His shock and anger had been warring with his concern for her since all the way back in the gym, when he’d pulled his T-shirt over her head, had seen the first scar, and everything had fallen into place. Now, the anger was winning.
“Why do you think…” she began, then stopped like she couldn’t figure out how to tell this next lie.
He was slowing for the outskirts of Sinful, and his hands were gripping the steering wheel too tightly. “Let’s see,” he said. “Let’s count them off. That you have two gunshot wounds in your thigh, and they can’t be more than a couple months old max? That the pain in your leg wasn’t any paragliding accident? That you know how to clear a room and you know how to make an ops plan? That you analyze instead of panicking? That you take pain and fear like they’re part of the job? That absolutely nothing that’s happened has fazed you the way it should? But what I want to know is…” He was headed up the mountain now, the way he’d been the night before to help her board up her window. The way he’d been this morning, after he’d dropped her off at the shop. “Was pulling me in just part of the camouflage?”
She was breathing hard. He felt a stab of self-loathing, sick and deep. “And I don’t know,” he said, “if I’m more of a bastard because I can’t wait any longer to say it, or if you’re more of a bitch for doing it.”
He pulled into his driveway, heard Tobias’s resonant, welcoming bark, and didn’t get out of the ute. He kept the engine running so the heater would stay on and hated himself again for caring. And cared anyway.
She said, her voice low and shaking, “I’m more of a bitch for doing it.”
She opened the door and got down. He saw her stagger, heard the suppressed exclamation of pain, and was leaping down himself, coming around and catching her around the waist, taking her weight.
She tried to pull away, and he could tell that hurt more. “Damn it,” she said. Near tears, still fighting them hard. “I wish I had my keys. But I don’t. And I don’t know what else to do.”
“Come on.” He walked up the path with her, knowing it was hurting her bare feet, but that that pain was the least of it. He kept his arm around her as they got to the stairs, when she put a foot on the first one and had to stop.
This time, he was the one swearing. Then he was lifting her, knowing that it still hurt, but that it hurt less, and carrying her to the front door, where he set her down.
“One minute,” he told her. He knew what he felt like now. He felt cruel. He found his keys, opened the door, and picked her up again.
“I can walk,” she said. Of course she did.
“No,” he said. “You can’t. For f— for God’s sake. Let me take you upstairs. Accept some bloody help.”
She didn’t argue. She was knackered, and he knew it. He got her up the stairs, set her on the edge of the bed, pulled the blankets back, and said, “Get in. And tell me there’s a pain tablet in that packet.”
“I don’t—” she started to say.
That was it. This was the end. He’d done his dash. “Yes,” he said. “You do need it. Taking one bloody pain pill when you’ve been done over that hard isn’t weakness. Telling me you hurt isn’t weakness. Admitting you’re scared isn’t weakness. Letting me carry you when you can’t walk isn’t bloody weakness!” He was shouting, and he knew it. She was pale as a sheet, breathing hard, and he was a bastard. “I’m getting you a glass of water,” he said. “And you can take that tablet or not.” He didn’t add I don’t care, because it wasn’t true, and she’d know it.
He went down the stairs again with some distant part of his brain saying, Pull your head in, mate, and the rest of his mind not letting him do it. In the kitchen, he opened the door, let Tobias out, then leaned over from the waist, put his hands flat on his thighs, and breathed.
In and out. Oxygen. He was his father’s son, his country’s defender. A decent man. Not an ego. Not a soldier. Not a competitor.
She needs shelter. Be it.
Tobias came back in, wagged his tail twice, and pressed his head against Jace’s thigh. Jace locked the door, took off his shoes, poured that glass of water, and went back upstairs. Ready to be a man.
Lily was sitting upright, and the face she turned to him was strained and white. He sat on the bed beside her, handed her the glass, and said, “Do the next thing. That’s the rule. I didn’t do it. I let myself get in the way. Take your tablet if you want it. I think you need it, but it’s your choice.”
She swallowed, and his heart twisted despite everything. Despite his anger, despite her deception. They didn’t seem to matter enough. “I need it,” she said. “You’re right. Pain makes it harder to heal. And you’re right that pride gets in the way. Mine, too.” She fumbled with the little packet of tablets, her hands shaking and one arm in a sling, and he took it from her, pressed a white tablet out of its foil packet, and handed it to her. She swallowed it down with a sip of water, drank half the rest of the glass, and said, “I want a shower so badly. But first—I owe you this.”
Her eyes were steady on him despite the pain, despite the concussion. He could tell she was working to focus, and that it was getting harder all the time. She said, “I could tell you that I was planning to tell you tonight. I’d know it was true, but you wouldn’t. I shouldn’t have slept with you last night. It wasn’t fair to do it without telling you about myself, and I knew it. And I’m sorry.”
He blew out a long, slow breath. Steady, mate. “Go on.”
“My name is Paige Hollander.”
“Not Lily,” he said. “Paige.” It sounded strange. “I saw your photos online, though. With your husband. So—what is this? Past career under another name?”
He could see her steel herself, but he wasn’t one bit prepared for what she’d say. He couldn’t imagine. What she said was, “Lily is my sister. She’s my twin.”
It rocked him back hard. “So the house,” he said slowly. “The shop.”
“The goats,” she finished. “The clothes. The life. Everything you’ve seen. None of it’s mine. They’re all hers. And I’m not the woman you thought you knew.”
“Then,” he said, “who are you?”
“I’m a cop.”
He had to take a minute. “Where?” he finally asked.
“San Francisco. Lily was worried about the sale, about the pressure she was getting. I wanted to help her. I switched with her for a while so I could deal with it. I never planned to hurt anybody. I never wanted to hurt you. It was weak of me. I’m sorry.”
That was the second time she’d said that. Weak. Like it was the worst thing there was. “And the gunshot wounds?”
She closed her eyes, opened them again, and he saw pain. More than physical. “I was shot. At work. That’s why I could come up here.”
She was trembling. Too much tension. Too much fatigue. Her hand shook on the glass as she lifted it to her lips, and she winced when it hit her mouth. He let her take her drink, took the glass from her, set it down on the bedside table, and said, “Bathroom’s there. Extra towels in the cupboard. Do you need my help for the shower?”
“No. I can do it.”
“Sure?”
“Yes. Please. If you’d just… leave me. Let me. Please.”
Her self-control, her strength, her courage were just about used up, and she couldn’t stand to let him see them go. He got it. He hated it.
He stood up. “Use my toothbrush if you like. I’ll sleep on the couch.”
He left her, then, because she wanted him to.
He felt a hundred years old. He felt like he’d run twenty miles in battle kit.
The problem was—he knew she felt so much worse.