by Maisey Yates
Then again, maybe it wasn’t.
“So did you end up getting it on with whatever chick was driving you crazy?” Jaiven asked as he hit the ball hard against the wall.
Alex hit it right back at him. “Good memory.”
“So I’m guessing you didn’t.”
“How do you reckon that?”
“Otherwise you would have just said yes.”
“Maybe I want to keep my personal life private.”
“Personal life?” Jaiven smashed the ball against the wall. “I thought we were talking about sex.”
“Whatever,” Alex growled, and missed his shot.
An hour and three vicious games later, Alex had won but only just. They showered up and retired to the health club’s juice bar on the top floor.
“So who is she?” Jaiven asked as he downed a protein shake.
Alex shook his head. “No one you would know.” Not personally, anyway.
“Because you’ve got it bad, my friend.” Jaiven shook his head, pretended to shudder. Or maybe it wasn’t pretend. “Better you than me.”
He did have it bad, Alex realized with a start. He wanted—needed—to see Chelsea again, and soon. Not just for sex, although he was certainly looking forward to that. But he wanted more than simple—or not so simple—sex. He wanted to eat takeaway—he’d insist on pizza this time—and sit on a sofa with her legs on his lap. He wanted to tell her about his day and the anchorman who was being a complete pain in the ass about his contract. He just wanted to be with her.
What the hell was happening to him?
An hour later Alex was back in his office, dialing Chelsea’s mobile. She answered on the second ring.
“Yes?” She sounded guarded.
“What are you doing tonight?”
“I have to catch up on some work, Alex.”
She was, Alex decided, in careful retreat mode. Well, he was on the attack. “Fine, I do, too. Let me come over. I’ll bring dinner.”
Her breath came out in a sharp hiss. Such a simple suggestion, and yet so much more than either of them were used to. “Chelsea,” he said softly, and it was enough.
“Okay,” she said, “but I really do have to work.”
He showed up at her apartment at ten minutes past seven with a pile of paperwork and a huge pepperoni pizza.
Chelsea answered the door still dressed in her work clothes, an ivory silk blouse and a narrow black skirt. She shook her head at the pizza. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“You know you love it.”
“I haven’t eaten a piece of pizza for years.”
“That’s sad.”
Her lips twitched. “Maybe so. I suppose one piece won’t kill me. I’m not filming tomorrow.”
Alex brought the pizza over to the glass-and-chrome coffee table in the middle of her living room. He glanced around at the white leather sofas, the expensive-looking rug of white faux fur. “This place is begging for a grease stain. How do you eat in here?”
She shrugged, sitting on the edge of one of the sofas. “I don’t. I eat in the kitchen or out.”
He handed her a piece of pizza, and she took it, sitting on the sofa opposite him as if they were having a business meeting over dinner. Alex didn’t know whether to laugh or groan. Or get the hell out of there.
What was he playing at, really? And yet still he spoke. “Which part of this freaks you out, Chelsea?”
Her eyes flared surprise and she looked away. “What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean.” Alex could hardly believe he was saying this stuff, and yet the words kept coming out of his mouth. “Last night was intense and it scared me a little, or even a lot, but I still want more. Want you.”
“Do you really?” He heard the jagged note of cynicism in her voice and frowned.
“Yes—”
“I think you want a little of me, Alex,” she answered. “I think you want some fun times and some hot sex and a little bit of casual sharing about our lives. But the whole package? The real deal?” She gazed at him steadily. “I don’t think you’re prepared for that.”
He felt exposed under her stare, revealed in a way he really didn’t like because he knew she was right. And he didn’t know what to do about it. “Maybe I’m not,” he said after a long, taut moment. Chelsea just shrugged, and he forced himself to ask, “What is the real deal, Chelsea?”
She shook her head, gave him a bleak smile. “Like I said, you don’t want that, Alex.”
And damn it, he felt relieved. “Fine,” he said after a moment. “Let’s eat pizza for now.”
And eating pizza was good. They recovered their banter, a little light flirting. Kept it easy and safe. Chelsea ate three slices before she groaned and sank against the sofa, her hands pressed against her still-flat stomach. “I’m going to split my skirt.”
“I kind of liked that look.”
She laughed and shook her head before her expression grew serious again. “You know we need to talk about Treffen. I read in the news that he’s out of his law firm. Who managed that?”
“Hunter.”
She nodded slowly. “Have you found someone else to come forward?”
Everything in him tensed. “Not yet.”
She was silent for a moment. “Treffen’s asked me to sign something.”
“Restricting the interview to certain questions?”
“Yes.”
Alex nodded. “I expected as much.”
“And you know what will happen if I violate it?” she asked, her voice sharpening a little.
“He’ll sue you,” Alex answered. “And you’ll probably get sacked.”
Her eyes sparked. “Oh, well, as long as you know.”
“As long as you know, Chelsea.” He pushed his pizza away. “I know what I’m asking you.”
“I don’t think you do.”
“This interview might end your time at AMI, but it could make your career. And Treffen can’t sue you for defamation if the charges are true. He’ll be in prison.”
“You hope.”
“Yes. I do.”
She sighed and shook her head. “I need more, Alex. I can’t go on live television with nothing but a single photo and a pissed-off sister. You know that. You mentioned a witness, didn’t you? What about her?”
“She’s not willing to speak.”
“Will she to me?”
He hadn’t considered that. Would Zoe speak to Chelsea, even if she wouldn’t go on television? “Maybe.”
“And you haven’t got anything else?”
He was silent, because he knew he had more to tell her. The words didn’t come, yet she must have felt the weight of them unspoken for she sat up, stared at him hard.
“You haven’t told me everything, have you?” She pressed the heel of her hand against her eyes. “I’m so stupid. So blind. Of course you haven’t. You wouldn’t go after Treffen like this, you wouldn’t hate him so much, if it wasn’t personal. I should have realized that before.”
Alex’s throat dried. His face and mind both blanked. Chelsea dropped her hand. “Who was she?”
“I don’t know—”
“Bullshit, Alex. I thought we were trying to be honest here. If not about—about us, then at least about Treffen.”
He opened his mouth, and that was as far as he got.
“Who was she? The woman who has made you so determined, so desperate to bring Treffen down? Was she a girlfriend? A lover?”
He tried to form a word, but somehow his lips wouldn’t move. He could feel his heart thudding, the blood draining from his head. Why was this so hard?
“It was her, wasn’t it,” Chelsea said softly. “The girl in the photo. You loved her.”
Somehow he managed to nod. Speak. “Sarah. Her name was Sarah.”
“What happened to her?”
“Wasn’t it obvious—” His voice came out ragged, savage.
“I mean after. Because you told me she wasn’t available to speak.”
<
br /> “She’s dead.”
Chelsea’s mouth dropped open and she shook her head, her eyes dark with sorrow. “Oh, Alex.”
“She killed herself. Threw herself off the roof of Treffen’s building.”
“I’m so sorry.”
He nodded jerkily. Now that he’d started telling her about it, he wanted to get it all out. Purge himself, even though he didn’t think he’d feel better with the truth all out there. Most likely he’d feel worse. “We were friends all through college. Best friends, really. It was never romantic. She was dating one of my roommates, Hunter Grant.”
“The ex-NFL quarterback.”
“But I was friends with her first. Not that it matters, but we both came from tough backgrounds. No family picnics and holidays to Florida like you had.”
He glanced up, saw something like regret or maybe even guilt twist her features before she nodded back and said, “Go on.”
“She was like a sister to me, a little sister. I looked out for her, teased her, even punched Hunter once when I thought he was being a douche.”
Chelsea gave a small, wobbly smile. “Knowing his reputation, I’m sure he was.”
“But in the end...” He stopped, not wanting to admit the rest. Just how terribly he’d let Sarah down. “She got in over her head,” he said, the words coming out stiltedly. “I don’t know how it happened, how I—how I didn’t see. She got herself sucked into Treffen’s hellhole and I didn’t even notice. I didn’t...” Listen when she tried to tell me. He couldn’t say it. Couldn’t exonerate or explain himself. And he didn’t want to admit such shaming weakness to Chelsea.
“How could you ever imagine such a thing?” she asked sadly, and he shook his head.
“I should have realized. Should have suspected.” Should have listened to what Sarah was trying to say, even if she hadn’t had all the words.
“It’s easy in hindsight,” Chelsea said, and Alex averted his face. He didn’t want her to see the guilt in his eyes, the knowledge that he wasn’t saying everything. That he didn’t need hindsight because he’d had enough information back then. Enough to wonder, to press, to comfort. To save Sarah.
But he wasn’t going to say that now. He couldn’t. He didn’t like talking or even thinking of Sarah. Not in the privacy of his own mind, and certainly not to Chelsea. It was why he hadn’t talked about Sarah before now. Why he’d stared at that damned photo for far too long even as he longed to rip it up and make sure no one ever saw it again.
She’d said he wasn’t ready to hear her secrets; neither was he ready for her to hear his.
“Alex.” Chelsea’s voice was so soft, so aching with regret and sorrow and compassion, that Alex felt tears sting his eyes. He blinked them furiously back. He didn’t deserve her understanding or pity. He didn’t want it. “It wasn’t your fault,” she said and he didn’t answer. Felt everything in him freeze, because damn it, it was his fault, but he wasn’t about to say that to Chelsea.
“Alex,” she said again, and closed the space between them, putting her arms around him and drawing his head down to her shoulder. Alex didn’t resist but he didn’t relax into the embrace. He didn’t deserve her comfort, even if he craved it. Craved the absolution that wasn’t Chelsea’s to give. Only Sarah could give it, and she was dead.
Chelsea eased back and gazed at him steadily, thoughtfully, her gray-green eyes searching his face, and finding—what? Could she see the guilt he was trying so hard to hide? He opened his mouth, scrambled for something to say.
This isn’t going to work, Chelsea. Leave me alone, damn it. I can’t take any more of this.
But Chelsea didn’t give him the chance to protect himself. She simply took him by the hand and led him to her bedroom. With her face grave and yet determined, she lifted her top over her head.
Alex watched as she slid off her camisole, unsnapped her bra. Stood bare before him, nothing hiding her scar from him, a scar he knew she felt incredibly self-conscious about, a scar with a terrible story behind it.
She shrugged out of the rest of her clothes and when she was naked before him she undressed him. Gently, almost reverently, her fingers whispering against his skin. And then she kissed him, softly, but he needed her too much and he pulled her to him, kissed her back with a desperate urgency that rose like a howl inside him.
And she returned it, kiss for kiss, touch for touch, until she pulled away suddenly, leaving him feeling so bereft he nearly cried out, and then she sank to her knees in front of him.
“Chelsea—” he began, because he knew this was a kind of vulnerability for her. She glanced up and said softly, “Let me.” And then she took him into her mouth.
Alex shuddered as he felt her lips close over his sensitive skin and his hands tangled in her hair. “Chelsea,” he managed, his voice hoarse with longing and pleasure, because the sensation was exquisite but he also knew how much this was costing her. Going down on her knees before him, as he had with her. Subjugating herself, exposing her scar.
She was giving him everything, and he gave it back, shuddering and crying out her name as he came.
Later, as they lay in bed, having made love with slow, sweet gentleness, he traced her scar with his fingers, brushed his thumb over the ridged, puckered flesh.
She rolled into him, curling her body around his like a question mark, his fingers still on her scar. “It wasn’t a car accident,” she whispered, and he didn’t ask any questions. He just held her, because he knew that was what she needed. He needed it, too.
Chapter Twelve
Chelsea lay next to Alex, his arm heavy across her as he slept, and she stared up at the ceiling wondering when she’d last given so much to a man. Memories she’d suppressed for so long played through her brain in a painful yet necessary montage.
Brian Taylor’s considering gaze as she’d gone into the open auditions for weather girl. And just what would you do for this job, Miss Jensen?
Why I’d do just about anything, sir.
She’d batted her eyelashes. Smiled coyly. Left no doubt as to just what she was talking about.
And he’d taken her at her word—or rather her implication—and risen from his chair. Called for a private meeting with her and practically dragged her from the room, all in front of two executives, a secretary and a messenger boy. She’d gone with him, her face burning but her chin still held high, and as soon as the door had closed behind them he’d pulled her into a cupboard and yanked her skirt up, had her over a mop and pail. Fast. Dirty. And potentially soul-destroying, if she’d had a soul left to lose.
But she hadn’t.
Other memories, just as bitter. The smirks and innuendoes from all the staff. The leers and come-ons from every male employee of the news station. And Brian, always Brian, taking her whenever he wanted. Treating her however he liked.
She’d faced up to it all, had held her head high. She’d been unabashed, unapologetic, about her choices. A girl did what a girl had to do, she’d quip to friends. She’d stared down rivals. She’d stayed strong, until that self-confident swagger had been taken from her along with two teeth and 20/20 vision.
When she’d emerged from the hospital she’d been another person, a person she hated to remember. Desperate, paranoid, with severe anxiety attacks and three different prescriptions to help keep her sane. Thank God she’d risen above all that. Thank God she’d had the strength to start over.
And now she wanted to start over again, and this time for real. With Alex. She wanted a relationship, a healthy, positive, loving relationship. She was tired of her cold, isolated existence, armoring herself with a glamorous image and a lot of attitude.
She wanted to be real, just as Alex had been real with her.
Sort of.
Had he told her everything? She’d sensed something in him, a darkness he’d been trying to hide, and God knew she understood about that. About hiding. About darkness.
And just the thought of being honest about her own secrets had everything inside her cu
rling up, an emotional armadillo. Protect yourself at all costs.
Besides, even if she actually worked up the courage to tell Alex about her past, he still might not want to hear it. He’d admitted as much last night. Things might have changed for her; seeing Alex even just a little bit vulnerable had opened up a desire, even a need, to be vulnerable herself.
A little. Baby steps, right? Maybe they’d still get there, wherever it was they were going. It might just take a long time.
Gently she cupped Alex’s cheek, rested a thumb on his lips. Then she leaned over and kissed him softly, too softly for him to wake, and wondered what would happen now.
She must have slept, even though she hadn’t expected to, because Alex kissed her awake sometime after dawn. They made slow, sweet love and Chelsea lay there, sated and as happy as she’d ever been, before she glanced at the clock.
“It’s after six—” She rose from the bed in a flurry of panic.
“Is that late to rise in Chelsea World?”
She threw him a dirty look. “Don’t pretend you’re not a workaholic.”
“I won’t, but I don’t feel like one now. Come back to bed.” He reached one appealing arm out to her. “Call in sick.”
“I can’t.”
Ruefully Alex smiled and dropped his hand. “I suppose I can’t either. How about this weekend?”
“This weekend?”
“Let’s go away.”
A wary and surprised pleasure rippled through her. “Where?”
“How about Miami? An easy flight and it will be warm this time of year.”
“Okay,” she said, and felt that wary pleasure bloom into something lovely and precious. A weekend away. So normal, and yet so wonderful.
Smiling, he threw off the covers. “Now in actuality I am running late. I don’t suppose you have a men’s razor in your medicine cabinet?”
A smile tugged at her mouth. “Sorry, no.”