The Marine's Embrace

What if her instincts had been right and he really was dangerous? A criminal on the run or a con man out to fleece his next victims, or an identity thief, using Zach Castro’s license and credit card for his own gain? What if he was a serial killer, here to murder them all as they slept?

Control your thoughts. Don’t let them control you.

Dr. Porter’s voice was so loud in her head, Fay glanced around the cramped room, just to make sure he hadn’t somehow appeared out of thin air, his ever-present notepad in hand.

Fay sighed. Control your thoughts. Control your thoughts.

Easier said than done, Dr. Porter. Much easier said than done. But she’d give it a go.

“This is wrong,” Zach said, his low voice dragging her back to the present before she could put the whole controlling-her-thoughts theory into practice.

“Excuse me?”

He pointed to the paper she’d printed out, specifically, the room rate. “This isn’t the price listed in the brochure.”

Caught. She hadn’t realized he’d checked out the prices when she’d shown him the pictures of the fitness area.

“Oh. Yes, well, that’s...that’s a special we’re running.”

“Is that so?” he murmured, his quiet voice doing odd things to her nerves. To her pulse rate.

She nodded. Swallowed. “April is slow—not much going on around here this month, what with skiing season being over—and May isn’t much better, so we decided to offer a discount.” She waved her hand in what she’d wanted to be a casual gesture but ended up being more of a frantic, flopping motion. “To draw in more guests.”

He studied her and she squirmed. Rolled up the corner of an invoice she had to pay. Unrolled it. Rolled it again. She didn’t like to be the center of attention, didn’t like to be singled out or watched with such...intensity.

And she really didn’t like how this particular man watched her. As if seeing through her was no challenge at all.

Finally, thankfully, he shifted forward, and she thought he was going to sign the agreement, only to slowly, deliberately crumple it in his hand. “I’ll pay full price.”

She opened her mouth and immediately wished she hadn’t when she made a squeaking sound, like a mouse caught in a trap. “But...the sale...”

Her words trailed off as he leaned forward to lay the crumpled paper in front of her. “Full price.”

Embarrassment swept through her, a wave of heat that flowed from her toes to the top of her head. Honestly, she might as well just stay red, as often as she blushed in front of this man.

Her own fault, she was sure. But part of her wondered if he couldn’t accept some of the blame, as well.

She fixed the room rate and printed out a new form. Handed it to him wordlessly.

He read it then took a pen from the ceramic holder on her desk, his grip on it awkward. “You’re not very good,” he said, head down as if having to concentrate on signing his own name.

Her first instinct was to apologize for...well...whatever it was she’d done wrong. To beg for another chance.

But something held her back, kept the words stuck in her throat. Something that, if she didn’t know better, she would claim was irritation.

Maybe even the slightest bit of anger.

She pushed it aside. She had no right to be angry. Hadn’t she thought the same thing herself, many, many times? That she wasn’t good enough. Not smart enough. Not strong enough. Never enough.

Which was exactly why she didn’t need him pointing it out. She did an excellent job of questioning her abilities on her own.

She tried to flatten the corner of the invoice she’d rolled. Smoothed it and smoothed it and smoothed it with her thumb. “You’ll find a guest survey in your room.” She sounded a bit...put out...so she softened her tone. Forced her hands to still. “You can fill it out and let us know if you’re unhappy with any aspect of your stay here—including my job performance.”

He lifted his head, eyebrows raised. “I’m not unhappy with your job performance.”

“You said I wasn’t very good at it,” she reminded him, working to keep the hurt, the offense, from her voice.

He put the pen back. “I wasn’t talking about your job.”

She frowned. Don’t ask, she told herself. What other people think about you is none of your business. It’s what you think of yourself that matters.

Not true. It did matter what others thought, how they felt about you. If they liked you. If they loved you. If they were going to stay with you, be by your side no matter what.

It was all that mattered.

“What were you talking about then?” she asked, telling herself the only reason she did so was to prove she was strong enough to handle the truth. Brave enough to ask for criticism. Even as she braced for both.

He hesitated, but then he lifted his right shoulder, shrugging his hesitancy off. “I was talking about you not being a very good liar.”

She frowned. And what was wrong with that? Shouldn’t she want to be known as someone honest and trustworthy?

So why did his words sting?

“I didn’t lie,” she told him, keeping her voice calm as she took the paper from him. “I just hadn’t...advertised the discounted room rates yet.”

She checked his signature. It didn’t match the one on the back of his credit card. Not even close.

What should she do?

Neil would know. He’d do whatever he needed to get to the truth. His competitive nature wouldn’t settle for anything less than getting his own way.

Maddie wouldn’t question her instincts or the proof before her. She’d be laying into Zach, pestering him until she got answers.

Fay was sure there was a simple explanation for it all—the change in address, the different signatures, the differences between him in real life and the picture on his license.

And it was her job as Bradford House’s manager to find that explanation. She had to protect her employees and the other guests. Had to protect her sons.

She couldn’t let them down. Couldn’t make a mistake.

“Your address is different,” she rushed out, her words loud in the quiet room, shocking her and, if the slight widening of his eyes was anything to go by, surprising him, as well. To hide her nerves, she stood, the height advantage giving her the ability to look down at him.

“On your license?” she continued, hating that she’d made it sound like a question. Like she was begging for his response. “The picture on it doesn’t look like you, either. I mean, not exactly like you... And your signature doesn’t match. On your credit card.” She licked her lips. “If...if it is your credit card.”

He stood, wobbling a bit and having to lay his hand on her desk to catch his balance, making her think once again that he’d hurt his leg. “The address is different,” he said, “because I recently moved and, as I’m not sure exactly where I’m going to be, I didn’t bother changing it with the DMV. The picture was taken over three years ago—” He gestured to his hair, his beard. “Long before either of these grew.”

It made sense. It all made perfect, logical sense. But there was still one thing that felt off... “And the signature?”

“I used to be right-handed,” he said simply.

Used to be...

She shut her eyes on an inner groan. Oh, God, she was such a complete ninny, scared of her own shadow. Wasn’t Dr. Porter always saying Fay had the ability to choose her thoughts? Her reactions?

She could have chosen to believe the best in the man in front of her. Instead of giving in to her fears.

He wasn’t even the only person to want to rent a room for longer than a few days. Just last summer Clinton Bartasavich Jr. had stayed here for over a week and returned every weekend while trying to convince Ivy—then working as Bradford House’s chef and pregnant with his baby—to give him a chance.

Fay blinked several times as her brain worked, things clicking into place.

C. J. Bartasavich, of the extremely wealthy Bartasavich family of Houston, had succeeded. He and Ivy were now married and living in his Houston penthouse, raising their infant son together. C. J. Bartasavich, whose brother Kane owned a bar right here in Shady Grove. Another brother, Oakes, had spent a weekend at Bradford House just this past Christmas while in town for Kane’s wedding to local ER nurse Charlotte Ellison.

But she now remembered that there was another brother, the youngest, who hadn’t attended that wedding, who’d been unable to come due to being injured in Iraq while serving in the marines.

Her gaze flew to the man watching her silently. A brother who’d lost his arm and his leg. A brother named...Zach.

“You’re a Bartasavich.”

His response to her blurted statement? The slightest wrinkling of his brow. No denial. No affirmation.

The man sure knew how to do the whole not-all-that-tall-but-still-dark-and-very-silent thing. She envied him—at least the last part. Silence made her nervous. Made her feel as if she had to do her best to fill it. As if she’d said or done something wrong to cause it.

“I mean, you’re not a murderer.”

She winced. Wished the words back, but if there was one thing she knew for sure, it was that all the wishing in the world couldn’t turn back time. Couldn’t erase your mistakes.

“I’m sorry,” she continued. “I...I have a wild imagination. My mom says I have a tendency of letting it get the best of me.” Before she could make this entire scene worse, she took his room key from her pocket and held it out to him along with his credit card and driver’s license. “I hope you find your stay with us enjoyable. If there’s anything you need, please don’t hesitate to contact me or anyone on staff.”

Not her usual happy welcome-to-Bradford-House spiel, but right now, she didn’t want to be polite—she just wanted to send him on his way and forget this entire humiliating episode ever happened.

She wanted to get back to her life. To waiting for Shane.

Whom, she realized with a jolt, she’d rarely thought about since the man in front of her walked into the yard.

Zach took the items and she quickly pulled her hand back before their fingers had a chance to brush. “Thanks.”

Touching her necklace, reminding herself of her ultimate goal, she sidled past him to the door and opened it.

“Oh,” she said to the very beautiful, very pregnant, very young woman who stood on the other side, her hand raised as though she’d just been about to knock.

She was stunning, her short cap of dark glossy hair accentuating her long neck and high cheekbones, her full mouth slicked red, her eyes a dark green. She wore black leggings, high-heeled black ankle boots and a knit light gray sweater that molded to her breasts and bulging belly. Her dangling silver earrings swayed as she tipped her head and raked her gaze over Fay before giving Fay a tight, mean smile, like a cat about to pounce.

Unease prickled Fay’s scalp. Had her wanting to take a step back—but Zach was there, behind her, close enough to sense. To touch if she moved more than a few inches.

“Hello,” she said, using her most professional, warmly welcoming innkeeper tone. “May I help you?”

“That depends,” the younger woman said, her low, husky tone a soft purr. She set her hand on her bulging belly, a small, plain diamond ring winking on her ring finger. The move should have been maternal. But somehow it came across as less protective and more arrogant. As if she’d done something singular and spectacular that no other woman in the history of the world had ever accomplished. “Are you Fay?”

“Yes,” Fay said slowly, wondering at her own hesitancy.

“Then you can definitely help me. You can help me,” she repeated, her eyes gleaming with what could only be described as malice, “by not screwing my fiancé anymore.”

CHAPTER FIVE

ZACH RAISED HIS EYEBROWS. Glanced at Fay—who, for all her blushing earlier, had gone completely white.

It was like he’d walked onto the set of one of Abuelita’s stories, the Mexican soap operas she watched religiously every afternoon. The ones he might have caught a glimpse of once or twice while recovering from his injuries at his mother’s house. Enough of a glance to know they were filled with beautiful people and intrigue, and pregnancies, infidelities and secrets reigned supreme.

Enough to recognize the lead-up to a hair-pulling, face-slapping catfight when he had a front-row seat. Looked like more fun on TV.

Fay shook her head, her hair swishing against her shoulders, the sweet scent of her shampoo releasing into the air. “You have the wrong idea,” she rushed out, eager, it seemed, to state her case. “I’m not...” She gestured between herself and Zach. “We’re not having an affair. We just met.”

Upgraded from the front row to smack-dab in the middle, Zach thought.

“Not me,” he said, but if Fay’s frown was anything to go by, she wasn’t getting it. “I’m not her fiancé. I’m not in the habit of proposing to teenagers. Or getting them pregnant.”

That would be following a little too closely in his old man’s footsteps.

The brunette’s eyes narrowed to slits. “I’m twenty-one.”

Zach smirked. “Not even if you showed me a birth certificate.”

She crossed her arms. “I’m almost twenty-one.”

Right. Like his younger sister, Daphne, had been almost twenty-one when he’d found out she’d been bar hopping as a college sophomore.

Nineteen and a half wasn’t almost twenty-one no matter how you did the math.

“Who...who is your fiancé?” Fay asked the brunette, her voice unsteady. Her expression made it clear she was not only lost in this little unfolding drama, floundering for a way back to somewhere safe, but that she was out of her element, too. Uncomfortable with confrontation.

Unable to stand up for herself.

The brunette snorted out a laugh. “What’s the matter? Are you screwing so many engaged men you can’t keep track?”

“I’m not...sleeping with any man. With any engaged man,” she added, her voice getting stronger.

“You’re a liar.” The brunette raised her chin. “And a slut.” She edged forward and Fay shrank back. “I know he was here last night. Don’t bother denying it. He admitted the whole thing. How you called him, begging him to come over. How you threw yourself at him. Well, I’m here to tell you that Shane is mine.”

At the name, Fay’s head snapped back and she seemed to crumple into herself. “You’re not... Shane’s not your...he’s not getting married.”

Zach’s eyebrows rose. A new twist to this drama. But one thing was clear. Shane—whoever he was—was a lying, cheating bastard.

“This ring,” the brunette said, holding her hand up to show off what had to be the smallest diamond in history, “and the fact that I’m carrying his baby, say otherwise. You need to stay away from him.”

“No,” Fay repeated louder. “You’re lying.”

The brunette rolled her eyes. “Yes, because I don’t have anything better to do than track down my fiancé’s ex-wives and pretend to be engaged.”

Zach ducked his head to hide his grimace. Mystery solved. Shane was Fay’s ex-husband. And she didn’t want to let him go.

“I’m Shane’s wife,” Fay said, and Zach was surprised to hear a bit of steel in her voice. “His only wife.”

“You’re forgetting the ex part. The part that leaves him free to move on with his life. With me.” The brunette patted her stomach. “With us. So quit calling him. Stop chasing him. And for God’s sake, stop being so freaking pathetic.”

The brunette whirled on her high heels and walked away, shoulders back, head high, belly leading the way.

Leaving him and Fay once again alone in the too-small room.

Fay covered her face with her hands, murmuring under her breath. Zach glanced at the door. At his escape. Wished like hell he could take it.

But he’d never been good at walking away when someone was in trouble.

He really needed to work on that.

“Are you all right?” he asked, harsher than he’d intended, but damn it, he’d thought his superhero complex had died in that blast in Iraq, along with his arm and leg.

Looked like he was putting the cape on once again.

“I’m sorry...” Fay gasped from behind her hands, and he waited for the rest of her apology. Waited for her to say she was sorry for the drama. Hell, she apologized so much, he wouldn’t be surprised if she took the blame for global warming, the price of gas and his injuries.

“I’m really sorry, but...I can’t...” She lifted her head, her gaze terrified. “I can’t seem to breathe...”

Shit.

Her hair was damp at the temples, her face pale, her body trembling. She was at the start of a panic attack. He should know—he’d had more than a few since waking up in the military hospital in Germany three days after the explosion. Times when the fear was so real, he wanted to run, if only to escape his own thoughts.

But he wouldn’t leave her. Couldn’t.

She needed him.

He gestured to the chair. “Sit down.”

She remained rooted to her spot, her eyes wide, her body rocking slightly, her fingers curled into her palms.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.