A Forever Kind of Hero Read online

  Putting the pile down, she went in for the third and last one, then set it up beside the first two. She dusted off her hands. “Cleaning.”

  Garrett could see that. “Why?”

  Finished with the newspapers, Megan tackled the dirty coveralls. They smelled of sweat, gasoline and several things she couldn’t place; she figured she was better off that way.

  “Because when I’m edgy, I clean. When I’m wired, I clean. And, when I’m restless—” arms loaded with coveralls that she really didn’t want to be this close to, she pushed past him “—I clean. Right now, I’m edgy, wired and restless.”

  She dropped one pair of coveralls. Garrett stooped and picked it up the way he might a piece of evidence: very gingerly and by the edge. “Maybe he should pay us instead of the other way around tomorrow.”

  She stopped putting the dirty coveralls into what she assessed to be the designated hamper.

  “‘Us’?” she echoed. “Are you planning on cleaning up with me?”

  Garrett tossed the coveralls on top of the others. That about did it for him, he thought. She wanted to play at being the cleaning woman, the job was all hers.

  “Figure of speech.” He took out his handkerchief and wiped his hand. “You wanted me to think of this as a partnership, didn’t you?” He indicated the garage. “This is where your end of it can take over.”

  Megan gave him a disapproving look. “You mean you could sleep in a place like this?” But then, he was a typical male, she thought. Most men were oblivious to dirt and filth.

  Garrett shrugged. “I can’t sleep anyplace but in my own bed. So it wouldn’t matter to me how clean you got that room in the back, I’m still not going to be able to get much sleep.”

  She wouldn’t have thought that he had trouble sleeping anywhere. He seemed a man who could make do under any conditions, and it was hard picturing him with insomnia.

  Megan picked up the socket wrench closest to her on the floor. “I guess that settles the problems of who gets the cot.”

  Garrett saw a radio over by the windowsill. Crossing to it, he switched it on. “There was never any problem over that. You were getting it.”

  “Chivalry?” Megan braced herself for another onslaught of classical music. Instead, he left it on a station that played a mixture of old and new. The small, thoughtful act touched her. “Your mother taught you well. I’m sure she’d be proud of you.”

  He shoved his hands into his pockets, looking out the window. Or trying to. The thick layer of dirt and grime, combined with darkness, made it impossible to see anything. Garrett dismissed her words. “That’s not possible.”

  “Why?” Opening the top drawer in the tool chest, Megan found it empty—which. wasn’t a surprise. She placed the smaller wrenches into it. “You’re not that much of a blackguard.”

  Garrett turned around to look at her. There was a smudge on her nose. Without thinking, he crossed to her and, holding her chin in one hand, used his thumb to wipe away the smudge. “Where the hell do you get these words from? ‘Heretofore.’ ‘Blackguard.’”

  When he touched her, he made things happen inside. Things like tiny explosions of electricity and lights. Megan drew her head away. Slowly.

  “I read, Wichita. Books without pictures. I realize that might be a new concept for you.” She put some distance between them so that she could resume breathing normally again. Somehow the air seemed to evaporate every time they were that close. “And why can’t your mother be proud of you?”

  “She’s not around anymore.”

  His voice was flat. Emotionless. She heard the emotions anyway, and realized she’d misstepped. “Oh. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to dig up anything painful.”

  Garrett didn’t want her pity. Pity made him feel small, weak, vulnerable. And he’d taken great pains not to be. Ever.

  “It’s not painful, it’s just in the past.”

  No, it isn’t, she thought. “How about your father?”

  Garrett shrugged. “Same place.”

  There was something about the way he said it that caught her attention. “Did they die together?”

  She wasn’t going to stop until she got the whole thing, was she? Garrett thought. “Flash flood when I was thirteen. Satisfied?”

  She turned her back on him as she bent down to pick up another tool. “You know, if the DEA ever gives classes on attitude adjustment, I suggest you at least sit in on a session or two.” She threw the tool into the second drawer. “Maybe the whole semester.”

  He didn’t need to be lectured by her about attitude. She wasn’t exactly getting an award for Miss Congeniality. “Yeah, maybe I will.” He watched as she deposited another handful of tools into the next drawer. “Now what are you doing?”

  The lighting here wasn’t that bad. Why did he have to keep asking? “Putting his tools away.”

  He shut the drawer before she could fit in any more. “Did it ever occur to you that Henry might not want to have them put away? That he wants them where they are?” He could tell by her expression that the thought never even crossed her mind. “He said not to ‘mess’ with anything, remember? You don’t mess with a man’s tools, Megan.”

  “I’m not ‘messing’ with them.” She yanked open the drawer and put more tools in. “I’m getting them off the floor so one of us doesn’t trip over them dunng our stay here at the Desert Excelsior.” Exasperated, she slammed the drawer shut again. “What is the name of this place, anyway?”

  “I don’t think it has one. A garage, a diner and a souvenir stand that hasn’t seen a paying customer in probably a decade doesn’t qualify for a name.”

  Megan willed the tension from her shoulders. There was no reason, she told herself, to feel this tense. No reason at all. She’d been in worse places, dirtier places, and certainly smaller ones than this drafty barn-like enclosure.

  It wasn’t the place, it was the company.

  Worse, it was her.

  She turned away from him and looked at the window behind the radio. “How long do you suppose it’s been since that window was washed?”

  “I don’t even think it’s a window. Looks more like greasy butcher paper.” He caught her hands as she started to walk over to the tiny closet that served as a bathroom. “You don’t have to wash it. You don’t have to clean anything,” he told her.

  He said it, she thought, as if he knew what was going on in her head.

  Garrett looked down at the hands he was holding. “You’re getting dirty.”

  She shrugged, wishing he would let go. “You touch grease, you get dirty.”

  Her eyes looked dark green in this light, he thought. Dark green and beautiful. “Very profound.”

  He was teasing her again. Megan pulled free. “I’m not at my best right now.”

  “Matter of opinion.”

  His eyes were touching her, even if his hands weren’t. She had to remind herself to breathe.

  “Yours being?”

  His smile was slow, and it wove its way under her skin with terrifying accuracy.

  “I think you rise to the occasion no matter what, Megan Andreini. You don’t strike me as a woman who stands there as life rolls over her. You do the rolling, not life.”

  Her mouth felt dry. Maybe she should have gotten a drink-to-go. “Okay, I have to warn you that while I do like it, sweet talk has never been known to make me change my mind about anything.”

  “What makes you think I’m trying to get you to change your mind about anything?”

  She wanted an argument, something to hang on to. Something to block the thoughts she was having. “Oh, like you don’t want me to turn around and go back to Bedford.”

  “Not particularly. At least,” he amended, “not tonight.” He cut the distance that she had put between them. “You’d have to walk, and I’d have to be pretty damn heartless to let you.”

  She wanted to back away. But backing away was cowardly, and she’d never been a coward. So she stood her ground. Until the ground they sh
ared was one.

  Her pulse racing, she looked up into his eyes and saw herself reflected there. The man could have been a magician.

  She ran her tongue along her lips. It didn’t help. “And you’re not pretty damn heartless?”

  Taking her hand in his, he pressed it against his chest. “You tell me.”

  The room got a little darker. And a little warmer: She tried to be flippant and only half succeeded. “Nope, there’s a heart there all right. And it’s beating. Rather hard.” It was difficult, forming the words. Difficult when all she wanted to do was kiss him and lose herself in him. “Why is that, Wichita?”

  The press of her fingers against his chest quickened his pulse. And his desire. Ever so slowly, he rubbed his cheek against hers, breathing in the faint scent of perfume and shampoo.

  “You tell me,” he whispered again into her hair.

  A shiver frantically worked its way along her spine. And a deep need worked its way to the surface. A need to be held, to forget that this was just a solitary night in the middle of nowhere, and that in the morning they would go their separate ways—emotionally if not physically.

  A need to believe that wonderful things did still happen and that these kinds of feelings could last forever.

  She could feel her eyes fluttering shut as his breath skimmed along her neck. “Sometimes,” she said with effort, “I don’t want to talk.”

  She felt his smile along her throat as he pressed a kiss there. “That’s like saying you don’t want to breathe.” He raised his head and looked at her, his eyes meeting hers. “I want you, Megan.”

  The simplicity, the honesty in the words, made her feel like crying. She didn’t know why. “I wouldn’t have guessed.”

  He kissed her lips, a soft, tender kiss that spoke of temporary truce as well as desire. “I believe in being subtle.”

  Megan wound her arms around his neck. “Like a train wreck.” Standing on her toes, she pressed her mouth urgently against his.

  It was, Garrett realized distantly, like the opening of the gate at Pamplona and having the bulls suddenly charge, taking the street. Desire broke free, taking him prisoner in its stead and holding him fast.

  He could feel the outline of her body as it burned against his. Needs and emotions twisted within him, each striving to win out. Each wanting possession of him, even as they urged him to take possession of her.

  He kissed her eyes, her throat, her cheeks, her lips as his hands moved along her body, touching her, wanting her. He couldn’t find a place to settle; each new place enticed him to move on, to take more, and then to retrace and reclaim.

  With each caress along her body, through her hair, along her face, Megan found herself burning for him even more than she had a moment before. It was like having him stoke a fire inside her. She had no idea that there was this crying need within her, this overwhelming desire to be made love to. To make love to and with a man.

  To and with...Garrett.

  With an eagerness that seldom marked any part of her private life, Megan undid his belt and yanked frantically at his shirt until she’d pulled it free. She didn’t even remember working the buttons out of their holes. All she knew was that she wanted to feel him against her, to have his cool skin soothe her feverish one.

  And all the while, his mouth was working tiny miracles over hers: giving, taking, teasing.

  Just as his kiss deepened, making her head spin, he retraced his path and brought his lips to her throat, to her neck, to the swell of her breasts. There wasn’t a single part of her that wasn’t on fire. That didn’t want him.

  As she pulled his shirt from his shoulders, she felt Garrett’s hands on either side of her thighs, moving underneath her skirt. She drew her breath in sharply as she felt his fingers skimming along the outline of her underwear. Over and over again, making her crazy, until she finally felt him touch her intimately.

  The climax that soared through her took her completely by surprise.

  Garrett looked at her as her eyes opened wide with wonder, her body stiffening, then shuddering against him Fists of desire slammed into him, pushing him on.

  Each shred of excitement she exhibited only made him that much more aroused himself, that much more dedicated to making this the most memorable encounter she’d ever experienced.

  He wanted her to remember him. Always. The way he would always remember her.

  “Do dingy garages always turn you on like this?” he asked teasingly against her ear.

  Megan shivered as she felt his tongue outline her ear, driving a salvo of pleasure through her. She gripped his shoulders.

  “Just the smell of gasoline,” she quipped back.

  The next moment, their lips sealed to one another again, she felt herself being picked up in his arms. The weightless feeling only enhanced the wildness throbbing throughout her body. Her heart was slamming so hard against her rib cage that she half believed it was going to create a hole and fall out.

  She didn’t care. All she cared about was this feeling rushing through her. And this man making love with her.

  He set her down on the cot, joining her in the limited space. There was just enough room for their bodies to tangle together. To fuse.

  Garrett undressed her, his fingers flying under a power all their own. Nude, her skin looked like heated vanilla ice cream against the dark blanket. He’d always had a weakness for ice cream, and vanilla had been the first flavor he’d ever tasted.

  He devoured her, making love to her with every fiber of his body. Making everything within her sing. Bringing her to peak after peak with the expert movement of his body against hers.

  Garrett made love to her with his eyes, with his mouth, with his very breath. Over and over again, he possessed her body before he ever entered it.

  Finally, her body racked with exquisite explosions that left her exhausted and wanting more, Megan looked up at him.

  “If you’re trying to get me to cry ‘uncle,’” she told him breathlessly, just barely holding on, “you’re going to have to try harder.”

  Garrett grinned. He couldn’t hold back any longer. It wasn’t humanly possible. “I always rise to the challenge.”

  The smile on her lips as she accepted him was something halfway between mischievous and ethereal. And it would brand him forever.

  “Nice to know,” she murmured against his mouth before there was no more time for words. And nothing left of her but pure, raw longing and desire.

  They rode over the crests together, faster and faster, enjoying the ride, longing for journey’s end and yet wanting to keep it at bay for a few more eternities.

  And when it ended, and they were spent, the holding was almost as wondrous as any of what went before.

  For just a little while, they had found a haven. Together.

  Chapter 12

  “His name was Andy.”

  Locked safely in the arms of contentment and on the verge of drifting asleep, Megan roused herself as Garrett’s words cut through the silence. Opening her eyes, she turned toward him.

  “Pardon?”

  Garrett figured she’d done something to him with her lovemaking, touched something that had curled itself into a ball to avoid contact. He spoke before he could think better of it and stop himself. He spoke because he needed to.

  “Back at the hospital that night, you asked me who I’d lost to Velasquez. His name was Andy. Andy Wichita.” It had been a long time since he’d said the full name aloud. Fifteen years. Garrett looked at her. “He was my brother.”

  She laid a hand on his shoulder, her eyes eloquently saying what her lips could only attempt. “Oh, Wichita, I’m so sorry.”

  He’d schooled himself to shun sympathy if it came his way. And so it usually didn’t.

  Yet he couldn’t bring himself to recoil from hers. He needed it. But the glimpse of weakness scared the hell out of him.

  He talked because he didn’t want to think. Because for a little while, talking about Andy almost made it seem as
if he was still alive.

  “He was my older brother. Not by much, just eleven months. But when we were kids that made him top dog.” The faint smile of remembrance faded. “When we lost our parents, he couldn’t handle it. Couldn’t handle being alone with me to look after.”

  He’d told her that he was thirteen when his parents died. That would have made his brother fourteen. And both of them candidates for foster homes. “But you were both underage, weren’t you?”

  He shook his head. “Didn’t matter. Andy felt responsible. And he needed a crutch to deal with it, or try to deal with it.” Andy had always been too funloving, too scattered, to be responsible. “Velasquez was little more than a street dealer then, in Texas. Hadn’t found his ‘high class niche’ yet.” Garrett’s lips curled contemptuously. “Andy started stealing to pay for his habit.” It had started out with little things from the foster homes they stayed in, then gradually grew. Garrett had covered for him when he could, had taken the blame for his brother when he couldn’t. “Hating himself for what he’d become. Hating me for getting him there....”

  And Megan could see that the blame had eaten away at him. “But you didn’t—”

  Garrett ignored her protest, aching for the brother he’d lost. Swearing vengeance for the umpteenth time on the man who’d stolen his brother from him.

  “Velasquez had made him one of his runners. One day Andy just couldn’t take it anymore. Couldn’t take what he’d become.” The words felt like lead on his tongue, but Garrett pushed on. He needed to tell her about his brother. “He scraped together just enough money to buy the amount of cocaine he needed to end all his pain. And then he did.” Garrett turned his face toward her then, his eyes hard, filled with his own agony. Agony that hadn’t released its hold on him in all these years. “That’s what I’ve got against Velasquez. And that’s why I won’t stop until he’s permanently behind bars. Or dead.”

  She looked at him for a long moment. “Will you stop then?”

  “What do you mean?” He had no idea what she was talking about. “Of course I’ll stop.”

  Megan wasn’t so sure. She propped herself up on her elbow, peering into his face. “Will you? Will you stop blaming yourself for Andy’s death?”