“How’s it going?” Delaney asked in the tone of someone who didn’t actually care how it was going.
“Well, I’ll tell you.” He shook his head so hard, flour flew and, fuck, it was in his hair now? How was that possible? What was the apron even doing? Because it wasn’t keeping flour out of his hair, that was for sure. “I’d pay someone a thousand bucks to get out of this.”
“Be glad I let you skip the hairnet.”
“Oh my God,” he replied, appalled. “I’m not vain, but that would be a crime against nature.” He clawed his fingers through his hair, then realized how the flour had gotten there. “When it’s clean, I’ve got great hair, and a hairnet—it’d be like drawing a mustache on the Mona Lisa.”
“But you’re not vain,” she teased.
“Not even a little.”
“See? Count your blessings. However terrible things are, they can always get worse.”
“Thanks for the pep talk.” He took a break from kneading awful dough to glare at her. “I love it when you drop by.”
“We’re almost done here. But seriously. Rake. Things can get worse.” She sounded serious, like she was actively warning him, as opposed to rattling off a cliché.
“This isn’t really a church anymore, right?”
“Right.”
“Good. Because this fucking sucks. And I’m gonna blaspheme the shit out of the place, because making awful bread takes forever.”
“Again: forty-five minutes.”
“Fucking sucks.”
Delaney was, as usual, unmoved by his pain. Heartless, gorgeous wench! “If you worked while you bitched, you’d be half done already.”
“Why are you talking like that’s some kind of incentive? D’you even know what Easter is about?”
“Nope.” She leaned against the opposite counter, crossed her ankles, crossed her arms, and watched him. “CPS has a hard enough time taking care of kids’ physical well-being, never mind the spiritual.”
He admired the way she said it: like one of her flat facts (“Cantaloupe gelato is the best gelato, no others are worth discussing”), not something to elicit sympathy, or attention. He had the feeling that anyone who pulled the “There, there, poor darling, I’ll take care of you” crap with Delaney went home with a black eye.
“Okay, so, not much church. Got it.” He held his hands up, placating, and coughed when he stirred up more flour dust. “I’ll lay it out for you.”
“Goody.”
“Easter’s about shiny fake grass and crappy-ass chocolate and scary-ass Peeps and coloring eggs that no one eats and getting a bellyache from eating too much crappy-ass chocolate. That’s what it’s about. Not”—he gestured to the messy kitchen, his floured body, the piles of orange peel, the tubes of almond paste, the utter nightmare surrounding him—“this!”
“That was beautiful.” She smirked. “You should write greeting card verses in your spare time.”
“I know you’re being sarcastic, but thank you.”
“Y’know…” She gestured at the piles of garbage destined to go into the next batch of dough. “It’s pretty good.”
He could feel his temper unraveling. “It’s not! Not even a little.”
“You’ve been to Italy before, have you even tried a piece?”
“Yes! Once, when I was trying to bang a baker. She made it for me and I had to eat the whole thing and it sucked!”
“You know you’re screaming, right?”
“I’m aware!” Worse yet: screaming his sexual résumé. The baker had been way too fixated on using food during sex. Chocolate he didn’t mind. Dough, though?
That grin again. Any other woman would be pissed, or backing off, or yelling back. Claire Delaney just looked like a stranded millionaire shouting at her in a deconsecrated church kitchen was a present she got to open early.
“Look on the bright side,” she suggested, “now I know what to get you for your birthday. And thanks to Blake, I know exactly when it is.”
“I! Hate! Everything!” Each word was punctuated by his fist slamming on the countertop, raising a cloud of flour. Then he ruined his rage roars by sneezing.
“You seem tense. Maybe you should suck on a tube of almond paste until you calm down.”
“Oh my God, you are a horrible bitch,” he groaned.
“Yes.” The smirk was gone to wherever her smirks went when she wasn’t smirking. Hmm. Might not have gotten enough sleep last night. “It’s good you know that, Rake. It’s a good thing to always keep in mind.”
He shook his head and stepped away from the counter, which had the doubly pleasing effect of distancing him from piles of orange peel and getting him closer to Delaney.
She had her dark waves pulled back into a ponytail, which rippled whenever she turned her head, and ignoring the urge to touch it and press it to his lips was taking not a little self-control. She was wearing faded jeans and a black BOSTON EST. 1680 sweatshirt
(Somewhere else she lived? Or just passing through? Does she belong anywhere? Did she ever?)
and on anyone else it would look like she was getting ready to paint, or move
(odd clothes for a meeting at church)
but on her it was exactly right, perfect for supervising an entitled millionaire when not scooping pickpocketing children off the streets and keeping half an eye on a brilliant child who might be his.
“I can’t touch you,” he said, and why was he hoarse? The hour? The screaming? “I’ll get flour on you.”
“It’s a risk I’m willing to assume for the greater good” was the solemn response, which made no sense and was ruined by a giggle.
He touched her anyway; he couldn’t help it. He cupped the nape of her neck in his hand and tasted her mouth, her ripe, sweet mouth. She tasted like hot chocolate (Delaney was not a fan of coffee) and smelled like clean cotton, and her hands came up to press against his chest. He started to pull back, thinking she wanted him off of her, but she tightened her grip and he couldn’t move, and never was being held in place so glorious. He traced the seam of her lips with his tongue and she opened for him; her tongue touched his and she nipped at his lip.
He pulled back and groaned, then ran a thumb over her full lower lip. “That’s so good, Delaney, my God, your mouth.” And then he had to have it again, had to taste it, taste her, and it took several seconds to find the discipline to stop.
He sucked in a deep breath and shut his eyes, his lips still on hers, but now barely touching. “If you’re going to retaliate, could you just knee me in the ’nads or something?”
“Not the face,” she said into his mouth. “Got it.” And then kissed him back.
Thirty-one
This is stupid. You are stupid, Claire Delaney. You are making something already complicated and dangerous even more complicated and dangerous, and for what? To kiss a pretty boy? To find out he tastes like oranges and sugar?
It’ll be so much worse later. You’re making it so much worse right now.
She didn’t care. Rake was a wonder, bigger and stronger, but he kissed like he wasn’t; he kissed like she could leave off anytime. He had one big hand on the nape of her neck, holding her skull like an eggshell, and the other was on her lower back, pressing her into him. She didn’t feel overwhelmed, or trapped.
Just safe.
She was safe. Tough to worry about anything when she was safe. Not that she needed Rake Tarbell to feel safe. Or anyone.
Then: What are you doing? Of course you have to worry; it doesn’t matter that he’s got a doctorate in locking lips.
True, but where would you even go to school to get that kind of doc—
You have to leave! Bad enough you let him get mixed up in this, but lingering after a hack isn’t smart. You knew better than this when you were fourteen.
She pulled back and Rake groaned again, a deep rumble she felt all over, but he let her go. “Should I be preparing for a beating?” he asked. “It’s fine, you know. I just want to know what to expect.”
“Don’t be an idiot. It was as much my idea as yours.” She’d been working up the courage to go over to him and kiss the flour off his nose, when he’d crossed the room and kissed her. Like it was easy. Like it wasn’t a terrible idea.
And then, because she was a stupid, stupid woman and had to know: “There’ve been some positive things, right? Being trapped here, um, with me … it hasn’t been all bad?”
He smiled. “It’s been pretty much all positive since I stopped compulsively barfing.”
Pathetic how much that meant to her. But at least now she could get back to business. “We have to go. The volunteers will finish.”
“Really?” He made no effort to hide his delight. “We’re done? No more orange peeling? No more paste squeezing? We’re finished?”
“You are.” And why aren’t you asking about the DNA results, Rake? Because I don’t dare bring them up until you do.
Operation: Make Rake Embrace Responsibility aside, she’d have to follow up to see if that selfish pig of a chairman was going to see reason or if she’d have to use the hack, but that wasn’t Rake’s concern. She almost hoped he wouldn’t see reason, so she could put out the hit. That was happening more and more often these days.… “I might have to come back.”
“Charity’s never done, huh?” he said, and for a wonder he wasn’t teasing.
Charity. Revenge. They were often the same, she’d found out. At least the way her family did things. “C’mon. I’ll lend you twenty bucks for a small coffee. You like tons of whipped cream and syrup in your coffee, right?”
“Who doesn’t?” He was whipping off the apron and swiping halfheartedly at the messy counter. “We’re really leaving it messy like this?”
“Like I said, the volunteers”—the real volunteers—“will take care of it.”
“Excellent.” Then he gallantly held out a (floured) elbow. “Shall we?”
Enjoy this. He won’t be speaking to you soon enough.
“We shall,” she replied, and found a smile from somewhere.
Thirty-two
Rake made it back to their room with every intention of texting Blake, but when the adrenaline rush of the kiss wore off, he realized it wasn’t even 8:00 A.M. He could actually get in a nap and wake up closer to an hour that wasn’t quite so horrific. Besides, Delaney was only a few minutes behind them—she’d lingered with the others to tell them about her meeting at the church. Maybe they’d kiss more. Maybe they’d kiss a lot more. And she seemed pretty interested in his texts from Blake; maybe there’d be more pictures of animal shit to show her. (Wow. That was a sentence he’d never thought before.)
So he got comfortable on the hide-a-bed to wait, and the funny thing was, he wasn’t even tired. He should be; between playing with his phone and then thinking about Delaney’s sleepwalking, he’d gotten about two hours before she yanked him out of (sofa) bed. Should he tell her? Would she freak? Hard to imagine Delaney losing her cool; it was more likely she’d be embarrassed. Self-assured people didn’t like it when other people saw their vulnerabilities. He’d grown up with two of the most self-assured people he’d ever met (helloooo, Mom and Blake!); he knew all about how they didn’t like looking vulnerable.
Well, he’d think about it while he waited for the gray-eyed whirl of sarcasm/slave driving that was Claire Delaney—and what was happening? Why was she looming over him? And shaking him?
“Rake? You okay?”
“Course.” He yawned, glanced at the clock— Oh. “Huh. Ten o’clock? Really?”
“Did you— How’d it go?” Delaney was actually nibbling on her lower lip, which was distracting as all hell, because it made him want to nibble on her lower lip. “Are you okay?”
He was warmed by her concern and caught the small hand shaking his shoulder. He squeezed it, then reluctantly let go. “I haven’t tried to call him. Thought I’d wait for you first.”
“Why?” Delaney’s eyes were narrow with suspicion, because he could never figure her out. To be fair, they’d only known each other for a few days. “Why would you do that?”
He didn’t even have to think about it. “Because I like being around you guys. What, that’s so hard to believe?”
“Yes. Very. You didn’t think you were going to get laid, did you?”
“No! I swear!” Truth! At best, he’d thought … “I wouldn’t have said no to another kiss, though. You’re the best kisser.” He saw the unwilling smile bloom. “You are! You fiend, you knew it all along.”
“I did not!”
“You’re always walking around with your lips hanging out, flaunting them, being all oh my God please don’t tickle me again.”
She’d been reaching for his ribs but pulled up short when he begged. “Hmph.”
He grinned up at her and squashed the urge to sit up, grab her, and pull her down onto the bed into a full-bodied hug. “Your ‘hmph’ isn’t fooling me, look at you! You were worried and everything. What, you thought I’d have such an infuriating conversation I’d pass out in a rage?”
“Kind of,” she admitted.
“You’re sweet!”
“Shut up.”
“‘She said sweetly.’”
“Stop it. Look, will you please call him? Don’t you want to get this over with?”
“All right, jeez, such a nag. A nag with good advice, actually.” He got up, unplugged his phone from Delaney’s charger, then reread Blake’s doctoral thesis of a text. He sat back on the bed and got right to it.
Christ Blake I thought my phone was going to blow up what’s going on with you I mean jeez?
Ahhhh, felt so good. He didn’t have the vocabulary to express how good it felt to be texting again. And this was just the sort of text that would aggravate the bejeezus out of his brother: profane, a run-on sentence, no punctuation. Heh.
A few seconds went by, and then:
Did you lose another phone, idiot?
Nice. All his bro knew was that Rake hadn’t been returning his texts. Was it because he’d been kidnapped? Hurt? Gored by a bull? Run over by a train? Bobbing facedown in the Grand Canal? Any of those things could have been true. (One of them was maybe true, and the third one almost happened.) But noooo, it must be because Rake lost another cell phone. God, lose five in two years and everyone rushed to judgment.
No! I know right where it is, it’s still at the bottom of the canal so now who’s the idiot?
Canal? Never mind. Thank you for eventually acknowledging my dozens of communiqués.
Ugh. Blake texted just like he talked: like no one from this century.
Only YOUR phone autocorrects communications. See? Mine didn’t. Where are you?
If you’d listened to any of your voice mails, you’d know.
Rake snorted.
And if you had a Facebook page like a real live boy, I’d also know. Where?
The fifth circle of Hell.
He reread the text, troubled. Blake didn’t just say things; there was always a double or triple meaning. If he was comparing something to Hell, that meant he was in the middle of something truly awful. Shit. Blake was supposed to help him, not the other way around.
So let’s see, since Blake loved to be literal, where was Hell? Or, more important, where did Blake think was Hell?
You’re back in Vegas?
No. The real Hell. Actual Hell.
Even more puzzling! But at least that narrowed it down a little.
What are you doing in L.A.?
Having an incredibly irritating text chat with my twin.
Ha! That was more like it. For a second, he’d been worried. He glanced up and saw Delaney watching with a tense expression. “It’s okay,” he told her, “he’s okay.” Supersweet of her to worry, though. Maybe he should be milking this. He affected a scowl as he texted.
Because I’m terrible? People have told me you think I’m terrible. Personally I don’t see it.
“That’ll get him,” he chortled to Delaney, who managed a small smile. “Hey. Are you
okay? You seem kind of— Ha!” He showed her the phone, which had started chiming. “Blake hates talking to me on the phone. Hates it. Whatever’s he’s up to, it’s gotta be bugging the shit out of him, or he’d never call after a tiny text war like that.”
“I’m sure you’re right.” She looked away as he got ready to answer.
Would it be crass to ask her out before he got his money back, or a few hours from now, when he’d be rich again? Because even though he’d soon be back to being able to afford any hotel in the city, he had no intention of just disappearing from her life. Though, in fairness, it’d be more like she’d disappear from his. And, worse, Lillith would. He’d never in his life met people more rootless (root-free? sans roots?) than himself.
It was exhilarating, and a little disconcerting. One thing was for sure, though: Pretty soon his troubles would be over.
Thirty-three
“Dude! Do you know what time it is here?”
“No,” came Blake’s answer, and it was always weird to hear his own voice on the other end. They were nothing alike, except in looks, mannerisms, voice, and love for their mom.
Time to tease. “Damn. Was hoping you did, because I’d kinda like to know. I can’t tell if the new phone is right, and when I use the hotel phone, the guy on the other end won’t speak English.”
An exasperated sigh from Blake’s end; Rake grinned. “I cannot help you. And you’re a grown man who’s nearly thirty, stop using dude. Where are you?”
“Venice.”
“But you loathe California.”
“No, the other one.” Rake wasn’t quite the careless playboy Blake assumed, but it was fun, sometimes, pretending he was, and so he stuck it to him a little. “I’m pretty sure.”
“Pretty sure? Even for you, that’s odd.”
Annnnd now to really jam it. “Venice is the one with canals instead of streets, right? And people speak Italian? And the Italian food is really good? And there’s gelato all over the place?”
The Love Scam Page 15