On autopilot, he put his hand over the bottle. A funny feeling was developing inside his chest, like a wound opening up.
He couldn’t think of a good reason why she should marry him that didn’t involve his money. She had a perfectly good life. Work she loved, a family who loved her. A goddamn twin who was always there for her. The world was her oyster.
“There’s sex,” he finally said.
“Again, marriage isn’t a requirement for that. Unless you’re a lot more old-fashioned than I realized.”
He shook his head. What had he gotten himself into? Business negotiations never went this badly, because he always knew what the other person wanted, what their bottom line was, what really mattered and what they’d be willing to let go of in order to make a deal.
Maybe that was the problem. He didn’t really know what Isabelle wanted. He’d assumed that money would be on that list because that was how the world worked. Money ran everything. Money was a shield from harm, fuel for dreams, a fortress against the world.
But Isabelle didn’t want a fortress, because if she did, she sure wouldn’t be running around the world operating on trauma victims in war zones.
“Okay, why don’t you tell me what you want?” he suggested.
That seemed logical to him, but she just laughed. “Sure, let me draw up a list of bullet points.”
“Why is that funny?”
She closed her eyes briefly, as if calling on all her patience. He noticed the strands of copper running through the thick waves of her hair, and remembered how it felt to have his hands in it. “You really do need my help, don’t you? This isn’t some kind of deal, it’s life. It’s my life. Your life.”
“Yes. You’re right. About all of that. So you’re in?”
“In … what? I don’t plan to get married.”
He drew back, astonished by this twist. “Why not?”
“Because my life is too crazy. And my work is about helping people. It’s an amazing feeling, you should try it sometime.”
Stung, he scrubbed at the back of his head. “I invested in your lodge.”
“You’re right. Sorry.”
Right away, he regretted bringing that into their conversation, since it stopped Isabelle cold. Painful as her words were, he wanted her to keep going.
After a moment, she did. “Besides, I don’t think my mother liked being married. She always wished she could travel and see other places, and she missed living by the ocean. She always wanted me to be free to do and be who I wanted.”
“But she had five kids,” he pointed out. “She must have loved that part.”
Her gaze strayed back to the box of journals. “Maybe. I guess I’ll find out, if I ever get the nerve.”
“You’ll find the nerve.” His quiet confidence earned him a curious glance from her. “I don’t think lack of courage is a problem for you.”
She gazed at him for a long moment, as if looking for some sign of insincerity or mockery. “Thank you.”
Turning away, she walked back to the coffee table where her box sat. She picked it up and settled it into her arms, then faced him again, as if she’d suddenly come to a decision.
“Look, Guero. I’m here for you. As your friend. If you want my help, the answer is yes. But as for the rest, maybe we should pretend this entire evening never happened. That’s best, don’t you think?”
His stomach seemed to have turned into a sodden lump of lead. Never in his life had he played something quite so badly. A big part of him was mortified. On the other hand, this entire encounter felt more real than ninety-nine percent of the interactions in his life. He didn’t want to pretend it had never happened.
But for her…he would. He’d lighten this conversation up if it was the last thing he did.
“So you never broke into my guesthouse.”
“Right. And you never busted me for breaking into your guesthouse.”
“I never untangled your hair,” he added. “And there was definitely no wine.” He hid the bottle behind his back, planning to drain it the second she was gone.
“You never mentioned marriage.”
“And you never got your mother’s journals.”
She rolled her eyes and shifted the box in her arms. “Do you have to be so literal? I’ve been looking for these damn journals since I got back. They’re part of why I came back. You bet your sexy ass I’m taking them.”
He grinned, since the atmosphere of tension in the room had finally shifted. Hopefully they could now get back on a normal footing. And she’d called him sexy, so that was a good sign.
“So we’re good? No grudges, no hard feelings?” she asked, her green eyes meeting his over the box in her arms.
“I don’t even know what you’re talking about. You magically appeared in my living room and now you’re about to vanish with a box I’ve never seen before.”
She smiled, which had the usual effect on him, like an injection of sunshine right into his veins. “You’re a good guy, Lyle, despite everything. Next time you propose to a woman, come find me first. You might want to tweak a few things.”
He nodded gravely. “That’s a very generous offer. I might hold you to that.”
She walked across the room toward the front door, while he fought the impulse to carry the box for her, to smooth the way, to open the door. He needed to treat her as if nothing had changed. He needed them to go back to their previous status of “friendly with an undercurrent of intense attraction that they were trying to ignore.”
As soon as she was gone, he brought the bottle to his lips and swallowed the last drops of wine. But that didn’t make him forget. In fact, it did the opposite.
The flavor of Cabernet on his tongue brought him right back to that first night in Rome, when she moved herself and her glass of wine next to him at the airport bar and challenged him to a game of Bananagrams.
“I never leave home without my Bananagrams,” she’d told him gravely. “I even use it to help patients improve their English. It’s surprisingly universal. I hope you’re a good loser, because I’m guaranteed to kick your ass.”
“You sure about that? I hate losing.”
“Me too!” She’d grinned at him with fierce joy. “It’s on.”
They’d sat in the lounge at the Leonardo da Vinci-Fiumicino Airport, watching the rare winter storm that had brought all the flights to a halt, and played Bananagrams until the bartender told them he was shutting down for the night. Lyle had never done this kind of thing with a woman—or anyone, for that matter. He’d never just relaxed and “kicked back” as if he had all the time in the world. He’d never hung out with a woman, or lounged around playing silly word games.
He loved it. The time flew past. Sure, there was work he could have been doing. But the night felt like a cutout, separate from the usual timeline, a bonus night that belonged only to them.
Isabelle kept calling him Biff, even though he told her early on that his name was Lyle. “Nope, I’m going with Biff, because you’re like the opposite of what a Biff would be, and I think we’re in opposite world right now. It’s snowing in Rome. That never happens.”
“That explains everything. Opposite world. No wonder I’m losing. In the real world, I never lose.”
“Never?” She’d made a dubious face as she scooped the tiles into a banana-shaped yellow pouch. “I wish I could say that.”
“You wish you’d never lose at Bananagrams?”
“That too. But mostly I’d wish that I’d never lose a patient. That’s the worst. Other losses, I can handle, even though I’m competitive. But losing a patient, I’ll never be okay with that.”
At that point, slightly in awe of her, he’d started asking her about her work. She’d described traveling to danger zones where warlords ruled, even threatening the doctors caring for the victims. The work was risky, rewarding, but often made her feel helpless.
“I’ve thought about quitting,” she’d admitted. “I know I can’t keep it up forever. Not eve
ryone can handle that crazy lifestyle, but I grew up very self-sufficient.”
So had he, but he didn’t want to tell her about his background. He wanted to hear about hers.
“Being able to take care of myself was always super-important to me. I have three brothers and I always held my own with them. None of my brothers was surprised when I wanted to be a trauma surgeon. Jake, my twin, says it has the perfect combination of adrenaline and gnarliness for me.”
He’d laughed, which he seemed to do every few minutes around her, even when she was talking about war zones. “And the globetrotting part?”
“I always wanted to travel and see different parts of the world. I grew up in a tiny little dot in the mountains. Of course I always pictured more of a cruise around the world type of thing, or maybe backpacking through Europe. The Sudan was not really on my list. But I’ve learned to love it.”
By then, they were out in front of the airport, and he was signaling for a taxi, and he didn’t want the night to end. “Look, this isn’t a come-on, but if you need a place for the night, I have a hotel room and it has a couch. I’ll take the couch.”
She looked around as if surprised to find herself outside. “You have a hotel room? Then why have you been hanging out at the airport?”
“I was sure if I played enough Bananagrams I’d eventually beat you.”
“Well that was foolish.”
“Clearly.”
She shifted the strap of her overnight bag on her shoulder. “I have a knife, you know.”
“Okay.” He tilted his head at her quizzically. “Good?”
“I’m just saying, I’m almost a total stranger to you. Aren’t you worried that I might stab you in your sleep?”
“You really take Bananagrams seriously, don’t you?”
She’d laughed. “You have no idea. I come from a competitive family, and I’m generally considered the fierce one.”
He wanted her more and more, but in a different way than usual. With Isabelle, just being with her scratched the itch. He didn’t need any more, though of course he wanted more. “Look. I’m glad you have a knife. I want you to protect yourself. You can keep it with you the entire time, I’m fine with that. But you won’t need to protect yourself from me. I’m just offering you something other than an airport floor to sleep on. I’m not thinking about anything else. I promise you.”
Did she look a little disappointed? Maybe, maybe not. At any rate, after some thought she’d gotten in the cab with him and they’d continued the evening in his hotel. He’d ordered room service and they’d kept chatting over prosciutto and biscotti.
And then, somehow … they’d wound up half-naked in bed.
It was Isabelle’s doing, not his. He’d put the reins in her hands from the start. She was the one who’d softly called to him from the comfort of the bed, while he stretched out on the couch.
“This bed is huge, there’s plenty of room. We can roll a blanket between us, just like the old days.”
She was the one who’d reached her hand across that blanket and touched his torso. “You have a scar.”
“Knife wound.”
“Whoever treated you did a shit job. It’s too bad you didn’t know me back then.”
“I was only ten. I probably wouldn’t have trusted a two-year-old surgeon.”
“How’d you get a knife wound at the age of ten?” Her eyes gleamed with curiosity in the dim light.
“Bad neighborhood. I was probably lucky it wasn’t a gunshot.”
“I don’t know, it looks like it went right past your liver. Right here.” She’d rolled over and straddled his thighs. He froze, filled with disbelief that this was actually happening, and wondering if maybe he was hallucinating. Almost clinically, she traced the path of the scar. “Yup, your liver’s right under here. Do you know how deep the cut was?”
“I don’t remember. I do know the stitches hurt like hell.”
“They didn’t have to operate on anything internally?”
“I don’t remember an operation. I remember getting stitches in the ER and getting sent home with extra bandages and a prescription for painkillers. Which got stolen by my foster mother. So mostly, I remember pain.”
But that pain meant nothing anymore. Not with beautiful, brilliant Isabelle sitting on his thighs.
After that night, he’d tried to put her out of his mind, and succeeded, thanks to Drew’s takeover attempt. He was too busy dealing with the aftermath to do much more than dream about her on a regular basis. He didn’t know what to make of those dreams—he’d never had that kind of reaction to a woman before. Surely it would go away.
And then…he’d gotten a call from Nicole Davidson. She’d mentioned a tiny historic lodge in the Cascade mountains that needed an injection of funds. The description sounded bizarrely similar to what Isabelle had described that night.
Nicole had sent him a link to the lodge’s website, and right there, in the “about” section, he saw her, or at least a teenage version of her. It was a photo from one of the lodge’s old brochures. She smiled at the camera, with a pair of skis clutched in one arm, and the other slung around a boy who looked very similar to her. The caption read, Rocky Peak Lodge was founded by Burt Rockwell nearly a hundred years ago, and is operated to this day by the Rockwell family.
A tiny little dot in the mountains. Three brothers. Twin. It all added up, even if he hadn’t recognized Isabelle immediately.
He’d told Nicole that he’d love to invest in the lodge, and would most definitely come for Thanksgiving.
And now it was almost Christmas, and he’d just sort-of-accidentally proposed to Isabelle.
How could one woman have such a confusing effect on his life?
11
Her thoughts in a whirl, Isabelle hurried across the snow-covered lawn back to the main lodge building and her bedroom. What in the world had just happened? Had Lyle really proposed — for about half a minute? Why? What was he thinking?
It couldn’t possibly be because of that night in Rome. Sure, there was plenty of chemistry between them, or she wouldn’t have wound up in a bed with him. She didn’t normally do that kind of thing. Most of her relationships developed in the crucible of fieldwork. Attraction would flare with another doctor, or an aid worker, someone she worked with closely every day. They’d get involved, things would burn hot and fast, and as soon as the assignment ended, or one of them moved on, they’d call it quits.
Lyle was different. He was an anomaly. Was she an anomaly in his life too?
Even if that were true, that didn’t mean they should get married. Good God.
And yet, she couldn’t stop thinking about the vulnerability written in every line of his body, in his bent head, in the intimate things he’d revealed to her. The fact that he wanted some kind of change in his life. That the high-flying billionaire lifestyle wasn’t working for him. That he needed to open up.
As soon as she got back to her room, she set the sandalwood box down on her old desk. She drew out the top journal and peeked inside. The sight of her mother’s handwriting knocked the breath right out of her. She slid the notebook back inside and slammed the lid closed again.
She needed to be in the right frame of mind to tackle these journals. They deserved her full focus. Right now there was too much going on.
After Christmas, she decided. She’d go through the journals after Christmas, which was only about a week away.
But over the next couple of days, as she helped Renata in the kitchen, prepping for the Christmas feast, she kept replaying that night in Lyle’s guesthouse, over and over. It was burned into her brain almost as much as the night in Rome.
“That’s not sage.” Renata sniffed at the greens scattered across Isabelle’s cutting board.
“It’s not?”
“Don’t you remember anything I taught you, chica?”
“Not if it involves cooking. You know I’m hopeless.”
Which made her think about Lyle and his take on cooki
ng, that everyone should know how to do it, and that for him food was just fuel.
“I just don’t understand how you can be a surgeon and yet not be able to cut herbs properly,” Renata grumbled.
“Well, if you ever need stitches, you’ll eat those words. What am I doing wrong?”
“You want to crush the leaves to release the flavor.”
“Well, there you go. If I crushed my patients I’d be in big trouble.”
Renata slid her long gray braid out of the way and took over the knife. “Let me do this. You go find something else to help with.”
“Like what? They don’t want me helping out with the construction.”
“Of course they don’t. Gotta save those hands. What about decorations? Gracie wants to do origami cranes for good luck.”
Isabelle gave up her knife with a sigh. “Fine. Origami it is.” She started to leave, then turned back. “Renata, did Mom like to cook? I honestly can’t remember.”
“Why would you? You were only eleven when she died. She was an all-or-nothing kind of cook. She loved to make big extravagant dishes, like coq au vin or rum trifle. The day-to-day meals, not so much.” Renata smiled with pure affection as she set to work crushing the herbs. “But her feasts were really something. She was a great party planner. Put on some amazing events here, New Year’s parties, summer barbeques.”
“I remember an Alice in Wonderland tea party on the lawn. She dressed up as the Mad Hatter. I was Alice.”
“She had a vision. When she got hold of an idea, she went for it one thousand percent.”
“Did you ever wonder…” Isabelle hesitated before bringing up the theory that had bounced around her head for years, ever since med school. “Did you ever wonder if she might have had a mental imbalance?”
Renata’s head shot up. “Like what?”
“Well, depression. With manic episodes. I remember how high her highs were, and how low she could get. She’d lock herself in a guest room. I remember climbing through the window to bring her food. I remember sleeping in the bed with her because I was so worried. But in the morning she was fine and said she just needed a break. I figured she needed a break from Dad because, well…who wouldn’t. But maybe it was more than that.”
The Renegade (The Rockwell Legacy Book 3) Page 8
