by Libby Rice
He watched her slip the meat between her teeth. Chew. “Yes and no,” he hedged, shifting in his seat.
Yes, because Gerard was no doubt watching and waiting and, if they were right about his motive, feeling a deep urgency to finish what he’d started.
No, because Ethan’s sudden presence put a kink in the plan. Ethan couldn’t be sure, but he sensed Gerard’s commitment to coming after Scarlet with a knife. His sister had died from stab wounds, and a blade had been his weapon of choice in his first attack on Scarlet. Ethan also knew from experience that inmates had opportunities to hone their carving skills. Not so much with guns or other longer-range weaponry.
A knife meant Gerard had to get close, and Ethan made a hell of a barricade.
Pain flared in his palm. Looking down, he realized he’d done a number on the business end of his fork. Discretely turning his hand in his lap, he eyed several puncture wounds from the tines.
He almost wanted to squeeze a second one to catch another dose of relief the pain brought with it.
“And that means?” Scarlet prompted.
He topped her wine glass with the remainder of the Malbec they’d shared. “He might be down a rabbit hole.”
She drank deep. It pleased him to see her fed, but as of yet, the food and wine had done little to liven her color. Weeks of gluttony might be required to restore the junk to her trunk.
A challenge. He pushed a warm loaf of sourdough bread toward her plate.
The temptation worked. She pulled off a chunk with her fingers. On the way to her lips, he swiped it from her hand and calmly slathered it with butter before passing it back.
“You really do like your women with curves, don’t you?”
He looked her over. “I like them healthy. Happy. I know you appreciate good food. You should be eating it.”
Staring down at the bread, she offered a bittersweet smile. Then the moment was lost. “What do you mean by rabbit hole?”
Steadily, he accepted the transition. Details might make her feel more at ease. And so far, she’d resisted anything that veered into the personal. “I’m afraid he won’t be satisfied unless he can get close to you, until he can deliver whatever message he’s burning to convey. He’s biding his time.”
With each word, her golden eyes went a shade darker against her white skin. “We let him make a move?”
He held her gaze, refusing to react but shocked at her suggestion.
“Never. We let him think he can.”
******
Dessert moved them to the couch. Ethan’s powerful frame took up most of the real estate, so Scarlet curled up near an armrest. She smiled inwardly at the progression of their evening. Eggs appeared to be Ethan’s culinary specialty, but he ordered a mean five-star takeout.
She hadn’t eaten steak in months. Or a buttered baked potato with real sour cream. The invading aroma of a hot charcoal grill had weakened her willpower to resist a lot more than food, and that was before Ethan had unwrapped the dishes, releasing a full-fat, carbalicious mayhem. Before he’d watched closely as she consumed every bite, encouraging her to enjoy the food with hedonistic abandon simply because it made her happy.
Now he spooned up her weakness. Never feeding her, but handing over bite after bite of decadent chocolate mousse that slid along her tongue and down her throat like silken heaven.
He didn’t sneak a taste. Instead silent, anxious energy rolled off his stiff body each time he refilled her spoon. She wondered if he might splinter from within.
The pulsing stillness left her inexplicably nervous. “Tell me you like chocolate.” The possibility that he didn’t was rather appalling.
He shook his head and extended another dollop, “Never have.”
Her hand flew to her chest in mock horror. Sacrilege. “You’re like people who don’t love puppies. If you don’t like chocolate, I can’t trust you.” Not sure I can anyway. “And here you are with the job of keeping me safe.”
The spoon in his hand twisted in front of her mouth, demanding attention, and she snaked her tongue out. The only thing more delicious was his deep voice when he said, “Perhaps I could be persuaded. To try it, I mean.”
She looked up in question.
“I seem to remember enjoying a truffle or two in Copenhagen. Though I don’t think I ate them directly.”
The spoon floated away from her lips before landing in its empty dish. Ethan set the bones of the dessert on the coffee table.
“No, I suppose I tempered the flavor,” she murmured.
Memories flashed through her mind. He’d brought the truffles in apology. She’d gorged. He’d watched. Seems like a habit. When she’d demanded a whole lot of Ethan to go with her chocolate, he’d refused and settled in for an undoubtedly uncomfortable night in his jeans.
Ethan hadn’t given in until morning. In the hours between his gift and his capitulation, he’d kissed and stroked her not-so-naughty bits, no doubt sampling a hint of those delicious truffles along the way.
The reminder settled low in her stomach, burning. Smoke curled upward into her lungs, leaving her to function on hot, singed air. He made her… want. “How then?”
“How what, sweetheart?” The innocuous question didn’t betray his thoughts, but the dark gleam in his eyes told her he could be more than a bodyguard. Anytime, anyplace, it said.
Shallow breaths barely eased inward. Ethan wasn’t meant to be resisted.
“How can I persuade you to try?” she asked unevenly. “You can’t continue on with a character defect of this magnitude.” She twirled her index finger in circles around her ear. “Cra-zay.”
Ethan jerked, chilling their light mood. He buffed his mouth and jaw roughly with his fingers. “I think you know.”
Already overwhelmed lungs seized. Yes, I do. But she couldn’t risk the devastation of watching him pull away again.
So they would do this the hard way.
Leaning forward, she forced herself to give detail, and not the kind Ethan obviously wanted. “Can you give me what you did that first night?” He knew the one. “Sleep with me but not sleep with me? With you, I fall asleep without any trouble. Sometimes I even dream. When you’re not there, I—”
He threw an incredulous look her way, but heat blasted off his body. “You want me to help you sleep?”
“And”—say it—“kiss me. Touch me a little.”
He jacked forward from the couch and bounced back against it hard. “Just so I’m clear, you want me to lie beside you. Kiss you. Stroke you a little. But no more. Only help you rest. Along the way, perhaps I’ll catch a hint of that dessert as my reward?”
She looked away. He was going to tell her what she could do with her ridiculous needs, but she nodded regardless.
The room itself stayed quiet, as though waiting for his answer. The longer he took to respond, the more she gave in to embarrassment. Of course he wouldn’t agree, probably considered her a tease. And now she knew exactly where they stood.
Slipping her legs from beneath her, she thought about toothpaste and started to rise. No chocolate for—
“Fuck yes, I will.” He extended his hand in her direction, palm to the ceiling and fingers curled slightly inward. Waiting. Inviting.
Relief loosened the lockdown on her lungs. She clutched his thick wrist, and he pulled her up with him. Before she could strike out for her bedroom, he slung a hand behind her back and another beneath her knees, swinging her high against his chest.
“Solo chocolate is iffy, but did I mention how much I love a chocolate-flavored woman?”
******
Ethan walked smoothly with her dangling from his arms. If a comforting presence helped her shut out the world, then his hard-on could fuck off.
But her reticence still pricked. She’d been drawn to his silent offer to give her much more than peace. He’d seen it. The hitch of her breath. The way her warm stare slid along his torso, coming to rest on his groin. Scarlet denied herself because she still didn’t trust him fo
r anything more than his ability to knock heads.
Turning in her hall, he used his ass to nudge her bedroom door open. She already drowsed against his shoulder, so at the bed, he lifted a knee to support her legs while he threw back the covers. Dropping to a squat, he slid his hands from beneath her body and then stepped back.
“Thank you.”
Her weary murmur drifted to his ears. She’d said the same thing last night after dropping the towels off in his room, like his renewed presence in her life was a favor for which she owed gratitude. In her eyes, he’d become the neighbor that mowed the lawn during an illness or the church lady that organized meal deliveries to an aging parishioner.
Performing a duty. Acting out of obligation. Here today, gone tomorrow. That’s what she thought of him.
His hand went to the button on her jeans. “I’m not going to pounce on you, Scarlet, but can we get these off? You’ll sleep better.”
A nod.
Okay, she trusted him that much. He released the button, the zipper, and then slowly pulled the dark denim from her limbs.
Aaaannnd fuck. Welcome back to Scarlet’s lingerie fetish. They were two see-through-panty lovers in a pod.
On instinct, he reached out to trace the peach lace that curved over her hip and between her thighs. Almost too late, he pulled away.
Throat dry, he pushed her a little harder, tugging at her shirt. “Can we ditch this, too?”
“Mmm hmm.”
By the time her shirt had joined her jeans on the floor, he knew she fought against her arousal. Her nipples puckered against the delicate cups of her bra, demanding attention, and when he sat on the edge of the bed, her back arched up in a slow roll. Seconds later, she gripped the sheet and pulled it over her, straight to the neck.
Biology demanded a closeness he’d taught her to distrust. No wonder she fought it. He took a hand that peeked from beneath the cotton and began to trace slow circles against the impossibly soft skin of her slender wrist. The innocent touches seemed to remind her he wasn’t there to get laid. Gradually, her body quieted.
“Did you believe me,” he began, considering each word before he said it, “when I said I never meant to hurt you? That I pushed you away because, even though you didn’t know it or intend it, I’d become your instrument of self-sabotage?”
She shifted under the sheet, giving him a glimpse of a satin collarbone. “I believe you now.”
The swift, sure affirmation surprised him. He’d expected waffling. “Do you believe I didn’t suspect how you’d be affected?”
There was a pause, and her gaze darted to and from his face in indecisive intervals. Then a quiet, “Yes.”
A little confliction, but she seemed sure. “Do you know I care more than”—he opened and closed his mouth several times, squeezing her hand—“a great deal about your safety?”
This time she nodded right away.
He reached out and carefully smoothed a lock of hair that had slipped over her eye. Right answers. Zero help. “You thought I’d used and abused, but now you understand my motives. And regret. That’s not enough?” He cringed inwardly, hoping the last hadn’t veered into blame.
She stiffened, re-tucking the sheet beneath her chin with the hand he didn’t clutch like a lifeline. “You did what you thought was right.” No shit. “But that decision? You took it out of my hands like I wasn’t capable of being part of a sensible solution.”
“I’m not used to—”
“And I’m not a child,” she finished.
Her unflinching gaze said there’s more. “No matter your choices, or how angry or disappointed you made me, I couldn’t set you aside for any length of time. That was the whole problem, right? I needed you, wanted you, too much to say good-bye. You didn’t see it that way.”
“I knew it wasn’t forever.” Otherwise, he’d never have let her go. “You didn’t.”
“It doesn’t matter why or whether you thought you’d get me back. You were able to end it, which means you don’t feel what I do.”
No, I feel much more.
“And I thought you did.” Her voice cracked at the last, and she rolled away from him. “I can’t trust either one of us after being so wrong.”
Guilt propelled him away from the bed. The wall looked pretty damn good in comparison to her accusations. He jammed his hands against the doorframe to her bathroom, stretching back and dropping his head between rigid arms.
“You’re right,” he said tightly. Even though you’re so goddamn wrong. “I’m sorry. More than I can say. But know this. While you thought I was enjoying life solo, I tortured myself with images of you doing the same. In the end, I couldn’t stay away. That’s why I ran at JTS again. It’s why I’m here now.”
Louder than he’d intended, his declaration rang against the walls. The echo was the only response he got. Turning around, he saw she’d scooted to the middle of the bed and curled her arms and legs into herself. The defensive position jarred him out of his mission to make things right with a few words.
Her head poked up from the pillow. “Would you grab my phone from the living room?”
“Why?”
“I—I like to have it nearby when I sleep.”
God, she thought he wouldn’t stay, that after his outburst, he’d leave her to brave the night the way she usually did, apparently curled in a ball, clutching her cell.
“You don’t need it.” They’d hit another wall, but it wouldn’t do for her to question whether he planned to honor his promise to sleep next to her. Returning to the bed, he stretched out along the curve of her back.
And what do you know, when he reached out and threaded a hand through her hair, she didn’t pull away. Even better, with each combing stroke through the bright strands, she inched backward toward his chest until the tightness in his throat began to ease.
After long minutes, he barely heard her whisper against the pillow. “Thank you.”
The unwanted gratitude grabbed him by the throat and squeezed. One breath in, one breath out. Again and again. Then calmly, “Welcome.” Because these things take time. They’re earned, not demanded.
With one last shift, he plastered his chest against her spine. Chocolate-flavored woman would have to wait.
Chapter 26
“I don’t know if he habitually paid off officials,” Scarlet grumbled. “My father and I probably spent a combined ten months under the same roof in all the years after my mother’s death. I was young, and as you love to say, spoiled.” She dragged the word out until Ethan’s pupils disappeared in a skyward roll.
It was mid-Saturday and Scarlet had finally attacked the mail piling up on her kitchen table. She painstakingly opened every single envelope regardless of its expected contents. While she considered each bill, each coupon, each advertisement, Ethan peppered her with questions that were becoming increasingly difficult to answer.
“I didn’t care about his business dealings. He could’ve invaded a small country, and I wouldn’t have known.”
Ethan raked his fingers through cropped hair that spiked out in rebellion. He held up part of Scarlet’s most recent research, a printout showing a mug shot of an attractive middle-aged man with a touch of gray at his temples. “About five years after your dad built the Cora, this guy”—he pointed to the photo—“pleaded guilty to two counts of conspiracy to commit honest services fraud and two counts of conspiracy to commit bribery. At the time of his arrest, he served on the Landmarks Preservation Commission. When your dad sought approval for the Cora? He was the committee’s chairman.”
An everyday asshole and a bona fide crook were two different things. “My father was never charged with a crime.”
“True.” He fell back against the couch, roughly palming his eye sockets. She’d dug up the info. Barely a day had passed before she relented and accepted Ethan’s help deciphering it. Since then, he’d spent the better part of his nights reviewing and adding to her findings. Even Billboard had fielded a few requests for hard-to-find
tidbits.
“There were several co-defendants in the criminal case,” he continued, “all convicted of bribing this guy in exchange for priority in construction permitting—a hotelier, a restaurateur, another developer. Never your father. Yet I’m not so sure.”
Scarlet’s mail progress slowed. “George Rosono.”
“Exactly. Looks like family money. He got involved in all sorts of give-back positions around town. The kind with more respect than pay. Guess he wanted the pay.”
Busy plumbing the depths of her memory for dirt on Rosono, she reached for a manila envelope. The writing on the back warned, “Pictures. Do not bend.” She pried the tape from the flap and reached in.
Ethan lunged up, suddenly pacing the hardwoods of her living room. “It’s too much of a coincidence. Tripp Leore got the permit of the century. He demolished a historic apartment building in the center of a historical district. All this went down while the gatekeeping function designed to prevent such destruction was headed by a man who currently sits in prison for accepting bribes of the exact nature your father would have sought. I don’t buy—”
Death. Real and inescapable. All Scarlet saw was a young girl lying in a pool of her own blood, eyes eternally open and mouth parted in a silent scream. The image scalded her fingers, and she dropped it, stumbling from her chair and falling to the floor.
“It’s her, Ethan. Her.” The litany reverberated against her skull and out her mouth as she crab-walked away from the photo and the offending envelope she knew would contain more of the same. “Her, her…”
Ethan crouched overhead. “Who? Scarlet, calm down.” His hand streamed over her forehead and scalp until it cradled the back of her head. “That’s right. Look at me. Breathe deep. Where?”
She couldn’t answer. Easing her shoulder blades onto the spinning kitchen tile, she pointed a limp finger toward the envelope.
Violence registered on his features, and he spun for the table. He grabbed the top image first, like Scarlet had.
“Fucking Christ,” he bit out. Gripping the table’s edge, he flipped through the remaining pictures with his free hand. With each image, he lowered a fraction until he sat in the chair Scarlet had vacated.