Sexy as Sin (Sinful, Montana Book 3)

by Rosalind James

  “He’s a man, though,” Fiona said, “and he works with beautiful women every day. Trust me, my darling. I’ve known heaps of people, and I’ve seen more. You are a perfectly lovely woman. To me, that sounds like a weak man. A small man. He called you a man because he wasn’t enough of one not to be intimidated by you.” She eyed Willow with speculation, hesitated, then said, “I’m going out on a limb here and asking, was he a small man?”

  “Geez, Auntie.” Willow tried and failed not to turn red. “Do I admit that I know enough to compare?”

  “Of course you do. It’s not forty years ago. Although forty years ago wasn’t what you think, either. Even I know enough to compare.”

  Willow stopped weeding. “You do?”

  “Well, of course I do.” Fiona’s tone was a little tart. “Go on and say. It’ll make you feel better.”

  “No,” Willow said. “Not a small man, not in that way. But maybe not the strongest one. Maybe a bit of a boy. Bit of a lad.”

  “There you are, then. Threatened by your strength and your competence, which means he’s afraid he’s neither. A good man, a strong man, the right man, won’t be, because he’ll have his own. He’ll celebrate what you are. What else is it? He said something worse, to make you cry like that. You’re not one to cry because somebody calls you a ginger. I remember when I had to go to school to collect you after you punched somebody in the stomach for that.”

  “I did!” Willow had to smile at the memory. “Eddie Bartholomew. Put a sign on my back, too, written on a piece of tape, so I didn’t notice it until somebody told me. Pull my tits. Wanker.”

  Fiona stopped digging again. At this rate, they’d never finish. “He did? You should’ve punched him harder.”

  “I was suspended,” Willow pointed out.

  “I don’t care. You should’ve done it anyway. So what else did he say? The current wanker?”

  “Gordy.” She didn’t want to say this. It hurt to pull it out. This part was still jagged. “Said . . .” She focused on the flowers, on separating a tender stalk from the strangling weeds. “Said I was too enthusiastic in bed. He called it . . .” She swallowed. “Pathetic.”

  Her aunt jumped up. “Right, then. Right. I’ll punch him in the stomach.”

  “Is that true, though?” Willow had to ask. She had to know. “Is that a . . . thing?”

  “Again,” her aunt said, calming down enough to start weeding once more, but sounding like she was measuring out her breaths, “I’d call that a man who’s worried about his own performance. What, he wants you to lie there and be grateful for whatever he musters up? Not bloody likely. You make your own pleasure. You take your own pleasure. I’d like to see how often a man would want to have sex if he couldn’t have an orgasm every time. If it was half the time, or almost none of the time? Bet he’d go off it fast. If he isn’t coming through, you work for it. You tell him. You show him. And if he is coming through, of course you’ll want to do the same for him. Why wouldn’t you? A man who’s worried because a woman has a good strong sex drive? That’s a man with a problem.”

  “You make it sound so simple.”

  “Because it is. He has to care more about your pleasure than he does about his. Easy-peasy. Job done. And if he’s the right one, you feel the same way about him. But that doesn’t mean you go throwing yourself down like a doormat for him to wipe his feet on, when he doesn’t care about you.”

  “So if,” Willow said cautiously, “somebody else heard that, somebody who’s . . . more that way. The way you said. What would he think?”

  “He’d want to punch the fella in the nose. At least Colin would. Jace, too. Even Rafe. They all would.”

  Willow had to laugh. “He did try. He was a bit incapacitated, though.”

  Her aunt looked at her sharply. “Drunk? Not a good sign, either.”

  “No. Not drunk. He’s . . . it’s complicated. I’m pretty sure I’m an idiot.”

  “No,” Fiona said. “You’re pretty sure you want this other bloke, and that’s what this visit’s really all about. Not about what the wanker said, but about what somebody else heard. What he thinks. What he feels. Am I right?”

  “Maybe.” Even saying the word felt naked. Vulnerable. “Probably. He’s . . . too much like what I want. Too much to ask for. And not available, not really. Not married,” she hurried to say. “Not entangled. But not available to me. I don’t think so.”

  “Mm,” Fiona said. “It looks like a rough go. Obstacles, maybe. And after what the other fella said, you’re thinking more about that. About looking stupid, and looking . . . what was the word? Pathetic?”

  “Yeah.” Willow tried to get some steadiness back, and failed. “That’s the word. I don’t want to be pathetic.”

  “Who does?” Her aunt considered a moment. “Well, then, think about this. You could see how he overcomes the obstacles. Let him slay some dragons for you. See how much he wants to do it. That could give you your answer.”

  She hadn’t come. It was five o’clock, and then it was seven, and she hadn’t come by. Hadn’t even answered his text.

  It had taken him four tries to get right, to his own disgust. He tried to remember exactly what he’d said to her last night, but he couldn’t. He remembered what the other guy had said, though. That couldn’t have felt good.

  He’d typed and erased, typed and erased, and finally just typed, How are you doing today? That was too much crazy, hit Send, and hoped for the best. He didn’t want to text about this. He wanted to talk about it, or, better yet, to have her here and show her what he thought. Somehow.

  She’d said it was her day off. Hadn’t she? He thought so. She was doing something else today, living her life, and he had work to do anyway. His conference call, and everything that had come out of it. Calls and emails, spreadsheets to analyze and investors to convince. It was an effort to focus through the pain and the medication, and he’d had to take a couple naps in there, but he put in a decent day.

  He’d talk to Willow when he saw her. You couldn’t ignore words like that. They would’ve hurt a sensitive woman, and she was that. He needed to do something about it.

  Except that she didn’t come.

  Finally, at seven-thirty, he abandoned the whole texting thing and called her. Four rings, then voicemail. He marshaled his thoughts and prepared to leave a message. Not a jokey message, and not an offhand one. He needed to get this right.

  While he was thinking it, the beeping started, and the screen lit up. Incoming call. He punched on through, feeling more breathless than he had after two rounds of the corridors on the crutches. “Hey,” he said, reasonably casually. “How are you?”

  “I’m good,” she said, with all the reserve she hadn’t shown last night. “How are you coming along?”

  “Great. Did you have a day off today? I realized I couldn’t remember exactly.”

  “Yes. I went to visit my aunt.”

  Well, this was going brilliantly. Forget the complications. Time to go for it. Cautiously. You never wanted to rush a woman. “That sounds good,” he said, “except that I missed seeing you. Here’s the reason I’m calling. I’m doing so well, apparently, that I get sprung from here a day early, which means I’m going home tomorrow.”

  “Oh.” Silence for a long moment, and she said, “I’ll wish you well, then,” with more constraint than ever.

  “Wait. What?”

  “Temporary companionship. That was the arrangement, right? Thanks for helping with the shark, and with the event. If you come back for one of your meetings, maybe I’ll see you. You won’t be at the beach, of course, so probably not. Meanwhile, if the firm needs somebody to do another party, or even just a working lunch, you might recommend me. I do a good line in directors’ meetings.”

  “Wait,” he said. “Willow.” She couldn’t really feel this way. Could she? “I’m confused. You’re making me think that all of this was the goodness of your heart. I’m not doubting the goodness of your heart, but I thought there was some
thing else going on.”

  “You don’t live here.” This time, he could swear she sounded . . . sad. “However I felt, you’re not going to be here for me to feel it anymore.” A breath hauled in, then, he could swear. Too honest. Too vulnerable again.

  “I am, though. I’m going home . . . well, out of here, anyway, to a place I found online. Single-story, is the idea.” He was about to tell her he was booked in for a week, then changed his mind. “For three weeks. Seems I need a whole lot of follow-up care with this thing to make sure it’s healing right, and I might as well start it out here. My surgeon may be hot, but she’s also very good. Plus, physical therapy that comes to you as part of the package deal.” Sounded absolutely plausible. He could make it work.

  “Uh . . . what? You’ve got a whole company back in the States to look after. And, yes, I looked it up online.”

  “I do. And projects all over the place, including here, if you recall. I’m going to be stuck someplace for a while, though, because I’m not travel-ready, and I like it here, despite the ocean and the sharks. I like the way the air smells. I also find that I don’t hate the people, at least some of them.”

  “Oh.” Some more silence. How bad had that been last night? She couldn’t have believed that jerk. That had been the asshole and the beer talking all the way, as obviously as if the guy had written it in marker on his forehead.

  “And I’d like,” he said, making another of the lightning decisions that seemed crazy, but actually came from your mind going faster than your conscious thoughts could keep up, “to hire somebody to bring me my meals, since I’m not going to be driving. Know anybody like that?”

  “Takeaway,” she said. “Delivery.” She was starting to sound breathless, though. Good.

  “Boring. Let’s see. Breakfast, lunch, dinner. Say breakfast and lunch are done ahead—I’m not a picky eater, other than the organ meats, and I’ll be on crutches and not helpless, so I just need something ready for me to cook, because the grocery store’s out—and dinner’s prepared at my house. I’m fairly sure I can promise a decent kitchen. Three meals, simple ones. I don’t really like fancy, to tell you the truth. A good cheeseburger works for me. Not every day, sadly, though if you want to make Boston cream pie . . . well, I’ve been thinking about that for a week. Two hours or so? A hundred twenty dollars a day?”

  “A . . . hundred twenty?”

  “Wait. Exchange rate. A hundred sixty-five. Plus the cost of the groceries, of course.”

  Silence, then, “Brett. That’s too much. That’s a mad proposition. And how do you know the exchange rate like that? In your head?”

  “It’s my job, and no, it’s not. Not when I’m asking you to do more after your work day. And if you want to make some extra dinner and eat it with me, that’ll be your choice, and my bonus. And, no, this isn’t through your company. I don’t want somebody taking their cut they didn’t earn. This is all you.”

  “But . . . why?” she asked.

  “Because I like you, and I trust you. I like lots of people. I trust almost nobody.” Wait. He hadn’t meant to say that part.

  “That’s a lonely way to live.”

  “It’s the way I’m made.”

  “What about . . . what if . . .” She didn’t go on.

  “No strings,” he said. “No entanglements unless you want them. If you do? We’ll get as entangled as you like.”

  “You have a rod in your femur.” She had some laughter back in that blue-skies voice, at least, for the first time tonight. Like a woman who was starting to believe. “And dressings. There’s a limit. I’d kill you.”

  “I know. Believe me, I’ve spent enough time lying here thinking about the limits.” You didn’t promise so much that she’d run, but you had to promise something, especially over the phone. Forget caution. She was wounded, she was wary, and it was time to lay it on the line. Time for some sincerity. “I won’t be fragile forever. Otherwise, the limits are where you draw them. But for me, cards on the table? The sky’s the limit.”

  Willow had her hand on her heart again, and she’d long since sunk down into a kitchen chair. Opposite, Azra had stopped eating one of her endless salads and was staring at her, her fork poised over her plate.

  “That would be . . .” Willow cleared her throat. “That would be fine.” Half of her was doing sums. A hundred sixty-five times seven days times three weeks . . . Amanda had been right. She wasn’t good at maths. It sounded like a lot.

  Wait. “You got this idea from Pretty Woman,” she said.

  “Research,” Brett said, all that humor back in his voice, and all that certainty, too, “is my life. I’ll text you the address. You can text me your schedule. I’m flexible. Can’t wait.” And hung up.

  “We’ll do a sponge bath before you go home,” the aide on the day shift, an efficient brunette, told Brett the next morning, filling a plastic tub at the sink. “As you’ll have another day or so before they want you getting into a shower.”

  Brett eyed the pile of cloths and two thin towels and said, “Thanks, Esther, but I have an even better idea. I’ll do it myself. Just leave the stuff there.” He’d thought about this. He’d longed for this. He didn’t smell like anything good, his hair felt disgusting, and Willow was coming over at six tonight. He might not be anybody’s dream date, but at least he could graduate to “not physically revolting.”

  Yeah, he wanted a bath, but as far as he was concerned, there were two times in his life when having somebody else bathe him was acceptable. As a baby, which he fortunately couldn’t remember, and when he was in the home and his mind was far enough gone that he wouldn’t care.

  And, yes, he might have control issues. It had been mentioned.

  “The idea of the sponge bath,” Esther told him patiently, “is that you do it where you can get help to reach all of yourself. And where we don’t have to worry about you toppling over.”

  “No, thanks,” Brett said. “You could do my feet, though, if you don’t mind. Lower legs, maybe. That’s going to be a little tough to reach. I’m still going to hate it, but I’ll do my best to be grateful.”

  “Brett . . .” Esther sighed. “Has anybody ever told you that you’re stubborn? I’ve seen it all before, and I’ll be letting you wash the naughty bits yourself, no worries. You may be a bit more scenic than my average patient, but I’m still not excited.”

  He laughed. “No extra charge for the ego deflation?”

  She grinned. “Nah, I throw that in gratis. Right, then. I’ll do your feet and your legs, and then I’ll put everything on the washstand. If you use the walker, and that’s not negotiable.”

  “You’re a tough negotiator. I should hire you,” Brett said, when she’d helped him off with the clothes on his lower half and hadn’t pointed out that it would have been easier without the hospital gown, then started washing his feet as he tried without success not to feel helpless.

  “Except that I live for my job.” Her hands were brisk, and, no, he clearly wasn’t a thrill. “And I like the Byron hinterland as it is, thank you very much.”

  “You sound like somebody else I know,” he said. “We’re doing unobtrusive. We’re fitting into the landscape. It’s a thing. Why doesn’t anybody believe me? I’ll send you an invitation once we’ve done the condo build, and you can see for yourself. How’s that?”

  She finished washing his good leg, stood up, tossed the used cloths into the laundry bin, and said, “I’ll look forward to it. If you remember, though, I’ll be impressed.”

  “I’ll remember,” he said. “It’s my job.”

  Standing up and washing himself, even with the help of the walker, wasn’t any kind of party. But sticking his head under the faucet and scrubbing at his hair with the shampoo Esther had left him felt very nearly orgasmic all the same, and once he’d dressed in his last clean set of Willow and Azra’s offerings, he actually didn’t repel himself. He did, however, collapse onto the bed again for another exciting bout of sweating and breathing too hard. An
d when, much later than he’d hoped, he handed the nursing staff the enormous arrangement of roses and the card he’d ordered, shook hands all around, climbed into the back seat of his SUV and stuck his leg out straight along the leather, then leaned against the door while his brand-new driver, a silent man named Dave, delivered him to his temporary housing . . .

  Well, yeah. It felt like a marathon, only worse. One of those ones where the guy was bent double heaving into the bushes at the end, maybe. Or where he crawled across the finish line after collapsing, and it made the news.

  Three shallow stairs up to the front door, and he made it while Dave hovered beside him and looked worried, like if Brett fell, it would be his job. Keys, then, and another thank-you-goodbye as Dave set the plastic bag of his belongings inside the front door and left.

  After that, Brett found his bedroom, spared a moment to be grateful for the woman who’d moved his things over here from the stairs-intensive place he’d been before, pitched himself onto the king-sized bed, and everything went black.

  The day had been hot, and Willow had spent nearly half of it outdoors, after catering a Cancer Council luncheon and swinging by Woolworth’s and the natural grocery for supplies. She’d had no choice, if she was going to show up at Brett’s place and do a job without embarrassing herself with too much awkward apology. She’d surfed herself into rubber-limbed, mind-numbed exhaustion, had taken a shower, and had not dressed up.

  She wasn’t going to a party, she wasn’t going on a date, and she’d better remember it. She was going to work. Three weeks wasn’t “leaving tomorrow,” which she’d been expecting all along, but it wasn’t “moving van arrives tomorrow, after which I begin the search for my bride,” either. It was twenty-one days, and no matter what she’d told that nurse, she didn’t want to be Brett’s temporary entertainment during them. Despite what Gordy had said the other night, she’d encountered heaps of tourists looking for a good time on holiday in Byron, and none of them had mistaken her for a bloke. The scene with Gordy had been exactly two days ago, though, her heart felt as tender and battered right now as Brett’s leg, and she . . .