Chapter 2
REID
Her face is a picture.
The little nurse who had such a soft touch, but a spine of steel. I like her. More than that, I’m curious about her.
She takes me in, and the new furniture I had my men bring in.
“What are you doing?” Her voice rises to a panicky height.
“I live here,” I reply blandly. Since a couple of hours after we met.
It didn’t take me long to track down her house, and the young man who answered the door was remarkably cooperative.
I offered him and all the other tenants a generous amount to move out—with the help of my men—immediately.
They’ve all accepted. Meanwhile, Jack—my second-in-command—managed to contact the landlord and persuade him it was in his best interests to sell to me on the spot.
It all went very smoothly, really, which is a miracle given the day I’ve had.
What a mess. And Callie is a bright, shining star in the middle of blood and death and darkness and loss.
“You don’t. There are no vacancies.”
“Turned out that was negotiable. We’re roommates,” I say with deliberate emphasis.
She splutters.
“In the American sense, not the British one,” I add casually, as though I don’t understand the implication I made that we’ll sleep in the same room, not just in the same house. “I guess you’d say we’re housemates, rather than roommates. I’m staying on the top floor.”
“But the trainee physios live in those rooms.” Her grip on her rucksack is white knuckle.
She’s wearing jeans and a loose top, and is as cute as a…
young woman I’d like to fuck until she’s wrung out from coming on my cock.
I’m not sure if that’s the pinnacle of cuteness for anyone else, but Callie is for me.
That bouncy brown ponytail. The hint of curves underneath her clothes.
The dark-brown of her eyes and the slash of her cheekbones—tinged pink.
She’s adorable. She’s the only one to touch me in the last decade who hasn’t made me recoil, and there is literally no one else in the world that I want tending my wound.
“They moved out, and since I’m now the owner, I decided to move in.”
Stumbling forwards, she sinks into the other sofa—also newly brought from my house and much better quality than what was there before.
I’ll need to do more upgrades, although hopefully that won’t be required.
Callie’s a smart girl. She’ll realise her protests are useless, and agree to be kidnapped to a place, rather than in a place.
Potatoes, potah-toes.
“I don’t understand.” She shakes her head. “Why have you moved in?”
“Yes, you do know.”
She’s leaning forwards on the sofa, not comfortable, one hand still on the rucksack she’s taken off and put at her feet. She fiddles with the toggle end of the zip.
“You want me to tend your wound and change the dressings.”
I nod.
She takes a deep breath. “And I said I’d do it for my roommate, and you took that literally.”
“Just so.”
“You did all this to get me to change your bandages?” She flits her gaze to the new sofas and the rug.
“I get what I want, Callie.” Only she will do.
I’ve suffered for years with disgust at the touch of any other person, but Callie…
Yes it was through gloves, but that doesn’t usually make any difference to me.
Being touched by her was pleasant. And that was a significant wound.
What would her hands feel like on another part of my body?
I shut the thought down. It’s not happening.
“This is unhinged.” She meets my gaze, and her expression is almost apologetic. As though she’s giving bad news to someone possibly about to burst into an emotional sob or rage.
“Mmm.” I make a neutral, calm noise of agreement. I can’t deny it’s a strange thing to do, but limits are for men who aren’t as wealthy and powerful as I am.
“I’m going to call the police.” It’s almost a question.
I shrug. “And tell them what? That I’m in your house entirely legally?”
“That you’re…” She pauses and thinks, glancing around for inspiration. “Stalking me.”
“I don’t think one meeting and then moving into a vacant room in your house share counts as stalking. A pattern should be three things, right?”
I’m enjoying this. A crossing of wits.
Her lips flatten as she sees that I’ve manoeuvred her into a situation where she has to do exactly what I want. She thinks for a second.
“Fine.” She smiles too brightly. “No problem. I’ll move out.”
“Really?” I raise my uninjured arm to the back of the sofa so I’m sprawled, taking up the space, and gaze trained on her.
I’ve changed since I last saw her in the hospital, and despite my inconvenient wound, I don’t want her imagining I don’t have strength.
“You’ll discover no one can provide you with a room.
Certainly not within a reasonable commute of the hospital. ”
Her smile falls, replaced by shock and then understanding. “I’ll ask a friend.”
“You’d do that to your friend?” I reply, allowing a bit of menace into the words. “A few of my men are around the house.” I circle my uninjured hand expressively. “But I don’t want to have to use them. So crass.”
“This is basically kidnap, but in my own home.” She says it as though it’s news to me.
“A kidnap delivery service.” I didn’t realise an in-place kidnap would be far more fun than taking her to my house.
“I didn’t order one,” she points out.
“It’s free for the low, low price of looking after my injury.” I’m resisting smiling. Which is absurd, given my arm is throbbing with the promise of agony once the painkillers wear off, and the meeting with Loughton was a disaster that turned bloody.
“After you lost your last medic so carelessly.” She raises her eyebrows.
A pang goes through me. I hate it when I lose men. It’s part of the job of leading a mafia, it never ceases to weigh on me. We killed Loughton, and two of his men, but that hardly makes up for it.
“It wasn’t careless. But yes, he’s dead.
” My brain replays the moment he died in the chaos of the shootout.
And then the longer, more painful moments.
Telling his family this afternoon while Jack and the others sorted the move to this house.
The inadequacy of money to make up for the loss to the man’s family.
“I’d like to return my reverse kidnapping.” There’s an edge of healthy fear behind the brave words, but also a hint of teasing.
“All purchases are final.”
“You’re diabolical,” she says sweetly.
“I’ll take that as a compliment.” It’s also true.
She sighs, but it’s a sort of exasperated sound, and throughout our conversation she has let go of her bag, and relaxed back onto the sofa. She’s strong, my girl.
Ahh… I shouldn’t be thinking about her like that. She’s just a lovely young woman who’s going to help me heal, then I’ll let her go.
That thought is like a burr, scratching at me.
But I am forty-nine years old. I discovered in my investigations since we met that she’s twenty-three years old. Any idea of us together is filthy. Wrong. Forbidden. A man with decent morals wouldn’t go near her.
My morals are grey, at best.
I can tolerate her touch, though. Maybe even I could like it? I’m drawn to this girl.
And she’ll only tend my wounds. But she will do that.
“You can make this difficult, Callie, or accept it’s inevitable.” Look how reasonable I’m being. “You’re a nurse. I don’t want to have to persuade you to do your job. I’d much rather just pay you, as I first suggested.”
She drags her gaze down my body, no doubt taking in the custom-tailored suit and the shoes that probably cost more than her rent.
“Pay me. You mean the offer to be your nurse,” she clarifies.
Mmm, mine. Every part of me likes that idea. “Yes.”
“I don’t have much choice, do I?” She squares her shoulders. “Okay, but I have conditions.”
“A negotiation.” I repress a smile. I’ve won. “I’m not usually the type to accept anyone calling the shots, but given the circumstances…”
“I’m keeping my job.” She fires it out.
“You’ll spend all your time not at work here,” I reply. Not my preferred option to have her away from me, but clearly her employment is important in some way. “With me.”
Her brows knit, and she pauses. “That’s not necessary—”
“It is,” I correct her firmly. I can protect her if she’s with me, and I can put guards into the hospital, but even in its weakened state the Loughton mafia will discover my change of residence, and Callie would be easy pickings if she goes out alone.
“Alright. But only until you’ve healed.”
“How long will that be?” This matters more than it should.
“Humm.” Her gaze slides to my arm, as though she can see through the clean shirt and jacket I put on. “It’ll need frequent dressing changes for two weeks. Maybe a little longer if it doesn’t heal neatly. Three weeks? Maybe four if it’s slow?”
“A good incentive to ensure you do your job,” I reply darkly. Or perhaps a reason for me to put up with a bit of pain to keep her close.
“No threats.” She holds her index finger up, as though she’d wag it at me for being naughty. “If I’m doing this, it’s an exchange of services.”
“Of course.” I sit up. “Now, fetch your stuff, and we’ll go to my house. There’s—”
“No.” She smiles innocently.
I sigh. “Please be reasonable. This place is not adequate for my needs, or for you—”
“I meant it. If you’re my housemate here, I’ll help you. But we’re living here. In a cheap, tatty, houseshare.”
She clearly thinks she’s got me. But I’m far more determined than she gives me credit for.
“I’ll pay you more—” I growl.
Her eyes go pale with insult. “I’m not that sort of person, Mr Maddox.”
“Reid,” I correct smoothly. I’ll pay either way. She’s smart, and sweet, and the cheerful opposite of my gloomy self. That’s worth a lot. “And I wasn’t implying anything like that.”
“Okay.” She nods and takes a shaky breath. “Reid.”
My cold, bleak heart surges with unexpected emotion. Triumph at the end of a day full of failure.