Block and Tackle

by Elise Faber

  And when she screamed his name, convulsing around him, that was it for his self-control.

  He exploded.

  AWHILE LATER, THEY forced themselves to move upstairs, and Devon coaxed Becca into a repeat performance in the shower.

  He had set her on the marble countertop and was patting her dry with a towel when he noticed the red abrasions on her skin. His brows pulled together. Damn. He touched his face, felt the sandpaper-like texture of his unshaved face.

  He’d done that.

  She glanced down at where his hand rested against the abused spot and smiled. “Don’t worry. It doesn’t hurt.”

  “I’m going to shave.” He tucked the towel around her then bent and pulled his razor from the cabinet. But just as his fingers wrapped around the handle, his stomach growled loud enough to shake the foundation of the house.

  “It doesn’t matter.” She touched his chest. “You’re hungry. Let’s go eat first.”

  “No,” he said and flicked the switch, filling the space with buzzing.

  “Dev—”

  “Are we going to play a game of Who’s More Stubborn?” he asked, running the electric razor along his neck. “Because I’d put your bet on me.”

  She stared at him before sighing. “I’d bet that too.” A kiss to his chest. “How about I heat up something to eat?”

  He used his free hand to tug her ponytail. “I could get on board with that.”

  “And a salad? Since you’re getting so fat?” Her eyes danced in amusement.

  His lips twitched. “Touché.” He set the razor aside and helped her down before giving her a little tap on her butt. “You can wear my robe if you want. It’s on the back of the door.”

  “Thanks.”

  She dropped the towel, and he almost sliced his carotid.

  “Hurry down,” she said as she slipped into the robe and then walked through the door, hips swaying as she went.

  He said that word again, and meant it again, in the best way.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  BECCA WALKED DOWN the stairs, knowing she was grinning like an idiot and totally unable to stop.

  Unfortunately, the sight in the kitchen had her skittering to a halt, the smile fading.

  Clarice stood in front of the sink, arms crossed, prim suit in proper form, deadly stilettos on foot. She was thin and beautiful and perfect, the kind of woman who made other women insecure, especially since she’d just had a freaking baby three months before.

  But she’d always been a friend and sweet, a kind look in her hazel eyes.

  That definitely was absent today.

  “H-hi,” Becca said, cursing the way her voice shook. She set her shoulders and indicated Clarice’s outfit. “You look amazing. How’s the baby?”

  “Fine.” Her foot tapped angrily, and Becca sucked in a steadying breath, knowing that the fury in Clarice’s eyes was seconds away from being unleashed.

  Why hadn’t she gotten dressed?

  And to make matters worse, she couldn’t stop the idiotic words from slipping out. “We’re moving back into the office on Monday. All the files are up-to-date. Client meetings booked. Contracts signed and mailed out. We’ll be good to go for your return in a week.”

  “I thought better of you.”

  The icy words slid down her spine, but, dang it, the situation with Devon wasn’t like that. What they had was different.

  Except… was it?

  She was there, easily available, and she’d seen plenty of news stories of Devon’s conquests. What made her any different? He certainly hadn’t said anything.

  No. That wasn’t it. He wasn’t a predator; he’d tried to resist her. This was on her. Her fault. Her—

  “I took the liberty of preparing your final check.” Clarice set an envelope on the counter. “We won’t need you back on Monday.”

  The statement was a punch to the gut. “But I—”

  “Okay, what’s for dinner—” Devon’s voice came around the corner before he did, fully dressed, of course. “Clarice!” He swept right past Becca and pulled the other woman in for a hug. “I’ve missed you. How’s the baby?”

  Clarice softened in Devon’s arms. You could see her actually melt against him, and when they stepped back, her expression was loving. “He’s the best baby. Sleeping and—” She pulled out her phone. “—look! He’s getting ready to roll over.”

  Devon watched the video dutifully then looked up at Clarice with genuine happiness. “Yeah, he is. What a champ. Good job.” He bumped her shoulder, laughed when she bumped his in return.

  “I’m coming to back to the office on Monday.”

  “Awesome.” His eyes didn’t stray from Clarice, not even for a second. “The crew has missed you.”

  Devon’s words were worse than a punch to the gut. He’d just taken a knife to her heart.

  And all the while, Becca stood on the outside. In a freaking robe.

  “About the Carlson contract…” Devon began, and they were off.

  Becca stood there for a minute, waiting for them to include her in the conversation. When they didn’t, she swallowed hard, turned away, and left the check, left the kitchen, left her shattered heart right there on the travertine floor.

  She’d been an idiot, an idiot to rival all idiots. Devon was—

  He laughed at something Clarice said, and she felt her eyes well.

  No. Not here. Not yet.

  She stumbled into the study and snatched up her clothes. Numb fingers buttoned cotton; shaking hands pulled on slacks and pumps.

  Pascal was at the curb when she walked out of the house, and she’d never been more thankful to see him.

  “Can you take me home?” she asked, opening the car door and sliding inside. Her hair was a mess, her clothes rumpled.

  His eyes swept down then up before flashing back behind her shoulder.

  She knew what he was seeing. Clarice drove a bright blue SUV. It was quite distinctive, and everyone in the office knew it by sight.

  That same SUV was parked smack dab in the center of Devon’s driveway, as overtly as Clarice had situated herself in Devon’s kitchen.

  Pascal was quiet for a beat then nodded, put the car in gear, and drove away.

  About halfway through the drive home, he turned on the radio.

  Becca didn’t mind.

  She was just thankful he didn’t mention the tears streaming down her cheeks.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  DEVON CAME UP for air around an hour after he’d walked into his kitchen.

  Clarice tucked the folder she’d brought to go over with him — full of contracts he’d needed to sign, travel documents for an upcoming conference, a proposal for an endorsement deal that had just come into the office that morning — under her arm, bussed him on the cheek, and headed for the front door. “See you Monday,” she called.

  He waved and turned for his study. Quite frankly, he was relieved that Clarice was back and that Becca wouldn’t be his secretary any longer.

  No conflict of interest. No HR disaster. Just him and her and that explosive chemistry.

  Of course, it was more than just heat between them.

  Becca was spunky and sweet, wholly capable and enduring. He admired her work ethic, loved how comfortable he felt in just being with her.

  Spending time with her was—

  Damn.

  Devon stopped right there in the hall, his hand coming up to touch his chest. Below his fingers, beneath the muscle and bone and sinew, his heart pounded.

  Because he loved her.

  Suddenly he needed to be right next to her, to hold her close and tell her exactly what she meant to him.

  He hustled down the hall, bursting into the study in a flurry of limbs and—

  She wasn’t there.

  Frowning, he turned and hightailed it up the stairs.

  But his bedroom was empty. The bathroom too. And aside from the containers of food crowding his fridge and dotting his countertops, so was his kitchen.
<
br />   Not a sign of Becca anywhere.

  And the more he searched, the deeper his heart sank.

  Finally, he pulled out his phone and called Pascal. “Did you take Becca home?” Maybe she’d left something at her house and hadn’t wanted to interrupt.

  A beat of silence.

  “Pascal?” he demanded.

  “What the hell are you doing to that girl?” Pascal said, his tone as sharp as Devon had ever heard it. Usually, his bodyguard was about as emotional as a piece of plywood. “First you lead her on, then you sleep with her, and then you fire her at the first opportunity. She’s a nice woman and cares — cared…”

  Cared?

  The past tense was the only reason that Devon stopped and tried to process what Pascal was saying before laying into him.

  He was the boss. His people weren’t supposed to question his actions.

  Except — guilt sliced through him — those actions were kind of questionable.

  And then there was the whole past-tense thing.

  Pascal was still talking, but Devon didn’t have time for that. Not when panic was bubbling up in his gut, burning a fiery trail up his throat.

  “Did you take her home?”

  Pascal stopped ranting, but his reluctance to answer the question was clear in the weighted silence.

  “Did you drive her back to her apartment?” Devon pressed.

  “Yes.” A grudging response.

  His panic calmed slightly. Devon would go over there, explain what had happened. Clarice coming back was a good thing because he and Becca could be together without worry.

  “Good. I’m giving you the weekend off. See you bright and early Monday morning.”

  “Sir—”

  Devon hung up, hit ignore when Pascal called him back. He didn’t have time for phone calls. He had to go make things right with his girl.

  A minute later, he’d thrust his feet into shoes and was driving down the street, his recently healed side protesting slightly as he maneuvered. But the pain was negligible, and he couldn’t ignore the niggling in his mind.

  The voice in his brain telling him that he needed to get to Becca.

  That he needed to let her know how he felt.

  That—

  When he knocked on her door, she didn’t answer.

  He let himself in via the code he’d had the security company make for him and found… her apartment empty. Or at least empty of Becca. All her stuff was there. Her car was even in the lot.

  But she wasn’t.

  He called her phone. No answer.

  He drove to the office. Not a single light on.

  When he finally went full circle and drove home, he found she wasn’t there either.

  The panic, the same he’d managed to squelch earlier, reared its ugly head.

  She was gone.

  And it was his fault.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  THE CALL FROM the rehabilitation center couldn’t have come at a better time for Becca. Space had finally opened up for her mother in the rehab program they’d been waiting for, but all the paperwork and transfer documents needed to be taken care of ASAP.

  It was an inconvenience, but one of the best kind.

  Her mom would be getting better care, and she was getting an escape from Prestige, from Devon, from the bleak reality that was her life.

  Five minutes after her cell had rung — and no, she hadn’t been hoping it was Devon… really, she hadn’t — she’d requested an Uber, packed a bag, and headed for the airport.

  The center was in Arizona, so the flight from northern California had been short.

  But not short enough to keep Becca from her thoughts.

  With a sigh, she’d disembarked the plane and rented a car for the drive to the center. It was closed to visitors, of course, but she’d grabbed a motel room and met with the facility director early the next morning.

  Her mom had protested about the cost involved during the entire transfer process — proverbially dragging her feet since she couldn’t physically drag them yet — and fought Becca tooth and nail over any upgrade.

  She had finally lied and told her mom she’d gotten a permanent position with Prestige just to cease the worst of the battling.

  It felt like days later before she was walking out of the center, when in reality it had been only a couple of hours.

  But since she’d worked the full day before then played hanky-panky with her boss, which had been followed by buckets of tears, a plane ride, and a sleepless night, she was done in.

  So she wasn’t happy when her cell rang as she’d barely cleared the door of her motel room.

  “What?” she asked with a sigh. It was probably her mother, getting ready to argue with her about buying a cheaper set of sheets or some other nonsense.

  “Uh, Ms. Stealing?”

  Crap. So not her mother. Rather, it was Stephanie, the director of the rehab center.

  She cleared her throat and resisted the urge to bang her head on the doorframe. “Hi, Stephanie. Sorry. I just—”

  “No problem, Ms. Stealing. I know. I-I, um…”

  Oh good God, what had her mother done now?

  “I’ll talk to her. I promise,” Becca said. “She wants to get better. She’s just worried about the cost. But I’ve got it covered—”

  “I know. I just—” Stephanie sighed. “Well, I don’t really know how to say this…”

  What the hell — heck? Becca bumped her head against the motel door anyway. It hurt… but kind of in a good way. “Say what exactly?” she asked.

  “Your mother’s account has been permanently covered.”

  Her eyes flashed open, and she winced as she had an extreme close-up with the bright pink trim of the motel’s paint job. “Wh-what?”

  “I know.” Stephanie sounded excited now. “I couldn’t believe it when the man came in, but the paperwork is all in order, and he’s set up a trust for your mother. There’s enough money in that account to make sure she’ll have the best treatments, the best teams. Your mother is going to get better…”

  Becca’s breath caught; her throat tightened. Luckily, Stephanie kept talking about plans and doctors and medicines, and she didn’t have to say a word.

  Because Devon.

  Somehow, she knew in her heart that Devon had done this.

  “What was the man’s name?” she asked when Stephanie finally took a breath.

  “He wouldn’t give one, but—” Stephanie gave a little giggle. “—I’ve never seen a member of the male population as hunky as this one. Tall, dark, built like a god, eyes like chocolate—”

  Clearly, Stephanie didn’t watch sports. Or pay attention to Hollywood starlets.

  “Devon.”

  “You know him?”

  Becca sniffed at the same time her neck prickled and her skin heated from the inside out. Turning, she saw the man himself. He stood there in all glorious hunky-ness, ready to crush her battered heart for the second time, just for fun.

  “I know him.”

  Stephanie blew a breath out, and it rattled through the speakers. “Good. I just wanted to make sure you knew, and that you were okay with it.”

  Okay? Not really. But it was the best thing for her mother, and that meant the majority of her was thrilled, touched even. The small piece of her that still ached from Devon’s dismissal was what smarted.

  A parting gift, payment for services rendered.

  “I’m o-okay with it.” A sob caught in her throat. “Thank you,” she choked out and hung up.

  Devon took a step toward her.

  She backed up and promptly smacked her head against the frame, except this time a lot harder than her little love-tap from before. “Stop,” she said, putting her hand up.

  The word sounded broken and desperate even to her own ears.

  But did the man ever listen to her? He’d said he could out-stubborn her, and he was right. He closed the distance between them, pushed her hand aside, and swept her into his arms.
r />   And, dammit — yes, a real dammit — she liked it. Reveled in it, hugged it to the depths of her soul.

  He’d ruined her, she realized as she sank into his embrace. She had no resistance or armor when it came to Devon.

  He guided her to the bed, closing the door behind them with a soft click, and sat down on the edge with her in his lap.

  And just held her.

  And it felt really freaking good… and — she hiccupped, coughed, sniffed, tried every trick to keep the tears at bay.

  None of which worked.

  She cried. Devon held her, stroking her back, cradling her close, until she finally stopped, feeling as wrung-out as a dishtowel on a laundry line.

  He didn’t say a word until her breathing slowed and even then, his words were a riddle. “I think we’re laboring under a misapprehension.”

  Her head throbbed, and she struggled to make sense of his words. “Wh-what?”

  “I’m happy Clarice is back.”

  Her lungs hitched, the slice of pain deep.

  But Devon continued on, seemingly oblivious that he was hurting her. How could she have been so wrong about him?

  He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “I can’t have you working for me.”

  Becca stiffened and tried to wriggle out of his arms. “Yeah. Reading that loud and clear.”

  “Because I love you.”

  “I can’t believe—” She froze. “What did you say?”

  Devon smiled down at her, warm brown eyes threatening to suck her into the depths of Willy Wonka’s chocolate river. And she’d happily take a dip in that.

  “I.” A pause. “Love.” Another pause. “You.” He tapped her nose.

  “You.” Becca shook her head. “It’s not— I— You—”

  “The reason I’m happy Clarice is back is because I want us to have a chance at something special without all the barriers of work.”

  Becca blinked at him. “But you just—” She broke off. “And Clarice said—” Oh jeez. What did it matter anyway?