Saving Cruz (The Moran Family)

by Alexis James

  Granted, even I’ll admit she’s the best thing to happen to me and to my company. She keeps the office organized to a fault, fields the idiots from bothering me, and handles every crisis with ease. But when we interact, that’s when the problems begin. Since we returned from our trip a week ago, the woman has been locked up tighter than I am, and that’s saying something.

  I admit, I was an ass of epic proportions when we were in Atlanta. Hell, when am I not? But what she said at dinner that night, the sweet grace with which the words rolled off her tongue, the knowingness and peace she has about the loss in her life … that is something I’ve strived for and have come nowhere near reaching. She cut me off at the knees, and then she went all soft, calling me by my first name—which is shocking alone—then slowly reaching out for my hand. It’s not her fault I reacted like a lunatic, instead of simply thanking her for her concern and moving on. I was so lost in my own head the only thing I could do was shut her out and close myself off.

  It would now appear that I’m getting a taste of my own medicine. She ignores me, speaks only when it’s required, and tries to communicate solely by electronic means. We’re a week into this new, hostile relationship, and I’m already trying to figure out which would be easier: giving her two-week’s notice or firing her on the spot.

  I don’t want to let her go, but obviously she and I are not a good mix. She’s kind and gentle, and without saying so I know she wants to be my friend. Hasn’t she learned yet that I’m not friend material? Hell, I’m a barely boss material, if the past week is a better indication. In truth, I owe her an apology, but I think we both know she’ll never get one.

  The phone rings again. My lawyer’s on the same tirade he has been on for the majority of the day, trying to put together a deal we’ve been working on for a year. I’ve torn apart my office looking for the papers he requested the last time he called and so far have come up empty handed. I finally relented and called Mia twenty minutes ago, but her phone rolled directly to voicemail, so I shot off a text and can only hope she’ll respond. Right now she’s the only person who might have any idea where the papers are we need to close this deal.

  Two hours later, my head is buried in my desk drawer digging through yet another file when I hear, “You called?” Glancing up, I see Mia standing in the doorway, glaring at me from across the room. My stomach jolts when I take in her attire: tight black workout pants that mold her trim hips and thighs and a snug, green tank top that dips low in the front and affords me the first real look at what she hides beneath those white blouses and suit coats. She’s curvy in all the places a woman should be, and I’d be a fool not to admit I want to know what she looks like underneath her workout clothes.

  Her nipples visibly harden, as if they understand exactly what I’m thinking, and I find myself having to swallow thickly just to be able to speak … which I can’t yet do since all the blood has suddenly rushed between my legs. I can only be grateful for the fact that I’m sitting behind the desk, and she’ll never know how quickly my body responded to the sight of her.

  What the hell am I doing? I think to myself, forcing my eyes elsewhere. There are so many things wrong with this I can’t even count but first and foremost the fact that I’m hard just looking at her pisses me off. I’m a man who thrives on control, which is part of the reason I pay women for sex. When money changes hands, they are paid to be willing and to comply with my every request. I respond when and how I want to and it sure as hell is not like this. Desperate and needy and unrestrained.

  “You needed something?” she glances down at her watch, like I need the reminder that it’s after eleven at night and she’s not obligated to be here.

  Rage rolls through me, which thankfully ends the situation with my cock. Rising to my feet, I growl, “I called you two hours ago.”

  She lifts her brow. “I was at the gym.”

  “Yes, I can see that. Not particularly appropriate for the office, however.”

  She has the nerve to roll her eyes at me, like she could give two fucks what I think about her clothing. “Yes, well, I figured if I went home to change into something more appropriate…” she throws up air quotes, just to get me hotter under the collar I’m sure “…that would just delay me further.”

  Stomping across the office, I thrust a list in front of her face. “I need these documents faxed to my lawyer.”

  Mia glances at the paper and nods once, not the least bit rattled by my hostility. “Of course. I’ll get right on it.” Turning on her heel, she heads to her desk without another word, heart-shaped ass taunting me with each step.

  Retreating to my desk, I listen intently as she taps away on the computer, pulls items from the filing cabinets, and talks to herself occasionally. Forcing my attention back to the matter at hand, I attempt to organize the crazy mess I created in my attempt to locate the items I was looking for. Had I not been so damn hardheaded and called her much, much earlier, this entire situation could have been avoided and I’d be fast asleep by now, not sitting here thinking about her and the way she’s dressed.

  Mia appears in the doorway a short time later, strolls to my desk, and hands over a neatly clipped pile of documents. “I faxed and emailed these to him just now, and I also sent him a text to let him know they were coming. I tried calling, but his answering service picked up.” She sends me a hard look. “Will there be anything else?”

  My eyes roll down her neck to the cleavage below, and I swear that my mouth waters when I get an up close and personal look at the creamy flesh displayed there. She’s got a lot going on in that body of hers that she shields really well with nondescript, dark suits. Her stomach plays peek-a-boo where the tank has risen up, teasing me with a glimpse of olive skin. I gaze down slightly, where her hipbones taunt, and for a moment I can imagine my hands gripping her tightly as I slide deep inside her tight, hot depths.

  The ringing of the office phone pulls me out of the trance I’ve easily allowed myself to fall into, and with a growl I bark into the receiver, risking a glance at her face. Her cheeks are flushed, breathing labored, and she appears to be shocked and turned on as she opens her mouth to say something then immediately snaps it closed.

  Holding my hand over the receiver, I state, “That’s all for tonight. Thank you for coming in.”

  “Uh … sure. See you tomorrow.”

  My gaze falls once more to her ass, and the moment she’s out of sight I give myself a hard slap across the forehead. I’m only half-listening as the lawyer rambles on, as flummoxed by my reaction to her as she was to it. What the hell was all that anyway? It’s not like Mia is the first hot woman I’ve ever laid eyes on. Truth be told, I’ve been with women who are hotter. But there’s something about that exotic face of hers, coupled with the petite, curvaceous body that gets to me like nothing or no one has in a very, very long time.

  “Moran? You there?”

  “What? Yes, I’m here.”

  I attempt once again to listen but quickly find myself strolling through the list of contacts on my pre-paid phone. What I need is a good, hard fuck. One of those all-nighters where the woman is left boneless and weary, and I’m left satisfied. While I’ll easily admit that I haven’t felt satisfied, really satisfied, in a good long time, I have no qualms about attempting to right that fact. I cannot drool over my assistant ever again. Imagining her naked cannot happen either. Dreaming about what I want to do to her? So very, very wrong.

  Whatever weird, inappropriate vibe between the two of us quickly disappears the next morning when she goes right back to ignoring me, and I go right back to hiding in my office. Much to my dismay, the escort service couldn’t set me up with a date until Sunday night, so I’m spending the next four days drowning in a sea of paperwork to keep my overactive imagination contained.

  By the time Friday rolls around, I’m barking at everyone and I half-expect my entire staff to stage a mutiny and walk out. So when Marco strolls in midafternoon, without knocking and settles his ass comfortably i
n the chair across from me, he’s an easy target for my anger and frustration.

  “What the hell do you want?”

  He grins at me. “Big Brother, you might try acting human for a change. Rumor has it you’ve lost your mind.”

  “Fuck you,” I growl.

  He looks stunned. We both know I rarely resort to swearing as a go-to during a conversation. Usually a cold, hard stare works just fine. “Uh, what have you done with my brother?”

  Blowing out a thick breath, I toss the pen aside and glare at him. “What do you want, Marco? I’m busy.”

  A dark look of concern crosses his face. “What’s going on with you, man? You’re blowing off meetings with clients. You’re upsetting your employees more than usual, which is hard to believe. Hell, even loyal Mia called you an asshole yesterday.”

  I find myself grinning wide. Having her mad at me is so much better than the alternative. “Oh yeah? Maybe I should fire her.”

  Marco rolls his eyes and tears his hands through his hair. “Right. Like you’d ever survive without her running this office.”

  He has a point, I concede, rising and moving toward the cabinet that contains the bar. I pour us each a healthy portion of high-quality and very expensive tequila, hand his over, and resume my seat. “True.”

  “So tell me … what crawled up your ass and died?”

  I shoot him another hard look. “Is that why you came in here … to inquire about my ass?”

  He smirks at me and shrugs. “Yeah, sort of. People are running scared, so I thought I should face the devil and find out if I could help.”

  I wish, I think to myself. Right now, the only thing that will improve my mood is getting laid and even that feels indulgent. My only justification for doing so is that I’ll finally be able to shed these thoughts of Mia. “You can’t. But I do appreciate the offer.”

  Tossing back the alcohol, he grimaces slightly and asks, “Feel like grabbing a late dinner or a drink?”

  As much as I do enjoy his company, I know exactly how the evening will unfold. He’ll end up charming some sweet young thing, and I’ll be left holding the bag and getting my drunk self home. Alone, mind you. Sure, it’s by choice, but I learned long ago that few things in life are so I might as well take this and run with it.

  “No thanks. I’ll be here late.”

  “Call if I can help, okay?”

  Nodding, I reply, “Will do.”

  Through the closed door I can hear him exchanging words with Mia, and when she starts to laugh, I find myself having to shove down the anger once more. I’m not being fair to her at all. She deserves someone like Marco, someone who will make her laugh, someone who will treat her right. My brother might be a playboy, but he does know women, and while he’s not one to commit, he rarely leaves them brokenhearted. Mostly, he leaves them wanting more.

  But the idea of Mia wrapped around my brother sits about as well in my gut as spoiled milk. In truth, even the idea of the boyfriend she’s spoken of a time or two leaves me with a residual feeling of jealousy I just can’t seem to shake. Not since I was a teenager have I been this uncertain about what’s going on in my head, and I can only attribute it to the weird connection she and I have had since the day we met. It sure as hell will never be any great love affair, and at this point I’m not even sure we should be friends. But whatever this strange bond is between us, it needs to end and it needs to end now.

  I’ve barely started to buckle down and focus when my cell peals loudly and my sister Isabella’s name flashes on the screen. I briefly consider letting it roll to voicemail then remind myself that I’ve never once turned my back on my family. Why the hell I’d even consider doing something like that now just proves how messed-up my head is.

  “Hey, Little Sister,” I remark, propping the phone up with my shoulder while I attempt to draft an email.

  “Cruz … it’s Papa.”

  My stomach does a hard and fast flip, sliding into my throat as I ask, “What’s wrong?”

  “He’s here at the hospital. Mama just came in with him by ambulance.”

  Quickly putting the puzzle pieces together, I take my car keys out of the desk drawer and move across the office. “How bad is it?” My sister has been a nurse for some time now, but I know better than most how hard this has to be for her. She’s such a sweet, kindhearted person, which is why she chose to go into nursing in the first place. Helping anonymous patients is one thing. Taking care of a family member is quite another.

  “It’s bad. Call the boys for me. I’ve gotta go.”

  The line disconnects before I can tear open the office door. One look at Mia and she can instantly tell something bad has happened. She shoots to her feet and moves toward me, asking, “What can I do?”

  “Find Roman. He’s on a job site somewhere, and I know he’s not good about answering his phone.” My eyes meet hers briefly. “Tell him to call me.”

  “What happened?” I move down the hall and she follows right on my heels. “How can I help?”

  The elevator doors slide open, and I step inside and for a single moment our eyes meet. I wish like hell I could pull her into my arms and gain strength from her embrace. “Find Roman.”

  Everyone believes I’m this pillar of strength, strong under pressure, ready to make decisions and put my emotions aside for later. Little does anyone know that inside my body, there’s usually a riot of nerves and fears running rampant. Little does anyone know I’m really just a scared little girl wanting acceptance and approval, uncertain of every choice I make and second guessing each decision. I’m just really, really good at pretending otherwise.

  The minute Cruz steps out of his office, white faced and terrified, I force myself into a fake strength mode. Whatever has happened is bad; that much is clear by the way his eyes practically beg me for help and by the way his hands shake so visibly I have no idea how he’s gripping his phone and keys. I just want to pull him into my arms and help him through whatever this is.

  But once the elevator doors close, I shove aside that need and all the fear and somehow get my head into the game. Sprinting back to my desk, I make call after call to various people in the construction department. It takes almost thirty minutes, but finally one of the foremen puts Roman on the line.

  “Mr. Moran, its Mia Elliott, your brother’s assistant.” There is a lot of noise in the background, so I doubt he can even hear me. I clear my throat and try again, louder this time. “It’s Mia!”

  “Yeah. Hey, Mia. How’s it goin’?”

  Closing my eyes, I bite hard on my lower lip to stem the tears and state, “Um, Mr. Moran, can you please call your brother? It’s very important.”

  He chuckles into the receiver. “Which one? I’ve got two.”

  Great, Mia. Your dunce cap is firmly in place. “Uh … Cruz?”

  He laughs again. “What’s the emergency, huh? You can tell me. I’ve got shit to do.”

  Tears fill my eyes and my voice is ragged when I speak again. “Roman, please call him. It’s … it’s bad.” I certainly don’t know how bad, but the only thing that would ever upend my fully-in-control boss is something life-threatening.

  There’s a thick bead of silence then a low “yeah” and the line is disconnected.

  With a shaky breath, I slowly set the phone back in its cradle, count to ten, then open my eyes and get to work. The calendar is first on the agenda, and once I’ve rearranged his schedule for all of next week, I return a few phone calls, send out about a dozen or so emails, then head into his office to see what needs to be done there.

  Two hours later I’ve got a good handle on everything, and should he need to be away from the office for a few days, he can do so without feeling guilty about what needs to be done. Granted, I don’t know exactly what happened to cause him to run out of here like he did, but I assume it must be family related. Whatever has happened has rocked Cruz in a way I’ve never seen before.

  My phone dings with an incoming text message, and I sigh with rel
ief when I see it’s from him. As always, even his texts are curt and to the point:

  Can you pick up my sister at the airport at ten tonight?

  I quickly respond. Of course. Is there anything else?

  He ignores my question, shoots me her flight information, and throws in a ‘thanks’ for good measure. A quick glance at my watch tells me I have time to run home and change before heading to the airport. What I need right now are my comfy jeans and my trusty Converse. Wherever I’m headed, I have a hunch it’s going to be a long night.

  I stuff my large handbag with my tablet and laptop, a few files just in case, and Cruz’s phone charger he left behind then shut down both our computers and lock everything up before heading out.

  I have a sick feeling in my stomach that this night could change everything, and I pray that I can be strong enough to help him, should he need me to. Whatever happens from this point on, my only job is to be supportive, helpful, and provide whatever strength he needs to get through this crisis.

  I’m standing just outside the security area, holding a hastily put together sign that says “Ms. Moran” on it because I wasn’t smart enough to ask Cruz for his sister’s first name. Not that I need it really, because I can spot her a mile away. She shares similar bone structure to the other Moran siblings, and though her hair is lighter and she’s more my size than gargantuan tall like her brothers, it’s clear that the family lineage is strong.

  Her eyes are pain filled when she steps up to me and forces a smile. “Mia, right?”

  I hold out my hand and we exchange a handshake. “Yes.” I’m not quite sure how to tell her that her closed-up brother neglected to give me her name.