Then he heaved out a near-sob. Relief. Gratitude.
Because she wasn’t leaving him. Because she’dasked. She was the only one who’dasked,in all this time. Even Marcus, amidst his preoccupation with April, hadn’t asked what happened, hadn’t questioned the version of events offered by the tabloids and Ron.
Marcus had sympathized and worried for his best friend, but he’dassumed. That Alex had been drunk. That Alex, bless his reckless goddamn heart, had made another stupid fucking spur-of-the-moment decision.
And maybe it was spur of the moment, but it wasn’t stupid, and he didn’t regret it.
“I went to the bar for one drink. A beer, because I—because I was lonely,” he told the steering wheel, his voice thick. “It was crowded, and there were no empty stools or tables. So when I got my drink, I propped myself against the wall and started watching people. And after about two sips of my beer, I noticed this beefy, sunburned Brit at a nearby table hitting on a redheaded server. She was almost as short as you, and a few years younger than him. Maybe early twenties. Pretty. Irish accent.”
Lauren’s fingers on his neck felt like a benediction, and he sighed in appreciation.
“She wasn’t into it. She kept edging away from him, and she looked nervous, and when she raised her arm to get someone’s attention, maybe a bouncer or the manager, I saw faded bruises around her wrist.” In that moment, despite the bar’s dimness, those bruises had seemed illuminated by spotlight to him. Unmistakable. Unendurable. “He yanked her arm down and told her he wasn’t done talking to her yet, and she yelped in pain.”
Lauren’s slow exhalation tickled the side of his arm. “So you intervened.”
At that point, his blood had been pounding in his temples, and the cacophony in his head had drowned out everything but one imperative:Fix this. Now.
“I removed his hand from her arm. Not gently. Then he took a swing at me, and I swung back, and all hell broke loose.” He didn’t know who’d given him the shiner. Not the Brit, anyway, since that fucker had gone down with the first punch. “Right before the police came, she managed to pull me aside and begged me not to mention or describe her, because she was on the run.”
Thus the bruises and the fear in her expression, in her every movement.
“I tried to offer help.” In fact, he’d done his own begging, but she’d been terrified out of her fucking mind, too terrified to do anything but flee. “Then the cops arrived, and she sprinted toward the employee area and disappeared into the back, and I never saw her again.”
He hoped to fuck she’d found somewhere safe to hole up and gotten help.Realhelp. The sort of help that would let her stop hiding and rebuild a life free from fear and violence.
Lauren made a sort of humming sound. “Then the police questioned you, and you didn’t say a word about her.”
“I kept my promise,” he said simply.
Another squeeze of his nape. “And I take it the Brit didn’t mention his own transgressions when describing yours.”
“According to him, I punched him unprovoked, in a drunken rage. It was like she’d never existed.” Which was what she’d wanted, but horrifying in its own way. “I didn’t argue. I just called my lawyer, who called other people. They sprang me from jail and got the charges dropped.”
And then, only an hour or so later, a stranger had appeared on a shoreline battlefield.
Lauren Clegg. His nanny. His friend. His obsession. His confessor.
And if she was playing priest to his unrepentant sinner, he might as well scour his soul entirely clean, right?
“Before we end this game of True Confessions, you should know: Bruno Keene is a fucking abusive asshole, and I was telling the truth when I said that. The crew and other actors on theAll Good Menset didn’t want to risk their reputations by backing me up, and I get that”—mostly—“but I was telling the truth.”
“Okay,” she said quietly. “Okay. I believe you.”
She was stroking his neck now, gently playing with the ends of his hair there, and it was so soothing, he wanted to cry. With each moment, his skull’s throbbing waned, and his pulse calmed, and his head felt—he didn’t know. Lighter?
And then—and then …
Those caresses, those slight tugs of his hair, weren’t so soothing. His scalp was tingling, afire with the tease of sensation, and he didn’t want to cry anymore.
He wanted to kiss her.
Her. Nanny Clegg. Harpy-in-Training. Killjoy Extraordinaire.
His friend, who had the warmest, loveliest eyes he’d ever seen, sharp, fascinating features, and a round, soft body that he sometimes found himself staring at for no good reason.
And she was touching him, stroking his neck, and—
He raised his head and looked down at her.
