Authors: Cora Blu
You Called Me
Blakemore Volume I
By Cora Blu
You Called Me
Copyright 2013 Cora Blu
Cover Design by
Editing by Wendy Ely
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
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Table of Contents
The medicinal twang of cough syrup coating her tongue she tasted even in her drowsy state. She swallowed and the mint flavor couldn't mask the bitterness as it blossomed down her throat. Ugh!
Stomach clenching, a watery sensation roiled up into the back of her mouth. She drew her arms around her stomach, knew she had to be dying. This was why she hated living alone, nobody to get her some tea. Tea, forgot about the scented sachets in her pillow she kept for relaxation. Kenya angled her head up enough to fluff the pillow then inhaled the rising aroma burying her face in the scent. She felt like death reheated for the third time in the microwave. A hint of chamomile, her father’s remedy for a sleepless night filled her nostrils. Sliding her legs over the sheets, she searched for a cool spot on the bed and waited for the nausea to subside.
After a minute, the acids began to mellow and quiet down. That wasn't chamomile she smelled. It was fresh but not feminine. She tried to force her eyes open, but the flu made her weak, then she sniffed again. Delicious, masculine, and scrumptious scents filled her senses. Blinking, she ran a hand over her pillow. The picture formed itself in her mind. Corded muscles twisting down a forearm spattered with a light dusting of freckles. A chest that appeared to be hand molded just for her fingers to play over, and a butt that...She rolled her eyes. Good grief! She could still smell the sexy man with the crazy blue eyes from her fever-induced dream.
Kenya shifted her hips on the bed until she faced the far wall. A second unfamiliar scent hit her nose. Musky and some sort of spice...a mature man's cologne filled her nose. Eyes closed, she laid there. Had she left the window cracked when she went to bed? Her neighbor's cologne always wafted down their connecting patio and she'd smelled his scent many nights. The odor would have to get in line behind the pounding in her temple. She tugged the sheet over her head.
She listened closer. Relaxed. Heat from the vents…blowers…finally kicked in for the season. Tomorrow she'd call to have her vents cleaned. They sounded awful, rasping as if the air came through a ball of lint covering the grid.
Flipping her pillow to the cooler side, she’d almost wished it hadn’t come on. The fever had her body on fire, but her skin felt clammy.
Ugh. She had to have pneumonia or the plague. The flu didn’t make you feel this whacked-out. And a dry throat.
In the dark, she wiggled her fingers out from under the covers over to the night table for the glass of water she kept by the bed and froze.
Praying she'd guessed wrong about what she touched, she pried open an eye. Oh please let her glass have on a cup cozy. If not, she was about to become dinner to something fury. Peaking from beneath the sheet, she scrambled back, getting to her feet stumbling through thick comforters and pillows. Sheets tangled around her ankles. Startled, she glanced back at the cold press of a window at her back. Where had the window come from? She didn’t have one over her bed. Pressing hair from her face, she focused on the pair of eyes staring at her from the edge of the bed. The biggest bulldog she'd ever seen rocked side to side on his front paws. Serious eyes glittered under soft light streaming across from the other side of the room. That couldn’t be right. She shot a hurried glance, her chests tightening at the sight of a bathroom in her bedroom—wait, she let her stare stray around the room, she didn’t have a connecting bathroom either.
The dog panted-eyeing her while she had a mini-stroke.
Shaking, she waited for the rest of the room to come into focus. Not a hint of her belonging’s anywhere in the room to suggest she lived there. Apprehension screamed through her body. Flexing her hands, Kenya took a calming breath. Darting a glance around the space she reached for the lamp, the closest thing she could use as a weapon. But eyes with teeth moved closer and she stepped back rubbing her arms. After two inhales, she reminded herself that she liked dogs. Talk to him.
“Nice doggy…stay right there.” Bulldogs weren't jumpers, little consolation when she didn't know his eating habits. She tried to calm her nerves. Clutching the sheet, she inhaled deep and blew it out. The dog tilted his head to the right and moaned. Great, now she was his entertainment.
If she kept him relaxed, she stood a chance of getting out of there. If the room stopped spinning that was. This fever made her dizzy.
Peering out the window above the bed, all she could see were streetlights. Pressing a hand over her pj’s she drew it back dropping the soft cotton. Looking down, she could see the white t-shirt even in the dim room light. She didn’t wear t-shirts to bed and even if she did it wouldn't be this large. Tentatively closing her fingers under the edge she bunched the hem in her hand, bringing it up to her nose. A man. She shot a second glance out the window verifying her fears. A high-rise building instead of her apartment building. Not her neighborhood and certainly not her bed.
Kidnapped. Someone must have
her. That's why nothing appeared familiar.
Out the window she tried to count how many floors the apartment building had. The dog whined behind her. Great, she knew what that meant from her time volunteering at the dog shelter. Rover needed to eat.
Remembering her training, she extended her hand out low, concentrating not to shake. Her legs, thankfully, stopped trembling as his soft muzzle brushed over her palm. He licked her fingers. Easing down, she could do this as long as his ears stayed flat against his head and he didn’t bare his teeth. His large head snapped around seconds before the door opened. Kenya jerked, clutching the sheet to her chest her fists balled tight. A large man she believed to be in his thirties filled the doorway, eyes settling over her sheet-clad body. He tilted his head and her ability to speak dried up in her throat as light poured around him from the hallway, muddying his features.
“She’s gotten to ye, huh, boy? She is pretty,” the man admired her openly, his Irish accent thick and sensual. “And feeling better I hope.” The tall stranger held out his hand. The dog immediately lay beside the bed. She trailed her host’s attention focused on her bare legs twisted in the sheet. His stare moved down her thigh, slipping over her calf. The corner of his lips tweaked up in a rueful smile. Running a hand over his thick neck did nothing to help relax her if he were trying. The tension of his dress shirt pulled taut across his chest only added a more violent picture to feed to her active imagination. Had he raped her when she'd been unconscious? Kenya squeezed her thighs together. No soreness or bruising or…wet. However, that hadn’t proved…his Irish baroque when he spoke roused her from the police report she'd started in her mind. If ever she needed to cash in her good karma points this was it.
Light flooded the room when he flipped the switch beside the door, granting her a better look at him. Dangerously handsome, his ruddy complexion held a bit of sadness. Kenya gave him a second, closer look. His low brow said he'd received bad news or, wait a minute, this could be a ploy to get her to drop her guard. Lord her sister was right. She was gullible.
“The bathroom’s behind that door if you need to go.” He nodded. She’d forgotten she’d gripped her thighs together.
“We didn’t--”Casting her eyes to the bed. She tugged the shirt down over her thighs, not wanting to give him any ideas if they hadn’t already…”I mean you didn’t…”
A scowl crossed his forehead. “Have sex? No... I have standards,” he stated haughtily. Frustrated and offended she caught herself before she leapt from the bed and strangled the rude man, he raised a hand in explanation. “You were unconscious and I don’t take what’s not mine,” he qualified his comment, shaking his head. A smirk danced at the corners of his eyes.
Her shoulders dropped in relief and that eased a portion of her mind, a small portion.
“Now, pretty lady, my robe’s hanging behind the door. You’re welcomed to slip it on if you’re cold.” His tone slid over her body as if it carried weight, heavy, lurid and male. “I have some dinner ready and you need to eat something. Are you hungry?” A wicked smile cracked the serious line of his lips.
Kenya smoothed her hair behind her ears and asked her own questions. “Who are you? Where am I? And where are my clothes?” she heard the quiver in her voice, shook it off, and held her head high.
Attempting to keep balance, she held on to the windowsill.
The man slipped a hand in his front pocket, the outline of his knuckles beneath the wool trousers flexing over his thighs.
Stop checking out the kidnapper
“Hungry?” he questioned again and her attention moved down the relaxed way he filled the threshold, leaning against the doorjamb ankles crossed. His platinum watch peaked out from under the white, rolled cuffs of his dress shirt. Navy trousers and suit vest hung slack over his heavy chest and…bare feet…nice well-manicured feet. She had a thing for well-kept feet on a man.
“Where am I?”
“My bedroom.” Pushing away from the door, thick carpet masked his steps as he moved closer to the bed.
This time she did leap from the bed to the first open door she found…and threw up.
Large hands stroked over her hair, Kenya shifted against a hard body cradled against her shoulder, and a cool towel pressed to her forehead. “Relax, you’re burning up. Are you taking anything for your illness?”
The room whirled as she fought to free herself, banging her knees against the carpeted floor scrambling to her feet. The wild motion kicked the edge of the t-shirt high around her thighs and she fought to keep it down, but the heat from the floor vent blew across her panties and the heat tickled her making her squirm in his arms, making him grin. His arms locked under her breasts, scrunching the t-shirt higher exposing her thighs. Her bare legs dangling like a rag doll over the floor.
“Okay, we’re not gonna do that again,” he warned, a measure of annoyance in his graveled tone. “I won’t hurt you…stop fighting before you throw up again.”
Queasy, from the mere mention of the word, she stopped squirming. Although grateful he'd sat down, she stayed cautious perched on his lap on the bed.
“Who are you?” She licked her lips. The sour taste in her mouth hit her nose. Her stomach muscles clutched. “What did you give me?”
He frowned driving those beautiful brows down.
ate, or medicine
took, didn’t agree with you,” he told her. Kenya kept her attention on him as he eased her from his lap down to the bed. His closeness intensified the delicious scent rising from his chest. As he pushed away to stand, she caught a glimpse of his chest between the open buttons of the dress shirt…reddish-brown hair. She tucked the t-shirt around her hips averting her eyes from his body and sat up straight. His rich accented voice brought her head up. “I’m Jonathan, Kenya,” he said, backing toward the door.