by Angel Payne
Only through supreme self-control did Ethan hold back his whoop of approval. He was glad he did, because when she turned back to him, it flipped a one-eighty back into unease. Despite the zinger with which she’d just nailed Sarah, her smile was forced at best. But her gaze was what scared him the most. The indigo depths no longer held even a glimmer of her normal verve. All he saw were shadows, dark with sadness…and defeat.
“Baby?” He mouthed it more than spoke it, letting her see the open question in his stare. And the fear too. He’d never seen Ava back down about anything, except the day at the studio when she’d waved the white flag on their relationship. The day she’d torn off the scars from her past and turned them into the open wounds of her present—and let all that blood cloud everything she trusted about him too.
“I’m done, Ethan.” She pulled her fingers from his. “Take your time. Have fun. I’ll be waiting in the car.”
He barely heard the last part of her statement. His heart had started ramming his ribs at her first two words.
I’m done.
The implication extended way past the party, and she was delusional if she didn’t think he’d get it. He let her have the dignity of her exit, but he’d be damned if she got all the way to the car. As he’d hoped, she got lost between the patio and the front drive and ended up in the middle of Dad’s putting range. He found her stomping around in the dark, in the middle of the third green.
“Ava.”
His growl was infused with enough command that she jarred to a stop—for two seconds. She huffed, coiled her arms tighter, and then restarted her pace as if he’d only tapped her Pause button.
“There’s a damn miniature golf course in your backyard, Archer.” She flung an arm out for emphasis. “Wait, I get it. The thing’s another test, right? Part of some obstacle course people need to pass to get out of here? At least you could add some colored lights, a couple of windmills, and some clowns with trap door mouths.”
Her sarcasm lifted a fraction of his anxiety. She was still reaching for humor, though it was in a voice that wobbled worse than her steps in those stilts she called shoes. But it proved she still cared, in her adorable, insane way. That, added to the mist forming a beautiful nimbus around her hair, made him yearn to close the gap between them, roll her to the ground, and give an awesome new meaning to the term hole-in-one.
Instead, with legs braced and hands jammed in his pockets, he returned, “It’s not my backyard.”
She sneered. “Close enough.”
His answering snort was easy to summon. Maintaining the even keel on his tone was another story. “Ava, I lived here a long time ago. This place—for that matter, those people back there—represent nothing about me anymore.” He scowled as she tromped across the fourth green and started poking her foot in its miniature sand trap. “What the hell are you—”
“Hmm.” She deliberately cut him off. “It’s got to be around here somewhere.”
“What?”
“Your head. You’ve clearly found some sand in which to bury it, and this seemed the logical choice.” Before he could think of a comeback to sputter, she marched back over to him. “Caramba. Don’t you seriously see how all of this affects us, Ethan?”
He re-enforced his stance. “The only thing that affects ‘us’ is us.” He openly gritted his teeth when she reacted to that with a grimace. “Christ, Ava. I thought you’d understand that better than anyone. You know that city you work in? The one Rhett refers to as Hollyweird? The one where the clothes a person wears and the place where he lives don’t define the scope of his character?”
“Of course I understand that.” Every word was bitten out, as if she struggled for patience with a naughty puppy. “This—this is different.”
“Different.” Echoing the word acted like a key in the lock of his understanding. A key dipped in poison. “Different because it’s me.” He rocked his head back. “Because it’s changed your view of me.”
Her lips flattened. “Ethan, I love you. That hasn’t changed. It won’t change.”
He straightened his head and squared his stance. “But…?”
“But now I’m also going to marry you.”
He kicked up his left brow. “The two are usually inclusive of each other.”
She flung out both arms this time. “This is your family, damn it. I’m going to become a member of your family, Ethan.”
“And I’m going to become a member of yours. I still don’t understand the issue.”
“I’m going to bear your name!”
“You want me to take yours instead?” He cocked his head, giving the idea some mental traction. “Ethan Chestain. That sounds pretty good.”
She folded her arms back in and rolled her eyes. “Sure. Like your mother would ever speak to you again. Or your father, for that matter.”
His instinct shot off its second flare of apprehension in as many minutes. It was official; she was dancing around another subject here—but his inability to discern its cause, though he scrutinized every inch of her actions for the remotest clue, made him feel like a blind rat in a maze. “Damn it, Ava. What’s this really all about?”
The way his words made her stop confirmed he was right. She wobbled in her heels again, making him clench every muscle to hold back from rushing her and yanking the damn things off her feet. His frustration only increased as the mist turned into a light rain and she huddled against it, looking sad and nervous and small.
“Talk. To. Me.”
She tugged on her lip with her teeth. When she looked back at him, her eyes were as big as twin moons. “Your—your family doesn’t like me.”
“My family doesn’t know you.” He slammed a fist against his thigh. “Thanks to this stunt of my mother’s, none of them has had a chance to spend more than ten minutes with you.” He openly scowled. “Though I think my cousin already has a crush on you.”
She flashed her you’re-full-of-shit glare, though her lips quirked a little. “The investments guy or the pharmaceutical mogul?”
“You think I’m going to say?”
That coaxed her into a full laugh. The moment was a blip of relief before she slouched again. “Maybe this was all for the best anyway. Maybe I’d have just made the night a giant chingadera by now.” She shook her head. “And maybe…”
His trepidation needle hit the red zone again. Thank fuck for his training on the teams, which allowed him to approach her without revealing how thoroughly she scared him right now.
“Maybe what?”
He was going to flog himself for not leaving her silence alone, probably sooner than later. But her face, plastered with wet curls, was etched in such desperation. Her posture was bent in such defeat. Her grief was his call to action. He’d slay any enemy for her.
“Maybe I’m just not going to be good at this wife thing.”
Any enemy. Except for when that foe was herself.
Her whisper, pitched high with its honesty, plummeted between them just before the heavier drops from above. Ethan stared hard at her through the rain, thankful for the leaden chill of it in contrast to the acid burn of helplessness in his veins.
Maybe this was all for the best.
It was, nearly word for word, what she’d said to save face when finding Bella Lanza parked on his lap during their covert operation in Hollywood. Oh, how graceful she’d been while totally backing out on him.
He’d let her get away with the retreat back then to preserve the integrity of the mission, but now he wasn’t going to be so kind. Now the mission was them. The stakes were a hell of a lot higher. And he’d be damned if he let her get away with sneaky and graceful when they’d fought so fucking hard to find each other, to win the rarity of their love. He’d given her a custom engagement ring to signify that and told her so when they sat on the sand after his proposal, watching the stars rise over the ocean. She’d cried harder and curled into his lap, telling him how deeply he’d climbed into her soul.
He’d believed ever
y word she whispered then and still did now. The woman loved him. It was still as real to him as the marrow in his bones.
But she was running from him. Again.
Why?
Frustration plowed through him. If they were anywhere but here, getting drenched by a rainstorm on the grounds of his parents’ estate, he’d order her to strip, kneel, and start spilling. Reality was a harsh CO sometimes. Tonight, the bastard dictated patience. Luckily, he could be a patient man when he wanted to be.
“Ethan?”
Ava’s apprehensive murmur yanked him out of his brooding. Perfect timing. He reached and took her hand as another affirmation pushed to the forefront of his mind—and the core of his cock.
Patience had its payback when it was funneled into a plan. Especially a daring, devious, and decadent one.
“Ethan?” she asked again. “Are—are you okay?”
“Never been better.” He tugged her toward the path that led around the gazebo, toward the service gate where they’d be able to leave the grounds without anyone knowing. “I just happen to be done too. Let’s get the fuck out of here.”
Chapter Three
Ava woke to a dim gray room and the sound of rain pounding the suite’s bay window. During the night, the squall over San Francisco Bay had collided with a storm front from the ocean, temporarily turning the hotel and its grounds into a page out of Wuthering Heights.
Or perhaps the skies were just sending down empathy for her spirit.
Things with Ethan were still a mess, with most of the blame rightfully astride her shoulders. He’d wanted—deserved—honesty last night, and she’d all but broken into a tap dance to evade him. But the first hour of Elle’s not-so-little “surprise party,” complete with Ethan’s country club friends everywhere but the rafters, had toppled what little calm she’d been able to maintain about the night. By the time she’d regained her equilibrium, the blonde on the patio dug into her like a rabid TMZ reporter, making it time to punch the Game Over button. Didn’t take a course in rocket science to figure out why—but the psychological crap from her past wasn’t a load to dump on her fiancé during a rainstorm in the middle of his dad’s backyard golf resort as their engagement party was reaching warp speed.
So…she’d played conversational duck-and-run. And had honestly expected to catch hell for it—sí, perhaps even there in the rain during the party. In the end, Ethan saved her dignity by dragging her back to the car but had leveled another stunner by actually driving her all the way back to the hotel. His forced smile remained in place the entire time too. There wasn’t another eyebrow raised in question, a probing glance from those piercing blue eyes, or a merciless upturn of those elegant lips. He gave her only surface courtesies, making her stomach wrench with the certainty that he was simply waiting for the privacy of their suite.
Once behind those doors, he’d unleash his darker methods of interrogating her…processes that would only start with his palm against her ass. The man was extremely inventive with found items, no matter where they were together. She’d actually squirmed in her seat as she thought about what plan was formulating in his devious mind, overtaken by a demented mix of fear and anticipation…
But here she stood, nearly eight hours later, without a single bruise on her backside. Or a defining soreness in her sex. Or a reminiscent ache anywhere on her body.
As soon as they’d gotten back to the suite, Ethan had kissed her softly, said he was beat, and taken a shower. Once done, he’d kissed her again, repeated the bullshit about being tired, and climbed into bed. She’d stood in the middle of the living room for another ten minutes, expecting him to emerge with a smug stare and the assertion that he was just kidding, when the light went out in the bedroom—and confusion turned up its glare in her mind. After the intensity of his focus back at the mansion, his about-face didn’t make sense at all.
Now, as she woke up and found him nowhere in the suite, her perplexity grew. She shivered despite being covered to her knees in the gray battalion T-shirt that she’d permanently confiscated from his wardrobe.
What the hell was going on?
Her frown deepened when her gaze swung over to the dining nook. The table was set with a full breakfast spread. As she got closer, an array of savory smells made her stomach snarl and her interest spike. She openly groaned when pulling off the food covers. All her favorites were here: a Spanish omelet with chorizo and fresh guacamole, a huge bowl of fresh California berries, and Irish steel-cut oatmeal with her favorite toppings.
Propped against the full coffee pot was a notecard, filled out in Ethan’s writing.
Sunshine,
Stretch before breakfast.
And eat all your protein.
There was nothing else on the card. Not his normal little doodle of a sun, not his name or even his initial. Her heart pinged in a wonderful, illicit way as she considered that. She bet if he had included it, the letter wouldn’t be E. It would be S. For Sir. Wherever the man had scooted off this morning, she was certain it had been with a Dominant power in his stride. Now she couldn’t wait for him to get back.
That brought back a new urgency to being totally ready when he did.
As she lowered herself into a runner’s stretch, she put the card on the floor and reread it a dozen times. This was probably the first time she’d seen his authority exercised in print—and she was a little stunned by how deeply it reached into her system, mentally awakening her need for him. It didn’t take long for the direct line between her brain and her body to spark up after that. By the time her muscles were limber, her pussy was warm and her vagina pulsing.
Dios, she hoped he returned soon.
While she ate, she tried distracting herself with the weather. She laughed a little at the musing. Yep; she’d become more of a Southern Californian than she thought. From Santa Barbara to San Diego, even light showers were enough to lead the six o’clock news, so the blustery day outside the window was a fascinating panorama.
There were times, of course, when she missed Seattle…and home. The melancholy happened more frequently now that “home” meant Ethan. She knew he felt the same about her and LA—at least until last night.
Her arousal faded beneath the weight of new anxiety.
Mierda. Had the events at the party changed his feelings about things…about them? Despite his blatant gesture in having breakfast brought for her, including the note about protein that carried the subliminal message about needing her physical strength for the day, she wondered if this was just a prelude for more serious things he wanted to discuss. Maybe last night had been more of a revelation than what he originally expressed, showing him what a square peg she really was in the perfect round hole of his world. Their confrontation in the backyard had simply put a perfect cap on things, and now he wanted to break it to her. Could she blame him? He’d only be reaching conclusions that had come to her ten hours ago.
She shoveled the rest of her food in, not in the mood to enjoy it anymore. When she was done, she contemplated getting dressed, though she took lazy steps back to the bedroom, hoping Ethan would reappear with a plan that didn’t involve clothes.
Once she turned the corner, her stare fell to the dresser—and the empty valet tray there. Ethan had put his watch there last night, along with the call ticket for the car. Both were missing now.
Her trepidation spiked higher. What the hell? Had he left the hotel completely?
Into the silence that continued as her answer, the phone pealed.
After she told her heart that the coronary was only a false alarm, she hurried to scoop up the phone. “Ummm…hello?”
“Good morning, Ms. Chestain. This is Seth at the valet stand. I hope I didn’t wake you.”
“Not at all. I was just finishing breakfast.”
“Good, good. Mr. Archer thought that would be the case.”
She felt her eyes widen. “So you’ve already spoken to Mr. Archer this morning?”
“Of course, when he had his car brou
ght up. He left about an hour ago and instructed us to have the town car available for your own departure in thirty minutes.”
New discovery: it was completely possible to choke on air. “Th-Thirty minutes?”
Poor Seth. She heard him grunt a little, like he’d accidentally stepped into an “accident” from one of the shih tzus carried around the hotel by eccentric biddies. “I trust that’s still an acceptable time?”
“Uhhh, sure.” She rushed into the bathroom with the intent of stripping for a shower as fast as she could. Half a minute had already gone by. Sergeant Archer had reached a new level of sadism in giving her only a half hour to get ready. Didn’t he know she needed at least fifteen minutes just to pick out a decent outfit?
Perhaps he did.
And had handled that little issue too.
She flipped on the light to the bathroom to find a full outfit on the hook, in decadent red and black, already waiting for her. After assuring Seth she’d be down in a bit, she clicked the phone off and left it behind in order to flip over the note that also dangled from the hangar. Ethan’s writing again filled the card.
Wear only what’s here.
Put your hair up.
The hotel driver knows where you’re meeting me.
Her nerve endings danced as her heart skittered through a few beats. Caramba, this man knew how to climb inside her soul and scoop out its naughtiest needs. To be summoned to meet him, wearing the clothing he’d picked and the hairstyle he’d instructed, made her feel things that most of the world might call weak. But in this moment, in her mind and heart, she felt nothing but wicked…and wanted. For these next few hours, she was going to be his plaything, his property. Simply his.
