by J. Kenner
She was wearing a simple cotton skirt and a button-down blouse that she'd picked to wear to The Fix. She wanted to look both like she belonged at a bar and professional. If she'd realized Spence was going to lay his claim tonight, she'd have considered pants and a long-sleeve shirt. Boots, too.
Gently, he eased up the skirt's hem, his thumb dancing along her skin in a sensual pattern that was making her body respond even while her mind tried to clamp down. Tendrils of desire twirled through her, and she felt a keen ache of longing building in her breasts and between her thighs.
Damn him—and damn her body for remembering the touch of a very different Spencer.
She fought a whimper as his hand eased higher up her thigh, his fingertip teasing close to the edge of her panties.
"And trust me, baby. I don't love you anymore." Slowly, he drew his hand higher, his finger moving along the elastic band as she sat stiff as a board, trying not to react. "So how could I possibly hate you?"
The words seemed to reach out to her, squeezing her heart painfully.
She closed her eyes, wishing she weren't in this room with him. Wishing everything was different.
"Look at me."
There was a softness in his voice that unnerved her, and she turned her head to comply. His mouth made a dangerous slash beneath his beard. His brown eyes burned as hard as stone. Whatever tenderness she'd imagined wasn't apparent in his face. On the contrary, he was looking at her with such a fierce intensity she had to fight the urge to get up and leave.
That's what he wanted, of course. He wanted out. Out of the show. Away from her.
A heartbeat passed with their eyes locked on each other. Then he slowly looked down, not in defeat, but as if that part of the game was up and he was moving on to the next challenge. She exhaled, not realizing she'd been holding her breath. She felt all twisted up. This man beside her was Spencer, dammit. A man who once would have laid down his life for her.
Now, he wanted to destroy her.
She'd done that.
For a moment, she considered telling him the truth. She could explain what had happened. The bargain she'd made with the devil on Richie's behalf. Maybe now, her father wouldn't leak his record. Or, maybe now Spencer wouldn't care if he did.
But she couldn't make herself say the words. She'd made that sacrifice for a different man—not the Spencer who sat beside her playing emotional and sexual games.
"I think it's time to see what I've been missing all these years. Stand up, baby, and strip for me."
He said the words as casually as if he were ordering a sandwich. Then he reached over and poured a glass of champagne. He held it out to her, but she kept her hands firmly at her sides. He shrugged, then swallowed. "Liquid courage," he said. "I thought it might help."
"Fuck you," she said, then stood and walked in front of him. He'd seen her naked hundreds of times. So why not strip for him now? It didn't mean anything, after all. Nothing except that he was a manipulative prick, and she was a woman who'd sacrificed her pride for the sake of her business.
But she could live with that. She'd gone in with eyes open, after all.
"Is this the kind of man you are now?" she asked as her fingers went to the buttons on her blouse.
"Don't pretend like you don't know what kind of man I am. What kind of man I've always been."
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"
"A guy who's all wrong for a girl like you. Wrong family. Wrong neighborhood. Wrong dreams."
Temper flared. "That's bullshit, and you—"
“Strip,” he said, cutting her words off with one tight, harsh syllable.
She wanted to argue, but he simply pointed to her now unbuttoned shirt.
She shrugged out of it, letting the silk fall to the floor. "I damn sure never expected you to be the kind of man who pouts."
His brows rose. "Pouts?"
"Yeah. You didn't get your way and so now you have to humiliate me."
"Didn't get my way?"
She heard the hard edge in his voice and knew she'd crossed into dangerous territory.
"Take off the fucking skirt, baby."
She considered protesting, but one look at the hard lines of his body changed her mind. She tugged down the zipper, then let the skirt fall to the ground over her hips, leaving her clad in bra, panties, and a pair of high heeled pumps.
"Christ. You're still as beautiful as you were back then."
She heard the catch in his throat and saw the softening of his features. And right then, she thought that maybe—maybe—her Spencer was in the room with her after all.
"Spence? Please."
His eyes cut up to hers, and they were as hard as steel. "We'll save the rest. I think I might finish getting you naked with my teeth."
For a moment—one brief, wonderful, horrible moment—she imagined the feel of him on top of her. His mouth tugging down her bra, his beard rough against her tender skin. Then his body moving lower as he spread her legs and tugged her panties down with his teeth, just far enough so that he could expose her before his tongue did all those miraculous things she remembered.
She shivered—and she hated herself for it. All the more when he noticed.
"I'm cold," she said.
"Don't worry, baby. I'm about to warm you up."
She swallowed. "So that's your plan? You're just going to use me?"
His brows rose. "Isn't that what you're doing with me?"
She didn't answer, because what the hell could she say to that?
He stood, then came to her, standing mere inches in front of her. He reached out to touch her breast, taking her nipple between two fingers. She closed her eyes, forcing herself to keep her body stiff. To not react.
It didn't work. She felt desire well inside her, and hated herself for it. She didn't want him—or, did she? She wanted Spencer. Not this man determined to torment her. But her body made no distinction, and as his hand traced slowly down her bare skin, a matching desire rose within her.
Gently, he stroked her breasts, then teased a finger down to her navel, then lower still until his hand slipped between her thighs to cup her sex. "You're wet," he murmured, and she wished she could tell him he was wrong, but it wasn't true. She hadn't reacted to a man like this in years. And, she knew, she wasn't even reacting to this man. This was about the man who lived in her memories. A man she missed desperately.
"Open your eyes."
She did, and for a moment he was her Spencer again, and she wanted to cry with relief.
"Spencer, I—"
"Bedroom," he said, and once again the heat of memory was buried beneath the chill of his voice.
"Bedroom," she repeated, then moved that direction. She told herself this would be okay. She would be okay. This was a commercial transaction—sex for the show.
Then she saw the bed, and a wild shiver cut through her body. She shouldn't have agreed to this. Oh, dear God, she should never have said this was okay.
It was a four-poster bed, and black silk ties extended from each of the four posts. A leather paddle and a fur mask sat innocently on the pillows.
She blinked, trying to process what she was seeing. He wanted to tie her up?
Of course, he did. He'd said he wanted her at his mercy, didn't he?
Oh, God. Oh, Christ.
A wave of panic washed over her. She'd tricked herself into coming here by deluding herself that she was in control. But that was bullshit. She wasn't in control. She wasn't even close to being in control.
She couldn't do this. She really couldn't do this.
She'd walked away from Spencer five years ago, and she should have stayed away. Far, far away.
"On the bed, baby."
She opened her eyes to see Spencer leaning against the doorframe, studying her. She tried to keep her expression neutral, but it was hard, so damn hard to fight the panic that was rushing up, threatening to spill out in tears and wails to please, please, please let her go home.
No. Sh
e could do this.
She had to do it.
"On the bed," he repeated, and she nodded, then took a tentative step that direction. She would not cry. She would do it. She owed him this. After all, this was the bargain they made.
She pressed a hand to the mattress, intending to climb onto the bed, but then his voice stopped her.
"Wait. Stand up."
She did as he said, standing stiff as he came closer. She flinched a little, expecting his touch, but he stood arms length away, those dark eyes once again raking over her, undoubtedly imagining all the things he was going to do to her when she was tied to that bed and helpless.
"Get dressed," he said, and for a moment she saw the Spencer she used to know reflected in those eyes.
"I—what?"
His expression cleared, unreadable once more. "The meeting's at nine tomorrow at The Fix, right? I'll see you there." Then he walked out of the room without waiting for her to answer.
Brooke didn't remember her knees giving out, but the next thing she knew she alone in the room, her butt planted firmly on the plush, carpeted floor as her heart pounded with relief—and her head wondered what the hell it could mean.
Chapter Eleven
He was a shit. A heel. A goddamn horrible person.
He'd been so fucking angry with her. Had he actually believed that torturing her would make it better? All it had done was make it worse because he'd seen her pain and it had just about ended him.
Do you really hate me that much?
Her words echoed in his mind, each syllable like a fucking knife to his heart. Because no, he didn't hate her. And maybe that was the trouble. He wanted to hate her—Christ, he'd wanted to hate her since the day she walked away—but she was too far under his skin, too deep in his system.
He loved her—at least he had once. Maybe he still did. He didn't know anymore. All he knew was that he damn well didn't deserve her. Never had.
Fuck.
He scrubbed his palms over his face and leaned back against the Drysdale Mansion's moldering wood paneling.
He shouldn't have come here tonight. Honestly, he wasn't sure why he had. He should have known it would only make the craving worse. A longing for the home he'd never have, the past he couldn't fix, and the woman who'd never be his.
With a sigh, he tilted his head back, wishing for another time, another place. Another set of goddamn circumstances.
But he knew better than to believe in hopes and wishes. They so rarely came true.
Sometimes they did, though.
He thought of Richie, so close to the surface of Spencer's thoughts, as he always was when Spencer was in this house. Or feeling lost and angry.
In so many ways, Richie had been the voice of reason in Spencer's ear. "Don't ever do something just to go along, little brother. You know your own mind, and that's the path you need to be walking. I veered. And I got my ass kicked good and solid. Don't be me, okay?"
It was Richie who'd told Spencer to get his shit together after he dropped out of high school. Richie who'd urged him to keep up the battle to get Spencer's Place made. Who'd told him that Brooke was a hell of a catch, a woman worth fighting for.
Hell, he'd even said the same after she walked away, only Spencer was too blind with grief to listen and had called his brother a goddamn fool.
Not that it would have mattered. She'd left him, after all. And he wasn't about to go crawling back to her, begging her to love him. Not when she'd so definitively made her choice.
A sharp clank from the kitchen had him on his feet. Probably a raccoon—the gate, he knew, was locked up tight. He'd seen to that after he'd picked the thing to get in. He was alone; he was sure of it.
Even so, he reached into his boot and pulled out the knife he kept tucked in there.
He stood still, barely breathing, and then cursed silently when he heard footsteps. Dammit. Might be kids who'd scaled the gate, but he didn't need this shit tonight.
He took a step toward the kitchen, intending to scare them off before they did even more damage to the ailing old house.
Then he saw her. Brooke. Standing in the archway between the living area and the dining room. She wore jeans now, paired with a black pullover, and her long, blonde hair spilled over her shoulders.
The light from a full moon streamed in through the missing chunks of roof, making her hair shine like a halo, a sharp contrast to the dark-clad body. She looked ethereal. Beautiful.
And for the length of a heartbeat, he thought that his wish had come true, and they'd traveled back five years to the time when she was still his.
Then she spoke, and the spell was broken. "Who's there?"
He heard the fear in her tone and realized that she hadn't come there looking for him. Interesting. He slipped the knife back into his boot, then stepped forward, out of the shadows.
"Brooke," he said. "It's me."
"Spencer?" She glanced side to side, looking spooked. "I didn't expect you to be here. I—"
"I know." He took a step closer.
"No, please. Don't." She met his eyes. "It's okay. I'll go."
Something tight twisted around his heart. He couldn't let her go. Not like this. Not when it felt like fate had brought her here to give him a way to hoist himself out from the giant hole he'd dug for himself. "Please," he said. "Stay."
She wrapped her arms around her chest. "I needed—I mean, I wanted to be alone."
Fuck. That was on him. Because he'd been a prick.
"Considering I'm not much of a human right now, much less a man, you pretty much are alone with me."
A whisper of a smile played at her lips. "I kind of hate you right now."
The words were a relief. "You should," he said. "I hate myself, too. I'm a fucking lowlife prick. And about a million other horrible things."
"No argument here."
She glanced behind her, but didn't turn to leave. Good. Right then, the thing he wanted most in the world was for her to stay. For her to see him as Spencer again, and not as the fucking idiot he'd been the last few days.
"How'd you get in? Did you remember what I taught you?"
This time, the smile was genuine, and he felt like a goddamn hero for bringing it to her lips. "I do remember, but I was only ever any good when you were with me."
He knew she was talking about picking a lock, but the words burned through him, full of meaning. He cleared his throat, knowing he was reading too much. Hoping too much. "So if you didn't pick the lock, how'd you get in?"
"The real estate agent who listed this place—Amanda—she's one of my closest friends. I took a guess at the lockbox code, and I got it right."
"Also a useful tool for anyone trying to break into a rundown old mansion. Know your mark."
"Yeah, well, I'm not sure Amanda really qualifies as a mark. But as for the rundown part..." She glanced around. "It's gotten a bit worse for wear since we were here last, hasn't it?"
His heart tightened as memories of the two of them together in this house swelled inside him. So much they'd had together. And so much they'd lost.
Tonight, he'd tried to punish her for that, but maybe it was on him, too. He hadn't fought, he'd simply accepted. He'd been so goddamn furious when she'd said she was leaving him that he just let her go.
"I'm sorry," he said, putting everything he felt behind the words.
She tilted her head. "You should be. What exactly are you apologizing for?"
"Right now? I'm apologizing for tonight. For being an asshole. For turning what I felt for you into a game and trying to punish you for leaving me. It killed me, you walking away. But it was your choice, and what I did was unforgivable."
"Choice," she whispered, so softly that he wasn't even certain that she realized she'd spoken the word.
"You chose a life without me, and then when the network told me I had to do the show with you, it was another goddamn choice that I didn't get to make. So I decided to act like a petulant baby who didn't get his own way. It's not
an excuse, I know. But maybe it's an explanation." He sighed. "Does that make any sense at all?"
For a long time, she said nothing. Then she met his eyes. "Yeah. I get that. It's not easy giving up control, especially when you don’t have any choice in the matter."
She looked away quickly, staying just out of arm's length as she walked past him, then crawled up into the window seat where they used to sit to look out at the garden. "So, you're saying I was right?"
He jerked his head up sharply. "About what?"
"What I told you in the hotel room—that's not the kind of man you are."
"Who fucks women to get what he wants? Who humiliates them and forces them into untenable situations because he's not man enough to suck it up and deal with the fact that his heart got broken?" He shrugged. "I wouldn't have thought that was me. But then you walked back into my life. And I went a little bit off the rails."
Her brows rose. "A little bit?"
"A lot. But you always did inspire large gestures from me."
She laughed. A full-on, genuine laugh. And some of the ice around his heart melted.
"Brooke." He heard the need in his voice, then closed his mouth with a shake of his head. He wasn't going to ask why. He wasn't going to destroy this moment. Instead he said, "I've missed you."
"I know. I've missed you, too."
Her voice was so soft that he was afraid he hadn't heard right.
"What?"
"Well, not the you from the last couple of days." She lifted her brows as if to punctuate the point. "But the real Spencer. I miss him."
He almost snapped that she'd have the old Spencer if she hadn't walked out on their wedding, but he kept his anger in check. This, after all, was progress. So all he said was, "Oh."
He moved to stand beside her, then nodded at the seat. She hesitated, then pulled up her feet to make a space for him.
The silence hung between them once again as thick as the dust in the air. Finally, Spencer cleared his throat. "I went and saw Richie. After you left."
"After he got clemency," she said. "Of course, you would have." A blush rose on her cheeks. "I did, too."