The Wrong Man (Alpha Men Book 3)

by Natasha Anders

  “Yes, I do so enjoy a good, meaningless hookup,” he said in response to her previous comment. “And I hope that after our raunchy encounters, you now appreciate the merits thereof as well.”

  In his very proper English accent, everything he said sounded ever so decent—until the words sank in. That was when she felt her cheeks heat up like a furnace. She hated blushing, she knew it made her look like a blotchy teen, but for some reason Sam Brand could make her light up like a beacon. It was ridiculous.

  “Any time you want to revisit the sexy times with me, Lia . . .”

  “That won’t happen,” she interrupted primly.

  “Just thought I’d put it out there,” he said with an unrepentant smile.

  “I have to get home; my parents must be wondering where I am.” She instantly regretted the words when his eyes widened in bemusement.

  “Your parents? You live at home?”

  “Not for long,” she said self-consciously, but instead of staring at her like she was some kind of freak, a roguish grin lit up his wicked face.

  “God, you just added another illicit element to that already sexy button-down librarian schoolmarm thing you’ve got going. Can you sneak me into your room for a make-out session while your parents are watching telly downstairs?”

  Her jaw dropped, and he winced.

  “Yeah, that’s borderline deviant behavior, isn’t it? Still, you’re the walking answer to every man’s forbidden prayer. All you have to do is tell me you went to Catholic school and were considering becoming a nun and I swear I won’t be responsible for my actions.”

  “Ugh, I’m leaving. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  “Good night, princess. Thanks for coming to my rescue.”

  Lia made her way to the stairs but paused on the landing to look back at him. He was still sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at her.

  “Do you need anything before I leave? Something from the kitchen, perhaps?”

  “A good-night kiss?” The lilt in his voice was so ridiculously hopeful that Lia couldn’t bring herself to work up any kind of anger at the suggestion.

  “I doubt you’ll find one of those in the kitchen,” she said, and he laughed.

  “Tuck me in?”

  “’Night, Brand,” she said with a long-suffering sigh. Then, because boundaries were important, she felt obligated to remind, “And remember our agreement, no funny business. Asking for a kiss qualifies as funny business.”

  “Sorry, princess, it won’t happen again. I’m just loopy after taking my pain meds. Send me a text when you get home safely so that I’ll know not to send in the cavalry to come rescue you.”

  “Will do.” He smiled at her response.

  “Good night, Lia.”

  Sam woke up with a headache, a healthy appetite, and a huge hard-on. Dreams of Lia McGregor had definitely contributed to today’s top-quality morning wood and were probably also at fault for the terrible headache pounding away beneath his skull. He hadn’t slept very soundly—the constant dreams of Lia under him, over him, next to him, her mouth on him, her hands stroking and petting his body, had startled him awake throughout the night. And his frustration at finding himself alone in bed hadn’t helped the situation.

  He’d finally resorted to a hands-on session just before dawn. Most unsatisfying wank of his life. His left hand couldn’t quite master the technique or grip—it was either too weak or too strong—and the whole experience had left him feeling irritated and unsated.

  He stretched, groaned, and cracked open a sticky eyelid, confirming that it was indeed light outside. Something smelled amazing. He sniffed at the air . . . that was definitely bacon. Fully awake now, he pushed himself out of bed and limped his way over to the loft’s waist-high glass wall. Lia was bustling around the kitchen, the bright morning sunlight catching the warm auburn notes in her dark-brown hair. From his vantage point high up in Mason’s clever aerie, he could watch her unobserved for a few long moments. She really was pretty, with her expressive, thickly lashed gray eyes set beneath perfectly arched eyebrows. Her soft, full lips had a slight upward tilt that gave one the impression she was always on the verge of smiling, which contrasted sharply with the underlying sadness he sometimes glimpsed in her luminous eyes. High cheekbones and a delicate chin completed the pretty picture, and while she wasn’t a raving beauty, her prettiness had a wholesome charm, which was not something that usually appealed to Sam. His attraction to her definitely stemmed from her prim and proper personality. That unconscious aura of untouchability and perfect poise she presented to the world challenged him, and Sam was fundamentally incapable of backing down from a challenge.

  Even now he felt everything in him tightening in anticipation of their next encounter. He found himself grinning like an idiot at the prospect of talking to her again, which was bound to be entertaining. It always was.

  “Morning,” he called, and she nearly dropped a skillet in fright. She carefully placed it on the stove top and stared up at him in admonition.

  “You scared me,” she chastised.

  “You knew I was up here,” he pointed out.

  “I thought you were asleep.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Maybe you should get dressed,” she suggested, her face bright red as she kept her eyes determinedly above his waist. Sam snorted, only now registering his nudity and the fact that his erection had found renewed vigor in her presence.

  “You know I need help dressing,” he said, injecting a fair amount of misery into his voice. Her eyes flickered with sympathy for a moment before they narrowed and the concern in her pretty face transformed into a full-on glare.

  “You were wearing boxer briefs when I left last night,” she reminded. “You managed to get out of them without a problem. You can get into them with equal ease, I’m sure.”

  Busted.

  “You’re a heartless woman, Dahlia McGregor,” he said on a dejected sigh before turning around. He grinned at the sound of her gasp, hoping she enjoyed the cheeky eyeful of ass he’d so considerately gifted her with.

  “Breakfast will be ready in five minutes,” she called.

  Lia ran a shaky hand over her face and muffled a groan behind her fingers. This was probably the most ill-advised thing she’d ever done in her life. Why did she think she could handle this? Sam Brand was too good-looking, too sexy, and too darned arrogant and self-assured by far, and Lia had been an idiot for thinking she could handle him.

  She took a moment to compose herself before sucking in a bracing breath.

  “Woman up, Lia. You can handle two weeks. The man is as weak as a puppy, for goodness’ sake. Get over this.” Ineffectual and unconvincing pep talk over, she shook herself and went back to work.

  She had everything prepared when she heard Brand’s footsteps coming down the stairs. She threw back her shoulders and turned to face him with a bright smile, which immediately faltered when she noted first his naked chest, then his scowl, and finally the scrap of fabric he had clutched in his left hand.

  “Trouble?” He didn’t bother answering her, merely shoved his left hand in her direction. It was clutching a cotton shirt. She took the shirt gingerly and shook it out to assess it. The left sleeve was inside out, as if he’d had his arm in it and then pulled it back out without much care. The right sleeve was cut down the seam to allow the cast to slide in with ease. But clearly, Brand hadn’t found it very easy, if his lethal glower was anything to go by.

  Lia didn’t say anything. She dragged the left sleeve the right side out and shook the shirt vigorously to get rid of the creases.

  “Hold out your left arm,” she instructed, keeping her voice crisp and businesslike. He obeyed sullenly and she slid the sleeve up before focusing on the other arm. She made short work of that, too, and soon found herself standing in front of him, way too close for comfort, while she buttoned the shirt. She was so aware of his closeness, his heat, and the wonderful, masculine smell of his cologne that she couldn’t control the
shaking of her fingers and she botched the job. He said nothing when she had to start over, just stood quietly, his breath ruffling the hair at her temple. The tips of her fingers inadvertently brushed against the silky skin of his chest and he shuddered, his breath escaping on a slightly muffled groan.

  “Sorry,” she murmured, her voice quivering. She tried to take more care not to touch him, but she was swiftly turning into a wreck, her hands shaking almost uncontrollably now. She paused and let her hands fall to her sides, where she clenched them into fists to regain some semblance of control, before she attempted the task again.

  She was on the last button and nearly jumped out of her skin when he reached out and brushed his fingertips against her cheek.

  “You have flour on your face,” he explained, his voice ridiculously gravelly.

  Lia left the top two buttons unfastened and stepped away from his heat, patting at her hectically flushed cheeks in what she hoped looked like an attempt to dust any residual flour from her face. Rather than what it truly was—a really flustered move to cool down and gather her composure.

  After a moment of frantic confusion, she finally took a long look at him before frowning.

  “Well, this is completely impractical,” she noted. The split shirtsleeve hung uselessly from his shoulder. “Whose bright idea was this?”

  “My mother altered some of my clothing to help me acclimate to my infirmity,” he said. Lia immediately felt bad for her harsh observation—and an overwhelming curiosity about his mother.

  Sam watched the play of emotions on Lia’s face. She wanted to ask him about his mother. He was sure of it. He hoped she resisted the impulse. He didn’t particularly want to discuss his private life with her—it wasn’t any of her business. She was meant to be a distraction, even if she didn’t quite know that yet, and nosing her way into his private affairs would make her more of a nuisance than a distraction.

  “I have to remove this sleeve,” she finally said, her natural reserve kicking in, and Sam barely refrained from exhaling a relieved sigh. Instead he cast a rueful glance down at the ruined sleeve. He had packed mostly loose tank tops, which were easy enough to get into, but his mother had taken it upon herself to destroy several of his expensive dress shirts during one of her—as usual, ill-advised—acts of maternal concern. And because she’d been hovering and helping like a concerned mama bear during the packing process, Sam couldn’t bring himself to leave the mangled shirts behind.

  He’d had no intention of ever wearing them, precisely because buttoning them up with his left hand was a tedious process and the useless split sleeve looked ridiculous. In typical Mimsy fashion, she hadn’t thought things through, but he had politely thanked her for her help rather than hurt her feelings by pointing out the flaws in her plan. Now he found himself silently thanking her for ruining some of his best shirts, because they suited his purpose.

  Sam was turned on by how very turned on Lia had been. And try though she might, she couldn’t hide her reaction from him. The uneven breathing, the trembling fingers, the hectic flush in her cheeks—though Miss McGregor could dissemble as much as she wanted, Sam knew exactly how performing such an intimate task for him had affected her. But Sam was dangerously susceptible to falling prey to his own little game. If his response to the shirt thing was any indication, he would go stir-crazy with lust long before his cast came off.

  “Something smells fantastic.” He forced a cheerful note into his hoarse voice, and it seemed to snap her back to the present.

  “Yes. Yes, of course! Your breakfast. Please have a seat, I’ll just—just . . .” She paused and inhaled deeply, patting at her flushed cheeks again. “Uh, just get rid of this sleeve and feed you. I’ve left a lasagna in the fridge for lunch, and I’ll pop around with your dinner this evening.”

  The flurry of words made him frown.

  “You’re not staying?” he asked shortly, and her mouth snapped shut as she stared at him in surprise.

  “No. Of course not. I have a lot of errands to run this morning.”

  “Then what the fuck am I paying you for?” He was seriously aggravated that she’d just swan off and leave him on his own all day.

  “Cooking, cleaning, doing some driving, and maybe helping you with some of the more difficult tasks. I do have a life, you know? I didn’t expect to have to stay here all day and wipe the sweat from your fevered brow,” she said tartly, and Sam bit back a smile at the show of defiance.

  “What kind of errands?”

  “Various errands,” she hedged. Why was she hedging? What did she have to hide?

  “I’ll join you,” he decided.

  “You’d be bored.”

  “I’ll be bored here, too; I’d rather be bored with you than alone.”

  “It’s not a good idea. You should rest.”

  “I’ve rested enough. I’ll go crazy in this place by myself all day.”

  “You should have thought of that before coming here.”

  “That’s a very uncharitable sentiment, princess.”

  “Fine, you can tag along”—as if he were a child—“but not one word of complaint when you find yourself bored out of your mind.”

  “That’s the spirit,” he praised, and she glared at him. How adorable was that? The cutest little glare ever. It made him smile, which made her forehead wrinkle even more.

  She shook her head, grumbling beneath her breath as she turned away to rummage through one of the drawers. She returned moments later, clutching a pair of kitchen shears.

  “Sit down,” she commanded, and he meekly dropped into one of the kitchen chairs. He was starting to like this bossy streak of hers. She made short work of the sleeve, and Sam tried not to wince when she tossed the remnants of his Dior into the garbage.

  She bustled around a bit more before returning with a mug of coffee clutched in one hand and a plate in the other.

  “It’s probably gone cold by now,” she said, and Sam straightened in anticipation, hoping whatever it was tasted as good as it smelled. He didn’t even care if it had cooled down. He was starving. She handed him the mug, which he accepted with a grateful smile, and carefully placed the plate in front of him, before turning away and picking up a small bowl and another plate from the counter next to the stove top. She positioned those on the table as well.

  Sam barely registered her movements as he blinked down at the first plate in consternation. It was . . . food. Of that he was certain. It smelled good, looked good, but . . .

  “Why the fuck is my breakfast frowning at me?” He could hear the outraged confusion in his own voice. It very accurately reflected what he was feeling. His perfectly fried sunny-side-up eggs were the eyes, crispy rashers of bacon formed frowny eyebrows above them, four grilled tomato wedges were angled into a downturned mouth, and the solitary button mushroom in the center of the plate could only be the nose. There were a few more buttery mushrooms tucked into a bowl beside the plate of toast. The stack of pancakes she popped down next to the toast seemed like overkill, but Sam wasn’t going to complain about the sheer volume of food. Not when it all looked and smelled so good.

  But that face . . . He frowned up at Lia, who was blushing again. She slid her eyes away from his and sucked her luscious bottom lip into her mouth. It very nearly succeeded in drawing his attention from his angry-looking breakfast, but one glance down at his plate was enough to distract him from the urge to suck that lip into his own mouth.

  “Sorry, I . . . it was an impulse. You kind of annoyed me just now.” He nearly laughed at that reluctant confession. If she found that annoying, his meals were going to look permanently pissed off with him. She didn’t strike him as a very impulsive person, so that information was neatly tucked away for further scrutiny later. Right now, despite the frowny face, he was looking forward to devouring his delicious-smelling breakfast.

  “Yeah, I get that a lot,” he said agreeably and tucked into his meal with gusto, destroying the censorious bastard on his plate in no time at all. He
even managed to down a couple of pancakes after polishing off the eggs and bacon. No sense having them go to waste. And he needed to regain some weight.

  Lia was at the sink, doing dishes, and Sam watched her while he ate. She was wearing a perfectly pretty knee-length dress. This one was pastel pink with thinner straps at the shoulders and a white flounce at the hem. Ice cream on a hot summer’s day—that’s what she reminded him of. She wore a frilly white pinafore apron to protect the dress, and the combination made her look like a 1960s housewife.

  She turned and caught him staring, and the bright-red flush on her cheeks clashed with the delicate pink of her dress.

  “Are you done?” she asked, nodding down at his plate, where nothing but a few streaks of yolk remained of the angry face.

  “Yes, thank you. That was quite delicious, princess. You’re a good cook.”

  “Any idiot can make a couple of fried eggs, pancakes, and some bacon.”

  “True, but few can make them taste this good.” The compliment flustered her, that much was obvious. She patted at her already neat hair—she always seemed to be patting at things when she was out of sorts—and picked up the empty dishes from the table.

  “I’ll clean these and we can get going. You may want to grab a jacket, it’s a bit chilly today.”