Rachel Brimble - Ethan's Daughter

Damn it. “Nothing.”

“Nothing?” She raised her eyebrows. “That dishcloth is doing a pretty bad job of soaking up nothing.” Sighing, she waved him back and stepped into the hallway. “Let’s go into the kitchen and I’ll take a look.”

“You really don’t have to do—”

“No, I know I don’t.” She brushed a hand over Daisy’s head. “Same as I didn’t have to bring your sweetheart home, either, but I did.” She nodded toward the kitchen. “This way, right?”

Ethan held Daisy closer as his gaze followed the denim-clad ass of the blonde bombshell that had just detonated her way into his house. Fine, she’d brought his daughter home. Fine, he was an asshole for not realizing Daisy wasn’t still upstairs watching her iPad, her ever-present earphones stuffed into her ears. Fine, he was the one who let his daughter watch her iPad while he worked hour after hour...

He shut the front door before he looked at Daisy. “Why did you leave the house? You know you should never go anywhere without telling me.”

“I went to the beach.” She lowered her gaze to the buttons on his shirt and twisted them one at a time. “Are you mad at me?”

He opened his mouth to respond, but the blonde woman called from the kitchen. “It will be a shame if you’ve dripped blood all over your fancy wood flooring, you know.”

Ethan shot a glare to the kitchen doorway before pressing a quick kiss to Daisy’s head. “We’ll talk about this later, when the lady’s gone, okay?”

“Her name’s Leah.”

Ethan walked toward the kitchen. “Leah, huh?”

“Yep.”

As he entered the kitchen, she stood with her back to him, wetting another of his dish towels under the running tap. “Take a seat and remove the dishcloth. I’ll use this one to see what we’re dealing with. What happened?”

He needed to get her out of his house. He needed to stop her questions. Lowering Daisy onto one of the six chairs around his dining table, Ethan sucked in a breath through clenched teeth as the wound on his hand screamed in indignation. “I cut it with a kitchen knife. Damn stupid.”

“Where’s the knife?”

“What?” Ethan straightened and met her gaze as she strolled toward him, brandishing the dishcloth, her cheeks ever so slightly flushed with clear anger.

“I don’t see any knife. Where is it?” She defiantly held his gaze despite him standing over her by nearly a foot. “Well?”

“I threw it into the back garden.” He shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “I’ve got a bit of a temper.”

Her big hazel eyes narrowed and he struggled not to squirm. Shaking her head, she nodded toward the table. “Sit.”

He sat, uneasy that he was mildly turned on by her assertiveness. He snapped his gaze to Daisy and closed his eyes in shame.

“Do you feel sick?” Leah’s voice cut through his inappropriately fogged brain. “Dizzy?”

He opened his eyes. “No. I’m good.”

“Well, for the record, you don’t look good. Here.” She gestured toward his wrapped hand. “Let’s have a look, shall we?”

Blowing out a breath, he reluctantly held it out.

With a gentle care he hadn’t expected, she unwrapped his hand, flinching slightly as she looked at his slashed palm. Ethan stared at her bowed head. Her hair was blond, but had every shade from almost cream to shots of shimmering gold. It looked silky soft, falling forward as she gently probed around his wound, her glasses edging down her perfect nose.

She abruptly looked up and he snapped his gaze to hers. “What’s the verdict?”

“The verdict...” She glanced at Daisy before facing him. “...is that this is far too deep to have been done by the accidental slip of a kitchen knife.”

Ethan scrambled for a response. Her intelligent, knowing gaze held his as seconds passed. He opened his mouth to say something—anything—but she got there first.

“So, here’s what we’re going to do. I’m going to bandage this up the best I can and then we’re going to the hospital. I don’t have my car and you can’t drive, but we should be able to get there by cab easily enough.” She looked to Daisy. “Why don’t you go get some warm clothes and shoes on, honeybunch?”

Panic pushed Ethan’s pulse into overdrive. “We can’t do that.”

Leah faced him, suspicion and maybe even a hint of triumph darkening her gaze. “Why not?”

“Because...” He clenched his jaw. Shit, shit, shit. “Because it’s late. Daisy should be in bed.”

“I don’t mind, Daddy.” Daisy clambered down from her seat and walked to the door. “I’ll be really fast.”

Irritation replaced his anxiety as Daisy sped from the room, her feet stomping quickly up the stairs. He faced Leah as she wrapped the dishcloth expertly—and tightly—around his wound. He lowered his voice. “We can’t go to the hospital.”

Slowly, she raised her head. “Why not? Keep that hand up in the air. Put your elbow on the table.”

He glared. “You know why.”

“Tell me.”

Goddamn it. “Because there was no kitchen knife. There was a knife, but it didn’t come from my kitchen.”

“I know, because this is a defensive wound. This is the wound of someone who has wrapped their hand around a blade to stop someone from attacking them with it.” She glanced toward the open kitchen door before looking into his eyes with such concern that he was in danger of weakening, of telling her just what had been going on in his kitchen minutes before she’d appeared at his door holding Daisy.

She sighed and tied the bandage, cupping his hand gently in both of hers. “I’m a nurse, Mr. James. I can help you, but you need to tell me what happened here.”

He shook his head and stood, fighting every instinct in his body that this woman, this stranger, could be trusted. “Look, I can’t thank you enough for bringing Daisy home, but you need to leave and pretend you didn’t see me this way. Can you do that?”

“Yes, I can do that. I shouldn’t, but I can.”

“That’s all I ask.”

Her gaze lingered on his before she gave a curt shake of her head. “Sorry, no can do.”

Her defiance lost its previous sexiness and all he felt now was annoyance. “Look—”

“That cut needs stitches. I can’t leave you this way. Clearly, neither you nor I are happy about the situation, but there it is. Now...” She stood. “Where’s your first aid supplies and sewing kit?”

He stilled. “Sewing kit? Do you mean you’re going to—”

“Yes, Mr. Hotshot Novelist, I’m going to fix you up myself.”

“You know who I am?”

A faint blush stained her cheeks and she cleared her throat. “Of course. I might have even read some of your books.”

He smiled in shameful satisfaction. “Is that so?”

She glared. “Anyway... I’m going to get your darling daughter sitting in front of the TV with some milk and cookies. Then I’m going to come back in here and stitch your hand the best I can. After that, you’re going to put Daisy to bed and then tell me what happened. Agreed?”

He cursed and squeezed his eyes shut, wishing her out of his kitchen, out of his home. Slowly, he opened his eyes and dropped his shoulders in defeat. “The first aid kit’s over there, second cupboard on the right. As for the sewing kit, that will be still in its cellophane in the cupboard to the left of the couch in the living room.”

Her lips twitched as though she fought a smile. “Great. I’ll be right back. Keep that hand elevated.”

Once again, his focus slid straight to her butt as she headed out the door. Holy Mother of God, his messed-up life had just gotten ten times worse.

CHAPTER TWO

LEAH TOOK A deep breath as she smoothed her hand over Daisy’s curls, before leaving her in front of the TV looking as cute as heaven in her panda pajamas and bunny slippers. As she left the living room, Ethan James’s sewing kit in her hand, Leah hesitated. How had she managed to walk into a circumstance so incomprehensible she would undoubtedly read it in one of his novels next year?