"Lee, Rachel - Lost Warriors" - читать интересную книгу автора (Lee Rachel)

ten million reasons why he wanted Wendy Tate out of his hair. Carla's
desertion had come after a long fight to hold their marriage together. If

Carla couldn't stand him, couldn't make it work, then nobody could.

The bottle and Carla. Two reasons. That left 9,999,998 reasons to go. He
wanted Wendy Tate to leave him alone so that he wouldn't have to enumerate
them, either to her or himself.

But mast especially to her.

He knew she was there before she made a sound. The next morning, as he stood
at the filing cabinet, pouring the day's first cup of coffee, he felt her
behind him as if a breeze had whispered through his mind, his heart, his
soul. It had always been that way with Wendy Tate, even when she was at her
most maddening. Once he'd even been crazy enough to wonder if they didn't
have some kind of unfinished business from another life between them.

What he knew for sure, though, right now, was that her return to his life was
God's punishment on him for past sins. He was going to pay for every wayward
thought, every stupid choice, every dumb thing he'd ever done, by having to
look at Wendy Tate every day. By having to deal with her.

Because his body had never stopped wanting her.

He set the mug down on top of the filing cabinet and turned to face his doom.

"Hi, Yuma," she said. Softly. Quietly. She didn't step any closer.

Oh, God, he thought, she'd grown up. She really had grown up. In all the
right places, which not even the modest khaki jumpsuit could conceal. But
more, she had grown up inside. He could see it in her tentative posture, her
incredibly soft brown eyes, in the short, stylish cut of her honey-brown hair.

Suddenly, in an almost-flashback, he remembered the first time he'd seen her.
He'd been in Nate's jail, having slept off another drunk. He'd been hung
over, red-eyed, sick as a damn dog, and he'd looked past Nate to see
sixteen-year old

Wendy Tate looking at him. Not with disgust or loathing or even shock, but
with a compassion that had seared Yuma's brain and left scars on his heart.
He'd gone on the wagon at that very instant, and had backslid only once since.

He remembered her, so young, fresh and untouched, her long hair draped around
her shoulders, her jeans and T shirt molding a body that had only just
started to bloom. He hadn't noticed she was female. He'd seen a kid. What
had killed him was that a kid felt compassion for him. A kid. Damn it, that
had been one of the bitterest moments of his life.

Now she was standing here years older, looking at him as if he might bite.