Читать книгу Beloved Wolf - Кейси Майклс, Kasey Michaels - Страница 8

N othing, absolutely nothing, had gone right for Sophie Colton that entire early-April San Francisco day.

The new telephone system touted by her advertising agency boss to make everyone’s life easier had lost her a hard-won connection with a client in Tokyo—twice—and had probably cost her an important account.

The child star who had just been signed for a national commercial had picked this week to have his voice go from angelically pure to crackly pubescent, and would have to be replaced.

She’d gotten a run in her panty hose on the way to lunch with a client, been caught in a quick shower the weather forecasters had missed, and now she’d had an argument over dinner with Chet Wallace, her fiancé since this past Christmas.

Okay. Maybe not an argument. Maybe that was too strong a word. A disagreement. She and Chet never argued. Mostly he talked and Sophie listened. Sometimes she wondered why she listened.

Chet wanted to leave their cushy jobs at the San Francisco advertising agency and strike out on their own, form their own company. Sophie wasn’t so sure. She liked her job, had worked hard to get it, and in this cutthroat world, starting a marriage and a new business at the same time…well, it scared her.

At least that was what she tried to tell herself as she walked home in the dark after throwing a mini-tantrum at the restaurant and leaving Chet to finish dessert and pay the check on his own.

Maybe what really bothered her was that Chet had done just that. He’d stayed behind, sipping coffee and eating his chocolate mousse, and let her go. Granted, she lived only four blocks from the restaurant, but did he have to be so blasé about it? Tell her to take a walk, cool down, and he’d meet her at her apartment in thirty minutes? She hated Chet when he was reasonable. Didn’t he know that?

Sophie stopped at the curb of an alleyway situated halfway down a long city block. She lifted her head, sighed and pushed at her chin-length golden brown hair, tucking a naturally blond-streaked lock behind her ear. She blinked her huge brown eyes that were so like her mother’s, sighed again and stepped off the curb, one long straight leg in its three-inch heel making contact with the macadam…before she was suddenly being pushed, shoved back into the alleyway.

“Hey!” she called out loudly, trying to disengage herself from the arms that held her. She was pushed against a dew-slick brick wall so hard that anything else she might have said was lost. The side of her head slammed against the bricks, and seemingly all the air in her lungs whooshed out of her body.

It was unreal. Surreal. Couldn’t be happening. Certainly couldn’t be happening to her.

But it was. As she fought to stay conscious, as she struggled to breathe, to beat down the panic that rose like bile in her throat, Sophie felt the tip of a knife press against her throat.

“Move, bitch, and I’ll cut you. You got that?”

She couldn’t nod. She’d be cut if she moved. So she blinked. Yes, that blink said silently. I’ve got that.

“Okay. Okay-okay-okay,” the male voice said. Her attacker was obviously very excited, possibly high on drugs. Sophie didn’t know, couldn’t be sure. She just knew the man was nervous, hyper, definitely out of control. He might kill her even as he said he wouldn’t.

The knife eased away from her throat, and the next thing Sophie knew she was facedown on the hard gravel in the alleyway, her right knee exploding in agony as it took the brunt of her fall.

Sophie closed her eyes against the white-hot pain and swallowed. “What—what do you want?” she managed to ask, still unable to move, for the man’s knee pressed hard against her back. “I don’t have a purse, but there’s a wallet in my coat pocket. Money. Credit cards. Let—let me get it for you.”

“Don’t listen, do you, bitch? Huh, huh?” the man growled against her ear, his putrid breath and body odor turning her stomach. “Move and die, bitch, move and die.”

Then his hands were on her, touching her through her light coat, for the evening had been warm, and she hadn’t expected to be on the streets anyway. She could feel him brace most of his body weight on the knee jabbing into her back, while he used his left hand to reach under her, twist her upper body painfully and clumsily pinch and paw at her throat, her breasts. He bit her shoulder, hard.

Maniac. The man was a maniac. He didn’t want her money—or he’d take it once she was dead. What he wanted was her. Her body. He wanted to hurt her.

She was only twenty yards from a main street, and she was helpless. He still held the knife in his right hand as he groped at her with his left. His stronger body pinned her against the gravel. If she cried out, she’d die.

Did it matter if she moved, if she fought? The man was out of his mind, out of control. He had a knife. She’d die anyway.

But she’d be damned if she’d die without a struggle.

Sophie might be a city girl now, years away from her roots on a California ranch, but she’d been a tomboy once, a girl child with big brothers she’d often fought with, sometimes in fun, sometimes in earnest.

Brothers. Oh, God. Michael had died, and his death had nearly destroyed her parents, her entire family. If she were to die, too… No! No, that couldn’t happen! She wouldn’t let that happen! Mommy! Daddy! I won’t let that happen!

Forgetting the pain in her right knee, forgetting the knife blade she could feel pressing against her jaw-line, forgetting the violation she felt as the man’s hand slipped inside her V-neck blouse, his filthy, jagged fingernails tearing at her skin, Sophie reacted.

She dug her elbows and knees into the gravel and bucked like a wild pony out to unseat the rider on its back. Fear lent her strength, and surprise gave her a second advantage. The off-balance man toppled to one side, so that she could backpedal away from him on her hands and buttocks, putting precious space between them.

“Help! Help!” she screamed at the top of her lungs. “In the alley. Help me!” As she screamed, Sophie grabbed on to a huge plastic garbage can and somehow got to her feet, her right leg all but useless. She pulled the top off the garbage can and threw it at the man, then blindly reached into the open can and pulled out the first “weapon” to come to hand—the sliced-off top of a pineapple.

What a ridiculous weapon. But, then, the alleyway ran behind a block of upscale restaurants. What had she expected to find, a fully loaded .357 Magnum?

Sophie threw the pineapple top at the man, followed by a huge, empty can of tomato puree and two handfuls of rotting vegetables, all the time screaming for help. She knocked over smaller, metal garbage cans, making more noise than impact, but making herself as undesirable a victim as possible. “In the alley! Help me! Help me!”

The man cursed, ducked a wilted cabbage and ran off down the alley moments before two well-dressed men entered the alley, coming to Sophie’s rescue.

“Oh, thank God,” she said, falling against one of them as the other ran back toward the street to call an ambulance and the police.

Sophie’s right knee hurt her so much that she didn’t even know that her attacker’s knife had laid open her cheek from ear to chin, that she was losing blood rapidly. She knew nothing at all, for within moments she had sunk into blessed unconsciousness.

Louise Smith sat up straight in her narrow bed, her eyes wide with fright, her body drenched in perspiration in the heat of the Mississippi night. Something was wrong. Something was very wrong.

She slipped from the bed, stumbled to the light switch, then pressed her hands against the top of the dresser, blinked at her reflection in the mirror. She saw a woman who somehow didn’t look all of her fifty-two years—except for her large brown eyes, which held the misery of the ages. She ran a hand through her wavy, golden-brown hair that showed very little gray and took several deep, steadying breaths, trying to beat down the panic that still held her in its grip.

See? It’s just you. Nobody else is here. Nobody can harm you. Nobody knows. Nobody. Not even you.

She’d been dreaming. She dreamed so often. All the dreams were confusing. Some of them were good, for a while, but all of them ended unhappily, with no answers, no resolution.

But this had been different. She couldn’t remember a dream. All she could remember was a flash of fright…and the certainty that she was needed, that someone needed her help.

A child. A little girl. A little girl who called her Mommy.

But where was she? Where?

Louise left her bedroom, padded toward the kitchen and a glass of water, knowing she would not be able to sleep anymore that night.

Joe Colton burst from the elevator before the doors had fully opened and raced down the corridor toward the nurse’s station, his foster son River James right behind him. They’d flown from the family ranch in Prosperino, River at the controls, within an hour of the phone call from the San Francisco police, arriving shortly before dawn.

“My daughter—Sophie Colton,” Joe demanded of the unit clerk, who was otherwise occupied in filing her nails. “What room is she in?”

The young woman looked up at him blankly. “Colton? I don’t think we have a Colton.” She swiveled in her chair, spoke to a nurse who’d just come into the station. “Mary, do we have a Colton?”

The nurse stepped forward, looking at Joe. “May I ask who you are, sir?”

“I’m her father, damn it!” Joe exploded, his large frame looking more menacing than paternal at that moment, his nearly sixty years having made small impact on him other than to dust some silver in his dark brown hair.

River took off his worn cowboy hat, put a hand on his foster father’s arm and smiled at the nurse. “Senator Colton is a little upset, ma’am,” he said, being his most charming at the same time he emphasized the word senator, even if Joe had left office years earlier. “His daughter was mugged last evening. Colton. Sophie Colton.”

It might have been the dropping of Joe Colton’s title, or it might have been River’s lazy smile, but Mary quickly stepped out from behind the desk, asking the two men to follow her down the corridor.

“I’m sorry, Senator,” Mary said as they walked, “but your daughter was the victim of a crime. We can’t be too careful. She came back from surgery a little over an hour ago and is probably sleeping, but I can tell you that she made it through the surgery without incident. Have you been apprised of her injuries?”

“Oh, God.” Joe stopped, put a hand to his mouth and turned away from the nurse. Obviously the long night had taken its toll. That, River thought, and the fact that Meredith Colton, Sophie’s mother, hadn’t seen any reason to accompany her husband to San Francisco.

“Yes, we have, but we’d like to hear a recap from you, if you don’t mind,” River said, stepping up, taking over for this so very strong man who had already buried one child. River knew he couldn’t understand all that Joe must have been going through since the call about Sophie had come into the ranch, but he had a pretty good idea that the man had been living in his own special hell, reliving the call about Michael, fearing the worst for his daughter.

River, however, had been more mad than frightened, once he’d spoken to the patient liaison at the hospital, who had assured him that Sophie’s injuries, although extensive, were not life threatening. While Joe Colton had sat in the back of the small private jet, praying for his daughter, River had been at the controls, wishing himself in San Francisco so that he could knock down Chet Wallace. Then pick him up, knock him down again. And again.

Joe collected himself and motioned for the nurse to continue down the hallway.

“She suffered a mild concussion, Senator,” Mary told them, stopping in front of Room 305, her hand on the metal door plate. “I want to prepare you for that, as she may be confused for a while once she wakes. Plus, she’s got lots of scrapes and bruises, from her contact with a brick wall, as I understand it, and the gravel in the alley. Those have been cleaned up, of course. And there are some fairly deep scratches on her…on her chest. They’ll be painful, but aren’t serious, and we’ve already begun treatment with antibiotics. We can’t be too careful with human bites and scratches. I—I’m sorry.”

The bastard had bitten her? River hadn’t known that part, wished Joe didn’t have to know that part.

Joe moaned low in his throat. River squeezed his work-hard hands into fists.

Mary continued, “The orthopods put her knee back together—torn Medial Meniscus, which is fairly common—but she’s in a J-brace and will be on crutches for at least five or six weeks, and then will need some pretty extensive rehab. And,” she added, sighing, “Dr. Hardy, chief of reconstructive surgery, sewed up the knife gash on her face. She’ll need follow-up plastic surgery, at least that’s what’s on Dr. Hardy’s postop notes, but at least she’s been put back together. It’s a miracle the knife didn’t hit any large blood vessels or nerves. Still, even though the cut wasn’t dangerously deep, it took over one hundred stitches to close her up again.”

“Oh, God,” Joe said. “My baby. My beautiful, beautiful baby.”

River clenched his teeth until his jaw hurt. Sophie. Beautiful Sophie. Dragged into an alley. Mauled, beaten, cut, damn near killed. And for no reason, no reason at all. Just because a bastard high on drugs had gone berserk. Just because she’d been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Now her entire life had been changed forever.

“I think we’re prepared to see her now, ma’am,” River said, motioning for the nurse to step back so that he and Joe could enter Sophie’s room. “We promise not to disturb her.”

“Certainly,” Mary agreed, then walked past them, back to the nurse’s station.

“Ready, Joe?” River asked, a hand on his foster father’s back.

“No,” Joe told him, his voice so low River had to lean close to hear him. “A parent is never ready to see his child lying in a hospital bed.” He lifted his head and took a deep breath. “But let’s do it.”

River pushed open the door, let Joe precede him into the room, then followed after him. He didn’t want to see Sophie this way, injured, helpless. That was not how he had seen her when he’d first come to live at the ranch and she’d chased after him until he’d let down his guard and let her into his life. His Sophie, four years his junior, which had been such a huge gap when they were younger. The angry young man and the awkward, braces-on-her-teeth, skinned-knees, pigtailed, hero-worshiping kid.

She’d driven him crazy, made him angry. Gotten under his skin. Wormed her way into his bruised, battered and wary heart.

And then she’d grown up.

Oh, God, she’d grown up.

She’d talked him into escorting her to her high school senior prom. They’d danced, they’d talked about how she would leave the following morning to do an internship at Joe’s radio station in Dallas, before she began college in the fall.

She’d kissed him. He’d kissed her back. Again and again and again. He’d held her, trying not to say the words that screamed inside his head: “Don’t go, don’t go. Stay with me, Sophie. Love me, Sophie.”

The foster son of Joe Colton owed the man better than that. The half-breed son of a drunk owed Sophie more than that. So he’d pushed her away, out of his arms, out of his life. Coldly, almost brutally telling her to go away, to grow up.

For the past nearly ten years they saw each other only at Colton family gatherings—which were only slightly less populated than some small countries. They acknowledged each other, but they’d never been alone together since that night.

They weren’t alone now. Joe was standing on the other side of the bed, tears streaming down his face as he held his daughter’s limp hand.

“She’s going to be fine, Joe,” River assured him, wincing at the sight of Sophie’s bruised and battered face, the bandages he could see peeking out above the slack neckline of the hospital gown. She looked as if she’d been dragged behind a runaway horse, her tender white skin scraped raw in spots, swollen and in livid shades of purple in others.

The largest bandage covered the left side of her face. There were more than one hundred stitches beneath that bandage. Her knee would heal. He’d make sure of that, even if he had to carry her on his back until the ligaments and tendons grew strong again. The scrapes and bruises, the scratches, would heal.

But her face? Sophie had never been vain, but she was young, only twenty-seven, and beautiful. How would she react to a scar on her face? A scar that reminded her, each and every time she looked in the mirror, of the terror she must have felt in that alley?

The mugger hadn’t just hurt her physically. River feared that he might also have destroyed her confidence, badly scarred her in ways not so readily apparent. Robbed her of her freedom, her ability to walk down a street without fear.

River ran a hand through his shoulder-length black hair, rubbed at the back of his neck. His eyes sparkled with unshed tears that threatened to spill down over his lean, deeply tanned cheeks.

On the bed, Sophie stirred slightly, moaned, seemed to be trying to open her eyes.

“I…um…I’ll get the nurse,” River said quietly as Sophie’s eyes fluttered open for a second, then closed once more. “But I’ll give you and Sophie a couple minutes alone together before I do.”

He turned on his heels and left the room, his worn cowboy boots barely making any noise against the tile floor. The door closed behind him and he stopped in the hallway, one denim-clad shoulder leaning against the wall, his right fist dug deep in his jean pocket as he used his left to rhythmically beat the cowboy hat against his thigh.

River James looked like exactly who he was. A cowboy. A cowboy whose mother had been a full-blooded Native American, and whose father had been a white man. He had the thick black hair of his mother, the vivid green eyes of his father, and the disposition of a man most wouldn’t lightly try to cross. Tall, whipcord lean, well muscled, hardened by years in the saddle as well as his unhappy life until the day Joe and Meredith Colton had taken him in, wised him up and given him a reason to believe he was somebody.

Until then, he’d been like a lone wolf. And once Sophie had gone out of his life, he’d reverted to that lone-wolf state. Complete unto himself. He didn’t need Sophie, he didn’t need anyone. At least that was what he’d been telling himself.

He’d been lying to himself.

It had been a long time since the thirty-one-year-old River James had felt helpless, defeated. It had not, however, been quite so long since he’d been angry. His temper had been his biggest problem when he’d come to Joe Colton’s house as a teenager, and even if that anger had turned into something closer to pride, it was never far from the surface—not where Sophie Colton was concerned.

He’d been angry with her for pestering him. He’d been angry with her for growing up, for making him aware of her as more than his “sister.” He’d been angry with her when he’d kissed her, when she’d tasted so good and he’d wanted her so much.

He’d been angry when she’d done the right thing and gone away, angry when she’d stayed away. Angry when she’d brought that idiot Chet Wallace to the ranch and announced that she was actually going to marry that grinning, three-piece suit—her engagement telling River that she didn’t want someone like him, but wanted someone who was his complete opposite.

Now he was angry with her for lying in that hospital bed, looking so damn fragile, so damn beautiful, and for making him wake up, yet again, to the fact that he loved her.

Had always loved her. Would always love her.