The Proposal Page 3

  “Damn woman,” he muttered against her hair, breath stirring the strands and stirring her.

  Hiccupping, she let go of his shirt and gripped his biceps, intending to push away and end the torture. But she made the mistake of looking up into his face. Something flashed in his eyes, and his hold on her briefly tightened. His head dipped, breath a whisper away from her own. Heat slammed into her middle like an unrelenting fist.

  “You didn’t say thank you.”

  Blinking, she felt as if someone was drowning her in an ice bath. Embarrassed at where her thoughts wandered, what she thought he was going to do, she attempted to extricate herself from his grasp. How could she even think of something like that when Brad just mauled her? Why did Benton always make her forget herself?

  Only, Benton didn’t seem in any hurry to let her go. Instead, he picked her up and walked with her to the couch, where he sat her in his lap.

  “You look sick, are you going to be okay?” He asked, concern for her evident in his face.

  “I’m-” All at once, as if acting upon his words, her stomach lurched. Scrambling from his lap, she raced to the bathroom in time to lose her dinner in the toilet.

  When her stomach heaved and she vomited again, Benton was behind her, holding her hair back from her damp face. Mortified, wishing the toilet was big enough for her to crawl into and flush herself away, Andrea gripped the bowl tightly as the room spun.

  “Too much excitement.”

  “Too much wine,” she disagreed, though he was probably right. It wasn’t every day a woman got attacked, at least not in her world.

  When she would have laid down on the floor, Benton slammed the lid, flushed the toilet and set her down on it. Rifling through her cabinets, he found her wash cloths. He wet one and pressed the cold rag to her face, gently wiping. Andrea felt the tears threaten to resurface.

  She knew she looked a mess; sweaty face and runny mascara. She probably looked like something out of a horror movie. If she did, Benton didn’t mention it. He just kept wiping her face until the cloth came away soiled with her make-up.

  Stopping his ministrations, she managed, “Thank you.”

  He smirked at her. “A little late for that.”

  “Benton.” Sighing, she tried to crawl off the toilet. Instead, her treacherous legs wobbled and she fell into him where he knelt in front of her.

  If she thought to make him see her as more than Deacon’s secretary, she knew after tonight, he probably wouldn’t see her as anything more than a pest. She doubted he saw her as a woman. Not when she was yelling at him, barfing on him and looking like something out of the Texas Chainsaw Massacre.

  Sometimes she wished she had Ashlyn’s grace and Emme’s unstoppable attitude. This would never have happened to Ashlyn in the first place and Emme would have sent Brad to his knees the second he touched her. What good were self-defense moves if you forgot how to use them?

  Steadying herself with his shoulders, she tried to move past him. His arm snaked out and grabbed her, pulling her to him. His face hit at breast level and she felt herself grow hot with embarrassment.

  “Benton, I’m fine. I can walk.”

  Rising, he once again took her with him. “Tell that to your legs.”

  “I am not a child! I don’t need to be carried everywhere.”

  Dropping into the nearest chair, he turned her until their noses were almost touching. “Believe me, I realize that.”

  What did that mean?

  “Good,” she said primly. “Now let me down. I need to rinse my mouth out.”

  “By all means.” He let her go and she staggered out of his arms, refusing to look at his face. She didn’t need to see I told you so.

  Rinsing her mouth out in the kitchen, knowing she likely breathed vomit filled breath in his face, she pressed her cheek to the cold counter and wished he would simply go away. But after everything he did for her this evening, she could not, in good conscience, be rude to him.

  “Can I offer you something to drink?”

  He laughed. “No thanks.”

  “What is so funny?” She asked as she came out of the kitchen.

  “So polite, even after everything you just went through.”

  “Some of us have manners.”

  “And they’re very lovely manners.” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “But they aren’t going to protect you from a whole hell of a lot.”

  She shook her head. “You’re impossible.”

  “Probably,” he agreed. Then he shifted, expression sobering. “Are you all right now?”

  Would she be all right anytime soon? Likely not. But she could tell he wanted to hear that she would be so he could leave.

  “I’m fine, thank you.”

  He searched her face. She knew that she appeared pale and fragile right now. It didn’t matter that it was the truth. He didn’t need to know that.

  “Do I need to send you with a bodyguard on all your dates?” He looked perfectly serious.

  “What dates?” She said before she could stop herself. Then, “Of course not, Benton. Not everyone is like Brad.”

  “A jackass, you mean?”

  “A... Something,” was all she would concede.

  He shook his head. “One of these day, Andrea, I’m going to see what you’re like when you stop being polite.”

  Chapter Four

  Andrea stood, staring at him. She didn’t respond and he half-wondered if she finally realized the brevity of the situation and was giving way to shock. Whether she wanted to admit it to herself or not, she just went through a traumatic situation and that fell on top of the one she experienced four months earlier. He still cursed himself for getting shot and letting those bastards take Ashlyn.

  Right now, Andrea looked pale and a little lost. Devoid of make-up, her face took on a more youthful cast, reminding him of her age and her innocence. It probably never occurred to her to carry a taser in her purse or at the very least pepper spray. If he hadn’t checked on her, he didn’t want to think about what could have happened. Thinking that way made him want to hunt Brad down and rip the man’s genitals off.

  The woman was entirely too polite. When a man was mauling you, you didn’t ask please, you kicked the man hard in the balls and ran while he cried on the ground like the sissy he was. There wouldn’t be an ounce of fear of Brad talking to Deacon. Once Deacon heard what he had to say, Brad wouldn’t be head of accounting anymore. The rat would be lucky to work in business ever again.

  It didn’t take a genius to realize Andrea thought he overreacted. Benton hardly agreed with her. When he walked up and saw the scene, it took a considerable amount of self-control not to do more than wipe the wall with his face. Because he knew a man like Brad didn’t care for rejection, he didn’t doubt the other man would have tried for more. To think of the man dragging her into the apartment, tearing apart her sense of self and stealing her innocence...

  Sitting up, fists clenching on his thighs, he kept his expression carefully neutral.

  Brushing a hand through her wavy auburn hair, Andrea sighed. “I’m tired, Benton.”

  Benton nodded. He should have left a long time ago. But he couldn’t leave her falling apart, as much as he told himself it was a mistake to stay; to get as close as he did. Having his hands on her felt too good and the urge to stake his claim, to wipe any vestiges of Brad away... He didn’t have the right.

  How much rage came from Brad assaulting her and how much rage came from another man putting his hands on her? Thinking about it set his jaw on edge as fury singed through him, boiling his blood to the point where he thought he might combust. Another feeling he didn’t have a right to. Andrea wasn’t his, couldn’t be his. So as much as he wanted to go to her now, pull her into his arms and comfort, chase away the forlorn expression on her face and the defeated posture overtaking her body, he would stay seated in the chair.

  Passing a hand across his hair, he released the breath anger made him hold and reminded him
self she politely hinted that she wanted him to leave. He worried about her though. He doubted Brad would come back, but there was always the chance. Leaving her alone to face the outcome of the night didn’t seem right.

  Mind made up, he gestured to the couch. “I’ll sleep there. You go get ready for bed.”

  She pressed her palms to her hips and closed her eyes, releasing another sigh. “Benton, I don’t need you to stay the night.”

  Rising, knowing his height worked to his advantage, and knowing it was dirty tactics, he approached her. “Brad could come back.”

  She pulled herself up straighter. “I’ll lock the door.”

  Folding his arms across his chest, he shook his head. “It’s already decided.”

  “Benton, this is my home. I’ll be fine. Just go home.”

  Though he didn’t like flustering her, color sat high in her cheeks and her blue eyes blazed with annoyance. He liked the look on her. If pushing her put it there, he didn’t plan to stop.

  But he could at least give a little. “Andrea, I’m worried about you. Let me stay so I can feel better,” he added, trying to appeal to her soft heart.

  Lips compressing, she shook her head, though she said, “Oh, all right. Let me get you a pillow and blanket.”

  “Idiot,” he muttered, looking at the tiny couch. His legs would hang off by a good few inches.

  This stupidity of his reminded him that he didn’t let women past his bed for a reason. When you cared, you did things that brought out the moron. Hell, he didn’t want to. He kept his distance, but damned if he didn’t like the secretary. It proved difficult not to when she was a decent person with a heart far too damned soft for her own good. It was probably how Brad wore her down enough to get her to agree to a date.

  Andrea returned with a blanket and pillow. He took them from her, compressing the pillow against his chest. He was immediately surrounded by her scent; vanilla with a hint of something else he couldn’t put a name to. Benton doubted he would sleep at all. His mistake would cause him a restless night.

  She stared at him for a long moment. “Good night, Benton.”

  “Good night, Andrea.”

  Turning she walked a few steps before stopping to say, “Thank you.”

  Setting his pillow and blanket on the couch, he nodded. “Yeah.”

  She disappeared down the hall.

  Dropping onto the couch, he pulled his cell phone from his jacket pocket and called Ryan, letting him know what was happening and how he needed him to stay at the Cross residence all night.

  “Staying the night, huh?” Ryan asked, mirth evident in his tone.

  “Shut up, Gentry.”

  “Hey, hey. I didn’t say anything,” his friend protested.

  “You didn’t have to. I heard it loud and clear.”

  “That’s just your guilty conscience, Grant.”

  “Guilty conscience, my ass. Anyway, I’ll be back in the morning.”

  “You sure about that?” Ryan teased.

  “Keep it up, Ryan, and I’ll smash your face in the next time I see you.”

  “Sure, sure. I’m shaking in my boots.”

  “Better be,” he muttered, hanging up.

  Slipping out of his jacket and untying his boots, Benton got as comfortable on the couch as he could. He folded his hands behind his head and looked around her apartment. Soft blues and greens dominated the decor. Strangely, the combination worked and left a sense of coziness and warmth. Her mark was everywhere, from the jewel toned throw pillows to the black ceramic lamps with the azure shades. Under another hand, it might have been gaudy.

  “What are you doing?” He asked into the silence. Was he here to appease himself or to protect her?

  If he admitted it, a little of both. A part of him wanted Brad to return so he could wring the worthless putz’s neck. Benton also worried Andrea would have nightmares and awaken alone. Ashlyn confided in Deacon, who told him that she had the dreams regularly, but wouldn’t see a psychologist. He hadn’t lied when he said she proved more stubborn than men twice her size.

  Though after his last deployment in Afghanistan, he refused to see one at first too. He worked through it on his own as long as he could. On the nights when it haunted him, he called one of his Ranger buddies. At least a few times a month or more he volunteered to help the disabled Veterans who didn’t have the same opportunities he did. Whether it was building houses, helping with charity drives, or just talking to hospitalized Veterans, he did what he could to support them.

  It was a whole hell of a lot better than too much therapy.

  But Andrea wasn’t a soldier. She didn’t have the rigorous training, both mental and physical, to ease her through the trauma. If he could take it away from her, he would. There wasn’t a damn thing he could do but try. For a man used to action, it left him frustrated.

  Scrubbing a hand down his face, he chased away the thoughts and tried to relax with his feet dangling off the edge of the couch.

  * * * *

  A whimper tore him from the hazy between of sleep and awake. Jerking to a sitting position, he reached for the gun that wasn’t there. Cursing, he listened in the silence for another sound and heard it again.

  Andrea.

  Following the noise down the hall, he pushed aside the door and entered her room. Guilt at invading her privacy was fleeting when he saw her tangled in the blankets, curled into the fetal position while she cried in her sleep.

  Dropping heavily onto the side of her bed, he pulled her into his arms, blankets and all. She struggled against him until his soothing words and touch reached her. Collapsing against his chest, she fisted her tiny hands in his shirt and pressed her face against him as ragged breaths tore from her lungs. His grip tightened, stomach clenching as her following cries stuck a knife in and twisted.

  “Andrea,” he murmured, stroking a hand down her back.

  She raised her chin, the anguish in her eyes slicing through him. Smoothing strands of damp hair from her face, he wished he could take the pain from her. Something flitted through her expression and she placed her palms on his chest, pushing away. Color came into her cheeks and she bit her lip.

  Benton became aware of the heat of her in his lap; the flimsy white cotton of her nightgown. Shapely legs, exposed up the thigh, twisted in the blanket and stoked the fires of his libido. The soft press of her breasts again him burned through the thin fabric of his shirt. He felt like a first-class ass for being turned on by her in this position.

  A tremor shook her body and he grit his teeth as she wiggled against him. Did the woman have no idea what she did to him?

  Her hands went to his shoulders and she shifted again, wide eyes snapping to his face.

  “I’m only human, Andrea,” he growled, gripping her waist, intending to remove her before this became anymore heated.

  What the hell did he expect, coming into her room in the middle of the night? Like he never laid in his own, thinking about her, naked beneath him as his fingers stroked the silk of her skin. The only thing he wanted to do right now was bury himself in her and pleasure them both until she screamed her release.

  Damn it, you need to get laid.

  Maybe that made him a creep; thinking about her this way. But he wouldn’t take advantage. No matter how good the thought felt.

  “I didn’t mean-I’m sorry I didn’t realize-” She stuttered, mortification evident in her entire being as she struggled to unwind herself and get off his lap.

  “Andrea,” he held her tighter, trying to still her movements.

  She seemed intent on doing what she set out to do.

  “Andrea!” He snapped, drawing her eyes back to him. “Stop moving. I’ll get you loose.”

  After he untangled her, she jumped back and used the blanket to cover her lower half. It did little good when her nipples peaked through the night gown. Raising his eyes Heaven-ward, Benton prayed for control and the strength to get up and walk away.

  He looked anywhere but her. “I�
�m sorry. I just heard you having a bad dream, so-”

  “It’s okay!” Andrea interrupted, tone hasty. “I appreciate it, really.”

  Rising, he turned away. “I’ll go back to the couch. If you need me, you know where to find me.”

  “Benton...”

  A quality in her tone had him twisting back, eyes intent on her face.

  “I... Thank you.” She lowered her head. Though he thought she was going to say something else, he wasn’t going to push it.