BLACK WIDOW (Book #1 of The Black Widow Series)

by Jenni Moen

  Water was running somewhere.

  I pulled a heavy blanket over my eyes to block out the sun … and noise … and guilt. I took a deep breath. Along with the unfamiliar scent of the sheets came a more familiar sense of dread.

  No, no, no. What had I done? I racked my brain, but it was on sick leave.

  Only one thought came to mind: Scott.

  I touched my lips, remembering the secrets that had spilled from them and then the kisses that had followed. The water running in what I assumed was a nearby bathroom made me sick to my stomach. I'd ruined everything before it could even start.

  Unfortunately, this wasn't the first time I'd woken up in a stranger's bed with more questions than answers. I needed to get out of there, but I knew better than to run out like a coward. Experience had taught me it was best to own these situations and avoid an even more unpleasant experience later.

  I opened one eye and then the other and peeked out at a stark white ceiling. Finally, I attempted to sit up. The motion caused my brain to bang into something else inside my head. I winced and looked around for my clothes. It was time to put on my big girl panties—both literally and figuratively—and fake it.

  I noticed a red dress I hadn't worn in several years draped neatly over the back of a chair. The bright color brought my father to mind, and I wondered if he would appreciate whatever bold statement I'd been trying to make the night before. Somehow, I doubted it.

  Oh, God, I thought, remembering his phone call. Had I gone over to my parents’ house after Scott had left? Had that somehow led me to Weston Kingsley's apartment?

  I took in the impressive room around me. The expensive furnishings and well-coordinated decorations looked like a decorator had picked them out. The obvious focal point of the room was the massive four-poster bed. It was a statement piece, conjuring up expectations that only a man with a lot of confidence would dare purchase. I knew Weston could afford it, but somehow, I had my doubts about the rest.

  Was there really enough wine in my father's well-stocked cellar for me to end up going home with him? God, I hoped not. I'd take a no-name stranger over Weston Kingsley.

  As I slipped into the dress, the water in the bathroom turned off. A shower door clicked open and shut again, and a shadow darkened the open doorway. I smoothed my hair down with my hands, sure that my mascara was smeared and my breath was as rancid as my stomach. Anxious to get this over and done with, I strode into the bathroom as if none of those details mattered, like I knew exactly who I'd find in there.

  The man's broad and muscled back faced me as he used the towel in his hand to dry his hair. Water drops from the shower still glittered across his shoulders. I probably should've given him a little longer to at least get a towel wrapped around himself, but I wasn't disappointed with the view.

  He was tall … like Scott. With dark hair … like Scott.

  "Good morning," I choked out, my voice still gravelly with sleep.

  In one seemingly fluid motion, he wrapped the towel around his waist and turned. If he was embarrassed, he didn't show it.

  It took everything in me not to break out in song. I mean, the situation was still bad, but it could definitely be worse.

  Scott's lips quirked into a half smile. "You're awake. How do you feel?"

  "Okay."

  "Liar."

  He moved to the sink and turned on the water, letting the bowl fill. "I was going to let you sleep. I'm guessing you could use a few more hours. There's a Starbucks coffee with pastries in the kitchen. I didn't know what you liked, so I got a selection."

  I moved across the room and sat on the counter beside him. "How very thoughtful of you."

  He arched a brow. "I'm a thoughtful guy."

  "So you've already been out?" I asked.

  "I went for a jog to clear my head."

  Hmm. That didn't sound good. "Did it work?"

  "Yep." He turned off the water and moved to stand directly in front of me. My eyes traveled down his firm chest to his abs and back up again. He placed his hands on my knees, pushed them apart, and cocked his head to the side. His lips turned up mischievously. "Do you mind?"

  "I suppose not," I said, trying to sound coy and not completely freaked out. "Been there, done that, right?" My laugh came out strangled, sounding much less confident than I was aiming for.

  "I just need in here," he said, obviously trying not to smile. He reached between my legs to the drawer directly below where I sat and pulled it out. "Razor," he said holding it up.

  "Ahhhh. Yes, of course." I smiled to hide my embarrassment. He moved back to the sink while I rallied some more courage.

  Except for the fact that I was wearing my clothes from the night before, something was so incredibly ordinary about watching him smear shaving cream on his face. As if I did this every day. "Look, I've been thinking," I began.

  A pinched line formed between his eyebrows as he took the first swipe, starting near his ear. "About?"

  I watched him, transfixed by the lines of his face, the razor clearing a path through the dark stubble surrounding it. I touched my own cheek, wondering if it was red and burned from rubbing up against his. "Last night."

  "Which part?" he asked without taking his eyes off the mirror. He wasn't being funny and flirty. Maybe it was simply because he didn't want to slice open his carotid artery, but it troubled me. Other than when we were baring our souls the night before, I’d never seen him this serious. Even on the train, after he’d had an obviously heated discussion with whoever was on the other side of his phone, he’d joked around with me.

  Maybe the sex had been awful. I was rusty. It had been more than a year since I'd been with a man—and admittedly, those had been less than ideal circumstances—but it wasn't like I'd forgotten how to do it. Even if I had been completely trashed the night before.

  I groaned internally. I couldn't even remember calling him, though I must have. Or maybe he'd called me. I probably should've looked at my phone before I'd barreled in here like I knew what I was doing.

  "Are you okay?" he asked, his eyes narrowing. "You look like you're going to be sick." There was a slight smirk on his face, which I found promising. It sounded more like the Scott I thought I kind of, sort of knew.

  "I'm okay. I'll take something for my head in a minute." I picked an invisible piece of lint from my dress.

  Why was this so awkward? After what we'd done the night before, it should be no big deal. Instead, I was analyzing his every move, reading more into his expressions than was probably warranted. "I was just thinking … some more … about what you said … about having the week off … and spending it together," I said, drawing it out.

  "Oh?"

  "Yeah, I mean, now that we've slept together, I was thinking we could do something really crazy." His eyebrows rose and he smiled. I nearly sighed in relief.

  "Like what?" he asked and then puckered his lips into something positively kissable while he moved the razor around them.

  "Well, you said you wouldn't want to go to a beach alone. But what if we went together? We have a resort down in Turks. We could be there by this evening. Spend the week together."

  He glanced at me. "What do you mean, we have a resort?"

  "My family. I'll get us the nicest suite available. We'll eat the best food. We'll do nothing but kick back and relax. Everyone knows that vacation sex is the best sex," I added, in case I really had been awful the night before.

  Even through the mask of shaving cream, I saw the disdain on his face.

  Ouch. I was preparing to tuck tail and run when his eyes widened suddenly.

  "Wait a minute. You're part of the Smythe family? As in the Smythe hotel chain?"

  I looked down at my hands folded in my lap. "Well, yeah. I figured you knew that."

  "How would I?"

  I shrugged. "I guess I thought Ryder might’ve told you."

  "So Clayton Smythe is your father?" he asked.

  He wasn't making this situation any less awkward for me.
"Yes and sometimes I even claim him."

  He leaned down and rinsed his face with clean water. I waited for him to finish. After he toweled off, he finally spoke. "So you could pretty much buy this entire town if you wanted to?"

  I cocked my head. "I'm sure he's tried, but I'm not really into that sort of thing. I've found I'm happier when people choose to be around me of their own volition."

  When he just stared at me, I continued, "I don't have that kind of money anyway. I mean, I'm more than comfortable. I have the money Chase left me, and my trust gives me a generous allowance, but I don't have access to most of it yet." I wasn't sure why I was spilling the details of my finances to him. Nerves probably. He still hadn't given me an answer, and now that he was more interested in my money than spending the week with me, I wasn't sure I wanted him to.

  "Your trust?" He shook his head in disbelief and then his lips curled into something that resembled disgust. "Did you rent this apartment for me, Celeste? Is this your doing?"

  "What?"

  I couldn't begin to fathom what he was talking about.

  "Ever since I met you, weird things have been happening to me. I didn't want to believe it was you. I convinced myself it had to be someone else … but no matter how hard I keep trying to find another answer, I keep looping back to you."

  I shook my head. "I don't—" I began, but he cut me off.

  "You own the apartment next door. But wait. You don’t actually live there because you also have a big fancy house on the other side of town. By your own admission, you have a generous trust. I told you I wrecked my bike. Poof. New bike. I rent a shitty apartment. Oh wait, here's a better one. Your old couch sucks? I can fix that too. I thought I was the one trying to win you over, but now, I'm wondering if it's the other way around.”

  His words came fast as he hurtled angry accusations I didn't understand at me. "Scott, slow down. What are you talking about?"

  He stepped over in front of me again and placed his hands on either side of my legs. He leaned forward so that we were almost nose-to-nose. "On the train, I told you I wrecked my bike. I told you my name. I even gave you an idea of where I lived. It wouldn't have been too hard to find me. The very next day, a brand-new bike shows up. Bought and paid for by some anonymous woman with a sexy voice. I told myself it could be you, thanking me for saving your ass at Foster Street."

  He was in my face, freshly showered and smelling delicious, but the things coming out of his mouth were too confusing for my still slightly inebriated brain.

  I blinked stupidly, and he continued, "Then I get to Highland Park, fully expecting to find the movers hauling my shitty furniture into my equally shitty new apartment, and lo and behold, I find I have a new apartment. A penthouse that takes up nearly the whole goddamn top floor of the building. And it's full of fancy new furniture I can't afford. But don't worry about it, they tell me, because again, it's all paid for." He threw his hands up in exasperation.

  "I know it's not a coincidence. The bike and the apartment. And again, I'm thinking, could it be you? But I don't even know your name, so why would you do all of this for me? It doesn't make any sense. Then I run into you at the bookstore, and you act surprised. Legitimately surprised. You act like my move to Highland Park is news to you. You were so convincing. No one's that good of an actress, I tell myself. So I'm back to square one.”

  My head was spinning, trying to keep up with him, trying to fill in the blanks from the night before, and hoping it was enough to intelligently deny the accusations he was making.

  "Even when I see you coming out of the apartment next door," he continued, "I think it's just some crazy coincidence. Or even better, maybe it's your sister."

  "My sister?" I asked.

  "I guess I was just hoping. I didn't want it to be you who I followed to the bar last night. After everything that had happened between us, I didn't want to believe that five minutes after I left you, you were getting ready to go out and find someone else to fuck."

  I winced at his words. Had I actually done that? It was hard to imagine when he was the only one thing on my mind. But I couldn’t doubt the truth of what he was saying. Whatever I'd done had pushed him over the edge. I could feel his distress, and I wanted to reach out and take some of it from him, relieve him of it as he’d relieved me of my guilt the night before, but I knew better. Something raw and volatile in his expression stopped me. Something warned me from touching him.

  "Even this morning, I went for a run to try to figure out how, after everything, I could still want you. How I could be making excuses for a woman I barely know? It took me six miles to decide that none of last night mattered. Six miles to decide that you were drunk and didn't know what you were doing. Six miles to figure out why I care so damn much. Because I barely know you. It shouldn’t matter what you do. But when I saw you at that bar, flirting with the bartender, I nearly lost my damn mind."

  Shame kept me silent while I let him work through his tirade, and I put together the pieces of the night.

  His face was red, his neck bulging. I was slightly terrified and completely spellbound by the amount of emotion pouring off him. Jealousy was an emotion I knew well. I’d experienced it my whole life, though I’d rarely been the object of it. He was furious with me and still somehow wanted me. He was so close and the air between us so electric. I would have wrapped my legs around him and pulled him even closer if he had stopped there. But he didn’t. Instead, he said the one thing that I’d fought against my entire life.

  "I came back here ready to give you another chance, only to find out that you're some spoiled little rich girl who probably thinks she can buy men like she buys purses."

  "Stop!" I screamed at him, my heart pounding, my blood racing. "I am not a spoiled little rich girl! You don’t know anything about me!”

  He stepped back and eyed me silently.

  I hopped off the counter and blew past him, a venomous tirade of my own pouring from my lips. “I don't know what the hell you're talking about, but I'm not responsible for any of it.” I spun around the bedroom looking for my shoes. Surely, I had shoes. And maybe a purse?

  "I don't know anything about your motorcycle, Scott. It wasn't me. And this apartment is nice, but I didn't have anything to do with it either.” I stopped and glared at him. “And I'm sorry for whatever I did last night, but I don't even remember it, so I'm not even sure what I should be apologizing for.”

  "I drink sometimes. It started after Chase died. A glass to ease the pain turned into a bottle to completely forget. Sometimes, I lose control. I don't know what happened last night. I was so happy when you left. For the first time in years, I felt like maybe something good was happening to me. I just wanted to celebrate a little bit. I had only planned to have one." My eyes burned with threatening tears. "I guess it turned into more."

  I fled to the living room, where I found my shoes sitting next to a worn couch and my purse on the coffee table. I slid my feet into my heels ready to go home where the only judgment would be my own.

  "Wait."

  I turned to find Scott standing in the doorway, watching me, a perplexed expression on his face. His chest heaved as if he'd just returned from his run, not the shower. The towel still hung from his glorious hips. I looked away, wanting desperately to remember what he felt like, sure now I’d never know.

  "What is it with bathrooms and women? It's not a good combination for me."

  I picked up my purse from the coffee table. "My keys?"

  He shook his head. "You can’t go yet. Not like this."

  Something inside me clenched. I didn’t want to go, but it was becoming clear that we were a dangerous mix. Our relationship was like a live grenade, just waiting for one of us to pull the pin to detonate it, and we'd only just begun. What would happen when real feelings were involved? It was too much to deal with. Especially for something that would burn out soon enough whether I wanted it to or not.

  "I need to go let Bear out." It was a legitimate reason even if not
the real one.

  “Why do you keep your husband’s apartment, Celeste? What’s over there?” He pointed toward the front door, and I realized why the layout of Scott’s apartment was so familiar to me.

  I exhaled a heavy breath. “I don’t know. I have the paperwork to sign to put it on the market, but I haven’t been able to pull the trigger.”

  “Are you hanging onto it for sentimental reasons?”

  That definitely wasn’t it, but I didn’t want to explain what was in there or how I kept losing the paperwork. I didn’t want to tell him that the last time I’d gone on a bender I’d woken up the next morning to find the paperwork in the trash. Scott was asking questions I couldn’t answer. If I told him that, he’d realize how screwed up my head really was. I resisted the urge to open my purse and pop a few pills. That would be another red flag he wouldn’t miss.

  “I need to do something about it.” I glanced around the living room and found the distraction I was looking for. It was full of furniture. Too much furniture. Some of it still wrapped up. “It sounds like you have bigger problems to worry about. Somebody bought you all of this?”

  “I really thought it might be you.” He almost sounded disappointed.

  “I’m sorry, no. If you'd just asked me, I would've told you. Maybe I could've helped you figure it out."

  “Then who?” he said, running his hand through his wet hair.

  I pressed my lips together in a line and shook my head. "I don’t know. An old girlfriend maybe?"

  I hated the suggestion, and it immediately put things into perspective for me. I understood now why he was so angry with me this morning. I couldn't stand the idea of some other woman buying him the motorcycle I'd ridden on with him the night before. I looked around at the new furniture still wrapped in protective cellophane. Had she picked all of it out for him? Had she picked out the bed I’d slept in? The possibility made me irrationally angry.