Blindsided (Sentinel Securities) (4 page)

"Hello again."

Briella continued to stare. She knew she should speak, but for the life of her, she couldn't think of one single, intelligent word to utter.

"I'm the bloke you almost killed this morning," he prompted with a grin.

"What are you doing here?"

He didn't seem fazed that she'd brushed over his greeting, he just held her gaze in that calm, cool, collected way that was altogether too unsettling for her peace of mind. "I told you I'd be back."

"Do you not understand the word
no?"

"It always makes me wonder why people bother saying no, when really they know deep down inside, they want to say, yes."

Briella blinked, opening her mouth to say something only to find that somehow there was a certain truth to what the man had just said. "Well, regardless of that, you're wasting your time. I can't go out, I have a baby. So, I'm glad you're okay, but there's no need to make anything up to me, goodnight," she said quickly, about to close the front door on his handsome, dangerous face.

"Wait, I bought flowers, don't send me away and make me look like some kind of loser when I have to walk away still carrying them."

Briella's eyes fell to the colourful bunch of flowers in bright pink wrapping paper he'd brought from behind his back and hesitated.
What woman in her right mind refused flowers?
Especially when it had been
forever
since anyone had bothered buying her any.

"We don't have to go out, I'd just like to say, thank you."

"You could be a serial killer," she told him with a reluctant tug of her lips. It really wasn't safe to just open her door to anyone.

"I hate the sight of blood," he promised.

"Well, that's reassuring." She eyed him cautiously for a moment then sighed, it wasn't as though he'd deliberately attempted to get run over by her this morning—and she should be thankful he was being so nice to her—he may have had every right to report the incident to the police and have them carry out some kind of investigation. Maybe she’d been in the wrong? She could have killed him.

The phone rang and Briella raised a hand indicating to her visitor, she would be just one moment. She vanished around the corner of the hallway and snagged one of the two hand sets in the house, answering the phone quickly.

"Brie, is everything alright? I saw that man's bike in the driveway."

Relief spread through Briella at Gladys voice on the other end of the phone. "Yes, everything's fine, he's just dropped by to say thank you for helping him this morning, we're okay, thanks Gladys."

Some people may have resented their neighbour’s busy-body tendencies, but for Briella who had been used to fending for herself for so long, it was a comforting presence she knew she could count on. As a rule, Gladys would mind her own business, she liked her own space as much as Briella did, but the arrival of a stranger on a motor bike was not the norm, and Briella was grateful to have someone care enough about her to be watching out for her. 

Returning to the front door, she sent a small smile of apology at the delay. "That was my neighbour. She's checking up on you, so if you
are
a serial killer, you might want to remember that you now have multiple eye witnesses with the police on speed dial."

"I'll keep that in mind," he assured her, nodding sagely as she unlocked the door and stepped aside to allow him in.

She realised her mistake as soon as he walked past, she should have opened the door and went first, because as he turned sideways to slip inside she suddenly realised how closely they were positioned…and how great he smelled. Dropping her gaze from his, she ducked her head and mumbled about following her this way, before turning quickly and leaving him to pull the screen door shut.

The news still played on the TV screen, and she snagged a stray building block from the coffee table and tossed it in the toy box as she walked past. "Would you like coffee?"

"Sure, coffee would be great."

She saw him taking in the details of the room curiously, and resisted the urge to defend the less than chic appearance of the place. It was hard to get a magazine perfect theme going with Wiggles paraphernalia, a multitude of children's toys and kid size furniture all vying for space.

"Do you have a boy or girl?" he asked, indicating the toy box.

"Girl—Lucy."

"She's asleep already?" he asked, sending a quick look at the bulky watch on his wrist.

"She's only three."

"Oh. Right."

Briella sent him an amused look. "Not a lot of experience with kids?"

"Ah, no. None."

They moved out to the kitchen at the back of the duplex and Briella waved her hand at the bar stools or the small pine table, to let him choose where he wanted to sit. Dropping his leather jacket on the table behind him, he pulled out one of the bar stools across the bench from where she stood making their coffee on the other side. "So, I guess I should ask what your name is, since we didn't get around to asking this morning." She glanced up from untwisting the coffee lid from the jar, waiting for him to answer.

"Jason Nash."

"Well, it's nice to meet you, Jason Nash. I'm glad you weren't hurt. I'm Briella Matheson."

"Nice to meet you Briella. Are you a nurse?"

Briella sent him a swift glance, wondering how he'd come to that conclusion.

"I noticed this morning you were wearing a uniform with the hospital logo on it."

"Oh. Yes, actually."

"Well then, I guess I was never in any danger was I, with a n
urse nearby to offer assistance.
"

"Fat lot of good it did me, you still wouldn't let me call an ambulance," she reminded him as she spooned coffee granules into two cups and waited for the jug to switch off.

"There was nothing wrong with me."

"So what do you do?"

"I own my own business."

"Doing?" she prompted at his reluctance to go into details.

"I work in the security industry."

"Security? Like security guards and burglar alarms?"

"Yeah, that kind of thing."

"Oh, great, so if you were a serial killer, you could probably disable my alarm and no one would know."

"I could—if you even had one."

A smile spread across her lips at his astute observation. "Wow, you're good."

He didn't comment, but his
self-satisfied
smile told her he was aware of how good he was—without her having to point it out.

Briella slid the sugar and the milk across to him, as she poured the boiling water into the two mugs.

"So, it's just the two of you?" he asked, declining both sugar and milk for his coffee.

She busied herself putting milk and sugar into her coffee, giving a small nod, "Yep."

"What about your daughter's, father?" he asked, before taking a cautious sip of his coffee.

"He's not around. Do you want something with your coffee? Here, have a biscuit…I’ve got plenty," she said indicating the two plastic containers of biscuits stacked on the countertop. She caught his curious glance and gave a sheepish shrug. “I ah, like to bake when I’m stressed…it’s been a pretty stressful week,” she added dryly.

"Thanks."  He reached over and took one of the biscuits from the container she offered before continuing casually, "Must be hard, raising a kid on your own?"

Briella's glance turned into a frown, surprised at the line of questioning. "You're not one of those guys who
prey on single mothers because you think we’re all desperate and make
easy targets, are you?"

A tiny grunt of amusement escaped, before he shook his head. "No, why? Have you come across guys like that before?"

She eyed him suspiciously for a few more moments, unsure if he was serious or not. She could usually read people easily, a habit that came with the job, but not this guy. He seemed extremely …
controlled.
"Not personally, but I know women it's happened to."

"I'm not after anything
,
Briella. I just wanted to make sure you were okay after today and to apologise for giving you a fright."

Something about his intense scrutiny didn't match the casual explanation, but at the same time, he wasn't setting off any alarm bells. Briella gave a mental snort at that—like she was the expert on listening to internal alarms, what a joke!
When it came to men and going
on
past experience, she was about as capable of picking a loser, as she would be flying a space shuttle.

"So tell me more about you. Where did you come from, how long have you been here?"

Briella gave a small off hand shrug, "I'm pretty boring. I moved here from out west when I was twenty-one, to do my Nursing degree at Uni. Worked for a couple of years after I graduated, then went
overseas
nursing for a few years. Came back about four years ago and here I am."

"You're a country girl
,
huh?"

"I grew up in the country, but I've lived in the city long enough to call it home. I don't have any close family left out there now. What about you?"

"Family? Nah, none to speak of. I never met my dad, he was killed before I was born and my mum and I haven't spoken for a while. She isn't really the maternal kind."

Briella hid her reaction to this; she was used to keeping an impartial opinion about people. She took enough patient histories each day to no longer be surprised by some of the admissions she was told in the act of gaining an insight into a patient’s mindset and wellbeing. But it always made her feel sad that everyone hadn't been as lucky as she had as a child. Her parents had been in their late fifties before they'd miraculously had her. They'd been trying for so many years that by the time they'd given up hope, she'd come along when they'd least expected it.

His stiff movement as he placed his cup back on the bench jolted her from old memories. "So you're not really as injury free as you made out yesterday, are you?"

"What makes you say that?"

"I come across tough guys now and again who don't like to admit they're in pain, because they think it somehow makes them seem weak."

"Some people might have a higher pain thresh hold than others."

"
Some people
don't understand that when we ask if they're in pain, it's for their own good."

"Rest assured there was no harm done."

"So you always favour your right shoulder then?"

His eyes crinkled a little at her comment, but he didn't deny it. "I've had worse."

"Do you want me to look at it?" She
knew
she should have insisted about the damn ambulance this morning.

The twinkle left his eye and it took a moment for her to recognise that intensity from earlier had returned. "I'd hate you to have been walking around with internal bleeding all day or something," she added, wondering at the sudden awkwardness that had fallen between them.

Slowly he reached back with one hand and pulled the shirt over his head. She noticed he kept his right side unnaturally still. 

At first glance, Briella could appreciate the
well-defined
muscles that his shirt had been disguising, but the sight of the nasty red bruise covering his side and right shoulder, soon wiped all but the most professional curiosity from her mind. With gentle fingers she palpated around the edges and searched for signs of anything out of the norm. To his credit, he didn't so much as flinch even though she knew it had to be tender. Satisfied that there was nothing broken, she felt somewhat better about not driving him to the hospital like she should have.

Standing this close, she could smell the leather-like scent he wore and the warmth of his breath close to her neck as she leant down to inspect his shoulder. With a start, she realised her hands were still on him and that he'd gone very still. She snatched them away, flustered, and moved from his side, taking her seat once more. "Okay, so you were right—nothing seems too bad…considering."

She couldn't bear to look him in the face. God only knew what he must be thinking of her. Why didn't she just listen to him? Why did she have to make a complete—well built—
stranger
get half-naked in her kitchen?
Moron!

Soundlessly, he put his shirt back on, and Briella took a hasty sip of her coffee to cover the awkward moment. "You look like you've had an interesting life."

Nash sent her a brief glance as he finished tucking in his shirt.

"That's a lot of scars for one person."

There were scars and
there were scars
. His were a strange mix of surgical and other, less professionally treated ones. The kind she often saw on footballers and fighters. Neither occupation held much appeal for her—
especially
the latter.

"I spent some time in the Army."