Damnit.
Growling with irritation, I swipe my phone off the nightstand. “What?” I snarl.
“Wow, good morning to you, too,” chirps Vera Sharp.
Vera and I met at a bar in Hollywood four years ago. Instead of picking up men, we’d picked up each other. The running joke among our friends is that if we were gay, we’d be married by now.
“Sorry,” I sigh. “Bad dreams.” I glance out floor-to-ceiling windows, gauging the angle of sunlight on the deeply green landscape and glittering ocean beyond. “What are you doing? What time is it?”
“Eleven o’clock, you lazy bitch. I’m calling because I’m at your front door and want to know if you set the alarm last night.”
She has a key, not to mention the alarm code; the question is a loaded one. “No one’s here,” I answer. “Come on in. And start some coffee, would you? I’ll be out in a few.”
“Sure thing.”
I toss the phone down the bed. Ocean breeze tickles my flushed skin, tightening my nipples beneath my cotton camisole.
“Fucking Sebastian,” I mutter.
Like clockwork, whenever I run into him in the city, I have the dreams. They last for seven torturous nights before I’m purged of wanting him. There’s a reason for the exact duration of the dreams. A damned good reason.
Eight years ago, in my second year at UCLA, I’d unexpectedly run into Sebastian at a party off campus. He’d been on summer break from grad school at NYU, in town for the week with several friends. I hadn’t seen him since leaving Boston two years prior, and discovered that time had been very, very good to him.
Always handsome, his tall, lanky frame had finally filled out. Perfect swimmer’s body—broad shoulders, narrow hips, legs that went for miles. Pitch-black eyes that undressed me from across the crowded room, igniting a dormant childhood crush.
My boyfriend had just dumped me.
I’d had a few too many drinks.
Perfect recipe for a disastrous life choice.
Sebastian and I went at it like sex addicts that night. And the next day, and the day after that. We’d ended up spending the entirety of his vacation in his hotel room.
I’d had exactly seven days of mind-blowing, totally inappropriate, borderline illegal sex with my brother’s best friend. The boy from the wrong side of the tracks. My mother’s charity case, now a world-famous actor and director.
If Alex ever finds out, he’ll kill us both. Sebastian first, of course.
Vera’s strident voice comes from my bedroom door, “What the hell? Do you have a fever or something?”
I sit up fast, palming my burning face. “No. I just, uh—I saw Sebastian last night.”
Vera’s cornflower-blue eyes widen, and a slow, salacious grin lifts her cherry-red lips. “You had a wet dream!” she accuses, striding forward effortlessly on her four-inch wedged heels. She perches on the foot of the bed. “Details. Now.”
I scowl. “I don’t remember.”
She pouts. “Rude.”
“Seriously, I don’t remember.” I slip out of bed and head to the bathroom. She follows. I pee with the door open, because we’re that close.
As I take care of business, she leans against the bathroom counter and frowns at me. “Tell me again why you won’t consider a repeat of Bliss Week?”
I flush and head to the sink to brush my teeth. “It was almost a decade ago,” I mumble around the vibrating bristles. “We were horny kids. We’re grown up now. The end.”
Thankfully, Vera has the attention span of a gnat. She picks up a ring from a small ceramic bowl on the counter. “Can I have this?”
I spit out toothpaste. “Only if you made me coffee.”
“Duh.”
“Then it’s yours.”
An hour and a half later, Vera and I sit on the sunny patio of Rhubarb, one of Alex’s Los Angeles restaurants. Though he’d never admit it, I’m positive he designed the restaurant for me.
The cottage-like atmosphere reminds me poignantly of our mother, who died of breast cancer almost six years ago. It’s artfully cluttered, bright and airy, yet warmly intimate. Small, rustic wooden tables share space with riotous greenery, and there’s a glorious view of the ocean. Next to my two-bedroom Malibu sanctuary, it’s my favorite place in the city.
“Carbs or no carbs?” debates Vera.
I eye her over the rim of my wine glass. “Do you have any gigs this weekend?”
She shakes her head, golden-brown hair sliding over a tanned shoulder. “No, but my agent wants me to drop another couple pounds before the lingerie shoot next week.”
I grimace. We’ve had the argument a hundred times—I think she should give up modeling and focus on acting. She’s insanely talented and beautiful, with the perfect blend of girl next door and sexy vixen. But modeling has been paying her bills for years, and she hasn’t landed a big break in Hollywood. A few commercials, a couple indie films. More than most, but not enough to feel secure.
“Why won’t you let me help?” I ask softly.
She scowls. “For the zillionth time, I want to sink or swim on my own merits.”
Other than her adamant refusal of my help, Vera is a classic Hollywood transplant. She left home—Saint Louis, Missouri—at eighteen. Drunk father, co-dependent mess of a mother. Church on Sundays and a mandatory part-time job beginning at age twelve.
Her two older brothers followed in their dad’s footsteps after high school and went to work in the packing industry. Convinced her options were limited to factory work or childrearing, Vera packed a suitcase and took a bus to the City of Angels.
She hasn’t seen or spoken with her family in two years, since they saw one of her racier commercial prints and accused her of doing porn. The fact that it was one of her brothers who saw it—in a famous lingerie catalogue—didn’t help matters.
Despite the vast differences in our upbringings, Vera and I are two peas in a pod. Hardheaded. Ambitious. Jaded. We even look somewhat alike, though my hair is closer to black than brown, my eyes a darker blue, and my skin can’t hold a tan to save its life. She’s also just shy of six feet tall, whereas I clock in at five-five.
Basically, I’m her short, vampiric sidekick.
“I just want you to have what you deserve,” I say in apology. “At least I’m not offering to buy you a house anymore.”
Vera snorts. “Speaking of my apartment, my new neighbors are freaking loud.”
I smirk, recalling that they’re newlyweds. “Good loud, though?”
She grins. “Whew, I’ll say. Headboard-banging, ass-spanking loud. They’re right up your alley, freak show.”
I throw back my head and laugh. “Whatever, so I like it a little rough. Sue me.”
With an embarrassed throat-clearing, our male waiter sets two more wine glasses and a bottle on the table. Vera and I trade confused glances.
“We didn’t order this,” I tell him.
The waiter, a young man with delicious caramel skin, points across the patio. “Compliments of the gentleman.”
I bend to see around Vera, then immediately straighten. “That’s no gentleman,” I say crisply. “Send it back, please.”
Vera follows my stare. “Jesus,” she hisses. “Can’t that guy take a hint? It’s been what, nine months?”
I nod shortly and wave at the bottle. “Please, I’m serious. Take it back.”
The waiter picks up the bottle, clearly uncomfortable. “W-what should I tell him?” He looks so tortured, I throw my napkin on the table and stand, picking up the bottle and glasses.
“Don’t worry about it. I got this.”
4
As I walk away, Vera calls brightly, “Don’t do anything that will get you sued!”
I skirt around tables and zero in on Alaster Brant. He watches me come, a knowing smirk on his lovely British face. Blond hair, blue eyes. Killer smile. I should have never fallen for his charms, but the accent had proven too much for my defenses. I’d broken my cardinal rule of never datin
g actors. Naturally, I came to regret it.
Reaching the table, I set the bottle and glasses down between him and his manager, Darcy Kaplan. Darcy nods at me, her attention barely wavering from her phone call.
Alaster smiles blithely. “Candace, you look ravishing.” Goddamn accent.
I smile sweetly. “And you still look like a philandering piece of shit.”
He chuckles. “I’ve missed your wit, dear. Are you free this evening?”
“No, and consider me booked for the rest of my life and yours.”
He places a hand over his heart, blue eyes widening with manufactured hurt. “You can’t dash a man’s dreams like that. It’s cruel.”
“Leave me alone, Alaster.”
I turn fast and walk smack into someone’s chest. A familiar chest—smelling of smoke, leather, and vetiver.
“Whoa,” says Sebastian, grabbing my shoulders as I jerk back. I glare up at him, wishing more than anything that I’d worn heels. It’s hard to intimidate someone who’s almost a foot taller than you are.
“Let go of me,” I growl, and shove past him. I make it the rest of the way to Vera without mishap and plunk into my chair.
“That looked awkward,” she says dryly.
I take a large swallow of my wine and glance across the patio. Sebastian has joined Alaster and Darcy, who’s his manager, as well. The men are laughing. Fucking actors.
“Smallest big city in the world,” I mutter.
Vera says, “I ordered us salads to go.”
“God bless you.”
When our food arrives, I make haste to the valet while Vera stops in the restroom. I stare at a palm tree as I wait, taking deep breaths to rid my nose of Sebastian’s scent. On my tenth breath, it floods my senses anew. My skin prickles as he moves up beside me.
“Are you stalking me, Bast?”
He waves a valet ticket. “Such vanity, Candy.”
Frazzled by his nearness and last night’s dream, I snap, “Don’t call me that.”
“But you’re so, so sweet.”
Arousal quakes in my belly and lower. I have a flash of recall that makes me dizzy—his head between my legs, his growling voice telling me how sweet I taste. That I’m candy to him.
I almost swoon with relief as my car pulls up and the valet steps out. Vera walks out of the restaurant and hurries toward me. Perfect timing. I smile up at Sebastian, glad he can’t see my eyes behind my dark sunglasses.
“Quit messing with me.”
His brows lift. “Is that what I’m doing?”
“How the hell should I know? But whatever it is, stop. There are millions of other women in this city you can test your pick-up lines on.”
“None of them blush like you do, Candace.” Before I can retort, he nods toward my car. “I’ll see you tonight at Alex’s. Don’t forget a gift.” He strides toward the valet with his ticket. He doesn’t look back.
Vera whistles softly. “That is one fine ass.”
I drag my eyes away from the area in question. Shaking my head, I skirt around to the driver’s door of my Mercedes convertible and slide into the seat. Vera passes a tip to the valet, then drops into the passenger side.
“I don’t know what’s gotten into him,” I mutter, gazing through the windshield at Sebastian, who swings a long leg over the back of his Harley. He settles, shifting his hips a little. Muscles clench low in my body.
Irritated with myself, I put the car in gear and floor it out of the parking lot. I don’t pay much attention to direction, needing only to get the hell away from Sebastian Bellizzi.
Vera squeals as I take a turn without breaking. “What the fuck did he say?” she shouts over the wind.
“In twenty-four hours, he’s twice referenced wanting to go down on me.”
“What!” she screeches. “What’s wrong with you? Let him get it out of his system!”
“Not happening,” I say, in a tone that I know she’ll respect.
There’s a lot Vera doesn’t know about Sebastian and me—our history is one of the few details of my life I’ve kept private from her. Because although casual sex with Sebastian might sound like a mutually beneficial agreement, there’s never been anything casual between us.
The first time we met, I threw a plate at him and he yelled at me. Granted, we’d been seven and eleven years old, but as they say, first impressions matter.
Back then, Sebastian was the troubled nephew of one of my parents’ employees, Nona Bellizzi, who I’d been calling Nana since I could talk. More than being the estate manager of the family home in Weston, Massachusetts, Nona was family. Part-nanny, part-grandmother, she’d been a staple in our young lives. More constant even than our parents, who occupied an often exclusive sphere of their love for each other.
When Nona wanted to bring her nephew over from Italy after some undisclosed conflict, my parents had quickly agreed. Not only that, they’d insisted he live with her in the sprawling guesthouse on the property and footed the bill to secure him midyear enrollment in our private school.
Late on the night of his arrival, I’d been pillaging the kitchen for snacks. Sebastian, sleepless from jet lag and deviant, had been sneaking around the great house. Thinking myself alone, his innocent question of, “Can I have a cookie?” had resulted in said plate throwing and yelling.
It wasn’t the last time we yelled at each other. Or broke dinnerware.
5
I leave for San Diego at four o’clock and luck out with traffic. It still takes me two and a half hours to reach Point Loma from Malibu. By the time I find parking down the street from my brother’s new digs, I’m starving, my ass is numb, and I need to pee like no one’s business.
Grabbing the housewarming gift from the passenger seat, I hightail it to the front door. It’s open in welcome, framed by whimsical, blooming vines. Jazz music and voices drift toward me down a long, airy hallway. I hear Alex’s low laughter, followed by Thea’s teasing voice, and warmth expands in my heart.
Our mother’s death hit Alex the hardest—they’d had a unique bond, born of shared temperament. Deacon, Charles, and I take more after our father. Our feet stay on the ground and our heads ruled by logic. At least, I like to think so. My mother was a wonderful woman, but she was also impulsive, often ruled by her emotions.
Alex’s girlfriend, Thea Sands, is a perfect match for him. I knew it the second I met her and witnessed the strange, oddly electric connection between the two of them. Having stood helplessly by as Alex flew off the deep-end after our mother’s death, I’m extraordinarily grateful to Thea for bringing him back to life.
After making use of the half bath, I wander toward the back of the house. There are a handful of people in the open living-dining space, and several more on the wide deck outside.
Alex sees me and strides quickly across the room. He hugs me hard, squeezing the breath out of my lungs. My feet dangle an inch off the floor.
I choke out, “Put me down, you dolt.”
He chuckles and sets me on my feet, blue eyes just like mine sparkling with happiness. Of the four of us, Alex and I look the most alike. We were also the closest growing up. For these reasons and more, he’s my favorite brother.
“I’m so glad you could make it,” he says warmly, and turns toward the patio. “Thea! Candace is here.”
Thea makes excuses to her company—a dark-haired man I recognize from the opening of Alex’s San Diego restaurant—and walks toward us with a wide smile.
She stops beside Alex, uncertainty flickering in her expressive hazel eyes as she debates hugging me. Yep, she’s a thinker. For some reason, I’m reminded of Sebastian. The two have a similar presence—contained and watchful.
I make the decision for her, grabbing her into a hug and giving her a kiss on the cheek. “Thanks for making an honest man out of my big brother.”
She blushes prettily. “Thanks for coming. Would you like some wine?” I nod, and she calls toward the kitchen, “Michael, will you pour a glass for Candace?”
I glance over to see the same man from outside now in the kitchen. His eyes find mine and he smiles, displaying dimples. Cute.
“Red or white?” he asks.
“Red,” I reply, grinning back at him.
“Easy, tiger,” murmurs Alex. “You’d chew him up and spit him out.”
I glance guiltily at Thea, who shrugs. “Michael’s made of pretty strong stuff.”
I smirk, eyeing the shoulders flexing under a navy sweater as he pours wine. “I’ll say.”
Alex groans. “You’re worse than most men, Candace.”
Thea adds softly, “I will say that, uh, Michael’s more of the serious commitment sort.”
“Damn,” I sigh, and laugh at Thea’s shocked expression. “Don’t worry, I’ll keep my claws out of him.”
Tobacco and vetiver. Sebastian asks blandly, “Keep your claws out of who?”
He moves past me to hug Alex, then Thea. Lastly he turns to me, and I see the same watchful calculation in his eyes I glimpsed in those of my brother’s girlfriend. Jesus. Alex found the female version of his best friend.
“None of your business, Bellizzi,” I say, and make my escape. Michael meets me halfway across the room with a glass of wine. I take it and offer my hand. “I’m Candace, Alex’s sister. I think we met briefly at Hemlock’s opening.”
He nods, dimpling again. His brown eyes are warm and open, just a shade darker than his hair. “Michael Collins,” he says, clasping my hand. His grip is perfect, not one of those weak handshakes men sometimes give women. “I remember you. Nice to see you again.”
“You’re an architect, right?” I ask.
His eyes widen. “Good memory.”
“Near photographic, actually.”
“You don’t say? Is that a blessing or a curse?”
“It depends,” I say, smiling coyly. “So, are you helping with the remodel?” Alex bought the house primarily for the view of Sunset Cliffs, which Thea has a special love for. The sheer romance of it makes me gag a little. The place does, however, need serious updating.
The Reluctant Heiress_A Novella Page 2