The Wrong Man (Alpha Men Book 3)

by Natasha Anders

  “You should have kept your wedding presents,” Daff said as she stood with her hands on her hips, surveying the sad collection of small to medium-size boxes.

  “That would have been so tacky,” Lia scoffed.

  Daff scrounged through one of the boxes, squealed, and extracted a gigantic green dildo.

  “Oh my God, remember this?” she asked, giggling. And Lia went scarlet.

  “Put that away! Charlie’s in the backyard!” The girl was playing fetch with Toffee.

  “I’ve seen her biology textbook—girl knows what a penis looks like.”

  “I remember that thing,” Spencer said, his voice amused. “Someone gave it to you at your hen night. I remember telling Mason that it looks like the Hulk’s cock.”

  Lia made a grab for it, but Daff held it above her head and the silicone member jiggled in her grip.

  “Why do you still have this, Dahlia McGregor, you bad, bad girl?”

  “Why do you still have that?” Sam repeated, before adding, “It’s not like you need it.”

  “Oh my gosh, you all are irritating me so much right now,” Lia complained, and Daff chortled in glee.

  “Did you keep the other stuff?” Daff pressed.

  “What other stuff?” Sam asked, his voice alive with curiosity.

  “Fuzzy handcuffs, right, Lia?” Daff prompted. “Crotchless panties, edible condoms, and a crapload of other stuff.”

  “I didn’t,” Lia admitted uncomfortably.

  “Pity,” Sam said, and she glared at him.

  “If you got rid of the rest, why keep this?” Daff pressed, shaking the dildo for emphasis.

  “Have you ever tried getting rid of something like that?” Lia finally asked, exasperated. “I couldn’t chuck it out at home—what if Daddy saw it in the trash can? And what if someone spotted me throwing it away in town? You know how the homeless guys always scavenge in the garbage! And they all know me from the shelter. And what trash do I throw it in anyway? Is it recyclable? In the end, it was easier to just keep it.”

  “You should really stop overthinking everything, sunshine,” Sam said, his voice gentle.

  “Easy for you to say, you don’t care about your reputation.”

  “I do,” he corrected quietly. “I have a professional reputation to maintain. An expected image to project for the sake of my business. I care about that.”

  “Of course,” Lia said, contrite. “I’m sorry. My comment was uncalled for.”

  “Daff, would you mind putting that thing away?” Spencer pleaded, his eyes on the dildo in Daff’s grip. “It’s making me uncomfortable.”

  “Uncomfortable?” she repeated, her eyes sparking with interest. “In what way?”

  Spencer cast an awkward glance at Sam and Lia before shifting his eyes to meet Daff’s again. Whatever she saw in his gaze actually made her blush and she cleared her throat before, with a wicked grin at Spencer, giving the sex toy one last squeeze and dropping it back in the box.

  Fortunately, the subject was dropped along with the dildo, and after finishing the pizza, Daff and Spencer were ready to leave. They called Charlie and offered Sam a lift home.

  “I think I’ll stay a little longer. I’m sure Lia wouldn’t mind giving me a ride home in exchange for my help.” Daff glanced at Charlie, and Lia knew the girl was the only reason her sister refrained from calling BS on his words. Daff was a straight shooter and liked to call a spade a spade. She settled for rolling her eyes to let him know exactly what she thought of his words.

  “I thought they’d never leave,” Sam said, his voice husky with desire, as they waved the car off a short while later. “I think we should christen every room in this house tonight.”

  “It’s only three rooms, really, since the kitchen and living room are open plan,” Lia babbled and then yelped when he dropped his hand on her butt and squeezed.

  “Living room sofa and kitchen counter. They’re separate rooms to me.”

  He positioned himself in front of her, dropping his free hand to her other butt cheek and squeezing and lifting her behind until her crotch was in line with his.

  “We have a lot to get done tonight, Lia,” he said sternly. “Let’s not dawdle.”

  In the end they managed living room, kitchen, shower, and bed. They now lay sprawled, naked and exhausted on top of the bedcovers, both on their backs and staring up at the ceiling. Lia was on his left, her head tucked into the nook between his shoulder and arm, one hand resting on his flat, ridged abdomen and the other pillowing her cheek on his shoulder. His arm was hooked around her shoulders, and his fingers were idly tracing up and down her side, from the swell of her breast to the dip of her waist and back, and his other arm was draped across his stomach and with his hand over hers.

  Aside from explicit instructions from both of them about what felt good where, they hadn’t really spoken since the shower and were both content to just lie in companionable silence for the moment.

  “I had an imaginary puppy once,” he admitted, his voice even more gravelly than usual.

  “What was his name?” Lia asked softly.

  “Rex. I was six, so no points for imagination. I can’t remember much about him—my mother said he was my best friend for nearly a year, and when she divorced husband number four, I cried for days because we’d moved out and I was heartbroken because we’d left Rex behind.”

  Lia frowned and stroked his chest, wondering why he was telling her this. Her heart broke for the confused little boy who had lost his only friend but she wasn’t sure how to respond to his words.

  “My mother offered to buy me a real puppy after that, but I refused. I was scared that the next time we moved that dog would be left behind, too.”

  “I see,” Lia murmured.

  “I’m very busy with work,” he said, and the non sequitur made her blink in surprise. “Even when I’m not in the field, I spend long hours in the office. I can’t have a dog. I know you think I should adopt Trevor.” It was the first time he’d ever used the dog’s real name. “But I can’t. He’d spend too much time alone. My hope is that he’ll learn to trust others through me and find that special someone who’ll be willing to take him into their heart.”

  Now she wondered if he was referring only to the dog, or if his words were a gentle reminder to Lia not to get too attached.

  “I’m sure he will,” she said, keeping her voice low and soothing. “You’ve worked wonders with him, Sam.”

  “Lia—”

  “I should get you home,” she interrupted, not wanting to hear him expand his confessional to include his relationship with her.

  “I could stay.”

  “No, you can’t, Sam.”

  “For fuck’s sake, Lia. We’ll just be sleeping in the same bed, it’s not a big deal.”

  “It is to me. Maybe you’re used to spending the night with just any woman, but to me, sleeping with someone is more intimate than just having sex with them. It’s . . . it’s . . .” Her voice trailed off, and she wasn’t quite sure how to express her feelings on the matter. “It means more to sleep with someone. We’re having fun, and I don’t want it to be more than fun. I don’t want it to mean more.”

  He sighed, the sound rife with frustration, and levered himself out of bed. His movements were graceful and an indication of just how much better he was. He would be leaving soon, that much was evident. He was healing by leaps and bounds, and she was sure he wouldn’t be staying for the entirety of his three-month convalescence. He’d be gone in a matter of mere weeks, and it was important for her to keep sight of that.

  This last week with him had been wonderful. They’d spent as much time together as possible; she never got tired of his body, and he never seemed to grow bored with her, either. Every time they were intimate felt like the first time. She would have expected that desperate edge to wane by now, but instead it seemed to be growing more intense.

  Frighteningly, she had to remind herself on a daily basis not to fall in love with him, that
this wasn’t real. That it was nothing but casual fun.

  He’s not for you.

  Don’t get used to this.

  He’ll be leaving soon.

  Don’t like him too much.

  Don’t love him even a little.

  A daily mantra, five quick, magical incantations with which to safeguard her heart. But the scariest part of it all was that she didn’t think they were working.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  “What?” Sam exploded, and he heard Colby sigh on the other end of the line.

  “She’s been receiving them intermittently for the last month or so,” the woman continued, and Sam rubbed his fingers over his forehead, trying to ward off the headache that was forming.

  “Why did no one tell me?” he growled.

  “Because you were out of commission. Quite frankly, I didn’t want to tell you now, but Chambers was concerned about the threat she received last night. Somehow the note was slipped into her underwear drawer. Chambers has put extra security on her house and two more CPOs on her.”

  Lally had been receiving death threats again, same MO as Marshall Weathers, the fucker who had stabbed Sam, but that bastard was still in jail and awaiting trial.

  “It could be Weathers,” Sam suggested, “getting someone to do his dirty work for him.”

  “That’s a distinct possibility,” Colby said, “and the police are investigating that angle, but the general consensus for now is that it’s possible but not likely.”

  “Fuck it,” Sam muttered beneath his breath. “Okay, tell Chambers to keep the extra security around her house and the additional CPOs on her. Do not let her run roughshod over him. Cancel all public appearances, aside from concerts, until the police have concluded their investigation into Weathers’s activities in prison.”

  “She’s not going to like that.”

  “I don’t give a single fuck what she likes or doesn’t like. We’re taking this seriously, especially since she’s already been attacked once. I’ll get packed up and head back—”

  “No.” Colby’s tone was frosty, and Sam’s mouth dropped open.

  “I beg your pardon?” he asked incredulously.

  “You heard me, you’re not coming back early. You pay us to solve problems. We have it under control. But Chambers has a point about your needing to know about it.”

  “How fucking commendable of you to allow me to know about the shit going on with my own company.”

  “Yeah, I thought so, too,” Colby said agreeably, and Sam glared at the wall at her response. “Look, if we think the place is going to fall apart without you, we’ll let you know. For now, we have it in hand.”

  She gave him updates on a few other contracts before ringing off, after another stern admonishment that he was not to come home.

  Sam stared at the lit screen of the phone for a long moment before putting it aside. He felt strange. He knew that if he’d heard this news just a few weeks ago, nothing Colby said would have prevented him from packing his bags and heading home. Injuries be damned. But today, the threat to pack up and go back had mostly been posturing.

  Because he wasn’t ready to go home.

  He had poker with Bertie and the guys on Sunday. He had promised Mrs. Beecham at the retirement home that he would teach her and a few others the Viennese waltz next week. Trevor—he had started to accept the dumb name for the dog because the animal was so mild mannered it actually suited him—was learning to sit and stay. Sam and Spencer were planning a Fast and Furious marathon on the weekend after the women left.

  And Lia . . .

  His thoughts stuttered to a halt.

  Lia. There was Lia.

  They were nearly a month into their fling, and it was still nowhere near over. He had stopped asking her to stay every night . . . but he hadn’t stopped wanting her to stay. Watching her leave every night was becoming increasingly difficult. He wanted to keep her with him—he was starting to resent every moment she spent apart from him. She would be going away with her mother, Daff, and Charlie on the weekend, and Sam was dreading the prospect of not having her around for two days.

  So yes, Sam wasn’t quite prepared to leave Lia yet. Not at all.

  He threw his head back against the sofa cushion and stared at the vaulted ceiling of the cabin.

  “What the fuck are you doing, Sam?” he asked himself beneath his breath. “This is not the life for you, mate.”

  “Talking to yourself, Sam?” Lia’s soft voice asked from the kitchen, and he sat up, startled. She smiled at his reaction.

  “Ha! Did I manage to sneak up on you, Mr. Special Ops Close Personal Protection Man?” she teased, clearly delighted, and despite himself, Sam felt his lips quirk upward in a smile. She was so fucking cute.

  “Close protection officer, sunshine,” he corrected.

  “You know what I meant,” she said, airily dismissive. He jumped to his feet and walked toward her, loving the way her eyes stayed on his as he drew closer. He hooked an arm around her waist and tugged her into his embrace, dropping his mouth onto hers for a hungry kiss.

  “Fuck, you taste good,” he growled when he lifted his head. “Strawberries? Where’s the bubblegum?”

  She laughed and pushed at his chest until he released her.

  “I’m out of bubblegum lip gloss. I thought I’d give the strawberry flavor a try.”

  “You taste good no matter what,” he said truthfully, and then allowed his eyes to drift over her neatly dressed body. “And no matter where.”

  He grinned when his words elicited a blush.

  Predictable—he adored that about her.

  The thought made him start, and his eyes widened. He had once thought her predictability would become boring, but he now recognized that he hadn’t once found himself bored with Lia. Not with Lia, nor with her family or the people she knew. And not with the town, which he was starting to explore more now that he was getting better. It was a beautiful place, and the ocean called to him. He wanted to try out the surf as soon as he was stronger.

  He liked it here. He hadn’t ever expected to like it here.

  “Sam?” Lia snapped her fingers in front of his eyes, and he shook his head and smiled at her. “Where did you go?”

  “Just down the road a way,” he joked.

  “I don’t feel like cooking this morning. MJ’s for breakfast?” she suggested, and he frowned.

  “Are you okay?”

  “A bit of a headache and a bit wheezy. I think I’m getting a cold, that’s all,” she dismissed. Sam looked at her again—she had shadows under her eyes, and despite her immaculate appearance, he could see how tired she was. It was as close to frazzled as he’d ever seen her.

  “Why don’t I fix you something?” he offered.

  “You can cook?” she asked, surprised.

  “Not as well or as prettily as you, but it’s edible. Sound good?” She nodded and trudged to the living room. There was none of the usual crisp pep in her step, and she sank to the sofa and kicked off her shoes. Usually Lia would remove them and neatly place them side by side. For her to not even care where they landed was very uncharacteristic.

  He watched as she curled up onto her side on the sofa, tucking her hand under her cheek to watch him.

  “What are you going to make?” she asked, and, trying to put aside his concern, he forced a smile.

  “Eggs and bacon. To expect anything more than that would be to tempt fate.”

  “Sounds good.”

  She was asleep by the time he finished, and he walked over to the sofa to look at her. He’d seen her sleep before; sometimes she dozed off while he held her after sex. But that was always a restless nap. Nothing this deep or peaceful. She looked young and vulnerable asleep, with her pretty mouth slightly open and her hair obscuring half of her face. Sam absently massaged the center of his chest as he watched her. God, she was so beautiful. He ran the tip of his finger down the smooth curve of her cheek, edging her silky hair behind one pretty ear.

 
; “Lia,” he called softly, going down onto his haunches in front of her so that he wasn’t hulking above her when she woke up. Her brow furrowed, and she sighed. “Come on, sunshine, time for breakfast.”

  Her eyes opened without warning and immediately found his. For a split second, in that vulnerable, naked space between sleep and wakefulness, he could see her every emotion. Trust, hope, helplessness, and something that looked uncomfortably close to love. He didn’t know how he recognized these emotions, he just knew with absolute certainty what they were. And it terrified him. If she felt these things for him, she would get hurt, and that was the last thing he wanted.

  She blinked and the moment of vulnerability passed, her eyes now only revealing pain and confusion.

  “I don’t feel well, Sam,” she whispered, and he felt a flare of panic. She was pale, but an unnatural flush was beginning to form on her cheeks. He dropped a hand to her forehead and the flare developed into a full-blown explosion of absolute terror.

  “Jesus, Lia, you’re burning up!” he said, his voice shaking. “How long have you been feeling ill?”

  “Felt funny this morning,” she said. “But it’s worse now. I feel . . .” She sat up and clutched a hand to her mouth. She pushed him out of the way and leapt to her feet to run to the guest bathroom downstairs. She barely made it before he heard retching sounds.

  Sam shoved his hands through his hair, his fingers digging into his scalp as he tried to calm his anxiety. He followed her into the bathroom and dampened a towel. She wasn’t throwing up anymore but was still hunched over the commode, her slender body trembling violently. Sam gently swept her hair to one side and stroked the cool towel down the nape of her neck.

  He helped her to her feet and wiped her face before urging her to rinse her mouth. She complied weakly and leaned heavily on him as he led her back into the living room and to the sofa. She felt like a furnace, and her high temperature scared him. How could she get this sick so quickly?

  He left her sitting on the sofa and rushed to the kitchen and grabbed his cell phone to call Daff. He didn’t have her number programmed on his phone and had to consult the list on the fridge. He was shaking so much he misdialed twice.