Like a promise he intended to keep.
* * *
The morning light woke her, beaming in through all that glass with the frantic insistence of winter, and Zoe jolted up into sitting position. For a long moment, she had no idea where she was or why it was so bright.
And when it came back to her—when the long night before began to spool through her brain, one scalding-hot image after another, making her belly clench hard and deep all over again, tossing her right back into that fire—she was immediately furious with herself.
It was better than the darker things that lurked beneath that kick of temper—cleaner.
Waking up in his bed was not what was supposed to have happened. It was certainly not part of the plan she’d concocted on the fly last night, when she’d found herself kissing him and had understood she’d have to deal with this thing between them. With him.
Zoe should have left under cover of darkness, as she’d intended to do. After that first time. That she hadn’t—the reasons she hadn’t—made that dark well inside her yawn open even wider, even deeper. Even more treacherous than before.
She was such a fool.
Zoe had lost count of the number of times they’d come together in the darkness, and she didn’t want to think about how often she’d been the one who’d reached for him. How she’d crawled over that athletic warrior’s body of his entirely of her own volition, no masks and no games.
No hint of compulsion, only want. Need. Desire.
How she’d tasted every part of that mouthwatering torso of his, learning every inch of him, committing it to memory. How she’d taken his hard length in her mouth, licking it from stem to tip and back again, then teased the dark places below until he’d groaned out his surrender, his hands fisted in his sheets.
How she’d straddled him, taking him deep, so deep into her in a slick, exultant thrust that they’d both shuddered, and she’d had to brace herself against him for a moment to catch her breath—palms flat against the granite planes of his chest and the iron length of him driving her wild within.
She didn’t want to think about the way his hands had gripped her hips as she’d started to rock herself on him, or the way she’d arched back to give him unfettered access to her breasts, her belly, and not because she’d wanted control—but because it felt good. So damned good it made her shiver again now, remembering it.
And she certainly didn’t want to think about that shimmer of ecstasy that had wound in her, tighter and then tighter still, making her lose herself completely while he flipped her to her back and pounded them both straight into all of that stunning, glorious oblivion.
Hunter had been so fierce, and she’d matched it. So wildly possessive, and she’d returned it. Almost as if—
But she couldn’t let herself go there. It didn’t matter what had happened last night.
He’d had her. This was over. That was the plan.
Zoe scowled around at the ridiculous room, which seemed bigger and more severe with all that shattering winter sun pouring in, harsh and unavoidable. The wide bed stood at its center, a proud monument to a very long night she ought to regret. That the swirling darkness in her whispered she would regret, eventually.
At least Hunter was nowhere to be seen, for which she was grateful, she told herself.
That was what she felt, what that odd thing gnawing at her was, making her pulse seem fluttery and too hard at once: grateful.
It was harder than it should have been to crawl out of that obnoxiously giant bed, over the dents in the soft pillows that whispered of Hunter. To look around for her underwear and her unfortunately slinky dress, which was the last thing she wanted to wear, maybe ever again, since all she could think about when she looked at it was Hunter. His hands. His mouth. His beautiful demands.
She’d felt strong. Glorious. As if she’d never been ruined. As if that was someone else.
It was then, as she stared down at the rumpled dress in her hands, that she understood what that great and dangerous pressure in her chest meant. That searing heat blinding her. That constriction in her throat that she didn’t recognize, it had been so long.
She was about to break down and cry.
Zoe’s hands curled into fists and she looked around wildly, ready to punch something, break something, scream—until she saw the doorway that led off to one side, almost hidden against the wall. It was through there, past acres of deep closets she shouldn’t have had the slightest interest in exploring because she shouldn’t have cared, that she found the sprawling bathroom. It held a bathtub that better resembled an Olympic-size swimming pool and a shower that could have housed multitudes, with at least three separate showerheads.
“The better to cater to a playboy lifestyle and all that it entails,” she muttered, her voice not even echoing in the exultantly luxurious space.
Groupies don’t make it past the first floor, he’d said last night—and she hated how much she wanted to believe that now.
Zoe stood beneath the hot spray for a long time. Until her skin felt like hers again, as if it fit her once more, the way it was supposed to do. Until she stopped that helpless shaking, as though she was fighting off a fever. Until that hard, heavy weight shifted off her chest, and she was no longer afraid she might dissolve into tears.
Until the hot water washed away any evidence that some tears might have snuck out anyway, against her will.
She dried off, happy that she’d steamed up all the mirrors so she didn’t have to look at her reflection, because she was afraid of what she might see. Too many truths in her eyes she didn’t want to acknowledge. Too much she should have known better than to let herself feel.
“It was only sex,” she told herself sternly as she climbed back into her clothes. She had to stop this. “Come on, Zoe. You’ve faced a whole lot worse than this.”
And even though she knew that was true, it was so much harder than it should have been to start down those stairs once she’d twisted her hair back into a knot and pulled on her shoes. She made it to the first curve of the spiral stair, then stopped, shaking her head at herself. She swallowed, hard, and rubbed the heel of her hand against her chest, where that heavy weight had returned and hardened, become almost unbearable.
The trouble was, she liked him.
And as she stood there in last night’s dress, her entire body still humming from the sleepless hours he’d spent branding every part of her with that wicked mouth of his, with every touch of his talented hands, Zoe felt as if she was cracked wide open. As if all of that sunlight pouring in from high above was ripping into her, through her, throwing open doors, shattering windows, knocking down walls.
She’d been hiding.
All this time, she’d been so proud of herself for moving on, for taking care of herself, for wresting a decent life out of the ashes of what had happened to her—but all she’d been doing was hiding. Holed up dreaming of revenge while the world turned on and on without her. Playing a game of survival across all these years.
But surviving wasn’t the same thing as living. It wasn’t even close.
Zoe looked down at herself, at the gray dress she wore, that was like all the other gray dresses she wore. Grays and blacks, dark browns and navy blues—she was wearing the colors of mourning. She’d been attending her own funeral for the past decade.
How had she failed to recognize that before now?
Any way she looked at it, standing here lit up and too bright after a night that shouldn’t have happened with a man like Hunter who shouldn’t have appealed to her at all, that meant Jason Treffen won. That he’d been winning since the day she’d escaped from his unsavory little operation and set out on her own. That on some level, this was all a game of pretend. Her fierceness, her insistence on control, her whole life.
Zoe pulled in a ragged breath. She shouldn’t ke
ep all the bright colors she allowed herself locked away in her apartment, like some kind of Miss Havisham in reverse. She shouldn’t be afraid to be who she was, whoever that was. She wanted to feel the way Hunter made her feel—off-balance and alive. Wild and free and utterly unfettered. Even if that had all been run-of-the-mill on his part, his practiced playboy charm, it hadn’t been on hers.
When Hunter kissed her, she felt whole.
That was winning. Reclaiming who she was, or who she might have been. Not hiding anymore. Not locking herself away, still fearful, she understood now, that Jason Treffen might reappear at any moment and tell the world what and who she really was.
As if that had ever been his call to make.
No wonder she’d been holding back from pushing her revenge plans into motion, even now when she was so close to the final act. No wonder it had taken so long. She’d still been afraid.
But she wasn’t any longer. She felt free.
When she started down the stairs again, she was smiling, for what felt like the first time. Maybe ever.
She saw Hunter as she rounded the last bend, sprawled out on that medicinally white couch of his, wearing nothing but a pair of exercise trousers low on his narrow hips. He looked sleepy and gorgeous, his dark blond hair rumpled and a hint of stubble on his jaw, making him look less pretty and more dangerous, which set off a little symphony of need inside her.
He made her feel insatiable. Greedy.
Beautiful and real.
Whole.
She moved toward him quietly, almost as if she was powerless to stop herself, and he didn’t look up as she approached, too busy watching at the television screen in front of him with an intensity she didn’t understand.
The volume was turned down so low she didn’t hear that voice until she was right behind Hunter on the far side of the sofa.
That voice. Jason Treffen.
Hunter’s television screen was so big it made Jason seem bigger than the wall. Bigger than life. Certainly big enough to destroy the tiny little lives he meddled in. Like Sarah’s. Like hers. He lounged like the king of the world on some morning show couch, smiling genially, looking like the honorable and trustworthy man Zoe had once believed he was.
And Hunter sat there before his image, like the acolyte she’d somehow forgotten he’d been back then. Hell, maybe he still was.
That was why she’d chosen him.
The fact that she liked him was just her own twisted perversity at play.
Hunter turned to look at her. His eyes narrowed much too shrewdly as he sat up, as if he could read all manner of terrible things right there on her face. As though she wasn’t maintaining that mask of hers any longer.
“Zoe?”
But she was looking at the screen, not at him.
“Zoe.”
It was a command, but she was so far away then, so very far away, and it took a long time to pull her gaze away from the television and focus on the first man she’d let touch her in almost a decade. The first man she’d wanted in as long as she could remember. The first man she’d ever begged. The first man she’d liked like this in what she was fairly certain was forever.
Zoe didn’t know why she was surprised that Jason Treffen should be hanging over this moment—literally. What was surprising was that she’d let herself forget that she knew exactly who Hunter was. That she always had.
“Tell me,” Hunter said quietly. Intently. With some kind of reined-in ferocity that made the air feel heavy and unwieldy all around them. “How do you know Sarah?”
Maybe he knew, too. Maybe he’d always known, just as she had.
Maybe this was nothing more than another sick game.
But she was tired of everyone else winning. She was tired of hiding, no matter what had spurred her out into the light. She was tired of Jason fucking Treffen and the damage he did.
“I was there.”
Zoe knew she was speaking only when she saw him react to her voice, jerking up and onto his feet as if she’d hauled off and hit him. But it was as though she’d vanished inside herself. Disappeared into that far-off safe space she hadn’t had to access in a very long time. She could see how tense he was then and that terrible darkness on his face, but she actually smiled, because she’d gone completely and utterly numb, and it was better. Much better.
“I remember you, Hunter.”
“You’re going to have to be more specific.”
There was a dark torment in his gaze, in the odd tautness in his body, in the way he started to reach for her, then stopped.
Of course he stopped. She suspected he knew exactly what she was going to say. And who wanted to touch someone like that? She couldn’t blame him.
It was lucky she’d disappeared inside herself, because even that didn’t hurt.
“Sarah and I met at orientation at Treffen, Smith, and Howell when we still thought we were going to be legal assistants,” Zoe said in that remote and chilly way, as if she wasn’t really talking about herself. And in so many ways, she wasn’t. That Zoe had died a long time ago. “She wanted to be a judge someday. I wanted to say clever things in court. We ate lunch together every day, though as time passed, we talked less. That last week we just sat there, because what was there to say?” To his credit, he didn’t look away. But then, maybe he already knew all of this. “She wasn’t the only one who killed herself, you know. She just did it spectacularly.”
He said something and it took her a moment to realize it was her name.
“She always said you were her boyfriend,” Zoe said, because she didn’t care what he said or even how he said it. As if it was painful. “It didn’t occur to me until later that you were already very wealthy at twenty-three. Were you really her boyfriend? Or did you pay more so she’d act like it?”
Hunter went pale, and it was like a kick to the belly that some part of her responded to that, hurt for him.
“I did not pay Sarah to do anything,” he said, in a stranger’s voice. As if he wanted to be pissed she’d suggested it, but it hurt too much.
“Did he blackmail you?” she asked coolly, telling herself none of the rest of it mattered. And it didn’t. He didn’t. He was useful, nothing more. “Because that’s what he does. It’s not enough to run escorts out of a fancy law firm. Not for a saint like Jason Treffen.”
“I didn’t pay Sarah.” Still that dark, awful tone in his voice. “I didn’t pay anyone.”
“I assumed you got fired from your football team because you stopped paying him off.” Zoe held his gaze, and it wasn’t bravado that moved in her then. It was much heavier than that. Much more poisonous. “But that only works if you were one of his johns. If you still are.”
“No.” His voice was low and altered, as if he was forcing it out through steel wool and it was scraping deep marks into him along the way. “That was all me. I was expelled from the NFL purely because I’m an asshole.”
Jason Treffen hung on the wall on the television screen behind him, framing Hunter the way he’d framed Zoe’s life, and she wished she could summon up the anger that usually fed her—the deep, abiding fury that had fueled her all these years. Jason laughed, Jason flirted with the two morning show hosts, Jason played his fucking part the way he always did, and she wished she had access to the rage that had kept her warm and safe and alive this past decade.
But she felt that weight on her chest, pressing behind her eyes, and she felt nothing but sad. So terribly sad she thought it might warp her. Change her. Disfigure her down into her bones, so deep and so permanent that she’d never walk the same way again.
There was always a price. For everything. She knew that better than anyone.
Zoe supposed she shouldn’t be so surprised that after all this time, after all the ways she’d paid and paid, it could still hurt like this.
A
nd yet there it was, tearing her up as if she hadn’t been quite as ruined as she’d thought. As if there was always something new that could be leveled. Razed. Turned to dust.
“Aren’t we a pretty pair,” she said, all of that darkness in her voice, all these years of despair and denial and revenge fantasies to ease the terrible cost of it all.
Everything she’d done. Everything she’d lost. All the girls Jason had ruined. All the ways she was ruined herself. All of it. Because that was all she had left.
Maybe Jason had been right a long time ago, and what he’d made her was all she’d ever be. Maybe she should have surrendered to that a long time ago, the way so many of the others had. The way Sarah had.
Maybe she should have given up. It would have been easier.
She smiled at Hunter, and told herself this was funny. “You’re not a john, but at least you get to be an asshole. I’m afraid I’m just another whore.”
Chapter Eight
He’d known.
On some level, Hunter was aware, he’d suspected this. Why else would she have thrown Sarah’s name in his face that first morning?
He’d known, but he hadn’t wanted to know. The story of his fucking life, and yet this wasn’t the time to dive back into the comfortable swamp of his own self-pity. Not when she’d gone too cold, too frigid. And it wasn’t that clever, deliberate coolness he’d found he couldn’t get enough of, that he only wanted to bask in. It was as though the Zoe he’d known had disappeared beneath a long winter’s deposit of ice, and he could hardly bear it.
He hated it. He wouldn’t allow it. He crossed his arms over his chest to keep from reaching out to her, and he drew on all his years of tense football games and tough plays to calm himself down. To focus. This wasn’t about him, it was about Zoe. His beautiful, brave, tough Zoe, who he refused to let disappear into that darkness he could see had its hooks in her. Deep.
“This is why you wanted me,” he said, straining with the effort to keep from shouting. To keep all that fury that rolled inside him banked and controlled, because he didn’t want to aim it at her. “My connection to Sarah.” He jerked his head at the television screen. “To that piece of shit.”
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