Bad Wolf

by Jo Raven

  “You’re an idiot,” Gigi grumbles, and turns her back to him and her attention back to me. “Hansen.”

  “Huh?” I’m checking in my bag for the address and phone number of my client, afraid I left them at home.

  “Matthew Hansen? The guy you’re about to meet? That one. Do you know what you’re up against?”

  I roll my eyes. “He’s just a man. He needs a babysitter. I can do this in my sleep. What else is there to know?”

  “Oh, Sis, you have no clue.” Gigi leans in to whisper in my ear. “He’s hotter than a nuclear explosion, girl. Panty-melting material. Italian ancestry, lumberjack muscles, huge—”

  “What are you two gossiping about?” Merc gives us the evil eye.

  “He’s also a jerk,” Gigi goes on, ignoring him.

  For real?

  Merc huffs. “Hansen is a decent guy. Guy’s a mechanic, works down at Jasper’s Garage. Stop repeating whatever you hear.”

  “Oh, shut up, Merc.” Gigi sticks her tongue out at him. “The man had two nannies leave already, in the space of a week, and nobody knows why. You know nothing about him.”

  I gape at her. “Two? What happened?”

  “They just walked out, said he was rude. The whole town is buzzing about it.”

  But I never heard anything.

  Then again, I’d been so busy between my graduation from school, sending out college applications and looking for a job that I haven’t done much else these past two months.

  “I can handle rude,” I tell her, and look, my bus is arriving. “Wish me luck. And be careful with Quasimodo.”

  “His name’s Quinn!” she yells at me as I board the bus. “You’ll love him.”

  Merc makes a face of disgust, and I snicker as I get my ticket and find a seat in the back.

  Siblings. Always exaggerating, always teasing.

  Can’t live without them, can’t put them up for sale on eBay.

  The house looks exactly the same as all the houses on the street, so I doublecheck the number, just in case. The garden is overgrown, the fence needs painting, and there’s no sign of life.

  Frowning, I take a moment to pat my hair, making sure no stray strands are curling at my temples, and smooth down my dress.

  I’m as formal-looking as I’d ever hope to be in my mom’s old dress and shoes. I think they’re vintage. The shoes seem to be from the seventies, suede with a thick heel, and the dress has pearly buttons down the front. It’s cinched tight at the waist and has small plaits fanning out. I’ve thrown a light black coat on top.

  I may not be a beauty like Gigi, but I think I look okay.

  And Gigi is making a big deal out of everything, I think, as I press the doorbell. She always does. Matthew Hansen can’t be that rude, or that hot.

  One thing is clear in my mind: I’m not leaving from this spot until I land this job. I need that money.

  Moments pass, and I shift from foot to foot, tugging on my dress sleeves. I feel as if the whole neighborhood is watching me. Was that a curtain twitching behind the window of the house next door?

  Sweat trickles down my back despite the cold.

  Should I ring the bell again? When I called, asking about the position, he said to come over at eight.

  I decide to wait, give him five more minutes. Maybe he’s upstairs, or in the bathroom. I wait and wait, shifting on my heels, rubbing my hands over my thin coat, before ringing again.

  It’s ten past eight. Surely, that’s enough time—

  The lock turns, and the door swings open with a screech of rusted hinges, the sound making my teeth ache, and I get a glimpse of something dark and… hairy?

  A grizzly this far south?

  I make out a pair of bright, dark eyes just as a growly voice says, “Hell no.”

  And the door slams shut in my face.

  Shit.

  After a few stunned moments spent questioning first my sanity and then the address, I raise my hand and ring again. It is the right house. And I have an appointment. He can’t leave me outside in the cold.

  Right?

  I ring the doorbell again.

  He didn’t even talk to me. And I want this job. I need it. We have debts Mom can’t ever hope to pay back, and I will be leaving town soon… My admission papers and a partial scholarship letter sit at home in the bedroom I share with Gigi, in an envelope under my mattress.

  Not that it’s a secret. But I feel like I need to keep them close to me, this promise of a new life, as soon as those debts are paid off, and I can be sure to leave my family set up okay.

  There aren’t many jobs in a small place like this, and the salary offered by Matthew Hansen for a nanny to babysit his brats could make all the difference between taking some of the financial stress off Mom or leeching off her for one more summer.

  Not an option.

  “Hey!” I bang on his door when leaning on the doorbell brings no results. “I’m not leaving! You’d better open up.”

  Curtains are definitely twitching behind the windows of nearby houses, but by now I’m flushed and warm with righteous anger and desperation.

  He does need a nanny, after all. He’s the one who posted the offer on the sheet of paper outside the post office. He can’t send me away without even talking to me.

  “Open up!” I yell. “Please, Mr. Hansen, just give me a chance—”

  The door swings wide open, and I stumble back with a yelp.

  “You’re fucking crazy,” he hisses. “What the hell do you want?”

  I open my mouth, but nothing comes out as I take my first good look at him in broad daylight.

  Wow.

  Okay, Gigi wasn’t exaggerating. He sure is hot. His white tank top and low-slung sweats mold to a powerful body. Tousled dark hair falls in his bright eyes. He scratches at his short, scruffy beard, and licks soft-looking lips.

  He grunts. “Who the fuck are you?”

  Oh yeah, Gigi was right on both accounts. He’s hot—and an asshole.

  “Octavia Watson. I’m here for the interview?” Of course you’re here for the interview, don’t make it into a question. “You told me on the phone that I should be here at eight.”

  There.

  I lift my chin and wait, my gaze meeting his. His eyes are dark, and I don’t mean just dark brown. They’re deep and stormy like rainclouds about to burst. Dark like night wells that don’t reflect the moonlight.

  “Interview?” he mutters, sounding confused.

  “For the job. To babysit your children.”

  He squints at me.

  Encouraged, I step closer. He towers over me, and his scent hits me—clean male sweat with a hint of…something chemical? “Can I see the kids?”

  “What?” He scowls. “No.”

  My heart drops to my feet. “But…”

  “We’re done here.” He starts closing the door, and I panic.

  “I have experience! Look, I raised my brother and sister. I love kids, I’m really good with them. On the phone, you said—”

  He slams the door closed and I stumble back, stunned.

  Jesus.

  “Screw you, Matt Hansen!” I shout at the shuttered house, my hands fisting at my sides. I swallow hard. “Jerk.”

  Only silence answers me this time.

  Well, that went down real fine, Octavia. Real fine.

  What now?

  I turn my back to the door, my eyes stinging. And I hate it. I hate that this affects me so much. It’s unfair that he told me I had a chance and then slammed the door in my face without hearing me out.

  It’s the unfairness that gets to me. As I stand in the morning light, not blinking, hoping I won’t shed any tears—for all the things I’ve wished for since I was little in this shitty town, for all the dreams that I may not yet fulfill—I feel so close to falling apart, it’s unreal.

  Get yourself together, Octavia. This is nothing.

  A small setback.

  Repeating that to myself, I walk down the porch steps and s
tare out into the empty morning, down to the path crossing the small, overgrown garden, already thinking of any other job I could find and cursing myself for heaping all my hopes on this one as if it were a sure thing.

  A mistake.

  But life goes on, like before, and it’s up to me to change it around.

  Click on the cover below to buy CAVEMAN: the beginning of the WILD MEN series (or read for Free with Kindle Unlimited).

  https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0714MYPVH

  Sample Of Storm

  Sex and Bullets Series 1

  Raylin is on the run.

  Her father’s associates will stop at nothing to claim the money he owes them—including killing her. A last ditch ticket to Florida, a temporary house to hide in and no future to look forward to.

  That is, until she meets Storm, a tattooed bad boy who is housesitting down the beach and doing repairs for the summer. A perfect place, a perfect pair of strong arms, a spot of calm in which to hide for a while—or is it?

  Drop-dead gorgeous, kind, and hot in bed, Storm may not be what he seems. Who is the real Storm, and what is he hiding?

  Raylin had better find out before the bullets begin to fly.

  Prologue

  The house on the beach feels like it hasn’t been visited in years. Dust has moved in, burying the furniture—you’d think the contractor coming in every month would have noticed—and the garden is a damn mess.

  I spent hours cleaning the pool, and now I’ve moved to the fence, beach-side. A couple of planks are loose and I’m nailing them back on, considering a coat of paint for later on, when I get this itch between my shoulder blades.

  Someone’s watching me.

  Shit. Pulling my cap lower over my face, I bend to grab another nail from the toolbox, and sure enough, I see her from the corner of my eye.

  I freeze for a long moment, caught in a spell. Man, she’s damn pretty with her long hair, the heart-shaped face, and that sweet, tight body. I hammer the nail into the plank, securing it, so fucking aware of her it’s crazy. Chills run over my skin. Heat pools in my gut, in my balls and dick, and just like that, from one look, I’m hard and aching.

  What the fuck.

  I want to grab her and press her to this goddamn fence and taste her rosy mouth, feel her tits pressed to my chest, taste her arousal as I fuck her mouth with my tongue. I’d rip that no-nonsense little blouse off her to lick her skin, lick her nipples, suck and bite until she begs me to fuck her.

  And then I’d tear off her shorts, rip her panties and thrust into her hot pussy until she scratches her nails down my back and screams, until she comes so hard she can’t ever forget me.

  Part One

  Sex

  Chapter One

  Raylin

  A day earlier

  Bang.

  Bang.

  The stones I throw hit the coconuts I’ve lined up on the beach one after another. Haven’t lost my touch yet, and hey, not much to do around here.

  Wish I had my gun.

  Wish I wasn’t on the run.

  But wishing never got me anywhere, so I wipe my hands on my shorts and survey my new domain. The sand is gritty between my bare toes, and the seagulls wheel overhead, their cries too loud. The sun is too bright, the air too warm and humid, the beach too open and exposed for a fugitive like me.

  Still, I don’t move. Truth is, I can’t run any longer. After hitching rides with potential axe-murderers, hopping from one Greyhound to the next, walking in the sun and rain, all the way to Boca Raton, Florida, I’m done. I’ve done it all. I’ve been traveling for weeks, and I’m exhausted.

  I’ve moved far enough, I figure, to make them lose my tracks and have some peace, temporary as it may be. No matter. I need a break.

  Been running for years, and I’m sick and tired of looking over my shoulder day and night.

  Instead I’d rather look at… a man jogging down the beach?

  I squint against the setting sun, shade my eyes with my hand. Yes, most definitely a man. He’s jogging by the surf, his long, tanned legs eating up the distance, the sun glinting on his short hair. He’s also bare-chested, and even from where I’m standing I can tell it’s an impressive chest, lean and muscular, set off by a set of spectacular shoulders.

  Whoa.

  Okay, I’ve made up my mind. I’m staying here until I decide where to move to next. At least the view is good. Given the guy lives nearby, that is. Lots of mansions on the beach, huge and impressive, like the one right behind me.

  He’s approaching, his trajectory throwing him closer to me, and I fan myself with my hand as he pounds by, his jogging shoes sinking in the wet sand, the powerful muscles in his legs rippling. His gaze is focused right ahead, and he doesn’t seem to notice me where I’m standing in my old shorts and blouse, still stained from my long journey.

  I gaze after him as he moves away from me again—like everything in my life lately. Helplessly I watch as the distance swallows him.

  Hm… Great ass, a great back, broad and strong. Check and check.

  Now wait a minute. That’s not what you need to be checking out, Raylin, girl. You should worry more about what you’ve just done, about breaking and entering and actually contemplating living in another person’s house. About sinking deeper into the mire you’ve been trying to get out of.

  As if there ever was a chance of that. When you’re born in the mud, you can’t ever get clean, no matter how hard you try.

  Reluctantly I tear my gaze off the man and turn back toward said house. White, tall, imposing. It was the poorest-looking in the area, which is why I chose it. The least conspicuous. I mean, it only has four bedrooms and five bathrooms, two kitchens, a Jacuzzi and a swimming pool, and a pool bar. Its owners are practically destitute compared to their neighbors.

  It’s not a big deal, living here for a while. The people who own it have cartloads of money. A few more dollars in electricity won’t make a dent in their accounts, and I won’t be stealing anything. Hell, I’m not a thief, but I’m at my wits’ end here. Can’t run forever, and my wallet is dry.

  Yeah, who am I kidding? What I’m doing is illegal, and I shouldn’t linger. I know that. But considering who I’m running from, this barely counts. I could stay two-three days, eat and rest. Make a plan. My plans are what’s kept me alive for so long in the mess that is my life.

  And if that hottie plans on jogging every evening down this beach, well, I sure as hell don’t mind the bonus.

  To be honest, I didn’t choose this mansion because it was smaller than the others I saw. It just seemed kind of abandoned—with plastic-wrapped magazines in the driveway and the mailbox overflowing, leaves littering the doorstep and the hedge overgrown.

  Breaking into the house wasn’t that hard, either. Not for someone trained by my dad and brother. I disabled the surveillance cameras, then used my bump key to open the back door. Why is it that people think of putting electronic keypads and security locks on their front doors, but ignore other entrances?

  Grabbing a pair of clean black shorts and a pale green blouse from my duffel bag, I showered and changed. That was this morning. Last night, after ogling the handsome runner on the beach, I’d fallen face-first on the first bed I found and slept for fourteen hours straight.

  Okay, I did wake up every couple of hours, my heart pounding, thinking I’d heard something, fear clogging my throat, but I fell asleep quickly every time, my endurance having reached its breaking point.

  And now it’s morning time.

  No, that’s a lie, it’s past midday, but who the hell cares? It’s a brand new day. I’m rested, I’m alive, and I can think straight again.

  Which is a problem. Last night I was too exhausted to care. More precisely, too exhausted to be scared—of everything. Of the men coming after me, of the trouble I’m in, of leaving behind everything I’ve ever known again and of having no money left to escape a second time.

  Because I’m not going to rob this house. I won’t. Funny how break
ing in doesn’t seem like that much of a huge deal if I don’t steal. Like it’s not a crime anymore.

  I doubt a judge would be amused by my special brand of ethics. Or by any other aspect of my life, for that matter.

  Shivering, I descend into the kitchen, intent on raiding the cupboards for something to eat. It’s all metal and glass in there, and although clean, the counters and sink are covered in a fine layer of dust. A long mahogany table and tall-backed chairs are covered in dead moths.

  Nobody has been in here for weeks or months, and I can’t decide if that’s good or bad news. Because it doesn’t tell me whether the owners are about to return any moment now, or not. Best would be if they’d just left. Then I’d be more relaxed.

  Wishful thinking. You gotta sleep in the bed you made, Raylin, and all that jazz.

  And if I’d really made my own bed, if I’d brought this mess on my head, then that would be fair, I guess, but it’s not like that.

  Not exactly. Not like I had much of a choice.

  Heat rises in my face and I bang the stupid cupboards. I lean back against a counter and shake my head. Who cares now anyway? Too late for angry tears and what ifs. This is my life, and if I can’t seem to outrun my pursuers, well then…

  Then I’ll live for now and not care if tomorrow never comes.

  That of course makes for a pitiful start to the day, but I’m way too hungry to lose my appetite over this dark thought. There’s not much to eat in this abandoned kitchen, but a thorough investigation coughs up a few things I can munch on.

  Gathering up my provisions, I go to sit out on the terrace overlooking the sea and have my brunch. Crackers, a jar of peanut butter and grape jelly, a can of party sausages and three bags of wasabi peanuts. Random, but hey, it’s food, and right now it feels as if my stomach is trying to consume itself from hunger.