by Naima Simone
The flip side of that devotion was fear. A paralyzing fear for her baby’s safety.
She swallowed a sigh and struggled to maintain the mask of dignity and self-control that had been drummed into her since birth. The camouflage was habit—no matter how hurt, tired, or frightened, never show it.
And right now she was all three.
But, God, Raphael’s aloof manner wasn’t helping. Expect him to welcome her with open arms? No. Yet he was so…distant. Sarcastic, mocking, even cold at times. Part of her wanted to get up and leave. Being dependent on another person for something as basic as her safety stung.
But the rational side demanded she remain seated. Raphael could be the abominable snowman, but she still needed his help.
“First thing we’ll do is get those extra security measures set up at your brother’s. I have my doubts about the letters or damage continuing once you’re no longer there, but I’d rather err on the side of caution. I can supervise that while—”
Her attention sharpened, focused on Raphael as he leaned forward and reached for his desk phone. His words bounced against the inside of her head, growing louder and faster which each rebound. Once you’re no longer there…once you’re no longer there… onceyour’enolongerthere… What the hell did he mean by that?
“Wait.” She shoved to her feet, holding out a hand as he picked up the receiver. His brow arched in question as he tucked the phone between his ear and shoulder and punched out a number. “What are you talking about, once I’m no longer there? No longer where?”
He held up a finger, silencing her. Yes, he did just shush me. Anger flooded up her chest and poured into her face. He just shushed her!
“Hey, where are you at?” He paused as the person on the other end of the line obviously replied. “Okay, that can wait. Meet me at—” He rapped out her brother’s address, which momentarily made her forget her irritation. How did he know where Ethan lived? “I’ll be there in about thirty minutes. Here’s what I need for you to bring.” He recited a list of technical-sounding names that went right over her head. “You got that? Okay. Thirty.”
“How did you know Ethan’s home address?” she demanded, although that wasn’t the most pressing issue. Just the most immediate that came to her mind.
“I’ve known for a while,” he said, brushing it off with a shrug. “You’re no longer going to be staying with your brother. As a matter of fact, while I’m getting the security cameras installed, you can pack up your things, and we can leave for my house straight from there.”
A vacuum opened up inside her head and roared long and loud. Shock robbed her legs of substance, and she wavered before groping behind her for the abandoned chair. Slowly, she sank down, trying—and failing—to wrap her mind around the utterly ridiculous explanation he’d just offered her. He had to be joking. Had to be…right? She glanced up and searched his expression. His blue gaze was steady, resolute. His lips straight with no hint of a curl that would’ve suggested this was some kind of prank on the pregnant lady.
“You can’t be serious,” she finally rasped.
He crossed his arms, cocked his head to the side. “Three things I don’t joke about. The Sox’s chances of going the distance. My Die Hard movie collection. And safety.”
How the hell was she supposed to respond to that and not sound as crazy as him?
“I’m not going home with you,” she gritted out between clenched teeth. “That’s ridiculous.”
“Oh, yeah?” he asked. “Why?”
“Because…” She twirled her hand as if conjuring a reason to explain why his suggestion of her moving in with him defied the boundaries of logic. She wanted to scream, “Because we had hot, sweaty sex for hours on your backseat,” but so didn’t want to go there. So instead she settled for, “Because I live with my brother,” she sputtered. Damn, it sounded lame even to her own ears. And from his arched eyebrow, he agreed.
“You live with your brother in a house where a wack job has been sending menacing letters to you for months, did a slash ’n’ smash on your car, and left you a gift that screams I’m off my meds. Did I miss something? Because if I didn’t, I’d say your brother’s house is what we call ‘compromised.’ You’re no longer safe there.”
Maybe it was the pregnancy hormones, the horror from his too-accurate description, the stinging sarcasm, or all three that had her palm itching to smack him one. Raphael Marcel had a talent for getting under her skin and inciting her to act rashly. Whether it was having sex in the backseat of a car on a public street or punching him, she’d never had such a visceral reaction to anyone else in her life. Not even the man she’d been prepared to pledge the rest of her life to.
“But if you’re going to add the extra security there…” she said, desperation swirling in her stomach.
“For your brother.” He crossed his arms. “Look, Greer, this person has upped the game. We’re past intimidating letters and onto criminal mischief, vandalism, and threats. Do you really think he’ll be satisfied and go back to mailing letters again?” He shook his head. “Not going to happen. The next thing he does will only escalate in aggression or cruelty. No cameras are going to protect you from that. But I can—it’s my business. And when I’m not there, my house is like a damn fort. No one’s getting in or out. Face it. It’s the best solution.”
Despair varnished in a nice coat of shame covered her, swamped her. “I can’t,” she whispered. How could she explain? How could she make him understand? All her life she’d been dependent on something—kept by someone. First her parents, then Gavin. Even after she’d earned her business degree and moved into her own apartment, she’d still worked at her father’s bank as a glorified receptionist, because he didn’t trust her with anything more complex than answering a phone or taking a message. Her main job had been being Gavin Wells’s fiancée. For her father it had been the only smart move she’d made, the only thing she’d done to give him even a moment of pride.
After Gavin’s death, she’d been too immersed in grief and shock to protest when Ethan had suggested she come stay with him and Jason after her father had ordered her not to return to his home. When she’d finally emerged from the mental cave she’d hibernated in, it’d been to find she was once more dependent on another, sponging off another. Not adding or contributing. Just taking. Like her mother.
Raphael wouldn’t get it. Wouldn’t understand the horror of waking up one day and realizing you’d almost become what you resented most. A month and a half ago, she’d set in place plans to reclaim her life, to be self-sufficient and self-reliant. She’d decided to apply to art school, had started working on the portfolio required for submission. She’d begun paving the way for a new Greer—a Greer who followed her own desires and passions instead of obediently kowtowing to others out of fear of disappointment.
Yet here he stood informing her she would once again have to depend on another man for the roof over her head, the food in her mouth, her survival.
“I can’t,” she repeated. Yes, she’d come to him for help, hoping he would offer his firm’s services for protection. But live with him? She shook her head. No, she couldn’t do it.
“You said this baby is mine,” he pushed, steel penetrating his voice and matching the glint in his eyes. “You really think I would put the safety of my kid and his mother in the hands of a camera?”
“You don’t even believe the baby is yours,” she accused, incredulous.
“I didn’t say that,” he said. “I said there’s a chance it’s not mine. But as long as there is a chance, you and the child are my responsibility.” He dropped his arms and, planting his palms on the desktop, leaned forward. His eyes narrowed, and that quickly, her pulse sped up, her mouth drying of all moisture. She recognized that look—had been the recipient of it before. And an hour later she’d been straddling his lap, shaking in orgasm.
“You know what I think? You’re protesting a little too hard. What’s your real reason for not wanting to stay in the same hou
se as me, Greer?” His tone deepened, softened with a sensuality that stroked over her skin and called to mind those hot, stolen moments in the back of his SUV. “Maybe because I know things you wish I didn’t? Like how you prefer harder, wilder kisses to gentle and slow. Or how soft and sensitive your breasts are, and how much you enjoy me touching them. Or how wet and so fucking tight you are. Or how your breath catches in your throat and you give this low, sexy moan right before you come.” A charged, deafening silence vibrated in the room. “Well? How close am I?”
She couldn’t tear her gaze away from him. Heat blazed a path up from her belly, melting every muscle and organ to a scorching puddle even as a slide show of erotic images burst in her head. Part of her—the part of her that had been raised to believe sex occurred behind closed bedroom doors, not to be gossiped about—wanted to deny his frank, erotic assessment, to tell him to go to hell. But the other side of her—the part that had exalted in writhing on a leather seat, had enjoyed digging her fingers in taut, golden skin—acknowledged the truth in his words. What they’d shared…it had been raw, wild, cataclysmic. Explosive.
Life-changing.
And as much as she feared becoming a sponge, she was equally terrified of the responses—the passion—he drew out of her. It unsettled her. She silently snorted. Unsettled, hell. It scared the shit out of her.
All her life, she’d witnessed her mother cater to her father’s every whim, swallow every criticism or insult, turn a blind eye to every affair. All because she loved him. Love. The word tasted like ash on her tongue. Early on she’d vowed to never allow herself to become so emotionally out of control. To never allow her heart or its just-as-fickle and traitorous cousin, desire, to exist in a world where common sense and dignity took a backseat to love. And no man had threatened that vow. Not even Gavin.
But Raphael could. Did.
With just a blunt, erotically charged word, a sensual hooded look, or, God, a wicked touch, he flipped the switch on a chain reaction of need, hunger, and recklessness. She’d never experienced such overwhelming passion before—had never known it was in her or she was capable of it. After one conversation, she’d spent hours having sex with a man she’d barely known. She hadn’t cared about propriety, what others would think, or consequences. He’d inspired that in her.
That had been one night. What would happen after she spent several nights with him? One morning would she look in the mirror, and her mother would be staring back out at her?
“Not even in the same ballpark,” she replied to his question and curled her lips in a smile that should’ve had Frosty the Snowman reaching for a coat. “Now if you don’t mind, I’d like to get back to how we can protect my baby and save what makes me scream in orgasm for tomorrow’s discussion.”
In the past, the cutting words combined with the icy smile had sent men scurrying away or even earned her a muttered “bitch.” Never had she received the snicker Raphael treated her to. The man wouldn’t know an appropriate response if he had a handbook and PowerPoint.
He rounded the desk and perched on the edge directly in front of her, crossing his arms. The toes of his shoes nudged the tips of her boots, and she fought the urge to edge her feet back and away from even that small contact. She also tried—and failed—not to stare at the stretch of cotton across his broad chest and shoulders. The first time they’d met in his office for the private security consultation, he’d been dressed in a suit. As sexy as he’d been in the dark jacket and slacks, she preferred him as he was now—as he’d been that December night. Today, he’d traded casual slacks and shoes for the cargo pants and boots he’d worn in the bar, but the long-sleeved black knit was so…him. Dark. Uncompromising. No-nonsense. The piercings in his eyebrow and ears testified to the wildness inside him, as did the tattoos she knew covered both arms and shoulders. Tattoos she’d feverishly kissed, traced with her tongue…
Sooo not going there.
“Look, princess, I know the solution isn’t ideal.”
She smothered the instinctive cringe at his “princess.” Unlike their night together, it wasn’t a verbal seduction. This was mocking, not a playful endearment.
“You don’t want to stay with me, and frankly, when I woke up this morning I wasn’t envisioning returning home with a roommate,” he said. “But it’s only temporary. This is about more than me, you, and your aversion to me. It’s about your safety. What you came to me for, not the police, not your brother. So you have to trust me, Greer. Trust me, and let me do what I’m good at.”
Trust me. The last time he’d said those words to her, she’d ended up with her dress around her waist, her panties on the floor, and him deep inside her.
“So,” he continued, “you have one of two choices. You can come home with me to a house that’s big enough for us to avoid each other all we want. Or I can go with you back to your brother’s house. Probably not as spacious or comfy. And he might have a problem with an extra guest. Especially one that knocked up his baby sister. But”—he shrugged—“wouldn’t bother me one bit. So your choice. My house or both of us become brother Ethan’s…roomies.”
Chapter Eight
If looks could kill, Raphael would be quartered, drawn, stabbed, and Greer would be looking forward to three hots and a cot.
He held open the door to his office and escorted her through the entrance. His hand hovered near the small of her back, but he dropped his arm. Best not to tempt fate. Because if she flinched from his touch now, he might blow his shit.
Still, eyeing her stiff shoulders, he couldn’t help the mental fist pump over outmaneuvering her. Why he cared that he’d cornered her into coming home with him he didn’t want to analyze. Or why he’d issued the demand in the first place. Honestly, he could’ve placed a security detail on her brother’s house along with adding the cameras and alarms. But the thought of leaving her protection up to anyone else didn’t sit right. Didn’t sit right. What a pretty way to describe the itch to go all Stone Cold Steve Austin on anyone who dared get near her.
Which was insane as hell.
Yeah, they’d had a one-night stand—not his first but not an ordinary event, either. And yeah, she claimed he was the father of her unborn child. Which while possible, he refused to believe. Or accept. Believing and accepting led to stupid-ass things like getting your hopes up and getting attached. Followed up by the coup de grâce of getting left.
So, yeah, assigning bodyguards would’ve cleaned his hands of any responsibility while helping her out at the same time. And he had almost done just that…but at the last second “you’re coming home with me” had popped out, complete with me-Tarzan-you-Jane chest-thumping bullshit.
Yeah, best not to peer too deeply at his reaction.
“Sara, could you cancel my two o’clock meeting and tell him I’ll call to reschedule?” he called out to his administrative assistant. “And then could you forward all my calls to my cell? I’m going to be working from the house for the next few days.”
Greer emitted a small gasp. “That’s not necess—”
“Sara?” Rafe arched an eyebrow, cutting off Greer’s new objection—because God, the woman had so many of them.
“Sure thing, Rafe.” Her curious gaze darted from him, to Greer, then back to him.
Movement in his peripheral vision snagged his attention.
Two men rose from the chairs in the waiting area. The taller one with dark-brown hair and wearing a suit as if his DNA had been genetically engineered to wear it, Rafe recognized. Greer’s brother, Ethan Addison. The other man, a blond several inches shorter than Ethan and a shade less formal in a sports jacket and pants, Rafe didn’t know. But from the death glare the blond aimed in Rafe’s direction, he wondered if maybe he’d stolen his lunch money when they were kids…or if Rafe had knocked up his sister, too.
“Greer? Is everything okay?” the shorter man asked, skirting the magazine-covered coffee table and heading in their direction. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine, Noah,” she
said, and though Rafe stood behind her, he could hear the smile in her voice. Could also detect the forced cheerfulness. The woman couldn’t lie worth a damn. And apparently Noah—whoever he was—picked up on it as well.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, frowning as he took her hands in his, Ethan hot on his heels. Rafe didn’t pay her brother a bit of attention. The grabby Ryan Phillippe wannabe, though? He had Rafe’s total focus as if he’d paid shipping and handling for it. What were they to each other that he felt comfortable touching and comforting her? And that she let him? “Don’t give me that ‘I’m fine’ line. I can tell something’s up.”
“Nothing.” She sighed and gently tugged her hands from his grasp. And the hot band across Rafe’s chest loosened.
“Give her room to breathe, Noah,” Ethan softly admonished. Turning to Rafe, he extended his arm. “Mr. Marcel,” he greeted with a chilly politeness.
Rafe shook his hand, not blaming him for the cool reception. He’d promised the other man he’d return his sister home safe and sound. Not only had Rafe dropped her off to a crime scene but, according to what Ethan believed, pregnant. His control was admirable considering that under the same circumstances, Rafe would’ve planted his fist in the face of the son of a bitch who did that to his sister.
He nodded. “Nice to see you again.” He switched his regard to Noah. “And you are?”
A heavy, tension-filled pause and then, “Noah Granger.” He didn’t offer his hand.
“Noah’s my best friend, Raphael. Noah, Raphael Marcel.” Greer made the introduction with more than a little bit of exasperation. Whether it was directed at him or her friend, he couldn’t tell. Considering how their earlier meeting had gone, most likely him. “Ethan, Noah, I promise I’m okay. I told Raphael about the—the incidents, and he’s agreed to…to…” She glanced over her shoulder at him, a quiet pleading in her eyes. He sighed, took pity on her.