Claimed by the Hunk

Chapter 9

Samael walked to the back door and stepped onto a broad porch that overlooked a yard thick with grass and overgrown garden beds. A shed huddled in the left-hand corner.

He considered it briefly, then decided he would inspect it later.

His gaze shifted to the cottage next door. It occurred to him that he should probably go introduce himself to his new neighbor, since they were more or less isolated at this end of the street. His aunt’s place had been vacant so long he didn’t want some old dear with three cats and a hearing aid freaking out because a strange man had moved in.

Then maybe he’d head into town to grab some food and other supplies.

It wasn’t much of a plan, but it would get him through the next few hours.

Cassandra returned the reformer carriage to the starting position and let her hands drop to her sides. She was officially done for another day, every exercise on her chart completed and ticked off. Even the ones that made her want to curl into a ball and cry, they hurt so much.

She reached for her towel and blotted her sweat-dampened face and chest. The sharp taste of bile burned at the back of her mouth, a sure sign that she’d overexerted herself again.

Well. A little nausea was a price she was willing to pay if it meant she made a faster recovery.

She stood, running the towel over her cropped hair. Mr. Smith stood, too, tail wagging as he looked at her expectantly. Mr. Smith was not her choice for a dog’s name. Not in a million years she would have named her dog as such but her daughter, four year old petulant one was adamant that it had to be Mr. Smith. And she knew that she would never say no to Artemis even if she asked for the moon and the stars.

There was only one joy in her life and that was her daughter.

Artemis Lowell.

“Yes, little man, it’s time for breakfast.”

If she could stomach it.

She wrapped the towel around her shoulders like a cape and headed for the kitchen. A sharp noise stopped her in her tracks before she’d gotten halfway. It had been so long since anyone had come to the door that it took her a full second to recognize the sound as a knock. She glanced over her shoulder. A dark form filled the pebbled glass of the door. She frowned. Who on earth would be visiting her at ten o’clock on a Thursday morning?

Her first thought was that it was Patrick, but she dismissed it instantly. He was hardly going to drive an hour out of town to visit her—not when he hadn’t bothered to pick up the phone in more than four months. No, she had a better chance of finding Elvis on the other side of that door than her ex-husband, and an even better chance of finding a complete stranger who probably wanted to sell her something.

The joy. Just what she wanted to deal with when she was shaky with fatigue and nausea.

She swung open the door, ready to give short shrift to the cold-calling salesman on her porch.

The man on her porch was definitely not a cold caller.

Nothing about this man was cold, from the deep chestnut of his wavy, almost shoulder-length hair to his cognac-brown eyes to his full, sensual mouth. Then there was his body— nothing cold there, either. Broad shoulders, a chest Tarzan would be proud of, flat belly, lean hips. All wrapped up in faded jeans and a moss-green sweater that was the perfect foil for his coloring.

IT WAS HIM.

Cassandra could not believe her eyes for a moment.

“Hey,” he said in an easy baritone. “I’m Samael Lowell. I moved in next door.” He gestured toward the house on the other side of the fence. “Wanted to give you a heads-up in case you saw me moving around and thought I was a burglar or something.”

He smiled, so warm and vibrant and alive it was almost offensive. His gaze slid down her face, scanning her body in a polite but thoroughly male assessment. She tightened her grip on the towel, glad it was draped over her shoulders and arms. Managing a stranger’s shock then polite sympathy once he got an eyeful of the impressive scars on her left arm was not part of her plan for her morning.

“Cassandra Lowell,” she said briskly, offering him her hand.

They shook briefly, his much bigger hand dwarfing hers.

She made a point of keeping her grip firm and looking him in the eye, a habit she’d acquired early in her career and one that had always alerted her about what kind of man she was dealing with.

Samael Lowell held her eye and didn’t seem surprised by the firmness of her grip. More importantly, he didn’t try to grind her hand into dust with his superior strength. Both marks in his favor.

“I was hoping you could give me some guidance on where the best place is to grab supplies and whatnot,” he said.

He hadn’t shaved for a few days and his whiskers glinted in the sunlight, a mixture of dark brown, bronze and gold.

She tore her gaze away and concentrated on his question.

“There aren’t many shops to choose from in town. One of everything, pretty much, which takes out the guesswork.”

Her legs were starting to tremble. She needed a protein drink and a shower and half an hour on her bed. She took a step backward to signal that she didn’t intend to stand on the doorstep chitchatting with him, golden stubble or no golden stubble.

“Figured that would be the case. It’s been years since I was here. But it doesn’t look as though much has changed.”

Nausea rolled through her, tightening her stomach and making her mouth water. She gripped the door frame. Any second now she was going to either throw up or wind up on her ass, and she wasn’t about to do either in front of a complete stranger.

“Listen, I have to go.” It came out more tersely than she’d intended, but there wasn’t much she could do about that.

He looked a little shocked, but before he could say anything, a long, furry body rushed past her and onto the porch.

For the first time she registered that he had a dog, too—a miniature schnauzer by the look of her. A miniature schnauzer that Mr. Smith was very pleased to meet, judging by all the tail-wagging and bottom-sniffing that was going on.

“Smitty. Inside,” she said sharply.

“It’s okay. He’s just saying hello, aren’t you, mate?” Samael smiled indulgently and bent to scratch Mr. Smith between the shoulder blades.

Her stomach rolled again. She swallowed and leaned forward to grab her dog’s collar. He was so involved with his new friend that she had to use considerable strength to yank him into the house, the effort only increasing the nausea burning at the back of her throat.

How could he see her and not recognize her???

“I don’t have time for this.”

She wasn’t sure who she was talking to—her new neighbor, her shaking body, her overeager dog or the man who had slept with her once and had never seen her again. It didn’t matter. And it also did not matter that her new neighbor was the father of her daughter, the one that he did not know she had and the one she did not want to share with him as well.

The man looked at her and could not even recognize her.

True, she was not the twenty-one year old naïve child any longer but was she that hideous and changed that he could even recognize the woman he had slept with? The one who had been a virgin and had said that she had been touched by men.

He did not even have a clue when she spoke her own name. That could only mean that she was so damn forgettable that he did not bother to take a moment to remember her.

The most important thing was that she was about to throw up.

One hand restraining Mr. Smith, she took a step backward and shut the door. In the split second before it cut her new neighbor from view, she saw his eyebrows shoot to- ward his hairline with surprise. One hand pressed to her mouth, she raced to the bathroom. She almost made it, the spasms hitting as she stepped over the threshold. Bracing her hands on her knees, her stomach released its contents all over the tiled floor.

For long moments afterward, she remained where she was, knees weak, a sour taste in her mouth. An emphatic reminder that her injured body had its limits. Finally she got down on her hands and knees and cleaned up.

At least she hadn’t thrown up on Mr. Sunshine. There was that small mercy to be grateful for. No doubt he thought she was incredibly rude all but slamming the door in his face.

She shrugged. There wasn’t much she could do about that, and it wasn’t the end of the world. They were hardly going to become bosom buddies, after all. She’d moved to the beach house for one reason and one reason only—to recover. She didn’t care who moved in next door or what he looked like or what he thought of her.

There was nothing that she had wanted from him then, because she knew that he would not be able to give her that and she was not going to definitely weep for that now because seven years had passed and she had changed the way that she was supposed to live her life. There was only one thing that was constant in her life and that was her daughter.

At this time when she was all alone she wished that there was someone to get her through this painful process of recovery but people did not get most of the time what they wanted. And right at this point of time she was alone and she needed to do this alone.

She only wanted her life back. And she would bloody well do her damnedest to get it.