Free Masters of the Shadowlands 7 - This is who I am by Sinclair Cherise

“Here.”
    He took the paper. When he pulled a pair of reading glasses from his work-shirt pocket, she blinked. The glasses made him look…different. As if the jeans and rough behavior were a cover for the intelligent person beneath. After reading the article, he set the paper aside, and a tremor ran through her at the cold anger in his face.
    “The reporter should be horsewhipped.”
    She took the paper from his lap and tossed it into the wastebasket. “It doesn’t really matter. There’s nothing you can do about it. I think you’d better go home.”
    He sipped his drink and watched her pace across the room.
    She stopped. “Did you hear what I said?”
    “I heard.” He wasn’t moving.
    “Go home, Sam.”
    When she glared at him, he actually looked pleased. “Not much I can do about the reporter. Legally. But maybe your spray painter will show up tonight.” He glanced over his shoulder at the hallway. “Got a place for me to sleep?”
    She had to wonder if he raised cattle, because, oh boy, his expression was definitely a bullheaded one.
    * * * *
    Half an hour later, as Sam scrubbed and scraped the black paint off Linda’s house, fury lashed his insides like a hailstorm. What kind of bastard picked on a woman—any woman—let alone one who had already suffered so much? He looked forward to getting his hands on the man. Be a pleasure to dispense a short, hard lesson in manners.
    “Sam.” She wore midcalf-length shorts—whatever they were called—and flip-flops. Her full breasts strained against her green top as she pulled her heavy red hair into a short tail. If her hair was a bit longer, he could wrap it around his fist. Less clothing would be good too. But no matter what she wore, she’d probably still warm his blood.
    Scraper in hand, she joined him. “You really don’t have to do this.”
    “’Course I do.” The places where bare wood showed had obviously been written on before.
    “Well, I appreciate it.” She vigorously scrubbed at the black paint, and he noticed her freckled arms looked well toned.
    Checking, he ran his hand over her upper arm and felt muscle beneath the soft padding.
    She froze, staring up at him. “What are you doing?”
    Why did he feel a magnetic pull every time he looked down into her big brown eyes? “You’ve put some muscle on. Been working out?” He kept his hand on her, feeling the slight quiver. Seeing nervousness replace fear.
    “I-I was at my sister’s house. In California.” She pulled from his grasp and examined her arm as if she hadn’t seen it before. “She has a huge garden.”
    “Gardens are good for mending.”
    She slanted him a disbelieving look. “Did you ever have anything to mend?”
    His mouth tightened. But he’d finally got her talking. Backing away would silence her again. “’Nam.”
    “But…” She studied him. “You were old enough to be in Vietnam?”
    “My recruiter cousin fudged the papers for me.” Because his cuz had known about his stepfather’s heavy hand. Pa had been a good man, but Ma hadn’t chosen so well the second time.
    “Dear God.” She looked at him as if seeing the tall, lanky kid he’d been. Seeing him with a mother’s eyes. “That wasn’t right.”
    “Long time ago.” At least he’d turned sixteen before his unit deployed. Nonetheless, he’d spent the next two years in hell. “The US pulled out when I hit eighteen.”
    “You were just a baby.” Tears swam in her eyes, melting his memories.
    “Nah. They don’t call babies ‘sergeant.’” He’d stayed in the army until his mother’s and stepfather’s deaths in a boating accident.
    To erase Linda’s tears, he cupped her chin. Her lips were soft. Sweet. And trembled slightly under his. When her hand pushed against his chest, he released her immediately. There would be other times.
    “Where did you garden?” She sounded breathless, and he smothered a smile.
    “Got some acres.” Although his stepfather had sold off parts of his