Cold Midnight

by Joyce Lamb

  She stopped and turned away, fists clenched at her sides. Damn it, she’d let him prod her into a tirade. This was exactly what he wanted, and she’d handed it to him on a heaping platter of self-pity and bitterness. Good job keeping your eye on the ball, Ace.

  Tears, the ultimate disgrace, welled into her eyes. Before they could overflow, she strode to the sliding door and pulled it open. “I want you to go now.”

  He didn’t move, his face still but his eyes dark and watching her. “I’d rather not.”

  He thought he could wait her out until she started blubbering. Screw that. She didn’t cry for anyone. “You did what you came here to do, now please go.”

  “What do you think I came here to do?”

  “I admitted I was wrong. What more do you want from me? Tears? You won’t get them.”

  “You think I’m that shallow.”

  “You’re still whining about what happened when we were little more than kids, aren’t you?”

  “Whining?” He stared at her, dumbfounded. “We lost something, something incredible, and you think I’m whining ?”

  Incredible? Oh, God. “Yes,” she said, “and it’s way past time to get over it. Now please go.”

  Shaking his head, he stepped past her and walked through the door without a second glance.

  Kylie slid it closed behind him and paced away, felt control begin to slip free of its moorings. Stupid, stupid, stupid. She let him get to her, had vowed he wouldn’t, then let him rip her apart piece by piece.

  At the railing, she snatched up his empty beer bottle and hurled it at the door.

  15

  CHASE WAS IN KYLIE’S LIVING ROOM, STRIDING back toward the kitchen after doing an about-face at the front door. Walking away mad wasn’t the answer. He let that happen ten years ago, and look how long it had taken to get to this point of hashing it all out. No, they needed to talk through all the anger and bitterness and hurt. They needed to find a way to resolve their issues so they could start fresh. He refused to be a child this time, refused to let her be a child.

  He’d made it back to the kitchen doorway, bracing himself to confront her again, to somehow reach her, when the explosion of glass froze him in midstep, and he watched in disbelief as a glittering shower rained down on the ceramic tile. It took him a few beats to get that the sliding door had exploded inward.

  His heart in his throat, he dove for what was left of the door. His Nikes skidded through shards of glass, and he caught glimpses of brown among the jagged pieces. Blood?

  “Kylie!”

  He stopped dead when he saw her on the deck, staring at what was left of the door.

  Cop instincts kicked in, and he lunged forward and grabbed her, nearly yanking her off her feet as he dragged her into the shelter of the kitchen and away from the vulnerability of the shattered door.

  Pressing her against the wall, covering her with his body, he peered over his shoulder toward the door, scanning what he could see of the beach. His brain was racing, latching onto and discarding scenarios in split seconds.

  A bomb? No smoke.

  A gunman? But only one shot, and he’d missed.

  A rock? He glanced at the floor, saw the brown again, like blood but solid with jagged edges. Not blood. Glass. Beer-bottle glass.

  What the hell?

  He shifted to look down at her, to ask her what the hell happened. But the way she stared up at him, her expression so open and broken, wiped his brain clean. Her eyes, swimming with tears that threatened to spill but didn’t, looked bluer than ever. The slight tremble in her chin nearly undid him.

  He released her and stepped back, raising his hands to placate. Oh, Jesus, if she cried . . .

  His back-off move must have surprised her, because her eyes widened further, and then, like that, the aching vulnerability vanished. She lifted her chin, a furrow of concentration appearing above the bridge of her nose.

  “I thought you left,” she said, her voice as flat and emotionless as her expression.

  The fucking game face. It was like a kick to the gut. He would never win with her. They would never win. “I decided it was a mistake to leave angry,” he said, just as flat, just as emotionless.

  Her eyes narrowed, flickered, then she pushed hair off her face with both hands. “I appreciate the concern, but I’m fine.”

  “Yeah, I see that.”

  He deliberately swept his gaze over the shattered remains of the door before meeting her eyes again. She didn’t look away, but he could see in the way her jaw muscles tightened that it cost her. She was grinding her teeth to dust. Jesus, she never gave up. That’s exactly how she’d played tennis, never giving up on even one point. The media called her the Mac Attack, a warrior on the court, mercilessly taking down enemy after enemy like a soldier with a tennis racket as her weapon. Until those bastards had used a bat to destroy her ability to fight.

  He wanted to save her. He wanted to jerk her out of her emotionless shell and remind her what it was like to live. To love.

  But she stood there, watching him with curtained eyes, tension coiled in her center as she tried to anticipate his next move and how she might counter it. A competitor to the end. A beautiful competitor with flawless skin and blue gray eyes he could drown in.

  He didn’t think, he just reached out.

  She stepped back on a quick intake of breath, but the wall at her back stopped her short. He took advantage and slid his hands into her soft, silky hair before capturing her warm, moist lips with his.

  She tensed, brought her hands up to curl around his forearms, but he tightened his grip, preventing retreat, and let himself fall into her taste. God, oh, God, she tasted like beer and want and everything he’d craved since the day she walked out of his life.

  When she moaned out a protest, pushing at his arms and shoulders with clenched fists, he resisted letting her go even as his head told him he had to. Instead, he deepened the kiss, telling her with his lips and tongue and teeth how much he wanted her after all this time, after all the hurt. She moaned again, but this time she melted against him, her fists unfurling to clutch at his shoulders, her lips parting, inviting him in. The sweep of her glorious tongue against his stole his breath and sent blood rushing to the too-long-denied part of his anatomy.

  He moved in, pressed her against the wall as he nudged his thigh between hers—Jesus, skin on skin and so close to her heat, it was . . . it was . . . too much.

  He fought the need to come up for air. He didn’t want air. He just wanted this. He just wanted her. He couldn’t get enough, couldn’t go deep enough, couldn’t taste enough or feel enough.

  And then, just like that, as if someone threw a switch, he lost her.

  She stiffened against him and jerked her head back so quickly it rapped against the wall. Her hands shoved at his chest, and a weird choking sound came from her throat.

  He backed off fast, hands off her and raised. “What? What did I do?” Did he misread something? Did he go too far too fast? What?

  She struggled to get control of her breathing, one hand held before her as if she didn’t trust him to stay back. “You have to go.”

  Go? Now? They were just getting started. “Ky, come on—”

  “Don’t call me that!” She squeezed her eyes shut. “Don’t . . . God, just don’t call me that anymore.”

  He saw the tremor in her hand then, and the shock made his head spin. Kylie “There’s No Need to Worry” McKay was trembling. Sympathy overrode his disbelief. “Jesus, Ky, you’re—”

  She lunged forward and shoved him back a full step. “Leave!”

  He snapped his mouth shut and debated his options. Leave, obviously. Or stay and piss her off so much maybe they’d never recover. But, Jesus, she looked like a prime candidate for spontaneous combustion, her cheeks flushed, her eyes flashing daggers in silver and blue.

  His body, clearly not the least bit intimidated, responded to all that angry energy, egged on by memories of truly fantastic sex after harrowing k
nock-down-drag-outs on the court with her. He didn’t want to leave, damn it. He wanted to bury his need, bury it in her. He wanted to fuck away the past and move on. Together.

  Before he could think of the right words to say—maybe there weren’t any—she pushed past him and headed for the living room.

  “Where are you going?” he called after her.

  “You won’t leave, so I will.”

  The front door slammed so violently the house shook.

  Squeezing the back of his neck with one hand, Chase surveyed the glass scattered across the kitchen tile and, against his better judgment, began to grin. He’d made Kylie, the ice queen, slip on her own cool. He’d made her tremble, with rage or desire—did it matter? The fact remained: He’d gotten to her. He’d broken through her defenses. Hell, he’d made her throw a beer bottle through one door and slam another so hard they probably heard it across the gulf in Texas.

  Okay, so the encounter hadn’t ended as well as it could have. In fact, it hadn’t ended well at all, considering the throbbing discomfort in Chase Jr.’s neighborhood. But, damn, he’d still made her tremble. And moan. Don’t forget that. There’d been some pretty heavy duty, heady moans before she’d flipped out on him.

  The trembling, though. That was the main thing. He could still make her shake for him.

  Maybe there was hope for them yet.

  16

  KYLIE WANDERED HER STEPMOTHER’S LIVING ROOM, picking up knickknacks and studying them. Not because she’d never seen them before, but because she needed something to do with her restless hands. Because of last night.

  Chase. God, Chase. She’d made such a fool of herself. Throwing beer bottles and slamming doors. By the time she’d returned home from a two-hour walk on the beach—more of a stalk, really—he’d swept up the broken glass and secured plastic sheeting over the sliding doors in the kitchen. He must have made a run to Home Depot for the plastic, even. God, he could make her feel so small.

  And restless. She hadn’t slept all night, didn’t think she’d ever sleep again, at least not without seeing that frustrating look of pity transform his face. She must have looked and sounded truly pathetic for him to go so quickly from I’m-going-to-fuck-you-against-the-wall to I-feel-so-damn-sorry-for-you.

  Her throat tightened at the memory, and she closed her eyes to contain the sting of tears.

  “Are you going to rearrange my bric-a-brac all day or sit down and welcome me home?”

  Kylie replaced the clay pot she’d been examining and faced her stepmother with a self-conscious laugh. “Guess I’m distracted.”

  “I hadn’t noticed,” Lara said, crossing her legs where she sat on the white leather sofa.

  She was an older version of Jane. Her long, dark blond hair was twisted into an artful knot at the nape of her delicate neck. Her makeup looked as if an artist had applied it, making her appear years younger than she was. Even her clothing, a soft yellow, short-sleeved sweater with a V-neck atop tailored white slacks, looked like something her daughter would wear. And so much more stylish than the faded blue jeans and red T-shirt Kylie had thrown on this morning.

  As Kylie settled in the leather chair next to the sofa, she picked up the raspberry iced tea Lara had poured for her. When her hand shook, she braced the glass on her denim-clad thigh and swallowed hard. She hadn’t stopped shaking since he’d touched her. But it couldn’t be because of him. No, it had to be exhaustion. She hadn’t slept since the bat was found. Hadn’t eaten much, either. So, exhaustion and low blood sugar. Not Chase. Never Chase. What a relief.

  Realizing her stepmother’s shrewd gaze tracked her every move, Kylie forced a smile that couldn’t have looked all that sincere. Eye on the ball, McKay.

  “How was Paris?” Kylie asked.

  Lara sipped her own tea, watching Kylie over the rim of her glass. “Fabulous, as always. I’m sure Rome will be as wonderful in a few days.”

  Kylie nodded, envious suddenly of the woman who’d become a globe-trotter after she divorced Kylie’s father. Paris on Monday, Rome on Wednesday, Berlin on Friday. No danger of anyone getting too close when you did that.

  Lara cocked her head, appraising. “Jane told me about what’s going on at the construction site. How are you holding up?”

  Oh, that. Long lost bats and bloody T-shirts. Besides Chase Manning, it was all she could think about. A shaft of anxiety caught her off guard. Keeping her eye on the ball was impossible when it was nowhere in sight.

  “I’m holding up great.” Her voice cracked, and unable to sit still for another second under that watchful gaze, she set aside her glass and rose to pace behind the chair. Moving helped. As did barriers. She always liked something to hide behind.

  Lara’s eyes, a dark velvet brown, traveled her features then dropped to where Kylie had clamped her hands on the chair’s back. “I think you need to sit back down and talk to your mother.”

  Kylie stared down at her white-knuckled hands. Talk. Right. She’d rather run a marathon without training. Or try to teach a cranky four-year-old how to serve for twelve hours straight. Or play soccer with a thriving bee hive. Or stand without her knee brace in front of roving, curious eyes.

  “Here.”

  She glanced up, surprised to see Lara holding out a rocks glass that contained what looked like two shots of amber liquid. She hadn’t even heard her stepmother move. “I don’t—”

  “It’s whiskey,” Lara interrupted. “Drink it.”

  She accepted the glass with a soft laugh, glad it didn’t have ice cubes that could knock against each other and give away how shaky she really was.

  Lara resumed her position on the sofa, legs crossed and hands clasped on her knees, and waited for Kylie to do as she was told.

  “Cheers,” Kylie said, toasting her stepmother before swallowing the fiery liquid in one gulp. The burn on the way down into her empty stomach reminded her of Chase’s lips tracking the side of her neck to the top of her shoulder, the heat of his fingers on the sensitive skin just beneath the hem of her T-shirt. He knew how to touch, knew how to stroke, knew exactly how to make her want. Clearly, he knew too much.

  Lara started to smile. “Well, I see some color in your cheeks, so Mr. Johnny Walker must be doing his job.”

  Kylie squinted her watering eyes and nodded. Yep, it’s Johnny Walker all the way. “Thank you.”

  Lara tilted her head to one side, but when Kylie said nothing more, she sat back. “Let me guess: You don’t want to talk about it. Not that I had to guess. Jane filled me in on that part, too.”

  “I figured she would.”

  “She’s just worried—”

  “I know. God, I know.” She looked down into her empty glass. A refill would have been nice.

  Lara pursed her neatly lined and lipsticked lips. “I hate to say it, but you’re even more tense than usual. Sit down, look me in the eye and talk to me.” She smiled in a sweet way that had defy-me-and-die undertones. “Please.”

  Kylie obeyed, at least on the first and third requests. “I’m not trying to avoid—”

  “Yes, you are.”

  “But it’s not because—”

  “Yes, it is.”

  Kylie blew out a sigh and sank back against the chair cushion’s squishy, sink-into-me comfort. “I’m a mess.”

  “Yes, you are.”

  Kylie met her stepmother’s unperturbed gaze and had to laugh. “So now that that’s settled, can we talk about Paris?”

  Lara’s smile turned tight. “No, we cannot.” Sitting forward, she looked Kylie straight in the eye, her gaze warm but imploring. “Is Chase why you and Wade stopped dating?”

  It took Kylie a moment to catch up. Number one: She’d never mentioned to Lara that she and Wade Bell stopped seeing each other. Jane must have taken care of that when she’d filled her in on all the other gossip. Number two: She hadn’t thought much at all about Wade since . . . well, crap, since she’d stood next to Chase staring at the “killer” bat.

  “It wasn’t b
ecause of Chase,” she said. A lie, though. Every time it didn’t work out with a guy, it was because of Chase.

  “Do you think you gave Wade a fair chance?” Lara asked. “You went out for such a short time.”

  “It was enough to know.”

  “But he’s such a nice man, and a doctor.”

  “So I’ve heard.”

  Lara cocked her head. “Yes, I know you of all people know that. I’m just saying . . .” She trailed off with a shrug. “Handsome, smart, orthopedic doctor with regular hours, a sharp dresser and a full head of hair. What more could a girl want?”

  Passion? Connection? Chase? Yes, Dr. Wade Bell had worked the miracle that saved her leg after the attack, and they’d developed a warm friendship in the years afterward that he’d suggested they escalate into romance when she returned from LA. But . . . but damn it, nothing happened when he kissed her. Nothing.

  Kylie searched for the right words. “We didn’t connect on that level. He was right to break it off.”

  “I’m sure that was a difficult decision for him.”

  “We dated for six weeks, Mom. It wasn’t that difficult.”

  “I got the impression that he waited for you for ten years.”

  The idea amazed Kylie, and she laughed. “No, he didn’t. He was married twice. And the idea of dating didn’t even come up until we got together for dinner after I returned.”

  “I don’t know. He was very devoted to you before you left for California.”

  “I was his patient.”

  “A patient he liked very much.”

  “Regardless, it’s not going anywhere. We’re friends, period.”

  Lara, obviously unsatisfied with that response, got up and crossed to the bar, where she poured a glass of whiskey for herself. Kylie watched her posture-perfect back, trying to figure out what was up. Lara had never been one to push or express disapproval. She let her kids do their thing and offered constructive guidance when she thought it necessary.