Trey

by Christie Ridgway

  “And?” he prompted.

  “Just as advertised, they were steadfast in their refusal to provide any information.” He hesitated. “Even when money was offered.”

  “A bribe,” Trey said.

  “An incentive.” Greg cleared his throat. “But neither the person she spoke with on the administrative staff nor a doctor she insisted on speaking to next expressed the slightest inclination to exchange information for cash.”

  “All right.”

  “And my staffer was good, but nothing moved them,” Greg added. “I assure you she pressed. There were tears, but no go. Anger didn’t work either.”

  Anger. Until this moment, Trey had managed to keep his at bay, but it rose from his gut now, closing off his throat. What had been the damn plan? Claire and Graham, the two of them keeping this secret to the grave?

  “Trey.” Greg’s voice lowered. “Are you doing all right?”

  He realized he’d squeezed the phone as if to strangle it. With deliberate intent, he relaxed his fingers on the device. Then he drew in a calming breath and let it out to ease the constricting band that had been tightening around his chest since he awoke in bed, next to Mia. “I’m great,” he said, thinking of her, those warm limbs that had twined with his in sleep.

  “You should know about a donor’s rights too.”

  His chest tightened all over again. This hadn’t occurred to him—that the person who provided the half of his DNA he didn’t know about might be entitled to…what? “Greg, I—”

  “In this case, the donor’s parental rights and obligations are waived. Completely. Irrevocably. Attitudes are changing in respect to this and to anonymity, but you don’t have to worry about someone popping up claiming to have fathered the scion of the Blackthorne family.”

  “Good,” Trey said. But hell, was it good? Part of him was a great void now, his sense of identity…

  The remainder of that thought evaporated as Mia drifted into the living area, her hair rumpled and her delectable body wrapped in a floral robe that even now she was tying at the waist. She looked damp and rosy and he realized she’d taken a shower, a fact he’d missed while he’d been engrossed in the call.

  He rose to his feet, his gaze never leaving her. “I’ll talk to you later, Greg.”

  Tossing his phone to the couch, he reached for Mia’s wrist and used it to tug her closer, close enough to drop a kiss on her mouth. “Hey,” he said.

  “Hey,” she rubbed one drowsy eye with the back of her free hand.

  “Tired?” he asked, hearing the unfamiliar tender note in his voice. He couldn’t wish it back as he nuzzled the side of her head and breathed in the sweet scent of her hair. With her in his arms and the smell of her surrounding him, the weight of his huge problem seemed less.

  “Mmm.” She leaned into him. “We need coffee. I can make some.”

  He let her go, and watching her move about in that sleepy fashion was so damn endearing that he went back to the couch and took a seat to appreciate the view. A woman’s way with kitchen utensils had never affected him before today, but hell, there’d never been a day like today.

  There’d never been a woman like Mia.

  Vaguely alarmed by the thought, he took the mug she handed him and automatically gulped a swallow, like caffeine might be the medicine he needed. She perched on the chair across from him and sipped at her own coffee, clearly still working on waking up.

  After a few minutes, more clear-eyed, she met his gaze and colored, her face turning the slightest of pinks, the blush nearly camouflaging the charming freckles. “Well.”

  “Well.” He grinned, and stretched out his legs to cross them at the ankles. “What’s your favorite morning-after strategy?”

  “Um…what?” She brought her mug to her mouth.

  “Strategy,” he repeated. “To rid yourself of a lingering bedmate.”

  “Uh…”

  “Pressing appointment? You never eat breakfast? Or you must leave immediately in order to gather some facts and figures for an important afternoon meeting?”

  Her eyebrows drew together. “That last sounds like you. And very practiced, by the way.”

  “Practical.” He relaxed farther into the cushions. “A polite charade for both parties.”

  “Necessary because…?”

  “Don’t you long to be alone again after a few hours sharing your sheets?”

  Mia glanced away. “Do you?”

  “Yes.”

  “I suppose because you actually do always have some facts and figures waiting to be gathered for an important meeting.”

  The comment made him eye his phone. He’d avoided text and emails when he’d called Greg first thing, but the Trey Blackthorne he’d been for thirty-four years wouldn’t waste any more time. He’d be on that phone again or his laptop, seeing what had come in from the office requiring his attention.

  Except he’d been “wasting time” for the previous two days, sightseeing with Mia.

  And he wasn’t exactly Trey Blackthorne any more, was he?

  “Don’t mind me, Trey.” She made a small “shoo” gesture with her fingertips. “Go along, do what you must.”

  “Mia…”

  She shooed again. “Feel free.”

  Feel free.

  And suddenly he did.

  Wow.

  He took a moment to register the unfamiliar lightness of being. Wow. Then he set down his coffee on the side table, and drawing up his legs, he patted one knee. “Come here.”

  Her wary look made him smile. “You’re not going to bite are you?” she asked.

  “I might.” He belied the promise with an innocent smile and patted again. “Mia, mon ange, come here.”

  “What?” Her eyebrows shot high. “Mon ange?”

  “I read it on one of the tombstones. It means ‘my angel,’ right?” He smiled again. “Sounds about right to me.”

  Her frown was thunderous. “I hate it when you’re charming,” she complained, even as she stood and stepped closer.

  The woman found a half-promised bite and cemetery talk charming? Good to know. “I find your pouting mouth irresistible.” He drew her into his lap and showed her just how irresistible.

  When they came up for air, she blinked, in an obvious kiss daze that he found immensely adorable, and he told her so. “I should probably hate that too,” she said, but her tone held no conviction.

  “So.” He brushed her hair from her face with both hands. “Where are we?”

  Her gaze turned wary. “I don’t think you’re asking for longitude and latitude.”

  “Are we sticking with the plan?” Because he liked the idea of having one, that much of the Trey Blackthorne he’d been before the secret was revealed apparently genuine.

  Mia’s suspicious nature was genuine too. “Uh, plan? What plan?”

  “Our Paris fling.” He tangled his hands in her glorious hair. “I don’t remember you objecting to the idea when I mentioned it.”

  “I was kiss dazed,” she said, using his term. “I can’t be held responsible for anything I say when you get me in that state.”

  Trey ignored her objection and nodded instead. “Paris fling it is. With no concerns for the future or thoughts of the past.”

  Mia sat on one of the pear-colored couches in the building’s penthouse, waiting for Trey to shower and change. She’d placed the box of ashes on the table in front of her and she stared at it with fierce determination, using it as a centering point.

  It was some sort of meditation clap-trap that a college pal had once tried to teach her before an exam. A method to clear the extraneous from her mind in order to keep her focus on the subject at hand.

  Because today was a test of sorts.

  To prove to herself that one early morning spent in bed with Trey Blackthorne and his smokin’ body, hot kisses, and talented hands hadn’t changed her in any way.

  Sure, she’d found that faint red mark on one breast and there was the undeniable physical knowledge
that she’d been, well, penetrated—was there any other word to describe the sweet pleasure of his welcomed invasion? Even now the memory made her inner muscles clench and the subtle ache there only served to send a flush of heat over her whole body.

  You should have joined Trey in the shower. Cooled off—or heated up more, as the case may be—that way.

  Mia narrowed her eyes at the return of Nic in her head, thankfully absent since the man had followed her into her bedroom. Go away, she thought. She didn’t need the added temptation.

  Because he had cocked a brow in Mia’s direction when he excused himself for the guest room’s en suite. Claire had taken off for Belgium as she’d planned apparently, and no one would have been the wiser if Mia had offered to scrub his back…or asked him to scrub hers.

  But she’d already taken her own quick turn under the spray in her tiny bathroom in the basement while he was on a phone call. Though he’d bandied about the term “Paris fling” again, she wasn’t committing to such a thing, not at the moment at least.

  Not until she knew he wouldn’t drag her into those dangerous waters she’d avoided her entire life.

  To occupy herself since meditation wasn’t cutting it, she strolled through an open doorway into a room that appeared to be a study. Claire had set some of her work out—pencil sketches and half-finished watercolor paintings that Mia took the time to study one by one.

  They were terrible.

  “Mia?”

  Trey’s voice sent her scurrying from the room. The older woman might exhibit a considerable lack of talent, but everyone deserved their secrets. Why—

  Crossing into the living room, she nearly tripped over her feet as she caught sight of Trey Blackthorne, his back to her, his gaze directed out one of the many windows.

  Trey Blackthorne, framed by Paris.

  But it was more than the stupendous view that arrested her. She knew the breadth of those shoulders, the deep valley of his spine, the feel of his back muscles shifting beneath her hands as he thrust into her body. He wore nothing special, jeans and an untucked oxford shirt, but the fact that she had such personal experience with all that was disguised by those commonplace clothes made the tips of her ears burn.

  Suddenly, she wanted to fix those memories with something lasting—a symbol of some sort. Art, but not on paper.

  So not a second of it could ever be forgotten.

  “We should get tattoos,” she said, the words bursting from her mouth.

  Instantly she wished them back. What was she thinking, she who didn’t want to be in any way changed by a couple of orgasms and a man’s ability to say “mon ange” with a halfway decent French accent?

  But before she could recover from the shame of it, he swung around, a look of horror on his face. “God, no,” he said, his tone firm.

  Now her face burned along with her ears. “I wasn’t suggesting they had to match or anything,” she said, sounding sulky, now annoyed and maybe insulted that he rejected the idea with such vehemence. “But, you know, we’re here…in Paris.”

  “I’ll get mine and yours for you, if you’re so set on the idea,” he said.

  She stared. Two tattoos? The man didn’t have a single one, she knew that, but was offering… “Huh?”

  “Nothing should permanently mar that creamy skin of yours.”

  “Um…” She continued staring, the intent look in his eyes acting like glue on the bottom of her shoes.

  He strode forward and his hand reached out to cup her cheek. His thumb coasted over her freckles. “Except these,” he whispered, soft and low, then stepped back, presumably without a care in the world and without the knowledge that he’d just rocked hers. Her stomach was left slightly queasy.

  That touch, so…almost cherishing.

  “Ready to go?” he asked.

  Ready to escape her traitorous reaction to a simple stroke, Mia gave herself a mental slap and stepped for the exit. “Follow me. We have a job…another item on Nic’s list.”

  As the elevator lowered them to the ground floor, she didn’t look at him. “No concerns for the future,” she murmured, adopting his untroubled attitude, “or thoughts about the past.”

  Their agreed-upon mantra wouldn’t change.

  There’d be no change in that or in Mia herself.

  No change whatsoever, she thought again as they emerged from a Métro stop. A gaggle of tourists gathered around the map posted at the top of the steps and a tour guide was using it to describe in English how the food of peasants outside the original city center had become the country’s sought-after cuisine.

  Trey gave the group a sharp glance then he turned his head to survey their surroundings. “We’ve been here already.”

  “You recognize this from the day we visited the basilica?”

  “We’re back in Montmartre,” he said, frowning, as clearly the inefficiency rankled.

  She waved a hand and started off. “We ran out of daylight then,” she said, though it was mostly a case of being embarrassed to visit this particular site with a strange man that first day. Of course, it wasn’t much easier now, but it was part of the test.

  Visiting one of the most romantic locations in Paris was not going to prove a problem, no matter that she could still feel the caress of his thumb on her cheek.

  The mark of his mouth on her breast.

  That place between her thighs where he’d driven deep, his thick erection parting her wet and swollen flesh, making a place for himself.

  “That’s just sex,” she muttered under her breath, reminding herself. Nothing to do with romance and emotion and the kind of coupling-up that went beyond two bodies doing the horizontal tango. “Just sex.”

  In Mia’s head, Nic might have snorted.

  Out loud, Trey asked, “What?”

  Dang. The hilly sidewalks teemed with visitors and she hadn’t thought he’d hear over the mix of languages rising around them. Time to curb the habit of talking to herself.

  “Well,” she said, skirting four women with selfie sticks, “I was going to ask what places you visited on your other Paris trips.” That sounded innocuous enough. Innocent, unlike the throbbing pulse those sexy memories had triggered.

  She thought his answer might have gotten lost in the international babble, but then he said, “That sounds like talk of the past to me.”

  Her head whipped around and she grimaced. “Whoops. Sorry.”

  “No, that’s okay. I was kidding.” He bent to retrieve a tiny stuffed dog that had tumbled out of the hands of a child in a stroller.

  The mother thanked him prettily in French and gave him a lingering look of appreciation as he walked away before she winked at Mia.

  She took the obvious compliment with a little smile then hurried to catch up with him and his longer legs. “Did you say something?”

  “Only that I’ve never taken time to actually ‘visit’ any of the places I’ve been in the last decade or so…not in the sense of the word you’re using. I’ve had business lunches and working dinners in amazing cities in amazing restaurants, on the way to them looking at landmarks through a limo’s tinted windows. But I’ve never…”

  She pulled him through a throng of people so that they reached their destination, hand-in-hand. With her free one, she gestured in front of them. “It’s the I love you wall,” she told him. “Le mur des je t’aime.”

  Silent, they took it in together—a long rectangular wall composed of dark tiles with words written on them in white. “They all say ‘I love you,’” she added. “More than a thousand times in three hundred different languages.”

  He glanced down at her, his gaze enigmatic, then looked back to the sight.

  Her nerves started jumping. Did he…did he think she was hinting at something—something about the two of them—by bringing him here? How mortifying.

  Because she felt nothing—nothing!—even though their hands remained joined. And even though his hold felt warm and firm, she made sure not to cling, keeping her fingers lax
and nonthreatening. Non-presuming.

  For a moment she considered yanking free, but wouldn’t that in itself send the wrong message? She wasn’t affected by anything that had happened between them. A woman could have an orgasm with a good-looking, skilled lover and not consider herself changed, the world altered, or see it as anything more than, well, her due.

  You go, girl! Nic’s voice, of course.

  A passel of giggling teenagers passed between Mia, Trey, and the wall, pushing them back until their legs hit a park bench and they both sat down, their hands naturally parting.

  Mia dropped hers to her jean-covered knee, surreptitiously wiping away the lingering impression of his touch on the denim. It wasn’t her fault his skin left some sort of tingling sensation on hers. Though she’d never experienced it before, it probably had something to do with the man being rich. A sexual, Midas kind of touch thing.

  She rubbed harder, frowning when his elbow brushed her arm, now lighting that up too. With a wiggle, she put a couple of necessary inches between them.

  “What are those red splotches on the wall?” he asked.

  Looking up, she noted them, irregular scarlet shapes scattered here and there. She pulled the ashes box from her backpack and set it on her lap, then retrieved her phone and brought it to life to find the information page. “The creator wanted the wall to hold up the most important of human feelings,” she read aloud. “Those splashes—they’re pieces of a broken heart. They can be gathered together to make a whole one.”

  “Ah.” He sat back on the bench, his gaze still resting on those I love yous written in letters she recognized and squiggles she didn’t. Before, she hadn’t noticed the red fragments but now she couldn’t unsee them. They appeared to pulse, coming alive like warning lights to remind her, once again, of what she’d been avoiding her entire life, since that first time her father had stormed from the house declaring he’d never been happy. In an effort to chase after him, her mother had backed his midlife-crisis sports car through the garage door.

  Mia had skipped school the next day because Mom wanted help dumping Dad’s things into suitcases and garbage bags.