Whiskey Sharp: Torn

by Dane, Lauren

  “I’m feeling limber so watch out. As much as I’d love to take you up on your offer and stay here, we have reservations. Come on.”

  When he stopped at the marina, she was sure they were headed to one of the restaurants nearby but they headed away from the noise and toward the boats.

  “Okay so we’re going on a boat—I get that much.”

  He gave her a look. “You’re very insightful.”

  “Oh, was that sarcasm? Nicely done.”

  “This way, beautiful.” He turned them down a dock and they headed up to what she figured out was the boat he’d arranged for them. Fairy lights had been strung all around and music played softly in the background.

  At the gangplank, a server met them and escorted them on board, pausing while Cora toed out of her shoes before handing she and Beau both a glass of champagne.

  “We’ll be leaving the dock shortly. Your table has been set with appetizers and the chef will join you shortly to update you on the evening’s menu,” their server told them as he led them to the lavish saloon.

  “You’re getting so lucky when we get home,” she told him as they pulled away from the marina and headed toward the lake and a leisurely cruise away from the noise and traffic.

  “I’m already lucky, Cora. I’ve been lucky every day of my life because everything brought me to Gregori and Wren’s kitchen in October when you came back into my life.”

  She swallowed and leaned against his side. “And they say I’m the poet? I think you have a poet within you, Beau Petty.”

  “It’s just proximity to you. I’ve had a lot of Valentine’s Days and I’ll be totally honest. They mostly were about cooking dinner for other people to get out of having to deal with a date that night. You can’t go on a casual Valentine’s date. So I mainly avoided it or made money from it. But now that I have you, it’s a whole new world. Yes, yes, I know it’s a corporate holiday, blah blah. But you’re my Valentine, Cora. Every day is Valentine’s Day because you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

  “For winging it, flowers, a designer dress, bag and shoes and a private yacht with a fantastic chef-made dinner is pretty A-plus work. Thanks for being my Valentine too.”

  “You inspire me. This love gig is unexpectedly awesome. I’m glad you like it all.”

  The private chef turned out to be Len, which made the meal all the better because he knew them both and created a dinner she’d probably remember for the rest of her days. All her favorites. Things Beau had made for her in the past and he’d given the idea to Len so he could craft a menu that would be pleasing on every level.

  Yet another way Beau showed her how much he listened. Every detail told her he paid attention and wanted to make her life happy and better and what on earth was better than being loved like that?

  They ate dessert and had some port before going out on deck while the yacht headed back to the marina.

  The stars wheeled overhead as they drove home. Their first Valentine’s Day had been a huge success in her book. It wasn’t the flowers or the yacht, it was the way he knew her. The way he put her first that she never ceased to be touched by.

  When they got home and out of their fancy clothes, Jezzy followed her around with her stuffed pig in her mouth. It was lovely. Normal. Sweet even.

  And when they made love that night, Cora drew closer to him, wanting as much contact as she could get. That touch of skin to skin sending warm waves of pleasure through her. It was long and slow and full of unspoken words.

  She didn’t need him to say he loved her when he held her face tenderly, when he kissed the hollow of her throat and hummed his delight. At each touch, something in her leaped up to greet that something in him. It was connection and homecoming even as it was passionate and hot.

  It was love because love was all that and then some, and for she and Beau to have found each other twice and fallen in love, that felt like the best kind of magic she’d ever experienced. Once in a lifetime, struck by lightning while eating a cinnamon roll sort of magic that was so many things at once.

  And afterward, he made her a grilled cheese sandwich at two in the morning because her life truly was awesome.

  * * *

  THE NEXT MORNING Beau dropped Cora off at the gallery and headed to Luna, where he and Ian had plans to do some cooking. He wanted to firm up the last few recipes and Ian was always a great taster and sous-chef.

  It also gave him the opportunity to talk with Ian and let him know how the evening before had gone. Len cruised through at one point so Beau was able to thank him again for giving up an evening to come cook for them.

  By one-thirty he’d finished up and called Cora, asking her if she wanted him to bring her some lunch, which she did. So he got to serve up some food to his woman to make sure she was well taken care of. Always a pleasure. Also a pleasure to watch her eat his food because she never held back on the moans of appreciation.

  The receptionist knocked on Cora’s office door and brought in an envelope. She glanced at it but continued with her lunch. Once they’d finished up and Beau was about to be on his way, she opened it.

  And inside was another envelope. Addressed to Beau.

  “Uh, I guess your family knows about the gallery.” She handed it over.

  “I’ll apologize for that,” he said.

  “If you do I’ll kick you in the taint.”

  “Um. Well, all right then. I take it back.” With shaking hands, Beau pulled the note free. It was from Obie. “He convinced my father to let my mom get treatment. Still doesn’t say exactly what cancer she’s being treated for, but at least she’s getting medical help. He says she’s doing better already but they’re still guarded.”

  Beau paused as he read the last paragraph a few times. Trying to wrestle his hope back a little. “He got the letters to my sons.”

  Cora pulled him back to where they’d been sitting to eat lunch. “Tell me.”

  Beau said, “One of them says to never contact him again because I’m damning his soul as an excommunicant. That means I was kicked out of the cult and my father told them to never speak to me again because I was poison. Standard treatment for anyone who questioned him or his methods.”

  “What about the other?” she asked, keeping her tone carefully neutral, but he saw the flash of anger in her eyes.

  “Obie says his heart is not as hardened toward me as his brother. He’s not interested in contacting me now, but he might be open to it in the future.”

  She knelt in front of him and took his hands. Love flooded him.

  He told her, “I’m not even sad. I mean, that’s not entirely true. I’m sad, but it’s not the crushing desolation I used to feel when I thought about them. And then I think what a terrible person I must be not to be devastated right now.”

  “Or, maybe you’re sad, but you’ve done all you can do. You’ve never stopped looking for them. You told them both that. You love them enough that you never gave up and now that they’ve expressed their wishes, you need to love them and yourself enough to let it lie for a bit. Hope the son who isn’t totally cutting you out of his life comes around and opens his life to you. They know you’re real. They know you want to see them and have a relationship with them. You can’t get them to reject this cult they’ve been raised in. They’re adults and make their own choices. For what it’s worth I think you will be able to reunite with at least one of your sons. When he’s a little older and better able to question what he might have been told. But what I know for certain is that you have consistently done all you could. And how can you do more than that? You are not bad or wrong for being where you are right now.”

  “I don’t know how you always manage to say exactly the right thing at exactly the moment I need to hear it. But you do. And I’m so glad for it. I don’t know how I’d have gotten through these last months without your support.”

&n
bsp; Knowing she loved him, that she believed in him, had helped him realize he deserved to be loved like that. Helped him see he deserved to see his kids, even if they didn’t want to see him. He’d get through this time of sadness. Hope his mom got better and that one day he’d be able to hug his children once again.

  But he didn’t need to wish for real love because he had it. Right there in front of him. Filling his life with all the things that made life worth living.

  “Come on, I’m the boss and I say I should leave early so I can go home and get schmoopy with my dude.”

  “You sure? I’m fine. I’ll see you when you get off in a few hours,” he said, but damn he hoped she didn’t listen.

  “I’m totally sure.”

  She held a hand out and he took it.

  Beau knew then he’d always take that hand. Always walk into his future with her at his side. He came to her torn and not a little bit broken and she’d smoothed some of those rough edges, leaving the love behind.

  Always bringing love. And understanding. Recognition and a sense of connection he’d never thought possible. And now knew he never wanted to be without.

  * * * * *

  Read on for an extract from CAKE by Lauren Dane.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  To all those who participate in the transformation from the weird thoughts in my head to a finished book: Everyone at HQN and Carina, the art department, marketing, promotion, sales, editorial from the most awesome Angela James to copyediting and proofreaders, audio, formatting—and anyone I may have left out—thank you all so much!

  You’ve met Gregori and Wren in the

  Whiskey Sharp books.

  Now read their romance in the standalone novella

  Cake

  Available now from Harlequin and Lauren Dane.

  Cake

  by Lauren Dane

  CHAPTER ONE

  SHE HEARD THE music as she ascended the stairs and knew he’d be working. Her heart sped as she hastened her pace. Watching Gregori Ivanov work was a sensual treat. He tended to fall deeply into his work. The building could fall down around him and he wouldn’t notice.

  There was something incredibly sexy about that. His intensity was a little overwhelming, but in the best sort of way.

  Once she got to his floor, she didn’t bother ringing the bell—Gary Clark, Jr. was playing so loud Gregori wouldn’t have heard it anyway.

  She let herself into the front entry of the massive space Gregori occupied. Three stories of windows washed the place in light. He took up a corner of the old building in Pioneer Square. Depending on where you stood, you could see Puget Sound or the redbrick buildings lining First Avenue.

  She dropped the envelopes and the box she’d been delivering on the counter and wandered into his studio, leaning against one of his worktables to watch him.

  Pale winter sun gleamed against his bare back. Ink trailed along his spine, over lean muscle. Lines of poetry, mainly in Cyrillic, wrapped around his forearms. Barbed wire marked his ribs, interspersed with more words. When he went shirtless, she’d discovered both his nipples bore silver hoops. He wore fingerless leather gloves, one hand grasping some sort of tool as he prowled around a large metal sculpture he’d been creating for the better part of the past three weeks.

  His hair, currently scarlet red, stood up in liberty spikes, but other days he didn’t bother with the full Mohawk effect and he put it in a ponytail to keep it from his eyes. On many it would have looked ridiculous. But on Gregori? It worked. Like really, really worked.

  He wore eye protection, but she knew beneath the goggles his eyes were hazel, fringed with sooty lashes usually at half-mast like he was thinking of something particularly dirty.

  He worked in jeans so old they bore threadbare spots in all the right places and, though he often went barefoot around the loft, today he wore work boots.

  In short, he was a visual buffet. And she was really hungry.

  He stalked and paused. Bending to tug on something. Or to grab more tools and sharpen a piece. Wren just watched. Fascinated by the way he created.

  It went on this way for another twenty minutes until he finally looked up and noticed her there.

  He slid the goggles up, a smile marking his mouth. “Wren. How long have you been here?”

  His accent was jagged. Like he was. He spoke in staccato bursts, the sharp twists of his words sliding through the air between them.

  “I don’t know. Twenty minutes maybe. Half an hour? I brought some paperwork by and a box. Kelsey says you need to sign the papers in the red envelope and get them back to her.” Kelsey was Wren’s cousin and Gregori’s personal assistant.

  He often proclaimed to hate signing things and attending to the business side of his art so she wasn’t surprised when he sighed, taking the goggles and gloves off.

  Ignoring the sigh, she stepped closer. “Can I?” Wren tipped her chin toward the sculpture.

  He shrugged, pleasure mixing through his annoyance. “Sure.”

  She took it in. A man, crouched in the grip of briars and something else she couldn’t make out. The metal was polished in some places, hammered in others. Sharp edges fanned out here and there. “Like flames,” she murmured.

  “Yes. Exactly.” He moved closer and his scent caught her attention. Sweat, soap, the product he used in his hair. The fuel from the welding stuff he used. It all married together and became essentially Gregori.

  “This is brilliant.” Wren wasn’t flattering. It wasn’t a lie. He was a genius. One of those rare few who not only made a living at what he did, but had ascended to art celebrity.

  He made a sound. A growl of sorts. “It’s missing something.” They both looked at it for some time longer until he sighed. “Come have tea with me.”

  He issued the invitation like a command. He tended to be imperious at times. But she rarely took him seriously, so she let it wash over her and perhaps might even have liked it. A little bit.

  “While the water is boiling, sign that stuff or Kelsey will only send me back here.”

  They’d known each other for a year or so by that point, she having met him by bringing things to his loft several times a week. Over that time they’d developed a flirty back-and-forth and the more often she came to his place, the deeper the sexual undertones began to dig.

  He looked up from where he’d been spooning the loose tea into a pot. “Do you have other things to do instead?”

  “Are you asking if I have anything else but bringing papers, checks and doodads to Gregori Ivanov in my life?”

  He laughed. “Do you?”

  “I do. Shocking, I know, to imagine a world outside running errands for an eccentric artist, but there it is.”

  He sniffed, his lids falling as he took in the scent of the tea. “Bergamot. I love it.” His eyes snapped open, gaze homing in on Wren, who’d perched at the nearby table. “What’s a doodad?”

  “Little bits of this and that.” At his puzzled look, she got up and moved into the main room. He had a collection of what looked like gears scattered across a shelf. She pointed. “Like this. A generic term for bits of stuff. One of my moms says doohickey or thingamabob.”

  “Hmm. I like those terms. I do suppose you bring me all manner of little bits on a regular basis.” The teapot whistled and he turned to deal with it. “There may be something to eat in the fridge.”

  She moved to the sleek, stainless-steel work of art that filled her with refrigerator envy every time she saw it, peeking inside. For a supposed wild bachelor, he had a lot of really good things to eat. “Cheese, honey and nuts?”

  “Hmm, yes. There are crackers in the cabinet.”

  She began to pull things out, pouring nuts into small bowls, hunting down the honey.

  “How’s school?”

  Wren was going to art school at Palomar, an art
s college. Her messenger job paid part of her bills and had the benefit of being flexible around her classes. She was also working on her newest graphic novel and a few digital side projects. It kept her ridiculously busy, but she was never bored.

  “Fine. I’m really digging my autobiographical comics course. I’ve got a digital-imaging class I’m learning a lot from.” She shrugged.

  “You should bring more for me to look at. You haven’t in a while.”

  It made her uncomfortable. Not to seek his opinion. She respected him as an artist. But she knew others took advantage and she never wanted him to think of her that way.

  He had a hot button about it. Being used. It was part of the reason he always wore his reputation as the chain-smoking, hard-drinking, inked-up wild man in bed to keep people back. He shared part of himself with others, but he controlled just how much. She’d rather have this connection, sitting, drinking tea and eating cheese and crackers, than the bored celebrity with the big dick.

  “Maybe next time.”

  He took the tea to the breakfast nook and sat. She joined him, nibbling on the cheese and crackers while her tea cooled.

  “What’s this piece for anyway?”

  “A commissioned piece. Rich guy wants it for the front of his office building.” He shrugged.

  He always acted like it wasn’t a big deal.

  “Nice. That piece will absolutely make the front of any building look amazing.”

  He ducked his head a moment, sipping his tea until he looked up again, gaze locking on hers. “Tell me about your work. You don’t only do what you’re told to in class. You had a graphic novel. What’s the status with that?” His tone, to an outsider, would have been imperious. An order given to an underling. Even a slight emphasis on the what you’re told to that made it clear what he thought of her need for school. It was partly the Russian in him, partly the artist thing and partly because he was one of the most supremely self-assured people she’d ever met.