by Alisha Rai
“What’s it like to be a sister?”
The easy conversation, too, was familiar. Tatiana’s stiff posture relaxed as she settled into the luscious couch. “Weird. Normal.”
“That makes sense.”
She gave a half laugh and struggled to clarify her answer. “I’ve always been an only child. And then there’s someone in your life who looks like you and automatically cares about you on that basis alone, before they even know you.” Still bemused by it all, she shrugged. “He’s just…family. It was right. New, but right. Know what I mean?”
“Maybe. I’ve felt that way a time or two.” He studiously avoided looking at her. “Never about blood relatives.”
Tatiana sobered. The place they’d grown up in was small enough to have a designated town drunk, and Wyatt’s father had been it. After his wife had died, he’d abused his son emotionally until the day Wyatt turned eighteen and moved into his own apartment.
Talk about his home life had been high on the list of taboo topics. Their fights over him not allowing her to meet or even talk about his dad? Epic.
All you could freak out about was your hurt over him not sharing. You barely gave a thought to why he would keep something like the pain he’d endured private. Ugh. Relationship hindsight was brutal. Sympathy and regret made her voice scratchy. “Yeah.”
“So. No other new relatives?”
Her lips twisted. “None that matter. My brother was raised mostly by his father, which from what I understand was a good thing. His—our—mother lives in L.A. She…she wasn’t interested in meeting with me.” Or, really, even speaking to her. Her childish dreams of becoming biffles with her birth mom had died a swift and nasty death. She’d shaken it off, helped by her brother’s delight in getting to know her.
“I’m sorry.” Wyatt took a sip of his drink. The slight jiggle of his knee caught her attention, unusual for such a controlled guy.
Now that she thought about it, his shoulders did look tense. That was strange. She was the one who should be anxious.
She spoke a little faster, some of her ease vanishing. “It’s her loss. But my brother. He’s a sweet boy. He’s got a really big heart and a loving personality. He has a wife and a small baby, and they’ve invited me for Thanksgiving and driven to San Francisco to see me—” She shook her head, unable to express the wonder of this blessing that had unexpectedly come into her life. “They’ve been—are—wonderful.”
“That’s good. I’m happy for you.” He glanced at his watch. The move was discreet, but Tatiana caught it.
She needed to get to the point. The poor guy was probably wondering what, if anything, all her bleating had to do with him, and rightly so. Tatiana bit her lip. “Well, you see. It turns out that my little brother—and you’re going to laugh about what a small world this is—his name is Ronald West. I understand he used to work for you.”
Oh. His fingers tightening around the glass until the knuckles turned white was not a good sign. “Indeed.” His voice was soft. “He not only worked for me. He stole from me.”
“I know.” She licked her lips. “But if you only knew…his wife’s mother was sick, and they went into debt. He was desperate.” She didn’t understand the level of desperation it would require to commit embezzlement, but despair had been obvious in Caitlin’s voice when the younger woman had called her yesterday, hysterical. It’s all my fault, Tatiana. He did it for me. I don’t know what I’ll do if he goes to jail.
“I don’t know if you remember this, Tatiana, but I had a few desperate times in my past. Yet I never stole.”
Tatiana flinched. “I remember. I know. But you have to understand, Ronald’s not like you.” Ronald was actually frighteningly similar to her, with her tendency toward dreaminess and impulsiveness, but magnified about tenfold. Not for the first time, Tatiana was grateful she’d had her strong, pragmatic parents as role models. “He’s not a criminal, not at heart. He knows he made a mistake.” Or at least Tatiana assumed he knew that. It had been hard to understand what he was saying on the phone. His tears kept getting in the way.
Except his boss’s name. That had come through loud and clear. She’d been disbelieving at first, but a Google search had turned up the fact that yes, her Wyatt Caine was indeed the Wyatt Caine.
After her third glass of wine, she’d booked her flight to Vegas. Had it been two in the morning? Three? It was a little blurry.
“He sent you to plead his case.” Wyatt shook his head. “Hiding behind a woman’s skirts? That doesn’t convince me he’s a paragon.”
“He doesn’t know I’m here. Or that we knew each other.” She’d come straight from the airport to see the man Ron had stolen from. The man she oh so coincidentally had slept with once upon a time.
“So, what? He told you he was in trouble, so you decided you should use the fact that we’ve fucked before to your advantage—”
Sorry, had he said something past the word fucked? ’Cause if he had, she hadn’t processed it. The word sounded harsh and vulgar on his lips, the way it should be. The way she liked it.
Her hands fluttered, and she grasped them together, stilling their motion. “I was surprised to discover who you were. I didn’t know until yesterday.”
“I wasn’t hiding.”
“Neither was I,” Tatiana snapped, suddenly annoyed. “Yes, I may have come here instead of going through a lawyer because of our past relationship, but it’s not so crazy that this is the first time we’ve spoken after all these years. It’s not like you ever came looking for me after we broke up either.”
They froze, and Tatiana wished she could recall the words. Needy, grasping words, just lying between them. Wyatt captured her gaze, his black eyes boring into her soul. “I didn’t realize you wanted me to contact you.”
Her face felt stiff and frozen. “I didn’t. That is. I never thought about it.” She lifted her chin, determined to get through this. “And I know you never thought about me after we broke up. I moved on. You moved on.”
“Until now.”
“Yes. Until now.”
“So tell me. How exactly were you going to use my nostalgic memories of you to get me to drop the charges against your brother? Was I supposed to be overcome with lust at the sight of your body? Remember the way it felt to sink my cock inside your virgin cunt?”
She trembled. With outrage. It was totally outrage.
He leaned closer, placing his glass on the table between them. The clink was too loud, making her flinch. “I do remember that, sweetheart. You were so tight. Your eighteenth birthday, right? I don’t know how I waited that long.”
No. She wasn’t going to stand here mute while he ripped into her. “You waited that long because my father would have killed you for touching me before that.”
“It might have been worth it.” He inched forward, farther into her space. “So what’s in the script, Tatiana? Aren’t you supposed to be begging prettily for your brother’s life?”
She eyed him, trying to draw the tattered remnants of her cool around her. “I came here because I thought you might be reasonable. All I want to do is work out some sort of payment plan. I have savings. I can loan that to Ron, and he can repay his debt. If, in return, you agree to not press criminal charges.”
“He stole from me. I can’t abide thieves. And fifty thousand dollars is hardly chump change.”
Oh. My. God. Neither Caitlin nor Ron had gone into the details, beyond saying thousands. Perhaps naively, Tatiana had assumed they had meant, at the most, ten thousand. Ron was a blackjack dealer who would be hard-pressed to find any kind of job if word of this got out. Caitlin stayed at home with the baby. How could he have ever thought he could replace this kind of money? Did he honestly think no one would notice it?
Anger at her brother overwhelmed her, but she tried to focus. She’d rip the kid a new one later.
She looked Wyatt in the eye and reached into her bag. Her fingers brushed against those damn letters, but she dug past them to her checkboo
k. “Fine.” She pulled it out, slid her pen free, and looked up at him. “Give me the exact amount, and we’ll make this right.”
Oh, she loved the way he eyed her in that superior way. He named a figure, obviously expecting to call her bluff.
She briskly filled in the blanks, trying not to think of the fact that she’d never put so many zeros on a check. Years of living the life of a starving artist, unwilling to take a dime from her parents after she’d bucked them and left college, had made her appreciate her success when she had achieved it. She’d saved like a squirrel hiding nuts for a cold, hard winter.
Wintertime was here, she supposed. Family above all. Plus she would get it back, if slowly, from Ron. It was worth it to save her stupid, loveable brother from prison. She made a mental note to transfer the necessary funds from her savings account that evening.
Wyatt watched her tear the check off and lay it on the coffee table. “You don’t have that kind of money.”
She capped the pen, tucking it back into her checkbook. “What makes you say that?”
“Your dress and shoes. If they even came from a department store instead of a supercenter, I’d be surprised.” His gaze dipped to her neck. “The gold in your necklace is real, I’ll grant you, but it’s hardly a liquid asset you can tap into.”
“Since when did you get so good at women’s fashion?” He was good, too. She’d bought her dress and shoes at Target. On clearance.
Oh she loved shopping. But not for boring, conservative clothes like these. Floaty fabrics, slinky dresses, impractical shoes, unnecessary accessories. If she splurged, those were her weaknesses.
“Since my job consists of assessing the depth of my opponent’s pockets.”
“Is that how you see everyone playing downstairs? Your opponents?”
“They’re betting against the house, aren’t they? I am the house. And I always win.”
“Well, you’re wrong this time. The fact that I’m not wearing expensive clothes right now doesn’t mean I don’t have money.” She hooked the necklace in her finger and lifted it. “This is real. Wearable, precious art. And people pay dearly for my creations, Caine.”
His black eyes glinted with an avaricious gleam as he studied the necklace, as if he was cataloging its weight and price tag. “You’re talented.”
The small compliment smoothed some of her ruffled feathers. “I know.” She allowed the necklace to drop, to lay against her breasts. “I may not be as wealthy as you, but I’ve been as successful in my field as you’ve been in yours.”
His lashes dipped. “Apparently.”
She placed her fingers on the check and slid it across the table. “So I can afford to pay back my brother’s debt. I’ll speak with Ron. There’s no need to bring legal pressure against him.”
“This feels like hush money.”
“It’s not. It’s restitution.”
“And if I don’t take it? What then?”
She met his gaze evenly. “Then maybe I do beg prettily a little.”
He stilled. She didn’t know how long they were locked in a staring contest. Frankly, she didn’t care. Part of her, a frighteningly large part of her, was enjoying it too much.
She’d handed him everything, all the power, and he knew it. She could pull out those letters she had as well. Remind him of the things he’d said to her, in his own words. Really strip them both bare.
Wyatt leaned back on the sofa. “What if I said I would promise not to press charges against your brother…” he spread his legs slightly, putting his palms on his powerful thighs, “…if you spent a night in my bed?”
Read more from Play With Me, Book One of the Bedroom Games Series!
Glutton for Pleasure
Chapter One
Thick, firm and curved just right, the shiny red skin stretched taut over hot seed and juice. Devi Malik squeezed the turgid flesh. Perfect.
The kitchen door burst open. “He’s back!”
“That’s nice.” Devi tossed the whole red chili pepper into the pan of sizzling shrimp and vegetables. She’d need to put in a larger order of the little buggers next week. When had spicy become the new black?
“You’re not even listening to me.”
Accustomed to her eldest sister’s dramatics, she took her time to stir the pepper evenly into the entrée before looking up. Rana stood in front of the commercial range, one fist propped on a curvy hip and a Cheshire-cat smile on her beautiful face. The Saturday dinner crowd would be piling in soon, and Devi needed to get in her groove, but long experience told her she wouldn’t get any peace until Rana vented whatever news she carried. “Sorry. What did you say?”
“He’s back. Mr. Tuesday Special.”
Devi’s hand jerked and hot oil splashed the inside of her wrist. “Damn it!” She dropped the spatula, yanked on the cold water at the faucet next to the stove and thrust her hand under the stream.
“Oh my God, are you okay?”
The icy water brought the painful throb down to a bearable sting. “Yeah, it’s fine.”
“You should be more careful. If I’d known the news would startle you that much, I would have warned you.”
Devi cast a sharp glance at Rana’s face. For just a second, she thought she caught a glimpse of shrewd cunning in her sister’s eyes, but it vanished into simple concern. She withdrew her hand from under the water and dried it with studied casualness on the towel tucked into the front of her apron. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
With a flourish, Rana placed her orders on the board and lowered her voice to a whisper. Devi didn’t know why she bothered. They were alone but for the two other chefs hard at work at the opposite end of the kitchen. “Jace is here.”
Jace Callahan. Middle initial R. She knew that because she had gotten tired of Rana’s silly nickname for the man and looked up his credit card receipt one night. Talk about stupid and pathetic.
In the face of her silence, Rana huffed an impatient breath. “Tall, dark and delicious? I know, I’m surprised too. He’s not usually here on Saturdays.”
Devi opened her mouth to deliver a blithe reply but the steam in front of her caught her attention. “Oh crap.” She turned off the burner and fanned at the smoke. “Look what you made me do. You know the Jacobs send their plates back if everything isn’t perfect.”
Rana barely spared a glance at the pan. “It still looks fine to me.”
“Shrimp isn’t like other meat. It’s not something you can overcook and have it still taste the same.” A distraction, please God. Her mind raced. There was no way she could discuss her secret crush with either of her sisters—they could read her like a book.
She speared a shrimp, stuck it into her mouth and grimaced. Too chewy. She took too much pride in her craft to serve customers of The Palace chewy shrimp. Devi grabbed the pan and scraped the rest of the dish into a plate. She didn’t believe in waste, so it would be her dinner later. The Jacobs would have to wait a little longer. Devi turned to the small dark woman at the far end of the room and raised her voice. “Asha, can you take the incoming? Redo table six. My sister,” she continued, lowering her tone so only Rana would hear, “won’t let me do my job. Don’t you have customers to wait on?”
“All my tables are covered. Leena’s gone for the night, and I need to get some paperwork done for her. And guess what? You’re covering one of the tables for me.”
No, no, no. Of course Rana hadn’t brought up Jace for kicks and giggles. Devi’s stomach sank under the suspicion of where her sister was going with this. “The Jacobs?” she stalled, and tried to look mildly curious. “You’re right, they are so difficult, let me handle them.”
Rana shook her head. “Jace said he wanted to meet his chef. So you need to serve him tonight.”
In their small, family-owned restaurant, it wasn’t unusual for the regulars to meet the chef. Hell, sometimes she even ended up waiting tables while she mingled if they were short on staff. How could she hand her secret obje
ct of lust his dinner, stand close enough to touch him and act as if he were just any other customer? She needed time to think about this, needed time to work this out. “Ummm…”
“Awesome, table eight.”
Time up. “Wait.”
Rana turned with one hand on the door.
Damn it. “What’s the order?”
Rana beamed. “Jace gave me the cutest little smile and asked if we could give him his usual even though it was Saturday. How could I say no?”
How, indeed. Though orders off menu always created a hassle for her, she couldn’t blame her sister. If it had been her, she probably would have offered to feed him whatever he wanted by hand. Naked. Or by any other body part he preferred. Naked.
Rana sighed, as if reading her mind. “Aren’t those black Irish types perfect? Brooding and charming, without even trying.”
“I don’t care how brooding he is. I’m just handing him his dinner.”
Rana rolled her eyes. “Jeez, I’m kidding. Though it wouldn’t kill you to flirt a bit. I swear, getting you a love life is a full-time job.”
“I don’t want to hear it.” Lately Rana had been hinting, in her usual heavy-handed manner, that Devi needed to get out more. Ironic, really, since her overprotective big sisters had a well-known history of finding massive faults with the men she did finally bring home.
“Just be nice to him. I’m not telling you to strip naked. You save that for a date you’re not cooking.”
She wished.
“Oh, and by the way, he’s got a guest. Double the order.”
A guest? What? He always ate alone. Jealousy fired through her veins. After all, it was a Saturday night. He probably had a date.
It could be his mother, his friend, anyone.
Or a date.
Rana had already left and it wasn’t like she could ask, anyway, without launching the Spanish Inquisition. She wiped her hands on her apron and pulled out onions. The specials were hers and hers alone, one for every day of the week, some of her favorite meals. When one was ordered, she did all of the prep and the cooking. The customers didn’t know how small the kitchen was—they got a kick out of ordering something prepared exclusively by the head chef, as her middle sister and the restaurant’s manager, Leena, had written on the menu.