and number and I’ll call him tonight. If it’s an emergency, I’m sure he’d fly back and take care of matters, seeing as he’s left you in a lurch and all.”

An emergency? Was this an emergency? It wasn’t like Brooke didn’t have a roof over her head now. The Captain’s roof, and yes, there were a lot of issues to be worked out between them, but Brooke fully intended to work them out, because no matter how mad he made her, he also made her feel safe and relaxed and desired. Most important of all, there had been times when she saw respect in his eyes. She’d had moments in her life when she was safe or relaxed or desired, but never respected—unless she was pretending to be someone who she wasn’t, but with the Captain she didn’t have to pretend.

No, this was no emergency. “I can wait until he gets back. I don’t have a phone.”

“I think what we have ourselves is a failure to communicate, missy,” the man said, laughing again. She didn’t think he was laughing at her, and she decided the Mr. Cervantes wasn’t as bad as she had assumed. However, the fat cat in his arms was staring at her, not respecting her, because once again, Brooke was letting the door to her future close. No, not today.

“Wait.” She wrote down her name and put the Captain’s phone number after it. “This is my work number.”

Mr. Cervantes adjusted the cat, freeing one hand, and then tucked the number in his pocket. “I’ll pass it along and tell him it’s an emergency.”

“No!” she yelled, and now Mr. Cervantes was staring as well as the cat. “I mean, it’s not a huge emergency. I get anxious sometimes. I should learn to relax more. It’s why I moved out here. I lived in New York once.”

“New York, huh? Pretty fancy place. You’re going to find out we do things a lot different out here.”

Brooke smiled at the man, because everything about this town was different, and that was exactly why it felt like home.

A
FTER DINNER
, Brooke watched Dog clear the dishes, noticing that this time, there were no glitches or flaws in the mechanical grips. Every time the Captain found something off, he had to repair it. Including her life. But she could repair her life first. If the mineral rights on the Hart land turned into real dollars… If the Captain could see her as something more than a mechanical automaton to be repaired. If only he could see her as a woman again.

If only…

From across the room, the Captain sat at the table, tinkering with a gutted radio, studiously avoiding talking to her. Not that she wanted him to, but the silence between them had changed from something companionable to a war zone, and she wished he could repair the glitches in their relationship, as well. Not happy with the status quo, Brooke stood, preferring the lonely security of his bedroom to this.

“Brooke.”

She stopped, turned. “Is this work related?”

He looked at her impassively, scarred and patched, a man who had suffered a lot more than her. “Please” was all he said, but that small conversation was better than nothing at all. Brooke snagged a barstool, pulling it close to his chair. Her foolish hands itched to straighten the screwdrivers or stroke the rough stubble at his jaw. Instead she folded them tightly in her lap.

“How are things with your brother? He’s nice to you?”

They were conversing formally, like an employee and boss. Whatever. Brooke met his eye, equally cool. “Austen is nice enough. I like Gillian. They invited me to dinner tomorrow evening, so you won’t be burdened with my company. Feel free to roll out the keg and strippers.”

“You’re usually nicer than this.”

“I know. I felt like being catty.”

The corner of his mouth lifted and she remembered the feel of his lips on her neck, the taste of him on her tongue. Her gaze drifted to the hefty ridge beneath his fly and stayed there. He knew. The air was charged with the tension, her overheated nerves sparking, nipples on alert. When he leaned closer, Brooke held her breath, but then the mulish Captain pulled back. “You should take the money and stay at the Inn.” His voice was as rough and hard as his resolve.

“I’ll only take what I earn,” answered Brooke, because she could be just as stubborn.

He didn’t look happy, but obviously he knew better than to argue. “All right,” he agreed, turning back to his work, and she told herself she didn’t care.

At the dismissal, she climbed down from the stool, acting the perfect employee and the perfect guest. “We’re done?”

He picked up his screwdriver, pretending to work. Brooke knew better. The Captain’s twists were always properly seated, never a wasted movement, much like when he was inside her. Not liking the direction of her thoughts, she looked away. “Do you need any clothes or female things?” he asked politely.

“No, thank you.”

“Did you talk to the lawyer?”

“He’s out of town.”

“When is he coming back?”

“I don’t know,” she answered, and finally he looked up.

“Nobody has a phone number for him?”

Brooke shrugged. “I’m handling the situation. You don’t need to be concerned.”

She was surprised when his screwdriver tapped against a metal plate. The Captain wasn’t a tapper. “I can be concerned.”

“Everything is fine. When he comes back, I’ll collect my money, take a room at the Spotlight Inn and I’ll be out of your hair forever.”

“I don’t mind you staying here. I like you staying here, Brooke.”

“Why?”

At her question, his scowl deepened, hard grooves cutting into his face. Realizing she wasn’t going to get an answer, Brooke gestured to the couch. “Do you have an extra pillow and sheet? You’ll need them.”

“Are you going to give me my pillow back?”

She chose to ignore the question. “If the sheets are in the bedroom, you should get them now.” There was an invitation in her voice that irked her, as if all she wanted was some sign that the Captain wanted to be in her bed again. One look, anything…

But, no.

“Get some rest. I’ll see you in the morning,” he said.

All night she watched the clock on the bedroom wall, wishing the time would move on. The bed was big and empty without him, and to make matters worse, she could hear him restless on the couch. Her feet wanted to go to him. She wanted to curl up beside him, but that wouldn’t solve anything. From the other room, she could hear him mumble and swear because the couch wasn’t long enough, and his feet were hanging over the side. His head would be cramped against the armrest, which, if she returned his pillow, wouldn’t be a problem.

But the pillow stayed and Brooke lay there, uncomfortable in her own guilt. If he had come to bed, she would have melted like chocolate in the sun, but he didn’t, and so Brooke pulled the pillow close and breathed in his scent.

Sadly, it wasn’t enough.

T
HE DESIGN OF THE HOUSE
didn’t necessitate Jason passing by the bedroom to take a shower, but there he was, lurking in the doorway, watching her sleep. Bare shoulders poked out from under the covers, and he was grateful for the early morning chill in the air that kept her safely beneath the sheets.

In fact, as she snuggled deeper in the bed, he was feeling pretty good about the situation. There was nothing in the cloud of dark hair that would ink sexual fantasies on his brain. Nothing indecent in the graceful curve of her neck. In fact, if he wanted to, he could have stood there all day without getting turned on. Of course, then he’d officially be a stalker, which was a helluva lot creepier than just some guy with a hard-on, because 24/7, most men had hard-ons. It was the nature of the beast. Look at a cloud. See a woman’s breasts surrounded by an elephant. Hard-on.

Wait for paint to dry, imagine long, stocking-encased legs hidden in the glossy swirls. Hard-on.

And yet, he thought proudly, here he was, watching her—most likely nude because she wasn’t shy—and he was flaccid, limp, not even a drop of blood heading in the wrong direction.

Then she rolled over, and her arm slipped underneath the pillow. She had wonderfully sensual arms. Thin, but not toothpicks. There was muscle on Brooke Hart, more than she knew. When he had been on top of her, and her eyes were so aware, those sensual arms had locked him close. Her sleek thighs had wrapped around his hips, soldering them together…

Brooke sighed, her breathing deep and even, and Jason swore silently because his cock stood out like Pinocchio’s nose, just as long, just as wooden, just as stupid.

It wasn’t fair. There was absolutely nothing carnal in the way she was so innocently sleeping, except for the way the sheet was drifting lower, lower…

The morning light lingered on her body, the rose-tipped breasts that he’d touched and held, the slender curve of her hip…

Closing his eyes didn’t help. Jason wanted to move, but wisely he told his feet to get a clue. One hand flexed, then the other, so Jason told his hands to grow a pair and deal. Sadly, his cock stayed where it was, miserable and alone. Deep in his heart, Jason knew he could control his feet and his hands, but his dick was being a dick, and knowing he couldn’t stand there forever, Jason stalked toward the shower, a little louder than he normally would have because he wanted freaking Sleeping Beauty to wake up. He wanted Sleeping Beauty to throw back the covers, the sunrise following the curves and the shadows and…

Realizing the situation was deteriorating fast, Jason fled. Once in the shower, he set the water on ice-cube cold and waited for his hard-on to wither away. Nada. He counted to one hundred in base ten. He recited the first nineteen digits of pi and still nothing changed. With one hand braced against the tile wall, he designed a new water controller in his head. It didn’t help.

Seventeen minutes later, his skin was blue, his fingers were prunes, but his brainless cock didn’t care, and so for the tenth time in four days, he reached down and took himself in hand.

One-eyed Kincaid. Miserable, full-cocked, one-eyed Kincaid.

At this rate, his other eye would go blind, too.

W
HILE
J
ASON TURNED HIMSELF
into an icicle, Brooke smiled to herself, letting the warm sun linger where he’d looked. Ah, it was bliss to see a man in such pain. To see his face so hard with lust. She liked it when he looked like that, so intense, so focused, so needy…for her.