Fistful of Roses (What a Woman Wants, Book 1) (8 page)

She immediately went to slam the door, only to have the man stick his hand through and push it open, forcing her to stumble backward.

“Get out of my house, Gavin,” she said in a menacing voice as she backed away from him.

“Make me, Phie,” he tossed back.

She flipped her hair over her shoulder and glared up at the man who had once been a boy so beautiful she’d envied him. Now he was twisted and ugly. Oh, his face was as handsome as it’d always been, but his demeanor, what made Gavin who he was, was heinous to the core.

He walked into her house, touching her knickknacks, running his hand along her antique desk before snickering at the old pictures on her mantel. He turned to her and cocked his head arrogantly.

“Why do you keep those?” He nodded at the pictures.

“Why are you here? I thought I asked you to never come near me again.” Anger vibrated in her tone. She’d sworn never to let the man before her know how much he affected her. She couldn’t stop the rage from leaking through.

He chuckled, the sound cold and empty of humor. “Aw, Phie, whatsa matter? You still mad at me?”

She rubbed her arms under the throw coat and stared at him, willing him to answer her question. When had he changed from the boy she’d loved so much into this mean, coldhearted man? “I’m not anything, Gavin. Now why are you here?”

He looked forlorn for a moment, his face reflecting her disquiet. Emotions flashed so fast it was like watching a movie in fast-forward. “I came to talk to you. Warn you about some folks who may be looking for me.”

“I’m done with this, Gavin. Leave. I told you no more, and you have the audacity to come here? What if they’re following you? After the last time I’d think you wouldn’t be so careless.” She rubbed her forehead this time, her finger running along the raised scar at her hairline. It was a souvenir from the last time people had come to her looking for him.

Sorrow ended the film on his face. Deep, abiding, it carved grooves in his features, made her breath catch. She would forever be connected to him. She loved him still. They’d shared so much.

“I need your help, Phie.” He took a deep breath and turned to stare at the pictures again. “I really need your help. He’ll kill me if I don’t get him what he wants.”

She girded her heart. Shoved her pity and love deep within her, locked it away, and faced the man who’d almost gotten her killed. “No.”

He stiffened and looked at her over his shoulder. For a split second, he was hers again—carefree, uncomplicated, clean Gavin. Then it passed. Like a shadow hiding from the light, it scattered, and he was once again this Gavin.

“You have to, Phie. I need you. He wants information—” His tone was melancholic and designed to draw her back into his web of lies and deceit. She had to consciously stiffen her spine against the plea.

She cut him off before he could complete his sentence. “Leave, Gavin. Leave now,” she ordered.

“No! I won’t leave, you bitch. I need your help.” When she stayed silent, he tried another tactic. “What would Mom say?”

It stung, that reminder, however unstated it may be on his part, that her mother cared about the man before her. She would be disappointed were she to ever recover enough to know that Sophie had denied him help.
Dig deeper; this man doesn’t care about you or the bond you used to have.

Her shoulders straightened again. “I said no. Now leave or I’ll call the cops.”

He was in her face in a millisecond. “You fucking bitch. How dare you!” Spittle flew from his mouth, hit her in the face as he raged at her, grabbing her shoulders and shaking her fiercely.

She was stunned. A cry rang out. Had it come from her? Before she could gather her wits, the shaking stopped, and a roar sounded from her entryway. She was pushed back as Gavin was literally tossed to the other side of her living room. He slid along her hardwood floor, slammed into her wall, and lay there, unmoving.

She turned and found herself nose to chest with the man she’d originally opened the door expecting to see: Ryan.

“Are you okay?” His voice was guttural.

She shook. The shivering started in her stomach and expanded into her limbs as she pressed against him, instinct telling her body he was a safe harbor in the midst of this crazy storm.

“Sophie! Are you okay?” he asked again and this time, he lifted her face to his.

She saw his lips move, but the shock of Gavin’s attack hadn’t dissipated. The anger she needed wouldn’t rise. Her eyes burned and she heard a moan from the corner where he’d been tossed.

“Ms. Hanson, answer me, damn it. Are. You. Okay?” His tone sharp now, it had her gaze seeking his out, and what she saw there reassured her. She was safe. Safe enough to answer him surely.

“I’m fine. How did you…?”

He shook his head as he ran his thumb along her cheekbones. “Who is that man?”

“Phie, who the hell is that?” Gavin demanded from the floor.

Ryan turned, said something in a very low voice, and the other man whimpered. He sounded like cornered prey, and it reminded her of another night, similar to this one, only the outcome had been drastically different. Like her in a hospital different.

“I’m whoever the fuck I am. Now shut your mouth before I shut it for you,” Ryan bit out.

She smiled a little at that. Her mood switched gears that easily. All it took was a threat from Ryan to shut Gavin up? She wished Ryan had been there her whole life.

“Sophie, I need to call the police,” Ryan said as his thumbs continued to stroke the skin under her eyes.

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. The police would only make this worse.

“No. No police,” she whispered, and she grabbed his wrists, the contact soothing, his skin so warm it made her shiver. She pulled his hands down and stepped around him.

He kept his hand on her back, his body turned so that at a second’s notice he could protect her. She felt her heart crack into a thousand pieces. The man picking himself off her floor had caused nothing but harm since she was young, but the man beside her, who she’d known for about six months, would do whatever it took to keep her from it.

“Who is he, Sophie?” Ryan’s voice was demanding but soothing at the same time. Pitched low, it carried no farther than her ears.

She looked at him then. His blue eyes were ocean dark, turbulent. She sighed deeply, unable to prevent the single tear that tracked down her cheek.

“No police, Ryan. He’s my brother.”

Chapter 8

They’d decided against going out for supper, instead ordering in from Mu Lan’s Chinese restaurant. She was queasy but managed to get down some egg drop soup and some Mandarin beef before she’d had to stop for fear of throwing it all back up. Now she sipped hot tea and watched her boss devour Peking ribs. She’d had time to get over that initial fear of her brother’s attack. He was messed up, probably hopped up on something or other, not in his right mind. Didn’t mean it didn’t hurt that he’d gone after her, but he hadn’t been
her Gavin
in too many years to count.

She laid her head against the chaise back and breathed in deeply. The television was on some news channel that provided a droning background noise. Her gaze was drawn back to Ryan, and her heart accelerated.

Was it wrong to be turned on by the sight of his lips moving over the succulent rib meat? Was it bad that she wanted to lick his jawline every time it flexed and the muscle there became delineated as he chewed? After the wringer she’d just been through, did she have the energy to care?

Not really. He’d come in like a white knight on a charger and saved her from her brother, of all people. The man had yet to make a wrong move with her. Everything he did, every move he made, forced her to want him more.

He cleared his throat. Her gaze flew to his; heat raced up her neck. Caught staring.
Pathetic
. He raised an eyebrow as he wiped his fingers on a napkin and took a drink of his soda. She wanted to groan as his tanned throat worked up and down, moving the liquid from mouth to belly.
And again, pathetic
.

“You finished?” he asked as he cleared away their leftovers.

“Yeah, but I’ll get it, stay here,” she admonished as she uncurled her legs from the plush lounger.

His gaze followed her. She felt the heat from it as she picked up his plasticware and boxes of food. He leaned back against the couch, a predator at ease in the domain of her home. For some reason, it didn’t bother her. In the past, any man who used up that much oxygen and gave off that much alpha had given her the willies. Ryan blew all that to hell. He could own her so easy. It’d totally be no muss, no fuss.

In the kitchen the phone rang. It was the hospital wanting to give her an update on her mother’s condition. Status unchanged. Her mother remained on a respirator and there were minimal signs of brain activity. Sophie ended the call with a promise to the night nurse to visit tomorrow and a request to be contacted immediately if anything changed.

There was still hope, but not much of it. Too much longer without activity and she’d have no choice but to sign consent to pull the respirator. It was keeping her mother alive, giving her a chance to pull through, but hope was dim at this stage. A massive stroke had ripped through her brain, tearing away the foundations of who Andromeda Hanson had been.

A movement at the kitchen doorway caught her attention. Ryan stood there, shoulder pressed against the arched door frame, a look of concern on his face. Well over six feet, she guessed about six-three or so, his broad shoulders took up almost the entire opening. He crossed his arms over his chest, and she sighed as his pectoral muscles rippled under his white cable-knit sweater. The man was compelling.

“You okay?” he asked, his deep voice rich with concern and something else she couldn’t identify.

She threw the dishrag beside the sink, her gaze skipping away from his intent stare. “I’m good. You want something to drink? Vodka, gin? I’ve got some beer, too.”

“Nah, I’m good. I may have a beer later.” There was that note again.

His words hit her, and she knew there was something she was missing but couldn’t find the brainpower to figure it out. She walked his way, with every intention of moving past him, but he didn’t budge.

Her eyes lifted to his, and she inhaled sharply. His eyes burned, lit by an inner flame. He pulled her to his chest and tucked her head under his chin.

She lost it.

Every tear she’d held on to for the last fifteen years came rushing forth, pouring out of a seemingly endless vat of pain. She let it go because for the first time in a very long time, she felt safe.

*

Her body shook with the force of her sobs. Silent but all the more brutal because of that, his heart clenched, and he had to bite back a curse as he lifted her into his arms and headed back to the couch. He’d yet to question her too intently about the man she called her brother, but the bastard had pretty much signed himself enemy when Ryan had seen him shaking Sophie.

He refused to second-guess his actions. She’d been in danger; he’d responded. He’d had no thought for the fact that it could’ve been a boyfriend or a lover. He’d reacted at the sight of the other man’s hands on her, shaking her as rage flowed from his words. She’d cried out, and the sound had been unbearable, full of fear and pain. It had carried outside to him as he’d made his way to her front door. His heart had stopped and then pounded to get to her.

Fury threatened to choke him now, and he had to mentally corral his thoughts as his hands flexed on her back and legs. He sat with her carefully, his big body providing her cushion as he placed her gently in his lap. Her head remained on his chest.

“It’s okay. I’ve got you,” he murmured. “Nobody’s going to hurt you.” She needed the soothing words but having never been in this situation before, he was moving on instinct. Hopefully he was getting it right.

His body demanded he provide her safety, protection, and comfort. His heart and mind refused to question the demand. Hayden would laugh his ass off right now. Big Ryan Locke reduced to comforter when all he’d ever been was a machine. He pushed those thoughts down. He had no idea what was going on with Sophie, but if it took all night, he’d damn well find out.

She sniffled and sighed, a hiccup following the sounds. She burrowed into him, her tiny hands grasping his chest as her body shifted and she turned toward him. Her right hip was directly on top of his cock. His very hard cock. Closeness to her did him in every time lately. Touching her, smelling her, having her turn to him—yeah, there was no way he could control that basic response of his body to her nearness.

He didn’t really fucking want to control it. He wanted to unleash it. Purge the heat that consumed him when he saw her and make her burn in the fire with him. His hands clenched on her hip and back as he stroked her slight body.

He didn’t want the feel of the cashmere between them. No matter how soft, it wasn’t her skin. He breathed deeply, trying to control the deafening need that pressed on him. Lavender tickled his nose, made his mouth water. He was alpha to the core. The SEALs had honed him into a killing machine, but with Sophie he felt out of control, like at any moment he could snap. It was dangerous, but he found himself craving that knife-edge. If he was cut and left bleeding, it would be worth it to have known her in the most basic of ways.

Her head dropped back onto his arm, and her body went completely lax. She was asleep. Her lips were open, her red-tipped nose flaring with each breath she took. Her ivory skin was pearlescent in the low light, but he could see the dark circles under her eyes. Her long, curved black eyelashes looked like soot stains against her pale skin. Her lips were devoid of any artifice, but the full, plump lusciousness begged to be suckled.

His hands moved down her side, tracing her curves and feeling the softness that cradled fragile bones. Delicate was a word he’d use to describe her. She made a man want to take care of her. Lock her away so nothing could touch her except him.

He wanted to pound her brother’s face into the ground. That he dared to shake her, get in her face, made everything male in Ryan howl.