Broken (4 page)

And when Mick turns onto a tree-lined drive, I'm wishing I'd hired a full-on private investigator because I'm pretty sure the building to my right is an honest-to-God
stable.

“How long have you worked for the Langdons?” I ask, now completely confident that Mick is a full-time employee for a wealthy family and not just an occasional luxury.

He doesn't meet my eyes in the mirror this time. “Long time,” he says finally, his tone terser than it was before.

Got it. No chitchat about our employer.

Then I see the house. Actually,
house
is a stretch. It's more like a compound.

There are at least three buildings within easy walking distance of the main house, which rivals the grandest of the Hamptons homes I've been to. I'm still gaping when Mick comes around and opens the door for me. The house is neither modern minimalism nor ornate ostentation. The only time I've seen anything like it was when my parents and I spent Christmas in the Swiss Alps at a resort chalet. It's three stories of perfectly maintained wood, gray stone chimneys, and high-peaked roofs.

I can't help but picture it in the snow, maybe adorned with white lights at Christmas. Not that I'm trying to romanticize the whole thing, but I have to admit…it's not a bad place to banish oneself.

“Mr. Langdon would prefer you stay in the main house close to Mr. Paul,” Mick says, taking my suitcase out of the trunk. “But if that doesn't work out, there's plenty of room in the staff house—the ‘small house,' as we call it.”

I frown a little at what I think must be a hidden meaning in those words. Why wouldn't it work out for me to stay in the main house?

I follow Mick through the front door, doing my best not to gape. I've been in so many nice homes that I'm generally sort of immune to all the bells and whistles that money can buy, but this is gorgeous in an unfamiliar way. There's none of the ostentatious snobbery of Park Avenue, nor the trying-too-hard casualness of Hamptons beach homes. Instead it's sort of this rustic beauty. In place of a marble foyer with a crystal chandelier, there's a spacious entryway opening to a wide wooden staircase. There's almost nothing in the way of home decor save for a hunter-green area rug, but that actually kind of works. Too many frills would take away from the natural beauty of the exposed wood.

It definitely feels like a man's home, and I find myself wishing I'd bothered to look up what happened to
Mrs.
Langdon. Because while it's gorgeous in an imposing sort of way, it's clear that no woman has called this home in a long time. Maybe ever.

I follow Mick into the biggest kitchen I've ever seen. The stove in the middle of the room has like eight burners, and the fridge is at least twice the size of ours at home.

Mick is murmuring something to a middle-aged woman whose apron over her jeans and button-down blue shirt identify her as the one responsible for whatever smells so delicious on the stove.

“Ms. Middleton, this is Linda Manning.”

“Olivia, please,” I say with a smile.

“Call me Lindy,” the gray-haired woman says, shaking my hand in a friendly enough manner, although it's clear that I'm being assessed. “You're a good deal younger than the rest of them.”

“The rest of…the staff?” I ask, not following.

Mick and Lindy exchange a glance. I'm obviously missing something.

“There's really not much in the way of staff,” Mick says with a forced smile. “I take care of the driving and estate management. Lindy doubles as cook and housekeeper, although a couple of girls from town come over every week to help with the more extensive cleaning. Scott takes care of the land and the stable.”

“Oh,” I murmur, still confused about what they're not saying. And
stable
? Really?

Luckily, Lindy doesn't seem like the type to be needlessly mysterious. “When I said you were the youngest, I meant you were younger than the other home care aides. I'm used to seeing fuddy-duddy old women or thirtysomething charity workers.” She pauses. “Have you and Mr. Langdon met in person?”

“Not yet,” I say. “But I'm eager to meet him. Is he around?”

Mick and Lindy exchange yet another of those glances, and I narrow my eyes just slightly at the familiarity in the look. Something tells me Mick and Lindy are more than colleagues. I guess that's a good thing, considering they're out here in the middle of nowhere all by themselves.

“Mr. Langdon only comes up to Bar Harbor every few months or so,” Lindy replies cautiously. “Did he tell you he'd be here?”

I feel a little stupefied. Every few
months
? I mean, I knew that he didn't live here, but I thought he'd at least be here when I arrived to provide specific direction on what's expected of me.

“I guess he didn't say so specifically,” I say, trying not to totally freak out on them. “I just assumed…”

“Well, no matter,” Lindy says, giving me a confident smile. “We'll give you the lay of the land and introduce you to Mr. Paul, and you'll feel right at home.”

I'm pretty sure Mick mutters something under his breath, but then he's wheeling my suitcase out of the kitchen, nodding in acknowledgment at Lindy's instruction that I'm to be put in the Green Room.

“It's got a fantastic view of the water,” she says, tugging off her apron. “And it's close to Mr. Paul's room should he need anything.”

“Where is, um, Mr. Paul?” I ask, following their naming convention even though it feels like something out of another century.

Lindy's confident expression slips slightly, and for a second I think she wants to warn me about something, but her smile returns. “He spends most mornings in the library reading,” she says, indicating with a nod that I should follow her. “He's probably there.”

“Isn't it afternoon?” I ask.

Lindy doesn't turn around. “He spends the afternoons in there too. And the evenings.”

Yikes
.

“Hey, Lindy,” I ask, moving between her and the door of what I assume is the library before she can knock. “What, um…what is it that I'm expected to
do
? Nobody's really told me any specifics.”

She purses her lips. “Mr. Langdon didn't outline any expectations?”

“Oh, sure. He said I'm to encourage his son to get to physical therapy—”

Lindy snorts.

“—and that I'm to ensure he eats regularly.”

Another snort.

“But mostly just that I should be a companion. Keep the man company.”

Lindy doesn't respond to this last bit, and too late I realize she isn't looking at me. She's looking
behind
me.

I spin around and barely stifle a shriek when I see the silhouette of a man standing in the darkened doorway.

I can't see his face, but his voice is ice cold. “Sounds like my father forgot to mention the most important part of your job. But then, he never tells my babysitters what they're
really
doing here.”

I take a small step forward, wanting to get a look at the man I'm talking to, but he takes a step back, hiding himself in the darkness.

“And what's that?” I ask, narrowing my eyes.

“Suicide watch.”

The door slams in my face.

God fucking damn it.

Damn it all to
hell.

Before I can think about it, my arm is in motion, and the crystal shatters against the wall. I barely register that Pappy Van Winkle bourbon is trickling down the wall into an expensive puddle on the hardwood.

I thought I was prepared.

Hell, I
was
prepared.

I was prepared to greet whatever matronly, pious do-gooder was next in line in my father's endless supply of babysitters and make her feel right at home. Okay, that's an exaggeration. But I had every intention of not being a dick. I was going to show her my good side—my right side. Maybe even force a smile.
Welcome
her. I'd spent all night telling myself that a washed-up hag wouldn't care what I looked like.

But the woman on the other side of the door? No, the
girl
. She's no washed-up hag. This caregiver is…beautiful.

And I don't think it's just the fact that I haven't been with a woman in longer than I want to think about and haven't seen a girl my own age in longer than that. She's hot. Big green eyes, long blond hair that I want to tangle my fingers in. A wide, lush mouth that I want…

No.
No fucking way.

She can't be more than twenty-two. All of the others were at
least
in their mid-thirties. This woman—this
girl
—is exactly the sort of person I exiled myself to Maine to avoid.

She's tempting. Not just in the sexual way, although yeah, there's that. But with that briefest of glimpses, she tempts me with something worse: she makes me long for
normal
.

She has to go. Now.

I make a fist and ram it hard against my thigh, punching myself in punishment.
Of all things, you had to go and tell her you're on
suicide watch
?
But it was instinctive. I wanted to drive her away hard and fast, and that seemed like a surefire way of scaring off someone who has to be a rookie at this business.

She'll be scampering back to the car by now, and I tell myself I'm glad. I don't need a gorgeous blonde to remind me of all the things I can't have.

Except…

My eyes fly open.

That damned ultimatum.

To say that my father one-upped me on this is an understatement. The three-month commitment to playing nice was bad enough when I thought I'd be dealing with a crotchety old woman, but
this
? Asking me to spend three months in the company of this gorgeous blonde?

This is sheer manipulation. My father isn't just trying to lure me back to the real world, he's
throwing
me into it.

I push my fingers into my eyes as the reality of my situation wraps around my brain and squeezes. What are my options?

I can tell my dad to shove it—let the girl get back into that car with Mick, and as a result be out on my ass with nowhere to go and not a cent to my name. And I can leave Alex's wife and daughter with
nothing
.

Or…I can chase after Goldilocks and pretend that I want her here. Pretend that I
need
her so that my best friend's daughter can live.

Damn it. There's not a choice. Not really.

I move toward the door, only to falter when pain rips through my calf.
Shit.
It's been a long time since I've forgotten to favor my left leg. That right there tells me how much trouble I'm in. For a second, I forgot who I am.
What
I am.

I'm no longer Paul Langdon, hotshot quarterback and all-American hero off to war. I'm Paul Langdon, disfigured recluse and of no use to anyone. Hell, I can't even be of use to myself. I can't even fucking
walk
.

Before I can give my dad the proverbial finger and tell him I don't need his house or his money, I need to get my shit together. And in order to do that…

I turn away from the desk and move as quickly as I can across the room. I hesitate briefly with my hand on the doorknob, all too aware that my life is about to turn upside down.

My heart is thundering and I'm trying to tell myself it's in anger, but I suspect it's something worse. I suspect it's fear. I know the sight that awaits this girl, and it is not pretty. Far from it.

I open the door, wondering how I'm supposed to chase after the girl with this leg.

Turns out I don't have to chase her.

She's waiting for me.

For five minutes I've been standing outside the library, staring at the door he slammed in my face and wondering just who—or
what
—Paul Langdon is.

I mean, I wasn't expecting a gentle teddy bear in need of a hug and a listening ear or anything, but that
thing
is more like a tormented barbarian than a war-weary human. Still, it's not until the door unexpectedly swings open again that I realize just how stupidly unprepared I am.

He was completely in the shadows before, but this time the hallway light catches him, and it feels like my stomach drops to my feet.

Paul Langdon is
not
the crippled, middle-aged recluse he's supposed to be.

He steps back into the shadows before I can see him properly, but my first impression is broad shoulders, military-short blond hair, and piercing blue eyes. And young. Like
my age
young.

“What the hell are you still doing here?” he asks, taking another step backward into the darkness of the library.

I instinctively take a step forward, and he goes back another step just as quickly, and for the first time I notice that despite giving the overall impression of youth and vitality, he doesn't move nimbly.

I stop in my tracks, as though not to scare a wounded animal. Aren't wounded animals the most likely to lash out? And this guy is definitely wounded.

“What the fuck are you still doing here?” he repeats, this time with a snarl.

Well. At least I didn't imagine that whole surly caveman episode from a few minutes ago. Seconds after he'd dropped that little bomb about a suicide watch, Lindy sighed and patted my shoulder, telling me to be “patient with the boy.”

Patient my ass. Sure, the guy has likely seen more horror that I can possibly imagine, but if there's anything that a rich Manhattan girl is familiar with, it's the tone of a self-indulgent jerk. Paul Langdon
definitely
has some of that going on.

I'm probably supposed to answer his testy question about what I'm still doing here with something calm and straightforward and soothing. Nothing comes to mind, so instead I stay silent.

He remains in the shadows, and I'm suddenly desperate to know what he's hiding. What would turn someone who looks like him into a suicidal recluse?

“At least throw a dollar in the hat,” he bites out before turning away and moving toward the desk. He walks with a slight limp, but…

Is it my imagination, or did the limp come
after
he started moving? Almost like he had to
remind
himself to limp?

I guess I should go to him and make some sort of effort to help, but some dark, untapped instinct tells me not to. That's what he'll expect, and being predictable with this guy is a mistake.

“A dollar in the hat?” I repeat, shutting the library door quietly behind me. Stupid move. The already dark room now seems intimate, and I'm all too aware that it's just me and a guy who may or may not want to kill himself. Or me.

“If you're going to gawk, at least give me the same sympathy dollar you'd give any other circus freak,” he clarifies, still not turning around.

I roll my eyes at his melodrama as I move closer, wanting to see his face. No,
needing
to see his face.

From the back, he's practically perfect. He's wearing a black T-shirt that's tight enough to show the ripples of his sculpted back, and his dark denim jeans ride just low enough on his hips to be interesting. I'm pretty sure that if he lifted his hands above his head, I'd catch a glimpse of boxers.

Or briefs?

Why is my mouth watering?

I haven't even seen the guy in full light yet and I'm about fifteen seconds away from asking if his offspring would like to take up residence in my uterus.

I should run. Instead, I move closer.

“Let me guess. You were expecting an old dude in a smoking jacket?” he asks gruffly.

Actually, yes.
I absolutely wasn't expecting Paul to be Harry Langdon's late-in-life son. Very late in life, if Harry's as old as he seems in the pictures.

But of course I'll tell Paul no such thing. I take another tentative step forward, noting the way he tenses as I approach. He really is like a wounded animal, which would make me feel sorry for him if I didn't suspect that he's using his injuries to justify being a manipulative son of a bitch.

Well, if he wants to play games…

My Chanel cross-body purse is still slung over my shoulder, and I fish around for my wallet as I close in on him.

He turns completely so his back is fully to me, and now he's trapped between me and the desk, with nothing but late afternoon shadows to hide him.

I pause, waiting. Common courtesy demands that he turn around. He doesn't. I shift to the side, but he shifts with me, still keeping his back to me.

Seriously?
This is beyond childish.

I move to the other side, and he moves again.

“Maybe when we're done with this activity, we can play Chutes and Ladders or Candy Land,” I say sweetly, even as I glare at his back. “Assuming, of course, that those don't exceed your maturity levels.”

“Those should be fine,” he says, his tone just as pleasant. “I don't need working legs to play board games.”

I feel a stab of pity. Maybe I'm being too hard on him. That, and I need to remember why I'm here. I'm supposed to help him mend so that
I
can start to mend. So I can prove to myself that I'm not some sort of monster.

I see my hand on his elbow before I realize I've moved, and I know he's not expecting the touch, because even as he tenses up, I've pulled him around to face me. Not all the way, but it's enough. I stifle my gasp, but barely.

I was warned that Paul Langdon was crippled. I came prepared for that. But in all of our email conversations, Harry Langdon seems to have forgotten to mention the ragged scars running along the right side of his son's face.

Everything makes brutal sense now: why he's been hiding in the shadows, why the hostility and bitterness roll off him in waves.

He throws my arm off with a curse, and I expect him to turn away from me. Maybe even push me back.

Instead, he faces me fully, letting me see him head-on, and the way his eyes betray nothing—not even wariness—almost breaks my heart. It's like I can actually
see
him shut off his human side.

We stare at each other for several seconds, both of us barely illuminated by the last bit of daylight coming in through the window. His eyes are a fierce color of light blue that looks almost gray, especially when framed by thick lashes. His hair's too short to get a good sense of its color, but it's somewhere between blond and brown.

Finally my eyes land on his scars. Now that I'm prepared for them, they're not as bad as I originally thought. Three raised lines run down the right side of his face, the shortest going from just below the outer edge of his eyebrow to the top of his cheekbone, as though it—whatever
it
was—just missed taking out his eye. The second is longer, running from the hair near his temple to the middle of his cheek. The last is the longest and ugliest, intersecting the other two as it runs from the corner of his eye, stopping just short of his lip. The straight lines of his lips are unmarred, but his mouth might as well be disfigured too, because I doubt he's used it to smile in a long, long time.

Finally,
finally
I let my eyes meet his, my stomach feeling a little jerky when his gaze locks onto mine. He lifts his eyebrows as though to say,
Well?
It's clear he's been through this scrutiny before and knows what to expect.

I'm guessing most people try to pretend nothing's amiss. The kind ones likely express pity—maybe even ask gentle questions under the idiotic misconception that he'd want to talk about it with a complete stranger. The cruel ones run.

I don't want to be part of either group. I want Paul Langdon to see me as
different
.

So I do the unthinkable. As in really, truly horrible, and yet somehow I sense it needs to be done.

Wordlessly I bend my head, fumbling again with my purse.

“Mace won't protect you,” he says with a sneer.

I ignore him as I go about my original task and pull a twenty out of my wallet.

“What's this?” he asks, staring at the bill in my outstretched hand. I feel an odd surge of victory at the confusion on his face. For just a moment I have the upper hand.

I give a little rueful shake of my head. “A dollar in the hat's not nearly enough. You should
really
think about charging more for the first glance. Twenty dollars, at least.”

Silence stretches between us, even though his expression doesn't change.

My mouth goes dry as he studies me. It's a risky move, and I know it. With someone else—
anyone
else—it would be unbearably cruel. And yet somehow I suspect that this sort of in-your-face acknowledgment of his scars is exactly what Paul Langdon craves.

Then with a strangled snarl he swipes at my hand, but neither one of us watches the bill flutter to the ground.

Whoops.
So it's possible that I'm wrong. Maybe he doesn't
know
that this is what he craves.

My pounding heart demands that I take a step back before I get backhanded by the livid guy in front of me, but I keep still, standing toe-to-toe with a beast of a man who looks as though he'd like nothing more than to physically throw me out of his secluded lair.

“Get out,” he says, mouth barely moving.

I lick my lips nervously, noting the way his eyes follow the motion of my tongue, and I finally accept that in spite of myself—in spite of the fear—I'm ridiculously attracted to him. Attracted in a fierce, animalistic way that I've never felt
ever
.

I found Ethan attractive, of course. I mean, we dated for like half of my life. And Michael…
I don't want to think about Michael.

But nothing in my limited sexual experience compares to the magnetic pull this guy has on me.

I ignore his demand that I leave him alone.

“Can I get you anything?” I ask, as though he hasn't banished me from the room. “A cup of soothing tea? A turkey sandwich? Maybe sunglasses to protect yourself from all that happy sunshine you're exuding?”

His eyes flash again, this time in puzzlement. I give him a fake-sympathetic smile and pat his arm. “Oh, I'm sorry, sweetie. Were your bear growl and caveman antics supposed to send me running away? Did you expect that I'd faint at your glower?”

He opens his mouth, probably to bellow at me again, but I simply lay a finger over his lips the way one would hush a petulant child, even though this bold, tough-girl routine is as foreign to me as it is to Paul.

But I'm apparently not the only one who can do the unexpected, because instead of pushing me back or turning away, his fingers curl around my wrist until he's grasping my arm hard enough to hurt. Without warning, his tongue flicks over the tips of my fingers, and I gasp, trying to snatch my hand back from the sweetly erotic stroke.

He's toying with me.

I know it's only manipulation, of course, but damned if I'm not turned on by this sick game I'm playing with a totally messed-up guy I don't even know.

Both of us are breathing too fast, and I feel a surge of panic.

It was never like this with Ethan. That was always comfortable and easy. It wasn't like this with Michael, either. That was simply forbidden. It was an escape, and a transgression I continue to pay for.

Paul's eyes continue to hold mine until very slowly he releases my hand and pushes me back. “You're clearly incredibly stupid, in addition to being bitchy, so let me be more clear. Get the fuck out of my home.
I don't want you here.
”

I shrug, taking a step toward him, and feel oddly gratified when he takes a step back in response. “I'll leave,” I say in a low voice, my eyes never leaving his. Surprise flicks over his half-handsome, half-contorted features, and I press on. “Yup, I'll leave.”

He narrows his eyes “What's the catch? Double your pay?” he asks with a sneer.

“No. I'll leave. In three months, as agreed.” I lean in just a little, letting my eyes focus on his mouth. “Better get used to me.”

I make it as far as the door before I realize my mistake. No,
Paul
makes me realize my mistake.

He grabs my wrist a second before pushing me back roughly. My shoulder blades hit the door a half second before his mouth descends on mine—hard. I let out a startled yelp, my nails digging into firm, broad shoulders that feel like granite beneath my hands. His leg might be damaged, but his upper body is most certainly
not.

This kiss isn't about want, and it's definitely not about romance.

This kiss is about power. He's trying to scare me off.

I've never really thought of myself as having a temper, but something about this guy has definitely set it off. Anger flares, and I sink my teeth into his bottom lip. Not hard enough to draw blood, but definitely hard enough to tell him to back off.

But instead of releasing me, he growls and moves closer, pinning me against the door with his body as his tongue slips into my mouth.

Oh wow.

My fingers tighten again on his shoulders, and it's not to push him away. It's like some dark, savage part of me is released by the taste of him, and instead of wriggling away and slapping him, I do the unthinkable. I kiss him back.

He freezes for a moment when my tongue shyly touches his, and he starts to pull back, but my hands go to the back of his head and pull him to me. When our lips meet again, it's an all-out battle as our tongues tangle, each trying to take control. We're like two sex-starved animals who need each other to survive.