“Wow,” I whispered out loud, turning the cloth on his forehead to the cooler side.
“Wow,” he moaned or ow, I’m not sure which, but it caused me to sit back a bit, distancing myself. “Aaah.”
My stranger seemed delirious. The fever. It had to be the fever.
“Jackson. I need you to swallow these.” I lifted his head and slid my folded legs beneath him. I dropped four capsules in his mouth, then as gently as possible, I slapped his cheek…his beard was rough to my fingers, but regardless, his eyes opened.
I tipped the cold bottle of water to his lips. “Swallow,” I demanded, and he did. And once again, our eyes connected. Even though I stared down at him, and he was upside down to me, the force of whatever passed between us triggered me to drop his head and jerk away.
What the living hell? Did I know him? My left hand trembled as I set the water bottle next to him. Not that he could drink it. Both his hands were bound by metal. The clock read 10:15. The fever should be down within an hour. I’d check on him them. Other than that, I wanted nothing to do with him.
Sitting on the sofa, my eyes flickered back and forth between the fire and him. I heard Layne’s words in my ear. Information is good. Always find out what you can. I uncovered and picked up Jackson’s wallet from where I left it earlier.
Colorado drivers license. His picture was perfect. Who’s drivers license pic looked that good? Thirty-one years old. Six foot two. One hundred ninety pounds. Blue eyes. Organ donor. Ian was an organ donor and I had no idea if his organs were donated. If he was living inside someone else…
This man had no pictures of girls, family, kids, no pictures at all.
One Visa card.
One American Express card.
And some sort of ID. His picture—he looked younger but still strikingly handsome. United States Attorney. This man was an attorney. My mind raced in a thousand directions. I dropped his wallet at my feet. What brought this attorney in our direction? I couldn’t help but wonder if he came intentionally to my cabin or if this was some kind of fluke. But, if this man was looking for a fight…a war…he came to the right doorstep. I was ready.
Chapter 7
Never trust your fears, they don’t know your strength. (Athena Singh)
My alarm sounded at the hour mark and though sleep hadn’t found me, the alarmed startled me. When I touched his forehead with the back of my hand, from my peripheral vision, I saw his eyes open. I didn’t look at him. I refused. His skin was cooler to the touch.
Back on the sofa, I covered up and hoped sleep would come.
“Thank you,” he whispered.
I silently stared up at the fiery shadows dancing across the ceiling.
He cleared his throat. “Thank you.” He said a little louder.
“You’re welcome.”
“May I have a drink?”
After I whipped my covers back, I eyeballed the water bottle next to him. It wasn’t nearly as cold as it was earlier, but I lifted his head and tipped the bottle, keeping my eyes focused on his lips rather than his eyes.
He nodded twice, and I tilted the bottle back upright.
“Why do you have me cuffed?” his voice was weak.
“Why are you here?”
“Why do you have me cuffed?”
“Answer my questions.”
“You answer mine.”
Anger…frustration…I don’t know what motivated me to get the gun, but I grabbed it. Maybe fear. Yet the second I turned it on him, he scrambled the best he could to get to his feet.
“Don’t kill me,” he said, holding both cuffed hands out toward me as if that would stop a bullet.
“Kill you?” Though I would kill him if necessary, I didn’t want to kill him.
Once upright, those electric eyes met mine momentarily, and then rolled back to where all I could see was white before he collapsed, striking his head on the stone fireplace. The startling thud caused me to gasp. I threw the gun on the sofa and ran to him. Blood was already staining the stone and dripped freely from the wound.
“Shit! Shit! Shit!”
The man was nearly double my size. I yanked my shirt over my head and pressed it against the lesion. Panicked, I firmly pressed two fingers against his jugular. Thank God. His pulse was strong. I locked my elbows around his shoulders and dragged him into the kitchen where I cleaned the blood and continued to apply pressure. Damn head wounds bled so much.
By the time I could drag him to the bathroom, I had to clean him again. Blood was everywhere, mapping a trail through my house. Once I had a bandage on the desperately-in-need-of-stitches cut, I heaved him into my bedroom. It was much colder in there, which was the one thing I appreciated in the winter. But the bonus…a wrought iron bed that I could cuff him to.
Even though I was pretty strong with all of my weight training, he was dead weight and nearly impossible to lift. I grabbed him under his armpits and lifted with my legs, actually dragging him on top of me as I fell onto the bed. Once I heaved his body onto the bed, I struggled out from underneath him and rotated his legs around until he was stretched out fully. The key for the handcuffs was in the other room and the damn bandage near his temple was already blood soaked.
When I came back into the bedroom, he was beginning to stir. Without wasting another minute for him to get his wits about him, I unlocked the cuffs—then cuffed his wrist to one of the rods on the headboard.
I’d never heard a man whimper before, but the sound he made could only be described as a whimper. I stood beside the bed and just stared down at him. Only in that moment did I fully grasp the enormity of the muscles in his thighs. This man was like quadzilla. His skin was much fairer than mine but the curly hair sprinkled over the muscles made something inside my pelvis flutter.
And speaking of fluttering, his eyes did just that. I back stepped away from the bed.
“Are you going to get your gun?” he moaned as he gained consciousness.
“Maybe.”
“You’re not going to shoot me so stop acting like you are,” he mumbled, inching his head up onto the pillow.
I wasn’t ready for him to call me out on that.
“You hit your head on the hearth, and I need to change the bandage.” I changed the subject quickly and held up the gauze pads.
He shrugged. “You think I’m in a position to stop you?”
“I was just trying to be polite,” I gritted in a not-so-nice way.
With his eyes closed and his free hand touching the area around the wound, he yanked on his other arm clanging the bar loudly. “Yeah? You call this polite, lady?”
Trying to be…considerate, I gently pulled the tape around the gauze and removed the dressing. I reapplied the new gauze…maybe pushing a little too firmly, causing him to wince.
When I stepped away, his charged up blue eyes glowered at me.
“Since you are so damn polite, Mary Poppins, why don’t you tell me why I’m on your bed, bleeding from the head, with a gun pointed at me and fucking handcuffed!” He was back with a vengeance.
My brows pulled together. “Tell me why you’re here.”
“Why I’m here? What the hell do you want to know? I. Got. Lost.”
“Lost?”
“Hmm. Yes. Lost. Misplaced. Adrift. Confused.”
“I know what it means,” I spat out. “From where?”
“Denver.”
As I shook my head, I folded my arms over my chest. “You’re a long ways from Denver, Pinocchio.”
His lips twitched.
“I live in Denver. Some things went down and I wanted to get out of there for a while. Lost. But not literally. I had no idea this storm was brewing. Honestly, had I not stumbled on this place, I would probably be dead.”
My eyes widened. “Yeah, it’s ok. I don’t expect a thank you.”
He clanged the cuff again. “What should I thank you for? Holding me at gunpoint? Handcuffing me? Or taking my clothes off?”
After rolling my eyes, I darted
to the living room to retrieve his half empty bottle of water, the ibuprofen and another bottle of water from the fridge.
“How about getting you out of your soaking wet jeans? Who the hell wears jeans in the snow? And who doesn’t protect their lips?”
I set everything on the nightstand. He could make do with one hand.
“I told you why I was here. Now tell me why I’m being treated like a criminal. This…” He clanged the bar repeatedly. “Would be considered kidnapping. Being held against one’s will.”
He was right. I didn’t care. Beck’s safety was my priority. I’d do what I needed. I licked over my lips thinking about his accusation.
“Do you think I’m here to hurt you?” he asked, his tone softening.
Those words got my attention. Hesitatingly, my eyes slowly rose to meet his. There may as well have been a visible electrical current between our eyes. He noticed it too because as he gazed back, he swallowed…hard.
“Look. I’m not here to hurt you. I simply needed help.”
Silence hung between us. I didn’t trust him. He’d say anything at this point to be set free.
“Ok. It’s whatever,” he said. “If you want to doubt me, just remember, you drew first blood. Not me. And kidnapping? That will get you life in prison, woman.”
Finally, breaking the dynamic charge in our eyes, I turned around.
“I drew first blood?” I laughed, sarcastically. “Kidnapping will only get me life in prison if anyone finds out… Rambo. First blood? Who says that…”
I walked out of the room and flipped off the light. I needed sleep.
The light tapping on my shoulder startled me awake. Beck stood in his dinosaur pajamas, and I bolted upright.
“You ok, buddy?”
He nodded. “I went potty,” he said sadly, pointing at his pants.
“Oh, it’s ok. That happens. And tonight is a weird night since we have company.”
“I changed my pants.”
Rarely did he have accidents, but tonight was certainly not the norm and he wasn’t in his own bed.
“You’re such a good boy. Let’s go get your sleeping bag.”
He nodded. “Did Jackson leave?”
“No. He’s on my bed because he is sick. You know how when you’re sick, you sleep in Mommy’s bed?”
“Will he get popsicles too?” Beck asked eagerly.
I unrolled his sleeping bag, plopping his pillow at the opening.
“Popsicles are definitely a possibility,” I said. Surely, Rambo likes popsicles.
Once Beck was tucked in, I quietly padded into my bedroom. Jackson was restless. Cautiously, I reached toward his forehead, knowing that one of his hands could grab me. Before I actually touched him, I could feel the heat radiating off him like a burner on a stove. The fever was back with a vengeance.
When fever free, he didn’t seem ill…yet his fever continued to spike. This time I alternated the ibuprofen with acetaminophen.
“Jackson,” I whispered tapping his cheek. His eyes came slowly open. “You’re hot again. Take these?”
He had the wherewithal to take the meds and then the bottle of water.
After he swallowed, he asked, “You think I’m hot?”
Instantly, I moved away from the bed. In truth, he was probably the hottest man I’d ever seen. So not my type. More Ari’s type actually.
I didn’t answer. He probably didn’t realize he’d even said it.
Once he set the water bottle on the nightstand, he burrowed himself, the best he could with one arm, back down into the covers. I walked backward toward the door. Sick or not sick, looking away from him was getting harder and harder to do. Being a mother was all I’d known for the past four years. I’d lost sight of the fact that I was also a woman. A woman with needs.
When I lay back down on the sofa, the clock read just a little after two in the morning. This was turning out to be the longest night ever. And then…an ache stirred in my groin that I had a feeling would keep me awake just a little longer.
“Mary…”
My eyes slowly pulled apart at the sound.
“Mary,” the voice was a little bit louder.
Immediately, I realized it was Jackson. Who was Mary? A child…a woman…a wife? An absurd feeling of jealousy swam through my veins as I pushed myself up to go back to my room.
The lamp I turned on only dimly lit the room.
“Hey,” he said, looking wide-awake.
“Hey? Who is Mary?” I questioned.
“Poppins. You know. Just a spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go down.” He smiled.
I didn’t.
“Sorry to wake you, but I need to pee.” He pointed at his cuffed hand.
The water bottle next to the nightstand sat empty. I wasn’t about to unlock him so I unscrewed the lid and handed it to him.
“There you go.”
My eyes were heavy, but I noticed him study the mouth of the bottle before he set it back down.
“There is no way in hell, I’ll hit that. I need a Gatorade bottle or better yet a Mickey Big Mouth bottle.”
My eyes certainly weren’t so tired that I couldn’t give them a good eye roll. “Whatever, just pee in the damn bottle.”
“I’ll pee on the bed before I pee in that bottle,” he threatened. “I also need more than one hand to contain the monster.”
My upper lip pulled into a disgusted snarl. “What are you twelve?”
Though totally against my better judgment, I walked to the kitchen to get the pistol from the cabinet. Something deep in my soul knew that Jackson wasn’t going to hurt me, but with Beck sleeping in the other room, that was not a luxury I was willing to give.
Back in the bedroom, he eyeballed the metal in my hand.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“You can stick with Mary.”
The key jingled in my hand as I began to unlock the handcuff. Once the key clicked, I back stepped, aiming the weapon at him. He got up slowly, rubbing his wrist where the cuff circled.
“I don’t like Mary,” he whispered.
I shrugged. I didn’t care what he liked or didn’t like. Though my inner me just called bullshit to that. There was a piece of me that wondered if he thought I was attractive or not. I’d been in mommy mode for four years now. Outside of Layne, another man hadn’t even been on my radar. And, the thought of adult conversation... I shook my head. It was so hard to believe that in a month, Ian would have been gone for four years.
Jackson snapped me out of my momentary reverie when he suddenly appeared right in front of me. I flinched back and pointed the gun at him.
“I will shoot you.”
He pursed his lips together. “Doubtful. If you wanted me dead, you’d have done it by now. And you certainly wouldn’t keep feeding me drugs when my fever goes back up.”
“Just pee,” I said, pointing the gun to direct him to the bathroom. “Door open.”
He chuckled under his breath. I’m not sure what was funny to him.
“It would be nice to have my pants.”
“Jeans not pants. You wore jeans for the snow storm of the century, Mr. Armani.”
“These were given to me,” he said referring to his underwear while washing his hands.
His rounded, tight ass tormented me, and I fought to maintain a resting bitch face when he turned around. I forced my eyes to stare straight ahead—I wasn’t about to get caught looking at his junk.
“Are you sick?” I asked trying to seem perturbed.
His magnetic blue eyes zeroed in on me. “Possibly. Probably.” He held out his hands. A couple of red, swollen blisters covered his fingers. Certainly the start of frostbite—he appeared to have lucked out.
“When I’m hot, I know that my body aches terribly,” he said softly, then suddenly grabbed my wrist with one hand and took my other hand in his.
A silent gasp fled from my throat as he gently backed me against the wall. This time it was his lip that pulled up in a sna
rl. He towered over me by what seemed like feet. And my grip got lost in his.
“Listen, Jasmine.” He spoke articulately.
My brows pulled together in confusion. Jasmine?
“I am not going to hurt you. I am in your home. You are being kind to me outside of your occasional smart mouth, lame attempts at humor and the fucking gun in my face. I’m not sure what your deal is, but I have no agenda with being here outside of bad navigation.”
The warmth of his breath blowing over me as he spoke did very little to slow my racing heart. And the woman, who for almost four years now had fought to establish confidence and courage and control, lost it in a matter of a second. A single tear etched its way down my cheek. It wasn’t until my fist clenched that I realized I’d dropped the gun.
His grip on my body…on my hands and wrists was gone. He bent over in a painful grimace grabbing his side as he snatched the gun off the ground. Shit!
“Here,” he said, handing the butt of the pistol to me. “I don’t believe you’ll use that but it is good to have.”
With guarded eyes, I took it and watched as he crawled back into the bed, favoring his left side. He cuffed himself to the bedpost and pulled the blanket over him.
“Why did you call me Jasmine?” I asked, standing there stunned. The man gave me the gun back and then cuffed himself. What? The? Hell?
“Well, I know your name isn’t Mary. And you remind me of Jasmine from Aladdin.”
I’d honestly only seen parts of that that movie but now I wanted to see all of it. I also wanted my three wishes.
Chapter 8
JACKSON
People don’t ever think from the other person’s perspective.
If you did you might understand someone more. (unknown)
Wow. She really didn’t know who I was. Not a clue. Not an ounce of recognition.
Giving her the gun back was the only way I knew to get her to trust me. In only a moment’s time, I’d stolen the gun, robbed her of control and returned it—much to her surprise. This would all make her second guess her decision to keep me locked up. I was in her head. Exactly where I needed to be if she was going to let me go.
I had a feeling my stab wound was infected. My side was feverish too and pain radiated up into my underarm. It was foolish to think it would heal on its own.
Scars and Tats Page 7
