by Libby Rice
Her arms tightened against her chest as if she were struggling to protect herself against an oncoming physical blow. She’d sold his company down the river without a twitch. Now, when he stumbled upon her silly hoard of drying undies, she worked herself into a high lather. Her posture positively transmitted… fear?
Whoa. Not what he’d expected. His arms dropped from the door, and he stood up straight. Despite the roiling bitterness, he’d never intended, or even understood, that his aggression might scare her. Yet, looking back, their previous encounters had been in public spaces and during polite hours. Now he had her backed against the wall of her private suite in the dead of night.
“Would never hurt you, sweetheart.”
Then it didn’t matter as the lust and guilt and anger coalesced in his chest. In that instant, his body took over. One hand gripped the back of her neck. The other stole around her ass to press her against him. When his lips met hers, blood sizzled along the insides of his veins. After a heartbeat, she opened to him with a low moan, and their tongues met in a hostile dance while his cock throbbed against her soft stomach.
He pulled away just as suddenly. “You make me crazy with your scheming ways and your fearful eyes and your hot fucking mouth and even hotter underwear. I want you gone.”
“Then take me.”
Take me. The permission he’d longed for.
She went on, destroying the moment. “It’s the middle of the night. I’m exhausted. I don’t know the city and have no idea where to go, so if you want me somewhere else, take me there.”
The words were logical. The desperation in her plea was not. Neither was her bathroom nor her combination of cool, if calculating, professional confidence and extreme personal vulnerability. He couldn’t figure her out and was tired of trying. “Perhaps you should go wherever it is you went around this time last night.”
Her lips quivered slightly before she rolled them over her teeth.
He groaned at the sight. “Noon. Tomorrow. Beyond that, no force on Earth could keep you in this room, Empre—”
She reared back, her shoulder blades slamming against the door as tears took hold, shocking him with their sudden onslaught and violent force. “Don’t you ever call me that again. A man called me Empress as he stabbed me. A man I thought was you.” The torrent of words wrenched out between heartbroken sobs. “Do you have any idea how it feels to be called that name? When you say it, the world seizes, and I can barely stay sane knowing you’re using it to hurt me. Goddamn you! I don’t want you, or this awful job, or even your apology when you figure out how wrong you are.”
Once the storm passed, her eyes closed, releasing the last of her tears. On a shaky breath, her small hand lifted, and she braced her weight against his chest before her forehead bent to rest between his pecs. He flinched, not at her touch, but with the knowledge that she’d later regret seeking comfort from her tormentor.
After a charged silence, she sniffed and murmured, “I’m sorry, Ethan.” And then nodding in what looked like a gesture of internal acceptance, she looked up, straight into his eyes. “I’ll go tonight.”
Stunned, he stared at the roots of her glossy hair, not knowing whether to confront or comfort and marveling at her innate ability to make him care whether he got it right. Here he stood in the grasp of a woman who’d fucked him over at every turn, and all he wanted to do was ensure those tears never returned on his watch. He’d had a front row ticket to a lot of feminine meltdowns. Scarlet’s had been the first to reach him. Perhaps because at the end, she hadn’t begged him to stay like all the rest. Not in her life. Not even in her bed. Instead, she’d agreed to go.
He backed away with a hand out, palm up in a silent offer, sensing he shouldn’t touch her again without invitation. She’d made terrible choices, but unless her acting skills merited an Oscar, she neared the end of her rope. When he felt a feather-light contact slipping over his fingers, he eased her toward him, gently, slowly, just enough to get the door open behind her.
“Stay tonight, Scarlet. Go tomorrow. Please.” Then he stepped around her, careful to avoid further contact, sure it would lead to a landslide that would bury them both.
Chapter 11
Ethan needed answers. Brian Wentworth could dish out or go down with her.
Scarlet joked around with the guy before and after meetings. From what Ethan could tell, they were buddies of sorts. On the group’s first day in Copenhagen, Ethan had passed by the d’Angleterre’s sunny dining room on a quick trip to his suite after morning conferences. Seated at a round two-top, Brian and Scarlet had handed their menus to an eager waiter, obviously placing their lunch orders. Then, sipping sparkling water and gazing out a bank of windows to the park across the street, the two had sat in companionable silence, appearing relaxed and well-acquainted.
In a conference later that day, when Scarlet had summarized Atavos’s expectations for the negotiations and rattled off a list of information she needed from Optik, Brian had watched with guarded, yet keen, interest—the intense perusal of a man for a woman, not the respectful attentiveness one colleague for another. Ethan couldn’t blame him. Scarlet only got hotter when she talked shop.
A burn settled in his chest. Who was he to care whether Brian’s yearning remained wholly one-sided or whether Scarlet occasionally reciprocated? He did know she wasn’t in an exclusive relationship with any man, or at least she hadn’t been when he’d had his hand up her skirt on the plane.
He approached Brian from behind, both of them melding into the chaos of Copenhagen’s bustling car-free zone, Strøget. Men manned gourmet hotdog stands that beckoned passersby with the smell of sizzling meat. Crowds of tourists gathered around street performers who perched upon makeshift podiums, providing a smorgasbord of entertainment options in exchange for a bit of spare change. Ethan watched a young girl amble by a life-size bronze statue. She jumped three feet in the air when the statue reached out and brushed her arm. Laughing, she threw five krone into a bucket that peeked from behind the “statue’s” legs.
A messenger rushed his bike into a packed rack before disappearing into a nearby building with a stack of manila envelopes. Ethan chuckled to himself when a woman standing nearby glanced at her husband who bent under the weight of too many shopping bags to carry. She pointed to the kitchenware displayed in yet another shop window. Before he could stop her, she bounded in that direction, leaving her beleaguered spouse to lumber behind, shaking his head.
When Brian made a move toward Birger Christensen—no doubt on the prowl for a designer man purse and more V-neck sweaters in lavender wool—Ethan shouted from several steps back. “One would think you’d have more on your mind than fashion.”
Brian stopped, and Ethan added, “After the mighty Scarlet falls, doesn’t her lackey—you—have to pick up the slack? That would certainly be my hope and expectation, poor swindled client that I am.”
Without breaking his fluid stride, Brian pulled an about-face, the air around him veritably cackling with tension. A few strides brought them chest to chest, and Brian drawled, “I’m gonna go ahead and assume, probably to my detriment, that you have something useful to say.”
Brave man, Ethan thought. Few dared to antagonize him. He hadn’t expected lip from the guy in skinny jeans. With a dark look and a grim sweep of his palm toward the street ahead, he invited Brian to tag along for a stroll.
They moved with the sea of people in silence, giving Ethan time to mentally re-run the state of affairs. Scarlet’s betrayal had slowed progress, but nothing in the papers or online indicated the negotiations had gone public. Given Arland Magnus’s progressively uncooperative behavior, she’d most likely solicited another favorable buyer behind the scenes, causing Arland to lose interest in Atavos. A sweeter deal waiting in the wings would explain the procrastination. The arrogance.
Optik would slog along until Ethan and Atavos grew weary of the process and threw in the towel, conveniently leaving Optik free to entertain the other offer.
&n
bsp; In that, at least, Scarlet hadn’t sunk the deal. Ethan could weather a lot of feet-dragging before growing weary and allowing negotiations to collapse.
Lifting his chin a notch, Ethan slid his gaze to the brooding lawyer that reluctantly matched him stride for stride. The show would go on until he decided otherwise, maybe with Brian at the helm. “Tell me about Scarlet’s plans.” And maybe throw me a bone about the woman herself.
Brian shrugged but didn’t pretend to misunderstand. “I overheard that showdown in the conference room yesterday.”
“And you knew nothing before?”
“You’ve got this all kinds of wrong. And my comparably meager money says you’ll regret it.”
“Does it now?” Ethan snapped, preparing for an unsolicited earful from Scarlet’s secondin-command. Perfect.
Brian jerked his head toward Ethan. “You think I haven’t been watching you? You might be a cold bastard, but in this, you’re easy. You want her. Probably care for her. That scene at Optik was as hard on you as it was on her.”
So his adversary not only knew the Scarlet-Ethan backstory, the man had serious intuition. “Bit sure of yourself. Despite everything,” he bit out, refusing to meet Brian’s intrusive gaze.
“I’m probably as emotionally close to Scarlet as she’s ever allowed a man to get. All the shit that went down eons ago? I’ve watched it haunt her. Now I’m watching it peel you both.”
Ethan would have laughed if the situation weren’t so un-fucking-funny. Why did everything come back to nine years ago? Yeah, he was pissed and untrusting. Maybe he did want to see Scarlet pay for her mistakes. But passing his deal to the highest bidder had nothing to do with that.
This was all her and all new. “Neither Scarlet’s actions nor this conversation have anything to do with Scarlet’s attack.”
Brian gripped his sleeve, jerking them both to a stop and earning anonymous glares as the foot traffic surged around their path. “You arrogant son of a bitch. They have everything to do with it.”
The guy had mastered—invented?—the prep-school-boy-band look, but his height and obvious dedication to the gym lent him a bulk that probably got him taken seriously despite all the pastels.
He sized Brian up, gauging whether listening would be time well spent. When a pair of ice-blue eyes met his in unwavering challenge, he decided it might. “Enlighten me,” he demanded, crossing his arms and waiting for Brian’s epiphany, thinking if the story wasn’t good, he’d take two JTS lawyers down with one roll. Lucky strike.
“No,” Brian said bitterly, stepping away and slipping both hands into his pockets. “The mighty Ethan Blake is so goddamn untouchable he acts first and asks questions later. You sleuth things out, badly, get it all wrong, and then have the nerve to act affronted when you don’t get the girl. I won’t tell you shit.” Then, raising both precision-tweezed brows, he added, “Maybe I get the girl.”
Over my dead body. “I don’t fucking want the girl. I want to know what she’s done to my deal.”
Enunciating every word with a bland smile, Brian said, “You asked Scarlet about the cab, and she lied.”
“Yes,” Ethan bit out, fighting the urge to put Brian through a shop window. The lawyer explained it clinically, as though he accepted her lies as easily as she told them. Fresh anger tore through Ethan, leaving behind mutual twinges of illness and invincibility. Last night, when she’d fallen apart at being called “Empress,” her panic and hurt had ripped at him, shaming him for his black nature and for all the things he’d said. Over and over.
In the light of day, after hearing Brian’s breezy characterization of her dishonesty, he welcomed his rage back to the fold. This time, he wouldn’t set it aside.
Brian set off again in hard strides. Ethan could either keep up or give up, and he wasn’t sure which option held greater appeal. Scarlet’s colleague had a thing for her, and he no doubt offered a relationship free of career complications and the bitter taste of past bad blood. A smart man would let his lingering curiosity about her life slide. Scarlet had been dishonest. Time to cut the cord.
But the defeated look on her face when he’d accused her of lying and the feel of her trembling against him in the wake of his eviction rampage through her suite wouldn’t shake. The vacillations between hot and cold and from self-assured businesswoman to anxiety-ridden lingerie hoarder tied him in knots.
“How much do you know about Scarlet?” The question interrupted Ethan’s inner debate, and he glanced up to see Brian talking over his shoulder as he strode away.
Ethan kick-started his legs. “Not nearly enough.” Much of his success grew out of being an adept judge of character. Yet Scarlet had easily deceived him. With too-little thought, he’d put her in a position capable of impacting his business. His lifeblood. The bright side to her betrayal lie in the fact that his coming down on her with the force of an anvil wouldn’t be mistaken for petty revenge.
“Any sense of the impact the attack had on her life?” Outwardly, Brian appeared contemplative, but Ethan swore the man enjoyed the squirm-worthy question.
“I know it was a long time ago. And that she’s recovered.”
“Physically? Not quite. Emotionally?” Brian’s words ground to a halt. Ethan followed the man’s intent gaze to a group of school children in gray-and-white uniforms. A young woman led, holding the hand of the first child, who held the hand of the second, who led the third, and so on. With the kids in sight, Brian momentarily went silent, but when his attention swung back to Ethan, his face shuttered with regret. “Dream on, lover boy.”
The words elicited an unwelcome pang in Ethan’s chest. Probably because he didn’t enjoy being called her lover. That was totally it. Because he wasn’t. Never would be.
He swung away. Brian could follow him this time. “I need a drink.”
******
Ethan downed a British cask ale in four gulps. Slamming the glass to the solid wood table, he saw the other man looking on with cool detachment from behind a glass that appeared long-empty.
The pissing contest had morphed into a drinking one. Game on, hipster.
A bent man with a scruffy salt-and-pepper beard flanked a yuppie couple in front of an impressive polished cherry bar. Beyond them, the sight of a bank of genuine hand pumps threatened to bring a tear to Ethan’s cynical eye. Proving they were really used, the ceiling was littered with discarded pump clips showcasing the brews that had flowed through those pumps at one time or another.
From their dim booth in the corner near an unlit hearth, Ethan scoped out the Danish micros on offer, contemplating his next entry in the who’s-dick-is-bigger challenge.
As though Ethan weren’t there, Brain got up and wielded his way to the bar through a hodge-podge collection of tables and chairs, returning with one beer. He took a long drink while Ethan watched.
“As far as I can tell,” Brian said, “knowing about Scarlet will only make you realize what a fuckwit you are. Then you’ll run as fast as you can to sweep her off her feet. Feet I enjoy massaging, thank you very much. No replacement needed.”
Clasping his hands and staring into the beckoning froth of the fresh beer he’d managed to finagle from a passing waitress, Ethan clung to his patience. Brian couldn’t know how close all the insinuation brought him to the edge. The chorded muscles in his neck strained at the thought of Brian touching any stretch of Scarlet’s skin.
What else of hers did the bastard enjoy massaging? Ethan chuckled softly and reached across the table. He snagged Brian’s wrist in a death grip. “One more fucking word—”
“For years after the attack, Scarlet suffered from anxiety… nightmares, flashbacks, panic attacks, you name it. She saw a therapist, which gradually diminished her symptoms. She rarely has trouble these days, but I’ve seen her flip in some run-of-the-mill situations.”
Strategic or not, the interruption shut Ethan up. This was the intel he’d come for. After a warning squeeze, he threw the imprisoned arm back at its owner. “As in?”
Brian cradled his wrist, rubbing at the spot where Ethan’s thumb had left a slight impression. After a moment, he smoothed the cuff of his pretty shirt into place. To think Scarlet had actually let this guy touch her feet.
Brian kept both upper appendages close to the chest when he went on. “We were on a business trip like this one. Singapore. The life drained out of Scarlet over the duration of our stay. She started out fine, and then with each day, she grew paler. Withdrawn and jumpy. Toward the end, I realized she wasn’t sleeping. At all. It’s happening again here.”
Ethan had noticed. Nothing in particular, Scarlet merely grew a little less Scarlet-y with each passing day. And last night, he’d swear she’d been hunkered down on the floor in front of her door, physically blocking it with her body to get some rest.
Tipping his glass, Ethan flicked an impatient glance at the clock above the bar. “I’m hanging on every word. Really.”
Taking the bait, Brian went on. “On the last day of our stay—after we’d closed the deal—one of the other lawyers came on to Scarlet at the closing party. Out of the blue, he put his hand on her waist and whispered in her ear. She jolted, hard. Her drink fell to the ground, totally shattered. When the guy tried to usher her away from the glass, she stared at him, frozen in some silent out-of-body experience. Several minutes ticked by. I’ll never forget the look on her face.”
Ethan stilled and then nodded. He’d experienced his own share of flashbacks. Rather than reliving the physical violence of Rikers, he’d seen himself locked in a tiny cell, contemplating his failure to climb out of the hole he’d been born into and despairing where that failure would leave his mother. He didn’t have waking flashbacks anymore, but sporadically—when he couldn’t wrestle reality into the mold he’d configured for it—he weathered waves of uncontrollable anxiety. The dreams reminded him there were aspects of life even he couldn’t control. Scarlet was turning out to be one of them.