Risk (It's Complicated Book 2)

by Ann Christopher

  Justus gently smoothed the hair away from the side of her face. “Sorry, Duchess.”

  She shrugged, looking away. “So I guess I’m a little sensitive about fathers with heart problems.”

  “What about your mother?”

  “She died when I was a freshman in college. Colon cancer.”

  “You miss them.”

  Her throat constricted so painfully she doubted she’d be able to answer.

  “My—” She cleared her throat. “My whole family is together except for me.”

  He smiled faintly, absorbed with tracing the side of her face with his fingers. “Not your whole family.”

  “No?”

  “No.” He paused. “Angela—”

  The new huskiness in his voice put her on her guard.

  “Are we going to talk about anything happy tonight?” Reaching for her wine gave her the excuse to pull away before she said or did something she didn’t mean to do, although it was becoming harder to remember why she shouldn’t be with Justus. “It is Christmas Eve.”

  He studied her for a long beat or two, his expression shuttered but thoughtful. “Yeah, but not yet. I want you to tell me about Ron.”

  “Ron? Are you kidding me? What more is there to tell?”

  “I don’t know. You loved him, didn’t you?”

  She opened her mouth, but the answer wasn’t there.

  Loved Ron? Had she? Once upon a time the answer would have been an automatic and enthusiastic yes, but those days felt like a millennium ago. She and Ron had been together for so long. So much of her past was tied up with him: dinners, movies, weekends, vacations, cooking, making love, and holidays.

  And if he’d been such a big part of her life, shouldn’t there now be a gaping hole in her life and heart where he used to be?

  There wasn’t.

  When Ron dumped her, she’d been so worried about the holidays. Funny to think about that now. Funnier still was the fact that she hadn’t thought of Ron at all tonight until now.

  “I thought Ron was perfect for me,” she said helplessly. “I thought we’d get engaged today or tomorrow and get married over the summer.”

  “You loved him,” Justus insisted, apparently determined to wring the confession from her.

  “I thought I did,” was all she could say.

  But to her surprise, the storminess cleared from his expression as though her answer pleased him.

  By midnight, they’d exhausted every conceivable topic of conversation, laid out all of Maya’s gifts from Santa, and stuffed her stocking. They’d even remembered to install batteries in the toys that needed them.

  It was time for bed, and Angela wanted to go. Just not alone.

  “I should let you get some sleep. I’m not being a very good hostess, am I?” Standing, she smoothed her pants and pointed to a stack of linens and blankets on the chair. “There are towels and sheets and a blanket. This is a sleep sofa, but it’s probably not long enough for you.”

  Justus stood slowly, shoved his hands in his pockets, and studied his shoes. “Great.”

  She went to the fireplace and reached for a candle. “Should I blow these out?”

  “Leave them.”

  She smoothed her hair behind her ear with fidgety fingers. “And there’s toothpaste in the bathroom, and shampoo—”

  “There’s only one thing I need,” he said pointedly. “And we both know it’s not toothpaste or shampoo.”

  Oh, God.

  They stared at each other for an endless beat.

  “We have to talk about this, Angela.”

  She opened her mouth, but here was way too much intensity in his expression.

  Too much determination.

  Too much everything.

  “I can’t, Justus,” she whispered, that terrible fear of being hurt getting the best of her.

  And not merely a garden variety hurt, like Ronnie had done to her.

  A Justus hurt. The kind that would leave her in the emotional fetal position for months to come, if not years. Justus already affected her so much more profoundly that Ronnie ever had. And when Justus inevitably left her for his next Janet? There’d be no walking away from that nightmare.

  “Can’t what?” he asked, coming closer. “Be with me? Talk about it?”

  “Yes.”

  And without another word, she turned and walked out on him.

  Angela flopped onto her back, kicked the covers off, and checked her nightstand clock for the ten millionth time: three fifteen. She hadn’t slept. Had no prospects of sleeping.

  Her body was way too hot and bothered for that.

  Why, oh why had she invited Justus to spend the night? What had made her think she had even the remotest possibility of sleeping when he was in the other room?

  Sometimes her stupidity was as amazing as it was appalling.

  After her shower, she’d listened for him, acutely aware of everything he did, even through her closed bedroom door. He’d showered. Flushed the toilet.

  And then—nothing.

  For three hours, she’d heard nothing. Not the rustle of his sheets, not a snore. Nothing. Was he dead? Had he finally overdosed on carrot cake? And, excuse her, but how the freaking hell could he sleep so well when she couldn’t sleep at all?

  Maybe she’d check on him. He’d be asleep, she’d see with her own eyes that he was okay and not sleepless from wanting her, and she’d be able to go to sleep herself. End of insomnia.

  Without giving it any more conscious thought than that, she got out of bed and headed down the hall in her white nightgown and bare feet. She peered around the corner and—

  Nothing.

  Huh?

  Not only wasn’t he sleeping on the sofa, he hadn’t even made up the sofa. The linens lay exactly where she’d left them on the chair. She wondered wildly whether he’d gotten so fed up with her that he’d gone home, but he couldn’t have because she’d have heard the door.

  Her peripheral vision caught a movement.

  She turned and saw him by the sliding glass doors with his hands on his hips and his feet braced wide. He had his back to her and the blinds open just enough for him to look outside.

  The white glow of Christmas lights let her see he wore only baggy flannel pajama bottoms of some indeterminate dark color. No shirt, which meant she got an unobstructed view of his muscled perfection. Wide shoulders. Tight ass. The kind of toned back that looked like he spent his days chopping firewood or laying railroad tracks. Arms that were sculpted and powerful without being bulky. Gleaming skin.

  Bottom line?

  He looked like Zeus surveying the world from atop his perch on Mt. Olympus.

  Turning his head slightly, he stared over his shoulder, waiting for her to speak.

  As if she could when she was out of her mind with hormone poisoning.

  “I—I just came to get some water, and I—”

  “No you didn’t.”

  His voice, low and dangerous, yet seductive, struck terror in her heart.

  “No, really I—”

  He made an indistinct sound of irritation, and even in the near dark she saw anger in his flashing eyes.

  “It’s amazing to me,” he said quietly, “how you can be so brave when it comes to dealing with your sister’s death and taking care of Maya and cutting my father down to size—”

  “Justus—”

  “And such a lying little coward when it comes to dealing with me.”

  Wow.

  He’d sharpened up his truth and hurled it right into the center of her chest, where it hurt like hell.

  She had no colorable defense—nothing she could say with a straight face, anyway—so it was offense for her.

  “I don’t know what you think you’re talking about,” she snapped, heading back the way she’d come, “but I’m going back to bed.”

  She made it all of two feet before he crossed the room in a flash of movement, blocking her from taking another step unless she wanted to walk directly int
o him.

  Which she did not.

  So she stopped cold, backing up a step.

  “You’re not going anywhere,” he said.

  That was the shameful moment when her body began to tremble, although whether it was from lust or apprehension, she couldn’t say.

  So here was the wolf again. As much a part of Justus as the solicitous and supportive friend. And there was her colossal stupidity again, leading her down the garden path. Why on earth had she allowed herself to think the wolf was gone just because he’d sewn himself such a fluffy sheep’s costume?

  “We’ve talked about this,” she tried. “We still have Maya to raise, and we can’t just—”

  “Nothing’s settled. You know that.”

  If logic didn’t work, maybe begging would.

  It was the only tool she had left in her pitiful arsenal.

  “Please don’t to this, Justus,” she said softly, backing up a step.

  He stared dispassionately at her, his face as immovable as the pyramids. “Come here.”

  Angela stiffened, her feet attaching her to the floor like the roots of a banyan tree.

  “Come here.” This time, he held out a hand, leaving her no doubt she could do it voluntarily or not, but either way she would stand by his side.

  That got her moving. She made it to within three feet of him before he knees shut down like a balky mule.

  But he seemed satisfied. When she stopped in front of him, his hot gaze roamed over her thin halter-style nightgown. It dawned on her that it was probably transparent since she was backlit by the tree. She certainly had his undivided attention. His eyes lingered on the deep valley between her breasts and on her dark nipples, which were pointy and aroused, as he could surely see.

  If she needed further confirmation that his vision was working just fine, it came from his breath, which became steadily raspier.

  Come to think of it, hers wasn’t all that steady at the moment, either.

  His gaze, hungrier than before, flickered back to her face, and he curled the fingers of his outstretched hand. “Give me your hand.”

  Angela shook her head. If they touched each other now, all her resolve would go up in flames. She knew it would.

  Justus snorted. “Don’t be ridiculous, Duchess. I can control myself. All I want is your hand. If I wanted more than that I’d already have you flat on your back—voluntarily—on the sofa right now, and we both know it.”

  “Oh, God,” she said on a shaky exhale.

  He gave her a small smile, and that was a seduction in itself. “Give me your hand.”

  Something hypnotic came over her, melting all her resistance. As if in a daze, she reached for him. Their hands connected. Electricity surged between them, as tangible as a lightning strike to a tree’s outstretched limb, and she immediately felt some of his frustrated tension leave his body.

  “Justus?”

  He seemed beyond hearing. She watched, enthralled, as he clasped her smaller hand between both of his larger ones. His eyes drifted closed as he raised her hand and pressed an urgent kiss to her palm.

  She gasped with surprise.

  His face twisted as if he were in pain—or ecstasy.

  “Angela,” he murmured against her skin, his voice raw and reverent. “Angela.”

  Her entire body melted into exquisite points of sensitivity that seemed to originate between her thighs. Her heart skittered. Her nipples ached.

  In the entire universe, there was nothing she wanted more than for Justus to pull her down to the floor beneath him and make love to her until she died from ecstasy.

  As she surely would.

  She wanted him to touch her. Lick her. Bite her.

  Fuck her.

  Own her.

  And yet the one functioning brain cell she had left stubbornly stood on the sidelines, waved its arms overhead, and threw a flag on the play.

  Think, Angela, it shouted. Think, you stupid bitch.

  She heard. And listened, trying to pull her hand free.

  “You shouldn’t—” she began weakly.

  Justus went rigid. His lids flicked open and he glared at her with a virulence bordering on hatred. “Don’t tell me not to touch you,” he warned. “Never again. Do you understand me?'

  “Yes.”

  He relaxed again, pressing his mouth to the tender skin on her wrist now.

  She mewled with pleasure.

  He nipped her with his sharp teeth, watching for her reaction.

  She cried out, not certain how much longer her legs would support her.

  “How long, Angela?” His lips nuzzled her wrist. “How long are you going to make me wait for you?”

  He loosened his grip. For one terrible second her heart sank, and she feared he’d let her go. But then he turned her hand and pressed it against the center of his smooth chest, where his heart hammered powerfully and uncontrollably.

  She stood there, stunned, unwilling to believe she could actually have this kind of effect on a man like Justus. That she had the power to make him beg.

  “Will it be another month?” he continued. “Another ten years? I can wait, but I just need to know how long. Please, Angela, please. Tell me.”

  “I’m scared,” she confessed before she could stop herself.

  “Why?”

  A thousand insecurities streamed through her mind, all too humiliating to share:

  Because you’re so intense;

  Because you know me too well and there’s no place to hide when you look at me;

  Because you’re younger than me, and you’ll always have another Janet hovering on the periphery, waiting for her chance; and

  Because I think I’ll disappoint you in the end.

  “Because—because of Maya,” she said, the first acceptable excuse she could think of.

  “That’s not it,” he said flatly, still pressing her hands to his heart. “Tell me the truth.”

  “Because it’s too soon after Ronnie, and—”

  His face twisted and she knew she’d gone too far by mentioning Ron and putting him between them.

  “I can make you forget Ron,” he said roughly. “If you give me the chance.”

  He already had. Oh, God, he already had.

  “I don’t—” She let out a bewildered laugh. “I don’t understand you at all. You said I wasn’t your type—”

  “I lied.”

  “I mean...how can I trust you? You’ve been lying this whole time.”

  “I’m sorry about that.”

  “No, you’re not! I can look at your face and see that you’re not!”

  “I shouldn’t have come on so strong so early. I didn’t mean to scare you away. So I had to dial it back or you’d never have spent time with me like we’ve been doing. And isn’t that what we needed? To get to know each other better? To be friends and lovers?”

  “It was all a manipulation, Justus.”

  “Why are you determined to see it in the worst possible light?”

  “Because you’ll say anything to get a woman into bed!”

  “I’ll say anything to get you into bed,” he said.

  “Yeah? And what about the woman after me? When’s the next Janet going to show up with her sky-high heels and skintight dresses?”

  Unsmiling, he stared her in the face. “I don’t know if there’ll ever be another Janet. The Janets of the world have lost all their appeal to me. And if there is another Janet, I can’t see that far in the future.”

  Angela frowned. Could that possibly be true? Would it matter? Probably not. A man like Justus loved women and needed women. He might think he could change, but in the end? He probably couldn’t.

  “You only want me so much because you haven’t had me yet,” she said tiredly.

  “What?” He snorted with disbelief. “Do you think I make this kind of effort to be friends with every woman? The way I have with you? Are you insane?”

  “I don’t know! How would I know what you normally do?”

&nbs
p; “I thought you knew everything about me,” he said bitterly. “You’re so quick to predict my future mating habits and all. You and my father, boy. You’re quite the pair.”

  “Your father?” The comparison nearly made her keel over backward in shock. “What are you talking about?”

  “The two of you can’t wait to predict the worst about me. Nothing I ever do will ever convince you otherwise. I wonder why I even try. Just stupid, I guess.”

  “I don’t think the worst about you, Justus! Oh my God. I’m nothing like your father!”

  “Bullshit. The two of you are so busy bracing for me to fuck up, you don’t bother to look around and notice that I’m doing the right thing.”

  He’s right, she thought, pressing a hand to her neck because the painful realization made her throat constrict down to the size of a coffee stirrer.

  He’s right.

  “Having a little a-ha moment, there, Angela?”

  She laughed shakily. “There’s nothing little about it. I never thought about it that way. I don’t even know what to say. Other than I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be sorry,” he said. “Just give us a chance. See what happens.”

  “It’s not that I’m expecting the worst from you. It’s that we’re so different and I have to protect myself, Justus. I’m not the casual sex type.”

  His lip curled. “Well, let me help you out, so maybe you can understand me better. I’ve never invested this kind of time in a woman. I’ve never been this patient about sex in my entire life—”

  “Why, Justus, I declare,” she said, adopting an exaggerated Southern accent, “you’ll sweep me clean off my feet with all your sweet talk.”

  “Look. I’m trying to get the words right to tell you how I feel. You’re not like other women to me, okay? I don’t know how to say it all pretty for you, but this is real to me. Maybe I’m screwing it all up, but this is not a joke!”

  “I know that!”

  “Well, how can you look at me, and feel what I know you feel when we’re together—and don’t deny it; I can see it on your face and I felt it when I had you in my arms in the kitchen earlier—how can you feel it and then stand there and tell me no and not even give us a chance? How can you do that? Is this making you happy? The way things are right now? When you’re in your bedroom and you can’t sleep, and I’m out here, pacing like a goddamn panther in a cage, and I can’t sleep, and we could be together? Is this what you want?”