The One Worth Waiting For by Alicia Scott Read Free Book Online Page A

him with thin, determined lips. He, however, did not back away.
    “I have to leave,” he grated, though some of the heat had gone from his voice, and the strain was becoming more noticeable in his face.
    “All in good time,” she assured him. She’d reached his side now, but still he didn’t step back. And all of a sudden, she was aware of how close she was to his naked length. She could feel the heat roll out over her, intense and beguiling.
    Once, she’d felt those arms wrap around her, strong and solid and fierce. She’d pressed herself against that body, feeling his muscled contours against her own soft frame, calling his lips down onto her own. And she could still feel the warmth of that kiss, caressing her skin through the cool spring rain. She’d never forgotten how he’d held her in those last few moments. Offering her something no one else ever had. And she’d never forget how he’d boarded the bus right after and never looked back.
    “Get into bed,” she said stiffly, her face unconsciously shuttered and hard. “You’re sick and you’re weak. You want to leave, then do it when you’re not going to pass out on my bedroom floor.”
    He grinned suddenly, the smile unexpected and spinetingling in his unshaven face. Without warning, he reached out a finger and lightly touched her cheek. She flinched noticeably.
    “You sound like a kindergarten teacher,” he said softly, switching tactics. He’d learned long ago that where force sometimes failed, charm could still prevail.
    She glared at him mutinously, nevertheless, her shoulders more set than he’d remembered. She’d come a long way in fifteen years, he thought abruptly. She wasn’t a scrawny kid anymore. Now she was nicely rounded in all the right places, her long hair pinned up in one of those knots that made a man wonder how many pins he could slide out before it all came tumbling down. Not his type at all.
    He generally went for slender and athletic types, women who could take care of themselves and who understood a week meant a week and a night meant a night. Suzanne, however, in her cream lace tank top and long, crinkled blue skirt, looked feminine and provincial, all the things he avoided in a woman. She looked like the kind of woman who might walk a guy to the bus stop in the rain. The kind of woman who might cry in the rain and make a man remember long after he’d sworn to forget.
    “Back into bed,” she reiterated sternly, pointing at the rumpled pile of sheets.
    Her expression was so firm, her lips pressed together so tightly, he found his gaze lingering there. And fought the unholy urge to pull her into his arms and kiss her thoroughly. His gaze grew dark and he felt the restlessness gnaw sharply and urgently at his gut.
    He had to get out of here, damn it. He had to get on his way, escaping from whatever shadowy thing was holding him captive. Another wave of darkness swept over him and he swayed slightly from the sudden exhaustion. He saw her hazel eyes soften with concern, and it was more than he could stand.
    “I always checked up,” he whispered suddenly. “I always made sure you were all right.” Silly, stupid words, and he hated himself for saying them the minute they were out.
    Immediately, her hazel eyes grew hard and her chin shot up. “Of course, Garret. And how kind of you. I’m sure I was doing grand when my mother died. The years of medical bankruptcy weren’t hard, either.”
    He frowned, knowing that wasn’t what he’d meant and cursing himself yet again for saying anything. “But I knew there was someone here to look after you,” he added instead. It only buried him deeper.
    “Drop the distant-protector act,” she told him bluntly. “I’m not Cinderella and I’m not looking for a fairy godmother. You went off to play soldier, Garret. That’s who you are, that’s who you’ve always been. Don’t try to dress it up now.”
    His eyes narrowed dangerously, but just as he was going to open his mouth,