by Tara Leigh
I hate the sight of blood.
A voice ripples through the unfamiliar darkness. “Doc said you’d be waking up about now. Points for punctuality.” As ephemeral as smoke, it seems to come from every corner. “He stitched you up and left painkillers, if you need them.”
Another wave crashes over me, and I know exactly who this voice belongs to. That damn man who pretended he saved me when all he did was make the situation worse. I can’t see him, but I don’t need to. He’s hardly forgettable.
Tall, at least a foot taller than me, with close-cropped, sandy brown hair, and skin somewhere between bronze and olive. Dramatically angled cheekbones that cut across his face like tiger stripes. Pale green eyes fringed by inky black eyelashes that didn’t soften his hard edges one bit. Attractive, if you like men built like Norse warriors.
I don’t.
I know better than to get involved with men who speak with their fists, fighting battles that aren’t their own. And I’m done with hot-headed men who erupt in unpredictable, violent outbursts.
To be honest, for the foreseeable future, I’m done with men. Period.
“No,” I say quickly. I don’t need any more drugs, regardless of the pain. What I need is to leave. What I need is—
Another detail, one that has nothing to do with him and everything to do with me, slams into my consciousness. Not only am I in a strange bed . . . I’m shirtless. Pantless, too. Where are my clothes?
I clutch the cool sheet to my chest. Did this warrior claim me as the spoils of his fight? Take advantage of me while I was unable to resist? I swallow thickly. “Is that all that happened?”
His velvet chuckle is almost mocking, which makes his reply less of a balm than it should be. “Unconscious women aren’t really my thing.”
“Good to know.” I want to jump out of this bed and flee with the tattered shreds of my dignity trailing behind me. Unfortunately, my options are a little limited right now. “I’d like my clothes back, please.”
“No.”
No? “It wasn’t a question.”
“Either way, I gave you an answer.”
Beneath the covers, an indignant shiver trembles through me. “Listen, if you’re expecting some kind of open-armed, grateful—”
“From you?” He makes a noise that sounds like a snort. “I’m getting the feeling you don’t do grateful.”
“I never asked you to come running into the alley after me.”
“So you’re not glad I did?”
With my luck, of course I don’t wind up with a run-of-the-mill Good Samaritan. Nope. I’ve fallen into the clutches of a cocky jerk with extra time on his hands and too much testosterone in his body, looking for an appreciative female to stroke his ego. “I would have been just fine on my own.”
Another snort. “You sure about that?”
“How are you so sure I wouldn’t be?”
“The same way I know the sun rises in the east and sets in the west. The same way I know the earth is not flat, but round. The same way I know—”
“Got it. You’re all-seeing, all knowing. Patron saint of helpless females the world over.”
“I never said you were helpless.” He pauses, then adds, “But next time you have your head in the clouds and don’t notice two goons hot on your tail, looking to rob or rape you, probably both, I’ll try to remember that you’d rather take your chances.”
“Fine. All hail the conquering hero. Happy now?”
“Oh, I’m no hero.”
“Well, at least we agree on that.”
“Do you really think you could have handled yourself back there?”
So damn smug. “Yes, I do. And while we can debate my self-defense capabilities all day—”
“Night. It’s the middle of the night.”
“Whatever. All night, all day. There’s no difference. What I’m trying to say is—”
“Listen, Ronda Rousey, in case you haven’t noticed, you’re in my bed getting all hot and bothered about nonsense. Either go to sleep, or we might as well channel your energy into something more productive.”
I snap my sagging jaw shut.
Sex. He’s talking about sex.
The very same man I accused of being a rapist just a few minutes ago.
He isn’t, I believe him on that. Instead, he’s an overbearing, self-important, shamelessly self-aggrandizing . . . I gnash my teeth in frustration. I don’t have enough adjectives for what he is.
But even as my brain furiously sifts through my mental thesaurus, my body is having its own reaction. A quickening of my breath, a tug of yearning low in my belly, and a rush of heat between my thighs that almost rivals my knife wound. Jeez, Nixie. Get a grip. This guy is clearly an asshole.
And you are not an asshole magnet. Not anymore.
“So that’s what it takes for you to bite your tongue, huh? I’ll have you know, most women consider a night with me to be more of a reward than a punishment.”
“Don’t flatter yourself, big shot. You could have called nine-one-one. Or dropped me off at the nearest hospital. I’m in your bed because you brought me here. And now I want to leave.”
“No can do. Doc’s coming back to check on you in the morning. Until then, get some sleep.”
Sleep? Is he kidding me?
Sure, the room is pitch black—if there are windows, the blinds must be drawn—and the bed is almost absurdly comfortable.
But how can I possibly sleep with all the tension buzzing in the room? When my side is on fire and my bladder feels like it’s about to burst?
I close my eyes anyway, trying to will myself back to unconsciousness. The sooner I fall asleep, the sooner I can wake up and get out of here. One minute passes, then two. But it’s no use. I huff an irritated sigh.
It doesn’t go unnoticed. “You’re still awake.”
“Apparently, so are you.”
“Why aren’t you sleeping?”
I bristle. “Why do you care? And why are you in here, anyway?”
“You mean, in my bedroom?”
“No one with sheets this soft lives in a studio apartment. Isn’t there another room you can go to? You know, since you won’t let me leave this one?”
“You’re a liability. And since I brought you here, I might as well make sure you’re okay.”
A liability? That’s something I’ve never been called before. I scrape my upper teeth over my lower ones, counting backward from ten. “Fine. If you really want to know, I have to pee. There, now you know what’s keeping me up.”
“Why didn’t you say so?” A lamp flicks on and I wince at the unexpected light, covering my eyes. “The bathroom is just down there.”
Sensing him coming near me, my heartbeat takes off at a gallop. I remove my hand and blink frantically, willing my pupils to retract faster. I need all of my faculties operating on point with this man.
I force myself to raise my head and look directly at my unlikely host. “Where are my clothes?” Even now, with my vision blurry at the edges, he’s offensively attractive.
“They had blood all over them, so I tossed them in the laundry.”
I think back, frantically trying to remember the underwear I put on this morning. And when I do—the barely-there bra and panty set I only wear when I’m overdue for an afternoon at the laundromat—I’m not sure whether to be embarrassed or excruciatingly grateful.
Another day and I might have been commando.
I keep my arms pressed firmly to my sides. “For the record, I would have preferred to remain dressed.”
“You’ll have to take that up with Doc. But don’t worry, I didn’t see a thing.” His sideways smirk has my stomach doing Cirque-du-Soleil-level acrobatics. “As far as I’m concerned, your virtue is fully intact.”
My virtue. The old-fashioned word sounds ridiculous coming from this man’s lips. His too-full, too-sensual lips with their flagrant cupid’s bow curves. “Well, can I borrow something to wear?”
“Sure.” Pale green eyes
a shade that really deserve to be called something fancy, like cerulean or cyan, flick over my exposed shoulders, catching briefly on the thin straps of my white lace bra. “Do you need help sitting up?”
“No, I’m f—” I lean back onto my elbows, my core muscles automatically contracting as I attempt to sit up. The movement sends a fresh wave of pain shrieking through me and I gasp.
“Yeah. You’re fine, all right,” he grumbles, one hand curving around my shoulder and down my naked back, the other scooping beneath my knees. Settling me against the headboard, he unscrews the top of an orange vial from the nightstand and shakes out a pill.
“I don’t need—”
“Martyrdom is overrated. Doc left pills for you to take, and you’ll take them. Now sip,” he commands, holding a glass of water to my mouth.
I do, the imprint of his palm on my back still smoldering.
And because he’s not through barking orders, he holds the pill in front of my lips. “Open.”
I do that too, and with a surprisingly gentle touch, he sets the white capsule on my tongue before lifting the cup of water again. I raise my gaze to his, swallowing my pride along with the medicine.
His eyes crinkle at their corners as he returns the glass to the nightstand, then walks away. I sag back against the leather, feeling like I’ve just run a marathon.
The reprieve is brief. He’s at my side again a minute later, holding a white button-down. “Will this work?”
“Hmmm?”
“For you to wear.” At my hesitation, his voice takes on a sarcastic tone. “You know, because I’ve never seen a naked woman before.”
I snatch the shirt from his hands, this time ignoring the flash of pain that steals my breath. “It’s fine.” Keeping the sheet against my chest, I gingerly push my arms through the too-long sleeves, trying not to show how much it hurts.
“Do you need help?”
“No,” I insist, struggling to free my hands so I can button the damn thing. But the shirt, made for a man with shoulders that belong to a quarterback and a chest as wide as a redwood, dwarfs me. I can’t manage to line up the ends so that the buttons are even. After a few minutes, defeated by the swath of starched cotton engulfing my fingertips, I give up. “Yes.”
“What was that? I couldn’t hear you.”
I look up, once again finding myself lost in a pair of eyes the incandescent blue-green of travel brochures to exotic escapes I’ve never visited. Places with names that dance over my tongue like Ibiza and Jean-Cap-Ferrat and St. Tropez. “Yes.” I swallow. “Please.”
He gives a satisfied nod and folds the cuffs back, several times, until I can see my wrists. Pulling the two sides together, he begins fastening the buttons. “This isn’t as much fun as the other way around.”
I hold my breath as his hands hover over my breasts, the sight of his long, nimble fingers making ridiculous thoughts bloom inside my mind. Is it wrong that I find myself wondering what it would be like if those hands were unbuttoning rather than buttoning, revealing rather than hiding? If his hands were on me rather than—
Finished, he steps away and jerks his head to the right. “The bathroom is just down there.”
I look in the general direction he indicates and can’t even see the door. “’Kay.” My tongue feels unwieldy inside my mouth, my equilibrium about as steady as a rowboat caught in a summer squall. I push my legs out from under the covers, painstakingly scooting myself toward the edge of the mattress.
He stands back a respectful distance as I hoist myself upright, immediately swaying on my feet.
“Gotcha.” One muscled arm wraps around me, hugging me into his side.
I barely reach his shoulder. “I should probably know your name,” I mumble, irrationally irritated by his size, his clothes, his enormous apartment.
“You’re right, you should.”
I blink. “And?”
“Oh, was that you actually asking my name? I couldn’t tell.”
A flush starts at my chest and rises above the stiff white collar of his shirt. Am I getting etiquette lessons now? “Well then, Dick it is.”
He sighs. It’s a different sigh than the ones that have come before. An amused sigh. “Nash. My name’s Nash.”
I swallow another surge of irritation. “Nice to meet you, Nash.”
“Good to meet you too, Nixie.”
I almost laugh at the absurdity of our situation. The absurdity of this entire day. The absurdity of my entire life. Because sometimes it’s better to laugh than to cry.
But the seed of that laugh turns to ash in my throat. He called me Nixie, the name spilling from his lips as easily as if he’s said it a thousand times. I stop moving forward, my feet suddenly rooted to the ground. “How do you know my name?”
He doesn’t have the grace to look at all chagrined. “Because that’s what it said on your ID.”
“You rifled through my clothes?”
“No, I did not rifle. I emptied your pockets before throwing your jeans in the wash. It’s been a while since I’ve done my own laundry, but I remember that much.”
My mind snags on the sliver of information Nash let slip. Who does his laundry? A girlfriend? Wife? None of your business, Nixie. I turn slightly, so that I am facing him. “Did you do a Google search on me, too?”
This time, a tiny flicker of something that’s not exactly guilt but is definitely an admission of sorts crosses his too-damn-handsome face. “Oh my god—you did!”
Nash’s jaw clenches as he stares down at me, the gritty tone of his voice sending a shiver down my spine. “I did.” I sway within his embrace, the tips of my breasts brushing against his shirt. Of course, they pucker immediately.
And of course he notices, one corner of his mouth pulling upward. “Want to know what I found?”
The breath punches from my lungs, my mind racing. What did he find? I’ve worked so hard to cover my tracks. If all it takes is one Google search to—
“Nothing. I found nothing.”
I nearly sag in relief. Thank god. “Exactly. It was a waste of your time.”
His eyes narrow, like I’m a mystery to be solved. “No, I don’t think so.”
But I’m not about to hand my secrets over so quickly.
Nash is a stranger and I don’t trust him one bit.
More importantly, around him, I’m not sure I trust myself.
Fighting back a surge of unease, I begin walking toward the bathroom with determined steps, wishing it was his front door.
I’d rather take my chances with the two thugs in the alley.
Chapter 2
Nash
To say my evening isn’t going as planned would be an understatement.
Nash Knight doesn’t rescue damsels in distress, and he sure as hell doesn’t play nursemaid.
In business I’m ruthless. The Black Knight of Wall Street, or so I’ve been called. And in the ring I’m downright vicious.
But this particular damsel has somehow gotten beneath my armor, under my skin. Is it because Nixie’s skin is so damn perfect, that dusting of freckles across her pert nose irrationally enticing? Or is it the suspicion radiating from her like a magnetic force field, burrowing inside my lungs so I feel it, her, with every breath?
Maybe.
If I have to guess, though, it’s the fear that flashed in her eyes for the briefest of moments, the display of vulnerability that was so quick I almost missed it, so raw I couldn’t look away. And maybe it’s also the stubborn show of bravado she dove behind, the prickly defenses she engineered (a split-second too late) to keep me from getting any closer, seeing any more.
Nixie isn’t scared of me, not physically anyway. She’s terrified of what I might discover—about her.
She’s hiding something.
And she’s running from someone.
I make millions—tens of millions, hundreds of millions—by spotting weaknesses in others and exploiting them for my own benefit.
Staring at the closed door of t
he bathroom, I force myself to consider a different question. Why the fuck do I care? Nixie is a woman, not a company. There’s no potential for profit here.
What is it about this girl that’s kept me glued to a chair in the corner of my bedroom for hours, my ears on alert for the slightest change in her breathing? Needing to guard her. To keep her safe.
Vaguely, an ancient Chinese proverb filters up from the recesses of my mind. Save a life and you are responsible for it.
Could that be true? Is that why I feel so . . . invested in Nixie already?
A minute ago I was close enough to smell the citrus notes of shampoo wafting up from Nixie’s sleep-mussed mane. My arm was wrapped around her tiny waist, my palm pressed to her ribs, registering every breath, every tremble.
And all I wanted was to bring my lips down to hers and find out if she tasted as sweet as she smelled.
I didn’t, and not just because she’s obviously in pain and off-kilter from pills.
It’s because of the Google search she’d been so offended by.
It’s because the name on her ID . . . doesn’t exist.
In this day and age—no one is invisible. Local papers publish the names of athletes, scholarship recipients, and spelling bee champions. And, of course, there’s always the police blotter.
There’s no record of Nixie Hyde scoring a soccer goal, graduating high school, or getting into an accident. She hasn’t acted in a community theater production, launched a fundraising campaign, or committed a crime. Not even a damned traffic ticket.
If I knew Nixie’s real name, I’d know why she’s on the run.
Then again, if I knew that, I’d know her identity.
It’s a paradox. I can follow the circular logic around and around and around and never come to an answer. Not without more information.
Right now, all I’ve got is her ID from The Pratt Institute in Brooklyn, a small sticker indicating that she’s in their School of Continuing Studies. Which, if I had to guess, means she has her undergraduate degree and is picking up a few classes rather than committing to their graduate program. But there was no age or address listed on the card.
