Lancelot of the Pines (Louisiana Knights Book 1) by Jennifer Blake Page B

more forthcoming about Caret’s death,” he said, the words a little rough. “You had a right to know, even if I thought the details would be hard to take. A killing like that—it has to be a shock, even if two people aren’t all that close.”
    “I can’t bear to think about it, what he must have thought in his last minutes, how he probably felt, but still…”
    “Still?”
    She didn’t reply for long seconds. Then words seemed to burst from her. “I’m so angry at Bruce! I hate it, but it’s true. He lied to me about so many things, and now I can’t be sure he didn’t lie about everything.”
    “What are you saying?”
    She gave a quick shake of her head. “I thought I was street wise and super-cool after being on my own. I kept my guard up, knew I shouldn’t trust anybody, not at any time. I refused to rely on Bruce for ages, but he was good to me, gave me so much I’d never had before. I was his angel, he said, his good luck charm. He convinced me he was a different man because of me.”
    “He took you in, and then betrayed your trust.” Lance was guessing, trying to see her side of the situation, though he could also grasp Caret’s attitude toward her.
    She wiped her eyes with a knuckle and dried it on the tail of her shirt. “I suppose, and yet, that’s not—not what I was crying about.”
    “No?”
    “It was a lot of things, really. I was thinking about my mother and how she used to take us out on the back porch of our ramshackle trailer when a storm came up. Sitting close to her, listening to the thunder, was exciting. We had nothing to fear as long as she was there.”
    “We?” he asked, inclining his head toward her.
    She didn’t look at him, but only stared into the deluge in her turn. “I had a sister.”
    “You had one, but—”
    “She died over a year ago. My mother passed away much earlier, of course. I used to dream we’d have a house with a porch and a swing one day, the three of us. Then there was Bruce. We talked about a family and a place in the country, but now he’s dead, too.”
    “I thought you were planning to leave him.”
    “Recently, yes, but before that I thought—Oh, I don’t know. Everyone is gone now, and so are the—the dreams. I’m the only one left.”
    The desolation in her voice touched some place deep inside that Lance barely knew existed. Lifting his hand, he cupped her shoulder. “You’re not alone right now.”
    Her smile was wan. “No. But where am I going to go, and what am I going to do, when this whole thing is over?”
    There was no decision; he didn’t stop to wonder if he was being played. He saw the vulnerability in the depths of her eyes, half hidden behind a brave front, and reacted like any other decent human being.
    Contracting the muscles of his arm with slow purpose, he drew her to him. She resisted for an instant then relaxed into him with a shuddering release of pent breath. Her head nestled perfectly next to his chin, her hair tickling his jawbone. She circled his waist with one arm in a convulsive movement, while the other was folded against him.
    She was such a soft yet firm armful, with her breasts flattened against his chest and her thighs brushing his. He felt the dampness of her tears on his shirt, sensed the beating of her heart that seemed to increase in strength. He leaned his jaw with its beard stubble against her hair, inhaling the amazingly aphoristic scent of hair dye and warm, damp female. A fine mist of rain was blowing in under the awning, wetting them both, but he barely noticed. Briefly, gently, he swung her as he might a crying child.
    She was no child, however, and his body recognized it before his reason caught on. His pulse gathered speed and heat. His brain turned molten in his skull. He felt the drawing surge of need in his lower body, knew he had seconds before she felt it, too. His hold tightened, as if his deepest sinews were reluctant to obey his commands, then he pressed his lips to her temple