I walk to her bedside and turn off her light, then cross to the closet, undress, and pull on a pair of pajama bottoms before climbing into the bed. The instant I’m beside her, Emily snuggles up to me, casting me a groggy look. “Did you kill him?”
“Yes,” I say, “but I haven’t buried the body yet, so don’t go downstairs.”
“I’ll help you find a good spot tomorrow,” she says, resting her head on my shoulder. “After we sleep.”
I smile, set my phone on the edge of the nightstand, and flip off the light to allow Emily to rest. And rest she does, her body softening against mine, the wine obviously overcoming her worries. I lie there, my eyes wide open, and inside the silence, with the exception of Emily’s soft breathing, I’m back to the reality that I’ve managed to suppress all day. Derek is still gone and my father is still a bastard. And Rick was not only created in the same bastard mold, he’s become the biggest threat to her safety. I decide right then that the assumption that he’s not a problem, because he believes she’s dead, is not good enough.
Emily shifts beside me and I shift with her, my lashes lowering, and sanity comes as I replay that first day I met her, back at the restaurant, sitting across from her. Intrigued by the secrets I already knew she possessed. I remember leaning in, drawing in that sweet scent that I obsess over now. Staring into her eyes as I asked, “Who burned you, Emily?”
A hint of panic flicked through her eyes and then was quickly banked. “Who says anyone burned me?”
“I see it in your eyes,” I’d said.
“Back to my eyes,” she said, because it wasn’t the first time I’d commented on what I’d seen in her eyes.
“Yes,” I confirmed. “Back to your eyes.”
“Stop looking,” she admonished me.
“I can’t,” I told her, and I still can’t, I think now.
And those two words sizzled between us before she said, “Then stop asking so many questions.”
I leaned in close then, my lips a breath from hers, my fingers settling on her jaw. “What if I want to know more about you?” I asked.
“What if I don’t want to talk?”
“Are you suggesting I shut up and kiss you?”
My lips curve with that memory, my mind going to the first taste of her. So sweet. So damn sweet. And yet there was always something a little wild about her, the promise of the challenge she has proven to be over and over.
I begin to doze off with that thought, with her in my arms, and at some point I must fall asleep, because I jolt awake with Emily shouting out and bolting upright. I follow her to a sitting position, wrapping my arm around her. “Easy, sweetheart. You had a nightmare.”
“Yes,” she whispers. “Yes, I did.” She scrambles out of bed, her fingers sliding into her brown hair before she slips into her pink silk robe while I shift to sit on the edge of the mattress.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“No. Yes.” She turns to face me. “It was a tornado.”
“Have you ever been in a tornado?”
“No. My brother’s dead.” Her gaze goes to her nightstand and she reaches for her phone.
I’m on my feet, intercepting her in a flat second. “Easy, sweetheart,” I say again. “Who are you calling?”
“Seth. I need to confirm what I already know. My brother—”
“It was a nightmare, Emily. And what does any of this have to do with a tornado?”
“It’s a death thing. For some reason that’s how I see death.” She draws in a breath and lets it out. “I had my first tornado nightmare right after my father died and for several months following. They started again right after my mother died. My brother is dead.”
“My brother is dead, not yours. And Reagan is dead. This isn’t about your brother, sweetheart.”
“Can you just call Seth, please?”
“Yes. I’ll call.”
I set her phone on the nightstand and walk around the bed to grab mine, punching in Seth’s auto-dial and then placing him on speaker. “I’m with Emily on speaker,” I say when he answers and Emily and I meet at the end of the bed.
“Jennie checks out,” he says, assuming that’s why we’re calling. “I just got the final reports I promised in the text message I sent early this morning.” The one I fell asleep without looking at, I think. “Additionally,” he continues, “Nick insists that Dennis would never put someone else at risk for his own cause.”
“What’s the word on my brother?” Emily asks.
“Nothing’s changed,” he confirms. “We’ll give him a few more days to make contact with the police himself, and if he doesn’t, as discussed, we’ll do it for him.”
Emily folds her arms in front of herself. “He won’t make contact,” she says, her voice tight. “He’s dead.” She looks at me. “I’m going to take a shower.” She turns and walks toward the bathroom.
“What am I missing here?” Seth asks.
I exit the bedroom to the hallway and take the call off speaker. “It’s just you and me again,” I say. “And it’s a gut feeling she’s dealing with.”
“She thinks he’s dead.”
“Yes. She thinks he’s dead.”
“That might be for the best,” he says, no emotion to his voice.
“That he’s dead or that she thinks he’s dead?”
“Either,” he says. “Both give her closure. And let’s face it. A dead, dangerous asshole is a lot less painful than a living, dangerous asshole.”
We end the call and I press my hands to the railing, but before I can even process my thoughts, I hear, “He’s right.”
I turn to find Emily in the doorway, still in her robe. “He’s right about what?”
“My dangerous asshole of a brother,” she says, resting her shoulder on the door frame. “I know who and what he is. We talked about this last night, and me getting all uptight about it was the catalyst to the nightmare that wasn’t really about death despite my insistence that it was. I was just so immersed in it when I woke up and made you call Seth.”
“If it wasn’t about death, what was it about?”
“I went to a counselor years ago about this, and she said the tornado represents anything I can’t control. And of all the things that qualify as of late, ranging from a coma to death to Martina, my brother is number one.”
“Which is why your nightmare had you focused on him.”
“Exactly, but I’ve come to know that these nightmares come when I’m ready to fight back. It’s almost like I need to see myself as helpless to get pissed off at myself for being helpless.”
“You are the last person I would call helpless.”
“I was in a coma,” she says. “And I stood next to your brother’s casket. Both scream helplessness. But you know what? Screw helpless and screw my damn brother. I will not obsess over him. He will not keep us from the good. And that good includes our soon-to-be-famous fashion and makeup line, which is why I’m going to shower, dress in something fabulous, but not as fabulous as our new lines will be, and go to work.” She turns and disappears into the bathroom, but a beat later she’s peeking around the corner, a shy, sexy smile in her eyes and on her lips. “I’ll be naked any second now if you want to be naked with me.” She disappears again.
I don’t need to be tempted twice. I pursue her with one thing in mind: if she’s naked and I’m naked, it’s definitely all good. Everything, it seems, is as it should be.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Thursday proves that good is in the air when Emily and I arrive at work to discover my father is out of the office. Unfortunately, he’s also with his mistress, but my mother is not with Mike Rogers. She’s at the governor’s mansion, where she’s been hired to redecorate—which I know from Seth, because she won’t take my calls. The sports center deal closes, and Jessica and I complete the contracts, which I deliver to the seller’s attorney myself. But the ultimate good of this day: after all this hellish juggling, to have everyone on our side sign off on the new
offer for the sports center, a necessary evil to ensure that I don’t make the offer and not have the backing, it’s paid off. By midmorning I receive a verbal agreement accepting that offer, allowing the written contracts to be processed, reviewed, and once approved, signed.
On Emily’s end, “Brandon Style,” as she’s decided to call the new division, is well underway, the takeover of the old to establish our new, moving along. By evening we’ve retreated to our apartment to finish our work, changed into sweats, and claimed the island in the kitchen as our workspace. “Room service or something else?” I ask, powering up my MacBook.
“I feel like I need to eat egg whites,” she says, tying her hair at her nape. “I’ve eaten nothing but junk for days, but I’m still three pounds down. I really want macaroni ’n’ cheese.”
“Macaroni ’n’ cheese? Where did that come from?”
“My mother used to make it all the time,” she says. “I have her on my mind.”
I set my MacBook aside. “Because Reagan is dead?”
“Yes,” she says. “Because Reagan is dead, but remembering my mother isn’t a bad thing. I might not have agreed with her ignoring my stepfather’s bad behavior, but I loved her.”
“Of course you did,” I say. “Mac ’n’ cheese it is.” I dial downstairs and place our order, which includes an extra-large mac ’n’ cheese. “Done,” I say. “Mac ’n’ cheese on its way.”
“I can’t wait,” she says, hesitating a moment. “Has Seth sent you any of the news from Texas? I’m curious about how the media is reporting my death.”
“He won’t send anything like that to either of us by email,” I say. “But I can have him bring by the clippings.”
“No. Don’t. It’s just morbid curiosity. It’s really not a big deal.” She changes the subject. “I want to talk about Brandon Style.”
“All right then,” I say. “Let’s talk fashion.”
From there, we plot world domination over dinner once it arrives, and settle on a key component of our success: the recruitment of a well-known designer whose name will put us on the fashion map. “The one I want will cost us a lot of money,” she warns. “Any of the names that get us attention will, though.”
“How much?”
“I talked to some industry recruiting experts today,” she says, setting a piece of paper in front of me.
I glance at the compensation package and whistle. “That is a big number.”
“Too big?”
“Only if we fail.”
“That’s not going to happen,” she says instantly, her tone and expression fierce.
“I know,” I say, leaning in closer to settle my hand on her cheek, the air instantly charging between us in that now familiar way I used to comically believe I could fuck out of my system.
“How?” she asks, the breathless quality to her voice telling me she feels it too.
“It’s in your eyes,” I say, recalling our first dinner together, as I did while she slept last night.
Her lips—those sexy, kissable lips—curve. “Back to my eyes,” she says, following my lead.
“Yes. Back to your eyes.”
“Stop looking.”
“Are you suggesting I shut up and kiss you?”
“I don’t know,” she says now just as she had then. “I haven’t interviewed you as you have me. I know nothing about you. I want to know if you—”
I lean in, and then my lips are on her lips, a caress, a tease that is there and gone, and yet I linger there, my breath fanning her lips, promising another touch I both need and want, as I ask, “You want to know if I what?”
Her response is to scoot off her barstool, and even before she can sway in my direction, I pull her to me, between my legs, my hand splaying at the base of her spine. “What do you want, Emily?”
“Everything,” she murmurs. “Absolutely everything.”
“Are you sure about that?” I challenge, thinking of the battle we had over Martina, of all the parts of me that will always be my father’s son.
“Everything,” she repeats, inching back and looking up at me. “Don’t promise me all good. Don’t tell me only the good. Because that’s a lie and I hate lies.”
I cup the back of her head. “I will never lie to you,” I vow, my tongue licking into her mouth, and I let her taste that everything she wants. The man who would kill Martina if he had the chance. The man who will destroy Mike Rogers and lose absolutely no sleep. The man who would die to protect her. And live for her. It’s a kiss that is meant to tell all, be all. A kiss that sears. A kiss that bleeds pain and promise.
Her hands slide under my shirt, her palms soft and cool, and yet still my skin burns with her touch. “Everything,” I tell her, dragging my T-shirt over my head.
“Everything,” she whispers in return, dragging her T-shirt over her head.
My gaze rakes over the swell of her breasts above the black lace of her bra, and she reaches down and unhooks it, tossing it aside, and immediately after, she is toeing off her shoes and then skimming her pants down. They pool at her feet, followed by the tiny lace that are her panties. She kicks them aside, and I travel the path up her legs to the sexy V of her body, where just a hint of blonde hair there reminds me that with everyone but me she has to hide. Not with me. My gaze lifts to her belly, her slender waist. Her breasts and nipples. And when my eyes meet hers, whatever she sees in mine parts her lips. My cock thickens in reaction, my mind conjuring all the places I want her mouth before this night is over. But what I want most is for her to know that everything means she can do anything with me, be anything with me, and it will be about pleasure, about trust.
I stand, my hands settling at that tiny waist, my lips curving when my touch triggers her shiver. I like that she shivers for me. I lift her, setting her on the barstool, my hands on her knees. “The thing about everything,” I say, “is that it means everything. It means you’re open to me in every way.” I inch her legs apart. “Exposed to me.” I lean back, my gaze raking over her breasts, her puckered nipples. Her sex. “It means,” I say, my eyes lifting to hers, “no inhibitions.” I take her hands in mine and press them to her breasts. “Show me,” I say.
Her breath trembles from her lips, her hands caressing her breasts beneath my hands, and I move them to frame her waist. I lean in, my cheek next to hers, and my mouth at her ear, “Everything means going further, going darker.” I drag my lips across her cheek, her jaw, her lips, before I pull back to watch her touch herself. And she does, caressing her breasts, her nipples. She rolls them in her fingers, her head tilting back slightly, her lashes fluttering, lowering. I lean in, tonguing a stiff peak through her fingers and suckling. Her hand goes to my head, fingers slicing into my hair. I lick and tease and use her fingers and mine to tease her and please her.
My hand slides to the wet heat between her thighs, stroking into her sex. Her hands are instantly on my shoulders, her body arcing forward, even as her hips arch into my touch. I tangle my fingers into her hair now, dragging her mouth to mine. As I kiss her deeply, the taste of her is addictive, a drug I willingly crave. I slip two fingers inside her, and she pants into my mouth. I stroke her, hold her, caressing her to a place where she is trembling in my arms. And there is nothing sweeter than this woman trembling in my arms. She shatters for me, trembling, becoming a quake, until she collapses, melting into me, my name on her lips.
I cradle her body and then scoop her up, carrying her to the stairs, where I start the walk up to our bedroom. Holding everything in my arms—and the thing about holding everything in your arms is that you have everything to lose. I know this. Losing my brother makes this painfully evident. It makes the moment I lay her in our bed powerful. Right. It makes every touch, every taste that follows, more intense. It makes the moment I’m inside her, buried deep, too soon, and yet I need it and her.
Hours later, after the storm of passion between us is spent, we lie in bed again, and I listen to her breathing, that dark, possessive need to protect h
er I’d felt at the restaurant last night back again. Maybe it’s the side effect of death, and near death, that is too raw, but it reminds me of a feeling I used to get when I was trying a case and knew something was wrong. I was missing something. What am I missing now?
* * *
Morning comes, and with the closure of the week, I plan to mark the final, signed closure of the sports center contract as well. Friday also officially delivers the gift that just keeps giving: my father. He’s at the office, it seems, solely for the purpose of expressing his impatience for the sports complex closing, no doubt ready to revel in Mike’s defeat and get paid for it. “Why hasn’t that broker returned the signed agreement?” he demands, buzzing into my office for the third time this morning with no other greeting.
“He has six signatures to acquire,” I say. “And I have far more than that once he returns it.”
“I hope like hell you plan to make your part happen this weekend,” he grumbles. “Call me when the contract is in.”
Three hours later he appears in my office, his scalp still smooth, his blue suit draping his thin body. “Well?”
Jessica appears in the doorway, holding up an envelope. “The executed contract just arrived. It’s done.”
My father glares at her. “It’s not done,” he snaps. “Every one of our investors has to review this contract and sign it. Get to work.” He charges toward her, and she backs out of the office to let him depart.
A moment later she reappears and walks toward me. “I’m shocked this white dress I’m wearing today isn’t splattered with my own blood right about now.” She holds up the folder in her hand. “I assume you want to review this before I prep any packages we’ll need to courier out tonight?”
“I do,” I say, accepting the envelope from her. “There will be a total of twelve signatures. Call them and alert them that this is not only happening, but we need it to happen by Monday morning. Courier them the contracts and include a return envelope that’s addressed to my apartment.”