by J. R. Ward
After he’d shut the cell down, Alex went straight for the scotch bottle and poured himself a tall one. He was halfway through it when he picked up his phone and called Spike.
“Hey, man, what’s doing?” the guy said.
“I need a favor.”
“Anything.”
“Could you come by tomorrow morning early? Cassandra left her cell phone and her clipboard at the site. She’s leaving to go back to the city and she’ll want to take them with her.”
“No problem. But why can’t she just pick them up herself on the way out of town?”
“She’s not going to want to be here for a little while.” Alex took a long drink. The scotch burned its way down to his gut.
“Why?”
“You ever done something you wished you could undo?”
Spike laughed softly. “You better believe it.”
“Well, she’s done something she wishes she hadn’t, you know what I mean? I want to make it easy for her.”
There was a long pause. “So it’s like that, is it?”
Alex finished the glass. “Yeah. And then some.”
Spike let out a long exhale. “I’ll see you bright and early in the a.m.”
“Thanks.”
Alex put the glass down and eyed the bed. He stripped naked, letting his clothes fall where they chose to, and threw back the sheets and blankets. As he stretched out, he could smell her scent on his pillow.
Chapter Ten
On New Year’s Eve, Cass hit the directional signal and eased the Range Rover off the Northway and onto the Saranac Lake exit. Her time away from White Caps had gone by fast, but it had done her some good. When she’d left before Christmas, she’d been raw. Now she was just bruised.
“So, Cass, tomorrow’s your birthday, isn’t it?” Sean said, glancing across the seats. “New Year’s Day.”
Sean had proved to be a godsend over the holidays. He’d insisted she come to his place for all of Christmas day. His brother, Billy, had been there as well, visiting from their hometown of Boston, and the three of them had had a great time. Billy was a linebacker for the New England Patriots, and considering his size, he no doubt lived up to his nickname of Boneyard on the field. But around her he’d been a total gentleman.
And so had Sean.
“Cass?”
She smiled. “Yes, I’ll be thirty-one tomorrow.”
As they passed by the stone pillars that marked the White Caps driveway, her eyes lingered on them.
Sean cleared his throat. “Why won’t you tell me what happened that night you called me?”
“Oh, it was nothing. I was just a little emotional.”
“Over Moorehouse.”
“Sean—”
“I talked to him.”
Cass’s head whipped around so fast the car wobbled in their lane. “Alex?”
“None other. I called you on your cell first. Eventually he answered it.”
“What did he say?”
“Not much. But his tone of voice had been exactly like yours.”
Yeah, well, regret sounded the same, no matter whose mouth it was coming out of.
“Sean, I’m telling you, everything is fine.”
There was a pause. And then he said, “You and I are getting close. Right?”
She smiled. “You’re a good friend.”
“Damn straight. And I’d like to be more, except I know you don’t feel that way about me.”
“Oh, Sean—”
“Nah, don’t apologize for it. It’s better this way. I’ve got plenty of lovers, but I’ve never actually had a girlfriend before. Anyway, my point is, don’t lie to me. You shouldn’t have to, and frankly I take it as an insult.”
“Honestly, there’s nothing going on.”
Sean let out a disgusted noise, but he let the fib stand.
Cass pulled into Gray’s driveway. There were ten or so cars parked around the gravel circle and she was forced to take a spot right in front of the door. Lights glowed in the mansion’s diamond paned windows, and she could see people moving inside. She wondered which of the shadows was Alex’s.
She really didn’t feel up to the house party. Or being under the same roof with him again.
She turned off the engine and glanced at Sean. His hazel eyes were shrewd but warm. And that stare of his was seeing all the things she’d tried to hide behind makeup and haute couture.
“Cass, you should stay away from Moorehouse. That ‘nothing’ with him is killing you.”
Sean really didn’t miss much, did he?
And he truly was handsome, she thought, in a tough kind of way. Sure, his clothes were civilized; the black suit and the icy-white button-down and the red tie were very Wall Street/old school banker. But with his midnight hair and his hard jaw, his wide shoulders and long legs, Sean O’Banyon was all hot-blooded man underneath the gloss.
She took a deep breath.
He smelled good, too. Expensive cologne.
He was also uncomplicated. With him there was no baggage. No awkwardness. No on-the-ledge, about-to-falloff feeling.
“Why can’t I be attracted to you?” she wondered aloud.
His eyes flared. “Well…you could give me a try. You know, find out.”
Cass focused on his lips. They were beautifully made and a perfect deep pink color. As they parted a little, she caught the bright flash of his front teeth.
“If you want to kiss me,” he said quietly, “I’m more than ready for it.”
Lord help her, she leaned into him, tilted her head to the side and pressed her mouth to his.
She felt the rush of his breath going in fast, heard the hissing sound as it shot into his lungs. His body went rigid and shifted, as if he’d pushed his arms into the leather seat. She stroked his mouth a few times for good measure, trying to feel something, anything.
But it was pleasant. Nothing more.
Not what it had been like with Alex.
Cass pulled back.
Oh, what did she know? Alex had never actually put his mouth on hers.
Sean cleared his throat. “You really know how to kiss, woman. I can’t feel my toes.”
She laughed, appreciating his attempt to lighten things up. But when she looked at him, his stare was dead serious.
“You make me wish I were the man you really wanted.” He opened the car door. “Moorehouse is a fool.”
* * *
Alex stared out of the window in the living room, watching Cassandra kiss O’Banyon. The man was totally turned on; it was obvious in the way his eyes were shut and his body braced.
Alex glanced down at the floor, expecting to find his internal organs on it.
“Here’s your drink, Moorehouse,” Gray said. “What are you staring at—hey! Cass and SOB are here. Excellent.”
Bennett took off for the front door.
Alex tossed the scotch back. Then tortured himself by looking toward the foyer and waiting for the happy couple to come inside.
It seemed appropriate that a chilling breeze followed them into the house.
Oh, terrific, the guy was carrying her. And not in a big hurry to put her down as their hosts came up to greet them.
There was a swell of laughter as Cass pointed to her high heels and Sean lowered her to the floor. Tonight, she was dressed in full Manhattan socialite armor: a sleek black pantsuit with ropes of big pearls linked around her neck. At her side O’Banyon was looking a little flushed, no doubt from what had happened back in the car, not the over-the-threshold routine. His big smile was grating as hell.
As more people stepped forward to say hello to the new arrivals, Alex stayed back, wishing he could leave. Spike was into the party, though, talking with a knot of women in the corner. And the guy’s car was a stick.
Cassandra was laughing when she turned and saw him.
Her smile faltered, and the red splash that hit her cheeks was clearly shame, not delight, because it was backed up by a wince. She looked away quickly, not acknowledg
ing him, but O’Banyon caught the exchange. He pegged Alex with a pair of hazels that read BACK OFF loud and clear. Then the man stepped in close and fit his arm around her waist.
Alex could understand the reaction. If Cassandra were his woman, he’d send the same message to any man who eyed her.
A meaty hand clapped on his shoulder, and Spike spoke right in his ear. “Do yourself a favor tonight, my man. Be careful with O’Banyon. This situation’s got jaws of life written all over it.”
Alex nodded. “I agree with you completely.”
* * *
An hour later Cass was in total party numb. Too many people, too much noise, too little air.
Making an excuse to Jack Walker, the new governor of Massachusetts, she snuck out of the living room. She was surprised at the number of guests and partially grateful. The more bodies in the house, the harder it was to concentrate on Alex.
Well, not really.
She found herself always watching him out of the corner of her eye, seeing who he talked to and how he acted. He didn’t seem any more interested in the party than she was. The only time he smiled was when Spike shot him a couple of words and a dry grin. Otherwise, Alex was a tall, silent presence that commanded people’s attention even though he rarely opened his mouth.
Predictably, the women were captivated by him. They came up to him all the time, smiling, getting in tight, touching his arm, his shoulder. He barely noticed. He looked over their heads or through them, even when they got really persistent.
Unlike Spike he clearly wasn’t taking any of the lovelies home tonight.
It was so different from the way Reese had behaved. Even when she’d been with her husband at a party, Reese had engaged in social sex. He’d been a toucher, a looker, a flirter, walking the line between sensuous and sleazy perfectly. Women had adored him and he’d adored them right back.
Alex, on the other hand, was choosy about who he shared himself with.
Cass grimaced, thinking of how he’d withdrawn from her body. Yes, he was definitely choosy.
Pushing her hair back, she uttered a vicious little word. She hadn’t been able to forget their brief time on his bed and not just because of her embarrassment. The preoccupation struck her as unfair. How could it be so right on one side and so wrong for the other person?
And why had he been so aroused in the first place? Men couldn’t lie about that.
Maybe she just looked like his Miracle.
Oh, there was a lovely thought.
Cass walked down the hall and went through a closed door into a library. Like the rest of Gray’s house, the room was done up with antiques and damask drapes and Oriental rugs. But that wasn’t what recommended the space to her. Quiet was its main attraction.
Across the way there were a bank of windows that faced the water. She went over to them and took in the winter landscape. Snow covered the rolling lawn, a blanket that glowed blue in the moonlight. Farther down, the vast, frozen expanse of the lake stretched out between its cradle of mountains, flat as could be.
Voices broke her solitude as two women walked in, one blond, the other with sable-colored hair. Both were dressed in Soho black: close-cut, dark clothes made by obscure designers. If memory served, the blonde was an editor for Vanity Fair and her friend worked at Town & Country. Or maybe it was the other way around.
“I can’t believe Alex Moorehouse is here,” the blonde said. “I would love to do a story on him. Tragic champion and all that.”
“I like his friend. Did you see those tattoos on his neck? I wonder how far down they go.”
“Allison, your last four boyfriends had roman numerals after their last names. That guy doesn’t even have a surname. Spike? I mean, really.”
“Did you see his eyes? They’re yellow.”
“I was too busy staring at Moorehouse. I wonder what it would take to open him up. Maybe he needs a ride home.”
The two of them noticed her.
“Do you know if there is a bathroom around here?” the one named Allison asked.
Cass nodded to a door in the corner. “I think it’s through there.”
“You first,” the blonde said to Allison. Then she turned and smiled at Cass. “My name’s Erica Winsted, we met at the Hall Foundation Gala last year, remember? You know, I was sorry to hear about your husband.”
“Thank you.”
Erica did a little pirouette. “What a fabulous party this is. When Allison suggested we fly up, I thought she was crazy. But the people here? First-rate.”
Chatty was about the last thing Cass felt up to. “If you’ll excuse me—”
“Say, you wouldn’t be willing to introduce me to Alex Moorehouse, would you? I’m dying to get to him. And he was your husband’s partner, right?”
Cass just stared at the woman. Reporters really were awful, she thought.
Erica smiled. “I mean, you know him, right?”
“No, not at all.”
The woman frowned as Cass walked out.
By a stroke of dumb luck, the stairs were right there and Cass used them with relief, heading up away from the party. She wasn’t a coward to run to her room, she just needed a little space.
At least until the urge to lob a crepe at that reporter faded.
On the top landing there was a bench, and she sat on it, taking a deep breath. The party noise was dimmed only slightly, but it was enough to take the edge off and she found she liked watching the people funnel through the hall down below.
Until she heard, “Alex! Alex Moorehouse.”
Alex came into view, and she caught the darkening of his expression.
The blond reporter came up to him and stuck her hand out. “Hi! I’m Erica Winsted. I’m such a huge fan of yours. All those races. I watch them religiously.”
Alex looked at the woman from his height advantage. When he stayed silent, Erica plowed ahead.
“Listen, I would love to interview you.”
“I’m sorry,” he said, “what was your name?”
“Winsted. Erica Winsted. I write for—”
“Erica, I don’t do interviews. Not now, not ever.”
“Couldn’t you make an exception for me?” She sidled up to him, moving her body closer to his.
Cass stiffened, imaging how Reese would have welcomed that kind of attention with a charming joke and an arm slipped around the woman’s waist.
Alex stepped back pointedly. “Not for you. Sorry.”
“Are you sure?”
God, you could practically hear the woman’s eyelashes bat, Cass thought.
“Excuse me,” Alex murmured, turning away.
“When are you going back to the boats?” Erica said. “When’s your next race?”
Alex looked over his shoulder. “That’s none of your business.”
Cass frowned as he disappeared from sight.
She’d never thought about him going back. But of course he would. His leg was healing, and sailing was his profession.
The idea left her cold, even as she told herself it was none of her concern.
But, dear Lord, that hungry, scary ocean. That vast graveyard for sailors.
“Hey, beautiful. What’s doing?”
She glanced down. Sean was at the foot of the stairs, leaning on the banister. He held out his hand. “Let me get you some dessert and coffee. Fireworks are going off at midnight and we don’t want you to miss them on your birthday. Especially if Gray manages to toss the lit punk into the roman candle box. Like he did last year.”
Cass smiled and went to him. As her palm slid into his, she said, “Sean, you’re a nice guy, you know that?”
“Shh. Keep it to yourself. Nice guys get eaten alive on Wall Street.”
Chapter Eleven
Sean O’Banyon liked to believe he had a talent for accurately assessing people. Aggressive men such as himself in particular.
So as he eyed Moorehouse from across the dining room, he knew the two of them were going to go at it tonight. Ever since he�
�d walked into the mansion with Cass, he and that hard-eyed athlete had been circling each other like a couple of wolves.
Cass stepped in front of him, pressing a coffee cup into his hand. “Sean?”
He smiled down at her. “What?”
“What’s going on?”
“Nothing.”
“Then why do you look like you want to wipe the floor with someone?”
He bent down and kissed her on the cheek. “Nothing for you to worry about.”
She gave him a level look. “I’m going to go find Joy, okay? Try and stay out of trouble.”
The moment she left, he pegged Moorehouse with a hard look that was returned pound for pound.
Time to get this over with, he thought, putting the coffee down.
Moorehouse must have come to the same conclusion because the guy started heading around the table from the other side. They met head-to-head in front of the dessert tray. Just as someone called out that the fireworks were about to go off down at the shore.
“You got a problem there, Moorehouse?” Sean asked as the room cleared.
“No more than you do.” Moorehouse’s sizable shoulders moved back, his unblinking eyes steady as a cobra’s.
Man, he was a big one, Sean thought with satisfaction. This was going to be fun.
“You know,” Sean said, “Cass left here a week ago feeling like hell. But as soon as she was back in Manhattan her mood improved. I wonder why?”
“None of my business.”
Sean laughed and slipped the buttons on his suit jacket free.
“Well, wouldn’t you know. You and I agree on something.” He tapped his temple with his forefinger. “But see, this is where I get confused. You’ve been staring at me all night like maybe you and I have something going. Except considering that Cass is not your woman, I can’t figure out why you’re bothering. Unless you like the color of my eyes or something.”
“I don’t like much about you.”
“Why’s that?”
“You know your reputation as well as I do.”
“Ah. Don’t approve of my working-class background, do you?”
“How many lovers have you got going right now, O’Banyon? In addition to her, I mean?”