Page 15 of Bargain with the Irish Devil

I get up to follow him.

“Don’t move.” It’s an order.

Sighing, I sink back into the chair. I study the scratch. It’s not too deep or long, but damn, it hurts like hell. I’m trying not to think of his mention of other women—or how easily I almost became one of them. If the cat hadn’t appeared, I would have begged him to bend me over the island the way he threatened.

He’s back with bandages, an antibiotic ointment, a large towel, and a smaller washcloth. Setting everything on the table, he goes to a cabinet and takes out a measuring cup. I can’t take my eyes off the fluid, graceful way he moves. He opens a bottle of still water, adds it to the measuring cup, and shakes a little salt into it.

“Salt water?” The scratch already stings like hell.

A nod. “I’m sorry, darlin’, it will be the best way. It’s either this or soap and water. You aren’t to rub it. It could push any bacteria into you instead of rinsing it away.”

“She’s scratched before then?” I’m thinking of the women she let hold her.

“Oh yes, she’s scratched me more times than I could count in the beginning. She didn’t like me putting her in a carrier to take her to the vet. After that, she wanted to let me know what she thought of me. One of the times left me needing an antibiotic.” He shakes his head. “I’m sorry. If I thought she would take a swipe at you, I wouldn’t have let her get close to you.”

She scratched him, and he still took care of her, getting a pet door for her and everything. “So she’s only scratched me and you?”

“Hm, yes. Jealous thing.” He murmurs as he goes down on his knees with the measuring cup in one hand. Setting it down beside my leg, he takes the large towel, folds it, and puts it on the floor. His strong hand grips my ankle gently. Picking up my foot, he places it on the towel.

“Why would she be jealous of me and not all the other women you’ve had in your home?”

That damn eyebrow goes up as his eyes meet mine. “It was maybe a half dozen women, and they weren’t allowed to do more thansleepover. I’ve never been down in the kitchen in the middle of the night feeding them or taking care of them.”

He’s down on his knees for me. The cat he clearly cared for kicked out of the house because it hurt me. And he’s never done any of this for anyone else.

“Not even for my wife.” The words are soft and destroy me in a way I didn’t think possible.

CHAPTER 5

Miranda

“Your wife?” My lips are numb at the idea of him married to another woman.

“Dead, love, long ago. I haven’t thought of her in years. But when I take you to bed, I might forget to put away the picture of us on our wedding day. It’s only there as an excuse to women that I’m not interested in anything more than pleasure. A shield to keep them from asking questions about tomorrow. The tragic widower card is one I’ve played often over the years. But it’s not true. Not when I was married and for less than a few months after her death, I felt more relief than anything and hated myself for it.”

His honesty twists me up inside. He’s saying what I knew: Declan Kelly wanted only sex from me. He would make it good, we would both enjoy it but when it was over—it would be over. There would be no hand-holding, or buying flowers. I would never have something as mundane as a date night or celebration of an anniversary.

Why did he have to say all of that while he’s down on his knees taking care of me the way he says he’s never taken care of anyone before? I believed him. He doesn’t have to lie.

He reads me like a book. “I want to be honest with you in everything I can be. Because there are going to be times I won’t be able to answer the questions you have.”

The words slam into me, reminding me of who—what he is. Like the scar tissue along his side, scar tissue that looks like it came from a bullet. I shake my head, looking down at my leg.

Unable to meet his eyes. “It doesn’t matter to me what you do or don’t do. The scratch looks fine. I’m sure some of the ointment and a band-aid will be good.”

I try to move my leg out of his hand. His grip tightens. A sigh comes out of him. “Fine won’t do. Hold still. Reading through your file, Miranda Beckett, I never thought you’d be a coward.”

I’m stung by the label of coward. It’s not fair— “Sonofabitch.” I groan as he pours the water over the scratch. It stings like a motherfucker. All I want is to fight him, but he won’t let me move an inch.

“Almost done.” He mutters as the last of it is emptied. Once the cup is empty, he sets it on the table. Taking the washcloth, he pats it over the scratch gently.

He opens a larger band-aid and squirts the ointment onto it. Applying the band-aid to my leg, he’s firm but gentle. The cool ointment feels good against the still-warm scratch. “Thank you.”

In a move so graceful I envy him, he’s up off his knees with the towel. “You’re welcome. I’m sorry about Banshee. I’ll make sure Aoife doesn’t let her in.”

I want to argue with him. To say something only I can’t. All I do is nod. The moment he steps back, I force myself to stand and escape from him, and the tension building all over again.

Taking the stairs at a near run. I fight not to slam the bedroom door closed but give into fear and lock it.

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