Seduced by the Scrum-Half (Strathstow Sharks)

Copyright 2013
Mina Carter

Cover Art by Mina Carter

Published by Blue Hedgehog Press: Dec 2013.

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Seduced by the Scrum-Half

By Mina Carter

Oh shit. The house next door was sold. It shouldn’t be sold. It
couldn’t
be sold. Not until she’d collected the mail for Mrs. Phelps. As nice as her elderly neighbor was, she wouldn’t want the new owners going through her letters.

Daisy Hardy leaned her head against the headrest and blew out a sigh as the cab pulled up outside her house. Head a little fuzzy from the unaccustomed alcohol she’d drunk earlier in the evening, she swiveled it around to glare at the sign. She
knew
she should have checked for the mail before she’d left. But as usual, the call to let her know that there were problems with the wedding her company had organized this weekend had come late, and she’d had to rush. Once, just once, she’d like her partner to be bloody organized, or even, heaven forbid, professional.

She couldn’t resist the snort that escaped her. Professional was the last word she’d use to describe Simon. He’d run into problems, but rather than deal with them, he’d disappeared on fucking holiday, leaving her to rush in at the last minute to save the day.

Idle son of a bitch would still want his cut of the paycheck though.

“Just here, duck?” The driver broke through her internal mutterings over her idiot partner, and Daisy snapped back to reality.

“Yeah, this is great, thanks. How much do I owe you?”

The figure he named made her eyebrow wing up, but she didn’t argue, paid it quickly, and slid out of the cab to collect her small case from the trunk. It was her own fault for travelling so late at night, but she couldn’t face another minute in a hotel. She wanted her own bed and pillow. As the cab pulled off, she turned and glared at the “sold” sign stuck in the neatly cut grass of the lawn. The two cottages were set deep off the road and shared a drive, which had never been an issue with Mrs. Phelps who didn’t drive. Instead, she’d relied on her son to take her shopping on Saturdays.

Daisy had quickly realized the once-weekly shopping trip had been the only contact Mrs. Phelps had with the outside world, so Daisy had taken to popping in once a day to make sure the old lady was alright. Soon she’d found she looked forward to the daily coffee and chat, enthralled by her stories of the past. When Mrs. Phelps had taken a tumble and broken her hip, she hadn’t come home from hospital. Instead, she’d been transferred to a nursing home and her cottage put on the market to be sold.

Sadness hit Daisy as she looked at the bright red “sold” sticker across the sign. She knew someone would buy it eventually—the cottage was just too cute to sit empty—but now it had it felt too final. Mrs. Phelps wasn’t coming back.

With a sigh, she headed for her front door, not bothered about the zig-zag in her walk now that there was no one to see. Her neat little compact was parked in front of her garage where she’d left it to rush off and deal with the Perkin’s issue. She stopped and glanced over her shoulder. The space in front of the other garage was empty. Whoever had bought the house couldn’t have moved in yet. Standing her small case by her front door she looked at the keys in her hand. The bronze colored key stood out amongst the silver ones.

Perhaps they hadn’t changed the locks? As soon as the thought formed in her mind, she moved. Mrs.Phelps’ son was too busy to visit once a week and pick up the mail, so Daisy had promised the old lady that she’d get it and let her know if there was anything important. So far there hadn’t been, but she didn’t want to take the chance.

The front door loomed large in front of her, and she slid the key into the lock, a soft prayer on her lips. When it turned, she released a sigh of relief. They hadn’t changed the locks. She could scoot inside and pick up the few letters she’d noticed the postman pop through the letterbox as she was leaving last week. The door opened and she glanced down. The mat was empty.

Shit. Where was the mail? Her brow furrowed. Had the estate agent already been and collected them? No, that didn’t make sense. Not over a weekend. She stood in the darkness and debated her options. Technically, since the house was sold, she was trespassing. Or breaking and entering. Did it count as breaking and entering if she had a key?

Sod it.

She hovered in the doorway for a second. Well, she was here—in for a penny, in for a pound and all that. She might as well check the kitchen to see if the mail was there.

Stepping inside, she closed the door behind her. Her footsteps were silent on the soft carpet as she weaved her way through the dark house. It felt weird being in here alone. All the furniture was gone, the rooms empty and eerie, walls bare of the photos Mrs. Phelps had cherished of a family who never visited her.

That had annoyed Daisy. Her parents had died when she was a teenager, and she had no grandparents or other family. She’d have loved a grandmother like Mrs. Phelps.

She headed into the kitchen and froze when her heels clattered against the tiles. A chuckle escaped her. The house was empty, so why was she so jumpy? It wasn’t like anyone was going to catch her, not at this time of night. Spotting the pile of mail on the counter, she smiled in triumph.

Mission accomplished.

*

Will heard the sound of a car pulling up through the semi-doze he’d fallen into and listened to the engine until it pulled off. Perhaps it was one of his new neighbors heading in after a night out? Eyes still closed, he wrinkled his nose. Seemed a bit late. So far, they’d all looked like part of the silver brigade, all retired and more likely to be breaking out the cocoa than busting a move on the dance-floor.

The rumble of a pull-along suitcase up the drive made him nod to himself. The owner of the house next door had returned, from a holiday rather than a club by the sound of it. That made more sense. He’d have to pop over tomorrow and introduce himself.

He shifted under the duvet to get comfortable, his big body relaxed in the large bed. It was the only bit of furniture he’d managed to move in. The rest would arrive tomorrow, but he hadn’t been able to wait to sleep in his new place. The first house he’d bought. His career had really taken off in the last couple of years, even though he was a few years older than most players. First he’d signed with the Strathstow Sharks, and then tried out for the national squad. Yeah, this year was
so
his year.

His eyes snapped open at the sound of a front door being unlocked, which he didn’t have a problem with—except when it was
his
—front door. Frozen in place, he strained his ears to try and catch something else. Some hint of a sound. Was he being robbed?

Catching the chuckle of amusement before it escaped his throat, he sat up in bed, shaking his head. If someone was trying to rob the place, they had to be
the
most inept thieves in the world. The house was bloody empty. Apart from a couple of mugs, a jar of coffee, and a kettle in the kitchen, the only other items around the house were in his bedroom. With him.

Slipping from beneath the covers, he was light on his feet as he left the bedroom and moved onto the landing. The floorboards were creaky just by the staircase, so he avoided them, stepping lightly on the opposite side to head down the stairs. Well over six feet, he wasn’t a small man, but he could be quiet when he needed to be. Like when someone was breaking into his new home. He’d teach the little wankers a lesson they wouldn’t forget anytime soon.

His bare feet hit the carpet at the bottom of the stairs, right by the front door. They’d closed it after them. How considerate. He lifted his hand and turned the latch on the deadlock. It clicked, the soft sound almost deafening. He froze for a second. No response. No running feet. Good.

As soon as he stepped into the living room, he knew he wasn’t alone. The figure framed in the door into the kitchen was small, but that didn’t register as he roared and threw himself across the space between them to hit the thief with a hard tackle.

As soon as he contacted, he realized the intruder was smaller than he’d thought, well under average height for a man. Shit, was he being robbed by midgets? Or kids? They hit the deck, and within a second he had the smaller form pinned beneath him, his hard hands yanking the kids arms to the side to pin his wrists. Slender, delicate wrists that were attached to arms, and a torso way softer than any youth he’d ever met. Startled, he pulled back, letting the moonlight streaming through the kitchen window fall on the intruder’s face.

Wide eyes darkened with fear and pain blinked back at him, tears collecting in the corners and threatening to spill over. A small, button-like nose was set over bee-stung lips which trembled.

Oh, crap. He’d just attacked a woman.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry.”

He loosened his grip on her wrists, but didn’t let go. Not yet. While his mom had drilled manners into him when dealing with the opposite sex, he wasn’t a complete idiot. Just because women were softer than men, didn’t mean she was harmless. He’d heard of gangs using women before, but she seemed to be on her own—and either terrified out of her mind or a fantastic actress.

“P-please…don’t hurt me.”

Her whisper reached him at the same moment his body took notice of the soft curves pressed up hard against him. That wasn’t the only thing that was hard. His cock punched to full mast in a heart-beat, primal male instincts roaring at him.

God, she was so tiny and pretty. All he could think of was dropping his head and seeing if those lips were as soft as they looked. Her breath caught, the sudden panic in her eyes telling him she’d noticed his aroused state…and thought the worst.

“Shit!” He yanked himself away from her. “Nono
no
…I’m not going to hurt you. Honest, sweetheart. I promise.”

*

Oh. My. God
.

Daisy’s mind was blank as her attacker rolled off her and pulled her to her feet all in the same movement. She should be scared witless, but her brain had short-circuited when he’d apologized then pulled away. Now all she could think of was that hot, hard body pressed against hers. Muscles. He had more muscles than any mortal guy had any right to, all covered in acres of satin skin—apart from his hard chest, which was covered in fine, dark hair she wanted to stroke.