by Sarah Andre
“Well,” she said. “So much for me owning all the moral outrage tonight.” She grinned, and he tried hard not to stare at that sweet mouth. Rampant nostalgia now fire-hosed through his system.
He scraped a hand through his hair. Coming here was a huge mistake—one of the biggest in the string of mistakes these last three days. Seeing her with her hair down and that picture of the zoo… It was as if twelve years hadn’t passed at all.
His engagement had ended only hours ago; he should be morose and stone-faced drunk by now, yet he couldn’t stop thinking about Hannah. Worse, wondering whether they had any kind of chance. They were complete opposites; his ladder of success required a partner with the same goals. He needed Nicole and the life they’d been building in Manhattan.
Grasping at a lifeline, he glanced at the screen again and sobered immediately. “I’ve never read any newspaper accounts about it before,” he admitted.
“There were quite a few. They all back up your father’s account.”
That was the bucket of ice water he needed. “Why am I not surprised?”
She curled her hair behind her ear, and it bounced back out. “It’s just…hard to believe your father could wield so much power over an investigation.”
“Really?” He hardly recognized his harsh tone. “’Cause I spent a good chunk of today with Winnetka’s finest.”
Those breasts rose and fell sharply again. “What…happened down there?”
Evasive tactics filled his mind, but the memory of her expression from that little window in his father’s office drove them off. He owed her, at the very least, for keeping him sane today. “Let’s sit down,” he said abruptly, and waited for her to get situated on the sofa before he claimed a seat next to her. But not too close.
He refilled his glass and topped hers off quickly, before peaches wafted his way. He used to hold her in his arms and just breathe in. No matter how crappy the day, or how intense the rage after a fight with Harrison, the combination of her optimism and the warm scent had calmed the beast within. He set the bottle down and inhaled. His shoulder blades settled into the sofa cushion right on cue. At her questioning glance, he bottom-lined the visit to the station in one sentence, adding the skin found under Honey’s nails and his DNA swab. “I’m sure everyone in the household will be tested in the next few days.”
“Your father seemed convinced it was you.”
“By the look on your face this morning, you did too.” Her expression hardened; she was obviously recalling the moment he’d slipped past her. “How can I convince you I had nothing to do with Honey’s death?”
“I should think you’d be more concerned with convincing your father.”
“I stopped trying that when I was nine.”
Her index finger twirled a corkscrew curl, and again envy flash-banged through him. To lean in a few degrees and touch that hair… “Why did you come back to Chicago last night, Dev?”
He blinked. Swallowed. The indirect answer slipped out as smoothly as this morning. “To return something.”
“Yes. It wasn’t anything of your father’s, yet you specifically brought it back to his house,” she parroted monotonously, as if reciting a boring poem. “At two in the morning. You can understand why anyone hearing that would be confused.”
Shit. That did sound damn suspicious.
A dimple shadowed her cheek. “Still avoiding talking about yourself, I see.”
Instead of replying, he swigged his wine with one hand and snagged a strand of her hair with the other. He couldn’t help it. She gulped oxygen through parted lips. They both watched the coil straighten as his fingers slowly slid down. He released his grasp, and it sprang back into a spiral. “It’s still like satin,” he murmured, meeting her sea-green eyes. They looked both vulnerable and guarded.
If he were even half a man, he’d get up right now and leave. He shouldn’t be here. This was really, really stupid. And her aunt was thirty feet away, in an old apartment that no doubt had paper-thin walls. Compulsively, he reached for the strand again, captivated by the feel of it. Nicole’s hair was short, stylish, and stiffly unforgiving. He swallowed more wine. “Ever have one of those days where nothing went right?”
“Yeah,” she whispered.
The sadness in the word drilled through him.
He meant to say, “Me too.” He meant to let the curl slip through his fingers. For some reason, he gently tugged it instead, forcing her face an inch closer. He leaned in and brushed open lips across hers, the barest of contact, catching the whispery hitch of her gasp. He backed off, slumping against the cushions, trying for the nonchalance he’d faked when she’d announced she was getting dressed. Oscar contender.
“How much longer will you be working for Harrison?” he asked in a perfectly normal voice, hyperaware of her knee a millimeter from his.
She blinked like she’d just awoken, and gulped some wine. Her hand trembled. “Depends on the extent of the damage. We should have an estimate by the end of next week.” Her tone was professional and automatic, as if she’d been asked so often, she morphed right into the restoration manager role.
An uncomfortable moment of silence passed.
She trailed a finger around the rim of her glass. Her plump lower lip disappeared beneath her front teeth, then popped back out. “So I guess you’re leaving for New York tomorrow?”
“Nope.”
“Oh.” She frowned.
And that topic was finished. He should probably tell her about Nicole, the reason he was suddenly in no hurry to race away from Chicago, but the words didn’t come. He couldn’t bear the emotional quicksand. Christ, he’d never felt so ill at ease around a woman, and this was Hannah. The girl who knew his boyhood secrets and dreams and how hard life had been in that house. He searched his frazzled mind, desperate for something witty to say. He wiped perspiration from his upper lip. “I checked in to the Drake, though. The mansion’s way too small for egos the size of my father’s and mine.”
“I don’t think you have a big ego, Devon. I never did.”
His stomach flip-flopped at the gentleness in her eyes. Sweet Hannah. Instinctively he reached for her again, but she held up a palm.
“I…can’t do that to your fiancée.”
“She broke it off this morning.”
They sat with that bomb between them for a while. Her finger orbited the glass a few more times. “Do you want to talk about it?” she finally asked.
“Nope.”
Something died out in her eyes. “I didn’t think so.” She sighed. The tip of her tongue wet her lips again. He swallowed dust. “Remember when nothing was awkward between us?” she whispered.
Yes. He did. That was the problem. He stood at some kind of abyss and had never wanted to jump so badly in his life. He slid the glass from her grasp and clunked it blindly on the cocktail table alongside his. “Christ, Hannah, you still have this crazy hold over me.”
He leaned in slowly, giving her ample time to throw up a red flag. Instead, her pupils dilated as she inhaled shallowly through barely parted lips. He sifted both hands through that amazing hair and cupped her head. Her eyes fluttered closed. And then he was kissing her, thoroughly, impatiently, sweeping his tongue along the seam of her lips.
She moaned softly as she let him in, and the sound rushed more blood to his groin. Hannah. She tasted of wine and a flavor so uniquely her. In high school, she’d been an exceptional kisser, and they’d spent hours perfecting their rhythm. But this woman—the slow, searching tease of her lips—shattered him. The longer they kissed, the more sparks reignited a blaze he hadn’t felt in twelve years. He broke off raggedly, sliding his mouth along the slant of her cheekbone, the curve of her neck, the quivering hollow at the base of her throat. He wanted to drown in her peach scent.
She murmured his name, her palms sweeping up his shoulders and caressing his back. He was so far gone that everywhere she touched fed his hunger for more of her, dissolved his thin grasp of control.
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nbsp; He returned to her mouth in desperation and angled deeper, savoring her sweetness. At the tiniest pressure from her leaning in, he clasped her waist and lay back on the lumpy bottom cushion. Her satin hair cascaded like rain, forming a shelter around them, and the weight of her breasts pressed into his chest. She definitely wasn’t wearing a bra. He groaned his appreciation and his balls tightened. In the far reaches of his memory, the image of her wanton willingness emerged. How her body flowed like an undulating wave under him; her fingers exploring, lips and tongue tasting, sighs and moans directing him where to linger. For so long, sex had been a silent, perfunctory task.
He skimmed his palms under the tails of her loose shirt, and caressed the smooth arch at the small of her back. Rather than feed the natural instinct to slide his fingertips downward, under the elastic of her sweats and panties, he languidly traced her spine up to her shoulder blades, filling his senses with all the scented, bare skin. He gently raked her back with his fingernails.
She broke the kiss with a soft aaah.
“I remember how you crave back scratches,” he muttered, grinning, and treated her to a couple more swipes. She smiled blissfully after each one, her lips swollen, her eyes unfocused. He was struck with a sense of coming home, his heart suddenly so large and full it fluttered off rhythm. “I need you,” he whispered urgently, primitive lust mainlining through his veins. He slipped beneath the elastic, gripped her bare ass, and ground her pelvis into his, rotating his hips.
Her breath caught. “Stop,” she whispered, and he froze. The moment suspended as those liquid emerald eyes searched his. Their soft pants mingled. His arousal pulsed. She squirmed her beautiful ass out of his grip. “We shouldn’t be doing this.”
Of course. Her aunt was in the next room. He squeezed out a breath; his hard-on straining in outrage. She grabbed a large section of her hair and struggled off him. He hid his wince, hoisting her clear of sensitive areas. “What do you want to do?” His voice was hoarse; he cleared his throat roughly.
“I don’t know.” She sounded as breathless as he felt. “Talk?” She scooted back, claiming the far side of the sofa, and curled a leg underneath her. He almost smiled. She looked as frustrated as he felt.
He sat up with a half groan, half laugh. “It’s like we’re teenagers again.”
“Adults talk.”
“Not when they could be doing something else.” He didn’t bother to hide how insanely he needed her, and a matching fire flickered in her dark eyes. For a second, she wavered, her lips parting. Every muscle in his body stilled. Then she shook her head, the sexual light in her gaze fading.
“I’d like to talk about you for once. Please, Devon.”
Trading the one thing he wanted to do for the one thing he despised drained some of the uncontrollable desire careening through his bloodstream. He tried for a good-natured smile. “All right, shoot.”
“Why did you come back last night?”
Well, shit. He rubbed his face, debating his options. Did it matter if she knew of his stealthy return? Would telling her ever affect his sister and the custody case? Would it get them back to kissing faster? Maybe back to the Drake?
“Tell me,” she whispered, and he knew how badly he’d fallen for her again, because out came the sordid story of the plane, and an eleven-year-old hiding in the head, and even the little guy’s drive on the dark suburban streets.
She gasped in surprise or shuddered in horror in all the right places, and before he knew it, he’d launched into his sister’s divorce proceedings and her jerkwad of a husband and the unfit-mother claims she fought.
“You could’ve told your father,” Hannah pointed out. “He doesn’t want to lose his grandson. Besides, he’s the most powerful man in Chicago. I can’t believe Frannie’s even remotely afraid of losing custody.”
He fought the scowl and lost. “First of all, it was Frannie’s secret to tell, and secondly, I’m not surprised she kept it from him. He’s old-school—survival of the fittest. He’ll make sure he has rights to see his grandson, which undoubtedly will never come into question, since Todd’s still in the will and my brother-in-law’s a greedy sonofabitch. But Harrison doesn’t stick up for his kids—never has.”
“That doesn’t make sense.”
He shrugged. “Maybe he thought that’s how we’d grow up strong.”
She bit her lip and leaned against the back cushion, looking as sweet and fresh as if those twelve years had never happened. He had to be getting old to be drowning in teenage reminiscing like this.
“I know he treated you like that,” she said, “but I don’t remember you telling me he’d ever done anything cruel to Frannie.”
She had him there. His father hadn’t doted on Frannie, but in keeping with the grand lie that their mother had committed suicide, he’d been carefully affectionate around Frannie, as if her lapse into childhood depression and the emotionally unbalanced teen years might trigger the family suicide gene. Hence Harrison forcing her to live under his roof now, through the turbulent divorce. It was all such a fucked-up ruse. Now that Devon was sticking around Chicago, he’d double his efforts to help her gain independence.
Hannah reached for their glasses. Not the direction he wanted to go, but at least one of them had a level head. Her fingers still trembled, though, and she knocked his empty glass onto the carpet beside him. Muttering an oath, she leaned down and snatched it, her heavy hair landing in his lap. He flashed back to her ministering to his needs so enthusiastically in high school, and his cock stiffened further.
All too soon she straightened up. In a heartbeat, she was in the kitchen. He leaned back, closing his eyes and breathing hard. His lips still pulsed from her kisses; her peach scent had somehow transferred onto him. He should probably call it a night, because this—being with her, smelling of her—was torture. Scuffing slipper footsteps neared, and then the sofa cushion shifted. More peach scent.
“I really don’t know how to segue into this or even how to say it in corporate terms, but is there anything I can do to persuade you not to tear down our neighborhood?”
Shit. Even further in the wrong direction. He opened his eyes and looked over wearily. “I can’t look for another property, Hannah. I bought this one.”
“You’re wealthy. Can’t you just walk away from this?”
And there it was. Hannah the idealist. As a partner in her own company, it was stupefying she hadn’t gone out of business. He searched for words that would preserve the tentative relationship they’d built tonight. “The art you restore looks nothing like the crap that’s brought in, right?” She nodded. “So you of all people know not everything is what it seems on the surface.”
A guarded look came over her face. “Yes?”
“We took an unprecedented risk because the property came at a dirt-cheap price and construction costs are still down.”
“But if you had any idea of the hardships—”
“Enough with the hardships, Hannah,” he snapped. She recoiled, and he held up a palm. “Sorry. I meant—I’m right there with you. Even before I landed in Chicago, I knew this development had a fifty-fifty chance of bankrupting us. It’s fractured my board. And you stood outside my father’s door yesterday—you must’ve heard he’s about to swallow up my company. Hell, why are we even having this discussion? I won’t be tearing down Rogers Park—he will.”
She studied him, poker-faced. “What will you do if he takes your company?”
“Get back up and start over.” With a fucking vengeance. Wallowing in pity was as abhorrent as wallowing in the past.
Silence descended, which he didn’t mind. He’d made his point, the topic was over, and he could study her openly as she frowned at the threadbare carpet. Her hair was a tangled, erotic mess, high color stained her cheeks, and when she bit her kiss-swollen bottom lip, his balls tightened again, painfully this time. Hurry up and process this, because you’re going back to the Drake with me.
“Just so you know,” she said, “there’s
a ninety-nine percent chance I’ll have to sell my half of the partnership to afford a two-bedroom someplace else.”
Lust drained from him. Wine soured in his stomach. Her partnership? “Two-bedrooms aren’t that expensive.”
She hugged her knee, a gesture she used to do when she was upset and had to confront him instead of waving it away in that dreamy way of hers. “The rent we pay here is only comparable to places in unsafe neighborhoods or way too far of a commute.”
“But surely you can afford an upgrade from”—he swept a hand toward the window—“this.”
She shook her head. “It has to be this inexpensive to make ends meet. Aunt Milly never took out long-term health insurance, so her ongoing osteoporosis and emphysema have drained most of my savings.”
“That’s what Medicare is for.”
“Only if she were to go to the hospital for three consecutive days, and she hasn’t for over a year. So all the home health costs for her personal care or to drive her to physicians aren’t covered. Nor is twenty percent of her medications, and those are freaking highway robbery.”
He could find fifty ways to problem-solve this. With Herculean effort, he kept the frustration off his face, and asked in an even tone, “What about a nursing home?”
“First of all,” she said, clearly mimicking him, “she’s my great-aunt, and I would never do that to her. Second, she made me promise never to admit her, just in case I had any nefarious ideas. And third, that’s even more out-of-pocket expense than home health.”
Aside from admiring her long, elegant fingers as she ticked her points off, he didn’t appreciate her condescending tone. “Not if Medicaid pays.”
“She doesn’t qualify.”
He rubbed his jaw. “Then pay yourself more of a salary.”
She frowned at his clipped response. “Walter and I structured a profit-sharing plan with the bank before her health progressed to this stage. We receive an adequate salary until our fiscal year ends and our profit sharing kicks in. But even then, the bank makes sure a good portion of the profits are kept in retained earnings. I can’t touch that.”