“Cognac isn’t wine and I didn’t want you to pass out on me. But now, as long as it’s in my bed, feel free.” He laces his fingers with mine, and it’s somehow the most intimate thing we’ve shared, as is the way we just stand there for several seconds before he says, “Let’s get that wine.”
“Let me bring in my clothes,” I say, tugging my hand free, and grabbing my skirt and blouse. Shane picks up my shoes and I do another sweep of the area. “I can’t find my bra anywhere.”
“You don’t need it,” he promises, ushering me to the door before I can argue that I will tomorrow. Or later when I really leave but I let it go, entering the apartment first, and rotating to face him only to have him take my clothes from me. “I’ll put those in the bedroom.” He motions to the minibar. “There’s wine in the cabinet. Take your pick.”
He’s already walking and I’m staring after him. The man just kidnapped my clothes, which is kidnapping me. I wait for the panic to set in, but it doesn’t come. Shane doesn’t know the truth about me and there is no reason he ever will.
It’s better to live one day as a lion than a hundred years as a lamb.
—John Gotti
CHAPTER SEVEN
EMILY
Now with the excuse of being Shane’s captive, I turn toward the minibar, fully intending to enjoy the wine and the man, when Shane’s phone starts ringing from the living room again, reminding me about my phone. I take a step toward my purse, and think better. If I didn’t get the call I’m expecting I’ll be upset. If I did, I’ll be freaked out that I missed it, and it’s not like I can have yet another heated phone debate in front of Shane. I turn back to the minibar, but Shane’s phone has not only stopped ringing, it’s started again. Concerned about the late hour and a possible emergency, I walk to the living room and grab it, but I’m not sure what to do from here. Should I call out to him? Should I hunt him down?
Sighing, I just take it with me in hunt of the wine, setting it next to the cognac. It starts ringing again and my gaze catches on the name “Seth” by accident. Regretting ever going after his phone, I quickly squat and open the cabinet, counting the rings until they go silent. Then and only then do I stare at a dozen bottles of wine, shifting one here and there to stare at labels, concerned I’ll pick the most expensive bottle on the shelf. I have a fleeting memory of how romantic I’d thought my parents trying a new bottle of wine every Friday night had been. She never had a glass again after he died.
“Having trouble?”
I jump at the sound of Shane’s voice to look up and find him towering over me. “You surprised me,” I say, popping to my feet to discover he’s changed into a snug white T-shirt and a pair of navy sweats and still manages to look GQ.
“You must have been really concentrating on the wine.”
“I was thinking of—” His phone begins to ring where it sits on top of the minibar, and his brows furrow in confusion.
“I grabbed it for you,” I explain quickly. “It keeps ringing and I was going to bring it to you but I felt weird about it. Then I felt weird about calling out to you or ever touching your phone.” It stops ringing again. “Then I felt even weirder when I saw the caller ID like I was snooping. I should have just left it where it was. I’m sorry.”
He studies me, his expression unreadable, several beats passing in which I wonder what he’s thinking, before he says, “You’re fine. Did you pick a bottle?”
“I don’t know much about wine and I was worried I’d pick an outrageously expensive bottle.” I go back to what seems important. “Shouldn’t you deal with those phone calls? It’s late. What if something’s wrong?”
“For the first time in a year, I’m not taking calls.”
“Don’t you want to know who it is?”
“I know who it is. You want a sweet wine, I assume?”
“I want a cheap wine.”
“I don’t have any cheap wine.”
“Then I don’t want any.”
He squats down, grabs a bottle, and stands again. “This one it is.” His phone starts to ring and he ignores it, motioning toward the kitchen. “Let’s sit at the bar,” he says, already moving that direction.
“I don’t drink much,” I call after him, his shoulders especially impressive under the stretch of the cotton tee, a hint of the dreaded tattoo peeking from one shoulder. “I’ll waste the bottle.”
He rounds the bar and appears on the other side in the kitchen, reaching above him to a cabinet. I grab his phone, and join him, claiming a high-backed leather barstool at the same moment he sets two crystal glasses on the counter. I, in turn, set his phone in between them.
He ignores it and fills both glasses. “Try it and make sure you like it.”
I fight the urge to push him to take the call. He knows who it is. He knows it’s not an emergency. Unless he doesn’t. “It’s Seth,” I say.
He picks up the phone and hits the button on the side that I can only assume is the volume, then rests his hands on the other side of the bar. “Try the wine, sweetheart.”
“I was just worried—”
“I know.”
Okay. He knows who it is so all is well, only his energy says differently but I don’t get the chance to press him. The doorbell rings. “That will be the food,” he says. “And once again, I’ll be right back.” He disappears on the other side of the bar and I stare at the phone. Oh God. Is Seth his father? Some people call their parents by their names. It’s odd, but so is his father having sex in the kitchen with his friend’s mother.
Almost too quickly it seems Shane reappears but this time on my side of the bar. “Your phone’s ringing,” he says, surprising me by offering me my purse and setting the bag of food on his stool.
My gut knots and I accept it, forcing myself not to react. “Well since no one offering me a job would be calling now,” I say, hanging it on the back of my stool, “I’m not taking calls either.” I inhale the rich scent of spices. “And I swear that ravioli smells better this time than last.”
“You can take the call, Emily. It’s really okay.”
“I don’t want to take the call.” And I don’t want to invite questions. I scoot off my seat. “I’ll get silverware if you tell me where it is.” I dart around him before he can stop me.
“By the refrigerator,” he calls out. “And we don’t need plates.”
I pull open the drawer, and stare at the expensive silverware, glad for the short retreat that’s giving me time to shove aside the worry threatening to take control of me. It can’t have control. I can’t survive that way. I grab two forks and shut the drawer again, turning to face Shane. “Do you want water?”
“I’ll take a bottle.”
Turning to the fridge, I open it and note he has hardly any food. Okay, no food. Just protein shakes and water. “Do you eat at home ever?” I call out, grabbing him a bottle, and heading back around the bar to find our take-out containers still sealed, and in front of our places, the bag set aside.
“I work a lot and order room service.”
I claim my seat and set the water next to him. “I guess that explains why you chose to live in a hotel.”
“This place is my father’s,” he says. “We have a family business I chose not to join, but they needed my legal expertise short term so it was convenient.”
“And now they convinced you to stay long term.”
“I convinced myself to stay, and I told a realtor to find me a place today.”
“Wait,” I say, forcing myself to bite back my questions that will lead to his questions. “Please tell me this isn’t where he brought his woman.”
He freezes. “Holy fuck, that’s not what I want in my head when sleeping in my bed, but thank you for that motivation to get the hell out of this place.” He reaches for my wineglass. “And a good reason to drink. Try it. If you don’t like it I’ll grab another bottle before we start eating.”
I accept the glass and our hands collide, my eyes lifting to his, the connectio
n I feel stunning me with its force. “Don’t pretend to like it if you don’t,” he warns.
“I wouldn’t do that, but we aren’t opening another bottle no matter what.” I tilt the glass up and sip, a really yummy sweet explosion of flavors finding my tongue. “It’s quite possibly the best glass of wine I’ve ever had and please tell me it doesn’t cost as much as your suit.”
“You know how much my suit costs, but not the wine.”
It’s an observation meant to invite information, which I don’t give. “You learn wine by being around someone who actually knows wine. Or taking a personal interest beyond an occasional drink.”
“And you know how much a custom suit costs by being around money.”
“Or arrogant attorneys that wouldn’t dare shop on the bargain racks.”
My quick rebuttal earns me the tiniest hint of a curve to his lips. “I think you just called me arrogant.”
“Of course you’re arrogant, Shane.” I pick up the glass. “But you manage it with a fair amount of grace.”
Now he laughs, disbelief lacing the deep, sexy sound. “Arrogance can be handled with grace. I had no idea.”
I take a sip. “I didn’t think so until I met you. But maybe you’re on your best behavior.”
His lips tighten, his mood darkening. “Yes. Well. Therein lies the problem.”
He’s not talking about me, and he doesn’t offer more detail, instead reaching over and removing the lid from my container, like he needs to take care of me, and it’s kind of an amazing feeling. Knowing I said the wrong thing isn’t.
He shifts to his container and lifts the lid. “Let’s see how you like it.”
We both pick up our forks and somehow we look at each other at the same moment. “I’m good at hitting the wrong nerves, aren’t I?”
“I could say the same to you.”
He noticed but that doesn’t surprise me. “Then why are we sitting here together?”
“Because we want to be.”
Because we want to be. It’s such a simple answer when nothing else in my life, and I suspect his life, is simple. “And we’re hungry,” he adds, using his fork to indicate my plate. “Try it.”
I turn my attention to my plate and take a bite, and I can’t help it. I moan. “Holy wow. This is my new addiction. It’s way too close to my apartment for my waistline. I’ll be running double in the morning.”
“You run?” he asks.
“I do. It’s kind of my sanity. But I guess in the winter here I’ll have to try a gym.”
“I’m a runner too and I can attest to that fact. In the winter, you’ll want a gym. There’s a great one attached to the Ritz a few blocks away.”
“I’ll check it out.” We both take a few bites, the short silences actually remarkably comfortable, though I can almost feel him thinking. And I’m thinking about what he’d said about being on his best behavior as he opens his water, slugs a drink, and offers it to me.
I glance at the bottle, and then at the water on his bottom lip, deciding that if I had more courage, I’d kiss it away. But I don’t, and my gaze inches upward to his, the air seems to charge around us, and I forget to breathe. Oh yes. There is something far more intimate about us, and this moment in time, than sex, and I can’t seem to convince myself that it’s bad. I reach for the bottle, tilting it to take a deep swallow, before offering it back to him. He leans my way, his thumb stroking away the remnants of water from my lip, his head lowering for a kiss that doesn’t come.
His phone vibrates and he freezes, his lashes lowering, tension in his mouth inching toward mine. “Fuck,” he murmurs. “I should have turned it off.” He glances down at the phone. “Now my mother’s calling me.”
“Do you think she found out about the woman?”
“I hope like hell not.” He grimaces at the caller ID. “And now Seth is calling again.”
“Take the call, Shane. Get it off your mind because I know it is.”
He gives me an agreeable nod, and punches the answer button. “Is this about my father or the security feed?”
I’m appalled to realize I can hear Seth reply. “I’m on my way home to go through the security footage.”
“So this call is about my father,” Shane assumes.
“He took the woman to the Four Seasons.”
My jaw drops at this outrageous act by his father while Shane laughs without humor. “Of course he did. Who’s the woman?”
“I’m working on it.”
“Then why call me repeatedly rather than leave me a message?”
“I was about to come over there before your mother does.”
“What?” Shane asks.
“She called me when she couldn’t reach you, insisting that it’s imperative she talk to you, and indicated she might go to your apartment.”
Shane runs a hand over his face. “Why?”
Why is right. Why am I listening? I try to get up. Shane catches my arm, and gives me a look along with a shake of his head, while Seth answers. “She wouldn’t tell me.”
I mouth, “I can hear everything.”
Shane nods his understanding but seems to dismiss any concern, turning his attention back to his call. “Of course my mother wouldn’t tell you what she wants,” he concludes to Seth. “That would be too simple. I’ll deal with her.”
“I’ll have a report on the security feed by morning.”
“And the woman,” Shane amends. “We’re paying enough people to get me an answer by morning.”
Woman? Does he mean the one he saw his father with tonight? Surely not.
“Until she goes home,” Seth replies, “I have no way of tracing her.”
Damn. That sure sounds like he’s talking about the woman his father is with and it’s a slippery slope he’s headed down.
“Try,” Shane orders, ending the call to look at me. “I need to deal with my mother. It’ll be fast.”
“I could hear every word of both sides of your conversation,” I quickly say, “not just your part. I should go to the balcony.”
“I want you right here.”
“No you don’t, because I’ll tell you that you shouldn’t be looking into that woman, Shane. And yet I know it’s none of my business.”
“What it is, is more complicated than a simple affair.”
“Like I said, I should go to the balcony.”
“Stay,” he says, and while he says it like one of his commands, which I’ve come to realize are simply second nature to him, I sense an undertone of a plea I don’t believe he’d ever issue.
I give a choppy nod and resettle on the barstool. He wastes no time punching a button on his phone and almost instantly says, “What’s going on, Mother?”
“I heard you saw your father tonight,” I hear her reply.
“I see him daily,” he says, obviously treading cautiously.
“At the restaurant, Shane. Susie said you obviously were not pleased.”
He’s silent several beats, as if weighing his reply. “Did she tell you why?”
“I know your father’s having an affair. It’s you I’m worried about.”
“You know he’s having an affair?”
He sounds incredulous. Been there, done that, and I never came to terms with why my mother accepted my stepfather’s affairs.
“Of course I know,” his mother confirms. “It’s fine.”
Shane looks at the ceiling, seeming to rein in whatever emotion she’s stirred, before saying, “We’ll talk tomorrow.” His tone is short and absolute.
“Son,” she begins. “Your father—”
“I have company, Mother.”
“Oh. Well. Good. You need to fuck some of your frustrations out. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
Okay. Talk about embarrassing, and from his mother of all people.
“Tomorrow,” he bites out, ending the call, and for a moment he just sits there, his spine stiff, his gaze fixed forward. I wait, giving him space and time.
He scrubs his jaw,
no doubt trying to shake off a mire of emotions I know pretty well, but I doubt he hopes to share with me, or anyone. “I’m sorry you heard that,” he says, shoving his phone in his pocket, and standing to press his hands on the back of his stool.
“I’m thick-skinned,” I say, rotating to face him, finding his stare fixed on me, his expression unreadable, but that is expected from a man who makes a living hiding his reactions to things.
There are a million things that come to my mind that I could say—like how people have coping mechanisms—but he’d said this was more than a simple affair and anything I say could negate me respecting the implications of that claim. And I don’t have time to weigh the smartness of that decision as he steps to me, his hands coming down on the back of my chair, his arms caging me. “This thing between us is not about two kids, PTA meetings, and four dogs in our future.”
“Four dogs. That’s a lot. I do want a dog though.”
“Emily.”
“I don’t need PTA meetings. This thing, as you call it, is a one-night stand, Shane.”
“That’s not happening.”
“What’s not happening?”
“This is not a one-night stand. Neither of us will be done with each other that fast, and we both know it.”
“You can’t decide what we are on your own.”
“You’re running, but not from me.”
“Let me up.” I shove on his unmoving arm to try to break free. “Damn it, Shane.”
“Do you want this to be a one-night stand?”
“I’m not capable of more right now.”
“We’re keeping it simple. We’re going upstairs to my bedroom to fuck.”
“And tomorrow?”
“We’ll fuck some more.”
It’s just sex and he’s upset right now. Come tomorrow morning, he’ll be over this. “Fine,” I say. “Then why are we talking?”
His eyes glint and the next thing I know, he’s lifted me off the stool, scooped me up, and is crossing the living room to carry me up a long set of wooden steps. Heading, I assume, to his bedroom, a man on a mission, to fuck everything out of his system, and no matter what he just said, I’m pretty sure that includes me. There’s no reason to worry he’ll see too much, or want too much. He is just reacting to his family drama, and no one understands that more than me.
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