My Man Michael (2 page)

Disinterested, sick at heart, Mallet looked at the nurse with dead eyes and a trampled heart. “I’m not hungry.”

“Oh, come on now.” Light fingers touched his biceps. “A big fellow like you has to eat.”

Knowing she brought the meal herself as an avenue to flirting, he looked away. What use was he to a woman with one leg shot to hell and the other a long way from healed?

What use was he to anyone, or anything?

Her sigh, subtle and filled with frustration, sounded loud in the silent room. “How about I just leave this here in case you change your mind?” Sidled up beside his narrow bed, she began the morning routine of checking his vitals. “You’re due for your pain medicine, but I’d prefer you eat first—”

“I don’t need it.” He relished the pain. It was his hair shirt, a reminder that no matter how hard he worked, everything could be stripped away in the blink of an eye.

“Do you at least want some coffee or—”

“No.”

Giving up, she started out of the room. “The doctor will be in to see you shortly.”

To do what? Mallet wondered. He’d seen the hospital staff, had every test done, talked to specialists, all without a change in his prognosis.

How many ways did they want to tell him that his mangled right leg would never again function? Should he be thrilled that with a lot of therapy and several surgeries, he might be able to keep it—useless as it’d be?

Was he just supposed to accept that no matter how hard he worked at recovery, he would never again fight?

What else did he know but fighting? All his life, he’d been a competitor. First and foremost with himself. In so many ways, he was his own worst enemy.

But he’d found a family with the SBC, the only real family he’d ever known. They’d knocked him off his high horse, then built him back up, better, stronger. Accepted and befriended, even respected.

If he no longer fit in with them, what would he do?

What would he be?

“I’ve never seen anyone sulk so much.”

Startled, because he’d thought himself alone, Mallet looked toward that deep, melodic voice and found a slight woman sitting in front of the frost-covered window. Or more like . . . she perched, butt and feet both on the window shelf, arms crossed over her knees. A sleeveless gray tunic covered her upper body.

At either side of her, colorful flower arrangements, sent by fighters’ wives, made a bizarre frame.

How had she gotten in without him noticing?

Palest blond hair in a deep side part hung straight and baby-fine to her shoulders. Large, heavily lashed hazel eyes studied him.

Bemused, Mallet looked her over, from her odd positioning against the window to her lithe limbs to a mouth that defied description.

Only in a fantasy,
his
fantasies, had he seen a mouth like that.

“How’d you get in here?”

“Ah, so you can speak in complete sentences. I was wondering if I had the wrong man.” She slipped off the ledge with grace and agility, her hard-soled ankle boots tapping the floor as she stood. Long, trim legs encased in black leggings ate up the distance until she stood close by. Her arms, as gangly as her legs, were bare, lightly muscled, and very smooth. She was tall for a woman, but slightly built.

At his bedside, she tilted her head, sending that platinum hair swinging in a silky, distracting dance, as smooth and fluid as a fall of water.

Entranced, Mallet stared up at her.

Voice soft and rich, she said, “You mope for no reason, sir. A warrior, no matter the condition of his limbs, remains a warrior for all of his life.”

Warrior?
Mope?
Her assurances—if that’s what they were—annoyed Mallet enough that he stopped wondering how and why she’d come in, and instead turned defensive. “What do you know of it? Of any of it?”

Perching a trim, tight derriere on the edge of his mattress, she surveyed him in unadorned sympathy. In a ballsy move that shocked him stupid, she put both hands on his right leg, the one with the most damage.

Using an impersonal butterfly touch that somehow aroused as much as it offended, she stroked the length of his thigh and along his knee and shin. Through the thin layer of the sheet and the bulky padding of bandages, her touch stirred him.

“Stop that!” Though appalled, both by her daring and his reaction to it, Mallet didn’t move to catch and restrain her hands. He couldn’t. It was as if invisible steel bands held him in place.

Her gaze lifted, warm as honey, as intoxicating as whiskey, and that killer mouth spared the smallest of intriguing smiles. “Sir, what I know is that you can be whole in body again.”

“Whole in body?”

“Yes, sir. I can take you to a place that will again make you a complete warrior, a man with two legs that serve him.” She tipped her head. “But you’d have to accept my proposition.”

Her strange appearance was made more so by her strange speech. “Your pro—”

The door swung open and the doctor, so damned jovial, stepped in. “Michael. How we are we faring today? Anxious to get out of here, I bet.”

Mallet blinked at the doc, then looked back to see . . . the woman gone. Just like that.

She wasn’t anywhere.

What the hell?

Now he was losing his mind, too? Had he imagined her, their conversation and the effect of her touch?

If so, why didn’t he drum up a sexy and willing woman instead of an impish vision of long legs, soul-sucking eyes, and a mouth made of sin, captured in a confusing package that addressed him as “sir”?

“Give me the fucking pain pill.”

The doctor hesitated at his foul mood. “Your pain has worsened?”

Yeah, in a way it had. On top of a useless leg and a shit attitude, he now had a boner.

If that didn’t call for drugs, nothing did.

 

 

Now that he slept again, Kayli Raine circled his bed, studying him from many angles. It wasn’t fear that nearly stole her breath away.

Knowing the differences of their worlds, she’d done her studies and tried to prepare herself—but she’d failed.

He was so big.

So dark and powerful.

The sheer size of him fascinated her. Even forewarned with reports of a larger people, he was more than she’d ever imagined, at least six feet five inches tall and two hundred pounds or more. In her world, men were only slightly larger than the women, who averaged a few inches over five feet.

She knew the reasoning; she’d studied her history books well. Once additives, especially steroids, were stripped from the food source, giants no longer grew.

Yet there he was, not only huge, but layered in muscles . . . everywhere. Her natural curiosity made her long to explore those muscles, to test their resilience, their durability.

His potency.

She didn’t dare. Not again.

She’d assessed his leg and found it not irreparable, but the strength in that damaged limb, the brawn . . . Kylie shivered.

He’d make a valiant warrior. He would make things right again.

Once she convinced him.

While she stared at his face, making note of the high cheekbones and chiseled jaw, the kink in his nose no doubt caused by a past contretemps, his eyes opened.

Bright, vivid blue.

As they had the first time, they took her aback, and she had to check her reaction so that he didn’t see her as vulnerable. He needed to know that they were on equal footing, both warriors, both with a higher purpose.

“Hello, sir.”

He blinked hard, and as Kayli watched, his brows pinched down into a ferocious frown.

Belying the severity of his injuries, he sat up and looked around the room. “You,” he said, pointing at her, “are not real.”

Kayli didn’t know what to think of that. “I assure you that I am.” Desperate to convince him, she moved closer, took his large, warm hand, and put it to the side of her face. “Touch me.”

“No!” He snatched back his hand as if she’d burned him, when he was the one with the fevered skin. “Stop that.”

“Why?” Kayli tipped her head, somewhat perplexed. “You wanted verification that I’m—”

“I want to know what the hell you’re doing in my room!”

Ah. Right to the point. It was a good quality for a warrior, for a savior. She liked that. She liked
him
—despite his current sour mood and lack of initiative.

“I’m here to negotiate with you.” She glanced at his big body, started to look away, but her gaze returned. At the top of his thighs, the sheet lifted in a curious way. “What—”

“Get out.” He pulled the pillow from behind him and slapped it down over his lap. “Now.”

This wasn’t going well at all. All her life, Kayli had known her flaws as well as her assets. Diplomacy was not her strong suit. Candor was counted a flaw.

“Please, sir, I would ask that you calm yourself.” His raised voice might bring rubber-soled nurses running, and that would only delay their talk.

His jaw locked and the blue of his eyes burned like the hot center of a flame. “Do not call me sir.”

“As you wish.” Wondering how she should address him, Kayli sat on the side of his bed. She couldn’t afford to exacerbate his temper, so she made every attempt at affability. “What shall I call you then?”

“Don’t call me anything.” Already his burst of strength waned, leaving him pale as he slumped back on one arm, half sitting up, half reclining. “Just get out of my head.”

In his time period, anything unexplainable was explained as imagined. But she couldn’t afford for him to think her a figment of fantasy. “I assure you I’m not in your head. I’m real skin and bones, just as you are.” But then, not like him at all. “You felt me, did you not?”

“Not as I’d like, no.” Groaning, he dropped to his back and stared at the ceiling. Kayli looked, but saw nothing of interest there to hold his attention.

Though he looked pained, she knew it wasn’t a physical ailment. “How may I prove my existence to you?”

Outside his door, voices sounded. Michael locked his gaze on hers. “You want to prove you’re here? That you’re real?”

“It’s necessary, yes.” If he didn’t recognize her existence, how could she convince him to accept her proposition?

“Then don’t move.”

The voices grew nearer. The urge to disappear coursed through her. “You have guests coming.”

His lip curled. “A real woman wouldn’t care, now would she?”

“You doubt I’m a woman?”

His eyes flared. His gaze moved over, and he croaked, “No.” He cleared his throat, brought his attention back to her face, and spoke again. “No, I see that you’re female, all right. I just don’t know if I’m delusional or not.”

“Oh.” Kayli considered the situation, and decided her presence now would cause no negative impact. “To prove that you are not delusional, I’ll stay.” She moved away from the bed. “And afterward, we must talk.”

The door pushed open and an impressively sized man with a clean-shaven head led a parade of visitors. Behind him, a blond woman and a dark-haired woman conversed, and behind both of them, strode another large, silent man.

They all pulled up short when they saw her.

Knowing her garb to be out of fashion for them, and sensing their protectiveness toward their wounded friend, she held out a hand in the universal sign of peaceful intent.

“Hello. I’m Kayli Raine.”

They all stared. The bald man moved first, stepping forward while the others remained in mute fascination. His massive hand engulfed her own, so warm but gentle. “Simon Evans. How are you?”

“Tired from my journey, but not as tired as our friend here. He’s just awakened from a short nap.”

Simon lifted one brow, stared some more, and without sparing a glance for his warrior-friend in the bed, motioned the blonde forward.

“Kayli, this is my wife, Dakota. And that’s Dean Connor, and his wife, Eve.”

Husbands and wives.

Life mates.

Something kicked inside Kayli’s heart; possibly yearning. But her life was not meant for such sharing with another. She knew her duty, had long ago accepted—even relished—her fate.

While Michael lay in the bed, disbelieving, Kayli spoke with each person, talking her way through a mild interrogation and a lot of suspicion.

“Michael.” Kayli watched, and when the daze faded from his eyes, she smiled.

That just made him dazed again.

“Would you care for refreshments? Since you skipped your morning meal, I could locate a drink for you.”

“No.” He looked at each of his friends in turn, all of whom were looking at her, then brought his gaze back to Kayli. “I’m good.”

Simon shook himself and finally gave his attention to Michael. “Good, huh? Well that’s one hell of an improvement. Should I give credit to your lady friend?”

“No.”

Dakota put her hands on her hips. “She’s here, and you’re sitting up, so I’m giving her credit.”

Dean lounged against the wall. “Where’d you two meet?”

“Here, in this very room,” Kayli said. “Just this morn.”

“Ah.” Dean nodded. “Now I get it. You weren’t already acquainted.”

“No, we were not. I knew of him, of course. But he knew nothing of me.”

The one named Eve pasted on a smile. “Are you a fight fan, Kayli?”

Their attempts to mask curiosity with social conversation made her head swim. “Warriors are impressive, and Michael in particular is very honorable.”

“Honorable?” Dean glanced between Michael and her. “What do you mean?”

“You should ask the truck driver who caused the accident.” With that said, Kayli walked over to stand beside him. “Satisfied?”

“No.”

So surly. “What more can I do?”

“Nothing.” He glanced up at his friends, his complexion turned ruddy, and he beckoned her down closer.

When Kayli complied, he whispered, “Go away now, okay?”