Stranger

by Robin Lovett

  “The fundraiser . . .” I forgot all about the invitation. I’m usually on the planning committee, the hospital being named after my mother and all, but I was so out of it after my father died, they excused me from the meetings. “I wasn’t in on the preparations this year, but I’ll be there.”

  “I’ll see you this weekend, then.” She walks down to the elevators.

  I stare at the paperwork in front of me. I shouldn’t have forgotten the fundraiser. It may be a while before my life recovers from being in zombie grief land.

  “Penny.” Amisha runs up beside me. “I saw Alvarez in the elevator. She said you’re coming back to the NICU?”

  “Yeah, I think so.”

  She hugs me. “I’m so glad. I’ve missed you. Is everything okay?” Her excitement morphs to pitying concern.

  I haven’t talked to her since I drank too much tequila at the bar, and this is why. “I’m fine. Nothing to worry about.”

  “And how’s Logan?” She doesn’t hide her skepticism. That’s fine. I don’t expect her to understand.

  I glance at my hands. I’m not sure how I feel about him now, except how I’m starving for more sex with him. “He’s good. Things are good with us.” If I mean by good, loaded with sexual frustration and evenings of growling with no conversation—followed by mornings of pretending the other doesn’t exist.

  “I don’t believe you.”

  I sigh. I’m so tired of hearing that from everyone. Layla, Logan, my brother. “Apparently no one believes a word I say. Ever.”

  She lowers her voice and urges me away from the nurse’s station. “Because when you’re upset it’s obvious.”

  I can’t hide it from her. But I can’t say it out loud either. Not now. “There is something going on. Something that Logan’s helping me with. But . . .” I pause, realizing this will probably hurt her feelings.

  “What?”

  “I’m not ready to talk about it yet.”

  She squeezes my shoulder. “Penny, you can tell me anything. It’s all right.”

  “I will. When I’m ready.”

  “You’re not going to tell me?”

  “I can’t. Not yet.”

  She backs away, hurt straining her mouth. “When you’re ready for a friend, call me.”

  “Soon. I promise.”

  Watching her go isn’t easy. Guilt latches on to my throat, and I have the urge to run after her and apologize. But I can’t. If I do, she’ll ask more questions. And feel even more insulted when I don’t answer them.

  Loneliness creeps over me. Eventually I’m going to have to tell her.

  It makes me want to retreat into a world where there is only Logan and me.

  * * *

  I tug the collar of my shirt and flex my feet in the too-tight leather shoes.

  The clothes she bought me are the designer expensive kind—with all the discomfort that comes with it. Give me my flip-flops and T-shirts any day, I don’t care if I’m in perma beach wear.

  I pace in front of the receptionist’s desk. “How much longer?”

  He barely glances from his computer. “Mr. Vandershall is with a client. He should be finished soon.”

  “Can’t you buzz him or something? He wants to talk to me.”

  He gives me a condescending glare. “I already buzzed him.”

  “You need to tell him it’s Logan Kane waiting.”

  His nostrils flare and he folds his hands. “He’ll see you soon.”

  I tap the manila envelope in my hand, the precious one. If Blake knew it was me, I’d be in there already. If he knew what I was about to tell him, he’d be calling his lawyer.

  I’m sick of waiting. I’ve told Penny what scum her father is. It’s time her brother knows, and I’m going to take great pleasure in watching Blake react to the evidence in my hand. Even if I have to suffer the torture of opening those files again, it’s Blake’s turn to know.

  The door to his office finally opens.

  “Thank you,” says the client, whose face I don’t look at.

  I take the door from him before he lets go and close myself inside the office.

  Blake sits in his professional element with his desk in the power pose. His eyes go through a transformation. They start confused, widen in shock, then tighten in fury.

  I smile. Him angry merely at the sight of me—exactly how I want it.

  “Mr. Vandershall.” I say it with as much revulsion as I feel. From what I’ve seen, the son has as much potential to be as vile as the father, and I won’t hide my judgment. He may be guilty of no more than being his father’s son, but I don’t trust him.

  “What do you want, Kane?”

  I hide the manila envelope behind my back and decide playing with him will be fun. “You’re smart. You know.”

  “I cannot and will not discuss private matters having to do with a client.”

  “She’s my wife.”

  “Doesn’t matter. It’s still private.”

  I force myself to take a steadying breath. “The faster you write me a check, the faster I’m out of your office.”

  “The offer for a payoff still stands if you agree to leave my sister.”

  And leave her unprotected from a man like him? Never. “I want all of it. And I’m not leaving her even then.” And because I love watching him lose his temper, I add, “I like seeing her beneath me as often as possible.”

  He rounds his desk and stops like he’s hit a wall. “You’re slime. It’s my new mission in life to end you.”

  “You’re not doing a very good job.”

  His neck muscles bunch. He wants to hit me, and I hope he tries. Hitting him is the closest I’ll ever get to physical revenge on his father.

  “I know you worked for him,” he says, “my father. Why are you here?”

  “I’m here to make your life miserable.”

  “You’re succeeding.”

  “Not enough, yet.”

  “You have something against my father, don’t you?” His face turns red, his fury rising.

  The angrier he gets, the calmer I become. “So what if I do. You still owe me money.”

  “What kind of sick bastard goes after Penny? Why didn’t you come after me?”

  Because I worried around you I wouldn’t be able to control my hatred of your father and my need for revenge. I was worried I’d try to kill you. At least with a woman, I knew I wouldn’t do something that could land me in prison. “Because you are a lot less fun, and she’s safer with me than she is with you.”

  His eyes bulge. “Bullshit.”

  “Then tell me what that was at the bar last weekend. You lost your temper with her. Don’t do it again.”

  “You know nothing about my relationship with my sister.”

  I lower my voice and try for calm. “I came to warn you: come near her again and I’ll file a restraining order.”

  “I’m her brother. You can’t do that.”

  “Of course, I can. I’m her husband.” I step closer. “I know who your father was. Stay away from her.”

  “What in your sick twisted brain makes you think you’re better for her than me? You’re manipulating her for money. Using her for sex.”

  That lands like a punch to the gut. My need to protect this woman grows with each passing day, with a strength that rivals my need to avenge my sister. Or perhaps it comes from that same need for vengeance—and my inability to save Louisa, who practically raised me, who suffered at that school to make sure we had food on the table. “I’d never hurt Penny. I’m guessing I can’t say the same for you.”

  His face lights with a kind of fire. “You know nothing about me.” He snarls the words.

  I’ve insulted him. Good. “I know about your father. And that’s enough.”

  His shoulders stiffen. “What do you know?”

  This is it. This is where I put the files on his desk and watch the same horror bleed across his face as I did Penny’s.

  But my hand starts to shake and sweat spro
uts on not just my palms, but my neck and my back.

  I should tell him. It would be so easy to tell him. But something stops me.

  She asked me not to. She wouldn’t want me to tell him. This is for her to tell her brother, not me. “Get me the money and you won’t have to find out.”

  “Is that supposed to be a threat? I know what kind of fucked up bastard my father was.”

  He thinks he does. But he doesn’t. And I could tell him. Except apparently, I’m not going to. What is wrong with me? “Get me that money. Or the rest of the world will find out too.”

  His brows draw and for the first time I see reason peek through his raging expression. “What is it you think you know?” Whatever he knows, he’s afraid I know more.

  I back toward the door, disbelieving that I’m going without opening the file. “By the end of the week, Blake. Or you’ll wish to hell you’d given it to me.”

  He hops, like he doesn’t want me to go. “Leave her, and I’ll get you half tomorrow.” Desperate. Maybe he really does care about his sister and has a fucked up way of showing it.

  But it doesn’t matter. “No. You’ll give me all of it in five days.”

  “If I didn’t think she’d hate me for it, I’d call the police on you right now. Soon I’ll find real proof that you’re a thief.”

  “You won’t find any. And I’m not leaving her, even with the money.”

  I walk out, and a burn spreads over my skin. I put the envelope back behind the seat of my truck.

  I didn’t tell him.

  What is happening to me?

  I’m not leaving her.

  I want to say it’s so I can threaten him more, hurt him again. It makes him more miserable to think I’m keeping her. That’s the only reason I said that.

  I’ll leave as soon as I have the money.

  But the thought of leaving her makes me burn even more. I wouldn’t leave her even if he bound me and dragged me away.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  He enters the condo wearing the clothes I bought him, and I’m a melting nest of contradiction.

  I come home every day swearing I won’t speak to him, look at him, or touch him, not knowing or caring whether I’m actually avoiding him or if I’m rejecting the things he’s told me. Part of me fears there’s more, more I don’t know. More he hasn’t told me.

  A greater part of me fears what he’s doing to me physically. How seeing him come home dressed for the first time in something other than shorts and a T-shirt causes me to go hot in all the places I shouldn’t.

  I blame the seductive look in his eyes, the sight of his lips, the sound of his voice, and the trim of his hips in those pants that draws my eyes straight to the bulge behind his fly.

  “They fit?” I walk closer and examine the cut of his pants, or pretend to. It’s just an excuse to stare at him, to circle him and get a look at his ass, and how I wish I could dig my fingers into it.

  “Don’t look at me like that.” His voice has more snap than usual.

  “Like what?”

  He gets closer, his nose bending to my ear. “Like you want to eat me.”

  Having him near me, after days of dodging him, his heat is like quicksand. I want to sink in and never climb out. “Why not?”

  “Not unless you’re ready to be eaten.” He doesn’t touch me, just runs his nose over my hair, his chest inches from mine. I have to steel my spine to keep from leaning into him, from pressing my breasts against his chest, from grabbing his arms.

  He pulls back and looks me in the eye. “Are you?”

  “Am I what?” My gaze fixes on his neck, his pulse leaping beneath his bronze skin.

  He grasps my chin in his palm and lifts my gaze to his. His eyes glitter with determination . . . and lust. “Saying yes?”

  “No.” It’s a reflex, but it’s true. I don’t want this. Or I don’t want to want this. My skin aches for his hands, my body longs for him inside me, pounding me like he does. It’s so bad I see it in my dreams and behind my eyes whenever I close them.

  But the answer is still “No.”

  “Why?” His brow thickens and frustration scratches his tone.

  “Because it’s too much.” And also not enough. As hungry as I am for him, it keeps away having to think about the other things. The things my father did. If I gave into this need for him, if I didn’t have this craving consuming me anymore, then I might think about the other things. I don’t want to think. I want to be full of how much I need sex. With him.

  “What’s too much?”

  “You. You’re too much.”

  He takes a shuddered breath and lets me go. I want him to protest again, to not let me go until my “no” turns to “yes.” But he doesn’t say a word, only goes to the kitchen and starts pulling out pots and pans.

  I sag against a counter, blood pulsing through me, heating everything on its way, and I have the urge to either go jump in the cold surf or get on my knees and beg him to fuck me.

  I close my eyes and breathe through both urges.

  The room is too quiet. I need to talk about something. “You like to cook a lot.”

  He fills a pot with water. “I like to eat. So I cook.” He puts the pot on to boil.

  I rest my chin on my palms and watch him grab vegetables from a bag—onions, tomatoes, peppers, garlic. “What are you making?”

  “Pasta.” He starts rinsing the tomatoes in the sink.

  I don’t see a jar of sauce, only tomatoes. “You’re making the sauce from scratch?”

  “Yes.” He starts peeling the garlic.

  “You’re a really good cook.” I like his cooking. He’s made dinner every night this week. I can’t say he made it for us because he never eats with me, but he always makes enough for me to have some.

  He watches his hands work and says softly, “She loved to cook.”

  My jaw flops open. He means Louisa. I have the urge to ask more—what was it like to have a sister—to have a woman in your family who loved you? But he turns his back to put olive oil in a pan. He doesn’t want to talk about it.

  Neither do I, really. I can’t bring myself to ask about the sister he lost. It would hurt too much—for him to say, for me to hear.

  I search for something else to say. “There’s a fundraiser this weekend.”

  “So?” He starts chopping onion.

  “You’ll have to come.”

  He glares at me. “Why?”

  “Because I’m supposed to bring a date and I don’t think it’d be okay with you if I brought some other guy.”

  His eyes broadcast a clear “no,” then he tosses the onions into the sizzling pan with the garlic.

  “If I’m really married, I can’t bring my brother.”

  “You go nowhere with him.”

  “Um, excuse me?” There’s no way that’s happening.

  He grabs a tomato and chops through it with a clop. “Have you forgotten last weekend?”

  “He was only like that because he hates you so much. As he should.”

  “It’s no excuse for scaring you like he did.”

  “You’re right.” I sigh. “It’s not.”

  “So you’re not seeing him.”

  “He’s my brother. I can’t not see him.”

  “Yes, you can.” He drops the knife with a thud and leans on the counter. “Do I need to remind you who his father is?”

  “Blake’s nothing like my father.”

  “Is he? From what I’ve seen they’ve plenty in common.”

  “I can’t believe you’d say that!”

  “Think about it. You know I’m right.”

  “But Blake would never hurt a woman. Really.” He’s my brother, it’s not possible. But the new lenses I look on the world with, the gray ones—my breath moves faster—please let him not be right.

  “How do you know for sure?”

  Blake has my father’s repressed anger, and his protective streak over me is actually more annoying than my father’s was, and then
there was . . . “Oh my God.”

  “What?”

  “He warned me the other day.”

  “How?”

  Shock forces air in and out of my lungs. “He said, if he hurt me, I should call the police. I didn’t know what he meant but . . .”

  “He said that?”

  I pull out a chair. I have to sit down. My breath comes in gasps, and I have to lower my head to my knees to keep the spots from my vision. My father’s gone. I never have to pretend what a great dad he was ever again. I’ll never get another one of his late night calls to come be his showcase. I’ll never have to worry about being around him or provoking his temper. I never have to worry about him hurting another woman.

  But he’s not gone.

  Because my brother’s still here.

  Logan’s hands brush my shoulders. He kneels in front of me. “I won’t let anyone hurt you. You have nothing to be afraid of.”

  “Do you think he’d do what my father did? Do you think he’s violent and . . .” My hands shake. It’s one thing to find out my dead father is guilty. It’s a whole other thing to suspect my brother, the one who I’ve trusted more than my father since I was a child. “I didn’t realize . . . I never thought . . .”

  He cups my cheeks. “I don’t know for sure. I have no proof. It’s suspicion. That’s all.” His eyes hold this softness that’s nothing like his usual expressions. It’s like when he came to get me at the bar, like maybe he cares about how I feel. “I could be wrong.”

  A laugh bubbles from me. “You? Wrong?”

  The corner of his mouth lifts. “It’s happened once or twice.” His gaze roams my face, his fingers sifting into my hair. “I’m going to kiss you.”

  Yes. Please. “Okay.”

  His lips meet mine, clinging and hot. They mold to my mouth and suck me in and overwhelm me, just his lips. I let his tongue in, and he takes all the space I give him. Except it’s not a violent taking, not a bitter anger. There’s a desire to give me something. Almost like comfort.

  He wants to help me, and this is the way he knows how.

  A sizzling from the stove interrupts us.

  He curses and runs back to the kitchen.

  Though my knees are weak, I get up and walk to my room. If he comforts me, I’ll have to feel it. I’ll have to acknowledge how much I need to be comforted. And I’ll have to admit how much it hurts.