Reckless (With Me Book 3)

by Sue Wilder

“Yes.”

  “Then do something about it.”

  His eyes darkened. “Trouble.”

  “Fifteen years, Garrett. Don’t wait any longer.”

  And my world tilted beyond control.

  ◆◆◆

  Shadows softened the room. Garrett sprawled on the pillows and held me as I draped across his chest. Lightly, he touched the seatbelt bruise. “Does this hurt?”

  “Only a little.”

  “Don’t let me hurt you.”

  His choice of words unsettled. “How’s your back?”

  He chuckled. “I survived.”

  The bed dipped beneath his shifting weight. The warmth of his hand drifted away, and I rolled to my side. “You said something I didn’t understand.”

  “When?”

  “You remember when.” I poked one finger against his shoulder. “You were speaking in a different language. It was the same when you were flat on my floor.”

  “On your floor, I was swearing in Catalan.” He stared at the ceiling. “What you heard in your bed was also Catalan, but not swearing.”

  “What was it?”

  He turned his head to look at me. “Something else.”

  I was curious. “And who taught you to swear in Catalan?”

  “Oz. When I was nine. He said I was old enough to speak my mind, but it had to be in Catalan so my mom wouldn’t know.”

  “I think she probably knew,” I teased, caught up in an image of Garrett as a boy. I traced a line along his arm, realizing that, in the dark and in bed with Garrett, I should have relaxed in the comfort. But I struggled with the way he made me feel. We’d shared mind-blowing sex, and I understood gratification. It didn’t have to mean anything.

  Intimacy was different. Foreign to me. I held part of myself back, refused to be vulnerable with someone who didn’t care. I could blame Brand, or the other men who moved through my life. But I knew my faults had deeper origins, and when my stomach growled, Garrett flipped back the sheet. “You’re hungry. I can cook.”

  “So can I.”

  “Don’t argue.” He stood, powerfully naked. “I’ll clean up, then get something going.”

  “Garrett.”

  He glanced over his shoulder.

  “Don’t take this as meaning anything, but you’re the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen.”

  The shadows hid his expression.

  And I felt a sad relief when he remained silent.

  ◆◆◆

  As I walked downstairs, the storm raged. Rain beat against the French doors, driven by gusts of wind. Garrett stood in the kitchen, dressed in the expected black jeans and casual tee. When he moved, I saw no sign of stiffness, and released the breath I’d been holding.

  “Hey.” I tugged my flannel shirt down around my hips. Fleecy leggings added to the casual look because I craved both warmth and comfort. “Something smells good.”

  “I found tomato soup in your cupboard,” Garrett said. “Threw in some basil the way my mom used to do.”

  A familiar aroma filled the kitchen, drawing me closer to the stove where he was grilling sandwiches. Golden cheese oozed from between thick slices of toasting bread. “Can I help?”

  “Almost done.”

  “Guess I timed it right.”

  Garrett glanced over his shoulder, and amazement shot through me, how sensitive I was to him. The way he moved now—it wasn’t the athleticism I recalled from years ago, but something stronger. Dangerously impressive. I’d felt some of that latent power, the smoldering sensualism with a dominant edge, and I pivoted away, noticing the script stacked neatly on the desk. If he’d picked it up, then he’d have questions, and I was dreading the conversation.

  But we remained silent until the sandwiches were finished. I told myself it was the ritual of the after-sex meal, and I wondered if he felt as awkward about it as I did, the uncertainty that always came when two people realized the passion waned.

  I opted for casual, and as Garrett scooped the toasted bread from the pan, I carried dishes to the table.

  “Umm… this is good,” I said, remaining in character and uncomfortable at the same time. I missed the easiness we’d shared, the comfort in just being with someone.

  Garrett picked up his spoon and dipped. “Hard to ruin soup,” he said, testing the soup the way he sipped whiskey. “Everything tastes good when you’re hungry.”

  “But I never thought of doctoring soup from a can.” A drip tickled my chin and embarrassed, I smiled and wiped it away. “Better to get gourmet from the deli.”

  “You glanced at the desk before we sat down.”

  I nodded to ease the sudden jolt of tension.

  “Tell me why the script upset you.”

  I focused on the creamy taste of tomato, the sharp of the basil. “Did you read it?”

  “I glanced at a few pages.”

  “Then you know.”

  “No, I don’t.” He leaned forward to spoon up more soup. “I’d like you to tell me.”

  The spoon I held slipped before I gripped it. Light caught on the edge, and I stared while Garrett waited. “The story is about me.” I set the spoon down and lined it perfectly with the bowl, then looked up. “The plot describes something I did, but it’s distorted into a vile lie.”

  He stared, and it felt like a demand for intimacy as much as information. A different kind of intimacy, though, based in trust.

  I held his gaze. “Six years ago, I had an affair. My usual co-star fling. I didn’t realize Michael was married, but I won’t use ignorance as an excuse. Michael’s wife—Elle—was Connor’s half sister. I found out last year, how she died. Why she died. Because of choices I’d made.”

  My thumb flicked against the napkin. “I’m not a good person. I’m selfish. I take what I want, and maybe I deserve this, being destroyed because I’ve destroyed so many other people. When I read that script, it was one more threat in a long line. And, like I told you, I hate waiting for the next shoe to drop.”

  “There’s always another shoe, trouble.” Garrett leaned back in his chair, looking like he had that first day in his bar. His arm stretched across the table. Idly, he twisted the water glass, but his intense focus told me this was difficult for him. “Eighteen months ago, I had to reevaluate decisions I’d made.”

  I stilled. Confessions weren’t Garrett’s style, but maybe he was trying to put me at ease.

  “It’s okay, Garrett. We don’t have to trade secrets.”

  “Why not?” His jaw tightened. “I brought it up.”

  “Fine.” I stared. “Tell me.”

  “A mission went bad. Afterward, I was so messed up, Con made me talk to your sister.”

  Compassion flared. “Did she help?”

  “No. But we make choices. Often those choices turn out wrong and you live with it. What you don’t do is wallow in self-pity because it makes you blind.”

  My eyes widened at his tone. “You’re angry.”

  His hazel gaze pinned me. “Why did you run today?”

  “I told you.” My damp palms itched with the need to rub against the table. I moistened my lips. “The script was a threat, and I was freaking angry about it. I decided to do something, and you, of all people, ought to understand that.”

  His forefinger tapped hard against the glass. “I understand taking action. That wasn’t what you were doing.”

  “And what was I doing?” I bit out, watching the way his mouth twisted. Worse was the disappointment in his eyes, the one thing I couldn’t fight. My bare foot flicked beneath the table.

  Garrett sighed and pushed both hands across his face, scrubbing at his hair. “You were in a panic. Not because a script came out of nowhere, but because you attach helplessness and fear to the threats—when threats follow patterns, and those patterns lead to solutions.”

  I sat back, startled at the insight, how I had allowed fear to blot out everything else. Running and feeling sorry for myself, deciding to take on Brand or his cohorts alone because I had no o
ne else.

  When I had Luna. Connor, who saved my life. Even Shirl. My parents.

  Garrett.

  I ran from what he would use to keep me safe, and I pressed unsteady fingers to my eyes. “You’re right,” I admitted. “That’s why I fight you all the time. You hold up this mirror and force me to see myself.”

  Garrett stared. “Do you mean that?”

  “Parts of it.”

  His gaze turned thoughtful. “How many people knew about Elle?”

  “Not many. Connor, of course, and Luna. My mother. Not my father. It would tear him apart. No one else, unless Brand found out. He’s vindictive enough to hire a writer and send a script through Shirl’s office.” I told him about the crush Shirl’s receptionist had on Brand, but Garrett shook his head.

  “I called your agent while you were upstairs. She gave my team remote access to her computer. The shipping label wasn’t generated in her office. There’s no record of the tracking number anywhere, which means the package was never in the system. Combined with the car that hit you, there’s no doubt our unknown is here, and he’s interacting.”

  “Anything else?” I asked, ignoring the jumpy feeling of being stalked—because what Garrett hadn’t said was that his unknown had walked up to my front door and left the package there.

  “I called Caleb,” he said. “Borrowed a security team. Millennium will be out in the morning to get the security system installed. Your sister and Con can’t leave their island until the storm passes, so don’t expect them until late tomorrow or the next day.”

  I reached for my glass of water and took a sip, wishing it was something stronger. Garrett was back in command mode, rolling over me as if I had nothing to say, and I wanted to be annoyed. But I wasn’t, not when I thought of a faceless man coming so close while I slept.

  “Sounds like you’ve covered all the bases except for where you’ll be.”

  “We’ll both be here tonight. In the morning, I’ll move to the house next door. Con and Luna will arrive, then leave. They’ll be staying at a hotel in Newport, or in one of the other houses here on the bluff. We haven’t worked out the details yet, but we make it look like you’re alone. Wait for this guy, because he’ll come at you again.”

  “Only you’ll be waiting.”

  “I’ll be waiting. Along with a few others who want to be involved.”

  I stared at the cooling soup. “You have it all worked out.”

  “That’s what I do. Risk assessments, then a defensive plan.”

  “And for someone who claims he stepped back from the day-to-day operation of his company,” I chastised, “you sound pretty involved.”

  Garrett rolled his shoulders. “Con runs Ibiza now.”

  “But you could take it back anytime you wanted.”

  “Con knows why I won’t.”

  Garrett stood. We’d both finished eating, and I helped with the dishes. Afterward, he searched the cupboards, looking for wineglasses. I found the wine and handed him the corkscrew. Figured since he owned a bar, he knew what to do.

  With my glass in my hand, I followed him to the couch and curled on one end. Garrett took the other. Light from the antique fireplace threw shadows on the walls, but warmed the floor with a ruby glow. When Garrett leaned back, I stared down at the firelight shimmering through the wine, turning it blood-red.

  “When the car hit.” The glass was cool against my palm. “What I remembered was an action film I did last year. The director wanted this shot. He couldn’t get it unless I was in the car, but I’d be with the stunt driver. Everything controlled.”

  I paused to sip the wine, lick the taste from my lips. “That’s what it felt like today. A stunt, where I was safe. Luna was there. I could hear her voice. Connor was telling me what to do. Even when that car hit a second time, I thought—this isn’t real. The stunt will kick in and the brakes will work. The car will stop spinning.”

  My throat ached, and I stared at the glowing embers that burst from the dying logs, the fading firelight.

  “I got out, stood in the rain, and it still felt surreal. I smelled gas and watched steam rise in the air. And what I thought about, Garrett, was you. How much I enjoyed being with you on your boat, drinking with Oz. The evening in the bar with your friends. I can’t remember ever laughing the way I did. With genuine humor, not the polite crap when some guy tells the same joke ten times. I loved the stories you told. You’re a natural, and I was afraid I’d never get the chance to tell you.”

  He set aside his wineglass while I twisted mine.

  “I ran today because I was afraid. I didn’t call you because I was afraid of what you’d say. And—while this has nothing to do with what we shared upstairs—I don’t want you to leave tonight because I’m still afraid.”

  Garrett took my glass and set it next to his, then held out his hand. “Come here.”

  “That wasn’t an invitation to sleep together,” I clarified while he pulled me tight against his side.

  “Never thought it was.” He kissed my hair. “And I’ll still be here in the morning.”

  I grew drowsy, listening to Garrett’s heartbeat, the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed. The warmth of the fire, the patterns of light across the floor as the logs slowly dwindled into glowing ash. I didn’t want to move, and I surrendered to the sensation. Quit the fight, wondering why the men I usually chose never offered safety the way Garrett did. I relished the strength in his body. He was becoming necessary, and I didn’t realize I’d been smoothing a wrinkle in his shirt, rubbing my palm across the cut muscles of his abdomen until I heard his rumbling laugh.

  “I thought we weren’t having sex again.”

  “I was just thinking,” I said, pulling my hand away. “About Oz. And your mom. You, that last year in high school and how I wish I’d known. I would have acted differently. Supported you.”

  “We’ve had enough apologizing tonight.”

  “You’re right.” I sat up, foolishly embarrassed. Empathy would shred me wide open if I allowed it to exist. “I’m not sorry. And I’m still holding a grudge over a ruined bunny slipper.”

  His eyebrow arched. The knowledge in his green-hard gaze drove my pulse into overdrive. He was impossibly attractive, with that sexy mouth set in a half-smile that made me stand and drag damp palms against my leggings, remembering the power and thrust of his body when he was inside me.

  “Did you pack an overnight bag,” I asked briskly, “or just run out of your house in a wild fear for my safety?”

  “You know better than to ask a man if he packed a bag.”

  “Well… did you?”

  He rose to his feet and picked up our empty glasses, taking them to the kitchen. “Yes. It’s in the car.”

  “Hah. You’re transparently dominant, demanding.” Dangerously attractive, I added silently, taking over the kitchen, turning on the water to rinse the plates we’d left from dinner and pouring soap into the water. “Go get it while I finish up in here. Then I’ll set up the same room you used before.”

  Garrett disappeared, returning moments later with a leather satchel, which he tossed toward the corner before prowling the rooms. I left him to his security check and went upstairs, making sure there were fresh towels in the bathroom. He followed a few minutes later and tossed his bag on the bed.

  “I’ve locked the door. Turned off the lights.”

  “Thorough as usual,” I goaded.

  “Do you need painkillers?” he asked wryly. “You’re awfully grouchy.”

  “I don’t know—do you? Your back looks a little stiff.”

  The way he stared brought emotion to my throat. “You want me angry, trouble? Or close? I’m getting a little whiplash here.”

  “You and me both.” The wave of teenage angst hit, and I pushed both palms to my face. God—this wasn’t high school. I’d learned how to control my emotions, manage the men around me.

  But now I wondered if I could control those men because they weren’t Garrett. If he was t
he reason I drifted, never satisfied. Unable to settle. “I’m sorry. I don’t know how to act around you.”

  He cocked his head. “How would you normally act around a man?”

  “If you’ve watched any of my films, you’d wouldn’t ask.” I held up one hand. “Don’t answer that.”

  “What if I want to answer?”

  “Please, don’t.” Pressure grew in my chest. “That thought was a mistake the minute it popped into my head.”

  Garrett took a step closer. “But if we were talking in your head, I’d tell you I’ve watched every one of your films, sitting in the back of the theater, gripping popcorn in my hands because I couldn’t swallow past the lump in my throat. Realizing that I actually knew you once. Touched you. Made you cry.”

  He stroked the pad of his thumb over the moisture that collected on my lashes. “I’d tell you how amazingly beautiful you are, how you’ve never been like those women on the screen. You’re so much more. And I lost you.”

  “God—Garrett, you can’t say things like that. Not tonight.”

  “They’re in my head. And now they’re in yours. Go to bed, trouble. Get some sleep. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  It was close to noon when Maxton Wells parked Connor Lange’s gray Jaguar sedan in my driveway. A van from Millennium waited at the curb. Garrett talked to the technicians, and while both Connor and Max stopped to join the conversation, Luna was out of the Jag and running up the walk before I had time to meet her halfway.

  “Sunny, thank God!” When her arms wrapped around me, I hugged her back. “You’re not all bruised.”

  “Still in one piece, darling,” I drawled, sounding like the old Soleil, living in my make-believe world, even though my eyes were stinging. “It takes more than a spinning car to upset me.”

  She huffed out a laugh. “It was more than a spinning car.”

  “And Garrett scolded me enough for one day.”

  Luna held up both hands. “Not judging. But damn it, Sunny, I hope he made an impact.”

  I hooked my arm through hers so we’d walk side-by-side. “He tried, and being chastised by an angry man has benefits.”