The Secret Life Of Bryan. Lori FosterЧитать онлайн книгу.
gotten by on gut instincts too many times to disregard one this strong. Somehow Shay didn’t fit the mold, and he didn’t mean in the obvious ways. It was more than that.
She seemed to vibrate with energy and something more. She didn’t look downtrodden.
She didn’t look used.
She was slim but strong, with almost regal features—except for those innocent blue eyes, so huge they could suck a man in. But not Bryan. He’d long since grown immune to feminine wiles.
She hadn’t run off as he’d expected, as Bruce warned they often did. He’d been prepared to chase her, but instead of fleeing, she’d stepped right off the curb into the stinging rain to meet him. Crazy broad.
Then, from one heartbeat to the next, her entire side of the street went black as pitch. There’d been no time for gentle urging, as was his brother’s custom, no time for explanations. The last power failure in that slummy area had left two people badly beaten and several buildings ransacked. Riots often erupted with little coercing. A blackout could fuel all types of depraved crimes.
Bryan knew the feel, the taste, and scent of danger, and it had surrounded them. Luckily she hadn’t argued with him too much. Chili’s timely appearance had helped to convince her, no doubt because Chili was a greasy little bastard with a smile like a pig.
The danger had brought out Bryan’s instincts, and he’d temporarily abandoned the ruse, acting more like himself than Bruce. Then when she’d asked for his name, he’d screwed up big time. He’d given his own. He didn’t make mistakes like that. Ever.
But somehow, with her, he had.
And he’d complicated it further with his half-assed correction. Bruce Bryan? Jesus, even to his own ears it sounded lame.
Not many people knew his brother as anything other than the Preacher, but he didn’t like taking chances. He’d have to convince her…what was he thinking? To hell with convincing her. She wouldn’t be around long enough to cause too much trouble.
Out of all the women his brother tried to “save,” he only reached about a fourth. The rest took advantage of his hospitality, his generosity, then returned to work in a few days, a week, a month.
Regardless of how different she seemed, Shay would do the same. He’d just keep his dick in his pants until then.
He recalled his brother’s lecture to be like a doctor around the women, immune to them as females. But Bryan only saw women one way and that was the one way Bruce had ruled out.
Still, for a week he’d affected that attitude with ease. Now he felt challenged.
Hell, he couldn’t understand the workings of the average female mind, so how was he supposed to understand a trollop?
Knotting both hands in his wet T-shirt, he jerked it over his head, wadded it into a ball and flung it into the corner. It hit the faded wallpaper with a dull plop, but did little to relieve him.
Outside, thunder boomed, reflecting his mood. At least Bruce had gotten the roof fixed, so there wouldn’t be any damp spots in the ceiling upstairs, no need to carry up pots to catch the leaks. It hadn’t been easy convincing Bruce to take his money for repairs. But Bryan was a mean son of a bitch, while Bruce was a nice, sensitive guy, so he’d just more or less forced it on him.
Bryan was damn proud of Bruce and what he did, even if he couldn’t always agree with it. He supported his brother’s efforts and he wouldn’t let himself get distracted by a woman with a nice ass and a bold manner, not when Bruce needed him to be on guard, to be the ruthless, calculating hard-ass that their father often called him.
Someone was out to hurt Bruce, someone vicious. Verbal threats had expanded to physical ones. The last attack had put Bruce in the hospital, and that had Bryan pissed. Really pissed.
No one hurt his brother and got away with it.
Soon, another attack would come. But instead of finding Bruce, the bastard would run into Bryan. And that would be the end of that. Bryan just had to wait, then he’d have him.
Which meant he’d have to ignore, or at least tolerate, Shay’s invitations. He almost laughed at the irony. Could there be a worse man for this particular job? Since the death of his wife, what he did with women was either apprehend or fuck them. He couldn’t do either of those things now. No, he’d have to do the impossible. He’d have to get involved.
Neck deep involved.
The clock on the small table beside Bruce’s one guest chair told him time was ticking away. He’d give her twenty minutes to get dried off and changed, then they’d get the rules straight. In the meantime, he could check out a few things.
Because he was soaked, he went to the closet where Bruce kept spare clothes. Pulling out the first shirt he came across, Bryan shoved his arms into the sleeves and quickly did up the buttons, then rolled the sleeves above his elbows.
He dropped into the easy chair, pulled out his cell phone and punched in a series of numbers. He had respect in his field, favors owed him, and connections everywhere. What Shay wanted to keep private, he’d find out on his own.
But the day was rife with frustration. The detective he had called had run a check that came up empty. Far as he could tell, they didn’t have a record on any tall blond hookers named Shay. Shelly and Sherry, Scarlet and Selma. But not Shay or Shaina. He checked with other bounty hunters, but no one on the run fit her description.
Maybe she’d worked a different area, even a different state. Whatever—he’d uncover her secrets somehow. Bruce was the trusting sort. Too bad he wasn’t Bruce.
For now, he’d follow the mundane routine of registering a new resident to the safe house. He’d play his brother. He’d keep his hands to himself.
And eventually the game would end.
When enough time had passed, Bryan left the privacy of the office. The short hall leading to the kitchen was empty, but he found Shay’s sodden purse set on the dryer. It had been emptied so that a comb, lipstick, sunglasses and other female items were scattered about, along with the contents of her wallet spread out to dry.
Bryan didn’t hesitate to snoop. Hell, snooping was what he did.
She had a few bills, a handful of change, a post office receipt, and a grocery list. No credit cards, no driver’s license, nothing that could ID her. Not that he was surprised. She really didn’t strike him as being stupid. Just brazen. And sexy.
He checked out the receipt, but the rain had faded the ink and he couldn’t even make out the total or the location. A dead end.
He laid the receipt back where he’d found it and took two long steps to knock lightly on the wall outside the swinging door to the kitchen.
He called out, “You decent?” then wanted to kick his own ass.
She was a hooker, for God’s sake; nothing decent about that.
Shay pushed the door aside and smiled at him. “I was just getting ready to make tea. Would you like some?”
He eyed her fresh appearance. Her damp hair had been combed and slightly curling ends now brushed the tops of her breasts. Her makeup, which had been smeared from the rain, was washed away. She looked young and happy, her blue eyes bright and full of wholesome welcome.
He didn’t buy it.
The tattered jeans she’d chosen from the box of donated goods were a little too short and way too tight, fitting her like a second skin. Oddly enough, she’d paired them with an oversized misshapen sweatshirt he assumed to be one of Bruce’s castoffs. So she wasn’t advertising her body right now. Maybe it was her off hours.
She shifted under his gaze, and Bryan noticed her bare feet and painted pink toenails. Even dressed in ragged clothes, with all the artificial enticements stripped away, she looked incredibly beautiful.
I’m a preacher, Bryan reminded himself.