Brash Page 5

  Cursing softly, Grace climbed down from the boxes. She shouldn’t have let Belle go with him. Should’ve locked her in the house. Where should she look first? Woods? Field? She slipped on a jacket, grabbed a flashlight and an umbrella, and headed out. No rain was falling just yet but, boy, was the sky distressed. Ominous gray clouds were moving swiftly, heavy and ready to burst. There wasn’t much time. She needed to find them.

  Rounding the house, she hurried across the back field and into the woods, calling both of their names as she went. Her place was vast, lots of trees, green, privacy, a stream running through it. After returning home to River Black from a clinical residency in San Antonio a year before, she’d craved a life on verdant property. But right that moment, under the cover of darkest night, silent lightning strikes and rumbles of thunder overhead, she wished she’d gone with the condo near town.

  Nearing the edge of the forest, which looked unpromisingly black, she stopped and cupped her hands around her mouth. “Cole?” she yelled. “Belle!” But the reply was only wind whipping through the trees and another boom of thunder.

  Flashlight up and near her ear, she left the open field and headed into the forest. High grasses brushed her legs, and the soles of her boots made squishing sounds over the muddy ground. Inhaling deeply, she smelled the familiar scent of the stream. Most people tended to walk alongside water when it was available. Just human nature.

  A familiar howl rushed her way on the wind as she neared the footbridge. Her heart jumped inside her chest and she cried, “Belle! Cole! Where are you guys?”

  Another howl sounded. Then another. She followed it, tracked it. “Belle!”

  The first sprinkles of the coming rain had hit the back of her neck when Cole’s voice exploded through the forest.

  “We’re here!” he shouted. “North side of the stream! Massive oak.”

  Grace took off, keeping the flashlight aloft. What had happened? Why were they stuck on the other side of the stream? Another howl sounded, then a series of barks. Closer. She was nearly upon them. A circle of yellow light hit her in the face, then quickly jerked away, capturing a shocking scene. Leaning against a tree, that mighty oak, his face scratched up and bloody, was Cole. Belle was pacing back and forth in front of him.

  Grace’s heart slammed into her throat. “What happened?” she demanded, her breathing labored.

  “Running in the dark,” was Cole’s answer. He sounded pissed off. Not afraid or in pain.

  She shined the flashlight in his face. “How hurt are you?”

  “Ankle’s blown . . .”

  “And you have some facial lacerations,” she finished, her gaze running over his cheek and jaw.

  “Was trying to get back, but I couldn’t move very fast. And I was injuring it further . . .”

  Grace tucked her head under his arm so he could lean on her. “Come on,” she urged, taking some of his weight—or trying, anyway. “Before the sky really opens up.”

  He turned to look at her, his face scraped and bloody, those dark eyes eating her up, examining her, probing her, even in the near blackness. When he looked at her like that, Grace felt her breath hitch in her throat.

  “You sure that restraining order’s been retracted?” he asked.

  She swallowed thickly. She’d never noticed the scar near his right ear or the fullness of his lower lip. Should she be noticing them now?

  Lightning crackled in the sky, causing Belle to howl again.

  “We should go,” Grace muttered.

  “You think you can take my weight?” he asked, one eyebrow lifting.

  He grinned. He looked strange, frightening in the dim light, but somehow . . . sexy. Heat sizzled in her belly. She mentally rolled her eyes; then, as the rain started to fall in real, true sheets of icy water, she led her battered and bruised guest back toward home.

  * * *

  Normally, Bossy Dr. Hunter pissed Cole off, but not tonight.

  After arriving at her house, she’d helped him inside and into the closest bedroom. Then she’d taken off his clothes. Stripped him! Not so he was buck naked or anything. But pretty damn close. Down to his slightly damp boxer briefs. And even then, she’d taken a second to decide if she was going to yank off those too before ordering him into bed.

  As the rain fell in torrents outside the window behind him, Cole watched her inspect him thoroughly, her cool, gentle hands cleaning up his face, before moving on to his ankle. The palpating hurt like a motherfucker, but if she went any higher—say, above the knee, she was going to get a big surprise. Yeah, that’s right. Cole Cavanaugh could be bleeding, have a couple of broken bones—maybe even be close to death—and his plumbing would not only work, but work at a hundred damn percent.

  A hundred and ten around this girl, he thought, eyeing her soaked tank top, which clung to her breasts, rib cage, and flat stomach. Hundred twenty-five. A low growl rumbled in his throat.

  Not good. Not good at all.

  Remember why you’re here, asshole. And it’s sure not to play doctor.

  She glanced up then, her eyes concerned. “Hurt?”

  “Sure,” he said noncommittally. Not in the way you think, but sure . . .

  “I’m going to wrap it.” She reached around to grab her medical bag from the floor.

  “Don’t you think a doctor should be doing this?” Like an old guy with cold hands and a bored expression.

  Her eyes met his and she looked slightly insulted. “I am a doctor.”

  “You’re a vet,” he countered.

  She lifted her chin. “And you act like an animal most of the time, so I’d say it’s a match made in heaven.” Her thumb grazed the inside of his ankle.

  “Made in hell, more like,” he ground out.

  “You feeling the pain now?” she asked innocently.

  “Yup. The pain of being forced to lie here surrounded by all this pink.”

  She glanced up and around the room for a second. “It’s pale pink,” she said, turning back to him and gently placing the compression wrap around his ankle. “The palest pink ever.”

  “Still pink.”

  Her brow furrowed. “You’re sounding like a guy who’s not all that confident in his manhood.”

  Cole just laughed, and again wished for an ancient male doctor. Honey, he wanted to say, if you would just drag those soft, warm hands a little higher, you’d bear witness to my manhood. Every curious, overeager inch.

  Forget the pink walls—he needed to get out of here, get back home . . . Well, he didn’t exactly have one of those, but to the Triple C anyway.

  “All right,” she said after a moment. “I think we’re done here.” Avoiding looking at his bare chest or boxers, she put an ice pack on his ankle, then dragged the sheet over him.

  Cole couldn’t stop himself from looking—from running his gaze over her. Her dark hair was wet and slicked back on her face. It was a sharp, smart, beautiful face. The face of the enemy. Well, not the enemy exactly, but someone he needed to keep his guard up around. Someone he couldn’t trust. Someone who was coaching for a team he wanted to take out. He breathed in, his nostrils filling with a scent that should be illegal. At least to a horny fighter. What was that? Soap, rain, a little sweat . . . damn if it didn’t make his gut go tight. And the Florence Nightingale caretaking thing she had going on? Well, that was the veritable cherry on top of his sundae.

  She was staring at him. Maybe wondering what he was thinking about. Or if he was hurting. Or if it made him at all uncomfortable that he was tucked into her bed with nothing on but a pair of boxers.

  “What?” he asked her.

  “How many times have you been hit?” she asked him, her eyes moving over him. They were an incredible shade of green. Changed with the light, and with her mood. He’d never seen anything like them before.

  “Too many times.” He grinned. “’Course, s
ome might say not enough.”

  She smiled too. “Like that man you’re going to fight next week?”

  “Him, among others.”

  “Well, that’s barbaric,” she said.

  “No. That’s just me, Doc. Cole the Barbarian.”

  She laughed. Goddamn, it was a pretty sound. “Is that what I should call you instead of Champ?”

  “Shit, anything’s better than Champ,” he said on a grumble.

  “Why?”

  He shrugged, didn’t meet her gaze. “It’s what a father calls his boy when they’re having a soft moment. It’s not a name for what I do.”

  “Did your father call you that?”

  Cole felt a pull on his insides. Lie. Just lie. She doesn’t need to know anything about you or your past, or your daddy. But instead, he caved to the moment. “Sometimes he did.”

  She smiled and nodded. “My dad called me Peanut. And Duckling and Green Bean, and the Pellet Princess—”

  “Wait,” he interrupted. “Pellet Princess? For real?”

  “Oh yeah. I would’ve preferred Pellet Queen. I was that good with my BB gun.”

  Surprise coursed through him and he sat up a little bit. “You used to shoot?”

  “Big-time.”

  “Where?” Here he was, getting personal, talking history.

  “When I was in River Black,” she began, her eyes lighting up at the memory. “I’d go down to Cory Craft’s lake cabin. There was this—”

  “Perfectly straight fence where you could line up cans,” he finished for her.

  Her eyes widened. “You’ve been there?”

  “Only a thousand times.”

  For a few seconds, she just stared at him. As if she saw a few inches deeper into his skin. Cole wasn’t sure if it bothered him or if he wanted her to probe further.

  “How many you take down in one go?” he asked.

  “Ten out of twelve was my best,” she answered. “You?”

  “Same. Ten out of twelve.”

  Her lips twitched. “Wow. I can’t believe I never saw you. I would’ve remembered seeing you. Cute boy with skills.” Her smile died as she realized what she’d said. Heat rushed into her cheeks and she reached down into her medical bag and grabbed a tube of something.

  His eyes narrowed on the cream she squeezed onto her index finger. “What’s that you got there? Something for a cow’s udder?”

  “No,” she said, deadpan. “For a horse’s ass.” Then she looked up and grinned.

  Struck momentarily dumb, Cole just stared at her. Then he started to laugh. Really laugh. In a way he hadn’t done in a long time. The sound and feeling and the action drained some of the anger he’d been holding on to from earlier in the night at the Bull’s Eye. It was a good feeling. Light . . . Shit, he hadn’t felt light for a long time.

  Grace leaned in then and rubbed the cream into each of the scrapes on his cheek. Cole didn’t even flinch. He was too busy looking at her. Damn, she was pretty. Her dark hair slicked back, showing off a face free of makeup—a face that didn’t need any. Most of the women Cole hung around with were heavily painted. Not that there was anything wrong with that. Just maybe, as he looked at this woman, he realized he preferred the natural thing. Or was it the Grace Hunter thing?

  “Can’t believe you tripped over a log,” she said, sitting back and cleaning her hands with one of those wet wipes mamas used on their babies. “Fancy Feet Cole Cavanaugh.” She raised a brow at him. “Hey, that’s an interesting fighter’s name. You like?”

  “No.”

  She laughed. “All right, we’ll keep thinking.”

  “We really don’t have to,” he said tightly. “And the tripping and falling thing I blame on the long-eared one.”

  Her brows lifted. “Belle? You’re blaming this on Belle? You sure you want to do that?”

  “Listen, I could’ve made a nice easy fall after tripping on that log, but she got in my way.”

  “Awww,” she cooed.

  “What?”

  “You didn’t want to fall on her.”

  “I’m not liking the tone, Dr. Hunter.”

  “What tone?”

  “Excessively sweet. Goes hand in hand with this”—he gestured to the walls—“room and these sheets.”

  She feigned indignation. “I could’ve put you on the couch.”

  He lifted a brow. “Is that pink too?”

  She tossed him a smug smile. “It’s getting late, and you, injured fighter, need your beauty rest—”

  “Hey—”

  “And maybe an attitude adjustment,” she concluded.

  “I don’t have an attitude.”

  “You’re cranky.” She stood up.

  “That’s nothing new, Doc,” he said, tearing back the sheets and starting to get up. “I was born cranky.”

  She was on him in an instant, over him, her hands on his chest, keeping him in place. “What do you think you’re doing?” she demanded.

  He stared up at her, taking in that worried frown and concerned gaze. Granted, if he had a mind, he could be up on his feet before she had time to take another breath. Or—if he didn’t have a soul—have her back to the mattress, and him looming over her.

  Instead, he chose to stick with words. Boring-ass words.

  After all, he had a fight next week—no point in tempting himself.

  And then there was the sobering reality that her father may have been involved in Cass’s disappearance.

  “You said it was gettin’ late.” The heat and friction of her hand made his heart kick in his chest. “I should be going.”

  She looked down at him like he was crazy. “I didn’t mean . . . You can’t walk, much less drive. You’ll stay here tonight.”

  His body reacted instantly. Tightening up. Bastard. Groaning with all the images that suggestion brought on. “Look, I can call Deac or James to come and get me—”

  She pushed off of him and stood up. Her expression was a strange combination of weary and appalled. “The two of them are pretty much on their honeymoons. It would be incredibly rude to ‘wake them up’ late at night to come all the way out here to get you, don’t you think?”

  She’d made little air quotes for the “wake them up” part, as if she was really saying the couples were no doubt up to something dirty. Which they probably were.

  “Sure,” he agreed. “That’s just a bonus.”

  Her eyes widened. “You’re evil.”

  He laughed. “I know you’re not just figuring that out now, Doc.”

  “You’re staying here,” she said, end of story. “You shouldn’t be moving. Not tonight, anyway. You need to keep that foot iced and elevated. I’m going to get you something for the pain.”

  “Nope. Don’t need it.”

  “Something like Advil will bring down the swelling, Cole.”

  “No meds go into my body this close to a fight,” he explained. “And I don’t need any cold on it either. I can handle the pain. Shit, I could probably drive if I had to.”

  “Well, you don’t have to. You’re staying right here in my bed.” She went red and backed up a few feet. “Err . . . the bed. This bed. I won’t be in it, of course. I have a guest room.” She turned away and shook her head.

  Cole grinned at her embarrassed rambling and let his gaze drop from hers and skim down her body. She had a small frame that housed the most delectable curves. Damn if her clothes weren’t still wet and clinging to her. She hadn’t even noticed. And he was supposed to sleep with her in the next room?

  “What?” she demanded. “What are you thinking?”

  Not a chance. He wasn’t letting her in on those kinds of thoughts. Shit. He didn’t even want to know he had ’em. She wasn’t a woman he could ever get involved with. Sheriff Hunter’s daughter.

  His hands w
ent behind his head. “Just never slept in a pink bed before.”

  She looked relieved and took a deep breath. “Well, then this is your lucky day.”

  Right. Real lucky.

  “Well, good night, Cole,” she said, then turned and headed for the door.

  “Night.” Cole stared after her. As hot going as she was comin’.

  “You call me if you need anything, okay?”

  His mouth kicked up at the corners. “Sure thing, Doc.” Not in a million goddamned years.

  She turned off the light, then left the door ajar like he was a little kid afraid of the dark. When in truth what he was afraid of had just left the room. Sure, he’d found her attractive during their battle of wills and restraining orders. He wasn’t blind to her charms and assets or the brain in her head—which frankly was the hugest turn-on of all—but he’d understood on some cellular level that she wasn’t to be looked at as . . . well, a possibility. Datin’ material. But now, as he lay here in her pink bed, smelling her on the pillows, his foot aching but the muscle between his legs aching far worse, he knew he needed to get out of this house tomorrow and get things back to the way they were with Dr. Grace Hunter. Annoyed, pushy, maybe working together, but with a mutual distrust.

  Because any more time here, in her presence, under those watchful, intelligent, caring green eyes? And he was going to be in danger of letting down his guard and letting the enemy in.

  Diary of Cassandra Cavanaugh

  May 7, 2002

  Dear Diary,

  My birthday is coming up soon. Eeek! I’d like to have a big party. Invite who I want to invite. But Mama’s set on doing it her way again. I almost told her about Sweet last night. Not about us. And how I feel about him. She would kill me then lock me in my room until my next birthday. But about the new boy in town who doesn’t go to school while he’s here, and doesn’t get to make friends.