"Okay. How about whoever gets there first starts a pot of coffee?"
"Deal." He tipped her chin for a quick kiss, then headed down the hall.
Patricia watched him. He moved like a man comfortable in his own skin, a fluid male animal, big but athletically graceful. She damned the other women who had sampled that gorgeous body, then entered her bathroom and jerked a towel from the linen closet.
The water invigorated, washed away the jealousy, the snips of hurt and anger threatening to ruin the day. She needed this quiet time, this moment to reflect. And Jesse had sensed it. Rather than tease her about doubling up in the shower, he'd respected her privacy, her morning routine.
Of course, he probably had a morning routine, too. He was a single man, used to going his own way. Freshly scrubbed and meeting in the kitchen for breakfast seemed to suit them both. Patricia smiled and lathered her hair. Maybe next time they would shower together. She stepped under the spray of water and let it sluice down her body. And maybe next time she would redeem that rain check. Drive Jesse Hawk crazy with her hands.
Her mouth.
She stumbled, then laughed. Good heavens. She was fantasizing. Alone. In the shower. A thirty-year-old woman suddenly alive with the afterglow of incredible sex.
Patricia towel dried her hair and studied her reflection. She looked different. Reborn. Sensual. She sprayed her favorite perfume, stepped into the cooling mist, then slipped on a pair of lace panties and matching bra—provocative lingerie for Jesse to peel away later.
Now what? A cotton dress? A satin slip? No, she thought. A floral silk robe, slim-fitting but not overly sexy, a garment that zipped rather than tied. If he wanted her again, he'd have to uncover her inch by willing inch.
Patricia passed the guest bathroom. The door was closed. She smiled and proceeded down the stairs. Looked as though she would be the one making coffee.
She entered the kitchen, then stopped dead in her tracks.
"Well, good morning, sunshine."
Panic rose in her throat, restricting her next breath. Her father sat at her kitchen table, a pot of coffee brewing behind him, his demeanor relaxed.
She reached for the front zipper on her robe, her hand shaky. How could this be happening? How? Her father had an emergency key to her house, but he didn't look caught up in an emergency. She could see that he'd brought a box of pastries with him. Her kitchen smelled like French-roasted coffee and cinnamon rolls, but at the moment, the aroma was anything but inviting.
She forced out a breath. "What are you doing here?"
He cocked his head. "Now is that any way to greet your dad? After all, you scheduled this meeting, remember?"
Meeting? She took a step forward, nearly tripped. No, that couldn't be. Couldn't.
"My goodness, Patricia, what's wrong with you?" He reached down and lifted a small file box. "Financial statements. We agreed to handle them here this morning instead of at the office on Monday."
"Oh, my God, Dad, I forgot." Any minute now, she thought, the room was going to spin. She couldn't see straight. Think straight. Her father sat at her table while Jesse showered in one of her bathrooms, and it was all her fault.
"No harm done. Just relax. I've got all day." He walked over to the counter and opened the pastry box. "When you didn't answer the door, I figured you must have overslept. I thought about calling on the cell phone, but decided to come in and start a pot of coffee instead." He held up a cinnamon roll oozing with glaze. "I brought Dillon his favorite treat. Where is the little rascal, anyway?"
"Dillon's at the river with the Harrisons." And her lover was upstairs, probably half-naked, shaving that sexy beard stubble. Her lover. The man her father despised. "Dad, I don't really think I'm up to working on the financial statements this morning. I—"
Patricia's lame excuse about not feeling well faltered. Her dad wasn't looking at her. He stared beyond her, his shoulders tense, his gaze stone cold.
She didn't have to turn to know Jesse stood behind her. Her father's expression said it all.
The air grew thick, the coffee-and-dessert aroma cloying. Patricia heard Jesse step further into the kitchen, felt his hand on her back. A light, possessive touch. A masculine claim.
Her father's expression turned harder, his gaze following Jesse's every move. Oh, God. What should she do? She didn't want to hostess this soul-piercing reunion. The past swirled around them like an evil poltergeist.
She exhaled a ragged breath and turned toward Jesse. "Last week I scheduled a meeting for this morning with my father, but I forgot."
Jesse gave a short nod without looking at her. He watched her father instead. And her father watched him. Both wary. Eyes filled with hate.
Jesse hadn't dressed, not completely. He wore jeans and nothing else, no shirt, no shoes. His hair, damp from the shower, had been combed straight back. His face, taut with anger, appeared stronger, sharper, more raw-boned. There would be no question in her father's mind that Jesse had spent the night. Jesse's appearance, and hers as well, announced this was "the morning after."
Coffee, her brain said inanely. Should she offer them coffee, ask them to sit? "Maybe we—"
Too late. Too slow. Too timid. Her father's voice canceled hers, his words slipping past a clenched jaw. "I see you're back, Mr. Hawk. Taking advantage of my daughter again."
Jesse rose to the challenge before Patricia could stop him. He removed his hand from her spine, then jerked his head as a stray lock of hair dared to cover his face. He strode closer to Raymond, his steps precise, calculated. Patricia feared he intended to count coup: circle the enemy, strike, gain honor in battle. When he stopped just short of physical contact, the air in her lungs whooshed out.
"Your daughter is a grown woman, Mr. Boyd," he said, emphasizing the title with bitterness. "And if she wants a relationship with me, you can't stop her. Not this time."
"When it concerns my daughter's welfare, I can do whatever the hell I please," the older man said sharply, his face coloring with rage.
Patricia couldn't find her voice, so she hugged herself for comfort, her gaze darting nervously between her father and her lover. As Jesse spoke, she glanced his way and realized she'd never seen him look so sinister. A muscle ticked in his cheek as a mocking smile curled one corner of his lips. His rage was cooler, more controlled. Taunting.
"Tricia knows her own mind," he said. "Her body, too."
Her dad fisted his hands, and Patricia's knees threatened to give way. "Why, you arrogant young pup. It's all about sex to you, isn't it?"
Jesse's seething control didn't falter. He had schooled himself well, Patricia thought, as she groped the counter for support. He stood tall, a warrior in his own right.
"Don't you dare judge me. Or my intentions. You don't know a thing about me. Not a damn thing."
"I know exactly who and what you are," Raymond retorted. "You used my daughter twelve years ago, took advantage of her innocence." He paused, exhaled a slow breath. "You told her that you loved her so she'd go to bed with you. That's the oldest male trick in the book, and you played it to perfection."
Another wave of dizziness swept over Patricia. She didn't want Jesse to answer. They had closed that door last night by agreeing to have an affair. No pretenses. No false promises. She didn't want to hear about the past, think about it.
"Well, let me tell you something, Boyd," Jesse said, his voice rough. "I was in love with Tricia all those years ago. What I felt for her had nothing to do with sex."
Stunned, Patricia steadied herself. How could he say that? How could he stand there and lie to make himself look noble? Cheat to win this vengeful war with her father?
Devastation rushed through her hard and quick. Just weeks ago he had stated the cold, humiliating facts. I wasn't really in love. We were only kids. Teenagers experimenting. I should have never asked you to live with me. What we had was nothing more than puppy love. A strong infatuation.
He hadn't come back for her. Hadn't loved her. Damn him for saying otherwise, f
or not being man enough to admit the truth to her father. Shamed by her naiveté, Patricia summoned the strength to square her shoulders. How could she have slept with him again? Sex would never be simple, not with Jesse. Their past would never go away.
Raymond shook his head. "You're a liar, Hawk."
Yes, she thought. He is.
"Dad, please." She turned to Jesse, her legs remarkably steady. "We need to talk. Privately."
* * *
Jesse and Tricia went into the den and closed the door while her father remained in the kitchen. That old bastard didn't even have the decency to leave, Jesse thought. Raymond Boyd parked his ass at the table as if he owned the joint. Jesse almost laughed, a sick, exhausted laugh. Hell, Boyd probably did own the place.
"I can't believe that happened." He slumped onto the sofa, his hands suddenly shaky. "How the hell did your dad get in, anyway?"
"He has a key."
Of course he did. Boyd owned the house, or that corporation of his probably did. How could Tricia stand to work for her father, live in one of his homes?
Jesse studied Tricia. She stood with her arms crossed, masking her emotions as usual. "Come on, honey," he coaxed, "sit down before you fall down. You don't have to act brave for me. That had to be awful for you."
She continued to stand. "Yes, it was."
He dragged a hand through his hair. "I'm sorry. It was just such a shock to see him there, and then when he—"
"I'm not going to sleep with you again, Jesse. That was a mistake."
His hand nearly caught in his hair. Suddenly he couldn't breathe. Couldn't move. "You're choosing your father over me? He disapproves, so you're telling me to go to hell?"
"Think what you want," she said, her voice cool. Typically aloof.
He pushed himself off the couch and strode toward her. Did she have any idea how difficult it had been for him to bare his soul? To admit that he had once loved her? He'd just defended her honor, but she didn't care. She hadn't changed a bit. Nothing mattered to Tricia but her father's money.
Their gazes locked, and a knot of revenge formed in his gut. It moved swiftly, painfully, coiling around his intestines like a snake. He felt it poison his thoughts, his next words. His heart.
"What the matter, little rich girl?" he asked with a deliberate sneer. "Are you afraid you'll lose your inheritance? Will Daddy take away all those millions if you continue to sleep with the enemy?"
Tricia's immediate response came in the form of a quick, hard slap. Jesse didn't flinch. Instead he stood dead still while her palm cracked across his cheek. He didn't feel it. Not even the slightest sting. The ache from their past had already crashed over him like a vicious tidal wave, dragging him under, spewing and splashing hurtful memories.
How many times had he sat alone and cried? Thrown books across his apartment because the words made no sense? Worried that he couldn't get through college without Tricia by his side? Felt stupid? Poor? Not good enough?
For years he had attended classes at a school owned by her father's fraternity brother, fearing at any given moment that the rug would be pulled out from under him. And all the while, Raymond Boyd was playing Grandpa to his son, stealing the child who was rightfully his.
Jesse turned away from Tricia and headed for the French door that led to the backyard. He needed fresh air. Trees. The sky. The world that wasn't owned by Boyd Enterprises.
The sun radiated warmth, so he lifted his face, let it wash over him. He felt the patio tiles beneath his feet and realized he wore no shoes. His boots, his shirt, even his wallet was still in Tricia's room. Something glinted near the door. He turned. A pair of Dillon's inline skates.
He moved toward them, knelt, then picked one up and spun the wheels. Damn, he missed his son.
"Jesse, what are you doing?"
Trying to breathe, he thought, glancing up at Tricia. Trying to survive another bout of emotional warfare. Anguish.
He stood, skate in hand. Tricia's skin glowed in the morning light, that flawless complexion never seeming to fail her. How could she look pretty to him now? After what she'd done? God help him, but that robe she wore only added to her femininity, reminding him of their recent lovemaking. The silky texture, smooth lines, seductive curves.
Jesse withheld a sarcastic laugh. Suddenly he felt used. Men weren't supposed to feel used after sex, but he did. What an idiot, letting himself care for her again.
The skate wheels quit spinning, intensifying the quiet. The ache. "You're not going to stop me from seeing Dillon," he said, fearing an upcoming battle for his parental rights. He didn't intend to be just a weekend dad. Eventually he wanted joint custody. He'd already begun turning his guest room into a bedroom for Dillon by adding shelves for the boy's models, a desk for homework.
Tricia pushed her hair away from her cheek, a chestnut sweep that never misbehaved. It had dried to perfection. "How can you say something like that to me? I would never use our son as a pawn." She crossed her arms, narrowed her eyes. "If I didn't want you to be Dillon's father, why would I have given him your last name?"
Good question, he supposed. He hadn't quite figured that one out yet. She'd kept Dillon a secret from him, but told the rest of the world that he had fathered the boy. It made no sense. Absolutely none.
"Fine. I'll make arrangements to see him later in the week. Alone. I don't want you there, Tricia."
"Well, you don't have a choice." She lifted her chin, apparently intent on looking him straight in the eye. "Dillon doesn't want to spend time alone with you. He's not ready yet. Good God, Jesse, he barely knows you."
His heart constricted, then bled, gushed with even more pain. Did his son consider him a nuisance? An obligation? He placed the skate back onto the ground next to its mate. "Okay. But we're going to have to be civil. At least pretend we like each other."
She sighed, and he noticed how tired she looked. How emotionally weary. "I know." She reached for the door handle. "Go inside and get your things. My father is still here, and we have work to do. I'll have Dillon call you when he gets back on Sunday."
"That's fine. If he wants to." Forcing Dillon into a relationship wouldn't work. Jesse remembered how aggressive his second foster parents had been, how they had expected him to accept them overnight, as if he was a robot rather than a kid.
Jesse went upstairs while Tricia headed for the kitchen. He knelt on her floor and gathered the contents of his wallet, jamming items inside hastily. Ignoring the unmade bed, he grabbed his shirt and shoved on his boots. The faint scent of jasmine still drifted through the air. He left the room without glancing back. Now the exotic fragrance was painful as hell.
* * *
She paced the kitchen like a nervous feline, caged, trapped within the past. No way out.
"Patricia, sweetheart. He's gone. Please sit down before you fall down."
Her head snapped up. She stared at her father. Sit down before you fall down. Jesse had said the same thing to her just minutes ago. Or was it hours? She'd lost all sense of time, reason.
She walked over to the file box beside the table and picked up a stack of the financial reports. "You're right. We have work to do."
He took them from her hands. Her dad sat at the table, a mug of coffee in front of him. "You're in no condition to work, young lady. Why don't you let me fix you some breakfast?"
Patricia shook her head. She and Jesse were going to make breakfast together, and then she was going to let him seduce her. Watch him peel off her robe, unzip the stupid thing one inch at a time. "I'm not hungry."
"A cup of tea, then?" Her dad dropped the reports back into the file box and got to his feet. "Chamomile, with two spoonfuls of honey. That's your favorite, isn't it?"
Patricia only stared. Chamomile reminded her of Jesse. "I haven't drunk that in years, Dad." Not since she'd accepted the fact that Jesse would never return for her. "I used to drink it because he told me that it soothed restlessness." She felt a flood of tears collect in her eyes. "So you see, whenever I
was restless for him, I'd…"
"Oh, Patricia." Her father placed the canister of tea bags onto the counter. "I'm sorry."
She wiped her eyes. "I'm being silly. Acting like I'm eighteen again."
He took her hand and guided her to the table. "I know it hurts, baby, but he's not worth it. He lied about loving you, you know that, don't you? He said that because I trapped him."
She glanced up at the ceiling, willing her eyes to remain dry. "I know. If it had been the truth, I wouldn't have told him to leave." She fingered the zipper on her robe. Love was a strange emotion. Confusing. Impossible to understand. Even though she wasn't in love with Jesse anymore, his betrayal still hurt.
Her dad squeezed her hand, making Patricia grateful for his presence. He was a hard man at times, stern and overly protective, but he loved her the way she loved Dillon. Parental love never went away. If anything, it grew with each passing day.
"You'll be okay," he said. "You're strong, Patricia. You'll weather this."
She studied her father's features, his aristocratic look. He resembled a politician, she thought, a distinguished man, subtle streaks of gray in his hair, a trim physique. She'd inherited his mannerism, his stubborn nature and take-charge attitude. Their wills clashed often. But not today. She wouldn't be defending Jesse Hawk today.
"Did you love my mom?" she asked, suddenly missing the arms of a mother. The comfort only another woman could offer.
He furrowed his brow, picked up his coffee. "Now what kind of question is that?"
An honest one, she thought. "You never talk about her, Dad."
"You know I'm not a talker. What good would it do? She's been gone a long time."
And he didn't love her, Patricia realized. Not as much as he should have. Not the way she had loved Jesse. Her mother hadn't been the love of her father's life.
He glanced up from the rim of his cup, and when he placed the coffee back onto the table, she could see that she'd unnerved him. His hand seemed unsteady.
"I cared for your mother deeply," he said.
Patricia nodded, unable to respond. He'd cared for her mother, but he'd loved someone else. A long time ago, she decided, before he'd married her mom. Did that woman die, too? Had everyone her father ever cared about died? Is that what made him so protective? She sighed, knowing it wouldn't pay to ask. He would never discuss his personal life with her, past or present. Raymond Boyd, the prestigious real estate tycoon, guarded his emotions like a treasure.
JESSE HAWK: BRAVE FATHER Page 11