The Merciless Travis Wilde

Chapter SIX



TRAVIS WAS DRIVING his ’Vette tonight, not his truck. He’d parked it a short way down the street.

He hadn’t thought about it, one way or the other—until he walked out of the bar with Genevieve in his arms.

Now he figured that having to walk a couple of minutes to get to the car was probably a good thing.

It would give him time to cool down.

He was beyond angry.

What in hell was in this woman’s head?

Didn’t she have any sense of reason? Walking into that bar last week, dressed to raise the blood pressure of every man breathing, and now, this. Drinking herself damned near senseless.

He didn’t like rules, didn’t believe in worrying much over what social pundits liked or disliked, but he did have opinions—and one of them was that a woman out of control was not a pretty sight.

As for drunks...

He didn’t like drunks in general but when a woman went that route...

His sisters would say he was being sexist. Maybe he was, but that was how he felt.

And what if Genevieve hadn’t got sick? What would have come next? Would she have let some guy pick her up, take her home? Touch her? Kiss her? Ease her thighs apart, bury himself in all that honeyed sweetness?

So much for calming down. If anything, his anger ratcheted up a notch.

A couple walking toward them laughed.

“Very romantic,” the woman said.

Travis glowered. If only they knew the truth. This was as far from “romantic” as a man could get—and it was stupid.

What he was doing was stupid.

He wasn’t Genevieve’s keeper.

He should have left her with her pals. She was their problem, not his.

It wasn’t too late; he could turn around, take her back to where he’d found her...

Genevieve moaned softly.

Yeah, but she was sick. Drunk, sure. But sick drunk made for a dangerous situation.

Two margaritas, her friend had said.

Hardly enough to get sick on, but she was. The moans. The way she’d clutched her belly. Even the way she’d let him all but kidnap her said everything he needed to know.

She was sick. And she needed—

She needed him.

He’d known it when he heard her whisper his name, when she gave herself over to him, buried her face against his throat.

She felt soft and feminine in his arms. And that sense that she trusted him. Needed him...

He tried not to think about that, or the way it made him feel.

It was a lot safer to concentrate on his anger.

“Damned fool woman,” he muttered.

“I’m sorry,” she said in a shaky whisper.

He hadn’t meant her to hear him, but maybe it was a good thing that she had.

“Yeah,” he said coldly, “right. I’m sure you are. Somebody should have told you that what comes after the booze is never as much fun as the partying that precedes it.

She shook her head. Her hair slipped like silk across his jaw.

“I meant that I’m sorry for this. Not your problem.”

“Damned right,” he growled.

Jennie expected nothing more.

She knew he wouldn’t say she didn’t have to apologize, that he was only glad he’d been there to help her...

Genevieve Cooper, are you truly crazy?

It was her alter-ego talking, but Jennie refused to listen. She wasn’t Genevieve, not anymore.

Plus, she knew what Travis Wilde was like. Hadn’t she learned all she needed to know last week?

Besides, he had every right to be harsh and judgmental. He thought she was drunk. How could he possibly know the truth, that what she really was, was incredibly stupid?

No alcohol with these pills, Jennifer, the doctor had said.

Sure. But what did doctors know? Not much, as the last months had surely proved.

But the righteous Travis Wilde had no way of knowing that, and she wasn’t about to enlighten him.

She’d decided, from the beginning, to keep her own counsel, which was a fancy way of saying it was her life and what was happening to her was her business, and she didn’t want anybody involved in it.

Her parents were gone. She had no brothers or sisters. The last thing she wanted were strangers, offering phony sympathy. She’d had her fill of that from well-meaning hospital volunteers. Or therapy groups, where everybody thought they had problems until they heard hers.

She’d even tried private counseling, and what a joke that had become when the shrink had broken protocol, reached out and hugged her.

Protocol.

There it was again, the same stupid word that had fallen from her lips last week, after a simple decision to—to take her research to another level had led her into this man’s arms, into letting herself feel like a woman instead of a—a creature drowning in a sea of test tubes and lab notes.

And what a mistake that had turned out to be.

Her car was just ahead. Thank goodness. Another minute and she would never have to see Travis Wilde again.

Jennie gathered all her strength, told herself it was vital that she not sound as awful as she felt.

“The tan Civic,” she said. “It’s mine.” He didn’t answer, didn’t even slow down. “Mr. Wilde. I said, that tan car...”

“I heard you.”

“Then put me—”

“You can get it tomorrow, when you’re up to driving.”

“I have already had the pleasure of retrieving my car, thanks to you. I have no intention of doing it again.”

“I don’t think you want to argue over the reasons you had to leave your car, last week or this.”

He was right. She didn’t. What she had to do was exert control.

“I am perfectly capable of driving my own car.”

Sick as she was, she was pleased to have achieved what she thought was a determined tone.

Perhaps not.

He laughed, though it was not a pretty sound.

“And pigs can fly.” He set her on her feet, held her steady with one arm around her waist while he dug out his keys and opened the ’Vette’s door. “Get in.”

“Where’s Brenda? Brenda can—”

“Brenda’s still partying with the rest of your pals. Go on. Get in.”

“No. I absolutely refuse to have you—”

He muttered something short and graphic, scooped her up again and put her into the passenger seat. Then he closed the door, went to the driver’s side and got behind the wheel.

“Seat belt,” he said sharply.

“Really, I don’t—”

He reached across her, grabbed the end of belt and brought it over her body. His hand brushed over her breasts. She thought of what it would be like if he really touched her, not in passion but in an offer of comfort.

“Comfort” was not in his game plan.

She could tell by the way he fastened the latch, his motions brisk and efficient.

“What’s your address?”

“I don’t need your help, Mr. Wilde.”

“Yes,” he snarled, “you do. And it’s a little late for formality, isn’t it? I wasn’t ‘Mr. Wilde’ when you were in my bed.”

A wave of hot color rose in her face.

Nice, Travis told himself, a truly nice touch. She didn’t deserve to be coddled but she was sick and he’d taken it upon himself to see her safely home.

Besides, he had no right to judge her.

She’d walked into a bar, looking for a hookup?

Her business, not his.

She drank to excess?

Her business again, absolutely not his.

There wasn’t any reason to make things worse than they already were, especially when his real anger had just reversed itself and gone from her as its target to himself.

Touching her breasts had been inadvertent.

And his body had not clenched with desire.

Desire, even with her like this, he would have understood. What he’d felt instead, the overwhelming need to take her in his arms and comfort her, was the last thing he’d expected.

He didn’t understand it.

Didn’t want to understand it.

What he wanted to do was get her to her apartment and then get the hell out of her life.

Whatever life that was.

Who was this woman? Everything about her confused him, even the way she looked...Entirely different than last week.

Far as he could tell, she didn’t have a touch of makeup on her face. Her hair was pulled back. She had on a cotton blouse. Sleeveless, simple, buttons all the way down the front. It was tan, pretty much the same color as her box-on-wheels automobile. And she was wearing jeans. Plain, no-name denim, not the torn kind that cost hundreds of bucks just so the wearer could look like somebody who actually worked for a living. Her feet were encased in flat leather sandals.

Nothing with the kind of heel that made a man play sexual fantasies in his head.

Not that she needed to dress the part of temptress.

She was beautiful just as she was, and even knowing she seemed woefully short on logic and maybe on morals didn’t change the fact that he still wanted to hold her close and tell her he’d take care of her...

He hated himself for it.

Jaw set, he fastened his seat belt and started the engine. The Corvette roared to life.

“I’m still waiting for you to tell me where you live.”

“This is ridiculous.” She reached for the door handle. “I’ll go back and get Brenda. She can—”

“No. She can’t. I’m driving you home and it’s not up for discussion. Now, what’s your address?”

Jennie closed her eyes.

If only she hadn’t let Brenda talk her into going out with most of the department to celebrate Peter Haley finally nailing his doctorate.

“Come on,” Brenda had said. “You’ve been mopey all week. A couple of hours away from the books will make you feel better.”

Maybe it would, she’d thought. So she’d gone with them.

And she hadn’t even ordered the margarita.

Peter had, and everybody had looked at her when it arrived.

She knew why. It was because she never drank, not even that staple of university life—beer.

Don’t you drink, Jen? someone always said. Or, Good for you! I’ve heard that these 12 step programs are hard to stick with.

Either way, there was no good rejoinder.

She was tired of people looking at her, of always being the one who ordered a Diet Coke.

One sip of the pale blue margarita, she’d thought. What harm could one sip do?

It had tasted lovely.

And it had felt lovely. Not the alcohol. What had been lovely was that, for the first time in months, she felt normal.

To hell with it, she’d thought, and she’d gulped down half of it—half, not two full drinks as Brenda had claimed.

And yes, for a couple of minutes she’d felt good.

And she was desperate to feel good.

To stop thinking about what lay ahead, and what it would be like.

To stop thinking about last week, and how she’d made a fool of herself with this very man.

This man who was every bit as gorgeous and as arrogant as she’d remembered.

The truth was, she remembered too much.

The feel of his hands on her. The way he kissed. And wasn’t that pitiful? That all of that should still be with her? That a man who was such an unmitigated bastard could be such an accomplished lover that a week later, despite the fact that she despised him, that she couldn’t afford to waste precious time on such nonsensical stuff, the sight of him could still make her heart start to race?

If only he hadn’t been in the bar tonight...

“Are we going to sit here all night?” her unwanted rescuer said. “Because we will, unless you give me your address.”

He would do it, Jennie knew. The best thing to do was give in, let him drive her home and know she would never have to deal with him again.

“I live near the university,” she said in weary resignation. “Farrier Drive. It’s a couple of miles past—”

“I can find it,” he said.

She had no doubt that he could.

Besides, she had other things to think about.

Like not throwing up again, until she was alone—but, oh, dear God, that wasn’t going to work out...

“Stop the car,” she gasped.

He glanced at her, then swerved across two lanes of traffic to the curb. She had barely undone her seat belt when he was out of the car and at her side.

“Easy,” he said, as he helped her onto the sidewalk.

A cramp pinched her belly and she groaned, leaned over and vomited although the truth was, mostly, she just gagged and made terrible sounds because there was really nothing left in her belly, but that didn’t make things any less horrible, especially because Travis Wilde, world-class rat, stood behind her as if he weren’t a rat at all, holding her shoulders and steadying her.

Done, she trembled like a leaf.

“Don’t move,” he said in a low voice.

She felt him lift one hand from her, then the other, as he slipped off his dark gray sports jacket, then wrapped it around her.

She wanted to tell him she didn’t need it—it had to be ninety degrees tonight—but the truth was, she was ice-cold.

“Thank you,” she said in a choked whisper.

He turned her toward him, took a pristine white handkerchief from his pocket. She reached for it, but she was shaking too hard to grasp it.

“Let me,” he said.

She could hardly meet his eyes as he gently wiped her mouth, afraid of the censure she’d see in his gaze.

“Hey,” he said softly. He put his fingers under her chin and raised her face to his, and what she saw in his eyes was compassion.

It made her want to lean forward and rest her head against his chest, but she knew better than to do that.

He was being kind. Not what she’d expected from him. And the last thing she needed. Too much kindness and she’d fall apart.

“I’m—I’m okay.”

He nodded. “You will be. Getting all that booze out of your system helps.”

“It isn’t the tequila,” she heard herself say, and could have bitten off her tongue, but he didn’t pick up on it.

Instead, he smiled.

“It never is. And if it makes you feel any better, I’m not a novice at this. Heck, I have three sisters, all younger than I am, and I remember helping them clean up after a party.”

It wasn’t true.

He’d never had to do anything like that for Em or Lissa or Jaimie. If they’d gotten themselves plastered—and now that he thought about it, he figured the odds were good they each must have, at least once in their teen years—they’d covered for each other.

He, Jake and Caleb had covered for each other, too.

Genevieve had nobody to turn to.

Nobody but him.

The thought put a little twist in his gut.

Her face was pale; the elastic thing, whatever women called it, around her ponytail had come loose and strands of pale blond hair were in her eyes.

He tucked the strands behind her ears.

“Okay now?” he said quietly.

She nodded.

He steadied her with one hand, reached into the ’Vette, opened the console, took out a small bottle of water. He opened it; she held out her hand but she was still trembling.

“Here,” he said, bringing the bottle to her lips.

She tilted her head back. Drank. Rinsed her mouth, then spat out the water.

“Thank you.”

“Finish it.”

“I really don’t want—”

“Water will make you feel better.”

He tilted the bottle to her lips again; she put her hand over his so she could lift it higher. His skin was warm, the feel of his fingers under hers reassuring.

“Good girl,” he said, and she, a lifelong advocate for women’s rights, felt herself glow under the words of what any self-respecting feminist would call sexist praise.

He capped the empty bottle, tossed it into the back of the car.

“Want to stay here, get a little more fresh air?”

“No. I feel much better.”

“Are you sure?”

She couldn’t bear the way he was looking at her, his eyes warm not only with compassion but with sympathy. She couldn’t tolerate anything close to pity; it was the reason she’d left New England and come here, where nobody knew her.

And now there was this man who had suddenly turned sweet and generous and kind...

“I’m sure.” She stood a little straighter. “Look, I know you’re afraid I’m going to get sick in your car—”

“I’m not worried about the car.”

“Of course you are. Why else would you give a damn?”

Good. That cold glare was in his eye again.

“You have one hell of an opinion of me.”

“It only matches your opinion of me.”

He opened his mouth, closed it again.

“Okay,” he said, after a minute, “how about a truce?”

Her eyes met his. She shrugged.

“Fine.”

He smiled. “Lots of enthusiasm in that word, Genevieve.”

She stood straighter.

“My name isn’t Genevieve.” She took a deep breath. What did it matter what he called her? And yet, somehow, it did. “My name is Jennifer. Jennie.”

He raised one dark eyebrow. “Why the pseudonym?”

“It wasn’t a pseudonym.”

The corner of his lips twitched.

“What else would you call using a phony name?”

She considered not answering, but she owed him some kind of honesty, even if it was only the smallest bit.

“I used a different name because—because that wasn’t me last Friday night, okay? That—that creature who got all dressed up and headed into that bar. I wasn’t that woman who—who went home with a strange man and—and—”

She felt her eyes fill with tears, and wasn’t that pathetic? She looked away from him, or would have, but he caught her face in his hands and wiped away her tears with his thumbs.

“You weren’t a creature. You were a beautiful woman. Brave, too.”

His voice was soft. She didn’t want softness, dammit. She wanted him to be the callous bastard she’d pegged him for.

She didn’t want to like him.

She didn’t want to need him.

She couldn’t need anybody.

Not now. Not ever. Not—

“Baby,” he said, not just softly but gently. It was too much, and she had to deal with it.

“And my name certainly isn’t ‘baby,’ either.” She jerked free of his hands. “So if you think a—a ration of Texas sweet-talk is going to make me dumb enough to sleep with you again—”

He let go of her, fast. So much for declaring a truce.

“Your mama should have taught you that it’s polite to wait until you’re asked.” His eyes narrowed to icy slits. “Do us both a favor, Genevieve. Get back in the car so I can take you home and know we’ll never have the misfortune to see each other again.”

His comment had been no nastier than hers, but it hurt. She wanted to zing back a clever response, then walk away, but her brain was foggy, they were miles from her apartment—and she knew damned well that on this particular night, walking home wasn’t an option.

“An excellent plan, Mr. Wilde,” she said coldly. “And thanks again for reminding me that you are, indeed, a callous, pluperfect rat.”

It wasn’t much, but it was the best she could do.

She swung away. A sharp pain lanced through her head; the earth tilted. She gave it a couple of seconds until things steadied. Then she got into the car.

He got in on his side, slammed the door hard enough to make her jump.

The car flew into the night, and Jennie prayed that the pain in her head wouldn’t get so bad that it would make her weep.

* * *

Neither of them said anything more until Travis turned onto her street, and into the garden apartment complex in which she lived.

The pain in her head had eased off. A minor miracle, but it wouldn’t last. She needed to take a pill before it returned.

“Which building?” he said.

“You can stop at the corner.”

“I can stop in front of your door. Which building?”

“You don’t have to—”

“You’re right, I don’t. But I will. For the last time, which building?”

God, he was impossible. Maybe some women liked to be bossed around but she wasn’t one of them. Still, if it got her home faster...

“That one,” she said. “At the corner.”

He drove to the end of the block, then into the driveway that led behind the building.

“What are you doing?”

He didn’t answer but then, he didn’t have to. What he was doing was obvious.

He was pulling into a slot in the small parking area.

“I’m seeing you to your door,” he said brusquely.

“That is absolutely not—”

She was talking to the air. He was out of the car, already opening her door.

Jennie rolled her eyes and stepped outside.

“Do you always ignore people’s wishes, Mr. Wilde?”

“Only when their wishes don’t make sense, Miss...?”

“Cooper,” she snapped.

“Only when their wishes don’t make sense, Miss Cooper. Twenty minutes ago, you were tossing your cookies.”

“That’s a horrible phrase!”

“It isn’t as bad as the act itself.”

They were walking toward the back entrance to her two-story building. He tried to take her arm; she shook him off.

It was a stupid thing to do, considering that it was dark—one of the lights over the door had burned out—and the lot had potholes big enough to swallow you whole.

Inevitably she stumbled.

Just as inevitably, he caught her, put his arm around her waist.

“I don’t need—”

“I’ll be the judge of that.”

“Dammit, Wilde—”

“Great,” he said tightly. “No more ‘mister.’ At least we’ll be on a less formal basis before you go facedown out here.”

“I hate to spoil that lovely image but it won’t happen. I’m much better now, thank you very much, and you’ve brought me to my door, so—”

“Keys.”

“What is wrong with you? I just said—”

“I’m taking you to your apartment. Keys.”

He held out his free hand, snapped his fingers—and was rewarded with the sight of her chin lifting and her eyes narrowing.

Damned if she didn’t look like she wanted to slug him.

He fought against a smile.

No matter what, you had to admire her spirit. All dressed up for a night on the town, dressed down for a night with friends, sick or not, Jennie Cooper was one interesting woman.

She held the keys up by two fingers, gave him a four-letter smile and dropped them in his palm.

This time, what he fought back was a burst of laughter.

She had more than spirit; she had resiliency.

For some crazy reason, he wanted to kiss her, and that was patently ridiculous. Instead he did the only safe thing: turned his back to her and unlocked the door.

It opened on the kind of hallway he suspected was endemic to cheap student housing everywhere. A narrow corridor, dim lighting, closed doors.

Nothing unusual.

Still, a caution born of years spent on not-necessarily-friendly territory half a world away made him move forward and enter the hall first. A quick but efficient glance revealed nothing more threatening than a moth batting against an overhead light at the foot of a staircase.

He turned, ready to signal her past him, but she was already moving.

Her body brushed his.

His breath nearly stopped. And unless he’d forgotten how to read women, so did hers.

Electricity filled the space between them.

He knew what he wanted to do.

Take Jennie in his arms. Kiss her. Touch her. She’d let him do it, too. He knew it as surely as he knew what that look in her eyes meant...

How many bad ideas could a man have in one night?

He took a step back.

“Okay,” he said briskly. “Which apartment?”

He wanted her to say it was on the second floor. Then he’d have the excuse to hold her in his arms again, but she swallowed hard, dragged her gaze from his and nodded toward the nearest door.

They walked to it. The same key opened the door, and they stepped inside.

The place was like all the off-campus housing complexes he’d visited back in his university days.

Small. Institutionally-furnished. Nothing to define it as Jennie’s, except for a small plush animal sitting in a corner of the sofa.

It was a dog with long, floppy ears. One long, floppy ear, anyway. The other was pretty much gone, as was most of a faded red bow around its neck.

It was the kind of sentimental keepsake his sisters—well, Emily, anyway—were big on. Somehow, he hadn’t expected Jennie to harbor such attachments.

“A silly thing.”

Travis turned around. Jennie was standing a few feet away, eyes fixed on him.

“The dog,” she said. “I don’t know why I keep it.”

“It’s not silly to keep something you love.”

“I don’t love it. Why would anybody love a beat-up old toy?”

Their eyes met.

She cleared her throat.

“I need to—to—”

She gestured toward what he figured was the bathroom.

“Yes. Sure.” He cleared his throat. “I’ll wait.”

“No. I mean, you don’t have to...”

“I’ll wait,” he said.

She nodded.

Safely inside the bathroom, the door closed and locked, Jennie stared at herself in the mirror.

She looked awful.

Not that it mattered.

Travis had performed a rescue mission; what she looked like was unimportant.

She peed. Washed her face. Brushed her teeth. Took a pill for her headache, just in case it returned.

Then she took a few deep breaths, let them out, opened the door and went back into the living room.

He was standing beside the window.

Say something, she told herself, say anything!

“Great view of the parking lot, huh?” she said briskly.

He turned around.

“Yeah.” A quick smile. “Well. Are you going to be okay?”

“I’ll be fine.”

“Because if you still feel sick—”

“Travis? What I said before, about it not being the tequila...It’s the truth. I—I wasn’t drunk.”

She spoke the words in a rush, even as she chastised herself for having said them.

“Look, I didn’t mean to...I shouldn’t have set myself up as judge and jury. You drank too much. So what? Believe me, I’ve done the same—”

“It was a reaction to medication.”

“Medication?”

He looked startled. Jennie’s heart thudded. He couldn’t be more startled than she was but somehow, it had become important that he not think worse of her than he already did.

“You mean, an allergic thing?”

She took a deep breath.

“Not exactly. I get—I get headaches.” That was certainly true enough. “I take something for them and—and the doctor warned me it wouldn’t mix well with liquor but—but—”

“But, you forgot.”

She hadn’t forgotten. She’d just thought, What the hell is the difference?

Life was closing down so quickly...

But she couldn’t tell him that.

“Something like that,” she said, trying for a carefree smile.

He smiled, too. Her heartbeat quickened. She’d almost forgotten how devastating his smile was: charming, flirtatious, sexy...and all Travis Wilde.

“Well,” he said, “after what happened tonight, you won’t forget next time.”

They both laughed politely—but nothing in their eyes was polite. The way he was looking at her, the way she was looking at him...

She turned away and walked to the door.

He followed.

She looked at him, held out her hand. He took it.

His touch sent a wave of longing through her.

“Anyway—anyway, thanks for taking me home.”

“No,” he said, “thank you.”

“For what?”

“For tolerating me being such an ass.”

“You weren’t. I mean, you had every reason to think I was just plain drunk.”

“Even so, I had no right to judge you.” His hand tightened around hers; he moved closer. “As for last week—”

“Really,” she said quickly, “there’s no need to—”

“There’s every need. You gave me a gift beyond measure that night.”

She felt her face flame with color.

“No. I understand. I burdened you with—”

“You honored me.” His voice was rough, so sexy she could hardly breathe. “No woman’s ever given me such an incredible gift before.”

He meant it. She could see it in his eyes, hear it in his words. It made her want to explain...at least, to explain as much as she could.

“Travis,” she said softly, “I know I made it sound as if—as if you—as if what we did—was just something that I’d planned could happen with anybody. But—but—”

“But what?”

The rest was hard to say. To admit. She didn’t want to embarrass him. Or embarrass herself. But he had the right to hear it.

She took a deep breath.

“But one step inside that bar and I knew I’d never go through with it. And then—and then—”

His eyes darkened.

“And then?”

“And then I saw you.”

“You were a miracle, coming through that door,” he said softly. “I told myself the miracle was that you could save my sorry tail...” He cupped her face with his hands. “But the truth is, the miracle was that you were so beautiful. And that I wanted you the second I saw you.”

Her smile, her sigh, told him everything he’d spent the past week needing to know.

“Truly?” she said, all the innocence in the world in the one, softly-spoken word.

“Truly,” he said. “I never wanted a woman the way I wanted you.”

“What we did,” she whispered, “it was—it was—”

“Incredible,” he whispered back, putting his arms around her, bending his head to hers, nuzzling her hair away from her temple. “I thought about you every single minute since that night.”

“Did you?” she said, her voice trembling.

“Every waking moment.” He smiled. “Every sleeping moment, too.” His smile tilted. “I dreamed about you.”

Was he saying that to make her feel better, or did he mean it?

Stop analyzing, was the last thing her alter-ego said, before she sent it packing and moved fully into his embrace.

She could feel the hard, quick race of his heart.

“I—I dreamed about you, too.”

He cupped her face. Lifted it to his.

“I don’t want to leave you,” he said gruffly.

Jennie took a deep, deep breath.

“Then don’t,” she whispered.

Travis kissed her. She kissed him back. He groaned, kissed her again, hard and deep.

Then he reached past her, and closed the door.