Point of Release
Page 7
“I have faith in you. And I know your heart—I'm one of the few people you've let get close enough to see the real you.”
He took a long drink of his beer, savoring the clean, malt flavor. It would pain him to say it, but Gianna understood the whole situation. “They asked me to come for the holidays again. Even before I sent the flowers.”
Her dark eyes filled with empathy. “Of course they did. They ask you every year, because they really want you to. How did you respond?”
“I thanked them but said I was spending the holidays with you and Jordan.”
“But you won't, even though you know you're welcome. And you'll be alone, and I'll worry about you, like usual.” She sighed. “Carlo, did you ever consider you'd be doing it for them, more than for you? That they want you there because you're a link to her?”
“I hadn't thought about it, no. I try not to think about it.”
“Well, maybe it's time you should. Maybe the only way you'll be able to move forward and not let the past affect you is to face this head on, as painful as it is.”
Mercifully, the waiter came over to take their order—burritos and refried beans with another round of drinks.
Gianna wasn't done with him yet. She munched on a tortilla chip and regarded him somberly. “It was an accident, Carlo.”
“It was my fault. I lost control.”
“You don't even remember anything except waking up. The police weren't even sure of what happened. And you weren't charged with anything.”
Her arms tight around his waist, her mouth at his ear...the wind whipping her long brown hair so it danced wildly as she tossed her head. She had always refused to wear a helmet, despite his insistence. Her free spirit had gotten the best of him—trumped his common sense—and he had grudgingly accepted her choice. And he had let her convince him to go just a little bit faster, because she had loved the thrill of speed.
He would regret both of those decisions for the rest of his life.
chapter fourteen ~ Cassandra
For the third time tonight, Cassandra had forgotten to bring something to one of her tables. The first time it was silverware, the second time it was drinks, and this time was the take-out meal the people had ordered. Flustered, she apologized and went to the kitchen to grab it, silently admonishing herself. She had always taken pride in any job she did, and waitressing had become second nature to her, so it was annoying that she was so effing distracted.
She'd have to blame it on the lack of sleep last night. And the dream.
It had felt so real. She was lying in Carlo's bed alone, completely nude and trembling with both fear and excitement. The room was dim, candles flickering like they had been the night they were together, and the bedroom door opened to reveal Carlo standing before her, light from the hallway spilling in around his silhouetted form. He was shirtless, wearing only dark pants, and she could hear the smile in his voice as he spoke. “Cassandra...I've been waiting for you.” She began to shake, then, at the rich desire in his tone.
“Don't be afraid. Let me show you how much I want you.” He approached her slowly, his face shadowed, and she drew in her breath at the sight of him: the sculpted outline of his pectoral muscles, his flat, board-like abdomen. She ached to reach out and touch him—brush her hand across his hairless chest and slide it down to grasp the bulge in his pants.
“Don't be afraid,” he murmured again, and then light from the window fell across his face.
Brock's face.
There was hardness in his green eyes as his lip curled into a cold sneer. “You were expecting someone else, weren't you, Cassandra?” Brock began to laugh, and the gripping chill she felt was enough to jar her from sleep.
A dream, she had told herself, as she hugged her knees to her chest and shivered, the bedding rumpled around her. A dream. It doesn't mean anything. He can't hurt you anymore.
But of course he could, and he was. The pain of betrayal was still stinging, but it was more than that. She felt gutted, hollow. As much as she hated to acknowledge it, the absence of him was hurting her.
“Hey. You okay?” A gentle hand on her arm. Allison, peering at her anxiously.
“Yes, thanks. I am. Just had a dream last night, and I'm trying to shake it.” Cassandra managed a smile, taking the styrofoam container from the counter to bring to her table.
Allison followed her out the swinging door. “A dream, huh? Bet I can guess what it was about. Or should I say, who.” She caught up to Cassandra and put her mouth at her ear. “Honey, you still look like you need some groceries, and you're pale. I'm worried about you.”
“You are sweet, but I'll be okay. Really.”
“You come have Thanksgiving with me and Rick and the kids, and I'll fatten you right up.”
“Thank you, Al...I'm not sure what my plans are yet, but I appreciate the offer.”
“I'm serious. We'd love to have you. Put you right to work on meal prep, too. And I still want to hear about your professional goals.”
“I've been thinking about that. We'll definitely talk when it slows down tonight, okay?” It would be good to focus on other things besides faces that turned into green-eyed monsters.
Ponytail swinging, Cassandra walked briskly over to the booth with the takeout order and delivered the meal, apologizing again. Now to check on her next table, and hopefully the rest of the shift would go more smoothly...
She stopped dead in her tracks. Walking toward the empty table in her section...Carlo.
Her heart clutched. Why the fuck would he do this? The answer came immediately, in the form of Carlo's past comment: I always get what I want. And he wanted to get her back.
What the fuck was she supposed to do? He hadn't seen her yet. Maybe she could get Allison to take him...No. That would show weakness. Better to face this head on.
He was wearing a gray blazer over a pale blue V-neck and faded jeans, walking with purpose and confidence in black brogue shoes. She had secretly been hoping that the next time she saw him, he would somehow look less appealing to her, but she was apparently shit out of luck in that department. If anything, he was even more gorgeous. And the realization that she was still attracted to him, despite the hurt and betrayal, filled her with self-loathing.
She slipped her order pad into her apron pocket, wildly angry that her hands were shaking. Reaching up to smooth her hair and tighten her ponytail, she walked stiffly to the table as he was sitting down and gave herself a quick pep talk. You got this. Believe it. Be strong and smooth. Don't you dare let him get to you.
And then he looked at her. Held her gaze like he owned her, and she was pulled into the depths of those incredible blue-gray eyes. In the few seconds that she allowed herself to maintain eye contact, she saw the pure delight he felt in seeing her again, blending into want. She slid her hands into her apron and clenched them into tight fists. Strong and smooth. Show him.
She surprised both of them by speaking first. “What are you doing here?”
His gaze drifted over her face, halting at her mouth and then flicking back to her eyes. “You're bolder...the eye contact.”
God, his voice. Rich, warm—stirring something deep inside her. “Yes. I am. And I'll ask again—what are you doing here?”
“You know exactly what I'm doing here. I told you I needed to see you.” He leaned back against his chair, folding his arms across his chest.
Even through the fabric of the blazer, Cassandra could see his muscles. Be sensible, she coached herself. Yes, he has muscles. Everyone has muscles. And yes, he works out. People work out all the time, lift weights, replenish their electrolytes afterwards. Not a big deal.
“I've missed you, Cassandra.”
It was either the unexpected softness of his voice, or hearing him say her name, or the gentleness in his eyes—maybe a combination of the three—but whatever it was caused her to take a small step back. “I forgot to get you a menu,” she said flatly. “I'll be right back.”
“Distracted?”
Because he knows you. He knows he can still get to you. Prove him wrong.
Taking a deep, cleansing breath, she returned to his table and presented him with the menu, willing her voice to remain cool. “The specials are listed inside.”
“I'll take a tall Dos Equis to start, please. Amber.” He paused, unabashedly raking his eyes over her. “You are truly beautiful, Cassandra.”
“I'll be back to take your order.” Her cheeks were flaming as she left his table.
Allison met her at the bar, her round face creased with lines of worry. “Ohhh, shit, girl...I just saw. I can tell this is really stressing you out.”
“I seriously can't believe he's here.” She ordered his beer from Eddie the bartender and turned back to Allison, glad for the few seconds she could actually breathe. She did a quick mental tally of her emotions. Anxiety: check. Irritation: check. Confused: check check check. She had all of those, but where was her anger? Where the fuck was her anger?
“I'm sorry to say, hon, but I can believe he's here. I'm actually surprised he waited this long. I didn't mean to be a creeper, but it's hard not to notice how crazy he is about you.”
“But none of that matters. He betrayed my trust.” She put her hands over her face. “Ughh, this just sucks so much. He knows where I work—Jesus, technically, I even work for him at the stable—and he can find me anytime he wants.”
“I'm gonna say this as gently as I can, sweetie—I think part of you is glad about that.”
Eddie slid the glass of beer toward her. “Whoa, Cass...your face is about as red as a stop sign.”
“It's hot in here,” Allison said quickly, fanning herself.
Her hand trembling, Cassandra took the glass, the amber liquid wobbling dangerously close to the surface. She would deliver this to Carlo, take his order, and focus on her other tables. She would check on him once, bring him the bill and then walk away. If she felt herself start to falter, all she needed to was remember the cringe-inducing video and her starring role.
“Thank you.” Carlo took the beer glass she had set in front of him and sipped, leaving a trace of foam on his upper lip. Taking his napkin from his lap, he dabbed at his mouth and grinned.
Cassandra steeled herself. At least he hadn't used his tongue. “Are you ready to order?”
“I may need a few minutes. Could you come back?”
“You seriously don't know what you want? You've been here before.” Jesus, would he just let her get this over with?
His eyebrows arched in amusement. “Is this the way you talk to your customers?”
“Only the ones I can't stand. The chipotle barbecue burger with pepperjack has been popular tonight. You should get that.” She pointed to the center of his menu, careful not to let her arm brush into him. As he studied the selections, Cassandra noticed that his hair was a bit longer than when she'd last seen him, the thick waves curling at the nape of his neck.
“Have you had it?”
“You know I don't eat meat.”
“I seem to recall a time when you did.” He was looking at her with mock innocence.
“Listen,” she sputtered hoarsely, jabbing her finger at her chest and then pointing at him. “Waitress...customer. That's all we are. This isn't funny.”
“I miss seeing you smile, Cassandra.” In the blink of an eye, his expression changed from teasing to earnest.
And I miss smiling. Arms folded, she waited for his order, staring at a gouge in the table so hard she half-expected the wood to crack. The shift in him was making her wildly uncomfortable; the teasing, cocky Carlo she knew and could handle, but this subdued, somber side of him?
“I'm not used to people telling me what to do.” His tone lightened, sounding more like the Carlo she was used to. “But I'll have that burger. Medium rare.”
When Cassandra returned to bring him his meal, she kept her gaze fixed on the gouge in the table, since that was infinitely safer than looking at Carlo. Every part of him evoked an emotion in her: his mouth, his hands, his strong, broad chest...and his eyes were the most unnerving. She had never felt so lost—or inexplicably, so found—than when looking into them. They were dangerous, because they made her forget her anger, which she desperately needed as a shield.
He thanked her as she slid the plate toward him.
She nodded, still not looking at him. “Do you need anything else?”
“Only you.”
Fuck.
Video. Betrayed. Vulnerable. Humiliated. Broken trust. The words bounced wildly around in her skull, bringing her back to her senses—enough so she could call forth her fake-cheerful waitressing voice. “Enjoy your meal. I'll be back to check on you.”
She hurried from table to table, trying her damndest not to think of Carlo watching her. Drink refills, more napkins, wipe up a spill, clear a table, lots of smiles, even a little flirting with a table of guys who looked to be college athletes. Let him see that.
She stole glances at him from time to time, watching him eat, sip his beer, check his phone. He seemed oblivious to the several women in the room who were also stealing glances at him. No matter what Cassandra thought of him, there was no denying that he was maddeningly hot.
When she saw he had finished, she inhaled deeply and returned to his table. “Dessert?”
“No, thank you. What time do you get off work?”
“Late.”
“How late?”
“It doesn't matter. I'm not going to see you.”
“We need to talk, Cassandra.”
“There's no point. I've made that clear.” She busied herself flipping through her order pad to find his slip and tore it off.
“There is a point. Which is that we have something very powerful that we can't ignore. It has only intensified for me, and from the look in your eyes, I can see it's the same for you.”
“I think you're imagining what you see in my eyes.” She placed his check on the table, hoping he wouldn't notice that her fingers were trembling. “This is the part where I'm supposed to say 'hope you come back soon,' but I think you'll understand why I'm not going to.”
“I need an opportunity to explain myself.”
“I'm not interested. Please pay at the front. Have a good night.”
As she turned to leave, his hand reached out to close around her wrist. His fingers were cool, but the sensation she felt just from having him touch her was electric. And he knew this.
Knowing she couldn't make a scene in the restaurant, she met his gaze, hoping he alone could see the hot, angry sparks in her eyes. He was not dissuaded—in fact, he actually seemed encouraged, a slow, dimple-producing smile spreading across his face. “I know you still want me,” he said softly. “And I will wait for the day you admit that. No matter how long it takes.”
Slowly, Carlo released her hand, trailing his fingers along her skin, and got up from his chair. Cassandra stared at the floor, her heart pounding out a wild rhythm. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see him walking away. Thankfully, Allison appeared at her side in seconds. “You got through it, honey. I know that wasn't easy.”
Cassandra exhaled shakily. “Is he gone yet?”
“Yep.”
Carlo had placed his silverware and napkin neatly on top of his plate. She lifted it to discover a twenty dollar bill underneath. At least, she conceded, he hadn't been totally obnoxious to leave her a hundred. It would have felt like he was trying to buy her. Still, she wouldn't keep it.
“Here,” she said, handing the bill to Allison.
“I can't take your money, Cass.”
“It's not my money; it's Carlo's. I don't want it.”
Allison grinned mischievously. “Okay, so you've given me the orchid he sent you.
Now his tip. Can I pick which part of him I get next?”
Cassandra rolled her eyes, but she was grateful that Allison was teasing her and lightening the mood.
Now, to keep it that way.
chapter fifteen ~ Carlo
Trade shows, Carlo had determined, were a necessary evil. Ninety-nine percent of the people you talked to didn't end up doing business with you, but if you weren't there, people would notice. It always resulted in a sore back and aching feet, but the chance that you'd find that million dollar deal kept you coming back.
McCormick Place in Chicago was immense: a combined total of 2.6 million square feet of exhibit space, with promenades for pedestrians and sky bridges connecting the glass-faced buildings. It was an ideal site for the MHI trade show, and this year, Carlo welcomed the three-day distraction.
He had mixed feelings about how it had gone with Cassandra at Tucker's the other night. Just seeing her, of course, had been worth it, and he could tell that he'd gotten to her, but his wish to see her after her shift hadn't materialized. Her tenacity had surprised him. It made him want her even more, and although it was hard to explain, he was proud of her.
He was staying in an upper floor, Crown Suite at the upscale Westin Hotel on Michigan Avenue. The room was tasteful, decorated in earth tones, with cream-colored leather furniture and a well-stocked refrigerator (Estelle had likely seen to that). He hoped to spend a good deal of time in the suite or in the workout room during off-hours as he was not in the mood for bar-hopping, a usual side attraction of the trade show, but he realized he may have to babysit Jared, his sales rep who was also along for the trip.
After toast, juice and coffee, Carlo arrived at their Miller Valve double-sided booth and scanned the table: black tablecloth adorned with brochures, assorted valves, candy dish—his sales rep had done well; everything appeared to be in order. Jared was talking with another rep a few booths away but hurried back when he saw Carlo arrive.
“Hey, boss—everything look okay?”
“It does, thanks. Packed already in here. I hope you brought Tylenol—the noise in here climbs about an octave an hour.”