“Why not?” She shrugged to avoid the question, then set her carton of pasta down, fork sticking out. “Thank you so much for dinner. I’m so full.”
“Look, I get that you don’t like to play by the rules. It’s one of things that fascinated me about you since the first time I saw you.” Fred yanked on his tie to loosen it. “But sometimes you need to think about how what you’re doing affects others.”
“Excuse me?” Amy froze midreach for her wineglass. His words had been mild, but they stung regardless. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“Amy—” he sighed, loosening the tie entirely and pulling it up, over his head and off “—come on. Can’t you see why your neighboring stores might not have liked what you did today?”
“You mean by getting some foot traffic into their boring storefronts?” Her cheeks flushed. “They’re welcome.”
“Right. But you were still the star of the show. The one getting all the attention...while they were the ones following the rules.” He pinned her with a stare. “And you know...if it happened over and over again, they might start to resent it. They might want to do something about it.”
Amy slowly touched a hand to her side and felt the paper envelope crinkle again beneath her touch. So that’s why this lovely little missive had come to exist. Heat blazed along her skin as emotions tangled in her gut—a touch of embarrassment, incredulity and, under it all, a snaking tendril of hurt.
Fred had no way of knowing this yet, but when she got hurt, she kicked back.
“What are you saying here?” She uncrossed her legs and straightened her spine. “I assume there’s a point to the lecture?”
“It’s not a lecture.” Wasn’t it? Amy wasn’t sure how else she was supposed to take it. “Just...maybe you should cool it a little. Keep your head down for a bit.”
“I see.” Her temper snapped like a rubber band stretched to its breaking point. “And is this advice coming from Fred Vaughan, Esquire, part of the mighty Vaughan Enterprises? Or is it coming from the man I’ve fucked twice who thinks that there’s more between us than sex?”
Something flashed in his eyes, so quickly she would have missed it if she hadn’t been looking at him so closely. The open man who had so far focused solely on her in their interactions let a new layer slip over his face. She wasn’t entirely sure what to make of the steel that made its presence known in the rigid length of his spine, in the posture wearing that expensive suit, and in the lean planes of his face.
She’d gotten what she wanted, finally—she’d worked her way beneath his skin. Rather than satisfaction, though, she was hurt.
How had she let pasta and Duran Duran lure her into opening up, even just a bit? This man might enjoy the chemistry between them, but at his core, he was yet another man who looked at her and saw a fun fling, not someone worthy of anything more. Which was what she usually wanted too, so why was this bothering her?
The silence had stretched out, thinned, when he finally answered her question. “Can you separate one from the other, when both are who you are?”
“Right.” She closed her eyes for a moment, drew in a deep breath, then swallowed down the hurt. Standing abruptly, she pulled the offending letter out of her inner pocket, enjoying the slight widening of his eyes when he saw what she had in her hands. “Look, you must be a fairly intelligent guy to have gotten through law school, and you seem like you can at least muddle your way through a social interaction, so I’m going to just give you a little reminder of something that someone as smart as you should already know.”
Tugging up the sleeves of her jacket, envelope still in hand, she ran her hands down her forearms, drawing attention to her sleeves of inked art.
“I’m not the kind of person who is interested in cooling it. I’m not interested in keeping my head down.” She ran a hand through her chin-length blond curls as a reminder that they’d been unruly black curls when they’d first met. “I am who I am. And I’m not going to change.”
He opened his mouth, then closed it again.
“You should try being open like that.” She slapped the now-wrinkled envelope against his chest, where he caught it with one of his massive hands. She tried not to think of the way those hands felt on her body. “We’re done here.”
Spinning on her heel, she turned and stalked away. If her heart cracked a little bit when he didn’t follow...well, nobody knew it but her.
CHAPTER SEVEN
“THIS IS THE fourth night in a row that you’ve worked late.”
Fred blinked wearily as his twin appeared in the doorway to his office, propping himself up against the door frame. He blinked again when he saw two of Frank, and again to clear the image.
He’d been staring at his computer all day, and his eyes were shot. He could probably use reading glasses, but that was a problem for another day. For now, he sank back in the chair that was both ergonomic and hideously expensive. This motif was repeated throughout his office, which had been designed for function, and also to not-so-subtly showcase the Vaughan family’s wealth.“We can’t both be Dad’s favorite,” he commented. “Some of us have to work for a living.”
“I call bullshit.” Barging in, Frank flopped himself down in one of the chairs across the desk from Fred. “You’ve proven yourself to Dad—to this company—a million times over. You don’t need to work so hard.”
Frank wasn’t wrong—he had proven himself to his family, over and over again. What his twin was leaving out, however, was the fact that past efforts didn’t count for much in this family. He was only as good as his latest business triumph. Another man might have gotten frustrated by the never-ending weight of expectation that forever draped over his shoulders like a lead blanket, but not Fred...or Frank, for that matter. They’d been raised on a steady diet of family obligation, sprinkled heavily with guilt.
Family came first. Always.
“I’m almost done for the night.” Lies. He planned to push himself for at least another hour, after which he would finally head home, hopefully too exhausted to think about Amy’s face when she’d handed him the letter he’d been ordered to give to her. Or to dream about her astride him, his cock sunk deep into the heat between her legs as she rode them both to release.
“You haven’t just been staying late at work.” Frank fixed him with a narrow-eyed stare that Fred was only too familiar with, the assessing gaze of someone who had known him since they’d shared a womb. “You’ve eaten lunch at your desk every day this week instead of coming out with everyone. You’ve gone home right after work. And don’t think I didn’t notice that you sent me those contracts at two o’clock this morning.”
“Don’t you have anyone better to stalk?” Fred arched an eyebrow at his brother. “Go follow Randy or Andy or whatever the hell his name is around for a while. Something tells me he’d enjoy it.”
“All work and no play makes Fred a dull boy.” From his pocket, Frank pulled a silver-plated flask. Unscrewing the lid, he took a large gulp of the contents, then slid it across the desk with a whiff of whiskey.
“I can’t believe those words just came out of your mouth.” Fred rolled his eyes. “Just like I can’t believe you carry this around in your pocket all day. Who are you, Don Draper?”
“Just drink it,” Frank ordered. He slapped a hand on Fred’s desk, the sound reverberating through the quiet of the otherwise empty office. Fred glared at him but lifted the flask to his lips. The whiskey burned his lips but numbed his throat, and he relaxed for the first time since he’d last seen Amy.
He took another sip for good measure, and his brother nodded with approval.
“Now that you’ve unclenched, are you going to tell me what’s got your panties in a twist?” Frank took the flask back when Fred handed it to him, draining the last sip.
“That’s misogynistic,” Fred said, and Frank snorted in response.
“
Fine. Will you share with me, dear brother, the reason your non-gender-specific underwear is coiled so tightly it is causing you to act so uptight?” Settling back in the chair, he pinned Fred with a stare, waiting for an answer to his question.
Fred hadn’t spoken to anyone about Amy, not since she’d come back into his life—or rather, he’d gone tromping into hers. Now, though, his tongue had been loosened by two shots of whiskey. Digging his fingers into the knot at his neck, he loosened his tie and undid the top two buttons of his shirt, then pushed back from his desk.
“Do you remember our trip to Europe after we got our undergrads?” Closing his eyes, he let the images wash over him, the lights and languages, textures and tastes.
“In a hazy sort of way.” Frank grinned, but the smile quickly slipped off his face. “The girl. The one in Amsterdam.”
“How the hell did you zero in on that so fast?” Fred furrowed his brow at his twin. “She wasn’t the only girl on that trip.”
“She’s the only one who sent you into a funk that lasted six months.” Frank looked at him, assessing. “Wanna tell me how the hell some strange girl from Amsterdam has managed to make you depressed again five years later?”
“I’m not depressed,” Fred said as his brother eyed him skeptically. “I’m not. It’s just...it’s complicated.”
“I’m waiting.” Frank reached reflexively for his flask, frowning when he shook it and found it empty. “Hold that thought. I’m going to go raid Dad’s stash. Be right back.”
Fred waited as his brother darted out of the room. He wasn’t depressed that Amy was probably never going to speak to him again. He wasn’t.
“Look what I found.” Frank burst back into the room, a bottle of amber liquid and two snifters in hand.
“Fifty-year Glenfiddich?” Fred shook his head. “That’s his closet stash. Dad will kill you if you drink that.”
“Please. He only drinks it because it fits his image.” Frank made a great showing of pulling out the cork stopper. “I’ll top it up with Maker’s Mark and he’ll never know the difference.”
Fred wasn’t so sure of that, but he said nothing as his brother poured generous splashes of the pricey whiskey into two snifters, then handed him one.
“Now talk.” Frank picked up his own snifter and settled back down in his chair. “Tell me what’s going on with this girl.”
“Remember that petition that was circulating among the vendors here?”
“The one to evict the tattoo shop girl?” Frank whistled through his teeth. “Yeah, I remember. Lots of oomph behind it. Too bad, really. She’s hot. Looks like she’d be a freak in bed.”
“Watch your mouth,” Fred snapped, slamming his snifter on the desk with a loud thump. Frank blinked, forehead furrowed as he worked it through.
“Holy shit. Amsterdam girl and tattoo shop girl are the same person.” Frank’s eyes went wide. “Please tell me she recognized you.”
“Her name is Amy.” Fred sipped his drink. “And yes, she recognized me, you know, when I went to deliver that eviction notice.”
“Shit.” Frank sucked a breath in through his teeth. “Awkward.”
“You’re telling me.” Fred sat back, traced a finger over the rim of his glass. “I was so shocked I didn’t give it to her.”
“Fred.” His twin sat up straight at that bit of news. “That’s not cool. The tenant has to be notified or we can’t legally rent that space to anyone else.”
“I’m a lawyer, Frank. I’m well aware,” Fred snapped, scrubbing a hand over his face. “There’s more.”
“Oh, I bet there is.” His twin raised his brows, settling in for the story. “And I bet it has to do with the two of you naked.”
“Sucker’s bet.” Fred smiled grimly. “And it was every bit as good as it was that night in Amsterdam.”
Fred and his brother had never had that telepathic connection so many sets of twins had reported, but they still knew each other better than anyone else on the face of the planet. Therefore he wasn’t surprised that Frank picked up on what he hadn’t said.
“You like her.” Frank watched his twin, assessing. “That’s a plot twist.”
“Indeed.” Fred grimaced. “Especially when she found the letter anyway.”
“Wait a minute. You slept with her before she got the letter?” Frank pinned Fred with a withering stare. “Dick move, bro. Even I know that.”
“I know that now,” Fred snapped in return. “I just...she blindsided me. I lose my mind when I’m with her. Which isn’t an excuse, I just... I messed up. And now she’s not talking to me and I don’t know what to do.”
“Well, that’s easy.” Frank swigged the remaining liquid in his glass, then stole his brother’s and polished that off, too.
“Is it?” Fred wasn’t surprised that he’d fucked up. But Frank had always been the Superman to Fred’s Clark Kent, so he felt a small bud of hope that his brother knew how to get him out of this. “Well? Tell me.”
“You’re going to forget about her.” Frank stood.
“What? Why?” Fred stared up at his brother, who stood just a smidge shorter than Fred’s own six foot four. “Surely you’ve got better advice than that.”
“You’ve already fucked it up. You said so yourself,” Frank reminded him. Fred narrowed his eyes and contemplated bringing up that hair’s width difference in their height, just to poke at his brother.
“No need to rub it in.”
“My point is, maybe she’ll forgive you. Maybe, if you work hard enough.” Frank’s face was set in serious lines. “But I mean...where do you see this going?”
“I...what?” Fred sputtered, taken aback by the question. “I’ve slept with her twice. I’m not—We’re not—I don’t know if that’s where this is going.”
Didn’t he, though? Wasn’t that the very reason he’d been so down the last few days? In the years since that magical night with her in Amsterdam, he’d almost—almost—managed to convince himself that he’d imagined the heady connection between himself and his gorgeous, tattooed siren. All it had taken was one glance at her again, though, and there it had been, heady and unlike anything he’d felt before or since.
“I swear, watching you work this out is like watching a rat on a wheel.” Frank shook his head. “Listen to me. Maybe there would be something there, if you managed to unfuck yourself. But just fast-forward with me for a minute. Where do you see this in six months? In a year? Is she the girl you’re going to marry? If not, is it really worth the effort right now?
Panic thickened his throat, making it hard to swallow. Married? He barely knew her.
He could see where his brother was going with this, though. His mother and father hadn’t been an arranged marriage, not in the strictest sense of the term, but they’d been firmly pushed in each other’s direction. Both from wealthy, aristocratic families, their families had been very enthusiastic about the match.
It hadn’t been vocalized in so many words. But Fred and Frank had always been very aware that someday they would be expected to do the same.
He was entranced by Amy. Wanted her with a thirst that hadn’t even come close to being quenched.
But...could he really see himself bringing her to his parents’ house for dinner? He could just picture his mother, sitting there in her silk blouse or cashmere sweater set, arching an incredulous eyebrow at Amy’s full sleeves of ink. Or his father barely waiting until she was out the door before making a dirty joke about the nipple adornments that Amy did absolutely nothing to hide.
His thoughts must have shown on his face, because Frank hummed in his throat, apparently pleased that his warning had come across. Lifting the bottle of hideously expensive scotch, he poured another generous measure into each of their glasses, lifting his and holding it out for a toast.
Fred did not feel like toasting, but more than that, he did not feel
like explaining why he didn’t feel like it. Half-heartedly, he lifted his glass, braced himself for the impact as his brother banged his own into it.
“To common sense,” he started before tossing back half the contents in his glass. “And to getting you laid. Let’s go.”
“What? No.” Fred shook his head as Frank slammed his laptop closed. He was not in the mood to go anywhere except his condo, where he would order in some Thai food and then go to bed. He planted his feet when his brother rounded the desk, hauling him up and out of the chair. “I’m not going anywhere except home.”
“No way, bro. You’re coming out with me. Now.” Frank clapped him on the shoulders before handing him his suit jacket. “Listen to your big brother Frankie. The best medicine for getting over one woman is getting under another one. Come on. We’ll order a car and go find you someone with big eyes and long legs.”
Fred stiffened, his thoughts mutinous. He’d already found someone like that, with blue eyes that saw right through him and legs that felt amazing wrapped around his face. He didn’t want some nameless, faceless woman in his bed.
He wanted Amy.
He said nothing, though, instead following his brother as Frank turned off the lights and locked up the office. Said nothing as he climbed into the town car Frank had ordered, and followed him into some new club where the waitresses wore next to nothing and the music was so loud he could taste it in his throat.
He’d thought a night out might help lift his mood. Might take his mind off the woman he’d messed things up with.
Instead, all he could think about was what he could do to make things right.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“HOT GUY. TWO O’CLOCK,” Meg yelled over the din of the dim, crowded bar. The place was, frankly, a dive, scarred tables crowded cheek to cheek on sticky floors. When Amy didn’t respond, her oldest sister grabbed her face, a palm on each cheek, and turned her head in the direction she’d indicated.
“Dude. Personal space.” With a shake of her head, Amy flicked her sister’s hands off. When Meg did it again, Amy glared. “Would you stop?”
Harlequin Dare May 2021 Box Set Page 53
