JAXON (The Caine Brothers Book 4) (2 page)

She released the safety on the pepper spray canister and rested her thumb on the trigger, then reached for the door handle. She was just about to open the door when it struck her that she should call the police. That would be the smart thing to do, rather than confront a prowler herself. How could she be so stupid? If anything happened to her the nearest neighbor would never hear her scream.

She released the door knob to grab her phone, but before she could dial 911, the door swung open and she only barely registered the form of a man standing on the threshold. She screamed, dropped her phone, and swung the pepper spray up in his general direction, closing her eyes as she squeezed the trigger for all she was worth.

Jaxon writhed on the floor of the entryway, his hands clutching his burning face. He was convinced his eyeballs had melted from their sockets, and the skin of his face had slid off onto the floor somewhere.

A roaring sound filled his ears and it wasn’t until a female voice cut through it that he realized the howling was his own screaming in pain.

His brain scrambled to identify the woman and why he lay on the floor in agony.

He had a murky recollection of having heard a car drive up. He’d peeked out an upstairs window to see a pickup park behind his car. A cute little redhead climbed out, her bright orange hair gleaming in the blazing Texas sun.

He’d hurried downstairs, excited to meet his new housemate. Then he’d opened the door and all hell had broken loose.

The last thing he’d seen before being consumed by searing, blistering torment had been a screeching ginger hellcat holding a pink canister of pepper spray aimed right at his face.

“What the fucking hell?” he groaned.

Talking had been a bad idea. Not only had his lips gone numb, but the liquid got on his tongue and added a whole new dimension to the pain, like a blow torch melting his throat.

“Who are you?” the woman demanded. “What are you doing in my house?”

Summoning the information challenged his brain, involved as it was in processing pain and panicking. Survival trumped interrogation. Answers came sluggishly.

“Jaxon,” he said, finally remembering his own damn name.

By this time, every fluid-producing orifice in his face had shifted into high gear. His eyes watered, his nose ran like a faucet, his saliva glands poured spit—his defensive systems tried to flush that shit away.

“Well, Jaxon, I’ve called the cops. You can just lay there and suffer until they get here. Think about what a mistake it was to break into my house.”

“Break in?” He couldn’t have heard her right. “I didn’t break in.”

“How’d you get in, then? Magic?”

“Key.”

“Where’d you get a key? This house belongs to Lloyd Dixon, CEO of First Financial Systems. He doesn’t just give out keys to his house like candy on Halloween.”

Her voice grated on his last nerve. “Who the fuck are you?”

“I’m Lily Dixon. The owner’s niece, and caretaker of Dixon Run Estate.”

This
was the kooky caretaker Mike mentioned? More like an evil little demon-spawn out to collect his soul. Maybe this was a preview of what he could expect on the other side.

Jaxon was done with chatting. He only cared about getting the shit off his face so he could see and breathe again. He hauled himself up to all fours, still squeezing his eyes shut tight, then climbed to his feet.

“What do you think you’re doing?” she asked.

Lily’s voice followed on his heels as he slid a hand along the wall and stumbled toward the back of the house. If he remembered right, the kitchen was back there somewhere. Suddenly the enormous house felt like a cavern, and just about as easy to navigate.

“You’d better stop right now, or I’ll spray you again.”

That froze him in his steps. “What good would that do?”

“Teach you a lesson.”

“Jesus, lady, you need to lighten up.”

Standing there with swollen membranes, eyes shut tight, and snot dripping down his face, he couldn’t be any less intimidating. Or maybe he was. He probably looked like a B-movie monster.

“The cops will be here soon,” she said.

With his eyes closed, he noticed her voice. It hovered somewhere between brash and terrified.
He
knew he was harmless, but she had no idea who he was or why he was there. From her point of view, coming home to find a strange man in her house justified her behavior.

“Fine. When they get here we’ll clear this up. In the meantime, I’m going to clean up. You’re welcome to stay and help, or go wait for the cops. It’s up to you.”

He couldn’t see her expression, but her energy buzzed in the air between them—disgruntled, offended, confused, and…remorseful?

It didn’t matter. He only wanted the pain to stop. He fumbled around in the kitchen, his hands substituting for his eyes, and finally found a dish towel, a gallon of milk, and the sink. He plugged the sink, dumped the milk in, and drenched the towel, then held it to his face. He may have sighed, or groaned as it cooled the burn.

“Where’d you get a key?”

He jumped at the sound of her voice. He’d assumed she left because of the silence. It creeped him out that she’d stood there and watched him grope around the kitchen.

“Shit,” he said. “You startled me.”

“Well?”

“My manager, Mike Adams, is friends with your uncle. He had a key and cleared it with Dixon for me to stay here a while.”

“Mike manages a band.”

“Yeah, mine.”

“So you’re a rock star or something?”

“Something like that.” Assuming everything his fans, the media, record sales, and Mike told him was true, calling himself a rock star was an understatement.

“What are you doing here?”

That was none of her damned business, especially since she’d attacked him with pepper spray. He understood it, but it still incensed him. Suffering from writer’s block was like admitting to artistic deficiency—very personal and not something to be shared with just anyone. She’d have to earn that information, if he ever shared it.

“Vacation.”

She snorted. “Assuming you really are a rock star, why would you come here for a vacation?”

He dunked the towel in the sink full of milk to refresh it, then applied it to his face again. It occurred to him while under the towel, that she may not recognize him. That didn’t happen much anymore. He could take advantage of that for some privacy. Some normal human interaction. If he explained to her who he was and she went all fangirl on him, his time at the estate could be a miserable game of hide and seek.

“Why wouldn’t I? It’s a nice place—what I saw of it before you liquefied my eyeballs. And I can use the peace and quiet. Hang by the pool, sleep in, go to the club and golf, catch up on my reading.”

“We don’t have a pool. And you hardly seem like the golfing or literary type,” she said.

“How would you know? You didn’t even take the time to ask my name before attacking me. And what kind of mansion estate doesn’t have a pool?”

“I didn’t attack you.” Her voice sounded indignant. “I defended myself.”

“Against the nice man who opened the door to say hi?”

“You’re not a nice man.”

“You don’t know that. As it turns out, I’m a very nice man.”

She harrumphed her disbelief, but the scrape of a stool on the stone floor indicated she’d relaxed enough to have a seat.

“So, if you’re a rock star, where’s your entourage?”

“I dismissed them for the time being. Vacation, remember?”

***

Lily gnawed on her lip, trying to shove away the guilt eating at her. Whoever he was, he looked like a cooked lobster at the moment. She’d reacted on instinct. Finding someone inside her house justified shooting first and asking questions later. At least she’d thought so.

But if he knew Mike and Mike had given him a key and her uncle had approved him being here, he was probably okay.

“Can you call off the cops?” he asked.

“I still don’t really know who you are. You could be anybody.”

“As soon as I can see again, I’ll show you my ID. You can call Mike. I’ll give you a blood sample. Whatever you want.”

“There’s no need to be sarcastic,” she said, pulling out her phone.

He barked a laugh. “If any time calls for sarcasm, being shot in the face by a ginger devil is it.”

He turned on the faucet and stuck his head underneath, flushing his eyes with first a pained grunt, then a relieved groan as the pepper oil washed away.

While he did that, she dialed the police and wandered into the dining room to explain the misunderstanding, apologizing repeatedly that she didn’t need assistance after all. The dispatcher didn’t sound amused, but said she’d recall the units they’d sent. Lily apologized again before hanging up.

She headed back to the kitchen where Jaxon had finished flushing his eyes and had a towel over his face. She should probably apologize to him, too, though she couldn’t quite bring herself to do it yet. She still felt violated to find a strange man in her house, and it pissed her off that nobody had bothered to let her know he’d be there at all.

She made a mental note to call her uncle and explain the results of his lack of foresight.

Jaxon dropped the towel and opened his eyes, only to blink a lot and close them to a squint. “How do I look?”

“Puffy and red.”

“That’s what she said.” He grinned like an idiot. Despite the condition of his face, he was still adorable, and she felt even more awful for spraying him.

“Hey, I can almost see,” he said. “You’re a blurry ginger blob.”

“Aren’t you the flatterer?”

“Everyone in my entourage says so.”

“Oh, I’m sure they do.”

“I’d like to shower, now, and scrub all this shit off. But I still can’t see well enough, and I don’t know what room you want me in. And my stuff’s still out in the car.”

“Is that your way of asking for help?”

“Yes, please. If you’re finished maiming me, I could use a good nurse to take care of me. But to take care of me, you’ll have to touch me, and I’m not sure if I’m ready for that yet.”

The words sounded innocent enough, and nothing in his expression suggested otherwise. But the tone pulled her up short.

“Did you just flirt with me?”

“What? No.”

“It sounded suggestive.”

“I’ve recently sworn off women. Maybe I haven’t figured out yet how not to flirt.”

“Let me get this straight. You’re a rock star, which means in addition to an entourage you presumably have groupies?”

“Yeah. So?”

“And you sleep with a lot of them?”

“I guess.” He shifted from one foot to the other, fidgeting under her questioning.

“But now you’ve sworn off women?”

“Not permanently. Just for a while. I’m regrouping.”

“Um. Okay,” she said, not sure how to respond to his odd confession. “Let’s find you a room and get you cleaned up, then I’ll fetch your things from the car. Follow me,” she said, heading toward the east wing. She’d put him on the opposite end of the house from her. May as well make use of all the space by putting a lot of it between them.

“Wait. I still can’t see and I don’t know the house like you do.”

He reached out a hand, waiting for her to take it and lead him. She retraced her steps until she stood in front of him, considering his hand. His long fingers looked both sturdy and agile. Good musician hands.

She glanced up at his face, still red and puffy, but fading. His smoky blue eyes sparkled despite the spider web of red capillaries, and the smile crinkles around them did unacceptable things to her belly.

She’d been so focused on the situation at hand, she hadn’t paid any attention to what he looked like. Not that swollen and inflamed did anything for her. Now, hints of his normal looks peeked through and she worried she might be in danger of swooning. If women did that sort of thing anymore.

His wavy, shoulder-length locks reminded her of Jon Snow’s hair, if it was dark blond instead of black.

Far end of the east wing for Jaxon.

Instead of taking his hand, she gripped just above his elbow and led him across the kitchen and out to the stairs in the foyer.

“I didn’t mean it when I said I didn’t trust you to touch me,” he said.

“You didn’t say you didn’t trust me, you said you weren’t sure if you were ready for it.”

“Yet.”

“What?” she asked.

“I think I said yet.”

That was fine for him, but her growing uneasiness around him dictated no touching.

“I have no desire to touch you,” she said, exiting the stairs on the second floor and heading down the hall.

“Damn.”

“What?”

“If I hadn’t sworn off women, I might take that as a challenge.”

Her heart stuttered in her chest. “Well, thank goodness for small favors, then.”

“Yeah. Thank goodness.”

She stopped at the door of one of the suites in the east wing. “Here we are. There are fresh sheets and blankets on the bed, fresh towels and toiletries in the bathroom. Is your car unlocked? I can go collect you bags.”

“You don’t have any staff?”

“A housekeeper comes once a week, and a gardener every two weeks. I do most of the gardening myself, in between.”

“So you rattle around this mansion by yourself?”

“I do. I like it that way. Anyway, I’ll go get your things and leave them on the bed.”

Jaxon stepped into the room, holding his arms out in front of him and shuffling like a zombie, ultimately rapping his knee on one of the corner posts of the bed, yelping when he did.

“You’re not going to stay and help me?” he asked, rubbing his knee.

She blinked, unsure how to answer that. “With what?”

“Finding stuff. Getting oriented.”

As he talked, he stripped off his t-shirt and her mouth went Sahara dry. What the heck was he thinking? Miles of muscular ridges and planes, coupled with a sprinkling of dark hair had her backing away in panic, mostly because she had an overwhelming urge to reach out and touch him. The impulse scared the crap out of her.

“What in the world are you doing?” she asked, her voice climbing to a panicked squeak. It earned her a quizzical glance.