Tempting the Devil (21 page)

He offered his hand, and she took it as she stood. Every bone and muscle in her body ached. She forced a step. The next came easier.

“Stay behind me when we go in,” he said.

“You don't think …?”

“I don't think anyone is there, but those hired guys didn't check inside your house. I don't think you can take anything for granted.”

She nodded. Her heart pounded even as she yearned to be inside. In her own bed. In the nest she'd created for herself.

Except it was no longer a sanctuary. No longer invulnerable to the outside.

The numbing fear lingered. She kept remembering that instant when she'd lost control of the car. The certainty that she would die …

She waited as he opened the door. “Wait here,” he ordered.

He went inside, just as she had watched cops in movies do. Pistol in hand. And fast.

Several minutes—a lifetime—later, he reappeared. The gun was holstered in his belt.

“It's clear,” he said, opening the door and moving aside as she walked in.

The lights were on. Her living room looked the same. She headed for the big overstuffed chair she loved.

Home
.

Yet she didn't feel the satisfaction she usually did. She wondered whether she would ever feel it again.

A knock. Ben peered out the door, then opened it. Mrs. Jeffers appeared, carrying Daisy and a cat bed. Damien followed behind.

“Oh, my.” Mrs. Jeffers stared at her. “Mr. Taylor said you were hurt, but …”

“That bad?” Robin said.

Her silence answered that question eloquently.

Robin explained the best she could, though she feared her words were running together.

Mrs. Jeffers hovered over her. “You should be in bed.” She cast a reproachful glance at Ben. “I'll turn the covers down and make some hot cocoa. It will help you sleep.” She turned on Ben. “How did you let this happen?” She didn't give him a chance to answer. She was on her way down the hall, presumably to Robin's bedroom.

Robin tried to stand and couldn't stifle a groan. She couldn't remember feeling that kind of pain before. Not even through the long medical journey with her leg. Then it hurt to laugh when they took a piece of her hip for a bone transplant. Now it hurt to breathe.

Mrs. Jeffers was back. “You help her into the bedroom while I make some cocoa.”

Robin was bemused at the way Mrs. Jeffers ordered an FBI agent about, but that thought was quickly replaced by the fact that she would soon be alone tonight with a bum leg and a chest that ached every time she took a breath.

He obediently helped her stand. His arm stayed around her until they reached the bedroom. The covers were turned down and she sat down on the edge of the bed. “You haven't asked me about my source.”

“Would you tell me?”

“No.”

“Then it wouldn't do any good, would it?”

She studied him through narrowed eyes. “I'm not sure I trust this new, understanding you.”

“You've been hurt. I don't kick hurt kittens.”

“I'm not a kitten.”

“Okay, bad analogy. You're definitely not a kitten.”

She started to lean down to unzip the left leg of her slacks. A sharp ache stopped her midway. “I … my ribs …”

He kneeled on the floor and unzipped the pant leg, then his hands quickly unbuckled the straps of the brace.

She didn't want him to do it. The leg was still badly scarred, though the white puffiness was gone. But he finished before she could protest. He placed the brace next to her bed and his fingers massaged her leg.

Gentle. His fingers were gentle and they felt so good. She leaned down on the pillows, easing some of the strain on her ribs, the stiffness in her leg. She closed her eyes and savored his touch.

He caressed the leg as if it were a thing of value, even of beauty, not the scarred, ugly limb she saw each morning. She'd thought her leg would repel him.

Warmth started filling her. Warmth and an odd contentment. The terror of the earlier hours faded.

“I see you're in good hands,” Mrs. Jeffers said, and Robin opened her eyes. Her neighbor was carrying a mug and placed it on the night table. “I'll be on my way.”

“Those two men in front—”

“Ben told me all about them,” Mrs. Jeffers said.

So it was “Ben” now
.

“You need me, you call me,” Mrs. Jeffers said. “No matter when.” She left, casting an approving look at Ben Taylor.

Robin wasn't sure she wanted Mrs. Jeffers to go. She was comfortable with Ben Taylor. Entirely too comfortable. There was something else, as well. A raw ache, a rush of heat that burned her body inside out.

Once Mrs. Jeffers had left, Ben took two bottles from his pocket and took one pill from one and two from the other and handed them to her.

She wasn't sure she wanted to take them. The one for pain undoubtedly would also help her sleep. She wasn't sure she wanted sleep.

“I'll stay on the couch tonight,” he said as if reading her mind. “Also, I would like to call someone from technical and sweep your apartment for bugs.”

“You think …”

“It's just a precaution. But I need your permission.”

She nodded her head. The last thing she wanted was for her assailants to listen in on her personal conversations. Dear God, it was overwhelming in its implications. Everything was.

She nodded and took the pills with a sip of cocoa. She didn't realize until this morning how much she'd wanted, needed, someone with her.

“What do you sleep in?” he asked.

“T-shirt,” she said. “Second drawer.”

He was back in a second with a large T-shirt, one of several in the drawer, and handed it to her, then sat on the bed next to her. Gently again, very gently, he unbuttoned her shirt and her slacks.

“I can do the rest,” she said primly. As tired and sore and emotionally sapped as she was, she didn't want to be dependent. She didn't want him to see any weakness.

He already has
.

Yet he'd not taken advantage of it. Not asked questions she knew he wanted to ask. Instead he turned away while she took off her shirt and bra and pulled on the T-shirt. She was sorry then she hadn't let him help her. How could such a simple thing as removing a shirt hurt so much?

She couldn't stifle the cry when she tried to take off her slacks. In seconds he was at her side, gently sliding them down.

Something shifted inside her. His touch warmed all the cold, frightened places in her. Despite the burns and cuts and pain in her chest, she still reacted to him in ways that astonished her.

Then he finished. He pulled a sheet over her, his hand lingering at the base of her throat, then her cheek. She made a sound deep in her throat. Or was that Daisy, lying next to her? Now she knew why cats purred.

She looked up at him. “I'm usually very independent,” she said, knowing she was babbling again. It was the painkiller. Had to be.

“I know,” he agreed with that half smile that went straight to her heart. “Get some sleep. We'll talk in the morning.”

“Cabbages and kings,” she said drowsily. “Talk about cabbages and kings.”

“And a bit more,” he promised.

She wasn't sure she liked that “bit more.”

She
was
sure she liked the notion of him being there.

Her eyes closed. As long as he was here, she was safe.

chapter fifteen

Ben woke to a moan from inside Robin's bedroom.

He sprinted from the couch in the living room. She had a guest room upstairs, but he'd preferred to stay closer. She'd been in shock last evening, and he'd suspected sometime during the night she would need company.

He'd stayed awake for several hours after she went to sleep. He opened the door to a “sweep team,” which found bugs in the telephones in her office and living room. None in her bedroom. The intruder, or intruders, probably hadn't had time to do a more comprehensive job. According to Mrs. Jeffers, they hadn't been inside more than fifteen minutes the night before last.

Damn it, he should have had the house swept yesterday morning. He should have realized the entry had had more than one purpose. He was slipping. Losing focus. Becoming more concerned about Robin Stuart than his job. The fact that her bedroom wasn't bugged was one of the few pluses. He hadn't acted very professionally there.

Robin hadn't awakened during the sweep. The painkiller had been strong, and she'd lost blood. After the team left, he'd kicked off his shoes and folded up on the sofa. He'd slept on much worse.

He'd expected nightmares, a quick awakening. Fear. He'd experienced all after his first shooting.

He went into her bedroom and turned on the light.

Robin was thrashing in the bed. No danger other than the demons in her own dreams. He knew, though, how real those could be.

He sat down on the bed and touched her.

She shouted, then woke suddenly, flailing her hands.

“It's all right,” he said. “A nightmare.”

Her eyes, when they opened, were wild, frightened. He took her hand and squeezed it. “Hey, it's okay,” he said.

She gradually relaxed, then embarrassment flooded her face. “I don't usually do this.”

“Do what?”

“Have nightmares.”

“I think you have reason to have a nightmare.”

“The crash …” Her voice wavered slightly.

He was silent.

“Do you think they knew that I'd had an accident before?”

“Probably.”

She shivered. “As soon as I was physically able, I got into a car. It was the hardest thing I've done.” She was going back. Remembering. She hadn't intended to admit it. That was clear in her face. “When that SUV rammed me, it was happening all over again …”

She shuddered.

He touched her shoulder. Her body was tense. The smooth skin of her cheek was marred by a small white bandage. There were too many others scattered on her body.

He wanted to hurt someone for doing that. Hurt them very badly. He could only imagine how she must have felt trapped in a car with someone threatening to light a match.

He saw the recurring terror in her eyes. He should use it. He should ask questions.

He couldn't. Not now.

“What happened with the first accident?” he asked.

“I was going home. My mother had had a stroke. I was going too fast, it was raining and the road was slick. I flew off the cliff. Not one of my finer moments.”

Her wry smile went straight to his heart. Her strength was one of the things he liked about her. Though he'd seen the fear in her last night, she hadn't allowed it to diminish her. No suggestion she would abandon the story, nor give up her source.

He admired that strength, and he rued it.

The strength could be the death of her.

“What happened exactly?” he asked as he sat on the bed, and she propped herself up on pillows.

“I was lucky. I was thrown out but my leg was mangled. Some very good doctors did bone grafts and muscle transplants and any number of other doctor tricks. It won't be as good as new, but can be
almost
as good as new. I could have lost it, so nothing seemed very bad when I didn't.”

“That would have been a tragedy. It's such a pretty leg.”

“It's a mess.”

“No. It's damn shapely.”

He saw the doubt on her face and realized then that she was far more sensitive about it than she wanted anyone to know.

She struggled to sit and he sat next to her. He started gently massaging her neck.

“Ummmmm,” she murmured with obvious pleasure.

“How are your ribs?”

“Sore.”

“It's only five a.m. You should get more sleep. Do you need another pill for pain?”

She shook her head. “I don't like pills. Had too many of them in the hospital. Started to like them too much.”

His hand stilled.
Shit
. Memories hit him like a sledgehammer. Dani had liked them too much, as well. As well as other drugs. Only she hadn't started in the hospital.

He closed that door in his mind. “You said something earlier about ‘cabbages and kings.'”

“Did I?”

“Yep.”

“From
Alice in Wonderland
. She shrank and slipped down a rabbit hole and found herself in a peculiarly strange and sometimes dangerous place.”

“Sounds apt. How did Alice extricate herself?”

“You'll have to read it to find out.”

She leaned against him and heat shot through him. He fought the need to put his arms around her. He'd been unprofessional enough in the past few days. He also knew that probably every bone in her body hurt at the moment.

“I'm glad you stayed,” she said.

He didn't answer. He couldn't answer. He feared he would say the wrong things. “Why did you call me?” he finally asked.

“The other night … with Daisy, you knew exactly what to do.”

“Anyone would.”

“Maybe,” she said. “But you have the weight of the FBI behind you, whether they want to be there or not.”

He chuckled. She kept surprising him. She was a complex mixture of street smarts and innocence. A living oxymoron. “And I thought it was my sparkling personality.”

“I don't think so.”

“Ouch,” he said.

She grinned. “I do appreciate your staying here tonight.”

“Far better than some other places I've slept.” He paused. “Want some more of Mrs. Jeffers's cocoa?”

She shook her head. “Just … talk to me for a while.”

“I can manage that.”

“Why did you join the FBI?”

He was always startled by her questions. Sometimes they seemed to come out of nowhere. But he was learning that questions were as much a part of her as a smile was to others.

“Why not?” he asked simply. “I'm good at puzzles.”