Blush(42)

“Boys and dogs seem to be a winning combination.”

“Yes,” Daisy said quietly. “It’s nice to see him laugh. It’s been . . . I’ll get my cleaning things out of our car,” she finished abruptly, and speed-walked out of the room.

With a frown, Mia watched her leave the kitchen, then glanced over at Cruz, who’d polished off the entire plate of cookies as he watched the little drama unfold. “Was that a little strange, or was that a little strange?” Maybe she was reading things into the other woman’s reactions that weren’t really there.

Maybe she was just full of assumptions about everyone around her, and being out here in the middle of hell-and-gone from anywhere civilized had tampered with her judgment of people.

Cruz rinsed the plate at the sink, then dried it with a dish towel. His domesticated actions were strangely erotic to Mia. It was the deft movement of those large, tanned hands skimming a towel over— Oh my God. She had it bad. What would it be like to have him wash her? Dry her? Mentally she added those to the list.

Dragging her attention to his face instead of his hands, his buff abs, his hairy chest, she mimicked his stance, crossing her ankles and leaning her hip against the counter. Only about eight feet separated them, and she could smell his skin. Soap and clean sweat. She wanted to lick him all over.

“I suspect she’s abused,” he told her, eyes narrowed and serious, jaw flexing. He looked both grim and pissed off.

“Dear God. At first I thought the marks on her upper arms were smudges of dirt, but they were fingerprints, weren’t they?”

Cruz continued to look out the window at Charlie and Oso. He didn’t reply, but his big hands clenched. She’d hate to ever see him truly pissed off enough to use them. And she’d never want to be on the receiving end of that unleashed anger.

Her heart skipped a couple of beats. He was strong. Bigger and more powerful physically than she was—and if he ever raised a hand to her, he’d find himself wearing a cast-iron skillet around his neck.

The muscles in his bare back flexed as he watched the pair outside. He had a magnificent back, satiny skin stretched over broad shoulders tapering down to a narrow waist. Not a mark on him. One would think he’d have a slew of tattoos, or at least scars. But there wasn’t anything to mar his smooth, taut skin. And, despite his bad mood, Mia was still tempted to lick a path from the small of his back up the ridge of his spine, then sweep aside his hair and bite his nape.

Instead, she returned to the counter and planted her butt in her stool. He could come to her. Or hell could freeze over. Whichever happened first.

“From the way the kid acts, I suspect the mother isn’t the only one.” He twisted the towel in his hand. He turned back to watch her from unreadable dark eyes that ate the light and gave no clues to what the hell he might be thinking, or how his mood had turned from hot to cold.

He was unreadable, but Mia, on some instinctive level, felt that some of his anger was directed at her.

“You’re still in a pissy mood.”

“Not much to smile about when you figure out that a woman and her child are being abused by some drunk asshole.”

“I agree”—she drew a deep breath—“but it seems like you’re pissed at me.”

Dark eyes bored into hers. “Only if you’re abusing women and children.”

“Well, then, that’s a relief. Because the answer is no. Never have, never would.” Mia followed the direction of his gaze, to Charlie and Oso, and reminded herself that as intimate as they had been, and no matter where their mouths and bodies had touched and tasted each other, they were still strangers. She really didn’t know anything about him and he certainly didn’t know anything about her.

“But still . . .” Cruz turned back to her, his tone grim as he gave her a strangely pointed look. “Charlie has it better than kids in, say, China, for example, doesn’t he?”

China again? Mia shook her head. “That’s an incredibly cold and insensitive thing to say. One has nothing to do with the other.”

“Sure it does. Kids are kids. All deserve to be treated well. Whether they’re on U.S. or Chinese soil, right?”

Instead of lick him, she now wanted to slap him. She had no idea what his problem was, only that it was annoying her. “Did you have an Asian girlfriend who dumped you or something?”

His face seemed to darken more, if that was possible, and Mia sucked in a breath. Whatever was pissing off Cruz or going on in his head, she was glad she wasn’t the source. No good would come of it.

Her fists clenched, and she was suddenly afraid. She didn’t know him. Didn’t know a damn thing about him. He was an unemployed handyman, for God’s sake, and she’d let him into her house. She quieted her rapid-fire heartbeat, stood as tall as she could, and asked, very quietly, her eyes intent on him so that she could read him as he answered, “Have you ever hit a woman?”