What Belongs to Her. Rachel Brimble

      CHAPTER TWO

      SITTING ON THE balcony of her apartment in one of two ancient patio chairs, Sasha scowled at the view. The temperature was above average for July, but a slight breeze cut through the warmth and she pulled her pashmina tighter around her shoulders. The flickering lights of her beloved fairground taunted her in the distance, the sounds of laughter and rock music ringing in her ears. She wanted to punch something.

      Kyle Jordon’s son was there right now, no doubt parading around like he already owned the place. She cursed. He does own it, you numbskull.

      Leaning forward, she picked up her wineglass from the upturned crate beside her. The cabernet sauvignon, warm and fruity, slid down her throat, ever so slightly mellowing her fraught nerves and barely controlled need to vent some serious anger.

      Yet, she couldn’t shake the feeling John Jordon was about as happy to be there as she was about his arrival.

      Sasha struggled to get her emotions under control. She had to resist her instinct to worry about every damn thing before it happened. Her primal need to prevent evil before it could strike. Who was to say the guy wasn’t there under duress? She glanced at her cell phone sitting on the table. Either way, she had a right to know why she hadn’t been warned about his unwanted entrance. She had a right to demand some background information on the handsome enigma known as John Jordon.

      Snatching up her phone, she punched in Freddy’s cell number and focused once more on the fairground lights. Her heart beat hard as the tone rang ominously in her ear. She was just about to end the call when the line picked up.

      “Freddy Campton’s phone.”

      Sasha froze. Damn it. It was him. John-bloody-Jordon. What were the chances of him answering? She cleared her throat and sat up straight. Hell would freeze over before she’d let him get the better of her. “Is Freddy around?”

      “Not right now. Can I take a message?”

      “No. I’ll catch up with him tomorrow. Thanks anyway.”

      “You know, if you’re calling to ask about me, you could just come straight to the source. What is it you’d like to know, Miss Todd?”

      She narrowed her gaze. The man’s voice sounded more uppity and posh than ever. “My name’s Sasha. Can we drop the Miss Todd? We tend to work on a first-name basis at the fairground. You know, circa the twenty-first century.”

      There was a pause before his breath rasped down the line. “I see.”

      Sasha glared. Was that a whiff of laugher or disdain in his tone? She’d bet a hundred British pounds on the former. “Are you laughing at me...Mr. Jordon?”

      “John, please.” This time he definitely laughed.

      Her stomach knotted as a blush dared to warm her cheeks. She steadfastly bit back her smile. “Clearly, there are some things we need to get straight if we’re going to start off as civilized individuals tomorrow.”

      “Meaning we’re likely to get uncivil?”

      The heat at her cheeks hitched up a notch. His voice was like liquid velvet, making the suggestion of incivility almost sexual. She shifted in her seat. “Fine. If you want our working relationship to start off on the wrong foot, who am I to argue? Could you just let Freddy know I called and that I’d appreciate a call back?”

      “So you’d still rather ask him rather than me why I’m here?”

      Damn it. She stared at the fair again. This man, with his smooth voice, handsome looks and, though she hated to admit it, masculine charm, was making her feel the need to fully arm herself before she set a single foot inside the fairground office tomorrow morning.

      “Miss...Sasha? You still there?”

      “Of course. I’m going nowhere.” She picked up her wineglass and drained it before reaching for the bottle. Strength in grapes.

      He cleared his throat. “I need you to work with me. This isn’t a fight to the death.”

      She sniffed. “That’s what you think.”

      “Pardon me?”

      Her hand stilled around the wine bottle before she released it and drove her clawed fingers into her hair instead. Clearly, more alcohol was not advisable. Her damn tongue was running away with her.

      “Look, tomorrow’s another day.” She sighed and focused on dragging up a little dignity to battle her desire to poke out the man’s eyes. “I’m just put out I wasn’t told about your arrival. I’m sure tomorrow won’t be as onerous as I’m thinking it will be right now.”

      “I’m quite a nice guy...sometimes.”

      She scowled. “And I’m quite a nice woman...sometimes.”

      He laughed and her stomach knotted again. Damn it, why were her guts going all stupid every time this man laughed?

      “I need your help.” He inhaled a heavy breath. “I don’t particularly like that fact, but I’m man enough to admit it. Kyle told me you know the fair better than anyone. I can’t do anything without you.”

      The humor in his tone had vanished, leaving behind a rough, masculine assurance that conflicted with his words.

      Slow and steady wins the race, Sasha. Slow and steady wins the race.

      She rose from her chair and approached the barrier surrounding the balcony. The swish of the tide lapping the beach a mile down the road drifted to her ears on the gathering breeze, and she inhaled. “And what is it you want to do exactly?”

      “I can’t tell you that.”

      Sasha closed her eyes as her heart turned to lead. Once again, she was fighting. The threat of another battle clinked like crossing swords in her head. “You know something, John?”

      “What?”

      “If anyone, including your father, had any respect for how long I’ve worked at the fair or what it means to me, they would’ve given me a heads-up about you coming. That didn’t happen, so I’m wondering what you want from me. If you intend to do something with my...the fair, you should at least have the decency to tell me about it.”

      Her heart beat out the seconds of silence, broken only by his heavy exhalation. “Nobody knew I was coming.”

      She squeezed her eyes tighter. “I don’t believe you.”

      “Nobody knew.”

      “Was this Kyle’s idea? You turning up like a phantom menace?” She snapped her eyes open and choked out a wry laugh. “Stupid question. Even from behind prison walls, the guy likes to play the great puppet master.”

      “I am not Kyle’s puppet.”

      His ice-cold tone sent an involuntary shiver down her back. The knee-jerk reaction to apologize lingered on her tongue, but she decided against it. The silence stretched until she was forced to say something. “Look, it’s late and I’m tired. Maybe tomorrow I’ll be a little more amicable. Let’s just say good-night, shall we?”

      “How well do you know my father, Sasha Todd?”

      The soft, British upper-class way he said her name rolled down the phone line and licked softly over her skin. Why the hell did the man have to talk that way? Why couldn’t he talk with the rough abrasion of some of the dock workers she knew at the harbor?

      She pushed away from the barrier. “Not very well.”

      “Yet you’ve worked at the fair your entire life. He bought it from your grandfather. How could you not know him?”

      Her heart hitched into her throat. “You know about that?”

      “Yes.”