Twenty Times Tempted: A Sexy Contemporary Romance Collection

by Petrova, Em

  He didn’t pull into the parking garage. Instead he headed down Thirty-fourth toward the University’s Medical Center.

  It was a measure of how tired I was that our destination didn’t register at first. But he had my full attention when he pulled into the parking garage and found a spot well away from other vehicles.

  Jackson turned off the ignition and said, “I want you to listen carefully and not do something stupid.”

  He got as far as ‘she’s going to be fine, our man found her…’ and then I was running like the devil himself was on my heels.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Tay

  Either the cop or the private investigator was outside the door, snoozing. I knew that from the light snores filtering through the half-open door. After sleeping fitfully throughout most of the evening, I was wide eyed and bushy-tailed and wanting nothing more than to go home and cocoon under a blanket.

  But that was after I put my tiny living space to rights. Why the mess should reach through the aether and bother me here, in a hospital bed attached to an IV drip, was probably a female thing. Usually messes weren’t high on my radar, but that mess needed cleaned as Cordie would say.

  It had taken some fancy footwork for Marie to convince Sam and Cordie to go home, assuring them that I was well-protected, in no immediate danger and that the police would handle it from there.

  Wherever there was.

  My thesis advisor had dispatched my work to other beleaguered teaching assistants, leaving me free to hitch a ride with Cordie back to Pittsburgh.

  I was, as they say, all set.

  Except for one thing and that thing involved holding my breath as I strained to hear his footsteps pounding down the hall. His boss said he’d be in sometime in the early morning hours. The clock read two-thirty-seven. Two-thirty-eight.

  And then there was a heavy slap of vibram soles pounding down the long corridor and a brief argument ending with ‘get the fuck out of my way’.

  He skidded to a stop at the foot of the bed and just stood there, shaking like a leaf.

  “You look like shit.”

  Grinning he said, “I’m getting that lately.”

  Silence hung between us as he took in the room, me, the machines and the empty ice bucket, his eyes darting from one to another like a madman on speed.

  Finally he croaked, “How are you?”

  “Fine.”

  I was half afraid he’d shatter, his fists gripping the railing so hard I thought the metal would melt or snap in half. I was going to go with lighthearted but decided that bragging ‘you should see the other guy’ was wishful thinking. I’d scored a few points in the altercation but, bottom line, two hundred and twenty pounds of six three and a grudge hadn’t made for a level playing field.

  Rob said, “If I touch you, I won’t be able to stop.”

  Swallowing hard, I murmured, “That’ll be okay…” and then he was kneeling at my side, his hands engulfing mine and we both pretended those weren’t tears hitting my overheated skin.

  I said, “I should have listened to you.” I really should have listened because as bad as it was, it could have been worse. I was still alive and able to talk about. Yay me.

  And yay for the PI the paper had hired to keep watch over me. My mystery ‘tail’. He’d found me and called 911. And here I was.

  Rob stood and ran a thumb over my split lip and the stitch holding it together, then he dragged a chair alongside the bed and settled in.

  “Tell me.”

  ***

  Don’t do anything to hurt him … hurt him … hurt him…

  Jackson had let loose with both barrels: aiming straight for my emotional core and the lizard brain center that shouted Danger, Will Robinson, Danger!

  Michael O’Brien was on everyone’s list as a ‘very bad man’ and I’d been a clueless bimbo all that time, never seeing him for what he was: a gangster, a thug, a raper of my belief-in-the-goodness-of-man virginity.

  Growing a set was easy. Waking up to a new reality? Not so much.

  The niggling perception of being watched was still there but with my head swimming over worries for Rob’s physical safety that left little room for other kinds of awareness. The fact was, I had gotten complacent about my surroundings. Since nothing bad had happened to me so far, well then, nothing would.

  So the strange car parked in front of my building, black with tinted windows, registered but didn’t alarm. My door was still locked but not dead-bolted. An annoyance.

  Michael O’Brien sitting on my ratty daybed, smoking a cigarette and dropping the ashes onto the floor? Now that got my undivided attention.

  But the alarm bells still did not go off. My bad.

  “Michael. What are you doing here?”

  “I could ask the same thing, my dear.”

  “I’m not—” but choked that off, the mindless rattle of spite already coating my mouth with bile. Instead I asked, “What do you want? And if you say ‘you my dear’ I’m not going to be responsible for my actions.”

  Oh, the bravado. I almost believed it, almost.

  Sitting there, one leg crossed over the other, an arm strung along the back of the couch, he looked exactly like the snarky sonofabitch I’d learned to hate. And when he stood, it reminded me of just how large a man he was and how often he’d used that size and strength to put me in my place.

  He circled around me, herding me toward the bedroom, and God forgive me, I still didn’t get it. It took a hand to my throat and his filthy stinking hot breath on my mouth before the first frisson of fear warily danced along my spine.

  “I’m told you have new friends.”

  Friends. Not friend. Plural. Maybe he didn’t know about Rob, maybe. Foolish. Of course he knew. He’d found my hovel, he’d know where I’d gone, how I spent my days and my nights. Who I’d been talking to.

  And why.

  The first blow wasn’t a surprise. He’d always gone for the cheekbone for maximum impact. It never failed to get my attention. The second blow went to the ribs, not a fist punch but a heel of the hand meant to bruise. He knew how to hurt without inflicting lasting damage.

  I gasped again, “What do you want?”

  He explained, in excruciating detail, punctuating each point with a reminder that he was large and in charge.

  “Ms. Richardson? Are you in there?” A strange voice. Male. “Taylor Richardson, are you all right?”

  I’d forgotten to shut the door completely. Michael reached into his jacket and spun as my vision went into slow-mo, reaching for the small bedside lamp and swinging it in a wild arc, hoping to hit something, anything. Screaming bloody murder, he’s got a gun gun gun…

  After that I lost track of what happened. There were cops and EMTs and the stranger with an ID and small talk amongst professionals and me carted off, trussed and secure, a woman’s kind touch offering assurances.

  Then Cordie and Marie and Sam, and even Mr. Jackson, swarming the room and chattering all at once.

  And the only thing that mattered was Jackson saying Rob was on his way…

  ***

  Rob swore softly, a neverending stream of I never should have left you alone, I’ll kill that bastard…

  Jackson eased into the room and stood behind Rob, his hand on my lover’s shoulder. Rob stood, his face pale and drawn, looking far worse than I felt.

  Jackson said, “I can bring you both up-to-speed, if you’re up to it Miss Rich—, um, Taylor.”

  Rob sat down on the edge of the bed, still gripping my hand. Fortunately it wasn’t the one with the IV, but I was a righty and it felt like it might be awhile before I had use of that hand again. My man had a strong grip.

  The editor launched into an explanation as to why my hero the private investigator happened to be in my building at that time of night.

  “The man’s name is Fordham. The Thomas group sent him to keep an eye on you,” and he nodded in my direction, “because we couldn’t be sure what kind of shit storm, um sorry… O
nce we figured out the extent of your husband’s involvement and just how far up the food chain he actually was, it set off some alarm bells.”

  Great, at least somebody didn’t have hearing issues.

  “It didn’t take long to figure out we were out of our depth, especially after what Rob found out down in Miami. Then you fingered O’Brien with his mob buddies in Milan and everything fell into place.”

  Rob shifted uncomfortably, his face murderous. He clearly wasn’t interested in a rehash of stuff he already knew, but he kept his tongue and waited for his boss to spit it all out.

  “We have enough for the Feds to cream their collective jeans,” and he winked at me when I grinned and muttered ‘ouch’ at the pull on the stitch, “…so we opted to take the moral high ground and turn over everything we had.”

  Rob finally spoke, his voice gravelly and tight, probably from worry and sleeplessness. “Tell me it’s enough.”

  “Nearly. The Feds will have to do a little more legwork but I think we won’t have to wait long for indictments to fly out the DA’s chambers. In any case, our involvement will be as reporters going forward.” The man radiated ‘scoop’.

  Rob was unimpressed and asked, “What about O’Brien?”

  Jackson grinned broadly. “He’s in custody, thanks to your little lady here,” and I cringed but let that pass, “…with her quick thinking, alerting Fordham that her husband had a gun.”

  I wanted Mister Editor to stop saying ‘her husband’ and I really wanted my hand back because Rob was growling, “He had a fucking gun?” and squeezing the bones to the consistency of mush.

  Instead I mouthed, “Ow,” and got a rain of kisses everywhere bare skin showed. That got me hurting in a whole different way and I clasped my thighs tight like I do when my body wants to go to its happy place. Rob’s face softened marginally, the lust and worry darkening his eyes into pools of deep blue aggression. Yowzer.

  I asked Rob’s editor, “How long will they hold him?”

  Shrugging, Jackson said, “Not long enough. But they have him for assault and battery, carrying concealed, resisting arrest and a number of other charges.”

  Rob said, “Then I need to get Taylor out of here and to a safe place.” He looked ready to pick me up and fireman carry me down the hall, IV and all.

  Ah, me Tarzan, you Jane…

  I stated categorically, “I’m not going anywhere.” I had obligations. I was no wuss. And there was no way I was imposing on my best friend and her husband. I stuck with the imposition paradigm because we were all at risk, their association with me guaranteeing that. It was something I would long regret and would have to learn to live with.

  Jackson looked at Rob and muttered, “If you’ll excuse me…” and beat a hasty retreat.

  With the coast clear, Rob snarled, “Don’t fight me on this Taylor, you won’t win.” His mouth was set in an uncompromising line.

  I understood his worry and concern but if I gave in to it, it would stifle me, bury me so deep that I’d come away from this mess forever a scared rabbit, afraid of my own shadow. That wasn’t me, it wasn’t how I was raised. And it wasn’t how I wanted to live my life, so I said, “I refuse to spend the rest of my life running. From him or from myself.”

  Rob considered me for a long moment, backed away from the bed and went to the door, shutting it carefully. When he returned to the end of the bed, he lifted his chin in a sneer and said, “You know what this means, don’t you.”

  With a small voice, I whispered, “Yes.”

  He leaned over the bed, his tongue brushing my chin, following the curve to the earlobe, nibbling his way as his light beard scratched my cheek and haunted me with the afterimage of our last round of makeup sex.

  “Do you remember what I do to bad girls? Hmmm?” He whispered a reminder in my ear…

  Yes, oh hell yes!

  “How bad have you been Taylor Richardson?”

  Not nearly bad enough.

  But it was a start.

  ***

  Cordie opened the last box of books and arranged them on the shelves.

  Marie yelled down, “If that’s everything, dear, I’ll send the men on their way.”

  My friend nodded agreement so I hollered up the stairs, “Thanks. I think this is it.”

  I looked at my pathetic collection of personal possessions and shook my head. Rob had hired a moving company to strip my hovel of everything salvageable, then he’d gone to a furniture discounter with his sister and Marie in tow to outfit Sam and Marie’s basement apartment with a kitchen set, a new couch and chair, and a king-sized bed with brass head and foot boards. The rest of my stuff we sent on to a landfill.

  Cordie said, “This was a good decision, dearest,” and she hugged me gingerly so as not to irritate my ribs which remained ouchy, the flesh finally easing over to pale yellows tinged with blue. It looked as festive on dark skin as on light and caused Rob to hiss with fury every time he saw it.

  I was actually having second thoughts. Rob had insisted I move in with him but something held me back. I felt like our relationship was all about my mistakes and my bad choices, not about him loving the real me, whoever that woman was.

  So I’d finally agreed to Sam and Marie’s generous offer to have me stay with them. Marie was over the moon to have the company. I could still attend my classes and have the private space I needed to study.

  And it was in the basement, with a separate entrance, so when Rob came over…

  It all made sense.

  Except I found myself wanting to wake up with him every morning, not just on the odd days during the week when he wasn’t tied up with attending games or chasing around the country in pursuit of the next story.

  Call me greedy, call me unrealistic…

  Call me in love.

  Except love didn’t conquer all. I was the poster girl for that. No matter how I felt about Michael now, the fact was … I’d been head-over-heels and it took some harsh lessons for me to finally see the light. That didn’t mean I’d shut love out of my heart, but I wanted to be damn sure that the next time I could live with the consequences.

  Those consequences came with some daunting quid pro quos. I still stared down the gullet of two years of legal bondage and no one seemed able to come up with any workarounds to shorten that waiting period.

  I said, “It’s not fair.”

  “Of course it’s not, Tay.”

  “How do you do that, Cord? How do you know what I’m thinking?”

  “It’s called being best friends, hon.” She dragged me over to the couch, sat me down and softly voiced what I could only hope would happen, “He’ll wait for you.”

  “How do you know…?”

  She laughed. “He’s my little brother. It took a long time for him to find the right one.” She waggled her eyebrows at me. “And you’re it, sweety. You. Are. The. One.”

  “Not to sound like a broken record, but it’s not fair to him…” I sounded whiny and petulant, but sometimes the truth was what it was.

  Marie joined us, carrying a tray with coffees and freshly baked cookies. She and Cordie exchanged a look, then both turned to me. They stared long enough to make me uncomfortable.

  I blinked and wrung my hands, desperate to hear the words.

  Finally Cordie said, “I think you need to let Robert decide that.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Rob

  Tugging at the pants leg to force the narrow stovepipe length over kidskin Italian boots, the toes so pointy I felt like a jester in a Shakespearean play, I grumbled aloud to no one in particular. The damn things were a metrosexual’s wet dream, uncomfortable as hell and nothing like my Kenneth Cole motorcycle boot knockoffs. The black designer jeans weren’t helping. Not that I was planning on it, but if I got an erection I’d just join the screechy sopranos in the chorus and be done with it.

  In my frippery I was a peacock in a pigsty, my apartment as stale and barren and uninviting as ever. The only time it took on any l
ight or personality was when she was here.

  And that had been damned infrequent of late.

  When did we become the job? Where was our human connection? When did we get to fucking live, not ping-pong from one appointment, one obligation to another? A night here, sometimes at her place, meet for dinner if we could find the time.

  The cell jingled and when I picked up it was Cordie in a panicked rush.

  Did I have it? Yes.

  Was I wearing the cashmere oh you are to die for they’ll looove you in it you naughty boy jacket? At five hundred big ones, you’re damn right I was wearing it. And just to maintain that spark of sentimentality, I threw on the sky blue merino wool turtleneck my sister had given me two Christmases ago. I liked it, a lot, which was why I never wore it.

  I’m funny that way. No ha-ha funny … but quirky. Eccentric. My sisters had less complimentary things to say, but this was my night out and I was going fast food have it my way.

  It’s not every day you win a journalism award for excellence in sports reporting. Actually it was a group award but it had been my name on the byline so I would accept it graciously on behalf of my team.

  I swear to God, Cordie was more excited about this than I was. She apologized profusely on behalf of Cate who was pregnant with her surprise fourth and couldn’t make the trip. Cordie and I had a bet that this time it would be a boy, relieving me of the onus of being the only one in our extended family.

  “Yeah, I’m here. Look, I’m really sorry, no guests are allowed. Uh-huh, okay, it’ll be nine-ish, alright? See you. Love.”

  Click, snap.

  The ceremony was taking place in one of the smaller banquet rooms at the Sheraton, followed by a cash bar and hors d'oeuvre so I’d skipped lunch like I usually did, saving my appetite for later.