The Wrong Man by Natasha Anders
Not all the knife wounds were still bandaged; the shallower gashes—on his left pec, just above his belly button, and over his left clavicle—had been stitched up and left to heal. The stitches had been removed already, but the scars still had the angry, swollen appearance of fresh wounds. Lia moaned and gently traced the tip of her index finger over the long, jagged cut on his pec, and his muscle jumped beneath her tentative touch.
“Don’t.” His gravelly voice breathed directly into her ear and startled her into jumping back.
“I’m sorry.” That was way out of line. She didn’t know what she was thinking. “I should go.”
“Not going to help me with my jeans?” he asked, his face completely serious. “The buttons are tricky.”
She hesitated, and her eyes involuntarily dropped to the fly of his jeans. To her horror, the generous bulge shifted beneath her gaze, quickly taking impressive shape down the length of his left thigh. She gulped and her eyes leapt back to his. Despite his obvious exhaustion, he was grinning broadly, a lascivious twinkle in his eyes.
“They’ll be even harder to undo now,” he said, his grin starting to look decidedly wicked.
“I’m sure you can manage,” she squeaked before turning tail and getting out of there. His knowing chuckle followed her down the stairs and all the way out the front door, and even when she was in her car and halfway home, she could still hear it echoing around in her head.
Sam continued to laugh as he watched Dahlia McGregor’s swift retreat. She was a weird little thing. He hadn’t considered the fact that she would be around when he’d made the impulsive decision to come to Riversend. Truthfully, he hadn’t given her much thought at all since their torrid encounter at Daisy and Mason’s wedding. It would definitely be fair to say he’d almost forgotten about her entirely. But seeing her again tonight had reminded him how bizarrely hot he found that whole button-down librarian thing she had going on. This forced convalescence might not be as boring as he’d feared it would be.
He was going to be here for at least three months, and he had to pass the time somehow. Might as well pass it with the primly hot little Dahlia McGregor.
Lia was rattled. Her hands shook so badly she could barely get her key in the door. Thankfully the house was dark, which told her that her parents were both asleep. She definitely wasn’t feeling up to speaking with either of them after the evening she’d just had.
First gropey Gregory and his peripatetic fingers, and then Brand’s surprise reappearance back into her life. All in all, it was an evening she’d sooner forget. And yet—after she was settled in bed—she found herself constantly thinking of Sam Brand. Wondering how he was managing. He seemed to be in a lot of discomfort; would he be able to get any sleep? How would he cope in the morning? He would have difficulty dressing. She wondered if he was going to hire a nurse. Someone to help him out around the cabin until he was steadier on his feet.
She shook herself. It wasn’t any of her business. She was sure Brand had it all figured out. Her phone buzzed, and she lifted it from the nightstand. It was from Daff.
Thanks for taking the groceries to the cabin.
No probs. Brand is there already.
No shit? Crap, I didn’t make up the bed or anything. I took care of it.
Cool! Thanks, man. You’re awesome.
Lia smiled fondly at that.
How was the PTA thing?
Ugh!!!!! Charlie’s math teacher is an asshole. Spencer nearly hit the guy. Lunch at MJ’s tomorrow? I’ll tell you about it then.
It was unusual for them to meet on a Tuesday, but Lia didn’t really have anything else happening after her usual errands in the morning.
Sounds good. See you then. Night.
Daff replied with a little snoozing emoticon, and Lia put her phone aside and lay on her back staring into the dark. She sighed heavily when her thoughts strayed to Gregory. She immediately shuddered and tried to push him back out of her mind. She had hoped that—despite the lack of chemistry between them—they could build a relationship, but after his earlier obnoxiousness, that likelihood was highly doubtful.
Her search for the right man would have to continue, and she might as well stop thinking about Brand and how attractive she still found him, despite his involvement with a gorgeous pop superstar. Because he was the polar opposite of the right man. He wasn’t even in the same galaxy as the right man.
She just wished she could put him out of her mind as easily as she had Gregory. Thankfully, she wouldn’t have to see either man again.
“Fuck! Fuck! Fuuuuuck!” Sam glared at his reflection in the steamy bathroom mirror and threw his razor across the room. Shaving was clearly not an option. He had sliced his face to ribbons, and he still had patches of dark stubble all over his jaw and cheeks. This was his first attempt at shaving himself since the attack—the nurses had taken care of it during his lengthy stay in the hospital. And then he’d spent five days after being discharged at home in his flat with a private nurse, reluctant to leave the country until he was sure Colby had a handle on everything.
He hadn’t realized how wholly incapable he was of completing even the simplest of tasks until now. And it pissed him off. Luckily he should be rid of the fucking cast in another week or so, which was why he hadn’t seen the need to hire a caregiver here. He hadn’t anticipated how exhausting the journey would be, though. And he was knackered and completely out of sorts.
Even showering had been a bit of a disaster, since he hadn’t remembered to cover his cast and had gotten it wet before comprehending he should probably wrap it in plastic.
He shook his head and stomped back into the bedroom, where he attempted to dress himself. He managed to struggle into underwear, socks, track pants, and a loose tank top and trainers, even though the effort left him panting and his bad arm aching.
He felt better after a decent night’s sleep, and tackling the stairs today didn’t feel like too much of a chore. The wound in his thigh pulled uncomfortably with each step, but it wasn’t anything he couldn’t manage. He wandered to the fridge, and a quick glance at the contents told him that everything would require cooking. He grimaced. Even with two functioning arms, he wasn’t the greatest of cooks. Attempting a proper breakfast in his current state would only end in disaster.
On to plan B, then. Cornflakes. He hated cornflakes, it was a kid’s meal, but it was that or toast, and he didn’t fancy attempting to butter toast with his left hand. He grabbed a carton of milk and turned to put it on the island behind him and then reached for the orange juice. He somehow miscalculated the grab and fumbled. The carton went tumbling to the floor and exploded on impact.
“Fucking cock-sucking motherfucking son of a donkey’s ball sac!” he yelled as he jumped out of the way. He got splashed anyway. Jesus!
“Uh. Knock, knock?” He swore again, the unfamiliar voice taking him by complete surprise. He didn’t like being sneaked up on. In fact, he fucking hated it. Before the stabbing incident in London, nobody had gotten the jump on him. Ever.
He glared at the woman standing at the back door. She looked familiar. His confusion cleared when he recognized Daisy’s oldest sister, Daphne. No, that was wrong. Daffodil. Stupid name.
She bore a striking similarity to Dahlia with her glossy, dark-brown hair, slender body, and pretty gray eyes, but she lacked her sister’s appealing softness. This one had a cynical mouth and just somehow seemed more . . . angular. He couldn’t figure out what it was. She looked sharp, while Dahlia looked round and cuddly. He reckoned cuddling Daffodil McGregor would be like trying to get cozy with a scorpion. She was well put together and dressed attractively—it was a look that usually appealed to him, sophisticated and sleek. But in comparison to Dahlia’s fussy dress sense, it just left him cold.
Bizarre.
“Hey,” he greeted with a nod, trying for insouciance, despite the bright-orange liquid pooling at his feet. “Daff, right?”
“Yes.” Her voice wasn’t particularly friendly, and he r
He shrugged, as there was really no point in answering.
She turned away and stepped into the broom closet next to the guest bathroom before exiting seconds later with a mop and bucket.
“You don’t have to—”
“If I don’t, it won’t get done.” Her voice was curt, and he winced. There was no point in arguing—he couldn’t clean it up himself. Not yet. Feeling like a helpless child, he stepped aside reluctantly and let her mop the floor.
“Get changed while I sort this out,” she commanded him, her tone of voice grating as fuck. “I’ll fix you some breakfast.”
“Thanks,” he muttered sullenly before kicking off his sodden trainers and padding out of the room and upstairs in his socks. He sank down onto the edge of the unmade bed and allowed his shoulders and head to slump for a few moments of self-pity before he shook himself and got up to hunt through his suitcase for a fresh pair of track pants.
It took him forever to get the wet pair off and the new pair on, and in that time he could smell fresh coffee on the brew. He sat for a moment and did his usual morning range of motion exercises for his broken arm. Wrist and shoulder rotations, fist flexing, and a host of other soft-core exercises designed to strengthen his arm.
“How do you like your eggs?” Daff’s voice floated up from the kitchen, and he paced to the loft railing, still flexing his fist while rotating his wrist, to see what she was doing. The floor was clean and she was getting ingredients out of the fridge. God, was that bacon? He didn’t care if her attitude stank, if she gave him bacon he’d probably drop to one knee and propose. He hadn’t had a proper meal since yesterday’s preflight breakfast in London. He was starving.
“Sunny side up,” he called down, and she nodded without looking up. He took a few paces back and sat back down on the bed and lifted one foot to his knee to tug off a sock and then did the same with the other. He contemplated his bare feet for a few morose moments, curling his toes against the hardwood floor. He sat deep in thought for a while until the delicious aroma of frying bacon wafted up to his nose. He limped back downstairs—seriously, these stairs sucked balls—and noticed that her phone screen was lit up on the kitchen island. He sneaked a peek and saw Dahlia’s name above a message—Still on for lunch?—and glanced at Daff, who had her back to him. He quickly tapped Dahlia’s name—or Lia, as it said on the screen—and made a mental note of the number before making his way to the kitchen table and sinking heavily into a chair.
He watched Daff work. She wasn’t exactly a domestic goddess, creating more dishes than he thought was entirely necessary for a simple breakfast of bacon, eggs, and toast.
“Thanks for doing this,” he said. He hated feeling beholden to anybody.
“I promised Daisy I’d help out, but I’m not great at this, you’d be better off with—”
She stopped speaking so suddenly there was no doubt in his mind that she was referring to Dahlia.
“With?” he prompted.
“A nurse or something.” He knew that wasn’t what she’d been about to say, but he let it slide.
“I don’t like having strangers hovering around me.”
“I’m a stranger,” she reminded.
“We’re practically related,” he exaggerated. “I don’t mind having family around.” She made a rude sound at the back of her throat, and he hid a grin when she unceremoniously thrust a plate and a mug of delicious-smelling coffee on the table in front of him. He groaned appreciatively and thanked her sincerely when she returned seconds later with cutlery and his toast.
Eating with his left hand was a messy affair, but he was getting used to it, and he was so hungry he didn’t even care that she was there to witness his disgusting table manners. She had retreated to the other side of the kitchen, which wasn’t very far, considering that this wasn’t a huge cabin. She was propped against the kitchen sink, sipping coffee and watching him over the rim of her mug. Every time he looked up from his feast, it was to meet her narrowed gaze.
“What?” he finally snapped, his mouth full of toast and runny egg yolk.
“Just wondering why you came here, that’s all,” she said with a one-sided shrug. He gave his plastered arm a speaking look and chose not to respond to her comment. “It’s just that you can go anywhere in the world to recuperate. Why Riversend?”
“Precisely.” He nodded, sending her a condescending thumbs-up before mopping up more of the delicious yolk with his toast. When she turned her nose up like someone who’d just caught a whiff of something putrid, he grinned. “I could go anywhere, so this little bum-fuck town in the middle of nowhere is exactly the last place in the world anybody would look for me.”
That offended her. Good. Served her right for digging around in something that was none of her business.
“I can’t come here every day,” she said coldly, draining her mug and slamming it down on the sink. “So you’ll have to sort something else out.”
“Don’t you worry your pretty little head over it. I’ll be fine,” he said cheerfully, knowing exactly how much his patronizing words and voice would aggravate her. She pursed her lips and turned to rinse her mug beneath the faucet.
“Having a near-death experience hasn’t exactly improved your personality.”
“Nothing wrong with my personality to begin with,” he dismissed. “And it was hardly a near-death experience. Just a bit of blood and drama. I had it all under control.”
“I saw the footage; everybody is carrying on about what a hero you are. When, in fact, that guy had no business getting within a meter of Laura Prentiss, did he? You fucked up, didn’t you?”
Sam’s jaw clenched, and he glared at the woman staring at him with her challenging, defiant gaze. Of course she would see what very few others had seen. Sam and his team had fucked up, and it had nearly cost Sam and—worse—Lally their lives.
He shouldn’t have been in the field at all. He had lost his edge, and these days he found managing the business a lot more rewarding than the mind-numbing boredom of trailing after some asshole playboy or ditzy pop star. Before they had gone their separate ways, Sam had dealt with the clients, the contracts, and management, while Mason had preferred handling the training program.
The arrangement had suited both men. After Mason had sold his half of the business, Sam had taken on his partner’s workload until he could find someone to replace him. But he had been eager to relinquish the recruitment and training responsibilities once he had hired a suitable replacement for Mason. Sam didn’t know why he had acquiesced to Lally’s request, maybe because it had seemed like a cakewalk. Maybe a small part of him had been bored or restless. He wasn’t entirely sure.
All he knew was that he hadn’t assessed the threat properly, hadn’t anticipated such extreme escalation from the letters to actual physical danger. It had been fucking inexcusable and a clear sign that Sam should probably stick to management. Still, having Daffodil McGregor point out his flaws was grating.
“Don’t bother with the dishes,” he said, hearing the ice in his voice. “I’m sure I’ll manage to load the dishwasher. Thanks for breakfast.” Daff’s eyes flickered and the challenge faded, to be replaced by something resembling regret.
“Our numbers are on the fridge if you should need anything.”
“I won’t.”
“Brand, look, I’m—”
“Thank you.” His voice brooked no argument and she nodded before retreating through the back door.
Sam glared at the plate of half-eaten eggs and bacon in front of him, his appetite completely gone. The woman was a total viper. He didn’t understand how she could be related to Daisy and Dahlia.
“Promise me you’ll think about it,” Aisha urged, and Lia stared at the woman, st
“Oh, I’ll do more than think about it,” Lia said with an incredulous shake of her head. “Aisha, this is . . . I can’t tell you . . .” Abruptly overcome with emotion, Lia dropped her head into her hands and drew in a shuddering breath. She felt the other woman’s arm circle her hunched shoulders and squeeze.
“Don’t be silly, Lia, you have to know how much we—I—value you. And with you aiming to gain your BEd, it makes sense all round,” she said, but her brusque voice had a telltale wobble in it. Aisha knew, better than Lia’s own family, how lost she had felt since her engagement had ended. Lia had once, in a fit of depression and hopelessness, confided her feelings of inadequacy to Aisha. Soon after that, Aisha had started asking Lia to unofficially substitute for a couple of hours here and there. Getting a second chance at a career was priceless and gave her even greater incentive to complete her degree.
“Thank you,” Lia whispered fiercely and wrapped her friend’s pregnant bulk into a tight hug. The baby kicked in protest, and both women laughed. Lia stepped back and wiped her face self-consciously.
“I think you’re late for your lunch,” Aisha gently reminded her, and Lia nodded before reaching over to hug her again, this time a little gentler.
“I’ll call you later,” Lia said. Lia couldn’t wait to tell Daff her news. She couldn’t remember being more excited.
Her sister was waiting for her already, and because of her excitement, Lia didn’t initially notice her sister’s dark mood.
“Oh my gosh! Guess what, Daff!” she said as she sat down across from her sister.
“They finally cured assholitis?”
“No!” Lia squealed, before registering her words. “What?”
“Nothing, sorry. Forget about it. What has you so excited?”
“Aisha wants me to start working at the preschool again. After the vacation.” Most of the schools had closed for a short first quarter break just that day, the preschool included. “Just half a day, twice a week for now, but it pays a small salary, and she eventually wants to offer me a full-time job as a caregiver, but of course she can’t do that until I have a BEd.”