He turns and ambles into the hall.
I listen for the sound of the back door as I strip and step into the tub, but I can’t hear shit over the spurting water. It would be better if he left.
Except I’m dying to know the real reason he showed up. Checking in, he said. What in the ass does that mean?
Is he wandering through my house right now? Other than Cole’s bike and the spare room crammed with dance costumes, I don’t have anything of value. Not that I’m worried about a man of his wealth stealing anything.
But he can steal information, can glean my weaknesses from the shrine in my bedroom.
Which is exactly where I find him after I shower and wrap myself in a towel.
Perched on the unmade bed with the sheets tangled beneath him, he holds a photo of Cole and me in his hands.
I yank it from his grip and return it to the dresser where countless others clutter the surface.
“What are you doing in here?” I storm toward the closet, collecting bras and panties from the dirty clothes scattered across the floor.
“Waiting on you. It’s become a dirty habit.”
I glance over my shoulder and find him lifting a black thong from the floor. I dash toward him and snatch it from his hand right before he presses it to his nose.
“Add panty-sniffing to your list of dirty habits.” I tighten the towel around my chest and return to the closet. “Really, Trace. Why are you here?”
The closet is deep enough to stand out of his line of sight as I slip into a white lacy tank top and a pair of denim cut-offs.
“The new Bissara is almost finished. It opens next week, and I want you to see it.”
“You could’ve called.” I slide my feet into gold flip-flops and exit the closet, running fingers through my wet blonde hair.
He watches my approach, his eyes shockingly unguarded and wild, like a snow storm in hell. Then slowly, they dip, tracing my hips, my legs, and lifting to linger on my breasts.
My nipples tighten against the thin fabric, and my chest feels heavy and itchy. “Trace.”
He blinks, shifts his focus to the shrine of Cole pictures on my dresser, and clears his throat. “Are you waiting for your fiancé to return?”
Air whooshes from my lungs, and I clutch the engagement ring that hasn’t moved from my right hand since the night I met Trace.
“I waited for him for a long time.” My chest squeezes with ugly emotion. “He’s not coming back.”
Ask me why, Trace. Make me tell you why I’ve been so lonely.
He stands and breezes out of the room. “Let’s go.”
I flinch, wobbling at his sudden change in mood.
“Go where?” I follow him through the kitchen. “I have plans today.”
“Change them.” He grabs my phone from the counter and hands it to me. “Where’s your purse?”
“I don’t carry a purse, and I’m not changing my plans.” I pull a ponytail holder out of the junk drawer and twist my hair into a knot on my head. “Maybe I’ll swing by the casino later. Maybe I won’t.”
I squeeze by him in the narrow walkway between the counters, pass through the dance studio, and step outside.
“Where are you going?” Blond eyebrows form a V above impatient blue eyes.
“Errands.” I circle the yellow MG Midget and remove the key from the pocket beneath the seat.
His eyes widen, and he flattens a hand to his forehead. “You keep your car key in your car?”
I shrug and unlatch the convertible top, folding it back as the sun beats down on my shoulders.
“Did you even lock up the house?” he asks, exasperated.
“No, Dad. I won’t be gone long.” I climb into the driver’s seat.
“Where’s your house key?”
Under the flower pot beside the door. “I have it.”
As I roll down the windows, he strides inside the house. He’s gone a few seconds, presumably locking the front door, before returning to lock the back door.
My smile comes with a heavy rush of nostalgia. His paranoia is so much like Cole’s. It should be unnerving, but instead I find comfort in it.
“You live minutes from downtown.” He grips the driver’s side door, bending over it to glare down at me. “You’re going to get robbed.”
“In case you didn’t notice, I don’t have anything to steal.” I slide the key into the ignition. “I don’t even own a TV.”
Unless I count the one Cole left behind, which is locked in the basement.
“You have an expensive motorcycle in your dining room,” he says. “And what’s stopping a thief from waiting inside to take you when you return?”
He sounds just like Cole.
I slip on a pair of cat eye sunglasses and drop my head back on the seat. “I need to get to the bank before it closes.”
He straightens, studying me for a moment with frustration written across his elegant features. Then he removes an envelope from his suit jacket and offers it to me.
“What’s this?” I clasp it, but he doesn’t let go.
“An advance on your pay.” He still hasn’t released it.
“Afraid I’m going to back out?”
“You didn’t sign the contract.” He relinquishes his grip.
“I told you I’d be there, and I will.” I open the envelope and peek at the check.
Oh sweet baby Jesus, that’s a lot of zeroes. An entire month’s pay. My heart slams against my ribs, and my hands tremble.
“I’ll drive you.” He opens the door.
In the rear-view mirror, I spot a sleek black sedan sitting on the curb. “You mean your driver will take me?”
“Yes.”
“No, thanks.” I pull on the door handle, attempting to shut it.
He pulls back, stopping me. “What’s the problem?”
“It’s a beautiful day. I want the wind on my face.”
Most guys would give in. You want to be a pain in the ass? Fine. It’s not worth arguing over. But not Trace. He’s stubborn, confrontational. A man who gets his way.
“Get out.” He opens the door wider. “I’m driving.”
My head jerks up. “You’re driving…this?”
He stares at the tiny spartan interior like he can’t believe he suggested the idea.
I burst into laughter. “What about your perfect hair?”
He blows out a breath and swipes a hand over those sexy textured locks.
“Will you even fit in here?” I’m still laughing, recalling the first time Cole crammed his massive body behind the wheel.
Trace is leaner than Cole, but leg room will be tight. Really tight.
“We’re about to find out.” He plucks me from the seat like I weigh nothing and drops me on the other side of the gear shift.
As I tumble against the passenger door, he reaches beneath the driver’s seat and slides it back with a rusty screech. Then he shrugs out of his suit jacket and looks at the non-existent space behind the seats, as if trying to figure out where to store his designer threads.
“Try the trunk.” I peer at him over the top of my sunglasses, grinning.
One long-legged stride takes him to the rear of the Midget. The trunk groans open.
“You got to be kidding me.” He slams it shut and returns empty-handed.
I slide the envelope into the center console and meet his eyes. “Sometimes I fill the trunk with ice and use it as a cooler for beer.”
“That explains the rust.” He lowers his six-foot-five frame behind the wheel. After a little wriggling and a lot of huffing, he works his knees around the wheel and shuts the door. “This thing is a death trap.”
“If you’re going to complain—”
“Where are we going?” He reaches for the key in the ignition.
I give him the directions to the bank. “You know how to drive a stick?”
He casts me an aggravated look, but beneath the heavy scowl lurks a glimmer of mirth. His disguised smile.
“B
e careful, Trace. I might get the impression that you’re having fun.”
“Right.” He latches his seatbelt, waits for me to do mine, then we’re off.
As he backs onto the street and pulls away, the sedan follows behind us.
“Is he going to tail us the whole time?” I kick off the flip-flops and prop my feet on the dash.
“Yes. My driver knows CPR, so he’ll be able to resuscitate us when we get run-over by a Mini Cooper.”
I snort and glance at his face. The almost-smile at the corner of his mouth turns my snort into laughter, and holy shit, he chuckles. It’s a gravelly sound, with a full grin and everything.
What a breathtaking sight. His hair ruffles in the wind, his complexion glowing beneath the sunlight. I might not like him, but my God, I wouldn’t mind scratching all my itches with him. This thing we’re doing, this pushing, pulling, flirty dance is the best foreplay I can remember having in a long time.
When we arrive at the bank, he stays in the car to make a phone call. I originally wanted to come here to withdraw some money to live on for the next week, but as I deposit the massive check, I add another purpose to my visit.
After the bank teller cuts me a certified check made out to Gateway Shelter, I head back to the car with the taste of happy tears in the back of my throat.
“A few more stops.” I spot the black sedan a few parking spaces away. “Schnucks Pharmacy on Gravois is next.”
He merges the Midget into traffic, shifting through the gears like a pro. “What do you need there?”
The nosy bastard doesn’t need to know I buy prescriptions for my neighbors.
“I’m out of condoms.” I flash him a smile.
It’s hard to tell what emotion those aristocratic features are conveying, but I’m certain it’s not enthusiasm.
“We’re stopping by the casino on the way back,” he growls.
At the pharmacy, he goes inside with me, glowering like an ill-mannered barbarian when I add a package of Trojan Magnum XL condoms to Virginia’s arthritis prescription.
“Quit scowling.” I pull some cash from my pocket. “They’re not for you.”
The young man behind the register watches us through his hipster glasses.
Trace grabs the bag from the man’s hand and storms out of the store in all his temperamental glory.
I pay the cashier and take my time wandering through the aisles. When I step outside, he’s not in the car or anywhere in sight. My throat tightens. Did he leave?
As I scan the parking lot for his driver, an arm hooks around my waist from behind. I glimpse the blue sleeve of Trace’s shirt before he crashes my back against the building, wraps a hand around my throat, and covers my mouth in a searing kiss.
Chapter Nine
PRESENT
Perfect lips slide over mine. Perfect biceps flex beneath my hands. Perfect insanity spirals through me and spins the world off its axis.
Trace sinks his tongue into my mouth, punishing me with beautiful, brutal, intoxicating strokes. His hand slips around my neck, joined by the other at the back of my head, holding me to him as he deepens the kiss.
All thought is gone, decimated completely beneath the fury of his assault. I taste his low-simmering anger, but there’s also possession, acceptance, and desire reverberating through every curling caress.
The hum of sexual energy pulses between us as he lifts me, presses my back against the brick wall of the pharmacy, and licks deeper, faster, inside my mouth.
He feels wild and reckless beneath my skin, in the fingers biting my backside, in the teeth clashing against mine. I surrender to the rising frenzy of hunger, lips brushing, chests heaving, our moans low and muffled with need.
Somewhere nearby, a car door slams. Traffic rumbles in the distance. The rattle of grocery carts come and go. And Trace shows no sign of pulling back.
He feeds from my lips like he’s starving, his mouth hard and unforgiving, his hands kneading the muscles of my butt. He pins me so tightly against him I feel the steel flanks of his waist between my thighs, the length of his erection swelling against my pussy, and the rush of his breaths consuming my own.
The need to cling to this moment curls my fingers into his shoulders, demanding he keep going. Don’t stop.
His lips press harder against mine, and I kiss him back with a fevered madness that convulses through me like an earthquake, vibrating my limbs and burning me up.
Desperate sounds of greed rise from my throat, and he groans in response, his powerful body wrapped up in mine and shaking against me. I arch away from the wall as pleasure radiates through my core, pulsing between my legs and drenching my panties.
The intensity of the kiss is shocking, the feel of his hot satin tongue overwhelmingly erotic. It sweeps against mine viciously, masterfully, and I gasp, my breasts crushed against his chest and my lips tingling and swollen.
Too soon, his mouth breaks away, sliding to my ear, panting, growling, whispering, “Fuck.”
He lowers my feet to the ground but stays close, crowding me as he yanks on the cuffs of his sleeves and glares down at his erection. “Where to next?”
“Second base?”
“That’s not what I mean.” He braces a hand on the wall above my head and inconspicuously adjusts his bulge with the other hand.
“Need help with that?”
He steps back and scowls at me with full, wet, pouty lips. Then he turns on his heel and strides toward my car.
“No, no, no.” I run after him. “We’re going to talk about this.”
He continues along his determined path and removes the car key from his pocket.
“Dammit, Trace.” I jog faster. “That kiss”—that explosive smoldering kiss that rocked the ground beneath our feet—“changes everything.”
“It changes nothing.” He lowers into the Midget.
The car groans and rocks beneath his weight. I might’ve laughed if I weren’t so fucking irritated.
I’m still trembling with the aftershocks of bliss, which only ignite the flames of purpose. I refuse to let him pretend that didn’t happen.
“Do you kiss all the women you don’t want to fuck like that?” I climb into the car and angle over the console to face him.
“I kiss a lot of women.” His eyes cut to me, hard and imperious. “Whoever, however, whenever I want.” He fires up the engine. “Put your seatbelt on.”
My heart feels like it’s shrinking, but it doesn’t hurt. It’s just disappointment, an emotion I know how to deal with.
“You say you don’t want messy.” I lean in, shoving my face in his. “But you’re flirting with it, and honey, I will flirt right back. So put that in your pocket and fondle it when you’re alone at night.”
“You were right about one thing.” His scowl twists into something ugly and implacable. “I don’t date. I fuck. Which means I’m never alone at night.”
My breath lodges in my throat, and I ease back, straightening in the seat and latching the seatbelt. A burning sensation ripples through my jaw. Jealousy, probably. But the feeling is quickly squashed by the stab of an old unhealed wound. A wound inflicted by another man.
I rotate the silver band on my finger, dragging the inscription of lies against my skin. It’s easy to blame Cole for my deepest hurts, because I never felt real pain until he vanished from my life. That’s the ache crushing my airway right now. Grief. Hopeless, irrevocable grief for the man I lost.
“Next stop is downtown.” I give Trace the address for Gateway Shelter and slide on the sunglasses, hiding the moisture pricking my eyes.
“That’s not a safe area at any time of day.” He tilts his head, regarding me out of the corner of his eye. “What do you need to do there?”
“If you don’t want to drive me, your car is right over there.” I flick a finger toward the black sedan parked a few feet away.
He stares through the windshield, his thumb sliding back and forth on the steering wheel. Then he shoves the Midget into gear and
peels out of the parking lot.
Five minutes into the drive, the silence between us grinds against my bones, but I have nothing left to say to him. So I plug my phone into the upgraded stereo system, select a song, and crank up the volume.
Down by Marian Hill taps through the speakers, and I move with the rhythm, humming, swaying in the seat, and lifting my hands as the wind whips at my hair. He flicks glances my way, but I avoid his eyes and the unkindness I’m certain I’d find there.
By the time he pulls up to Gateway Shelter, I feel more empowered. Balanced.
With the certified check in hand, I breeze through the side door and find Father Rick taking inventory of the food supplies in the kitchen.
“Danni!” He sets down the clipboard and smooths his mustache. “I wasn’t sure if you’d be in today.”
“I’m not staying to dance tonight.” Not with Trace and his withering conjecture hovering at my back. “Just wanted to drop this off.”
Rick accepts the folded check, his gaze locked on Trace. “Are you going to introduce your friend?”
“Trace Savoy.” Trace steps forward and offers a hand.
“Nice to meet you, Trace. I’m Rick.” They shake, and Rick directs his grin at me. “Danni’s our very own bona fide angel. Her ability to make people smile is a gift from God.”
“I don’t know about that.” I point my gaze at the eternal scowl on Trace’s face. “Seems I have the opposite effect on some people.”
Rick glances back and forth between us with grooves rumpling his bald head.
“I need to go,” I say. “But I’ll be back later this week.”
Trace holds the door for me, and I almost make it outside before Rick makes a choking sound behind me.
“What is this?” he whispers.
A glance over my shoulder confirms he’s staring at the check.
“It’s a donation.” I pat Trace’s rigid arm. “From Trace Savoy.”
Rather than playing along, Trace strides over to Rick and glares down at the check. A glare that blisters with disapproval as it lifts to me.
“Give us a minute,” I say to Trace. “I’ll meet you at the car.”
His jaw works, as if fighting back a retort. He straightens the collar of his button-up with a sharp, angry yank and charges out the door.
Love Triangle: Six Books of Torn Desire Page 10