by Tara Leigh
“You can’t. Doc’s coming back to check on you in the morning. Until then, get some sleep.”
Sleep, even in this pushy stranger’s bed, sounded tempting. I closed my eyes, trying to will myself back to unconsciousness. One minute passed, then two. It was no use. Not only was my side on fire, my bladder wasn’t cooperating either. I huffed an irritated sigh.
It didn’t go unnoticed. “You’re still awake.”
“Apparently, so are you.”
“Why aren’t you sleeping?”
I bristled. “Why do you care? And why are you in here, anyway?”
He ignored my questions. “You mean, in my bedroom?”
“I can’t imagine anyone with sheets this soft and a doctor who makes house calls lives in a studio apartment. Isn’t there another room you can go to? You know, since you won’t let me leave this one?”
“You’re a liability. Since I brought you here, I might as well make sure you’re okay.”
A liability? That was something I’d never been called before. I scraped my teeth over each other, counting backward from ten. “Fine. If you really want to know, my cut is killing me and I have to pee. There, now you know what’s keeping me up.”
“Why didn’t you say so?” A lamp flicked on and I winced at the unexpected light, covering my eyes with my hand. “The bathroom is just down there, and Doc left some pain pills on the nightstand.”
Sensing him coming near me, my heartbeat took off at a gallop. Needing all of my faculties operating on point with this one, I removed my hand and blinked frantically, willing my pupils to retract faster.
“Here.”
I squinted at the outstretched pill and glass of water, forcing myself to raise my head and look directly at my unlikely host, too. “Where are my clothes?”
“They had blood all over them, so I tossed them in the laundry.”
“For the record, I would have preferred to remain dressed,” I sputtered indignantly, taking the glass and pill while keeping my arms pressed firmly to my sides, head just a few inches above the pillow. Did this gorgeous man really see me in a barely there bra and panty set that I only wore when I was overdue for an afternoon at the laundromat?
As if he heard my unspoken question, he gave a sideways smirk that had my stomach plummeting. “You’ll have to take that up with Doc. But don’t worry, I didn’t see a thing. As far as I’m concerned, your virtue is fully intact.”
My virtue. The old-fashioned word sounded ridiculous coming from this man’s lips. His too-full, too-sensual lips. “Well, can I borrow something to wear?”
“Sure.” Pale green eyes flicked over my exposed shoulders, catching briefly on the thin straps of my white lace bra that only highlighted my state of undress. “Do you need help sitting up?”
“No, I’m f—” I put weight only on my elbows, intending to shift backward and work my way into a seated position, but a fresh wave of pain caught me off guard.
“Yeah. You’re fine, all right,” he grumbled, one hand curving around my shoulder and down my naked back, the other scooping beneath my knees. Settling me against the headboard, he took the glass of water from my shaking hands and held it to my mouth. “Sip,” he commanded, the imprint of his palm on my back still smoldering.
Tears stinging my eyes, both at the pain in my side and from embarrassment, I did as instructed.
Before I realized what he was doing, he pried the pill out of my fingers and held it in front of my mouth. “Open.”
I did, and with the gentlest touch, he set the white capsule on my tongue before lifting the cup of water again. I raised my gaze to his, swallowing my pride along with the pill.
His eyes crinkled at the corners as he set the glass back down on the nightstand, just before turning away. I sagged back against the leather, feeling like I’d just run a marathon. A minute later, he reappeared, holding a white button-down. “Will this work?”
“Hmmm?”
“For you to wear.” At my hesitation, his voice took a sarcastic tone. “You know, because I’ve never seen a naked woman before.”
I snatched the shirt from him, this time ignoring the flash of pain that stole my breath as I battled a flare of something that couldn’t possibly be jealousy. At what—the thought of this stranger looking at another woman? Ridiculous. “It’s fine.” I gave myself a mental shake. What the hell was wrong with me? In a few hours, I would never see the guy again. Keeping the sheet against my chest, I gingerly pushed my arms through the too-long sleeves, trying not to show how much it hurt.
“Do you need help?”
“No,” I grumbled, struggling to free my hands so I could button the damn thing. But it was no use. After a minute of trying, I gave up, defeated by the swath of starched cotton engulfing my fingertips. So much for pushing through the pain. I sighed. “Yes.”
“What was that? I couldn’t hear you.”
I looked up, getting lost in mischievous eyes that had to be evidence of a snarky leprechaun residing somewhere inside his brawny exterior. “Yes.” I swallowed. “Please.”
He gave a satisfied nod and folded the cuffs back, several times, until I could see my wrists. Pulling the two sides together, he blew out a sigh and began fastening the buttons. “This isn’t as much fun as the other way around.” I held my breath as his hands hovered over my breasts, the sight of his long, nimble fingers throwing my stomach into somersaults. Once he’d finished, he stepped away and jerked his head to the right. “The bathroom is just down there.”
“’Kay.” If I could have given my bladder to him, I would have. With the painkiller slipping through my bloodstream, I pushed my legs out from under the covers and slowly scooted myself toward the edge of the mattress.
He stood back a respectful distance as I hoisted myself upright, but was at my side the instant I swayed on my feet. “I gotcha.”
One muscled arm wrapped around me, hugging me into his side. I barely reached his shoulder. “I should probably know your name.”
“You’re right, you should.”
I blinked. “And?”
“Oh, was that you actually asking my name? I couldn’t tell.”
A flush started at my chest and rose above the stiff white collar of his shirt. Was I getting etiquette lessons now? “Well then, Sam it is.”
He sighed. “Nash. My name’s Nash.”
“Nice to meet you, Nash.”
“Good to meet you too, Nixie.” I wanted to laugh at the absurdity of our conversation. I was wearing his shirt, leaning on his arm as he walked me to the bathroom. On paper, we sounded like a geriatric couple. Until I realized what he’d said and stopped moving forward, my feet suddenly rooted to the ground. “How do you know my name?”
He didn’t have the grace to look chagrined in the slightest. “Because that’s what it said on your student ID.”
“You rifled through my clothes?”
“No, I did not rifle. I emptied your pockets before throwing your jeans in the wash. It’s been a while since I’ve done my own laundry, but I remember that much.”
My mind caught on the sliver of information Nash had let slip. Who did his laundry? A girlfriend? Wife? None of your business, Nixie. “So what, did you do a Google search on me, too?”
This time, a tiny flicker of guilt crossed his too - damn - handsome - for - words face. “Oh my god—you did!” I turned slightly, so that I was facing him.
Nash’s jaw clenched as he stared down at me, sending a shiver down my spine. “I did.” I swayed within his embrace at the gritty tone of his voice. The tips of my breasts brushed against his shirt, and they puckered immediately. Of course he noticed, the corner of his mouth pulling upward. Damn the man. “Want to know what I found?”
The breath punched from my lungs. What did he find? I’d worked so hard to cover my tracks. My mind raced. If all it took was one Google search to—
“Nothing. I found nothing.”
I sagged in relief. Thank god. “Exactly. It was a waste of your time.”
His eyes narrowed. “No, I don’t think so.”
Swallowing down the lump of unease that had risen in my throat, I faced forward and began walking toward the bathroom with determined steps, wishing it was his front door. I might have been better off with the two thugs in the alley.
CHAPTER TWO
Nash
To say my evening wasn’t going as planned would be an understatement.
Nash Knight didn’t rescue damsels in distress, and he sure as hell didn’t play nursemaid.
In business I was ruthless. The Black Knight of Wall Street, or so I’d been called. And in the ring I was downright vicious.
But this particular damsel had somehow gotten beneath my armor, under my skin. Was it because Nixie’s skin was so damn perfect, that dusting of freckles across her pert nose so enticing? Or the suspicion radiating from her like a magnetic force field, pressing against my lungs?
Maybe.
But if I had to guess, it was the fear that flashed in her eyes for the briefest of moments, a display of vulnerability so quick I almost missed it, before she put on a false show of bravado.
Nixie wasn’t scared of me, not physically anyway. She was hiding something. Something she didn’t want anyone to know. Even the stranger that had saved her life. Or at least, her wallet.
What was it?
The reason I was so good at what I did—the best, actually—was my innate ability to spot weaknesses and exploit them for my own benefit. Staring at the now closed door of the bathroom, I wondered something else. Why the fuck did I care? Nixie was a woman, not a company. There was no potential for profit here.
What was it about this girl that had kept me up half the night, my ears on alert for the slightest change in her breathing? Needing to know that she was okay. Safe.
A minute ago I’d been close enough to smell the citrus notes of Nixie’s shampoo wafting up from her sleep-mussed mane. My arm had been wrapped around her tiny waist, my palm pressed to her ribs, registering every breath, every tremble. And all I’d wanted was to bring my lips down to hers and find out if she tasted as sweet as she smelled.
I didn’t, and not just because she was obviously in pain and off-kilter from pills.
I’d been honest when I said my Google search pulled up nothing. Until a year ago, Nixie Rowland hadn’t existed. Prior to that, I couldn’t find a single link to anything that Nixie Rowland had ever said or done. “You didn’t fall from the damned sky,” I’d grumbled, clicking through site after site.
In this day and age, such invisibility was impossible. Local papers published the names of athletes, high school graduates, and the winners of contests and awards from spelling bee champions to prize-winning animals. And, of course, there was always the police blotter.
There was no record of Nixie Rowland scoring a soccer goal, graduating high school, or enrolling in college. She hadn’t won a spelling bee or raised a prize hog. And she wasn’t a criminal. Online, Nixie Rowland didn’t exist.
Her ID was from The Pratt Institute in Brooklyn, a small sticker indicating she was a graduate student. Did she even live in Manhattan? Then again, with the September 11 memorial service earlier in the day, the city had been overflowing with those affected by the tragedy. Tourists, politicians, and business leaders had jammed into already crowded streets, sidewalks, and restaurants with those who lived or worked in Manhattan’s financial district every day.
You would think that the actual date of my brother’s death would be worse than September 11. Maybe if he’d been killed on American soil, it would be. But he died on the other side of the world, in another time zone, and we weren’t even notified until several days later, after they had recovered what was left of his body.
So I attended the gut-wrenching memorial service this morning, just as I’d done every year since 2002. It was one of the very few days of the year I played hooky. Afterward, I headed directly to the gym for a three-hour workout, including a brutal sparring session.
Although my brother didn’t die in one of the towers, he may as well have. For years I’d walked by the giant mess of debris, rage spiraling with each lungful of air that stank of sulphur and rot. I watched as the field was cleared, beginning my career in a building that gave me a view of the enormous hole in the ground. Intense and driven, with a head for numbers and a heart that was just numb, I was the ideal employee. Fury fueled grueling eighty, ninety, one hundred hour work weeks, my star rising with each floor of the Freedom Tower.
This chunk of Manhattan was a permanent reminder of what I had lost and what I was still fighting for. And I fought, hard.
Which was why I stayed in Manhattan after the attack. My own parents fled the city as soon as I left for college, and I bought them an oceanfront condo in Florida with my first million. For selfish reasons, it was easier having them a thousand miles away. They didn’t particularly like the person I’d become, not that I could blame them, and their disappointment didn’t sting quite as much from a distance. Since Wyatt’s death, heartbreak was written all over their faces. They were like walking warning signs. Love hurts.
We had been a close-knit family once, and they’d encouraged Wyatt and me to be friendly and well-mannered. To be conscientious about other people’s time and ideas. With two tiny exceptions, I was none of those things anymore. Life was so much simpler if I didn’t care about anyone else but myself. Not when I spent my days ripping apart companies that had taken years of dedication and commitment to create. Not when firing hundreds or even thousands of people took little more than a signature on a page.
For the past sixteen years, I’d focused on three things: sharpening my mind, strengthening my body, and making money. And two people: my niece and nephew.
I wasn’t blind. I could see the results of my time in the gym. Women threw themselves at me on a regular basis, and I enjoyed playing with them. Could appreciate the softness of their bodies and the lushness of their curves. Wasn’t immune to their full lips and husky laughs. But they were interchangeable. Easily forgettable.
There were people I respected in my life. Most of whom now worked for me. If they were smart, they ignored my impatience. If they weren’t . . . well, I fired them.
And if I had any doubts that I was on the right track, all I had to do was look at my bank balance. There, in black and white, or maybe I should say green, was proof of my success. For those who called me a coldhearted bastard, I’d say the Arctic was treating me pretty damn well.
What was it about Nixie that was raising the temperature? At the twinge in my pants, I looked down. Jesus Christ. She was raising something else as well. If she didn’t get out of the bathroom soon, I was going to embarrass myself. Not that there was any reason to rush. She’d made it perfectly clear she wasn’t interested in my joining her, and it wasn’t just because of the slice in her side. Nixie wasn’t interested in me. She was counting the minutes until daylight, until she could make an escape.
Which brought me back to my original question. I’d seen two emotions on Nixie’s face, besides her obviously false show of confidence. Fear, at first. And then sadness.
God help me, I wanted to grab hold of a sword and slay whatever dragons dared turn their fire on her.
And afterward, I wanted to ride triumphantly through gates she opened just for me and see what lay inside.
Why? No idea. This was new territory for me. Sure, she was beautiful. But so was every woman I’d ever slept with, and the list was long. She was unimpressed by me, and wanted to be anywhere but here, in my apartment.
I shouldn’t care. But I did. I wanted her to want me as much as I wanted her. Even though that would be a disaster. I had too much on my plate right now. My business, family obligations. The last thing I needed was to fuck it all up by getting involved with a flame-haired art student.
I was completely out of my element, even though I was standing in the middle of my own damn bedroom. I preferred women who wanted the same things I wanted, women who enjoyed a fun night
here and there but didn’t expect any more from me than a series of mind-blowing orgasms. Which I delivered.
This one, though, she had baggage. I could feel the weight of her expectations through the closed door separating us.
This one, I needed to leave the fuck alone.
Nixie
As I pushed into the bathroom, my shuddering sigh of relief got caught in the back of my throat. The walls were covered with silver octagonal tiles, each about three inches from end to end, so shiny they might as well have been mirrors. Everywhere I looked, my eyes bounced off my reflection. Hundreds of them. I caught glimpses of my face in pieces. Mouth. Eye. Nose. Ear. Without the full picture, each individual component was magnified. A slight tremble in my lower lip. The fluttering of my eyelashes. The pulsing vein at my temple.
These small glimpses were unsettling.
Above the sink was another mirror, a real one. Staring at my entire face, I whispered the name on my driver’s license. Nixie Rowland.
It wasn’t my real name.
My birth certificate would tell you that my name is Noelle, but no one has called me that for the past year. Nixie is a nickname, a blend of Noelle and Pixie that only my parents have ever called me.
Of course, it’s been years since I heard my mother whisper my name as she soothed a Band-Aid over a scraped knee. Or my father calling for me to come down the slide at the neighborhood playground. What I wouldn’t give to hear them say it one last time.
Becoming Nixie again wouldn’t bring them back, I knew that. But hopefully it would keep me from being found.
Rowland was the last name of my favorite teacher from elementary school. It didn’t mean anything to me, but was a smarter choice than using something that would be easy to look up, like my mother’s maiden name.
Turning the knobs of the faucet, I blew out a short breath and forced a smile onto my lips. It trembled there for a minute, looking as fake as it was. The painkiller had kicked in, and so I stood up straight, squared my shoulders and tried again. This time it floated onto my mouth like a fallen leaf. Natural. But not quite casual enough. I softened my eyes a little, tilting my head to the side so that a wisp of hair fell forward and curled beneath my jaw. There. That was it. Pretty, but not interesting. The face of a girl with nothing to hide. A face a guy like Nash should look past.