When they’ve set you up as a sacrificial goat and watch from the shadows to make sure you’re caught, so they can go free and enjoy life without complications. Without my complication.

And not a tear left to shed over them.

***

It’s later afternoon, the sun dipping low over the horizon, the rain turned into a drizzle. I’m on the terrace, finishing my crackers and peanut-butter-and-jam sandwiches, when he appears, running toward me, his head bowed and the moisture gleaming on his bare torso.

I swear, he’s doing this in purpose. I choke on my cracker and reach for the glass of water I have nearby. Such a body shouldn’t exist outside of romance novel covers.

Such men aren’t for the likes of me.

But as I’m getting up to carry my dish and glass inside, he turns and jogs up the beach.

Toward me.

Crap.

In danger of tripping and falling again, I back away toward the house door. Not fast enough. He bounds up the steps and takes the dish and glass from my hands. He puts them down, and I stare at him, my mouth hanging open.

“What are you doing?” There. Words. Finally.

“Checking on you.” He turns my hands over in his much larger ones and runs his thumbs over my scored and bruised palms.

The sensation does strange things to my body and mind. I mean, we’ve established I’m in lust with the guy, but this? This light caress shoots straight to my core. I’m throbbing so badly between my legs I think I might go over the edge just like that, and there’s a pressure in my chest I don’t understand.

Never felt the need to touch a man’s shoulders, his face, his lips before. Not like this.

Refusing to linger on the thought, I pull my hands back. He resists, I pull harder, he lets go—and I knock into the still closed door. My bruised backside sends a jolt of agony up my spine, and I yelp.

“Dammit, I knew you were hurt.” He grabs me and turns me around, so that I face the door, and I put up my hands to stop from faceplanting into the wood. He tugs me backward just in time to avoid that, and his hands are on my ass.

I repeat, his hands are on my ass. Eep.

“What do you think you’re doing? Hey!” I twist around and slap at his chest, pushing him away. “Hands off.”

He lifts his hands, and oh God, he’s grinning. So not fair. It’s a crooked, sexy grin that lights up the blues in his eyes and melts me into a puddle of goo.

“You’re cute,” he says, and that sexy raspy bedroom voice will be my undoing, I swear. After his body does me in, of course, and let’s not forget the way his concern touched me.

Ugh. “I’m not cute.”

“Yes, you are.” He reaches for my face and trails his thumb over my lips. “Cute and funny.”

I sputter. That’s not what I want a handsome, sexy guy to tell me. But before I find the right swearword to fling at him, the flare of something darker in his eyes stops me.

“Well, I’m fine, as you can see,” I say, my voice shaky and kinda breathy. Why the hell is my voice breathy?

“Yes, you’re fine,” he agrees, his eyes darkening more, dipping to my breasts. His other hand smacks into the door above my head, and the length of his hard, strong, half-naked body presses into mine. His tongue darts out and licks his lower lip, and now he’s looking at me like I’m dessert.

Right on cue, my stomach grumbles.

Damn!

His eyes flick back up to my face, and his brows arch.

“Sorry,” I say and try to pull away from where he’s got me pinned against the door. This is the mother of all bad ideas. “I just…”

“Come over for dinner.”

“Dinner?” Wait, wait. I blink. He’s still there, waiting for my answer. “No way. I don’t even know you.”

He grins again, and my panties are on fire. “I told you. I’m Storm. And I don’t stay far from here.” He winks. “You saw me fixing the fence. You know where the house is.”

Shit, he noticed me then. “That where you’re staying?”

“For now.”

“You housesitting, too?”

“Something like that.”

Haha. Funny. “And you’ll cook?”

He shakes his head and snorts. “Maybe.”

“Well, I can’t come.” Because I shouldn’t. But I’m hungry. And he’s pretty. Okay, more rugged than pretty. Still. “I really don’t know you. What if you’re a serial killer or something?”

“I promise you, I’m not.”

Yeah, well. “And I don’t know your real name.”

His expression shutters. “Storm is what everyone calls me.” He draws back and scrubs a hand over his face. “It’s up to you, sweetheart. I’ll be sitting outside, if you happen to walk by.”

He backs away, a frown drawing his dark brows together, and cold air rushes between us, raising gooseflesh. I rub my hands up and down my arms, missing his warmth, the feel of his body, the brightness of his gaze.

“I’m Raylin O’Brien,” I call after him.

Hell, I have no idea what has possessed me to tell him this. He doesn’t need to know my family name. Doesn’t need to know anything about me—about my past and my involvement with dangerous men and guns.

But as he turns, walking backward, that sexy grin lighting up his face again.

“Storm,” he calls back. “Just Storm. Nice to meet you, Raylin O’Brien. I promise you a good time if you drop by tonight.”

Holy crap. I groan quietly as he leaves, swallowed by the evening gloom. He isn’t talking about food anymore, is he? Or my mind’s gone down the gutter.

You’re not going, I tell myself. No matter how lickable his abs are, how hot he is, and how you’d like to peel those wet shorts off him and see how big he is when he’s aroused.

Cause that’d be the worst idea ever.

STORM

What are you doing, Storm?

Hell if I know. Inviting her over for dinner. Like I do this kind of stuff back home, when things are fine… Which I don’t.

But I want to get to know her—plus, she was hungry. Damn if that little growl of her stomach didn’t grab me by the throat and flipped on all my protective instincts. The need to take care of her is overwhelming. It won’t let me breathe.

And the need to bury myself balls-deep into her is just as strong, eating me from the inside out. Fantasies of her are taking over my thoughts—of me touching her, pleasuring her, of her riding me, bending over for me.

Fucking hell.

I rub the towel over my wet hair and pull on my favorite pair of worn jeans, stuffing my hard dick inside with some difficulty.

Dammit, I’m hard as a diamond just from having been near her, from feeling the softness of her cheek under my fingertips and the scrapes on her palms. It’s getting to be a common occurrence these days. I’d be working out in the gym room, swimming in the pool or in the sea, fixing something in the house or watching TV, it doesn’t matter what. The image of her, the sound of her voice, her subtle scent of vanilla follows me everywhere, stuck in my mind, priming my body for her.

God, I wish she comes over. Raylin. I need something to take my mind off the chaos of this past year, get out of this funk, and she’s… interesting. Fascinating. Full of contradictions.

Pretty. Damn hot. Fiery.

Fuck, I want to push through the flames and hold her. Have her under me, pound into her as I eat up her pretty mouth, take her from behind against the sofa, in the shower, in the pool… everywhere. Lick her where she burns, break down her every wall, make her scream.

Make her mine.

Shaking off the thought, I head into the kitchen to busy myself with dinner. Oh yeah, glorious food. I debate ordering take-out, then say fuck it, and dig out a deep-frozen lasagna. This is good stuff. Mario special, my uncle’s favorite.

Dammit, last thing I want to do is think about my uncle now. I turn on the oven, then pour myself a Jack on the rocks while waiting for the oven to heat up and lean against the granite island. The whiskey burns pleasantly as it trickles down my throat, warming me up from the inside, and my head drops forward as my muscles start to relax.