by Lisa Plumley
As though underscoring that fact, someone shifted in the bed beside him. With a sleepy murmur, Sloane rolled over.
She saw him. She smiled. “Good morning, tiger.”
Oh, Christ. What the fuck had he done now? He’d honestly thought his days of waking up with near strangers were behind him for good. He’d honestly thought he’d changed.
Even if Natasha hadn’t agreed.
“Sloane.” Damon squeezed shut his eyes in instant remorse. “Tell me this isn’t what I think it is.”
“Well, I could do that,” she hedged with a playful grin, “but that wouldn’t be any fun, now would it?”
“Fun. Right.” My old pal. Regretfully, Damon stared at the ceiling. Sunshine splashed into the room from its twin mullioned windows. “So, I don’t remember much about last night, but—”
“But nothing happened. Between us, I mean,” Sloane interrupted, giving his shoulder a nudge. “I was just kidding before. Wes told me it would probably go one of two ways—”
“I don’t want to talk about Wes.”
“—either you’d take one look at me and decide I was just the girl to drown your sorrows with … or you’d take one look at me and decide I could never replace the girl you really want.” She gave him a compassionate look. “I guess you went for option B.”
Nothing had happened. Engulfed with relief, Damon stared at Sloane, being careful not to glance any lower than her neck. Doing anything less wouldn’t have been chivalrous. Because it seemed suddenly apparent to him that Sloane was naked. And that he was nearly naked, too, wearing just his boxer briefs.
“I did. I chose option B,” Damon said. Unbelievable. Pride momentarily overwhelmed him … but a second later, the reprieve he experienced was followed by another dose of ruthless reality.
If even he’d doubted that he’d behaved himself last night—and he had, seriously, doubted it—how could he expect Natasha to believe in him? How could he expect her to believe he’d really reformed? To believe he hadn’t used her in the process?
The painful truth was that he couldn’t. Not yet.
Even Damon had to admit that the evidence against him looked pretty damning. Clueless Wes had seen to that.
“I’m sorry,” Damon told Sloane, forcing himself back to the here and now. “It’s not you, it’s me. You’re an interesting girl. Maybe under different circumstances, we could have …”
“Hey, it’s not too late.” Wearing an inviting look, Sloane rolled over to face him. The sheets dipped dangerously low, revealing the pert curve of her breast … and more bare skin that Damon made himself not look at. She propped her elbow against the mattress, then cupped her short-haired head in her hand. She gave him a direct, sensual smile. “I hear tomorrow’s another day. If you want to give it a go, I’m game.”
Rebelliously deciding that he owed it to himself to at least consider Sloane’s offer, Damon looked at her. She was attractive. She seemed nice. She seemed eager for an easy, no-strings-attached encounter they would probably both enjoy.
She seemed … not to be Natasha. Damn it.
As kindly as he could, Damon shook his head. “I can’t.”
Sloane’s raised eyebrows gave him pause.
“I mean, I can. I can all night long! But right now—”
“You can’t. I get it.” Sloane touched his beard-stubbled cheek. She heaved a regretful sigh. “If you ever change your mind, I programmed my number into your phone.” She winked, then got out of bed, gloriously naked. “Just don’t look at the accompanying photo while at work or in public. It looks a lot like …” With a seductive twirl, she held out her arms and then struck a pose. “Well, a lot like this. Naked, is what I mean.”
“I’m hungover, not blind. But … I won’t be calling.”
“Yeah. I figured as much.” Sloane shimmied into a pair of jeans. Topless, she took her time selecting a silky shirt from the nearby closet. Aha. This was her place, then. Buttoning her shirt, she added, “But a girl’s got to try, right?”
“That’s always been my motto.”
“Good motto.” Seeming surprisingly carefree, Sloane stepped into her strappy metallic sandals. With a graceful move, she fastened them on her feet. “I’m still glad I brought you home with me last night. You were in no shape to be alone.”
Damon didn’t have a ready response to that. He didn’t doubt it was true, but given how little he remembered …
“Anyway, no hard feelings, Mr. Torrance.” Sloane pointed to the doorway. “I’m meeting friends for brunch. Feel free to use the shower while I’m gone. Help yourself to whatever looks good in the kitchen, too.” A grin. “I have to warn you, though, the fridge is pretty bare. I hope you like champagne and leftover chicken vindaloo. Just let yourself out when you’re done.”
“Thanks.” She was an unlikely Good Samaritan, but Damon felt grateful for her help all the same. He watched her pick her way daintily through the other items strewn across the bedroom floor—most of them belonging to him. His dinner jacket. His trousers. His shirt and tie and studs. “You’re very kind.”
“Nah. I just recognize a useful contact when I see one.” Sloane grabbed her cross-body purse and keys. “I’d still like to meet with you once you get your new project off the ground.”
“My new project?”
“Yes.” Sloane peered into the mirror, seemed to decide she looked presentable, then glanced at him via her reflection. “Your line of allergen-free candy bars. You couldn’t quit talking about it last night. Anybody who came within earshot got the whole spiel. How it was going to open up a whole new underserved market. How it was going to revitalize gourmet retailing. How it was going to be aimed at kids instead of thrill-seeking foodies who want bacon-matcha truffles and chocolate shiitake ice cream. How it was going to be delicious and accessible and—most of all—safe for people with food sensitivities.”
“I said all that?”
“All that and more, Mr. Wizard. You’re quite a showman.”
Damon made a disgruntled face. “That’s me. The P.T. Barnum of chocolate.”
“I’ll bet you’re a lot more than that.” Giving him a sympathetic look, Sloane sat on the bed. Companionably, she said, “You’ve got depth, Damon. I can tell. Because I don’t—I’m a publicist.” She sounded surprisingly levelheaded—and admirably self-aware. Damon liked her. “Besides, last night, it sounded as though you had the whole thing already worked out.”
“I’m not even close.” I haven’t even dared to try.
“Well, you must have some ideas tucked up in that famous brain of yours,” Sloane told him. “Because you know what they say—no one tells the truth like a liquored-up playboy.”
Damon laughed. “Nobody says that.”
“I do,” Sloane told him firmly. “Once your inhibitions are lowered, the truth has a way of sneaking out. That’s why I always make it a point to take prospective business partners out for drinks. It gives me a better idea of who they are. And who you are”—she gave him a poke to his arm—“is a man with a plan.”
“Ha. Somebody should tell my famous brain to share its ideas with the rest of me. Because right now, I’m tapped.”
“It’ll happen.” With a shrug, Sloane stood again. “Which reminds me—my company is one of the ones who’ve been pursuing your former assistant, Natasha Jennings. Would you feel better if we opted out of the running? If you’re planning to go for your new candy bar idea, you might want to hire her back. I wouldn’t want to step on anyone’s toes.”
Damon froze, staring unseeingly at the windows. Of course Natasha had other prospects, he realized. He just hadn’t thought about it until now. He hadn’t wanted to think about it—hadn’t wanted to consider Natasha moving on. Now he had no choice.
With effort, Damon shook his head. “There’s no need for that. I won’t be working with Natasha anymore.”
“Are you sure?” Sloane pressed. “Because at the party, Natasha was networking pretty hard on your behalf. At least she was before our awkward encounte
r upstairs. I’m a little fuzzy on the details after that, but I remember being impressed with her diligence earlier in the evening. I guess she must have learned some of that by watching you.”
“Nope. I’m only diligent when looking for a good time. Natasha’s skills are all her own.” Damon couldn’t help grinning in remembrance. “She deserves all the credit … and then some.”
“Aha. I get it.” Wearing an annoyingly knowing look, Sloane leaned in the doorway. “She’s the one. You’re hung up on her.”
Damon swore. “The hell I am.”
“I see that look in your eyes. You’ve got it bad.” Sloane’s eyes sparkled at him. “Lucky girl, that Natasha.”
“Gone girl. We split up. And I’m moving on.” To prove it, Damon made himself get out of bed. His body teetered sideways. Forcibly, he righted himself. “I just believe in giving credit where credit is due. I’m a good guy in that way.”
“Right.” Sloane rolled her eyes, then held up her hand in a farewell gesture. “If that’s ever really true—if you ever really get over her—then call me. In the meantime, there’s a bottle of pain reliever and a bottle of Grey Goose in the kitchen cabinet. They live side by side, just like the good buddies they are. Just choose your poison.” Sloane set down her business card. “And remember—let me know if I can get in on your new venture.”
“If it ever happens,” Damon said dubiously, “I will.”
Then, left alone at last, he went to face down the Tylenol-versus-vodka challenge, not knowing until he got to the kitchen and opened the cabinet exactly which one he would choose.
Relief from his headache? Hair of the dog that bit him?
Either way, Damon was kind of screwed. He bit off another obscenity, then reached into the cabinet to make his choice.
Natasha was standing in Carol’s portion of their duplex apartment building, surrounded by floral-upholstered furniture, tables with ornately carved legs, and various QVC tchotchkes, when she caught her first post-schism glimpse of Damon.
It wasn’t a good one. He was on TV, being featured in grainy, poorly lit footage on one of those celebrity gossip shows as he left one of the city’s most infamous after-hours clubs. He was still wearing his get-married, impersonate-James-Bond, officiate-a-wedding, conduct-an-orchestra suit from their romantic beachside stroll. He’d loosened his tie. He’d lost one of his gold shirt studs. His hair was all dark and rumpled, as though he’d been dragging his hands through it—or rolling around in bed, getting all sexy and uninhibited with God knows whom.
“It looks like notorious millionaire playboy Damon Torrance is back in action!” the shellacked, rail-thin TV commenter said in a scandalized tone. “Torrance, seen here leaving a popular night spot last night with not one but at least a dozen lovely ladies, suffered a breakdown not long ago following a highly publicized failed workshop at a chocolate conference in Sin City. But Damon seems to be rebounding nicely! Known for his lady-killer ways and his knack for publicity, the chocolatier—”
Click. The TV went dark. Semi-guiltily, Natasha jumped.
“Look, it’s one thing to be in denial,” Carol said as she came forward with the remote in her hand. “Which you are, obviously. But actively torturing yourself with that crap on TV? That’s not a good idea.” She shook her head. “There are some things you don’t ever need to see. One is a B-list ‘star’ trying to stay relevant by fox-trotting in the sartorial equivalent of a tacky ice-skating costume.” Making a wry face, Carol gestured toward the now-dark television set. “The other is that.”
“Maybe.” Natasha lifted her chin. “But the camera doesn’t lie. It obviously didn’t take Damon long to move on.”
Which only seemed to prove what Natasha had concluded last night—that Damon had never cared about her. He couldn’t have. Not if he was already appearing in nightclubs with an eager entourage of a dozen women. Obviously, he’d only been using her.
Evidently, she’d been blinded by having all his charisma and good looks focused on her.
“It’s not taking you long to move on, either. Not by the looks of that sharp business suit you have on.” Carol dropped the remote in its designated wicker basket on the coffee table, then faced Natasha with her hands on her hips. “Are you still planning to go through with this cockamamie plan of yours?”
“If you mean am I still planning to go on a series of job interviews this week so I can support myself and my son, then the answer is yes. I am. I’ve put off taking this next step for too long already.” Natasha drew in a deep, hopefully fortifying breath. “If you’re still willing to babysit Milo, that is.”
“Of course I am. I’ll watch the monkey.” Carol peered at her. “You need a little more concealer under your eyes first, though. The tear tracks aren’t quite covered up. Come with me.”
Tactfully not mentioning that Natasha had earned those tear tracks by sobbing into her lonesome pillow late into the night, wishing things could be different with Damon and wondering if she’d somehow caused the whole mess by being lovelorn and naive and inappropriately eager for sexy time with her hunky ex-boss, Carol bustled Natasha into the tiny bathroom. There, her former mother-in-law whipped out her makeup kit, pulled out a miniature pot of concealer and a brush, then went to work.
Natasha stood patiently while she stippled and smeared.
“Man.” Eventually, admiringly, Carol stepped back to study her work. “My son isn’t the only one in the family with artistic talent. This is an impressive concealer job, I have to say.”
“Thank you. I’m glad it was you who spotted those dark circles and not the first interviewer,” Natasha confided in a chatty tone as she looked into the mirror. “That would have been a disaster.” She tried to chuckle and prove she was good to go. Easy-peasy. To her horror, though, the laugh she intended to give emerged instead as a weird, unconvincing honk. Her chin wobbled, too. Uh-oh. Natasha blinked extra hard, trying to stem the waterworks she felt looming. “After all, there’s nothing more awkward than an overly emotional interviewee!”
“You’re not overly emotional. Just human,” Carol said gently. “And those weren’t dark circles, dear. They were tear tracks. You earned them. Let’s call a spade a spade.”
“No, thanks,” Natasha said with strained brightness. She squared her shoulders. “I’d rather not. Um, thanks anyway.”
But there were the tears, all the same, threatening to overtake her in spite of her efforts to compose herself. Stupid tears. Feeling them flood her eyes, Natasha hauled in a deep breath. She blinked even harder, desperately fanning her face.
“I think my efforts to put on a stiff upper lip are crumbling,” Natasha joked in a creaky voice. “I don’t seem to be able to help myself. This happened last night, too. Usually I’m so good at taking things in stride, too. When my latest round of bad luck hits, I always shake it off. This … I don’t understand.”
“I know you don’t.” With an unexpectedly warm and empathetic look, Carol moved nearer. “This is new to you.”
“No. I refuse to let this happen.” Natasha grimaced. It felt like a near approximation of a smile. “See? I’m fine!”
“Oh, honey. No, you’re not. You’re not fine.” With that galling announcement, Carol stepped even closer. Her lightly wrinkled face glowed with compassion and wisdom. Her eyes gleamed with decades of experience and kindheartedness. She looked at Natasha and shook her head. “You need a hug.”
“A hug? Don’t you dare! You’re not a hugger!”
Carol never had been. Not during all the years they’d known one another. No matter what had happened, Carol had remained fairly impervious. She was a hard-knock woman … not unlike herself, it occurred to Natasha. Carol was tough but kind.
Carol was not a person who enfolded someone in her arms, patted that someone on the back, and murmured comforting words. All the same, Natasha felt all those things happen. It was all she could do not to bawl even louder. Forcibly, she wrenched backward, putting some much-needed distance between them.
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“What are you trying to do?” she demanded. “Make sure I bomb all my interviews today? You’re my landlord! You should be keeping my fiduciary obligations to you uppermost in mind.”
Carol actually laughed. “‘Fiduciary obligations’? You’ve really got it bad, don’t you? Next you’ll be quoting tax code.”
If Natasha could have mustered up a paragraph of IRS regulations, she would have, just to prove she didn’t want all this sympathy and hugging. Mulishly, she settled for peeling off a length of the pink, gaggingly floral-scented toilet paper that Carol insisted on buying, then used it to dab her eye makeup.
“All right. Have it your way,” Carol said with a frown. “If you’re late on your payment this month, I’ll charge you a big-ass penalty fee. Your bank account will cry uncle. Happy now?”
Natasha sniffled. “A little,” she admitted.
“Good. Because I have more tough love on the way, if that’s what you’re in the mood for.” With calm, deliberate gestures, Carol put away her makeup kit. “I think you’re making a big mistake. I think you should forgive Damon and just get on with it. Because even if he did initially come here with the idea of making over his damaged image, like you told me last night—”
Suddenly, Natasha regretted all her sobbing just now. She also regretted her tearful, post-midnight tell-all session with Carol last night. But she hadn’t exactly been thinking straight, Natasha knew now. It had taken her a while to sober up, get the beach sand out of her dress, and wrestle off her Wellies. She’d thought of confiding in Amy but had decided not to. Right now her pregnant friend needed all the angst-free slumber she could get.
“—that doesn’t mean Damon didn’t eventually fall for you for real,” Carol pressed on. “That doesn’t mean you didn’t fall for him, too. So he made one mistake. People do that. It’s not the end of the world. All you can do now is try to forgive him.”
Natasha gazed at her former mother-in-law, feeling the urge to bawl receding more with every moment. She lifted her chin.
“That’s a nice speech,” Natasha said quietly … and sadly. She looked at Carol head-on. “The trouble is, it’s not Damon I can’t forgive. I know he screws up. It’s me.”