Rebel Love (Kings of Corruption Book 2)

by Michelle St. James

  She already knew that last concern was a foolish one. Everything she’d felt for him in college had still been there when she’d sat across from him at the Bean, when she’d stood next to him outside the store. She’d felt the same need he’d awakened in her when she was eighteen, the same urge to mold herself to his body, slide her hands under his shirt.

  Except this time it had been accompanied by something more frenzied and desperate. Something coupled with the thrill of the unknown. The strange melding of the boy who had been intimately familiar to her and the person who had experienced eight years without her, who had grown into a man in every sense of the word since she’d last seen him.

  She picked up the card from the flowers.

  Dinner tonight at seven?

  Turning the card over, she let her eyes linger on the unfamiliar phone number. Then she pulled out her phone before she could change her mind.

  12

  Locke was pulling up outside the bookstore when his phone rang.

  RICHARD HUNT

  His father.

  He hesitated and let it go to voice mail. He didn’t want the specter of his parents anywhere in the vicinity of this night.

  Anywhere in the vicinity of Elle.

  He turned off the car. There was a reason his father was listed by his given name in Locke's phone. Locke spoke only sporadically to his parents, and while he hadn’t gone as far as to disown them after what they’d done — for them it had been just another day in the life of real estate magnates — their relationship was strained at best. He saw them briefly for the holidays when he wasn’t out of the country, called on their birthdays to engage in stilted, tense conversation for the required ten minutes.

  He pushed aside his guilt for not answering the phone. His parents had spent their lives doing what was best for them. Had put countless people out of business by purchasing property and raising the rent. It’s what they did.

  Who they were.

  He didn’t owe them any more than what he could give. This is what he could give.

  He slipped the phone in his pocket and looked through the window at Matheson and Matheson. He’d been surprised when Elle had called to take him up on his offer of dinner. He’d made the suggestion on a whim, had forced himself to hand the card to the florist before he could change his mind.

  The possibility that she would reply had been a pipe dream in the back of his mind, and he’d forced himself to discount it as soon as he left the florist. He’d spent eight years pining for Elle Matheson. There had to be some kind of statute of limitations on unrequited love.

  But then she’d called, her voice soft and uncertain through the phone, and he had been lost all over again. Had been able to picture her, phone pressed to her delicate shell-shaped ears, long hair falling across her shoulders.

  He’d barely been able to get the details out of his mouth. Had barely been able to breathe every moment since, half-expecting her to call and cancel.

  She hadn’t. And here he was.

  Fuck.

  He ran a hand through his hair and forced himself to breathe. He wasn't a teenager, for christ’s sake. Not the college boy he’d been back when she’d taken his breath away. When he’d been unable to figure out what she’d seen in him. She’d been a goddess, fit for classical portraiture with her nearly translucent skin, her copper hair and deep green eyes.

  It had taken him nearly a year to realize she didn’t know it. That she really didn’t know how magnificent she was in mind, body, and soul. And yet she was the first fully-realized person he'd ever met, someone who knew herself intimately. Who didn't make apologies for who she was.

  The character trait had worked against him when she’d found out about his lie of omission, but even then he had nothing but admiration for her. For the way she told him the truth about her feelings, about the impossibility of every forgetting what his family had done to hers, what he had done by lying to her. She’d nearly choked on her sobs, but her voice was firm, her expression resolute. It was something he loved about her — her willingness to do the hard thing even when it hurt like a son-of-a-bitch.

  The clock on the dash of the Acura NSX changed from 6:59 to 7:00.

  “Get out of the fucking car, asshole,” he muttered under his breath, reaching for the door.

  He moved slowly around the car, not wanting to seem as nervous as he felt, suddenly nineteen again. He hesitated when he reached the shop’s glass door, then raised his hand to knock. He was beginning to worry that he might actually have to go inside when she pulled open the door, a look of surprise on her face.

  Her smile was hesitant. “You didn't have to knock. Even strangers walk right in.”

  I’m not a stranger. I've done things to you — hurt you — like no stranger has ever done.

  He avoided the statement by drinking her in. “You look beautiful.”

  It wasn’t enough for how looking at her made him feel. Not enough to explain the way her graceful neck made him wish he was a painter, the way her sea-green eyes made him wish he could write her a song.

  She wore a pink dress almost the exact color as the flowers he’d sent her, the thin straps seeming to cling to her by a thread. He had to resist the urge to run his hands along the slope of her shoulders, slide off the straps until the dress pooled on the floor, scoop her naked body into his arms. He knew exactly how the heat of her flesh would feel against his. Exactly how her arms would slide around his neck as she leaned her head against his chest.

  “Thank you,” she said. “You look pretty great yourself.”

  He forced himself not to double-check the gray trousers he had custom-tailored when he was in London, the blazer her had made when he was in New York. It had been a long time since he’d cared about his clothes, and he was suddenly glad he’d been in the habit of buying nice things even when they hung unworn in his closet most of the time.

  “Ready to go?” he asked.

  “Let me just get my sweater.” She tipped her head. “You sure you don’t want to come inside?”

  “It's nice out. I’ll wait here.”

  “Be right back.”

  She disappeared into the store and he looked across the street at Bolton’s. The stream of people was still steady, and while it was hard to know how many of the customers were actually buying at the bookstore, he had to guess a majority would at least browse for the novelty. He thought of Elle surrounded by her beloved books, forced to watch as customers bypassed Matheson and Matheson in favor of the superstore, and silently cursed Glover and everyone like him.

  “All set,” she said, stepping onto the pavement and turning to lock the door.

  She was facing away from him, her hair falling in waves against her alabaster back. He wanted to pull the glossy locks aside, lower his head to her neck, press his lips to her skin.

  Did she still smell like ocean air and sandalwood?

  She turned around and he gestured to his car at the curb, opening the passenger door so she could slide in. He caught a glimpse of her bare legs as she pulled them into the car and was hit with a powerful memory: Elle naked on the bed in his off-campus apartment, the glow of candles flickering across her skin as he spread her legs, her breath like a prayer as he flicked his tongue against her inner thigh.

  His cock was hard in seconds, and he willed his body to stop being such an animal as he made his way around to the driver’s side. The fact that she was still a goddess was no excuse, for fuck’s sake.

  This was Elle. His Elle.

  She had the heart of a lion, the soul of an earth mother, the mind of a philosopher.

  Knowing all of those things were true didn’t lessen the impact of her physical presence on him. The desire raging through his body.

  He slid into the driver’s seat and started the car, then pulled away from the curb. He was surprised when she didn’t ask questions as he made his way out of the city. Her typically Zen nature hadn’t extended to making plans, and she’d always liked to know the details upfron
t — where they were going, what they were doing, how long they’d be gone.

  It had been her one nod to the kind of control most people tried to exert over every aspect of their life, and he’d indulged her willingly, laughingly calling her his little planner.

  Now she looked out the window, watched as they made their way closer to the beach. By the time he pulled into a parking lot near the water, the sun had disappeared below the horizon, leaving traces of orange in its wake, the indigo sky quickly swallowing the remaining light.

  He pulled into a spot and got out of the car, hurrying to her side to open the door. His heart lurched when he took her hand to help her out, and he made a point of pulling away when she was on her feet.

  Dinner didn’t mean she could forgive him.

  Didn't mean she could forget.

  They made their way up wooden steps to a deck facing the water and went inside to the counter where they ordered beers and plates of fish, rice, clams, and shrimp. Then they stepped back onto the deck, strung with white lights, and chose a picnic table at the edge.

  He watched her take a drink of beer, her throat rippling as she swallowed. When she set the bottle back on the table, she met his eyes, smiled.

  “What’s been keeping you busy, Locke?” she asked.

  He shrugged. "This and that."

  Her laugh was so sexy it sent a shiver up his spine. “It's going to be a different kind of date if you don’t want to talk about anything.”

  “I’d rather listen.” He meant it. He wanted to know everything that had happened to her since they'd been apart, but he also wanted to see where their date led before he issued the ultimate confession.

  The corners of her mouth turned up into a wry smile. “So you prefer to save the personal details for the second date?”

  “It depends,” he said. “Am I getting a second date?”

  She held his gaze. “Time will tell.”

  The promise in her words and the desire he thought he saw reflected in her eyes made him brave enough to reach across the table and take her hand.

  “I can live with that,” he said. “We have all the time in the world.”

  13

  It was easy. Way too easy.

  She had been both sorry and relieved when their food arrived and Locke had let go of her hand to eat. The feel of his skin against hers had been a heady mix of the foreign and familiar. His pull was powerful even in the worst of circumstances, but on the nearly-empty deck with the ocean rolling onto the sand mere feet away, the white lights twinkling around them, it was damn near impossible not to crawl into his lap the way she used to, touch her mouth to his. She already knew his arms would slide around her waist, pulling her close as he opened her lips with his tongue.

  She’d had to push away the dangerous thoughts, the even more dangerous memories. It had been easier once they’d started talking, their old camaraderie returning like a long lost friend. It had always been like that between them — easy conversation and companionable silences acting as the white space between the searing passion that had blown holes in her universe. That had allowed her a glimpse of something outside it that had changed her forever.

  He’d been hesitant to ask about her family at first, but she’d been happy to tell him about Patrick’s travel and her mother’s volunteer work at the women’s shelter downtown. She had expected to harbor residual anger, residual loss directed at him and Hathaway Holding, but sitting across from the strong man in front of her, looking into his eyes, it all seemed faraway. Maybe it was the product of his new name; did thinking of him as Locke Montgomery make it easier to compartmentalize their past?

  They moved on to his family while they continued eating. He’d been terse when talking about them, and she had the feeling that while she’d managed to process most of her anger, he was still seething. The idea sent a thread of sorrow winding through her body. She had suffered for what the Hunt’s had done. Her whole family had suffered.

  But Locke had suffered, too. Was still suffering from the way his expression shuttered at the mention of his parents. Maybe he was just another victim.

  Sensing how much pain the subject caused him, she’d turned the conversation to the company he’d built, the crazy two years he’d spent pitching to venture capitalists to fund it, the quick and lucrative sale that had made him one of California’s most eligible bachelors.

  “And then you disappeared,” she said.

  “Not really,” he said, turning the beer bottle in his hand. “I’ve been right here mostly.”

  “Mostly?”

  “I do some traveling,” he said. “But otherwise I’m in La Jolla full-time.”

  “I’m surprised you stayed,” she said.

  He had all the money in the world. Why stay in a place with so many bad memories?

  He looked into her eyes. “Everything that mattered in my life happened here. It’s home.”

  The admission sent a rush of heat to her cheeks. “You shouldn’t be imprisoned by the past. I’m sorry if that’s how it’s been for you.”

  “No.” He shook his head, reached for her hand across the table for the second time that night. “What happened between us — all of it — has been the most important part of my life.” He hesitated, looking out over the water barely visible through the night. “People talk about change like some kind of glorious rebirth. Like it’s all unicorns and rainbows.”

  “The phoenix must burn to emerge,” she murmured. It was a quote from one of her favorite books by Janet Fitch.

  “Yes,” he said. “I burned, and I emerged a better man. I have nothing but gratitude for that, for what you taught me, for how you made me feel when we were together.”

  She smiled. “You’re too well-adjusted. You’re making me feel like I need therapy.”

  He chuckled, and she was flooded with the memory of his deep laughter vibrating against her stomach as his mouth traveled up her bare body. A surge of heat shot to her center, and she pressed her legs together, wanting to deny the fire between her legs.

  Wanting to deny that he could still light up her body like a fuse drenched in gasoline.

  “I’m as damaged as the next guy,” he said. “I’m just learning to accept it as part of the human condition, trying not to give it more oxygen than I have to.”

  She nodded. “Be in the now.”

  He squeezed her hand. “I’m pretty happy in this now.”

  “Me, too.”

  She was surprised that she meant it.

  The white lights flickered and he looked up with a wry smile. “I think they’re trying to tell us something.”

  She was surprised to see all the other tables empty, the interior of the restaurant mostly dark. “I think they want to go home.”

  They stood and made their way to the stairs leading to the parking lot. When they stepped onto the pavement, he stopped.

  “Want to walk?” he asked, looking out over the beach.

  She followed his gaze. It wouldn’t be a walk. She knew that already. They would get farther and farther away from the restaurant, from a reality they couldn’t deny, however much they both wanted to. He would kiss her and she would let him.

  But that wouldn’t be all. Because once he kissed her it would be over. Her reason would dissolve under the heat of his mouth, the feel of his hands on her body, the memory of what it meant to be occupied by him body and soul. It wouldn’t be a choice.

  It would be an inevitability.

  Maybe she didn’t need to know everything about the future, but she wanted to be an active participant, wanted to be clearheaded about what would come next.

  And right now she was feeling anything but clear-headed.

  “I should probably get back.” It hurt to say the words. To know she was moments away from molding her body to his, from belonging to him again.

  “I understand,” he said.

  She reached for his hand. “I don’t think you do.” She paused, chose her words carefully. “I don’t know what’
s happening, what will happen between us, but I know I want to be thoughtful about it, that I want to really choose what happens next.”

  He stepped closer to her, reached up, stroked her cheek with his knuckles. She had to force herself not to lean into his touch.

  “You can always choose,” he said. “There’s no pressure.”

  The car was warm in spite of the chill that had descended on them at dinner. Soon it would be time for Thanksgiving and Christmas, and she wondered how Locke had spent his holidays since they’d been apart. Had there ever been someone special? Someone who’d gotten a wrapped package with one of his carefully chosen gifts?

  She forced the thought away. She didn’t want to imagine him with anyone else. Had spent eight years forcing herself not to imagine it. No point starting now.

  The drive back into the city passed too quickly. She wasn’t entirely ready to say goodbye when he pulled up to the curb outside the store, and for a moment she regretted her decision not to walk with him on the beach, let it lead where it may.

  He turned to her in the car. “Where are you parked?”

  “Out back,” she said. “But I’ll just go through the store.”

  “The hell you will.”

  The protectiveness in his voice took her by surprise. It wasn’t that he hadn’t been protective when they’d been together in college, but he’d been young then, still feeling out the boundaries of his own masculinity.

  There was nothing young about him now. Nothing uncertain about the way he pulled back onto the street, turning right at the corner and again at the small back alley that ran behind the store. There was so much about him that felt familiar, but the raw power in his body — in his voice, in the way he carried himself — was entirely new. She felt sorry for anyone who crossed him.

  He would make a formidable enemy.

  And a fierce protector.

  “Right here,” she said when he got to the carport behind the store.

  He pulled over to the side of the narrow alley and turned off the car, then got out and came around to open her door. She stepped out, all too aware of his proximity as she slipped past him. He closed the door and she looked up at him with a smile as they stood next to the car.