Heather's Gift (Men of August 3)

The worry became so intense that she finally left her bedroom and went searching for Sam. She knew he hadn’t come to his own room. She would have heard him if he had.

“Heather.” Rick stepped into the entryway as she descended the stairs.

He was positioned at the front door, watching the night from the long, tinted windows at the side of the door.

“Seen Sam, Rick?” Heather asked softly, hoping Tara wasn’t around. Her sister was becoming so overprotective it was beginning to grate on her nerves.

“Game room. Sure you want to go searching for him?” Rick asked her gently. “He’s in a dangerous mood, Heather.”

She pushed her fingers through her hair, licking her lips nervously.

“He shouldn’t be alone.”

“He has his family,” he argued softly. “He’ll go to them when he needs to.”

She shook her head and smiled sadly. “Haven’t you noticed, Rick? He rarely does anymore. I bet the limo was only the second time he’s had sex since I came to stay here. He’s dangerous because he’s alone.”

“Heather.” He grimaced tightly. “Tara’s worried about this. And so am I. I don’t think you’re ready to be what Sam needs.”

“Maybe not.” She shook her head, remembering her earlier conversation with Sarah and Marly. Tears pricked her eyes because it was the one question she couldn’t answer. Could she handle it? “But I can’t leave him like this either, Rick. It’s breaking my heart.”

He watched her, his brown eyes dark and intense before he nodded his head abruptly and gave her one of those small, self-conscious smiles that had endeared him to her years ago.

“He’s a lucky man then.”

“I wish he saw it that way, “ she said in resignation. “Thanks, Rick.”

She moved away from him, drawing the edges of her long robe together as she made her way through the house to the basement entrance. And there she found Sam, alone, the air of shifting violence that surrounded him stronger than ever before.

“You’re worrying your family, you know.” Heather stepped into the game room, a large room arrayed with damned near every amusement a man could want.

A regulation-sized pool table dominated the center of the first quarter area of the room. Farther inside the wide area were arcade game machines, a wide screen television, a bar in the far corner, and a few scattered conversational areas made up of curved sectional couches and a chair or two. The furniture was wide and comfortable, the carpet under her feet was thick and luxurious, and in the dim light cast by the two single wall lamps, Sam stood, picking off pool balls with an air of bored contempt.

He was hiding here, she thought. Bare-chested, dressed in a pair of dark blue sweat pants, his feet bare. Sexy as hell and as tempting as sin as he watched her with that narrowed, brooding look that set her blood temperature rising.

He straightened, propping himself against the pool table as he watched her enter the room with narrowed eyes. His strong-boned face was lined with sorrow, his blue-gray eyes dark with exhaustion, and with a shadow of horror that broke her heart. The nightmares were growing worse for him, she knew. She heard him nightly as he came awake with a snarl, death echoing in the sound of his voice.

Die, you mother fucker!

She wondered if he knew what he cried out. Did he know the rage, the horror, the unbearable pain that echoed in his voice?

“The family doesn’t have anything better to do than worry,” he finally shrugged. Muscle rippled beneath his broad shoulders as he turned from her, the tanned flesh glowing beneath the dim light, sleek and tough, tempting her to touch.

“So they may as well worry about you, right?” she asked him softly as she stopped at the edge of the pool table, watching as he replaced the pool stick.

He sighed deeply, still turned from her, staring at the pool sticks as though they held some fascination for him.

“I’m okay,” he shrugged, turning back to her, his expression carefully composed, a reckless smile shaping his lips. “They’re just worried I’ll leave the house again.”

“Will you?” She arched a brow questioningly. “Leave the house again?”

A crooked smile tilted his lips, so male and tempting she nearly missed the fact that it didn’t reach his eyes.

“I promised I wouldn’t.” He laid his hand over his heart. “Didn’t you hear me?”

Heather snorted. “Actually, you said, and I’ll quote, ‘Fuck it, Cade, I’ll just rot here if that’s what you want,’ unquote.”

He grunted. She wondered if he meant to pass the sound off as a laugh.