He watched as she climbed in between the sheets and pulled the lace coverlet up to her chin. "Now do you mind? I'd like to get some sleep."
Smith approached the bed and watched her eyes widen as he sat down next to her.
"Tell you what," he drawled. "I'll do you an eye for an eye."
"What?"
"I tell you something about me but then you've got to talk. I'll even let you pick. You want to hear about the hell of Ranger school? How about the dry heat of the Gulf War ? You want to know what gives me indigestion? It's not Mexican food."
She looked at his face for the longest time. "You're serious?"
Dammit to hell, it appeared he was.
"Yes, I am."
She pushed herself up so she was sitting against the padded headboard. She was, he thought, temptation personified. Her hair, which was flowing around her shoulders in loose waves, glowed with blond highlights. Her beauty was classic as always, but with her parted lips and her nose a little red from crying, there was an enticing vulnerability to her.
He forced himself not to assess what the bodice of her nightgown might or might not be revealing.
"I want to know about the scars," she said abruptly.
Smith had to physically restrain himself from recoiling.
Shit. That wasn't what he'd had in mind.
He'd been prepared to give her a short take on how to handle a hard-ass battalion commander. Maybe a little wartime story with a happy ending, like when he'd saved that old man and his family. And being lactose intolerant was no big deal.
But the scars? He didn't talk to anyone about them, not even his boys like Tiny and Eddie.
Not all of the wounds had been inflicted on him as an adult.
"You said I could pick," she whispered. "And I have."
Smith cleared his throat, searched his mind for words and came up with a whole lot of nothing.
Her hand landed softly on his shoulder and he flinched. Through the undershirt, he could feel her fingers move slowly down his back as she explored his skin, lingering here and there.
Smith would have run, if he could have. But his body felt like lead.
When she got to a round scar on his side, one of the oldest, she went no farther. "Tell me about this one."
An image cut through his mind with the gruesome precision of a knife and he saw clearly events that were decades old. Feeling nauseous, he told himself to keep quiet.
"Please."
The soft word was a promise of comfort that he'd never had. That he'd never wanted before.
He responded to it before he could stop himself.
"Cigarette burn." Smith didn't recognize his own voice. Stiff and a little hoarse, he heard it from a far distance. "My father liked to smoke. He could always find a match. Ashtrays were a different story. Eventually, I got so I could outrun him but it took a long time."
He heard a hiss and realized it had been from her.
Smith didn't go further. She didn't need to know any more details.
"I'm so very sorry."
This was totally wrong, a voice inside of him yelled.
With all the women he had had, whose hands he'd allowed to touch him, he had never, never, let the subject come up. Even the ones who had had a few lacerations of their own had known not to speak of his map of horrors. And now, this achingly beautiful woman, this lady, who could know nothing about what had been done to him, about the kind of places he'd been and the people he'd dealt with, this delicate woman, wanted in on the nightmare.
"Are they all from..." She didn't finish her question.
A muscle began jerking in his jaw.
He forced his shoulders into a shrug. "Let's just say, I've been around the block a few times."
"I want to see them. All of them."
With a lurch, he pulled away from her. "This has gone far enough."
"I don't think it has," she said, moving toward him.
Smith was completely incapable of anything rational as her fingers went to the bottom of his shirt. He grabbed her hands in a brutal grip.
"You don't want to do that."
"Yes, I do. I'm not afraid of your past."
"You should be."
"I'm not. And I'm not afraid of you, either."
Gently, she removed his hands and slowly inched up the thin fabric. His breath began coming out in bursts and his body, caught between her will and his, begin to quake in the conflict.
When the air hit his skin, he couldn't take it anymore. He exploded up from the bed and wrenched the goddamn thing off. He stretched his arms out wide, feeling his muscles expand.
"Here, I'll give you the whole show," he said ruthlessly. "Front and back."
Her eyes stayed on his face.
"Come on, Countess. You don't want to look now? Too much?" He was sneering at her, lashing out. She'd made him feel weak with her empathy and he resented how exposed he felt.
She shook her head and her eyes were grim, as if she'd taken his past deep down into herself and felt the echoes of pain in her own body.
"Not in such a big hurry to touch me anymore, are you. Now that you can see everything."
He was hoping if he pushed her hard enough, she'd back away. The others who had tried to get close had fled when he'd showed them the same rage.
But Grace didn't run.
Slowly, she rose from the bed and reached out a slender gentle hand. When she touched his stomach delicately, he inhaled with a rasp.
His first instinct was to yell. He was infuriated that she had challenged him and exposed him. That she was near enough so he could smell her. That she was offering him compassion and understanding and warmth when he was battle-scarred and hard and ugly.
"I think you are beautiful," she said softly, looking up at him.
"Then you're f*cking blind."
She shook her head slowly. "I see you, all of you. Clearly."
Grace traced a path across his stomach and stopped when she got to the waistband of his boxers. He felt himself swell for her touch and became instantly aware that he was half-naked and she was wearing close to nothing and they were alone in dim light.
He grabbed her upper arms and jerked her against him. Hard. Her only response was to tilt her head back so she could continue to meet his eyes.
"You might want to keep your hands to yourself." He made his words as cold as possible. "You touch me like that and I'm not thinking about what a courageous Florence Nightingale you are."
"So what are you thinking? "
He gave her a shake and watched as her hair swung around her shoulders and caught the light.
"Damn you," he growled. "Don't do this."
Her eyes were soft, luminous. Heated. He knew what she was thinking about and it didn't have anything to do with talking. In that hooded glance, she was asking for what she wanted. And she wanted him.
In spite of his anger. In spite of the marks on his skin.
The only honorable part in him spoke up.
"Listen to me, Countess. This body of mine is built for f*cking. Do you even know what that is? We're talking one-night stands, up against a wall, don't know her name and don't care kind of shit. You don't want that."
She looked downcast, as if he'd robbed her of something.
"Hell." He let out some of his frustration with a deep breath. Everything that he'd been dreaming about was in his arms but the only thing he could do was let it go. "Don't you understand? You deserve better than what I can give you. You need someone who's going to make love to you. Not screw you and then leave you and your bed in a mess."
"You wouldn't do that."
"Oh yes, I would." Smith couldn't turn away but didn't want to kiss her because he knew he'd be lost.