by Angel Payne
“And Claire Montgomery is?” Her gaze narrowed. “That was what the mooning over each other at the gala was about, right?” She moved back in with relentless drive, grabbing the front of my shirt. “Let me tell you something about our little Claire. She’s on the prudish side, okay?” The woman studied me for a reaction. Wisely I gave none, despite the temptation to tell her how I’d been balls-deep inside “little Claire” atop the SGC conference table a few days ago. “She can’t give you what you need, Killian. I can.”
I hissed when her fingers tweaked my left nipple through my shirt. Margaux gave a seductive giggle and started moving to the other side. I grabbed her hard. “There’s a damn good chance you’re wrong about that.”
She peered at our twined fingers with a delighted smile, not only oblivious to what I’d said but obviously making up a replacement statement in her head—something along the lines of Gee, I want you, too, Margaux. “Oh, Killian!” She leaned in, seized my shirt’s top button in her teeth, and ripped hard enough to tear it away.
“What the hell?” I snarled it while she repeated the treatment with the second button. “Margaux, this is fucking—”
“Amazing.” She licked along my jaw, down my neck, and to my sternum in one wild swoop. “Oh yes, Killian. You’re as hard and perfect as I imagined. And you taste like a delicious mansicle.”
Mansicle?
“Okay, we’re done.” I congratulated myself for not bellowing it as I pushed away—or at least tried to. Margaux had attached her lips to me like a damn barnacle. Despite the position, she found a way to use the force of my action to pop the third button free, as well. “Damn it, Margaux! We are—”
“Shut up.” Her pitch from passion to rage didn’t shock me. That was a good thing. Self-control, or my semblance of it, was easier to maintain as she went for the attitude with gusto. With a fiery glare and curling lips, she pushed toward me again. “We’re done when I say we’re done.”
I didn’t fuck around with niceties anymore. Circling both her wrists with my hands, I clamped down and then shoved her back. “We’re done now.”
She gave a bull-like grunt. Yeah, I’d just waved her red flag. “Drink. Your. Wine.”
On the last word, she scooped up my discarded glass and thrust it at me. I took it with the intention of giving the thing a fast round trip back to the counter, but Margaux had other plans. She launched back at me, stare locked on my lips, once more a barnacle—demanding an upgrade. Since that wasn’t happening, I fended her off with an instinctive push. But the wine was still in my hand. The glass didn’t just tip. It spilled. All over Margaux’s cream sweater.
“Shit.” We blurted it together before she slammed her glass down. With the dish towel, she dabbed at the stains. The action only spread the mess.
“Fabulous,” Margaux spat. “You treat all your house guests this well?”
“Not the ones who are actually invited.”
She blew out another long breath. “Do you have any club soda?”
I ducked into the laundry room and came back out with a small spray bottle. “This is my valet’s private concoction. It’s potent enough to lift blood stains out of virgin lace, or so he tells me. Just take it and get the hell out of here.”
She huffed. “The stain will set. I need to get it out now.”
I clenched my teeth, fighting back the urge to bodily toss her out. The only factor stopping me was the cognizance that Claire’s arrival ticked closer by the second. If she walked off the elevator to the sight of me leaving the condo with Margaux in my arms…not an option.
“Buy a new goddamn sweater and expense it to SGC.”
“No.” Her makeup caked into her frown lines. “This was a special gift from Mother. She got it for me in Italy.”
“Margaux!”
I bellowed it into the bathroom door as she ducked inside, slammed the portal, and locked it on me.
Fuck.
I clicked at once into instinct-driven rage, sprinting for the stairs to the master bedroom. My fingers flew through the remaining buttons of my shirt, setting them free as I readied to shuck the thing in favor of a T-shirt. I’d clean up the wine in the kitchen if there was time.
Holy God, let there be time.
I’d only bounded two steps up when my dread came to life.
“Kil?” Claire’s bell of a voice sounded in the foyer. She walked in on her own set of stilt heels, the boots I’d had so much fun peeling off her in front of the fireplace. Tonight, she wore them over a pair of blue jeans with a casual cowl-neck sweater in a shade of pink that had become my favorite. Her hair was pulled up into a messy ponytail, also one of my fetishes because of how it bared her beautiful neck for my mouth.
I froze.
Fifteen minutes ago, I would have been halfway across the room, on my way to hauling her close, kissing her senseless, and wondering how long I’d have to wait for the chance to slide my hands up her sweater. Clearly, she expected the same thing, explaining why she cocked her head at me, a curious smile quirking her lips.
Take a deep breath and think this through. You’ve been in crappier binds than this before.
Even if I couldn’t think of a single one right now.
“Thanks for the great view,” Claire quipped, setting down her purse and approaching me. “But why are you changing your clothes without my help, Mr. Stone?”
When she got close enough, I yanked both her hands into mine. “It’s been…eventful around here tonight.”
I tugged her knuckles up to my lips, hoping the action compelled her gaze to mine—and the adoration I had waiting for her there. But her perusal stopped at my chest level. “What happened to your shirt? And what’s that red stuff on your neck…and your jaw? Shit, Kil. Did Adara develop a tigress-cougar thing for you and decide to pay a visit?”
I tightened my grip on her, forcing words past the goddamn cotton in my mouth. “Funny that you mentioned misbehaving wildlife.”
“Huh?”
“I—” Was brain dead. Numb with fear. And couldn’t simply spill that Margaux was here, without an explanation. This was where the nautical course hit a damn cyclone. I’d never had to worry about explanations before. Never had to worry because I’d never really cared. And never had to care because I’d purposely selected women who wouldn’t care in return. It was easier that way. Safer. Cleaner.
This situation was not clean.
And turned into a shit bath of a mess when Margaux emerged from the bathroom, clad in nothing but her panties.
“Oh my God, Kil. We made such a mess that it got all over my pants too. Can you believe—” She stopped, folded her arms, and bit her lip like Bashful the Dwarf given a bitch makeover. “Oh…errr…hiiii, Claire. Great news about the bimbos and the rock band, yeah?”
“Bimbos.” Claire rasped it from barely moving lips. “That’s clearly a subject I’ll defer to you from now on, Margaux.”
“Claire.” I growled it as she yanked her hands from mine. “This isn’t—”
“What it looks like?” She stepped back, shoulders hunching as she wrapped both arms around herself. “How stupid do you think I am, Killian?” A breath shook her whole body as she burst with a bitter laugh. “The answer to that one’s on the wall, right? Or, more accurately, finishing up the mess you made on her in your bathroom.”
“Damn it.” The curse seethed from me as I wheeled toward Margaux and seized her elbow. Not a peep of protest came out as I dragged her over. “Tell her,” I finally spat, jerking her to a stop. “Tell her exactly what happened, Margaux, and don’t you dare try any lies!”
The woman slid a sideways smirk at me, as if we shared a daring secret. “Fine. We had a little celebratory wine. Some got spilled. I had to change.”
The confession did nothing to change Claire’s stance. She still huddled on herself, eyes down, quivering. “Did the spill happen before or after you let her run lipstick down your neck and rip apart your shirt?”
Her shivering gutted me. I relea
sed Margaux and reached for her, needing to be her warmth again. Her shelter. Her trust. “Claire—”
“Don’t.” She skittered back. “Don’t, Killian. Please.”
The room literally tilted. Nausea rocked a nine-point Richter quake in my gut. My heart thudded so hard in my throat breathing became an optional choice on the survival menu. The only essential on that list was the woman who tugged her coat on and kept backing toward the door.
Fuck!
I released Margaux, now limiting my contact with her to nothing but my eyes, which burned with my rage. At the same time, I recognized the blinders that were yanked from them. I saw everything with sickening clarity. This had been Margaux’s end game all along. She’d sneaked in tonight with the intent of nudity happening on one or both of our parts—and if Claire hadn’t shown up to make the takedown easy, the little bitch would’ve found a way to capture the moments in photos or videos for later.
The schemer had gotten her way. Claire had warned me about how she operated, and I’d all but laughed off the threat. Now she’d taken down the tower she came to siege. And, goddamnit, the tower was me.
A thousand words rose to my throat, but I couldn’t make sense of what to say first. Facts were always broken down for me, presented so I made the best decision possible. I always had an action plan. Now, confronted with one of the most important things I’d ever say, I was fucking rudderless. What could I say to save myself? What the hell could I do? There was no plan. And absolutely everything at stake.
My hesitation came at a price. Claire moved instead—toward the door. “Don’t let me interrupt. Since you’re both clearly so comfortable…” She stopped in the foyer but didn’t turn. “Well, have fun.”
The door shut behind her with a hideous sad click that echoed throughout the condo.
Or maybe I had the sound mixed up with the cavern in my heart…the pit my spirit tumbled into during the minutes I couldn’t move. Or think. Or feel. Fuck, especially that.
With slow agony, I became aware of my body again, starting with the fists that coiled and uncoiled at my sides. “It’s…a misunderstanding,” I stammered. “She’ll have to see that. I’ll make her see. I’ll just find her and force her to listen. To understand—”
That the reason she held her heart back from you was because of a bastard who shattered her exactly like this? Only that time, she found the guy with her friend instead of a sad, manipulative shrew who’s promised to ruin her life if she so much as sneezes the wrong way.
“Killian?”
Speak of the devil. Literally.
A haze of rage descended over my senses. I punched through it at a furious pace, sweeping Margaux’s purse from where she’d dumped it on the counter after the spill and hurling it into the foyer. “Get out, Margaux. Now.”
“But—”
“What part of now wasn’t clear enough for you?”
Her huff was like razor blades on the air. “She’s not worth this angst, okay? I know you don’t believe me now, but you’re going to be glad about this in a few days. Claire’s a little…silly when it comes to handling relationships. You need a woman who knows more about your world and about—”
I severed her speech by whirling on her with a roar so feral, I wasn’t sure it had come from me. But when the pain of it clung to the air afterward, I took full ownership. My voice, when I found it again, was a contrast of slithering fury. “You know nothing about my world, Margaux. Now get the fuck out.”
Her eyes widened, indicating the bath of fear she clearly, finally took. I would have grinned in satisfaction, but feelings weren’t luxuries I could afford right now. Claire had already endured so much stress because of the drug dealer she’d once fallen for, and I refused to add a murderer to her plate.
I kept fighting the emotions as Margaux retrieved her clothes from the bathroom. Clenched my jaw against the wave, huge and freezing and terrible, that pushed against my soul like a tsunami behind a glass wall. I maintained the barrier while I watched the witch leave without another word.
I made it through another minute after that. Another. This would get easier—I was sure of it. Besides, it was only temporary. I gritted the words to myself as I rammed open the slider to the balcony, trying to get air into lungs that still wouldn’t cooperate, that listened too closely to the dread thundering in every goddamn beat of my heart. A din that shook harder and harder at the glass wall…
I closed my eyes and gripped the railing as the tidal wave broke through. It consumed me. Drowned me. Destroyed everything inside that finally, truly had been me.
Nearly a month later, my mind and soul still floated like rotten jetsam in that goddamn storm. Making it worse was the scene in which I found myself, a springtime bower that looked like Martha Stewart had dropped acid and gone to town on Keystone’s main pool deck. Giant urns overflowed with flowers in every shade of purple. Floating islands on the pool with the same blooms began to glow from the battery-operated twinkle lights hidden in the leaves. More mood lighting illuminated the miles of fluffy fabric adorning the gazebo where a jazz quintet played into the twilight, and the arbor, sheltering a buffet feast centered around an ice sculpture that read 65 Years Young—Happy Birthday, Willa. Laughter, music, and happiness sprinkled the air. As I walked to the edge of the lawn where tables for the party guests were scattered, people waved and smiled. I returned the greetings, barely remembering them the next second.
I’d never felt so disconnected from my life.
So dead inside.
Mother waved from where she held court like a humble, happy birthday queen. Her chestnut hair curled gracefully around her regal face, and her skin was as radiant as a woman twenty years younger. On her wrist was the bracelet I’d given her an hour ago, amethysts on a silver band with a message engraved inside. You are my sunshine. There’d been no need to personalize it. The song belonging to the words would always be our unique memory. She had separate tunes for Trey and Lance too, which gave the words of my song extra meaning from the day she’d first sung them to me. I always wondered if she knew that song was often the brightest part of my days—or if she realized that with a child’s special telepathy, I felt the meaning she gave every syllable and the affection she strove to impart, as if to show how a falsified family could have love as well as a real one.
I’d accepted that love. Believed in it. Perhaps because she did with desperate fervency, clearly hoping I’d be the glue to seal the Stone family back together. For years, I’d fought to be that cement, craved to give that back to the woman who’d given me so much. And yes, I wanted it for me too. But over the years, chunks of that hope had tumbled away. All that remained were a few optimistic slivers, hoarded in my soul for occasions like this, when I sensed they might have the greatest chance of sticking to my brothers too.
Wasn’t happening. Not today.
My soul was officially sitting this one out. On the disabled list until further notice. As a result, I became a brooding bastard of a party guest. A newly grateful Trey now doted on Mother, along with Lance, whose appearances here were so rare nowadays they were treated with the fuss of a papal visit.
It was all just fine by me.
I swirled my glass of Scotch and strolled farther away, taking refuge on a little ridge between the pool and tennis court. Beyond the court, Mother had started on a garden dedicated to purple blooms. From here, I could see Jacob’s ladders, violas, pansies…and I could smell the fresh lavender.
Just how her hair smelled when I buried my nose in it. Nearly as perfect as the bouquet of her skin when I sucked her neck…and then the sweet tang of her arousal as I trailed my mouth lower…
I gulped more Scotch.
The liquid was sour in my throat. I put the half-finished drink down on a wall and jammed my hands into my pockets, redirecting my thoughts to their favorite pastime.
I had to figure out how to reach her.
She’d tripled the difficulty of the task by catching a flight to California three hour
s after leaving the condo on that fucked-up night. I’d started with texts and emails, but even the business-related notes were forwarded to one of her colleagues. The personal missives went unanswered. I called, of course—every day, five or six times a day—but my voicemails were ignored. I knew better than to send flowers, a charade she’d not only see through but be insulted by, so attempts were made at more meaningful gifts. A crystal fairy from Ireland. A pair of wineglasses from Italy. Even a donation to the Shambala Reserve in her name.
All the presents were returned unopened. For the donation, I received a computer-generated thank-you the website allowed her to create with one mouse click.
Even when I’d insisted on a video conference call with the Asher and Associates team to go through their wrap-up action plan, she’d begged out, pleading food poisoning from bad sushi at lunch.
Her silence was total, palpable.
And torture.
I’d run out of options. Translation—been cut off at the knees. Over a silly, stupid, goddamn misunderstanding.
Or was it?
Reflecting on that night, I realized why Claire had been so eager to go to the penthouse. She’d been hit by the same trepidation as me, that the end of Trey’s mess also meant the end of her time in Chicago. She’d also seen the giant question mark of our relationship and had likely been hoping I’d had an answer for her. I’d had the reply ready but hadn’t trusted it enough. I hadn’t believed enough in the gift of us. My vacillation had been the ideal setup for Margaux, who’d sunk her fangs in faster than a viper, creating the scene Claire had walked in on. The situation played into so many of her nightmares, only one reaction made sense for her. She hadn’t just yanked up her drawbridge. With the emotional C-4 laid, she’d slammed the trigger and demolished the fucker.
So here I stood, still tugging shrapnel out of my heart. And bleeding like a goddamn pig about it.
A presence on the path behind me drew my gaze around. Lance stood there, the picture of suntanned and suave in his cobalt-blue suit and black Arizona cowboy boots. A subtle smirk played at his lips, tugging at his close-trimmed beard by default. His dark-brown hair was equally tamed tonight, gelled into submission down his nape. As the party flowed on, parts of the mess started to rebel, tumbling across his forehead.