Wild Revenge. Sandra Marton
scramble some eggs if you don’t want to—”
He was beside her in a heartbeat; she was in his arms in less than that and when he kissed her, the kiss was so deep, so intense, that she let the sweater fall to the floor so she could cling to him for support.
Something was wrong. She knew it. And she could only hope that he would tell her what it was because whatever it took, she’d help him.
How would a woman not help a man once she realized she was falling in love with him?
It turned out, he couldn’t wear his shirt.
“No buttons,” he said, and gave her a solemn look. “People see me wearing a shirt without buttons, they’ll know you tore them off.”
That rated another blush.
Thankfully, old man Chambers had not been one to toss things out. The ancient equipment in some of the outbuildings, the sagging furniture and antique appliances in the house, were testament to his frugality.
The jeans and workshirts Jake had years ago left, in the closet in what the old man had called the hired hand’s room, were still there.
The jeans were threadbare but a couple of the shirts were usable. He retrieved a blue one. It was too tight but that was the least of his worries.
The real problem was trying to figure out what was going on with him.
They were on the way to breakfast, and he was driving like a man possessed. The speedometer needle hit ninety and kept on going. He always drove fast but tonight—
Tonight, he wished the car was a small, sleek jet that could carry them high above the clouds.
He needed to feel the world fall away below him.
What the hell had happened back in that kitchen? One minute they’d been laughing, teasing each other with memories of the long day they’d spent in bed, anticipating the hours still ahead, and then, all of a sudden, sex hadn’t been enough.
Enough for what?
Jake shot a glance at Addison.
That, as the Danish prince had said a long time ago, was the question.
There’d been that other moment, too, when the truth of his own life had forced its way into his thoughts. Memories of the night he’d lost those men.
Men?
Jake shifted his weight, flexed his hands on the steering wheel.
Boys. Eighteen. Nineteen. The oldest had been twenty-one. And they’d died because he’d been too late, too late, too late—
“Jacob?”
Addison touched his arm. He damn near jumped out of his skin. It took a minute to remember where he was.
Who he was with.
A woman who knew nothing about him except that he was supposed to be some kind of hero.
“Jacob,” she said again, “we’re going awfully fast.”
He looked at the speedometer. Eased his foot off the gas until they were down to a reasonable speed.
Like ninety.
“Is something wrong?”
“No,” he said quickly. “Everything’s fine.”
He wanted to tell her. He ached for it. The sweet relief that would come of telling her that he didn’t deserve the medals, the adulation, the nonsense the world had heaped on him.
He couldn’t.
What if she looked at him the way he looked at himself each morning? Looked at him with disappointment and, worse still, disgust?
Angie’s was right ahead, the sign—Angie’s Café, Open 24 Hours—blinking on and off as it had always done.
Thank God for small favors, he thought, as he pulled into the parking lot and turned off the engine.
“See?” he said brightly. “What’d I tell you? Angie’s is never closed. Of course, you won’t find tofu on the menu …”
Her silver eyes were filled with question.
He cursed, reached for her, took her in his arms and held her against his heart.
“Stop worrying about me,” he said softly. “I’m fine.”
She wasn’t buying it. He could see it in her face.
“Honey.” His voice roughened. “I just need—I need what you’ve given me, okay? This day. This night.” He paused. “Most of all, I need you.”
It was the truth.
He wasn’t sure what that meant or where it was taking him.
The only certainty was that what was going on inside him scared the hell out of him.
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