Edge of Sanity: An Edge Novel

Chapter Three

C
lay watched the clock all day long.

As posh as Payton’s vacation home was, done all in pale blues and greens, it did nothing to soothe the restless itch on the back of his neck. He couldn’t turn on the TV and distract himself. His mind was too scattered to read a book. When he’d tried, he’d read the first sentence sixteen times before finally giving up.

He was too nervous to eat, despite having gone all day with no food. If he shoved anything in on top of his anxiety, he knew it would come right back up. He couldn’t stand the thought of doing that to Payton’s plush carpet.

At six thirty-two and six seconds, a quiet knock sounded on the back door.

Clay had been waiting for it—wishing for that knock to come even as he dreaded it. And now that the moment was here, he felt glued to his seat, unable to stand.

His Sig sat on the little round table in the breakfast nook, next to a cold cup of coffee and a lace doily. He picked up the weapon, letting the cold steel ease his nerves.

Whoever was behind that door was going to know what a head case he was, and as much as he hated that, he knew Payton was right. Someone needed to keep him from slipping out at night to do whatever it was he did. If that meant letting some dude handcuff him to a bed, so be it.

Clay eased the door open two inches, letting his weapon ride along his thigh, out of sight. Standing under a yellow lightbulb, huddled inside a jacket, was a woman he’d never seen before.

He was so shocked by her presence—that she wasn’t aoma man—that he stood there like an idiot, staring. She had dark, reddish hair she wore pulled back from her face in a high ponytail. Small, fine curls escaped at her temples, springing away in defiance from the rest of the carefully smoothed strands. Freckles decorated her nose and cheeks, and the cold wind had rubbed a deep pink color over her skin.

“Clay?” she asked.

He nodded, mute.

“Payton sent me. I’m Leigh.” She didn’t offer to shake his hand, which was just as well, considering his hand was full of gun.

Her dark gaze drifted down his body and back up again, as if assessing him in a single glance. While there was a no-nonsense air about her—a directness in her stare that surprised him—he found himself relaxing.

He’d been expecting a confrontation—some big, burly asshole who was going to try to bully him around. He hadn’t considered that Payton would send someone Clay could easily overpower.

“Are you going to let me in?” she asked, her tone as brisk as the wind.

He stepped back, sliding his weapon into the back of his waistband as he moved.

Leigh stepped inside, brushing so close to him, he could smell her skin. Muscles along his spine began to loosen up, and he realized just how tightly he’d wound himself as he’d waited for six thirty-two.

She set two overnight bags on the counter. “Do you talk?”

“Of course I do.”

“Good. My sign language is rusty.” She stripped out of her jacket, making the buttons on her modest blouse strain to confine her breasts.

Clay froze, unable to look away, despite what manners dictated. He was completely captivated by the sight, marveling in how easily his brain switched from red alert to blunt male interest.

The pain in his ribs faded away, and all the tiny muscles lining his skull eased up their death grip. Until now he hadn’t realized just how much pain had been running in the background, shoved down where it wouldn’t distract him.

He was definitely distracted now.

“Do you have anything else to carry in?” he asked, looking for some excuse to leave her presence and get his shit together.

“No, I got it all.” She wasn’t looking at him as she spoke. Her gaze was on the kitchen, taking in the rich cherry cabinets and granite counters. “Swanky place Payton’s got here.”

Clay hadn’t noticed how nice the kitchen was until he’d watched her notice. He didn’t give a shit what the kitchen looked like so long as it had a coffeepot and a microwave. But he didn’t want to be rude, so he grunted at her so she’d know he’d heard.

Leigh turned and lifted an eyebrow at him. It was slightly darker than her hair, but with the same warm coloring.

He’d always had a thing for redheads. Especially C. Ee what maones who were stacked. It was predictable and clichéd, but there was no help for it. The hormones wanted what the hormones wanted.

And Clay’s hormones were going to continue to want. No way was he going to hit on this mystery woman when he had no clue who she was or what Payton had told her.

What if he’d warned her that Clay was a potential nut-job, blacking out and slinking around at night, hurting people?

Even worse, what if he hadn’t warned her?

Her gaze swung back to him, and he was struck by how pretty her eyes were. Big, conveying an open kind of innocence, but also dark, glittering with keen intelligence. She was watching him closely, but he couldn’t tell whether she was trying to figure something out or making sure she could get out of the way if he took a swing.

“You look hungry,” she said. “Have you had dinner?”

“No.”

“Good. That’ll give us something to do while we get to know each other.”

She opened the bottom freezer drawer and leaned over to rummage inside.

Clay’s clichéd hormones had a predictable response when presented with what was possibly the finest ass he’d ever seen. Her slacks molded to her curves, hiding more than they showed. And yet it was more than enough for Clay’s dormant libido to sit up and stretch.

His mouth watered and a slow burn began heating his skin as he stared in helpless fascination. He was like some kind of hypnotized, drooling idiot, his eyes following where she led. Each minute sway of her hips pulled him along for the ride, leaving him standing there, too dumbfounded to realize she’d been speaking to him.

She turned around, frowning at him. “Did you hear a word I said?” There was no heat in her tone, only gentle curiosity as she crossed the big kitchen to where he was standing.

“Sorry. I’m not myself lately.”

Leigh was close enough now that he could touch her if he so much as swayed forward. Too close. He could smell a trace of vanilla and something sweet he couldn’t identify. Beneath that was the scent of heat and woman—something he hadn’t noticed for a long time.

When was the last time he’d so much as gone on a date? Like so many other details, it was something he couldn’t remember.

A starburst of golden green radiated from her pupils, brightening her dark brown eyes. On her right cheek was a cluster of freckles that were thicker than the rest. There was a slight dent in the center of her chin that seemed almost too masculine for such a soft, pretty face.

She reached up toward his head. Clay grabbed her wrist, riding along on a wave of pure instinct. Her delicate wrist bones shifted inside his grip, shocking him back to something resembling rationality.

He let go of her fast, but the heat of her skin clung to his palm all the same.

To her credit, she C cr, but didn’t flinch away or cower, even though he was much bigger than she was.

“I wasn’t going to hurt you,” she said, her gaze fixed on his.

Clay almost laughed at how ridiculous the thought was. If his laugh hadn’t been rusted shut from disuse, he would have. “I know.”

“Are you going to let me touch you or not?”

He wasn’t sure. Part of him wanted her to stroke him from top to bottom and back again, but the rest of him screamed out a warning of danger. She wasn’t going to hurt him, but he couldn’t guarantee the reverse.

Leigh waited, giving him time to decide. The fact that she didn’t push relaxed a few more of those muscles that had been tied into cramped knots.

He gave her a tight nod and braced himself for whatever it was she was going to do.

She moved slowly, as if he were a wild animal she wanted to tame. Her hand settled on his forehead, as light as the touch of a butterfly. Her fingers were cool, drawing away some of the heat she’d ignited beneath his skin.

Clay closed his eyes and let his world contract until it consisted solely of the few square inches of skin that connected her to him.

A fine trembling fluttered through her hand. The faint beat of her pulse flickered along his brow, barely perceptible. Her skin warmed, soaking in his heat.

Clay had held himself apart from his friends for the past few months, slowly retreating inward. He’d spent less time with Mira and more time alone, his instincts telling him that he was becoming a danger to her. It had been so long since someone had touched him that even something as simple as this brush of skin on skin had the power to rock him to his core.

The pressure of her hand on his head eased, and he knew instantly that she was going to pull away. He didn’t want that. Couldn’t stand the thought. Not yet.

Panic took over his body, hazing out the edges of reality a bit more. He grabbed her arm, instantly realizing his mistake. He didn’t know this woman. He shouldn’t be touching her at all. And yet there wasn’t a force on the planet strong enough to get him to let go.

*   *   *

Leigh wasn’t sure what she’d expected when Payton had asked her to come here, but it wasn’t Clay’s hyperobservant state of relative calm. He wasn’t raging or out of control. In fact she felt the strands of control vibrating through his touch, pulled taut but not yet breaking.

Even though he’d jerked into action when she’d tried to move away, his grip on her arm now was careful, if no less insistent.

At least his reflexes were still excellent. He hadn’t reached that sluggish, fevered point that Hollis had right before he died. And there was no rage, nor was he dripping with paranoia—wide-eyed and twitchy.

His pupils were a bit dilated, but maybe that was simply an illu Cimp1" sion created by his eyes’ striking amber color. Vibrant, like sunset, almost glowing in their brilliance, his eyes pulled her in. There was pain there—something beyond merely physical. And fear. She wasn’t sure what a man his size had to fear, but that latent terror was unmistakable.

His clothes were too big, as if he’d recently lost weight. Deep grooves of fatigue were carved around his mouth. Shadows sagged under his eyes. He hadn’t shaved in a couple of days, and his messy brown hair was in need of a good brushing. Still, as disheveled as he was, something about him called to her.

Maybe it was the desperation that radiated out from him as he clung to her wrist, as if he was certain that she could save him.

She hadn’t been able to save Hollis, a fact she needed to remember before she let Clay and his hopeful gaze go to her head.

“You don’t have a fever,” she said. “That’s good.”

Leigh tugged against his grip, hoping he’d take the hint and let go. Grudgingly, he did, releasing her so slowly it felt like a caress.

The skin where his hand had been tingled with warmth. She could still feel the rough slide of his fingertips across the inside of her wrist. As closely as he was watching, she didn’t dare rub the feeling away, as much as she wanted to rid herself of that tingling so she could think straight.

This job of watching Clay was dangerous. Not only to her, but also to him. She had to remember that above all else.

Professional distance. That’s what she needed with this man. She’d known him for less than ten minutes and he’d already pulled her in, making her curious and all too aware of his presence. She had to find a way to shove a wedge of space between them—one that included no more touching.

Squaring her shoulders and donning the mask she wore at work, she took a long step back. “Are you hungry?”

“Not really,” he said, but the look he gave her—the scorching heat of his gaze as it traveled up and down her body—told another story.

“Well, I am. There were some chicken breasts in the freezer. I’ll make us some.”

Leigh went about finding pans and spices, trying hard to pretend she was ignoring Clay while tracking him closely. He hadn’t moved from where he stood, simply watching her as she cooked. The mix of blatant male interest and desperation sliding off him had her on edge, fumbling as she flipped the chicken in the skillet.

“You can help if you want. I saw some canned veggies in the cabinet.”

He was still for so long, she wasn’t sure he’d heard her. Finally, he crossed the space, passing so close behind her she could feel the disturbance of air he caused.

With her back to him, she couldn’t see what he was doing. She heard the clink of glass on the counter, an electric can opener, the sound of metal pans tapping together, and then water running.

The hair along her arms lifted in awareness a second before his lean arm reached Cn at s past her, setting a pan of water on the stove. His heat blanketed her left side, and his voice rumbled low, close to her ear. “I found a box of mac and cheese, too. It’s easier on my stomach than meat.”

She turned to face him, finding him only inches away. She could smell the scent of dryer sheets clinging to his plaid flannel shirt. The sleeves were rolled up, revealing sinewy forearms layered with lean muscle.

“Have you been having trouble eating?” she asked.