by Rissa Brahm
He stiffened, his entire body, every part tense with want.
Control yourself.
He inhaled her essence, then let out a long, hot hush of words into her ear. “I want what I want, Isabel.”
She paused, frozen, mid-reach for the condiment bottle, her body leaning across his. He could feel her chest rising and falling against his arm and shoulder, her heaving breath in complete synch with his racing pulse.
He knew she wanted what he wanted. Just turn to me. Look at me. Surrender.
*
But no. She denied the desire. She pulled away slowly, slid back onto her stool, resumed professional and distant. Back to strangers. She stared at her pizza slice, sans ketchup, while he stared at her.
The game was over.
He placed the ketchup bottle in front of her.
“Thank you,” Isabel said in a somewhat defeated whisper as she flipped the cap open with unsteady fingers. She squeezed the sugary pseudo-tomato stuff onto her plate and dipped her pizza in it. Without another word, she ate.
“May I?”
She looked at him with narrowed eyes.
“Can I try a bite, please?”
“You may.”
He dipped his piece into her ketchup, took an enthusiastic bite, and nodded his pretend enjoyment. Then he shook his head, wanting to spit it out but chose to smirk and chew through it. “For you. I tried it for you.” He swallowed and washed the bite back with a quick swig of mineral water.
She broke out laughing. “I didn’t ask you to try it. You didn’t have to.” Her brows lifted.
“I wanted to, Isabel. And ‘I want what I want.’”
And I get what I want.
*
The mood was back to fluid now. Between bites and sips of soda, they chatted away for another hour until the place closed. Then they strolled back toward La Vaca on the all-but-vacant boardwalk. The conversation weaved and winded, and now had landed on the topic of their respective homes.
Home. God, what a concept. He hadn’t had a solid place to land in as long as he could remember. Just countless and faceless hotel rooms around the world, or his private jet.
But Isabel, she felt like home to him. A warm and welcoming, sensual and decadent home.
“Where’d you go?”
“Sorry, sorry…just thinking.”
“Staring at me and thinking.”
“You’ll just have to stop being so captivating. Now, what were you saying?”
She sighed, then smiled. “I was telling you the saga of how I inherited my grandfather’s seaside condo and how I just love it there. The bay and the beach and the salt air on my skin. I can hardly keep my clothes on when I’m home because I love the—” She glanced at him.
Yes, he sure as hell caught every spine-tingling word. “Yes? Go on,” he teased.
Her cheeks were redder than red. She rolled her eyes, then looked up to the sky in complete silence. A redirect? Hah. As if he’d ever let the no clothes comment go.
“Don’t be rude, wedding planner. Finish your thought.”
She groaned. “It’s just, I’ve never lived alone. I’ve always been in the thick of things in town, or before that, with a fuller than full house. So now, I just love my place, love the fresh ocean breeze…and, well…I like to do just about everything in the buff.”
He heated from his toes to his head. It wasn’t just the illustrious image of her goddess-like form, naked, that shot waves of hot energy through him. No, it was that she was spilling her secrets, bordering on official flirting, even though she seemed to regret it the very next second.
Still, he felt fucking giddy. Strangers, my ass.
“Completely naked, huh?” God, he was hard at the mere thought. In flat-front pants, no less. He pulled her to a bench he’d spotted so he’d hide his reaction to her while maintaining the near-perfect mood of the night. “Tell me more,” he teased. But was dead serious.
*
“Mopping? And cooking?” Zack asked, smiling at her with his illuminated green eyes. She now had to explain further, since she’d damn mentioned it at all. What the hell was she doing? Teasing this poor man, this sad, gorgeous man. But his puppy dog look weakened her and made her quiver to her core.
She just felt so good with him, so detrimentally right.
So as not to disappoint her captive audience of one, she went on. She told him of the freedom she felt with the windows always open, the purity of the far-off Pacific, its cleansing salt air against her skin. She told him that she’d pretend the sea told her long kept secrets, ones it had been holding, as if waiting for her to finally be alone there to confide in.
“And I love having no one but myself to answer to, you know?” She smiled at Zack then, not meaning to have sent a message directly to him—Isabel is better alone, everyone is better and safer with Isabel being alone—but glad if it had come across.
And actually, no, she had meant it. Well, at least her protective and prudent brain had. But her heart diluted the conviction of her words. She hated being alone. And simply loved…this.
Mierda! If her mixed messages weren’t driving Zack crazy by now, they sure were doing a number on her.
She continued on, though, unable to stop. Probably rambling by then, boring the crap out of the man. But if Zack was bored, she couldn’t tell. His eyes were wide, like he was hanging on every word. He was either an amazing actor, or just unbelievably well mannered.
She told him more about her condo by the sea, the current state of it, and some about her dear abuelo. How Isabel had been his favorite granddaughter, and how Isabel’s mother, Yesinia, had been abuelo’s favorite of his six children.
And that’s where she caught herself.
Too much, too close.
Another thought about her mother, let alone a word, and she’d crack open and bleed a river of tears. Isabel’s right hand gripped her left wrist below the bracelet.
Change the subject, Isabel.
She could tell from Zack’s concerned and questioning expression that it was too late. He was going to ask her. But no, she couldn’t go there.
Just say something else. “Anyway, the place is beautiful. But it could be a shack and I’d still love it. If I get to be near the sea, smelling, hearing, seeing it every morning,” she said and smiled, “then I’m happy.”
But the topic of the ocean was a dangerous one, too. She had heard, and blatantly ignored, his attempt at clinching a future date with her. “After the wedding.”
No, though. No after. No anything.
But God, yes, his whole sweet-as-sugar childhood fear of the ocean bit did hit her. It turned her on to no end, the vulnerability in such a powerful, virile man was just too much for her heart, head, and core.
Doesn’t matter. She had to steer him away from his second attempt now. Nothing between them could happen. After the wedding she counted on and prayed for his private jet to take care of that.
So, she’d end this now, this tease of a night. “God, I can’t believe how late it is,” she said, glancing at her phone for a time check. “And I was home early today too. To catch up on much needed sleep from the lack of it last night.” She cleared her throat for his benefit.
“Right, of course,” he said, a glint of pride in his eyes and maybe a heated memory in his head, of them together, as shown in the curl of his lips.
Oh God, Isabel, please be done here.
“And I can’t be an exhausted mess for the biggest gig of my career.”
His captivated gaze made her squirm. She had to turn away from him, reacquiring distance. Necessary distance.
Zack touched her hair. “You alright?”
And damn him and that solid, anchored security she felt with him.
“Yes. I’m…fine.” Just fucking torn to pieces by you. “Just tired.”
*
She pointed to the limo that had just pulled up, and he was again taken over by the empty, plunging feeling in his stomach, then chest, and all the way up to his
head. He wanted to kiss her desperately, and then to continue talking, or walking, or sitting, just being with her.
But reality ruled. Isabel collected her purse.
He held out his hand. “To strangers-turned-acquaintances.”
She let a smile show through her eyes, and when she gave him her hand to shake, he placed an innocent kiss on it, then he said, “Really, Isabel, thank you.”
Her brother, Antonio, went around the vehicle to open the passenger-side door for Isabel, giving Zack a good firm handshake as he passed him. Zack hadn’t realized that Antonio was Isabel’s brother until she’d said so during their stroll. He saw the resemblance now. He had liked the guy from their first handshake at the airport when Darren had arrived. Antonio seemed strong, confident, upstanding, the kind of guy he’d do business with and have a drink with after. Hard to find a no-bullshit type like this man seemed to be. A common family trait in at least two of the twelve. Holy hell, twelve! He could not even fathom it.
“Don’t worry, I have my car,” he said to Isabel, who was already sitting in the limo.
She put down her window. “Don’t worry, I wasn’t offering.” She winked as the limo pulled away.
CHAPTER 27
Zack went straight to his brother’s hotel room when he got back. It took three hard pounds on the door to get Darren’s ass up, and no time at all to dive into a deep, long-awaited conversation about their father. They went at it ’til dawn, going through the detailed history of their lives, things only two brothers could share and know, along with the things Darren never knew.
And he brought up his talk with the wedding planner. He smiled to himself, referring to Isabel that way when, Jesus, she was so much more to him. Anyway, he was thankful to be able to use Isabel’s advice, her clear point of view, because the topic of his father was hard enough. But now he had an objectivity he’d never thought possible. Granted, his father wasn’t there with them in the room, but baby steps.
The brothers decided together that they’d take their father to lunch that day, and as an attempt to keep the drama to a minimum, they’d bring Amy along for a more casual tone.
*
Midday Friday, the day before the wedding, Zack watched Antonio and his passengers pull out of the resort driveway and head to Playa de los Muertos, a high-end foodie haven. Zack would drive himself and meet his brother, father, and Amy there, a strategic move in case he needed to make an early escape.
On his way into view of the beachside restaurant, he had a strong need to hear Isabel’s voice, to speak to her, just to get a quick refresher from the night before. His blood and thoughts were racing. He pulled out his cell, knowing he shouldn’t call her. But he had to.
Looking at his phone, he laughed to himself, realizing he couldn’t call her. He’d forgotten to get her goddamn number again. Again, for fuck’s sake! Four hours spent with her last night, damn it. How this woman zapped his brain cells and churned his blood! He shoved his phone in his pocket and entered the open-air restaurant. He had her with him in his pounding, sprinting heart, and that had to be enough.
*
Zack spotted the empty chair awaiting him at the four-top across the brightly decorated dining room. His brother was waving his arm high in the air. Zack took a huge gulp of oxygen. Be objective, and stay calm. For Darren.
Zack got to the table. Breathe. And cue polite smile.
“Son.” Bennet stood from his seat, hand extended to Zack.
Zack’s fake smile vanished as he cleared his throat before choking on the sudden ball of disgust he didn’t even know he had in him. Keep it together.
He inhaled the fresh sea air and shook the man’s hand. “You can call me Zack. Or Zachary. But I prefer Zack. Please,” he said, gesturing for the old man to sit down while he moved to the chair across the table. He nodded at his brother, gripping Darren’s shoulder in greeting, and then leaned over to kiss Amy on the cheek.
Menus opened immediately, a flimsy but welcome barrier to hide behind. But he had a surprising desire to look at the man, a more than surreal sight. Curiosity mixed with loathing filled his head, but he remembered Isabel’s words, “apathetic freedom.” Not so damn easy with the man in his airspace, though.
In fact, he was miles away from apathy. Raw hate clobbered his brain, but also, tingling gratification. At Bennet’s frailty, the lifelessness bordering on despair in the man’s dreary eyes. His father was so different from the vibrant, opulent playboy he remembered.
Zack forced himself to focus on the menu, but he kept reading the same item, peanut-encrusted tilapia, over and over again, and he not only hated the bottom feeder, but would go into anaphylaxis from the crust. For fuck’s sake, focus, Zack.
In the meantime, Amy began the obligatory pleasantries and small talk. He was glad that she got chatty when nervous or excited—or both, in this case.
She began to jabber away about the crazy adventure she and her father had had locating Bennet James. She had pieced together the small details Darren had mentioned during their time together: Paris, France; Sabrina Rondot; B.C. Properties, and so on.
And Zack’s stomach began to churn.
“I finally found one of Bennet’s properties in New York in the public records, but a law firm was listed as the one contact.” Zack was certain that was his father’s lifelong attorney, Artie Deninger.
She detailed her phone call to the firm, but Zack could imagine for himself the sequence of events. The receptionist probably rolled her eyes at Amy’s sappy-sweet voice and put her straight through to the voice mail of Mr. Deninger, P.A. She would have left a longwinded message like, “My name is Amy Rine, daughter of Dan Rine…blah, blah, blah…engaged to Bennet James’ youngest son…phone number. Blah.”
Zack’s mental summary ended much quicker than his soon-to-be sister-in-law’s. He politely continued his aimless analysis of the menu while pretending to listen. Eyes on desserts now, his mind wandered to Isabel wiping up the ice-cold mint chocolate chip mess from his lap the night before, until Amy’s voice elevated an octave, startling him out of his daydream.
“…and I got a return call from Bennet the very next day!”
She continued on about the conversation she’d held with the bastard sitting across from him. Breathe. Be polite. Smile. His new mantra. His hands sweaty, he finally put the menu down. His hands began to fidget, so to maintain composure, he picked up the espresso demitasse in front of him, and, sipping it, wondered where it came from because he sure as hell didn’t remember ordering it, or even seeing a waiter, for that matter.
Amy’s monologue went on, piercing his ears and boiling his blood, but he considered the alternative to the current chatter and quickly regained his appreciation for Amy’s presence and verbal energy level. She filled the potential silence, which was why they’d brought her along after all. And he full-well knew it wasn’t her, but rather the topic of her prattle, that was killing him.
Beyond the ultra annoying details echoing in his ears, something else nagged at Zack. Bennet’s return phone call to Amy—the next day, huh? The very. Next. Day.
*
His mother had gotten the harsh brush-off by Deninger for inviting Bennet to Darren’s graduation. Bennet hadn’t wanted to be contacted then, so why now had he been so damn easy to reach? What was this self-motivated shell of a man after?
“So, Bennet, how’s Sabrina?” Zack blurted out, not even sure if he had cut Amy off. Thankfully, he hadn’t. She was mid-bite into her salad, which had appeared out of thin air also. Had the waiter taken their food orders, too?
“Well, Son, I mean, Zack,” Bennet corrected. “We, Sabrina and I, haven’t been together for many years now. Many, many years,” the man said in a hollow, solemn tone. God, the man’s voice was so different than Zack remembered it. Thick and raspy, from too many cigarettes maybe? Or liquor?
“Sorry…to hear that?” Darren said, who then looked to Zack.
Darren had explained to Zack during their late night talk that he
was willing to forgive their father, but it didn’t mean it would be easy. Nor would he ever forget. Darren was hurt too. His brother was of course enraged that their own father had left them to start a new family, a replacement family. Bennet James’ first family, Darren assumed, must not have been up to snuff when it came to his father’s lifestyle. Keeping in line with the whole travelling circus metaphor from their phone call weeks ago, they were small town while Sabrina had offered the man Paris.
“To tell you the truth, boys,” Bennet’s voice cracked, “I’ve lost a lot over the years.”
You mean you threw away a lot over the years, you fucker… And here it comes.
Was Bennet dying and needed a fucking organ? Was he accused of a crime and needed quick cover? Or was he a gambler, a substance abuser?
Did it really matter?
No, it did not. Because Zack could still put the puzzle pieces together without knowing the man’s vice or vices.
The man was penniless and was back for funding!
Amy Rine of Beverly Hills, daughter of Daniel Rine, the shipbuilding tycoon.
Yeah, once a self-centered prick, always…
*
Zack’s thoughts tore through his skull while he fumed and shook, suffocating.
“When the stock market collapsed and my REIT funds were in over-leveraged hotel and apartment holdings… I lost everything.”
Bullshit. I bought everything. For way over market value.
How had the man blown through all that gain?
And again, what did that matter? The man was here. At his brother’s wedding. For goddamn money!
“Then Sabrina left and took the kids with her. She had been stashing away my hard earned—”
“Stop,” Zack demanded. He hated that he was right. “Just stop.” Clearing his throat, he shifted his attention to Amy and Darren, then Amy solely. “Amy, I apologize. This is up to you…and Darren of course, but if you want to spare yourself unnecessary stress, given that your wedding day is tomorrow, I would recommend you take the limo back to the hotel now and just relax with your friends.”