Always a Warrior(33)

He never knew.”



“I’m not him,” Damien stated firmly. Those dark eyes glittered and drew her in. He paused, his expression thoughtful. “You never told him? You could have made him take responsibility.”



She tried for an indifferent shrug but only shuddered. “No. I took responsibility. He wanted sex. He didn’t want me. And in the end, I didn’t want him. He had no right to my daughter.” She lifted her chin to a stubborn angle. “He didn’t deserve her. He didn’t deserve me.”



“I don’t want a one night stand,” Damien told her sternly then lowered his voice to a slow persuasive drawl. “But one night might be all we ever have.”



He stroked her lips with his thumb, building a fire in her gut until her lips parted on a shaky breath.



“I’ve missed you in my bed,” he continued in a husky whisper. “Missed waking up with you.”



He let out a slow breath and stepped back from her. A cold shiver rippled through her and she felt inexplicably bereft and abandoned. Missing his warmth, she followed him to the sofa bed without conscious thought. He sat on the edge of the bed and leaned forward, his elbows on his thighs, his hands dangling between his knees. That dejected posture had her joining him. She sat beside him but kept her hands to herself despite the almost overwhelming urge to hold him and the fierce need to be held by him.



Though she didn’t look at him, every fiber of her being, heart and soul, was very aware of him. That awareness hit her like a hammer blow. Rational thought scattered. The bed creaked as he shifted position. His knee brushed hers and she jolted. Her breath stopped. Even the storm seemed to take a back seat to Damien’s dynamic presence.



She jumped off the bed, stared at the flickering flame of the kerosene lamp on the table.

There was something she needed to remember to protect herself. Dragging her gaze from the lamp, she moved to the window and stared into the raging inky blackness. The back of her neck ALWAYS A WARRIOR Patricia Bruening

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prickled and she knew he watched her, gazed at her. No, it wasn’t just a gaze. It was an intense stare. She almost felt him willing her to speak. She considered ignoring him but could not. He was too entrenched in her heart.



“Laurie.” His voice was low and tender, and wrapped her in warmth.



She inhaled deeply, slowly, and then exhaled just as slowly. Her breath fogged the window, a smoky circle against the noisy dark. Lightening split the dark into jagged black and white shards. The clearing, the surrounding trees, all glared in stark black and white for a split instant then vanished. Her reflection wavered under driving sheets of angry rain. Tension once again crackled around her.



“Honey.” His voice again drew her to him.



That low husky drawl of his seduced her but she did not turn from the window, did not give in to the tremendous urge to go to him.



“It was hard,” she finally said, making no effort to talk over the storm.



He heard her anyway. “What was hard?”



Though quiet, the question cut through the rain hammering on the window. Tears filled her eyes and blurred her vision. Memories streamed through her mind—one room kitchenettes, a crying infant, working two sometimes three jobs to pay bills and babysitters. And she had bitter memories of her mother’s scathing refusal to help.



“Putting my life back together.” She turned and finally looked at him. She leaned on the wall and the cold seeped through the wood. She shivered but the memories were more chilling than the weather.



“Getting pregnant was not in the cards,” she told him, averting her gaze to the kerosene lamp on the table. “My own stupidity nearly destroyed me. It took a long time to build a life, a secure place for my little girl. I can’t afford to shatter that on a passionate whim.” She paused, stared straight into his eyes. “What do you want from me, Damien?”



That penetrating dark gaze held hers as he stood and moved slowly across the room to stand directly in front of her. He studied her for a long moment, his eyes full of needs and hungers beyond the physical.



“Whatever you have to give.” He lifted his hand, smoothed her hair back behind her ear.

“Give me one more night, Laurie.”



That simple answer touched her heart. She nearly groaned at her weakness, her staggering needs. He didn’t want to be alone. It was there, in his eyes, his expression. Did he know, she wondered, that he made it so easy to read him? And, it was almost impossible to resist his inadvertent non-verbal plea. But there was something she needed to know.



She hesitated then forced the question through trembling lips. “Are you married?”