Not Another New Year's

by Christie Ridgway

  "Spa day?"

  "Mmm." Desirée picked a strawberry from the bowl and held it out by its green stem. With its plump size and ruby red perfection, it looked more like Eden's apple. "You know. We'll get massages. Have them slather something gooey and sweet-smelling all over our skin so it glows."

  Hannah figured she was already glowing. The look of the strawberry, the sound of the words— slathering, sweet, gooey—sent her mind reeling back to the night before. Tanner's mouth, his touch, had burned away that cool blue starch from her veins, and all that was running inside of her now was hot and vital and alive.

  "What's Tanner doing today?"

  She had to clear her throat. "He's working with Troy in the bar all day, he said. Inventory?"

  Desirée smiled, then dropped the luscious fruit to her plate in order to rub her palms together.

  "Then come with me, my pretty, and we'll have the masseuse melt the very marrow in your bones."

  As long as they wouldn't remove her spine, Hannah thought. If she gave in to Desirée and her yearning not to do anything today but dream about last night, she'd be needing it to face down Caroline tomorrow.

  FROM THE DESK OF HANNAH DAVIS

  Things I Hate About New Year's:

  Brother already reminiscing about his frat's infamous "Burp or Barf" Super Bowl party.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Desirée arrived for her shift at Hart's smelling of lemongrass and tea tree oil. Unlike the night before, Troy strode toward her as she opened the door, as if he'd been anticipating her arrival.

  Instead of feeling weird or annoyed or standoffish after the kiss as she'd feared he would, seeing him hurrying in her direction told her maybe, just maybe, she'd been wrong. Maybe he'd liked the lip-to-lip too. Maybe he liked her.

  She smiled as he came closer, trying to look as if she'd just thrown on the tight white T-shirt, teensy burnt-orange denim skirt, and a pair of wildly embroidered stilettos. The bar was already pumping, it was a special microbrewery night, and the scent of chili and fries wafted from the small kitchen. At the moment, the music was twangy and country and, as usual, loud. Troy stopped in front of her and she rose on tiptoe to check out his ears. Yep. There were those telltale neon plugs.

  Her grin made him frown. "What?"

  "I can't explain it exactly," she said. "I guess you seem less Terminator and more human to me knowing you have a weakness such as disliking loud music."

  "I don't have any weaknesses," he refuted, crossing his arms over his chest.

  Desirée rolled her eyes. "Oh, please—"

  "And I also don't have time to argue with you about it." He shoved one hand in the front pocket of his jeans and withdrew a set of keys. "I need you to go pick something up at my house."

  "Oh?" Pleasure swirled inside of her. Not only might he like her, but he trusted her. You didn't give just anybody access to your home.

  He looked around the packed floor, gesturing toward Tanner behind the bar and the cocktail servers moving between the tables. "Yeah. Everyone else is too busy."

  The pleasure swirled right down the drain. "Right." She wasn't so much trustworthy as she was expendable. Grabbing the keys out of his hand, she matched her tone to his businesslike one. "What am I retrieving?"

  "A clipboard with my order sheets. I can't remember exactly where I left it, though. Maybe on the chest of drawers in the bedroom. Maybe on the table in the living room."

  Groovy. Permission to snoop. "I'll find it."

  She spun on the sharp toes of her high heels, then felt a long finger slide inside one of the back pockets of her skirt. It jerked her back. His knees bumped the back of her thighs and she could feel his solid chest against her shoulder blades.

  "About last night..." he said, his voice low.

  His breath brushed across her left ear and she could have sworn goose bumps raced inside, tickling the sensitive skin. Her heart expanded in a big whoosh, squeezing out the air in her lungs. "About last night?" Her voice sounded a tiny bit squeaky, but who could blame her? "About last night" made her think about last night. About Troy's possessive arm around her. About the way his mouth had landed on hers, hard, and then the strong thrust of his tongue.

  Hard and strong, that was the entire kiss. That was Troy himself.

  He cleared his throat. "Listen, Desirée. I don't want you to think..."

  At his second hesitation, she glanced up and over her shoulder. His face was hard too, intently expressionless, if that made any sense.

  It did to her. It was sending a message, and okay, she got it. This was more than hard and strong. This was Troy as the Terminator again, pure robot, and not a man who wanted her rehashing their kiss. It didn't mean a thing to him.

  Yeah, she got it. Loud and clear.

  "Are you trying to say you don't want me to think I'll miss out on any tips while I'm gone?" She tossed her hair over her shoulder and hoped the ends slapped him right across his cold but handsome face. "Just remember to stuff what you owe me into my jar."

  "Oh, you're going to get what I owe you all right."

  Now that sounded more promising. As she broke away from his finger hold and moved toward the door, she threw him another glance. Same expressionless expression. Geez. What did a woman have to do around here to feel the love?

  "And Dez," he growled—yes, growled, there was no other way to describe it. "Don't take all day."

  She put a sassy swing in her walk and an Austrian accent in her voice. "I'll be back."

  Her usual style of driving got her to his place in minutes. She noted he hadn't bothered giving her the address or directions. Her stomach twisted. Had he caught her cruising his place before, driving by like a teenager crushing on a boy?

  Troy lived in a small, beachy-looking bungalow, similar to the one that Tanner owned a few blocks away. Next door there was a yellow, top-heavy two-story resembling a dumb blonde with a double D-cup boob job. The house on the other side made Desirée pause. She hadn't noticed it the times she'd driven this street, probably because she did her looky-looing in the wee dark hours of the night. Now Troy's neighbor's place was well-lit, from the lamp post at the sidewalk, to the front porch fixtures, to the mullioned windows.

  That home was two stories as well, but looked as if it had started life out that way. It was painted a pale blue with white trim, with a tub of flowers on the brick porch and a flag flying from a brass pole, and the whole picture was so welcoming that she wanted to step inside the Dutch front door and take a place at their dining room table.

  Mom and Dad would be seated there, she imagined, with the kids crowded around. There'd be roast for dinner—or roast chicken, heck, this place looked as if it was Thanksgiving every day, so maybe even roast turkey. Of course there'd be all the trimmings.

  The important ones. Laughter. Love.

  There wouldn't be a corner left free for loneliness.

  For the rest of your life you'd be able to count on the support and care of the ones who lived inside.

  Smiling at her fancies, Desirée parked in front of the pretty place, then walked past to go up the walkway of Troy's house. She quickly let herself inside.

  Her first inhalation of Troy air was slow. She figured her customary disregard of the posted speed limits had bought her some extra time, even though she was under orders not to linger.

  Troy's house smelled...good.

  She didn't know what she'd expected. Sweat socks? Motor oil? Moldy beach towels?

  It was like none of those. His house smelled like...like sage or rosemary or basil or something. She didn't cook, so she couldn't quite pinpoint which herb or herbs she was sniffing, but it was a clean, green scent.

  The house was clean and green too. Pale celery-colored walls, a darker green trim, natural fiber carpet covering bare wood floors. Plain, Shaker-style furniture. Wow. Given the chance, she would have predicted shag carpeting and a Bow-Flex serving as both sculpture and clothes hanger.

  Instead the living room was in those quiet colors,
and making it even more quiet, there was no television or stereo in sight. The adjoining small dining area held a simple table. A framed scroll covered with Chinese characters hung on the wall.

  A nearby switch plate allowed her to light up more of the house. It illuminated the overhead fixture in the dining room and pointed the way to the kitchen. Desirée made it there in seven steps, and again noticed how clean it looked and smelled. White tile sans pizza boxes and crushed beer cans.

  Across the kitchen there was another doorway, leading out past the refrigerator to a short hallway. From there, a quick left revealed a bathroom that appeared unused. To the right, an office with phone, computer, fax. In the free floor space stretched a black yoga mat. Hmm.

  She kept going, and located a nice-size master bedroom suite. Big bed.

  Troy's bed.

  It was covered by a pristine comforter that was crisply spread like icing over a king-size petit four. Enlarged photographs were framed and hung in an interesting pattern on the wall. Most of them appeared to be of family—black-and-whites of kids living the surreal life—well, surreal to her eyes, since there was always an adult participating in the shot.

  Mother leaning over to help blow out birthday candles.

  Dad's arm curled around a little boy's waist as he sat on a pony.

  The scattered results of a messy sled overturn, with a passel of kids laughing as hard as the parents pictured in the shot.

  Surreal.

  There were families who really had a life like that?

  The darkened door of the attached bath beckoned. Bad, Desirée, bad! She didn't listen to the half-scolding voice, though she did accommodate her guilty conscience by tiptoeing into the room, her feet clicking with subdued taps on the tiled floor.

  Troy's soapy spice-and-lime scent lingered in this room. Neatly hung on a rack was a towel, still damp, and she ran her fingertips over it, then drew them along her cheek. Inside the shower was a squat bottle of liquid soap. No shampoo.

  Hah. Shaved heads didn't need such a thing.

  There was toilet paper in the holder. She was impressed. A roommate she'd had in college claimed that men never bothered replacing a used roll. "They just prop it on the spool, or maybe set it on the ledge of the bathtub, or on the tank behind the toilet. What—are they animals?"

  Surprise, surprise, the Terminator was at least semi-tamed.

  Without a qualm, she opened the medicine cabinet. Regular first aid stuff. Boring.

  The cabinet under the sink had lots of shaving cream—made sense—and a big box of condoms.

  Desirée stared at them. Where did he buy such a big box? Why did he need such a big box? It was open.

  Before she could stop herself, she'd yanked it out and set it on the tile counter. At purchase, it held forty-four. It would be her secret until the day she died, but she counted how many remained.

  Twice.

  Six were missing. She began picturing humiliating moments for half a dozen faceless women. Stuff like wearing two different colored shoes, a skirt tucked into panty hose, a toilet paper streamer stuck to a heel. She was still trying to come up with three more scenarios when she heard a noise.

  From the front of the house. Someone turning the doorknob.

  Desirée froze. Had she locked it behind her? Who could it be?

  Probably Troy, she thought, come to check up on her. As silent as a ghost, she placed the condoms back in the cabinet and shut the door. Now he wouldn't know what she'd done.

  But he'd known she'd come to his house, so why hadn't he called out her name?

  Prickles of warning shot up her spine. In a flash of alarm, she remembered the call she'd received from her father's assistant, Ameer, just a week before.

  The royal family had heard a rumor implying that the assassination attempt on her father hadn't been the act of one random crazy, disgruntled at some imagined maltreatment. The gunman killed by the Secret Service almost a year ago had perhaps been part of an organized group, one with the possible intent of revenge that went beyond the prince. If she had any security concerns, Ameer had said, she should contact the local authorities.

  Imply. Perhaps. Possible.

  Desirée had dismissed the idea altogether. Her father and the rest of the royal family never bothered to pay attention to her. Why would anyone else?

  But now...now...

  The front door squealed as it opened wider. Two sets of footsteps marched in. They weren't stealthy steps, so maybe she shouldn't be afraid.

  Or maybe the intruders weren't afraid of her—a lone woman without anyone to give a hoot what happened to her.

  Still, she couldn't stay trapped in the bathroom like flaked tuna in a can. Hoping no one could detect the knocking sound of her heart in her chest, she bent to slip off her shoes. Carrying them in one hand—the ice-pick heels might come in handy as a weapon—she slinked out of the bathroom and into Troy's bedroom.

  Wouldn't you know, he didn't have a phone beside his bed like a normal person.

  Okay, her cell phone. Where was her cell phone?

  In her purse, which she'd left in her car because this was just a quick errand that she'd made longer due to snoopiness.

  She drew closer to the bedroom door, straining to hear what was going on at the front of the house. The intruders were talking to each other. They weren't trying to quiet their voices. They were a man and a woman, and they were talking about...

  The merits of tricycles over bicycles with training wheels?

  Desirée's heart settled into a more normal rhythm. She almost thought it was safe to breathe.

  Unwilling to completely abandon her wariness, however, she crept down the hallway, pressing close to the wall so her shoulder brushed more framed photos.

  Just a couple more feet and—

  A man's meaty hand appeared through the kitchen doorway to grab her arm.

  She shrieked, jerking away to smack against one of the frames. It fell to the floor, the glass shattering.

  "Hank!" A woman gasped from around the corner. "What is it?"

  The big hand on her let go, and she knocked against the wall again, this time her sleeve catching on the protruding picture hanger. When she straightened, the sleeve pulled, ripping at the seam.

  Desirée looked at the long tear, then looked up, her gaze catching the surprised ones of two strangers.

  Strangers, except she had a stomach-shrinking idea she knew exactly who they were.

  Sometimes she hated being right. The man and woman who had slipped into Troy's house were none other than his mother and father. They apologized for frightening her when she produced his keys and explained that, as one of Troy's employees, she had been sent to his house on an errand.

  "I'm Ann, and this is Hank, Troy's father," the pretty, fifty-something woman said. Her hair was a wavy mix of gray and blond and her tan told of year-round outdoor activities. Golf, Desirée guessed, or maybe tennis.

  "I hope I didn't hurt you," Hank said, shaking his head. He was a big, burly man with a silver brush cut and a commanding voice. "I never expected to find a woman at Troy's."

  "Oh?" So then where had he used those six condoms, pray tell?

  His mother was back to unloading the bags of groceries sitting on the kitchen countertop they'd been in the process of delivering when they startled Desirée. "Now, Hank, don't be giving the wrong idea to..." She paused and threw an innocent glance over her shoulder. "What did you say your name was?"

  Desirée grimaced. There was no getting out of this one. "I'm guessing you already know who I am, Mrs. Hart. Your son Tanner and I have shared a lot of screen and print space over the last year."

  Her bare toes curled into the cool tile beneath her feet. "You...you and Mr. Hart have my profound apology for the publicity and all the trouble it's caused you and your family." Desirée braced, prepared for the well-deserved blast.

  Ann Hart turned around, a carton of eggs in her hand. "Oh, Desirée." Her voice and eyes were soft. "I'll accept, of course,
but Hank and I also accept that what happened to the two of you wasn't your fault."

  "That's nice of you to say, but—"

  "Tanner doesn't blame you either, not really." Ann opened the refrigerator and slid the carton inside.

  "Troy does," Desirée said.

  Hank pulled a plastic package from another bag. "What does he know?" he boomed out. "The boy eats tofu. What's wrong with steak, I want to know? Or a nice bucket of the Colonel's Extra Crispy? Hell's bells, ladies, what's wrong with the other white meat?"

  Shaking her head, Ann took the package from her husband and then turned back to the refrigerator. "Hank, I don't think we should be talking about—"

  "You're the one who told me not to be ashamed of the way he eats! So I don't think it's unmanly anymore. I tell myself he's going to live to be a hundred or at least long enough to take care of my aging, meat-fed carcass when you up and leave me for one of those pretty-boy tennis instructors you're always eyeing."

  Ann sent a conspiratorial look in Desirée's direction. "Don't believe a word he says," she stage-whispered. "It's the studly golf pros I'm really after."

  Desirée grinned, watching as they put groceries away, teasing and play-grousing the entire time.

  The couple had something real here, she could see that. It was in the way they managed to move around each other without colliding in the small room, even though the limited space made Hank Hart look like the proverbial bull in a china shop. It was in the pat of a wide palm against his wife's hip as he opened a narrow pantry door and in the way she handed over a piece of paper towel before he could even ask after he washed his hands.

  It was a love as palpable as...as the animosity she could feel radiating off Troy despite their one, incendiary kiss.

  Speaking of Troy...

  Desirée started, remembering she'd been sent here to do a job. "I really should be getting back to the bar."

  Ann Hart threw the paper towel she'd been using to dry her own hands in the garbage can beneath the sink. "A clipboard, you said? I think I saw it—" She broke off, her gaze snagging on Desirée's arm. "You ripped your pretty top."