When I Fall

by Tamara Morgan

  “It was a long time ago.” Greg cast a wide-eyed, frantic look her way. She scrambled to her feet, unsure what was expected. Was she supposed to save him from Jake? Yeah, right. She couldn’t even save herself. “I was just starting out. She was dressed in this short skirt and—”

  Jake punched him. The sound was a dull thud, a slight crackle, the meeting of bones and skin. And it wasn’t nearly as loud as the howl of protest Greg let out in response. His good hand flew to his nose, which bled freely as Jake pulled back his fist to do it again.

  Holy shit. Jake was going to do it again.

  “Slow down there, Tiger.” She sprang to his side and laid a hand on his forearm. His muscles strained under her fingertips, taut and wiry and strong enough to set her pulse leaping. She couldn’t tell if her reaction was adrenaline or fear or the exhilarating realization that every ounce of that strength was being used in her defense. “Take a deep breath. Tap your wrist. Look at me.”

  He only complied with the last one. His brilliantly blue eyes turned her way and held firm. Like fire and ice in that brief space of time where they were allowed to coexist, he burned across the spectrum, taking her with him.

  “I don’t think you want to hit him again,” she said quietly.

  His gaze only intensified. “But I do. I really, really do. What he did—”

  “Sorry, Tiger, but you’re about a decade too late. The damage has already been done.”

  “It’s. Not. Too. Fucking. Late.” Jake inhaled slowly, his mouth open to say more. But he settled for another vehement fuck before shaking himself off. “He’s lucky I didn’t brain him with that camera.”

  As if realizing how close he’d been to stepping over the edge, Jake straightened his stance and his shirt, working his fist, his movements slow as the adrenaline of the moment ebbed away to leave only pain. “Okay. Tell me. What else can be laid at his door? I want specifics.”

  Becca bit her lip and thought about it. Greg wasn’t her only camera shadow, though he was by far her most diligent one. “I want to say he was crotch shot number one. He was definitely the graduation party in Belize that got out of control, and the rooftop tan was his most famous one to date. He was also that time I tripped on the sidewalk and broke my ankle...oh! And the hotel room with the senator’s son had his signature all over it, though he chose to remain anonymous for that one. From what I understand, there were political implications.”

  Jake had managed to reach a dangerous level of calm. “Are there more?”

  “Maybe a few,” Becca lied, thinking of the number of times she’d appeared in print. “But none worth mentioning. Besides—it looks like our cavalry has arrived.”

  Jake followed the line of Becca’s finger, where a figure dressed all in black approached. It took him two seconds to recognize Alex, his father’s head of security, stalking across the grass as if approaching the front lines.

  Dammit. He should have gone ahead and punched Greg a few more times while he’d had the chance. From the way Alex’s face was set in a firm scowl, it was obvious all the punching would now take place in an official capacity.

  “What’s going on here?” Tall, muscled as hell and visibly angry, Alex made an excellent bodyguard. Even Jake admitted to a slight quiver of fear at the sight of him. “How long has this guy been hanging around the house, and why haven’t I been informed of it until now?”

  “From the pictures Becca deleted, it looks like he arrived a few days after we did,” Jake returned as calmly as he could. “And I’m sure we would have been happy to apprise you of the fact if we’d known. He’s been peeking in windows.”

  “My windows? He dared to peek in my windows?” Alex pushed Jake out of the way, reminding him he had some very sore ribs that required tending. As a child, falling out of trees meant a scrape and a tumble. His adult body had much less agility in the reflex department, and he’d fallen like ten sacks of potatoes lumped together. “I sure hope it was worth it, little man. I take it as a personal insult when anyone puts the Montgomery family in danger.”

  “No—wait.” Greg shot a scared, bloody look Jake’s way. With a broken arm and what looked like a similarly situated nose, there was little he could do short of rolling down the hill in hopes of escape. “It wasn’t like that. I only wanted to get pictures of the happy couple. Good press. Positive coverage.”

  “When have you ever bothered with positive coverage?” Becca scoffed. She slid behind Jake and placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. He was still buzzing from the adrenaline, his knuckles throbbing in time to the pounding of his heartbeat, but at her slight touch, he felt his fight draining away. “Sit down already. You look like you’re about to pass out.”

  “I’m the one who broke news of your engagement,” Greg said. “That picture of you two kissing in the park. Janine loved it. They’re already saying it’s the story of the year.”

  “So you thought you could come out here and see what you could dig up on our relationship?” Jake asked angrily. Becca was tugging on his arm, causing his side to flare up in a searing pain, and also reminding him that he’d flown off the handle once already. Once was going to hurt tomorrow. Twice would probably keep him confined to bed.

  “No—not at all. I want the good stuff. Kisses. Romantic walks. Okay, if I caught the pair of you in an interesting position, I might have used it. But tactfully. Tactfully, I swear.”

  An ambulance siren sounded in the distance, and Jake realized with a frown that they were going to have to bring a stretcher out to haul Greg away. It would take them at least five minutes to make it up the hill with all that equipment, and he wasn’t sure he could stand here listening to this man’s half-assed justifications for that long.

  Chasing a grown woman through the park was bad. Taking naked pictures of one was worse. But actually standing by and watching a child—watching Becca—get sexually assaulted and then selling the photos for profit was up there in the ranks of fucking evil.

  “I suppose I can trust you to stand guard until they get here?” Jake asked. Needlessly, as Alex had crossed his arms and was looming over Greg in a way that would make CIA torturers tremble. “I’d like to go out and meet the medics. I don’t know how much more of his bullshit I can take.”

  “Oh, I’ve got this.” Alex threw a wink over his shoulder. “And the fewer witnesses, the better.”

  “Thanks.” Jake took a tentative step forward and found that although all of his limbs worked just fine, putting weight on his left half was proving to be a bit much. Without having to say a word, Becca ducked under his arm and arrayed herself at his side.

  “Okay, Tiger,” she teased. “Since you suck so bad at sitting still and following orders, we can go.”

  “I got your camera, didn’t I?” he growled, but he was grateful to have her there to support him. “And what happened to Love Muffin? I like that one better.”

  She giggled and started leading him toward the direction of the flashing red lights, their movements slow. “You hated Love Muffin.”

  “I changed my mind. It’s Love Muffin or nothing.”

  “Sure thing, Tiger.”

  Chapter Twenty

  “He punched the guy in the face? Just like that—and after falling out of a tree and breaking his rib?” Amy shook her head. “It’s fabulous. It’s so fabulous it hurts.”

  Becca smiled and relaxed against the leather ottoman currently providing her backrest. Curled up on the floor next to a roaring fire, hot tea in hand, chatting with one of the only people in the world who seemed to care about Jake as an actual human being—she couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt so good.

  Yes, I can. The day in the Artista Theatre. With Jake. The day she’d painted her living room wall. With Jake. Coffee with Jake. Dinner with Jake. Waking up with Jake.

  There seemed to be a disastrous pattern emerging here
.

  “I don’t know that fabulous is how he’s feeling right now.” Becca took a long sip of her drink to distract herself, and it worked. She didn’t know what kind of magician they had working in the kitchens here, but this wasn’t just tea. It was some kind of herbal manna. “I can’t imagine falling out of a tree is very pleasant.”

  “It’s not.” Amy laughed. “We used to climb out there a lot as kids. Don’t tell your sister, but I’m dreaming of the day I get to teach the twins how to find the best footholds.”

  “What was he like, growing up?” Becca shifted so that she faced the other woman more squarely. It was past Amy’s work hours, but in light of the recent security breach, Ryan had been recruited to help examine the rest of the grounds, so she’d decided to stick around. “Jake is one of those men who acts like he emerged from the womb fully dressed. It’s hard for me to picture him running around and getting messy like normal boys.”

  A wistful smile moved across Amy’s face. “Well, I’m four years younger than him and I wasn’t as much a part of the family as I am now, so my perception is also pretty skewed. But he was untouchable, even back then.”

  “Untouchable?”

  “Yeah—you know. Aloof and distant. Always in charge.” She nodded as if those adjectives were sewn into his skin. Becca had a hard time contradicting her, even though there was an emotional depth to Jake few people understood. There was no question the aloof stuff was a part of him—placed there by the universe itself—but that wasn’t what had transformed him into the man few people dared get near. Oh, no. That was neglect, plain and simple. If you asked her, no one had ever cared enough to make him participate in his own life.

  “I think I need examples,” Becca said.

  “Oh, I have examples.” Amy replied. “He learned early on that he could use his natural authority to get whatever he wanted out of the downstairs staff. If being charming didn’t work, he’d do this thing where he sat absolutely still for as long as it took for things to go his way. Like, we all wanted this plate of Christmas tarts one year, but they were supposed to be for some big party of his parents’. No amount of tears would work—and believe me, we tried. So Jake went down to the kitchen and parked himself. He didn’t say a word, didn’t make a single request, just sat there at the big table and watched Patrick—he was our cook—as he went about his work. After about forty-five minutes, Patrick caved. He was certain Jake was doing something sneaky when he wasn’t paying attention.”

  “And was he?” Becca asked. That sounded exactly like something a young Jake would do.

  “Nope. He didn’t lift so much as a finger the entire time. Patrick gave us the entire plate of tarts and made a new batch for the party. God, that was a fun day.” She laughed. “Probably detrimental in the long run, though. I think it marked the first time Jake realized he could get the most out of people by doing nothing at all.”

  Becca didn’t have a chance to respond before Amy reached over and squeezed her hand. “Which is why it’s all the more surprising that he went to such lengths to avenge you against your cameraman. I never thought I’d see the day he’d resort to physical violence over a woman.”

  “It’s not that strange. You know how overprotective he gets.”

  “But I don’t.” Amy leaned over the ottoman, her eyes wide. “Tell me. Tell me all about how he gets.”

  Becca coughed uncomfortably and studied the milky swirls in her cup. She wished there was more to the way he treated her than overprotective urges—God, how she wished there was more—but there was no denying the realities of their situation. Their very fake, very messy situation.

  “He likes how out-of-control my life is, how different it is from his own.” It was the ultimate cycle of act-react-act-react. As long as Becca kept struggling, kept hurting, kept falling, Jake had a reason to hold her at night. He could step up to play the rescuer when the situation called for it, send for Max to help her sleep, command orgasms when she got out of her mind with desire.

  But that didn’t mean his feelings for her were real. It didn’t mean this ring around her neck was hers to keep.

  She clamped her hands more firmly around her cup in an effort to keep herself from pulling the necklace out and staring at it in the firelight. “He’s the kind of man who has to be needed—really needed—before he’s moved to protect. But when he does...it’s big. And it’s good. And it’s hard to remember how I ever survived without him.”

  Amy laughed. “Are you sure we’re talking about the same Jake—my Jake, the Jake who never thinks of anyone else if he can possibly help it?”

  Becca didn’t feel like turning this into a joking matter. There was too much emotion moving down her throat, transforming the tea into broken glass. “You are aware you’re speaking to the woman who loves him?”

  “Of course he’s different with you,” Amy rushed, not missing Becca’s tone. It was a desperate tone, a truthful tone. The woman who loves him. “But you have to admit—he’s not exactly next in line for the Nobel Peace Prize.”

  “It’s probably better if we change the subject now,” she said tightly. She didn’t feel an urge to attack Amy, which was good, but she wasn’t sure if that was due more to Jake’s influence or the fact that she’d just admitted to being in love with her fiancé. The fiancé who didn’t love her back. The fiancé who couldn’t even bring himself to have sex with her. “I don’t think Jake would be very pleased if I insulted you to your face.”

  Amy fell into a peal of laughter and, without warning, pulled her into a hug. “You’re so perfect for him I have a hard time believing you’re real,” she said, her words fierce, her arms even more so. “I always knew that a wife was what he needed to pull him together, but I had a hard time seeing how that could happen, given his lifestyle.”

  “You mean the lifestyle of going to parties and making highly public, highly regrettable mistakes?”

  Amy had the decency to blush. “Well, that just goes to show. I always assumed he’d need a tough-as-nails businesswoman who could whip him into shape. Possibly with chains. Maybe with actual whips. I’ve never been so happy to be wrong. He worships the ground you walk on.”

  Becca felt herself growing flustered—not from anger this time, but from embarrassment. “Worship might be pushing things.”

  “It’s not.” She shook her head firmly. “And you can insult me to my face all you want for that one. I’ve known Jake my whole life, and I have never—never—seen him look at anyone the way he looks at you.”

  Becca knew she shouldn’t ask. It would be better to leave things right there, unsaid and unfinished, safely kept behind the lines. Jake was only on loan to her. His calm presence. His ability to soothe her. The way he took over her life. The way she let him, as if her whole happiness depended on it.

  She asked anyway. “How does he look at me?”

  “Like he’d break through the gates of hell in order to make you happy,” Amy said. “Like he’d tackle the devil himself if he dared to hurt you.”

  She tucked a strand of Becca’s hair behind her ear and buried her under a smile so warm, so honest, she felt she might suffocate under the affection of it.

  “But what if he’s the devil?” The question slipped through Becca’s defenses before she could stop it. There was no way to take it back, so she let it sit there between them, wobbling like gelatin. “What if he’s the one person in this world who can hurt me most?”

  “Oh, honey.” Amy sat back with a sigh. “He’s always been the devil. It’s why no other woman would do.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Being trapped in bed with a bodily injury was the worst thing that had ever happened to him.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” Jake tried to scoot up against the headboard and out of Becca’s reach, but there was only so far a man could go when his ribcage looked like a patchwor
k quilt done up in purple. “And what are you wearing?”

  She looked down at herself with a start. “They’re my pajamas. You told me I was not to cross this threshold without them.”

  “Those are very clearly not pajamas.” Miniscule tap shorts and a billowing silk tank top weren’t the sort of thing sensible women wore to bed. Not if they expected to get any actual sleeping done. “I meant flannel. Layers of it. And why are you carrying a tea tray? I have a broken rib, not the flu.”

  She set the tea tray—an antique set he was pretty sure no one in the family had ever used before—on the side table and sat on the edge of the bed, her form making almost no indentation on the mattress. “Poor baby. Being forced to acknowledge your own human weakness makes you cranky. How are you feeling?”

  “I’m feeling like I don’t trust your smile. What are you up to?”

  It was bad enough being forced to stay immobile for the next twenty-four hours, ineffective and restrained. Having a scantily clad Becca nurse him was just plain cruel. Especially since she laid a hand on his thigh, the pressure of her fingertips strong where she gripped, intent on squeezing the life out of him. No. She was squeezing the restraint out of him. It was like bedding down with a hungry, man-sized snake.

  “You have a few choices here, my friend. I know how much you like to be in control of things, so I thought giving you options would be kinder than waltzing in here with an ambush.”

  Too late. He was already ambushed. He was so ambushed he could taste it.

  Her hand slipped higher, moving along the muscle of his inner thigh, running perilously close to his groin. He could have stopped her with one grip of the wrist—he was injured but not incapacitated—but he relaxed his head against the headboard and let her have her way.