Secrets and Desire (Erotic Romance Bundle)

by Dalia Daudelin

  I let my mind start to drift. A guy like this, you have to keep him on a leash. As long as he's not concerned about you going to the cops, it's not too hard to get him to talk about business, at least in general terms.

  But it's important not to let him get too far off-track without knowing where the mess is about to fall on your head. Because it always comes down eventually, and you want to be well out ahead of it when that comes barrelling down on you.

  Which is exactly what I should have done with Deborah. I guess that all that shit way back was my own fault. Sort of. I should've known better. Should've prepared better. Should've had the knowledge I have now. Always have a backup plan and always have proof.

  Things really felt like they started clarifying in college. If I'd known that shit ten years ago, I wouldn't have had the problems I did. But that's just not how it was, and I have to accept that.

  Jim fucks me over on some deal, I can't blame anyone but myself. I wanted the money, so I dealt with a guy I knew was scummy as hell. That's exactly what has occurred so far. I know he's trouble, but the money's good so I turn a blind eye.

  I'm sure, at some point, he will try to fuck me over. He's a grifter who's just done uniquely well for himself. What else could I possibly expect from a guy like that? Not a whole hell of a lot, let me tell you.

  But now I know to prepare for it. And I'm not holding it against him. So why hold any of this shit against Deborah? Because she got through the shell? Because she fucked me over at a time when I didn't know to expect it?

  I got the fuck over it. I'm not even sure if I'd be in the position I'm in today if I wasn't so fuckin' pissed about that shit. I know that having to leave my family behind definitely lit a fire under my ass. I worked harder in uni, powered through law school.

  Because I had to. Because there wasn't anything else for me. So in a certain sense, the entire thing led to my success, right? That's the way to look at it.

  Just forgive her. Let it go. It'll be easier that way, and I'll at least be able to stop lying to Autumn. We'll be able to figure something out, at least. Something's better than nothing.

  "Wait a minute, Jim. What's going on with Paco?"

  He stops talking abruptly. I'm almost worried I've pissed him off, but the connection legitimately went bad.

  "I was saying he and his wife were into some shit. She wants another kid, but he's not too sure about it."

  "You know how that's going to go, though."

  "Sure, I know how it goes, but now he's being a bitch about it with me."

  "And in a year, he'll be telling you all about his little darling and how he couldn't live without her."

  "You're telling me."

  I close my eyes. I'm at peace with it. Just let it go. Forget it ever happened. Autumn will get the good news tomorrow. For now, I'll just let it go and in the morning I'll be happy for her. Simple as that.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  I don't like meetings. It didn't take a terribly long time to learn that they're not great. People don't go to meetings to tell you that there's no surprise coming. They don't hold meetings to say 'everything's going as-expected.'

  That's a phone call at best. At absolute best. Most of the time, you're actually worrying about something else. Anything else. There's a thousand possibilities of what could go wrong, and relatively fewer possibilities of what could go right.

  If it was a client, then I'd expect something like 'well, maybe you should keep your head up for something that maybe I forgot to mention up until now.' It would be nice if Mom would give me some heads up like that, every now and then, but that would no-doubt ruin the surprise for her, so of course she's not going to do that.

  But this is a meeting with the District Attorney. And they've no doubt been digging into Mom's past, and they've no doubt found something, because I don't doubt for an instant that there's something to be found.

  I can't exactly not go, though. That's not an option for me, whether I like meetings or not.

  Mom's coming behind, sufficiently cowed for now. She's apparently moved on to trying to play the martyr now. I would feel bad if I didn't know that it was all an act. That it was always an act with her. She'd move on from this when she realized it wasn't getting her any more attention than acting normally.

  I go through the metal detectors, and then on the other side of the gate they hand me back my keys and my pocket full of change. I slip it back into my jacket pocket. Mom comes through a moment later, and we're in. I've been to the D.A.'s office once or twice; I know the way, but it's not totally familiar to me.

  The floors of the courthouse are too nice to be a public building. It should be carpet, I think. Instead, my heels click-click-click as I walk, echoing off the intricate wooden walls and the marble floors. Up a set of stairs and through a heavy oaken door.

  I give Mom's name, and they tell me to step right on in. The secretary guides us through the hall a little way and into a conference room. It's marked "Conference room 3," so I give it the benefit of the doubt.

  You'd have a poor conference here. It couldn't fit more than ten, and the table is only big enough for six, if they were feeling chummy. I take a seat beside Mom, who isn't looking around to find out whether or not I'm buying her solemn martyrdom act.

  Which is probably good for her, because I'm not buying it for an instant, but if she wants to do it, then she should do what she wants to do.

  I wait a long time in silence. Maybe five minutes. Sitting in silence makes time move slower than it should, particularly when you have no idea what they're about to come through the door and say to you.

  Deep breaths, I tell myself. Deep breath, in. Deep breath out. No problem. We're going to be fine. It's all under control, and there's absolutely nothing to worry about.

  After I've utterly failed to get control of myself, a woman comes through the door with a thick packet in a manilla envelope.

  "Mrs. Logan? And you must be Autumn, I've heard your name once or twice around the office."

  I don't know how to feel about it. Mom looks at her expectantly.

  "Yes," I finally answer.

  "I'm Leah Kent, I'm an assistant to the District Attorney, and I'm responsible for your case."

  "Nice to meet you, miss Kent."

  "Thank you," she says. She flips open the packet. It's covered in densely-typed text that no doubt contains as much about my mother as I know myself. "Now, I've got other things to take care of today, so I hope you don't mind if I'm a little bit brief."

  "By all means." Band-aid ripping has always been my preferred way to receive bad news. Maybe because I get it so infrequently. Everything with Mom has always been a long, drawn-out affair so that she can make it all as dramatic as possible.

  "We're prepared to offer you a deal. Thirty hours community service, pay fifty dollars in restitution, and a class on shoplifting."

  I blink. I don't know why, but I'd been so prepared for things to go wrong that the idea of things not going wrong seems strange. I look over at Mom. She's got a look on her face like someone who's just been told that they can have a cookie after all.

  "I'd suggest you take it," I say softly. Mom nods.

  "Of course. What do I have to sign?"

  Chapter Thirty

  I don't know if it was prescient or what. But I was heading over to Tom's office with a bottle of scotch, and it hadn't occurred to me that I might run into them. After all, what were the odds?

  I expected to pass silently and unknown, like two ships in the night. Hours apart and besides that, hundreds of people went through that office every day. So color me real fucking surprised when I heard a voice.

  "I know you from somewhere, don't I?"

  She might not have recognized exactly who I was. But I knew the voice the second I heard it, even though I didn't see her. For an instant I considered not even answering. A few steps before I stopped walking.

  "Mom, come on. Leave him be."

  Hearing Autumn's voice somehow changed
things a little bit. I don't know what it was, but something about her being there irked me. Something about both of them being there irked me. Here I was, just going to see an old friend.

  "Deborah," I said softly. "How have you been?"

  "God," she says. "You look really familiar. Have we slept together?"

  My jaw tightens. Ten years is a long time, and I don't look like I did when I was twenty. My hair's shorter, and I've grown more than a few inches. But the idea that a woman who had supposedly been my mother for years couldn't place me lit a little fire.

  Autumn, for her part, was so mortified that her mouth opened and closed like someone making a fish face.

  "You were married to my father," I say softly. It's easiest if I keep it simple.

  "Paul? You're Paul's son?"

  "No," I answer. I would like to leave. "Then. Huh. You're…"

  "Eric Warren."

  "Dave's son. Right. I'm sorry, I don't know how I didn't recognize you. How's Dave doing? I haven't heard from him in a while."

  "No, I guess you wouldn't have," I answer. I thought I was over it. It was just what it was. And everything was fine. She wasn't going to make anything any worse than it already was. But it doesn't feel fine.

  "What's wrong? You look a little weird."

  "I don't really want to talk about it right now, Deb."

  I don't know how much she remembers at this point, but I don't care. I just want to move on. I just want to leave. To say that she's starting to piss me off is an understatement.

  "No, I don't know. Something. There's something. Something I'm forgetting."

  "I'm sure there is. Autumn, I'm going to get going."

  "I'll see you at work," she says, evenly. She's starting to regain some degree of control over herself, which is good. At least one of us is.

  "Oh, now I remember," she says, as Autumn turns her towards the door. "I cheated on his father."

  I close my eyes and keep moving. It's only a few short steps before I can open it and walk away.

  At least she can remember some things. Ten years isn't that long, but I guess when you're constantly making a mess of things, it's not that short, either.

  So what if she only remembers half of it. I shouldn't remember it either. It's better that way.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  I can feel everything in my gut twisting up. So… what? What was I supposed to get out of all this? He hadn't taken my calls all day. Nor the day after that. And he's avoiding me at work.

  So what the heck am I supposed to think? Well, that much is obvious. I'm supposed to think the truth—he's avoiding me, and it's because of something to do with that mess with Mom.

  I wish I understood it, but she clammed right up. Right the hell up. She's never been too careful with what she does, but she's very careful with what she says. What she lets slip to people. If she wasn't, then she'd have to face the consequences of her actions sometimes.

  I let out a deep breath. So much for the hopes I'd had of some kind of… relationship… thing. I shake my head. Whatever it is, I'll get over it. If he wanted me to know about it, he'd tell me about it.

  Since Eric hadn't talked to me about any of this, I can only assume that it's some kind of secret, and he's not interested in talking about any of it. And I don't know what I'm supposed to do about it, nor how I'm supposed to feel, so I'm going to do what I always do.

  I'm going to do nothing, and I'm going to pretend I'm not hurt and pretend that I haven't even God damned noticed that he's not paying attention, because if I do anything else I think I might lose my mind.

  Which is why, even though it's a Wednesday night, I'm sitting here in a bar and I think I should probably have packed up three glasses ago. Some part of me wonders how often my mother's done this.

  She never drank at home, but she somehow managed to always be drunk. And I never had much doubt that when she was out… well, I don't know. Maybe there was a time before that. Maybe there was a time that she was faithful to one of her many husbands for more than a year or so.

  How hellish must those years have been for her? She's so committed to the first spark of a relationship, it must be absolute hell for her to have to actually settle into something that feels like it might last longer.

  I can feel eyes on me. I know what I must look like, sitting at the bar—alone—and pouring my way through a bottle of something amber-colored. For the sort of people who would be on the look-out for a woman like me, I must seem like an easy mark.

  Lonely. Upset about something, and yet I'm not hiding myself in the back. Which means, fundamentally, that I'm making myself available on some level. They're not entirely wrong, to be fair. I guess maybe I am. At least then I wouldn't be completely ignored.

  They wouldn't want a relationship, of course. Why would they? But they would at least be upfront about what they wanted. What a relief that would be. What a change from what I've had to deal with the past months.

  A man with a tattoo on his neck, who looks like a singer-songwriter in a Portland bar, steps up.

  "What's your name?"

  For an instant I consider ignoring him. He'll go away eventually on his own. But then again, maybe ignoring things is what got me here in the first place. If I change my tactics, maybe I'll be able to start digging myself out of the pile of shit that my life has devolved into.

  "Autumn. Yours?"

  "Lou," he answers. It's like his parents decided, when he was born, that all they wanted from their boy was to grow up to be exactly who he was. "What are you drinking?"

  "I don't know," I tell him. "I forgot. But they keep putting it in my glass and I keep drinking it."

  He laughs, and I can't help but smile at my own joke.

  "I could buy you the next one."

  "That would be awful kind of you."

  He puts an arm on the small of my back. It feels sexual, and I don't doubt for a moment that he means it to.

  I don't stop him.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  At some point, I'm going to have to talk to her or let her go. Neither one seems like a good solution. If I had gotten over myself, stifled my anger like I'd been doing for months before, it wouldn't be a problem.

  But instead, I'd made it a big deal by reacting to it at all. She must have known that I left because of her mother. So that much wasn't a surprise.

  That I'd not want to talk to Deborah was no doubt obvious even before it had happened. But the way that I'd reacted? Only an idiot wouldn't be able to realize that it was because there was something there. I'd been able to deal with so many other scumbage in my life. One more shouldn't be any kind of big deal.

  And no doubt, she's realized that. There must be questions. Must be. And if I'm going to make this relationship work, even just as far as keeping her in the office, then I'm going to have to answer those questions.

  Which has been where I'm stumbling.

  I take a deep breath. Shannon's holding my calls. Thank God, too, because I don't know if I could actually take one right now. It's been three days and I still don't actually know if I could focus on the law if I tried. So far, I haven't had much luck.

  I managed it once. I could manage it again. But something in my gut tells me that I can't just leave things the way they are.

  Stand up, I tell myself. Get out the door.

  The only way out of this mess is getting myself to it. Sure, there's a risk. She could hate me when I go through the whole thing. She might not want to even hear it. But that's not really a choice that she gets to make.

  She needs to know, and after we've slept together, it's something she deserves to know. She's sitting in a room full of people, pouring through a dusty old book. The smell of the library reminds me of college, reminds me of my early days of doing this exact work while I was still working on my degree.

  I touch her back, and she reacts immediately, even if she tries to hide it. Her back straightens and she arches a little, her body unable to decide whether to escape the touch or
to press deeper into it.

  "I need to talk to you," I say softly. "Outside."

  She follows me through the door. I don't look her in the eye, because if I did, then I'd have to deal with the confusion and uncertainty and perhaps even fear in them.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  I managed to keep my frustration under wraps just long enough to make the hallway. Then he turns and stops and I shut the door behind myself.

  "What?" My voice might convey some of that frustration.

  "We need to talk."

  "We're talking."

  "I just wanted to tell you that—"

  "Tell me what? Tell me that you fucked my mother?"

  She'd thought it would work best to confess it to me. She always confessed once she was caught. It was easier that way. For her, at least. That way, she could always have the sympathy.

  First, because she had no way of knowing that everything was going to go to hell, in spite of her pushing it all off the cliff. Second, then, because she felt really sorry about how everything went to hell.

  "So you knew?" His voice is low and soft.

  "I don't know why I was surprised. You're probably a real lady-killer, huh? So why should Mom be any different?"

  He looks away from me, and his teeth press together hard. "Yeah, you think what you want, I guess."

  "Well? What am I supposed to think?"

  "Look, don't you worry about it. Think whatever you want to think. I'm not going to sit here and insult your mother to make you think one ounce better about me."

  "Lay it on me. You'd be surprised what I'll believe about her."

  I'm not sure who the hell I'm supposed to blame here. Because everything I've seen from both sides tells me, they'd both be guilty. Hell, I suspect she'd do it just for the fun of it, and he's got his thing for redheads, of course.

  On the other hand, my mother's never made a decision I didn't have to pay for in my entire life. And this seems like her style. But I'm not ready to make a decision, either way. She's an idiot, but I'm not going to lay down for this womanizing little—