Risk (It's Complicated Book 2)

by Ann Christopher

  “I don’t know,” Justus said dispassionately. It was hard to get worked up about the holidays when so many places at the dining room table would be empty. “I’d like to be there when Maya opens her presents, so—”

  “You could spend the night with me.”

  Justus gaped at her.

  She stood up. “I mean—we have space on the sofa,” she said quickly. “And there’s no telling what time she’ll wake up, probably the crack of dawn, so—”

  “I will,” he said before she changed her mind. “Thanks.”

  She smiled happily, and Justus felt his entire being clench with need for this woman. In that tricky moment, desperation felt like his oldest running buddy. If Satan appeared right now, Justus would gladly sign on the dotted line for just one night with Angela.

  She was almost ready to surrender; he could smell it on her.

  Every time they were together now, he could feel her softening, and there was no mistaking the way she’d looked at him a minute ago.

  So...what to do?

  He’d promised himself he wouldn’t push her, and no one could claim he hadn’t done his level best to keep his word. But enough was enough. He was a man, not a saint. She was so close, and if a small nudge would push her into his arms a little sooner, well, then...

  He’d have to nudge.

  When the meat thermometer read one hundred and seventy degrees, Angela took her perfectly medium-rare roast tenderloin out of the oven, put it on top of the stove, covered it with a tent of aluminum foil, and surveyed the rest of her Christmas Eve feast with satisfaction. Rich brown gravy. Crisp green beans flecked with pancetta. Her world-famous potatoes, mashed with sour cream, cream cheese, and chives. Carrot cake with cream cheese frosting.

  The dinner was, she decided, a culinary masterpiece.

  She only hoped Justus thought so.

  Maya twirled by in the living room, singing her off-key, off-lyric version of “Jingle Bells,” putting special emphasis on the part where “Batman smells.” Angela grinned. She couldn’t ever remember Maya being so excited before, but, as her guilty conscience reminded her, she’d never spent Christmas Eve with Maya.

  As she watched, Maya stopped in front of the live tree they’d trimmed the other day, gingerly touching the white lights and her favorite ornaments. Then she skipped to the crackling fireplace and, staying well clear of the screen, touched the fresh garland, which was laced with white lights and red-and-green plaid satin ribbons.

  Sneaking a glance over her shoulder at Angela—Angela quickly ducked her head and pretended she was too absorbed with wiping the counter to notice what Maya was doing—Maya furtively squeezed the bottom of the white-topped red stocking with her name on it, apparently making sure Santa hadn’t made any early deliveries.

  Angela stifled her laugh.

  Knock-knock-knock.

  “Uncle Justus!” Maya screeched, then spun and raced to the door as fast as her little black patent leather Mary Janes would carry her.

  Angela’s insides softened to the consistency of her cranberry chutney. Her heart raced.

  Inviting Justus to spend the night had seemed like a good idea at the time.

  If only she’d taken a minute to figure out how she’d manage to fight her attraction to him while he was there. With her.

  Her growing obsession with him had gotten exponentially worse ever since she’d caved and kept her appointment for him to “train” her. She’d known it would be a disaster, and it was. Because now all she could think about was Justus’s flawless brown skin, flexing thighs and calves, and, let’s face it, heavy groin.

  Yeah, that’d been a mistake. M-I-S-T-A-K-E.

  She’d been lightheaded with desire that day and, big surprise, was lightheaded with desire now. Even her hands were shaking with it as she untied her chef’s apron and swept it over her head. Keeping said hands to herself under the circumstances seemed like an increasingly ridiculous idea, like vacationing in the North Pole. And spending the night in such close quarters with Justus—while keeping her distance, which she still firmly intended to do—promised to be an agonizing exercise in self-control. But she would do it. She had to do it.

  You’re not his type, anyway, girl, she told herself.

  But the reminder seemed to be losing its potency.

  “Hurry, Aunt Ang-la!”

  “I’m coming!” Despite her excitement, she managed to walk sedately to the door and unlock it for Maya to swing open.

  “Uncle Justus!”

  Stooping and laughing, he caught the girl as she launched herself at him.

  Angela watched and waited breathlessly for Justus to look at her. She spent the couple seconds trying to regulate her haywire pulse—God, he looked sexy in his black cashmere turtleneck, wool pants, and leather jacket—but, really. What was the point? Who was she fooling?

  Where Justus Robinson was concerned? She’d never had a chance.

  Over Maya’s shoulder, his gaze found Angela’s and widened with obvious appreciation even as he let Maya go and stretched to his full height. Once again, she’d spent a ridiculously long time on her appearance, even for this new Angela who existed solely to catch Justus’s eye. Now, seeing his reaction, she knew it was time well spent.

  Her hair was tousled and free, and she’d worn a red silk wrap blouse that plunged deeply in the front, black palazzo pants, and black stilettos.

  Justus noticed all of it.

  His slow gaze traveled from her face down over her breasts, hips, and feet, absorbing every small detail of her appearance before it returned to her face.

  “Hi,” he said quietly.

  “Hi.”

  “What’s this?” Maya cried from the doorway. “Oooh, presents.”

  Justus frowned and swung around in time to snatch the shopping bag full of brightly wrapped gifts out of Maya’s eager little hands. “Get outta there!”

  Maya hopped from one foot to the other in her excitement. “Are those for me?”

  Justus’s brow wrinkled thoughtfully. “I don’t know. Have you been good this year?”

  “I’m always good!”

  Angela coughed discreetly, a gesture entirely lost on Maya. But Justus glanced over Maya’s head at Angela, his grin widening.

  “Well, we’ll see,” he told Maya as he went to the living room and knelt beneath the tree, which was already overloaded with gifts. “I’ll just put them under the tree with the other presents.”

  “Okay.”

  Maya supervised while he removed several large gifts from his bag and arranged them under the tree, then grabbed the hem of her dress and, holding it like she was a waltzing princess, whirled around for Justus to admire her.

  “Don’t I look pretty, Uncle Justus?”

  Angela had to laugh; Maya did look adorable. She wore a beautiful little dress with a black velvet bodice, cap sleeves, and a green-and-red plaid taffeta skirt that tied in the back. Plus, white dress socks with lace trim. For added flair, Angela had woven fat red ribbons through her braids and subdued the sheared portion of her hair with a barrette to counter its unfortunate tendency to stick straight up like grass.

  Justus got up and looked indulgently down at his niece. “You look like a princess.”

  Beaming, Maya pointed at Angela. “Doesn’t Aunt Ang-la look beautiful too? Isn’t her outfit pretty even if it isn’t a dress like mine?”

  “Don’t put him on the spot, Maya,” Angela said quickly, her face beginning to burn.

  Justus took forever to turn his head and follow the path of Maya’s finger, as if he wasn’t quite certain he should look at Angela at all.

  But eventually their gazes met and Angela felt a stunning jolt of electricity surge through her body, head to toe. With it came a flash of absolute clarity.

  And she knew, even before he showed her by letting her see the raw intensity on his face.

  Justus wanted her. Still wanted her. Had always wanted her.

  And meant for her to know it.

 
; Which meant that his whole spiel about Angela not being his type had been an act.

  A complete act.

  This whole time.

  Either that, or he’d decided he couldn’t fight his attraction to her, after all.

  Either way, she had a huge freaking problem on her hands. Because it was hard enough to resist him when she thought he didn’t want her. And now—

  Angela’s knees weakened.

  She clutched the nearest chair for support, her thoughts spinning out of control.

  “Uncle Justus?” Maya tugged impatiently on his hand.

  “Yes, Maya.” His attention never left Angela’s face. “Aunt Angela is the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. I’ve always thought so. It doesn’t matter what she wears.”

  Oh, God, Angela thought with utter disbelief. Oh my God.

  Frowning, Maya said, “But what about Mommy?”

  A fleeting expression of sadness crossed Justus’s face. He wrapped his arm around Maya without looking away from Angela.

  “Your mommy was beautiful, too, little girl,” he said. “But there’s something about Angela that...”

  He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down.

  Suddenly Angela couldn’t stand the heat—not the heat in his eyes nor that in her own feverish body. She hurried into the kitchen to put the sturdy countertop between her and Justus and called over her shoulder, trying to keep her voice light.

  “You should go easy on the compliments, Uncle Justus.” Reaching the stove, she leaned into it, trying to catch her breath and keep her balance. “Santa’s watching.”

  Justus was hot on her heels. He came right up behind her and, as he’d done before, wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her back against the solid and wildly arousing length of his body. He buried his nose in her hair, breathing her in before letting out a serrated sigh, and, in that weak moment, no part of Angela’s body was capable of resisting him.

  “Santa knows I’m telling the truth,” Justus murmured. “Do you, Angela?”

  She couldn’t answer.

  But she did succumb to the temptation, just this once, to turn her head and receive his fevered kisses on her cheek as she clung to his neck and held him close. Her eyes rolled closed. She screwed up her face, breathing in his spicy scent and shoring up the strength to do what she needed to do.

  Which was to remind herself that Justus would only break her heart in the end, no matter how good this moment felt or how beautifully things might begin between them.

  So she stiffened and pulled free, too cowardly even to look him in the eye and gauge his reaction as she did so.

  “Maya,” she called, pretending she didn’t hear the frustrated hitch in his breath as he scrubbed his hands over his head and turned away from her. “Dinner.”

  18

  After setting out a plate of carrot cake and a glass of milk for Santa, Maya reluctantly went to bed.

  Angela stayed up late, talking with Justus on the sofa.

  The living room had never seemed so cozy and intimate before. Cinnamon candles burned on the mantel, and the only other light came from the tree’s white lights.

  The world shrank down to her and Justus, here, now, in this room, together.

  The way she wanted.

  Even if, by some unspoken agreement, neither of them mentioned what’d happened in the kitchen earlier. She knew both that they hadn’t come to the agreement he wanted and that the subject was far from over.

  He’d just granted her a temporary reprieve.

  Justus snuck down the hall to make sure Maya was safely asleep, then came back and snatched up Santa’s snack plate, taking a large bite of cake as he sank onto the sofa beside her.

  “This is fantastic,” he told her around his mouthful. “You’re a great cook. You’ve got me beat by a country mile.”

  Angela smiled with satisfaction, her goblet of red wine suspended halfway to her lips. “You ate like it was your last meal. Hasn’t anyone fed you this week?”

  “Not like that.” He finished off the cake and smeared a little icing around the plate for effect. “How’s that look?”

  “Like Santa was hungry. Don’t forget the milk.”

  “Right.” He grabbed the tall glass and downed the milk in what seemed like three swallows. “There.”

  “Sooo...” she began carefully, well aware she was raising a touchy subject. “You’re going to your father’s for dinner tomorrow, right?”

  “I guess.”

  “Try not to get so excited,” she said.

  His lips twisted down and she could sense one of his dark moods hovering over his head.

  “Why don’t you go with an open mind? Maybe it’ll be fun. Your father seemed like he might be willing to try to be...nicer.”

  Justus snorted. “That’s the first time my father and the word ‘nice’ have ever been used together in a sentence.” He leaned forward, balancing his elbows on his knees and studying his hands. “He mentioned that you and he...talked the other week.”

  Uh-oh.

  And had Vincent also told Justus his little theory about Angela being in love with him?

  “Oh,” she said, taking a careful sip from her goblet.

  Mental note: tell Vincent nothing.

  Justus studied her with those keen eyes of his. “He said you gave him a hard time. About me. Again.”

  “I see.” The effort to keep her face blank overwhelmed her, so she got up and went to the kitchen. “More wine?”

  “No.” The first notes of exasperation crept into his voice. “Did you? Give him a hard time?”

  Justus wasn’t about to let it go, but she was equally determined not to tell him the details of the discussion. Forcing herself to meet his eyes, she smiled and shrugged.

  “Well, you know. There’re a couple of chapters of Dr. Spock I think Vincent missed.”

  Justus scowled but didn’t pursue it.

  She stalled for a minute, sponging a drop of wine off the counter, then returned to her seat on the sofa and tucked her legs beneath her when she figured it was safe.

  “I want to ask you something, but not if it’ll make you sad,” she told him.

  “Go ahead.”

  “Tell me about your mother.”

  “My mother.” His eyes lost their focus and he stared off in the distance. He slumped back against the cushions and threw his arm over his eyes. “God, I miss her. Especially at the holidays.”

  “What was she like?”

  Justus dropped his arm. “She got pancreatic cancer when I was fifteen. She was dead in six weeks. She was my biggest fan. She came to all my games. She made our Halloween costumes.” He grinned. “She beat my ass when I didn’t listen.”

  Angela laughed, then decided to go ahead and push her luck some more. “Did she and your father have a good marriage?”

  His smile vanished. “If by good marriage you mean she waited on him hand and foot and waited, night after night, for him to come home from the office at a decent hour, or to remember our games, or to go on vacation and not cancel it, or to eat dinner with us without leaving in the middle for a phone call, then, yeah, they had a good marriage.”

  “Is that why you’re so angry with your father?”

  Justus slouched back again, staring at the ceiling and sighing harshly. “What’re the chances of you dropping this little interrogation and letting me enjoy Christmas Eve?”

  “Not good.”

  Giving her a sidelong look, he warned, “Just remember, Duchess. There are a few things I want to know about you, too. So you might want to keep a little concept I like to call karma in mind.”

  Angela nodded, figuring she’d cross that bridge when they came to it. “Fine.”

  He sighed again, his voice dropping. “Pops never liked me. Never.”

  “Justus—”

  He held up a hand to stop her. “You know what? Don’t bother. Okay? I know you want to say something comforting, like ‘Oh, I’m sure your father loved yo
u but couldn’t express his feelings,’ or ‘Oh, I’m sure you were too young to really understand,’ but don’t bother. If we’re going to talk about it, you need to listen. I was there. You weren’t.”

  To her surprise he seemed only resigned, not angry.

  “I’m sure he loved me, but he didn’t like me. He didn’t want me around. He didn’t get me. And I didn’t get him.” Justus paused. “He and V.J. got each other.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be,” he said, shrugging impatiently. “I got over it a long time ago. Anyway, he was always a self-involved jerk, but I could take him or leave him, I guess. But when Mama died, he went into this poor widower routine. Sobbing at her funeral, mentioning her name every two seconds, her pictures all over the house, telling me and V.J. how much he loved her, how she was his whole life.” His voice hardened. “Can you believe that shit? He broke her heart more times than I can count. He never paid her a damn bit of attention when she was alive, then when she died, he pretended he’d been the greatest husband in the world. For sympathy.” He got up to pull back the blinds and stare out the sliding glass doors. “And I’ll never forgive him for that.”

  Angela sensed his withdrawal, which was the last thing she wanted. “Okay. That’s enough of that topic. Since you answered my questions, I’ll tell you something personal about me.”

  He turned from the doors and stared at her with open curiosity. “Let’s hear it.”

  She placed her hand over her heart.

  “I wear a size nine shoe,” she said solemnly. “I have big feet.”

  “Nice try.” He came back and sat again. “But I think I’ll ask the questions from now on.”

  “Go ahead,” she said, putting her wine down. Then she twisted to face him and rest her arm on the back of the sofa.

  “What about your parents?”

  That inevitable sadness crept over her heart and she propped her head on her hand.

  “My dad had a heart attack when I was ten. He was an architect. I kissed him goodbye when he dropped me off at school that morning—it was a Friday—and he promised he’d take us to Graeter’s for ice cream after dinner. But when I got off the bus that afternoon there were a thousand cars at my house and I knew right away something terrible had happened.”