Out of the Ashes Read online

  She rested her head against the pillow, as though it might shatter upon contact. Releasing a gusty sigh, she turned to glance at him. "Are you okay?"

  Curt's slow, sexy smile unraveled the knot in her stomach. Note to self: He's drugged, Shannon. "Try to remember," she muttered. Remember how embarassed you'll be tomorrow.

  "Safe now." His hand snaked out to squeeze hers under the covers. Sure, he was safe. But, what about her? As his eyes fluttered shut, she sighed. She was supposed to hate him. Yet, she couldn't seem to summon the energy. Had too much time passed? There'd been so many other disillusioning events since the accident. Could she still harbor vengeance after thirteen years? Hell, she had stronger feelings over Brad at this point. The most recent man-who'd-done-her-wrong. Maybe, she could finally let the Curt thing go. The need to know—the burning curiosity for details surrounding that night. The desire to understand why. How it had happened. What he'd been thinking. When, in the end, none of it mattered. Her grandmother would always be gone.

  "Be like Travis."

  The mumbled words stilled her racing thoughts. His hand, still locked with hers, grew restless. Startled, Shannon turned, unsure what she would discover in his expression. His intense, blue gaze locked on hers? What would he read in her eyes? Her tension dissipated when she confirmed his eyes were closed. "Curtis?"

  "Baby's crying-" A frown creased his forehead. "Curt's bad. Very bad." Grunting, he raised his free hand, blocking his face. His entire body tensed—as though he were warding off a blow. "I . . . sorry."

  Frozen, Shannon watched, unable to move as the surreal dream played out. Lord—was he protecting himself?

  "I be like Trav-"

  When his good leg began thrashing under the covers, Shannon acknowledged her patient was about to launch himself out of bed. "Too fast . . ." His breathing grew ragged as the dream intensified. A moment later, he bolted up, panting. "Cindy . . . no-"

  Jarred into action, Shannon scooted closer, blocking him when Curt would've thrown the covers off and attempted to escape. Cindy? Who was-

  "I—I'll turn the wheel-"

  "Ssh, Curt. It's a dream." Her brain racing, she remembered the trial. There'd been a Cindy the night of the accident. The girlfriend who'd disappeared.

  His shuddering breaths broke the stillness."Elizabeth hates me," he groaned.

  Chills jolted through her. Elizabeth? God—did he mean . . . her? Still agitated, his hand clutched hers. Though he remained upright, his expression was disoriented.

  "W-where am I?"

  "You're safe, Curt. You're in bed. It's time to rest." Heart in her throat, Shannon's years of training kicked in. Though she felt anything but, she kept her voice reassuring as she eased him back against the pillow. Checking his temperature, she confirmed his skin was clammy with perspiration. When she was finally confident he wouldn't try to flee, she slid from the bed and retrieved a washcloth from the master bath. His breathing had slowed by the time she returned. Relieved, she approached the bed with a heightened sense of awareness.

  In the light of day, Curtis Forsythe hid behind the veneer of stubborn strength. His intensity was never far from the surface. He was driven to succeed; refusing to allow his physical weakness to hold him back in any way. Yet, in the dark, he became a complicated, tortured man. The demons he held at bay during the day, returned to torment him in the night.

  Shock rolled over her. That's why he'd refused offers of help. Curtis had known how incapacitated he would be. He wasn't merely stubborn around his brother—he was likely afraid. That someone might learn his secret. The nightmares haunting him that she suspected were recurring. Hallucinations about frogs were a result of anesthesia and painkillers. But, the dreams of beatings—of the car accident . . . Those were Curt's alone. Biting her lip, Shannon blotted the perspiration beading his forehead before swiping the cool cloth over shadowed, sculpted cheekbones. His involuntary shiver jagged along her nerve endings as though she'd experienced it herself. "Shannon-"

  "I'm here." Her voice died in her throat. As hard as he was on himself, Curtis couldn't outrun the past. His memories of the accident still haunted him. His upbringing . . . the abuse . . . She shuddered as she remembered the trial. So fixated on her own pain, on her need for vengeance, it had been shamefully easy to dismiss his lawyer's allegations of child abuse as simply an excuse to gain sympathy with the jury and a desperate attempt to rationalize his behavior the night of the accident.

  "Don't leave."

  Offering him a sip of water, he drank thirstily before flopping back against the pillow. A few minutes later, she switched off the bathroom light, before drifting back to her side of the bed and climbing in. Her side. Half-asleep beside her, Curt sought her hand again. But this time, it was Shannon who felt a measure of comfort. Lying in the dark beside him, she listened to his slow, even breathing while sifting her frantic thoughts. Sleep eluded her exhausted brain.

  At seventeen, she'd made so many assumptions. Conclusions based more on the depth of her anguish, than fact. At thirty, she was finally realizing she'd been wrong. Curtis had been deeply affected by the crash—in so many more ways than physical. He'd been defined by it.

  She suspected that in his eyes, nothing he'd done since that night could ever make up for it. Not the fact that he'd nearly died. Nor the years he'd spent in prison. A long buried image exploded to the surface—fighting through the sea of clutter in her brain. "He refused-"

  Her pulse rushed in her ears, drowning out his even breathing. He'd refused to assist in his own defense. She remembered his face—the hollow expression. Arrogance, she'd assumed. Mockery of the proceedings . . . and her loss. Until he'd pleaded guilty, over the protests of his attorney. How quickly she'd dismissed that part—because it hadn't coincided with the version she'd played out in her head. How she'd wanted him to break down. To apologize. Vivid in her imagination was the 'to her' part. Show her an expression of remorse—that what he'd done was unspeakable.

  The pile of plaques Shannon discovered while cleaning out the filing cabinets had confused her. Accolades praising Curtis and Four Seasons for their generous contributions to the fight for literacy—had been carelessly tossed in a bottom drawer. A national award, along with a letter indicating the foundation was using his basketball tournament as a model fundraiser . . . The tournament he'd quietly run for the past six years had raised over two hundred thousand dollars for literacy—in Jane Marshall's name. Accolades languishing in a drawer. Not proudly displayed in the reception area. Not even in the kitchen for his staff to admire. Instead, they were hidden away. Unacknowledged—though likely impossible to forget. A deliberate refusal to recognize anything good he'd accomplished in the years since the accident.

  None of it was good enough for Curt. Releasing a shuddering breath, Shannon admitted it hadn't been good enough for her, either. Shame washing over her, she blinked back the sudden rush of tears. "Until now," she whispered.

  Witnessing his pain—and realizing no amount of time would ever lessen it. As irrational as she'd always known it to be, Shannon had believed he required her forgiveness. Her permission—to move past what he'd done. Yet, seeing him now—she finally understood how much worse the damage really was. Even if it had been her right to do so, she couldn't forgive away his pain. Curtis was trapped in his own private hell—and may never wish to be released.

  Chapter 5

  Gray light filtered through the curtains when Curt woke again. Gritting his teeth against the exquisite pain in his knee, he blew out a steadying breath as he checked the illuminated clock on his table. Hell—it was only four-thirty. Without thinking, he wiggled his toes, then frowned. Wiggle your toes every time you wake up. What made him think of that? His leg was cranked up halfway to the ceiling—and it was throbbing like a bitch. His back. His shoulders. Hell—even his ass. Everything was aching in chorus with the shrieking agony behind his knee. Just as soon as he could summon the courage, he would hobble down the hall for more ice. Anything to dull the drumbea
t of pain. Stretching his good leg, he flexed his toes again and tightened his calf. At this point, moving any body part felt good. Stalling, he ran a hand through his hair, finally deciding he could probably manage to hoist himself up in the bed. As long as he kept the braced leg steady-

  A soft sigh had his head whipping around. Holy shit—A woman. Sleeping next to him. In his bed. Dragging in a quick, stunned breath, he blinked. Stared. Thought about it. Stared some more. And tried to remember what the hell was going on.

  A minute later, he jumped when an alarm went off, far too close to his ears for comfort. "What the fu-"

  Startled, the woman bolted up, shaking the bed as she searched groggily for her phone. Turning over, she groped under his pillow. "Where's the damn phone-" When her hand brushed his arm, she recoiled. "Where am I?"

  "Shannon?" Forgetting the ear-splitting cacophony emanating from her phone, Curt stared at her—stupefied. Shannon McCarty was—in his bed. "How did- Why . . . why are you here?" In my bed?

  "I—you . . ." Blank confusion on her face, she scrubbed the sleep from her eyes. "I-I'm sorry. I didn't mean to fall asleep." Wincing at the blaring alarm, she finally found her phone and turned it off.

  "Thank God." What the hell was going on? Curt tried not to notice how amazing she looked. How much better she was in real life—compared with his fantasies. And over the past four weeks—he'd had some pretty damned erotic dreams about her. Working side by side with her—learning every subtle nuance of her smile . . . all that silky hair. Her amazing body- His imagination had been working overtime. Despite the strumming agony behind his kneecap, his body tightened with arousal. He fumbled with the sheets, hoping she'd be too flustered to notice. How the hell was he supposed to hide it? He was trapped—one leg braced and pointing at the frigging ceiling. Levering himself up in the bed, he pulled his good leg up, faking a stretch to hide his erection. "What the hell is going on, Shannon?"

  Leaping from the bed as though it were on fire, she pushed the long, sexy drape of hair from her eyes. Still avoiding his gaze, she staggered for the door. "I—um . . . stopped by last night and your brother—he . . . uh couldn't stay the night because your baby is sick."

  "My baby?"

  "His—their . . . baby," she corrected, clearly distracted. Or still half asleep. Panicked and yawning at the same time. It was an interesting combination on Shannon. She was always so unflappable. Or at least wanting to appear that way. Flustered looked pretty damned good on her. Curt couldn't stop staring. Until he thought to glance lower and caught a glimpse of her legs. Sweet Lord—in shorts. Those long, curvy legs had shared his bed—for God only knew how many hours—and he'd missed it. He'd slept through what very well could've been the best night of his life.

  "How did that lead to you sleeping with me?" Hearing the hoarseness in his voice, he prayed she wouldn't recognize it as desire. God—if only. He couldn't even think the words without inflicting more torture to his groin.

  Safely in the doorway, he caught a flicker of a sleepy smile, despite Shannon appearing as self-conscious as he felt. "You asked me to stay with you because of the frogs."

  "Frogs?" What the heck was she- The mist slowly clearing from his brain, Curt hesitated. Turning, he glanced to the corner of his bedroom. "They were there." He pointed. "Croaking at me—and this . . . was a swamp."

  Her warm chuckle scraped over his nerve endings. When had that sound become the sexiest thing he'd ever heard?

  "Actually, it was your stomach growling. I tried to explain that the frogs would go away after you ate, but you weren't buying it."

  "You fed me red jello. And applesauce." He smiled, forgetting for a moment, the incessant hammering in his knee. "I remember."

  Checking her watch, Shannon frowned. "You're overdue for meds. How's your pain level now?"

  Blowing out a breath, he slid down under the covers. "It's actually pretty bad." Tired and a little dizzy, he was surprised he'd admitted it. Making a startled sound in her throat, she bolted for the kitchen. Hearing her bare feet padding down the hallway, Curt bit back a groan. Her bare feet. Bare skin. God—what would it be like? Touching her. Feeling her next to him. Under him. In this bed. Or anywhere else- Stacking his hands under his head, he stared at the ceiling. One sexy little moan . . . and he was hard again. Jesus—at this rate, he'd have to be comatose while around her for Shannon not to catch on.

  Turning, he stared at the dent on her pillow. Her pillow. Not his spare pillow. On the drought-stricken wasteland that was his bed. He remained still, listening for any indication she might be coming back. Confirming she was still in the kitchen, he leaned over and grabbed it. Raising it to his face, he sniffed it tentatively, before burying his nose in it. Fields of flowers. It was Shannon he'd dreamed of. Her floral scent was the one haunting him. Comforting him.

  Hearing the rattle of a tray approaching—along with a muttered curse when something tipped, he couldn't help grinning as he quickly tossed the pillow back on her side. Her side. Jeez—he was losing it. Schooling his expression blank, he hoisted himself up against the pillows and waited. When Shannon rounded the corner, he searched her face for any sign she might be on to him.

  "Trouble?"

  "I do better with a cart than a tray," she said as she set it on the card table someone had set up near his bed. Travis, probably.

  "Okay—take these first." She handed him the glass of water from his nightstand and his next round of pain pills.

  "There's like fourteen here." It wasn't a complaint. If they managed to cut even half his pain, he'd be grateful.

  "The first two are for pain," she pointed out. "The capsule is your antibiotic. That one is aspirin to prevent clots and the other-"

  "I don't care," he admitted, wondering how long it would take before they kicked in to take the edge off.

  She waited for him to swallow them before issuing another order. "Next, I want you to sip this broth while I reload your icepacks."

  "I'm not hungry." Curt experienced a moment of disappointment when he noticed she'd changed into sweatpants. Not that a shield of baggy cotton would do anything to stem his inflamed imagination.

  "I heated soup at four-thirty in the morning," she said, her gaze challenging. "You'll eat it. The meds will upset your stomach if you don't take them with food—and you've barely had anything since you got home."

  Staring at her as he accepted the warm mug she handed him, he noticed the smile she tried to hide. Taking a tentative sip, he changed his mind. He was suddenly starving. And the rich, beefy broth was the best thing he'd ever tasted. "Where's my applesauce?"

  "If you eat all your soup—and the crackers," she emphasized, "I'll bring applesauce." Flipping back the covers, she checked his bandaged knee. His leg was encased in a bulky brace. Chugging the rest of his broth, Curt wondered fleetingly whether he had any clothes on. Who had undressed him? Frowning, he hoped it had been Travis. He had a vague recollection of his brother half-carrying him into the house. When Shannon pivoted to examine his foot, he copped a peek under the sheets. Whew. Underwear.

  "Have you been wiggling your toes?"

  Chewing a cracker and wishing there were twenty more, he nodded. To prove it, he wiggled them again. She nodded approvingly. "Keep that up and you win chocolate pudding. Try an ankle rotation, but don't get crazy."

  Smirking, he did as she asked. "Where did all this applesauce and jello come from? I didn't buy anything like that."

  "After I talked with your brother and his wife and we decided I would stay, I headed home for a change of clothes," she explained. "Lucky for you, I checked your fridge before I left. Until you start eating solid meals, you need to get some light, unchallenging foods into your system."

  Already, he felt the meds beginning to kick in. Shifting against his pillows, he released a satisfied sigh. The screaming edge to his incision pain had dulled slightly. Her sudden frown made him pause. "What?"

  Stepping closer, she tilted him forward, supporting his back with her forearm. Her
warm skin was soft against his naked back. Sadly, it was the best sensation he'd experienced in months. He wanted to keep her there, just to feel her touch. "Let me adjust those for you."

  "So, you bought all this food?" Forcing his thoughts from her satiny skin, Curt grasped for a safe topic. The only thing that could possibly make this situation more embarrassing—aside from her noticing his massive erection—would be the meds talking for him—hazily blurting out all the things he wanted to do with it.

  She smiled. "Yeah, you owe me like . . . ten bucks."

  Hell—he didn't even want to contemplate what he owed her. Though she barely knew him, Shannon McCarty was in his home, heating soup in the middle of the night. Fluffing his pillows. Heck, she'd slept with him because he'd been afraid of non-existent frogs. Doubt lanced him. Had Travis and MaryJo recruited her? This would be so much worse if she'd been guilted into it. No. His over-protective brother wouldn't have allowed that. "How did you get elected to stay the night?"

  "One of their kids is sick—the baby?" After punching up his pillows, she flipped them to the cool side. "It was easier for me to stay since I knew what you would need tonight."

  What he needed? If she only knew. What he'd needed for like—three months. "That's Sean," he managed to unclench his jaw enough for the words to escape. Jeez, Curt—focus. "He's . . . three months old." Biting back a groan when she slid her arm from his back, her hair brushed his face when she lowered him to the pillows. So good. She felt so . . . impossibly good. Soft.

  "Better?"

  Did her voice sound hesitant? Had he given something away? Hell—was she embarrassed? "Much better," he admitted, forcing a yawn, just in case he was scaring her. He needed to act normal. But, half-looped, he might end up saying something stupid. "They have three kids," he blurted out.