Beautiful Stranger. Kerry Connor
that?”
She met his gaze, then followed it where he was looking. Her unconscious gesture had caused her sleeve to slide down, revealing her wrist.
Heat flooded her cheeks. Embarrassed, she quickly lowered her arm, pulling the sleeve all the way over her fingers. “It’s nothing.”
He finally set the wrench down on the floor just behind him and slowly moved closer, reaching out to offer her his hand. “May I see? I’m a doctor. I promise I’ll be careful.”
It was the gentleness in his voice that broke her. It was so different from the cool indifference and sneering cruelty she’d heard the past few months from the Thornwood staff. She couldn’t remember the last time anyone had spoken to her so kindly. Maybe never.
His face matched his voice. His blue eyes were warm with sympathy. The corners of his mouth tilted ever-so-slightly upward in a compassionate smile. Part of her wondered if this was his doctor face, the practiced expression that conveyed just the right note of caring and made his patients feel at ease. The rest of her couldn’t help responding to it. It seemed so genuine. He seemed so genuine. Up close, she could see the faint beginnings of laugh lines worn into the skin around the corners of his eyes, while not a single line marred his brow. All of which told her this was a man who smiled a lot. Could it be that this wasn’t an act, that this was who he really was? Despite her better judgment, she found herself wanting to believe it, as the band of tightness in her chest eased slightly. Her initial impression of him returned in full force, that this was someone she could trust, someone who could help her.
Almost against her will, she found herself lifting her hand and placing it in his.
His fingers were large and surprisingly soft, his touch gentle. A doctor’s hands. She stared at a spot on the far wall as he carefully pushed back the sleeve to bare her forearm. She didn’t need to look. She knew what was there. Four long bruises on her wrist, with a shorter corresponding one underneath where Hobbs had grabbed her arm roughly a few days ago. There was another one farther up by the elbow that wasn’t as dark. It was already starting to heal. She silently underwent his scrutiny as he pored over one arm, then the other. She knew what was there, too. More of the same.
“Who did this to you?”
She lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “An orderly. Not exactly the best care money can buy, huh?”
“Did you tell anyone?”
“Who would I tell? I’m crazy, remember? No one would have believed me. I know how they would have handled it. The squeaky wheel gets an armful of tranquilizers. Problem solved.”
“What about visitors? Didn’t anyone notice when they came to see you?”
“Nobody ever came to see me,” she said flatly.
He didn’t say anything for a moment, no doubt torn between following up with the questions that answer raised and all the others he must have.
When he did speak, his tone was even gentler. “So you just took it and let them hurt you?”
She met his stare head-on. “I did what I had to do to survive.”
“How bad did it get?”
She looked away again. “Just the bruises. It didn’t go any further.”
“Are you sure? You said you were drugged quite a bit of the time.”
She opened her mouth to deny it, only to stop short. Horror washed over her. She would know if someone had touched her, or worse, while she was out of it, right? Surely her body would let her know.
But as she thought of all those occasions she’d lost time, all the gaps in her memory, all she felt was doubt.
She swallowed hard, a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. “I don’t know,” she whispered.
Josh lapsed into silence again, and she fought the urge to check his expression to see what he was thinking. She didn’t want his pity, even if that was what it took for him to let her go. She’d spent too much of her life trying to prove she was strong enough, as tough and as smart and as normal as everyone else, to want this man to see her as a victim.
“Come on. Let’s go inside.”
Claire jerked her head up in surprise. Whatever she’d expected him to say, that hadn’t been it. “Are you letting me go?”
“No.”
Her wariness returned. “Are you going to call Thornwood?”
He stared at her for a long moment that left her holding her breath. Then he sighed and shook his head. “No. I won’t call them.”
She suspected there was an unspoken yet at the end of that sentence. Rather than push her luck, she’d take what she could get. There would be time later to argue the rest.
He was already moving away, toward the door that seemed to lead into the house, apparently leaving her to follow. “Let me see if I can find you something to wear. And are you hungry?”
“Actually I’d kill to use the bathroom.”
“No problem. And you can clean up if you like.”
She answered without thinking. “A shower would be heaven.”
She didn’t know why she’d said that. It was true, of course. Even though she was free of Thornwood, she wasn’t free of its smell. The sterile scent clung to her body, reminding her with every breath she took. Not to mention she’d been lying in a trunk for more than an hour. After enduring the humiliation of sponge baths all this time, standing under the spray of a shower and washing herself, scrubbing the residue of Thornwood off her, seemed like a dream.
But what she needed was to get out of here. Now that he’d let his guard down, maybe she could make a break for it.
Except she’d already come to the conclusion that she wouldn’t be able to fight him if he tried to stop her. He was too big, and she was too regrettably weak after four months of the drugs. She hated this feeling. She’d never been this weak in her life, never let herself be, and now here she was, everything she’d never wanted to be.
“I’ll get you some towels,” he was saying. He had opened the door and was holding it for her.
Whatever she was going to do, it wouldn’t involve staying in the garage. Straightening her shoulders, she closed the distance between them and walked into the house.
The door led into a small kitchen, neat and sparsely furnished. “The bathroom’s down here,” he said. Moving past her, he led the way down a hall to the left. Framed photographs lined the walls. Curious in spite of herself, she found herself checking the pictures as they passed by. There were photos of Josh posing with an older couple who must be his parents, with groups of guys she imagined were buddies of his, with children who could be nieces and nephews. As would be expected from pictures deemed suitable for framing and displaying, everyone looked happy. In each, Josh’s smile shone like a beacon, its warmth as palpable as it was in person.
She couldn’t help notice they were all group shots, with no personal one-on-one photos with a wife or girlfriend. Not that it mattered, of course.
He stopped at the bathroom and turned the light on, then opened the next door, which turned out to be a closet. Pulling out a few towels, he handed them to her. “Help yourself to whatever you need. I’ll get you some clothes and leave them here outside the door for when you’re ready for them.”
“Thank you,” she murmured, her voice sounding suspiciously husky to her ears. She started to walk into the bathroom, then hesitated, turning back. “You’re really not—”
“I’m not going to call Thornwood,” he said firmly. “I promise.”
Trusting him was a risk, but one she would have to take. Now that she thought about it, there was no way she could go running around in her hospital gown and robe. It was a surefire way to get stopped by the police,