Wrong (A Bad Boy Romance)(131)

“He damn near did. And he could have shot you.”

“But he didn’t.” To my surprise, Spada has come up to join us. His face is ashen; I’ve never seen him look like that. He draws Jess out of my embrace but not harshly. His hands are shaking. “Are you sure you’re all right, baby girl?”

“I’m fine. Really.” She takes his hand and lays it on her belly. “And so is your grandbaby.”

I fight my urge to grab her and drag her back to me. This is between the two of them. And while I’m standing there watching, I see something I never thought I’d see.

There are tears in Phil Spada’s eyes.

He chokes back a sob, and I take a step back, letting him have the moment with Jess. I can’t hear what they’re saying, but by the time they’re done, Jess has let her father press his forehead against hers, and they’re both crying.

After a few minutes, Spada turns to me. “I’ll take care of…this mess.” He tips his head toward Romano’s body, sprawled on the stairs. “And I’ll take care of the cops. Don’t you worry about it. You just take my little girl home and keep her safe.”

For once he’s given me an order I’m more than happy to follow.

#

I can’t get Jess home fast enough. In spite of the evidence, I’m still not convinced she’s all right. I won’t be convinced until I can examine every inch of her, make sure there aren’t any bullet wounds, no scratches, no cuts. Nothing.

She seems to be thinking the same thing, because the minute we get in the door, she’s pulling my jacket off, jerking at my buttons—a couple of them fly off—and spreading her hands over my chest, my ribs.

I wince, and she freezes. “Cain…”

“No, no,” I reassure her. “That’s from the fight. There was a fight, remember? Before the bullets started flying?”

She laughs, but it’s more a sob, and suddenly she has both hands over her mouth and her eyes are brimming over. I grab her wrists.

“Hush, Jess. It’s okay. It’s okay. Really, it is. I’m not hurt. You’re not hurt…right? You’re not hurt?”

She nods and then moves her hands so she can clarify. “No, I’m not hurt. Maybe I skinned my elbow when you pushed me out of the way. That’s all.”

“Then get that shirt off. I need to kiss it better.” I say it sternly, firmly, because I know she won’t question me. As ordered, she starts to unbutton her blouse.

And no, she’s not hurt, not really. But when I see the long scrape on the outside of her elbow, I draw a quick breath. “Fuck, I’m sorry.”

She looks at her arm. “For this? God, Cain, you probably saved my life. I’m okay with a few scrapes and bruises.” Moving a little closer, she puts her arms around my waist. “I’m just glad he didn’t hit you.” Pressing up onto her tiptoes, she kisses me gently. “I don’t know what I would have done if he’d…” She stops.

“He didn’t.” I stroke her eyebrows, kiss her forehead. “What even made you come?”

She shakes her head a little. She’s stopped crying, and there’s a kind of peace on her face now. “I didn’t want to live the rest of my life wondering what would have happened if I had.”

It’s all I need to know. She came because she wasn’t ready to let go. Neither was I. And I’m sure not going to let her go now, not after everything.

“You’re staying here,” I tell her. “You’re my wife—you belong here in my house.”

“No, I don’t.”

I lift an eyebrow at the response. That’s not what I wanted to hear. But then she grins. “I belong in your bed, big guy. Hurry up and get me there.”

There’s an invitation I can’t refuse. I lean down to swing her into my arms. She’s small and light in my arms, and I’m reminded again of how close I came to losing her.

I get a firmer grip on her and head for the bedroom. Once we’re there I spread her out on top of the quilt and start easing her clothes off her, one piece at a time. “I need to check,” I tell her as I examine each exposed stretch of skin. “Be sure you really aren’t hurt anywhere.”

“You can’t just take my word?”

I slide my hand up her bare belly. “Would that be anywhere near as fun?”

“Point taken,” she says, and spreads her thighs so I can pull her pants off her.

It’s more than just the scrapes on her elbow. She’s got scrapes on her knees, too, and blood on her shin. I stare down at her. The sight of the injuries makes my stomach clench up. Instead of continuing my quest to undress her, I go to the bathroom to get a washcloth and some antibiotic ointment. It takes me a minute to find bandages.