Masters of the Shadowlands 7 - This is who I am

by Sinclair Cherise

  “Well, duh. Does a bear sh—” She caught her mother’s warning look and adroitly substituted, “Poop in the woods? Can we add those little potatoes?”

  “Well, duh.”

  Chapter Five

  Sitting in his friend’s great room, Sam took a long drink of beer. Raoul’s home was a warm mix of Mediterranean and beach house. The patio doors stood open to let the sea breezes enter. With luck, the crisp air would unmuddle his brain.

  Over a week had passed since the night at the Shadowlands when Linda had melted against him, given him everything he’d asked for, and then pushed him away. She wanted nothing to do with him.

  He understood…somewhat. Didn’t help his mood. He’d cleaned out the old stable, then started on the chicken house. Shoveling shit had suited his mood perfectly.

  Yesterday the Internet alerts he’d set up on Linda’s name had rewarded him with a newspaper article. After reading it—and stewing—he paid Raoul and Kim a visit. Maybe Raoul would know how to handle the situation. Damn the redhead for being so stubborn, and damn Sam for being an idiot. Damn him again for wanting a woman who hated the sight of him.

  Only she didn’t. Not from the way she’d responded at the Shadowlands.

  “Sam?”

  He looked up from his can of beer to see Raoul’s pretty slave smiling at him from where she knelt beside her Master. With her black hair and striking blue eyes, she was pretty enough, but her spiritedness and caring nature were what had caught his friend. How someone so sweet had survived the slavers… Well, he knew another sweet woman who’d also survived.

  “Yes, Kim?” The two women were very different. Kim created sparks and light wherever she went—and she’d livened up Raoul’s life. Linda’s personality was a steady fire, she had a compelling core of strength to draw upon, and she was as stubborn as a stump.

  “Would you like some dessert?” Kim asked. “I made chocolate cake.”

  “In a bit. Have you spoken to Linda recently?”

  “Not since she left. Her choice. She didn’t want to be reminded of the past, at least as she settled in.”

  Yeah, that’s what he’d been afraid of. He glanced at Raoul, who was stroking Kim’s hair. “I’d like a favor.”

  “Of course,” Raoul answered instantly. Although the man had the cynical practicality of an engineer who’d built an international company from scratch, his loyalty came with no strings attached.

  “The Foggy Shores newspaper reported that Linda’s house was spray-painted with something ugly.” Although the tone of the article was pseudosweet, it had played up the gossip. Pissed Sam off thoroughly, and if the reporter had been in reach, the bastard would be spitting out teeth. Maybe his readers would enjoy that write-up as well.

  Raoul’s dark brown eyes filled with anger. “Has she not been through enough?” When Kim leaned against his thigh, he wrapped his arm around her, pulling her closer. “All of them suffered.”

  “Apparently someone doesn’t think so.” Sam rubbed his chin, a bad feeling growing inside him. He knew how bad homecomings could be. No, she wasn’t a Vietnam vet, fresh from an unwinnable war, but death and cruelty weren’t confined to battlegrounds. “Made me think, though. Kim had problems when she returned home, even with her mother to help. I don’t think Linda has much support at all.”

  “Perhaps not.” Raoul ran his fingers along the leather collar that Kim wore. “Would you call her now, gatita? So Sam might know whether to worry. Hopefully, we’ll discover she is fine.”

  Sam met his gaze. Any Dom would be concerned about a submissive who’d been in his care. However, he didn’t give a damn if Raoul figured out that Sam worried extra about Linda. “Appreciate it.”

  Kim brought a phone from the other room and punched in the number. A few seconds later, she said, “Linda, it’s Kim. I called to see how you’re doing.”

  The answer she got put a line between her brows. “You’re fine? Honey, you don’t sound all that good.”

  Sam scowled. Obviously Linda was damn well not fine.

  “So what’s it like to be home?”

  All Sam could hear was a faint buzz.

  Kim’s mouth tightened. “That’s bull. You don’t have anything to do right now, and you’re not getting off the phone so easy. You’ve been crying, haven’t you? What’s wrong?”

  Sam growled, and Raoul sat forward.

  The little slave rolled her eyes at them, but her frown was real. “Yes, I’ve been around Doms too long, and yes, I’m stubborn. So tell me what’s going on.”

  Sam forced himself to sit back and not grab the phone. At least Kim was thoughtfully repeating bits of what Linda said.

  Kim listened for a minute. “Spray-painted your house? What did it say?”

  The answer made her eyes flash. “Sunday, Tuesday, and last night too? Linda, that’s a little past persistent. Are the police doing anything?”

  Anger surged through Sam so fiercely that he crushed the can in his hand. The bastard had struck three times in a week. What if he decided to escalate?

  Raoul looked worried. He undoubtedly wanted to help. But his engineering company was swamped with work, and he was still behind from last fall when Kim had taken all his time.

  “I don’t care what you say. I’m sending you some help, one way or another.” Kim’s mouth flattened into a straight line.

  As she wound up the phone call, Sam considered. Foggy Shores wasn’t far from his house. He’d have to be home in the mornings to open the security gate when Nolan’s crew arrived, but the neighbor’s kid could handle the evening chores and reset the alarm. Everything else could wait. Didn’t sound as if Linda could. “I’ll go tomorrow,” he told Raoul.

  * * * *

  A tapping noise wakened Linda. She tensed, expecting the Overseer’s boot to slam into her ribs.

  Nothing touched her.

  Heart pounding, she cautiously opened her eyes and saw her own living room. Home. I’m home. Right. Worked all morning in the store. Indulged in a late-afternoon nap.

  She jumped as the sound came again. Someone was knocking on the front door. Someone had scared her to death. She pursed her lips to slow her breathing. Where was a nice pistol when she needed one?

  But when she cocked her thumb and aimed her finger at the door, her gun hand shook uncontrollably. Guess obtaining a real gun wouldn’t work. Besides, her elderly postman would have a heart attack if bullets peppered the front stoop. It was probably him at the door now.

  The knocking reverberated through her room, sounding a bit annoyed. The old guy had quite a fist on him.

  Wiping the sweat from her face, Linda rose. “Coming.” Her voice didn’t reach past the end of the couch. “Coming!” After a few steps, her knees firmed up. She smoothed her sleeveless shirt and capris, attempted a smile, and opened the door.

  No one was there.

  She stepped outside to see a man in front of her house. “Sam?”

  It really was him, in person, as if her dreams had conjured him out of thin air. The sunlight glinted off the gray strands in his collar-length hair. When he glanced at her, his pale eyes gleamed like light through clear blue glass.

  He turned his attention back to the newest graffiti. BITCH OF SATAN. “Least the words are spelled right. Nice change from most,” he said mildly and winked.

  The half joke wasn’t funny, yet it eased the fearful tenseness she’d had since discovering the ugly words. In fact, just his presence carried a sense of security with it. How did he do that?

  As he walked closer, his shrewd gaze assessed her. “You look like hell, girl. Let’s talk.”

  “But…”

  “I don’t do business on a doorstep.” He grasped her upper arms, moved her so he could enter, and closed the door behind him. “Got something to drink? Water or tea or soda?”

  “Of course.” She was halfway to the kitchen before stopping. Boy, talk about automatic obedience. “Excuse me, but I don’t recall inviting you here. How did you get my address?”
Her hands tried to rub the chill from her arms. Had she found another kind of a stalker?

  “Looked it up on the Internet.” Her discomfort lightened when he sat down in an armchair, extended his long legs, and made himself at home. He obviously wasn’t planning to jump on her. “Raoul couldn’t come. I was available.”

  “I told Kim I didn’t need help.”

  “And she told you she was sending help.” He gave her a level stare. “Girl, you’ve been through enough grief. Let me help.”

  “But…” She scowled. If the cases had been reversed, she’d have sent someone to Kim. And from the tilt of Sam’s jaw, arguing wouldn’t get her anywhere. “Fine. Diet cola, Mountain Dew, or root beer?”

  “Dew, thanks.”

  When she returned with his drink and a root beer for herself, he was studying her living room with the same intensity as he normally watched her. In jeans, worn brown boots, and a short-sleeved, button-up work shirt, he didn’t seem as if interior decor would interest him.

  She tilted her head. “What’s so fascinating?”

  “The colors. Brown, beige, off-white. Like you—warm but subdued.” He took his drink from her and gestured toward the high windows. “Blinds up, lots of light. Not hiding.” He pointed at the bright floral pillows and ran a finger over the silk-covered one at his feet, then patted the chair. “You like beauty but want comfort with it.”

  “Well.” He was disconcertingly accurate.

  The two acoustic guitars in the corner got an interested look. “Any chance you like country-western?”

  “Among other things.”

  “We’ll have to try plucking out a few tunes.”

  Since Charles moved out, she hadn’t had anyone at home with whom to share music. She took a step toward the guitars and caught herself. Don’t be insane. He hadn’t driven to Foggy Shores to strum a guitar. “So you’re here to help me?”

  “One spray painting is a prank. More is a problem. You need some backup.”

  Just the word—backup—sent relief welling inside her. As tears prickled in her eyes, she busied herself with opening her root beer.

  When she finally looked up, his hard blue eyes had softened. She hadn’t hidden a thing. Odd how even the nastiest customers never realized what she thought of their behavior. But this man read her as accurately as if he had an instruction manual titled How to Understand Linda.

  And he’d driven here to help her. “You…you don’t have to. We’re not even—” She stopped, realizing how rude that would sound.

  He finished for her. “Friends. I know. I screwed up at the auction and made things more difficult for you. I owe you.” Blunt. Rough. Devastatingly honest.

  However, the past wasn’t something he could fix. Not like this. She searched for a polite response. Settled on, “You were trying to help.” And actually, he had. Otherwise, a real buyer would have whipped her. Hurt her. If only he’d stopped before…touching…her. Her face warmed, and she sipped against the uncomfortable twisting in her stomach. The mild bite of carbonation anchored her.

  He looked as if he wanted to say something. Instead, he drank, swallow after swallow, his Adam’s apple moving up and down, drawing her attention to his tanned, corded neck. The small hollow at the base was surrounded by muscles. She remembered the press of his body, a solid warm wall of flesh, and the room heated to match her face. What in the world was wrong with her?

  “When does this happen? At night?”

  She could almost feel a bed under her before realizing he was referring to the graffiti. She gave an involuntary snort. How could she possibly have lewd thoughts about this intimidating man? “Uh-huh.”

  “Anything else going on?” He glanced at the pile of newspapers on an end table. “Did you make the paper again today?”

  “It’s not important.”

  “Hogwash. Show me, Linda.”

  “Fine.” Why did she feel as if she was going to cry? She walked across the room to where she’d put the ripped-out page on a bookshelf with the first, unable to destroy them, unable to look at them. “Here.”

  He took the paper. When he pulled a pair of reading glasses from his work-shirt pocket, she blinked. The glasses made him look…different. As if the jeans and rough behavior were a cover for the intelligent person beneath. After reading the article, he set the paper aside, and a tremor ran through her at the cold anger in his face.

  “The reporter should be horsewhipped.”

  She took the paper from his lap and tossed it into the wastebasket. “It doesn’t really matter. There’s nothing you can do about it. I think you’d better go home.”

  He sipped his drink and watched her pace across the room.

  She stopped. “Did you hear what I said?”

  “I heard.” He wasn’t moving.

  “Go home, Sam.”

  When she glared at him, he actually looked pleased. “Not much I can do about the reporter. Legally. But maybe your spray painter will show up tonight.” He glanced over his shoulder at the hallway. “Got a place for me to sleep?”

  She had to wonder if he raised cattle, because, oh boy, his expression was definitely a bullheaded one.

  * * * *

  Half an hour later, as Sam scrubbed and scraped the black paint off Linda’s house, fury lashed his insides like a hailstorm. What kind of bastard picked on a woman—any woman—let alone one who had already suffered so much? He looked forward to getting his hands on the man. Be a pleasure to dispense a short, hard lesson in manners.

  “Sam.” She wore midcalf-length shorts—whatever they were called—and flip-flops. Her full breasts strained against her green top as she pulled her heavy red hair into a short tail. If her hair was a bit longer, he could wrap it around his fist. Less clothing would be good too. But no matter what she wore, she’d probably still warm his blood.

  Scraper in hand, she joined him. “You really don’t have to do this.”

  “’Course I do.” The places where bare wood showed had obviously been written on before.

  “Well, I appreciate it.” She vigorously scrubbed at the black paint, and he noticed her freckled arms looked well toned.

  Checking, he ran his hand over her upper arm and felt muscle beneath the soft padding.

  She froze, staring up at him. “What are you doing?”

  Why did he feel a magnetic pull every time he looked down into her big brown eyes? “You’ve put some muscle on. Been working out?” He kept his hand on her, feeling the slight quiver. Seeing nervousness replace fear.

  “I-I was at my sister’s house. In California.” She pulled from his grasp and examined her arm as if she hadn’t seen it before. “She has a huge garden.”

  “Gardens are good for mending.”

  She slanted him a disbelieving look. “Did you ever have anything to mend?”

  His mouth tightened. But he’d finally got her talking. Backing away would silence her again. “’Nam.”

  “But…” She studied him. “You were old enough to be in Vietnam?”

  “My recruiter cousin fudged the papers for me.” Because his cuz had known about his stepfather’s heavy hand. Pa had been a good man, but Ma hadn’t chosen so well the second time.

  “Dear God.” She looked at him as if seeing the tall, lanky kid he’d been. Seeing him with a mother’s eyes. “That wasn’t right.”

  “Long time ago.” At least he’d turned sixteen before his unit deployed. Nonetheless, he’d spent the next two years in hell. “The US pulled out when I hit eighteen.”

  “You were just a baby.” Tears swam in her eyes, melting his memories.

  “Nah. They don’t call babies ‘sergeant.’” He’d stayed in the army until his mother’s and stepfather’s deaths in a boating accident.

  To erase Linda’s tears, he cupped her chin. Her lips were soft. Sweet. And trembled slightly under his. When her hand pushed against his chest, he released her immediately. There would be other times.

  “Where did you garden?” She sounded breathl
ess, and he smothered a smile.

  “Got some acres.” Although his stepfather had sold off parts of his father’s farm and run what was left into the ground, Sam had built it back up. Reacquired all the pieces and expanded as well. “And a vegetable garden.” She had a faint dimple in her right cheek. He hadn’t noticed it before.

  “Kim said you had a place, but she didn’t know if it was a ranch or a farm.”

  So she’d talked about him with others. When his lips tilted up, her face pinkened.

  “Not much of a ranch with only a few horses and some cattle.” He frowned as another brown patch of wood was exposed by the scrubbing. Looked like hell. After pulling out his cell, he punched in Nolan King’s number.

  “King.”

  “Davies. Friend’s house got sprayed with graffiti. You got any of that special paint? Just need enough for the front.”

  “I don’t have any at the moment. The shit expires fast. Got more ordered for a downtown job, though. You can have some when it comes in.”

  “That’ll do.” Closing the phone, Sam noticed Linda’s confused expression. “Yeah?”

  “Why not get something from the paint store?”

  “They only have gloss coatings. With King’s industrial stuff, the spray paint will run right off—won’t even stick.”

  “Oh.” Her eyes lit up, and she grinned at him. “I’d love to see the jerk’s face if that happened.”

  He chuckled, pleased to have lifted her mood. In fact, it was disconcerting what he’d do to keep that light in her eyes.

  But as he turned his attention back to the last letter on the wall, his anger ignited again. Probably wouldn’t die down until he met the bastard artist up close and personal.

  * * * *

  Linda glanced at the kitchen table where Sam sat. The big, mean sadist had completed his assignment and neatly diced the vegetables. Should she be worried about how he got so skilled with a knife? “Very nice.” After scooping them into a bowl, she dumped the contents into the meat sauce simmering on the stove.