We All Sleep Alone (Finley Creek #11) - Calle J. Brookes Page 0,83
woman. Badly. Each minute he spent with her increased that desire.
Allen forced his attention back to the road and back to what he’d read in the journal. The notes were an odd blending of professional notes and personal reflections in the mundane that Henedy’s days appeared to be. The man had adored his wife and son and nephew. He’d also adored women. That had been obvious in the first journal entry.
Allen didn’t get why the women involved found Henedy all that attractive. Unless it had come from the money Henedy faithfully recorded spending on his lovers.
Henedy had written of being more attractive because of his wealth. Henedy hadn’t had any illusions in that regard.
Allen had been wealthy all of his life. It didn’t buy happiness. It had actually cost him his parents. He hadn’t forgotten that. Nor had it bought Logan, who had had far more than Allen, sanity.
Jess’s quest for money had caused her to do the things she had done. Things that could have cost other people Allen cared about a great deal. When he had learned what she was using him for, everything he’d thought he had with Jess had been tainted. Forever.
He wanted a woman who wanted to be with him. For who he was, not what he had.
Money wasn’t exactly the root of evil—human nature was, in his opinion—but the quest for it had hurt a damned lot of people out there.
Henedy’s attractiveness to women hadn’t been part of why he had nearly killed Izzie. There had to be something else.
They finally pulled in at the campground. He lowered her seat and covered her more fully with the blanket. He wanted her as hidden as possible. Allen locked the doors and hurried inside to register them for their site. Hopefully, there would be one open on a walk-in basis. Otherwise, they’d keep driving.
They got the last site, back by the laundry facility and a small restaurant that served breakfast and barbecue in Styrofoam containers. He registered them under Logan’s name, and then ordered them something to eat.
He pulled the van into their site while he waited for their food order to be prepared. It took only a few moments to get the van set up and the slides out. Izzie never woke.
It was only when he returned with the food that she stirred. “Morning, sunshine.”
“What time is it? And…just where are we?”
“Victoria. It’s a little after noon. You slept the entire way.” He’d suspected she would when she hadn’t balked at him when he’d suggested she take something for the obvious pain she was still feeling.
She blinked at him. “How did we end up here? I thought we were going to San Antonio?”
“I missed an exit and ended up heading this way instead. It’s less crowded here. I have lunch.”
She sat up. “I’m starved.”
Good. She needed to put on some weight to be back at an ideal BMI for her size.
“How are you feeling? How’s the pain?”
“About a four for broken bones, but a one if you’ve ever been shot three times. Relatively speaking, I’ll be fine.”
“Good.”
Stubborn woman wouldn’t tell him the truth, even if he demanded it. She seemed better than she had been earlier, but she would be hurting for a few more days.
He would do his best to take care of her. He’d have to find a way to make certain she had no clue what he was doing in the meantime.
Allen liked the idea of that—both the challenge, and because when it was all boiled down…
He liked taking care of her.
68
She wasn’t overly talkative, and that surprised him. It could be because of the pain medications, but from what he remembered of her when he’d see her in the hospital halls and the cafeteria, she was usually the one talking. Izzie or Nikkie Jean. Annie was the quiet one of their little group.
She seemed content to curl up in a lawn chair he’d picked up at the camp store for her and watch him as he tinkered with the engine on the van, scribbling in the notebook on her lap. She’d refused to tell him what she was writing.
He wanted to know. He wouldn’t pry.
“Do you know what you’re doing?” she asked finally. She’d stripped down to a tank-top with a familiar cartoon garlic on it that she’d found at the secondhand store. The cast was a garish accessory that gleamed white in the afternoon Texas sun. She’d completely refused to put the splint back on.