by Tara Leigh
Chapter 3
Nash
I don’t need much sleep. Never have. The few hours I manage, even sitting in this damned chair, are more than enough to have me feeling refreshed and alert when the blackout shades rise at five am, as they’re programmed to do every morning.
Normally I’m running on my treadmill or heading to the gym by five-fifteen, five-twenty at the latest. But nothing about this morning is normal. Not only is there a woman in my bed—quite possibly the most frustrating female I’ve ever met—but I’m reluctant to leave her.
Outside, the indigo sky lightens to a pale powder-blue, the sun rising from the horizon like an egg yolk that cracks over the Statue of Liberty’s crown, drenching New York Harbor with golden light. The skyscrapers stacked beyond my windows, monuments to Manhattan itself, throw off their hazy veil of morning mist, their shiny facades preening at the dawn of a new day.
It’s a priceless view.
And yet it’s the woman inside my bedroom rather than the world beyond it that has my full attention. Nixie’s hair is spread across my pillow like brushstrokes, so many shades of red I’d need a color wheel to identify them all. Her perfect profile peaks out from a heap of covers. Pale skin with golden undertones, sweeping cheekbones leading to the soft shell of an ear, a tipped-up nose set above a lush pout of a mouth.
But there’s a brightness to Nixie that has nothing to do her appearance. Something that goes beyond symmetrical bone structure and appealingly arranged features. There’s a luminous quality to her that comes from within. An incandescence that’s not skin-deep, not bone-deep, but soul-deep.
There’s a reason all the planets in our universe orbit around the brightest burning star. Gravity is a force that cannot be denied. Sitting here, watching Nixie sleep, it feels as if a hook has been looped over my ribs, the line between us drawn taught. This attraction, this connection, it’s a physical thing. I don’t understand it. And even now, rubbing at the place where my chest aches, I can’t explain it.
Nevertheless, it’s there. Like gravity.
Invisible.
Undeniable.
Irresistible.
Fuck me. I don’t mean to actually say the words but they fall from my lips anyway, a gruff acknowledgement of a thoroughly inconvenient fact. I am so screwed. This girl . . .
What am I going to do about this girl?
Nixie, who didn’t budge when the shades rose and the room brightened, now stirs. “Good morning to you, too,” she breathes, her eyes still closed, her voice a husky purr that has me hard in an instant. “Is that how you greet all of your guests, or just the ones you meet in dark alleys?”
Guests? I’ve owned this apartment for five years and I’ve never had a single guest. Employees, yes. Family, yes. But guests? No. “Only the lucky ones, I guess.”
“That’s me, lucky,” she quips, then groans a little as she shifts onto her back, a wince pinching her features. I’m out of my chair and across the room in an instant, helping her sit up before handing her a pain pill and the glass of water from the nightstand.
This time she accepts my help, and her medicine, without objection. I step back a few feet. “What time is it?”
I glance at my watch, a Patek Philippe I bought with my very first bonus. “Six-fifty-three.”
She glares at me with a flinty edge. “Why are we awake?”
“Didn’t anyone ever teach you that the early bird gets the worm?”
“No. I’m more of a set-the-alarm-as-late-as-possible kind of girl.” Her fingers plow into her hair as she yawns like a sleepy cat. One I’d like very much like to pet. Finally she turns her face to the windows, eyes softening. “You’re right, though. With a view like this, I might never want to leave.”
“Then don’t.” The words slip out before I can hold them back. What. The. Fuck?
Nixie swivels, her molten topaz gaze slamming into me. A flush escapes the collar of her shirt—my shirt, actually—and travels to her cheeks. “I should go,” she whispers.
No way. Not yet. “Doc should be here any minute.” As if on cue, the doorbell rings.
Nixie’s full lips tug upward in a grin, her head tilting to the side. “Saved by the bell, huh?”
I pretend not to be offended. “Looks that way.” After letting Doc in, I make my way into the kitchen. I’m far from a chef, but I can whip up a mean stack of pancakes.
Fifteen minutes later, Nixie and Doc emerge from my bedroom. “How’s the patient?”
“Nothing about a week’s worth of rest and good meals won’t cure,” Doc pronounces.
I glance at Nixie. “Sit,” I order, setting down a plate of pancakes swimming in a pool of maple syrup, butter dripping down the sides of the stack.
Nixie flicks a tongue over her lips. “I really don’t think—”
Doc pulls out a stool from beneath the counter of the kitchen island. “Come on. My orders.”
With a resigned sigh, Nixie sits down in the proffered seat and lifts a fork.
I reach into the refrigerator for the orange juice. “Have you eaten?” I ask Doc, pouring a glass for Nixie.
“Yeah, I’m all set.”
“You sure?” I gesture at the three pancakes on the griddle and a still-full bowl of batter. I’d prefer to have Nixie all to myself, but he seems to have a modulating effect on her. “There’s plenty.”
“No, no. I need to get going.”
I flip the pancakes and turn off the flame. “I’ll walk you out.”
Doc lightly squeezes Nixie’s shoulder. “If you need anything at all, just call.”
“Thanks for taking such good care of me. I didn’t realize doctors still made house calls.”
He grins. “Only the best for my patients.”
I grunt. Yeah, only the best for anyone willing to pay your ten thousand dollar monthly retainer. But I can easily afford it, and he’s well worth every penny.
“Is she really okay to be on her own?” I ask, once we’re out of earshot.
“I’m not too concerned about the laceration, to be honest. It’s healing nicely and as long as she takes it easy for the next few days, she’ll be fine. What has me more concerned is her resting heart rate and elevated blood pressure. She’s seems healthy, and is obviously not unfit or overweight. But without having access to her medical files or current blood work, I can only speculate.”
“So speculate,” I prod, impatient when he falls silent.
“Well, unless she finds being with you stressful, which is not a particularly unreasonable possibility,” he says in a somewhat reproachful tone, “something else is troubling her quite a bit.”
I dismiss his suggestion that Nixie is frightened of me. That, she is not.
My jaw clenches as I shake Doc’s hand, the second half of his comment giving further weight to my observations. Something—or someone—has Nixie running scared.
And I’m going to find out what—or who—it is.
Research is a lot like unraveling a wad of duct tape. Sometimes the adhesive holding the pieces together hardens over time, and it can be difficult to distinguish one end from the other. But it’s what I do, and I’m damn good at it. As is everyone on my team. If Nixie isn’t willing to tell me, I have the means to find out on my own. The question is—should I?
The loss of my brothers taught me that life is cruel. It’s almost always too short and it’s very rarely fair.
Keeping your connections to an absolute minimum makes it a hell of a lot easier to muddle through however long you’ve got.
I should know better than to get involved with a woman who gets under my skin so easily. Who makes me feel off-balance and all too willing to watch the sunrise rather than get to work.
I spend my days ripping apart companies that have taken years of dedication and commitment to create. I fire hundreds, even thousands, of people with no more effort than the scrawl of my signature on a page. I hurt other men for sport. Because I enjoy it.
I don’t always throw the first punch.
But I am always the last man standing.
Nixie is a distraction I don’t need, a complication I don’t want.
So why aren’t I eager for her to leave?
Conflicted, I return to the kitchen to see that Nixie has made a decent dent in her breakfast. “These are good,” she says, surprise evident in her voice.
I grin. “Hope so. It’s the only thing I know how to make.” Turning the flame back on, I add more batter to the griddle. “Will you have some more?”
She swallows what’s in her mouth and pushes the plate away. “No, thank you. I’m stuffed.”
“Do I need to chase after Doc and get him to come back in here? He says you need to eat.”
“I won’t tell him I’m not a member of the clean-plate club if you don’t.”
A long look passes between us. “You’re asking me to keep your secret?”
Nixie raises a brow. “I wouldn’t dream if it.”
Sensing that I’ve hit a nerve, I decide to change tack. “So, are you from New York?”
She takes a sip of juice, shifting in her seat. “Yes and no.”
I lean forward, pressing my elbows into the unforgiving stone countertop. “Yes and no?”
A shy smile slants across her face, and she tucks a wisp of hair behind her ear. “Yes if you mean from New York, the state. No if you mean New York, the city.”
“Spoken like a true New Yorker.”
“How about you?”
“A city kid, born and bred. Didn’t even leave Manhattan until I was out of college.”
“You’re kidding.” She gestures around us. “You seem like a guy that’s been around the world once or twice.”
“Oh, I have. Now. But not until I could afford to buy my own ticket.” The car and driver, the luxury penthouse, the doctor on standby—I’ve earned it all myself.
I wait to see if it affects her, makes her bat her eyelashes and flirt with me. Old money is impressive, but in my experience, nothing entices a woman like a self-made man. Must be the lingering strains of Sinatra still coursing through New York’s streets. If I can make it there, I’ll make it anywhere.
And Manhattan is the Everest of ambitious entrepreneurs.
Nixie remains unfazed. “Are you trotting out your bio to impress me? Or because you want me to return the favor?”
I grin. “Maybe a little of both.”
Her buoyant laugh hovers between us, the air noticeably lighter than it was a minute ago, when I hear footsteps. Damn it. We were just starting to get somewhere.
“What did you do to my kitchen?” Greta’s sizable bulk is dwarfed by Jay’s height as the incongruous pair walk into the room.
“Hey, Boss,” says Jay.
Nodding at my driver, I face Greta. She appreciates order and routine as much as I do. More, even. And me, standing at the stove, a girl sitting at the island, eggs and flour and syrup littering the previously immaculate countertop, is definitely not routine. “I made pancakes,” I say, skipping over any attempt to explain Nixie’s presence.
Surveying the mess, Greta scowls as she steals the spatula from my hand. “I see.”
Nixie and I share a conspiratorial smile, and it races though my veins like wildfire.
At least, until she slips off her chair and stands. “I’d better get going.”
Hiding my disappointment, I give a stiff nod. “Jay will take you wherever you need to go.”
That smile slides right off her face. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’m perfectly capable of finding my own way home.”
“I didn’t say you weren’t. But Jay can take you home, or he can follow you to make sure you arrive safely. Your choice.” As I watch, Nixie’s eyes narrow, her mind clearly searching for an alternate possibility. “And before you decide to lead him on a merry chase, let me remind you that you’re supposed to be taking it easy. No need to pop a stitch to prove your point.”
Nixie isn’t thrilled with either option, or my warning. “Fine,” she bites out.
Jay gives a last, longing look at the pancakes Greta is now taking off the griddle and turns to Nixie. “Your chariot awaits.”
Nixie
Forcing down the all too familiar spiral of panic and anger threatening to spoil my meal, I keep my temper in check and agree to be driven home. I know I should be thankful for the ride but Nash has done so much for me already, and I don’t want to be indebted. Not to him, not to anyone. Not ever again.
Trailing Jay to the elevator, I stop short of following him in. “Thanks,” I say, turning to face Nash, the impact of his ruggedly perfect features and streamlined bulk slamming into me anew. “I really do appreciate what you did for me back there, in the alley. And here, calling your doctor to tend to me instead of dumping me at an ER.” A chagrined attempt at a smile lifts the corners of my lips. “Breakfast, too. Hopefully I didn’t get you into too much trouble with your housekeeper.”
Nash breaks eye contact, looking over my head to Jay. “Go see if you can convince Greta there’s a stack of pancakes with your name on it.”
Jay is out of the elevator in a flash. “Don’t have to tell me twice,” he says, darting past us. The elevator door slides closed. I stand rooted in place, torn between the urge to make a run for it and a sudden reluctance to leave.
Nash looks at me, although not the way I’m used to being looked at. His eyes don’t just graze, they penetrate. They focus on my face, narrowing at the corners like they’re uncovering every secret I’ve ever hidden, and a few more besides. This isn’t good. I don’t want Nash looking at me this way. My secrets need to stay hidden.
I need to stay hidden. For now, anyway.
According to the terms of my parents’ will, I’ll come into their trust on my birthday next year, which includes the proceeds from the sale of their house, a small life insurance policy, and the settlement money from the 9/11 Victims Fund.
My portion of what some accountant decided my parent’s lives were worth is nearly ten million dollars as of my last statement balance. Maybe it sounds like a lot, but it falls far short. What is the cost of a childhood, after all?
The last thing I need right now is to get involved with anyone. Especially someone like Nash. We have absolutely nothing in common and yet we talked for hours, our banter bouncing from friendly to not-so-friendly to flirtatious. The feel of his rough hands gliding over my smooth skin just made me want to pull him into bed beside me. And with every minute I remain in his presence, the glimmer of possibility sparkles more brightly. I need to get away, clear my head. Breathe.
Nash steps closer, his broad shoulders casting a shadow over me as I suck in a breath, tilting my head back. He doesn’t touch me, and yet I can feel his energy zinging through every cell in my body. He smells like Christmas trees and pine cones—festive, woodsy. Enticing. “I’d like to see you again.”
Dangerous. The man is a panther pretending to be a kitten. He’ll play with me for a while, lure me in. And then he’ll pounce. Make a meal out of me until he’s had his fill. “I—I don’t think that’s a good idea,” I stammer.
“Why not?”
Why? I didn’t expect him to ask for an explanation. Most guys would accept the brush off and move on. But not Nash. “I’m just coming out of a relationship. I’m not looking to get involved with anyone right now.”
Slowly, Nash lifts his arm and places his palm flat on the wall behind me. He leans in slightly, a warm gust of maple syrup-sweetened breath tickling my ear. “I’m not just anyone.”
A laugh gurgles up from my throat. No. Nash is definitely a someone. “I can see that.”
“Then it’s settled.”
“W-what’s settled?”
“Jay will pick you up tonight so I can take you out to a proper dinner.”
I can barely swallow air, let alone food, when I’m near this man. The only way I’d been able to eat his pancakes was when he left the room. And he wants to have dinner? Too many meals with Nash and I’ll starve to death. I shake my head. “Didn’t you hear
what I said? This isn’t good timing for me.”
“Oh, I heard you. I’m just choosing not to listen.”
I stiffen. Is there something about me that makes men think they can trample all over my wishes? “Who the hell do you think you are? Just because you decided to save me from Manhattan’s underworld, doesn’t mean you have the right to—” Nash’s kiss swallows the rest of my words.
I’m trapped between two walls, one made of plaster at my back and the equally solid plane of Nash’s body pressed to my front. I should feel ambushed. I should feel outmaneuvered. I should be jumping out of my skin with panic.
But I don’t. I’m not.
And I feel . . .
Alive.
Blissfully, gloriously, unbelievably alive.
Every sense, every cell.
Everything, all at once.
Nash’s lips are full and soft against mine, his tongue licking and teasing inside my mouth, gliding along my teeth, sweeping into the corners, temping me to parry. And parry I do. Sucking at the fullness of his lower lip, I slide my tongue along his. Nash tastes different than he smells, sweeter—like sunshine and syrup, cloves and caramel. My hands rise between us, pressing against his flexing pec muscles.
I moan, tilting my head to the side and opening my mouth wider, my body relaxing into his embrace as his calloused fingers thread into the hair at the nape of my neck, his thumb lingering at the curve of my jaw.
My pulse is jumping around, the beat completely erratic. Maybe that’s why I feel dizzy.
I shouldn’t be doing this. Kissing a man I barely know. A virtual stranger. Not when everything about my life is so unsettled. I shouldn’t, but I am. Right now, being in Nash’s arms feels right.
Wrong. So wrong. Am I insane? Sure, Nash is tempting. But being with him is just borrowing trouble. And God knows, I have enough of my own.
With a short gasp, I break the kiss and give his chest as much of a shove as I can manage. The effort gains me two inches. Not enough to recoup my sense of security, or to reclaim my own thoughts and impulses. But enough that I can duck beneath his arm. “I’m sorry. I-I can’t do this.” I jab at the elevator button with one hand, wiping away the taste of him still lingering on my mouth with the other.