Hidden Away (KGI #3)(59)

It was hard to tell by the inflection of her voice whether her statement was a criticism or a bleak statement of fact. There was no pride in the words.

“Then how could you have prevented it?” Garrett asked again.

He might not be that intuitive when it came to women, but his gut was starting to scream. Some of the puzzle pieces were coming together. He didn’t know why it hadn’t clicked for him before. But now the facts were there, laid out in front of him and he had a very bad feeling he knew exactly what had prompted Marcus Lattimer to go to Allen Cross’s office and shoot him in cold blood.

He met her gaze, saw so much more than he had even five minutes ago. “Who hurt you, Sarah?”

Her face lost all color again and her eyes went blank, like a deep freeze or a white-out.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

The words stuttered out, utterly unconvincing.

He reached over to take her hand. She tried to retreat, but he held firm and gently rubbed his thumb up and down her fingers. “You’re as skittish as an abused animal. Someone hurt you. I think I finally understand what happened and why.”

“Then why ask if you already know everything? You have it all figured out. You don’t need me to spill my insides.”

He wasn’t put off by the bitterness is her voice. He may have lied about Lattimer, but there was one thing he planned to be blindingly honest with her about.

“I need to know,” he said simply. “And I need to know because I can’t live every minute wanting to kiss you and touch you, all the while knowing that someone made you afraid. Not just of me but all men.”

Her eyes widened and her lips parted in a gasp of surprise.

“I don’t want you to be afraid of me, Sarah. More than anything, I want you to trust me. I want you to be able to feel my touch and know that I’m never going to hurt you. I want you to touch me.”

He hadn’t realized how much he wanted her to touch him until he’d said the words. He wanted to feel those soft hands on his skin. His groin ached and throbbed. He wanted her fingers wrapped around his dick, stroking with her featherlight caress and then firmer. He wanted her on every inch of his body. He wanted to see the contrast of her paleness against his darker skin.

He wanted to taste her and for her to taste him. Sweat beaded his forehead and his breaths had shallowed until it embarrassed him. He was panting after her like a moron, but she flipped every one of his switches, and some he hadn’t even known he had.

He wanted to make love to her. He wanted her to trust him enough to take that step. He wanted to show her that he’d never hurt her.

Her surprise turned to hurt, her gaze growing dim. He hated the sadness that was deep seated there. It was like watching day turn to night as some of the light went out and shadows stretched like storm clouds through her eyes. She pulled her hand away and he let her this time.

“You were right, Garrett,” she said in a brave voice that trembled with the effort it took her to make the admission. “Someone did hurt me. More than that, he took something away that I’m not sure I’ll ever get back.”

It was hard to control the rage that mounted with every breath he took. He willed himself to remain still and not to outwardly react. She seemed so hesitant—and vulnerable—almost as if she expected him to back away as though she had the plague.

But he knew. Goddamn it, he knew that Cross had been the one who raped her. Everything clicked together at light speed. Her quitting her job with Cross and not taking one since.

It even made sense why Lattimer had killed the son of a bitch, and as much as Garrett loathed Lattimer, he understood why. There was plenty to condemn Lattimer for, but not this.

Sarah turned her haunted gaze to Garrett, and he saw her visibly withdraw. The walls went up, almost as if bracing herself for his rejection.

Instead, he eased forward, moving inch by inch until he slid his hand over hers again, cupping it protectively in his palm. “You’ll get it back.”

“He raped me,” she blurted. “I trusted him and he raped me.”

He wished he was one of these guys who always knew the right thing to say at the right time, but he wasn’t. He wasn’t subtle. He didn’t know how to be sensitive and he sucked at words. He acted. That was who he was.

He reached out and tenderly nudged her chin with his free hand until their gazes met again. Tears shimmered in her beautiful eyes and he remembered all the times before when she’d been so stalwart, on the verge of tears but never letting them fall. Had she ever cried for herself? Had she ever given herself permission to grieve?

“Honey, you gave him your trust. He shit on that. That’s on him. Not you. Never you. I’d like to find the bastard and cut his nuts off, but I know that doesn’t help you now.”

She gave a shaky laugh and a single tear slipped down her cheek. He caught it with his thumb and whisked it away but continued to stroke her cheek.

“He’s dead,” she whispered. “Marcus killed him.”

“I know,” he said gently. “But it was a nice image, wasn’t it?”

This time her laughter was stronger and some of the light flooded back into her eyes. And damn if he didn’t want to pull her into his arms and tell her it would be okay. But he had no way of knowing that. It was just words, and she didn’t need platitudes.