Captivated (Stranded)

by Mia West

  He turned to her. His eyes grew wide before he jerked his face away, giving her a quarter view of his right ear and jaw. The hand that rested on the door handle flexed. He stood absolutely still but for the expansion and contraction of his rib cage.

  And now she suspected she knew why he’d never shown his face. Half of it was conventionally handsome: strong jaw, straight eyebrow, full lashes. The other half—the left side—had the mottled, melted-wax appearance of extensive skin grafts and scar tissue. He had turned quickly, but not before she saw that his scars covered his neck, cheek, and temple, and that whatever had happened to him had taken most of his left eyebrow and eyelashes, some of the hair above that ear, and his earlobe. Now she noticed that his left shoulder and arm bore the kind of scarring.

  As if he could feel her gaze there, he shifted his body to hide the arm.

  He waited.

  But she wasn’t just a visitor who had stumbled onto his living quarters. She couldn’t just apologize and leave.

  All locked up? he’d asked.

  She swallowed and cleared her throat. “Locked in, actually.”

  *

  Locked in.

  Evan stared at his hand, trying to make sense of the words, of her. In his apartment. With him, and the blinds wide open.

  “I’m sorry to bother you, but I heard you humming.”

  Damn, the collage. His hand flexed on the door handle.

  “If you could just unlock the door downstairs, I’ll get out of your hair.”

  Sure. Not enough that his dream woman was in his apartment, had just seen what she of all people was never meant to see, or that she’d come within fifteen feet of discovering his wall-sized obsession with her. No. She needed a key. Evan sent a mental double-fisted salute to the universe, which apparently was not done fucking with him.

  Taking a deep breath, he turned enough to see her. “I can’t.”

  “You can’t?”

  “I don’t have keys to the building.”

  She was quiet for a moment.

  Shock? Disbelief? He didn’t risk looking at her.

  “How can you not have a key?” she asked. “Aren’t you the janitor?”

  His teeth ground at the word, but he was, wasn’t he? He’d chosen it. No shame in honest work. And she hadn’t said it with derision. But still. “Caretaker.”

  “Okay…caretaker.” She jostled something. “You live here though, right?”

  “Yes.” His voice sounded strained. Could she hear that?

  “Without keys.”

  “Yes.”

  She was silent for a long moment. “I’ll need to call Magda then. Can you help me? The phones are offline.”

  Right. The goddamn phones. “That’s the security system,” he said. “Shuts everything down when it comes on. Part of a new energy plan or something.”

  “Oh.” She released a breath that could have been amusement but was probably frustration. “How about a window?”

  He was looking at her before he realized it. He turned his face away, then gave up with a sigh and turned back. Her eyes struggled to focus on his—to not wander over his scars. “You want to climb out a window?”

  She raised her shoulders. What choice do I have? the move said.

  “You’re going to hate me,” he told her.

  Her shoulders fell. “Why?”

  “You could climb out,” he said, indicating the low window by the kitchen, “but there’s no access to the street.”

  “Is that legal?” Her look of horror was almost funny. “What about fire? What about you?”

  “I don’t set fires.”

  She waved at his table. “You have a candle. You cook food. You could get—”

  She bit off her words. She had caught herself scanning the evidence of his past collision with fire, or so she believed, he guessed, because she wrenched her eyes away.

  “I can’t believe Magda doesn’t insist you have a key,” the woman said. “She’s…opinionated.”

  Was she ever. He opened the closet and grabbed his shirt.

  “And what about Risa?” the woman called from his front door.

  “What about her?” he asked, fastening buttons as quickly as his fingers could manage.

  “Doesn’t she worry about you?”

  He closed the cuffs and returned to the main room, shutting the door behind him. “I doubt it.”

  The woman cocked her head at that. “Isn’t…” She shifted on her feet. “I thought maybe you two were together.”

  An involuntary laugh barked out of him. “Me and Risa?”

  She blushed and shifted again. “I saw your note. The one you gave her this morning. I just thought…”

  “That was Magda’s note,” he said, then got curious. “What’d it say?”

  “‘Today.’”

  Today? “Why would—” He rocked back on his feet. So Magdalena the Matchmaker had help. He looked at the ceiling and shook his head.

  “What?”

  Might as well tell her; they were in it now. “You’re here on purpose,” he said and closed the nearest window blind.

  “No, I promise—”

  He turned to her, halfway. “They locked you in.”

  She had no expression at all for a long moment, and then her eyes grew wide, and she looked behind her as if Risa might pop out of the stairwell and yell, Surprise! To his relief, when she turned back to him she looked more bemused than upset. “Why would they do that?”

  “Because,” he said, cranking the next set of blinds, “they’re a couple of busybodies who think they know what’s best for everyone.”

  She processed that, her hand flexing on the strap of her bag. “They don’t even know me.”

  “Nope,” he said and moved to the kitchen window.

  He glanced at her in time to see realization smooth the lines on her forehead. A slow smile curled her lips. “But they know you.”

  He turned away to shutter the window. “They think they do.”

  “And they thought…”

  “Long holiday weekend…”

  “Brother.”

  The room was as dim as it was going to get. He faced her.

  Goddamn, she was beautiful. Head on, the straight frames of her glasses almost hid the slight slant of her eyes. He nearly (not quite but nearly) regretted closing the blinds because her hair had settled to a nondescript light brown, a far cry from its radiance when sunlight hit it through the archive windows. (Seriously, dude. Stalker.) “I’m really sorry.”

  “Don’t be.” She shrugged again and held out her hand. “My name’s Laine.”

  Man, he was a lucky son of a bitch that she wasn’t freaking the fuck out right now. He stepped forward, gave her his good hand. Hers felt cool and damp. Good. Maybe she wouldn’t notice his was sweating too. “Evan.” He let go after one pump.

  “Evan,” she said, almost under her breath. The sound of it raced down his spine.

  “Come in,” he said and gestured to the table. “I’ll be right back.” With a quick glance to make sure the closet door was latched, he jogged down to the main landing and grabbed a chair from the stack there. As he climbed the steps again, he went over his food supply in his mind and decided it should last the weekend. Wouldn’t be fancy, but they wouldn’t go hungry.

  When he stepped back into his apartment, Laine was looking at one of his sketches.

  “Did you make this?”

  He nodded, setting the chair across the table from his.

  “You’re really good.”

  Heat spread up the right side of his neck. “Thanks.”

  “When did you do it?”

  He looked at the drawing and then at her. The sketch showed one of the distinctive spiral columns at Park Güell, and he could see the question in her eyes. If he let himself be locked in on weekends, when did he go out? “When I first got here.”

  He could see more questions forming behind the first, and he wasn’t about to face them on an empty stomach. “I was about t
o make dinner. Hungry?”

  “Starving, suddenly.”

  “Good, because it’s just rice and vegetables.”

  “Sounds perfect.”

  He pointed to the small wine rack on the counter. “Pick one?”

  She followed his finger to the rack. “Sure.” She set her bag aside and reached for a bottle. The bottom hem of her shirt rode up, showing skin that looked soft in the muted afternoon light. Below that, the curve of her butt pressed against her skirt, pulling the fabric snug. She held the bottle close to her eyes and absently tucked the stray (not deliberate, he decided) wisp of hair behind her ear.

  Three days, he thought, rooted in place.

  Three days with that skin and that skirt and that sneaky little wisp of hair.

  He forced himself toward the kitchen.

  Magda was going to pay for this.

  Chapter 3

  She kept standing on his bad side.

  It wasn’t her fault, Evan knew. That stretch of counter held the wine rack, and the bottle opener and the cutting board, where she was gamely trying to slice vegetables, though she clearly didn’t handle a knife very often. The thought of her chopping off a finger gave him the perfect excuse to move her.

  “Want to do the rice?”

  She looked up, or so he guessed; he was busy measuring rice. “Sure.”

  She laid down the knife and circled him to stand at the stove. He cut a generous pat of butter into his skillet.

  “Melt that,” he said. “Coat the pan.” He picked it up to show her how.

  She watched, nodding, and waited for him to set it down before she took it up herself. “Mmm,” she said after a moment, “smells good.”

  Everything in his apartment smelled good. She let out a low chuckle, and his dick twitched. He stepped closer to the counter and hacked at the vegetables. “Pour the rice in and coat it with the butter. Then stir it ’til it browns a little.”

  “So that’s why the rice here tastes so good.” She stirred it. “I thought it was saffron or something.”

  “Just butter,” he said. “They use saffron, too, but it doesn’t have a lot of flavor. Or maybe my tongue’s just not that sophisticated.”

  Way to downplay your tongue skills, dumbass.

  “Simple’s best,” she said.

  They fell into silence for a while, Laine calmly browning the rice, Evan trying furiously to think of something to say. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had to make small talk. Not sure he’d been good at it even then. Finally Laine broke the stillness.

  “How’s this?” she asked, showing him the rice.

  “Good.” He pointed with his knife to the kettle steaming at the back of the range. “Put in four cups of that,” he said and handed her the metal cup he had used to measure the rice, then reached for the bottle of Spanish white she had chosen. “Put in half a cup of this too. And one of those.”

  She followed his nod to the jar of yellow-foiled stock cubes next to the range.

  The oven buzzed, preheated. While Laine took care of the rice, Evan arranged the vegetables in a pan and drizzled them with olive oil.

  “Ooo, give me a little?”

  He looked up to find her hand outstretched, palm up. She cocked her chin at it, so he shrugged and poured a small amount into her hand. She tipped it into her mouth. Then she licked her palm.

  Jesus.

  It must have shown on his face (thank God she didn’t look at his crotch) because she gave him a sheepish smile. “I like olive oil,” she said.

  “Apparently.”

  “I don’t pay for the good stuff at home. But it’s so cheap here.” She closed her eyes. “And so good.”

  He had to laugh. “You want more? I’ll pour you a cup.”

  She shielded her face for a moment, and he barely kept himself from pulling her hand away. “You must think I’m a freak. Leave me alone for two seconds, and I’ll drink all your olive oil.”

  “Nah,” he said, “it’s pretty fucking good.” He tossed the vegetables in the oil. Salt and pepper next. He held up his hands. “Can I get your help here?”

  Her eyes went wide at his oily fingers, and she looked at him with a funny expression.

  “What? No,” he said. “Salt and pepper. I can’t do it. Would you?”

  A breath gusted out of her, and she took up the spice grinders.

  Shit. Had that breath been relief? Because now all he could think of was her taking his middle finger into her mouth and swiping it clean with a hot, wet tongue. But the thought obviously disgusted her.

  He tossed the vegetables to within an inch of their sorry lives and slid them into the oven. Laine washed her hands, then gave him a wide berth so he could do the same. Avoiding her eyes, he set a lid over the rice.

  He cleaned the cutting board and the knife. Straightened the salt and pepper. Closed the bouillon jar.

  Then ran out of things to do.

  “Wine?” she asked.

  “Please,” he said and hoped she couldn’t hear how his heart was trying to bust its way out of his ribs.

  *

  He was nervous, so Laine gave him a good pour. They had barely settled at the table when he got back up to root through the cabinet. She took the opportunity to admire his ass, gripping the stem of her glass to keep from grabbing two handfuls of firm, male flesh. When he turned back to the table, he brought a small glass jar.

  “Marcona almonds,” he said, opening the jar and setting it before her. “Fried in olive oil.”

  It might have been a casual comment if not for her stupid hand-licking earlier, and the way his mouth compressed on one side. She laughed, and then he did the same in a husky sort of way, and some of the air jittering between them soothed itself back into plain old dust motes in an attic room.

  She took an almond and let it slide between thumb and forefinger. A light coating of oil, and a tiny bit of grit—salt, she guessed. She popped it into her mouth and caught him watching her. He looked down quickly and took an almond for himself. Three, actually, which he threw into his mouth.

  “What brought you to Barcelona?” she asked.

  He gave her an extra-cagey glance. “Would you be satisfied if I said ‘a train’?”

  She felt herself smile at his wry tone. “Probably not.”

  “Didn’t think so.” He swirled his wine once, tapped the bottom of the glass on the wooden tabletop, then took a gulp. “I was army. Got injured. Decided to travel some on the way home.”

  “And got distracted by the sex museum?” she teased.

  To her delight he blushed, his right cheek burning a dull red. “Something like that.”

  “No, really. Why Barcelona?”

  His mouth compressed again. He was deciding how much to tell her.

  She waited.

  “I liked the art,” he said. “Not here. Well, okay, here too.” He smirked, in a sheepish way. “But all over the city. It’s just so different from anything back home.”

  She nodded and sipped her wine, hoping he wouldn’t stop. Patience rewarded her.

  “I was discharged in Germany. And that was cool—best beer I ever had,” he said, and she realized his smirk was actually a lopsided smile, kept off-balance by the immobility of his grafts. “A buddy there saw me sketching one day and said I should check out Italy. Florence, Rome. So I did, and they were great.” He shrugged. “Amazing, actually. But I was restless, I guess. Decided to hit a few more cities. I figured I’d check out Madrid, then Paris, then maybe Amsterdam. But I got off the train here for lunch and didn’t get back on.”

  It took her a few seconds to realize he’d stopped talking. She was so caught up in his voice, warm and a little rough, and the way a dimple would appear in his right cheek, then disappear, making her wonder if he’d had a matching one on the other side before—

  And then he looked up to find her staring at his face and immediately shifted to put the scarred side out of view.

  Idiot. Get him back.

  She chose a
n almond. “So you’ve seen Gaudi’s work, right?”

  He nodded tightly. Turning to the oven, he opened the door to check on the vegetables. His shoulders still looked stiff when he turned back—not all the way, damn it—and took another drink of wine.

  Try again. “I love Sagrada Familia. The way he designed the towers upside-down with weights and string?”

  Evan nodded again and seemed to relax into his chair, slightly. “Park Güell sold me.”

  “Yeah?”

  “I got off the train and went looking for something more than a train-station sandwich. So I was walking up one of the streets and saw that crazy apartment he did. The one where the balconies look like alien shark jaws?”

  She laughed. “Yes!”

  “Well, some guy saw me staring at them and said I should walk up to the Park. So I thought, What the hell, I can catch the next train.” He shook his head.

  “But you didn’t.”

  “Nope.”

  “So where’s home?”

  “Ohio,” he said. “Little place no one’s heard of.” He tipped his glass toward her. “How about you?”

  “Iowa.”

  “Iowa?” he scoffed, frowning at her and forgetting, apparently, that he was giving her his full face. With one and a half eyebrows, his frown looked interrupted. He looked cocky.

  “What about it, Ohio?”

  He flinched at that, and the lopsided smile cam back. She was in so much trouble here.

  Keep your cool. “What’s so surprising about Iowa?”

  “Nothing, it’s just…I thought you were going to say somewhere on the east coast.”

  “Why’s that?” she asked, not minding putting him on the spot a bit.

  “I don’t know,” he said, avoiding her eyes, waving vaguely at her clothes. “You look…sophisticated.” He frowned, seeming embarrassed, but she wasn’t sure whether it was at his word choice or the fact that she’d drawn it out of him at all.

  “And Iowa doesn’t do sophisticated?”

  “Iowa does corn,” he said dryly. “Same as Ohio. We do corn and astronauts.”

  “Oh, come on. You have The Ohio State.”

  He laughed. “That we do.”

  The oven buzzed, interrupting whatever he might have said next, and the minutes following gave her another chance to watch him unseen. He moved unselfconsciously as he plated their dinners, the muscles in his shoulders and triceps forming distinct contours under his sleeves. When he reached for something in the cabinet, his hair touched his collar. The right corner of his jaw held a slight shadow of stubble. Wondering how it might feel against her neck had Laine squirming in her chair and refilling her wine.