Hard Fought (A Stepbrother Warriors Novel)(12)

"There's some fish in the fridge, and some cous-cous thing," I tell him.

"Your father's security won't tell me anything," he says. "Won't even let me inside their center."

"Center?"

"The security center next to his office."

"The what? That wasn't there before. Weird. Maybe he's feeling protective of your mom and sister?"

"Maybe."

"Will you eat something please?" I ask, trying to distract him. He grunts in response, but he opens the fridge and begins to search through it. I watch as he makes himself a plate, but I guess he doesn't feel like talking much anymore. "I'm going to get in the pool," I announce as I stand up and put my plate in the dishwasher. He doesn't answer.

With a sigh, I leave out of the back door and cross the patio back to the boat house. I put away all my clothes before leaving for the doctor's appointment earlier, so I take my black bikini from the bureau and quickly pull it on. It still smells like salt and sunscreen from the time I fell for a man I met in Paris and accompanied him on an ill-fated trip to the coast. He ended up stealing all the money from my wallet and abandoning me there. Another disastrous choice in a long string of them.

I grab a towel from the bathroom and head back to the pool. I jump in feet first without testing the water temperature. After doing a few somersaults, I allow myself to float over toward the side of the pool nearest to the house. I turn my head slowly to the kitchen and start as I see Carter watching me from the window. He's sitting at the table, empty plate in front of him, and his eyes look almost glazed over. I'm not sure he even realizes that I see him.

I wave, and he frowns. I make a beckoning motion with my hand, and he reluctantly stands and walks to the door. He slowly walks out onto the patio, glancing around almost suspiciously.

"Wanna join me?" I ask, resting my forearms on the cool, slate gray tile that lines the pool.

"I don't own a swimsuit."

"Wear your boxers, then."

"You weren't supposed to look."

"I wasn't. I noticed...before."

"No thanks," he says, but I hear a momentary hesitation in his voice and I begin to wonder if he's just disinterested or if there's something more going on.

"You know, your leg's not as bad as you think," I tell him quietly.

"I saw your reaction at the doctor's," he replies.

I wince. "I was just surprised. Besides, we're the only ones here, and I've seen it already."

He runs his hand through his long hair, pushing it back from his face. "Fine," he mutters. He whips off his shirt and I push back away from the wall to submerge myself under water. I can feel the blush that just sprung to my cheeks and I want a chance to cool off. When I resurface, he's at the shallow end, wearing only his boxers. Wow. I don't know what he looked like before, but being in a hospital for weeks doesn't seem to have cut down on his muscle mass as significantly as I would have thought. True, his right leg is half-covered in scars, but now that I'm prepared for it, it truly doesn't put me off. Especially since I know how he got them.

I swim over to the shallows and sit on the bottom of the pool as he steps in. The water swirls up around his shin, hitting the red skin that was hidden under his cast.

"Does it feel OK?" I ask, nodding to his leg. I don't want to be rude, but I also don't want to pretend I'm blind.

"The water just feels a little colder on that side," he says, kicking up the water a bit with his feet. He walks the rest of the way down the steps and then lets his knees collapse and ducks under the water.

"What's this?" I ask as he comes back up, flicking his hair out of his face. I point to the tattoo on his upper right pec, almost allowing my fingers to touch his skin before I pull back.

"Marine Corp symbol. Eagle, globe, and anchor."

"I don't have any tattoos," I offer.

"I know," he replies straight-faced, and my lips twitch.

"I bet swimming would be good for your leg. Just sayin'," I add with a shrug as he raises an eyebrow at me. "There is this Danish guy with my face on his ass."

"What?"

"A tattoo," I clarify, leaning my head back and letting my hair float across the surface of the water. "I met him at this little bar by my apartment, and we got really wasted, and I said the only way I'd sleep with him is if he got a tattoo of my face on his ass. And he did."

"So you slept with him?"

"Yeah. It was very romantic at the time, really."

"What was his name?"

"Um..."

"Oh my god," he chortles, "the guy's walking around with a tattoo of your face and you don't even remember his name?"