by Tracy Wolff
Then she turned to Marc and let him sweep her onto the dance floor.
He was a surprisingly good dancer. He didn’t have Nic’s finesse, but then again, who did? And it wasn’t as if he was trying to finesse her anyway. In fact, when she glanced up at him, it looked more as though he was trying to figure her out.
It was on their second turn around the floor that she said, “Let’s just get it out of the way, okay?”
He glanced down at her, brows lifted in surprise. “I’m beginning to see what Nic likes about you.”
“No, you aren’t. You don’t want your brother anywhere near me.”
“Touché.” He inclined his head. “Unfortunately, Nic doesn’t share my sentiments. And since you’re currently carrying the first heir to Bijoux, that isn’t an option anyway.”
“If that’s the case, then what do you want?”
“And here I was just about to ask you that question.” His eyes were hard.
“I don’t want anything—”
“Everybody wants something, Desi. It’s the nature of the beast. And I’d rather know your endgame now than find out about it the hard way, after you destroy my brother.”
“That’s not going to happen.”
“You’re damn right it isn’t going to happen, because I’m not going to let it happen. So tell me what you’re after and I’ll make sure you get it, in exchange for—”
“In exchange for what?” Nic asked from where he was suddenly standing between them. “What do you think you’re doing, Marc?” He kept his voice down and his body language relaxed so as not to draw attention to them, but his gaze was fierce and furious. So fierce and furious that she didn’t know how his brother even managed to look him in the eye.
Marc did, though, and he was easily as livid as Nic. “I’m the one who should be asking you that question, shouldn’t I? This woman nearly destroyed us and now you’re playing house with her? I get that she’s having your baby, but you’re a lot stupider than I gave you credit for if you can’t figure out that even that was a setup. I don’t know what her endgame is yet, but you can’t be so blinded by the sex that you don’t know that there is one.”
Nic’s hands clenched into fists as he gave up any pretense of being relaxed. “You’re going to want to shut up and back off, man.”
“Nic, it’s fine.” She tried to get his attention. “Marc’s just trying to protect you.”
“Yeah, well, he’s doing a lousy job of it,” Nic told her as he moved to put his body between her and Marc.
“Or what? You’ll punch me in the middle of a charity gala?” Marc challenged him. “Go ahead. That’d be great PR for Bijoux, huh? Or has a week with her made you forget everything we’ve worked so hard for?”
“I think you’re the one who’s forgotten—”
“Stop it, Nic!” she said, grabbing his arm. She would not be the cause of them having a fight in the middle of SeaWorld, for God’s sake.
“Okay, that’s enough, you two.” Isa stepped in then, too, grabbing Marc’s arm and pulling him back a few steps. “Tomorrow in the office is soon enough to talk about this. For now—” she shot Marc a look that told him she had had more than enough “—you can take me home.”
“We’re not done here,” Nic told her.
“Yes, you are. We all are.” The look Isa gave him was as pissed off as it was understanding. “Your brother needs a time-out.”
“I’m not five,” Marc told her.
“Then stop acting like you are,” she answered sweetly as she pulled and prodded him until he gave in.
“We’re going to talk tomorrow,” he told Nic before turning away.
“Damn straight we are. And it’ll be your turn to apologize to Desi.”
“That’s not necessary, Nic,” she said as Marc and Isa walked away.
“It absolutely is. You’re my—” Nic broke off, shoving a frustrated hand through his hair. “He doesn’t get to talk to you like that.”
There was a part of her that was desperate to know what he’d almost said, but another part knew it was better if she didn’t know. Better if she didn’t make what was between them—a baby—into more than it was, no matter how she felt about him.
“He’s just trying to protect you, you know.”
“Are we seriously having this conversation right now?” he asked as he escorted her off the dance floor. “He insulted you. Why are you defending him?”
“Because he’s your brother. And he loves you. Of course he’s suspicious of me—why wouldn’t he be after the trouble I caused?”
Nic looked at her broodingly. “I’m not suspicious of you.”
“Because you’re an idiot.”
“Hey!”
“Or maybe just the best person on the planet,” she continued as if he hadn’t interrupted her. “I haven’t decided yet.”
“Well, after we get back to the house, maybe I can find a way to help you make up your mind.” His voice dropped several notches.
She gave him her best sultry look. “Maybe you can.” But as she let him lead her out to the parking lot—and the limo that was magically sitting at the curb waiting for them—she couldn’t forget Marc’s words.
Any more than she could forget the look on his face when Nic had taken her side against his.
She couldn’t do that. She couldn’t be the one who divided the two of them. Couldn’t be the one who broke up the most important relationship in Nic’s life. She’d been alone. She knew how that felt, knew what it did to you deep inside. She wouldn’t wish that on anyone, let alone Nic. Wonderful, fun, exciting, beautiful, kind Nic.
But she couldn’t say that to him. How could she when he was holding her and touching her and looking at her as if she’d hung the moon?
There was a part of her that wanted to wallow in it, that wanted to wrap his affection around herself and snuggle in for as long as it lasted.
What kind of person would that make her, though? It would end—of course it would end, because it always ended—and then where would he be? All alone. She couldn’t do that to him. She wouldn’t do that to him.
But that didn’t mean she had to walk away yet. She could have this night, could have these last stolen moments with him before she had to give him up. It wasn’t enough—wasn’t close to being enough—but it was what she had. And she would make the best of it.
They didn’t talk much during the ride. Instead, they sat close together in the back of the limo, hands touching, legs brushing. By the time the driver pulled the limo to a stop at the top of Nic’s long driveway, Desi was practically vibrating with desire. With need. With a desperation that came as much from Nic himself as from knowing this would be their last time together.
The moment the front door closed behind them, Nic was on her. He whirled her around, pressed her back against the wall and then slammed his mouth down on hers. And then they were kissing, kissing, kissing, their mouths and tongues and bodies tangling together. She didn’t know where she left off and he began.
It was a powerful thought, a humbling one, and it nearly broke her. How could it not when she imagined how it could have been between them. How it should have been.
His hands slid up her legs, fumbled with her underwear. But she knew if she let him touch her it would be all over. She would be lost in the maelstrom of pleasure he brought her every time he touched her.
And she wanted that—her body was screaming for it—but she wanted to pleasure him more. She wanted to take him as high as he took her and then watch him shatter with the ecstasy coursing through him.
Which was why she pushed him away.
“Desi?” He sounded confused and more than a little pleasure drugged. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”
She didn’t answer him. Instead she put her hands on his shoulders and
pushed, turning him—turning them—until he was the one with his back against the wall.
Once she had him where she wanted him, though, she took her time. If this was all she would have with him, she wanted to go slow, wanted it to last. Wanted it to be perfect.
She pulled his shirt from his pants, slowly worked the diamond studs through his buttonholes. Ran her hands over his smooth, hard chest and reveled in his groans, in the soft, sexy pleas falling from his lips as she undressed him completely.
And then she was on her knees in front of him, kissing and licking and stroking as he called out her name. The sound burrowed inside her, filled her up, filled her to bursting and her heart was so wide-open that she felt it break in two even as he fell apart around her.
Fifteen
Nic woke alone.
Again.
At first he couldn’t believe that she was really gone—how could he after the night they’d had? She’d made love to him as if he was her everything, as if he was the only thing, and he’d tried to make love to her the same way. Tried to tell her with his actions what she wouldn’t yet believe if he told her in words—that he was in love with her. That he wanted to spend the rest of his life making her, and the baby, as happy as she made him.
Telling himself that she was up before the alarm only so she could pack, he pulled on a pair of sweats and headed toward the kitchen to see if maybe she was making a cup of tea for herself. Or breakfast. Or—
Except the kitchen was empty. As was the rest of the house—he knew because, like an idiot, he checked every single room. She was in none of them. And he didn’t know why.
She hadn’t seemed angry at Marc last night. He’d been furious at his brother—was still furious—but she’d seemed strangely understanding. Had even urged Nic to get over his anger and talk to Marc about what he’d said, even though it was the last thing Nic wanted to do.
So why was she gone? Had he upset her somehow? Had he been too rough with his lovemaking? Had he hurt her? Just the thought made him sick to his stomach, and he headed back to his room to grab his phone and call her.
But when he picked it up, he saw that she had beaten him to the punch. There was a series of text messages from her that told him everything he needed to know.
I’m sorry, Nic. This isn’t working. I thought I could do this, but I can’t. I still plan to have the baby, and of course, you can have as large or small a part in his life as you would like. But the whole being-in-a-relationship, living-together thing…it just isn’t for me. I’ll have your stuff delivered to your office this week. My only request is that you don’t contact me until I contact you. And I will, I promise. Just not for a little while. Thank you for everything.
Don’t contact me.
Thank you for everything.
Don’t contact me.
Thank you for everything.
He read the message over a dozen times. Two dozen times. Until he had it memorized so well that he didn’t even need to look at it anymore and still it played in his head.
This isn’t working.
Don’t contact me.
Thank you for everything.
Shocked and devastated—more devastated than he had any right to be considering how little time he’d known her—he sank down onto the edge of the bed with his head in his hands. And tried to figure out what the hell had happened. What he’d done wrong. How he’d spooked her.
He was a savvy businessman and an even savvier student of human nature—he had to be to do the job he did. And yet, this time, he had nothing. Yes, Marc had attacked her at the gala, but she was the one who had stopped Nic from defending her. She was the one who had defended Marc, for God’s sake. And even after that, she hadn’t seemed to hold it against Nic. Instead, she’d come home with him. She’d made love to him, had let him make love to her. And it had been everything their first night together had been, only more. Because this time they’d known it meant something.
Or at least, he’d thought it had meant something. Now, sitting here in an empty bed that still smelled of her, he wasn’t sure it had meant anything at all.
Suddenly, he wasn’t sure of anything when it came to Desi and him and the relationship he’d been trying so hard to build with her. For the baby’s sake…and for his.
Because he loved this woman, loved her more than he’d ever loved anyone. And though a lot of people would say it was ridiculous to fall in love with someone so quickly, he knew that wasn’t the case. Because he hadn’t fallen in love with Desi over the past few days as they’d tried to figure out what to do with the baby.
He’d fallen in love with her that night, nineteen weeks ago, when he’d brought her home and made love to her as if his life depended on it. Because, it turned out, it did. It really did. The life he wanted, the life he was so desperate for—with her and him and their baby—did depend on it.
And he would have sworn she felt it, too. If not that first night, then certainly last night, when they’d made love again and again and again. When he’d whispered in her ear and kissed her rounded stomach and nearly cried with how right it had all felt. When he’d held her in his arms and talked about anything and everything, including their baby and the future that they shared.
Damn it, he couldn’t have been that wrong. He couldn’t have imagined the look on her face or the love in her voice or the aching tenderness of her touch. He couldn’t have imagined all of that.
Which meant she hadn’t answered all of his questions after all. Because the one thing she was missing, the one answer she hadn’t given him, was why.
And as he sat there, smartphone clutched in his hand and his heart on the floor, he knew it was the only answer that mattered.
He got to her apartment—to their apartment—before she did.
As he bounded down the stairs from the roof, he prayed he wasn’t too late. That she would talk to him, listen to him and give him a chance to somehow fix whatever had gone so terribly wrong.
He hit the apartment at a dead run, spent a good five minutes knocking on the door—and listening for sounds within—as he pleaded with her to let him in before it occurred to him that a helicopter was a lot faster than a car and that Desi hadn’t even made it home yet.
Once that realization dawned, he’d stood there for long seconds trying to decide between respecting her wishes and waiting outside or going in and having the element of surprise on his side. It wasn’t much of a debate—he needed every bit of help he could get.
He let himself into the apartment they’d managed to share successfully for only a short while. Because he couldn’t just sit—especially not on Desi’s hideously ugly and uncomfortable couch—he paced the apartment while he waited, going over the arguments he’d formulated in his head on the helicopter ride up. As he stood in her apartment, watching the sun rise over the City of Angels, he couldn’t help thinking that none of the arguments were good enough.
He was desperately afraid that nothing was, that there would be no way to convince her that he wanted her, that he needed her. That he loved her.
He was still angsting over it, still trying to decide the best way to make his case, when the front door opened. And then she was there, in the foyer, staring at him with wide and exhausted eyes.
He stared back. He could do nothing else.
They stood like that for long seconds, staring at each other, a million unspoken words and thoughts and feelings arcing between them like a live wire.
And then she moved, breaking the connection between them as she dropped her overnight bag on the floor at her feet. “What are you doing here?” she asked.
“I came for you.” It wasn’t what he’d practiced, wasn’t what he’d planned to say at all. But it was real and it was honest, which was all he had to give since she’d refused everything else.
She breathed out th
en, a long, slow thing that seemed to take more than air. It took her bones, her muscles, her very will, too, because the next thing he knew, she was slumped on the floor, sobbing into her knees.
He was across the apartment in a moment, dropping beside her and murmuring, “No, Desi, no. Baby, please don’t cry. I’m sorry. Whatever it is I did, I’m so, so sorry.”
That only made her cry harder. He didn’t know if it was emotional or hormonal or a little bit of both, but it broke his heart to see her in so much pain. Nearly killed him to think that he had somehow been the cause of it. When he could take it no more, he ignored her hands pushing him away and pulled her into his lap.
“Don’t—”
“Shh,” he told her, one hand cupping her head while the other stroked her back. “Just relax and let me take care of you.”
“I don’t need you to take care of me,” she said even as her hands came up to curl in his shirt.
“Believe me, I am well aware of that fact.” He continued to rock her anyway. “But I need to hold you right now. Please, let me hold you.”
She kept crying, but she didn’t protest again. She just curled into a ball on his lap and sobbed into his chest. And sobbed. And sobbed. And sobbed.
When he could take it no more, when his heart was in danger of breaking wide open under the force of her sorrow, he bent his head. Brushed soft kisses over her temples and down her cheek. And pleaded, “Desi, please, tell me what’s wrong. Let me help. Please, sweetheart—”
He broke off as she stiffened in his arms, flashed back to the last time he’d called her sweetheart and what her reaction had been. “I’m sorry—”
“Stop saying that,” she told him as her tears died down. “None of this is your fault. It’s mine.”
“It’s ours,” he told her. “I’m doing something that’s pushing you away, and whatever it is, I’m sorry for it. But please, Desi, you have to talk to me. You can’t just walk away like we’re nothing. You’re carrying my baby—”
