“You’re too young for that discussion,” he added, silently cursing the roughness of his tone.
“Oh really?” She tilted her head to the side. “You do know I’m only four years younger than you, right? Or are you having trouble with remembering things at your advanced old age of thirty?”
He narrowed his eyes on her. “Brat,” he rumbled.
“Not the first time I’ve heard that,” she said, something murkier than the shadows they stood in shifting in her eyes. But then she smiled, and the warmth of it almost convinced him that the emotion had been a trick of the dark. “So don’t hold back. And start with the good stuff. And by good, I mean very, very bad.”
He exhaled, studying her through the plume of fragrant smoke he blew through slightly parted lips. “You think you can handle my bad, Ray?” he taunted, deliberately using the masculine nickname that used to make her roll her eyes in annoyance.
Anything to remind him that he’d once caught her and Harley practicing kissing on his cousin’s pillows. That she used to crush on boy bands with more synthesizers than talent. That he’d wiped her tears and offered to pound on the little shit that had bullied her on the playground over something she couldn’t change—her skin color.
Anything to reinforce that she wasn’t one of the women whose front doors would witness his walks of shame.
With an arch of a brow, she leaned forward so she couldn’t help but inhale the evaporating puff. “Try me,” she whispered.
A low, insistent throb pulsed low in his gut, and his abs clenched, as if grasping for that familiar but somehow different grip of desire.
Desire. For Reagan? Wrong. So damn wrong.
Coward, a sibilant voice hissed at him. And he mentally flipped it off, shifting backward and leaning a shoulder against a stone column.
“Let’s see,” he said, valiantly injecting a lazy note of humor into his voice. “I can put away an entire meat lovers pizza by myself and not use a coaster for my beer. I’m unreasonably grouchy if I’m awake before the god-awful hour of seven o’clock. Especially if there’s no coffee to chase away my pain. And—this one I’m kind of embarrassed to admit—I buy at least five pairs of socks every month. Apparently, my dryer is a portal to a world where mismatched socks are some kind of special currency. And since I can’t abide not matching, I’m constantly a spendthrift on new pairs. There. You now know all of my immoralities.”
A beat of silence, and then, “Really?”
He smirked. “Really,” he replied, then jerked his chin up. “Your turn. Regale me with all of your sins, little Ray.”
As he’d expected, irritation glinted in her chocolate eyes. “I have no idea how I can follow that, but here goes.” He huffed out a low chuckle at the thick sarcasm coating her words. “Every night, I slip downstairs after everyone has gone to bed and have a scotch by myself. No one to judge me, you see? Since my nightly ritual could be early signs of me becoming an alcoholic like my uncle James. What else?”
She hummed, trailing her fingertips over her collarbone, her lashes lowering in a pretense of deep thought. But Ezekiel knew better. She’d already given this a lot of consideration. Had already catalogued her perceived faults long before this conversation.
Acid swirled in his stomach, creeping a path up his chest. He straightened from his lounge against the pillar, prepared to nip this in the bud, but she forestalled him by speaking again. And though a part of him yearned to tell her to stop, to warn her not to say another word, the other part... Yeah, that section wanted to hear how imperfect she was. Craved it. Because it made him feel less alone.
More human.
God, he was such a selfish prick.
And yet, he listened.
“I hate roses. I mean, loathe them. Which is important because my mother loves them. And every morning there are fresh bouquets of them delivered to the house for every room, including the kitchen. And every day I fight the urge to knock one down just to watch them scatter across the floor in a mess of water, petals and thorns. Because I’m petty like that. And finally...”
She inhaled, turning to look at him, those eyes, stark and utterly beautiful in their intensity, pinning him to his spot against the railing. “Once a month, I drive over to Joplin and visit the bars and restaurants to find a man to take to a hotel for a night. We have hot, filthy sex and then I leave and return home to be Royal socialite darling Reagan Sinclair again.”
Heat—blistering hot and scalding—blasted through him, punching him in the chest and searing him to the bone. Jesus, did she just...? Holy fuck. Lust ate at him. Lust...and horror. Not because she took charge of her own sexuality. It was a twisted and unfair double standard, how men like him could escort woman after woman on his arm, and screw many more, with only an elbow nudge or knowing wink from society. But a woman doing the same thing? Especially one of Reagan’s status? Hell no. So for her to take her pleasure into her own hands? He didn’t fault her for it.
But the thought of her trolling those establishments filled with drunk men? Some man who wouldn’t have an issue with not taking the utmost care with her? Of potentially hurting her? That sent fear spiking through him, slaying him.
And then underneath the horror swirled something else. Something murkier. Edgier. And better off not being unearthed or examined too closely.
“Reagan...” he whispered.
“Relax,” she scoffed, flicking a hand toward his face. “I made the last one up. But turnabout is fair play since I’m almost eighty-two percent sure you were lying to me about at least one of yours. Maybe two.”
He froze. Stared at her. Stunned...and speechless. Mirror emotions—hilarity and anger—battled it out within him. He didn’t know whether to strangle her for taking twenty years off his life... Or double over with laughter loud enough to bring people rushing through those balcony doors.
“That wasn’t very nice,” he finally muttered, his fingers in danger of snapping his prized cigar in half. “And payback is not only a bitch but a vengeful one.”
“I’m shaking in my Jimmy Choos,” she purred.
And this time, he couldn’t hold back the bark of laughter. Or the goodness of it. Surrendering to the need to touch her, even if in a platonic manner, he moved forward and slipped an arm around her shoulders, hugging Reagan into his side like he used to do when she’d worn braces and friendship bracelets.
There was nothing girlish about the body that aligned with his. Nothing pure about the stirrings in his chest and gut...then lower. A new strain took up residence in his body. One that had nothing to do with the whispers and gossiping awaiting him inside. This tension had everything to do with her light, teasing scent, the slender hand branding his chest, the firm, beautiful breasts that pressed against him.
Still, he squeezed her close before releasing her.
“Thank you, Reagan,” he murmured.
She studied him, nothing coy in that straightforward gaze. “You’re welcome,” she said, not pretending to misunderstand him. Another thing he’d always liked about her. Reagan Sinclair didn’t play games. At least not with him. “That’s what friends are for. And regardless how it appears right now, you have friends, Zeke,” she said softly, using his nickname.
He stared down at her. At the kindness radiating from her eyes. An admonishment to hide that gentle heart of hers from people—from him—hovered on his tongue. The need to contradict her skulked right behind it.
Instead, he set his cigar down on an ashtray some enterprising soul had left outside on a wrought iron table. He wasn’t an animal, so he didn’t stub it out like a cigarette, but left it there to burn out on its own. In a while, he’d come back to dispose of it.
Turning to Reagan, he crooked his arm and waited. Without hesitation, she slid hers through his, but as they turned, the balcony door swung open and Douglas Sinclair stepped out.
Ezekiel knew the older ma
n, as he was a member of the TCC. Tall, lanky and usually wearing his signature giant Stetson, he could’ve been an African-American version of the Marlboro Man. He shared the same brown eyes as his daughter, and right now those eyes were trained on them—or rather on Reagan’s arm tucked into his.
A moment later, Douglas lifted his gaze and met Ezekiel’s. Her father didn’t voice his displeasure, but Ezekiel didn’t miss the slight narrowing of his eyes or the barely-there flattening of his mouth. No, Douglas Sinclair was too polite to tell Ezekiel to get his hands off his daughter. But he stated it loud and clear just the same. Ezekiel might be a TCC member as well, but that didn’t mean the traditional, reserved gentleman would want his precious daughter anywhere near him.
Not when Ezekiel’s family had been accused of falsifying inspections on the jets that WinJet, a subsidiary of Wingate Enterprises, manufactured. Not when three of their workers had been injured on the job because of a fire in one of the manufacturing plants due to a faulty sprinkler system. Not when they’d been sued for those injuries because those inspections hadn’t been up-to-date as the reports had stated.
Even as VP of marketing for Wingate Enterprises, Ezekiel had found it damn near impossible to spin this smear on their name. No one wanted to do business with a company so corrupt it would place profit above their employees’ welfare. Not that his family was guilty of this sin. But public perception was everything.
And while most of the club members had stood behind the Wingates, Douglas hadn’t been vocal in his belief in their innocence.
So it was no wonder the man didn’t look pleased to find his daughter hiding in the dark with Ezekiel.
Not that Ezekiel could blame him. Reagan shouldn’t be out here with him. But not for the reasons her father harbored.
“Reagan,” Douglas said, one hand remaining on the door and holding it open. “Your mother has been looking for you. It’s almost time for dinner, and Devon Granger is eager to escort you into the dining room since you’ll be sitting next to him.”
Ezekiel caught the soft sigh that escaped her, and felt the tension invade her slender frame. But when she spoke, her tone remained as soft and respectful as any dutiful daughter to a father she loved and revered.
“Thanks, Dad. I’ll be there in a moment,” she murmured.
“I’ll wait for you,” came his implacable reply.
If possible, she stiffened even more, but her lovely features didn’t reflect her irritation. Still, anger for the other man’s high-handedness kindled in Ezekiel’s chest. She was a grown woman, for God’s sake, not a wayward toddler. His arm tautened, trapping hers in the crook of his elbow. Next to him, Reagan tipped her head up, glancing at him.
What the hell are you doing?
Deliberately, he relaxed his body, releasing her and stepping to the side.
“It was nice seeing you again, Reagan,” Ezekiel said. Switching his attention to Douglas, he gave the man an abrupt nod. “You, too, Douglas.”
“Ezekiel.” Then, extending his hand to his daughter, he added, “Reagan.”
She glided forward, sliding her hand into her father’s. She didn’t shoot one last look over her shoulder at him. Didn’t toss him another of her gentle, teasing smiles or a final farewell. Instead, she disappeared through the door, leaving him in darkness once more.
And yeah, it was for the best.
No matter her father’s reasons for not wanting to leave her alone with Ezekiel, his concerns were valid. If anyone else had noticed that she stood alone with him in the shadows, the rumors would’ve burned like a brushfire.
And the longer they remained enclosed in the dark, the harder it would’ve become for him to remember that she was off-limits to him. Because of their history. Because she was too good for him. Because her parents were seeking out a suitable man for her.
And Ezekiel—a man with a slowly crumbling business empire and more emotional baggage than the airplanes WinJet manufactured—wasn’t a good bet.
Not a good bet at all.
Copyright © 2020 by Harlequin Books S.A.
Keep reading for an excerpt Here to Stay by Adriana Herrera
Here to Stay
by Adriana Herrera
Chapter One
Julia
If you assumed that being a grown-ass woman who paid her bills and lived ten states away from my Dominican mother meant she would not be all up in my business, you’d be wrong.
“Mamí, I gotta go. I need to go and see my boss. It’s important.” My stomach dipped, remembering how my boss pressed had sounded. Gail, who was usually cool as a cucumber, was pretty flustered when she’d asked to see me. Not that I blamed her. Things around here were getting more stressful by the minute. My new job, on paper, was a dream.
A job as program director for the Sturm Foundation. Not only did I get to do the work I was passionate about, but I was also employed by one of the most iconic high-end department stores in the world. There was also that seriously impressive employee discount.
Sample sales and meaningful work... I was living the dream.
Except as soon as I got to Dallas, the boyfriend I moved across the country for dumped me for his side-chick. And now six months later when I finally felt like I was settling in, things had taken a not-so-great turn at work. So arriving late to an important meeting with my boss was not the best move I’d ever made, and yet here I was in a hallway making a personal call. Because my family was my Kryptonite and they knew it.
“Okay, pero abuelita wants to say hi.” My mother was aware things at my job were stressful, but that did not keep her from laying on the guilt. “You know she gets worried about you down there by yourself.” You’d think instead of Dallas I’d relocated to the moon. I hoped my mother didn’t start with the guilt trip and demands to come back home. I was not in the mood and it was not the time.
I looked around the empty hallway to check if anyone was around and nodded like my mother could see me. “Fine, Mami, but just one minute.” Sturm’s headquarters was in a downtown Dallas building built in 1914. It was gorgeous inside and out but like only vintage architecture could be, but the halls were narrow and the ceilings low, so it wasn’t like I could go unnoticed while lurking in a corner. I wasn’t trying to get myself on the radar of anyone who could fire me, especially now that we seemed to be in a Code Red at the foundation. After just a couple of months into my new position, the higher-ups at Sturm’s had announced that the fashion empire was preparing to go public after almost sixty years as a private company. They’d hired a firm to help them in the process and in the last week they had deployed a team of men and women power that had been walking through the hallways looking like a wolf pack hunting for prey. They were very easy to spot in their dark and boring suits, a striking contrast to the Sturm’s workforce, who, no matter what shape or size, walked around looking runway ready.
Gail had warned me that our program—hell, the whole foundation—was on the team leader’s radar and very likely to end up on the chopping block. So, me chatting on my phone instead of sitting at my cube working was not likely to go over well. I winced, remembering I’d seen him walking around this morning.
“Lita, mija, are you still there?” I almost jumped three feet in the air when the voice of my grandmother startled me out of my anxious inner ramblings.
“Aqui estoy, Abue.”
“Your Mamí said you’re trying to meet strangers from the computer.” I cracked a smile at my grandmother’s suspicion for anything that happened via the internet.
“Abue, I am not meeting people from the computer. They all work here.” I could barely hold back a laugh as a round of tongue clicking ensued. “We’re just planning a meetup using an app, because the company is big and we don’t all know each other.” I tried to sound as reassuring as possible because neither my mother nor my grandmother were above getting on a plane and crashing my h
appy hour.
There was more shuffling, which probably meant that someone else was getting a turn at instructing me on how to be a functioning adult.
“Li.” My name is Julia. A pretty short name, but somehow my family had come up with at least twenty variations to it.
Julita, Lita, Li, Tali...the five letters of my name offered infinite possibilities for my relatives.
“Mija, are you listening?” And it seemed my mother was still not done.
“Si, Mami.” I managed to keep the sigh all the way down in my chest.
“Did you get the thing I sent you?”
I was grateful for the fact that we were not on FaceTime and twisted my mouth to the side, because my mother truly did too much.
“You mean the box full of dry beans and adobo? Seriously, Yolanda.” I smirked picturing her narrowing her eyes at me using her name.
“Fresca.” I laughed at that, my mother was not down with me calling her by her name. “I’m not one of your little friends, Julia del Mar.”
I cleared my throat in an effort to at least sound a little less like I was laughing at her. “How am I being fresh? You know it’s true. With all the Goya food you’ve sent me I just need to get a Yankees fitted and I’ll be able to open a bodega out of my apartment.”
“Tan exagerada.” She tried really hard to sound mad, but I could hear the hint of a smile in her voice.
“I’m not exaggerating, I got pounds of guandules in my apartment.” My mother had taken my move hard. I knew she missed me. I missed her too, but I was determined to make a go of things here. I would not go back to New York City with my tail between my legs.
“I know it’s disappointing, but I need to do this right now, okay?” I pushed down the knot in my throat and tried to scare off the tears pooling in my eyes by staring up at the ceiling. Crying on the phone with my mother would really set off a rescue operation. “I need to stay here, and see this job through. Matt wasn’t the only reason why I came to Texas.”
The Rebel's Redemption Page 17