Gentle On My Mind Page 3

  Her body ached from exertion, her heart raced, and she craved a drink.

  The radio was playing the Eli Young Band’s “Crazy Girl.” She flicked it off, squared her shoulders, and forced herself to walk into the front hall.

  He hadn’t moved from where she’d left him. She squatted down and noted the rise and fall of his chest. And the blood that pooled beside him.

  Wearily she rose and went to the upstairs bathroom to gather medical supplies. She added some old washcloths and towels and went back down, pausing at the bottom of the steps. Yes, there was a long-haired, bearded man in leather and black denim lying on her hall floor in a pool of vivid blood. She hadn’t been hallucinating. Her entrance hall looked like a scene from a B-grade movie.

  And yet she felt an odd sense of familiarity. Uncomfortable familiarity. This man really did remind her of her ex-husband. The biker was striking, dangerous-looking, the same as Mo had been when she met him. Mohinder McKeen, the wild young man who’d dropped out of school. He’d worn a black leather jacket, ridden his motorbike without a helmet.

  Mo had made her hot and uncomfortable and excited. Sexy. Later she’d learned about his selfishness, his immaturity. Still later—after he’d deserted from the Army—he’d become abusive. His drinking had turned into a way of life, one she’d adopted, too. There’d been physical abuse, but even Mo on his very worst day had never threatened to kill her or Evan.

  Yes, this biker, with his smoky eyes and sensual mouth, was sexy-looking. But he was far more dangerous than Mo. She couldn’t, for even a moment, let herself forget that.

  Nor could she leave him on her floor indefinitely. Likely when she poured disinfectant on his scrapes he would wake up and together they’d be able to get him . . . where? Not upstairs, to her bed or the spare room that Robin used for sleepovers. Stairs would be impossible, plus she didn’t want him in her bed or her granddaughter’s. Bad enough he had invaded her life, her house. That left the living room couch. She ran out to the shed for a couple of the canvas drop cloths she used for painting.

  Brooke layered the drop cloths on the couch, added old sheets, and went back to the hall. She couldn’t put this off any longer. She had to find out the extent of his injuries. His jeans were shredded down one side, his jacket was scraped, and his clothes were stained with blood. But, as nasty as the scrapes might be, she doubted they’d have caused him to pass out.

  He must have hit his head, and that frightened her. She could disinfect and bandage abrasions but a head injury might be serious. A concussion—and possibly worse.

  She wanted so badly to call 911 and get this whole mess off her hands. But if she did, what assurance did she have that he wouldn’t follow through on his threat and destroy her family? Whereas if she helped him and he decided she knew too much, he might try to kill her but he’d have no reason to hurt her loved ones.

  Brooke wanted to live. It was ironic that now, when she had the most reason for living—after years when she’d often longed for death—now she might die. But better her life than that of Evan, Robin, Jess, and the unborn baby. That was something she knew absolutely.

  She really needed a drink. Normally, when she felt this powerful a craving, she phoned Anne, her A.A. sponsor. But if she did, she’d have to explain why she was craving alcohol at 9:30 in the morning. No, she had to get through this by herself.

  “I do not need a drink,” she said under her breath. “I only want one, and I have control over my wants. More than a drink, much more, I want to be the woman I have become, not the one I used to be. I, Brooke Kincaid, am strong. I will not drink. This is a test. God wouldn’t dump this on me if I wasn’t strong enough to handle it.”

  In the early days of A.A. she had fought with her demons many times every day, but now she had her techniques perfected. She had her job and her workouts at the fitness club. She went to A.A. meetings regularly, attended church on Sunday, and also got together with Anne and with Tonia, the young alcoholic woman Brooke sponsored. Besides, there was always something to look forward to: seeing her family, going for a ride with Robin, working on the board of directors of Jess’s new Riders Boot Camp—a charitable foundation Brooke had invested in, using the money Evan had sent her over the years. At home, in moments when she might feel lonely, there was Sunny, music, reading, cooking, gardening.

  Rarely now did Brooke feel a serious craving. She walked the line and kept her life in a healthy balance. In control. She glared at the man on the floor. He might kill her but he would not make her drink.

  And she’d do her best to make sure he didn’t kill her. She had so many reasons to live—and she had a gun.

  Brooke knelt down and wrestled the leather jacket off him, then gingerly unbuckled the shoulder holster. She sat back on her heels and studied him. Sunshine slanted through one of the side windows. Without the jacket, caressed by innocent sunlight, the man didn’t look so frightening.

  Feeling more confident, she carefully lifted his head. He wriggled and moaned. Gently she probed underneath the thick, springy hair and explored his skull. She found a sizable lump and even her softest touch made him groan.

  He wrenched away from her, his eyes flying open. “What the hell?” Then his eyes narrowed and she knew he was remembering. Every muscle in his body tensed like an animal collecting itself, ready to spring. But was he predator or prey? Both, she guessed, and she also guessed this macho stranger hated being vulnerable.

  “I haven’t told anyone,” she said quickly.

  “Where’s my gun?”

  She let out air in an exasperated whoosh. “I’ve done what you told me. Your threat was quite effective. You don’t have to hold me at gunpoint.”

  His mouth twisted. Did she amuse him or was he fighting pain?

  “Tell me what you’ve done,” he demanded.

  “What I’ve . . . Oh, you mean . . .” She catalogued her activities, hoping she remembered everything on his list of orders.

  “You didn’t talk to anyone?” This man’s steady gaze told her he’d know if she lied.

  “I called work and said I was sick. And a neighbor rode by and saw the fresh paint on the fence. I told him I’d had a little accident and had to make repairs. He assumed I’d hit it with my car and I let him believe that.” It still galled her.

  His mouth twisted again. “Are you a bad driver?”

  “No!” Not since she’d hit that stop sign, been diagnosed as bipolar, and started taking lithium. Not since she’d stopped drinking.

  “Me neither.” His voice was weak but she distinctly heard a note of humor.

  He was beginning to seem more human, and something inside her softened in response. “You crashed your bike,” she pointed out.

  “Not my fault.” The words grated and his eyelids twitched.

  She realized he was fighting another wave of weakness. “Don’t faint again!” She needed his help to get him to the couch.

  “I won’t.” His eyes flew open and he glared at her.

  Clearly she’d offended his male ego. It gave her a feeling of power that did wonders for her morale. “We’ve got to get you to the couch,” she said firmly.

  His eyes closed, and for a moment she thought she’d lost him again. Then they opened. “How far?”

  “Not far. If you can just . . .”

  He was already struggling to rise, his movements awkward and clearly painful. He made it to his feet and swayed. Like a drunk. A drunk who was just about to . . . She grabbed him around the waist before he toppled.

  “Christ!” he yelped.

  “I’m only trying to help.”

  “Get . . . me . . . to . . . the . . . couch.” His jaw was clenched so tight the words barely came through.

  Again stumbling like a pair of drunks, they made their way into the living room. She eased him to a sitting position on the couch and released him. Her hand—the hand that had circled his waist—was wet. With blood. So were her arm and her T-shirt. So much blood.

  The man sat leaning f
orward, both hands on his thighs to brace himself.

  Brooke focused on his tee, on the blood that had soaked through the dark fabric near his waist. This injury, unlike the bloody scrapes at his hip and thigh, didn’t fit with his accident. How could he have hurt himself in that particular spot when the bike went down? Had he been stabbed by a fence post?

  “I . . . need . . .” His words were so soft she could barely hear them.

  “Yes?”

  “ A . . . drink.”

  Chapter Three

  I need a drink. God how Brooke hated those words.

  She was about to tell him there was no alcohol in the house when he said, on a sigh, “Water.”

  She leaped to her feet, ran to the kitchen, and came back with a glass of water.

  When he raised his right hand to take it, he was shaking so badly that she cupped her hand around his and helped lift the glass to his lips. His hand was hot and dry, masculine and strong and disconcerting. Her own trembled too, and as soon as he’d finished the water, she pulled the glass away from him and stepped back.

  When he spoke again, his voice was firmer. “Bandage me.”

  “I need to get your T-shirt off.” And that required his help, to pull it over his head.

  He squeezed his eyes shut. “Cut it off.”

  She found scissors and snipped the sleeves, the back, and the front. Sections of fabric fell away, revealing a lean, well-muscled torso. He was in fabulous shape—better than Mo had ever been, but then the most physical exertion Mo had expended was in lifting a bottle.

  Dark, springy curls decorated his chest and the midline of his body, and she noted a couple of sizable scars. Had he crashed the motorbike before? Maybe he wasn’t as good a driver as he’d proclaimed.

  A piece of cloth stuck to his right side, where he was bleeding. Gingerly Brooke tried to ease it free.

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake,” he grated out. “Pull!”

  This man had invaded her peaceful life and threatened destruction. If he said pull, she’d darn well pull. Brooke yanked hard, the cloth ripped away, and the man’s breath whistled through his teeth. She stared at the bloody mess that was his side. A gray veil slid across her vision and—

  His hand grasped her wrist, his fingers biting into her. “Don’t faint!” he commanded, just as she’d ordered him only minutes ago.

  Blinking, she forced the grayness away. “I . . .” She swallowed hard against a surge of nausea. “I won’t.”

  His fingers were a hot, hard bracelet around her wrist, imprisoning her, but when she pulled against them he released her immediately. He poked gingerly at his side. “Flesh wound. It just grazed me,” he muttered, sounding relieved.

  “What grazed you?”

  “The bullet.”

  Bullet. She tried to get her mind around it. He’d crashed his bike into her fence and a bullet had gone through his side. The two pieces of information did not go together. Unless . . .

  “You crashed because someone shot you?” Even as she said the words she realized how ridiculous they sounded. She couldn’t imagine one of her neighbors taking potshots at a biker, even if he was an escaped criminal.

  She studied his face, noting the pain and exhaustion but also an implacable control. He wasn’t going to tell her what had happened. She should be relieved, because in this situation knowledge could be a dangerous thing.

  Still, she had enough clues to piece together the story. He carried a gun. His body already bore scars. Likely he was a member of some drug-dealing biker gang. Perhaps he’d killed a rival biker and been shot in return. He’d managed to get away on his motorbike, but he’d lost blood, grown weak, finally crashed.

  In all likelihood, both the police and the bad guys who wanted to kill him were combing the area for him. She’d already decided she wouldn’t give him away, wouldn’t risk her family. So the remaining risk was to her own life. If she knew too much, he might try to kill her rather than just sneak away in the night.

  She’d always gotten a vicarious thrill from reading mysteries, but it wasn’t any fun at all when she was smack-dab in the middle of her own thriller.

  “I don’t want to know what happened,” she told him. “I’m not a threat to you.”

  The faintest shadow of a smile crossed his face as he murmured, “Good.” He eased himself backward until he was lying on the couch. Hurriedly she wadded an old towel against his side.

  “Just patch me up,” he said. “Let me rest a bit, then I’ll be out of your hair.”

  Patch him up. Just like when she’d first seen him, she thought of a broken toy. And that reminded her of Evan. From a headstrong baby he’d transformed himself into a model child, though by then she’d mostly been too out of it to care.

  Brooke took a deep breath. Past sins. This man, because of his resemblance to Mo, was making her remember past sins. She knew she’d never free herself of the guilt but she also knew she couldn’t change the past. Her focus now had to be on her new life, her new strength and integrity.

  She put her hands on her hips. “Fine, I’ll do my best with your injuries. If the b-bullet hole is just a flesh wound, then I can clean and bandage it, but I’m no nurse and I’m not going to try to stitch it.” She’d pass out for sure if she attempted that.

  Continuing the catalog of injuries, she said, “You have a lump on the back of your head. It’s not bleeding but you may have a concussion, perhaps even a brain injury, and there’s not a thing in the world I can do about that. Also, you have some pretty bad scrapes on your right hip and thigh. Your jeans are shredded and there’s dirt and gravel embedded in the wounds. I’ll need to clean them thoroughly and it’s going to hurt plenty. First I’ll need to get your jeans off. Shall I cut them off, too?”

  He laughed. Her wounded criminal actually laughed. It was one quick burst, choked off—probably by pain—but it was a laugh. “What the hell,” he murmured. “Guess I’m not going to be wearing them again.”

  To her astonishment his eyes were warm, friendly, glinting with humor. They transformed him into a different man and, without thinking, she responded to that man. “Isn’t the ripped look back in style?”

  He laughed again, then groaned. “Don’t make me laugh. It hurts too much.”

  “So will what I’m going to do when I get the rest of your clothes off and take the antiseptic to your sorry hide.”

  “Be gentle, nurse.”

  And, irrationally, she wanted to. Their relationship had shifted, and for the moment she didn’t see him as a criminal, just as a man. A man in trouble, who needed her.

  His gray eyes narrowed, went a smoky purple, but this time it wasn’t with pain or anger. It was desire. Pure, hot, animal desire.

  And her body responded. Just like it had when Mo first looked at her that way, that summer in L.A. when she was fourteen. The ache between her thighs was a shock; she thought those sensations were long dead.

  She sucked in a breath. What a fool! This man had pointed a gun at her.

  Deliberately she looked away from his face. She kneeled on the floor beside the couch and tugged off his scuffed leather boots, then peeled off his socks. Head still down, she said, “Jeans next. I think it’d be easier to slide them off rather than cut them.” She made her tone as businesslike as possible, but the thought of seeing him near naked made her pulse dance crazily.

  “Thought you’d never ask.” His voice was teasing, sexy. It was hard to believe that a man in his condition could feel desire, but clearly he did, and it had revived him.

  Furious at both of them, she glared at him. “Are you going to help?”

  He raised an eyebrow. The dratted man knew he was getting to her, and he enjoyed it. He was making an amazingly speedy recovery.

  If he was going to goad her, she’d darn well goad back. “Can’t believe a big strong man like you is going to let something like a little bullet hole slow you down.”

  His jaw tightened momentarily, then relaxed, and his eyes gleamed. He’d seen through
her ploy. “Can’t believe a woman your age can’t figure out how to get the pants off a man.”

  A woman her age? Ooh! She figured he was several years younger than she, but forty-three wasn’t that old. She was going to get him for that remark!

  Boldly she grabbed the button at his waist and forced it through the buttonhole. She grasped the tab of his zipper and yanked it down. The hiss of metal almost covered his surprised gasp, but Brooke heard him and pressed her lips together to hide her smile. She was embarrassed to be in such intimate contact with his body, but delighted in having called his bluff.

  She gripped the waist of his jeans on both sides and began to pull. “Lift your hips.”

  He obeyed and the jeans slid down.

  Her fingers snagged on soft cotton and she realized she’d caught the waistband of his underwear.

  Before she could release it, his hands grasped hers, locking them in place.

  She managed to free a hand and gave his a quick slap. “Let go. Believe me, I haven’t the slightest interest in seeing your, uh, bare essentials.”

  It was an out-and-out lie. She was most definitely interested but she had no intention of indulging her curiosity. So what if it had been more than fifteen years since she’d seen a naked man? She could happily wait another fifteen, or longer.

  She separated the worn denim from the black cotton and resumed her struggle with the jeans. She had to lean over him to get enough purchase, far too close to his body for her peace of mind.

  The sickly, metallic scent of blood was in her nostrils, but underneath it was a far more earthy scent, musky and masculine. Tantalizing and arousing.

  The body she was revealing inch by inch was, like his scent, utterly male. Lean, muscled abdomen, dark whorls of hair, firm thighs, bony knees, well-shaped calves. Not to mention the sizable bulges that pressed against clingy black boxer briefs. There’d been no way to avoid seeing those seductive shapes, what with her face only scant inches away, and now, even if she closed her eyes, the image was imprinted behind her lids.

  Her cheeks burned. How could a man in so much pain experience arousal?