Risk (It's Complicated Book 2)

by Ann Christopher

  Janet, here, was the type of woman Angela could never be.

  “Hello, Janet,” she said coolly, moving away before Janet fully extended her claws.

  “Wow!” Janet gave her a once-over. “That must have been some workout!”

  “Oh, it was,” Angela said, turning away.

  Janet caught her arm, stopping her.

  Angela frowned and looked back over her shoulder.

  Janet dropped her malevolent voice until it was low enough that any passersby wouldn’t hear. “You don’t really think you can hold him, do you?” she asked with utter disbelief, as if Angela thought she could get to the moon on a tricycle.

  Angela’s face burned white hot with fury. “Excuse me?”

  Janet’s sly grin widened. “Well, I mean, you are attractive, in a plain sort of way, and he feels sorry for the way your sister died and your boyfriend dumped you in public like that—”

  Angela made a strangled sound.

  “—but you’re, what, fifteen years older than he is, aren’t you?” Rueful shrug from Janet, as if she regretted being forced to say anything so indelicate. “So I just want you to know that in a week or two, when he gets bored with you, he’ll come right back to me.”

  Something possessed Angela. She would not let this hateful woman demean her and have the last word.

  “Oh, sweetie.” She adopted Janet’s regretful tone and mocking little smile.

  Janet got real quiet, her eyes widening as if the cat had discovered the mouse owned an AK-47.

  “Don’t fool yourself,” Angela continued, her voice dripping poisoned honey. “If you were so good in bed, I wouldn’t be here, now would I?”

  Direct hit.

  Janet’s face turned a gratifying purple color.

  Once again, Angela turned to walk off.

  “Ladies?” said a concerned voice to their right. “What’s going on?”

  Justus. With the worst timing in the world, dammit.

  Still seething, Angela raised her chin and held his gaze, determined not to reveal how embarrassed she was, but he knew.

  That was one of the worst things about Justus. He always just knew.

  His face darkened as he turned to look at Janet.

  Janet, meanwhile, seemed to realize she’d made a huge mistake and smiled the sweet smile of someone who’s just had her halo polished.

  “Justuuus,” she said. “We were just having a little girl talk. Do you have a minute?”

  Justus snorted. “Give me your card.”

  Janet’s entire body jerked with shock. “What?”

  “Give me your membership card.” His low voice warned that Janet better not force him to ask a third time. “I’ll mail you a refund check. Find yourself another gym.”

  16

  “What happened?” Justus asked Angela the second Janet stormed off.

  Angela’s smile was bright as a cubic zirconia and just as fake. “Nothing. Nice friend you have there.”

  “Sorry,” he said helplessly, cold fury making his voice hard. If Janet just irreparably harmed his fragile relationship with Angela, he’d hunt her down and wring her scrawny neck. Janet was many things, but never stupid. She’d no doubt seen the writing on the wall—that he hadn’t given her a second thought since he’d laid eyes on Angela. All of which meant she had plenty of reason to hurt Angela if she saw an opening. “I hope you don’t believe whatever bullshit she spouted.”

  Angela’s fake smile wavered. “It doesn’t matter.”

  Shit! That’s what he’d been afraid of.

  Without thinking, he reached out cupped her soft cheek. “She hates you.”

  Angela stiffened and jerked away, out of his reach, and when she spoke again, ice cubes dropped from every syllable. “Yeah, well, you should put her out of her misery and tell her how you don’t think I’m your type.”

  She turned and hurried down the steps to the first floor.

  Justus cursed, then raced after her. “Angela.”

  She paused at the bottom without deigning to turn and look at him.

  He floundered several steps above her. Most of his vocabulary was trapped behind the impenetrable wall of his fear of her slipping farther away from him than she already was, so the only thing he could say was:

  “Don’t walk out on me. Please.”

  A long several seconds passed, during which he tried to keep his heart rate this side of cardiac arrest while she frowned thoughtfully and juggled his fate between one of her manicured hands and the other.

  Finally, she looked up and shot him a sidelong smile.

  “Who do I need to see around here about getting a tour?” she asked. “I’m thinking of joining. Now that the clientele’s improved.”

  He broke into relieved laughter, edged around her to take the lead, grabbed her hand, and towed her after him.

  “Good,” he said. “That’ll give me the chance to train you.”

  “Train me?” She pulled her hand away but kept following him. “I’m in very good shape, thank you.”

  You bet your ass she was. As a matter of fact, when he’d come down the steps just now and seen her flushed and sweaty in her workout gear, he’d almost wet his pants. She was all gleaming brown skin, full breasts, wide hips, flat belly, big butt, and long legs. All his personal favorites mixed together in one sexy-ass pot of jambalaya.

  Angela was made for him—only him—even if she didn’t know it yet.

  But she didn’t need to know that.

  And few things were hotter than working up a joint sweat at the gym before working off any remaining physical aggression in bed.

  Unsmiling, he stopped and studied her shoulders with all the clinical detachment he could muster, which was around one milligram.

  “Well, look at your shoulders.” He skimmed his fingers from the curve of one smooth shoulder, across her collarbone, to the other shoulder. It did not escape his notice that goose bumps appeared in his wake. “You could use a little more definition.”

  Angela’s breath hitched as he trailed his fingers down her right shoulder and stopped at her upper arm.

  “And here,” he said, tapping her biceps with his index finger. “Don’t be ashamed. I’ll get you straightened out in no time.”

  “Straightened out?” she said on an outraged laugh. To his utter delight, she elbowed him in the ribs as she marched off without him. “You know what? Screw you and your little gym.”

  “We have a quitter,” he called after her. “Wow. Can’t say I’m surprised.”

  Still laughing, she wheeled back around and started to smack his shoulder. Also laughing, he grabbed her wrist and snatched her hand out of midair before she could.

  Which left them standing face to face for a couple seconds of breathless surprise as their smiles faded away, leaving only a surge of sexual heat that Justus could feel all the way down to his toenails.

  Staring into her flushed face and overly bright brown eyes...seeing the erect nipples as her straining lungs made her breasts move up and down, Justus’s need for her cranked even closer to that invisible but inevitable tipping point that was in their near future. He found himself quickly evaluating options that would allow him to have her now (now, NOW!), and coming up with a leading contender.

  Come in here, he could say. I want to show you my office.

  Once there, it would be so easy to touch her some more. To kiss her. To lead her into his private bathroom, where they could have sex in the next five minutes.

  It wouldn’t be that hard, he knew, her hot skin all but scalding his fingers. She wanted it. There were moments, like now, when he almost thought she wanted him to take the reins and the control out of her hands and force the issue. That what she needed was a man whose will was stronger than hers. A man to whom she absolutely could not say no.

  He was that man.

  But as much as he wanted to ratchet up his seduction, he absolutely did not want to see regret in her expression ten minutes from now, after they’d fucked in his ba
throom and had to face each other in awkward silence while she searched the floor for her panties.

  So he reluctantly let her wrist go and tried not to see the flash of disappointment in her eyes.

  Then he lassoed all his gnawing desire, shoved it back in the stable, and locked the barn door.

  “Come on,” he said hoarsely. “I’ll buy you a smoothie.”

  “Angela, dear, come in.” Smiling, Vincent let her in and swung the door shut against the crisp fall evening. “I’m sorry I missed you when you dropped Maya off. I’d like to talk to you for a minute before she comes down with Lena.” He led Angela into the living room.

  Angela, who had the resigned air of someone reporting for her root canal, did not smile back.

  “What can I do for you, Vincent?” she asked tightly as they sat.

  Vincent sighed. He’d hoped she’d cooled down a little after their last encounter, but apparently she hadn’t. His gloom deepened.

  The thing was, as much as he loved his beautiful home, late afternoons were always difficult, especially as fall changed to winter. The days were so short now, and the house was usually dark, shadowy, and chilly, no matter how many lamps he clicked on or fires he burned. Soon Maya would go home and the house would be eerily silent.

  At times like this, he felt like exactly what he was: an old man rattling around alone in a mausoleum.

  “Would you like some tea or a soda?”

  “I’m fine,” Angela said.

  Crossing his legs, he decided to just plow ahead. No point being delicate. “I’d like to help you get Maya’s guardianship.”

  Angela’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t need your help.”

  He’d expected as much. Still, the girl obviously didn’t know what a valuable and generous friend he could be.

  “Don’t you know an olive branch when you see it, Angela?” he asked irritably.

  “No, but I know a Trojan horse when I see one.”

  Intrigued, Vincent laughed. He hadn’t expected the girl to have this much spark. “You don’t like me, do you?”

  Emotions flashed across Angela’s face, as readable as the crawl on the bottom of the TV screen during the news. He saw her innate respect for her elders battle with her virulent dislike of him. Her desire to be polite in his home struggled with her need to tell the truth. In the end, the truth won out.

  “No. I don’t like you, Vincent.”

  His disappointment was swift and sharp. He liked Angela and would have been pleased to think she had a soft spot for him. And he had the feeling he needed her as an ally far more than she needed him.

  He leaned forward, more interested in this conversation than he could remember being in anything else for a long time.

  “Why not?”

  “I really don’t think—”

  “It’s because of Justus, isn’t it?”

  That did it.

  “I don’t understand how a man can treat his son the way you treat Justus!” she cried. “Can’t you even pretend to be a good father?”

  He shrugged, bored again suddenly. This was familiar ground and he didn’t feel like treading it again. “Why? He doesn’t pretend to be a good son.”

  Her eyes widened with outrage. “Because you’re the parent! He’s probably so sick of being treated like a second-class citizen and banging his head against a brick wall he won’t even try to meet you halfway! But if you tried, so would he.”

  If only that were true.

  Sighing, he closed his eyes and leaned his head against the back of the tall chair.

  “I have tried.”

  “Try again,” she said flatly.

  “I’m too old and tired for this.” He couldn’t expect a young woman like Angela to understand the depths of his exhaustion. He was tired of seeing the disappointment and reproach in Justus’s eyes. He was tired of Justus rebuffing him every time he invited him to the house for the holidays. He was tired of hearing the phone ring and knowing the caller could be virtually anyone in the world except his youngest son—he had a better chance of receiving a personal call from the President than he did from Justus. He was tired of dancing on eggshells, attempting the impossible task of thinking of something—anything—-to say to which Justus would not disagree. Most of all, he was tired of being exhausted.

  “I don’t have the energy for dealing with Justus. He’s worn me out.”

  Angela hesitated. “You know what? I feel sorry for you.”

  Stung, he opened his eyes to glower at her. The one thing he wouldn’t stand for was pity. “How dare you—”

  “I do. I feel sorry for you. Because you’re wasting what’s left of your life with hard feelings. And you don’t even realize how much like you he is.”

  She got up and headed toward the door, fishing around in her purse for her keys. “I’m leaving. Where’s Maya?”

  But this wasn’t over. Oh, no, this was not over.

  Vincent shot to his feet, ignoring the resulting lightheadedness and tightness in his chest. Angela had just poured a pound of coarse salt on a wound that had festered for nearly thirty years. Why would she say that? She couldn’t know that if Justus had ever shown even the tiniest tendency to be anything like Vincent, they could’ve found some common ground and their entire relationship would have been different.

  “My son is nothing like me!” he roared, clutching the chair for support. “That’s the problem!”

  Angela stopped dead. “Wow. How can you be so blind? Your son is smart and funny and mischievous, just like you are. He put himself through school on a scholarship, just like you did.”

  “That has nothing to do with—”

  “He’s started his own business, just like you did,” Angela continued. “You’re both as stubborn as a thousand mules. You both work very hard. You should take the time to go to his club and have him show you around. It’s like he’s given birth and you haven’t even bothered to go see his baby. You won’t believe the work he’s done there.”

  Vincent studied the floor and scrubbed a hand over his chin.

  He believed it, all right. Hadn’t he seen the fruits of Justus’s hard work with his own eyes the other day and been too stubborn to compliment him on it?

  Shame, an emotion he hadn’t felt in years, sat on his shoulders like an elephant wanting a piggyback ride.

  “And you both play chess, of course,” Angela finished.

  Wait, what? Chess?

  “What did you say?” he asked sharply. “How do you know he plays chess?”

  “Because he’s taught Maya to play. He’s got a Wizard of Oz set they use, which you would know if you only—”

  “Maya’s too young to play chess.”

  Angela smiled smugly, clearly pleased she’d taken her enemy by surprise. “Justus taught her.”

  Vincent was too stunned to speak.

  “If I were you and I’d just lost one son,” she said quietly, “I’d be down on my knees every night, praying for God to let me live long enough to work things out with the other one.”

  This one was really something, Vincent though grudgingly. Beauty. Brains. Strength. Courage. Watching her glare at him, he suddenly realized exactly why Justus was so smitten with Angela: she reminded Vincent of his late wife, Sharon. Angela didn’t look anything like Sharon, of course, but they had the same steely spine and the same passion for the people they loved.

  God, he missed Sharon.

  He’d be with her soon enough, though, and the thought kept him going.

  He smiled ruefully. “My son is a lucky man, Angela. I’m not sure he’s good enough for you, but you’ll have to be the one to decide that.”

  Angela frowned. “What?”

  “Have you told Justus how you feel about him?”

  Panic, or something like it, flared behind her eyes. Vincent, meanwhile, watched her with grim amusement. Maybe it hadn’t occurred to her yet that she was in love with his son.

  “Justus and I are good friends,” she finally managed. “That’s
all.”

  “Angela,” he said reproachfully, “don’t kid a kidder.”

  She flushed to her ears but tried to hide her embarrassment. “The best defense is always a good offense, isn’t it, Vincent?”

  Before he could laugh, his chest tightened in a precursor to the pain that was always with him these days. He stiffened, his smile fading.

  “I’m sick, Angela.”

  Her expression darkened. “I know.” She put her hand on his arm and squeezed it. “You should think about what I said.”

  “You should think about what I said,” he told her, winking.

  Her reluctant smile felt like the sun dawning over the Arctic after months of darkness.

  “I’m leaving, Vincent.” She hitched her purse over her shoulder. “You’ll have to find someone else to torture for the rest of the day.”

  This time he did laugh, delighted with this girl. If he were young enough, he’d more than give Justus a run for his money.

  “I’m going to keep working on you, Angela. One day you’re going to like me,” he told her.

  “I doubt it,” she said, pursing her lips.

  “I hate it,” Maya whined later that night. To make sure Angela really got the message, Maya also folded her arms across her chest, planted her feet wide, and poked out her lower lip. “Hate. It.”

  Unbelievable, Angela thought, looking back and forth between the guest bedroom, which she’d completely made over per Maya’s specifications, to Maya, who now looked perilously close to tears. What could the kid possibly hate?

  After finishing up at the gym early this afternoon, Angela had spun into action like a professionally trained Tasmanian devil. She’d hit Lowe’s for paint, accessories, and decorations, then come back here and thrown a coat of lilac paint on the walls. She’d folded up her treadmill and wheeled it into her own bedroom, where it hopelessly crowded the space. She’d gotten rid of the old linens and replaced them with a beautiful floral duvet and pillows. She’d removed the curtains and draped white tulle scarves over the rods, then woven garlands of flowers through the tulle. She’d found a flower lamp and a white wicker rocker for Maya to sit in while looking at her books, and she’d found a huge, flower-shaped rug to warm the floor.