This is Who I Am

“What an awful man.” Betty set her hands on her hips. “I’m going to talk to Curtis about the quality of staff he employs.” Giving a huff of fury, she marched out.

Linda stared after her. Brassy red hair with graying roots, round face, quick temper, the owner of the coffee shop was as sweet as her pastries. However, if the newspaper revealed Linda had visited a BDSM club before being kidnapped, Betty’s sweetness might quickly change.

Odd, wasn’t it? As a slave, she’d thought rescue would end all her problems. Guess not. Mouth flattening, she straightened her shoulders. It was a nightmare, but all nightmares eventually ended, right? She just had to hang in there. I’m strong. I am.

Chapter Twelve

Sam scowled at the cars lining the curb in Linda’s cul-de-sac and ended up parking several houses down. As he walked down the sidewalk, he saw the red and yellow balloons dotting the yard next door. Children were laughing, yelling, whooping. Sounded like someone was having a birthday party. His jaw tightened as he remembered the one time he’d given a party for Nicole.

An hour before the party, Nancy had gone to town to fetch the cake. After demanding a refund, she’d used the money to buy drugs. Oxycodone. She’d returned midparty, higher than a kite, foulmouthed and out of control. He’d had to ask another child’s mother to supervise as he kept his wife out of the room. Had to turn the music up to drown out her yelling and cursing. Had to call the parents to pick up their children early. A major clusterfuck.

Nicole had refused any more parties. So each birthday, he’d taken her and her buddies to a children’s pizza place or a skating rink or a water park. They’d never told Nancy.

Had to wonder if Nicole would have found it easier to have a consistently abusive mother rather than one who was loving at intervals, but viciously destructive the rest of the time? Why the hell couldn’t he have made her life easier?

When he reached Linda’s, he spotted new white blotches on the house. He scowled. The asshole had marked up her house again. Because Sam hadn’t been around. Looked like he was letting everyone down.

As he tapped on the door, he felt his muscles tighten. Would she still be pissed off? Or worse, hurt?

The door opened. “Sam!” Happiness lit her eyes. Then her expression turned flat. “Go away.” She started to close the door.

Hell. He stuck his foot in the door. “I’m sorry.”

“Get your boot out.” She shoved on the door and glared.

Stubborn woman. He pushed the door open far enough for his shoulders. Far enough that he could bracket her face with his hands and compel her to actually see him. Her eyes looked haunted. His chest squeezed. “Linda, I’m sorry.”

“Apology accepted. Now go.”

Despite his remorse, he had to laugh. “That’s not forgiveness, girl. Is that hypocrisy what you taught your children?”

His insult struck home, but she didn’t retreat. “So I’m a bad example. I didn’t teach them to be fuck toys either.”

He slapped the door hard enough to make his palm sting. “You’re no goddamned fuck toy!” He pulled in a breath. Stow it, Davies. “You are undoubtedly the strongest woman I know.”

Surprise weakened her posture.

“Don’t you want to hear me grovel?”

She leaned her head against the edge of the door and closed her eyes. A second passed. Another.

The sound of her shuddering breath shook him. If she started to cry, she would break his heart.

Finally, she looked at him, then nodded. “All right. Come on in.”

AS SAM WALKED past her, the chill winter air slipped in the door after him. Linda shook her head. How in the world had he managed to change her mind? She didn’t have anything to say to him; there was nothing between them except pain and sex.

As if to refute that, he gathered her into a warm, nonsexual hug. “Even if you don’t want to”—he snorted—“be my fuck toy, can we be friends?”

Friends? Why did his work shirts have to smell like sunshine? She rested her cheek on the well-worn fabric, thinking of all the times he’d held her. Talked to her. He’d helped her scrape her house. Had cooked her breakfast. Demanded an old Clint Eastwood movie as payback for her Katharine Hepburn one. Played guitar with her and then for her as she wove a new basket. Somehow, in those few days, he’d sneaked right past her defenses. Yes, friends. “I’m sorry I was rude.”

He rubbed his chin on the top of her head. “I like knowing you can fight back.”

Me too. And more than fight back. Darned if she’d let him get away with only an apology. “Are you going to explain?”

The muscles under her cheek turned rigid. “Yes.”

Just the one word. But it was enough to tell her he had a reason for not wanting her to see his home—one that made him uncomfortable. He didn’t want to tell her.

Although Frederick hadn’t had a problem talking about anything and everything, Charles had been a taciturn teenager. So she’d treat Sam as she did Charles. “Come and help me get supper ready.” Kitchens were designed for sharing more than food.

She settled Sam on a stool at the big island and assigned him to putting together a salad. When she put a glass of wine in front of him, he gave her a surprised look.

“No beer, sorry.” Her lips twitched as she glanced at the sink where she’d dumped the contents of the three bottles of beer he’d left in her refrigerator.

His gaze followed hers, and laughter lit his eyes. “You got a nasty temper there, missy.” He took a sip of wine.

After a second of thought, she abandoned her original plan of a supper of tomato soup and crackers. Potatoes went into the oven. She browned pork chops, poured cream of mushroom soup over them, and tucked them in to bake as well.

“Salad’s done,” Sam said. The tightness had left his face, and he’d finished his wine. She poured him more and some for herself.

After putting crackers and cheese on a platter, she sat beside him. “What’s at your house that you don’t want me to see?”

“Like dead wives stored in closets?” When a corner of his mouth curved up with amusement, her breath caught. He had such a hard face that his sense of humor tended to catch her by surprise.

“Yeah, like that.” Following techniques learned from raising teenagers, Linda turned her attention to the cheese and crackers.

“She’s not dead.”

“Your ex-wife?”

“Right.” He put a piece of cheese on a cracker and simply held it. Stared at it. “She was—is—a drug addict. Made life hell.” He rubbed his jaw. “I haven’t taken a woman there since. When you…” He paused.

“Women don’t go home with you? Ever?”

“No.” His mouth tightened.

Heavens. She stared at him. That must have been one nasty marriage. Considering how many whips Sam owned, his wife was lucky to have survived. Then again, she’d come to realize that although he might be a sadist—or because he was one—he held to stronger rules of conduct than most “normal” guys. “I can’t imagine what you went through. So it wasn’t about me at all?”

“No.” He turned his hand over and squeezed her fingers. “Just me being a goddamned idiot. You’re welcome to come out to the farm, Linda.”

A simple, sincere invitation. Her heart did a flip-flop. I’m in trouble, all right. But what would it hurt to see where this would go? She leaned her cheek against his rough-skinned hand as the warmth in her heart blossomed. “I’d like to see your place someday.”

“It’s spring. There’ll soon be babies—chicks, calves, foals, goslings.” He tugged her hair. “You’ll enjoy it.”

“Because I’m a mother?” She huffed a laugh and added as a joke, “Are fuck toys supposed to be into babies?”

His bark of a laugh was a reward. “Girl, you’re as maternal as they come.” The warmth in his gaze said he found that side of her nature attractive. Found her attractive.

The glow of that disappeared when he yanked her to her feet. “Time you learned not to call yourself names.”

Her mouth dropped open. “But…”

“No buts. No excuses. No more.” His grip was daunting, his uncompromising expression even more so.

She had a feeling that even begging wasn’t going to save her poor bottom.

* * * *

A noise roused Linda. Was her next-door neighbor working on his house again? So early? I am not getting up yet. Unless… She rolled over and disappointingly found no one to rouse. Darn early risers.

The pounding started up again. Phooey. As she tried to burrow into the bedding, various hurts came to life. The sheet scraped over her sore back and bottom. Her breasts were tender from the wonderfully ouchy clamps Sam had used. As her lips curved at the memory, her nipples tightened into peaks that made the ache even worse.

She wiggled her butt on the bed to increase the burn there, enjoying both the memory and the wakening flame inside her.

Makeup sex with a sadist was amazing.

More pounding. Could that be her door? Not fair. I haven’t even had breakfast yet. Grumpily, she slipped out of bed and picked up her robe. The children planned to visit next weekend, so it wouldn’t be them. Had she paid the paperboy yet? Probably some door-to-door salesman.