He stared down at her so intently, she felt it like a tactile touch. He looked big and imposing, but she wasn’t afraid. Not now.
“You couldn’t tell with me.”
“You just took me by surprise, that’s all.” She tried a halfhearted smile. “If you say you’re a saintly sort, then who am I to argue?”
He wasn’t appeased. Just the opposite—her words seemed to set him off. “Tell me something, Cyn. You’re obviously an intelligent woman. Why are you taking so many chances? When you know the risks, why are you hitchhiking and—”
“I don’t have a car.” She felt like saying, “Duh,” but didn’t.
He gave her a look of incomprehension.
By necessity, her view of such things was philosophical. “I needed to travel.”
“But it scares you.”
“Most times, fear is a luxury, so it doesn’t matter if you’re afraid.” She shared with him what she’d always known. “And I don’t really have a choice.”
Bruce rubbed his face, stared up at the heavens, and muttered something under his breath that she didn’t quite catch. Then, in an almost angry stride, he headed to his side of the car.
Cyn had learned to read people, especially men, and Bruce Kelly was as sincere as a man could be. She would have seen that before, if his odd vocation hadn’t taken her by surprise.
He slammed his door and started the engine. “Ready?”
“Ready is my middle name.” She swung her legs into the car, shut the door, and let out a long breath. She’d been up for too many hours to count, which maybe had contributed to her earlier panic. As she fastened her seat belt, she asked, “I think I’ll sleep while you drive. I’m pooped.”
Bruce knew that Cyn wasn’t really asleep. With his jacket pulled up over her chest and shoulders like a blanket, she dozed. But anytime he moved—to adjust the radio, to turn down the heater—she opened those pale eyes just enough to watch him.
It broke his heart to see such a young woman so vigilant and fearful. She was stretched out as much as a person could be in a car while still sitting upright. She kept her purse looped across her neck, with the purse tucked securely under her arm, but otherwise her limbs were loose and relaxed.
Her face was half turned toward him, her long, silky hair teasing her breasts, hanging almost to her elbows. Her nails were short and blunt, unpainted. Her feet were small and narrow. She wore no makeup at all.
And she was so incredibly sexy she made his heart race. Half asleep, she should have looked like a child.
Instead, she looked…wanton.
Her features were exotic, so delectably carnal and earthy that she needed to do nothing at all to make a man think of rumpled sheets and sweat-damp bodies straining together. Bruce had no doubt that she’d had more than a few men anxious to bed her.
In all likelihood, she’d sold them the privilege on a regular basis. He also knew, given her reserve and probable background, that some of those men had hurt her.
Yet, they hadn’t broken her spirit. That bespoke an uncommon inner strength, and gave him hope.
Despite her fortitude, the exhaustion was plain in her boneless posture and the weariness etched in her face, so Bruce drove straight home. After parking on the gravel road in front of the half-finished church, he turned off the headlights and cut the engine. “Cynthia.”
Her eyes opened and she straightened with a luxuriant stretch and a lusty yawn. “Where are we?” Curious, she glanced around, saw that everything was dark and empty, and gave him a suspicious frown.
“My place.” He got out and circled the hood to open her door.
Eyes wide, she scampered from the car so fast, she forgot her shoes. She faltered a moment on her hurt ankle, then breathed deeply of the cold night air. Bruce watched her toes curl against the chilly, dew-wet grass.
“This is Visitation?” She looked around with a sort of silent awe.
Bruce felt his lips twitch. She said “Visitation” with the same reverence one might give heaven. “It is. Part of it, at least.”
He reached in the car for his jacket and wrapped it around her, then fetched her sandals. She braced a hand on his shoulder as she slipped them on her feet, saying a distracted, “Thanks.” She was too busy soaking in the sights to pay much attention to her feet.
He pointed down the street. “There’s a nice diner where you can catch breakfast in the morning, but they’re closed for the night now. Around the block, about two minutes from here, is a small motel. The town’s small, with one strip mall, a few small businesses, and a factory farther out. Fact is, you can drive completely through town in under ten minutes, but if you go back about an hour from where we came and take the exit into—”
“No.” She closed her arms around herself to ward off the April chill and favored him with a bright smile that made everything masculine in him stand at attention. “I’m here and I’m staying. In Visitation. Nowhere else.”
Bruce cocked a brow at her quick insistence.
Her smile turned whimsical. “I’ve dreamed about this place so many times. I want to see if I recognize it in daylight, if it feels as good as it did in my imagination.”
“All right.” Bruce had learned long ago when to push and when to let things ride. “I can take you to the motel after you eat.”
She gave him a calculated look. “If the restaurant’s closed, how do you plan to feed me?”
Because he couldn’t help himself, he flicked the end of her nose. “I can cook.”
“No kidding? I mean, I didn’t expect you to do that, but a starving woman doesn’t quibble.” She nodded toward the building. “So these are your digs?”
Bruce relaxed. Finding herself alone with him in a less-than-public place didn’t seem to alarm her at all. Other than her brief, overwhelming fear on the road, she’d been as at ease as a long acquaintance.
“This will eventually be my church.” Pride filled him as he gestured to the two-story, red brick house now sporting a very large, not-quite-complete addition. Because he’d been gone overnight, he’d left the porch light on and it showed the destroyed lawn typical of new construction. The building wasn’t fancy, but he loved it.
God didn’t need fancy, and neither did Bruce.
“It doesn’t look like a church.”
He watched her smooth her unruly curls, tossed by the wind. It distracted him, and made him think of things he shouldn’t. He shook his head. “In the same way that I don’t look like a preacher?”
“Just the opposite. It’s too plain to be a church.” She lightly elbowed him. “And you’re too hunky to be a preacher.”
Plenty of women had teased and flirted with him, but he’d never paid much attention, never lost sight of the fact that they needed him and depended on him. With Cyn, it was different and he had to deliberately keep his mind off taboo speculation. With her, he didn’t just see the bravado of a woman covering past hurts. He saw long, silky hair and warm, smooth skin. He smelled her—the scent of woman, more provocative than any manufactured perfume. He enjoyed her bold gaze, the tilt of her sexy mouth…“Did I mention that my father was a preacher, too?”
Thank God, she’d been unaware of his intimate perusal. She smiled without a care. “Does he look like you?”
Mentioning his family would hopefully help him keep his head. “Not really. He’s darker. My brother and I got our