Hate to Want You

by Alisha Rai

  Her heels tapped on the tile. Nicholas concentrated on the feathers of the bird as if they held all the mysteries of life.

  “I didn’t expect it. We don’t have that kind of relationship, right?” Her soft arm almost brushed the front of his suit jacket, and he glanced at her sharply. She was so close he could count the freckles scattered over her cleavage. She’d hated those freckles as a young woman, comparing herself to her blemish-free mother. He hadn’t been able to understand her dislike. How many times had he dragged his tongue from one freckle to another, playing connect the dots and creating a perfect pattern in his head? Too many, and not enough.

  His body tensed and hardened, readying for her. God, he was always so ready for her.

  She placed her finger on the drawing, exactly where his had been, and adjusted it so it was crooked again. Clear eyes locked on his, daring and tough, not a single vulnerability visible. “Right, Nick?”

  He was Nicholas to everyone. She was the only one who’d shortened his name, but not to Nick. She’d always called him something else.

  He made sure his tone was well modulated and even. She was correct. The only relationship they had was one based on lust. “Right, Olivia.”

  Her frown was barely there, but he knew he’d scored a hit with her full name. He knew, and he hated himself for it.

  She lifted her bare wrist and studied it. “My, look at the time. As much as I have loved this awkward visit, I really do have so much to do. So if you only came here to offer your belated condolences . . .”

  “I didn’t.” He might have gotten sidetracked, but his initial objective seemed more imperative now. How long would he have to deal with this interruption in his perfectly ordered life? “I came to talk to you.”

  Her sardonic smile called attention to the tiny scar next to her lips. A souvenir from her adventurous childhood. “To talk to me?”

  He edged closer because he couldn’t not take advantage of this opportunity to inhale the scent of vanilla and sugar. “Yes.”

  “Talking’s not usually what we do when we’re together. And last time I checked, my birthday isn’t for another eight months, so . . .”

  He flinched, unprepared for her to speak so bluntly about their odd arrangement, though he should have been—she was a blunt woman.

  “I know exactly when your birthday is,” he said, sharper than he intended. “I suppose I ought to give you belated felicitations as well. I missed your thirtieth.”

  Her stubborn chin lifted. “Oh, were you expecting to see me?”

  Of course he’d been expecting to see her. That was how they worked. For the past ten years.

  For the past nine years, he corrected himself. The last year had come and gone without their annual sexual marathon. “I assumed. We’d established a pattern.” Another small step and he could get a tiny bit closer to her. How did she smell so good? Like every delicious thing he craved and couldn’t have.

  Livvy had to tilt her head back to meet his gaze. If he moved his hand, he could touch her. Lord, how he wanted to touch her.

  “We both know I hate being predictable,” she breathed. “Sorry if I kept you waiting.”

  Her apology rang hollow. A ripple of repressed anger swirled under his careful icy calm, and he squelched it. If it were anyone else, he’d assume Livvy was playing a game, but she was far too straightforward to bother with games. Or at least she had been. “No apologies necessary,” he said. “I moved on.”

  “Did you?”

  “I had to.” He’d told himself her absence had been understandable, only a few months following the death of her brother. The eagerness with which he’d waited for her text . . . when he realized he’d blocked that day off on his calendar . . . that hadn’t been acceptable.

  Darkness touched her expression, and she glanced away. “Right. Great. Well, I’m honored Rockville’s golden prince spared me a fleeting thought.”

  He wanted to laugh, but there was no humor in his body. A fleeting thought? She honestly believed that was all she’d been worth over the years?

  “I’m not a prince,” he reminded her. Both of them.

  She turned and walked away, and his gaze dropped to her bottom. She’d gained weight since he’d seen her last, and it looked good on her, making her ass even more clutchable. He curled his fingers, remembering how those round globes felt when she was riding him.

  “Whatever you say. If you want to talk to me, text me,” she said over her shoulder, breezy and careless once again. “You have my number now.”

  “Or we can talk here.” There was no guarantee that number wouldn’t change tomorrow. The first few years, he’d saved the phone numbers that popped up on his screen with her message. In moments of weakness, more times than he’d like to admit, he’d call them. Thank God, they were always disconnected. She changed phone numbers like she changed cities.

  “No, thanks.”

  “I insist.”

  “Just like a Chandler,” she said coldly, not looking at him. His last name dropped into the conversation with the weight of a thousand pounds of baggage. “Selfishly taking whatever you want.”

  There it was. Only a few feet separated them, but the battle lines had been drawn, creating a gulf the size of an ocean.

  Her harsh words stabbed straight into his heart. Electricity zipped through him, the rush of fierce blood pumping in his veins a foreign and heady sensation. Sugar rushes had nothing on this. She always made him feel alive in a way no one else did. Like he was a wind-up man resting in a case, waiting for her to apply the key.

  “Just like a Kane,” he replied with devastating calm, hating himself for every word that fell from his lips, not believing a single one of them. “Running away.”

  She spun around. The air crackled. “Fuck off,” she said, her soft whisper more threatening than any scream. “Like I said, I’m working. So unless you want a tattoo, you can get the hell out.”

  He stared at her, took in every perfect, enraged line of her body. I dare you to kiss me, she’d smirked that first time they’d gone out. Poking and prodding and demanding and taunting him until he’d pressed her up against her front door.

  The scratches on his back faded every year, but he’d always carry her marks. And he’d take any reason to steal a few more minutes in her presence, to take a few more hits of these unwise emotions.

  “Fine,” he heard himself say. “Then give me a tattoo.”

  Chapter 2

  LIVVY HAD never been good at maintaining rage, which had turned out to be quite the problem when it came to staying away from certain people she was supposed to despise with all her might.

  She cracked out a laugh, her anger giving way to genuine amusement. “Shut the front door, Nicholas. Behind you, on your way out, I mean.”

  He grew still when she laughed, but his dark blue eyes were expressionless. She supposed some people would call him cold, but she knew him too well for that. For all that he was three years older than her, they’d essentially grown up together. She’d seen him happy, devastated, grief-stricken, and angry.

  Not since they’d broken up, though. Since then, she’d only seen him cool and controlled. Or hot, his face twisted in savage pleasure as he fucked her. Those were his default modes when it came to her. And she’d never let on how much she missed those other emotions.

  “You don’t think I’m serious?” he asked.

  She rolled her eyes and paced back to her table, unable to stand being so close to him. “You mean about my inking you? Yeah, no, I don’t think you’re serious.” She knew exactly why he was here, had figured it out the second she’d spotted him in his car, his features shadowy but unmistakable. The man might be brilliant when it came to business, but covert he wasn’t. He’d parked right under a streetlight.

  Nicholas had always liked order. Black and white. And above all else, he was loyal to his family and C&O—or Chandler’s, as it was called now.

  When something unexpected happened, when the patterns in his life
were interrupted, his immediate instinct was to circle his wagons and make sure those two things were protected. And he was trained to see a Kane—even her, maybe especially her—as a threat.

  She could never let him see how much that hurt her. Let him think she wanted nothing from him, except his body . . . and maybe not even that anymore.

  A muscle in his square jaw twitched. His features were too blunt and harsh to be called pretty, but he was beautifully compelling in the same way a blade was. Sharp. Lethal. Devastating.

  His fingers went to the knot of his tie. It took her a second to realize what he was doing.

  Oh no. She tensed. No, no, no, not his tie. Goddamn it.

  Did he know? Could he possibly have any idea how much she loved watching him unfasten the Windsor knot at his throat?

  Livvy traced her tongue under the edge of her upper teeth as the expensive silk whisked against Egyptian cotton. He carefully folded it around his hand, and she had to fight not to press her hand over her belly at the jump of excitement there. That deliberate, neat gesture always did something to her.

  The times they’d come together over the years, he started the night like this. Tidy. Then she eroded every ounce of his control, until he was a naked, stripped animal, hungry for her.

  She remembered the first time she’d taken notice of him in a charcoal-gray suit. She’d been fifteen, and he’d walked into her house with her brother, still wearing the corporate uniform he’d donned for his summer job at the family company. His lanky frame in the finely tailored dress slacks and jacket had made her look twice, then a third time.

  He’d been wearing a red tie that day. She remembered, because it was the first time she’d imagined grabbing the thing and dragging his lips to hers. He’d gone from a family friend to the object of her teenage lust in a few seconds.

  Bastard had imprinted on her. Now she was helpless against his formally clad figure.

  Oh, he knew she was affected. He couldn’t be so dense. He must know because he was standing there all hot. And suited. And, and, and . . . rubbing his thumb over his tie like he knew exactly how she wanted him to drag it over her body. Or wrap her up in the silken bindings.

  Stop. Drooling.

  Nicholas neatly placed his tie in his pocket and pushed the sides of his jacket away, his hands on his hips. Asshole! What kind of sexy show-off power pose was that? And why did she find it so sexy?

  News at ten. Area woman finds powerful, confident man sexy. In other top stories, water is wet and puppies are goddamn adorable.

  She averted her eyes from the way the jacket framed his white shirt stretched over his flat belly. Disciplined guy that he was, she bet he still woke up daily at five in the morning to work out. Every year she hoped she’d find him less attractive, but when she peeled that fucking delicious suit off him, he was all tight, lean, muscular flesh. All hers. For a night, at least.

  “Where do you want me?”

  Everywhere. That’s the problem. I want you everywhere, and I always will.

  “It’s a bad idea to play chicken with me. We both know I’m not afraid of jack.” Lies. She was deathly afraid of the things he made her feel. But if she kept saying how courageous she was, maybe she could make everyone believe it?

  “I’m not playing chicken.”

  “Neither am I. I will pierce your skin, kiddo.” More lies.

  He shrugged, cool as a cucumber. “I have to begin somewhere. You’ve got a head start.”

  Definitely, compared to him. She’d gotten her first tattoo when she was seventeen, a tiny pot of gold on her hip she’d been delighted to show off in a bikini as soon as possible. Mostly to show off to Nicholas, who had stared for a long time before he’d realized she was watching him. Then he’d flushed a dark red, before making his excuses and disappearing inside his family’s lake house.

  They’d started dating a week later, and the first time his hands had coasted over her body in the backseat of his car, he’d gone straight for the gold, fingers and lips and tongue tracing it reverently. She owed that lucky charm a lot.

  Like years and years of heartache, dummy. She pursed her lips, trying to think past her inconvenient lust long enough to get out of this.

  She’d known keeping off his radar would be difficult, but she’d thought she’d have more time. She’d kept a low profile, only traveled back and forth between home and work, hadn’t looked up any old friends or acquaintances. What a naive, silly idea. Clearly, all it took was one person who spotted and recognized her to get the phone trees ringing. This town literally wasn’t big enough for the both of them.

  You came home to move forward.

  There was nothing to discuss here, nothing that would help them move forward. Only a repetitive cycle of pain and desire she had resolved to break this year. If she hadn’t had to come home, it might have worked too. “You’ve got a ways to go if you’re planning on catching up.”

  She played with a lock of her hair, draping it over her left shoulder, letting it cover her heart. She’d done a shitty job of protecting that foolish organ her whole life. That needed to change.

  Nicholas’s gaze dropped to that lock of hair. When she’d caught sight of him sitting in his car, she couldn’t deny she’d felt a spark of joy.

  That same spark tingled to life as he walked toward her now. But then she noted how his steps were hesitant, reluctant, and that spark died a swift, fierce death.

  Because he didn’t want to walk toward her. He might crave her body, but that was all he wanted. And he hated himself for it, the same way she hated herself for being unable to control her feelings for him.

  Every muscle tensed when he raised his hand, but it only hovered over her bare arm before dropping back to his side. “This is new.”

  Her skin was hot and tingly, like the ink on the vine was fresh. “Got it a few months ago,” she managed. Because a clinging vine the color of her eyes served as a good reminder of what she didn’t ever want to be.

  “Hmm.” His gaze dipped to her cleavage and grew heavy-lidded. They never lingered when they were in bed together, and the lights were usually off, so he hadn’t seen the details of the rest of the ink on her body. Part of that was by design. Each dot of pigment meant something to her, something she wasn’t sure she could share with him and be okay.

  But in her fantasies, they played a wonderful game called Inspect Livvy’s Body Thoroughly. It was a good game.

  But you’re not playing it anymore, in your mind or reality. Because you’re taking charge of your life and your future and heavenly God, he smells so good, like cinnamon and . . .

  “It’s pretty. What does it mean?”

  She faltered. “It means I like pretty things,” she lied.

  Deep lines etched his forehead. “Why . . . ?” There went that muscle in his jaw again. “Why are you here?”

  More reluctance. He hated he’d had to ask that. She bet the only son of a family on Forbes’s richest must generally know everything going on in his world.

  Did he not know about her mother’s accident? She’d simply assumed he would hear of it. Or . . . A sharp pain lanced her chest. Maybe he did know, and he hadn’t expected her to show up.

  If that was the case, then it only underscored how much they’d changed. The woman he’d known all those years ago would have dropped everything to come home if her mother’d broken her hip. No, that wasn’t right. That woman would have never left to begin with.

  Ugh. The last thing she wanted to do was talk about her mom with him. “I told you. I don’t have time to talk. I’m working.”

  He leaned closer, giving her another delightful hint of aftershave. “And I told you. I’ll get a tattoo, if that’s what it takes to have you answer my questions.”

  Her lips firmed, her temper crackling. Yes, good, get mad. A solid show of messy drama will chase him out just as well as anything else. “Fine.” She reached behind her, grabbed the clipboard holding blank forms and a pen. “Here.”

  He accepted th
e board when she shoved it at him. “What is it?”

  “A health and safety acknowledgment and a disclaimer. Says you’re not drunk and you understand I could screw up and completely destroy your body, turning you into a hideous monster that makes all those hordes of women panting after you run screaming from your bedroom.” She smiled sweetly.

  He raised an arrogant brow, but he didn’t dispute the part about the hordes of women. “Do you do that often? Disfigure men?”

  “Twice on Tuesdays.”

  “I wouldn’t sue you.”

  “That’s good,” she said flippantly. “I don’t have anything worth suing for.”

  She waited for him to fumble his way out at the reminder of her diminished fortunes. The Chandlers had wound up with everything, and the Kanes with nothing, after all.

  Because the Chandlers are opportunistic, greedy, soulless bastards, came Paul’s voice in her head.

  Nicholas looked down at the clipboard and quickly signed it without reading it.

  “You should read the things you sign,” she snapped, genuinely annoyed with his carelessness. “I could have stuck a blank check on there.”

  “Do you need money, Livvy?”

  Not from him, thanks. “Only what you’ll pay for your tattoo. Spoiler alert: I’m fucking expensive.”

  “I know.” He shrugged when she met his gaze. “You can get a lot of information on the Internet.”

  He’d googled her? No, heart, don’t you dare go pitter-pat over that! Googling is hardly a sign of caring. Do you know who casually googles exes? Everyone with a stinkin’ Internet connection.

  She yanked the clipboard from him and ripped off the last page of the carbon copy. “Your aftercare instructions are on the back of this. Might wanna keep them.” She gestured to the seat. She’d done the guest-artist deal in a ton of shops over the years, some better than others. This place was on the small side, but scrupulously hygienic, her biggest requirement.

  He peeled off his jacket and draped it neatly over the plain plastic chair in the corner that was reserved for guests of customers before settling into the leather padded seat. He looked far too good in her chair. “Where do you want to do it?”