Fast Burn (Body Armor #4)(52)

Giving him a sly look, Sahara remarked, “That does seem to be the part you remember best.”

Earlier, he’d thought she might be schmoozing his folks just as she’d often schmoozed him, though he couldn’t imagine an endgame in that endeavor. Now, he realized she was just having fun. Truly enjoying herself.

It seemed surreal that a wealthy, high-powered boss of an elite security agency could mix and mingle with a country-dwelling middle-class couple. But she managed it, not only with ease, but with verve and pure, unadulterated pleasure.

In her expressive clothes, patented updo and sky-high heels, Sahara fit in. He was starting to think she’d fit in anywhere she chose, because she was that good, that comfortable in her own skin and with her own sense of self.

Brand hated to break up the fun; he especially hated to take her to Becky next. It’d be like going from a party to a funeral.

But she’d insisted.

So after they’d devoured their dessert and half a pot of coffee, Brand announced that they had to go.

His mom hooked her arm through his. “You’ll bring her back?”

Sahara, close enough to hear, put her hands together as if praying, even pretended to whisper a silent prayer around her smile and a wink.

He laughed. “Probably, but not too often. It’s a drive and she works long hours.”

“Next time,” Sahara said, “I’ll dress more appropriately and then John can show me the creek.”

“I could show you all the awards Brand won,” Ann offered.

Brand rolled his eyes. “Those were from high school, Mom.”

“I’d love to see them,” Sahara assured her.

She probably would. So far, Sahara had shown a keen interest in anything that pertained to him. He wasn’t used to that. He’d had plenty of relationships, some more important than others, but he’d rarely had anyone who focused on his background. Usually the interest was his career in MMA, and the person he was now.

Not the boy he’d once been.

He had to admit, he was just as interested in her past, especially this infatuation she had with her brother and the delusion that he was still around.

*

SAHARA WAS IMPRESSED with the very cute apartment Brand had arranged for Becky. On the ground floor, it boasted an efficiency kitchen, one bedroom and bathroom, and a small sitting area currently filled with a fully remote hospital bed. Sliding doors opened to a small patio with a padded lounge chair and table, lush plants, and a view of a pond.

In the hospital bed, Brand’s birth mother scowled at her.

Clearly, the woman was still ailing. Her hair was lank and unstyled, her skin pasty and loose as if she’d recently lost a lot of weight, which she probably had. Her eyes were dull and lifeless. She clutched at a sheet, keeping it tucked over her thin body.

After quick, awkward introductions, Becky had requested—or more like demanded in a grating whine—that Brand go to the grocery for her. She wanted all sorts of things not readily available in the supplies he’d stocked. Even though her caretaker had also been to the store, she claimed the “stupid woman” hadn’t gotten the right things.

Brand tried to get Sahara to go with him.

She’d opted to stay behind.

Reluctantly, he’d left her.

“So,” Sahara said, moving to look out the patio doors. “The apartment is beautiful.”

“It’s a box, not much bigger than a tomb.”

“Nonsense.” Sahara’s smile never slipped when she turned to face the woman. “It’s cheerfully decorated and just the right size for one person. Brand thought of everything, even making sure you had easy access for some fresh air, or the restroom.”

“I can’t do any of that on my own.”

“But your caretaker said—”

“That stupid woman doesn’t know anything.”

Without invitation, Sahara sat in the chair beside the bed. Brand had explained all the complications from Becky’s initial cardiac arrest. Little by little, her body had failed her and she’d almost died. A blood infection, kidney failure, repeated seizures...it had been very touch and go before she finally turned a corner.

There had still been weeks in the ICU, in addition to the month she’d already spent there. The medical costs would be astronomical.

She knew Brand was taking care of therapy, and supplying a home since Becky claimed to be homeless.

According to the caregiver, Becky needed to be doing more on her own. Staying in bed was not a cure, but could add to new complications—like pneumonia. Unfortunately for both Brand and Becky, she didn’t want to move, didn’t want to exert herself and didn’t show any appreciation for what Brand had given her.

“You’re on the road to recovery now,” Sahara said firmly, “so it’s just a matter of physical therapy, proper nutrition and strict adherence to your prescribed meds.”

Becky narrowed mean eyes. “Are you accusing me of abusing my meds?”

Most definitely. Sahara continued to smile, and instead of taking the bait, she said, “You look a lot like Brand. Same color hair and eyes.”

“He got nothing from that loser who fathered him.”

Curious over that comment, she asked, “What does Brand think of his father?”

Becky snorted. “Never met him, since I’m not sure which loser fathered him.” Then she sneered. “And don’t you dare judge me. I was young and dumb and I know it.”