I still couldn’t get over or accept my father hooking up with Cecilia. The evening I’d spotted them together as I left the office—my father seeing her into his car, and then her pulling him down and kissing him—finally cracked me, the betrayal deep. Cecilia was my mother’s BFF. A bare three fucking years had passed since Mom’s death, and he’d already moved on!
Anger had erupted like a volcano, and I’d smashed his Bentley. I didn’t bother coming back to finish my internship. I quit school and left my MBA major behind, and, adding to my old man’s fury, enrolled at the Music Conservatory. That it pissed him off was an added bonus, but right then, music was the only thing that kept me sane and from completely falling off the edge—my one link to the only person who mattered to me—my mother. Music had been her life.
The elevator dinged. I walked out and headed down the brightly lit passage. The older redhead working at the front desk glanced up, and her gaze drifted down my inked arms in a dismissive sweep.
A fake smile appeared. No doubt she would prefer that I not tarnish these sacred halls, either. “Good morning, Mr. Meade-Sinclair, I’ll let him know you’re here.”
I preferred she didn’t, but that meant speaking, and I wasn’t in the mood. Besides, no one got past her into his hallowed ground.
While she made the requisite call, I pushed the door open and walked into the office. Ignoring its only occupant seated at the huge, cherrywood desk, I crossed the marble floor, dropped my tote on one of the two leather chairs facing the desk, and sprawled in the other.
As usual, Leland Sinclair was impeccably dressed in a charcoal-gray designer suit and white shirt. Not a strand of his immaculate dark hair was out of place. It wouldn’t dare, or it’d risk being beaten into submission.
Cool, steel-gray eyes set in an equally cool face looked me over. In his early forties, my father was the invariable “ice man” of the banking world. Everyone knew the nickname his business cohorts gave him because he was a cold-hearted bastard.
“You’re back.”
Since it wasn’t a question, I didn’t respond. Instead, I stared out through the wall of windows into the bright morning. Doubtless, he probably regretted that I was still breathing after being in the wilds for so long. After all, I was responsible for the tragedy that had brought us to this point. Made him hate me—yeah, whatever.
Two minutes tops, and I was outta here. I wouldn’t have to report in until next month’s parole meeting. That was the deal for keeping my ass out of prison after my fracas at the Conservatory.
In my grief, I’d trashed the music room, and my old man had been called instead of the police. And pissed all over me because the reporters had been having a field day at yet another front row seat to the Meade-Sinclair heir’s downward spiral. I’d disappeared to Peru to get away from my old man, the media circus, and myself.
He’d never bothered to ask why I’d wrecked the place. Not once. I didn’t care to explain or defend myself.
I pulled my attention from the window and found him studying me. Nothing showed on his face, but the flat gaze said, you look like trash.
Whatever. I held his stare. “Are we done?”
His expression hardened. “You quit your business degree—your music career is over. What are your plans now?”
A tic started in my jaw. When I didn’t respond, he continued. “The barbecue’s in a months’ time. I want you in attendance. Cecilia will be there. I expect you to be civil—”
“Forget it!” As if a spring in the seat suddenly gave way, I shot up. I might have to report to him but no way in hell would I go anywhere near the mansion. Or his damn girlfriend. I headed for the door.
“You will be there, Maxwell.” His threat followed me like a heat-seeking missile.
Yeah, got it. Or I would no longer inherit a cent from the Meade-Sinclair fortune, let alone have a spot in the lofty bank that had been in our family for generations. Tanner was welcome to the business. He was the perfect son my father no doubt wished he’d spawned.
I didn’t give a shit. No way would I be paraded in front of people who doubtless felt the same way about me as my father, a wreck who couldn’t get his life straight since that night four years ago. The night my mother had died.
Scrubbing my face, I stopped on the busy curb, struggling to shut out the pain and guilt eating at me. Childish laughter cut through the chaos in my head. A woman and three kids alighted from a cab. Oh, shit, Logan, I was supposed to meet her. Dammit! I pushed the entire crappy morning out of my mind and grabbed the cab after the woman and her kids had exited.
“Where to?” the cabbie asked.
Hell, I had no idea where the park was. Pulling out my cell, I called Ray…
Ila
My morning passed in a blur at Eastern Couture, the upscale boutique I worked at. My cell beeped a text as I headed for the stockroom. Retrieving the phone from my pants pocket, I glanced at the display and groaned.
Doll, The Grave’s opening’s next week. Come with me? It’ll be fun.
I liked Ryder, that was when he wasn’t being a pain in the ass. My former client suffered from what Ray called the “Octopus Syndrome,” because, around me, he became all touchy feely.
Sighing, I typed back. Can’t. Am backed up with work.
A return text dinged. Okay, will ask you next week.
Of course, he would. Pushing my phone into my pocket, I met my boss’s cool, gray stare as she came out of her office, her tawny hair secured in a topknot.
Heck, it didn’t cost a dime to smile. But Kate Anders didn’t talk to her underlings much. She only talked to me because she had to. Initially, I’d been contracted to do her window displays for her string of shops, then six months ago, she’d asked me to work on displays inside the stores, too. I was grateful the two years had passed by relatively pain-free.
Kate liked themes. It meant using props along with the mannequins, and a crapload of work with resourcing things, but she paid well enough. That was all that mattered.
I selected the garments I needed from the newest collection of clothes, which had arrived yesterday, grabbed my workbasket, and headed for the front window. The papered glass gave me privacy from the street and, of course, created a great way to draw interest toward the big reveal. I dumped my load on a chair and got started.
“‘Morning, Ila.”
At the male voice, I looked up. Kate’s current squeeze stood behind the mannequin I was dressing. A grin lit Pierre Holden’s angular, sculptured features, giving them an edge the camera loved. Dark-haired and brown-eyed, the guy had to be around my age. Kate, if I guessed correctly, was in her late thirties. Given that Pierre was a model, he fit all of Kate’s criteria. She liked them young and in the limelight.
“Hey, Pierre.” I spoke around a pin between my lips as I pleated the extra fabric behind the dummy’s waist and secured it. “Kate’s somewhere in the back.”
“I know.” He handed me the mannequin’s top from the chair. “I see you’re busy, but can I have a quick word?”
“Shoot.”
He glanced past the partition separating the store from the window, then stepped inside, the scenic background and papered pane giving us some privacy. “I have a friend who needs your talent.”
“What? To dress him?” I teased.
Pierre chuckled, his gaze travelling appreciatively over my fitted, sleeveless black top, gray capri pants, and black, wedged heels I’d worn to work. The guy was fun. A flirt, but harmless. “I’m sure he’d like that. Anyway, he wants a painting done. Do you have a business card I can give him?”
“Sure.” I scratched through my workbasket. Among the spools of cotton, pins, and other stuff, I found my cards and handed one over. While window designing had its perks, it was painting that I loved. Portraits, I was good at. But my own pieces? Ugh, it simply refused to go the way I wanted. They remained too dark, underdeveloped, no matter how hard I tried to infuse a lighter feel. But hey, a model was news, right? With the parties and c
rowds they moved in, I mentally crossed my fingers and prayed this was it—the break I needed, even if it was painting faces.
“Ila?” Kate floated in, wearing impossibly high heels, adding more inches to her already towering six-foot height. She frowned at Pierre. The woman was notoriously possessive of her men. “What are you doing here?”
“Saying hello to Ila,” he answered calmly.
Yep, extremely possessive. But she didn’t slip her arm around his waist like she normally did. Instead, she studied the scene taking shape. “Good.” Then she ushered Pierre out of my work space.
Several minutes later, as I arranged the mannequins that I’d dressed in rich fabrics and intricately brocaded evening wear against the sunset backdrop, a door slammed elsewhere. Angry footsteps sounded.
Curious, I peered around the partition. At Pierre’s thunderous expression, I knew.
The poor guy.
Kate, it seemed, had finally tired of her latest boy toy. None lasted more than a few months. Sometimes, I wondered if Kate walked first so she wouldn’t be the one hurting when the guy left.
Heck, who was I to point fingers when I couldn’t save my own relationship?
My chest tightened as old pain shimmered awake. Devyn had accused me of spending too much time worrying about my job, my family, and then he’d broken my heart into unhealable fragments when I’d caught him with his pants down. I would never put myself through such torment again.
And here I had a date with Max—a date, really?
How I’d landed myself in this situation, I had no idea. Oh, wait, I’d walked into this one. Seriously, I couldn’t see how he’d know anything or be able to help with two rambunctious three-year-olds. A smile took over. It would be something to see the hardass fall on his sexy backside.
***
“Thanks, Ila, I really appreciate it,” a harassed Sandra Wilson said as we headed outside later that afternoon.
“No problem.” I managed a smile, fighting to hold onto two small hands. The flax-headed twins were already trying to break free and probably find their own way to the park. With her husband stationed in Afghanistan, it was tough on her, raising the three-year-olds alone.
Ray always helped. Me, sometimes. We’d take the kids for a while but made a point not to keep them indoors. They created chaos, and nothing was safe. The playground? Nope, they couldn’t break anything there.
“Come-come.” Peter tugged at my hand, with Iris emulating him on the other side, and I held on for dear life so they wouldn’t topple me down the steps to the curb.
“You’d better go, or they’ll drag you there.” Sandra gave me a wry smile. She was a year older than me, but appeared frazzled and worn-out.
“Right. Enjoy the break. I’ll see you later.”
Hanging onto the children’s hands and moving in a fast trot was a feat in itself. But I managed not to let them escape as we power-walked toward the kiddie’s playground a few blocks from my apartment.
“Isn’t it a pretty day?” I panted, enjoying the warm sun on my skin. There was no sign of Max. Heck, I couldn’t visualize a badass like him being interested in taking the kids to the playground. He was probably more at home in bars—drinking, fighting, and flirting with women…
“Can we have ice cream later? Can we, can we, La?” Peter bounced up and down, pulling at my arm, yanking me back from a thought that had my stomach dropping.
“Ice cream, ice cream,” Iris chorused. Probably thought I didn’t get the memo.
“Okay,” I relented. “But only if you walk and not run. I’m not fit for this kind of exercise.” My wry comment floated over their heads. The only exercise I had was running to work so I wouldn’t be late.
“Kitty-kitty,” Iris screamed, pointing at a scrawny tabby sidling along the sidewalk. “Wanna pet. Come, La.”
Oh, man. “Look, there’s the park.” And there went the pulling again. Finally, we reached the place edged with trees with my limbs intact.
Peter broke free first and darted off like a holy terror for the swing. I prayed he wouldn’t fall flat on his face. Iris’s small fingers tightened like a miniature vise on mine. “Want that, that, and that!” She pointed, her chubby finger moving fast from the slides to the swings to God knew what was in the trees. “La, come-come.”
Before Iris sprouted wings and flew off, I scooped her into my arms. “Let’s try the slide, okay? Peter, wait until I help you on the swing—”
“Hey.”
At the sound of his voice, I spun around with Iris clutching my neck. “Max?”
Green eyes twinkled in amusement. “You look surprised. Said I’d be here, didn’t I? Can’t let the ankle-biters annihilate you.” His gaze slid to Iris, squirming in my arms. “Ah, I see you have her restrained.”
I struggled to hold back my smile. “I was about to put her on the slide. “You’ve been at the gym the entire morning?”
His mouth tightened briefly, and he shook his head. “No. I had other things to take care of. And I checked in at school.”
Oh, right. Ray had mentioned he’d been in South America for a few months. I was curious as to why anyone would take off during school, but before I could ask, a sharp cry had me spinning around.
Oh, shit. Sandra was going to kill me. Peter lay sprawled on the ground, wailing loudly. He must have tried getting on the swing by himself. My stomach churning, I sprinted over. Iris started yelling her head off at her brother crying.
But Max was there before me. He dropped his tote to the ground. “Hey, buddy…” He gently helped Peter up. “What happened?”
Peter continued bawling, pointing to his grazed knee.
“I’m Max. I’ll fix that for you,” he said, drawing his bag close while I held onto Iris’s wiggling body. “I got one of those, too, when I was your age. See?” Max pulled up one leg of his sweats.
Peter slowed the wailing. Wide, watery, blue eyes stared at Max as he showed him the old scar on his left knee. On the back of his muscular calf, the word Thrashed was inked lengthwise.
He glanced up, caught me looking, and winked. Heat flooded my face, I lowered Iris to her feet and pulled out a tissue from my pants pocket. She crouched near Peter, her tearful gaze on his injury as I carefully wiped away the slight, bloody scrape.
“You fell, too?” Peter asked Max.
Max nodded, retrieving a Band-Aid from his tote. “My mom pushed my swing, but I wanted to go faster. She said no, I could fall and get hurt. I jumped off, tripped, and got hurt anyway. My fault. I didn’t listen. Couldn’t cry over that. So I think of it as a war badge. It’s what makes us big and strong—”
“Like you?”
Surprise widened Max’s eyes. “Er, yeah…” He hunkered down, his blond head lowered, but I heard the whispered words, the desolation in them as he put the adhesive strip over Peter’s injury. “I only hope your life’s better.”
I stared at him, stunned. What had happened to him?
“And this one?” Small fingers touched Max’s bisected eyebrow.
His muscular shoulders tensed. Pain clouded his eyes. He looked vulnerable for a second, and then the walls came up. “An accident.”
“You fell again?”
“No, a car accident. Right, then, little guy—” Max rose.
“Me, me.” Iris grabbed Max’s hand, pointing to her knee. “Sore.”
Smiling, Max got another Band-Aid and gently taped it to her unblemished knee.
Witnessing his interaction with the children, it was like he’d allowed me to peek inside him for a brief moment. Despite whatever troubled him, he cared.
“Did you somehow see this moment and come prepared?” I teased, nodding at the Band-Aid, and trying to get my mind off how this side of him made my insides melt.
A smile. “No, a volunteer in Peru gave me a few, which I’d forgotten about until now.”
“I want one like yours,” Peter said, angling his head and peering at the tattoo on Max’s calf.
Laughter burst free.
“Oh, man, you’re in so much trouble with Sandra. Peter’s going to hound her for a tatt.”
Max pushed the leg of his sweats down. “I’ll pay for the boy’s ink.”
“Don’t you dare—” I broke off at the teasing smile on his handsome face. Scrunched my nose. “You’re so bad.”
“You have no idea…” His gaze dipped to my mouth. “I can show you just how good I am at being…bad.”
At the sensual promise, I hastily shifted my attention to Peter, trying not to let Max’s words conjure up images of his big, hard body sliding against mine—ugh! Focus, Ila!
Peter was staring at Max as if he were the next best thing since Legos, his current passion. Iris was happily pushing the empty swing. I brushed back Peter’s fair hair. “Can you stand, sweetie?”
Max helped him up. Seeming to have forgotten his wounded knee, Peter ran back to the swing.
As I rose to my feet, Peter yelled, “Max, push me.”
“Sure, buddy.” He strode over, assisted him onto the swing, and then gently pushed him. I picked up Iris, no longer trusting the swing, and set her on the slide. Questions about Max rebounded in my head.
Something about the accident had affected him profoundly, because, for a brief moment, I saw the deep anguish in his eyes. And it tugged at me. Much as I wanted to know more, I didn’t want to pry. God knew I had my own demons haunting me, and it wasn’t something I would ever voluntarily talk about.
“Logan?”
I glanced at Max as he continued pushing a chortling Peter.
“Since Ray okayed me staying for a while, bill me. I’ll be paying rent.”
Much as I would have liked to say yes, the extra money would help, but for sleeping on my lumpy couch? Worse…yes it was worse for me, because then I’d have to see him daily. I inhaled sharply at the thought.
“Why so quiet?” he drawled. A wicked twinkle lit his gaze, one I was learning not to trust. “It’s not like I said I wanted to strip you naked and lick you from your sweet, sexy mouth to the heaven between your thighs—make no mistake, Logan, I want you, but I’m willing to wait. So, bill me, or I’ll just hand the money over to Ray.”
Breathless (Players to Men) Page 5