Midnight Hero - By Diana Duncan Page 0,98
hot water.”
Along with stonewalling his emotions, he’d been ignoring the aches and pains stabbing his fatigued muscles. He was operating on adrenaline dregs and stubborn Irish determination. When he finally crashed, he was gonna hit hard and fast. Not to mention, he probably smelled like Letty’s bulldog, Jean Claude. A shower wasn’t a bad idea. He turned down the pale gray comforter on the bed and patted the inviting mauve satin sheets. “Hop in. I’ll just be a couple minutes. Then I’ll fix you something to eat.”
Con carried his bag into the bathroom. A huge, old-fashioned claw-footed tub sat in an alcove surrounded on three sides by a glass block partition. Dozens of candles on a shelf behind the tub flickered pinpoints of light along the mauve walls. He made quick use of the separate shower on the other side of the partition. After checking the stitches on his scalp in the mirror—crap, he now had a distinctive part in his hair—he replaced the bandage on his forehead. Then he brushed his teeth and shaved.
When he strode out of the bathroom and into the bedroom, the bed was empty. Barefoot, he tugged the hem of his dark green cotton shirt over his clean jeans and followed muffled sounds to the kitchen. Candles on the counter shone with soft, muted light. Bailey glanced up from stirring a pan of scrambled eggs at the gas stove, and he frowned. “Hey, I was going to do that.”
“You’re wiped out, too.” Her fingertips brushed the bandage on his forehead. “Not to mention injured.”
He opened his mouth to speak. She pressed her fingers to his lips, and his muscles tightened with the urge to kiss her fingertips, the soft skin on the back of her hand, her warm palm. He fought down his need. He could not touch her unless she told him she was his. Exhausted and vulnerable, they could easily start out seeking comfort and end up doing something she would regret.
“If you’re about to say, ‘it’s just a scratch,’ be warned. I’ll clobber you with the frying pan.” She didn’t look like she was kidding. Con bit back the words. He made toast and put on the teakettle so she could have peppermint tea.
When the eggs were done, they dished up two plates. She steeped tea, he poured orange juice for himself. They moved in perfect tandem in the small kitchen, as smoothly as if they’d lived and worked side-by-side for years.
Bailey exhaled softly. “I don’t have enough energy to sit at the table.”
They walked into the bedroom. She set her plate and mug on the nightstand and slid into bed. Con put his food on the opposite nightstand, and started to remove his jacket from the chair. Bailey patted the sheets. “No way. You’re as tired as I am.”
He climbed into bed, careful to keep his distance. She wanted reassurance, nothing more. Even so, his pulse kicked up. And he’d thought working so close to her in the cozy kitchen was torture.
They consumed their meals in silence, too hungry and exhausted for conversation. Bailey started to get up with the empty dishes, but he blocked her with his forearm. “Let me.”
She fell back against the pillows. “All right. But when you get back, we talk. We need this settled. Once and for all.”
His stomach flip-flopped. “Right.” He’d wanted her to rest first, but she seemed determined to have her say. He gritted his teeth against a backlash of pain. Once and for all. He prayed all the way to the kitchen her words weren’t prophetic.
Nerves jittering, he cat-footed back to the bedroom. Outside the door, he braced himself. No matter what she’d decided, he had to accept it. He didn’t have any arguments left. She’d seen and experienced the violence, the pain of his world firsthand. If she didn’t want to share it, he couldn’t blame her.
Braced for the worst, he walked through the door. “I’m ready—” He jolted to a stop. She was curled on her side…sound asleep.
So this was what death-row inmates felt like when the warden called at the last minute. Relief warred with disappointment. Had impending doom been merely forestalled? Or had he just missed out on receiving his heart’s desire?
He stripped off his clothes and changed into a pair of black cotton drawstring pants. Yes or no? Heartbreak or joy? Hearing the verdict had to wait.
He briefly considered sacking out on the couch, and dismissed it. If bad dreams assaulted her, he wanted to be nearby.