Wishful Sinful (Rock Royalty Book 5)

by Christie Ridgway

  “To remind you you’re a desirable woman. One who doesn’t need to hide behind anything.”

  Chapter 10

  The next afternoon, Walsh called to Honey through her closed bedroom door. “We’re going to be late.”

  She called back. “Maybe I should put on the one-piece I brought from L.A.”

  He rolled his eyes. “When we get back from this little field trip, I’m going to cut that one-piece from L.A. into strips I can use to tie you to my bed.”

  The ensuing silence made him worry. He rapped his knuckles on the door. “You alive in there?”

  “I’m not sure,” came her faint voice.

  Grinning, Walsh shook his head. These past couple of days had been the most fun he’d ever had in the sack…and in the shower…and on the sofa. Honey was unfailingly easy to arouse, which pleased him to no fucking end. Turning her on was his absolute delight.

  “Hurry up,” he called again.

  Now was not the time for their games. Now was the time to return to his number-one priority—business. The day before, he and Honey hadn’t made it back to the hacienda until the casino night was in full swing—and then York Featherstone was nowhere to be found. When the other man suggested at breakfast this morning that Walsh and Honey join him and his niece on a private excursion to a nearby island later in the day, he’d leaped at the chance.

  It was important they have the opportunity to take each other’s measure. Featherstone’s long years of experience and excellent track record told Walsh pretty much all he needed to know. But though he’d had his own successes, his fewer years in the industry made him a lesser-known quantity. The more lucrative and interesting government contracts currently in play would more likely be sent in his direction if he could convince Featherstone they should join forces. That meant the other man’s good opinion of him was imperative.

  Honey’s door popped open and she emerged, a hat on her head and dark glasses in her hand. The strings of a tropical print bikini top were tied around her neck and at her back. A matching sarong was knotted at her hips, and he could only assume she wore the bikini bottoms that completed the set. With effort, he acted unmoved at the sight of her dainty body so revealed.

  She cast him a look. “If I get a nasty sunburn, it will be all your fault.”

  “I volunteer to apply sunscreen,” he said, allowing himself to grin again. “To every exposed inch.”

  “I took care of that myself.” Then she warily skirted his body. “Coming?”

  He decided not to tease them both by commenting on that word. Instead, he followed her to the designated meeting spot. York and Dayna were standing on the beach near a freshly-painted panga boat rocking in the shallow surf. The four of them waded into the ocean. Taking hold of Honey’s elbow, Walsh boosted her over the gunwale.

  The short trip to their destination made only small talk appropriate. The four conversed about the perfect temperature, the warm breeze, the fish they could see in the clear water over the sides of the boat. In a short time they were delivered to the banks of the island. Colorful hammocks hung between trees, the delicious smell of hot oil frying fish and tortillas was in the air, and the bright sound of Mexican music drifted from the beachside eateries that lined the sand.

  Tourists were less in evidence than locals, and Walsh noted Honey watching the groups of cute kids chasing each other up and down the beach. Her expression looked wistful, and a sharp pang stabbed him as he recalled her upset of the day before. An ultra-responsible older sister, her teen siblings’ issues were a constant source of trouble for her.

  They’re…they’re all I have, she’d said. Before them, no one ever loved me.

  He didn’t feel a jot of guilt for having distracted her with sex.

  But hell, right now he had nothing as sure-proof to divert her.

  Still, he strode to her side. Dayna Featherstone beat him there.

  “I hear they have a great selection of silver jewelry and embroidered clothes for sale. Let’s go check it out.”

  His fingers only grazed Honey’s shoulder as she strode off with her friend. Walsh watched her go. Since she’d first started working for him, he’d felt protective of her, but now it was an even stronger compulsion. The bubble, he supposed, and how intimate they’d become inside of it. But that intimacy had a limited lifespan, he reminded himself.

  You’re going to need to ease off.

  “Hopkins,” York said, interrupting Walsh’s thoughts. “How about a stroll along the beach?”

  “Sure.” Walsh shook himself, giving his attention to the other man. “Sounds good.”

  It didn’t take long for York to broach the very topic that Walsh was interested in. “I heard some rumblings from the East Coast this morning,” he said.

  “Me, too,” Walsh replied. “About a sit-down at the Pentagon.”

  “The guys at the top are apparently eager enough to approve a no-bid contract for Project…” He let his sentence die.

  Walsh understood why. The information was classified, and while there was little chance that someone was eavesdropping at this remote beach in Mexico, it was smarter to talk in generalities.

  “I know which you mean.”

  The older man glanced at him. “Are you interested?”

  “If they call, I’m going.” Walsh looked over. “You?”

  York nodded slowly. “I think so. I think I like you, too.”

  “But the jury’s still out?” Walsh grinned, not taking offense. It was an important alliance and thus an important step.

  “Maybe,” York replied, with humor in his tone. “I’ll tell you that your innovative side intrigues me. I figure you get your creativity from your father.”

  Walsh blinked. From seventeen, when he’d been destroyed by realizing he was on the receiving end of Hop’s sloppy seconds, he’d not wanted anything to do with the man—and he’d definitely not wanted anything from him.

  “That’s an interesting thought,” Walsh offered, for lack of something else to say.

  “I have a lot of those—interesting thoughts.” The older man laughed. “You may have to become accustomed to listening to them. It’s the prerogative of old age to share our wisdom.”

  Walsh tried to protest the “old age” comment, but they’d reached a rock break that necessitated they turn around and head back, and the conversation moved on to other subjects. By the time they spied Honey and Dayna ahead, he thought he had good reason to feel positive about the potential alliance. He and York stopped beside the women who were watching a parasail operation hoist a tourist up in the air.

  “Now there’s an adventure I haven’t yet had,” York said. “Shall we all have a go?”

  “That’s just what I was saying to Honey,” Dayna’s voice sounded eager. “Let’s do it.”

  “Okay.” Walsh’s admin nodded. “It could—”

  “I’d rather not.” Walsh didn’t particularly want to refuse—putting a spanner in any works proposed by York was not in his best interest at the moment—but Honey was afraid of flying. Not that he intended to spill her secret.

  “No?” York cocked a brow.

  “No.” Let the other man think what he wanted. Walsh curved his mouth in a non-committal smile and turned to Honey. “We can let those two have their fun, while we snack on the excellent fish tacos I smell cooking down the beach.”

  Her brow creased. “Walsh…” She hesitated, and he thought he saw the lightbulb go off in her head. “Oh.”

  “Sound good?”

  She grimaced, guilt infusing her expression. “Really,” she murmured, for his ears only. “I’d be fine.”

  “Nonsense,” he murmured back, then threw another smile at the other man and his niece. “Shall we meet you at the restaurant near where the panga’s waiting?”

  But in the end the other pair opted not to strap themselves to parachutes after all. Instead, the four of them gathered around one of the plastic tables set not far from the surf. A bucket of ice bristling with bottle
s of beers—quartered limes conveniently shoved into their necks—instantly appeared, along with a basket of piping hot tortilla chips, a bowl of guacamole and another bowl of salsa.

  They ordered fish tacos and then dug in, the atmosphere relaxed, the company convivial. Full of food and beer, Walsh slung one arm over the back of his chair and congratulated himself on accomplishing his goal of the day. His business discussion with York had gone well, and he thought the two of them had discovered they were of like mind.

  That boded well for a successful working relationship.

  Lulled by the sound of the waves, he was nearly half-asleep when he re-tuned into the conversation around the table. Dayna had decided the pair eating nearby were honeymooners, and she was speculating on their chances at a happy future.

  “Doubtful,” she decided. “They’re staring out at the waves and not even touching.”

  “You might be wrong, Dayna,” her uncle said. “Look under their table.”

  Dayna brightened. “They’re playing footsie. That’s sweet.” Then she smiled at York. “I’m relying on you, you know, to let me know when I’ve found my right man.”

  “Have I not liked your boyfriends before?”

  The brunette seemed to think. “I believe you called Hunter a buffoon and Roger a clown.”

  York winced. “I suppose I should learn to be more diplomatic.”

  “No. You and Aunt Anne had such a wonderful marriage that I want to hear your honest opinions.”

  Honey turned to the older man. “How did you meet your wife?”

  “Across a crowded room.” Smiling, he looked down. “And it muddled my whole life…then made it.”

  “Uncle York was intending to go to MIT for a graduate program. But there was Aunt Anne, nearly four years younger, an art major, just beginning at the University of Washington.”

  “Who didn’t want a boyfriend or anything else getting between her and her muse.” York chuckled. “But I stayed in the Pacific Northwest and eventually wore her down.”

  “So…” Honey fiddled with her beer bottle, turning it back and forth. “You didn’t, say, have a set of requirements you relied upon to find the perfect wife?”

  York laughed. “If I had, she wouldn’t have met a single one of them. I probably would have said I wanted a quiet, undemanding woman who would leave me mostly alone to build my business.”

  “Aunt Anne was not quiet,” Dayna put in. “And she also made sure to lure Uncle York out of his office on a regular basis.”

  Walsh knew Honey’s remark was meant for him—she’d been referring to his half-finished list, obviously—and felt its sting. He shot a look at her, then directed his question to York.

  “Surely you don’t think it’s entirely wrong to apply logic and reason when selecting someone to live with for life. You wouldn’t go into a business relationship that way.”

  York gave a faint smile. “But a business relationship is a limited kind of partnership. You don’t give a business associate all-access—up to and including your heart.”

  “Yeah, but then it doesn’t get trampled on either,” Walsh muttered, and excusing himself, left to see to the bill.

  On the comparatively quiet panga ride back to the resort, he cursed himself for spoiling the afternoon’s mood by entering into that ridiculous discussion about marriage. But he found that he didn’t give a shit whether York Featherstone approved of his method for selecting a mate. As he followed Honey into the villa, it was her attitude that grated on him.

  When he closed the door behind him, he leaned his back against it and crossed his arms over his chest. “So…you think I’m making a mistake?”

  She turned slowly to face him. Then she pulled off her hat and used the other hand to fluff her curls. Her blue-jewel eyes were wary. “A mistake about what?”

  “Don’t give me that. You know what I’m talking about. My list.”

  Her gaze slid to the side. “I don’t know why you care what I think.”

  He ran his hand through his own hair. “Okay, I admit that life with the Velvet Lemons never provided a single matrimonial example, let alone a healthy male-female relationship. But do you think that’s left me too effed-up to marry?”

  “I’ve never said or implied that,” she began hotly. Then she modulated her voice. “It’s just your way seems so…deliberate. So cold-blooded.”

  “Well…yeah.” He frowned at her. “Also sensible and practical. Who the hell wants to be thrown into some tumultuous sea of burning passion, with emotions flinging this way and that until you don’t know what’s what?”

  Her mouth curved. “I think those are the lyrics of a Velvet Lemons song.”

  “I’m being serious.” At seventeen, waves of humiliation had swamped him, and he’d wanted to die—or conversely, murder Hop. He’d hated feeling so out of control. “People drown under those kind of circumstances.”

  “But what a way to go.”

  He gaped at her. “No. It can’t be.”

  She moved to the mini-fridge at the bar and pulled out a bottle of water. “What can’t be?”

  “I can’t believe that after the shit your parents have put you through during their divorce that you’ve managed to hold on to an idealized, romantic idea of love and marriage.”

  Her head tilted back as she took a long swallow. Then she looked at him, expression impassive. “They didn’t get married because they loved each other. My parents got married because my mom was pregnant with me. And to hear them tell it, they’ve regretted—resented—that fact, and me, every single day since.”

  Walsh’s gut tightened like a fist. “Honey—”

  Whatever he was going to say—and he had no idea what the hell that might be—was interrupted by the buzzing of his phone. Pulling it from his pocket, he checked the screen.

  “Fuck,” he spit out. “D.C.”

  Staring at the number, an uncomfortable foreboding moved through him. He knew already—and how he could be so sure went against logic and reason—that it signaled the end of this idyll. His fingers tightened on the phone, and he had to fight the sudden urge not to answer.

  But he did, of course, shocked as hell that he’d even hesitated. Only a few hours before, when he had business front-and-center in his head, he would have considered the call the very best news.

  Walsh spent an hour on the phone. When his plans were finalized at last, he left his bedroom, blowing out a long breath. Across the living area, Honey’s door was shut.

  Debating with himself, he stared at it. Leave her alone, or…?

  But he had to tell her about the change. She was his assistant, his right hand at MadSci.

  And his lover. Temporary lover. Former lover.

  He was leaving their personal Las Vegas tomorrow, a day earlier than expected.

  At his knock, she told him to enter.

  A small desk and chair were positioned in the corner of the room, and Honey sat there, in front of her laptop. Her curls were damp, she was wearing the voluminous terry robe provided by the resort, and the whole room smelled faintly of shampoo and a hint of that new perfume of hers.

  He hoped like hell she remembered to leave it in Mexico—or if she brought it home, wore it only for some other man.

  His tension ratcheted, and he told himself it was only because the impending trip was such an important one. He cleared his throat. “That call—”

  “I know,” she said calmly. “Sharon already emailed me your travel itinerary. You’re flying out tomorrow for D.C.”

  The woman made all the company’s travel arrangements. He might have to give her a bonus for being the one to inform Honey.

  Though it was nonsensical of him to be concerned about what she’d think. The situation offered a great opportunity for him and for MadSci. His admin would see that, too, despite their long weekend coming to an early end.

  “I already sent an email asking Nancy to ship your suit and the other extras you leave at the office to your hotel. They should be there tomorr
ow night so you’ll have them for your first meeting the next day. When I get back to L.A., you can tell me how long you expect to be gone, and I’ll go to your condo and pack whatever else you’ll need.”

  So efficient.

  So capable.

  “Anything else?” she asked, clearly in assistant mode.

  So focused. Except he couldn’t keep his head in that same professional space. With that special scent of hers in the air, she wasn’t the Honey who took notes at company meetings and made sure the tech team kept their Nerf blasters in their bottom drawers when visitors were in the offices.

  Instead he was looking at the Honey who’d shared secrets with him in their personal, private bubble.

  They’re…they’re all I have. Before them, no one ever loved me.

  They didn’t get married because they loved each other. My parents got married because my mom was pregnant with me. And to hear them tell it, they’ve regretted—resented—that fact, and me, every single day since.

  The words sounded loud in his head, their sharp edges and heavy weight bashing against all his usually ordered thoughts. They disarranged his priorities and rattled his customary self-possession.

  He pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to distract himself from the need to punch the nearest wall. Then he remembered something else he had to tell her.

  “Honey…”

  She glanced up.

  Riveted by her beautiful face, those eyes, that short nose—sunburned from their time at the island—and the fascinating mouth, he forgot what he was about to say.

  Her eyebrows rose. God, her eyebrows were fascinating too, their color more golden than brown after a couple of days in the sun.

  “Walsh?”

  Focus, he told himself. He pinched his nose harder, then dropped his hand. “I need to apologize.”

  She straightened in her chair, her lips parted, about to speak.

  He held up his hand. “I’m sorry about leaving you to travel back alone.”

  Her body slumped in her seat. “Oh.”

  “If I’d known about your fear of flying, I wouldn’t have insisted you come to Mexico.” Of course, if he’d known how they’d combust in bed, he would have found a way to convince her to join him somewhere far from the office. Still, leaving her to return alone with her fear did not sit well with him. “I’ve been thinking. I could call someone to come here and escort you back. One of the MadSci team, maybe my brother Reed—”