Wishful Sinful (Rock Royalty Book 5)

by Christie Ridgway

  But when he saw Tim trail Honey out of the conference room at the end of the hour, and that burn flamed higher, he had to wonder.

  Was he…was he jealous?

  Of that dweeby youngster? No way!

  Still, he remained unsettled and moody, and when his phone’s calendar app pinged an hour later he glanced at it with impatience. Oh. Oh, yeah. He had a date that night.

  Glancing out the door that adjoined his office to Honey’s, he didn’t see her. Why wasn’t she there when he needed her? Frowning, he went on the hunt, only to find her in the lunchroom—with Tim.

  Walsh’s back teeth ground together.

  She looked over as he paused in the doorway. Walsh had only meant to ask the name of the farm-to-table restaurant she’d told him about last week. Now…

  “I need you to make me reservations. Dinner for two, tonight.”

  Her eyes widened. He never asked her to do things like that. “Okay.”

  “Six-thirty at that place you told me a vegan would like. What’s the name?”

  “Legumes.”

  “That’s it.”

  “Lydia again.” Honey said it like a declaration instead of a question.

  No surprise she knew, actually, because he didn’t separate his business from his personal appointments on his calendar and, as his assistant, she shared it with him. “Is that a problem?”

  Her small shrug might have been characterized as disdainful. “Not at all. What would you like me to have ready for you to give her? Candy? A small spray of roses?”

  “Uh…”

  “It’s date two, after all.”

  Shit. Had she pegged his strategy? He didn’t know what made him more uncomfortable—that Honey was aware of it or that he was so predictable.

  Walsh rubbed the back of his neck. He didn’t go to bed with women on the first date. It was a rule he had, one that ensured he could look at himself in the mirror the next morning and tell his reflection he’d distanced himself from the debauched activities of his youth. But second dates were fair game, and he’d found leading off with a little present made his chances of getting laid just that much better.

  First date, second date. Okay, that distinction seemed really trifling now.

  And hell, he did have Honey order the small gifts for him on occasion. He was a dog.

  “I can take care of it myself,” he grumbled, rubbing once again at the back of his neck. There was no reason to feel so annoyed…or weird about the conversation. It’s not as if the flowers or candy worked every time—and it’s not as if whether it did or didn’t was any of her business.

  “No, no,” she said airily, striding past him. “I’ll get right on it.”

  He returned to his desk and tried putting his discomfort and Honey out of his mind. But as he shuffled papers, he was always aware of her. The efficient click of her fingers on the keys of her computer, the crisp tone of her voice when she laid a new report on his desk, the sweep of her gaze that didn’t quite land on his face as they spoke.

  It didn’t seem a good time to broach the upcoming trip.

  Instead, he brooded. The rest of the afternoon he stared unseeing at his computer screen, preoccupied with deep blue eyes and cartoon robots and then the small, gold-wrapped package of truffles Honey dropped at his elbow at about the time she should be gathering her things to go home.

  He frowned at her straight spine as she marched back to her desk, then frowned at the chocolates, then berated himself for God-knew-what when he opened his bottom drawer and dumped the inoffensive gift on top of the extra shirt and tie he stored there.

  As soon as his admin left for the day he’d pull it back out, he told himself, and have it waiting for Lydia when she arrived. They’d agreed to rendezvous here at his headquarters before heading to the restaurant.

  As minutes ticked by, however, Honey stayed where she was, the cute ass he now had burned in his brain firmly planted on her desk chair.

  Surly, he called out to her when it was well past five o’clock. “Quitting time came and went, you know.”

  Instead of turning his way, she flipped her hair over her shoulder. He caught a mumbled something about catching a nearby spin class.

  Splashes of bright color on toned legs. Lycra cupping sweet curves. The fire in Honey’s eyes when she’d thrown her glasses on the ground and glared at him.

  He shifted in his seat, desperate for a distraction from that disturbing memory.

  It arrived a few minutes later in the form of tall, svelte Lydia Cox. He’d forgotten that the MadSci receptionist would have locked the outer doors when she left, and he was so lost in his thoughts that he hadn’t even heard her knock. But Honey’s focus was sharper than his own, apparently, because it was she who ushered the other woman into his office.

  Behind Lydia’s back, his admin’s smile was overly sweet. “I’m on my way, Boss,” she said.

  She never called him “Boss.”

  “I hope your evening’s everything you’re expecting,” she added.

  The words were right, but underneath the honeyed—hah!—tone, Walsh thought he detected something else entirely.

  Like she really hoped he’d have a terrible time.

  Like she really wanted him to go to bed alone.

  Like… Hmm.

  Maybe he’d finally figured out something about Honey after all, he thought, watching her sashay back to her desk. It seemed she didn’t approve of how he dated or whom he dated or maybe both. And for some reason the idea of that lifted his dark mood.

  It was nearing midnight when Honey heard the low whoosh of elevator doors followed by the muffled footsteps of a man’s size 12 dress shoes. It was Walsh, of course, but she remained where she was, sitting on the carpet, her back propped against the wall beside the door to his penthouse condo. Though she had keys, and she was sure he wouldn’t have minded if she used them, she’d opted to stay outside of his space.

  She was only here to make an apology in person. It wouldn’t take long, and then she’d be able to sleep with her conscience at least somewhat quieted.

  The toes of dark leather shoes stopped in her field of vision. “What are you doing here?” Walsh asked.

  Glancing up, she noted that his tie was gone, his suit jacket was over his arm, and his usually pristine shirt was rumpled. “How’s Rose?”

  “Bumped and bruised, but otherwise fine.” He hunkered down so they were eye-to-eye. “I told you that over the phone.”

  “After I called you. Why did I have to hear about what happened from Cilla?” The slimy young man Honey’s sister had been involved with had tried to make Rose open the safe at Payne’s salvage yard—by holding a knife on her.

  “I wish Cilla hadn’t involved you,” he said, frowning.

  Honey crossed her arms over her chest. “She wanted to make sure Lucy was safe.”

  “Well, so is Rose, and the son of a bitch who threatened her is in custody.”

  That was a relief, sure, but… “I would have gone to the hospital myself to offer my apologies, but I thought it might not be appropriate.”

  “Appropriate?”

  She shrugged. “If it wasn’t for me—”

  “This isn’t your fault.” Walsh’s dark eyes bore into hers. “Nobody thinks that.”

  “I should have been more focused on the twins lately.”

  “You found them an afterschool job!”

  “When they clearly needed guidance, not employment.”

  He made an impatient sound.

  “What?” she asked. “You can’t see that?”

  “I can’t see that it has to be you who provides it. There’s your mom and your dad—”

  “Who are going through an ugly divorce.” She shifted her gaze to the floor. Their marriage had been ugly a long time, too, and she couldn’t help feeling responsible for that as well.

  “You take on too much, Honey.”

  She shrugged, then cast him a quick glance. “I suppose your evening plans were ruined.”
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  “Never mind about that.”

  Except this afternoon she had minded him going out with Lydia. She’d minded very much. How ridiculous of her that was! For two years she’d known he’d dated around…and it wasn’t a stretch to imagine he slept around, too.

  No one said he was a man-whore, but between the two of them clearly she was the only one who had been celibate since she started working for him. At the thought, her shoulders slumped.

  “Hey.” With a finger under her chin, Walsh lifted her head so their eyes met. “Cheer up.”

  Because it’s so awesome to be in a sexual desert, she thought.

  He frowned again. “When was the last time you had something to eat?”

  “I don’t know.” Her plan had been to have a power bar and yogurt for dinner after her class at the gym, but that had been put off when her phone rang.

  “Come on,” he said, tugging on her elbow as he straightened up. “I could use some food too.”

  “Oh, I shouldn’t,” Honey protested, looking down at herself in dismay. After her shower, she’d put on a pair of frumpy sweatpants and one of her brother Jeb’s old T-shirts. Her hair was still scraped back in a ponytail, and she’d slipped her feet into flip flops before the drive over. “I’m a mess.”

  “My condo doesn’t have a dress code,” he said, unlocking the door then towing her inside. “And you look beautiful.”

  The lie rolled off his tongue so smoothly that she felt even more self-conscious. But Walsh didn’t seem to notice as he pulled her forward, flipping switches as he went.

  She might have managed to break away and head for home, but in the brighter light she saw that he looked beat, too. The trusty admin in her would make sure he ingested something nutritious before she showed herself out.

  Walsh’s condo was wealthy bachelor all the way, and clearly decorated by the same outfit who’d designed the MadSci offices. Black leather and stainless steel and every line sleek and stylish. In one corner of the high-ceilinged space was an ebony grand piano that she suspected had been there when he’d bought the place.

  She’d seen it all before, of course, but never this late at night, and she was drawn to the wall of windows through which the city lights glowed. In the distance, the headlights of the cars made the freeways look like neon tubes and the cloverleaf interchanges like glowing Celtic knots.

  He crossed to her, a glass of straw-colored liquid in a stemless wine glass. Pressing it into her hand, he glanced out the window. “Time for the Walsh Hopkins patented personality test.”

  Her eyebrows rose. “Okay…I think.”

  “Does that view,” he nodded toward it, “make you feel enervated or energized?”

  She swallowed some of the cold, tart liquid. It was so good, she took another.

  “Honey?”

  “I’m better with questions like if I were a tree, which one I would be. I think you asked me that at my employment interview.”

  “I certainly did not!” He looked offended. “What would be the point of it?”

  “As an insight into a candidate’s character.”

  “I didn’t need to ask you about trees to understand you. I discovered everything I needed to know as you walked from the reception area down the hall to my office.”

  He’d been waiting in the doorway, looking as welcoming, she supposed, as a big, dark-haired, dark-eyed virile man could look. There’d been a display of white teeth that was more predatory than friendly, but then, so was Walsh. She remembered her pulse starting to race and then—

  “Mitch and Dhruv were engaged in a Nerf battle, and at the moment you came down the hallway they shot out of their offices and started firing mega-size foam balls from their blasters. One dislodged a framed photo off the wall, another ricocheted off the ceiling only to hit you in the face and knock your glasses askew. Then, in a moment of misplaced, warrior zeal, Dhruv attempted to take you hostage.” Walsh grinned.

  “That was quite interesting.”

  “Without missing a beat, you elbowed Dhruv, you re-righted your glasses, and you picked up the frame at your feet and placed it back on the wall before marching up to me and holding out your hand.” He shook his head. “‘I’m Honey Brooks,’ you said crisply, and at that moment I knew you were who I wanted. I was only terrified you wouldn’t take the job.”

  She gave a nonchalant shrug, as if “I knew you were who I wanted” didn’t strike a sweet chord deep inside her. Still, she felt herself flush and another big swallow of wine failed to cool her off. “Didn’t you say something about food?”

  He trailed her as she turned toward the kitchen. “You never said what you think about the view.”

  Over her shoulder, Honey glanced back at the panorama beyond the glass. Like him, it was both dark and bright, so beautiful it was hard to look away from. But she forced herself to continue walking. “It reminds me how what we want is so different.”

  She rented a tiny, 1920s Spanish-style house in a district known for them. It was a neighborhood mixed with retirees and young families, and her favorites were the two sets of newlyweds on her block. They sat on their small porches at night with beers or wine and watched the world go by from three steps up instead of thirty floors.

  They clearly basked in each other’s company and being part of their small community, and they made her believe in love—the kind of love she’d always really wanted to imagine a man and a woman could have.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Walsh said, pulling cold cuts, cheese, and condiments from the refrigerator. Since she knew where he kept the bread, Honey gathered that as well as the cutting board.

  While she made the kind of sandwich she knew he liked―turkey, provolone, fancy mustard and smidge of olive oil-based mayo, he heated up the chicken alphabet soup that he’d begun stocking since she’d once confessed the childish comfort food was her favorite. About once a month they’d work a half-Saturday here, and at lunchtime he’d always serve the soup while she’d put together the sandwiches.

  In minutes they were on stools pulled up to the bar, plates and bowls in front of them.

  “You still haven’t explained yourself,” he said, spooning up soup. “Do you really think the two of us are that different?”

  In a word, yes. They had a similar work ethic and they each were products of unhappy households, but Walsh didn’t hold any of the ideals that she did. While she wanted passion! And romance! Yes, with an exclamation point at the end of each word, his views about male-female relationships—though rarely conveyed—were always expressed in much more pragmatic terms.

  “Honey?” he prompted.

  As if she’d get into all that with him. Instead, she lifted a shoulder, let it fall with a vague, “You know…” Then she sank her teeth into bread for a big bite of sandwich, forestalling further conversation.

  The rest of the meal was consumed in silence. It wasn’t an uncomfortable one, and Honey relaxed and enjoyed her meal while sipping her wine. Walsh could be an interesting conversationalist when he wanted, but she was also accustomed to quiet times like these. He was likely puzzling out some new idea or working on a solution to a problem or perhaps the details of his next negotiation.

  “I let you get away with too much,” he finally said.

  Huh? He’d been thinking about her? Her body tensed. “I don’t—”

  His hand suddenly clasped hers.

  She tried pulling away, but he held it tighter. “What?” she demanded.

  “These scars,” he said, stroking the pad of his thumb over the raised marks on her knuckles. “I’ve wondered about them. I believe I’ve even asked you where they come from a time or two, but you’ve deflected.”

  “My years on one of the WWE’s Diva teams,” she said, her tone offhand. “I’m sure I’ve mentioned that.”

  He smiled a little. “You’re doing it again. Deflecting.”

  Her gaze shifted back to their linked hands. His was so much larger than hers, yet his touch was gentle. T
he back-and-forth movement of his thumb barely grazed her skin, while still somehow managing to abrade her sensitive nerve endings, making her want to squirm on her stool. Clenching her thighs tightly together, she tried ignoring the prickling heat gathering beneath her clothes.

  When that didn’t work, with her free hand she grabbed up her wine and drained the glass. Great, now she was dizzy, too.

  And Walsh continued to gaze at her. He continued that mesmerizing caressing. “What don’t you want to tell me, WWE-Diva girl?” he murmured.

  My embarrassing secret. She’d forgiven herself, mainly, for what had happened, but the memory wasn’t pleasant. “I was young once,” she said, knowing she had to tell him something or he wouldn’t drop the subject.

  He frowned. “You’re still young.”

  “I mean young in the naive way.” Her mouth twisted. “A bit like Lucy, I suppose.”

  His fingers tightened on hers. “The wrong boy?”

  “Something like that.” She’d put her trust in the wrong man. Another boss. “Walsh…” Trying to extricate herself from his hold, she fluttered her fingers.

  He ignored her. “But you’re smarter now.”

  “I like to think so,” she conceded.

  “I know so. You have a good eye and a good sense of people, Honey. That’s what I saw that first day you came into the office. That’s why you’re part of my team. An integral part.”

  She felt her face flush again. “Thank you. I…I’m glad to help MadSci—and you, of course—succeed.” Her gaze lifted to his, and her stomach dipped, unsteadied by the dark intensity in his eyes. They were studying her as if he could see through her skin to her bones, her muscles, her heart.

  “That’s why I need you in Mexico.”

  Oh, God. She should have left hours ago! She should have never come to his place! She should have turned away on that very first day when she fell under attack from Nerf and nerds. But Walsh had been at the end of the hall, drawing her to him with his magnetic presence, that buff body, and these dark, compelling eyes. Her body had reacted then too, tingling from scalp to toes.