“I don’t understand what’s happening,” she said.
There were tears in her eyes. She pushed herself backward on the bed and pulled her knees up to her chest. “Liam, please. Don’t do this.”
“This is a big mistake. I’m doing you a favor,” he said.
He tucked himself back into his jeans and zipped himself up. Then he stood at the end of the bed, looking down at her.
“You need to go before someone catches you in here,” he said.
She blinked away tears. “Is that what you’re worried about? Someone finding us? Because I would never tell, Liam. I love you. You know that. I’d never get you in trouble.”
“You’re fifteen, Zoe. Tom trusts me, your parents trust me. They took me in.”
She shook her head. “Bull. This isn’t about my parents or my brother. Tell me what’s really wrong. Is it because I’m a virgin? Or is it my boobs? I know they’re small but I didn’t think you’d mind. Mom said they’ll get bigger as I get older…”
Liam swore under his breath and raked a hand through his hair.
“It’s nothing to do with you, Zoe. It’s me, okay? You don’t want me to be your first.”
“I do. More than anything.”
She stared at him with her big trusting eyes, so earnest and open and honest.
“You have no idea who I really am.” He thought of the girls he’d slept with, the fights he’d had, the things he’d stolen, the lies he’d told. He thought of him and his mom escaping into the night with their lives crammed into a single black garbage bag thanks to his old man. “You don’t want me.”
Zoe shook her head. “I do. You’re the only one I want.”
She swung her legs over the edge of the bed and stood. Her arms were crossed over her chest as she moved to stand in front of him. She bared herself so that she could reach for his hands, pulling them toward her.
“I want you. See?” she said, pressing his hands against her breasts.
Her eyes, her face pleaded with him. He felt the warm softness of her beneath his hands. Wanted so much to haul her to him and take what she was offering.
He forced himself to keep his hands unresponsive, to push her away instead of drawing her closer. She gasped.
He stooped to grab her T-shirt.
“Get dressed,” he said.
She just stared at him, her arms once more crossed protectively.
“I love you, Liam,” she said. “Please don’t do this.”
“You’ll thank me one day,” he said.
He dropped the T-shirt onto the end of the bed and turned his back on her, walking to the window so he wouldn’t have to look at her a second longer. He would never forget how she looked, standing there with her eyes so full of pain and confusion.
The rush of movement and the sound of the door slamming signaled her exit. He closed his eyes.
So close. He’d come so close to taking something that wasn’t his. Something perfect.
He crossed to the bed and sat on the edge, his head in his hands. Images from the past few minutes flashed across his mind. Zoe’s breasts, damp from where he’d kissed her. Her eyes, heavy with need. The hitch in her breathing when he’d slid his hand between her legs.
He knew what he had to do. He pulled out the duffel bag from beneath his bed. It didn’t take him long to pack. Life had taught him to travel light. He hesitated a moment before grabbing the photograph he kept hidden in the biker magazines beside his bed. Tom and him and Zoe, laughing last summer as they attacked each other with water pistols. He slid it into his back pocket then headed for the door.
His motorbike was in the garage and he wheeled it carefully past Mr. Ford’s Mini and Mrs.
Ford’s sensible Volvo wagon. He propped it on its stand at the end of the driveway in the circle of light from a streetlamp and settled in to wait for Tom to come home.
Liam was stiff and his ass was numb from sitting on the cold concrete curb before Tom turned the corner at two in the morning. Liam stood as his friend stopped in front of him, a smile on his face.
“Mate. What are you doing out here?” Tom was hazy-eyed, a bit drunk. “Why’d you leave so early, you bastard? Party was just getting started. Sally was mighty pissed with you, let me tell you.”
Then he registered Liam’s bike, the duffel bag strapped on the back. His smile faded.
“What’s going on?”
“I’m heading off. Time to move on,” Liam said.
Tom frowned. “What? What do you mean?”
“Don’t want to overstay my welcome,” Liam said with a shrug.
“No way. You can’t go like this. Mom’ll freak out. Dad’ll have a cow. God knows what Zoe will do. You know she worships the ground you freakin’ walk on.”
Liam pulled the letter he’d written from his back pocket. It wasn’t much—a bare thanks, a thin explanation, plus all the cash he had on him to pay for his bills to date. It would have to do.
Tom stared at the envelope, refusing to take it.
“I can’t believe you’re serious. What happened? Have you heard from your dad? If he’s hassling you, we can go to the cops,” Tom said.
“I just have to go.”
Tom stared at him, his green eyes, so like Zoe’s, searching Liam’s face. Then he crossed to the bike and tugged the keys from the ignition, sliding them into his pocket.
“Hey!”
“Tell me what happened and I’ll give them back,” Tom said.
“Nothing happened.”
“Bull.”
“Give me the keys, Tom. All you need to know is that I’m doing the right thing.”
“Sneaking off in the middle of the night? Yeah, really noble.”
“Give me the keys.” Liam moved forward, but Tom backed away.
“Tell me what’s going on.”
Liam swore and lunged at his friend. Tom dodged to the side.
“Tom…” Liam warned.
He lunged again, and again Tom slipped away.
“Tell me.”
“No.”
“Tell me.”
Liam feinted to the left then grabbed a handful of Tom’s shirt when he tried to veer right. They wrestled in silence, grabbing fistfuls of each other’s clothing, not wanting to hurt each other.
After a few minutes they broke apart. They eyed each other, fighting for breath. The words were in Liam’s throat and out his mouth before he could think twice.
“It’s Zoe,” he said. “I can’t stay because of Zoe.”
Tom frowned. “Because she’s got a crush on you? I know she can be a pain, but it’s not that bad…”
Liam stared at him, letting the silence grow. Tom jerked his head in sudden realization.
“No way,” he said, shaking his head.
“Nothing happened.”
Tom took a step away, then stepped forward again, still shaking his head.
“You and my sister? Tell me this is a joke.”
Liam knew what Tom was thinking. He’d heard Liam talk about girls, knew he’d had more than his fair share over the past few years. Knew Liam never stayed long after he got what he wanted.
“Nothing happened. I sent her back to the house before things got out of hand.”
“Jesus! What the hell was she doing alone with you anyway? How long has this been going on for?”
Liam shook his head. “It hasn’t. I mean, I’ve always liked her. But I’ve never touched her before.”
Tom swore and threw his hands in the air. “You touched my sister?”
“I didn’t screw her, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Liam said.
Tom’s fist came out of nowhere, connecting with Liam’s jaw and sending a flash of white pain up the side of his face. He staggered, then shook his head to clear the ringing in his ears.
“You asshole. Dammit, you asshole,” Tom said. “She’s fifteen. Fifteen!”
Liam held his ground. “That’s why I’m going.”
Tom dug his hand into his pocket. Liam
caught a flash of silver as his motorbike keys flew toward his head. He was too slow to react and they grazed his cheekbone before hitting the ground. He felt a trickle of warmth on his face as he bent to retrieve them.
He offered Tom the letter again, but his friend eyed him coldly. Liam crossed to the mailbox and slid the envelope inside. It would have to do.
“For what it’s worth, I love her,” he said as he reached for his helmet.
Tom turned his back and walked up the driveway. Liam watched until he disappeared from sight, then rocked his bike off its stand and wheeled it to the end of the street.
The bike roared to life, the motor throbbing between his thighs. He didn’t look back as he twisted the throttle and sped down the street.
He’d made the right decision. He knew he had.
1
Twelve Years Later
LIAM FINGERED the single button on his jacket as he approached the well-lit entrance of Hartman’s Art Gallery. A woman in her thirties waited in the foyer, tall and elegant. Her platinum-blond bob swung around her jaw as she turned to face him, a welcoming smile on her face.
“Liam. You came,” Jacinta Hartman said.
“Of course.”
Her smile faded as she registered his clothes.
“You’re not wearing the tie I bought you.”
“Nope.”
“Liam…”
He held out his arms to draw attention to the well-cut wool trousers, jacket and crisply tailored shirt he was wearing.
“Come on, cut me some slack here. Not an inch of denim or leather in sight,” he said.
“And you’re not wearing your beautiful new shoes, either,” she said, eyeing his favorite boots unhappily.
He slid an arm around her slim waist and pulled her close.
“I said you could try to civilize me. I didn’t say it would work,” he reminded her. He kissed her and she pulled back before he could smear her lipstick.
“Liam, people can see us,” she said.
Which made him laugh. Jacinta always made him laugh with all her prim little rules and guidelines. In public, that was. In private she was as dirty as the next woman—if the next woman had a penchant for hard, sweaty sex. They’d been friends for years now, lovers when the mood took them. When he’d built his new house near the St. Kilda shore six months ago, she’d volunteered to help him decorate it. The catch had been that she wanted to redecorate him—
“civilize him,” as she put it—at the same time.
“I don’t know why you’re so resistant to the idea of stepping it up a notch,” Jacinta said. “If you had any idea how good you look in a suit, you wouldn’t think twice.”
“I’m a bike builder. I spend my days covered in grease,” he said.
“You’re a millionaire. You never have to get your hands dirty again if you don’t want to.”
“Babe, you have your world, I have mine. I’m not going to ask you to bend metal for me. And you’re not going to get me in a tie.”
She looked as though she was going to argue some more, then she shrugged. “Stubborn bastard.
Come on, I’ll show you the pieces I’ve picked out for you,” she said, taking his hand and guiding him into the gallery itself.
A few heads turned as they walked the length of the space past asymmetrical sculptures and brightly hued canvases and jagged twists of metal. Five years ago Liam would have figured people were looking at him because he so clearly didn’t belong. His hair was too long, his walk had too much swagger to it, his hands were too rough and ready. Back then, he’d have stared every person down, maybe taken his attitude right up to a few of them to show them how much he didn’t care for their opinion of him. Now he ignored them because he knew he didn’t have to prove anything to anyone, ever. He had the big house, the big car and the big bank account to prove it.
Jacinta stopped in front of a smooth obelisk of shiny white stone.
“I thought this would be nice on the balcony in the west corner,” she said.
He eyed it for a long beat, not saying a word. Jacinta slanted a look at him.
“You don’t like it, do you?”
“No,” he said. “It looks like a big stone dildo. Call me crazy, but no man wants something that big casting a shadow over his life.”
She sighed. “For a man who doesn’t know much about art, you certainly have strong opinions.”
“I want to see some craftsmanship, that’s all. Any of the fabricators at my workshop could make this before lunch,” he said.
“Lovely. Maybe we should ask them to whip up a few for us, then,” Jacinta said dryly.
He shrugged, unapologetic. She narrowed her eyes in thought for a moment then nodded decisively.
“Follow me. We’ve got a smaller collection in one of the side spaces. I have a feeling Paulo Gregorio’s work might be more up your alley,” she said.
Liam followed her across the polished concrete floor, admiring the sway of her hips. He wondered if she was wearing garters and stockings like she had been the last time she stayed the night. He loved a woman in red lace—it was one weakness he was more than happy to admit to.
“Okay, this artist is definitely more traditional. I think you’ll find all the craftsmanship you could possibly want in his work,” Jacinta said as they stepped into a smaller room.
Eight large canvases hung on the four walls. They were all portraits, all women in various stages of undress. Jacinta pointed to the first painting, a six-foot-by-six-foot canvas of a woman lying on a chaise lounge, a filmy negligee falling off her shoulders and tangling in her legs.
“Lots of color. Strong technique. And a subject that I know is very close to your heart,” Jacinta said.
He smiled at her dry humor as he studied the painting, noting the warm look in the woman’s eyes, the delicate way the artist had captured the texture of her clothing and the blush on her skin.
“Nice work,” he said.
“Nice work? It’s not one of your motorbikes, Liam.”
He checked the price list in her hand.
“You’re right. A custom Masters Mechanics bike is worth three times as much.”
She rolled her eyes. “What about this next one? I was thinking it would look great in your bathroom, above that huge Roman tub.”
Liam dutifully shifted his attention from the lounging woman to the next painting. This canvas was bigger, eight-by-ten, he estimated, and the subject was completely naked, lying sprawled on her back on a forest-green quilt. Her arms were spread wide and one knee was bent, the leg dropping out to the side. He followed the line of her calves to her thighs and the mysterious shadows between them. The artist had only hinted at what a man would be able to see in real life, but it was enough. More than enough.
If he had this painting in his bathroom, he’d be taking a cold shower every freaking day.
“I don’t suppose the artist hands out phone numbers with each painting?” he asked, only half joking.
Jacinta made an impatient noise. “Does that mean you like it?”
He dragged his gaze from the plump tips of the woman’s breasts and shifted his attention to her face.
Then he forgot to breathe.
Took a step backward.
Made a noise in the back of his throat that may or may not have been a four-letter word.
Green eyes. A dimpled chin. Long dark hair.
A face he remembered in his dreams. The most bittersweet memory of his life.
Zoe.
“Damn.”
Jacinta touched his arm. “Liam. What’s wrong?”
His gaze swept the painting again, looking for proof that he was wrong. Again he saw those open thighs, her hips, her breasts. And Zoe’s face. Indisputably Zoe’s face.
He stepped forward.
Why would she do this? Put herself on display like this? Little Zoe, spread across the wall for any man to stare at.
“Liam! What are you doing?” Jacinta demanded as he gripped the sides of the paint
ing.
“Who else has seen this? How long has it been on display?” he asked.
“Liam, put that back. My God, what is wrong with you?”
He lifted the painting off its hook and turned it around. Only when it was leaning against the wall, face in, did he relax.
“Wrap it up. I don’t want anyone else looking at it.”
Jacinta planted both hands on her hips and glared at him.
“Would you mind putting the painting back, please?”
He pulled his checkbook out. “How much is it? I’m taking it with me.”
Jacinta stared at him for a long moment.
“You’re serious, aren’t you?”
He waited for her to name the price.
“It’s fifteen thousand,” she finally said.
He wrote the check and tore it off. “I want to speak to this Paulo guy. Tonight.”
“Look, I don’t know what’s going on, but—”
“I know her,” he said bluntly. “Or at least I used to know her. I don’t know what this guy offered her to sit for this painting, but she doesn’t belong up here.”
“For God’s sake, Liam, you sound like an outraged parent. This is art, not pornography.”
“Can you get me this guy’s number or not?”
Jacinta studied him, frowning.
“I don’t want you calling one of my artists and harassing him. What do you want to know? Her contact details, I suppose?”
“For starters.”
“Give me five minutes.”
Jacinta disappeared toward the rear of the gallery where he knew she had her office. Once he was alone he ran a hand through his hair and closed his eyes. He felt sick. Like someone had punched him in the guts.
This Paulo shithead must have offered her big money to pose for him. She must have been so desperate it seemed like a good deal. Damn, what the hell was Tom doing, letting his little sister get into this kind of trouble?
The tap of heels heralded Jacinta’s return. She handed over a scrap of paper.
“No home number, just her workplace. She’s very private, according to Paulo.”
He studied the address and phone number. The Blue Rose, on the western side of the city in Footscray. Not exactly the most up-and-coming area. He wondered what kind of business it was.
“Can you get someone to wrap the painting?” he asked.
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