by Naima Simone
“Even so, gifts are given willingly, and since you’re the one left with the responsibility, let’s just call this”—she waved a hand back and forth between them—“what it is. Emotional blackmail. So yes, I will be paying you back—with interest—even if it takes me years. The same thing with staying at your place. I’ll agree only if you take the rent I would pay here when I receive my first paycheck.”
“No,” Aiden stated. Hell no. “That’s ridiculous. I’m not taking your money, Noelle.”
“Then go get the box you just put in your car.”
“You’ve got to be…” He thrust his fingers through his hair, twisting the strands and pulling. It was either that or grab her and shake some sense into her. “Didn’t we just go through this? Where else will you go?”
“I fail to see how that’s your concern.” She arched a dark eyebrow. “Do you accept my terms?”
He studied her for a long moment, noting the stubborn tilt of her chin, the resolute line of her pretty mouth, the determined gleam in her pale eyes. “Fine,” he lied. Anything to get her moving. But no way in hell was he accepting her money. He’d find some way to return it. Maybe Noelle would find Boston University had awarded her an unexpected book stipend. As the chief operating officer of a well-respected and successful company—not to mention wealthy—he could wield some influence to make that happen. “Are our negotiations complete? Can we finish packing your things now?”
Her head dipped in a slow nod, but suspicion and wariness remained in her unwavering stare. “Yes, we’re through.” She turned and headed for the stairs. “I still don’t understand why you’re doing this,” she muttered.
He would be happy to explain it to her…just as soon as he figured it out himself.
Chapter Six
“Holy shit.”
In one of the fairy tales Noelle used to love, a frog had retrieved a golden ball from a well for a princess in exchange for the chance to sleep beside her on her pillow. Instead of following through on her promise and carrying the frog up to the castle with her, the princess had abandoned him beside the pond. So the frog had to make his way up to the huge castle by himself.
The formal, imposing foyer with its shiny, tiled floor and sweeping, spiral staircase wasn’t a gleaming structure of turrets and towers, but Noelle definitely identified with the frog. Small. Out of place. Overwhelmed. Wondering, What now?
Because she was definitely out of her pond.
Aiden’s home—his penthouse—was simply breathtaking.
Even from the entrance, where her feet remained glued, she glimpsed an unparalleled and gorgeous view of Boston Harbor through the walls and walls of arched glass. The winter sky, Boston skyline, and Charlestown’s Navy Yard practically inhabited the cavernous apartment.
Not for the first time since she’d followed his Escalade across the city in her rusted-out Honda, the differences between her and Aiden struck her with the stunning power of a haymaker. From the $100,000 car, to the eleven-story, imposing monolith that stretched across the waterfront of Charlestown’s Navy Yard and masqueraded as an apartment building…to the palatial penthouse that would’ve given the Kardashians’ digs a case of penis envy, the dissimilarities kept piling up.
She and Aiden may have originated from the same poor, crime-ridden Chicago neighborhood, but they were worlds apart. Hell, universes.
What the hell am I doing here?
“You can come in, you know,” Aiden drawled, circling around her frozen figure. He carelessly dropped his keys on a wide table that boasted a tall metal sculpture of a tree with thick branches and leaves, a twisted, gnarled trunk, and massive roots.
Her heart thudded in her chest, her artist’s sense aching to trace the whorls and knots etched in the trunk. To get up close and study the exquisite workmanship.
“It’s called ‘Healing,’” Aiden rumbled from beside her. He stared at the hand she hadn’t realized she’d stretched toward the piece of art. Hell, she hadn’t even been aware of crossing the length of the foyer and approaching the table.
“Of course,” she murmured, lowering her arm and tucking it under the cardboard box she balanced on her hip. “It’s an olive tree.” The symbol for peace, victory, blessings…and healing.
She studied the sculpture with new eyes. Her time working in a Chicago art gallery under her mentor had taught her several things: how to identify talent; how to purchase artwork people would buy—which sometimes had nothing to do with talent; how to merge the worlds of creativity and finance; how to price art; and how to soothe nervous, and often inexperienced artists and their egos. She’d also learned that, for the most part, serious buyers—whether collectors or one-time purchasers—purchased pieces they connected with. That spoke to them.
So why did Aiden own this particular piece? What about this tree resonated with him so deeply he’d not only bought it but placed the sculpture so that it was the first thing he saw when entering his home?
Reluctantly, she dragged her regard away from the metal art to the increasingly confusing man standing silently beside her. As if feeling her gaze upon him, Aiden shifted his attention from the sculpture and met her stare. Her breath snagged in her throat.
For the briefest of seconds, something other than his customary aloofness darkened his eyes. Something deeper. Heavier. “Healing,” the piece was called. Did Aiden need healing? If so…from what?
“Why the tattoos?” he asked, his eyes dipping to her legs again, and when he glanced back up, she quietly sucked in a breath. Heat. Heat simmered in the emerald depths. Did he know it? Did he realize what he was showing her? Most likely not.
Silence descended in the entryway, but God, it wasn’t quiet. It was filled with humming tension, with the screaming past, with words shouted but left unsaid. With memories. Of her surprised whimpers of pleasure, her pleas for more of his touch…more of him…
“Why the sculpture?” she challenged.
He studied her for a long moment before turning away and heading farther into the apartment, leaving her to follow. “Let me give you a quick tour,” he said. She remained standing there for several seconds, examining the strong, straight set of his shoulders, the unbendable line of his spine, his controlled but powerful stride. By the time he glanced over his shoulder, a dark-brown eyebrow raised, she convinced herself she’d imagined the flash of emotion she’d spied.
He waved a hand toward one of the wide, low couches dotting the living room. “You can put that”—he nodded toward the box she cradled in her arms—“down there. They should be bringing the rest of your belongings up shortly.”
“They” being the men he’d called while at her apartment to meet them so they could move her stuff into his home. On a Sunday.
“No, thanks,” she said, tightening her grip on the cardboard container. “I have it.”
The clothes, shoes, scant pieces of furniture, and even books they’d stowed in Aiden’s car she could relinquish for others to touch. But not her art supplies. Her graphite pencils, chalk sticks, gum erasers, sketch pads, oil paint, brushes, painting pallets, and small canvases—they were hers alone to handle.
And though Aiden had offered her his place for her to stay, she didn’t trust him. The last time she had, he’d ripped the emotional rug out from under her, cutting her off and tossing her aside like she hadn’t mattered. He’d treated her like others had her entire life. She’d vowed never to give him that power over her again, but look at her now. In his home. At his mercy.
Aiden stared at her, his scrutiny inscrutable but piercing. Heat crawled up her neck and inched its way into her face, but she still didn’t relinquish her hold on the box. The man who was far removed from a tiny house on Chicago’s South Side and now lived in a palace in the sky wouldn’t understand about clinging to a few small items.
Finally, he released her from his visual grasp and indicated the expansive area with a sweep of his arm. “This is the living room. The dining room is to the left…”
She struggled to keep he
r jaw from becoming unhinged as she followed him through his apartment. Apartment. Such an innocuous, misleading word for the two-level place that was bigger than most homes she’d seen.
Unlimited walls of glass dominated the home. Even the bathroom offered a gorgeous view of the harbor. God, at dawn, the colors that must pour into the room… She swallowed a sigh but could do nothing about the twist of excitement in her stomach at the thought of waking up early tomorrow morning to try and capture nature’s beauty. Although, a painter’s palette containing those God-given colors probably hadn’t been invented.
Aside from the living and dining rooms, he led her through a huge, state-of-the-art kitchen, a den, past a home office, a media room with an actual movie screen, and a library that wouldn’t have been out of place in an English manor home. A library, for God’s sake. She shook her head. If Caroline could see her son now, she would’ve most likely lectured him on one person not needing this much space…but a huge, proud grin would’ve lit her lovely face for the entire sermon.
A wisp of sadness curled through her as Aiden entered the bedroom—of five—that was to be Noelle’s during her stay. His mother should’ve lived long enough to see this, to live in this…
“Jesus H. Christ,” she blurted.
Hands thrust in his pockets, he stood in the middle of the room. A small, wry half smile lifted one corner of his mouth. “First ‘holy shit’ and now ‘Jesus H. Christ.’ I’m guessing this meets with your approval.”
“I…” She shook her head, the words stuck in her throat as she surveyed the luxurious bedroom. Decorated in lush hues of turquoise, blue, and dark pink, the room could’ve graced any magazine. There was a plush carpet, a huge sleigh bed, another of those wraparound terraces, and a cavernous fireplace. Delight, slow and heady, melted inside her. She had a weakness for fireplaces. In the stories she used to read, the characters always had fireplaces that warmed their rooms, casting their orange-and-red flames across the floor. Providing heat but also beauty. None of the apartments she, her father, and brother shared had boasted one. And now Aiden had gifted her with her first.
“Noelle?”
She blinked and clutched her box tighter to her torso. “I feel like Julia Roberts,” she said, loosing a hard crack of laughter. “Well, except for the whole hooker thing.”
He cocked his head to the side. “And the safety pins in your boots.”
Surprise winged through her, momentarily distracting her from the pity party she’d been about to dive headfirst into. “Did you just get my Pretty Woman reference?”
He snorted and strode toward the opposite side of the room. “Since you were the one who made me watch it, of course I did.” He waved toward a closed door. “Here’s your bathroom, and the closet is behind you.”
For a moment, she didn’t move, stunned. That was his first reference to their time together, and it set off a sharp twinge in her chest. After his heroic rescue from the party from hell, she’d believed that would be the end of hearing from him. But it had been the beginning. Phone calls, meeting for coffee, dinners. And movie nights. Those had been the best because he’d invited her into his home—trusted her in his home—to sit together on the couch, laughing, enjoying one another’s company. He couldn’t know how much those nights meant to her. How she’d sometimes covertly pinched herself to make sure it wasn’t one of her many daydreams about him.
And then he’d snatched them away, leaving her cold and swirling like a leaf caught in the torrential rain of a storm.
Turning, she spotted the door he’d indicated and she’d missed. Twisting the knob, she managed to smother the curse that leaped to her tongue upon flicking on the light. Damn, is everything in this place gi-freaking-normous? She lowered her box to one of the shelves lining the walls. All of her clothes would fit onto one of the many racks and a couple of drawers in the walk-in closet. Her boots and shoes would fill one stand.
The blast of humiliation and duck-out-of-water syndrome she’d been experiencing rushed back in full force. Charity case. You don’t belong. You’re out of your league.
The words slowly ricocheted off the walls of her skull with blinding, nauseating speed, until they bled into one self-debasing hashtag. CharitycaseYoudon’tbelongYou’reoutofyourleague.
“So,” she said, rubbing her suddenly damp palms down the front of her jeans. “What are the ground rules?”
He frowned. “What are you talking about?”
“The ground rules,” she repeated, sweeping an arm out. “For this place. What’s off-limits? What do I have access to, and what time is too late to come in? I can grocery shop, cook, and clean up. What else do you—”
“I thought we already covered this back at your apartment.” His full lips straightened into a hard line. “You’re insisting on paying rent, I damn sure don’t expect you to play Molly Maid while you’re here. And you’re not a teenager with a curfew. You can come and go as you please. The only thing I ask is you let me know if you plan on bringing someone here.”
She hadn’t expected him to grant her run of his home, yet that blatant lack of trust stung. Ridiculous. And she was being ungrateful and petty even after he’d shown her to a room that rivaled every dream she’d harbored as a girl when she’d lain in the cramped, dingy-walled, sad bedrooms of her childhood apartments. But that sense of misplaced pride, of hating being dependent on him, of all people, and the fetid fear of being so damn alone made her lash out when a simple “thank you” would’ve been in order.
“Well, shoot.” She snapped her fingers. “There goes my plan to bring my crew over and rob you blind.”
Oh damn.
As soon as the taunt escaped her lips, she longed to snatch them back. Earlier, she’d allowed anger to make her careless with her words. And she’d done it again. Dragged their past and plopped it right there between them.
His eyes narrowed, a muscle ticking along his clenched jaw. “Are you trying to piss me off, Noelle?” Slowly, he nodded. “You must be. Or else you wouldn’t keep throwing reminders in my face every time you open your mouth.”
“As if I need to mention what you think about my family,” she murmured. “Thieving, no-good Ranas. Users. Lazy. It’s no secret; you’ve never made it a secret about how you feel.”
“Am I wrong?” he pressed. “Are you going to stand here and tell me he wasn’t a thief? A user?”
No. She loved her father, but, no, she couldn’t deny he’d been all that Aiden accused him of…and more.
“For years, Frank lived off Mom. I can’t even say he stole, because she willingly gave him anything he asked for—even if it meant a bill wasn’t paid or she went without. But that hadn’t been enough for him. He had to loot her home like a damn grave robber because he wasn’t satisfied. Because he felt he deserved more. He didn’t give a damn who he hurt.”
She swallowed past the fist of shame lodged in her throat. “I hated what he did. But that wasn’t me. I had nothing to do with it.”
“He used your key, Noelle.”
“He stole it,” she objected. “I didn’t know—”
“Frank told me you gave it to him,” he interrupted, and his bald, flat statement punched her in the lungs.
“What?” she rasped. “He wouldn’t…”
Confusion muddled her thoughts. But right under the bewilderment lurked a wriggling uneasiness.
Crossing his arms, Aiden studied her for a long, seemingly interminable moment. “As soon as I saw the damage and realized what was missing, I knew who was responsible. The doors on the china cabinet Mom was so proud of? The top shelf where she kept the special china set was empty. The dishes were gone. Then I went into her bedroom and the top of her jewelry box was open, the diamond earrings her mother had passed down to her missing. As were the pearl necklace I saved for and bought her for her birthday with my first paycheck when I was seventeen, and the brooch her coworkers at the nursing home surprised her with after her promotion to manager. All of it, gone. She would’ve never parted
with those. Your father took them. Among other things.”
His voice dropped to a silken, low timbre that sent shivers skating down her spine. He lowered his arms, sliding his hands into his front pants pockets.
“I called Frank, Noelle. Told him I was calling the police and having him arrested for breaking and entering and theft. He laughed, said it couldn’t be a B&E when he had a key. Your key. The one you’d given him.”
Horror ate at her, and she lifted a hand to her chest, covering her heart as if the gesture could calm the rapid thump-thump. Her father wouldn’t have thrown her under the bus. Lied to save his own skin. Really? a tiny, ashamed voice sneered. He wouldn’t?
“He then had no problem reminding me of my mom’s promise to look out for you. Putting your father in jail wouldn’t be taking care of you; it would harm you. And since you had given him the key in the first place, you would probably be arrested as well. He didn’t hesitate to use you as his means of staying out of jail. And in return, he told me what pawnshop I could find my mom’s things at, so I could buy them back. I managed to recover everything except the necklace.”
“I’m sorry.” Those two words—so inadequate for the pain her father had caused this man. But they were all she had to offer him. “But he lied, Aiden. I didn’t even know my key was missing until I arrived at the house and couldn’t open the door. We were friends. I thought you knew me better than that.”
Silence fell between them, burdened with the past, the grief, the anger, the hurt. Though he didn’t reply and his ice-hard expression revealed none of his thoughts, she could still feel the weight of the emotions roiling between them like a mass of dark thunderclouds.
This—her coming here, to his home—was such a bad idea. She was a reminder of the pain and loss in his life…and of the men who’d caused them. First, Dad with Aiden’s mother. And then Tony with Peyton. She’d come to Boston to approach him about keeping his promise to Caroline, but not to interfere in his life. Not to inflict more damage on a wound that was obviously still open and sore.
