Mr. Misunderstood Read online

  Thank God. Kayla is more likely to listen to my pleas for help if she’s awake.

  The side door leading to the kitchen swings open. I spot a figure running across the grass. It’s her. I would recognize that long, wild black hair anywhere. The bright summer moon illuminates the outline of an animal in her arms.

  I let out a laugh, because when isn’t Kayla cuddling a lonely puppy or kitten? When we were kids, she brought home stay cats, dogs, and once, a lost goat. Her mother enrolled her in 4-H so she could play with farm animals.

  The limo grinds to stop on the gravel drive. I reach for the door and my fingers freeze on the handle. Kayla rushes through the headlight beams, and I see bright red splotches on her face.

  My stomach turns over. What are the chances my best friend was sitting at home covered in blood in the middle of the night? Unless one of her rescue pups bit her …

  I fling the door open. “What the hell, Kay?”

  Bloody hell.

  Literal blood. I was right about those red splotches. Then a sixty-pound mass of fur and misery lands on my lap. I instinctively wrap my arms around the pup and draw her close. And great, now I’m cradling the bloody dog against my thousand-dollar suit.

  The fury of hell isn’t far behind. Kayla scrambles into the car and slams the door closed behind her. “Help me!” she cries.

  Dismissing the fact that she’s stolen my plea for help, I turn my attention to the yellow Labrador mix in my arms. “Where to?”

  “Vet,” she barks, as the limo lurches into reverse.

  Samuel’s caught enough to know that we’re going somewhere. Now.

  “Her office, not the hospital,” she continues. “I called, and she’s expecting me. I was getting ready to carry Luna to the car when you pulled up.”

  “What’s the address?” I ask, glancing through the partition at Samuel.

  Good man, he is already reaching for his phone, ready to call up directions and guide the limo’s return trip down the unforgiving, pothole-ridden dirt road.

  “Fifteen Main Street,” she calls out to Samuel. Then she turns to me. “Want me to take her?”

  I look down at the panting dog. Her eyes are open and she’s looking right at me. I’ve always been a cat person, but right now this sweet girl is melting my heart. “I’ve got her.”

  “But your suit—”

  “It’s ruined,” I confirm. Still staring into the dog’s brown eyes, I add, “What happened?”

  “Someone shot her,” Kayla growls.

  “What the fuck?”

  I clamp my mouth shut before a stream of curse words fills the limo. But now I’m studying my best friend and trying to piece together the events of her night. I thought mine was a train wreck, but Kayla’s evening has somehow led to gunshots.

  Her wild mane flows over her shoulders, and the tips are matted in blood. Her formerly-gray pajamas look like she spent her evening filming Scream Fifteen—or whatever number they are up to now—in her very own backyard.

  The top two buttons of her V-neck top are also undone, revealing a lot more than the swell of her full breasts. I look long and hard at that exposed skin, because there is blood splattered across her nipple.

  I’m going to kill whoever did this.

  The thought pops into my head. I wouldn’t do it with a gun—I don’t own a weapon—but with my bare hands. I have no training, and I’m not a Navy SEAL or some shit like that. And last time I checked, admittance to the tech-genius billionaire club did not come with a license to kill.

  Might try, anyway.

  But I shake off the thought. The blood on Kayla’s nipple shouldn’t be the reason I lose my fucking mind tonight.

  But someone still shot at her.

  What does it matter if the breasts on the top of my do-not-touch list are splattered with her dog’s blood? It will wash off in the shower. But I’ll never be able to escape the what-if-that-bullet-had-hit-Kayla fear pulsing through my veins. It tastes worse than my blackmail-by-my-crazy-girlfriend experience earlier.

  Worse than damn near anything.

  “Tell me what happened,” I demand.

  “I let Luna out for a quick nighttime walk. She peed in the house the other night, so I’ve been careful to take her out just before bed,” Kayla explains, her gaze fixed on the dog in my lap. “It sometimes takes her a while to find her spot. She likes to milk the fact that I’m treating her to a nighttime outing without the other dogs.”

  Her lips form a wistful hint of a smile. But then her expression hardens into pure anger. “We reached the bottom end of the cleared field. You know the one in back of the house?”

  She spares me a glance, and I give a curt nod.

  “Then I heard a rustling in the woods. There was enough moonlight to see a deer running through the trees. Luna started barking, and then, bam! Gunshot.” She waves her arms through the air, as if she can show me what it sounded like through wild hand gestures. “Some idiot decided to walk onto my property in the dead of night and hunt. Hunting season doesn’t even start for another two weeks. It’s early October, for goodness sake. And no one in his right mind hunts at night! If I find out who did this—”

  “I’m going to kill him,” I interrupt. “And not just because there is blood on your breasts.”

  She glances down at her top and reaches for the buttons as the limo turns onto the main road. Now on pavement, Samuel pushes past the speed limit. By the time Kayla covers her chest, we’re pulling into the strip mall’s vacant parking lot. Though “strip mall” might be a stretch for the complex that features a liquor store and a pizza joint.

  The vet’s office is wedged between the two stores. A narrow green door with the picture of a dog, a cat, and an exotic bird mounted on the front sets it apart from the other establishments.

  Samuel parks the stretch limo across four parking spaces, with the rear passenger side door facing the vet’s office. There’s a light on inside, even though the parking lot is otherwise empty.

  “Hold the door for me,” I say, shifting toward the limo’s exit. “I’ll carry Luna inside.”

  I slide across the leather seats and maneuver out the car door. Kayla races ahead of me and pulls open the entrance to the vet. Then she stands back, waving her hand to hurry me along. But I take careful, measured steps.

  “I don’t want to jar her,” I say.

  Luna closed her eyes the second we left the limo, and she’s panting hard now. I’ve also heard a few whimpers from her. I don’t know much about dogs, but that sound can’t be a good sign. Even if this isn’t a life-or-death situation, Luna is in serious pain. But then I think, shit, gunshot? How can this not be a life-or-death scenario?

  I glance up from the dog, prepared to scream for the vet, but she’s standing five feet from me, wearing gray pajamas with dancing cats beneath a white lab coat. Still, the PJ look isn’t too different from Kayla’s long-sleeve cotton ensemble—minus the blood.

  For now, I think. Because in another second, the vet will take the gunshot victim from my arms and rush her into surgery … right?

  Dr. Kitty PJs remains frozen in place. Her lips are parted, and she manages a weak “hello,” but she doesn’t move.

  I’ve seen this before. I wasn’t expecting this reaction tonight, during an emergency vet visit, but I know what I look like in a suit. Tall, broad shouldered, with a dark, well-trimmed beard, I could play James Bond—if Daniel Craig ever gives up the role. Add in the fact that most people recognize me from the endorsement deals I’ve landed since rocketing to fame in the billionaire tech space, and yeah, I’m familiar with the vet’s driven-to-distraction look.

  My ex-girlfriend gave me that look.

  But holding a bleeding dog is not the time to think about Alexandra and her crazy scheme.

  I’m not the only one who’s noticed the vet’s expression. Kayla’s been here before, too. My best friend steps in front of me now, determined to draw Dr. Kitty PJ’s eyes to the bleeding pup before the vet tries to hand me h
er panties.

  I’m not being vain, either. It’s happened before. Not while I was holding a Labrador with a gunshot wound, but once at this benefit—

  “Where do you want Luna?” Kayla demands.

  The vet blinks, and just like that the spell is broken. “Exam room one. I’ll give her something for the pain, and then try to extract the bullet.”

  “Follow Marianne!” Kayla calls out the order, and I obey.

  I can hear my friend’s footsteps behind me. I enter the cramped room filled with high-tech machines that scream “hospital,” and gently lower Luna to the metal table.

  Kayla reaches out to pet her head.

  “It’s probably better if you wait outside while we work,” the vet says.

  Kayla nods. Then she leans forward and kisses the dog’s head. She turns away and I reach for her, pulling her close against my chest. She’s held it together up until now, but everyone has a breaking point. This is hers. I’ve seen it before. She’s amazing during a crisis, but after the worst is over, she falls apart.

  That’s where I come in.

  “I’ll take her to the waiting room,” I tell Dr. Marianne and her young assistant, who materializes out of nowhere. Like everyone else I’ve seen in this town tonight, the vet’s aide is wearing pink-striped, flannel pajama pants and a white T-shirt. But the dude hasn’t spared a glance in my direction. He’s too busy pulling on rubber gloves and selecting a big-ass needle from a cart lined with bigger-ass needles.

  And that’s our cue to leave.

  I steer Kayla into the cramped waiting room. There’s a line of metal chairs next to a rack of pet brochures. I lead her to one with a mostly intact cushion. The others look as if they’ve been attacked by a swarm of angry cats.

  And that’s probably not far from the truth.

  She sinks into the chair and draws a deep, shaky breath.

  Oh, shit. She’s on the verge of losing it completely, and there’s not a damn thing I can say to make her feel better. Her dog will probably be in surgery for a while. There is nothing, absolutely nothing, more important to Kayla than her pack of misfit rescue animals. Her heart will undoubtedly break open right here in the vet’s waiting room if something goes wrong, and I won’t be able to pick up the pieces.

  No, I need to stop the heartbreak, or at least delay it, until we hear from the pajama-clad vets. I draw a deep breath and then reach over and take her hand.

  “Kayla.”

  I wait for her to look at me. Her eyes are brimming with tears. I need to act fast, or she will soon be lost to her own weepy despair. She needs a distraction. Thankfully, I am ready and able to give her just what she needs … if that’s what she wants. That’s a damn big “if,” judging from the size of those teardrops waiting to grace her freckle-covered cheeks.

  “I can either distract you,” I say. “Or hold you and let you cry like crazy. Your call.”

  She straightens, drawing her spine up and making the most of her petite five-foot-four-inch frame, all while sitting on the rickety old chair. “Distract me.”

  I nod. “I’m in trouble. My girlfriend is blackmailing me. Well, she’s my ex-girlfriend now. But that doesn’t matter.”

  I hold her wide-eyed gaze and push ahead. I’m making a mess of this, but at least she’s not weeping about her dog. I give her hand a small squeeze, but I don’t break eye contact. I can see her surprise turn to doubt. She’s wondering if I’m bullshitting her with this sob story, reminiscent of a teen drama, simply to keep her from crying.

  “It’s the real deal this time,” I continue, searching for the words I practiced in the limo. “The blackmail.”

  Her brow furrows, and I know she’s putting the pieces together. The midnight visit. The suit. She knows I’m not making this up.

  So I add the line I practiced on the limo ride up from Manhattan.

  “Please, Kayla. I need your help.”

  CHAPTER 3

  KAYLA

  “You made another sex tape?”

  The words slip out. I hear the hint of accusation in my tone. In my defense, it’s been a long night. My sweet Luna is hurt. I’m scared and I’m not thinking clearly. Plus, my use of “another” is accurate. Gavin shared his most intimate moments with Mrs. Right Now last year. Or was it two years ago? I can’t remember. I know it was AMD—After My Divorce—but a lot has happened in Gavin’s sex life since my marriage fell apart.

  “No, no. It’s nothing like that.” Gavin speaks in a low baritone, and I’m suddenly aware of two things. He is down on one knee. That’s number one. The last time a man got down on one knee in front of me, I made the biggest mistake of my life. I’m not exaggerating. My ex-husband broke me in so many ways that I’m still trying to put myself back together.

  Second thing? He’s holding my hand. Add that together with the kneeling, and my best friend looks like he is on the verge of proposing.

  Ha! In your dreams.

  I pull my hand free from his and lean back against the metal chair, mentally dismissing the unwelcome thought. Once upon a time, I dreamed about Gavin. Long before I married Mr. Mistake, I looked at Gavin and thought maybe. But life marched on, sculpting us into different people. And now we’re better off friends. Best friends. Nothing more.

  Still, I appreciate the way he fills out a suit. I draw the line there because his love life includes sex tapes and blackmail. I would prefer to fill mine with understanding and compassion. Oh, and orgasms. Amazing, earth-shattering orgasms. I can’t leave those off my relationship goals’ list.

  Not that I expect perfection from my imaginary future lover—in the bedroom or outside of it. That’s another thing to add to the List of Things I Learned from My Divorce—perfection comes at a cost I’m not willing to pay.

  “How can I help?” I ask. Those are the magic words a friend is supposed to offer the minute a blackmailing ex-girlfriend enters the conversation. Plus, I owe him. He held my bleeding dog while his limo rushed us to the vet. I was so panicked before he arrived I probably would have crashed my car on the way over.

  I steal a glance at the door to the exam room. No news is good, right? My girl is still alive. She’s still fighting.

  “Focus,” Gavin murmurs, drawing my attention back to his distraction. He is standing now with his hands shoved in his suit pockets.

  “I am,” I say. “What do you want me to do?”

  “The truth is I don’t know how you can help.” He lets out a rueful laugh. Then he withdraws his right hand and rubs the back of his neck. He looks me straight in the eyes and adds, “A sex tape would have been easier to handle. It wouldn’t hurt my image. Not like this.”

  I blink and try to digest those words. Maybe I’ve been hiding from the world too long, surrounding myself with dogs in need of a new home and cats that would otherwise linger in a shelter, but I struggle to picture a scenario in which a sex tape is easier to handle.

  “Sit down.” I pat the torn seat cushion beside me. “And tell me everything.”

  Gavin claims the chair. His board-shouldered frame fills the space, and I slide to the opposite edge of my seat and turn to him, ready and willing to hear him out.

  “Alexandra, my ex as of a couple of hours ago—”

  “Wait.” I hold up a hand, palm out in a universal stop-right-there gesture. “Is that the brunette I met at the farm dinner you dragged me to?”

  I avoid parties as a rule. Sure, I enjoyed them in college. But my ex crushed any interest I had in large gatherings focused on talking to the most influential people. Last summer, I made an exception for the family-style dinner that benefited local farmers. The celebrity chef also played a part in my willingness to bend my No Parties rule.

  He shakes his head. “That was Kristen. We broke up not long after Labor Day. She was heading back to school.”

  My eyes widen because, um, Gavin and I are the same age. Thirty-five. I know he dates young, but still in school? Wow. Just wow.

  “Stop.” He looks over at me. “Whatever y
ou’re thinking, just stop. Kristen was in medical school. Third year. She wasn’t a child. And you said you liked her when you met her.”

  “I was probably lying. But back to Alexandra,” I say with another glance at the door. My interest in Gavin’s love life only extends so far. Right now, I’m failing to see the nature of the emergency midnight visit. And dammit, when will the vet pop her head out the door and give me the all clear?

  “Focus,” Gavin says again. “Look at me, not the door. Please.”

  I reluctantly obey.

  “We were at this birthday party tonight and Alexandra pulls out a picture.” He leans forward resting his forearms on his thighs. He’s still wearing his suit jacket, but the white sleeves peeking out from underneath are dotted with bright red. He turns to look at me, and I glance up from his blood-stained cuffs. “Do you remember the worst days?”

  “Yes.”

  He has my complete attention now. I’ve known Gavin since we were five years old. I can still picture the day the social worker dropped him off at the farmhouse next to ours in upstate New York. Not the hour’s drive from the big city where I live now, but upstate upstate, by the Finger Lakes.

  Gavin had nothing with him when he arrived at my neighbor’s dilapidated home. Not even a trash bag. Even as a kid I thought that was strange. But I was thrilled to finally have another kid my age nearby. As an only child living miles and miles from town, I wanted a playmate.

  “She has a picture of me.” He shakes his head. “I don’t know who took it. Hell, I didn’t know there was evidence … I thought it was over. I thought I’d put it behind me.”

  “You did.” My voice is fierce and firm. I lean forward too and place one hand over his. “But that doesn’t mean it didn’t happen. That you weren’t a victim—”

  “I was a weak little kid,” he cuts in. He looks over at me, and I see his desire to tear apart that word. Weak. He’s fought against that label for decades.

  A weak kid who was bullied and beat up, I think. And no one stood up for you. Certainly not your worthless foster family. They made it worse. So much worse.