Novels 03 After Twilight, page 8
Alex Madison stared up at him.
It was a casual picture, taken on a beach somewhere, surf and sky providing an azure backdrop to the laughing man. His hair was wet, slicked back, and his crooked smile hinted of promises. Hedonistic promises. Braedon was suddenly certain that the photographer had been Kacy.
Not Kacy—Kirstin Madison.
He looked back at the picture, feeling like a voyeur. It was an oddly intimate portrait. A private moment shared between two people in love. Or at least in lust. He felt a surge of jealousy and marveled at the inappropriateness of the feeling.
If he was right, the man in the photograph had out-maneuvered him, taken Braedon’s trust and used it to sabotage his business empire. Without the sterling reputation he’d worked so hard to build, he was nothing. And Braedon had been there before, and he had no intention of going back again. One hand tightened into a fist, and he fought the urge to throw the little picture across the room. Damn Alex Madison. And damn his wife.
“What are you doing with that?”
He spun around, guiltily clutching the little frame. She was standing barefooted, wrapped like a cocoon in a terry cloth robe. Her eyes were narrowed, the angry red line of her gash vivid against the white of her face.
“I’m sorry, I—” He stopped, cutting himself off. Take the offensive, not the defensive, his brain cautioned. Lessons learned long ago. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the cellophane wrapped tissues. “I was looking for a tissue. Figured this was the best place.” He gestured toward the drawer. “I didn’t mean to pry. It was just lying there.” He shrugged in what he hoped was an innocent fashion.
She crossed the room and snatched the photograph from him, tossing it back into the drawer and slamming it closed. “It’s private.” She turned back to face him, sparks shooting from bottle green eyes.
He held up a hand. “I said, I’m sorry.”
She relaxed a little, her eyes returning to their normal size. “So you did.” Her hand fluttered around her neck, as though it was uncertain where to land. He watched with interest as it finally curled around the lapel of her robe, holding the material from both sides together.
“Who is he?” The question hung in the air between them, her hand starting to flutter again. He captured it in his own and held it, feeling her leaping pulse against his skin.
She chewed at her bottom lip and tried to tug her hand away, but he pulled her closer instead, until they were only a few inches apart. She was so tiny, barely coming up to his chest. She had to tip her head to see him.
There was pain in her eyes—and resentment. He was torn between the need to take her in his arms and comfort her and the need to grill her until she told him everything he needed to know.
“Kacy?”
Her eyes continued to reflect her inner turmoil, and he waited quietly for the outcome, wondering if she’d trust him, wanting her to trust him.
She sighed and met his gaze, hers filled with an equal mixture of resolve and trepidation. “He was my husband.”
“I thought so.” He answered quietly, waiting for the fireworks. He didn’t have to wait long.
“You know about Alex?” She sucked in a breath, sparks flying again.
“Fin told me.”
“Fin talks too much.” The anger drained from her face, dissipating as quickly as it had come. She ran a trembling hand through her hair.
“I’m sorry, Kacy.”
“There’s nothing to be sorry about. It was a long time ago.” She closed her eyes, effectively ending the conversation. “I’m so tired.”
He knew he should be asking her more, hitting her while she was vulnerable, but the pain reflected on her face was more than he could bear. Maybe he was getting soft, or maybe she really was innocent. Either way, there would be another day, but right now, she needed to rest. Really rest. And he had a lot to think about.
“Come on. I’ll help you into bed.” He smiled at his choice of words. It wasn’t often that he said something like that to a beautiful woman and meant nothing more than the words themselves. Hell, he was going soft.
He tucked the quilt around her shoulders, not surprised to see that she was already half asleep. “Good night, princess,” he said, pressing a quick kiss on her forehead.
“Good night, Braedon.” Her response was mumbled, her mind already well on its way to oblivion.
He moved away from the bed.
“Braedon?” It was a plea.
“I’m here.”
“You won’t leave, will you?” It was the cry of a small child.
“No, Kacy, I’ll be right here.”
She nodded, snuggling down into the covers.
He moved to the doorway and reached for the light switch.
“Braedon?”
“I’m here, Kacy.”
She opened her eyes, her emerald gaze meeting his. “Please don’t turn out the light. I’m … I’m afraid of the dark.”
He watched her until her eyes drifted shut again and her breathing became soft and even.
“No, Kacy,” he whispered, “I won’t leave you in the dark.”
Kacy woke with a start, her eyes opening to the soft glow of lamplight. The room was lost in shadows, and for a moment she was disoriented. She frowned at the face of her alarm clock. Two o’clock. She reached automatically for Mac and was momentarily surprised to find the bed empty. Then memory came flooding back. Her accident—Mac. She sat up, worry lacing through her.
“It’s all right.” A gentle hand smoothed the hair back from her forehead. Braedon. She winced at the pain in her temple, but allowed him to help her settle back into the pillows.
“Mac—”
“Is fine. Sleeping like a baby. I checked on him just a few minutes ago.”
She let herself sink back into the bed, sleep overcoming her. With a concerted effort, she raised a hand, stroking the back of it along his cheekbone. “Thank you.” He smiled, and for just a moment, she felt safe and secure. She sighed, knowing that it was just an illusion, but loving the way it felt anyway.
Closing her eyes, she drifted into the arms of Morpheus, amazed at how much he resembled Braedon Roche.
* * *
She looked so innocent lying there. Her head nestled in the crook of her arm, her hair splayed out across the pillow. Braedon clenched a hand, wanting nothing more than to tangle his fingers in the silky softness.
Cleaned up, the cut across her forehead was clearly superficial, but the welt above it was already turning an angry purple. He worried about concussion. She’d obviously hit her head pretty hard.
She tossed and turned, even calling his name once or twice. But she slept, and he figured that probably meant she was okay. Hell, who was he kidding? He hadn’t a clue. He could frighten a boardroom full of executives into selling their company, but he had no idea how to take care of this woman.
He glanced at his watch, the luminous hands lining up on twelve and five. He yawned and flexed his shoulders. Almost morning. He’d wake her in a few more minutes. He’d been waking her every hour or so, just to assure himself she was all right. Something he’d seen in a movie. He had no idea if it had been of any value, but it gave him something to do and he was a man of action.
Mac padded into the room. He’d come to about an hour earlier and polished off a bowl of dog food, evidently none the worse for his ordeal. The dog jumped up on the bed before Braedon could stop him, laying his head in his mistress’s lap. Without waking, she turned, her hand unhesitatingly finding Mac’s head, fingers stroking the soft fur. The dog sighed and closed his eyes, everything right with his world again.
Braedon ran his hand over the stubble on his face, wishing suddenly that his world could be put to right so easily. Everything was so damn complicated. And somehow, Kacy Macgrath was at the center of it. He smoothed a stray tendril of hair back from her forehead.
Her eyes fluttered open and she smiled sleepily. “Has it been an hour already?”
He felt his face break into a grin. Simple pleasures. He’d had too few in his life. “It has. And I can see by the gleam in your eye that you’re doing fine.”
Her dimple deepened. “Mac, too.”
“Mac, too,” he echoed, still feeling absurdly contented. “Now go back to sleep.”
She reached for his hand. “You should sleep, too,” she murmured, drifting off before he could answer.
There had been trust in her eyes. Braedon felt a flash of guilt. He should have told her who he was from the beginning. But if he had, would she have trusted him?
Braedon rubbed his eyes and settled back into the chair. Hell, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d taken care of someone. The last time he’d been needed for something other than his business acumen.
A picture of his mother flashed through his brain. She’d needed him, but he’d let her down. Old sorrow coursed through him, pain that he’d thought long dead and buried. He looked at the sleeping woman and wondered what it was about her that made him feel so vulnerable.
He snorted at the train of his thoughts. Braedon Roche was vulnerable to no one. He’d seen to that. Practiced it every day for years. It was the cornerstone of his success.
So why, suddenly, did he wonder what he’d lost with the transformation?
Chapter 8
“YOU’RE STILL HERE.” Kacy narrowed sleepy eyes at Braedon.
He turned, spatula in hand, grinning. “Well, top o’ the morning to you, too. Is that all the thanks I get for convincing this beast of a cooker—” He gestured at the Aga. “—to cooperate in my attempt to fix you breakfast?”
The brogue was back. “My head hurts.” It sounded ungracious, but she felt like hell. Despite her pounding head, she smiled. He looked so, well, domesticated.
“Have a seat. It’s almost ready.” He stirred something in the frying pan that smelled like heaven and then poured tea from the teapot into a cup. “With milk, right?”
She nodded, yawning. It was odd to have a man in the kitchen, but she could get used to it. At least this man.
He set the cup on the table with a flourish. “Your tea, madam.” She bit back a giggle and sipped the brew, letting its warmth and fragrance soothe her. She watched as Braedon prodded the contents of the skillet again with the spatula, a tea towel tucked into his waistband serving as an apron.
He looked a far cry from the slick city boy she’d met in the pub. Had it only been two days ago? His face was shadowed with the beginnings of a beard and his hair was a tangle of riotous brown curls. His shirt was untucked and his shoes had gone AWOL, leaving a broad expanse of argyle exposed under the hem of his jeans.
He looked younger, more carefree. He rubbed a hand across his face. And tired. He looked tired. Of course, he’d most likely had little or no sleep. At least she’d been allowed fifty-five minute naps. He, on the other hand, had kept vigil all night. “You must be exhausted.”
He shot her a grin. “I’ve certainly slept more, but between you and Mac, I had my hands full.”
“Mac.” She looked around frantically for her pet.
“Relax, he’s fine. He’s sleeping in the front room.”
She ran a hand through her hair. “Oh, Lord, Paddy’s coming.”
“He’s already been here.” He scooped two sausages onto a plate. “He was here at first light.”
“Why didn’t you wake me?” Her mouth watered as he slid a poached egg onto a slice of toast.
“Didn’t seem much point.” He added a broiled tomato to the plate. “I figured you needed your sleep. I’d have woken you if there was anything you needed to know.”
She waited for him to say more, but he was too involved with the bacon. There was probably black pudding as well. She couldn’t remember when she’d last had a real breakfast, let alone someone to cook it for her. “And?”
He looked at her, plate in hand, eyebrow lifted. “And what?”
She blew out a breath in exasperation. “And what did he say about Mac?”
“Oh, right. Mac’s fine. It wasn’t a pleasant evening for him, but there won’t be any lasting effect.”
“Thank God.”
He put a plate with enough food for the entire village in front of her. “So how come Mac is Mac?”
“You mean his name?” she answered over a fork full of sausage and egg.
“Um hmm.” He laid a second plate on the table and sat down across from her.
“It’s short for Mackintosh.”
“The computer?” He cut into his tomato, carefully layering it with egg and sausage, concocting what looked to be the perfect bite.
She watched him chew, fascinated with the way his jaw rippled with each motion, his lips moving together almost sensuously.
“Kacy?”
She pulled her gaze from his mouth and met his smiling eyes. The rat. He’d been watching her watching him. She blushed. “No. There’s been a dog named Mackintosh around here for as long as I remember. Mac is number twelve, I think. My granny’s mother was Scottish. A Mackintosh from a clan near Inverness. There’s an old tower house there that I’ve always wanted to visit.”
He spooned sugar into his tea. “Do you still have family there?”
She nodded, swallowing a bite of black pudding. “A cousin. But the connection is distant and I’ve never met him.” She forked another mouthful. “This is really good. I take it you have some in-country experience.”
His face went from jovial to guarded in two seconds flat. She was startled at the transformation. “I used to live in Dublin.”
“I … I wasn’t trying to pry.” She put down her fork and reached across the table to lay a hand on his arm.
He met her gaze, his softening. “It was a lifetime ago.” He pulled away, the gesture somehow symbolic of a greater separation. Their playful intimacy vanished and her heart sank, her hand lying lifeless on the table, alone. The mogul was back. She almost expected to see neatly pressed jeans and a cleanly shaved face staring back at her.
“I thought I smelled breakfast.” Fin O’Brien strode into the room, cap in hand.
They both jumped. Kacy pulled the edges of her robe together, feeling the heat of a blush staining her cheeks. She stood awkwardly. “We were just eating.” Well, there was a blinding glimpse of the obvious.
“So I see.” Fin’s eyes twinkled as he looked at the two of them. “I wasn’t intending to interrupt anything. I knocked, but you didn’t answer.”
She stared at him uncomprehendingly, her mouth open, waiting for some form of vocal control to return.
Fin’s mouth split into a grin. “I’ve come for the painting. You invited me?”
Kacy closed her mouth with a click of teeth. “So I did.”
Braedon grinned at her lazily, offering no help at all. Nothing. The man was infuriating. “Fin, have a seat. There’s plenty.”
Fin dropped into a chair. “Don’t mind if I do.”
Braedon crossed to the Aga and started filling a plate for him. “Pudding?”
“That’d be grand.” Fin actually rubbed his hands together in anticipation.
Kacy sat down again, massaging her pounding temples with her index fingers.
Fin frowned at her, his look one of concern. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine. Just a bit of a headache.”
“Well, that was quite a tumble you took. I worried about you being all alone, but it seems I hadn’t the need. You were obviously in good hands.”
Kacy had no idea if the choice of words was intentional, but if possible her face burned even brighter. And Braedon, damn him, was just standing there enjoying the show, looking like he’d been cooking in her kitchen for years instead of hours.
“Here you go, old man.”
Fin dug into the food like he hadn’t eaten in a week, which was ridiculous considering his sister had probably fed him only a few hours ago. Despite her discomfort, Kacy bit back a smile.
Braedon settled back into his chair after refreshing their tea. “I stayed here last night.”
Fin nodded. “I assumed as much.”
Kacy wondered dryly if they were going to high five or something. She stared into her cup, feeling like a kewpie doll at a fair.
“There was more trouble.” The amusement had vanished from Braedon’s voice.
“Beyond the hit and run?”
“I think that’s a little strong,” Kacy began.
“Yeah. Someone drugged Mac.” Braedon continued as though she hadn’t spoken.
Fin looked first at Kacy and then at Braedon. “As in, doped him up?”
“Exactly.” Braedon explained how they had found Mac in the storage room.
Fin frowned. “It could have been some lads from over Ennis way. I heard tell o’ high jinks with some sheep.”
“Perhaps.” Braedon stroked his chin thoughtfully. Kacy had the feeling he wasn’t buying into a teenage prank. “At any rate, I thought it best to stay here for the night.”
“By all means, I’d have done the same. Have you called the Garda?”
“No. Last night it seemed more important to get Kacy to bed and see to Mac.”
The two of them were talking about her as if she wasn’t there. Men. “I don’t want to call the Garda.”
They both looked at her. Fin surprised. Braedon—well, she couldn’t read his expression, but she had the feeling he’d expected her reaction.
“Why ever not?” Fin asked.
“I just don’t want to make a big deal out of nothing. Mac’s fine.” As if to emphasize the point, her dog ran into the room in hot pursuit of something only he could see. Catching the scent of sausages, he skidded to a stop and crossed to Braedon, laying his head on Braedon’s knee, peering up at him soulfully. Braedon took a link from his plate and fed it to Mac. It was gone in a gulp.
Fin laughed. “I guess he recognizes a pushover when he sees one.”
Kacy wondered just when exactly it was that Braedon had become a fixture in her house. She closed her eyes, not certain if she wanted him to belong or not. Suddenly her solitary life seemed particularly empty.
