Wild Card (Wild At Heart Series Book 3)

by Christine Hartmann

  At the sight of the shopping plaza designed to mimic the streets of Venice, four pairs of eyes lit up. Amy waved a hundred-dollar bill as she stood on the edge of the main water feature. “I can’t wait to spend this.”

  Bree snatched it and stuffed it back in the girl’s pocket. “Somebody will mug you.” She put her arms around Amy’s shoulders. “Where did you get that?”

  Amy leaned in close, with one eye on her sisters ogling the gondolas. “Dad gave it to me.” She raised one eyebrow and cast a knowing smile at the ceiling. Her next sentence was lost as the amazement at the sight of its realistically painted blue sky with clouds overwhelmed her. Bree led the still gawking teenager to the dock where her siblings clustered.

  Val contemplated their group. “They can take up to four in a boat.”

  Bree raised her hand. “You guys are going.” Inside her purse, her phone rang. She clasped it and waved at them. “It’s fate. I’ll be here when you get back.”

  Amy objected, saying they could split into two boats. But Bree shook her head. “Remember this as sisters.” She helped Amy into the rocking conveyance. “Besides,” she watched the gondolier push carefully away from the dock, “we’re coming again for my wedding.”

  She leaned on the railing and took out the still ringing phone. It was Ryder. With a hand on one hip, she answered, watching the slowly receding boat. She gave up trying to keep the irritation out of her voice. “What about the words ‘leave me alone’ don’t you understand?”

  “Where are you?”

  “At the gondolas. My fiancé’s sisters are taking a ride.”

  “Are you alone?”

  Bree raised her eyebrows. “What on earth does it matter to you?”

  “I’ll be there in ten minutes.” He hung up.

  She stared at the phone as though it had grown legs in her suddenly sweaty palms. She wandered from the dock. A marble one-story waterfall with vines growing on either side, made to look as though the passersby were strolling through an Italian arcade, splashed and gurgled nearby. But only when a mother yelled at her toddler not to climb into the basin at its base did Bree notice it. She watched water hit the marble, dance with reflected light, and disappear into the hidden drains and pipes that cycled it back to the top to endlessly repeat its fall.

  Near the bathrooms by an entrance far from the gondolas, she found some benches and sat, wondering how long he would search for her before he gave up.

  The tap on her shoulder made her jump. Ryder slid, slightly out of breath, into the space next to her, his face flushed, his wavy hair windblown.

  “You were supposed to go to the gondolas.”

  He fidgeted with his cell phone as though it were too hot to touch. “This entrance is closest to my hotel.”

  “Just my luck.” She pulled at her shirt and stood.

  He laid a hand on her arm. “I get you, Bree.”

  “I don’t get you, Ryder.” She jerked her arm from under his hand. “Not your stupid high school tricks. Not your following me to Vegas. Not your kissing me last night.” She ground her teeth at the sound of her own voice’s quavering. “And least of all your showing up now.”

  He rubbed his tan shorts, his fingers tracing the outlines of his pockets. “I want you with me at the beach.”

  Bree exploded. “What’s with the stupid beach?”

  “It’s what I was trying to tell you ten years ago, at prom.”

  Bree held her hands over her ears. “I heard loud and clear what you said ten years ago. A pity date.” A tear slipped from beneath her lashes.

  “Pity date?”

  At his incredulity, her tears dried, as though evaporated by the heat of her anger. “You’re a lying, selfish, heartless prick, Ryder Fitzgerald.”

  He raised his gaze to hers. “I swear, there was no other girl in the school I wanted to take.”

  Bree’s eyes narrowed. “Is that what you came here to tell me?”

  “I thought…” He sat erect. “You should know.”

  She took a step backward. “I don’t believe you.”

  Ryder’s gaze shifted from her eyes to his lap. “I thought you were the most attractive girl in the school.”

  Bree licked her lips and spat out her words. “And what am I supposed to say to that? That I’ve spent ten years worrying and now I’m relieved? Poor fat Bree Acosta now has a happy high school memory?”

  He pushed back an inch on the seat. “You’re getting it all wrong.”

  “You called me heavy.”

  He shook his head. “I said my mother was heavy.”

  Bree ran her fingers through her hair. “Whatever.”

  He touched her arm. “I didn’t come here to fight, Bree.”

  She flicked his hand away. “So why did you come?”

  “It’s not going the way I wanted it to.”

  The hand that had slapped him tingled. “It never does.”

  He rose slowly, pressing himself from the bench like a ninety-year-old. “You’re engaged.”

  She turned. “I’ve got to pick up my sisters-in-law to-be at the boat dock.”

  “Take care, Bree.”

  She stomped away and then wheeled. “It’s a nasty thing to do, you know. Try to rewrite history.”

  “Rewrite history?”

  She glared at him, her fist clenched around her phone, her eyes burning into his. “Couldn’t you let me believe that it was pity?”

  “Thing is, Bree.” He rose from the bench and brushed his shorts so the crease fell straight down his leg. “I couldn’t.”

  She spun away. Her question came out in a whisper, though she wanted to scream it so loudly that the entire city would reverberate with her cry. “Why not?” But when she turned back, he was gone.

  Chapter 16

  Today was their one month anniversary, Greenwood thought, studying the cell phone photograph. A smiling youth posed on a lawn with a soldier action figure. It was a proof for an advertisement featuring Paulo. He zoomed in on the face and ran his stubby finger over the boy’s lips.

  The first few seconds of kissing Paulo always transformed Greenwood. The mingled rush from the risk of being caught, the feral scent of the boy’s teenage body, the desire that burst in flaming simultaneous waves from Greenwood’s crotch down to his feet and up to his head, transported him to an addictive place that constantly called him back.

  Again and again, he would promise himself he would stop, cease running risks, gird his desires, climb into the cleansing light of normality and let the youth go free. But he couldn’t. “It’s your fault, Paulo,” he would explain in the darkness. “If you weren’t so fucking beautiful, I wouldn’t have to sneak around. If you hadn’t seduced me, I wouldn’t have become the two-faced shit I am. I could get in trouble for having sex with my employee. People will think you’re underage. So really, you control everything.” He would take Paulo’s face in one hand and raise a trembling fist. Paulo would flinch and close his eyes. The moment of transcendent vulnerability would douse Greenwood’s fiery rage. He would shower the smooth skin with kisses. And the cycle would begin again.

  At an audition a month before, Greenwood sensed the start of what he knew would be, if not his final end, the end of life as he knew it. Over the past year, photographs and videos grew increasingly unsatisfactory in quenching his desires. The two dimensionality of his longing became nauseating, repulsive. The images disgusted him and, in turn, made him disgusting. He needed a male of his own. He needed companionship. He needed victory. He needed to feel the warmth, the throbbing, the wetness. He needed the revenge.

  Then, thirty days ago, the casting director introduced him to twenty boys selected as possibilities to feature in the new commando collection advertisements. Greenwood scrutinized them, prowling not for prey but for billboard possibilities. Yet something inside him tingled. Something unusual, something that told him that today there might be more. That a door might open and he could stride through, not by chance, but by asserting his will. He could use
the power he spent his adult life accumulating to craft an ultimate act of defiance. The possibility shimmered in front of him like an enticing mirage.

  Then, after sixteen handshakes, Paulo laid his pliant, soft, child-like hand in Greenwood’s, meeting Greenwood’s gaze with unfathomable brown eyes and long lashes, and holding Greenwood’s grip more gently than any other boy. It was the sign he was waiting for, the invitation, the command.

  Making contact with Paulo was easy. Paulo’s mother was enthusiastic about their spending time together. Her son visiting the offices of the CEO of the company was an honor, she said. Her son being whisked away in a limousine was a miracle. Did she notice when things turned? Her son coming home later in the evening and finally not at all?

  Why did mothers never notice the important things? His own mother never noticed when his stepfather spent more and more time in Greenwood’s room. She never questioned why the door was locked from the inside. That’s a mother for you, he told himself. Self-centered and preoccupied. And, in the end, he was grateful. His own bad mother helped him understand Paulo’s situation. It gave him the opportunity to show Paulo how much he was truly worth.

  A jiggle from the phone interrupted Greenwood’s anniversary musings. He let the incoming call go to voicemail, then hovered, ready to swipe left to delete the message, but hesitated before completing the action. His company’s chief legal counsel had never called before. Greenwood stared out the window beyond the avenues of cars to the spec of blue sky he could see in the distance. He looked at his hand, to his mind noticeably paler than two days ago, his carefully crafted suntan bleached by the constant exposure to neon light. How much longer would he have to sit here? She had to come back to the car soon. No one could stay locked up in a Vegas hotel forever.

  He swiped back and skimmed through the written transcription of the attorney’s message. Then he read it again.

  He threw the phone into the foot well, where it plummeted through the ankle-deep detritus of his homeless existence and disappeared. “Why didn’t you bar the police from my office, you ignorant shit? Did they have a warrant? Did you even ask?” He kicked the floorboards. “I owe you, my ass. They’ve got nothing. The only pictures are on my phone. Once I get it back, everything will be solved.”

  He leaned on the horn, letting the harsh reverberation drown out his curses. His fingers snatched one of the knives from the pocket of his jacket and stabbed it into the armrest. The leather and foam yielded as mouse flesh yields to a hawk’s talon. The blade halted only when it made contact with hard plastic. He jerked the clumsy dagger out, raised his arm to the ceiling, and let it fall like an axe, heavy with purpose.

  ***

  After the gondola ride and shopping trip, things were rushed. They returned later than expected, because Amy was unable to decide where to spend her father’s money. In the end, she returned with a twenty-dollar tank top and her change crumpled tightly in the pocket of her shorts. With only an hour to spare before the family left the hotel, Bree had little time to get ready.

  The meeting with Ryder left her preoccupied, confused, and irritable. And over the course of the afternoon, the feeling didn’t lesson as she hoped it would. When Mal wanted to inspect her purchases, something she usually found endearing, she snapped at him for micromanaging. He retreated into the living room to finish getting dressed. She snatched her clothes from the closet and slammed the bathroom door.

  In front of the mirror, she smoothed product into her hair, teasing it at the ends, her bad mood hanging over her like a fog. She shook a finger at herself. “You love him.” She smoothed on lipstick, smacked her lips, and stepped into her dress.

  A tentative knock on the door interrupted her eyeliner application. “Bree, honey? Are you ready?”

  Bree shook her head but opened the door.

  “You look beautiful.” Mal kissed her on the lips.

  “Did you have to do that?” Bree stepped back in front of the mirror, jerking a tissue from its box so violently that the whole container clattered to the floor. She dabbed at the edges of the smudged line.

  Mal retrieved the box and set it gently on the counter. “I know you’re nervous.”

  Bree presented him with her back. He zipped her dress. “Sorry. I’m a little on edge at the thought of being the center of attention tonight.” She threw him a wan smile.

  The zipper caught his finger. Mal winced. “This is Mom and Dad’s show anyway.”

  Bree patted his behind. “Our wedding will be way more fun.”

  Half an hour later, at Uncle Frank’s restaurant, Mal’s arm shook slightly when he looped it around Bree’s. “I think I’m nervous too.”

  “Let’s keep our eyes on the prize.” Bree intertwined her fingers with his and kept her voice low. “Our wedding’s what counts.”

  She peeked through at the guests and latched him against her side, making Stephanie’s gift bracelets jangle playfully on her wrist. The subtle rose pattern woven in shiny black thread into her black matte cocktail dress shimmered. She sucked in her stomach, hoping she looked less wide from the side than she feared. She drew a deep breath. “Here we go.”

  They stepped through the archway.

  In the hours between the end of the lunch rush and now, Uncle Frank and his staff had transformed the room by pushing planters into new configurations, creating the effect of a ballroom with strategic alcoves. The many circular and square tables were clustered at the back. As she and Mal walked down the center aisle, the guests gave them a standing ovation. Men in sport jackets and women in flowery dresses and saris stared. Bree winkled her nose and, out of the corner of her eye, assessed the crowd. The average age seemed close to sixty. Too much hairspray and heavy perfume, she thought. At the front of the room, opposite the entrance, was an open area and beyond that a low stage with a single microphone on a stand. Hidden speakers played a familiar classical tune Bree couldn’t place.

  At the first table near the front, Faye motioned them to two empty seats. Soumil pulled out her chair and edged it carefully under her, the back of the seat hitting her knees just at the right instant. He placed his hand briefly on her shoulder and gave it a squeeze. At the unexpected gesture, Bree turned to look at him, but he had already stepped away. The room quieted. Guests resumed their subdued chatter, mostly in English, but also in what Bree assumed was Gujarati.

  Under her napkin lay a program of the evening’s events. Bree felt her blood pressure rise. She nudged Mal. “This isn’t the version I saw.” Her finger rested on Motivational talk by hotel chain marketing guru. She focused on Soumil and Faye ambling through the company, shaking hands with the men and hugging the women. “Is this a party or promotional event?” She slapped the napkin across her thighs.

  Mal sipped water before answering. “I think it’s both.”

  “Did you know about the guru?”

  Mal nodded. The waiter placed a small plate of appetizers in front of him.

  Bree pushed the plate away. “When?”

  “Sometime last week?” He lifted his fork.

  Bree wadded up her napkin, threw it on the table, and pushed back her chair. “I’m going to the bathroom.”

  Mal’s hand brushed her skirt. He peered up at her. “You’re the one who said this is my parents’ version of a good time.”

  “Order me a martini and have it here when I get back.” She leaned down and kissed him lightly on the lips. “It’ll help me pull myself together.”

  Mal cringed. “It’s wine and beer only, remember?”

  “Oh, Lord.” Bree rubbed her forehead. “Just have a glass sitting here when I get back.”

  She gave Mal a thumbs up and marched in the direction of the restrooms. Near the recess that led to the men’s and women’s rooms stood Uncle Frank. Bree threw him a glance she hoped made clear she wasn’t going to put up with any more of his hanky-panky. But when he opened his arms and boomed across the two tables near them, “Bree, my gorgeous niece, come let me give you a hug and welcome you
into the family,” the approving glances forced her into a brief embrace. How he managed to squeeze his upper arms suggestively into her breasts, she couldn’t understand. But he did.

  She recoiled and glared at him, with her back to the tables. Then she crooked her finger and called him into the darker hallway the way to the lavatories. He bounded toward her, his eyes glittering with anticipation. When they rounded the corner, she about faced, holding her arm out to stop him. He leered at her from arm’s-length, out of breath from the few eager steps, his stomach jiggling.

  “If you ever try something like that again with me,” Bree hissed, “I’m going to take your arm…” She peered down the short hallway to make sure no one was looking and grabbed his thumb, twisting it unmercifully. His eyes widened. He held his other hand against the wall as she wrenched his forearm against his lower back. “And break it.”

  She released it and stepped back. He groaned and massaged his hand, regarding her with respect.

  “That goes for Mal’s sisters too.” She wiped her hands on her dress. “My adopted brother was a Marine. Keep your slimy hands where they belong.”

  In the bathroom, she leaned against the wall, laughing.

  Where did that come from? That move was the only one Kacey taught her after his basic training, thinking it might help her one day in a dark alley. But until a moment ago, all she thought she remembered was his “control the thumb and you control the person” mantra. She caught her breath and tugged her clothing back into position.

  When she returned to the table, Mal eyed her inquisitively. “Were they serving drinks in the bathroom?”

  Bree giggled and took a sip of her red wine. “Something like that.”

  An hour and thirty minutes into the event, they were a quarter of the way down the program. Bree’s stomach growled. During the main course, Soumil and Faye escorted her and Mal from table to table, introducing her to hundreds of people she would never see again. They returned to their table to find their plates removed and the wait staff invisible. Bree twiddled her thumbs through Faye’s long blessing and suppressed yawns during the toasts that spoke more about long-standing business relationships, future collaboration opportunities, and market growth than love, marriage, or even family. When the wait service finally started again, she ordered a second set of dinners to be delivered to her and Mal, only to be pulled to her feet by Faye.