Cherise Sinclair - This is who I am

He took the paper. When he pulled a pair of reading glasses from his work-shirt pocket, she blinked. The glasses made him look…different. As if the jeans and rough behavior were a cover for the intelligent person beneath. After reading the article, he set the paper aside, and a tremor ran through her at the cold anger in his face.

“The reporter should be horsewhipped.”

She took the paper from his lap and tossed it into the wastebasket. “It doesn’t really matter. There’s nothing you can do about it. I think you’d better go home.”

He sipped his drink and watched her pace across the room.

She stopped. “Did you hear what I said?”

“I heard.” He wasn’t moving.

“Go home, Sam.”

When she glared at him, he actually looked pleased. “Not much I can do about the reporter. Legally. But maybe your spray painter will show up tonight.” He glanced over his shoulder at the hallway. “Got a place for me to sleep?”

She had to wonder if he raised cattle, because, oh boy, his expression was definitely a bullheaded one.

* * *

Half an hour later, as Sam scrubbed and scraped the black paint off Linda’s house, fury lashed his insides like a hailstorm. What kind of bastard picked on a woman—any woman—let alone one who had already suffered so much? He looked forward to getting his hands on the man. Be a pleasure to dispense a short, hard lesson in manners.

“Sam.” She wore midcalf-length shorts—whatever they were called—and flip-flops. Her full breasts strained against her green top as she pulled her heavy red hair into a short tail. If her hair was a bit longer, he could wrap it around his fist. Less clothing would be good too. But no matter what she wore, she’d probably still warm his blood.

Scraper in hand, she joined him. “You really don’t have to do this.”

“’Course I do.” The places where bare wood showed had obviously been written on before.

“Well, I appreciate it.” She vigorously scrubbed at the black paint, and he noticed her freckled arms looked well toned.

Checking, he ran his hand over her upper arm and felt muscle beneath the soft padding.

She froze, staring up at him. “What are you doing?”

Why did he feel a magnetic pull every time he looked down into her big brown eyes? “You’ve put some muscle on. Been working out?” He kept his hand on her, feeling the slight quiver. Seeing nervousness replace fear.

“I-I was at my sister’s house. In California.” She pulled from his grasp and examined her arm as if she hadn’t seen it before. “She has a huge garden.”

“Gardens are good for mending.”

She slanted him a disbelieving look. “Did you ever have anything to mend?”

His mouth tightened. But he’d finally got her talking. Backing away would silence her again. “’Nam.”

“But…” She studied him. “You were old enough to be in Vietnam?”

“My recruiter cousin fudged the papers for me.” Because his cuz had known about his stepfather’s heavy hand. Pa had been a good man, but Ma hadn’t chosen so well the second time.

“Dear God.” She looked at him as if seeing the tall, lanky kid he’d been. Seeing him with a mother’s eyes. “That wasn’t right.”

“Long time ago.” At least he’d turned sixteen before his unit deployed. Nonetheless, he’d spent the next two years in hell. “The US pulled out when I hit eighteen.”

“You were just a baby.” Tears swam in her eyes, melting his memories.

“Nah. They don’t call babies ‘sergeant.’” He’d stayed in the army until his mother’s and stepfather’s deaths in a boating accident.

To erase Linda’s tears, he cupped her chin. Her lips were soft. Sweet. And trembled slightly under his. When her hand pushed against his chest, he released her immediately. There would be other times.

“Where did you garden?” She sounded breathless, and he smothered a smile.

“Got some acres.” Although his stepfather had sold off parts of his father’s farm and run what was left into the ground, Sam had built it back up. Reacquired all the pieces and expanded as well. “And a vegetable garden.” She had a faint dimple in her right cheek. He hadn’t noticed it before.

“Kim said you had a place, but she didn’t know if it was a ranch or a farm.”

So she’d talked about him with others. When his lips tilted up, her face pinkened.

“Not much of a ranch with only a few horses and some cattle.” He frowned as another brown patch of wood was exposed by the scrubbing. Looked like hell. After pulling out his cell, he punched in Nolan King’s number.

“King.”

“Davies. Friend’s house got sprayed with graffiti. You got any of that special paint? Just need enough for the front.”

“I don’t have any at the moment. The shit expires fast. Got more ordered for a downtown job, though. You can have some when it comes in.”

“That’ll do.” Closing the phone, Sam noticed Linda’s confused expression. “Yeah?”

“Why not get something from the paint store?”

“They only have gloss coatings. With King’s industrial stuff, the spray paint will run right off—won’t even stick.”

“Oh.” Her eyes lit up, and she grinned at him. “I’d love to see the jerk’s face if that happened.”

He chuckled, pleased to have lifted her mood. In fact, it was disconcerting what he’d do to keep that light in her eyes.

But as he turned his attention back to the last letter on the wall, his anger ignited again. Probably wouldn’t die down until he met the bastard artist up close and personal.

* * *

Linda glanced at the kitchen table where Sam sat. The big, mean sadist had completed his assignment and neatly diced the vegetables. Should she be worried about how he got so skilled with a knife? “Very nice.” After scooping them into a bowl, she dumped the contents into the meat sauce simmering on the stove.

His eyebrows went up.

“Yes, I know most people don’t put veggies in their spaghetti sauce, but my children were fussy. I call it guerilla nutrition.”

“Sneaky.” His smile was as slow as his words. He didn’t have a drawl exactly—he just took his time. And the smile didn’t last long, but for a moment it totally transformed his face.

Not fair that he should look so appealing and comfortable in her kitchen. She spun back to the stove. After rinsing the noodles in the colander, she started creating the lasagna. It was a time-consuming dish, but she’d hoped to keep her hands busy and her mind occupied. Having Sam in her house was like inviting a grizzly bear in for a snack.

And yet having him here was incredibly reassuring. He knew who she was, what she’d been through, and he still…liked her. Or maybe not. Maybe he just felt guilty.

“Nice kitchen,” he commented. His gaze shifted from the cream-colored pine cupboards to the dark blue walls to the golden marble countertops. He frowned as he studied the woven basket holding oranges, a tall coiled basket filled with wooden spoons, and the potted herbs inside colorful twined baskets. When he spotted the box of reeds on the kitchen shelves, he asked, “You do the baskets yourself?”

“Most of them.” After setting a platter of cheese and crackers on the table, she pointed to a hand-sized plaited basket that held a variety of stones. The shape had odd bulges, and the weaving looked as if she’d been intoxicated. “I started when I was in high school.”

“You’ve improved.”

“Why, thank you.” She grinned. “You know, you have a talent for being blunt without being quite rude.” He gave her a contemplative stare as if he’d never had a woman tease him. Then again, who in their right mind would tease a sadist?

“Takes too much work to be rude.” He nodded at a pile of baskets in a corner. “You planning something for those?”

She started the alternating layers of noodles, ricotta, mozzarella, and sauce. “I sell them at my store; otherwise I’d be buried in them. Hobbies are like zucchini—your friends and family can only absorb so much.”

He snorted in agreement before loading a cracker with cheese. “Nicole quilts. Got one on every bed in the house. Couple hang on the walls.”

Her hands stilled as a pang stabbed through her. Not…quite…pain. “Nicole?”

“My daughter.”

She hadn’t even considered that he’d have a family. He seemed to stand alone, like a cliff above the ocean. And yet what woman wouldn’t want him? She stared down at the long casserole pan. “You’re married?” Did he cheat on his wife?

With a creak of the chair, he rose to stand behind her. Ignoring the way she froze, he put his arm around her waist, holding her firmly against him. “I’m divorced.” He huffed a laugh. “I’m a sadist, girl, not a cheater.”

Even as relief streamed through her, she had to wonder how he could so easily say that. “I’m a sadist.”

What was that? Sam opened his eyes, frowning at the darkness in Linda’s living room. For the previous three nights, he had slept on her couch. Although she’d offered a guest room, he had refused. In a back bedroom, he wouldn’t hear a thing. He was here to catch the spray-painting bastard, not be comfortable.

He listened but heard only the hum of the refrigerator and slight ticking of the ceiling fan. The atmosphere of the house was cozy, clean without being obsessive, beautiful without being formal.

The first night, Linda had eventually relaxed after he’d talked her into playing guitar with him. Like Tanya Tucker, she had a low, rich voice that added a haunting quality to every song. He’d kept forgetting to play so he could listen.

The next evening, she’d let him pull her down beside him to watch a spy thriller. Warm body. Soft hips and shoulders. She had fit against his side as if she belonged there.

When she’d discovered he liked pie, he’d had homemade pie every night to go with her home-cooked meals. The woman was so grateful he was liable to put on twenty pounds.

Don’t get attached to this one, Davies. He rubbed his chin, knowing it was already too late. She’d captivated him the moment he’d seen her, which seemed a mite odd. He wasn’t some pimple-faced boy to fall for a girl on first sight, but he had. Maybe it was a sign of going senile?

Rustles. A thump. Sam rose. The sounds weren’t from outside. He tracked the noise to Linda’s bedroom and stopped outside, grinning. Was she playing with toys, having a good time?

Then he heard her whimper, her voice thin with fear. “No, no, please. Don’t.”

What the hell? Set to attack an intruder, Sam shoved the door open. A golden night-light revealed an empty room except for Linda thrashing on the bed in the throes of a nightmare. Hell, after what she’d endured, she probably had a lot of them. Her pale face gleamed with sweat. As her fingernails clawed the covers, his heart squeezed with pity.

He took a step forward and stopped. Which would she find more terrifying: a nightmare or Sam in her bedroom?

Probably him.

But his jaw clenched at the sounds of her fear. Scowling, he set a wooden chair a few feet from the bed, then sat and rested his elbows on his knees. A deep breath allowed him to calm his expression. The little sub didn’t need to see an angry man at her bedside. “Linda. Linda, it’s time to wake up.”

Her movements stilled and then started again.

He deepened his voice to add a note of command. “Linda. Wake up now.”

She gasped, and her eyes popped open. For a minute she lay as still as a petrified mouse. Then she turned her head slowly and looked around the room. Her muscles relaxed. Her gaze finally came to rest on him. “Sam?”

“Good guess.” She hadn’t panicked at the sight of him. Finest gift he’d had in a long time. “You had a nightmare.”

“You woke me up?”

He nodded.

“Thank you.” She sat up and pushed her damp hair out of her face. The covers pooled around her waist, and her breasts wobbled under the thin nightgown.

“Not a problem.” He cursed silently at his hardening cock. She didn’t need any reminders of what assholes men could be. Intending to leave, he stood, but her wide brown eyes were too vulnerable. Too haunted. “What’s the matter, baby?” Moving slowly enough she could evade his touch, he ran his hand over her damp cheek.

Rather than pulling back, she leaned into his palm. The trust in the movement tightened his chest. “I’m still scared,” she whispered. “I can feel them…the way they touched me. How it hurt.” Her breath hitched.

Sam wasn’t the one she feared. He sat on the bed, facing her, and pulled her into his arms so her head rested on his shoulder, her breasts against his chest. Closing his eyes, he treasured the chance to give her the comfort a man could offer.