When Bruce Met Cyn Read online

  HE WINKED AT HER.

  Her smile spread into a wide grin, then she impulsively threw herself into his arms. Bruce staggered back before gaining his wits and wrapping his arms around her slight, soft frame. Cyn was laughing, squeezing him, her hands on his shoulders, his nape, along his spine,

  From one moment to the next, his body reacted predictably to holding an attractive woman he wanted.

  Her laughter was a powerful aphrodisiac, and combined with the feel of her body in his arms, it was enough. More than enough.

  Right and wrong didn't play into it He wanted to lower her to the narrow cot behind them and claim her as his own.

  His mind was still fighting that image when Cyn turned her face up to his. Tears of happiness made her pale eyes glassy. The second their gazes met, he was a goner. He cupped her face, relishing the warm softness of her skin, breaming hard with growing need. "Cyn."

  He tried to say her name as a warning, wanting her to shove him away, slap him, elbow him in the chest again. Anything that would shake off the overwhelming need.

  She stared at him with confusion, then dawning awareness. Her breath caught, and slowly, very slowly, her thick lashes dropped over her eyes in a sign of permission and acceptance. That did it.

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

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  Copyright © 2004 by Lori Foster

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  Prologue

  Her eyes flared open and she gave a silent, gasping start—silent, because she'd learned to make no sounds, to hold her fear deep inside, protected. The night was as black and cold and empty as ever. What had awakened her?

  Rain softly drubbed the window beside her bed, and frigid air seeped in around the warped frame, but it wasn't the nasty weather that left chills on her exposed arms.

  Out of necessity, Cynthia Potter had learned to know what would happen before it did. She picked up clues, learned to read body language.

  Even the dumbest animal learned how to survive.

  Her heart rapped painfully against her ribs as she strained to listen, but she couldn't hear past the awful rushing of blood in her ears. Her eyes encountered only shifting darkness, molded and moved by shadows of the moon.

  Then, suddenly, a thump sounded in the hallway.

  A footstep.

  A ereak of the floorboards.

  Because she-recognized the soft noises all too well, they assaulted her fractured nerves like gunshots and twisted her stomach into a painful knot.

  Palmer Oaks was coming to her bedroom.

  A sob crawled up her throat, but she ruthlessly gulped it back.

  She'd known it would happen, and she'd already decided to do something about it. She had to take control of her life. She was seventeen now, a grown woman. That was both the problem, and a solution. A woman's body took his hateful attention in a new direction, but a woman's mind ensured she could make her own way.

  Until now, she'd had no choice. She'd been small and young, no match for Palmer at all. Her neighbors had openly pitied her, but didn't want to get involved. The school's attempt at intervention had backfired. Reverend Thorne. . .no, he was more warped than Palmer.

  Regardless of what they claimed, she knew she wasn't evil. She didn't deserve them. She didn't deserve any of it.

  As if in slow motion, her doorknob turned, tightening her panic and calming it at the same time. She'd reached her limit. She would not be a victim anymore.

  As she slowly turned her head to watch the door, hot tears tracked her face. Blindly, she reached out for the nightstand and her icy fingers knocked against the small glass lamp. Before it could fall, she clenched it in her fist and scooted up in her bed, curling her legs under her, prepared to lunge.

  Resolve weighed heavy in her chest, forming a lump, agonizing but solid. She'd planned this sce-nario many times. She knew the lamp was solid enough, and her determination would carry her through. The alternative was unthinkable.

  Without further warning, the door swung open and banged against the wall. Palmer often did that, hoping to take her by surprise, to terrorize her. He liked it when she screamed, when she tried to run. This time she didn't move, not even to draw breath.

  He stood there, a looming, imposing shadow against the cracked wallpaper. She knew he'd be smiling in gleeful menace and she knew his rheumy eyes would be alight with excitement

  Sick bastard.

  He started to say something in his coarse, mean way. Accusations, insults, warped justifications. The words meant nothing to Cynthia now. They couldn't hurt her anymore.

  She waited until he moved, then rage brought her off the bed with a surge of incredible power. Taken by surprise, Palmer lurched back and banged into the doorframe.

  Satisfaction roared through her. For once, Cynthia didn't feel helpless. Adrenaline pumped through her veins, giving her awesome strength. She was in charge, she was almighty.

  The lamp struck his face and shattered, sending razor-sharp glass shards into his flesh and around the room. She relished the raw shriek of stunned pain that gurgled from deep in his throat. He held up his hands, turned his face half away from her as if to protect it.

  Using the base of the now broken lamp, Cyn landed a solid thunk against his temple. His hands. batted at her, but they were ineffectual against her fierce vengeance.

  Unable to stop herself, her blows occurring without her mind's input, Cyn struck him again, and again, then once more. His corpulent body slumped to the floor, but she didn't register what it meant. Panting, she stood just out of his reach, gulping air, crying silently, her nightgown twisted around her body, her short, curly hair half hanging in her eyes. The now broken lamp was still held aloft with both fists. Ready.

  Cynthia waited for his curses, for his fists, for anything... but nothing happened.

  She sucked air so hard, she felt light-headed, her chest heaved, her throat burned. Oh, God. The seconds ticked by, each one reverberating with her frantic heartbeat—one, two, three ... and finally, with new fear she crept closer, slowly, so very slowly.

  She expected to be grabbed at any second, pulled to the floor, punished... touched. She tried to stay prepared, but her le
gs were shaking horribly and her eyes blurred, her lungs hurt Palmer was a large, terrifying lump on the floor. Unmoving. Silent

  Too silent. She couldn't hear him breathing, when usually his weight made him wheeze.

  How long Cynthia stood there, she couldn't say, and then she heard her mother fumbling with the front door. As a barmaid, Arlene Potter worked late, and played even later. She'd be drunk and even if she weren't, she'd be no help. It's for your own good," Arlene always said, and Cyn knew she believed it. That's what made it all the more frightening.

  Galvanized into action, Cynthia turned on her dim overhead light and surveyed the damage done to the man her mother had brought into their ramshackle home two years ago. Stripped clean of emotion, she took in his mangled, unrecognizable face. There was so much blood, so much swelling and bruising, she couldn't make out his hated features.

  She felt no remorse—she didn't. She felt only a sense of being very, very alone.

  Knuckling aside the useless tears, she forced herself to think. She knew nothing of first aid, but it didn't take a genius to see he wasn't breathing. And there was so much blood—on him, on the floor, and on her. Using the bare toes of her left foot, Cyn nudged him.

  Nothing.

  Not a sound, not a movement. Her arms curled around herself and she bent double in pain. Not for him, but for herself.

  She'd killed him.

  Pity became an acrid taste in her mouth—pity for herself and for what she'd been forced to become. It worked its way up her throat until she sobbed, but she immediately stuck her fist against her quivering mouth to silence herself.

  She could hear her mother in the kitchen, pouring another drink, singing to herself in her drunken slur, as oblivious, as uncaring of her daughter's welfare as ever.

  God, how Cyn hated her.

  At least, that's what she tried to tell herself as her heart shattered into small pieces, causing so much hurt it was a wonder it didn't lull her, too. In her mind, she was dead, dead and buried so that a new Cynthia could be born. After tonight, the pain would go away.

  She'd make it go away.

  She drew a deep breath to calm herself. The future opened up before her with warm, colorful possibilities.

  Pushing aside the revulsion, Cynthia dropped to her knees and dug in Palmer's pants pockets until she located his wallet. It held a hundred dollars. To Cyn, it seemed like a fortune.

  Thanks to the recent driver's education classes at her school, she had her birth certificate and social security card in the top drawer of her dresser. No one had been more surprised than Cynthia when her mother agreed to let her take the classes—until Arlene explained that it'd make her life easier when Cynthia could do all the shopping.

  Within two minutes, she'd dressed in her warmest clothes and gathered a few necessities. At the last moment, she dug beneath her mattress and pulled out the notebook she'd kept hidden there. With trembling hands, she laid it atop the rumpled blankets, knowing it told everything, all the things she didn't dare tell while she was still living with him.

  Maybe someone would understand. Maybe, when they found his body, she wouldn't be blamed.

  As she climbed out her bedroom window into the damp, cold spring night, she glanced back at the cramped room, at what she was leaving behind, and at the body on her floor.

  He was dead and good riddance. She wouldn't, couldn't care. As far as she was concerned, Cynthia Potter died with him. The scared young woman was gone, and a new, free woman had emerged. A better life awaited her. It might not be great, but no way could it be worse.

  Chapter One

  As the vivid dream faded, Cyn stretched awake on the narrow, lumpy mattress. A spring rain pattered against the window, and for a brief moment, a sense of déjà vu settled over her. She turned her head to stare out the window. This soft, late-April rain smelled fresh and held numerous possibilities. She waited, yet there was no sense of danger, no threat, and her heart swelled with relief, with honest happiness.

  She sat up and shoved the window all the way open, letting the cold air blow in, dissipating the scent of stale sex.

  Thanks to the compelling dream that had filled her sleep for the past month, she'd made some decisions. As of last night, she'd turned her last trick, and knowing that sent a bounty of energy surging through her. Perched on the side of the bed, she flipped her head forward and gathered her impossibly long hair in her hands. After retrieving a cloth-covered band from her nightstand, she secured the unruly mass into a high ponytail, then left the bed to take a shower.

  She lingered, washing away every trace of the men who'd paid for her body, and at the same time, she washed away the past.

  She didn't rue the things she'd done, because she'd survived, and if she could claim nothing else, she knew she was one hell of a survivor. Regardless of what others might think or how society would label her, she was damn proud of herself.

  Wrapped in a terry cloth robe, she left the bathroom and made coffee. Her home for the past year was an efficiency apartment with a minuscule bathroom, a double bed, and a hot plate for cooking. It was so small, she barely had room to turn around, but compared to some of the other places she'd slept, like the park and alleys and one-night motels, it was nice. It was also cheap, which meant most of the money she made, she could save.

  She'd decorated it with pictures from magazines and flowers that grew wild, and she'd loved the independence it had provided. For the first time in her life, she'd been able to call a place home. But she was now twenty-two, and she had enough cash saved to start over.

  She'd managed it once before when she'd been no more than a kid of seventeen, afraid and alone. She was still alone, but fear was a luxury she couldn 't afford these days. By necessity, she'd taken risks that no woman should ever take, and they'd paid off.

  Little by little, she'd learned to fend for herself, to protect her body and her mind, and to separate the two. She wasn't wealthy, and a lot of people might scoff at a mere twenty-five hundred dollars.

  To Cyn, it was a fortune, a future, and independence.

  She sipped her coffee while daydreaming of what was to come, the things she'd do. When she closed her eyes, she saw a shadowed man, standing among tall trees, and a blinding sun with birds singing. Now familiar things.

  The urge to make changes had been eating away at her for a month, when normally she didn't allow herself the pleasure of daydreaming. It was. the oddest thing, but she'd felt compelled to ponder it. Whenever she slept, visions of the man and a place far away, with water and fresh air and friendly people who didn't know her, played in her mind with the same clarity as a movie show.

  She didn't recognize the man or the place, but both had become real to her. She knew them as well as she knew herself. Somehow, she'd find them.

  She skinned on jeans, shoved her feet into flat sandals, and tugged on a long-sleeved T-shirt Many of her clothes would be left behind. She couldn't see herself wearing hot-pants and fishnet in her new life.

  Grinning at the thought, she folded away her jeans, tees, and sweaters, then packed up her makeup and toiletries.

  She eyed her collection of books, considered leaving them behind because they'd certainly be heavy, but she couldn't do it. They'd saved her, and they were like her trusted friends. When she needed comfort, she revisited them. She had to remove a sweatshirt to fit the books into the suitcase, but it seemed a small price to pay. Her stash of money was hidden in the lining of her purse.

  The box of condoms got tossed in the trashcan. She wouldn't need those for a long time, if ever.

  With everything else ready, Cyn opened the map that she'd swiped from the gas station and carefully spread it out on her bed. Feeling giddy with the pleasure of it, she closed her eyes, drew her fingers over the crinkling paper until it felt right, and then, finger pointed, she opened her eyes.

  Visitation, North Carolina.

  Oh, she liked the sound of it, the way it felt on her tongue when she said it aloud. She even laughed. S
o be it. Her days of running were over. It was time for a rebirth.

  For the first time since she'd left her old life five long years ago, Cynthia slung her purse over her arm, rolled her suitcase to the door, and allowed the fates to guide her.

  * * *

  After spotting a cockroach beneath his chair, Bruce Kelly ruled out the soup. Cautiously, he stirred his coffee, and found nothing swimming inside it. He tasted it, and decided it wasn't too awful. After doctoring it with sugar and creamer, he sat back to revive himself with some much-needed caffeine.

  The cracked plastic seat of the booth snagged against his behind every so often, forcing him to shift around until he feaed the window.

  Evening had settled over North Carolina hours ago, bringing with it a black velvet blanket studded with stars and a chill that could cut to the bones. He should have been in bed by now, and usually he was, but he'd been too tired to continue driving without a break. He had another fifty miles to go, and he wasn't fool enough to make the trip half-asleep.

  His visit back to Ohio had been a pleasure, and he'd lingered too long chatting with friends. There was a time when he'd felt deeply rooted to his projects there, but in less than a year, Visitation had become home.

  He was lost in thought, his cup nearly empty, when a semi pulled up outside the diner. The headlights briefly blinded Bruce before the truck swung around and stopped. As he watched, the passenger door jerked open and a young woman tumbled out in haste, almost falling to the broken concrete lot. His attention caught, eyes narrowed, Bruce absorbed the sight of her. She seemed to be all luxuriant, tangled hair, long legs, and defiance.

  Leaving the big rig idling, the trucker threw open his door and thundered toward the woman. He was a large man, in both stature and girth, dressed in a flannel shirt with jeans that belted below his protruding belly. He seethed with aggression.

  Hastily, Bruce laid enough change on the table to cover his coffee and slid from his seat. His gaze never wavered from the unfolding scene.

  As the trucker drew near, the woman didn't back up. No, she grabbed a suitcase and shoved it behind her, then, strangely enough, she took a stance. The disparity in their size was ludicrous, and yet she squared off with the big bruiser as if she intended to duke it out with him.