by Sue Wilder
I made a point of whipping his ball cap from my head.
When he continued to prowl, I disappeared in the kitchen, made fresh coffee and handed him a mug. Added cream to mine and left the carton out, if he wanted any. I felt uneasy and couldn’t shed the worry that I shouldn’t have brought him here, any more than I should have walked into his bar.
Garrett and I had history I thought was over long ago, but the way he watched me, and the way I watched him was like this edgy dance between to people who only pretended to be strangers.
“What?” We’d retreated to my grandfather’s writing room—where Luna met with clients—and I noticed the stiff way Garrett settled in the chair.
“What?” I mimicked.
“You were glaring.”
“I was thinking.”
About the target pinned on my cupcake ass. And how I’d need to explain to a man too dominant to fall for my usual tactics, the Soleil St. Clair charm that worked with the people who secretly needed me.
Garrett didn’t need me. I wasn’t even sure why he’d chased after me, un-declining his decline, and abruptly, I crossed one leg over the other. When my red stiletto slid from my heel, I flicked my foot, snapped the shoe back into place—a tell, one co-worker warned me, what I did when I was nervous.
Garrett grunted as if he’d noticed, and agreed.
“Why did you really run?” he asked since he was not a patient man. “Not down at the harbor. Why did you leave California?”
“Things have been happening.”
“Usually goes with living.”
“And writing a tell-all book, so don’t rub my nose in it.”
When he sipped coffee with the same deliberation he used with whiskey, I relented. I’d approached him for help. It felt foolish to turn away now.
“For the past year, I’ve been working on a cable show.”
“The Four Kingdoms?”
His knowledge surprised me. He’d never been one to waste his time, and sitting home watching fantasy shows didn’t seem to fit his style—although men loved the violence.
“Someone wanted me off the show.” I concentrated on my coffee. “The director received threats, then accidents happened. A stunt went bad, and the lead actor threatened to walk if I remained. We both had major roles, but I’d made enemies and he hadn’t, so…”
Don’t let the door hit you, Soleil.
“You were off the show?”
I shrugged. “World’s full of clichés if you look hard enough.”
“Any idea who sent the threats?”
“No.” My foot jerked, startling me with the reflexive action. Turning my head, I stared toward a corner where a parlor palm once stood. After the palm, there’d been an umbrella stand, and I saw those memories as one more sign of passing time and how things and people always changed.
Garrett remained quiet, sipping coffee as if he was assessing my short answer. But his magnetism hit me with brutal force, and he was easily the most impressive man I’d ever seen. I wondered why he asked questions when I didn’t think he wanted answers.
“You were married to Brandon Slate?”
“And divorced in less than a year, although he still has me in court, fighting the prenup.” The coffee had grown tepid as we talked, and I set it aside while Garrett leaned back, perfectly comfortable sucking me into his version of true confession. I braced for what came next.
“Did you know Slate was bisexual when you married?”
“No, and I’m not a prude. I get that people love who they love. And I might have understood if Brand told me like a normal person.”
But Brand took the easy way, the hurtful way, ditching me at an awards party. One of his friends walked up and smirked, said he was Brand’s lover and I should run home if I didn’t believe him.
When I got there, another man was in my bed, and at first, I thought it was a joke. I’d won an award, but Brand hadn’t, and he could be mean when he was competitive. But then he sauntered out of his dressing room, naked and fully aroused, holding two highball glasses in his hands. And I didn’t handle it well.
Neither did Brand. Some of his insults still cut.
“He hurt you.”
“He made me freaking angry. I was Soleil St. Clair. If another man ruined my marriage, he should have been my lover and not Brand’s.”
I knew betrayal wasn’t unique, but I’d always thought I’d be adult about it, if it happened to me. Instead, I wrote a book. Worked on a film the studio didn’t want to release. I lost a cable show, and had some freak after me. I’d disappointed my mother, my father. My twin—but what was worse was hurting someone I never even knew. It nearly killed me, realizing a girl died and I couldn’t undo that no matter how I regretted it.
My foot jerked so hard the shoe fell off, and Garrett stared at the red slash of sexiness lying sideways on the Aubusson rug.
“That’s the extent of it?” he asked after a thoughtful pause. “You walked in on the ex, got divorced, wrote a book and got kicked off a show?”
“No. Someone vandalized my home with graffiti. Bitch, written in red paint. Then, three nights ago, I was leaving a restaurant when a man rushed out of the dark—creepy silent. He hit me. The restaurant owner came out, but the guy disappeared, and I wasn’t really hurt.”
“Did you report it?”
“Yes. The police came. They looked at the security tapes, filed a report.” I shrugged, turning to the side to readjust the cold coffee. “I’m not holding my breath since it’s not a major crime.”
Garrett rolled his shoulders. “That’s why you called your sister?”
“The police said it was a homeless man, random. But I was scared after the graffiti. I thought I was over-reacting, and Luna has this way of putting things into perspective.”
“Did she?”
“She told me to leave before something else happened.” I gripped the arm of the chair. “All I need is an hour of your time, Garrett. Show me how to cover my tracks. Then I’ll be gone.”
“Tell me about the man who hit you.”
The quiet ferocity in his voice startled me. “I never saw him.”
“You were at a restaurant,” he prompted. “Why?”
“A friend called. She wanted to meet for a late dinner.”
“Was that unusual?”
“It’s what friends do. Sit around and drink, bitch about their problems. She never showed, and I thought she’d gotten distracted, or was fighting with her ex again, so I gathered my things and left.”
“What time?”
“It was after eleven. I was digging in my purse for the keys and never saw him, but I felt his hands slam into my back. When I fell against a car, I curled into a ball because he was going to hit me again, kick me. I could hear him muttering, and if the restaurant owner hadn’t come outside…” I dragged in a breath. “Maybe I’m naïve, Garrett, but I’ve never had someone harass me like this. If you can help me disappear, great. If you can’t, I’ll deal with it.”
“Disappearing won’t help.” Garrett frowned at my shoe, which I shoved back on my foot because sitting there with one shoe off made me feel vulnerable. “You’re too recognizable.”
“He’ll give up if he can’t find me.”
“He’s already found you. He wrote bitch on your car, and a determined enemy won’t stop unless you neutralize him.”
“I can’t neutralize a ghost.” Frustration made my voice harsh. “No one knows or cares who this guy is, and I have to wait until he gets bored and walks away.”
“He isn’t walking away.” Garrett never moved, but I felt his tightening posture. “The wins have all been his, getting you to run, unable to trust. And willful ignorance is reckless.”
Anger rocked through me. “I’m not willful or ignorant.”
“Aren’t you?”
I needed to bite my lip. End this, the way he could stop my arguments and make me feel inadequate.
“I’m not that cheerleader, Garrett, the girl you flipped o
ff from the sidelines. I have a career that’s nearly destroyed, a freak after me, and all I’m trying to do is be safe without hurting anyone else.”
The muscle in his jaw clenched as he stared, and I stared right back. My anger didn’t faze him, because he was just as hard and unrelenting as he’d been in his bar. As if he couldn’t even decide if he liked me, the way he was at eighteen. Hot one moment. Cold the next.
I wanted to believe I’d been over him for more than a decade, that I didn’t care what he saw in me to either like or hate. And despite the fear that drove me into his bar, and then out again, the nervousness that propelled me into bringing him here—despite the way I ached, I could not do this to myself again. Allow that dangerous masculine vitality to get to me, when he never touched. Never wanted.
But he could look at me, and I would imagine the feel of his hard body, arousing needs, pushing his way in while I wrapped my arms tight.
Reaction settled in. Exhaustion that I couldn’t shove away, or chase away with endless cups of caffeine. My mind was so jittered, I couldn’t even think straight, other than to realize my coffee was undrinkable.
I retreated, and the only thing that kept me in the kitchen instead of out the door was Luna. I wouldn’t worry her more than I had, and trust him kept running through my head. Her words, echoed by Maxton Wells when he’d given me the contact information.
You can trust him, Soleil.
I couldn’t trust him. He was an old mistake, one I refused to make again, and I walked to the sink, tapped the side of the arched faucet. I slid my hand beneath the flowing water, drawing on the warmth, then I turned my palm up, watching the way water slid from my grasp.
My fingers curled. “I’ll drive you back to your bar.” I tapped the faucet again and the water stopped. “I’ve taken enough of your time.”
“Running won’t change things, cupcake.”
His voice rumbled. He couldn’t stop the bored insults, and, after drying my hands, I kicked off both stilettos and pushed my feet into the driving shoes I’d left around the room. When I turned to hunt for my keys, I realized Garrett still had them.
“Are we being childish, now?” I asked while he stood with his back to the door, braced like a man ready to resist.
“I can help you.”
“No. But I appreciate the thought.”
I took a step.
He didn’t budge.
And outside, something crashed against the window.
CHAPTER FOUR
“Stay here.” Garrett’s voice held a hardened authority I hadn’t heard before, and I glanced toward the windows. From the slanted light, I knew it was late afternoon. Wind kicked up in the afternoon, gusting—or at least that’s how I remembered it.
“I’ll go with you.” And assert my autonomy, my self-respect. Not cower inside. “It’s probably a chair tipping over.”
“That wasn’t a choice I gave you.” And maybe I was crazy enough to appreciate male dominance in the moment, because agreement came too easily.
“Okay. I’ll stand in the doorway and watch.”
“You’ll watch?”
“Make sure you’re safe.”
“Safe?” One eyebrow arched, and I wondered how Garrett Kincade would look if he genuinely smiled. Or laughed. “You want me safe from a tipped chair, cupcake?”
“It could be a seagull,” I argued. “They can be vicious.”
“Vicious.”
“Yes.” I gripped my wrists. “They dive-bombed me once. Got in my hair.”
“What—when you were fifteen? I remember that bird’s nest you called hair—”
“It was a messy bun,” I snapped. “And their beaks are sharp.”
“Sharp?”
His amusement tightened my face. Then his mouth curved up and—ah, God. That smile. He could do serious damage with that smile.
“Okay, you go.” It was too reckless to allow him to stay. “Slay the damn seagulls for all I care, and when you come back, I’ll drive you to Newport because I have plans to make.”
“Stay inside.”
Garrett waited until I gripped the door, and the way he turned and walked across the deck was like nothing I’d ever seen. I’d watched stuntmen, actors, all practicing coordinated moves, but I’d never watched a man actually stalking the way Garrett stalked.
He moved with authentic lethal intent. Each flex of his arms, the muscles in his back, reminded me of how he’d been on the football field. The power and command—with a physical grace few men have. Not the brute strength, or the slick moves, but something incredibly beautiful. I’d always thought his masculinity was magnetic, with that sexual vibe a woman noticed but couldn’t describe, other than it made her pulse race.
My pulse was racing for another reason as Garrett reached the end of the deck, where it curved around Luna’s house, and for a long instant I thought he was looking hard at something. Then he gripped the railing, collapsing to his knees, and it wasn’t so much that he was falling but how he fell. Wooden, while his temper exploded.
“Shit!”
“Garrett?” When I reached him, his arms were rigid, supporting his weight with his palms flat against the deck. Each exhale hissed ferociously between clenched teeth. Frantic, I looked for blood. Nothing. Driftwood lay scattered near his feet, and beside the wood, spilled dirt with red geranium petals leading to an overturned pot. Too heavy for the wind, but a cat could have knocked it over, and I remembered seeing a cat when I first arrived.
“Help me… stand.”
The raw effort in his voice had my hands shaking. “Should you move?”
His answer was savage as he struggled upright. Bracing beneath his arm, I supported his weight, but it felt like I tortured him as we struggled through the doorway. “The couch—Garrett?”
“No. Floor. Want flat.”
I helped him to his knees, then to his stomach, and all the while he was swearing in a language I didn’t understand. “My cell. Back pocket. Call… Angie.”
Digging in, I found his phone. “Password?”
He rattled off a series of numbers. I swiped at the lock screen and found contacts. Angie Taylor. “You want me to call a damned massage therapist?”
“Just do it. Give me the phone,” he added when a feminine voice answered with hey, babe.
“Angie—goddamn back went out again. Can’t move… Not home. Luna St. Clair’s old house… Yeah, someone’s with me. She’ll let you in. Thanks… Owe you.”
He disconnected, let the cell drop to the rug, and closed his eyes. Perspiration beaded his forehead, and the strained effort in his breathing made my heart hurt. “Can I do anything?”
“No, but… thanks.”
“For what?”
“Helping me inside.” His fingers dug into the thick weave of the carpet, and I’d never seen someone in so much pain they were afraid to move.
Seeing Garrett like that crushed me. To keep busy, I went to the kitchen, made fresh coffee. While it was brewing, I searched the linen closet and collected blankets, a pillow, then arranged everything on the couch, wondering how a massage therapist who called Garrett “hey, babe” could help him. But maybe she was his girlfriend and knew what to do—a thought that bothered me more than it should.
Twenty minutes later, I heard the car and met Angie Taylor at the door. She was strikingly beautiful, slender, with honey-brown hair spiked up in a flattering pixie cut. Her white linen pants, yellow tank top and a blue hoodie with “beach girl” imprinted on the front matched the casual flip-flops she kicked off as soon as she hit the foyer. A blue-striped canvas tote swung from her shoulder to her hand as I led her toward Garrett.
She murmured to him as she dropped to her knees, smoothing his hair as she bent to see his face. I wondered about that, since his hair was too short to be out of place, but it was a gesture of tenderness which she repeated.
“Gotta strip you down, babe.” She pulled off her hoodie, then dug around in the tote, finding a bottle of massage oil and a wh
ite towel. “We’ll do it right here on the floor.”
“Ange…” Garrett shortened her name with an intimacy beyond friendship. “Do it with… clothes on.”
“You know the drill. Can’t get to that fine ass of yours if you cover it up.” She shot me a look. “I’ll need your help. Everything comes off before I can work the magic.”
She began with his shoes, then tugged at the jeans. I rolled his tee up and carefully pulled one arm free, followed with the other, hating the way Garrett stifled the grunts of pain.
“Did you take any meds today?” Angie’s tone turned clinical as her hands slid upward, and I noticed the mid-thigh black boxer briefs, a fitted style I found incredibly sexy on the right man. But I had no time for admiration. Angie tugged the boxers down and off as if she’d seen his fine ass too many times to notice what I noticed.
“Took one,” he managed. “This morning.”
“Muscle relaxer or pain?”
“Pain.” He grunted as she covered him with a white towel, then prodded his back where two distressingly vivid scars ran close to his spine.
“How long were you hurting before you gave in? Two days? Three?”
“Three.”
“Uh-huh. We’ve talked about that.” After rubbing oil on her hands, Angie pressed against the muscles above his hips, her movements gentle and cautious. “You haven’t been this tight in months, Garrett. What the hell were you doing?”
“He fell.” Guilt drove me into their conversation. “We heard a noise, and he went out to check. The geraniums were knocked over and I don’t think he saw the mess…”
My gaze locked on the surgical scars. The other scars marking his skin.
“Was it like his back just gave out?” Angie asked as she slid her hands over Garrett’s shoulders and down his arms.
“Yes.” I bit gently on my lip. “I had to help him inside.”
“Babe,” Angie scolded softly. “If you needed meds, you had to know it was coming. Why didn’t you stay home instead of pushing yourself?”
