Faeries Gone Wild

by MaryJanice Davidson

  She was scowling again and turned toward him. And holy crap, her breasts were sparkling, but he tore his gaze away.

  “Doctor. Doctor!” he said, and felt like roaming around in a circle like a rabid animal but managed to remain where he was. “That’s what we need.” It was a great idea. A brainstorm. He’d deliver her to the hospital, let them deal with her. He looked away, knowing his limits, then jerked to his feet, intent on rushing her out into the world as fast as possible. Storming across the distance, he grabbed her arm.

  But suddenly, inexplicably, she was kissing him. Their lips met with a clash. Desire roared through him like a volcano. He pressed her backward, heading toward the bed, toward orgasm, toward ecstasy.

  But sense came back with a start. He broke off the kiss and jerked away, breathing hard, longing desperately. “What the hell,” he whispered.

  Her lips were still parted, her breasts rising gently with each breath. “Is aught amiss?”

  “Yes, ought is amiss,” he rasped. “Lots of oughts are amiss. I . . .” He ran his gaze down her shimmering body and managed not to swoon. “Listen. . . .” He stumbled backward, gripped the back of the chair with all his might, and held on tight. “I don’t know what’s going on here, but . . .”

  “You are rantinn.”

  He cocked his head, for her voice, always breathy and ethereal, seemed now to shimmer somehow as if imbued with an unearthly quality that made him shiver with desire. “What?”

  “You are rantinn. Yes?”

  “Does that mean what I think it means?”

  She didn’t reply. But of course it meant what he thought it meant. Who in their right mind would talk about anything else at a time like this?

  “No,” he said. “No. No rantinn. I’m taking you to the doctor. They can find out—”

  What? What would they find out? That Meier’s soon-to-be son-in-law had been keeping a ridiculously beautiful and incomparably naked woman in his house? A woman who spoke only limited English. A woman who was . . . very possibly . . . an illegal alien. A woman who was injured.

  “Listen . . . honey. . . .” Honey? He didn’t call anyone honey. Not his dog, if he had one, which he didn’t. Not his co-workers and certainly not Emily. Emily was Emily and sometimes Ms. Meier. “I want to make 1—” He stopped himself before the dastardly honesty spilled out. “I want to help you.”

  She nodded and stepped forward, arm outstretched.

  “But not . . .” He tightened his grip on the chair and squeezed his eyes closed. “Not like that. I . . . I’m . . .” What was the word? “Engaged. To be . . .” Dammit! “Married!” The word came to him on a breath of relief.

  She scowled.

  “And you’re so . . .” He gritted his teeth and motioned hopelessly toward her lissome body. “Fantastically . . .” Dear God! “Hurt,” he finished.

  Enlightenment seemed to dawn on her heavenly features. She turned again, showing him her backside. He felt his knees buckle and his erection buck, but he braced himself.

  “You tend,” she said, and glanced down at herself.

  “Tend . . . ,” he breathed. “Tend. You want me to see to your wound. Oh, yes. Well . . .” Shit, he was gibbering like an inebriated monkey. “Do you know what happened?”

  She shook her head erratically.

  “There was a crash and . . .” He glanced toward the bathroom. “The glass. I think you may have . . .” Prying his fingers from the chair, he managed to force himself into the hallway and beyond. And sure enough, the glass he’d left on the vanity had been shattered. And the flower . . . The flower had burst into a dozen pieces that were scattered over the floor like wayward confetti.

  “Yes. See,” he said, and turned, but she was already there, entering the bathroom. Small as she was, she seemed to fill the space like a light show, and suddenly he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. He tried to back away, but there was nowhere to go. His back pressed against the wall, and then she was touching him, her hands petal-soft against his chest.

  Disoriented and randy as hell, he rasped something nonsensical, some gibberish about control and discipline and life plans. There may have been something about capital gains, too. But then she kissed him. Her hands were like velvet against his skin, her lips were like magic against his, and suddenly everything seemed clear. He had to make love to her. Here, in the bathroom, then in the bedroom, then the kitchen, possibly the sink or . . .

  Dammit!

  “Honey!” He grabbed her hands, pulled them down, swallowed hard. “I can’t. I’m sorry. My life . . . It’s . . . structured. I’m sorry.” He glanced down. She was sparkling again. He closed his eyes and shivered. “I’m maybe the sorriest creature that ever lived. But I can’t.”

  A tendril of her hair had somehow become curled around his wrist and seemed to be caressing his forearm. But that was crazy.

  “I’ll just . . .” He took a breath, fortifying himself. “I’ll just put some . . . something on your . . .” God help him. “Your fantastic . . . Your cut and then . . . Then we’ll find you some clothes so you’re not . . . naked.” What was he talking about? What the hell was wrong with him? She should always be naked. Naked and wet and . . .

  He had to get a grip. “Then I’ll take you home.”

  “Home?” She scowled.

  He nodded. “Yes. Home. Where . . . Where is that exactly?”

  She shook her head, scowling. “Morning glories.”

  “What?”

  “Heather?”

  “I don’t—”

  “I see them. . . .” She nodded, touched her fingertips to her breast. He managed to resist passing out by sheer willpower alone. “Here.”

  “You see flowers. In your . . . your . . .” He couldn’t stop staring. Her nipples were as pink as apple blossoms, her breasts as round as passion fruit. He yanked his gaze away. “In there?”

  “Yes. Flowers and . . .” She thought hard. “Green.”

  “Plants.”

  She nodded. “They grow . . . profusion.”

  “Do you live in a rain forest? South America? New Zealand?” He searched desperately. “The Congo?”

  She blinked.

  “Do you speak Spanish? “Hablas español?”

  She was shaking her head again.

  “French? Italian? German?” It was amazing how few languages he could think of. Or maybe it was amazing he could think at all with her breasts doing that sparkly thing. “You must have hit your head,” he said. “On the vanity. When you fell.” From where? Holy nuts, this was crazy. “I should get you to a doctor.”

  She was still scowling. How could it be so adorable?

  “Concussions can be serious. They could keep you overnight. Do tests.”

  He wouldn’t have thought her eyes could get any wider. Any more expressive. But he would have been wrong.

  She shook her head. “I wish to stay.”

  “Listen, you can’t—”

  “Here.” Somehow her hair had blown around his back and curled about his waist. It felt as soft and surreal as a dream lover’s kiss.

  He shook his head, but her eyes were glistening.

  “I beg you,” she said, and suddenly he was nodding though he didn’t know why. He had no intention of keeping her in his house. He couldn’t keep her in his house. His fiancée would leave him. His fiancée, whose name was . . . Dammit! He sharpened his thought. She had a father. A fitness fanatic. He was a wealthy man, and vindictive. And someone had mentioned a pair of thugs he kept on retainer.

  Ahh there, motivation to think with his head instead of his . . . whatever. But he couldn’t throw the girl out on the street. And taking her to the hospital seemed cruel. But maybe she was concussed. He stared into her eyes, checking the size of her pupils. But she didn’t seem to have any. Was that a good sign?

  “We need a name for you,” he said. “What—”

  “Flora.”

  He raised his brows. “What?”

  “Fern. Green plants that . . .” S
he made an undulating motion with her hand. It made him feel faint. “Fern be lovely.”

  “Not as lovely as you,” he murmured.

  Her lips twitched. It was only the slightest of smiles and yet the expression made him feel like yodeling. He refrained . . . from everything. Cleared his throat.

  “Okay, listen . . . Fern. You don’t look like a Fern, but . . . I need to get that . . .” He glanced downward, not actually daring to look past her elbow. “I need to get that cleaned up.”

  She nodded.

  “So I’ll just . . .” He jerked his head toward the kitchen and wondered if it would be possible to let her go. “I’ll get some things.”

  Another nod.

  He pried his hands open and backed away. She remained where she was, not following, not disappearing like a fevered dream. He made it through the door, managed to turn and head for the kitchen.

  With a few feet of space between them, his head was clearer, working again. He didn’t know how she had gotten there. The front door had been locked when he’d arrived, but maybe she had come in after. In fact, maybe . . .

  Dean!

  The name exploded like a cherry bomb in his head. Of course! Dean had planted her there. Dean, who thought he was funny. Dean, who thought it would be amusing to put some poor foreign girl in his bathroom and see what happened. Or maybe he wanted to break up him and Emily. Either way . . .

  The phone felt solid in his hand.

  “Yeah?” Dean sounded distracted. Voices yammered randomly in the background.

  “What’s the penalty for prostituting a minor, Abbot?” Will growled.

  The line went momentarily silent, then, “Hang on a sec. I think I have that information for you, sir,” Dean said, then covered the receiver and murmured to someone else, “Just a moment please. Very important call. I’m going to have to take this in the conference room.”

  His chair squeaked. Footfalls sounded, but William didn’t wait. Anger coursed through him like boiling lye. “You sorry bastard. Where did you find her?”

  “Certainly. Just a minute.

  “Hey, Baxter, how’s it going?” Dean asked. Then a door closed and he spoke more clearly. “Okay.” The footfalls stopped. He was breathing hard. “Start at the beginning.”

  “What the hell were you thinking about?” Will’s voice sounded like a snarl to his own ears. Rage spurred through him.

  “Probably sex, but—”

  “She can’t be over eighteen.”

  “Eighteen. Holy f—Okay . . . so there’s a girl,” Dean said, struggling to remain calm. “Is she naked?”

  “How’d you get her in here? What’d you do with her clothes?”

  Abrupt silence, then, “I’m coming over.”

  The anger flared into rage. “You show your ugly face in my door, I’ll put it through a wall.”

  “Timber?” Dean said. “Hey, buddy, is that you?” Perhaps he was surprised by the passion. He wouldn’t be the only one. William was nothing if not pragmatic. He was known for it.

  “Bastard!” William snarled, and hung up.

  His hands were still a little shaky when he opened what some might laughingly call his medicine cabinet. It contained a half a tin of Band-Aids and two Q-tips. Shit.

  He took down the tin and the Q-tips, then rummaged around in a couple of drawers, but they were unhelpful. Finally, he reached into the liquor cabinet . . . much better stocked . . . and pulled out a bottle of vodka.

  She met him in the hallway.

  “Oh.” He didn’t know why he was surprised to see her, but he was. He had a sneaking suspicion that if he saw her every day until the end of eternity he would still be surprised. And hopelessly thrilled. “Here. I found . . .” Nothing. He lifted the vodka. “Disinfectant.”

  She glanced at it, then found his eyes again.

  “Why don’t we go in there?” He nodded toward the bathroom. “The light’s better. I’ll sit down and . . .” He tried to catch his breath, but it was slippery. “I’ll do what I can.”

  Which, in his current condition, wasn’t a whole hell of a lot, unless it involved his dick, in which case he felt like freakin’ Superman.

  He followed her into the bathroom. Her hair swayed like willow branches in a subtle wind, offering intoxicating glimpses of her back, her shoulders, her buttocks.

  He took a chug of vodka and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Turning, she watched him, and he shimmied around her, careful not to touch. Setting his limited supplies on the vanity, he found a clean washcloth in the second drawer down and ran it under the tap.

  She watched, scowled, then stepped forward, dipped her fingers in the stream, and smiled. “Life,” she said.

  “What?”

  She scowled, thinking, then, “Water. Life.”

  “Yeah.” Poppy had called water life. “Turn around.” What the hell was going on? Maybe it hadn’t been Dean who had set this up after all. Maybe it was someone else. A competitor. Someone who wanted to distract him. Which was very effective, he thought, and watched the girl turn, watched her hair caress her hips, watched her legs move.

  Shutting off the water, he dropped the toilet lid and sat down, face-to-face with her . . . everything.

  Shit! Reaching over, he grabbed the vodka bottle by the neck and took another hard swig.

  She glanced over her shoulder. Her hair swayed, brushing his bare knees. He felt a little light-headed.

  “Life?” she asked, motioning toward the bottle.

  “This? No. Strength,” he said, and, setting the vodka aside, braced himself for the impossible.

  Chapter

  5

  It was hell and heaven and purgatory all wrapped up like a damned pig in a blanket.

  But somehow William had managed to finish the job, had cleaned and bandaged her wounds. They weren’t serious. Just . . . Holy crap!

  He paced the kitchen, carrying the vodka with him. It was almost midnight. She’d been asleep for over an hour. Asleep, in his pajama shirt. He’d thought it would be safer that way. But it wasn’t. Oh, no, it wasn’t. She’d looked like a miracle, like a gift wrapped for Christmas, with her corn silk hair flowing about her like living gold. He’d put her in his bed. What else could he do? She was injured, after all, and disoriented. And maybe concussed.

  Maybe he should check on her. He stopped his pacing and stared, tense and leaning toward his bedroom as if there were a hard wind at his back. Weren’t concussion patients supposed to be awakened? He took an involuntary step in that direction, but just then the doorbell rang, bringing him up short.

  His footsteps were almost silent across linoleum and carpet. He was still barefoot. Barefoot and crazy.

  “Who is it?”

  “Hey, buddy,” Dean said from the far side. “Let me in. There are mosquitoes the size of helos out here.”

  Will debated letting the bugs have him, but curiosity or anger or a half-dozen emotions he couldn’t identify made him jerk open the door. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  “Me? I was just in the neighborhood.” Dean skimmed the house. He was still in his dress pants, wrinkled shirt almost tucked in, blond hair tousled. Dean rarely went through a day without looking as if he’d been hit by something that would register fairly impressively on a Richter scale. “Hey, you okay?”

  “Sure. I’m great.” William ran his fingers through his hair and tried to remember to breathe. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “Uh-huh.” Eyes skimmed again. “Say, you said you had some company earlier?”

  William turned back toward the living room, then sat down on the couch and propped one foot over the opposite knee. It was hotter than hell, but he’d dressed in jeans and a long-sleeve button-down shirt. It seemed safer that way. The more clothes the better. He’d give his left testicle for a nice suit of armor. Well, maybe not a testicle. An arm perhaps. “Did you pay for the concussion, too?” he asked. “Or was that just lucky happenchance?”

  Dean sat down on a nearby recliner a
nd nodded to the bottle still clasped in Will’s fist. “You sharing that vodka or you planning on killing it yourself?”

  Will considered swinging it at the other’s head but finally passed it over. Dean took a swig. “Maybe you should start at the beginning, huh, buddy?”

  What was with the damned patronizing tone? As if he were a yammering idiot. “Maybe you should.”

  Dean stared at him a moment, then nodded and took another swig. “Okay. I got a call about eight fourteen. I was busy with potential clients, but I answered on the fourth ring. The call was from a Mr. William Timber, who seemed a bit distraught. He spoke of an eighteen-year-old who was naked. . . .” He paused, canted his head a little. “Did I get that right? . . . Was she naked?”

  The room fell into breathless silence. “Are you saying you had nothing to do with this?”

  Dean threw up both hands. The vodka splashed noisily. “With what? What the hell’s going on?”

  William watched him. If the bastard was acting, he should be on the stage. “A girl showed up in my bathroom to night.”

  Dean’s brows shot into his hairline. “Your bathroom?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Was she naked in your bathroom?”

  Will jerked to his feet. “Get the hell out of here.”

  “No. Wait. Wait a minute.” He held up a soothing hand. “I’m just trying to get the lay of the land.”

  “Uh-huh,” Will snarled.

  “No, really. I’m intrigued. Where did this girl come from? How’d she get in?”

  Will paced, gait jerky. “I don’t know and I don’t know.”

  “Did you ask?”

  He stopped his pacing to glare. “Of course I asked.”

  “And she . . .” Dean shrugged, waiting for the other to fill in the blanks.

  “She doesn’t speak much English.”

  “You’re kidding!” He said it as if he’d won the lottery. “A foreign chick?”

  “Keep your voice down.”

  “Them foreign girls are—,” Dean began, then stopped, mouth open, mind closed tight. “You telling me she’s still here?”

  Will glowered, wishing like hell he’d popped the bastard in the nose as soon as he’d opened the door. But maybe it wasn’t too late.