by K. C. Ale
Craig plops back on the bed, arms out. “Oh my God, this is just like in Pretty Woman.”
“Gemma’s not a prostitute, King.”
I hold up a stilling finger. “Quite the contrary.” And redirect that finger to my chest. “Virgin, remember?” I add sardonically.
Craig waves that off, eyes gone dreamy. “Minor detail.” Then he veers up, suddenly distressed. “Where is this alleged money? Because - and don’t freak, buttercup - I packed up all your stuff, and I didn’t see no three and a half grand. That’s not something I would’ve missed.”
My heart stops. Literally knocked out for the count. “That can’t be. I hid it under my mattress.”
Craig pauses, wheels briskly turning in his head. “Hm… okay, maybe I didn’t check there.”
Letting out an exasperated exhale, Jamie turns his focus on me. “Why don’t we bring you the money? Then you can leave it behind when you’re ready to go. Brad Hawkes doesn’t have to know until you’re good and gone.”
“Please, that’s ridiculous. She should totally spend the money. She earned it by putting up with that dictatorial jackass. And let’s not forget, he fired her father.” Craig implores me with sincere brown eyes. “You should consider it your father’s severance. If you ask me, that’s not nearly enough.”
Jamie gapes at Craig. “Have you lost your mind? He’s trying to buy her. That’s absolutely unacceptable.” He swivels back to me. “You should return the money. Since he denied his part, and you’re one hundred percent certain the money was from him, just dump it somewhere in the house and send him a note when you’re safely away.”
“At least I had a mind to lose,” Craig argues heatedly, head jerking back on his neck at Jamie. “You’re just talking out of your ass. He gave her the money, and she certainly needs it more than him.”
“The only reason a man would unload that kind of cash on a woman is if he’s after something. Gemma doesn’t need that kind of trouble.”
“Um… guys?”
Both men ignore me.
“He denied being responsible. Who cares? It’s not like he’s making her sign something. There’s no proof it’s even from him.” Craig feigns searching around the bedding. “Oh look, no receipt. Guess it’s finders keepers.”
“That’s not the kind of person Gemma is, Craig. You should know this. She wouldn’t be able to live with herself.”
“She’s right here,” I interrupt, attempting to remind them of the woman in question.
Craig scoffs. “She’ll live just fine three thousand five hundred dollars richer.”
Now I remember why I didn’t want to tell my two roommates about the money.
Twelve
Brad
“Those two sure yammer on a lot,” Carlson reveals offhandedly after I caught him shamelessly eavesdropping by the door outside of Gemma’s bedroom. “Especially the shorter one. Craig King. He couldn’t stop talking about how she should spend your money.”
“Gemma’s money,” I correct, marching him right back into the kitchen with Bull happily prancing behind. Snatching the black apron he abandoned earlier, I shove it against his bloated chest. “And would it kill you to show her some respect?”
Looping the top around his thick, veiny neck, Carlson begins twisting the ties at his back. “It wasn’t disrespect. It was curiosity. You pay me to be on top of things.” He shrugs nonchalantly. “Just doing my job.”
“Your job doesn’t include sticking your big fat nose in Gemma’s business.”
One corner of his mouth jerks up. “I seem to recall you lecturing me about how Gemma’s business is your business, therefore, I was doing my job.”
“Therefore, get your ass to the stove and start cooking. Gemma is partial to lasagna. Make that your business.”
“Whatever you say, boss. And by the way,” he adds cheekily over one shoulder as he rolls up his shirtsleeves and busies himself retrieving the makings out of the refrigerator and butler’s pantry. The old scar on his brow stretches with his haughty expression. “She’s planning to cash bomb you.”
“Say what?”
“The money,” he clarifies patiently, unhooking a large stainless-steel pot to fill with water. “She’s gonna leave it here when you’re not looking.”
That’s absurd. “Why wouldn’t she keep the money? It’s hers.”
“Not according to the other one. That Jamie fellow.” Allowing time for the water to boil, Carlson moves on to peeling garlic, a hopeful Bull peering up for raining snacks. “I dunno. Something about her being a prostitute.”
“What?” In a blink I’m shoving an overgrown shoulder. He trips back a step and startles a yelp from Bull. “What did you call her?”
He merely sighs. “Would you calm the fuck down, man? No one called her anything. I swear, I don’t know what it is about this girl, but she’s sending your id all over the place.” The scarred brow hikes up when I continue to glare at him. “You mind? That garlic isn’t going to peel…” His gaze flies up to something over my shoulder. “Hey, man. You need something?”
Turning, I find Craig King hovering by the kitchen, pursing his lips in consideration as he takes in my rigid stance and the clenched fists at my sides. His interested gaze darts between me and Carlson before settling on me.
“Gemma has a yearning for tea,” he says a bit too casually. “Black with a mountain of cream, if you have it.” He doesn’t even attempt to hide his curiosity as he makes his way fully into the kitchen, holding out a hand. “I don’t think we’ve officially met. Craig King. You stopped by Conyers’ about a month ago. I bartend there. I’m also Gemma’s friend and roommate, but then, you already knew that.”
He grins. All perfect white teeth.
I return the handshake, brief and business-like. “Brad Hawkes.”
Not one to be left out, Bull entertains himself by sniffing at the unfamiliar sneakers.
“I know.” Those pearly whites are still flashing. “Of Hawkes Construction. Peter Warton’s paycheck used to be signed by you.”
“Peter Warton used to be a lot of things.” Deliberately, Carlson steps between me and the harmless newcomer. His massive frame and colorful I-heart-prison ink are no less intimidating adorned in an apron. “And he’ll be something different once he’s done in Arizona.”
I don’t need Carlson to fight my battles. His job as security is really to help keep me sane most of the time – which doesn’t speak well for my sanity.
“Tea, Carlson? I think Gemma would appreciate that special blend you picked up on our last overseas trip.”
Carlson knows his place. Mostly. He levels Craig King with a long warning glare before going to do my bidding.
“Lovely guy,” observes King derisively, eyes lingering on the pantry where Carlson disappeared. “Is the shell he hatched out of in a museum somewhere, or is it hidden with the mothership?”
Ignoring his jibes, I say, “Gemma is fine. Peter Warton will be the same. There’s no need to be concerned.”
When the brown eyes land on me, they’re direct, unflinching, with none of the mockery from a second ago. “I’m not worried about Peter Warton. Not really. He’s been nothing but a toxin to Gemma, yet she allowed it. As far as I’m concerned, he can stay in Arizona. You, on the other hand, I’m not too sure about.”
There’s no blatant hostility or antagonism from the other man. He’s simply stating a fact. I welcome the earnest candor, but I’m not here to prove anything to anyone other than to Gemma. “Fair enough, considering the feeling is mutual.” It’s no less than the truth, and based on his reaction, he knows I’m not just wielding my dick. “Gemma is safe here, not to mention she’ll be well taken care of.”
“I believe you, but I wonder where her place is in all this, especially when her father returns.”
“That’s for me to handle.”
His head cants, unswerving gaze boring into me. “Brad Hawkes,” he says. “Who are you? Really.”
“That’s also not for you t
o worry about.”
“That’s where you’re wrong.” His easygoing features harden in an instant. “I’ve known Gemma a long time. She’s the closest thing I have to a sister, and I won’t stand by and watch her get hurt.”
I might not have whipped out my dick, but this guy is all but unzipping. I’ve never cared for cockfights. “I would never hurt Gemma. She’s here so I can make sure no one else does.”
He makes a measured point to survey the vast house, the high ceiling and gleaming floor, the tasteful and precise furnishings, skimming a careful finger over the glossy marble countertop. Then he’s smirking at me. “Tell me, Brad Hawkes, have you seen the movie Pretty Woman?”
I don’t show my impatience or annoyance at the ridiculous question. “Can’t say that I have.”
“Pity.”
*****
Restlessness is a viscous contaminant mercilessly tainting my body. Overused muscles that never said no to a good crashing are twitching for some unnamed action. From one end to the far other, I pace the long hallway, losing count how many times I breeze by Gemma’s bedroom. After lifting his questioning head once to gaze at me, Bull dropped it on his paws and watched without judgement from his sprawled post right outside her shut door.
She was up and about a half an hour ago, rummaging around in her room. I nearly pulled a Carlson and wedged my ear to the door, hoping for a clue as to what she was doing in there. Only the pathetic image of me diving head first into her room when she yanked the door open stopped me.
Her roommates left hours ago, promising to visit in a couple of days. I ruthlessly reminded myself she needed rest and left her alone instead of barging in like some amateur stalker. I take exception to that. I might be a stalker, but I’m no amateur.
It turned out, there was no need to snoop. The faint sound of the shower coming on from the en-suite bath was clue enough.
So was the breath-stealing picture of Gemma naked and wet, delicate, soapy hands running over her gorgeous pale skin. Over those perky tits. Between her creamy, luscious legs.
That was when I got a speeding ticket in my own hallway.
If Peter Warton knows I’m having these salivating and lascivious thoughts about her innocent daughter, he’d stab me with a broken bottle. After he pulls every lazy drop out of it.
No, Peter Warton believes I care about Gemma, want the best for her due to some outlandish duty to take care of her from childhood. He’s not wrong.
But there’s more to it now. Perhaps the more has always lain in wait, and it just took her charging into my office, shyly but firmly demanding for her father’s job back, to blast that door wide open and left me breathing that aching fire again.
Carlson accused me of needing closure, that once Gemma’s obstinate memory returns and she remembers me from all those years ago, I’d move on with life without the Wartons.
Closure implies there’s an ending. The thought of a finale with Gemma isn’t something I’m ready to consider.
There’s a second of warning when Bull leaps up, then Gemma is throwing open the door and her slim figure is framed by the entry.
Pretty gaze instantly collides with mine.
It lowers, slowly cruising over my chest. I hadn’t bothered with a shirt after my own shower. There was no point when I prefer not to have anything between me and smooth sheets.
Since she doesn’t seem to be in a hurry to look elsewhere, I figure it’s fair game for my own admiring eyes to wander.
Fresh, rosy skin left dewy from her shower, hair damp and loose over smooth, bare shoulders just grazing the top of her tits.
And fuck.
Her braless tits.
Oh yes, I notice. Hell yeah, I notice.
Notice the pebbled tips poking against the flimsy cotton of the pink tank top. I can’t tear my riveted gaze from the unbound swells gently swaying as she shifts her weight from one foot to the other. Or those amazing, tongue-lolling legs.
Long and shapely, all soft, pale skin further enhanced by the tiny faded gray material that’s more sexy panties than shorts. Even her feet are crazy hot with the chipped color dotting the stubby nails.
A sudden excited gasp jerks my slobbering focus back.
“Oh my God! A beagle!” Gemma coos with abandoned delight, taunting Bull into a raging beast of elation at her feet. Hands on bent knees, she leans just as Bull springs, hopping and panting around his new friend. “Such a pretty boy.” Her delicate hands get to work patting and scratching, her feminine voice taking on that baby-tutting tone that women assumes whenever they see a moderately domesticated furball. “Who’s a pretty boy? You are! Yes, you are.”
I barely squash the urge to throw a hand up. Me! Me! Me!
For three years I’ve had that ungrateful hound, I mutter to myself in disgust. I never thought I’d ever find myself envious of the strutting four-legged mongrel.
Then again, that spoiled mutt is the reason I’m getting an eyeful of pert, jiggling breasts. The well-worn tank is dangerously close to giving up. A few more vigorous pettings and I just might be lucky enough to find out the color of her nipples.
Reaching down, I discreetly adjust the front of my suddenly constraining sweats. Bull isn’t the only one slobbering all over the oblivious Gemma.
“I love beagles.” Gemma bustles to no one in particular, picking up and cradling the love-starved pooch clamoring for her affection. “Oh, he’s so cute.”
I know. You always wanted one.
Shooting out the pent-up air jammed forgotten in my chest, I sigh with disappointment. Tit blocked by my stupid dog.
“I think he likes you too,” I say wryly, watching the eager Bull smother her with sloppy kisses, pleased beyond belief at her flagrant joy. “His name’s Bull.”
Her grin pulls back even more. “As in Bullwinkle?”
“As in Bullshit.”
She only laughs, the vibrant sound jingling the hallway. “That’s a terrible name.”
I shrug. “But apt.”
She’s quiet for a spell, dotingly clasping Bull against her chest and burying her nose in his short fur. When she next speaks, her radiant smile has dimmed, her eyes downcast and trained on the dog. “Does he sleep with you?”
The first thing that happily occurs to me is: Maybe she wants to take Bull’s spot.
It’s immediately followed by: She wants to sleep curled up on the floor?
“He has a bed in my room,” I offer cautiously. “He spends the night there.”
An edgy hesitation, then, “Can he stay with me? For tonight, I mean.”
My gaze drops to the angry color dotting her slender neck. The scarf she borrowed earlier before her guests arrived is gone, leaving the menacing bruises exposed. She didn’t attempt to cover them up, perhaps because she hadn’t expected to find me still up, haunting the quiet hallway and anxiously waiting for any hint of her.
And she’s scared. Gemma was never good at accepting fear, never wanted to admit there wasn’t anything she couldn’t overcome if she only put her mind to it.
Including forgetting me.
“If you don’t mind his snoring,” I offer, playing down the blind rage inside me at the reminder of some fucker with his hands on her. The curl fists jam their way into the loose pockets of my sweats, but I ruthlessly school my expression to one of calmness, wishing like hell it’s me she depends on for protection instead of my lazy pet. “And the occasional flatulence.”
She makes a face. “Are you sure you’re talking about the dog?”
Shaking my head, I can’t quite suppress the chuckle despite my stewing blood. Only Gemma can lighten my sour mood without trying. “You might be right.” Taking a chance, I free one of my hands and hold it out. “Come on.”
She stares at the extended limb as though it holds the answer to a question she doesn’t dare ask.
And stares some more.
I wait. Patient. Composed. She’s going to have to learn to trust me, and if it takes all night, it’s a start.
/> Just as my arm starts to go numb and fall off, she sets Bull on the floor without a word and gingerly clasps it.
That simple gesture, and I feel it down to my toes.
I lead her down the stairs, Bull bounding down ahead of us. The house is dark with only a few ambient lights guiding us. It’s nearly midnight, and Carlson is back at the guesthouse where he calls home.
“Where are we going?” she finally voices in a barely audible tone when we pass the family room.
“You haven’t eaten,” I say by way of answer. She’d dozed off soon after her friends left, and Carlson had grumbled about slaving the evening away at the oven for sleeping beauty. “There’s lasagna, your favorite.”
Gemma is reticent, her fingers limp in my hand. In the kitchen, I go about heating up the dish and taking out two glasses and paper plates before setting them on the island. Bull keenly observes my every move, panting and eager for the kitchen to abruptly start showering him with Italian food.
“There’s an excellent Pinot Grigio that would go well with this. I’m not an avid drinker, so it’s been here for quite some time. I thought we’d pop it open tonight. Carlson’s a great cook, though he likes to give me hell about not fending for myself,” I shrug, retrieving the bottle. “I don’t see why there’s a need when I have him. I had someone who did some of the cooking for me, but that recently didn’t work out.”
When there’s only disturbing silence, I glance up.
Gemma is openly gaping at me with bewilderment and dread. “How did you know lasagna was my favorite?”
Thirteen
Gemma
The wine opener halt midair in Brad’s competent hand. Just a breath of hesitation, but I notice it. In a blink it’s as if he hadn’t just revealed something about me that a near stranger shouldn’t know, his long fingers strong and purposeful as he pops open the bottle.
He bobs a shoulder, lightly pouring. “Isn’t that everyone’s favorite?” he offers carelessly without looking up.