Just a Little Bit Guilty, Page 2

  “Only when I blink, dammit,” Vivian mumbled. Jake took her hand and squeezed it. Vivian wanted to study him closely, to get a good look at this amazing man who showed such concern for her. But her head swam as she tried to focus, so she simply squeezed his huge hand back.

  A nurse appeared with an ice bag, which Dr. Hernandez plopped into Jake’s hand.

  “Redneck, you sit here—” she pulled up a dirty, green stool, and he settled his big body onto it, “—and hold this bag on her bump.” She put her arms akimbo and eyed him warily. “You got that?”

  He gave her an exasperated look. His sharp-edged drawl warned that he was tired of being the object of her sarcasm.

  “I rescued her, ma’am. I got her here. I believe I can take care of the rest.”

  “Okay, okay.” Dr. Hernandez’s expression registered apology. “I’m sorry. Thanks.” He smiled and shrugged. “Get her to talk more. Ask her things, and see if she makes sense.”

  With that, the doctor hurried off.

  Like a man undertaking the most monumental duty of his life, Jake leaned over his ex-bag lady and followed the instructions Dr. Hernandez had just given.

  THE SCENT OF a big, warm, male body close to her face invaded Vivian’s nose and swam through her dull thoughts, zapping them into alertness. The ice bag brought welcome relief to the throb in her head and settled her churning stomach.

  Maybe I am still human, she thought, her eyes closed. She tried to remember everything that had happened to her on the street, but couldn’t. She could only picture the shotgun-toting man who kept calling her darlin’ like some sort of NASCAR driver or country-western singer. He was the owner of the sandpaper-tipped fingers now stroking her temple. The pillow was cool and smooth on one side of her face; those fingers were hot and deliciously textured on the other.

  The arm that occasionally brushed her cheek was covered in soft material that smelled good, earthy, and wood-smoked. Vivian sighed at the odd effect all those sensations had on her pulse rate, and turned her face toward the ceiling. Warm, masculine breath, pleasant and musky, filled her senses.

  Her eyes opened clear and wide.

  Whatever she’d expected paled next to the breathtaking reality of the welcoming, worshiping, magnetic blue gaze of the man who came into focus above her.

  Chapter Two

  “BATMAN,” she managed finally, her heart racing. “Your bat costume is covered in flannel.”

  He smiled, then stopped smiling, then smiled again in slow, hypnotic sequence, widely and warmly, showing a glimpse of milk-white teeth between a stern upper lip and a generous lower one. His eyes—set in a handsome, open face with a blunt jaw—kept her spellbound.

  The color of worn denim or clear sky on a summer day, those eyes never wavered. His ruddy, weathered complexion provided a contrasting backdrop, and stubby, thick eyelashes added brown accents. His brows and unruly hair were not quite red and not quite blond. His hair wanted desperately to curl, but because it was short on the sides and moderately long on top, the best it could manage was a glossy network of valleys and hills. He looked healthy and outdoorsy and sexier than any man had a right to be.

  “You feelin’ better, tough stuff?” he asked.

  What a voice, she thought. “That’s Judge Tough Stuff to you.”

  He chuckled and rearranged the ice bag gently. As her senses continued to sharpen, Vivian noticed a forest of reddish hair peeking over the collar of his blue-plaid shirt.

  “Thank you again for helping me,” she murmured. Bits and pieces of the evening were beginning to creep back, but she still felt groggy. It was infinitely easier to think about him than to puzzle over her situation.

  “You’re sure welcome. Pleased to meet you. I never knew a judge could be so strong. Lord! Talk about the long arm of the law. I bet I’ve got bruises.”

  “I’m just a plain old first-arraignment judge,” Vivian replied, smiling. “Just think how hard a superior court judge would have whacked you.” Her smile faded. “But I’m really sorry.”

  “Forget about it. I thought all that swingin’ and spittin’ was cute.”

  He acted earnest and polite, sort of “Aw, shucks” and yet sophisticated in some way she couldn’t define. Vivian wondered what in the world this sweet man was doing in the middle of her harsh, brash city. She wanted to protect him, and at the same time envied his fresh perspective. Vivian merrily twisted her Atlanta-bred lilt to mimic his heavy drawl.

  “Well, Mr. Coltrane. What neck of the backwoods are you from?”

  He leaned back, drew his heavy-soled work boots up so that his feet rested on the stool’s bottom rung and gazed at her through narrowed eyes.

  “I wouldn’t make fun of you,” he said quietly, with mild reproach. “And believe me, it’d be awful easy tonight.”

  After a long moment she nodded. “I’m sorry. I had a reason for dressing up and going out on the street.” Vivian tried to cross her arms over her chest, but in the process her hands ran into the sheepskin covered brick wall of his arm. He still sat with that arm across her, holding the ice pack to her head. She snatched her hands down by her sides and felt her heart rate begin to sprint. She shifted self-consciously. “I was trying to get a look at the characters who’ve been robbing elderly women around the neighborhood.”

  “I’d say you got more than a look. Didn’t anybody tell you that the judges do the sentencing and the police do the investigating?”

  “Why, yes, Mr. Coltrane, I believe we covered that in Judge 101. Or maybe it was something I learned from an episode of Law and Order.” She frowned at him fiercely, and a tendril of pain shot from the knot above her ear. “Ouch, dammit. You’re pressing that ice pack too hard.” She tried to move away from his disturbing touch.

  “You got a smart mouth, girl. I gotta cool you off.”

  “You’re asking for an assault charge, dude.”

  “It’d be worth it, Tough Stuff.”

  “Tough Stuff,” she repeated sardonically. Her eyes shut as a wave of dizziness hit her. “If I’m tough it’s because I have to be. You have to be, too. What you did tonight was crazy. Foolishly brave. I appreciate it—don’t get me wrong—but I still don’t understand why you cared enough to get involved.” Now she could remember how cold the muggers’ eyes had been. How dangerous. She still felt a hand grabbing at her throat.

  “Why do people in the city act so suspicious?” Jake asked wearily. “Are you all this way? I couldn’t let those men hurt you. Why is that so hard to figure?”

  “Didn’t it ever occur to you that you could have gotten hurt or killed . . . and all on behalf of a woman you don’t even know?”

  “They were hittin’ you. They knocked you down.” His voice was so angry toward the two men that Vivian felt tears spring to her eyes. He really cared. He was a rare soul. “When I think of what else they might have done . . .”

  Nerves, fatigue and pain combined to make her tremble violently. Jake scrambled to his feet, and she opened her eyes as he put his coat over her.

  “Hey, now, I’m real smart,” he said dryly. “Scaring you, upsettin’ you.”

  “Don’t feel guilty. I scared myself.”

  She sighed gratefully and snuggled under his coat, twisting to lie on her side. He tucked it around her and sat back down. He put the ice pack in place again and let his hand rest on her shoulder. The contact was comforting, and she smiled up at him before closing her eyes drowsily.

  “You can’t go to sleep,” he warned. “The doc said for me to ask you questions about yourself. You have to keep talking.”

  She squinted up at his somber face and rebelled at the confident baritone voice. “What kind of questions? I don’t like to talk about myself.”

  “Why do you want to be so ornery?” Jake interjected, looking genuinely puzzled. “Why don’t you act sweet like yo
u were when you were addled?”

  Vivian blinked rapidly, astonished at how much his words stung. “I don’t know how to be sweet, okay? There’s no point in you hanging around, waiting to get insulted.” He gazed down at her, surprise in his broad, handsome face. She ignored a twinge of self-rebuke. He made her feel embarrassed and mean and . . . oh, all right . . . ornery. Vivian avoided his blue eyes.

  “Judge Costa,” he said softly. He emphasized the “Judge” as if he didn’t care to be on a first-name basis with her anymore. His voice dripped insult. “If you don’t know how to take help, then I feel sorry for you.”

  “Oh, don’t take it so personally.”

  “You know,” he continued, jabbing a blunt finger at her, “I’ve been here in the city three months. My place has been robbed, kids stole the radio and the GPS out of my pickup, I got hookers pesterin’ me for business and addicts askin’ me for money I don’t have. But I’ve acted friendly, and I’ve gotten a lot of friendliness in return.”

  He raised one red-gold brow at her. “Until I met you. You’ve got a streak of distrust in you a mile wide. Lord, I’d hate to have to throw myself on the mercy of your court.”

  He stood, towering over the examination table, and reached for his coat. Startled and more than a little ashamed, Vivian sat up quickly to blurt an apology. Maybe she’d seen too much ugliness to recognize the other extreme, she thought. Maybe she just couldn’t bear to let him walk out of here. The ice pack slid off her head, and dizziness engulfed her. Realizing too late that moving fast had been a foolish thing to do, she pressed the heels of her hands to her temples and gasped. Immediately, his arms surrounded her.

  “It’s hard to be feisty when your bells are ringing’, isn’t it?” Jake taunted. But the anger had faded from his voice. Vivian raised yearning, wistful eyes to analyze him. His face was close to hers, his brow furrowed with concern, his mouth slanted down. She nodded limply. “Yeah, it’s hard to be feisty.” The room stopped moving, and she inhaled gratefully as he lowered her back to the gurney. Vivian held out one hand. Her eyes locked with his, she said contritely, “Mr. Coltrane, you have my sincere apology for being an ungrateful bee-atch.”

  For a moment, he continued to look upset then his face softened into a smile. The smile became wide, creasing his eyes at the corners sexily. He laughed low in his throat, and covered her little hand with his big one. Vivian’s mouth went chalk-dry at the feel of his thick fingers pressing lightly into her palm. Jake gazed down at their joined hands, and his thumb caressed a blue vein under her delicate skin.

  “Apology accepted, Tough Stuff.” He cleared his throat. They weren’t shaking hands, they were holding hands—without moving, without breathing. “I knew you really didn’t want me to leave.” He saw the shimmering wetness creep into her eyes before she could will it away. She turned her head toward the pillow.

  “You poor, tired girl,” he whispered, and touched her cheek. That did it. If he hadn’t said those sappy, sweet words she could have held on, Vivian thought in despair, as a huge tear slide down the side of her nose. Jake’s fingers brushed it away before she could stop him.

  “It’s . . . all . . . right,” she assured him, her voice low and tight. “Forget it.”

  “Don’t try to be such a tough little—”

  “You’re supposed to ask me questions,” she interjected abruptly, feeling absurd and ready not just to sniffle again but—as her hard-bitten mother, Julia, would have called it—to boohoo like a whiny loser. Why did this man make her feel this way? Her throat was graveled. “So, ask your questions! Ask!” she ordered.

  She could feel him looking down at her sympathetically. She shrugged, sniffed, and turned her best courtroom poker face up to him. She watched dully, her head throbbing with new pain, as he pulled a spare tractor cap out of his back pocket. He studied it, fiddling with the adjustable band for a moment.

  “What’s your middle name?” he asked finally. He reached over and put the tractor cap on her head, cocking it to one side so it didn’t touch her bump. Then he put the ice pack, which had slipped down the pillow, back in place.

  “Fiona. Vivian Fiona Costa,” she said slowly. Her mouth stayed open after the last part. His easy charm mesmerized her.

  “That’s pretty. I never knew an Italian girl before.”

  “My father’s Italian. My mother’s just your basic white-bread American.”

  He hung his heels on the stool’s middle rung and propped his elbows on the white-blue denim that covered his knees. His hands hung casually between his legs. Vivian thought he had wonderful hands—mapped with scars and nicks and calluses, but as supple and caring as a surgeon’s. “Your parents still alive, Tough Stuff?”

  “My mother is. She moved to Pittsburg last year.”

  “What did your father do?”

  “He was a police officer. Killed on duty.”

  “You grew up in the middle of the city?” Jake looked around the noisy, smelly emergency room, distaste on his face. He seemed to feel that the scene around them summed up all that was wrong with city life.

  “In a house about ten minutes from downtown,” she told him tautly. “Midtown. Classic old bungalows. Big oak trees. Block parties.” He looked unconvinced as his eyes studied her curiously. Vivian sighed. “So where are you from, Mr. Coltrane, beside that ancient apartment building on Crescent Street?”

  “I’m from Tuna Creek, Tennessee,” he said, exhaling and running one hand through his hair wearily. “Go ahead and laugh.”

  Vivian pushed his cap back with the edge of one thumb. Don’t laugh, don’t laugh, she ordered herself silently. She’d control herself with the same technique she used in court every time some gangbanger said something outrageous.

  “Who named it Tuna Creek?” she asked sternly, as if she’d like to get her hands on the culprit.

  “My great-granddaddy,” he answered.

  “Oh, crap.”

  But he started chuckling and shook his head to indicate there was no need for an apology. After a second, Vivian began to smile.

  “Oh, oh, oh,” she said, clasping her aching head. “This is torture.”

  “See, a travelin’ salesman sold Great-Granddaddy some little bitty fish and told him they were a breed of freshwater tuna,” Jake explained with fiendish pleasure, as she waved a hand to him to stoop. “And Great-Granddaddy dumped them in his creek.”

  “What were they?” she managed to sputter.

  “Goldfish.”

  She laughed harder, holding her head.

  “It worked out pretty well,” Jake added somberly. “Except it was always hard to find enough plastic castles and colored rocks . . .”

  “Stop!” she demanded, squinting in pain, her laughter fading. Immediately, he touched her face tenderly and began stroking her temple. Vivian snuggled into the pillow and took deep breaths.

  “You okay, Tough Stuff?”

  She nodded. “How’d you end up living in Atlanta?” she wanted to know.

  “I lost my dairy business to the bank,” he said softly.

  His fingers paused, and Vivian gazed up at him to find his face set in a stoical line but his attention suddenly miles away.

  “Everything?”

  He gave an offhand shrug as if he didn’t care. “I was able to save the old homestead by declaring bankruptcy, but just barely. I had to double-mortgage and lease the herdthe old home place . . .”

  “What about your parents? Do you have any family?”

  “My folks are both dead.” His blue eyes were clouded with sadness as they met hers.

  “Jake, I’m sorry.”

  “I wouldn’t have wanted them to watch everything go. I’ve got four younger brothers, but they moved on after college. I’m the last one in the family dairy business.”

  “Oh, Jake,” she said
gently. She understood hard work and disappointment all too well. She’d grown up in a respectable but poor family. “So,” she said briskly. “You became a slumlord here.”

  “A what?” he asked blankly. He blinked hard. “Oh, no. I’m fixin’ the place up. I wouldn’t rent it to people the way it is now. See, my Uncle Needham left me this buildin’ in his will. I’m goin’ to get it in shape, rent the apartments out, and then try to sell the whole shebang.”

  “Is there a Mrs. Jake?” Vivian asked. “And little Jakettes?”

  “Nope.” He cut his eyes and mimicked her. “Is there a Mr. Judge—poor, henpecked soul—or anything smaller than you that calls you ‘Mama?’”

  “No.”

  “Never married?”

  “I’ve been divorced for three years. Now, Redneck, you don’t need to ask all these personal questions . . .”

  “Don’t go changin’ the subject, Tough Stuff. Why’d you kick the poor man out?”

  “I didn’t. He ran.”

  “Hmmm.” Jake tucked his chin and looked at her for a silent moment. “Did you love him?”

  “Mr. Coltrane, I don’t think this falls under the questions the doctor had in mind.”

  “You want me to make trouble?” he quipped. His eyes gleamed as his voice dropped to a stage whisper. “Oh, doctor, come quick! The poor lady over here’s talkin’ to her toes and askin’ where to catch the next MARTA to the Starship Enterprise.”

  “All right, all right.” She yielded, feeling exasperated. This situation made for an unusual intimacy between strangers, and he appeared determined to get answers from her. Vivian tilted her chin up as best she could and looked him directly in the eye. “Yes, at the time I loved him. Yes, it was hard not to be hurt when you come home from work one night and find your husband’s gone off to join the circus.”

  He did a quick double take.

  “He fell in love with a trapeze performer from Cirque de Soleil. I was working long hours as a public defender for the city. We just lost touch.”