The Perfect Husband - Lisa Gardner [75]
“Shit.”
Suddenly strong arms were around her, swinging her up. She went wild, fighting and clawing, and she couldn’t even remember what she was fighting. She just had to fight.
J.T.’s hand caught hers, trapping them against his chest. “Shh, chiquita, I have you. I have you.”
She buried her face against his shoulder and prayed he wouldn’t let her go.
J.T. carried her out of the building and into the cool, fresh night.
“ARE YOU ALL right?” J.T. asked half an hour later as he set her down on the sofa.
Marion had dragged the wounded woman out of the bar, entrusted her to the care of the few people in the parking lot, then they’d escaped the scene. Now J.T.’s thumb brushed Tess’s cheek, then feathered through her hair. His gaze was intent as he searched for wounds.
“Yes. Yes, I’m fine,” Tess murmured, too embarrassed to meet his gaze. J.T. and Marion had been ready to take on the place. She’d seen one raised chair leg and almost fainted. Some bad ass she was.
“That wasn’t how the evening was supposed to turn out.”
“I suppose it’s a bad sign when your star pupil almost loses her lunch during her first brawl. Maybe next time Jim shows up, I can vomit on him for self-defense.”
“Tess—”
Marion returned from checking the grounds, snapping on the living room light. She’d already spoken to the police; they hadn’t seen anyone lurking in the vicinity.
J.T. moved back. For the first time, Tess noted the scratch running down his cheek and his bruised knuckles.
“You’re hurt.”
He glanced at his hands idly. “It’s nothing.” He turned to Marion. “And you?”
“I’m fine.” Marion leaned against the doorjamb, her silk blouse ripped and linen pants beer-stained. Her hair had come undone, golden waves now rippling down her shoulders. The style took ten years off her age.
“You should leave your hair down,” Tess blurted out. “You look beautiful.”
“Gets in my way.” The agent was already braiding the strands.
“Forget it,” J.T. told Tess flatly. “She likes the feminazi style.”
“I prefer the word professional. Would you like some ice for your knuckles?”
“Whatever.”
Marion rolled her eyes but went after the ice.
An awkward silence filled the room. Tess didn’t know how to break it. She examined her hands. She wished she had bruised knuckles.
“I’m sorry,” J.T. said abruptly.
“For what?”
“Uh . . . the bar fight. They aren’t so unusual at that place.”
“You wanted a fight?”
A pause. “Maybe.”
“All the swimming,” Tess murmured, “all the weights, the jogging, the shooting, it’s not enough for you, is it?”
“I’m an intense kind of guy.”
She looked at him, then she stared at the doorway that led into the kitchen. “J.T., why are you always so angry?”
“Who, me?”
“Marion has that anger too.”
“Marion has ice in her veins. She likes it that way.”
“Versus you—”
“Who has tequila. It’s been a long night, Tess. We all need some sleep.”
“Did you really think someone was watching the house tonight, or was that just an excuse?”
“No,” he said immediately, but then looked troubled. “I don’t know. Maybe Marion was right. Maybe it’s just withdrawal. I’m . . . I’m a little on edge these days.” He looked her in the eye. “Tess, when it comes right down to it, Marion is the one you can count on. I have raw talent, she has follow-through. I get in trouble, she gets things done. Remember that, all right? If push comes to shove, go to Marion. She’ll take care of you.”
“You’re wrong,” she told him. “When push comes to shove, you’re the one who’s going to help me, J.T. You’re the only one I know who’s intense enough to take on Jim.”
He silenced further declarations with a finger over her lips. Wordlessly he took her hand and drew her off the sofa.
There was no light on in the hallway. It loomed dark and endless, as hushed as a sanctuary. Her footsteps slowed. So did his. When they arrived at her room, she didn’t open the door. She leaned against it and stared at his face.
She traced the fresh scratch marring his cheek. “Does that hurt?”
“No.”
Her fingers curled around his chin,