The Wrong Man Read online

  His hands trailed down her naked back and over her rump, curling into the material of her skirt, which he dragged up until she could feel only air on her exposed behind, cooling the wet heat between her thighs. His fingers found her, once again moving the lacy scrap of underwear aside, and tested her receptiveness, easing gently in and out, getting her back into the swing of things. Lia gasped when his thumb came into play, teasing her clitoris with sure strokes. She was on the verge of another orgasm when he replaced his fingers with something much bigger and harder and she cried out helplessly, her legs nearly giving way and forcing her to hang onto the fence for dear life.

  His large hands were at her hips, holding her steady while he continued to plunder her most tender flesh. When she pushed into his thrusts, he released her hips and his hands found her naked breasts, plucking at the tender nipples.

  Lia groaned helplessly as her orgasm built until she came with a high-pitched cry. He continued to thrust into her, forcing another, gentler climax fast on the heels of the first, and still he continued. Lia was so unbearably sensitive by now that she almost begged him to stop, but when he lowered his hand down her to clitoris again, and buried his face in her neck to suck on the highly sensitive skin beneath her ear, she came again. Even harder and longer than the first time.

  This time he groaned as she clenched tightly around him. When she loosened her death grip on the fence, lifting a trembling hand to cup his stubbled jaw, he made a surprised sound and slammed into her so hard she almost crashed into the fence. Luckily she braced before that happened, but he pushed her up against the wood anyway, until she could feel each individual slat grinding up against her torso and abdomen. He had his arm wrapped around her breasts, to protect her tender, naked skin from the wood, and she went up on tiptoes and then left the ground completely as his next couple of powerful thrusts completely overwhelmed her.

  She felt him shudder, then sob and finally groan, the sound almost anguished as he held her suspended between the fence and his hard body for what felt like eons, her feet not touching the ground at all anymore. Eventually she felt the tension leave his body, while the shudders and hoarse breathing continued unabated for much longer. He eased her down until her toes and then the soles of her feet were back on the ground. He scrupulously adjusted her skirt, not saying a word, just dusting her off and zipping her up. He couldn’t refasten the broken hook and eye, but her hair—which had been up in a chignon before this—had come completely undone and spilled halfway down her back, effectively shielding the broken clasp from view.

  She ran her shaking hands through the tangled mess of her hair and then dabbed self-consciously at her damp cheeks. The first release had been so intense it had brought tears to her eyes, despite there being no actual emotional connection between them. Luckily the floodgates had closed almost as soon as the orgasm had waned, but she was almost certain she had raccoon eyes. She would have to make a quick detour back to the house and to her room to fix the damage as much as she could. She only hoped nobody else was in the house.

  She heard Brand fumbling with his own clothes, heard the elasticized snap as he pulled the condom off, and she wondered what he would do with it. He couldn’t leave it in here for some poor unsuspecting farmworker to find. But where would he put it in the meantime?

  All the possibilities grossed her out a bit, and she shoved it to the back of her mind. That was his concern—she had other stuff to worry about right now. She sniffed and winced at the wet sound. She would kill for a tissue.

  “You okay, princess?” he asked, his dark voice sounding almost genuinely concerned.

  “F-fine.” Well, she would be if she could stop shaking. She distractedly wondered if she were in shock, because she was trembling so badly despite the pleasantly balmy spring evening. He pressed something into her hand and, for a split second, she irrationally thought it was the condom and her reflex was to drop it. Luckily she didn’t, because she soon recognized the soft, folded linen square in her hand as a handkerchief, and she gratefully lifted it to her face to pat at her wet cheeks and then blow her nose noisily into it.

  “I don’t want to do this again,” she said in a high, shaken, and almost hysterical voice. She sounded terrified and shocked, even to her own ears.

  “Well, it was fun while it lasted,” he quipped, but his own voice had a tremor to it and she wished she could see his face.

  “I don’t usually . . .”

  “No need to explain yourself to me, princess. I’m all for meaningless hookups. It doesn’t make me respect you less. Besides, it would be hypocritical for me to judge you based on something that I enjoy doing so much myself.”

  His words made her feel a little sick and made the entire encounter seem even more sordid.

  “Have a nice life, Sam Brand. I look forward to never seeing you again.”

  Her eyes had adjusted to the gloomy interior of the barn, and she knew from his dark silhouette on a slightly less dark background that he was standing directly in front of her. But even so, it surprised her when he cupped her face and graced her with the sweetest of kisses.

  “You take care of yourself, princess,” he said after lifting his lips from hers.

  Lia didn’t respond and turned to gingerly make her way, in the dark, back to the barn door. He didn’t follow her.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Four months later

  God, this hurt! Sam pushed the button on the morphine dispenser and lay back with a groan. He wasn’t going to be macho about this shit. First time he’d ever been stabbed, and it sucked balls. How humiliating to have some scrawny fucker use him as a pincushion. While Sam had taken him down and beaten the guy to a pulp, he was still pissed off as hell that the asshole had managed to inflict five stab wounds in the process.

  Five stab wounds! What the fuck? Three tours to Afghanistan plus numerous special ops missions without a scratch and Sam got himself wounded by some psycho stalker with a knife. Worse, the guy looked like a stiff breeze could knock him on his ass.

  One of the penetrating wounds had missed his femoral artery by a quarter of an inch; another—the most severe—had punctured a lung. But the worst injuries—in Sam’s opinion—were the double fractures of his ulna and radius thanks to his takedown of the attacker. He had miscalculated the landing and had wound up with the perpetrator landing on top of him. Sam’s arm had broken the fall. That injury had required surgery as well, and Sam was now the reluctant owner of a couple of metal plates and screws in his arm. He would be setting off metal detectors in airports for the rest of his life. Wonderful. And of course, it hurt like a son of a bitch and would require lengthy rehabilitation.

  He sighed when the morphine started to kick in and allowed himself to relax. He contemplated the plethora of flowers and cards scattered throughout his expensive, private hospital room. There were more than he’d anticipated. Turned out that saving everybody’s favorite pop princess from certain death earned you more than a few fans. Five days since the dramatic attack had taken place at a celebrity/paparazzi–heavy charity gala and he already had three huge bags of fan mail cluttering up a corner of the hospital room. His employees thought it was fucking hilarious to leave them here, and none of his grousing had scared them into removing the bags yet.

  He rarely did fieldwork anymore, usually operating behind the scenes, running the business. But Laura Prentiss—the aforementioned pop princess—while a pain in the arse, was a top-tier client, and what she asked for she usually got. After receiving a series of threatening letters that had escalated into full-on stalking, Laura had demanded Sam as her close protection officer, or CPO. The paparazzi had had a field day with that—thus, many “confirmed” accounts from “reliable sources” about Sam being her lover had surfaced. They had both shrugged the stories off, hazards of the job, so to speak, but every picture of them together had apparently enraged psycho stalker boy even more. The guy had somehow managed to finagle a job on the event caterers’ waitstaff and had intercepted their pa
th almost immediately after they’d stepped off the red carpet and into the actual building.

  Sam was furious with himself for allowing the fucker to get so close to Laura Prentiss. It was inexcusable even though, according to his PR team, the rescue had resulted in more than a few new clients. People didn’t get that it had been a fuckup of gargantuan proportions. All they’d seen was the bloodied and battered Sam Brand, heroically beating the snot out of a sniveling, rat-faced, hunting knife–wielding bad guy.

  And how the fuck did he get a hunting knife past security in the first place? There was so much explaining to be done after Sam got out of this hospital. But that was for a different day. In the meantime he had some of his best men working with the police to get answers to these questions. Right now all he wanted to do was sleep and wake up without pain.

  Three days later he felt ready to full-on murder someone. Maybe one of the relentlessly cheerful nurses with their singsong voices and bright smiles. Or Dour Dr. Doom the Evil Deliverer of Bad News—bed rest for four weeks, no strenuous activity for three months, six to eight weeks with a cast on his arm, followed by weeks of rehabilitation to get it back in working order. It was a never-ending catalog of bad news.

  Worse, the fucking press wouldn’t leave him alone. He now had a man assigned to the door because some sleazy bastard had donned a white coat and wiseassed his way right into Sam’s room before anybody had been the wiser. They had gone into a feeding frenzy after Laura Prentiss had dropped by to visit him. Sam had been tempted to fire Tyler Chambers—her new CPO—on the spot. He should have talked her out of visiting. Only the fact that Sam had himself been Laura—Lally to those closest to her—Prentiss’s CPO and knew how stubborn she could be had saved Chambers. Well, that and the fact that Chambers was a solid guy and a good friend.

  Everything was shitty as hell at the moment and Sam was wondering what the fuck else could go wrong when he heard an unmistakable female voice just outside his room door. He groaned. This was the last thing he needed. He should have known she’d show up eventually. But he had hoped that the one phone call and three text messages they had shared since the incident would be enough.

  She breezed into the room on a cloud of expensive perfume, with her current lapdog—carrying her fake (Sam hoped) fur stole—trailing adoringly in her wake.

  “Oh, my poor baby,” she lamented, coming over to plant a huge kiss on Sam’s cheek. Say what you wanted about Catherine Lockerby-Brand-Hammersmith-Petriades-Christianson-Everett, she didn’t believe in air kisses. Sam always received full-on hugs and kisses from his mother. “I’ve been so worried about you.”

  “Hi, Mum,” he greeted, scrubbing at his cheek because experience told him he’d have a Scarlet Temptation lipstick smudge imprinted there. His mother winced theatrically.

  “Samuel Noah Brand, how many times have I told you not to call me that? So crass. Mother or Mimsy, please.”

  “Mum, I have never and will never call you Mimsy. I don’t get why you keep asking me to.”

  “I just like the sound of it,” she said, before looking at the strapping young man—at least thirty years younger than her fifty-five—still standing at the door clutching her fur stole. “Craig, darling, do you mind?” She glanced down at the visitor’s chair, and Craig rushed to dust it off before holding it while she gingerly situated herself on the cushioned seat. “Thank you, lovely. Samuel, have you met Craig?”

  Sam sized up his mother’s latest plaything. The guy was about ten years his junior and had that dumb, vacant look in his eyes that she seemed to like in her toy boys. After her five failed marriages, Sam couldn’t blame his mother for giving up on that esteemed institution and opting instead to have fun. He’d worry if she ever got serious about her playthings, but she knew exactly what she wanted from them. And as much as the thought made him uncomfortable, Sam couldn’t begrudge her a bit of fun and companionship.

  He nodded at Craig, who smiled back enthusiastically.

  “I saw the news footage of you taking down that guy, man,” Craig said with the eagerness of a puppy. “It was awesome. Maybe you could teach me some of those moves?”

  “Little laid up at the moment, mate,” Sam pointed out.

  “After you recover, of course.” Poor guy actually thought he’d be around that long.

  “Of course.”

  “Craig, do you mind getting me some coffee, please? And none of the stuff they have at this hospital. You know what I like.”

  “Sure do.” God, was it his imagination or was the guy eye-fucking his mother? Oh damn! That was out of bounds, man!

  “Craig!” he yelled, breaking the uncomfortably long eye contact between his mother and the man. Boy. Whatever the fuck he was. Craig diverted his gaze to Sam. “Be a good chap and go get her that coffee.”

  Craig nodded and strode off purposefully, a man on a mission, and Sam diverted his attention back to his mother.

  “How old is this one, Mum?”

  “He’s twenty-seven.” Seven years younger than Sam, then. “Not very clever, but I don’t keep him around for his scintillating conversation.”

  “Ugh. I don’t need to hear more.”

  “Yes, enough about Craig. Tell me how long you’ll be in this hospital. Afterward, I insist you stay with me. In Milan. I can’t stand London in spring. So damp.”

  God, no. The notion was horrifying beyond reason. He’d have to witness her affair with Craig fizzle out, then watch her go on the prowl for a replacement and listen to her nag on about her “stingy” ex-husbands and, worst of all, endure her inevitable smothering attention. He’d go crazy in a day.

  “No, Mum. I have other plans.”

  “You do? Please don’t tell me you’re staying with your father—you know how that woman’s smoking affects your asthma.”

  “Her name is Rita,” Sam said wryly, referring to his father’s lovely wife of twenty-seven years. “And she stopped smoking about a decade ago. And I never had asthma, remember? Just allergies . . . which I outgrew round about the same time I hit puberty.”

  “So you are staying with them?” His mother seemed affronted, and Sam huffed in exasperation. His mother, the consummate drama queen, always treated Rita like some home-wrecking other woman, when in fact his father had met and married the woman years after their divorce. Sam would never stay with the Brands, though—his father had always been kind but distant. The obligatory holidays Sam had spent with the man and his other family had been strained. And Sam definitely didn’t get along with his three half brothers. They were so respectable. And boring. They were uptight, tightly wound arseholes.

  Maybe he was being a bit harsh. They weren’t bad guys, they were just . . . a unit. And Sam, being a number of years older, had never been a part of that unit. He didn’t know or understand them and had always regarded them as little nuisances whenever he had stayed with his father during seemingly endless summer vacations. Sam recalled the way the boys had whispered to each other behind their chubby little fingers and stared at him when they were old enough to recognize that he was a stranger in their midst. It had gotten progressively worse with each holiday. They’d started trailing after him, hiding behind furniture and walls to spy on him. And whenever he spotted them, they had scattered like frightened mice. Sam had always felt like an interloper and a freak during those vacations and had been supremely grateful when they ended after his seventeenth birthday.

  His half brothers had sent him a nicely worded get-well-soon card. Just one card from all three of them and their wives. His father and Rita had called. His father had suggested it was time he grew up and got a real job. The man didn’t really know Sam well enough to comment on his work ethic, or lack thereof—he simply assumed that Sam enjoyed the same freewheeling lifestyle as his mother. Sam didn’t care enough to correct the man’s misconceptions about him. They casually observed the familial relationship, but there was no real depth to said relationship.

  “No, Mum. I’m not staying with them. After I get out of h
ere, I’ll need extensive rehab and time away from the job.” True enough, even though he really had no intention of not working. The place would fall to ruin without him to keep an eye on things. If his former business partner, Mason Carlisle, was still around, Sam would be a hundred percent more confident about taking the time off. But as it stood, Carlisle had sold his shares of the company to Sam nearly three years ago and was recently wed and now studying architecture.

  Sam trusted his guys, but none of them were the type to sit in an office and crunch numbers or schmooze potential clients. Which meant he would have to run things remotely. Not ideal. Well, that taught him to go out into the field. Never again, no matter the client.

  “So where will you stay and who will take care of you?” his mother asked.

  “What’s wrong with staying at my apartment in Chiswick? I could hire a nurse or something.” His mother cast him a jaundiced look, clearly not thrilled with his answer.

  “I know you better than you think I do, Samuel. You won’t be able to resist going to the office. If you insist on staying, then I’ll have to stay with you.”

  Dear God, no!

  “I didn’t say I was staying here; I just asked what was wrong with it,” he backtracked quickly. His phone buzzed, and, grateful for the distraction, he yanked it up and stared at the name on the screen with wide eyes. Think of the devil.

  “Sorry, Mum. I’ve got to take this,” he said apologetically and fumbled to swipe at his phone screen, his left hand making him clumsy.

  “Mase, hey!”

  “Brand, what the fuck, man? You let a ninety-pound weakling stab the shit out of you?”

  “Last week’s news, mate,” Sam said pointedly, and Mason chuckled.

  “I’ve been keeping tabs. Colby has been sending me regular updates.” Colby Campbell, who managed the company accounts, had been with them since the beginning, and Sam was toying with the idea of offering her a stake in Brand Executive Protection Services.