HIS DOUBLE, HER TROUBLE

by Donna Sterling

  She wished she could believe him. Otherwise she'd have to hate him more than she ever had, and that wouldn't be healthy. "But why would you think I'd proposition you?" she asked, at a genuine loss for understanding. "You know I've always gone to great lengths to avoid you."

  "Yeah, I'm aware of that." He crossed his arms in an insolent pose, leaning one broad shoulder against the mantel. "But you said you had a change of heart. That you missed me. That you, ah, secretly wanted me even back in high school."

  She felt her face blanch at that memory, and she couldn't put the words together to form an effective reply. "You should have known I meant Evan," she murmured weakly.

  "Well, I didn't." He took a step toward her, pinning her back into her chair with his gaze. "Don't forget that I was the one who stopped in there," he reminded her, cocking his thumb toward the bedroom. "Why do you think I stopped when I did, Brianna? Do you think it was easy?"

  "No," she whispered, trying to avoid thinking back to the incident under discussion … to when his hardness had probed her intimately, and she had urged him, begged him, to take her. "I'm sure it couldn't have been easy."

  "That's the understatement of the damn century! If I was out to deceive you, why didn't I go all the way?"

  It took her a moment to come up with a likely reason, but when she did, she proclaimed it with passion. "Because you knew that if you had, Evan or I would have killed you."

  He gaped at her in amazement. "Yeah, you two scare me to death." There was no mistaking his sarcasm. After a penetrating stare, he uttered, "I stopped because when I make love to you, I want you to know it's me."

  A tingling heat deluged her. She rose on unsteady legs and paced away from him to regain her equilibrium. She wanted to say that would never happen—she'd never make love to him knowing who he was—but it would sound too much like a challenge. She was feeling too vulnerable at the moment to throw down that particular gauntlet.

  Prudently she changed the subject. "I didn't even know you were in town. When did you get here? Evan was supposed to be here, not you."

  "I came in on the return flight he'd booked. Business is keeping him in Europe longer, and I was ready to come home. No sense in wasting nonrefundable airfare."

  "But how could you have possibly thought I'd know that?"

  "I've been out and about today. Plenty of people know I'm back in town."

  "No one mentioned it to me."

  "No? Well, take a look at this." He led her into the kitchen and gestured toward an array of items on the table: a bottle of champagne with a glittering "Welcome Home" card attached to its cork, a casserole with a ribbon and a card, a cake decorated with pink letters that spelled, "Waiting for You … Julie." A phone number comprised the lower border.

  "Gifts from my, er, welcoming committee," he muttered.

  Brianna surveyed the hometown offerings in dismay. When she found her voice, she stammered, "Y-you thought I was one of these women who … who throw themselves at you?"

  His eyes lightened again. "You were the only one who actually threw herself at me."

  "Ohh!" Curling her hands into fists, she rushed past him on her way out of the kitchen.

  He grabbed her arm, turned her around. "Brianna—"

  She shook loose of his grip. "I'd never in a million years debase myself by chasing after any man in such a disgusting way!"

  "Oh, your way won … no contest." As her jaw lowered, he gave a mischievous half smile and lightly tugged on a tendril beside her ear. "Lighten up. You're taking this whole thing way too hard."

  She glared at him. Of course Jake wouldn't see their intimacy as anything of significance. Life was a game to him, one big rollicking party. Rich, beautiful women around the globe indulged in his company as a kind of sport; the less rich ones pursued him as a vocational goal. From gossip about Jake Rowland, she'd learned one thing—he was a reckless adventurer incapable of taking a relationship seriously. Why should he? What could one woman possibly give him that the multitudes couldn't?

  "You might not understand this, Jake," she finally managed to say with admirable control, "but unlike you, I don't take any sort of sexual involvement lightly."

  He studied her for a considering moment. "I don't suppose you would. The only thing you'd take lightly would be my death." When she didn't argue, he went on, "But there's no reason to get hysterical over tonight's misunderstanding." His gaze clouded, and his voice lowered to a harsh whisper. "I mean, nothing went on between us that can't be forgotten … did it?"

  The question lingered in the silence and echoed through her heart. Did it?

  Oh, he was Jake, all right. There was no mistaking him now. Her stomach was clenching in that disturbing way, just because of his potent gaze and the question that burned like a laser within it. She wrenched herself away and looked about for her shoes. She had to get as far away from this man as possible.

  "You didn't answer me, Brianna."

  "Of course I can't just forget what happened. I owe it to Evan to tell him about it."

  From the quality of Jake's silence, she knew she had surprised him. He followed her into the living room, then asked, "What exactly are you going to tell him?"

  "The truth." She spotted her black high heels beside the hearth and stepped into them. Was he worried about what his brother would do when he found out?

  When she glanced back at him, Jake was studying his watch. "This would be a good time to get in touch with him," he mused. "I have a number where you can reach him now."

  "Now? You think I should call him now?"

  He shrugged. "Might as well. That way I'll be here to back you up. We could, ah, face him together."

  The idea of explaining their recent intimacy to Evan with Jake listening in—and adding his version of the event, no doubt—suddenly sounded less than wise. She got the distinct impression, though, that the prospect appealed immensely to Jake. "I'll call him later." She snatched her coat from the chair where she'd thrown it.

  "That reminds me. Evan gave me a couple of letters before I left. Asked me to mail them when I got to the States." Jake reached past her and opened the coat closet. "One was addressed to you."

  "To me?" she said in surprise.

  "And one to his secretary."

  She waited in curiosity while he retrieved letters from the pocket of his overcoat. Why would Evan send her a letter when he'd see her soon? As his human resources director, she often dealt with him, but usually in person, on the phone or through E-mail. She couldn't remember the last time he'd sent her a letter.

  Jake handed her an envelope. Curiously, she opened it.

  Dear Brianna:

  Business will keep me abroad for a while. I've enjoyed our time together, but I feel it would be best to return our relationship to its former footing. I've suspected for some time that you might regret our romantic involvement. I wouldn't want to lose you as a friend.

  I promise that our relationship will in no way affect your career, just as it hasn't in the past. I look forward to seeing you when I return. Yours in friendship,

  Evan

  Stunned, she lifted her eyes from the page in an unfocused daze. She'd lost him!

  "What's wrong?" Jake asked, watching her.

  "Nothing." Her mind reeled from the blow.

  "Is it something about work?"

  "No, no. It's personal." She folded the letter into a small square and tucked it into the pocket of her coat, which she'd draped over her arm.

  "Are you sure you don't want to call Evan? Talk over the problem? I'll dial him up right now. We can also tell him about how you mistook me for him."

  "No!" She grabbed at the lapels of his robe and gazed up at him imploringly. "No, please, Jake. I … I don't want to tell him, and I don't want you to, either." Realizing how desperate she sounded, she released his lapels, smoothed them down in absent distraction, then became aware of the warm muscled chest beneath the robe. With a gasp, she snatched her hands away.

  He cocked a brow, a
disquieting twinkle in his eyes.

  She lifted her chin and strove for dignity. "I've changed my mind about Evan's needing to know." Her pride had suffered enough without disclosing her humiliating error.

  "I don't know," Jake ruminated, rubbing his chin, "He is my brother. Wouldn't want him to think I was moving in on his woman. Might be better to come clean right away."

  Aware that Jake would sooner or later find out that Evan had broken up with her, Brianna swallowed a great big lump of pride. "I'm not his woman anymore. He wrote in the letter that he wants to be just friends." Anguished that she'd lost him through her own foolishness, she turned blindly toward the door and fumbled to put on her coat.

  Jake took the coat from her and held it open. She allowed him to help her into it—a suave, gentlemanly gesture—but somehow he made it seem intimate, guiding her arms into the sleeves, lifting her hair from beneath the collar, fitting the coat snugly around her. "My brother's a damned fool," he muttered, fastening the top button.

  "Don't talk about him that way," she whispered brokenly. "We had a fight before he left. It was my fault."

  "And that's why you came over here tonight," he softly surmised, closing the next button, "wanting to make up after your fight. Wearing that sexy dress…" His fingers paused in their work, "And that lacy black underwear…" His gaze met hers, his voice roughened. "Kissing me like there's no tomorrow. Smelling good enough to eat."

  The warmth sizzled through her again, revitalizing memories of all the things he'd done to her…

  "Just forget about all that," she choked.

  He slanted his head and frowned. "And what if I don't?"

  She had to protect herself from these whispers of his, these heated gazes that dissolved her ability to think. He was a celebrated master at seduction—an international playboy. She couldn't allow herself to forget that, just because she suddenly longed for him to kiss her again.

  "What are you doing here, anyway?" she cried, pushing his hands away from the coat button he still held. As she fastened it herself, she added for good measure, "This is Evan's apartment, not yours."

  "It's both of ours. That's one thing about being a twin. There's a lot of sharing that goes on."

  She looked up at him quickly. "You'd better not be referring to me."

  His eyes clouded again to a deep smoky blue. "I wouldn't share you with anyone."

  Her throat tightened with sudden, inexplicable emotion, and she found she couldn't break away from his solemn stare. "I have to go." She edged her way toward the door.

  "Brianna, you're better off without Evan."

  "That's not for you to say."

  "He's not your type, and you're not his."

  "You don't know anything about our 'types.'"

  "No? Well, if it's so damned good with Evan," he taunted, drawing close enough that the fragrance of his hair and the feel of his breath against her face made her heart turn over, "then why, when you were trembling in my bed, did you say you didn't know it could be that way?"

  Heat washed over her face, her neck, her entire body. He had no right to ask that. It was too personal a thing for him to know—that she'd never, in all her life, experienced the depth of pleasure he'd given her. He'd only find some way to use the admission against her … like mentioning it to Evan, or maybe to someone in town.

  There was only one way she knew to insure against that. "I said it because I thought you were Evan and wanted you to feel special." With desperation, she drove the point home. "I felt sorry for you. I thought you were having a bad night."

  "A bad night!"

  "If you must know," she said in a scalding whisper, "I was faking it."

  He grabbed the front of her coat and dragged her even closer, his face nearly touching hers. "If I didn't know that you were lying through those delectable—and talented—lips of yours, my feelings might be hurt."

  She couldn't stand it—she pulled away and swung at him.

  He caught her wrist. "Can this be the girl who boycotted football because she was against violence?"

  With deep mortification, she realized he had a point. She had always deplored violence of any kind, and had campaigned vigorously against it. But she still wanted to slap him! How was it that Jake Rowland could undermine her innermost values? That, she realized, was the danger of him.

  She ground out through clenched teeth, "I boycotted football because you were the quarterback."

  "Don't think I didn't know that."

  "I wish you hadn't come home. I hope you don't stay long."

  A muscle tightened in his jaw, but he replied lightly enough, "If that isn't just like a woman. Tell you they love you to get you into bed, then treat you like dirt once they're satisfied."

  She drew in a deep hissing breath. "Don't flatter yourself. I wouldn't want you in my bed … and I wasn't satisfied!"

  "I think you were."

  "Go to hell." She made a move for the door.

  He blocked her way and raised an inquiring brow. "Does this mean I don't get my turn?"

  She stared at him for one blank moment. "Your turn?"

  "I saw to your sexual needs," he pointed out in a tone of patient reasoning. "So, uh … when do you see to mine?"

  Her mouth bunched and her hands convulsed into fists. To stop herself from attempting another swing at him, she flung open the door and clattered down the steps, uttering the same vow she always took whenever Jake Rowland came to town: to keep a huge safety buffer between him and her for however many torturous days he'd be in the vicinity.

  She fervently hoped those days would be few.

  The moment Jake had closed the door, he rammed his fist into its solid oak panels. The urge to punch something, anything, had been building up steadily since she'd called him Evan.

  The door remained intact. His hand throbbed. He was glad. Maybe, just maybe, the pain would keep his mind off the woman he'd just chased away with his mouth.

  He'd known better than to talk to her about Evan. He'd known better than to tease her or taunt her, or lose all perspective, all trace of common sense, when she looked at him with those distrustful hazel eyes that turned to a sultry golden green whenever he came too close.

  She still wanted Evan.

  Why had he believed, even for a second, that it might be otherwise? And why the hell did he care? All during his flight home, he'd sworn that this time he'd wouldn't let Brianna Devon get under his skin. He wouldn't get caught up in their game again—wouldn't start obsessing about ways to provoke her, no matter how badly she provoked him.

  He hadn't expected that provocation to include showing up on his doorstep looking like a temptress, her hair a shiny sweet-smelling cloud, her whisper a warm invitation. I've had time to think, while you were gone. I'm ready to make love to you. The memory of that moment flushed through him with a sensual heat.

  His hand would have to hurt a hell of a lot more to make him stop thinking about her tonight. Angry with himself, he strode to the kitchen where he wrapped some ice in a towel and crushed every damn cube into a fine powder. He'd hold the ice pack around his hand for the rest of the evening and concentrate on the cold and the pain.

  And he'd sleep on the couch. He wouldn't go anywhere near his bed, where the memories would be the strongest. I didn't know it could be this way, she'd whispered. Again the heat poured through him. Nothing she could say or do would make him believe that she hadn't meant those words. Because after all his worldly experience, he had felt exactly the same way. He hadn't known that just holding and kissing a woman could make him damn near delirious.

  Cursing, he threw the ice pack in the sink, grabbed a bottle of Jack Daniels from the cabinet and stalked into the living room, intent on drinking himself into forgetfulness. But as he uncapped the bottle and sank down onto the sofa, he remembered how she'd looked sitting there in the chair, her hair all wild from their tussle in bed, her lips a smooth natural pink and a little swollen from his kisses.

  He'd wanted to take her back to bed
.

  Why the hell should he want her so much? She wasn't a devastating beauty. He hadn't even thought her particularly pretty the first time he saw her, back in high school.

  She'd just been a mousy little girl hanging around with his brother. Evan was the president of some club, she was its vice-president. Evan wrote for the school newspaper, she edited it. He ran for a post, she managed his campaign. They did homework together at his house, planned their strategies beside his swimming pool, researched their projects on his family computer. Evan had considered her a friend, a pal. But Jake had known even then that she'd had a crush on Evan. He saw it in the way she looked at him.

  And it really irked Jake. Especially because she refused to pay even one iota of attention to him. She never laughed at his jokes, never appreciated his fine wit… Hell, she never even pretended to like him.

  It made him want to force her attention away from Evan and center it squarely on himself, by any method available. Rile up her passions, whatever passions he could possibly rile up, until she was forced to deal with him one-on-one.

  Their relationship had somehow evolved into an ongoing public spectacle. Her attitude made it clear to everyone in school and in town that she considered him, Jake Rowland, to be inferior to his brother and beneath her standards.

  Which of course, forced him to save face. He had to either win her over for all to see, or engage her in a battle that threatened her public image. At the debonair age of sixteen, he'd only managed the latter.

  He'd teased her, heckled her, tricked her and generally made a nuisance of himself. The entire school had come to expect it of him. Like dropping a cricket down her back, then offering to recapture it. Hiding her book bag in the boys' locker room and daring her to find it. Toppling her occasional boyfriends headfirst into trash cans … all in the spirit of fun, of course.

  His friends had begun to rib him about his devilment of the quiet little girl who shared her smiles with everyone but him. His girlfriends had begun to resent the time he spent dreaming up ways to plague her.

  But that was in the past. He'd grown beyond the guerilla tactics he'd employed in high school. He now knew a good deal more about how to entice a woman. She wouldn't stand a chance against him now, if he set his mind to overcoming her defenses and wearing down her resistance.