by Raina Lynn
“Whatever you want, Mason,” she said, blotting her eyes. “Ending this marriage might be something to consider. Once the pressure is off, maybe we can start fresh. Would you give us a chance to work out our problems when there aren’t any ties?” She perched on the edge of her seat and leaned forward in entreaty.
Did she honestly expect him to forget seeing her tongue trailing wet circles down that punk kid’s chest?
“I don’t want to lose you.” The tears spilled over. “I’m so sorry for what I’ve done to us.”
That rendered him speechless. Had she begun to grow up? Had she learned to consider other people’s feelings? For a moment he wondered.
Her attorney pushed his glasses higher on the bridge of his nose and glanced at his counterpart. “Perhaps your client and mine would like a chance to discuss this in private.”
Mason’s attorney turned to him, a silent question arching one eyebrow. People put their marriages back together after far worse, but Mason couldn’t see him and Karen being among them. Her indulgences had gone too far.
Her expression became imploring, and she slid to her knees at his feet, reaching for his hands. “Please, Mason?”
Reality slapped him hard. No one did remorse like Karen when she’d overreached her grasp. Suddenly, he felt more hollow and alone than he’d believed any human being could. But he knew her—finally. He’d fallen for her histrionics for the last time. She loved him as much as she was capable of loving anyone, but it wasn’t enough.
Levering himself out of his seat, he stepped around her. Deliberately, he kept his gaze on his attorney and off the shocked-looking woman clinging to the arm of the chair he’d just vacated. “I’ll meet you at court in an hour.” Then he turned and walked away.
That night back at his apartment in Stafford, Mason poured himself bourbon, lifted it to his lips, then set it on the coffee table in disgust. Booze never accomplished anything except to make him maudlin. And he felt enough of that right now without any help.
Karen had tried to corner him outside the courthouse just before the hearing. From the looks of her, she’d been crying at least long enough to cause her makeup to run and her face to develop that appealingly vulnerable cast. He didn’t know how the woman did it, but she actually looked cute when she cried. Unfortunately, she knew it.
Both confrontations left him unsettled, but at least he had ended the legal ties. Now, maybe, he could begin to heal. He took a mouthful of bourbon and swallowed. Grimacing, he decided to pour the rest down the sink. While on his way to the kitchen, someone knocked on the door.
He pulled it open, and as he caught sight of his visitor a distant portion of his mind became aware that he was gaping. He couldn’t seem to help himself.
Jill stood on the landing outside his apartment, a small grocery bag in her arms. “I’ve got a six-pack of soda, a bag of chips and a friendly ear.” She offered a tentative smile. “It’s not exactly uptown, but I picked ’em out with my own two little hands. Except the ear. That I was born with.”
Jill Mathesin had the biggest brown eyes he’d ever seen—much more expressive than Karen’s, and rounded now in self-consciousness.
The last thing he wanted was company, particularly the woman who, with innocent tenacity, reminded him of Karen just by walking into the room. Except the hair, he amended. Karen had every man’s fantasy—long, thick and sexy as hell. But like everything else, Karen flaunted that attribute to the world. Jill’s hair, on the other hand, was wash-and-wear. It fit her. So did her smile and her natural unadorned beauty. In short, she was real.
Common sense told him to send her away, but he found himself stepping back and motioning her inside. A tiny breath of relief escaped her, and she swept in with her usual aplomb.
When she spotted the half-empty bottle of bourbon on the coffee table, she frowned. “That does not look like a celebration, Bradshaw.”
“It’s not.” Despite himself, depression got the better of him, and the melancholy edge to his voice came through with embarrassing clarity.
She gave him a shrewd look. “People who get miserable when they drink shouldn’t indulge.”
“You have no idea.” Further discomfited by her far too accurate observation, he gathered up some dignity. “I owe you an apology. Friend or not, I had no business dumping all that on you yesterday.”
“Right,” she muttered drily. “Why don’t you park yourself on your couch and tell ol’ Jill all about your day’s battles with the legal system and other people. We’ll call it round two.” She gave him a Cheshire cat grin. “At least you’re calling me a friend now. Does that mean you’ve lowered the drawbridge and taken a few alligators out of the moat?”
Mason blinked, wondering if he’d ever get completely used to her. She barged into his life—whether he wanted her there or not—and had the damnedest ability to make him feel as if he were the single most important person in her world. Did she treat everyone that way? He wished he could think straight.
She popped the top on a soda, stuffed it into his hand, then commandeered his recliner chair—the one piece of furniture he’d taken with him from the house. “Come on, Bradshaw. Take your cola like a man and spill your guts.”
His mouth gaped open again. So much for dignity. “The concept that employees shouldn’t pry into their employer’s personal life doesn’t mean much to you, does it?”
“Of course not.” She took a long pull on her drink. “Time’s wasting, Bradshaw. Start spinning your my-baby-done-me-wrong tale, so I can sing the praises of all your bright tomorrow.” She ripped open the chips and held out the bag. When he didn’t make a move to take any, she shook it at him in comical, wide-eyed invitation.
For no other reason than fascination with her, he took a few. Nothing ever seemed to faze this woman. How did she do that? By some chance, did she give lessons? “Are there any more like you in your family tree?”
“Nope. I’m an original.” She dropped the chip bag on the coffee table between them and leaned back. “Easy, since I’m an only child. I was a change-of-life baby. Mom thought I was menopause. They never wanted kids, and I pretty much had to depend on myself. It made for a strange childhood. They’re both gone now.” She popped a chip into her mouth. “What’s your family tree look like?”
Mason’s composure slipped another notch. He hadn’t realized his innocent comment would sponsor a dissertation on her background. The idea of discussing his own upbringing made him slightly ill. Intellectually, he knew that thirty-six-year-old men had no business hanging on to old baggage, but he’d also accepted the fact that he didn’t know how to let go—of anything. Childhood scars—like knowing his parents’ only concerns were their high-powered careers—didn’t disappear on their own. He couldn’t imagine discussing it with anyone, much less his bookkeeper.
“Well?” she prompted.
“I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but I’m a rather private man.”
“No kidding,” she retorted. “Would you like me to describe the moat around your private fortress? To make it worse, you’ve got a seven-year marriage down the tubes. The idea of any kind of tomorrow probably sounds obscene.”
“How did you find out how long....” He strangled off the rest of the question. He really didn’t want to know.
She cocked her head. “How about this, instead? We’ll sit around, cry in our colas and swap marital war stories.”
It startled him to realize she had no intention of dropping any of it. Then again, this was Jill. It had been eight weeks since he’d taken over the paper. That meant eight weeks of daily doses of Jill Mathesin. Nothing she did should surprise him anymore. “I appreciate your offer, but why don’t I just see you at the paper tomorrow?”
“Come on, Bradshaw,” she cajoled. “I bet my ex-marriage beats yours. I’ll even spot you ten points.” Challenge glowed in her dark eyes.
From somewhere deep within the hollow pit his heart had become, temptation nudged. Maybe he did need this, a friend wh
o cared enough to invade his space and stay there. Warily, he seated himself across from her on the couch. “What’s the scoring system?”
Victory flashed across her face. “Irresponsible money handling, inconsiderate behavior and being a slob are worth one point each. General rattiness and outright betrayal are double and triple bonus points depending on the infraction.”
“Are you making this up as you go along?”
Her generous lips curved in a smile. “Yep. The best games in the world are invented that way. Didn’t you learn that as a kid?”
“Apparently, I missed that one.” His entire childhood had consisted of rigidly structured boarding schools and equally demanding summer camps, all designed to keep him away from home and out of his parents’ lives as much as possible. They’d loathed Christmas vacations when he was home and underfoot. At the time, he remembered empathizing with young Ebenezer Scrooge.
During his college years he’d begun to crave sharing a true Christmas with children of his own. He wanted a tree decorated by love, not a work of art created by a professional. He wanted wrapping paper strewn all over the house. He wanted quiet family conversation over a cozy meal, not a catered feast for two dozen. Toys and laughter and, yes, he’d even welcome the worry of how to pay for it all.
“You never made up games?” Jill asked, staring at him like he’d just sprouted an extra head. “Pathetic, Bradshaw. Really pathetic.” She shook her head, then grinned suddenly. “Did I mention each point is worth a buck?”
“Why doesn’t that surprise me?” he mumbled, fighting the smile forming deep in his chest. He dragged out his wallet and checked the meager contents. “You’re on.” Leaning forward again, he braced his elbows on his knees. “Who goes first?”
“Me. It’s my game.”
“Of course.”
“Donald and I met at a party. He treated me like a princess on a satin pillow—until after the wedding. Then, I guess, he thought his part in the relationship was over. The male had conquered the female. That type of thing. Now married and victorious, it was time to get back to his life. He made no effort to be home at a regular time, yet he expected me to have dinner on the table the moment he waltzed in. And I held down a full-time job, too.”
“Definite rattiness,” Mason pronounced. “Two points.” The idea anyone would treat Jill that way annoyed him more deeply than he thought it should. “You’re going to lose, though. Karen’s self-centeredness approached epic proportions.”
Jill smiled in apparent approval at his answering salvo, and hunched forward. “Now you’re getting into the spirit of the thing, Bradshaw. Spill it.”
The ease with which she’d sucked him in amazed him. For some reason, that didn’t bother him at all. “Karen wanted to redecorate. The furniture she wanted wouldn’t fit in the rooms, so she thought it made perfect sense to buy a bigger house.”
Jill’s face smoothed with disbelief. “You’re making that up.”
“Am not.” He raised his right hand and solemnly folded thumb and little finger across his palm. “Scout’s honor.” The spontaneous gesture was so out of character that he smiled. Despite her eccentricities, Jill was good for him.
“That would be worth four points all by itself, unless, of course, you knuckled under to the bi—” she cleared her throat “—brat. In which case you lose all your points for being a sap.”
Deep within him, a long-dead spark came back to life, and for the first time in months, the weight eased from his chest. Yes, Jill was definitely good for him. “The day escrow closed on the new house—”
Jill groaned and dropped her head into her hands. “Karen announced she’d changed her mind about the furniture. Everyone wanted that look, and she didn’t like the idea that people might think she’d turned into a herd follower. She envisioned herself as a trendsetter.”
Karen had never truly understood why they’d had to scrimp to raise the money for the new house. In her mind, since his parents were well off he should have asked them for the funds. She’d come from struggling middle-class parents who’d indulged her every whim. To her, the idea that wealthy in-laws wouldn’t be proportionately more generous made no sense whatsoever. And Mason knew he’d never understand how she’d managed to convince herself that journalism was a hobby, not a profession that just happened to be his means of putting food on the table.
“Bradshaw, you’re so far in the hole on points, you’ll never dig yourself out.”
“Your turn,” he countered, eager to get off the hot seat. “What’s the dumbest thing you ever did to keep peace in the home?” Inside, he froze. That much confession had slipped out without permission.
Jill’s expressive eyes widened in absolute incredulity. “Keeping peace? Is that what you were doing?”
Feeling stupid and foolish, he shrugged. He’d left out all the tantrums Karen had thrown, and he would never admit to anyone that he’d swallowed her favorite lie—again—that if he’d give in to her latest whim she’d be ready to have kids.
“Bradshaw, in that case, I nominate you for the Good Guy Hall of Fame.”
The open awe glowing on her face made him feel like all his efforts hadn’t been for nothing—that someone appreciated what he’d tried to do, even if he’d failed. All he’d wanted was a home filled with simple pleasures and love. And for all his sacrifices, he’d found neither. “Still your turn.”
“Hmmm.” Thoughtfully, Jill looked at the ceiling. “Definitely time to haul out the big guns. Otherwise, I’ll never catch up. How many points do I get for marrying a man who never loved me?” Her voice caught on a smothered gasp.
It would seem he wasn’t the only one making unexpected confessions. Had they lived through similar heartaches? Apparently so, and the shared agony of it struck deep in his chest. “Is that what you did, Jill?” he asked with a tenderness that startled him.
Her large chocolate-brown eyes glistened. “We’d been married two weeks when Donald said he only married me because he hated being single.”
The depth of Mason’s disgust at the man came as another surprise, and he bit down on a pointless commentary on her ex-husband’s lack of character.
“He said women were only good for a couple of things and that he’d had better.” Determinedly, Jill blinked a few times, her jaw set.
Somehow, Mason found himself across the room, crouched beside her. Without taking the time to think about it first, he cradled her head against his shoulder and held her tight. Her arms crept around his ribs, and he held his breath, afraid to break the spell. How long had it been since he’d experienced the touch of a woman who cared, who understood? Thinking back that far hurt too much, so he shook off the question. “We make a great pair, Jill. The walking wounded of Stafford, Washington.”
She offered a thready laugh and burrowed her face deeper into his neck. “No argument there, but how are we on points?”
“Exactly even.” The scent of her hair filled him, and the softness of her skin tempted. He hadn’t wanted to kiss anyone in a long time, but an undeniable need coiled within him now and he wasn’t quite sure what to do about it.
“No good, Bradshaw. I hate ties.” She pulled back and swiped at her eyes with the heels of her hands—such unpretentious honesty in the gesture. “One of us has to win.”
Forget points. The game’s over. This is for real. “Did he ever cheat on you?”
For an instant, the reminder cast a stricken look deep in her eyes. Then she conquered it. “This was a dumb game.”
Tenderly, Mason tilted her chin toward him. “Tell me.”
“Yeah, he cheated on me,” she whispered brokenly. “How often is anyone’s guess.”
Answering echoes of her misery reverberated from the depths of his soul. When she looked into his eyes, vulnerable and alone, Mason saw himself and knew he was about to drown.
“Bradshaw, I only wanted his love. Nothing more. Nothing less. I tried everything.” She swiped at her eyes again, pulling a mien of anger around her like a
protective shield. “I was such a jerk. All he wanted was an available body when he couldn’t find someone better.”
Mason didn’t say a word. How could it be that the two of them—strangers—had spent a lifetime fighting and losing the same wars? They might be wounded and bleeding inside, but they were both survivors.
Her lips trembled slightly, shattering what little common sense he had left. Need ignited and roared out of control. He tunneled his fingers through her short, silky curls and pulled her to him, covering her mouth with his own. In a quiet rush, her warmth and sweetness filled his emptiness in a way the bourbon never could. When she molded her body into the contours of his embrace and kissed him back with equal ferocity, the wildfire destroyed all rational thought.
Words would have intruded, so neither spoke as the passionate storm mounted. Mason was only half aware of carrying her to his bedroom. Letting her feet touch the floor, he kissed her cheeks and lips, then crushed her to him. Her small breasts pressed tightly against his chest, and his body throbbed.
She looked shyly around the room, taking in the double bed with its mahogany headboard and earth-tone print comforter.
“Are you okay with this, Jill?” he whispered. The willpower it took to give her some space nearly brought him to his knees. Never in his life had he wanted a woman this badly. If she was having second thoughts, it might very well kill him. He brushed disheveled blond curls from her eyes and tilted her face up, spreading feathery kisses across her mouth and cheeks.
She trembled, then swallowed hard.
Oh, God, she’s going to say no. He groaned under his breath, but couldn’t bring himself to move away. “Change your mind?”
Her cheeks pinkened, and she lowered her eyes, playing with the button on his dress shirt. “It’s just that I don’t normally do this kind of thing.” She gave him a darting glance. “It’s been a while—” she swallowed again “—since Donald.”
Nothing she could have said would have made him want her more. She might have a freewheeling approach to life, but that didn’t include the bedroom. Whatever was happening between them meant serious consideration on her part—his, too, for that matter.