Chailali’s Curse

by Anna Leigh Keaton

  Mike didn’t say anything for a few bites, and she wondered if he was afraid to start another argument, which would make him get up and leave his food again.

  “I’m serious,” he said when he’d reached the halfway point. “Your food is better than some five-star restaurants I’ve eaten in.” He took another bite.

  “I didn’t realize five-star places made sandwiches.” Damn, she was being a bitch. She cleared her throat. “Forget I said that. Thank you for the compliment.”

  That’s better. He’s trying to be nice now. So should you.

  Christy bit her tongue to keep from shouting for the annoying woman to go away. Lord, what woman? They were alone. It was in her head. Just in her head. Maybe she should go get one of those pills. Would anxiety pills stop voices? She needed to call Dr. Mackey in the morning. Maybe he could prescribe something over the phone so she could have the local pharmacy deliver it. She hated taking pills, but she’d do it if it would shut up her annoying...other.

  “Your sister said you used to manage a restaurant?” he asked between bites.

  “In my former life.” She turned sideways in the seat to face him and propped her elbow on the back of the sofa.

  For the first time, he turned his head toward her. “Why...uh...how’d you go from that to being here?”

  She thought about telling him, but it wasn’t really any of his business. He’d fired her. Her problems were so not his concern. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Were you incarcerated or something?”

  Christy had just raised her bottle of water to her lips when he asked the question, and she nearly choked. “What?” The laughter bubbled out of her. “Um, no. I’m not a criminal.” She chuckled. “And if I had been, don’t you think Beth should have warned you I might pilfer the family silver?”

  He shrugged. “I’ve no use for it. It was my wife’s anyway.”

  Christy’s humor fled, as did her pique at him. Maybe he still loved his wife with all his heart and couldn’t stand the idea of sleeping with another woman. Maybe his erection had to do with physical contact rather than attraction to her. He hadn’t touched a woman in ten years... Beth told her the car wreck that took his wife’s life and damaged his body had happened ten years ago. The poor man had been alone for an eternity.

  Mike put the last bite in his mouth and wiped his hand over his lips. A few crumbs fell onto his shirt.

  “Let me,” she said softly as she leaned over and swiped the crumbs from his chest, trying to ignore how his muscles rippled beneath her touch. Then she picked up the plate from his lap and laid it on top of the other on the end table. She watched as he reached for his coffee, carefully feeling for the handle before he picked it up and sipped.

  “This tastes like shit,” he said then took another drink.

  She fought the smile trying to take over. “I made it around noon. Your coffee always tastes like shit, though, so how can you tell the difference?”

  The corner of his mouth kicked up into a small grin. “There’s a difference between strong and old. This is old.” But he tipped the mug and drained it in a few long swallows.

  What now? she wondered as she watched him set the cup back on the end table. He set his hands on his thighs and stared in the direction of the fire.

  Talk to him...

  She cleared her throat. “What do you see?”

  “Light and shadow. I can sometimes see the outline of your body if you stand in front of the window in the kitchen.” He shrugged. “That’s all. And it’s always fuzzy. Monochrome.”

  “Can you see the fire?”

  He shook his head. “A lighter patch on the dark wall. A little movement there. Right after the crash, I couldn’t see anything. It took three surgeries to give me this little bit.”

  Sadness played over his features, and the rest of her upset at him slipped away. The uninjured side of his face was toward her, and if she didn’t know what the other looked like... Well, he was still a very handsome man. Gorgeous, really. Mel Gibson, Christopher Meloni, young Clint Eastwood type handsome. Chiseled jaw line, high cheekbones, a killer smile.

  Christy glanced over to the mantle and the photo taken at his and his wife’s wedding. His wife was fair complected to his olive skin. Blonde to his dark. The woman looked like a Barbie doll in her sparkling white wedding dress, and handsome, young Mike looked ready to take on the world with his new bride.

  “What was her name?” Christy asked, keeping her voice low. She prayed Mike wouldn’t get up and walk out again. She enjoyed his company, even though he made her so uncomfortable, made all her emotions bump around inside her, confusing her.

  He raised his chin a bit, as if she’d pulled him back from some faraway place. “Caryn.” His fingers curled into his right thigh, making her wonder if it was a reaction to thinking about his wife or if his leg bothered him.

  “How long were you married...before...?”

  “Five years to the day.”

  Oh, goodness. “What happened?”

  He slowly shook his head, but then turned his face toward her. “You tell me first.”

  “What?”

  “Tell me what happened last night. Why are you afraid of storms?”

  With a groan, she slouched down into the soft cushions and reached for the blanket she’d dropped on the floor earlier. “I’m not afraid of storms.” She spread the quilt over her and tossed the end over his lap. “Need some? How do you sleep when it’s so cold?”

  He shrugged and smoothed the blanket over his lap. “Cold doesn’t bother me.”

  “It can’t be more than fifty degrees in here.” She pulled her foot out from beneath the quilt and laid her toes against his bare arm. “I’m a Popsicle.” As she made to pull her foot back, he caught it in his warm hand, knocking the breath from her.

  “Damn. Why aren’t you wearing socks? Where’s the other one?” He felt around under the blanket until he got a hold of her other ankle and stretched her leg out so her feet were on his lap. His warm hands wrapped around them under the blanket, lightly chaffing them.

  Pleasure coursed through her, and she dropped her head back. Oh, my goodness. She’d always had a thing for a guy rubbing her feet. Her own little fetish.

  “Hello-o? Socks? Heard of them?”

  She nodded then shook her head at herself, realizing he couldn’t see her action. “I had a pair on earlier, but I spilled some water and then stepped in it, and they got wet. It seemed too far to walk on the cold wood to go all the way to my room for another pair.”

  Mike grunted, and she raised her head to look at him, but he was staring into space again. She tried pulling her feet away, but he gripped her ankles. “Leave them. I’ll warm them up.”

  He obviously had no idea what his touch did to her insides. He rubbed her soles with one hand and the top of her feet with the other. Tingles shot up her legs, straight to her pussy. She shivered and wrapped her arms around herself, pulling the quilt to her chin.

  It might not have been ten years, but it had been a heck of a long time since any man had touched her.

  “Okay,” he said, turning his head back toward her. “Start with something simple, like telling me just how old you are.”

  “Thirty-five.”

  His eyebrow shot up, and she laughed.

  “What? You thought I was a baby? Or did you think I was old, like my sister?”

  He shrugged. “Beth called you her baby sister, but then, she’s what, only thirty seven?”

  “Yeah, almost thirty-eight.” She swallowed a groan as he massaged the arch of her left foot with his limber fingers. She would have never thought that typing could give a guy such great hands. Smooth and strong and sure.

  “You thought my episode last night was because I’m a child and scared of a storm,” she said when she could think straight, which grew increasingly difficult as her body throbbed with a need that a foot rub couldn’t come close to satisfying.

  “Not once I got my arms around you. Y
ou don’t feel like a child.”

  His blunt comment caught her off guard, and she stared at him. He looked back in her direction, as if he could really see her. She took a deep breath and dropped her gaze, unable to look at him when she said, “I’m sorry about that. It’s...never been quite that bad.”

  “What hasn’t? The storm?”

  “I’m not afraid of storms. Do you see me freaking out because of the thunder now? No. It had nothing to do with the storm.”

  “So tell me. What was it?”

  She jerked her feet from his grasp. “What’s it matter? I’ll be gone as soon as Beth answers her damn phone.”

  “Don’t do that,” he said softly as he reached for her, grasped her calf, and pulled her right foot back to his lap. “I don’t want to argue anymore. And I don’t want you to go.”

  “You don’t want me... You fired me. Told me to get out.”

  “I overreacted.”

  “I molested you in your own kitchen.”

  His soft chuckle was sweet, the curve of his sexy lips sinfully seductive. “If that was a molestation—”

  Christy growled and tried pulling her foot back again, but he wrapped his fingers around her ankle and held tight. “What? You got pissed off because I can’t kiss right?”

  “Stop it,” he said and reached for her other leg, fumbling under the blanket. His fingers brushed her inner thigh, stealing her breath, before he got hold of it and tugged it from under her other leg. “You want some honesty?” he asked as he resumed his gentle massage on her arches.

  Her head dropped back, and this time she did moan. Out of sexual frustration and confusion.

  Mike didn’t seem to notice her discomfort, though, and said, “After the car wreck, I was in a hospital bed for months. Blind, in agony every second of the day, only able to sleep because of the drugs they fed me through my IV. Can you imagine going from being an active, thirty-one-year-old, happily married, very sexual man to being bedridden with a fucking tube up my dick because I couldn’t piss without it?”

  Christy opened her mouth, but nothing came out.

  “And on top of that, the doctors, after weeks, when I was finally able to talk and ask where my wife was, why she hadn’t come to see me...they wouldn’t tell me anything. They’d told my own parents not to tell me about Caryn because it might upset me, hamper my recovery. I thought she left me. I thought she didn’t want anything to do with me because if I hadn’t had too much to drink that night and wanted her to drive when she hated driving the coastal roads at night in the rain, she wouldn’t have driven off the road. I thought she blamed me.”

  “Mike. No.”

  “I was in that goddamn hospital for three months before anyone told me she was dead.” He made a pained face, his brow furrowing. “They didn’t tell me a goddamn thing until my dad brought me home.”

  Mike closed his eye and dropped his head forward. His hands had stilled on her feet but held them tight. “I was so angry I kicked my parents out of the house. I wanted to die. I thought I would. Caryn didn’t need to blame me. I know it was my fault. I knew she hated driving the coastal roads at night in the rain. We’d gone down to Coos Bay for our anniversary, and I had too much to drink. She wanted to get a hotel room, but I scoffed at her. Called her a chicken...”

  Christy did pull her feet from his grasp then, went up on her knees next to him, and wrapped her arms around his shoulders, pulling his head against her chest. “It’s not your fault.” She rubbed her fingers through his silky hair and cradled his head. “It’s not.”

  Her heart broke for him. She wanted to take away his pain, but she didn’t have a clue what to do or say. All she could do was lend her comfort and hope it was enough.

  Slowly, he raised his arms and encircled her waist, turned his face against her neck, and let out a ragged sigh. “Until you walked into my house...”

  “What?” she asked when he didn’t continue.

  “Christy,” he said softly as he released her and leaned back. He reached up and touched her cheek, running those gentle fingers over her nose, her lips. “I wish I could see you. Look into your eyes and know what you’re thinking.”

  The anguish in his voice ripped at her. She laid her hand over his and leaned her cheek into his touch. “I’m thinking that you’ve spent a decade beating yourself up for something you had no control over.”

  His brow wrinkled. “I made her drive us home.”

  Because he called his wife a chicken? She shook her head, knowing he’d feel it since he was touching her. “It’s okay, Mike,” she whispered. “I understand now.” He still loved Caryn and wasn’t going to let her go anytime soon. She’d never try to come between him and the memory of the love of his life.

  She went to pull away, but he caught her around the back of the neck and held her in place. “What do you understand?”

  She laid her palm against his cheek. “I understand why you don’t want me. You want Caryn. You barely know me.” Tears prickled her eyes, but she blinked them back. She could only hope someday someone loved her so deeply.

  Mike scrunched his eye closed and shook his head. “You don’t understand anything.”

  “Wha—”

  Pulling her hard against his chest, he brought his mouth down on hers, his tongue delving between her lips. She moaned and clung to him, lust and need returning with the force of the lightening outside. His breath was warm, and he tasted of coffee. She could drown in the sensation of his tongue gliding against hers.

  He ripped his mouth from hers, his breaths coming in ragged gasps. “I want you so damn bad I can’t think straight. I’ve wanted you from the moment I shook your hand and got a whiff of your sweet scent. But why the hell would you want to fuck a disfigured monster?”

  Chapter Six

  Mike held her away from him but still close enough to breathe in her spicy scent, to feel her breath against his lips. “Tell me, Christy. Tell me the truth.” He needed to hear the words from her. Honesty, even if it killed him.

  When she did speak, her voice was barely stronger than a whisper, accompanied by her cool fingers on his face, touching his scars. “You’re not a monster.”

  He had her by the shoulders, and he gave her one gentle shake. “Look at me. Look at my face and tell me this doesn’t disgust you.”

  Her hands left his cheeks, and he nearly cried at the loss. He let go of her and gripped the arm of the sofa, ready to pull himself up, to get away from her. Why couldn’t she tell him the truth?

  But then she was over him, straddling his thighs with hers, her soft, full breasts pressed against his chest, her face nuzzled against his neck as she wound her arms around him, holding him. She stroked her hand through his hair, over his shoulder.

  He stilled, but his cock jumped back to life with painful force inside his jeans, feeling her heat even through their layers of clothes. He’d give anything to sink into that warmth, to lose himself there.

  “Don’t,” he whispered. A plea for his sanity.

  “You’re like the Phantom of the Opera, hiding away in your lair, never letting anyone close. The phantom made sweet music, just as you produce bestselling books. You’re gifted and beautiful.”

  Mike chuckled, which turned into a full-blown laugh. “You have got to be kidding me. Do you know anything about that play?” He cupped her face between his hands and once again wished he could see her. “Honey, the phantom is a psycho who captures Christine and holds her captive. Christine was only intrigued by him because of his...strangeness.”

  Christy sighed. “You don’t get it.”

  He shrugged. “And how do you see it differently? By the way, I was a theater major in college and played Raoul, the man Christine truly loved.”

  “Why are you so argumentative? Why can’t you see the beauty behind the phantom? He was lonely, and he loved her with all his heart.”

  “He lusted after the hot chick with a pretty voice until he could get her alone and have his way with her. Locked in the catacom
bs.”

  “He did not have his way with her!” Christy pushed back, her hands settling on his chest.

  Mike grinned. “But he wanted to.”

  Christy growled again, and he found it sexy. He was a sick man. He knew he was, but the conversation helped cool his lust. At least now he wouldn’t do something stupid, like toss her on her back and have his way with her.

  “So you’re some creepy old guy who lives in this big house alone waiting for the first innocent woman to come along?”

  “I have a feeling you’re not all that innocent.”

  She smacked his shoulder. “That’s rude. You know nothing about me.”

  He chuckled again. “No blushing virgin offers her body as sacrifice...should I have need of one.”

  Her fingers curled into his T-shirt. “You are making me insane.”

  With a shrug, he said, “You’ve still never answered my question.”

  She huffed. “I don’t remember the damn question anymore.”

  “Why,” he said, growing serious again.

  “Why do you think?” She took that opportunity to grind her crotch against his.

  With a groan, he grabbed her hips, sliding her back away from his dick. “Innocent my ass.” He couldn’t take so much teasing, or temptation.

  “You want to know what I really think?” he asked. “Fine. I think you feel sorry for me. I’m sure your sister told you I’ve lived alone for the last ten years. And then you watch me jack off in front of the computer—while, I might add, I was thinking about you.”

  Christy’s fingers tightened even more in his shirt over his chest.

  “That’s right, honey. I was imagining what you felt like in my arms last night while I stroked my own dick. What do you think of that?”

  She didn’t answer, but she didn’t pull away either. He’d hoped to shock her, to get her to leave him alone before he couldn’t let her go.

  But she didn’t leave, so he continued. “So, you see me stroking off, and you feel sorry for me. Figure you’d give the gimp a taste of your sweet pussy because you’ve got a soft spot in your heart for people like me.”

  “Fuck you,” she said, her voice low and strangled. When she would have slid off his lap, he grabbed her waist and held her still.