Love of Her Lives by Sharon Clare Read Free Book Online

tomorrow. We’ve got all night if you want. Just so you understand, I’m not leaving till I’ve got what I want.”
    Something wasn’t right here, or had she just become so spoiled by her lottery win that she’d underestimated the appeal of forty–thousand dollars? No, that couldn’t be it. As a lawyer, Bruce wasn’t hurting for money and shouldn’t threaten her over that sum. “Get off me.” She forced the words through her clenched teeth. “I don’t have your money.”
    “I don’t believe that.” Bruce pushed off her shoulders with a violent shove that spun the chair so it slammed into the counter.
    Okay, now a little bit of fear crept in. This was surreal. Good deeds were supposed to spark some kind of charitable chain reaction along the fuse of humanity. Was there a blip in the cosmos? How did good citizen Beth end up skidding across her kitchen floor tied to a chair, threatened by a man who’d eaten hamburgers off her own grill for God’s sake?
    She flicked her head to get the hair out of her eyes. Perhaps a different approach would work. “Bruce, we are friends — ”
    “Don’t go there.” His muscles flexed as she imagined him planning his next assault. If he thought he could intimidate her with all that male brawn … he was right.
    She looked away. For two seconds. Then anger welled up in her again. “Hey, dick–head — ”
    The sentence vanished in an explosion into the kitchen through the laundry room door. A hurling massive bulk crossed the floor in a blur and slammed a fist into Bruce’s face. Beth cringed at the crunch of bone on bone as Bruce hit the floor.
    Cripes! The professor? What kind of thriller movie had she tumbled into?
    “Did he hurt you, lass?” he asked, with a little too much testosterone still flowing through those veins. His sharp gaze fixed on her like a mother bear.
    Beth had lost her voice. She looked at Bruce slumped against the fallen garbage pail, his ear soaking in pickle juice, a red line drawing from his mouth in a bloody frown. Behind her, the warrior — what was his name? — sliced through the tape releasing her arms.
    Her wrists hurt. She rubbed the blood back into them, keeping an eye on the warrior as he examined the duct tape he’d cut from her arms. He looked impressed (by duct tape?), and then he snatched the roll off the counter and trussed Bruce like Christmas turkey.
    A new wave of dread hit her. “You didn’t kill him, did you?”
    He looked up and grinned. “No. Broke his nose, though. He’ll be out for a while.”
    “With one punch?”
    “Aye, well, I was angry.” He didn’t look angry anymore, thank God. Muscleman Bruce looked puny next to this heavyweight. It would be best to keep the warrior professor on her side until she determined why he was there.
    She got up off the chair and stepped gingerly over the debris to rescue her giraffe–print fedora before it was crushed. Most of this broken stuff was just that, stuff, except her grandmother’s bowl. Those shattered pieces had her forcing back tears, but this wasn’t the time to cry. She took the broom and dustpan from the closet and began sweeping.
    “What are you doing here?” she asked without looking at him. Her hand trembled on the broomstick.
    “I was called away before you answered my questions, so I returned to finish the study. On the laneway outside your home, I heard you scream.” His hand touched her shoulder. “Beth, put the broom down. Let me see your face, see how you fare.”
    How she fared? Not well. It was a ridiculous time to sweep the floor, but her mind was a jumble. Instinctively she turned, and his arms opened for her. She moved into them.
    He was a powerful man, she could feel that, but there was something greater than physical strength there. An expansive wave of protection engulfed her. She looked into his eyes and found the kind of dependable blue she longed for after stormy skies. The fine tremors that had built beneath her skin eased. The effect