The Decision (Siren Publishing Classic)

by Allyson Young

  After a time, she stood and rinsed under the shower, careful not to soak her hair. Towelling off, Stephanie found the nightgown she’d worn the night before and yanked it over her head. She was numb, and she hoped the feeling lasted, because she wasn’t pulling any of those devastating memories back out into the light ever again. She had her dream job, and her nightmare was over. If her magical fantasy, aloft on the bubbles of champagne, the one she’d pretended she didn’t have, had crashed and burned, well, she’d suck it up. She got paid Monday, automatic deposit, and it would be a relatively hefty check, considering her commission from the show. Reginald was fair that way and gave advances against sales. She’d fill her larder and splurge on a new outfit, something to lift her spirits, and talk to her landlord about Jake. Frank’s scrutiny of her deadbolt had given her an idea.

  Stephanie slipped into bed and worked through her idea, the thought of having Jake to come home to every night a ray of light she focussed on, to the exclusion of anything else. Even if the landlord rejected her request out of hand, Stephanie figured he might be willing to allow her dog to visit and be a presence, and a deterrent. He surely wasn’t oblivious to the scary area just over a block. Tomorrow was a day of rest, and Stephanie looked forward to it. The next couple of weeks were going to be incredibly busy, and she needed to take any opportunity to regroup. Not that she had anything to regroup from. Dace Reynolds was out of her life, and it was for the best.

  * * * *

  Dace paced his living room floor, occasionally crossing to pick at the less-than-appetizing buffet. It congealed on the plates, too many hours having passed. He wanted to call his driver to make certain Stephanie got home safely, but it was out of character. He had altered his decision, changed his mind about seducing her and using her to find her sister, at least directly. Dace would do the finding Sophie part obliquely. He’d have Stephanie followed and her movements at the gallery examined. There were all sorts of ways to manage it. Ways that didn’t involve direct contact with her. Stephanie didn’t appear to be anything like her sister, but Dace wasn’t taking the chance. Fool me once… He wasn’t feeling shame again. And he certainly wasn’t taking the risk. He owed it to his family and his stockholders. He would soon need to marry and make babies to inherit the business, and he should be making a list of prospects.

  Punching in Frank’s call back number had him gritting his teeth. So much for all his self-talk.

  “Sir?”

  What could he say?

  “Did you get Ms. Price home safely?” There, that was businesslike enough.

  “Yes, sir. I took her up to her apartment as you directed. She has a deadbolt and no food in her cupboards.”

  Dace was sidetracked by the fact his driver had been inside Stephanie’s apartment. Then Frank’s comments registered.

  “Deadbolt? Food? What the fuck are you going on about?”

  “She knows to take care, sir. She’s a woman living alone in a neighborhood not far removed from a troubled area. And she said she hadn’t been grocery shopping because she didn’t have time.”

  Shame swirled with serpent-like insidiousness through Dace’s center as Frank’s words penetrated. He hoped he wasn’t a selfish man. Ruthless, yes, shrewd and calculating certainly, but not selfish. He gave to others, especially those he cared about, not that he cared, exactly, about Stephanie Price. No, his interest was purely carnal. Dace nodded, forgetting Frank couldn’t see him, feeling the other man waiting in expectation on the other end of their tenuous connection.

  “Did you order her food?”

  “She refused. Graciously. Politely. I had no recourse.”

  There was Frank’s hidden side again. Not the seemingly simpleminded chauffeur with the inability to think past his job constructs. Dace felt those serpents again. He’d distanced himself from everyone, including his family, and his loyal driver because they’d borne witness to her perfidy and his fall. It was time he got his shit together in his personal life, having spent the last several months concentrating on nothing but repairing the hit to the business. Sophie’s time would come, but revenge was a dish best served cold. Or much colder in this instance because getting his hands on her through her sister no longer appealed. She wouldn’t approve, not Stephanie. Dace intuited that fact and ignored the truth of the other fact, that her opinion would matter.

  “Thanks, Frank.” Dace closed the phone and debated, comparing and contrasting his options. In the end he decided not to go to her home, bearing dinner and gifts. He had burned that bridge with finality, and considerable rudeness. Stephanie would likely be in no state to receive him, and he didn’t want to see her in any event. Ever again. Shakespeare had it wrong. Or at least the noun. Methinks this fool doth protest too much was closer to the truth. Of course Dace wanted to see her, wanted to have her in ways her brain would likely force her sweet body to run screaming from if she knew, but he would deny himself. Because it was too big a risk. Dace would never allow himself to lose control over a woman again, particularly Stephanie Price, primarily because her sister was eventually going to turn up like the proverbial bad penny. One he planned to melt down into a sludge of copper scrap. The dynamics of such a relationship boggled the mind.

  He decided to send a grocery order to her apartment in the morning, delicacies to tempt her palate, with a brief note of apology, citing a recollection of a previous engagement the night before. It would be a thoughtful gesture. It was lame but the best he could come up with. That young woman should not ever do without. The fierceness of his thought made Dace wince. He had to keep his goddamn distance.

  * * * *

  The rustling and bumping in the hallway just outside of her apartment door the following morning drew Stephanie from her glum perusal of the withered apple. Shades of Snow White, Stephanie Price style. She’d decided to peel it, then slice it up with the remaining cheese and open the packet of crackers. Stephanie hoped to paint throughout the day and keep her thoughts focused forward, to the future. She hadn’t allowed herself to slip backward a fraction since awakening from a troubled sleep, feeling more exhausted than when she had retired. She still wore her nightgown, and was barefoot, her hair tangled and tumbling around her face and shoulders from her position at the fridge door. Shoving the weight of it back with an impatient hand, pushing the fridge shut, Stephanie tiptoed to the entry. She peered through the peephole and drew back in astonishment.

  There were two very young men stacking what appeared to be sacks full of food against the wall directly facing her door. Instant comprehension overtook her, and rage, fuelled by humiliation, followed close on its heels. Stephanie threw the deadbolt back and yanked the wooden panel open with such force it flew back on its hinges and thudded against the doorstop with a dull thud accompanied by a twanging sound. The two youths froze, one in the act of lowering a bag to join the others, the second boy in the process of fishing a piece of paper from his shirt pocket.

  “What are you doing?” Stephanie’s voice trembled with outrage no matter how hard she attempted to control it. One didn’t kill the messenger. Messengers.

  “Uh, Miss Price? Steefeenie?” The older of the two squinted at the paper. “We are here to deliver the groceries from our father’s deli. From Mr. Reynolds.”

  Nice. He’d sent two infants to beard her in her den. Coward. Stephanie forced a smile and tucked her less-than-covered self behind her door, reaching out to push the garishly painted wood in front of her like a shield. Both boys instantly lowered their eyes, although they’d been looking. Men. They worked it from the cradle. How to send all of this back without causing trouble for—Michael and Marco? Their nametags were displayed proudly on their matching uniform shirt pockets. There was no easy way.

  “You’ll need to pack it up and return it, fellas,” she said as gently as she knew how. “I don’t want it or need it, and I’ll just leave it in the hall.”

  Michael’s mouth gaped open. “Leave the food?”

  What the hell, make it an affair of the
heart, bizarre as the gift was. Groceries. The asshole. She didn’t owe him any confidentiality, and the urge to pinch him really hard prevailed. “Mr. Reynolds is under the mistaken belief he is required to feed me because he cancelled our dinner date. He’s wrong. So you can either take it back, take it home, or give it away.”

  Michael’s mouth still hung open, but Marco’s eyes filled with sudden comprehension. He looked at the note and then at her.

  “I opened this by mistake, thinking it was further directions. I must apologize. And I comprehend, miss. We will be on our way with the groceries. C’mon, Mikey.” He shoved the note at her, and Stephanie automatically took it, noting the dark slashes on the paper. Handwritten. Personal. She wasn’t going to read it and let it drift from her hand to the floor.

  Mikey followed his brother’s example, snatching up the bags and balancing them precariously. He clearly thought she was nuts by the way he rolled his eyes and muttered under his breath, but he hauled his share. They went off down the hall, and Stephanie watched them go until they entered the stairwell. She drew back into her apartment, and her glance fell on a small tin. She scanned the hall again before quickly stepping out to scoop it up, staring after the boys. Too late.

  It was a tin of oysters, and she longed to crack it right over Dace Reynolds’s arrogant head. Freaking symbolism. Then she shrugged, the movement startling her out of her reverie. Stephanie carried the seafood into the kitchen to open and drain them, dumping them out onto a plate, dusting them lightly with pepper. Feast or famine, she supposed, or maybe, never look a gift horse in the mouth. Whatever, she sliced the apple and cheese, added the crackers to the mix and filled her belly, hopping up only to make a pot of tea. The note lay crumpled on the floor by the foot of her only living room chair, and Stephanie figured she’d dispose of it when she got around to cleaning. The apartment was silent, unlike her head, but painting would soothe her soul and carry her through the chaos of the past couple of days until her job could do so.

  Stacking her dishes in the sink, Stephanie made a pledge to the housekeeping gods everywhere that she’d clean up tomorrow night. She changed into a pair of loose, cotton pants over those sensible panties she bought, six to a pack, pink, white, and pale blue, and slipped on a racerback bra before pulling a threadbare, comfortable tee shirt over her head. After brushing her teeth vigorously, running a brush through her hair, and washing her face with a soft cloth, she felt ready to approach her palette. She didn’t look any different when she examined her features in the mirror, so she supposed she’d escaped unscathed after all. Because surely one would be able to see something of the angst held deep inside if it was really there. Right?

  She flirted with the canvas, recognizing the telltale ache in her arm denoting considerable time having passed. But when Stephanie checked the clock, it had just crossed the hour. She frowned and flexed her wrist. Ah, the bruises on her forearm were well formed, clearly delineated as large finger marks, a dark, purplish hue. It was soft tissue damage, and very minor, but it underscored the true nature of the man. He didn’t know his own strength and nor would he care. And now he’d spoiled her afternoon dedicated to her only hobby. She nearly ground her teeth but resigned herself to the fact she’d likely be reminded from time to time about Dace Reynolds, and she’d have to deal.

  The rap on her door caused her to spring to attention, the brush held lightly between thumb and two fingers nearly slipping from her grip. Stephanie hastily set it on the palette and grabbed a rag, the unique scent of turpentine drifting up to assault her senses. A look through the peephole found Frank, staring stoically back at her. She drew away in shock. She debated answering.

  “Miss Price? It’s Frank.”

  Well, crap. “I’m not really available to see anyone, Frank.”

  “If you could just open the door and let me set this inside?”

  Set what inside? Was he some kind of serial killer who had lulled her into kind of trusting him? Did she dare? Silence ensued. Maybe he would go away. But no, when she peeked again, he stood stoically like an oak tree. She took a deep breath and cracked the door, certain she looked like a nervous housewife, which, in truth, was exactly how she felt.

  Frank smiled his kind smile and hefted an enormous basket. Stephanie automatically backed up and allowed him entrance, not that she could have stopped his determined advance. He wasn’t wearing his uniform, and it puzzled her. Was he here on his own time or at the direction of Dace Reynolds? Anxiety cramped her belly. Surely she hadn’t misread the signals. Surely Frank wasn’t trying to put the moves on her or something. He seemed a nice man, but there was no spark, unlike—nope, not going there. Besides, spark be damned. More like a raging inferno.

  “Mr. Reynolds said you’d sent back the grocery order. He wasn’t pleased.”

  “I really don’t give a royal rat’s…” Her voice trailed away, leaving her tart reaction to hover in front of Frank’s impassive visage. She swallowed. “It doesn’t make any difference to me, Frank, what your boss likes or doesn’t like. And I don’t require charity.”

  His massive head nodded in comprehension. “I thought you’d see it that way, but he reneged, and Mr. Reynolds doesn’t do that on his deals.”

  “I’m not a business deal, Frank.” Her Irish was up. Frank was a man, just like the rest, and her tone of voice reflected it.

  “No, Miss Price. Sorry. I was just trying to say it’s out of character for him to do what he did.” He looked at her in apology, craggy features softening, pleading.

  “I’m not interested in his character, Frank, and for God’s sake call me Stephanie. You and I have some kind of weird friendship going on.”

  His wide smile nearly blinded her. Some good woman needed to wrap this big teddy bear up and take him home, forever. Frank deserved a wonderful female to love him while he took care of her. Stephanie wished briefly she could stand in for that woman. This large man was kind, caring, and astute to the bone. But she didn’t qualify.

  “You might as well come in and take a seat. I’m too distracted to paint now.” She wished to retract the comment the instant it passed her lips. But Frank didn’t appear to draw any inference, and he didn’t look toward her easel, although she was certain it hadn’t escaped his notice. Frank reminded her of one of those Secret Service agents behind a carefully cultivated blasé exterior. Instead, he hauled the basket into her kitchen and set it on the counter. They unpacked it together.

  “Was this his idea?” She had to know.

  “Uh.”

  Crap. Frank couldn’t be expected to talk about his employer. He probably already regretted saying so much. Stephanie tried to clarify her question. “You aren’t in uniform, so I wondered…”

  Frank clearly deliberated answering, setting jars and packages on the counter, moving to put differently wrapped packages in the fridge. Finally, he replied.

  “He was a bit put out when the deli called to say you’d sent the order back because he called me and told me what happened. Mr. Reynolds is usually closemouthed when it comes to women.”

  Stephanie flinched, and he picked up on that. “Sorry, uh, Miss Stephanie. But I’ve been with him a long time. He asked if I’d take a basket to you because he figured you wouldn’t send me packing. And I wanted to because I was worried about you. I wasn’t doing anything of moment.”

  Stephanie laughed. Yes, she did. Loudly and with the first sense of positive feelings since Friday night, with the exception of her body’s response to Dace Reynolds, not that it really qualified. She’d satisfy her own needs, thank you very much.

  “Well then, Frank, I appreciate the gift even if the intent behind it is suspect. I’ll make us dinner.”

  “No, Miss Stephanie, you won’t. I appreciate it. You’re very different than her, I know. I feel it. But we can’t cross that line.”

  Her belly hurt with disappointment and embarrassment, all effects of her heartfelt laugh dissipating. Dace Reynolds ruined even this, a burgeoning friendship with a nice ma
n. Wonderful. She tried an understanding smile, uncertain of what else to say.

  “But I’ll look out for you, Miss Stephanie.”

  She nodded, although thought it was unlikely they’d cross paths again. Then she asked, “You knew Sophie?”

  The myriad of emotions shuffling across Frank’s face said it all. Of course he knew her sister. He drove for Dace. No need to ask anything further. Stephanie felt badly for what Sophie had done to this nice man, but she couldn’t let him stay any longer. Propriety. Bile surged, and she longed to hurt someone, but they should get in line. There was a new person on her shit list, and she didn’t have the time or energy for it.

  “Thanks for coming.”

  Frank nodded at her quiet dismissal. “I look forward to seeing you again, Miss Stephanie.”

  Probably not, but she followed the social nicety with, “Thanks, Frank.”

  The door shut on his burly frame, and she closed the deadbolt. Any desire for food fled when Frank established the boundaries of their relationship. He clearly felt there was something of moment between her and his boss, and she desperately hoped it wasn’t true. Dace Reynolds was damaged, damaged by her sister, and perhaps by his upbringing. Stephanie would never find out. She wasn’t the picture of family functioning, and the two of them would poison one another. So she would find a way to keep him out of her head. She was resourceful, and she was smart. Dace had found she didn’t measure up to his standards, blew her off and then, in a fit of guilt tried to buy her approval and forgiveness. Oh no, correction. He wasn’t known for “reneging.” Well how nice for him to have such standards. Quite unlike telling a woman he’d just met that he wanted to fuck her. Her pussy contracted involuntarily, and her nipples tingled. Stephanie cracked her hand against her thigh, the sting serving to remind her traitorous libido how inappropriate her response was. She liked champagne, too, and look how that bit her on the ass.