The Titan Was Tall (Triple Threat Book 1)

by Kristen Casey

  “Screening my calls now, bastardo?”

  Red said, “Find a quiet corner. I’m in a shitload of trouble and I need help.”

  His friend griped, “What else is new? This is why I call. Someone has to save you from yourself, and we both know it won’t be Tate.”

  AN HOUR LATER, Red sighed and checked his watch again. The six-hour time difference between his home and Luca’s was an annoyance, but occasionally it came in handy—as it had tonight, when Red was up too late, and his buddy was clearly up too early.

  “Maybe I should just tell Piper now and get it over with,” he said again. “Like ripping off a bandage.” He eyed the two empty beer bottles lined up on the coffee table in front of him, twins to the one in his hand, and wondered how they had multiplied so fast.

  Luca made a considering sound, as if Red had spoken those words for the first time and had not been crying on his figurative shoulder for the last sixty minutes. “What would be the harm?”

  “I suppose…” Red scrubbed a hand over his face, indescribably exhausted. “Because we’ve got something good going right now. Something I didn’t think I’d ever find. I don’t want to ruin it with some stupid knee-jerk reaction.”

  “Honesty is usually not what ruins love. Lack of honesty, however...” Red could almost hear his friend’s casual Italian shrug through the phone line.

  “That may be true, but Piper is pretty gun-shy. I’m trying to prove to her that she can count on me—that she can trust me. If I tell her what’s happening and then have to admit that I don’t know what to do about it, it’s going to make me look really bad.”

  Luca was silent for several beats. Red could hear car horns and the occasional burst of rapid-fire Italian, and then a rush of quiet.

  “Hello?”

  “You’re worried about how you’ll look? That seems like the least of your problems.”

  “Besides,” Red reasoned, shifting gears, “Who said anything about love, anyway?”

  Luca’s deep chuckle rumbled over the line. “My father often says something about exactly this problem.”

  “About owing your new girlfriend money? Something you need to tell me, bro?”

  “No, idiota. About delivering bad news to your woman.”

  “This from the man who was raised in a miniscule one-horse village?”

  “I beg your pardon, Your Highness. You seemed to enjoy my hometown just fine when I took you there.”

  “The entire tour you gave me took five fucking minutes.”

  “Besides, I’ll have you know that they’ve acquired two more horses and at least five mules since your last visit.”

  “A virtual metropolis. How old was your dad when he finally left it?”

  “He worked in Roma as a young man, before he and my mother opened the Tivoli office. But that is not what is important.”

  “Okay, so tell me. What’s important?”

  “The fact that my parents have been married to each other for forty years. Non essere stupido—don’t be stupid. Have you been getting enough rest?”

  Red decided to ignore most of that and focused only on the relevant part. “You make an excellent point. Carry on.”

  “Si, so Papa always told me that, most of the time, the bitter pill goes down better with a little sweetness on top. A man shields his wife from life’s ugliness when it is possible, and when it is not possible, he delivers the dose of medicine with a better-tasting flavor after. Papa says this saves much agitazione for everyone.”

  “That sounds very practical, and also suspiciously prescriptive. Are you sure that isn’t your own advice, Doc?”

  “My father was always very clever about tailoring his wisdom to the mind of each of his children. How do you think I ended up becoming a doctor? You should have heard the things he told poor Paolo.”

  Red paused, considering that. “Isn’t your brother a chef?”

  “Indeed. Suffice it to say, none of us were able to look at eggplants—or even knives—in quite the same way, once Paolo hit puberty.”

  “Jesus.” Red winced and tried to expunge that from his brain. “Anyway, is your dad aware that you don’t currently have a wife?”

  “He likes to plan ahead, and I cannot argue with his results. His body of research is very persuasive. As for you, I am wondering if your current mood can be explained by dehydration. You should be drinking more water than whiskey, amico. You’ll feel better and think much more clearly.”

  Red sighed. “Can you please stop trying to mother me, Luc?”

  “Someone has to. Lord knows your own mother doesn’t get it right.”

  “You keep saying that. But, listen—do we agree that I should definitely hold off on telling Piper about the money right away? Once I have an actual plan in place, then I can spill the beans. Sound about right?”

  “Beans?” Luca asked distractedly.

  In the background, Red could hear the sounds of the bustling hospital where his friend worked and knew at once he’d used up his brief allotment of the good doctor’s time. As usual, he’d wasted most of it busting the man’s balls, instead of being polite and asking after his family or some shit. It figured.

  “Spill the beans,” he explained irritably. “Tell the secret. You remember.”

  “Ah. Yes.”

  “Seriously, Luc. It’s been too long. When can I get you here for a visit?”

  “It’s funny that you say that. I met an American woman here last summer. We…”

  Luca’s words cut off, and he erupted in a flurry of Italian too fast for Red to follow. Red listened to the man’s commanding tone and knew some crisis or other required the capable skills of the unflappable Dr. Delladonna.

  Luca’s voice switched back into English abruptly. “I have to go. Remember what we always said, mio fratello. L’amore domina senza regole. I’ll call in a few days.” The line went dead.

  All’s fair in love and war. Red ought to have known Luca would throw that one back in his face. How many times had Red cheerfully tossed that phrase at Luca or Tate when they’d been lamenting some girl or another? Red hadn’t lamented a single soul—back then or more recently—but he supposed there was a first goddamn time for everything.

  He texted Piper a quick goodnight, left the empty soldiers where they stood—in a soggy, ragged line on the coffee table—and trudged upstairs. He dropped his clothes in a heap on the floor and went into the bathroom to brush his teeth and guzzle a few cups of water. Then Red crawled into bed. Hydrate and rest—doctor’s orders.

  Tomorrow, things would look better. Tomorrow, he’d figure out what to do.

  TWENTY-ONE

  “GOD, I WANT you right now.” Red’s gravelly voice filtered through the phone. Piper pressed it tighter to her ear, so she wouldn’t miss a single syllable.

  Happily, she was already in bed. Now she leaned over to switch off her bedside lamp, so she could focus completely on the seductive spell Red was weaving around her.

  “I wake up hard for you, too,” he continued. “Every morning, I’ve got a telephone pole under my sheets.”

  Piper laughed at his hyperbole. “Really. Well, that sounds like quite a problem. How’s a guy supposed to handle that?” Given how her heart was hammering, it was a wonder her voice came out sounding so even. Red had to know how he affected her, though. He always knew.

  “Today, I tried ignoring it. Wishful thinking, hoping it would go away by itself,” he mused darkly.

  “Didn’t work out for you, huh.”

  “Nope. Not at all. I was tragically unproductive all day.”

  “I see. And now?”

  “I took steps.” Red cleared his throat meaningfully, but he didn’t need to elaborate. Piper could picture his solution just fine, thank you. He waited for her to answer, but it was a comfortable quiet—expectant maybe, but not impatient.

  “It’s the same for me, too, you know,” she whispered tentatively. “The wanting, I mean. In the morning, but especially at night.”

  �
��Oh really?” he inquired. “And do you touch yourself, Piper? Do you get yourself off while you think about me?”

  She should’ve known he wouldn’t let her off the hook. Piper paused, then confessed quietly, “It does seem to be the most efficient solution.”

  “Tell me” he commanded, sinking into bossiness as easily as he breathed.

  “Uh,” she hedged. Piper stalled, not sure what to say next.

  Red had a distinct knack for luring her out on the ledge, right out to the threshold of her comfort zone, where she had to decide in an instant whether to cower or fly. Piper knew too well how it felt to cower, though. With Red, she wanted to fly—to soar—in real life, and not just on paper.

  “Do you touch your beautiful breasts like I would? Or are you already hot and slick just from thinking about us?” Red’s voice was deep and husky, and so unbelievably sexy. It was like he was really there with her, whispering filthy things in her ear and winding her up. “Do you imagine it’s me when you come apart, Piper?”

  There was only one thing to say to that. “Yes.”

  The line went silent again, but she knew Red was still with her. She could feel him breathing, feel the heat brushing over her skin.

  Suddenly, he blurted out, “Come see me. Tomorrow. I’ll arrange a flight for you. You can stay here for a couple of nights, and then I’ll take you back home on Saturday. I’ll stay the weekend there with you again.”

  Piper processed that for a beat. She asked, “Seriously?” But a lightning-quick review of the rest of her week told her what she already knew—she had absolutely nothing going on but the writing, and lately she could do that anywhere.

  As long as it was quiet enough, the words flowed, and Piper’s work got done. There was a lot to be said for feeling inspired. Writer’s block was a vague and distant memory with Red MacLellan in her life.

  He demanded, “When am I ever not serious?”

  “Never?”

  “Right. I would come there first, but I have a few meetings here tomorrow and Friday that I can’t blow off. If you can make it, we’ll still have the afternoons and the evenings, together though. And the mornings, of course,” he emphasized mildly.

  He was hard to refuse. So hard. Piper caved like a house of cards. “All right,” she said. “You win. What do I have to do?”

  Red exhaled loudly, and it sounded an awful lot like relief. “I’ll text you the particulars, but...let’s have a car pick you up tomorrow morning to bring you to the airport. Felix can pick you up on my end and bring you back to the loft. Just make yourself at home, and I’ll meet you as soon as I can swing it.”

  “Sounds like you have it all figured out,” Piper laughed.

  “I always do,” Red assured her. “Now go to sleep. You have a big day tomorrow.”

  Piper grinned from ear to ear in the darkness. “Can’t wait,” she told him.

  THE TEXTS BEGAN rolling in about half an hour later. Piper, too excited to sleep, was still clutching her phone, planning what to bring. But once the travel particulars were dispensed with, Red ended on a weirdly formal note.

  Please be prepared to dine out Friday night. Attire is dressy casual.

  She couldn’t resist teasing him. What the heck does that mean? Is it dressy or is it casual?

  As expected, Red was quick on the uptake. He sent her a scowling emoji and a huffy retort that made her grin. It’s BOTH you hayseed. Pretend it’s date nite!!

  Piper gave up on sleep and turned her light back on. She typed out, Why pretend? then went to her closet to pull out her travel bag. The thing was getting more action than it had in years.

  Christ, woman. For once, just do as I ask.

  Piper raised an eyebrow at the glowing screen, even though Red couldn’t see her. NEVER, she wrote, then tossed the phone aside and started packing.

  TRUE TO HIS word, Red didn’t meet Piper at the airport the next day. His driver was right on time, though, waiting in baggage claim with a printed-out sign, an armful of fragrant yellow and orange roses, and a scrawled card from Red that said simply, “Welcome Back.”

  Felix offered to drive Piper wherever she wanted, but she figured she’d save the sightseeing for another time. They went straight back to Red’s loft instead, where Felix parallel-parked at the curb so he could walk Piper inside with her bags.

  This visit was one hundred percent personal, so Red hadn’t bothered with a hotel room this time. She was unlikely to ever see the inside of one—what was the point?

  Piper texted Red to let him know that she’d arrived, and he quickly replied that someone was waiting for her. She hoped to hell it wasn’t going to be his mother.

  Instead, a brisk older woman ushered her inside the second Piper stepped off the elevator.

  “Oh, good. Mr. MacLellan let me know you were here. I’m Mrs. Markham, the housekeeper. You must be Piper.”

  “I am,” she agreed. The woman wrested Piper’s bags from her and hauled them toward the stairs.

  “Was your trip all right?”

  “Yes, thank you.” Piper glanced around, hoping to see Red emerge from around some corner of the vast space.

  “Mr. MacLellan asked me to extend his apologies for not meeting you himself. He was detained at the office but promises to be home in time for dinner. He asked me to tell you to make yourself at home.”

  “Oh. Okay.” Piper felt like a homecoming queen, standing there holding her flowers while Mrs. Markham looked her over.

  “I’ll bring your things upstairs and then I’ll be out of your hair,” the woman said. “Also, I left some snacks and lunch things in the kitchen for you, if you’re hungry.”

  “I’m okay for right now but thank you.”

  While the other woman disappeared up the winding staircase, Piper wandered around. It felt less intrusive to study Red’s home without him there to gauge her reactions.

  The open kitchen was exceptionally modern, all blocky angles of chrome and matte black. She set her flowers on the counter and kept moving. The main room still contained the same pretentious assortment of modern art and space-age furniture, but the small hallway opposite the stairs was somewhere Piper had never ventured before.

  She followed it, discovering a home office first. Piper stepped in, her curiosity pricked by the dramatic change in decorating style. She was surrounded by dark paneling and built-in bookshelves, a large leather couch and chairs, and a heavy mahogany desk near the soaring factory window. The entire effect was masculine in the extreme, like a hundred-year-old men’s club filled with cigars and scotch.

  There wasn’t a single piece of frippery to be seen, and it was so sophisticated it was almost exotic compared to the common rooms of the loft. It was a place where anything feminine would stick out like a sore thumb, Piper reflected.

  She tiptoed lightly across the rug and peered out the window at the city beyond. Through the buildings, Piper could just catch the reflection of the midday sun hitting the surface of the Hudson River.

  “It suits him, doesn’t it?” Mrs. Markham said. “More than out there, anyway.”

  Piper spun around to find the housekeeper smiling at her from the doorway. “It really does,” she agreed.

  “Did you need anything else before I leave?”

  “No, I’m fine. Thank you so much for letting me in.”

  “My pleasure. Enjoy your visit.” And, with another friendly smile, the woman departed.

  Piper sat in the leather desk chair and pictured Red working at his laptop. Then she imagined, in vivid, throbbing detail, climbing into his lap and distracting him.

  She shot up, feeling a little guilty, and glanced at the clock on his desk. Red might not be home for hours. She needed to find something productive to take her mind off him before she embarrassed herself.

  Mrs. Markham had already laid out Piper’s things in Red’s bedroom. She’d also put the flowers in an odd ceramic vase on the kitchen counter.

  Piper munched on some carrot sticks she found in the fridge, s
miled at the towering stack of dessert mixes she saw in the pantry and wondered a bit at the pile of beer bottles in Red’s recycling bin. She took another lap around the living room.

  Eventually, she split the difference. Piper grabbed her notebook and her computer from her luggage upstairs and set up camp on the big leather couch in the study. If certain scorching-hot traits of one tall, auburn-haired stud muffin made it into her new book, well…who would be the wiser? Inspiration came in many forms, and some of them happened to be very good in the sack.

  IT WAS WELL after dark when Red finally came home. Piper had relocated to the kitchen by then, where she was nursing a cup of tea and trying to decide if she should make one of the boxes of pudding for dessert. He set a big paper bag full of Indian take-out on the counter, then bent Piper over his arm in a kiss straight out of the movies.

  Once he let her up for air, Red told her, “Man, am I happy to see you.”

  “I thought you’d never get here,” Piper smiled. “Long day?”

  “Very. But let’s not talk about that. What’d you do?”

  “I worked for a while. Watched a movie. Oh, and I found the game room! I wish you’d shown it to me sooner. I love pool—do you want to play while we eat?”

  “I absolutely do,” he said. “Let me run upstairs and get out of this suit, and then you’re on.”

  In the game room, black-and-white portraits marched in a straight line across the walls, an eye-catching gallery of interesting faces. While she waited for Red, Piper examined them more closely, until it dawned on her what she was seeing.

  “These are all authors,” she exclaimed when he returned. “Aren’t they? That’s the requisite Ernest Hemingway and Dorothy Parker, I know. Is that Orwell?”

  “Yes. And Kerouac there. Then Maya Angelou, Harper Lee, and Flannery O’Connor. And Tolkien over in the corner.”