The sound of a door shutting upstairs shook him out of his thoughts. Still frowning, he headed for the kitchen. For a woman who seemed as open as a book, Anne certainly had a lot of hidden comers.
He had no problem finding his way around her kitchen. It wasn't big enough to present a challenge. Small but welcoming, he decided, as he poured milk into a pan to heat for cocoa. There was a window over the sink that he guessed must look out over the rose garden and a cozy breakfast nook in one comer. The walls were a soft white and the cabinets a pale oak finish. Porcelain knobs in the shape of strawberries added a whimsical touch.
While the milk was heating, he found two mugs and made note of the fact that she had several cans of soup. He would see how she was feeling when she got out of the shower and maybe he'd be able to coax her into eating a little something. According to his mother, hot soup and a grilled-cheese sandwich were a near universal cure-all.
The milk was starting to bubble, and he reached out to turn it off, cocking his head for the sound of the shower. In a house as small as this, he should be able to hear water running. But there was nothing but the soft susurration of the rain outside. Maybe she'd finished and was drying off? But when he thought about it, he couldn't remember hearing the shower at all.
Uneasy now, Neill left the kitchen and went to the foot of the stairs. He heard nothing at first; then there was a low, keening sound that made the hair rise on the back of his neck. He took the stairs two at a time. The upper hallway was little more than a wide landing. There were three doors, but only one with light showing beneath it. The sound was clearer now, a soft whimpering that made him think of a trapped and dying animal.
"Anne?" He tapped on the door, but the whimpering continued unabated. God, had she been hurt after all? Wild visions of internal bleeding and concussion swirled through his mind. He tried the knob and cursed quietly, viciously, when he found it locked. Grabbing for control, he leaned his forehead against the door and tried to make his voice soothing, coaxing. "Anne? You've got to open the door, honey."
There was no response, only that sad, hopeless whimpering that cut through him like a knife. Frustration nearly had him putting his shoulder to the door and breaking it down, but he caught himself. She'd been through enough tonight. Having him break down the bathroom door was probably not going to do her any good. But he couldn't just stand out here like a damned statue. Listening to her was tearing holes in his gut.
Think, Devlin. There's got to be a way to
... Grinning maniacally, Neill fished his wallet out of his back pocket. Every two-bit private detective on television could open a lock with a credit card. How hard could it be?
It was harder when your hands weren't completely steady and your pulse was beating twice as fast as it should, but, in the end, he figured it wasn't more than half a lifetime before he heard the quiet snick of the lock. His breath exploded from him as he pushed the door open and stepped into a surprisingly spacious bathroom.
He had a flashing impression of cream-colored tiles, punctuated by the hot flash of purple bath towels and curtains splashed with purple and yellow pansies. But his attention was all for the figure curled up on the floor under the window. She'd drawn herself into a tight little ball, arms wrapped around her legs, face pressed against her knees, and she was rocking back and forth and whimpering softly to herself.
"Anne?" Neill crouched next to her, his hands not quite steady as he reached for her. "What is it? Are you hurt?"
The low voice nudged against the cold white terror blanketing her mind. She'd learned a long time ago to hide from the fear, to retreat inside herself, squeeze her eyes tight shut, throw her hands over her ears and hide until it went away. It was better that way, better to deal with it alone. She was ashamed of the weakness, had always been ashamed of it.
Don't cry, Anne. How can you be so selfish? I'm the one who lost a daughter. Stop acting like a baby. Don't you care about me at all?
The long ago words echoed in her mind, the voice sharp and angry, making her want to put her hands over her ears to block it out But she couldn't block it out, because it was inside her head.
Something terrible had happened to her sister. No one would tell her what. When she asked what had happened. Mama slapped her and sent her to her room. Mama had never slapped her before. She curled up in a ball on her bed, clutching her old teddy bear as a shield against the fear that beat frantic wings inside her chest. She didn't wider-stand what had happened to Brooke, didn't understand why she couldn't walk to school anymore or even go out to play in the yard without someone coming with her, but she knew it was wrong to ask why, selfish to be so afraid. She wasn't a baby anymore. She was a big girl, and big girls weren't afraid.
Ignoring her weak attempts to pull away, Neill wrapped his arms around her and pulled her against his chest and held her tight. "lt's okay, baby. Let it out." He crooned the words, as if talking to a frightened child. "You'll feel better if you cry. Come on. Just let go. I've got you safe."
The arms around her felt strong and solid, a warm barrier against the fear. Safe, he said, I've got you safe. Anne shuddered once and, turning her face into his shoulder, let the tears fall.
She had no idea how long she cried, but, when the tears finally subsided to shuddering half sobs, she became aware that she was no longer on the floor but was cradled across Neill's lap, as he sat on the closed lid of the toilet. Her cheek was resting against his chest, and she could hear the solid rhythm of his heart beneath her ear.
"Feel better?" he asked quietly, and she was vaguely astonished to realize that she did. In a little while she would remember to feel embarrassed by her loss of control, but at the moment it felt so good to just lie there, with his hand stroking her hair. She had to swallow a murmur of protest when he eased her a little away and stretched out one long arm to grab a handful of tissues from the box on the counter. "Let's dry your face, and then you need to get out of those damp clothes."
Suddenly self-conscious, Anne tried to duck her head, but Neill held her easily, mopping up the traces of tears with a kind of gentle ruthlessness that made her heart stutter in her chest. Hesitant, half afraid of what she might see, she lifted her eyes to his face. He didn't look disgusted, she thought.
"I'm so—''
"If you say you're sorry, I'm going to have to get violent," he said flatly.
"But I—"His brow arched, and she swallowed the words.
"Good choice." He brushed a kiss against one flushed cheek before setting her on her feet and standing up. "I want you to take a hot shower and get warm. You'll need a robe or something to put on," he said, glancing around the bathroom for something suitable. "Tell me where to find one."
"I can—"
"No, you can't," he said, smiling as he reached up to brush a damp curl back from her forehead. "Let me take care of you for a little while, okay?"
How could she argue with that smile? With those eyes? How could she argue when it felt so good to have him taking care of her? Giving in, she told him where to find her robe and waited while he turned on the shower and adjusted the temperature.
It was only when he reached for the buttons on her shirt that she came to life.
"I can undress myself," she said, stepping back.
"Too bad," he said huskily, and was pleased when she flushed. Smiling crookedly, he brushed his fingers over her warm cheek before leaving her alone.
When Anne went downstairs twenty minutes later, he was setting steaming bowls of soup on the tiny breakfast table in her kitchen.
"You're just in time," he said, as she hovered in the doorway. Turning off the burner, he scooped a pair of grilled-cheese sandwiches onto plates, cut each in half with a deft stroke of a knife and set them on the table next to the soup. "I hope you don't mind me raiding your cupboards. We missed dinner tonight, and I figured you might be hungry, I know I'm starving."
Anne had opened her mouth to tell him that she couldn't possibly eat anything but closed it without speaking. If he was hungry...
"I wasn't sure what you'd want to drink." He cocked an eyebrow in inquiry.
"I... water, I guess. Water would be just fine."
This domestic little scene wasn't what she'd expected. While she was in the shower, she'd had time to think. And what she'd thought about was the fact that Neill was sure to have questions. He would want to know why she didn't want to file a police report. He probably thought she'd overreacted to the attempted mugging. After all, aside from a couple of bruises, she hadn't been hurt, hadn't even lost her purse. Had she said anything about Brooke? She couldn't remember, but, if she had, he was going to want to know what the connection was. She'd come downstairs, dreading the questions, knowing she owed him truthful answers, without evasion.
And all he'd asked was what did she want to drink.
"It's not exactly gourmet," Neill said, as he set her water glass on the table. "But I did put a slice of tomato in the sandwiches before I grilled them, which is a unique little touch I invented myself."
"Maybe you should market it," Anne said, coming forward when he pulled out her chair with a flourish.
"I prefer to keep it my own little secret. Let Wolfgang Puck gnash his teeth in frustration over the superiority of my grilled cheese."
Anne was startled to hear herself chuckle. He pushed her chair in and...did she imagine it, or did he actually brush a kiss over the top of her head? Her eyes, wide and uncertain, met his as he sat down across from her, but there was nothing in his expression to suggest he'd just kissed her, and she told herself it must have been her imagination.
She was sure she wasn't hungry, but, after he'd gone to so much trouble, she felt obligated to at least eat a few bites. Twenty minutes later, she was astonished to discover that she'd eaten everything he'd given her.
"There's more soup, if you want," Neill said, the first words either of them had spoken since the meal started.
"No, thank you," She laughed a little and shook her head. '1 didn't think I wanted what I had."
"No one can resist my grilled cheese," he said smugly, gathering up their plates and carrying them to the sink.
"I'll do that." She rose, intending to take the pans from the stove, only to find herself being shepherded gently but inexorably out of the kitchen.
"You're not going to do anything but go to bed." He herded her toward the stairs. "I'll clean up the kitchen, and then I'm going to sack out on the couch tonight."
"You don't have to do that." The protest was automatic, and she was desperately grateful when he shook his head.
"Yes, I do. I'm not leaving you alone tonight."
"I...thank you." Pride demanded that she send him away, but the thought of knowing he was just downstairs was too tempting. She climbed one step, then turned. "I didn't thank you. For what you did earlier. Chasing that guy off, then...after. I'm so—" She caught the warning in his arched brow and swallowed the apology. "Thank you for being there."
"You're welcome." This time, there was no question of imagining the kiss he brushed over her forehead. Anne tilted her head back, needing more, and, after a barely perceptible hesitation, Neill accepted the invitation so sweetly offered, his mouth settling on hers. It was a kiss intended to comfort rather than arouse, and Anne savored the tenderness. She couldn't remember ever feeling so thoroughly cared for and protected.
When the kiss ended, she reached out to fiddle with one of the buttons on his shirt.
"Your shirt's still damp," she murmured.
"I'll hang it somewhere to dry tonight."
The thought of him, bare chested and sleeping just a few feet away from her own bed, made her mouth go dry.
"You don't have to sleep on the sofa." she whispered, feeling the color creep up into her cheeks.
In the silence that followed, she could hear the soft hiss of the rain outside. She waited, wondering if she'd just made a fool of herself, afraid he didn't want her anymore and was trying to think of a way to let her down gently.
"Not tonight." Neill folded his fingers over hers, drawing her hand away from his chest. "I want you so much it makes my teeth ache, but there are rules about this sort of thing. You had a bad scare, and you're grateful that I was there to help you through it." He caught her chin in his hand, tilting her face up until her eyes met the sharp, hungry blue of his. Her knees weakened, and her pulse scrambled. "When we become lovers, Anne, there's not going to be any gratitude in the mix."
Not if they became lovers but when
. The certainty in his voice sent a delicious little shiver up Anne's spine.
He dropped a hard kiss on her mouth, then put his hands on her shoulders and turned her around
"Now go to bed and stop tempting me to forget my good intentions."
She climbed the stairs obediently, hugging close to herself the idea that she could tempt a man like Neill Devlin.
Nobility had its price. There was simply no possible way for a six-foot-tall man to sleep comfortably on a five-foot-long sofa. It didn't help that, throughout the long, mostly sleepless night, Neill was acutely aware of the fact that, just up the stairs, was not only a bed but a warm and willing woman.