Shameless

by Lisa Renee Jones

  “Kasey too?”

  “Everyone. It’s the only way we make the bank buy into this. Is that a problem?”

  “No. Whatever we have to do.”

  “On a positive note and another topic to discuss with Kasey,” he says. “While you were painting I heard from my assistant. She’s lined up a team to do the assessment at the winery, starting tomorrow.”

  “Oh. Great. That was fast, but I need to warn Kasey about that too. I need to grab my phone.” I scoot off the bed and walk into the bathroom, where I find it in my purse. Once I rejoin Nick, I text Kasey. “How soon will we get the assessment results?”

  “It’s a big place. I expect it will take a few days.”

  My phone buzzes and I glance at Kasey’s reply. “All set. Dinner Thursday night and he knows about the assessment.”

  “While we’re on the topic of business,” Nick says. “One more thing. Beck, the private investigator I told you I hired, wants to install cameras at your house and the winery. And he’d rather the staff not know.”

  My brow furrows. “Is there a problem I need to know about with the staff?”

  “He didn’t express a specific concern, but did stress that he absolutely doesn’t want the staff to know. It’s his job to trust no one.”

  “Right. That makes sense. When does he want to do it and how should I coordinate getting him into the locations?”

  “He can get into both locations on his own.”

  “Okay well, the fact that he can get into both locations on his own says I need a new security system. But yes. Whatever he needs to do. Tell him to do it.” I take a bite of my sandwich.

  He pulls his phone from his pocket and sends a text message before snatching up a few chips. He is about to set his phone down when it buzzes with a reply already. He reads the message and glances at me. “He’s going to get it done tonight.” He takes a drink of water and sets it on the nightstand, while I manage another bite of my sandwich.

  “And he’s had no other luck on anything?” I ask, before taking another bite of my sandwich.

  “No, which is significant considering his skill set. He’s concerned there is more going on than we know and someone has covered it up.”

  My brow furrows. “Like what?”

  “Is there any reason the winery might be worth more money than you think? Something no property assessment can find.”

  “I don’t even have to think about that answer. Absolutely nothing comes to mind and I can’t believe my father knew of any such thing. He’d have told me, or at least, left the details in his will.” My eyes go wide and I rotate to the nightstand, picking up the card. “Could this be where the answers lie?”

  “No,” Nick says. “He left this for a specific birthday, knowing that you could inherit before that date. And your attorney gave you no indication it needed to be opened sooner, upon his death.”

  He takes the card from me. “He didn’t support your art. If you want to open this, do it after you prepare for your show, and preferably after the show itself.”

  “That was my preference actually, but if there could be answers we need inside—”

  “I’ll make you a deal. If I can’t shut down these issues with the bank this week, we’ll open it. Together, and if you want that spanking for just that reason,” his lips curve, “this time, I’ll be happy to oblige.”

  My cheeks flush. “Thank you.”

  He laughs. “Thank you, sweetheart, for having such a sweet little ass.” He sets the card on the nightstand, when my cellphone rings my brows furrow. “What time is it?” I ask, as I’m digging in the blankets for my phone I’ve now lost again.

  “Eleven,” Nick says, glancing at his watch.

  I locate my phone right as the call ends, drawing in a breath at the number on the caller ID, and sucking in hair.

  “What’s wrong?” Nick asks.

  “It was Macom,” I say, tucking the phone under the pillow. “Josh called earlier and warned me that he’s become obsessed with talking to me. He didn’t want me to talk to him. He said he messes with my creative process.” My phone starts to ring again.

  “Let me talk to that bastard,” Nick says, reaching for it.

  “No,” I say, grabbing it first and standing up. “That would just turn into him calling Josh and Josh calling me.”

  “Block him.”

  “I almost did that earlier today, but that gives him power and satisfaction, too.”

  He stands up, hands on his hips. “You know, Faith. I’m starting to get the feeling that he has a hell of a lot of power and presence in our relationship.” He doesn’t say anything more. He rounds the bed, but he doesn’t come to me. He passes me by and I rotate to watch him disappear inside the bathroom. And while he doesn’t shut the door, he’s just shut me out.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Faith

  I am stunned by Nick’s reaction, but I am quickly reminded of the many ways this man has put himself on the line for me. He’s pursued me. He’s set up an art studio for me. Fought for me with the bank and today, professed budding love. And now, I’ve given him a proverbial punch, maybe I’ve even hurt him. I don’t want to hurt him.

  Dashing forward, I enter the bathroom as he enters the closet. Crossing the room, I step into the doorframe dividing the bathroom and the closet, to find Nick standing with his back to me at the same moment that he peels his shirt over his head, muscles rippling, the small space suddenly even smaller.

  “Nick,” I breathe out.

  He hesitates, not just in action—I feel the emotional hesitation and I know that my instinct was right. I’ve hurt him and that means that I can’t have that same hesitation. “I don’t love him. I don’t even like him but he, and my mother, taught me not to trust. I can’t just make that go away and I wish that I could. It’s going to take time, but what I can tell you is that you, and you alone, are the reason that I’m learning to trust again.”

  Still he doesn’t turn, shutting me out, keeping me at the distance he rarely tolerates. He inhales, his face lifting to the ceiling for several beats that are just too long for me. I close the space between us, and I pretty much collide with him as he turns to face me, my hand flattening on his chest, his catching my shoulders. “I will make him go away,” I vow.

  “I don’t expect him to be out of our lives any more than I do my fucked up father or your mother. They fucked with our heads. They made us and they still play us.”

  This is a revelation about Nick he’s never shared. “Your dad fucked with your head?”

  “Of course he did. You know that I was raised by a rotation of nannies he fucked. He’s why I am who I am today. Everything I do is to be better than him and different than him. But I know it. I admit it. I deal with it. You have done a lot of avoiding things in your life, Faith.”

  “You’re right. I have.”

  “I’m in your life or I’m not. It’s me. Just me. I can deal with the aftermath that he’s created because I understand it. But only the aftermath, when he’s past tense.”

  “He is.”

  “He just called you and you didn’t shut him down. That makes me feel like you aren’t ready to let him go. And if you aren’t—”

  “He is nothing to me. You are. I just didn’t plan to talk to him ever again.”

  “You’re an artist and so is he. You’re going to see him. We’re going to see him. Are you prepared for that?”

  “Honestly? Not yet, but I will be. I didn’t think or even dare to dream about being in a high-profile show while I was trapped by the winery. I didn’t mentally prepare. I’m not like you, Nick.”

  “If you want me to make him go away, I will.”

  “And then you’ll wonder if I would have done it without you. I need to handle him and I will. Actually, I just want this done and over with.” I twist out of his arms and charge through the bathroom into the bedroom, only to discover my phone ringing again.

  Anger burns inside me for about ten different reasons: I’
ve let Macom get into my head and inside my relationship with Nick. The man actually expects me to answer his calls when I haven’t spoken to him in over a year. And I could keep going with the list of reasons but I’m at the bed holding the phone and I hit answer. “What do you want, Macom?” I demand, turning to find Nick standing in the doorway between the bathroom and the bedroom.

  “Faith,” Macom replies, his voice low, intimate, familiar, and I feel it like a punch in my belly and not a good one.

  I sit down on the mattress, my eyes on Nick. “Why are you calling, Macom?”

  “I heard the good news about the show. Congratulations.”

  “Why are you calling me, Macom?” I repeat.

  “I want to see you. Come here. Our bed misses you.”

  I laugh bitterly and cut my gaze from Nick’s. “Are you kidding me right now?”

  “I messed up.”

  “Let me be clear. We are not friends. We will never be friends. I don’t think we were ever friends. We will never be anything but a bad mistake. Don’t call me. Don’t even talk about me. Stay away from me at the show. And be professional. Leave Josh out of this.”

  “I’ll come there and help you make your show selections,” he says, as if I’ve said nothing. “I want you to do well.”

  “I’ve moved on, Macom. I’m in a relationship.”

  “Of course you are, but I’m up for the challenge.”

  “There is no challenge. Do not come here.”

  Suddenly Nick is on a knee in front of me, taking the phone. “This is Nick Rogers, Macom. I’m the challenge. Faith was done with you long before she left you, and you were too self-absorbed to see it. But if we need to talk this out, I have a private jet fueled and ready. I can fly you here and we can sit and chat. You can tell me all about your art.”

  Nick abruptly lowers the phone and tosses it on the bed. “He hung up.”

  “You were supposed to let me handle this.”

  “Yes well, sweetheart, I’m a little more possessive than I realized.” His hands slide under his shirt on my bare thighs. “And if you’re angry—”

  “I’m not angry,” I say, leaning forward and tangling fingers in his loose hair, his protectiveness, possessiveness even, hitting a nerve and not a bad one. “I’m not,” I say, shoving away the memory now stirred, and focusing on this man, the man that matters. “I need you too much, Nick. I need you to know that’s scaring me because I’m afraid you’ll see it as something it’s not.”

  “Then we’ll be scared together, because I need you, Faith. So fucking much it hurts. Don’t make me feel that alone because you’re afraid of getting hurt. Because I’m just as afraid.”

  I pull back to look at him. “You’re afraid.”

  “Yes. And I don’t do fear. I don’t wear it well, remember?”

  “God, Nick. You are—”

  He kisses me, a deep, drugging kiss before he pulls back, those deep dark blue eyes meeting mine. “I am what?”

  “Everything.”

  “I like that answer,” he says softly. “And in the midst of everything, I am the man who very much wants to fall asleep with you in his arms and wake up the same way, ready to go kick the bank’s ass. Let’s make that happen.”

  I nod. “Yes. I’d like that.”

  “What’s your bedtime ritual?”

  “Before I stopped painting, I would lay in bed and listen to music and think about what I might put on the canvas. What about you?”

  “I go to bed.”

  I laugh. “That’s pretty basic.”

  “I keep what I can simple.” He kisses my forehead and stands up. “I’ll be right back.” He walks into the bathroom, and it hits me that I haven’t taken off my make-up, but right now, I just don’t care. I slip under the blankets and flip out my bedside light, inhaling the spicy, wonderful scent of Nick clinging to the blankets.

  Nick reappears in the bathroom doorway, still shirtless, his hair tied back again, his jeans replaced with pajama bottoms. He flips out the bathroom light and it’s not long before he’s in bed with me, propped against the headboard, his phone in his hand. “Music,” he says, and with a punch of his finger, the soft, soothing sound of Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata fills the air.

  My lashes lower a moment, and I take in the delicate notes. “I love it.”

  “I thought you would,” Nick says, flipping off the light. A moment later, he’s lying on his back, and pulling me to his chest. “Name one movie this music was featured in,” I challenge, snuggling close to him, my hand on his chest.

  “Interview with a Vampire,” he says correctly. “Your turn.”

  “1970. Love Story. And it was a tragic love story that my mother loved.”

  “What’s your favorite movie, Faith?”

  “I don’t have one. You?”

  “Me neither.”

  “What’s wrong with us?”

  He laughs, that low, sexy laugh that is both soothing and arousing. “Let’s find one together,” he suggests. “It can be the first of many firsts for us.”

  “The first of many firsts,” I murmur. “I like that.”

  He strokes my hair. “Good. Now close your eyes and paint.”

  I shut my eyes. “Paint,” I whisper, listening to the music, the delicate touches of piano keys, thinking of my canvas. I can see myself painting, feel myself slipping into slumber. I have red paint, not black, and my brush is moving with purpose, speed. Emotion. The scene fades away and suddenly I am cold and hot and cold again. I fight to open my eyes and for a moment I do, feeling myself slipping in and out of a dream or a nightmare, but I can’t seem to escape it. And then I’m back in time, inside the memory Macom and Nick had stirred tonight with that phone conversation. I’m at the dinner club with Macom, and I don’t want to be there again. Not tonight. Not ever again. I don’t want to relive this. But as hard as I try, I can’t stop it from happening now any more than I could then.

  In my mind’s eye, I see myself in a short, silk, red Versace dress with deep cleavage that Macom had bought for me that night. Too much cleavage to suit me, but Macom likes to show me off. Maybe this should please me. Maybe it’s pride. It doesn’t please me, though, nor does it feel like pride. Macom himself is dressed in a black sweater and dress pants, his dark, curly hair neatly trimmed on the sides, longish on the top.

  We enter the fancy, five-star dining room, his hand at my waist, and men turn to look at me, when they would not look at other women in this part of the club—only those whose men allow their woman to be shared. I would not allow such a thing. I expect us to sit down, but instead we pass through a curtain, entering a sitting room that I’ve never visited, complete with a couch and two chairs framing a fireplace. Tom, a young and good-looking investment banker who often flirts with me, is standing at the fireplace. He looks up at our entry, eyes lighting in a way that tells me he’s waiting on us.

  “What is this?” I ask, but Macom doesn’t answer. His grip at my waist tightens and he urges me forward. “Macom, damn it,” I say, digging in my heels.

  He rotates me to face him, tangling fingers in my hair. “A new game.”

  “No, I—”

  His mouth closes down on mine in a deep kiss I cannot seem to escape, but I press on his chest and he finally pulls back. “Relax, Faith. Every game we play makes us hotter and better.”

  “You want to share me? Is that what this is?”

  “You’re mine. He’s just to borrow.” I shove back from him and I’m pissed. I start to walk out of the room, but anger gets the best of me. I turn and storm a path to Tom, stepping to him and kissing him. He molds me close, his hand quickly on my breast but I am done.

  I push away from him and find Macom standing almost directly behind me. “He tastes better than you.” I step around him and keep walking, straight out of the club door. And I keep walking, tears streaming down my face. I wanted my man to be protective, possessive, even. I’d wanted him to want me that much. But he doesn’t and I either have to leav
e or find a way to deal with the reality: There is no such thing as a fairy tale. And maybe that’s the problem. I wanted that fairy tale romance that doesn’t exist and I have missed that point. Everyone in that club, including Macom, knows that but me.

  The images go dark again, and I feel my heart racing, but the music returns to me. Moonlight Sonata. Soft piano playing. My hand on Nick’s chest, his breathing steady. Calm returns, and I slowly sink back into the music, reveling in the feel of Nick next to me. I fade into sleep, and my mind goes blank, a sense of relaxation overcoming me, but somehow I’m now standing in my mother’s garden. Or above it, looking down. My mother and father are there, kissing and laughing like young lovers, the way I remember them from my youth, but then my uncle walks up, taps my father on the shoulder and my father backs up. My uncle takes my father’s place with my mother and starts to kiss her. My father just watches. I start screaming at him, not them, but it’s like I’m not really there. Like he can’t hear me, or won’t hear me.

  I gasp and sit up, blinking into sunlight, a new day already upon us, and Nick is no longer in bed with me. “Faith,” Nick calls out, rushing from the bathroom, now dressed in sweatpants and a t-shirt. “Sweetheart. Are you okay?”

  “Nightmare,” I say, throwing away the covers and scooting to the side of the bed. “Why are you dressed like that? Don’t you have work?”

  “I have a gym in the basement of the house. I was going to ask you to join me, but you were dead to the world. You want to talk about the nightmare?”

  I inhale and let it out. “Yes and no.”

  He settles on his knee in front of me, his hands under his shirt, and on my knees this time. “You have a few hours before you leave for the gallery, in which you could paint. Maybe you need to paint to clear your mind?”

  “How can you know me this well?”

  “Because I care enough to pay attention, Faith.”

  “Would you ever take me to your club?” I blurt, before I can stop myself.

  Something flickers in his eyes, there and gone, in an instant. “Do you want me to?”