said, that could scare small children, ward off vampires, and cause even the most impatient of patients to take a seat.
Clearly, ax murderers were immune. Or hers was, because he lifted a single brow and she swallowed—hard.
Huh. Simple, but effective.
“Who the hell are you?” She took in his bare chest, boxers, and bedhead—no sign of the ax. “And why are you sleeping in my bed?”
His eyes took in her attire while his lips kicked into a crooked smile. “I was about to ask you the same thing, Goldilocks.”
Chapter 3
Emmitt Bradley was exactly two days out from a three-week stint in Shenzhen’s finest ICU, and already he was experiencing some disturbing symptoms. Hallucinations being the most concerning.
She was certainly the sexiest little hallucination he’d ever conjured. He’d take it over the blinding headaches any day. Hell, maybe he was still overseas, and waking up to find nothing but cream lace and toned skin traipsing around his house could be some kind of medically induced wet dream.
No, he remembered the explosion, the crushing force of the blast that had leveled both him and the subbasement of the concrete factory he’d been covering. The ride to the hospital and following few weeks were a bit fuzzy, but the cold sweats and stabbing pain as the cabin pressurized on his flight home would be forever branded into his memory.
The doctor had warned him about flying before he was ready. Even gave him a strict list of things to avoid upon being discharged:
Work.
Whims.
Whisky.
Women.
Okay, the last had been his addition, because without bossy women he wouldn’t be sidelined while someone else covered his story. Something he didn’t want to talk about just yet, which was why he’d kept his homecoming on the down-low.
Maybe he’d gone to the local bar and invited some barfly back to see if his bed was too big, too small, or just right. In his condition it was doubtful, but not out of the realm of possibility.
He sized her up with a single glance. Nah, a woman who looked like this one didn’t hang around the Crow’s Nest looking for one-night flings. And guys like Emmitt never offered more.
He was back to the coma theory. And if there was one thing Emmitt knew how to do better than anyone, it was testing a theory.
“Normally, I’d say the more the merrier.” He ran a hand through his hair and—damn—even his follicles hurt. “But tonight’s not good for me.”
Her fear was immediately replaced with contempt. “I’m so sorry to intrude on your precious man-time,” she said, then slung her heel at his head. “Now, get out!”
“Jesus.” He ducked, because hallucination or not, that thing looked dangerous. Bright red, pointy toed, and sharp enough to pierce steel, or—he looked up at the spot on the wall where his head had been two seconds earlier—wedge itself into sheetrock.
“Seriously, who put you up to this?” he asked.
“What?”
“It was Levi, wasn’t it? All self-righteous about dating, telling me my luck was bound to run out and I’d end up attracting one of those Crazy Cuties.” He took his time giving her another once-over, paying extra-special attention to her panties—cheeky cut, if he were a betting man. “You don’t look like one of those. But I’ve been wrong before.”
“Crazy?” She snatched the remote control off the coffee table.
“See now, Goldilocks, you’re missing the whole cutie part.”
She stood there, straddling that threshold between retreat and retaliation, remote poised and aimed for complete castration, and contemplating her next move.
Emmitt stepped closer, dwarfing her with his size, then leveled her with a Come at me, I dare you look that would scare most grown men shitless.
This woman was neither scared nor intimidated. Stubborn, narrowed eyes met his and made him wonder where the meek people-pleaser he’d heard on the phone had disappeared to. There was nothing meek about the woman standing in front of him. She looked like a genie who’d broken free from her lamp. Not that blond babe who granted wishes either. No, this genie looked as if she had a thousand years of anger stored up and ready to unleash on some poor SOB.
“My name is Anh Nhi Walsh. Or Annie if that’s too cosmopolitan for you to manage.”
He was about to inform her that his passport had more stamps than a philatelist when she decided he was the poor SOB.
Clutching the remote for all she was worth, she pulled back and smiled. Emmitt knew that smile well. He’d invented that smile.
In fact, he was the grand fucking master