The Wrong Man

by Natasha Anders

  She felt her cheeks heating and knew she probably resembled a ripe tomato right now. Her mother’s expression cleared and she laughed, the sound almost relieved.

  “Good grief, Dahlia. You had me thinking you were helping him with his dangerous bodyguarding stuff. Maybe handling his gun, or contacting his contacts.” She whispered the last word, and Lia felt her own brows shoot up.

  “So . . . what kind of contacts do you expect him to have, Mother?” she asked curiously.

  “You know . . .” Her mother’s voice was still a furtive whisper. “Shady kinds.”

  “I’m sure his business is entirely legal and aboveboard, Mom.”

  “Oh, I don’t mean to imply otherwise.” The other woman looked flustered. “But the nature of his business may necessitate him sometimes being in contact with shady individuals.” She laughed airily and waved a dismissive hand. “But of course, it’s nothing like that, you’re just helping him dress and undress. Well, if you’re already helping him out, then I suppose you can take the cake to him tomorrow.”

  “Sure,” Lia said agreeably, happy to keep her mother and Sam from ever speaking. She finished the bowl and looked around for the mixing blades but found them in the sink, soaking in some soapy water. “Why didn’t you save these for me?”

  “Don’t be greedy, Dahlia. You know your father has a sweet tooth, too. I had to share some of it with him.”

  Dahlia sighed, disappointed.

  “I’m going to grab a shower.” She dashed out of the room before her mother could ask her any more questions about her arrangement with Brand.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Sam was thinking about Lia, and he wanted her to be thinking of him, too. He didn’t want her out with some dick who would try to weasel his way into her bed by the end of the evening. The thought of this anonymous fucker touching her really burned, and Sam couldn’t stop thinking about it, wondering where she was, what they were doing, how they were doing it.

  Anyone would think he was jealous, but he wasn’t . . . he was just possessive. Right now, Lia McGregor belonged to him. Whether she knew it or not. He picked up his phone. If he called her, even texted her, it would take her out of whatever moment she was sharing with her Mr. Perfect. It would force her to think of Sam.

  He was about to call her when a short, authoritative knock sounded on the back door. Sam nearly dropped his phone in surprise at the unexpected sound, and his head whipped around to look at the door while his entire body went on alert. The handle was turning and he winced, feeling like an idiot for not remembering to check if it was secure. He crouched, ignoring the twinges coming from his various healing wounds, and stealthily moved toward the door. Ready to do battle if it came to that.

  The door swung inward and Spencer Carlisle stepped over the threshold. He paused when he saw Sam’s half-crouching stance and lifted his arms slightly, bringing Sam’s attention to the six-pack of beer clutched in the man’s right hand.

  “I come in peace, I promise,” the guy said with something close to a grin, and Sam relaxed, feeling like an idiot. “You military types ever switch off?”

  “Only when we’re dead, mate,” Sam said easily, stepping forward with the intention of offering his hand until he remembered that his arm was in a cast. The other man seemed to understand his intention, though, and nodded in acknowledgment.

  “Brought you some beer. Noticed that Daff didn’t include any in her shopping.”

  “Couldn’t come at a better time,” Sam groaned appreciatively.

  “I have conditions.” The man’s words reminded Sam of Lia’s misunderstanding of his question the other night, and he grinned at the recollection.

  “Something funny?” Spencer asked.

  “Yeah, but it’s unrelated to this. What conditions?” Spencer gave him an assessing look before shrugging.

  “Daff and Charlie are watching a chick flick. I needed to get away from all the sighing and crying,” Spencer informed him with an intimidating frown. He had dark hair and thick, straight, dark brows that made him look pretty damned formidable. He was a huge guy, probably four or five inches taller than Sam, and massively built. Sam understood that he’d once been a rugby player, a forward lock, so he was lean and solid at the same time. Physically he’d make a pretty intimidating CPO, but from what Sam had observed since meeting the man for the first time in November, he lacked a soldier’s edge. He was huge and intimidating on the outside with not an aggressive bone in him. He also never had more than two words to say, so Sam was surprised that the man had approached him and was being so damned chatty.

  “Want to watch something manlier?” Sam asked, and Spencer nodded.

  “There’s a Fast and Furious movie on at seven thirty,” he stated, and Sam glanced at the kitchen clock and nodded.

  “Make yourself at home, I’ll see if your fiancée bought any snacks.”

  “Girlfriend,” Spencer corrected uncomfortably, red darkening the back of his neck and the tips of his ears.

  “Beg your pardon?”

  “She’s not my fiancée . . . yet.”

  “Ah.” Sam opened and closed a few of the kitchen cabinets, searching for something salty. He found a packet of crisps and a can of pretzels on the same shelf and grabbed them both. “Mate, would you mind getting a bowl or something? Kind of incapacitated over here.”

  Spencer grunted and went on the hunt, finding a couple of bowls in short order. He emptied the crisps and pretzels into the bowls, carried everything into the living room, and dumped them onto the coffee table in front of the huge television. Mason had a great setup—digital surround sound, seventy-seven-inch organic LED television, PS4, and music all hooked up to the same system. It was man cave central, and Sam had been so preoccupied with Lia that he hadn’t even thought to check it all out before now.

  “This is a sweet setup,” he said, and Spencer grunted again—it sounded like agreement. He was a taciturn fucker, but that was okay. Sam appreciated the quiet companionship he offered.

  They settled in, Sam spread out on the sofa and Spencer sprawled in the easy chair, and were soon absorbed in the loud, improbable movie. The crazy car stunts, gunfights, and hand-to-hand combat scenes were completely unrealistic, and Sam picked them all apart in his head, finding the exact moment in each action sequence where the character should have died a horrible death. Gravity, physics, and the limitations of the human body were terrible equalizers.

  Still, he enjoyed the loud, chaotic movie for what it was, a couple of hours of pure escapism. Spencer didn’t speak at all, just kept his focus on the screen, systematically making his way through his share of the snacks and beers. He was great, undemanding company.

  When the movie ended, Spencer stretched and yawned. “Need anything before I go?” he asked.

  “No, thanks. I think I’ve got it all covered.”

  “Daff says she won’t be . . .”

  “Won’t be helping out? Yeah, I know. She doesn’t like me.”

  Spencer grimaced and shrugged. “Hmm.” That’s all he had to say on the matter, and Sam could respect that—the opinionated, borderline unlikable woman was the guy’s almost fiancée, after all.

  “It’s fine. Lia’s offered to help out with meals and cleaning.” Another formidable frown from the big guy.

  “She has?”

  “Yes.”

  The frown deepened as Spencer absorbed that information, but again he offered no opinion.

  “I’ll drop around again tomorrow night. I think Daff and Charlie are planning some kind of makeup tutorial with some of Charlie’s friends.” The look of panic and absolute horror in his eyes was comical, and Sam grinned.

  “See you then.”

  “Hmm.”

  Another long night of interrupted sleep with crazy, sexy dreams starring Lia McGregor had Sam waking up irritated and horny the next morning. Again he could smell coffee brewing, and he sat up in bed, willing his erection away. He was in a foul mood, and not even the smell of waffles and bacon
could dispel his aggravation.

  He prowled downstairs and found her at the stove, her back to him. Her hair was up in a neat ponytail and she was wearing a knee-length mint-green pencil skirt with a plain white cotton blouse. On her feet she wore a pair of modest beige pumps. She looked neat and fresh, and all Sam wanted to do was go up behind her and wrap his arms around her. He wanted to turn her around and devour her mouth and mess up all that pristine neatness. Ruin all that prim goodness with just the touch of his hands and mouth.

  He would take her down to the floor, push that skirt up over her thighs, pull down her panties, and claim her right there. He had the almost violent, primal urge to do just that, right here and now. He actually took a step toward her, cock hard, hands reaching . . . when she turned around and spotted him. Her smile stopped him dead in his tracks. A beautiful, innocent, and genuinely delighted smile.

  “Oh, good morning,” she greeted, not knowing how very close he’d come to ravishing her on the fucking floor like a wild beast. “I trust you slept well?”

  “No,” he growled and turned away from her. Any other morning he’d flirt and try to charm her, but not today, not after the frustrating night he’d just had. He was in an unpredictable mood. He didn’t trust himself not to say or do something stupid and scare her off.

  “Oh. Well, I’m sorry to hear that. Were you in pain?”

  “Yes.” Serious pain. All night long. The type of pain that could only be assuaged inside her body.

  “Oh no. What can I do to help?”

  He laughed bitterly and glared at her over his shoulder.

  “Don’t fucking ask me that,” he growled, feeling like a wounded animal, and her eyes widened.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Yeah, no shit,” he muttered angrily, and she pinned him with an annoyed frown.

  “What’s your problem today?” she asked sharply, and he snorted a sarcastic laugh and stood with his arms spread, inviting her to look her fill. He was wearing only boxer briefs this morning, and she’d very stoically kept her eyes on his face since he’d joined her in the kitchen.

  “I’d say that my problem is pretty fucking self-evident,” he growled, and her eyes did a quick sortie down his body and then very swiftly scampered back up to the safety of his face. Her cheeks had gone bloodred, and her breathing was coming in alarmed little pants.

  “Oh. Well. I’m sorry.” Her words stymied him, and he stared at her for an instant before his arms dropped back down to his sides.

  “What are you sorry for?”

  “I’m sorry about what happened between you and Laura Prentiss and that she isn’t here to help you with . . . with . . . uh, that.”

  “She’s not, but you are.”

  “What?” she gasped, her shock genuine, if the absolutely appalled expression on her face was anything to go by. “Women aren’t interchangeable, Brand. What an awful thing to say.”

  “I never said they were, Lia,” he gritted, completely frustrated with the way this was going. It was too damned soon to be talking about this, to be suggesting this, but he’d been betrayed by his lack of patience and his own adolescent response to the woman in front of him.

  “Look,” he began, praying for patience, while at the same time knowing that he was going to completely fuck up his already ill-conceived plan with his next words. “Remember how your one stipulation to our agreement was no ‘funny business’?”

  “Of course,” she said warily.

  “Well, I’m afraid there’s going to be some funny business. Possibly a lot of funny business. Right now, Lally is quite the furthest thing from my mind, princess. You’re the one responsible for this hard-on. You and your closet full of schoolmarm outfits. You and your neat little body and your prim lips and your dated sensibilities. I want you back in my bed. For however long I find myself here. I want you to stop your search for Mr. Right and focus on me . . . only me. But I want you to remember that I’m Mr. Wrong and not refocus your romantic attentions on me.”

  “Is that all?” She tried for sarcasm, but her voice was breathless and lacked heat. She looked dazed, not sure how to respond to his words. He didn’t even know how to respond to his words—he was as shocked by them as she clearly was.

  “Fuck me, not by a long shot, princess. I want to lean you over the kitchen counter, push your skirt up over your firm little bum, and pull down your panties, then I want to bury myself in you and lose myself in your tight heat until we both come.”

  He went quiet and there was nothing but silence in the kitchen as they watched each other. She swallowed audibly and licked her lips.

  “That’s . . .” Her voice emerged on a husky note and she cleared her throat. “Uh, that’s a lot, Brand. I don’t know what to say to that.”

  “You can say ‘fudge it,’ throw caution and inhibitions to the wind, and fuck me?”

  “I can’t,” she said, her voice carrying just the slightest hint of regret.

  “Why not? Where’s the harm in it?”

  “I’m not made that way. I don’t have casual flings.”

  “I can think of at least two separate occasions when you did.”

  “That was different. It was meant to be just then. Just that one time.”

  “It was twice.”

  “I think of it as one extended encounter.”

  “Can’t we extend it even further? Can’t we just continue where we left off? Just a consensual, adult sexual encounter that started in November and will end when I leave.”

  “No. I don’t think so. That was then. This is now. Things have changed.”

  “What things?”

  “For one thing you’ve been in a serious relationship since then . . .” She paused, and her eyes widened. “Oh my goodness, please don’t tell me you were involved with her when we first met.”

  “I’m a one-woman-at-a-time kind of guy, Lia, so no, I wasn’t involved with anyone else when we first fucked.”

  She winced. “Just so you know, that kind of language does nothing to endear you to me.”

  “Just so you know, I don’t actually give a fuck. I’m not proposing marriage here, Lia. Just sex. And that means taking me just the way I am, crude, crass, and common. I won’t pretend to be something I’m not just to appease your delicate constitution.”

  Her lips thinned, and her jaw went up.

  “And I’ve changed,” she said. “Back then I was . . . unsure. Still rebounding from my failed engagement . . .”

  “It was more than a year later, wasn’t it?” he asked incredulously.

  “I don’t bounce back very quickly. Anyway, I was vulnerable, and you were lucky enough to capitalize on that vulnerability.”

  He laughed at that, the sound cynical. Was this woman for real?

  “Is that what you told yourself? That I took advantage of your vulnerability.”

  “No. I needed something to make me feel better about myself, and you were there. I suppose I took advantage of you. You were . . . you were my rebound guy.”

  He choked back another laugh at that. He liked that. He liked that she was proud enough to want to turn the tables on him.

  “Sure, I like that. I like being your rebound guy. I can keep being that.”

  “I don’t need a rebound guy anymore. I did the rebound thing. I need something else now. Someone else. Someone who’ll stick. Who’ll want to start a life and a family with me.”

  “Boring shit that can wait a few more months,” he dismissed. “I was your rebound guy, now let me be your final fling guy. Let me be the last wild thing you do before you settle down.”

  “I . . . no.” She looked away and swallowed again. “No, thank you. Your breakfast is ready. Please have a seat.”

  Always so fucking polite. He dragged a chair back and sank down at the table. Did she really think the conversation was over? Just like that? Apparently so—she smoothed her hands down the front of her pristine pinafore apron and smiled serenely at him, her eyes carefully blank. He returned t
he smile with a glare and watched in grim satisfaction as her expression faltered. She turned away and picked up a couple of plates. She crossed the short distance between them and placed his breakfast neatly in front of him before turning away to retrieve a mug for his coffee.

  Sam stared down at his plate resignedly. She’d shaped roses out of a couple of strawberries and centered them on top of a stack of waffles. More freshly sliced fruit was prettily placed in a separate bowl. She returned with his coffee and a side plate of crispy bacon.

  “Stop turning my meals into weird little pictures, it’s fucking pointless,” he groused before spearing his fork into the stupid flower and bringing it to his mouth. He chomped it down without ceremony, and she sucked her lower lip into her mouth and contemplated him for a long moment.

  “It’s a habit. But from now on I’ll try to remember that you have no soul and take no enjoyment from pointless, pretty things.”

  “It’s food—as long as it’s edible, I don’t care about the presentation,” he said defensively, feeling like a dick now.

  “I care about the presentation,” she said softly, her voice carrying a hint of stubborn defiance that surprised him. “I take pride in my accomplishments, Brand. And while they might seem completely pointless and dumb to you, I do it because it makes me happy. And I couldn’t care less what you think about it.”

  “I’m sorry,” Sam said begrudgingly. He was being a prick, he knew it, but sexual frustration, combined with constant pain and discomfort, were not conducive to charm and good behavior. It was a poor excuse, but it was the only one he had. He wanted to say more, but those were the only two words that came out and, in the end, the only words that really mattered.

  She nodded an acknowledgment of his apology, looking somewhat mollified, and Sam went back to his breakfast.

  “I brought a chicken pie for lunch. It needs to go in the oven—the heating instructions are on the container. Oh, and my mother baked you a cake. Chocolate fudge—she says she hopes you enjoy it.” She nodded toward the island, where a beautifully iced, decadent-looking chocolate cake stood on display on a glass cake stand.