by Lia Riley
He took a moment to reply, long enough she wondered if he’d ignore the question. “Lost it in late July.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Me too. I was rather attached to it.”
An inward jolt struck her core at his unexpected and fleeting smile. He’d made a joke. Oh God, he could be funny too?
Then he really was dangerous.
Chapter Five
QUINN UNZIPPED HER jacket, pausing halfway. “You don’t mind, do you? Seeing as I’m staying, at least for a while.”
“No.” Yes. Because the minute she slid out of that white, puffy coat her breathtaking body was on full display. Those snug-fitting jeans weren’t overtly sexy but the way the denim contoured the slight flare of her narrow thighs as she sat down made him swallow. Hard.
It had been a while since he’d been in the company of any woman who wasn’t a medical professional or intimately involved with his brothers. Also, as much as he didn’t want to admit it, he had a type and this forward, strong-looking woman fit it right down to that thick wavy brown hair pulled back at the nape of her long sexy neck.
Necks were underrated female geography. He loved how they tasted when he kissed them there, how they smelled as he nuzzled.
Equally fascinating was her lush mouth, how the corner remained quirked on one side despite the natural pout, as if in perpetual secret amusement.
This woman was bright, spunky, and happy, despite her father’s miserable situation. His heart sank. He had nothing to offer someone like her, not when his whole world had burned to a cinder.
He shook himself inwardly, not moving a muscle. No point succumbing to the ugly truth, however true. Maybe he could pretend to be a normal guy for the night. Normal except for the scars, the missing leg, and the fact he hadn’t spoken to a living soul since Sawyer dropped off his groceries six days ago, and was tongue-tied around strangers at the best of times.
Shit.
What would Archer do? His younger brother was good with people, especially the ladies. He’d navigate this situation like a pro.
She gave him a tentative smile, probably because he was staring at her like a loon.
Compliments. Women like compliments.
“Your teeth are real white,” Wilder blurted. Goddamn it, the words hung over them like a comic strip balloon. He wished for a string to grab on to, so he could stuff the idiocy back into his mouth, swallow it down.
“Excuse me?” Her shoulders jerked as her lips clamped, clearly not anticipating the awkward flattery.
At least he hadn’t said how much he liked her neck. Yet.
Damn, this was a mistake. He wasn’t good with people. Didn’t like people. Didn’t need people.
Quinn set her chin in her hand. “Did you just pay me a compliment?”
“No.” He answered quickly.
She peered at him, clearly unwilling to let this go. “Yes, you did. I heard you. Or maybe you need to send my dentist a fan letter.”
He ignored her joking tone. “Forget it.”
“I . . . it’s okay . . . it just surprised me.”
He snorted. “You don’t look like someone who is short on compliments.” If anything, he guessed the opposite was the case. A woman like Quinn didn’t exist in the world for men to ignore, not with that face, that body.
She shrugged.
“You telling me you don’t get attention?”
“Attention? I guess I get”—she frowned, as if searching for the right word—“lines.”
“Lines?”
“You know, like ‘did you sit on a pile of sugar, because you have a sweet ass?’ or ‘Hey, baby, I’m not staring at your rack, I’m looking at your heart,’ or, oh, here’s a good one, ‘Let me have your picture so I can show Santa what I want for Christmas.’ ”
He knitted his brow, his stomach muscles getting tight. “Guys have seriously said all that stuff to you?”
“Yep.” Her matter-of-fact tone didn’t mask a twinge of annoyance. “And those are the ones that are at least a little bit funny.”
He gritted his teeth. “Dumbasses.”
“Yeah. Guys can be that all right.” She shrugged before glancing up quickly. “Present company excluded though.”
Yeah sure.
Hard to believe her encouragement given the way he bungled through their conversations. He sank into the antique rocking chair beside the fire, the one Annie, Sawyer’s girlfriend, brought over from her farmhouse. It was well-made and a well-intentioned gift but still made him feel like a thirty-one-year-old geriatric.
“So.” She crossed her legs, idly smoothing a hand over her knee.
“So.” A dull ache spread through his chest. He was used to phantom pains in his missing leg, but apparently the same phenomenon could happen to your heart.
“You read and whittle. Plus start fires.”
“What?” His voice came out a harsh bark. She looked perceptive but how could she—
“Hey, that’s a darn good fire.” She flicked a thumb toward the hearth before giving him an odd, lingering look.
“Hrmph.” He had nothing else of use to offer the conversation. Going from a hermit to a human in polite company was jarring. “I put fires out or used to.”
She flashed a smile, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Literally or metaphorically speaking? Because I used to put out fires too.” She grabbed the tendril back and began looping it around her finger. “But they were things like how my boss didn’t want to be asked if he wore shoe inserts in his last movie to appear taller or had Botox done. The answers to both were yes by the way. I worked for a PR company in Hollywood and handled stars. One in particular. Tim Beckett.”
“The guy from all the Fatal Night movies?”
She shot him an indecipherable look. “You a fan?”
“Not really.”
“Really?” Her shoulders dropped a fraction. “Most guys seem to like big explosions, car chases, spy rings.”
He shrugged. “Guess I’m not like most guys.”
There came that appraising stare again. “Guess not. And by the way, I’m going to make a deduction that you fought actual fires.”
He spared her a covert glance. The fire illuminated her sweet features, the nervous way her tongue darted to tap her top lip. “What tipped you off?”
“The hands for one.”
Those lingering looks she kept casting in his direction were just his imagination. No doubt she found him repulsive. Couldn’t help but stare. He affected an indifferent shrug. “You mean my scars.”
“Do they hurt?”
“Not anymore.” He glanced down at his crooked fingers. “Did at the time though. Third degree. Required grafting. Surgery. It’s why I took that up.” He nodded at the whittling. “Part of my therapy. Helps with regaining dexterity.”
“What about sensation?”
He swallowed. “Most of the nerve endings were destroyed.” He’d never be able to gather all that long luscious hair and revel in the texture of soft strands slipping through his fingers.
“You can’t feel anything with your hands?”
“Very little.”
“And this was the same accident that cost you the leg?”
“More or less.” He swallowed, throat thick. “Parachute accident followed by a wildfire.”
“Oh my God.” Her voice rose an octave. “That’s unlucky.”
“Don’t ask me to pick a lotto ticket number.”
She made a strange sound, almost as if she wanted to chuckle but choked it back.
“Go on, laugh. It was a joke.”
“I thought so, but got to say, you don’t seem like the jovial sort.”
There was a cough from the spare bedroom, followed by a long low moan.
“My dad! He’s waking
up.” She jumped to her feet. “Mind if I get a glass of water? I have some of his Ativan in my bag. He’s going to be anxious waking in a strange place. Best if I can keep him subdued, comfortable, and sleeping until morning.”
Wilder gestured to the four glasses lined up on the shelf. “Help yourself. Whatever you need.” He clamped his mouth before starting in on some “mi casa es su casa” crap and eyed his watch. His entire body prickled with awareness. The night hadn’t even properly settled and he wasn’t sure how he’d survive it.
QUINN PRETENDED SHE didn’t notice Wilder’s covert watch check, but that didn’t fool her heart. The uneven lurch was a stupid physiological reaction because it wasn’t as if he had requested her company in the first place. She grabbed a glass and ran it under the tap, resisting the urge to splash her face and cool down. Good thing the room was dark because a hot flush had permanently stamped itself on her cheeks.
She walked out of the kitchen space without another glance at the big male body slouched by the fire, and she entered the bedroom without a knock. Maybe Dad had just stirred in his sleep. Maybe he’d . . .
“Who are you?” he yelled, sitting straight up in bed.
“Hi, Dad. It’s Bizzy. Quinn. Your daughter.”
He didn’t answer with more than a grunt. He’d forgotten her name last of all. Maybe that fact should make her happier.
He thrashed with the comforter. “Get me the hell out of here.”
“Hear that wind?” She pointed to the roof. “There’s a heck of a big winter storm outside. Lots of snow. We can’t go anywhere. Have a glass of water and these pills and try to get more rest. You’ve had quite the adventure today.” She held the glass to his mouth and exhaled when he swallowed in compliance. Took the pills without complaint.
“Are you hungry?”
His snort meant no.
Thank goodness Wilder had fed him earlier. The hot meal in his belly would help keep him comfortable and comfortable meant calm.
“How about you get up and use the bathroom before going back to bed?”
Dad muttered something else unintelligible but grasped her hand as she led him out of bed, shuffling beside her in his strange, stooped posture.
“Excuse me,” she called to where Wilder was sitting. Or had been sitting. The rocking chair was empty.
“Yeah?”
He stood in the hall, behind her. Close enough she could smell pine, shaving cream, and the faint scent of honey. She fought the temptation to turn and burrow her face into his broad chest, sniffing deep and long. Instead, she refocused her grip on Dad’s hand.
“I need to take him into your bathroom.”
“I heard. I came to take him myself.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“Your dad might not know what’s happening, but trust me, he’d rather not have his daughter watching him take a leak. It’s no big deal. The bathroom is off the back. He’ll be out in a minute.”
She released Dad and he smiled at Wilder, offering his hand, looking so much like a trusting boy that it was almost impossible to swallow the knot in her throat.
Dad never went to a new person willingly.
Wilder must send out some sort of good vibe, some wavelength Dad picked up on. Or she’d spent way too much time on the California coast. Good vibes? Wavelengths?
“What’s so funny?” Wilder asked, back again with all his faint yet distracting manly smells. He stood, shoulders relaxed, casual, as if the two of them in a dark narrow hallway was no big deal.
And it wasn’t a big deal.
It wasn’t.
“Hey.” She cleared her throat, hearing Dad opening the door. “Do you have a book I can borrow? My dad likes me to read to him before bed. It might settle him down.”
“You know I have books.”
“I mean, may I use one for an hour or so. I don’t want to presume—”
“Shelves are through there.” He pointed. “My bedroom.”
She froze. “You stash books in your bedroom?”
“That’s where I read them so . . .”
Good lord, the man liked to read in bed too? The idea of his bare chest bathed in lamplight while he furrowed that strong brow over a hardcover created a flurry of butterflies that transformed into water buffalo, trammeling her insides to mush.
Come on, this is so not fair, fate. Really not fair.
“Light is on your left,” he called.
“Got it.” She walked through the door and ran her hand over the wall to find the switch, flicking it on. If she hoped to discover any clues about the mysterious man, this room wasn’t yielding answers. There was a full-sized four-poster bed covered with a plain green down comforter, a framed poster of Mount Whitney, a bedside table with a half-full glass of water. And then . . . oh. Okay. Now we are talking.
Two large pine bookshelves bracketed either side of the window, stuffed with books. Many she recognized. Many she had sent herself.
Never in a million years did she expect to ever see them again.
As she stood, staring at the titles, she became aware of something else. The room smelled good.
It smelled like him.
“See anything you like?” With the light on, his face was clear for the first time that night. None of those rough features could ever be described as handsome. But he had that quality, the elusive and indefinable spark that made you look a second time, everything an interesting paradox. Wide brutal lips, but at the same time, the idea of them fastened to her skin made her dizzy. His hair tumbled in every direction, thick, dark, and shaggy, grazing his shirt’s collar, and yet the texture invited touch, and those eyes held a magnetic longing, as if compelling her to give . . . what?
Good God, get it together, woman. He’d notice her legs shaking in another second, rattling the floorboard. “Anything I like? Um . . . yes . . . this.” She grabbed blindly, realizing it was Grimm’s Fairy Tales. Good enough.
“Interesting choice,” he rumbled. “Those stories were darker than I expected.”
It had been a long time since she had read any Grimm, but vague recollections hung over her. “They are pretty macabre, huh? Death. Doom. Old ladies snacking on young children, etcetera.” She rubbed the front cover to avoid his intense scrutiny. The book seemed oddly perfect, like of course she’d read a fairy tale on such a windblown wintry night, hunkered in a little lost cabin down a strange lane, haunted by a brooding man who—
Dad coughed from the kitchen as a flood of guilt doused her warm heart in a cold splash of realism. What was she doing? Romantic thoughts had no place in her real world.
Not when she had to take care of Dad, handle his affairs. Not to mention that her own brain might be a ticking time bomb.
Better to keep her dreams confined to imagination. Live vicariously through plucky bluestockings and dashing dukes or wolf shifters or alpha tycoons. Those men might be dangerous on the page, but they were safe for a bookworm like her.
“You okay?” His deep voice broke up her train of thought.
She snapped up her head. “Huh?”
“I asked if you were okay. You made a face.”
“What kind?”
“A thinking one.” A note of amusement clung to his words.
She squashed her brows together, readjusting her glasses. Was he making fun of her? “Newsflash, I do have a brain.”
“I wasn’t hinting you were a scarecrow.”
She stared, lost.
He scanned the shelf and plucked another title, holding it up while arching a brow. The Wizard of Oz.
“Oh. Right. If I only had a brain.” Duh. “I’m not really winning any Mensa awards tonight.”
“You’re tired and worried.” He shelved the book. “Go take care of your dad and then think about getting some shut-eye yourself. You look as if you could use it.
My bed is free.”
If she was befuddled before, now her brain turned to mashed potatoes. “Your bed?”
“Not with me.” He tripped over his words in haste and coughed into his fist. “I’ll settle out by the fire. You take my bed. It’s more comfortable.”
“I can’t do that.”
“Where else will you sleep?”
“The floor next to Dad.”
His expression turned stony. “You really think that I’ll let you curl up on the frigid floorboards?”
“I don’t think you are going to let me do anything,” she snapped, hackles up at his tone. “I make decisions for myself.”
“You will sleep in my bed.” He stepped forward, his flat tone suggesting the debate was over.
He clearly didn’t know who he was up against.
“I wouldn’t sleep in your bed in a million years.” He flinched at her riled-up response. Shiznits. She hadn’t meant the words as a personal insult, only as hyperbole. If truth were to be told, under vastly different circumstances, she’d be interested in sleeping in that bed all right—just not alone. No, she didn’t want to sleep on the ground, listening to Dad’s snoring but she also didn’t want to kick a guy out of his own room. Especially this tall, broody, Byronic stranger whom she’d already inconvenienced and who was dealing with a score of physical injuries.
“You’re as stubborn as a Missouri mule.” It didn’t sound like he offered the line as a compliment.
She bit the inside of her cheek. “Takes one to know one.” Good lord, this guy really brought out her sass.
He glowered down at her. She was tall but he was taller still. Made her five-foot-nine feel dainty, petite, which never happened.
She marched past him into the spare room where Dad stood next to the bed. “In you get,” she said, throwing back the sheets.
He responded easy as a child. Easier actually. The meds must be kicking in, coupled by exhaustion.
“You’ve had a big day, haven’t you?” She smoothed back his hair, feeling not for the first time like the parent rather than the child.
He nodded, probably not because he comprehended, but because she ended the sentence on an upward inflection. He answered every question with some sort of yes. She liked to take that as a sign of innate optimism.
