by J.M. Cagle
Chapter 2
Joey gasped as she woke, sitting up and brushing at her body, wiping away hands from her ribs, her breasts. She was no longer naked but covered in an old t-shirt and a pair of shorts. She didn’t remember dressing, didn’t remember climbing into her bed. The last thing she remembered was blue eyes.
“Are you okay?”
Joey jumped at the sound of the voice. “Who’s there?”
A man slowly unfolded himself from an arm chair set in the far corner of the room. The room was dark, the heavy drapes pulled tight over the windows. She could only see that he was tall, extremely tall, and built like a football player. His shoulders were wide, his arms muscular. But he was lean, his chest tapering into slender hips and powerful legs. Authority seemed to roll off of him in waves even as his movements suggested submissiveness.
“Who are you?”
“Sam.”
The name meant nothing to her, a simple name that could have belonged to any number of people. But the voice . . . something about it seemed to resonate with something deep inside of Joey.
“How did you get into my apartment?”
“You left it unlocked.”
Joey shook her head. She distinctly remembered the feel of the lock engaging under her hand. “It was locked. I was alone, I checked every room—”
“You must have forgotten.”
“No,” she shook her head, the memory of the attack in the shower taking her breath again. “No, I’m always careful.”
“Are you hurt?”
Tears, a delayed reaction, began to roll slowly down her cheeks. “I don’t think so.”
“Do you remember what happened?”
She nodded slowly, running her hands over her face to wipe away the evidence of her weakness. “Who was he?”
“He? Did you see a man?”
The question seemed odd. She bit her lip, running the entire attack through her mind slowly, analyzing each detail. It had seemed so slow, happening in slow motion, but it must have only been a few seconds. The blow to the back of her head, the hand grabbing her wrist. She could still feel the coldness of the touch, the prickles as his body pressed against her back. She shuddered with the memory.
“I didn’t see anything.”
He tilted his head slightly and then nodded. “Good,” he said quietly.
“Who . . . What—”
“It will happen again.”
Joey climbed out of the bed, angrily pushing the comforter away when it tried to snag her ankles. “How do you know that?” she asked as she wrapped her arms around her chest, acutely aware of her lack of underclothing, of her hardened nipples pressing tight against the thin t-shirt. “How did you happen to be here?”
“You have a lot of questions,” he said, exaggerated patience in his voice. “But I can’t—”
“You can’t or won’t?”
“I won’t,” he said simply.
Joey marched across the room and snapped on the overhead light. She wanted to see him, wanted to know what the hell was going on. He turned from the light, presenting his back to her. He was wearing a soft leather jacket, the angles cupping his muscles as though it had been made just for him. Beneath he had on a white shirt, oxford it looked like. And black low rider jeans that hugged the lower slant of his hips in a distinctly erotic way.
“Who are you?” she asked, her voice breathlessly betraying the tightness of arousal that had begun in her lower belly.
“It’s a long story.”
He pivoted, slowly revealing himself to her. “You,” she hissed as she recognized pale blue eyes and dirty blond hair. “You’ve been following me.”
“Not exactly.”
“You have. I’ve seen you where I work, at restaurants, at the post office.” She stepped back, moving toward the door. “You were in the park today.”
“I was, but—”
“Are you the one who attacked me?”
“No, Joey, I—”
“You know my name?”
He held out a hand, sadness filling his amazing eyes. “Please.”
She turned and ran. She made it to the kitchen, her bare feet sliding on the slick ceramic floor. She yanked open a drawer, searching through the jumble of utensils for a weapon. Knife, she thought. I need a knife. She turned, began to cross to the magnetic strip on the wall behind the stove where her knives hung. But he was there, just suddenly there, with a butcher knife in his hand.
“Take it,” he said, handing it to her.
She stepped back, slamming the small of her back into the counter. “What do you want?”
“To help you.”
She shook her head. “You follow me. You break into my apartment. And you want me to believe you are here to help me?”
“Yes.”
She stared at him, a choked laugh falling from her bottom lip. She shook her head even as her eyes scanned the room, searching for something else she could use to protect herself. There was nothing. Damn her habit of eating out. If only she cooked from time to time, there might be a heavy tenderizing mallet on the counter, a rolling pin, another knife. But that was Dotty; that was Dotty’s kitchen.
He stepped forward. Joey pressed herself harder against the counter, her eyes shooting to the only exit from the galley-style kitchen. He held his hands up, remembered the knife, dropped it on the counter behind him before lifting his hand again. “I don’t mean you harm,” he said as though he were a bandit from the old west.
“Then tell me who you are. And what the hell happened in the shower.”
“You are in danger.”
She could feel her nerves jumping and popping as the blood drained from her face. But she didn’t move. She let him come toward her, let him come within an inch of her. Something about the earnest look in his eyes made something inside of her calm, to be willing to at least hear him out.
“Things are happening that were put into motion many years before your birth. But you . . .” he hesitated, his eyes dropping to the soft curve of her lips. “You are very important to many people.”
Joey snorted, most unladylike. “I doubt that.”
“It’s true,” he assured her. “What happened to you today, that was an enemy’s attempt to take you out of the equation.” His eyes moved slowly back up to her face. “I can’t allow that to happen.”
“Why?”
He shrugged one powerful shoulder. “You are important to me.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You aren’t meant to.”
Joey tried to move away, she needed to pace, to expend some energy. But he laid a hand lightly on her arm, the pressure enough to stop her. “You will be told everything you need to know in time,” he said. “But the only thing you need to know right now is that you are not crazy.”
Joey’s knees went weak. She slumped back. He was there to catch her, his arm coming around her shoulder as his other hand slid around her hip. She was against his chest before it registered that she had moved, that she had turned and moved forward several steps. For a long second, she pressed her forehead to his chest, breathed in the spicy scent of his cologne.
“How did you know?”
“I know a lot about you, Joanna Melanie Trevor.”
He slid his hand over her still damp hair. His hand was as wide as her skull, able to palm her head like a basketball. She could imagine how deadly hands like those could be, but they were nothing but gentle on her body. A part of her wanted that touch, wanted to know what his palm would feel like on her heated skin, with her erect nipple pressed tight against his skin.
It was an instantaneous and intense reaction, those thoughts. And her body seemed to be having its own thoughts, her nipples growing even harder than they had been before, her belly tightening, her thighs squeezing together. She had never had such an intense reaction to a man’s touch.
It frightened her.
“I think it’s time for you to go,” she said as she stepped back.
She thoug
ht she saw disappointment in Sam’s eyes as he moved away. “You’re right,” he said quietly. Was it just her imagination, or was his voice deeper than it had been before?
He walked to the front door. She followed closely behind, a part of her anxious to see him go, the other part watching the movement of muscles in his legs, his ass, and wishing he would stay. He paused with his hand on the doorknob, staring at the dark steel door for a long moment before he glanced over at her.
“Be careful, Joey.”
