If I Stay

by Tamara Morgan

  It worked pretty well, actually.

  “Is that a fact?” Mr. Montgomery asked.

  “It’s a world where favors matter. Where deals are struck and bargains made—often without a care for who gets hurt along the way.”

  “I know something of Hollywood, I think.” Mr. Montgomery tipped his head to the side, his meaning clear. I know the people you need to get back in. I know the secret knock for the big boys’ club.

  “True,” Ryan said quietly. “But you don’t know me.”

  Nothing flickered on Mr. Montgomery’s face—not fear, not approval, not anything approaching human emotion. At least, not until he turned to Amy. “The point I’m trying to make is that you don’t need to keep pushing. That’s the secret to success. Know when the answer is yes or close enough to it and step back. Of course the raise is yours, no question. You know you only ever need to ask me for something and it’s done.”

  He extended his hand, unwavering and fleshy, stopping it in front of Ryan. Was he supposed to shake it, or was she? Since being the first—or the only—person in this room to shake his hand would reinforce the idea that Amy was half a person, toiling in the dungeons, Ryan kept his hands firmly planted in his armpits. He was done making deals.

  Eyebrows raised and lowered again before Mr. Montgomery turned to Amy and pulled her into a bearlike hug. This man, who looked as kindly as Santa and would scare the crap out of Satan, actually initiated contact and held Amy so tightly he might have swallowed her whole. And Ryan—whether for good or for bad or because that was the way Mr. Montgomery wanted it—overheard him say, “You’re a good kid, Amy. Thank you for taking such great care of mine.”

  And that was it. As assuredly as they had been welcomed into the office, they were just as forcefully removed from it, but from what Ryan could see, absolutely nothing had changed. It was a shift in the air, an unspoken command. Hell—for all he knew it was some kind of poisonous gas Mr. Montgomery expelled through tiny hidden vents.

  But as Ryan followed Amy out the door, Mr. Montgomery stilled him with a hand.

  “Thanks to you, as well,” he said.

  Ryan paused, waiting for the sarcasm to sink in, but he was struck with the extraordinary sensation that the man meant it. “For what?”

  “For taking such good care of Amy. Keep it up—I think you’ll like what I’ve got in the works. I knew I was right when I penned you as the man for the job.” His smile had equal chances of being sincere or sinister. Ryan was one coin flip away from trying to figure it out when Mr. Montgomery decided for him. “But then, I usually am.”

  Chapter Twelve

  “That was the worst Jerry Springer confrontation I’ve ever seen.” Ryan waited until they were back on the nursery floor before he spoke. It wasn’t that he assumed Mr. Montgomery’s office was bugged or anything, but a man didn’t speed away from the scene of a crime without at least trying to lose his tail.

  “Should I have thrown a few chairs? Brought out a surprise guest who’s actually his ex-wife? Demanded a paternity test? Would that have made you feel better?”

  That last one would have, but he didn’t say so. “I am a little impressed at the raise bit. I wonder if I should try.”

  “Ugh. Don’t remind me.” She stopped her fast pace down the hallway and slumped against the wall, sliding until she came to a seated position. Since it didn’t look as though she planned on getting up anytime soon, Ryan did the same on the opposite wall, allowing them to face one another, legs close enough to touch but all the more significant because they didn’t. “I told you I panic in test-like situations. I didn’t know what else to say.”

  “Not even, Hey, just curious here, but are you my dad?”

  She ignored him, her careful avoidance charged with meaning. “It’s not like I can even spend that money now. I’ll feel dirty.”

  Ryan raised a brow—his crooked one, the one with the scar. “You’ll feel dirty spending money you earned doing a hard job that someone appreciates?”

  “Yes. And don’t look so smug. Guilt and I have always enjoyed a complicated relationship. If you try to split us up, you’ll only end up pushing us closer together.”

  “I’ve always found a clean break to be best.”

  “But he’ll be so sorry afterward for what he did. He’ll woo me back with his soothing words and gifts of chocolate, promising to be better next time.”

  “Are we still talking about the metaphorical guilt? Because he sounds like a dick.”

  She laughed and allowed one of her feet to fall casually to the side, brushing his. He tingled from the contact, small but meaningful. “You heard what he said in there—about me feeling free to ask if I ever need anything. I know you’re not vying for the role of president of the John Montgomery fan club, but even you have to admit that was a sweet thing to offer. He’s been like that for as long as I can remember, generous and supportive and always there when I need him, no questions asked.”

  “A father figure.”

  Amy nodded and averted her head. Her hair fell along the curve of her cheek, hiding her expression, but he didn’t need to see to understand. He understood just fine. Shifting so that not just their feet but their entire legs brushed together, he waited until she turned back toward him, hazel eyes glittering, before speaking. “You’re afraid, aren’t you?”

  “Yes. Of a lot of things. Like men who drive too fast and feel too much. I never pretended to be a brave person.”

  “You’re afraid,” he repeated. He grabbed her hand and stared at the delicate web of skin and bones, so strong and so fragile at the same time. “That’s why you didn’t ask. You’re not scared that he will admit to being your dad—but that he’ll admit he isn’t.”

  “So what if I am?” She struggled to take her hand back. “Is that really so terrible? To want a man I admire and who’s always taken care of me to be my father?”

  He let her hand go, but at the expense of her legs. Dropping his hands to her shins, he scooted forward, bringing the pair of them even closer. He ran his hands up and down her legs, a pattern he hoped was soothing but suspected was more to comfort himself than her. Now that the touch barrier had been broken between them, he couldn’t seem to get enough. “Of course it’s not terrible. Of course you deserve that.”

  “And is it really so terrible to want him to want to tell me?” She sniffled. The sound of it—of her sadness—almost had him marching back up to Mr. Montgomery’s door and pounding until she got the answers she sought. But the panicked look in her eyes—as though she were a cornered animal—held him in place. “I shouldn’t have to stand there, feeling like I’m fourteen again, starving myself for answers. What’s wrong with me that he’d go to such lengths to hide it? How can he be so nice and take such good care of me and hate me that much?”

  “Amy—” Ryan’s voice caught in his throat. “I can’t answer that for you.”

  “Yes, you can.” She blinked at him. “If anyone can, it’s you.”

  A flood of panic surged through him, jumpstarting his pulse and making him feel, once again, as though he were trapped in a room with a lion. This one, he feared, was much more dangerous.

  “You and Mr. Montgomery treat me exactly the same,” she said, and there was such a dearth of malice in her tone, it damn well near slayed him. “So tell me. How can you sit there, being so nice and taking such good care of me, and still act like kissing me is the worst thing that’s ever happened to you? Why is it that you don’t want me either?”

  Her cry moved through him as a resonant frequency, tuned to him and him alone. Forgetting where they were and who they were and how the hell he was supposed to function in the aftermath, he grabbed her around the waist and pulled her the rest of the way into his lap. She opened her mouth to let loose what he could only assume was a protest. Mindful that they were mere feet away from do
zing children and their watchful nurse, he did what any sane man would do to keep the volume to a minimum: he kissed her.

  This time, he didn’t let surprise dictate his actions, didn’t let the spontaneity of the moment hold him back. He gripped the back of her hair with absolute intention and brought his mouth to hers.

  Amy whirled under the assault of Ryan’s lips moving over hers, unable to do much more than cling and let him in. As her interactions with this man had proven, she was one of those women who would stand at the front porch after a date with her head tilted upward, waiting patiently for her kiss. No matter how great a date had gone, she could never bring herself to initiate that first foray into a man’s mouth. Which meant the only time she ever got past longing was when a man either read her cues or decided to screw gentlemanly behavior sideways and take what he wanted.

  Thank God Ryan was proving to be one of the latter. He shackled her with his hands, the firm press of his mouth ceaseless in its demands. She couldn’t move, couldn’t see, could barely breathe. Giving herself over to the fact that this was actually happening, that she wasn’t misreading every cue in her stupid life, she ran her hands over the planes of his chest and settled more firmly against him.

  But the motion—her sudden lack of passivity—seemed to jolt him to a greater sense of awareness, and he pulled back.

  “I want you.” His eyes searched hers, hands still gripping her with so much promise. “I want you so much that I’ve reached a point where you’re all I can think about, where you’re the only bright spot in my otherwise dreary existence. Believe me when I say that the only reason I’ve held back is because I don’t want you to get hurt.”

  Because you’re leaving. Because you think I’m weak. Because you think I can’t handle a few tangled limbs and sweaty tumbles in the sheets before saying goodbye.

  Amy wasn’t sure where she’d gotten this reputation for frailty, but she was tired of it. Okay, so she wasn’t the strongest or most impressive person living under the Montgomery Manor roof, and there was a good chance she would cry when Ryan eventually left—whether that was two days or two months from now. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t make her own decisions. There was no need to protect her from her own goddamned life.

  “It’s never been an issue of not wanting you. Never.” Ryan reached up and traced her lips, his movements slow and agonizing. “Please tell me you understand how hard this is for me.”

  “I understand that you’re full of shit.” She smiled against the press of his fingertips. “I think you should ask me how I feel about the idea of hot, messy animal sex before you go writing it off for the both of us.”

  He dropped his hands as if she’d spouted fire from her mouth. “And how do you feel about hot, messy animal sex?” he asked, his voice hoarse.

  “I don’t know. What do you think?”

  Aware that it was cheating and unfair and underhanded, she thrust herself closer, breasts grazing his chest, her nipples tightening into twin peaks of sensation through her loose-fitting T-shirt. “It’s the boobs again,” she teased. “These wily girls refuse to take no for an answer. Help me. I can’t stop them. They’re taking over.”

  Ryan’s only response was an overloud groan and the very obvious shift of his gaze downward. From his vantage point, he had a clear view down the front of the plunging neckline—and he didn’t seem to be against enjoying it. She gave her shoulders a shimmy, bringing a little jiggle action into the deal.

  He licked his lips. “They are awfully persuasive.”

  “Maybe you should touch one. Just to see. You can always change your mind afterwards.”

  “Jesus, Amy.” His hand grazed the line where the vee of her shirt skimmed her shoulders. Not quite boob territory, but close enough to cover her entire body with goose bumps. “Your body isn’t the problem here.”

  “I’m not going to get clingy and needy afterwards, if that’s what you’re afraid of,” she promised. “Give me a chance.” She just needed one freaking man in her life to give her a chance.

  “I’m not afraid that you’ll get needy.” Ryan’s gaze lifted from her cleavage to reach into her eyes instead. Oh, man. Her boobs had been hoarding all the good stuff for themselves.

  “Then what are you afraid of?” she managed.

  “That I will.”

  She didn’t have a reply to that—unless you counted the roaring of blood in her head, dizzying her and making her feel as though she were flying. Fortunately, there was no need for words. Ryan grabbed her again, ravaging her lips and her body and her synapses, and oh, God, why was she bothering with thinking anymore?

  Thought was easily dispensed with for the next seven minutes. Seven minutes of heaven, not locked in a closet together at some adolescent party, but tangled in a hallway with low lights and no one near. It was practically the same thing, though she was pretty sure none of her teenage encounters included quite so much expert tongue. Ryan kissed like he drove—fast and hard and on the edge, a man who knew how to handle himself the second he slipped behind the wheel.

  And in this case, she was happy to let him take the driver’s seat. She started out ensconced in his lap but was soon pressed underneath him, pinned by the delicious weight of his body, unable to do anything more than writhe under hands that never seemed to stop exploring. Up and down her bare legs, slipping underneath the hem of her shorts only to pull away right before he got to the good parts. Under her shirt, over her bra, pinching at her nipples but never coming into direct contact with them.

  In other words, he was doing everything within his power to rile her up, make her hot—but without ever forgetting where they were. A hallway. His place of employment. Another man’s house. If anyone were to walk by, the two of them could separate and be decent.

  Disheveled as all get-out, but decent.

  “My room is down that way,” she gasped when he freed her mouth for a moment, taking his time to drop kisses along her neck and the slope of her shoulder. She could feel the impression of his lips burning long after he pulled away. She would probably feel them forever. “Three doors. Possibly four. I’m having a hard time seeing right now.”

  He stopped kissing long enough to look up, flushed with desire, lips parted. “Are you allowed to do that?”

  She laughed. “Have boys stay over if I want them to? Yes. This isn’t a convent. It’s my home.”

  “I know, but...”

  Oh, he was not backing out now. Not when his erection was grinding against the juncture of her legs, the current epicenter of all her rational—and irrational—thoughts. She scooted out from underneath him and got to shaky legs. Giving in to the indulgence of a backward glance to find him staring openmouthed at her, she lifted her shirt off and tossed it to the hallway floor.

  “What are you doing?” he asked, his voice gruff.

  She kept moving, an extra sway in her hips as she unbuttoned her shorts and shimmied them off her hips. “Leaving you a trail of bread crumbs in case you get lost along the way.”

  “Amy...”

  She reached behind her and flicked open her serviceable white cotton bra. The only way to dress up that kind of bland plant material was to dangle it enticingly from one fingertip, which she did as she reached her door. It wasn’t locked—unless someone wanted to steal her ancient ten-pound laptop or her collection of Old World maps, there wasn’t much to take—so she pushed it open and slipped in.

  One. Two. Three. Four. She flicked on the lights, assuming Ryan was right behind her. Five. Six. Seven. Was he seriously not going to follow her in here? No need to be squeamish. The nursery was far enough down the hall that no sound pierced the walls. Eight. Nine. Nine and a half. She slipped out of her panties—more of the same boring white cotton, though at least they had bits of scalloped lace at the edges—and tossed them out the open door.

  Nine and two-thirds. Nine
and three-quarters. What the heck came after that?

  “Goddammit.” Ryan stormed through the door and tossed all her clothes onto the floor. “Are you trying to kill me?”

  He stopped, suspended in a swirl of desire that hit him from all sides, holding him momentarily aloft. In his haste to somehow find the ability to both walk and gather up Amy’s clothes, he’d forgotten that he held all her underclothes. Nothing stood between him and her completely naked body except distance and air—both of which mattered for absolutely zero.

  Amy’s form had been molded by a creator both reverent and filthy-minded. There was a touch of innocence about the way her breasts hung heavy and full, an enticing lift at each tip where soft pink nipples reached for his touch. Her waist came in at just the right spot, a soft swell of stomach flared out past her hips to legs so long they seemed unreal. She was sweetly seductive, made him want to lower her to a bed of rose petals with Barry White crooning in the background.

  But when she moved, not so much seducing him as shifting her weight from one leg to the other, it was as though he saw an entirely different woman. Her movements were a ripple of silk over water, of strength just under the surface of downy soft skin. This woman was a dancer. She could use her body to tell stories, to weave magic spells, to draw him in and trap him forever, endlessly striving for air.

  “Would you please say something?” she asked, a nervous hitch to her breath. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m kind of naked here. Nudity has a way of making a girl feel slightly vulnerable—and it’s already been kind of a vulnerable day for me.”

  “Fuck me, Amy.” He couldn’t tell if it was a comment or a command, but he could no more stop the words than he could prevent himself from slamming the door behind him.