Suzanne Brockmann - Taylor's Temptation

Oh, God, she’d said it. Bobby couldn’t bear to look at her, so he closed his eyes. “Colleen, I promised Wes I’d look out for you. That I’d take care of you.”

“Perfect.” She bent down to pick up her bag. “Take care of me. Please.”

Oh, man. He laughed because, despite his agony, he found her funny as hell. “I’m positive he didn’t mean it like that.”

“You know, he doesn’t need to find out.”

Bobby braced himself and met her gaze. “I can’t be that kind of friend to him.”

She sighed. “Terrific. Now I feel like a total worm.” She started toward Brattle Street. “I think, considering all things, we should skip the movie. I’m going home. If you change your mind…”

“I won’t.”

“…you know where to find me.” Bobby followed her about a dozen more steps, and she turned around. “Are you coming with me after all?”

“It’s getting late. I’ll see you home.”

“No,” Colleen said. “Thank you, but no.”

Bobby knew not to press it. That look in her eyes was one he’d seen far too many times on a completely different Skelly.

“I’m sorry,” he said again.

“Me, too,” she told him before she walked away.

The sidewalk wasn’t as crowded as it had been just a few hours ago, so Bobby let her get a good head start before he started after her.

He followed her all the way home, making certain she was safe without letting her see him again.

And then he stood there, outside her apartment building, watching the lights go on in her apartment, angry and frustrated and dying to be up there with her, and wondering what on earth he was going to do now.

Colleen had printed out the e-mail late last night, and she now held it tightly in her hand as she approached Bobby.

He was exactly where he’d said he would be when he’d called—sitting on the grassy slope along the Charles River, looking out at the water, sipping coffee through a hot cup with a plastic lid.

He saw her coming and got to his feet. “Thanks for meeting me,” he called.

He was so serious—no easygoing smile on his face. Or maybe he was nervous. It was hard to be sure. Unlike Wes, who twitched and bounced off the walls at twice his normal frenetic speed when he was nervous, Bobby showed no outward sign.

He didn’t fiddle with his coffee cup. He just held it serenely. He’d gotten them both large cups, but in his hand, large looked small.

Colleen was going to have to hold hers with both hands.

He didn’t tap his foot. He didn’t nervously clench his teeth. He didn’t chew his lip.

He just stood there and breathed as he solemnly watched her approach.

He’d called at 6:30 this morning. She’d just barely fallen asleep after a night spent mostly tossing and turning—and analyzing everything she’d done and said last night, trying to figure out what she’d done wrong.

She’d come to the conclusion that she’d done everything wrong. Starting with crying over a motor vehicle and ending with darn near throwing herself at the man.

This morning Bobby had apologized for calling so early and had told her he hadn’t been sure what time she was leaving for work today. He’d remembered that she was driving the truck, remembered their tentative plan to meet for breakfast.

Last night she’d wanted him to stay for breakfast.

But he hadn’t—because of some stupid idea that by having a relationship with her, he’d be betraying Wes.

Wes, whose life he’d most likely saved, probably countless times. Including, so it seemed, one definite time just a few short weeks ago.

“I can’t believe you didn’t tell me you’d been shot.” Colleen didn’t bother saying good morning. She just thrust the copy of Wes’s e-mail at him.

He took it and read it quickly. It wasn’t very long. Just a short, fast, grammatically creative hello from Wes, who didn’t report where he was, who really just wanted to make sure Bobby had arrived in Boston. He mentioned almost in passing that Bobby had recently been shot while out in the real world—the SEALs’ nickname for a real mission or operation.

They had been somewhere they weren’t supposed to be, Wes reported vaguely, and due to circumstances out of their control, they’d been discovered. Men with assault weapons started shooting, and Bobby had stepped in front of Wes, taking some bullets and saving his scrawny hide.

“Be nice to him,” Wes had written to Colleen. “He nearly died. He almost got his butt shot off, and his shoulder’s still giving him pain. Treat him kindly. I’ll call as soon as I’m back in the States.”

“If he can say all that in an e-mail,” Colleen told Bobby sternly, “you could have told me at least a little about what happened. You could have told me you were shot instead of letting me think you’d hurt yourself in some normal way—like pulling a muscle playing basketball.”

He handed her the piece of paper. “I didn’t think it was useful information,” he admitted. “I mean, what good is telling you that a bunch of bad guys with guns tried to kill your brother a few weeks ago? Does knowing that really help you in any way?”

“Yes, because not knowing hurts. You don’t need to protect me from the truth,” Colleen told him fiercely. “I’m not a little girl anymore.” She rolled her eyes. “I thought we cleared that up last night.”

Last night. When some extremely passionate kisses had nearly led to getting it on right out in the open, in an alley not far from Harvard Square.

“I got coffee and muffins,” Bobby said, deftly changing the subject. “Do you have time to sit and talk?”

Colleen watched as he lowered himself back onto the grass. Gingerly. Why hadn’t she noticed that last night? She was so self-absorbed. “Yes. Great. Let’s talk. You can start by telling me how many times you were shot and exactly where.”

He glanced at her as she sat down beside him, amusement in his dark eyes. “Trust Wes to be melodramatic. I took a round in the upper leg that bled kind of heavily. It’s fine now—no problem.” He pulled up the baggy leg of his shorts to reveal a deeply tanned, enormously muscular thigh. There was a fresh pink scar up high on his leg. Where it would really hurt a whole lot to be shot. Where there were major veins—or were they arteries?—which, if opened, could easily cause a man to bleed to death very quickly.

Wes hadn’t been melodramatic at all. Colleen couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t stop staring at that scar. Bobby could have died.

“It’s my shoulder that’s giving me the trouble,” Bobby continued, pulling his shorts leg back down. “I was lucky I didn’t break a bone, but it’s still pretty sore. I’ve got limited mobility right now—which is frustrating. I can’t lift my arm much higher than this.”

He demonstrated, and Colleen realized that his ponytail wasn’t a fashion statement after all. He was wearing his hair like that because he wasn’t physically able to put it back in his usual neat braid.

“I’m supposed to take it easy,” he told her. “You know, not push it for another week.”

He handed her a cup of coffee and held open a bag that contained about a half a dozen enormous muffins. She shook her head. Her appetite was gone.

“Can you do me a favor?” she asked. “Next time you or Wes get hurt, even if it’s just something really little, will you call me and let me know? Please? Otherwise I’m just going to worry about you all the time.”

Bobby shook his head. “Colleen…”

“Don’t Colleen me,” she countered. “Just promise.”

He looked at her. Sighed. “I promise. But—”

“No buts.”

He started to say something, then stopped, shaking his head instead. No doubt he’d spent enough time around Skellys to know arguing was useless. Instead he took a sip of his coffee and gazed out at the river.