Page 4 of Luck of the Devil
Sure, I’d noticed James Malcolm was a good-looking man, and sure, I’d also noticed he was in amazing shape for a man in his early forties. And, okay, parts of me had noticed those things as well and responded to them, but those previous instances were nothing compared to what I was feeling at the moment, and I wasn’t sure what to do with that.
I let my dress drop to the floor, then sat on the toilet to put on my yoga pants as my mind reeled.
I could not sleep with James Malcolm. Talk about bad decisions. But it was a moot point since he’d made it crystal clear he wasn’t interested in me that way.
After taking several deep breaths, I tugged the spaghetti-strap shirt over the strapless bra I’d been wearing since I’d gotten the stitches, then got to my feet.
I hesitated as I reached for the doorknob. Had Malcolm noticed my reaction? If he had, would he believe it if I said I was ticklish?
My emotions were raw, and as much as I hated to admit it, I was probably suffering from alcohol withdrawal. That had to be what this was about.
The back of my neck was sweaty again, and I briefly considered putting my hair up, but I didn’t want Malcolm to think he made me nervous. I opened the door and stood in the opening, giving myself a moment to gauge his reaction. Malcolm was standing next to the table, and he’d set a blue cloth out on the table with a couple of stainless-steel tools on top of it.
“You brought your own tweezers and scissors?” I asked as I moved closer and took inventory.
“You think I’m gonna use the tweezers you use to pluck your eyebrows?” he scoffed.
I couldn’t suppress the smile spreading across my face. The forceps he’d brought looked medical grade and nothing like the pair I’d picked up at the drugstore. “I suppose that wouldn’t be very hygienic. Where do you want me?”
He turned to look at me. “You can sit at the table.” He took in my bare shoulders and upper chest, but didn’t say anything as I walked over to the table. He’d turned the chairs so they were facing each other, one in front of my coffee mug and the other next to his medical kit. I sat in front of my latte and took a sip. It was still warm, but more importantly, I was hoping the caffeine would help take my edge off. Not likely, since caffeine typically had the opposite effect.
Malcolm watched me, still standing.
“Would you like me to make you something?” I asked.
“You can when I’m done,” he said.
“I don’t have any to-go cups.”
“Won’t be needin’ one,” he said, taking a seat in the chair opposite me. Then he started to pull on what looked like a pair of nitrile gloves.
So, he planned to stay after he was done. Why? We weren’t friends, something he’d insisted both times we’d worked together, but there was no denying he’d saved my life last week when Skip Martin had kidnapped me to find out what I knew about the finances of Hugo Burton, the man he’d murdered five years before. Skip had also made it clear he intended to kill me and leave my body somewhere so Malcolm would be accused of my murder. That’s why it could be argued that Malcolm had only burst into the cellar to save his own hide by saving me.
But we both knew better.
He’d eliminated the threat to my life when he’d killed Skip and his underling, Pinky. I wasn’t in any danger other than the mild concussion I’d suffered after Pinky had run my car off the road and I’d crashed into a tree. But he’d taken me to his office at his tavern and woke me up every few hours to assess my status.
Those were the actions of a friend.
His bartender Misti and his attorney Carter Hale had told me that Malcolm took care of his own, meaning his employees, and that I had come into the fold. I wasn’t sure what that meant exactly since he hadn’t hired me. We’d only worked together to fulfill our mutual business needs, and I’d been too numb over the past five days to give it much thought.
But now, as Malcolm picked up a pair of fine-tip scissors, my mind fully went there.
What did his presence here mean?
He must have seen the cogs in my head grinding, because he said gruffly, “Don’t read too much into me being here. We have things to discuss, and I knew you wouldn’t be bothered with removing the sutures, so, two birds with one stone.”
“Yeah,” I said, as I slipped the strap of my gray camisole down over my shoulder. “Makes sense.” But I wasn’t sure what we had to discuss. We’d solved the case of who killed Hugo Burton, so I didn’t think he was here for that.
He studied my healed wound, then lightly probed around it with both hands. “It looks like it healed okay. No sign of infection.”
I didn’t see any reason to say anything since he wasn’t asking a single question. The true wonder was that I hadn’t pulled out any stitches during my car accident and kidnapping. Or that, other than Malcolm and the nurse in the woods, no one else knew I had them.
He lightly rested a hand on my shoulder as his scissors slipped under the first suture and snipped. He reached for the forceps and grabbed the knotted end, then gave a tug.
I drew in a breath as a pain shot through my shoulder blade.
“Sorry,” he murmured, dropping the suture onto the blue cloth. “Only eight more to go.”
