Risk (It's Complicated Book 2)

by Ann Christopher

  “She’s angry with me,” Angela said, trying to manage a smile.

  “Oh.” He looked her over with an admiring gaze. “You’re beautiful.”

  That got her. She grinned. The more time she spent with Vincent, the more she saw how much he and Justus had in common. Both men were handsome, vital, and interesting. But more than that, they had a virile sort of confidence that, probably more often than not, proved fatal to its female recipient.

  “Thank you.” She raised her champagne flute in a toast. “And you, once again, have thrown a wonderful party.”

  He inclined his head. “I’m glad you could come. And I want to thank you—you apparently got Justus to come, too. That’s something that hasn’t happened in an ice age.” He raised his champagne to his smiling lips. “Maybe I should have you take a look at my stock portfolio. See what sort of magic you can work on that.”

  Vincent was teasing, of course, and if she had any sense whatsoever, she’d ignore him. But when it came to sense where Justus was concerned, her cupboard was bare.

  “Justus is here?” she asked casually.

  Vincent smiled that nasty little knowing smile she hated so much. “I saw him talking to the pianist a minute ago. Why do you ask, dear? Are you anxious to see him?”

  She glared and prepared to blast him.

  “Don’t worry, Angela,” he said, chuckling. “When he sees you in that dress, Justus will be here so fast it’ll make your head spin.”

  He put his glass on a nearby table, then took hers and did the same. “In the meantime, you can dance with an old man.” With the gallantry of a knight helping his queen down from her horse, he took her hand and led her to the crowded dance floor.

  He was a good dancer. No surprise there.

  “It’ll be midnight soon, Angela. Do you have any resolutions for the New Year? Maybe to make partner at your firm?”

  “That would be nice.”

  He watched her closely. “Can I give you a piece of advice?”

  “Could I stop you?”

  He laughed. “Hard work has its place, of course, but it’s not everything. Family is everything.” He squeezed her hand for emphasis. “I’ve been where you are, and if I had it to do over again, I would.”

  “Is that your regret, Vincent? You didn’t spend enough time with your family?”

  His steps faltered and his nostrils flared. For one astonished second, she feared he’d choke up right here on the dance floor. “I have so many regrets I wouldn’t know where to begin.”

  He blinked furiously and pulled himself together. “And now here’s someone who’s looking for you. Hello, son.”

  Angela glanced over her shoulder, her heart pounding.

  “Pops.” Justus approached slowly, his expression unreadable as he gave her a quick once-over. His lips curled into a crooked smile. “Hello, Duchess.”

  “Hi,” she breathed.

  They stared at each other. No tux for Justus tonight, she saw, doing her best not to gape. Instead, he wore a black suit and black dress shirt and easily won the best-dressed award for men. He also wore a more generous splash of his spicy cologne, and it quickly filled her head, making her giddy.

  “I’m here, too, kids,” Vincent said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

  Without looking away from Angela, Justus said, “Happy New Year, Vincent. Great party.”

  “Glad you could come,” Vincent said archly, keeping his arm around Angela’s waist.

  Justus took her elbow. “I’ll take it from here, Pops.”

  Angela automatically moved toward him, but Vincent’s grip on her tightened.

  “We weren’t finished with our dance yet, son.”

  Angela heard the amusement in Vincent’s voice but, judging from the way Justus’s jaw tightened, he didn’t.

  “Oh, you’re finished, Pops.” Justus wrapped his arm around her waist, reeled her in, and held on tight, leaving Vincent no choice but to let her go.

  Vincent smiled smugly, having achieved his rather obvious goal of getting a rise out of Justus. “Well, you two enjoy what’s left of the evening.”

  “Yeah,” Justus said. “We’ll do that. And you don’t want to neglect your other guests.”

  Laughing, Vincent turned and wove his way through the crowd.

  Dropping his hand, seemingly oblivious to the fact they were talking but not dancing on the dance floor, Justus looked down at her. “What’s that you’re not wearing?”

  Angela gave him her most innocent look. “Oh, this?” She raised a hank of the skirt between two fingers. “I like to call it a gown.”

  “Did you borrow it from Janet?”

  Angela laughed gaily, happier than she could remember being since...well, since forever.

  Touching the brooch, which was snuggled between her breasts, she said, “I picked the best gown to show off my beautiful pin.”

  For one arrested second, Justus stared openly at her cleavage. Then he looked away, rubbing the back of his neck. “Trust me. No one’s looking at the damn pin.”

  She pouted. “You don’t like my gown?”

  His eyes warmed as the music stopped and the other guests paused and clapped.

  “Angela,” he said huskily, “you’re so beautiful it hurts to look at you.”

  Angela took a deep breath. “So are you.”

  He dimpled, causing her belly to cartwheel with excitement.

  Just then the male pianist struck up the chords that had haunted her for ten years and began to sing “A Kiss to Build a Dream On.”

  Angela gasped.

  Justus watched her, his sharp eyes never wavering from her face.

  “Do you like this song?” he murmured, opening his arms.

  Angela gratefully stepped close, wrapping one arm around his neck and taking his palm with the other hand.

  “Yes,” she told him, pressing her body, including her hips, full against his. The exquisite contact made her shiver as every tender curve and hollow of her body found a home against the solid ridges and angles of his. “It’s my favorite.”

  20

  The white-hot flare of passion in Justus’s eyes drove Angela wild. As did the way he subtly thrust his hips against hers as they swayed to the music, letting her feel his arousal.

  She managed not to cry out, but she had to say his name. Had to. “Justus."

  Never breaking eye contact, he planted a hand on her bare back—right where waist flared to hips—and began to rub it. Angela’s eyes fluttered closed, and his touch on her body was such an unspeakable relief that her knees went weak and she leaned into him.

  He crooned his approval, shuddering.

  She let her forehead rest against the hot skin of his chin, his breath feathering her face.

  “Look at me. I want to see your face.”

  Somehow she eased back enough to stare into his face.

  Taking all the time in the world about it, he trailed his fingers up her back. Her skin leapt with pleasure. His fingers kept going, up under her hair, to her nape, where they massaged firmly.

  Angela’s shivers turned to outright trembling. “You don’t play fair,” she said.

  “I’m not playing.”

  Unsmiling, he raised her hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles, tasting her with the hot tip of his tongue. In response, she made an earthy little sound that was more moan than gasp.

  A sudden commotion around them drowned out the rest of the song. Startled to discover that the rest of the world was still there, Angela looked around and saw people passing hats and noisemakers.

  The crowd began to chant. “Ten...nine...eight...seven...”

  “Did I tell you my resolution for the New Year?” she asked, standing on her tiptoes to whisper in his ear.

  His breath hitched. “No.”

  “This year, I’m going to take a few more risks,” she said.

  His eyes widened with surprise.

  “...three...two...one—Happy New Year!” the crowd roared.

  A
ll around them, people threw themselves into each other’s arms, hugging and kissing with abandon as the band began to play “Auld Lang Syne.”

  Angela lifted her chin and watched Justus, waiting. “Happy New Year, Justus.”

  Justus just stared at her mouth.

  And then, with painstaking care, he lowered his head and fitted his full lips to hers for a lingering kiss so tender she wanted to sob with the perfection of it. Drunk with desire, she returned the kiss, opening to him, but he stiffened and pulled back to keep her from coming any closer.

  “Justus?” she asked, her heart cracking in two with disappointment.

  After an agonized second or two of silence, he pulled away entirely, dropping his hands. “Happy New Year, Angela.”

  Then he turned to leave the dance floor.

  What the—?

  He wasn’t just going to leave her, was he? Like that?

  With no conscious thought, Angela overcame the crippling shock of rejection, reached out, and grabbed his hand.

  Stiffening, he looked over his shoulder at their joined hands, then up at her face.

  He waited, saying nothing.

  Even though she knew what she had to say and what he wanted to hear, she couldn’t get her dry mouth to form the words.

  She faltered.

  His face darkened, but he squeezed her hand supportively.

  “I’m not going to make this easy for you,” he said quietly, his expression softening. “If you have something to say to me, just say it.”

  Afraid of his rejection, but petrified of his acceptance, Angela took a deep breath and chose.

  In the end, it was simple.

  She couldn’t wait any longer. Ten years and several weeks had been much too long to wait be with him. Why? Because she loved him. Completely, passionately, and crazily. In a way she’d never loved Ron and could never love anyone else.

  It didn’t matter that she was older and he was younger, they weren’t each other’s usual types, or that she wasn’t sure they had much in common other than their mutual love for Maya.

  She loved him.

  Telling him was out of the question, though. She could never give Justus any more power over her than he already had. Even so, she had to touch Justus tonight or die. She simply couldn’t see any other choices. And if tomorrow he told her it had all been a giant mistake, or that she hadn’t satisfied him, or left her and returned to Janet, well, she would deal with that tomorrow.

  For right now, there was only tonight.

  She wouldn’t waste it.

  “I need you, Justus.” Stepping closer, she tipped her chin up and kissed him again, brushing her tongue over his lips the way she’d been dying to do for ten years. In response, his breath hissed and his hands tightened on her waist. “Come home with me. Make love to me.”

  By the time he drove to Angela’s, Justus had worked himself up into a righteous indignation. He knocked on her door with a fist trembling from equal parts excitement and anger, then could barely wait until she answered without succumbing to the temptation to kick in it. Her cheery lighted Christmas wreath only fueled his fire. That was his Angela, boy. Always proper and efficient. No doubt on January second, at twelve-oh-one a.m., she’d be out here taking down this wreath and putting up one for Valentine’s Day.

  The door swung open and there she was, the source of all his misery, standing there in the fucking dress that had obviously been designed for the sole purpose of driving unsuspecting men, like him, out of their minds. Things had been bad enough when she dressed plainly. Now she’d started flaunting her sick body—how did those thin straps support the weight of her titties?—and wearing clothes that left little—well, nothing—to his imagination. He had more than half a mind to grab the throw she kept on the arm of the sofa and toss it over her shoulders so his heart would stop pounding so hard and he could think.

  She just undid him, man. Every single time he saw her. Oh, sure, she had different ways of doing it, just to really screw with his head and make sure he was off balance all the time, but she always did it. Sometimes it was the way she made him laugh, while other times it was the way she looked at him or defended him to his father. A lot of times it was the way she surprised him, like tonight, when she showed up in a dress that sent a crystal-clear message (I want you to fuck me, Justus), wearing the jewelry he’d given her pinned to her barely-there bodice (yeah, you own these titties, Justus), and kissed him (like that!), and invited him home with her (yeah, I’m really serious about the fucking thing, Justus).

  Look at her. Did she not understand what she did to him just by standing there and existing?

  Her eyes glittered with excitement. A pretty flush stained her face and neck an inviting brown. Her breath was all fired up, almost like she’d just finished a workout.

  A glorious smile bloomed across her face and intensified the sweet ache in his gut.

  “Hi,” she said. “I was afraid you’d changed your mind.”

  He stared at her dewy lips (Christ, she was a great kisser; no surprise there) and tried to remember what he’d wanted to say. “No...I, uh...The valet took forever getting my car.”

  Nodding, she let him in.

  He edged past, but only after shoving his hands deep into his pants pockets, mostly to keep himself from reaching for her, and walked into the living room.

  He didn’t bother to sit down—he was way too agitated for that.

  Her happy smile faded. “What’s wrong?”

  Stalling, he noticed the cozy scene for the first time. A crackling fire. Lit candles on the mantel. Jazz playing. A bottle of champagne chilling in a silver bucket on the counter.

  Shit.

  Knowing he was a goner no matter how this conversation unfolded, he broke out into a fine sweat.

  “I’m...not sure we should do this,” he said carefully.

  She recoiled as if he’d slapped her. “Why?” she asked in a dread-filled voice.

  Swallowing hard, he tried to gather his thoughts.

  Yes, Justus, by all means, tell the woman why, after waiting ten years and several desperate weeks for her, you would reject her when she finally offers herself up on a silver platter. And while you’re at it, why don’t you explain how, in the car on the way over here, you suddenly decided to warn her about the magnitude of the commitment she was making? And feel free to mention how your pride made the ridiculous and insupportable decision not to have her at all if she was still hung up on Ron.

  He cleared his dry throat. “Because I’m not sure what’s changed. You’ve been holding me off for weeks and then all of a sudden—”

  “It’s not all of a sudden.”

  “—you decide you’re ready. What’s changed? Was it the champagne? The dance?”

  “No. I’d decided before I ever saw you tonight at the party that I—”

  “But why?” He heard the frustration creep into his voice and forced himself to stay calm. “What changed your mind? What’s different? Is it because of our talk Christmas Eve? Maybe now you want to prove you’re not like my father? I’m trying to understand. That’s all.”

  A frown line appeared and immediately disappeared between her delicate brows, come and gone so quickly he’d have missed it if he’d blinked. But in that millisecond, he glimpsed something dark, like fear or panic—as if something had changed, but she didn’t dare tell him what.

  Whatever it was, she hid it away and gave him a sensual, heavy-lidded smile instead.

  “Justus.” Her voice dropped an octave, taking on a seductive quality that slid right under his skin and caused him to get rock hard despite his upset. She sidled closer. “I want you. You know that. I’m ready to make love to you.”

  His conflicted misery made him angry again. Who’d have thought his sweet Angela would play such dirty, effective tricks?

  “Stop trying to manage me,” he barked.

  She flinched.

  He spun away, propped his elbow on the mantel right on top of her stupid garland, and
fought a losing battle to remain rational.

  So the duchess was happy to admit she wanted him, but didn’t trust him enough to tell him what was really going on. Wanted him. What a kick in the teeth. Plenty of women wanted him. Janet and innumerable women from his past or the club wanted him.

  Not that Angela’s lust was a bad thing, mind you. It was just that he needed her to care about him.

  To trust him. To have faith in him.

  And, yeah.

  To love him.

  “You want me?” He looked her up and down with his most insulting leer. “You want me and—what? Your body’s a little hot since Ron dumped you? You finally got horny enough to cave? Is that it?”

  She froze.

  And then her expression turned to stone.

  “If you don’t want what I’m offering,” she said, hate or something like it burning in her eyes, “you can leave. Your choice.”

  His choice? As if.

  Something inside him snapped. How dare she play the insulted victim when she’d always held all the cards in this game they were playing? He lashed out, grabbed her around her upper arms, and shook her.

  “I’m not going anywhere, Duchess. We just need to straighten a few things out. Because if this is just about some itch you have, you can get someone else to scratch it.”

  “Maybe I will, thanks,” she said, her expression murderous now. “Bye.”

  “No one else is touching you. Period.”

  “That’s up to me to decide, isn’t it?” she purred.

  Disgusted, with himself as much as her, he pivoted away and tried to get it together. But he just couldn’t make sense of this turn of events. What’d happened to him? What was he doing? She wanted him. He wanted her. They’d waited long enough, God knew.

  Why wasn’t everything coming up roses?

  Probably because, for the first time in his life, having a woman’s body was just the appetizer.

  Not the main course.

  “I spilled my guts to you! More than once!” he roared, wheeling back around to get in her face. So much for getting it together. “I gave you everything I have on a silver platter, and you said, No, thanks, Justus, like I was offering you a fucking cocktail weenie! And now you finally say jump and I’m supposed to say how high without wanting to know why? Are you insane?”