He pointed at the newspaper sitting next to a to-go cup of coffee and the decimated remains of a bagel-and-lox breakfast—both signs that Jake had been making himself at home here. She hoped it meant he intended to make this a long stay. A girl could get used to being wrapped up in those strong, unwavering arms at night. Even without sex or a long, slow goodnight kiss, she’d fallen right to sleep and stayed that way. No shadows. No nightmares. No memories.
He gestured at the paper again with a command for her to read. She complied, but only because she wanted to check her horoscope. Ever since they’d gotten that new woman at the National Beat, she hadn’t missed a single day. Madame Pernaud was a genius, but only about half the time. It was as though she was afraid of revealing too much in something as commonplace as a tabloidy newspaper, so she always tempered her wisdom with something ridiculously off the cuff.
Aries (March 21–April 19): Now is the time to ignore petty acts of vengeance and focus on the big picture. Ally yourself with an earth sign to further your cause, but beware of how deep you can dig in this temporary partnership. The 23rd is a good day for a party. Wear the pink.
Becca snorted. As if she’d ever wear the pink. She looked awful in pink. It made her feel like a lollipop.
The rest of that, though...
She sat back and stared, unseeing, at the words in front of her. There was no denying that attacking Dana at the club last night had been a petty act. Petty and stupid and not at all effective in the long run. Madame Pernaud was right. No amount of public confrontations would change the fact that Sara was gone.
Becca needed to think bigger. Look further. Ally herself with an earth sign, apparently.
“You can’t miss it.” Jake grew tired of watching as Becca flipped through the trashy tabloid, skimming over the important pages and spending a few minutes on the horoscopes with her brows drawn tight. “It’s on the front page.”
She ignored him, her fingers tapping restlessly on the table. “Did you know Virgos are an earth sign?”
“I know I don’t understand most of that sentence.”
“Virgo, Capricorn, Taurus—you’re all earth signs.” When he didn’t change his expression, she rolled her eyes. “It’s not complicated. It just means you have a tendency to be heavy and tied down, like the earth. Getting you to change is like relocating a mountain, rock by rock.”
“Now that you mention it, I have been known to shake worlds.”
Her look of disdain indicated his joke had fallen somewhat short of its mark. “Now, me?” she said. “I’m fire.”
“That I do believe.” Quick to burn, dangerous to touch, hot as all hell. “But if you think you’re going to convince me of anything but what a waste of time this is, you’re bound for disappointment. Astrology is nothing more than the ramblings of an overpaid writer with a New Age penchant.”
“What an original viewpoint you have, Jake Montgomery. I’ve never heard that one before, and I’m super impressed by your disdain. Tell me more.”
He had to laugh. His tiger wasn’t against biting the hand that pet her. “It’s nothing personal. I just don’t think some stranger’s fortune-cookie predictions are a great way to make life decisions, that’s all.”
“They aren’t fortune-cookie predictions, thank you very much. Entire civilizations have been founded on the zodiac.”
“Name one.”
“Sumerians. Babylonians. Egyptians. Mayans. Some people think Stonehenge has astrological meaning, which would also make pretty much all of the Western world based on it.” She smiled pertly. “Would you like me to keep going?”
He stared. How much further could she go? “I had no idea you took it so seriously.”
“Why? Because I’m some waste-of-space trust fund baby who can’t be relied on to know right from left? Don’t believe everything you hear. As much as the media loves a good Rebecca Clare scandal, I do sometimes stay home and read.” She frowned and cast a careful look around her apartment, as if searching for some unknown evil lingering in the doorway. “Or I used to, anyway.”
He filed that look—full of distaste, maybe even fear—away for future reference. “I hate to be the one to break it to you, but the next Rebecca Clare scandal is closer than you think. Flip the page.”
This time, she obeyed, and her hands stopped rustling the moment it came into view. “Oh. Shit.”
“Yeah.” Jake lowered himself carefully into the chair opposite her, gauging her response. In his experience, women had a way of reacting strongly when faced with a clear shot of their naked crotch released for public consumption. And yes, his experience was fairly large, all things considered. His was a world where public consumption was an everyday affair—the more sordid the affair, the better.
This picture of Rebecca Clare—twenty-four-year-old heiress, fashionista, famous for absolutely nothing at all—was pretty sordid. In it, Jake stood holding her around the waist and hoisting her off Dana’s body, leaving her free to flash her completely underwear-free crotch at the lucky pap with his camera pointed head—or rather tail—on.
He braced himself for the worst.
“I like how they blacked my twat out with a star,” she mused, tilting the picture so that her legs were vertical to her line of vision. “It’s so much more exciting that way. Like the force of my vulva cannot be contained.”
Jake had to struggle not to bray his laughter. He should have known better. Becca didn’t have to be intoxicated to be indifferent about her public foibles. With an alarming amount of insight and naiveté, she merely accepted society—and her place in it—as it was offered. Society loved her drama. They loved her mistakes. They loved to rip her reputation to shreds.
So she accepted it.
“Unfortunately, I’m afraid this puts us in a not-so-enviable position.”
She shrugged, that insight and naiveté rolled up in one careless gesture. “I know it puts me in a not-so-enviable position. I was under strict orders to keep my lady garden under wraps.”
“That’s an actual rule in your family?”
“There are three rules I must stick to at all times. No public nudity. No discussing money at a dinner party. And don’t leave the house without lipstick.” She lifted a hand to her lips. “I guess I broke that last one this morning. To be fair, I was in a hurry.”
“Those are terrible rules.”
She tossed her head, ponytail flying, before she remembered her head injury and winced. Jake extracted a bottle of Ibuprofen from the top of the refrigerator and handed it to her.
“They could be worse.” She formed the words around the coffee she used to wash the pills down. It was only the cold remnants of his morning cup, and he felt a pang for not offering to grab her one. He wasn’t used to taking care of a woman in the morning. He was usually long gone before the coffee beans started to grind.
“I doubt that,” he said. “None of those rules have anything to do with real life.”
“Maybe not,” she said simply. “But they have everything to do with my life. What about you? What rules do you have?”
“Rule. Singular. Just one.” Nothing else Jake said or did in this world mattered. No one cared where he went to sleep at night or whether or not he remembered to visit the dentist twice a year or how he felt about getting a stepmom his own age. “No matter what else happens, our family comes first.” Money was secondary. Affection a distant third.
“Aww. That’s actually kind of sweet. I love your dad.”
Jake didn’t bother correcting her. It wasn’t sweet at all. What looked like strong blood ties and loyalty to the outside was really a tangled web of deceit and power plays. He was bound by money. Tied by obligation. Free to do whatever he wanted...provided his dad and Monty approved ahead of time.
Hence his current predicament. He didn’t want to settle down to work in the fam
ily hotelier business, hated everything about the idea of sitting behind a desk and crunching numbers for the rest of his life. He’d rather be forced to eke out an existence hanging on to the coattails of assholes like Dana.
Or hanging on to the train of sweet, misguided women like Becca. He definitely preferred that one. In fact, if he played his hand carefully here, he could ride her train right through the holidays and into the next year. Poor Monty had lost this bet before it even started.
“So what are we talking?” he asked, indicating the newspaper article. “Will your mom rage at you? Cast you out on your trampoline ass? Slap your hand and tell you to behave like a lady next time?”
Becca’s apartment phone rang, and she held up a finger to pause him as she fumbled under the multicolored bras piled on the countertop. “We’re about to find out. A thousand bucks says that’s her.”
The face she made as she held the phone away from her ear, tinny sounds of anger spreading across the kitchen, indicated that it was, indeed, Grandmama Clare. And it appeared she wasn’t too happy with the turn of events.
“Yes, ma’am. I did see my recent foray into the mega-whore hall of fame.”
More tinny sounds.
“No, ma’am. I’m sure there are still men in this world who haven’t seen my vagina.”
Louder now.
“Well, who decided that vaginal mystery was the most important attribute, anyway? Maybe some men prefer to know what they’re getting ahead of time. It’s like reading the spoilers.”
Jake cracked a shout of surprised laughter and then quickly covered it with a cough.
“Oh, please. Men are constantly flopping their bits around, begging for us to take a peek. It’s like their reproductive organs are a gift the whole world can’t wait to tear open. You were at that Mediterranean resort with me. Remember the one in the banana hammock?” Becca held a finger to her lips, warning Jake to stay silent. “You do too know what that is—it was the yellow sling thing with the thong in the back. We could totally see the outline of that guy’s glans.”
By that time, Jake had given in all the way to his laughter, bracing himself on the table as he did his best to remain silent, so Becca reached over and slugged him on the arm. He yelped his protest and realized it as a mistake when Becca shook her head in warning.
A sharp sound emerged from the general direction of the phone. “It’s just Jake. He helped me home last night. Of course I didn’t force him to clean up my messes. He happened to be at the club and I drank a little too much, that’s all. And I don’t see what business it is of Trish Callahan’s... Yes, ma’am.”
Quieter this time, “No, ma’am.”
Even quieter, “Yes, ma’am.”
By the time she hung up, what remained of her energy had deflated, wiping at least half a decade off her age and filling Jake with a bizarrely protective feeling toward her—and he wasn’t a man who comforted or cuddled. He’d read somewhere that hugging a woman elicited a burst of oxytocin in her system, making her biologically clingy from there on out. He hugged only upon pain of death.
“Have you been handed down a punishment?” he asked, feigning unconcern as he folded the pages of the paper and set them to one side. “I’d offer to take the blame for you, but your mom probably wouldn’t believe it. She loves me.”
“All women love you. We can’t seem to help ourselves.”
“It’s because I remind you of the one that got away.”
She shook her head, considering his words with much more care than he’d offered them. “No, that’s not it. It’s because we know you’re bad for us. You’re a big, fat piece of chocolate cake on day six of a juice cleanse.”
“Fat?” He smoothed a hand over the front of his shirt. “Now you’re just being cruel.”
That won him a smile and a laugh, a return to the carefree girl who loved dancing on tables and astrology and vodka tonics. “So big and fat and decadent.” She licked her lips with a painstaking slowness, ending the show by capturing the bottom one between her teeth, shrinking the world to nothing more than him and that lip.
“Not to mention rich,” she added.
“Go on.”
“Incredibly filling.”
“I like the sound of that.”
“Creamy.” This time, her tongue flicked in and out, a glimmer of pink he could practically taste. But she dropped the game with a sigh. “And most likely to cause regrets in the morning.”
He had to will his blood to cool, mastery over his body becoming more difficult with each passing second spent in this woman’s company. It was unfair how quickly she was able to turn the sex kitten—no, sex tiger—on and off, as if none of it meant anything. She was toying with him. She was toying with his poor, straining prick.
And his poor, straining prick liked it.
“You don’t seem too traumatized by your past experience with me,” he said, his voice only partially strangled.
“Yes, but I think we can all agree I suck when it comes to the issue of sound judgment. Overindulgence is the only thing I’m good at. Just ask my mother.”
“Was that her verdict?” he asked lightly. “No more clubs? No more dragging wayward nephews home for the night?”
“Nothing so serious.” Becca sighed. “It actually wasn’t that bad—not as bad as it could have been. She still wants me to come to tea with Trish Callahan this afternoon. Play the lady. Pretend all is right in the universe. If there’s one thing we Clares are good at, it’s putting on a clean face and moving ahead as if nothing is wrong. Though she did request I put on proper undergarments this time.”
“And will you?”
She put a finger to her pursed lips, playing again—playing the ingénue, playing with him. “You know, I don’t think I will. I’m feeling a need for some airing out downstairs.”
“That’s my tiger.”
“And I’m going to read horrible fortunes in their tea leaves.”
“Since it’s all made up anyway, why not?”
He got a glare for that one. “I usually focus on the positive things out of kindness. No one wants to hear that their husband is cheating on them for the fourth time in as many months.”
“How astute of you.”
“Mock if you must, Jake Montgomery, but if you’d just polish off your latte over there and let me see the dregs, you might be surprised what I find.”
He pulled the cup closer to his side of the table. Becca wasn’t getting her hands on his coffee dregs or his fortunes. There was nothing she could see—real or otherwise—that he wasn’t already acutely aware of.
“I don’t know how I’m going to keep my head up, though. I don’t even think I can walk to the bedroom without falling down.” She quirked a brow. “Are you sure you won’t shower with me? You could prop me up with your extra leg.”
His extra leg took on additional proportions at the prospect. He’d seen enough of her trampoline ass that the idea of running his hands over it, water and soap easing his way over curves and inside nooks, was one he found highly appealing.
But as was the case last night, he found himself strangely reluctant to take advantage of her when she was so obviously struggling. Goddamn conscience. Next thing you knew, he’d be offering her hugs for no reason at all.
“How about I promise to come to your mom’s tea instead,” he offered, wondering, as the words left his mouth, who had put them there. If there was one thing he hated more than tea, it was mothers. Together? They were practically the axis of evil.
“Do you mean it?” Becca’s eyes lit up and, all exhaustion to the contrary, she bounced to his side of the table to fling her arms around his neck. She planted a kiss—soft and sweaty, her tongue making no apologies as it slid across his—before pulling away with just as much force. “That would be so nice. You can woo them and wink and
no one will even notice I’m there.”
Her excitement prevented him from backing out, which was what his natural instinct rolled over and begged for. Sleepovers. Hugs. Earth signs. Chastity. He barely recognized himself over here.
“Maybe I could go without underwear too,” he suggested, resigned to his fate. “That’ll really give them something to gawk at.”
Chapter Six
Jake tired of studying the mild, watery Monet after about five seconds.
He didn’t know a lot about art, not in the way his sister Jenna did, with true appreciation for craftsmanship, and not in the way Monty did, with true appreciation for resale value. He knew just enough to recognize the artist and the style and the overwhelming sense of déjà vu that overtook him at the sight of it. Monet had been one prolific bastard, and anyone with a couple of million dollars to rub together seemed to have one on display.
The Clares had opted to hang one in the sitting room. And the dining room. And, unless he was very much mistaken, the bathroom down the hall.
“I don’t understand how difficult it is to put on drawers before you leave the house, that’s all,” Moira said. Her voice, never what one would term soft spoken, carried easily across the room to where Jake continued his bored examination of the painting. “Especially if you intend to brawl once you get where you’re going. A scrap of lace, Becca, is all I’m asking for. Even cotton will do in a pinch. I don’t think it’s too much to ask.”
Jake felt his lips lift, grateful that neither woman could see his amusement. Moira Clare had no qualms about the fact that her daughter had attacked a seemingly innocent man in the middle of a nightclub. She seemed delighted that Jake was the one who had come to her aid. And an appearance on the front page of the National Beat was always something to celebrate.
But she could not, would not, dared not forgive the sin of Becca having left the house underdressed.
When I Fall Page 6