by Lori Foster
Brand smiled at Ann. “She’s right.”
“Here now,” John said. “You two keep filling her head and she’ll get to thinking she’s too good for me.”
“Never that,” Ann promised, and she blew her husband a kiss.
Brand cast a look at Sahara. “Never mind them. To this day, they’re always flirting. At least with you here, I assume it’ll only be flirting and nothing more.”
Laughing, Ann swatted him. “Stop! What will she think of us?”
“I think you have a beautiful relationship, one to be envied.” Sahara smiled. “This is what a family should be. Thank you for allowing me to join you today.”
Brand sat back, a thoughtful expression on his face, and watched while his parents gushed at her. She saw cynicism in his small smile, as if he thought she’d just worked everyone.
It was true, she was good at winning people over, especially when dealing with prospective clients. But in this instance she hadn’t spoken a single insincere word, so she lifted her chin and ignored his scrutiny.
“Did you leave room for dessert?”
Brand answered his mother for her, saying, “She always has room for dessert, isn’t that right, Sahara?”
Was he baiting her? Let him. “Absolutely.” She stood when Ann did and began collecting the dishes.
“Oh no.” Ann tried to shoo her back to her seat. “You’re our guest. Please—”
“I can’t,” Sahara insisted. “It would wound me. Ask Brand. He knows I’m not an idle person.”
“Gospel truth,” Brand said. “But why don’t both you ladies relax and I’ll clear the table?” He stood and took the dishes straight out of Sahara’s hands.
“Excellent idea,” Ann said. As if she’d been hoping for a chance to get her son alone, she added, “And while you do that, I’ll make coffee to go with the dessert.”
“I can make coffee,” Brand said.
“Don’t be obtuse,” his dad remarked. Then he said to Sahara, “Ann makes the best pineapple upside-down cake. I hope you like it.”
“How could I not?” Soon as mother and son left the room, she continued her conversation with John. “So Brand tells me you’re something of a gun aficionado?”
“Have quite a collection,” he said with a nod. John was a big brawny man without Brand’s height, but he was like an excited kid when it came to his weapons. “You want to see?”
“I would love to see, thank you. Do you think we have time before dessert?”
John, already pushing back his chair, nodded. “When those two get to yakking in the kitchen, it could take hours. They won’t miss us.”
Sahara seriously doubted that was true, but she was anxious to better her acquaintance with Brand’s dad. On the way to his study, which, he explained, was converted from a guest bedroom, she got to see more of the house.
Everything was picture-perfect and she easily imagined Brand growing up here, how he might have used the old tire swing in the tree out front and probably put his shoes in the cubby by the front door... She even visualized him and his “mom” having long, meaningful chats in the kitchen before he left for school.
When they passed one bedroom, she stopped to stare. “Don’t tell me. This was Brand’s room?”
Beaming, John stepped back and looked into the room with her. “He got tall quick and we had to get him a big bed. Storage on the ceiling, too, since he was into just about every sport there is.”
Sahara could hear the pride and she mentally added “tossing ball with his dad” to her list of childhood delights. “So he was always an athlete?”
“Naturally strong, naturally fast.”
“Naturally cocky?”
John grinned. “Not too much.”
“Just right. I agree.” The headboard and one side of the king-size bed butted up against walls. A navy blue corduroy spread rested over checked sheets and two fluffy pillows. From the walls, and yes, the ceiling, hung everything from a hockey stick, skis, baseball bats, mitts, oars and even things she didn’t recognize. The room should have felt crowded, but instead it felt...loved. “He had a terrific childhood, didn’t he?”
“We tried to give him the best we could.”
She turned and, on impulse, gave the older man a hug. “You succeeded.”
“Here now,” he said, his beefy hand patting her back. “What’s that for?”
“Just a thank-you.” She stepped away, feeling ridiculously grateful, but damn it, Brand had gotten the childhood she hadn’t. While his pseudo parents had loved him to the hilt, hers had chosen to jet around the world. If it hadn’t been for Scott—
No, she wouldn’t go down that morose road right now, not when she was having such an amazing time learning Brand’s history. “Let’s see those guns.”
“And rifles,” he said, once again hustling her along.
* * *
CARRYING THEIR COFFEE, Brand and his mom found Sahara out back with his dad, poised in her heels and formfitting dress, with a lever-action Winchester rifle, the butt of the stock braced against her shoulder. He already knew she was aiming for a target a good distance away, because it was the same target he’d shot with his dad a thousand times.
“Is she any good?” Ann asked.
Brand smiled. “At everything.” An odd sort of pride swelled inside him. If he was a betting man, he’d put his money on Sahara nailing a bull’s-eye.
“She has good form,” Ann noted. “Gotta say, I’ve never seen anyone shoot dressed like that.”
She was fucking gorgeous, but he only nodded.
“She’s beautiful, Brand.”
Knowing his mom fished, Brand said without inflection, “That she is.”
When Sahara fired, she didn’t flinch, not from the sound or the kick. She lowered the rifle muzzle toward the ground, gave a serene smile and started talking to John—who stared at her in stupefaction.
Yup, Brand knew that look: she’d nailed it.
For another twenty minutes, Brand stood there with his mom, watching as she went through several other weapons, guns and rifles alike.
As Brand had said, she was good at everything.
John, more astonished and impressed by the moment, asked, “Are you any good with a knife?”
Brand called out, “She’s great with a homemade dagger.”
Knowing what he meant, Sahara tossed back her head and laughed.
“A dagger?” John asked, now confused.
“More like a shiv,” she explained. “Out of necessity, I made it from a small metal heater.”
Brand joined her in the tree-shaded yard. “With a bra for a handle grip.”
Giving him a sly look, Sahara remarked, “That does seem to be the part you remember best.”
Earlier, he’d thought she might be schmoozing his folks just as she’d often schmoozed him, though he couldn’t imagine an endgame in that endeavor. Now, he realized she was just having fun. Truly enjoying herself.
It seemed surreal that a wealthy, high-powered boss of an elite security agency could mix and mingle with a country-dwelling middle-class couple. But she managed it, not only with ease, but with verve and pure, unadulterated pleasure.
In her expressive clothes, patented updo and sky-high heels, Sahara fit in. He was starting to think she’d fit in anywhere she chose, because she was that good, that comfortable in her own skin and with her own sense of self.
Brand hated to break up the fun; he especially hated to take her to Becky next. It’d be like going from a party to a funeral.
But she’d insisted.
So after they’d devoured their dessert and half a pot of coffee, Brand announced that they had to go.
His mom hooked her arm through his. “You’ll bring her back?”
Sahara, close enough to hear, put her hands together as if praying, even pre
tended to whisper a silent prayer around her smile and a wink.
He laughed. “Probably, but not too often. It’s a drive and she works long hours.”
“Next time,” Sahara said, “I’ll dress more appropriately and then John can show me the creek.”
“I could show you all the awards Brand won,” Ann offered.
Brand rolled his eyes. “Those were from high school, Mom.”
“I’d love to see them,” Sahara assured her.
She probably would. So far, Sahara had shown a keen interest in anything that pertained to him. He wasn’t used to that. He’d had plenty of relationships, some more important than others, but he’d rarely had anyone who focused on his background. Usually the interest was his career in MMA, and the person he was now.
Not the boy he’d once been.
He had to admit, he was just as interested in her past, especially this infatuation she had with her brother and the delusion that he was still around.
* * *
SAHARA WAS IMPRESSED with the very cute apartment Brand had arranged for Becky. On the ground floor, it boasted an efficiency kitchen, one bedroom and bathroom, and a small sitting area currently filled with a fully remote hospital bed. Sliding doors opened to a small patio with a padded lounge chair and table, lush plants, and a view of a pond.
In the hospital bed, Brand’s birth mother scowled at her.
Clearly, the woman was still ailing. Her hair was lank and unstyled, her skin pasty and loose as if she’d recently lost a lot of weight, which she probably had. Her eyes were dull and lifeless. She clutched at a sheet, keeping it tucked over her thin body.
After quick, awkward introductions, Becky had requested—or more like demanded in a grating whine—that Brand go to the grocery for her. She wanted all sorts of things not readily available in the supplies he’d stocked. Even though her caretaker had also been to the store, she claimed the “stupid woman” hadn’t gotten the right things.
Brand tried to get Sahara to go with him.
She’d opted to stay behind.
Reluctantly, he’d left her.
“So,” Sahara said, moving to look out the patio doors. “The apartment is beautiful.”
“It’s a box, not much bigger than a tomb.”
“Nonsense.” Sahara’s smile never slipped when she turned to face the woman. “It’s cheerfully decorated and just the right size for one person. Brand thought of everything, even making sure you had easy access for some fresh air, or the restroom.”
“I can’t do any of that on my own.”
“But your caretaker said—”
“That stupid woman doesn’t know anything.”
Without invitation, Sahara sat in the chair beside the bed. Brand had explained all the complications from Becky’s initial cardiac arrest. Little by little, her body had failed her and she’d almost died. A blood infection, kidney failure, repeated seizures...it had been very touch and go before she finally turned a corner.
There had still been weeks in the ICU, in addition to the month she’d already spent there. The medical costs would be astronomical.
She knew Brand was taking care of therapy, and supplying a home since Becky claimed to be homeless.
According to the caregiver, Becky needed to be doing more on her own. Staying in bed was not a cure, but could add to new complications—like pneumonia. Unfortunately for both Brand and Becky, she didn’t want to move, didn’t want to exert herself and didn’t show any appreciation for what Brand had given her.
“You’re on the road to recovery now,” Sahara said firmly, “so it’s just a matter of physical therapy, proper nutrition and strict adherence to your prescribed meds.”
Becky narrowed mean eyes. “Are you accusing me of abusing my meds?”
Most definitely. Sahara continued to smile, and instead of taking the bait, she said, “You look a lot like Brand. Same color hair and eyes.”
“He got nothing from that loser who fathered him.”
Curious over that comment, she asked, “What does Brand think of his father?”
Becky snorted. “Never met him, since I’m not sure which loser fathered him.” Then she sneered. “And don’t you dare judge me. I was young and dumb and I know it.”
Sahara denied any judgment with a shake of her head. “You said he got nothing from his father, so I assumed—”
Lifting her chin, Becky stated, “You said it yourself, he looks like me.” Under her breath, she muttered, “Though he probably wishes he didn’t.”
“He has to be pleased with his looks. After all, he’s gorgeous.”
“The smug bastard knows it.”
Sahara stiffened, and now her smile felt sharp. “Bastard is such an old-fashioned insult for a child who had no choice in the decisions his mother made.”
“Don’t you—”
“And smug? Please. Brand is generous, obviously.” She gestured around the apartment. “And also kind.” She looked pointedly at Becky. “In fact, I’d call him damn near perfect.”
“You want to marry him, don’t you? You’re after his money!”
Sahara laughed. When Becky’s face turned red, she laughed even more, but managed to say around her amusement, “Better! At least now you have some color in your cheeks.”
“Shut up!”
Unperturbed, she said, “You know what, Becky? You’re a pretty woman. Even looking wretched from your illness, I can see it.”
She sank into the bedding, the sheet to her chin. “I can’t help looking wretched, as you put it. I almost died.”
“Yes, there is that.” Sahara studied her. “Would you like me to arrange for a personal stylist to visit you here? Someone to do your hair, your nails, maybe give you a pedi and a facial? Wouldn’t that be lovely? Of course it would. Every woman likes to look her best, and nothing improves a woman’s outlook like being pampered. After all you’ve been through, it would be refreshing, right?”
Becky eyed her, wanting to complain, but also interested. “I can’t afford anything like that and Brand would never—”
“It will be my treat.” She beamed, waiting for a response.
Suspicion narrowed Becky’s eyes. “Why would you do that for me?”
Choosing honesty, Sahara said, “You’re miserable, and that makes it more difficult on Brand.” She shrugged. “It’s as simple as that.”
“So you do want to marry him.”
Leaning forward, touching Becky’s arm, Sahara said, “If you tried for a year, you’d never be able to understand me or my motives, so please don’t tax yourself.”
“Then explain it to me.”
“I’d rather not.” She stood, looking around the space again. “This would be so much nicer without the hospital bed in here. I mean...it’s a hospital bed. That’s enough to depress the hardiest spirit.” Becky was not hardy. Indulgent, yes. Filled with self-pity, definitely.
“I’m sick,” Becky growled.
“Yes, I know.” Sahara surveyed the room, mentally taking measurements. It was a small space, made smaller by the bed. “Perhaps a soft padded love seat and a pretty lounge chair in a fresh, feminine pattern. Wouldn’t that be nice?”
“Yes,” Becky admitted, unsure where Sahara was going with the conversation, and afraid of giving up another freebie. “But this is what Brand gave me.”
Brand had given her an expensive hospital bed? So remarkable. “You asked for it, I presume?”
“Because I’m sick,” Becky reiterated again.
“Yes, I know,” Sahara said for what felt like the tenth time, “but you can surely walk from the sofa to the bedroom, right?”
More confusion clouded Becky’s face. “Why bother to get out of the bed when I don’t feel like doing anything?”
“Nothing at all? That’s too bad. I thought to offer a shopping trip als
o, perhaps to get some clothes that better fit you until you regain the weight you’ve lost. But if you can’t even get from this room to that one—”
“You would take me shopping?”
“Yes.” Pleased that Becky had taken the bait, she continued. “I noticed some nice trendy places local to here. We could find you some flattering yet comfortable outfits for when you go out to the patio. Perhaps some long flowing skirts and soft sweaters.” She looked out the sliding doors and saw a man by the pond playing with a dog. “The neighbors would be so shocked with your new appearance...especially any men.”
Becky sat up in the bed, her thin shoulders a little straighter. Trying to be shrewd, but without adequate ability, she said, “It would maybe help me to make the effort if I had something fun like that to do.”
“Then I’ll endeavor to create some fun.”
Becky looked like a child, hopeful yet wary. “What will Brand say about—”
“Brand doesn’t tell me what to do.” Well, maybe he did...when she wasn’t at work, although he hadn’t really pushed that agreement yet. She shrugged. “If you’re concerned, don’t tell him.”
“Hair and makeup he might miss. Even some different clothes. But he’ll notice if I have new furniture.”
“Eventually.” She grinned. “But by then, you’ll already have it, won’t you?”
Still skeptical, Becky said, “Okay. Not that I really think you’ll do it. But I’ll play along.”
“Excellent.” Sahara pulled a pen and two business cards from her purse. She slid one under the notepad on Becky’s side table. “That’s in case you need to contact me.” Then she asked, “What’s your number?” After she’d written it on the back of the card, she returned it to her purse. “I’ll be in touch shortly.”
They finished in the nick of time, because Brand returned, arms loaded with the specific items Becky had demanded, and more.
He put everything away, telling Becky where to find it, then went one further by asking her if she needed anything before he left.
“You’re going already? You just got here.”
“I’ll try to come again soon,” he said, without any enthusiasm.
