The Wrong Man

by Natasha Anders

  “W-what are you doing here?”

  “Well, I was taking a nap on the sofa. But you were making more noise than a herd of elephants,” he said, sounding strained. His grip on the chair tightened so much she could see the white of his knuckles. He looked pale and sickly and much too thin. His right arm was in a sling and cradled against his chest.

  “Oh good grief, sit down. Before you fall down,” she said, finally overcoming the shock of seeing him here. And treating him like an invalid made her feel a little more in control of the unsettling situation.

  “I’m fine,” he maintained stubbornly. He was very far from fine. She was shocked by his appearance. This vital man, who had epitomized masculine fitness and perfection just six months ago, looked weak and shaky. It was disconcerting. She had attempted to watch that clip of the attack but couldn’t get past the first thirty seconds. Just seeing that knife plunge downward and the look of shock on Sam’s face had been . . . disturbing. She had switched it off and never tried to watch it again.

  “You don’t look fine,” she pointed out, and he glared at her. It was the first time he’d ever looked less than charming.

  “I’ve been stabbed, for fuck’s sake,” he gritted. “Of course I don’t look fine. But regardless of how I look, I can damned well stand on my own two feet.”

  “Yes, but you don’t have to do so right now,” she said matter-of-factly. She felt completely flustered by his short-temperedness, but even while she told herself it was to be expected, she wasn’t quite sure how to deal with it.

  “Don’t tell me what to do, princess,” he said cuttingly, and she heaved an exasperated sigh before going back to her former task. The sooner she got this done, the sooner she could get out of here and back home. This evening had been an unmitigated disaster from start to finish, and she just wanted to crawl into bed and forget it had ever happened.

  “Why are you here anyway?” he asked nastily, and she paused in the act of shoving some steak into the freezer to glance up at him. She was startled to discover that he had moved closer. How had he done that without her hearing? How could such a badly injured man move so stealthily? He was now leaning on the kitchen island, but the movement had clearly cost him dearly because he was even paler than before.

  “Isn’t it obvious?” Her voice was scathing, and a ghost of a smile touched his lips.

  “I was led to believe your sister Daphne would be bringing me provisions on a weekly basis.”

  “Daffodil was busy tonight and won’t be home till much later.”

  “Well, you don’t have to unpack them. Just the delivery is fine. I’ll take care of the rest.” He pushed himself away from the island and swayed alarmingly for a few moments before gripping the countertop again.

  Stubborn man. Lia shook her head in disgust before continuing with her task. She was about halfway through and would happily leave the rest for him to do if he didn’t look on the verge of collapse. She just wanted to get out of here and pretend never to have seen him.

  “We weren’t expecting you today,” she said a few moments later, after the silence grew too stressful. Considering how much she’d always longed for him to just shut up during their past encounters, it was uncanny how very uncomfortable she found his continued silence.

  “I had to get out of London, the fucking press wouldn’t leave me alone,” he said, his voice bitter.

  “Because you saved Laura Prentiss or because you’re dating Laura Prentiss?” she found herself asking, then wished she hadn’t. His private life was none of her concern, and she really didn’t want to know about his relationship with the pop star. She kept her gaze averted but was relieved to hear a bar stool scrape back, followed by a few pained grunts as he settled into the high chair.

  “Jealous, princess?” His voice oozed with smugness.

  Ugh. She schooled her face into indifference before allowing herself to meet his eyes levelly.

  “Of?” He winced theatrically at her cool rejoinder and clutched his hands to his chest.

  “Ouch, the perfect pretty princess has some claws.”

  “Stop calling me a princess,” she protested, and he merely smiled, if the grimace pulling his lips apart could be called that, and said not one word in response. She was relieved when she finally shelved the last grocery item and dusted her hands off in satisfaction.

  “Well, that’s the last of it. I see Daff has left a few emergency numbers on the refrigerator for you. I’ll just shut the windows and leave you to it. Hope you feel better soon.”

  “Is your number on the fridge, luv?” he asked with a shadow of his roguish grin, and Lia cringed at the new endearment. She appreciated this one even less than princess.

  “Of course not,” she huffed, pushing a strand of hair back with the heel of her hand.

  “Well, who am I supposed to call when I need a sponge bath?” He leered and she pursed her lips primly.

  “I have to go,” she said. “Good night.”

  “Before you leave, princess—” Lia paused, bracing herself for another lewd comment. “Where do you suppose I would find the bed linen?”

  Crumbs! She remembered Daff mentioning that she hadn’t yet made the bed. She chewed the inside of her cheek. She supposed she could get the linen for him and leave him to make the bed. She risked a quick glance at him—his pale face was gleaming with sweat, and there were lines of strain around his mouth and eyes.

  He would probably keel over before he got the sheet on. She sighed and shook her head before whirling and marching up the stairs to the loft that housed the huge king-size bed. She noted his luggage on the floor at the foot of the bed and wondered how he had managed to get the bags up here.

  She found the linen in the padded storage bench at the foot of the bed. She made quick work of the task and had the bed made in less than ten minutes. She was surprised that he hadn’t followed her up the stairs and cautiously made her way back down, wondering why he was so quiet.

  She found him seated in Mason’s comfortable easy chair, looking completely wiped out, his lips thin and his eyes screwed shut. His breathing was shallow, and he seemed to be in a fair amount of pain.

  “Are you okay?” she ventured tentatively.

  “What the fuck do you think?” he snapped without opening his eyes. He was so different from the charmer of six months ago. It was unsettling. She now saw that practiced charm for the act that it was and knew that the real Sam Brand lay somewhere between that smooth talker and this short-tempered man.

  “You’re in pain, and in light of that, I’ll let your language and your rudeness slide, but please be aware I won’t tolerate it again.”

  “Well, shit, Miss Prissy Panties, have I offended your delicate sensibilities?”

  “Can you get up without assistance?” she asked, ignoring his goading behavior.

  “Of course I can!” he snarled, a bear with a sore paw. He heaved a huge sigh and then grimaced before opening his eyes to meet hers. His clear blue gaze was still penetrating despite his red-rimmed eyes. “I-I don’t think I can.”

  She could see how much the admission hurt his pride, and she said nothing, merely held out her hand. He hesitated before taking it, his own large hand engulfing hers.

  She tugged but he didn’t budge, and she raised her eyebrows.

  “You’re going to have to help, Mr. Brand. I can’t do this on my own.” His hand tightened around hers, and his jaw dropped incredulously.

  “Did you just fucking call me Mister Brand? Are we back to that? In light of the fact that I know what you look like naked—”

  “You do not,” she gasped. And he really didn’t. The first time they were together, after her sister and Mason’s mixed stag and hen party, they’d gone back to his hotel room, but like the encounter in the barn, they hadn’t initially made it out of their clothes, and later, when they had stripped, the room had been completely dark.

  “Semantics. I’ve been inside you—silly formalities between us would just be ridiculous. Ca
ll me Sam, for fuck’s sake. Or Brand if that makes you feel better. Anything but mister. No point in pretending to be ingenuous.”

  Pretending? She was hardly pretending. She was pretty unsophisticated. Sam Brand was never supposed to reenter her life, and she had no clue how to handle the situation. Yes, she had been intimate with the man, but on the understanding that it would never happen again and that he would leave soon afterward. Now here he was, and she didn’t know what to say to him or how to react around him.

  Her hand was still in his; neither of them had a particularly firm grip on the other, but it was still alarmingly intimate. She tried to tug her hand free, but he tightened his fingers around hers.

  CHAPTER THREE

  “On three?” he asked, and she sighed before nodding. “Okay, one, two—fuck!”

  He attempted to lever himself up on three, but because Lia had been expecting him to do so after three, she offered no resistance and tumbled gracelessly into his lap. She heard the agonized breath from his chest as she hit his injured arm on her way down and cringed at the unintentional pain she’d inflicted on him.

  “Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry.” His eyes shone with unshed tears of pain, and she felt close to crying herself at the sight of them. She patted ineffectually at his shoulders and face, her butt right in his crotch. He impatiently shoved her flapping hands away.

  “Stop that!” he commanded curtly when she couldn’t seem to control her stupidly waving hands. He corralled her wrists, grabbing both in his good hand and holding them in a tight grip. “Jesus, you’re a fucking disaster zone.”

  Hurt by that unfair statement, Lia retreated into silence.

  “Get off me, will you?” he muttered, and she tried to tug her hands free. He tightened his grip, probably just to show her how much control he had over the situation, before releasing her abruptly. She clumsily hauled herself out of his lap, unintentionally pushing at his hurt arm again, and he swore viciously at the contact.

  “I’m sorry,” she offered in a small voice once she was standing in front of him again. Her dignity in absolute shreds.

  “Forget about it,” he dismissed, despite the fact that he was trembling and beyond pale. He used his good hand on the arm of the chair and levered himself up with difficulty. She hovered, her hands instinctively coming out to steady him, but he shot her a warning glare. It took a great deal of effort, but he eventually stood hunched over in front of her.

  “You can leave now,” he said, his voice sounding shockingly weak. While she was tempted to flee and never return, Lia stood her ground.

  “I’ll wait until you’re settled in bed.”

  “Looking to join me, are you?”

  “Mr.—uh—Sam.” She grimaced—that sounded too personal. “I prefer Brand.” The words emerged from beneath her breath, and he bared his teeth in what she supposed could be taken as a smile.

  “Go for it, as long as you drop the ridiculous mister.”

  “Anyway, Brand, we agreed in November that what was between us was just S-E-X.” She spelled the word out self-consciously, feeling herself flushing as she did so. His gaze was riveted on her face, and it made her feel like a bug under a microscope. “And it was supposed to be just that one time—well, two times—and that was it. I never expected to see you again. Especially not so soon. I mean, I imagined you’d show up at Mason and Daisy’s baby’s christening. It’s likely you’d be a godfather, but probably only to their second child, little Dianella. I think it’s fair to assume Spencer would be godfather to their oldest, Delphinium. Godmother would be a toss-up between Daff and me. But because Daff is the oldest sister and she and Spencer are together, it would likely be the two of them. You and I would probably share guardianship of—” She stopped when his mouth dropped open and realized that she had gone off on a bizarre tangent. “What I meant to say was that I didn’t expect to see you again. Not so soon. I thought by the time we met again, I’d be married with children of my own.”

  “Uh.” The grunt emerged after a few moments when he seemed to realize that she was done speaking and some kind of response was required from him. “Daisy’s pregnant?”

  “Uhm. No.” She flushed, embarrassed when he tilted his head and stared at her like she was a bizarre new species of insect. He shook his head incredulously before clearing his throat.

  “You’re engaged?” he asked, thankfully letting her weird little fiction about Daisy and Mason’s possible future children slide.

  “Well, not yet. But soon.”

  “Yeah?” His face was like granite and revealed not a single emotion. Not even pain. That was some feat, considering how protectively he was hunched over his arm. “Who’s the lucky guy?”

  “I haven’t really met him yet,” she said, feeling increasingly self-conscious. “At least I don’t think so. I’ve been on a few dates with someone. And recently it got more serious.” She bit back the surge of nausea at the thought of Gregory’s cold, clammy hand on her nipple. Had that really happened just a few hours ago? It felt like years had passed since then. “The point is, I’m looking for someone serious. Someone to marry. I don’t want you to think that we’ll be picking up where we left off or anything. I mean, you probably wouldn’t want to anyway, you’ve been dating Laura Prentiss, but just in case.”

  “Got it. You’re husband hunting,” he said matter-of-factly, still not revealing a single emotion. And did he have to use that term? Her father had as well. And it sounded incredibly predatory. “Look, princess, I’m knackered. Fascinating as this all is, I really can’t deal with it right now. I need to get to bed, take some painkillers, and sleep for approximately fifty-seven hours.”

  “Oh. Of course! I’m so sorry. I’ll leave very soon—I just want to be sure you manage the stairs okay. They’re pretty steep.”

  He huffed impatiently and shrugged before limping his way to the staircase. She followed close behind, watching him anxiously. The limp reminded her of his extensive injuries. It went beyond the obvious cast on his arm. He’d been stabbed in several places. Gosh, the thought was sickening. He paused at the foot of the stairs and bent his head for a long moment before exhaling and taking the first step.

  It took everything in Lia not to step forward to place a supportive arm around his waist. For one thing, she was pretty sure the gesture would not be appreciated, and for another, touching him didn’t seem like a very wise course of action.

  She waited for him to slowly progress up the first four stairs before setting foot on the first step.

  “Don’t fucking hover,” he growled over his shoulder, more aware of her movements than she’d expected him to be.

  “I’m not hovering,” she protested. “Look, I’m way down here.”

  “What are you going to do? Catch me if I fall?” he asked, and she thought she could hear a touch of something close to amusement in his curt voice.

  “I don’t know. Something.” He shook his head and refocused his energy and attention on getting upstairs. For every four stairs he took, she advanced another step. It was sixteen steps to the top, and she heaved a relieved breath when he finally reached the landing. She hastened to follow him, and when she got up to the loft, he was slipping the sling over his head. He tossed it—clear frustration in the gesture—on the bed and gingerly lowered his arm. It was encased in white plaster from his hand to just above his elbow. There were signatures scrawled all over the cast, and she found herself staring at those. Somehow she hadn’t expected Brand to be the type of man to have his friends sign his cast.

  She felt his eyes on her and reluctantly lifted her gaze to meet his. He looked exhausted and more than a little grim.

  “They did these while I was out cold,” he explained unexpectedly, lifting his arm with an almost embarrassed shrug.

  “Who?”

  “My colleagues, friends, and Lally.” He cleared his throat self-consciously and shrugged again when he saw her confusion. “Laura Prentiss.”

  He had a pet name for her? And it was a l
ot more personal than just princess. She didn’t have any right to feel envious about that. But now Lia couldn’t help wondering if he actually remembered her name. Since he hadn’t used it once since seeing her.

  “I see,” she said softly. Her eyes fell to the suitcases again. “Who brought these up here?”

  “Driving service chauffeur,” he explained. He cleared his throat again and awkwardly tugged at his T-shirt with his unencumbered hand.

  “Let me help,” she offered impulsively, and he hesitated for just a moment before dropping his arms and lifting his jaw. He looked stubborn and proud, and she knew how much it cost him to let her help.

  She licked her lips nervously, ignoring the familiar flare of interest in his eyes at the gesture, and tugged at the hem of his shirt, holding her breath as she lifted the fabric over his sculpted torso. He was definitely much thinner than she remembered, but the muscle definition was still there. Once the pallor from his enforced confinement faded and he started eating properly again, he’d have no trouble getting back that lethal, lean, well-honed grace of before. Still, every fading bruise and bandage she revealed saddened her a little bit. He looked like he’d been through the wringer, and—if the involuntary deep, groaning sigh that emerged when she gently lifted his injured arm was any indication—he felt like it, too.

  She was making her own involuntary sounds, soft, crooning, apologetic little noises as she eased the shirt over his cast. The sleeve had been removed, but despite the larger hole it was still a mission to get it off without jarring his arm. She released her breath gustily when she finally got it all the way off, but the next breath snagged in her throat as she took in the full impact of the damage on his chest, torso, and back.