by Naima Simone
“Are we going there?” Lucas drawled, arching a dark eyebrow. “Okay. How about we discuss where you’ve been for the last few days. First you ditch a business dinner on Monday. Then you’re MIA for the following three. To take care of Noelle. Noelle Rana. Apparently there’s a fire sale on miracles in Boston.”
That effectively sucked away all his amusement. Bastard. “Fine,” Aiden ground out. “You win.”
Lucas chuckled, the sound dark, evil. Reminding Aiden his friend hadn’t changed that much. “Hell no. We’re not dropping the subject so easily. How is she doing anyway?”
Aiden sighed, picking up his pen and flipping it through his fingers. “Much better today, although she hasn’t returned to work yet,” he said.
When he’d left that morning, she’d still been asleep. Unlike the past days, though, it had been deep and peaceful instead of restless tossing and turning. Comfortable that she was on the mend, he’d left for work, but the previous evening—or rather their conversation from the previous evening—had come with him.
We are the music makers, and we are the dreamers of dreams.
How many times had his mother quoted that line from Roald Dahl’s famous novel? It’d been her way of telling him he was in control of his fate and was limited only by the stretch of his imagination.
And Noelle had inked that line from his mother’s favorite book in a tattoo that memorialized her.
He sighed, falling back against his office chair. For so long, he’d resented her for being a burden on his mother. For being another responsibility Frank had laid on Caroline. As a child, Noelle hadn’t had a choice, obligated to go where her father went. But when she’d come of age, she could’ve left, been one less burden on his mother. Especially when she’d become sick. And then later, his feelings for her had become more complicated…convoluted. He couldn’t look at her, think of her without guilt mixing with lust. After her father’s actions, he’d been so angry, believing that she had betrayed him, betrayed Caroline. But a part of him…the part he’d buried under a sheet of ice… He’d known she couldn’t have done what Frank had accused her of. Believing she’d been another user with the last name Rana simply made it easier to dismiss her from his mind, his thoughts…
But he couldn’t deny what he’d known deep inside all along. What Caroline’s devotion to her had told him without words. What that beautiful tattoo on her smooth, honeyed skin had proven wrong.
She’d cared for his mother. Comforted her. Loved her. And after her death, honored her.
No way could she have been in on trashing her house and her memory.
Still, the past was a living, screaming thing between them. He couldn’t look at her without remembering…without hating…
Without burning.
Fuck.
An image of her standing in her bedroom, bared to the waist, all that thick, raven hair piled on top of her head. The sight of her had been like a physical blow, punching the air from his lungs. For such a petite, slender woman, she possessed the curves of a 1940s pinup model. Slim shoulders flowed into a graceful back and a nipped-in waist that flared into hips he personally knew would fit his hands perfectly. Even now, his fingers itched to map those elegant, sensual lines.
And then there were the tattoos.
The stunning explosion of color that adorned her skin. Standing there, his feet rooted to the floor, he’d never seen anything—woman, painting, photo, hell, a damn coloring book—that had rivaled Noelle in beauty. What would all that ink look like damp with sweat? Would it appear more vibrant, even more alive? Would the flowers and ribbon flow as her back arched when she knelt on her hands and knees before him? Would they prove to be a distraction as he thrust deep inside her? Or would the visual stimulation only heighten the exquisite sensation of being squeezed by flesh he knew would be soaking wet and tight as a fist?
He clenched his teeth as his dick hardened, volunteering to find out. A woman who wore her passion on her skin would undoubtedly bring that same wild appetite to bed…or the couch…or the table…or the wall…
Damn it. Lusting after the daughter of the man who had used and hurt his mother, and the sister of the man who had betrayed him in the cruelest way possible, was lunacy. He could never—would never—forgive them. And a part of him would resent Noelle for loving them. That same part couldn’t separate the greed, that hunger for her, from his guilt. That made him a hard bastard, but it changed nothing. And even if their past didn’t haunt them like a restless, raging poltergeist, there remained the hugest issue: him. He didn’t do relationships, commitment. Because they required trust. And that virtue he was incapable of offering. Not to another woman. Peyton had irrevocably damaged the man who had believed loyalty given was loyalty earned. The searing pain had crippled him. And call him a coward, but he wasn’t willing to open himself to that agony again.
But none of that mattered. A memorial in ink didn’t change any of those facts. Besides, Noelle’s tuition to Boston University had already been paid. Shortly, she would be returning to her apartment, and he could return to the life he’d built for himself here in Boston. A life he enjoyed. A life that was free of the past.
“Glad to hear she’s better,” Lucas continued, “because Sydney’s planning a dinner party for next Saturday and plans to invite Noelle.”
Aiden stiffened. “What?” he demanded. “Why? She met her for all of five minutes.”
“Exactly. But this is Sydney we’re talking about.” Lucas shrugged. “She sees Noelle as new to a strange city, someone who doesn’t know anyone, and wants to make her feel welcome.”
“Does she know about Chicago? About Frank and Tony?” And Peyton. But he couldn’t bring himself to mention his ex-fiancée in the same sentence as the man she’d betrayed Aiden with.
“Of course. I don’t keep anything from Sydney anymore.”
“And she still intends to invite Noelle? Damn it, Luke,” he growled, frustration pouring through him. “I agreed to come to Boston with you to leave all that behind.” The memories. The places he couldn’t go without the ghosts leaping up to taunt him.
“Yet you moved her into your home,” Lucas reminded him.
“What the hell was I supposed to do? She had nowhere else to go,” Aiden ground out, shooting from his chair and stalking over to the window to stare blindly out at the view. He jammed his fingers through his hair.
“Did it ever occur to you that, at this moment, you might need her just as much, if not more, than she needs you?” Lucas pressed. “That, considering your history, maybe she’s your chance to finally heal? I, more than anyone, know you’ll never forget, but it doesn’t mean you can’t be free of the pain and anger.”
Aiden snorted, shaking his head. “Does she have a big-ass, magical eraser that can wipe away fifteen years of my life?” He loosed a humorless bark of laughter. “Can she somehow change the fact that every time I look at her, I remember that while my mother was sick, I was with her? I was having a good time with her while my mom was dying,” he ground out.
“Aiden, there’s no way you could’ve known—”
But Aiden slashed a hand through the air as if slicing through Lucas’s argument. “Can I forget how much I wish I had her brother’s neck in my hands so I could snap it for fucking my fiancée behind my back? That her presence reminds me that my mother refused to let me move her out of that drafty house and crime-ridden neighborhood because I refused to give Frank a free ride? Unless she has some kind of Disney-inspired magic up her sleeve, I don’t see how she could possibly heal me,” he growled.
“Why are you so afraid to let it go?” Lucas murmured, turning the penetrating gaze he usually reserved for recalcitrant clients on Aiden.
The question stunned Aiden, stealing his voice and his anger. What the hell was Lucas talking about? Was he scared? Of what?
The intercom on his desk phone buzzed, and feeling as if he’d been granted a temporary reprieve, he reached over and pressed the button.
“Yes,
Sylvia?”
“You have a delivery, and it’s marked confidential. Would you like me to bring it in?” his executive assistant asked.
“Yes, please.”
Seconds later, his door opened, and the handsome, older woman entered, a manila envelope in hand. A glance at the label above the red “confidential” stamp revealed the contents.
“Thank you, Sylvia,” he said, distracted by the unease that crept under his skin. With a nod she exited, and Aiden turned to Lucas. “Would you give me a minute, Luke? I’ll come by your office a little later.”
“Is everything okay?” A concerned frown darkened Lucas’s scarred features. “Anything you need me to do?”
In spite of the heaviness of their discussion, Aiden couldn’t deny his gratitude and love for the only man he’d ever trusted. Lucas Oliver would always guard his back and never shove a knife in it.
“Yeah, just something I have to handle,” Aiden reassured his friend. “I’ll be in shortly.”
Aiden waited until Lucas closed the door behind him before turning his attention to the envelope containing the report he’d requested from Wilson Investigations last Saturday morning. The report on Noelle Rana.
Sliding a finger underneath the flap, he worked it open. But instead of removing the thin sheaf of papers, he paused, his fingers clutching the mail. The unease tripled, crawling through him and leaving an oily stain behind. The morning following the auction and Noelle’s unexpected appearance, he’d been justified in calling a private investigator and ordering an inquiry into her background. What had she been doing the past few years? Who had she worked for? What debt did she owe? Had she been arrested? Had she turned into a chip off the ol’ block? He would’ve been a fool to accept her word as truth. Not when he knew from personal experience that the truth and Ranas rarely mixed.
But now… Now, after he’d held her on a bathroom floor while she’d been sick… After he’d cared for her and washed her body to keep down a fever… After he’d discovered how much she loved his mother… After all that, reading the report didn’t sit well with him. It seemed like a…betrayal.
“Shit,” he muttered, tossing the envelope and the report onto his desk and stalking back to the window. A betrayal. Of what? That instant in time they’d shared so long ago? Hell, he’d torn that bond in half himself. Then what was left? The pseudo-step sibling relationship filled with resentment and hurt? Until that November night, he’d tried his best to ignore her and that eerie, too-perceptive blue gaze. The gaze that had stirred an unwelcome sense of protectiveness inside him. But none of it explained his reluctance to pry into her history now. He laughed, and the hollow, serrated edge of it echoed in the empty office. The fucking irony. He should be guarding himself against her, and instead, by his hesitation, he was protecting her.
Scrubbing his hands down his face, he sighed. He wasn’t reading the report. At least not now. Not that it meant he trusted her; he didn’t. Very few people had earned that from him. Then there was the anger, the pain, the grief. The need. This inexplicable hunger for her made him even warier. Of her. Of himself.
Because one other time in his life, he’d allowed desire to blind him. And he’d paid a price that still left him scarred.
Not again.
Never again.
Tired, Aiden slipped his key into the lock of his front door. And waited. This had been the day from hell. Meeting after meeting. Projects that had seemed solid a few days ago were shaky. Executives suddenly didn’t seem to know their heads from their asses. Today had been a real bitch.
When six o’clock had arrived, he should’ve headed out with Lucas, his only thought of getting home and away from the madness. But Lucas had Sydney waiting for him. And Aiden had…Noelle.
That thought had pushed him toward the company gym to pound out his frustration on the punching bag and try to outrun it on the treadmill. He could’ve come home and did the same thing in his gym, but again…Noelle. So he’d run faster. Punched harder. Lifted weights until his arms resembled limp noodles. If he wore himself out, maybe the weariness of his body would override his mind, and his brain would finally shut the fuck up.
But as he stood outside his home, key stuck in the door, he admitted all those two and a half hours had accomplished were sore muscles and fists.
“Pussy,” he grumbled, twisting the key with more strength than was required to unlock the door. Striding inside, he dumped his briefcase and gym bag by the table in the shadowed foyer and headed toward the library. And the bottle of Jack in the minibar.
Silence greeted him, and he couldn’t keep his gaze from venturing toward the staircase and the second level. The living room, dining room, and den were all dark, Noelle most likely holed up in her bedroom again. Good. They needed space, distance…
Hell.
The glow from the kitchen seemed brighter in the dark apartment, and as he tread closer on heavy feet, a leaden ball of pressure seemed to squat on his chest. Like a halo, the light over the stove illuminated the covered pots and pan sitting on the extinguished burners.
Dinner. She’d cooked dinner for him.
Cautiously, as if afraid to discover what the pot contained, he lifted the lid. Cabbage. The second, macaroni and cheese. And the foil-covered pan held a perfect meat loaf. Even cold, the mouthwatering scent lingered. This had been his favorite meal once upon a time. And Noelle had remembered.
With utmost care, he realigned the aluminum and stared down at the dishes, bemused. When was the last time someone had prepared food for him? Not chefs in restaurants or caterers. But a real, honest-to-God, home-cooked meal? Years.
And he’d shown his appreciation by not showing up to eat it.
Without making a conscious decision, he pivoted and retraced his steps through the penthouse. He didn’t stop until he stood in front of Noelle’s closed bedroom door and knocked. Light spilled out from under her door, so she probably hadn’t gone to bed yet. He would thank her then continue on to the library for that drink and space.
“Come in,” came the muffled reply.
Drink and space. Drink and space. Drink and…
Jesus Christ.
He slammed to a halt, his body going motionless. Everything except his cock. It throbbed like a goddamned toothache.
She was trying to kill him.
Or drive him insane with lust.
What other reason would she allow him into her room when she sat in that chair wearing nothing but those thigh-and-tattoo-baring shorts and a shirt that in no fucking way concealed the fact that she wasn’t wearing a bra?
With another woman, he would’ve believed flaunting her sexy-as-hell body in front of him like a red flag had been deliberate. Flirtatious. But not Noelle. She either didn’t realize the innocence-and-sin enticement of her dark waves, painted skin, wide blue eyes, and curvaceous body, or she didn’t give a damn about him noticing. Neither option mattered. Neither stopped his fingers from itching to pluck and pinch the small nipples pressing against her shirt. Neither prevented his mouth from watering to taste those tips, suck them until they beaded on his tongue, flushed deep red with arousal.
He had to get the fuck out of here. Now. Five minutes ago. Before he did something he couldn’t take back and neither of them would forget. Or forgive.
“Thank you,” he said, voice hoarse with the need chafing his throat, his lungs. “For dinner,” he clarified.
She glanced up from the drawing pad balanced on her curled-up legs and shrugged a shoulder. “No big deal. I just wanted to thank you for the past few days,” she said in a stiff tone that struck him as carefully…contained. Nothing like the teasing, relaxed woman from the day before.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t here earlier. Work,” he added. Work and trying to exhaust you out of my head. “If I’d known—”
“Again,” she interrupted, closing the pad and setting it on the ottoman beside the chair. “No big deal. It’s not like you’re obligated to call if you’re going to be late. We’re not roommat
es. I’ll go put the food up.” Unfolding her legs, she rose from the chair.
His gaze dipped to her breasts and lower, to her bare legs, even as irritation at her nonchalance surged within him.
“Don’t,” he said, the word emerging more like a command than a request, and from the slight narrowing of her eyes, he gathered she’d caught the hard inflection. And didn’t care for it. Frustrated, he shoved a hand through his hair. “I’ll take care of it.”
“No need.” She shrugged, striding past him.
“Noelle,” he murmured.
“Please,” she said, waving a hand, the gesture impatient. “I feel stupid enough as it is. But you standing there continuing to apologize is only making it worse. I said there’s no need for you to be sorry, and I meant it. Now, please, let it go.”
“Fine,” he ground out. Pride. He recognized it. And wasn’t enough of an asshole to strip her of it. “But I’ll go put it away.”
Her mouth straightened into a stubborn line, and—surprise, surprise—her chin hiked up. But after a long moment, she conceded with an abrupt nod, smoothing her palms over her hair. The movement lifted her breasts, and he closed his eyes. But the image was emblazoned on the back of his eyelids. His brain. Damn, he needed to get out of this room. Away from the temptation wrapped up in tattoos and sex.
“One more thing,” she said.
He bit back a desperate groan. Each second he spent in here, inhaling her scent, staring at the body that was off-limits to him, another piece of his control unraveled.
“What?” he asked, shocked at his calm tone. Considering the lust tearing his stomach to ribbons and pounding in his cock, his voice should have emerged as an animalistic growl.
“Chancey called this afternoon. Our super said it’s going to be another couple of weeks before our apartment is ready.”
“Okay. You can stay for as long—”
She held up a hand. “She’s moving from her parents’ house to a friend’s. And there’s enough room for me, so she invited me to come stay with them.” She crossed her arms. “I-I think I’m going to take her up on the offer. It’s closer to the gallery, and you’ll have your place back.” When he didn’t reply, unease flickered across her face. “Thank you for…everything. Especially the last few days…”