by Cara Nelson
“I had you pegged for someone who ate out every night,” she said around a mouthful of food.
“You were wrong, Miss Singapore Noodles.”
“You ridicule me, but if they had an award for that, I would win. For, like, most frequent customer. They’re delicious…curry. I love curry,” she enthused. He wrinkled his nose. “What? The idea of curry…the very name of curry disgusts you?”
“Eat your eggs and give me my phone back.”
“What would you have done in Dubai if I hadn’t had that phone?”
“Paid attention in meetings, more than likely,” he said, forking a mushroom and examining it. “Slice them thinner next time. Too thick and they overwhelm the truffle flavor and they don’t roast evenly.”
“It’s a good thing you’re cute, because sometimes you’re begging to be punched, do you know that?” she said, flicking a mushroom at him playfully. It landed on the table with a greasy slide and he swiped it into his napkin and threw it away.
She rolled her eyes. “You got in trouble with the foreign office, but I got yelled at by my sister,” she offered. “She says I’m acting like a moron over you.”
“I thought that was your ordinary demeanor and considered it improper to point it out,” he said coolly, and she stuck her tongue out at him. “Do tell me more about your antics, though.”
“I said our date was romantic.”
“That’s it? Your sister may be more exacting than I am.”
“Never. The omelet was great. Seriously, the best thing a guy’s cooked for me before this was a frozen pizza.”
“You’re going out with the wrong guys,” he remarked.
“Not anymore.” Again, the frankness like a slap, reminding him this wasn’t a game, but far too serious.
“Cello?” He offered.
She nodded and followed him into what appeared to be an office, lined with books, but dim except for a single lamp. Jasper sat on a low stool, held the cello loosely, and started his bow across it with swift, lively strokes, the low notes long and plaintive. Long fingers pressed the strings at the top while the graceful arc of his arm powered the bow across the body of the instrument.
For perhaps two or three minutes, she hovered at the door, spellbound, as he played. His eyes fixed on some point on the carpet, head nodding slightly, muscles tensing and extending as his whole body seemed consumed by the music.
When he finished, he laid the bow aside and stood, gave a jerky half-bow as she applauded. He felt his face flush from the exertion, from exposing himself in this way.
“Bach?” she inquired, unable to hold herself back. She embraced him, engulfing him in warmth and softness and that tang of apple. She kissed his forehead almost proudly. “Beautiful.” She stepped back and regarded him with new respect.
“Cello Suite 1, Prelude in G Major,” he said.
“Was it a competition piece you had to learn?”
“I didn’t compete. I lacked the necessary skill and discipline,” he said as if reciting a lesson.
“That did not lack skill, Jasper. So who did you play for?”
“I told you, my father taught me and I practiced.”
“Twelve years, and you never gave a recital or played in a contest?” He shook his head.
“Your father was arrogant,” she said evenly.
“Yes. I suppose in that way I take after him.”
“Did you play for—anyone else? Other women?” He shook his head again, a smile curving his mouth, transforming that grave face.
“Never.”
“So this was your first time.” She smiled back.
“I get where you’re going with the whole Virgo metaphor.”
“I’m jealous of your cello. All those hours alone with you.” She closed the distance between them, standing near enough that she had to look up at him. “You said on the phone you wished you could hold me.” Taking his hands, she put them on her hips and wound her arms around his shoulders, resting her head on his chest. “So hold me tonight.”
He knew what she expected, but he felt resistant. Perhaps the thrill of the chase had diminished, or perhaps he felt depleted from playing Bach for her, letting her see a part of him no one else had. Jasper’s arms tightened around her and his mouth dipped to meet hers. He felt the tension uncoil, the tightness that came from being away from her, from fighting so hard for control. Hannah felt him relax and burrowed into him.
“It’s about time you calmed down,” she teased, kissing him. He led her to the couch, pulled her down beside him.
“I’m tired, but I don’t want you to go,” he admitted.
“So I’ll stay. Here on the couch or in bed with you?”
“Couch,” he said decisively. He laid his arm across the top of the sofa so she could scoot closer. He gathered her against him. She pulled a cashmere throw over her legs and made a contented sound high in her throat as she settled in to sleep on his shoulder.
Hannah stirred in the night, a crick in her neck, and when she opened her eyes, disoriented, Jasper stroked her hair soothingly. He was there, solid and strong, beside her. She felt a relief she didn’t dare analyze for fear she’d embarrass herself. He whispered into her hair. “Sleep well, mockingbird.” For once in her recalcitrant life, Hannah did just as she was told.
Chapter 7
Hannah
Hannah woke up alone on Jasper’s couch, hair across her eyes and a fairly strong conviction she’d been snoring. By her phone it was only seven, but he was long gone. She tried to shake the anxious feeling all the way home. The instinct that kept telling her he didn’t want her. He wanted her from a distance. In Dubai, he couldn’t get enough of her…but in person, he kept her at arm’s length.
She knew she’d thrown him off his usual pattern, but he was obviously capable of resisting her. She knew she wasn’t the knockout her sister was, but she hadn’t been turned down a lot in the past and she found that she hated rejection.
At home, she found a Zumba video online and did the whole thing, feeling like an uncoordinated jackass the entire time. Maybe, she thought, if she was in better shape. Maybe if she waxed her eyebrows, highlighted her hair. Maybe if she were polished and blonde and after his money instead of a mouthy brunette gunning for his heart. By noon, all she had to show for her day was a mountain of self-doubt and not a minute of work, but she had identified the truth and decided to confront it. She was only significant to Jasper Cates as a novelty, a challenge. Now she was a sure thing, his interest waned.
She crept under the duvet and cried a little. When the phone rang, she seized it and then spent the entire call whining to Becca, who had the misfortune of not being the person her sister really wanted to talk to.
“Even I decided not to get mixed up with him. Anyone who does that phone thing is inherently damaged, babe. Give it up,” Becca counseled. Through her tears, Hannah nodded. She hung up with her sister and texted Jasper.
I’m done being your conquest, your sometime girl. Dial up someone who fits the mold. Goodbye.
Hannah crawled out of bed, walked down the hall to the trash chute and dropped the disposable phone in it. That way she couldn’t dig it out if it rang, the way she knew she would have if she’d thrown it away in her apartment. She drank a glass of water and went straight to her studio to loop dialogue.
Two hours later, her cell phone rang.
“My sometime girl? Hannah, what the hell?” he demanded.
“How did you get this number?”
“Miss Hollingford got it. As soon as I got your stupid text, I set her to work on your contact information. You can’t cut me off like that.”
“Don’t call me again. Don’t text me. Don’t send me shit or show up at my door. Leave me alone.”
“I won’t do that. I don’t know what’s got into you. You were fine last night. I’ll take you out for noodles later. You can tell me exactly why I’m an ass this time, and everything will be fine,” he said patronizingly.
“Leave me alone,
Jasper. For good. No stalking. No Mrs. Hollingford antics. Goodbye.”
She hung up and burst into tears. She had thought she was safe from him, wouldn’t see him or hear his voice. The way he talked, that arrogant roundness to his vowels, the clipped condescension that ended every sentence brought him back to her with force. Hannah didn’t want him tracking her down, having a secretary spy on her. She didn’t want him to plead for her return. She wanted to forget him, dammit. She shoved her phone in a drawer and went to bed at four in the afternoon.
At nine, Becca dragged her out of bed and told her to shower and get dressed. She produced an alarmingly small scrap of cobalt blue fabric intended to cover enough of her sister’s form to appear in public. Scrubbed and made up, she looked like a puffier, blotchier, more scantily clad version of herself. She let Becca take her to a club, miserably tripping on her wedge heels, weaving from side to side in a lame approximation of dancing to trance music under flashing violet lights.
She drank two flaming cocktails that tasted of vanilla and some kind of shot the color of Windex, and danced with a little more animation. A gorgeous sandy-haired pro skier hit on her, bought her another shot, and tried to make her laugh. It took even her slightly intoxicated brain only about four minutes to register the fact that he was dumb. He wouldn’t have known Bach from a box and probably thought Tennessee Williams was a sexual position from south of the Mason-Dixon. She collapsed on a chair with Becca, laughing, and drank whatever was in her sister’s glass when Becca went to dance.
It tasted sweet and lemony, and she ordered another one. Tugging her dress down a bit as she stood, she asked a cute guy with glasses to dance, but he was too tall. Her head never would have fit in the crook of his shoulder the right way, like that perfect niche along Jasper’s collarbone. One dance and she was miserable. With a nod to Becca, she ditched her sister and went home.
Dialing her phone as she climbed the stairs, she called Jasper. A breathy female voice answered on the second ring, her voice husky.
“Jasper Cates’ phone. He’s busy right now. Can I take a message?” She giggled.
“Just put him on the goddamn phone,” Hannah snapped, ready to gag from the scene she knew was taking place. Bright flashes of what he was probably doing to the blonde (of course she’d be a blonde!): things he’d never done to her. The sound of fumbling, and then he answered.
“Cates here.” He sounded gruff.
“Largent here. When you’re done with dial-a-blonde, get over here,” she said, barely choking back a sob. She threw up in the sink, drank a glass of water and brushed her hair, wiped the mascara out from under her eyes.
In under ten minutes, he was at her door, rumpled but present. The second she opened the door, his hands were on her face, in her hair. He was kissing her, shutting the door and pressing her against it urgently. Hannah’s fingers dug into his biceps. She rose on tiptoe to reach him more comfortably, his hands straying to her waist.
“God, Hannah, you had me so scared. I thought I’d never—” He stopped talking to kiss her again. She pushed against him, wriggled away.
“I have to say this,” she said, gesturing for him to sit down on the bed.
“Why is there a bed in your living room?” Jasper demanded.
“I made the bedroom into a studio, so I sleep in here. Focus,” she said, blinking her eyes hard. “I’m sorry I went batshit insane on you today. I woke up by myself and I decided you didn’t want me, that you’d lost interest. I threw the phone away. I’m sorry.”
“I lost interest? I made you eggs. I played the cello for you and let you snore all over me last night. How is that losing interest?”
“I panicked. I spend most of my time alone in a studio, so I’m not the best at relationships or being around people or anything like that. I’d say I’m a loner, but that makes me sound like one of those serial killers that the neighbor always goes on the news, saying ‘she was real quiet and kept to herself’. Anyway, it freaked me out and I didn’t cope with what I thought was a rejection all that well. This is new territory for me. I’m in deeper than you are here and it scared me.”
Jasper reached for her, caught her by the wrist, and pulled her onto the bed beside him.
“Not in deeper than I am,” he whispered and kissed her.
There was something about being stretched out full-length beside him, a closeness she hadn’t realized she was missing. When their legs tangled together, she felt perilously close to tears of relief. Desperate to be even closer, to rip down the final barrier between them, she tore at his buttons, pushed his shirt down his arms. Wriggling and tugging, she couldn’t get her dress off. The scrap of blue was irritatingly stretchy and difficult to remove.
“Help me here,” she slurred, turning her back so he could unfasten it.
“There’s nothing to unzip. I think you just yank it over your head.”
“Yank is not a word I find arousing.” She giggled, pulling on her dress until it was rucked up to her arms and her head was covered. “I’m STUCK!” She laughed until she snorted.
Jasper dragged the dress off her and she collapsed, laughing onto the bed. He dipped his head toward her to kiss her, but she made a squeaking sound in her throat and giggled. For several minutes, she couldn’t stop laughing. He stood by, horrified.
He kissed her forehead and climbed out of bed.
“What? Is it because I wasn’t qualified to get out of my own dress? ‘Cause that can happen to anyone, no matter how many Lemon Drops she’s had. Those things are gooood,” she said, stifling a giggle.
“Is that what you’ve been drinking?”
“That and some Windex and something that was on fire. Two on-fire things, I think.”
“Take an aspirin, drink a glass of water, and go to sleep,” he said.
“What? I said I was sorry. Now we’re supposed to have make up sex,” she whined. “Take off your pants!”
He was obviously fighting not to laugh. “I will not. Put on some pajamas and I’ll get you the aspirin and water.”
“I try and try with you, and it’s like you’re not even interested. Why won’t you have sex with me? Why won’t you EVER have sex with me?” she demanded. When he returned, she swallowed the aspirin with a mutinous glare and drank the water.
“I’m interested.” His voice was low, the heat of his hands on her arms searing a path of desire as he touched her stomach, pulled her toward him. He lowered his head. When she parted her lips, he flicked his tongue into her mouth. Arching against him, she hoped for an instant that he’d loosen his iron control. Jasper drew back.
“But the first time I make you scream, I want you sober enough to remember it. To your dying day, you’ll look back and think, now THAT was a man.” His filthy grin nearly undid her.
“I—don’t leave.” She choked the words out.
“I’ll sleep over there.” He indicated the chair.
“Sleep here with me.”
“You may be surprised to know this, but I’m not actually a superhero. There are limits to my resolve and I suspect that’s about the outside border we just reached. So I’ll be over there if you need help, uh, vomiting or anything.” He grimaced.
He unwound her arms from his neck and dropped her unceremoniously back on the bed. She fell asleep, snoring instantly.
Chapter 8
Jasper
Jasper sat in the chair, staring into the dark and wondering how the hell he ended up leaving a willing blonde for a drunken sound engineer who snored like a lumberjack. It wasn’t out of the question that she had some form of sleep apnea with a sound like that, he mused. Why hadn’t he had sex with her right then, when she wouldn’t remember a thing? It would have been the perfect solution; he could have slaked his desire without the thorny complications he knew would come of sleeping with such a woman.
To her, it would be a declaration, an entanglement he would be hard-pressed to free himself of. She would want space in his schedule, in his dresser, in his mind. He was smar
ter than this, he told himself. There was nothing for it but to leave.
He put a glass of water beside her bed, leaned down to brush her tangled hair aside, and press a kiss to her temple, but thought better of it. He left her asleep again, amazed that he’d got himself mixed up with such a ridiculous woman.
He got on with his workout, went to the office and reviewed reports from the legal division, signing off on a few technicalities. By the time Shannon made his protein shake, he’d been at his computer for three hours. She made him sign a congratulatory card for someone he’d never heard of in HR who was getting married or having a child or buying a boat or whatever feminine event demanded a greeting card and flowers this week. He wrote a J and scribbled the rest in irritation.
After a long, productive day, with Miss Hollingford sending Hannah’s embarrassed phone calls directly to voice mail, Jasper dialed up a blonde from his list, a real estate agent who was once a competitive gymnast. She was twenty-six, but the acrobatic background made up for advanced age, he thought democratically.
He met her at seven. She was as lithe as promised, in sequined shorts and a halter top, and within half an hour they were in his room at the Blake. He was very impressed by her flexibility and the fact that she kept her high-heeled boots on, but slightly embarrassed that he was sweating and out of breath from the athletic contortions she required just as a warm-up.
She didn’t chatter, but he felt like he’d signed up for a bizarre exercise class instead of half an hour of no-strings sex. They hadn’t even gotten to the sex part yet and he was already ticking off the warning signs of cardiac arrest in his mind, recalled from a first aid poster at the gym.
When there was a pause in the action—she went to the bathroom, he assumed to do some jumping jacks—he sank onto the bed, rubbing a cramp in his calf and answering his phone. He tried to convince himself not to bolt for the door. The fact was, he didn’t want to be put through the paces by this girl, had no lingering desire for her flawlessly toned body. He just wished he could leave. He had to press the screen three times to get the phone to pick up a call and the muscle in his right calf was cramping up.
