Page 3 of Claiming Her

Angel Davidson snatched up random items as she rushed through her apartment. She scooped books, a couple of t-shirts, and even a dessert plate into a hamper and slammed the lid—she’d deal with it later. The ominous bass of Hannibal’s boots thundered like a gothic movie soundtrack as he trudged up the stairs. Each step reverberated through her body, overpowering the pounding of her heart.

What had she been thinking?

She picked up her towel, still damp from her morning shower, and wiped the bathroom sink and counter before dumping it. Spidey was hiding.Smart cat, Angel knew good-and-darn well she’d hung that towel up to dry. She glanced at the bathroom and tried to take a steadying breath. The sunny white and yellow bathroom sparkled even as her heart shook.

The doorbell chime had her checking the mirror before answering.

She should put on lipstick, right?Her mother’s voice answered;yes. But if she listened tothatvoice, she would double lock the door.What are you thinking? Are you crazy? A strange man in your house, and a biker too?

Nope, she wasn’t listening tothatvoice. Listening meant living like an agoraphobic hermit—too scared to try anything or go anywhere. She’d homeschooled through high school, skipped college, and worked from home after graduation. Catering to the bitter fears her mother had developed after her parent’s divorce. Chained by duty, obligation… and guilt. Howcould she leave when her mother?

When her father died, enough had been enough. She’d missed most of his pleas for more time because her mother didn’t like to be alone. When she traveled to his Midwest hometown, from Texas, she knew her mother would worry.

But no more. Angel raced to answer the door when it chimed again. Braking to throw a pot in the dishwasher. She’d taken the combined small amount of money she’d inherited, earned an esthetician certificate, and moved to Stone’s Throw, Michigan. Eager to connect with the last place her father had lived and spend some time with his family, a widow, and two young children. Her younger siblings would be curious about the motorcycle parked in the driveway.

“Hi,” the door whooshed open, interrupting his knocks.

“Hi,” he smiled. “For a minute, I thought your bell didn’t work.”

“No, just doing a quick pick up. Wouldn’t want you to see anything that might earn me an awful review.” Okay, that sounded terrible, judging by how his brow winged up.

“As long as it wasn’t your man’s boxers, I wouldn’t care.”

“No, no worries there. No boxers and no man either.” She wrung her hands together to stop them from flying over her mouth.What was she saying?Now he knew she had no male looking out for her, protecting her. But then, had she ever? “Unless you count my twin brothers who live downstairs.”Okay, that was a little better.He didn’t need to know they were only six.

Angel had marveled at the apartment when Lorraine first showed it to her. The studio’s large open floor plan with its airy wraparound window had seemed more than she’d ever be able to fill with her two suitcases. But when Hannibal stepped inside, the room was claustrophobic.Did he say his name was Hannibal?The famous general had stormed across continents, charging in on an army of elephants—taking no prisoners. Yep, she could see it.

His long legs stood thick and wide, planting themselves in her suddenly small apartment. Leading up to his elephant-wide chest with long arms rippling with muscles. She almost didn’t believe he had a muscle cramp. Those muscles looked big enough to handle his bike and anything else he needed to carry.

“Is that going to be okay?” Angel pointed to the empty outline centered in the middle of his biceps. “I thought I heard the artist say you needed to do some cleanup. I wouldn’t want it to get infected. We could do this another day.”

His brow lifted again. “Nope, I’m good. Not my first tattoo, I can handle it. In fact, if you’ve got some antiseptic cream and vaseline, you can help me take care of it.”

“Oh, okay, yes.” She w walked to the bathroom and inventoried her medicine chest. No child of Andrea’s would have an apartment without it. “This might work.” Her face turned into his chest wall when she spun around. How had he snuck up on her? He was quieter than Spidey. She felt the heat rise on her face. “If you want to go back to the living room….”

“This is fine.” He sat on her toilet seat, and she half expected the thing to crack. He draped his jacket over his lap. And she wheezed out a breath.

“Okay.” Angel bit her lip and looked down at her supplies. “I assume I need to clean it first, then go over it with….”

His knuckles brushed hers as he removed items from the kit. Hannibal’s hands dwarfed the small tubes as he lined them up. “Use this first, follow with this one, and the Vaseline to finish.”

Succinct directions, but she could make it work. Twenty-four years living with a hypochondriac could do that.Once Hannibal was all patched up, sorta, since he’d refused a bandage, they returned to her living room. Angel held her breath again when he sat on her couch. The pressed wood of her bargain sofa moaned and complained but didn’t break. Damn, the guy was enormous—but gorgeous. He filled the space and stole the air from her lungs. She’d wanted to take more chances with her life. That was why she’d left, and damn if she would ever take a chance with a man. He’d be her first choice. She’d never had a one-night stand. Never understood the appeal. She wanted love. Someone at long last to care and stay. Who wouldn’t run out like her dad but wouldn’t squeeze too tight like her mom. Someone happy just to spend time with her. Loving her. But looking at his firm, tight ass and touching his abs had her wondering. If all she could get was one night or, even better, a few nights, would it be so bad?

“Nice place.” His eyes wandered around the room, and she rubbed her arms. Each time his eyes landed on something, she felt the sting as if he were ripping off a band-aid and exposing a wound. She didn’t have much since she was still starting out, but she’d selected each piece with love. A testimony to her freedom. She would choose what she wanted. Take control. If she didn’t like it, it wouldn’t be here. She had the final say, and not him or anybody else would make her doubt her choices again. “Live here long?”

“No. I moved here about eight months ago. My father’s family lives downstairs, and he saved the upstairs apartment for me.” She gave herself a mental pat on the back. Good.

Be vague; he doesn’t need to know the house has no one living in it but two women and three small kids.

“Where do you live?” The dark brown orbs held hers when she met the eyes she’d been avoiding. As if he’d only been patiently waiting for her to step into his lair. She rubbed her arms again.

What was she doing? The man was devastatingly handsome. A whisper-fine pelt of hair covered his head. The silvery brown fuzz kept him from appearing bald. He had the high cheekbones and square jaw of a fashion model. But the slash down the middle of his brow broke its perfect line, streaking its way into his hairline. Another bump on his nose broke up the aquiline feature, just enough to remind her of a young Richard Gere. Even the purse of his pink bow lips called to her. On any other man, those perfect lips would have looked effeminate. But another nick in his chin and the tattoos under it dispelled that image. The tattoo of a name vined up from his t-shirt, wrapping his neck in greenery—the name was written in blood red and accented with gold. Whose name? Was it a woman?

“I live in Texas.”

“That’s pretty far from Michigan.”

“I get around.” He arched his brow again, and his scar slid up to mock her.

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