by Bella Andre
“How did you get from there to—” She paused and swept her hand in front of her to encompass the huge house and property. Even the helicopter now waiting for its next flight in the nearby hangar.
“I’m a big talker.” Now that he was no longer telling her about his parents and his childhood, the tension began to leave his body. “I didn’t go to college, but I always liked telling people what to do. I especially liked it when they listened.” He grinned. “And, of course, when their lives got better as a result. A talk-show host who liked my shtick gave me my first big break.”
“What you do isn’t a shtick.” She’d never seen him in action, but he couldn’t have achieved all this—he owned a Monet, for God’s sake—with mere magic tricks or smoke and mirrors.
“You’re right, I should erase that word from my vocabulary.” She swore she could see him silently do that. Erase erase erase. “I truly do believe every word I say, every piece of advice I give.” He smiled at her. “And the rest is history.”
“You make it sound so easy. As though anyone could build an empire and make billions.”
Pulling her hands down, he held them and locked his gaze on her eyes. “You can. Believe in yourself. Push for what you want and deserve. It will manifest.”
Her head spun at how quickly he’d twisted the focus around to her, making her feel slightly uncomfortable with the intensity of his gaze. Or maybe, if she was being totally honest with herself, she wasn’t uncomfortable with Sebastian, but with all of the big changes she could see coming down the pike. His words from the first day he’d come to her workshop replayed in her head: We won’t just unveil your work, we’ll unveil you to the world too.
Her roof might sag, but her life had been comfortable. Of course she wasn’t averse to being a big success, but was she ready for it?
“I’m already manifesting,” she quipped in an effort to relax a bit about it all. “You saw my dragon in Chinatown and now here I am, poised to create something amazing.”
“Definitely amazing,” he murmured as he pulled her into him, his arm deliciously warm across her shoulders. “Tell me more about yourself. From the way you speak of your parents, I can tell they were good ones.”
“They really were. My dad taught me everything about welding. My mom taught me everything about cooking.” She grinned at him. “Only one of them succeeded at getting through to me, though.”
Though he smiled back, by the way he slid his hand through hers as he asked, “Where’s your dad now?” it was obvious that he already suspected the answer.
The familiar ache bloomed in her chest. “He died of cancer seven years ago. With Hospice help, Mom and I took care of him to the end. We let him die at home the way he wanted to.”
Sebastian squeezed her hand and dropped a kiss on the top of her head. “You’ve very brave, Charlie.”
If anyone should know about bravery, it was Sebastian. But their pasts weren’t something to compare, so instead of saying that, she simply leaned into his comfort. “I loved my mother before that, but it brought us even closer.” They’d created an unbreakable bond, weeks where they were everything to each other, offering support, one holding the other up when she would have fallen, sharing a glass of wine at the end of an exhausting day after her father had finally slipped into sleep. All that despite her mother’s debilitating arthritis.
“And where’s your mom?”
Sebastian had revealed his worst to her. Now it was her turn. “I had to put Mom in a home two years ago.” The agony of that decision—and the overwhelming guilt—squeezed her heart inside her chest. “She has osteoarthritis, but hers is extremely severe and started in her forties. She’s in constant pain.” She winced at the memories of her deterioration, but her mother was stoic. What on a scale of one to ten would have been a nine for Charlie, Mom smiled right through. “I hate what the disease has done to her.”
It was doubly hard to know the extent of her mother’s pain and not be able to do a thing about it. She wanted nothing more than to take care of her mother herself, but her place was more substandard than Shady Lane. Her mom had reached the point where she needed help dressing, washing, even putting on her shoes. Charlie’s bathroom had an old clawfoot tub that, as strong as Charlie was, she had trouble getting her mom in and out of. It was an accident waiting to happen. Then there were all the times her mother had been alone because Charlie had an irregular schedule—teaching during the day, with night classes three evenings a week, often not arriving home till eleven o’clock. She’d had visions of her mother falling and then lying there for hours before Charlie returned.
While she’d explained about her mother, Sebastian had caressed the back of her neck, giving her warmth and comfort that eased the knot of tension. Now, he folded her into his arms, his tenderness bringing her close to tears when usually she tried to be as stoic as her mother.
“Can she take pain meds?” He soothed her with long, sweet strokes down her back.
Charlie shook her head against his chest. “She’s already on a bunch of stuff, but you build up a tolerance in time, and it doesn’t do much.”
“What about an operation?” His voice was a warm rumble against her ear.
“She’s had them all. There’s only so much they can do.” She pushed away from his comfort and put the flat of her hand on his chest. “But with the money you gave me for the chariot, I can move her into a great place in Los Gatos with beautiful gardens to stroll through. She pushes herself to do a mile every day with a walker in the hallway. Otherwise she’d be in a wheelchair.”
“Now that is amazing. And so are you.” He held her with his dark, beautiful eyes. “It’s incredibly selfless to use the money for her care. I should have doubled what I gave you.”
He was too much. Not only that he listened with such attentiveness when most people had to jump in with their own story—but that he was moved enough to even think of handing her more than he already had.
“You’ve already given me more than anyone else.” She savored the strong beat of his heart beneath her palm. Sharing with him didn’t take away her mother’s pain, but somehow it eased Charlie’s anguish. “It’s more than enough. More than I can still wrap my head around.”
Just as she could barely wrap her head around the heat the two of them generated, simply sitting on the couch talking about their pasts.
As he ran his hands up her arms, over her shoulders, into her hair, and cupped her nape, she was palpably aware that her inner voice, the one reminding her to keep her hormones in check, had long since shut itself down. She’d wanted to make sure that she and Sebastian had clearly carved out the lines between business and pleasure before they became lovers—and she’d wanted to make sure she wasn’t letting herself fall into another relationship where she started out refreshing and ended up with her heart broken.
Though she didn’t have nearly all the answers to her questions, what he’d shared with her had touched her deeply.
She still didn’t want to risk messing up the business arrangement between them by jumping into bed, especially not when her mother’s future care depended on it. And yet, drawing in a deep breath of his scent, all male with hints of soap and raspberry trifle, she could no longer repress the part of her that was dying for a kiss. One heady kiss she could dream about at night.
His mouth was so inviting. And when he said her name—“Charlie”—barely above a soft whisper but heavy with need, she simply couldn’t resist the pull of his desire any longer.
He leaned close, but she was the one who closed the final distance between them. She parted his lips. Or he parted hers. She couldn’t be sure. All she knew was that he was the sweetest thing she’d ever tasted.
His tongue danced with hers, his taste drugging her. She moaned and his arms wrapped her close. Her fingertips to his jaw, she rubbed the soft end-of-day stubble. The length of his body was hard against her, all that relentless muscle. And she couldn’t help letting herself go, throwing her arms around him,
pressing her breasts to his chest, her leg against his thigh.
He consumed her, kissing the very breath from her. It was, she silently acknowledged, what she’d wanted from the moment he’d stood outside her workroom, the sun blinding her and turning him into a silhouette of metal calling her to shape him, mold him, take him, make him hers.
His fingers curled into her hair as he devoured her as though she were a delicacy he’d never tried before and couldn’t get enough of. His groan made her crazy for more—his whole body on hers, his hands all over her. He made her want to be reckless, made her want to give him her body, her heart. Her very soul, if he wanted it. Right here. Right now. Made her want to throw her worries and her wariness to the wind. Made her want to pretend she’d never been hurt before. Made her want to believe that he would never hurt her.
She wanted to taste and touch every part of him, but the way he was loving her mouth was addictive. Overwhelming. Tantalizing.
So damned good that she would have been completely lost if he hadn’t drawn back, his heart pounding as swiftly as hers, his eyes the deep, intoxicating color of whiskey.
“Wow,” she said, more an exhalation than a word.
“Wow is exactly right.” He trailed a finger across her lips. “The perfect first kiss.” But instead of diving back in to see if the second would be even better, he said, “Do you believe it yet?”
“Do I believe what yet?” she asked, even though she was pretty sure another of his kisses could make her believe anything.
“That I want your chariot and respect your talent as much as I desire you?”
Two days ago, when they’d been standing in the atrium of his new building, he’d asked her the same question. And though his kiss had made her feel reckless and borderline desperate for more, it hadn’t made her a liar.
“No.” She hadn’t even begun to build the chariot, and though it had taken shape in her mind, he couldn’t possibly see it as clearly as she did—at least, not clearly enough for it to be anywhere near worth the check he’d written. “Not yet.”
“You will.” He licked out against her lips, and it was almost enough to send recklessness to the forefront again. “Soon.”
She smiled through the desperate ache to kiss him again. “I hope so.” Because until that moment came, the ache would only keep growing.
He stood, held out his hand. “I’ll walk you home.”
She put her fingers in his. “It’s not that far.”
“It’s a few more minutes with you.”
Oh God. He was to die for.
Wrapping her beneath his arm, he kept her close on the walk down the hill. The wind came up, whipping away their voices, but talk wasn’t necessary. There was just the sweet feel of his body against her side and his protective arm around her.
At the bungalow door, he turned her in his arms and took her face in his hands. As his gaze roamed her cheeks and her lips, she almost felt as though his mouth were on her. After a long pause in which she found herself holding her breath, he finally lowered his lips to her forehead for a soft, sweet kiss.
Then he said good night and walked away.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Charlie was so damned sweet, her skin so soft, her body so supple and strong, yet so giving. Leaving her with nothing more than that peck on the forehead was the hardest thing he’d ever done. He had always been a fairly patient man, at least compared to the other Mavericks, but with Charlie his patience was being sorely tested.
But he could tell she wasn’t ready yet. And if he was honest, he wasn’t ready either—not when there was so much about her he still needed to uncover. Which was precisely why he headed straight for his workroom upstairs—it was little more than a walk-in closet off his bedroom—and flipped on the light. Other than the stars shining through the window, the room was unadorned but for supply cupboards, a bureau full of sketchbooks, a comfortable chair, the side table, and a standing lamp.
After all these days of dying to sketch her, he finally chose a pencil and a drawing pad. The medium he used didn’t matter. No one but Susan, Bob, and the Mavericks knew he drew.
Growing up poor and hungry with parents who were rarely around made it hard to have big dreams. And the ones you had, you learned to keep to yourself. After all, by the age of twelve so many of his dreams of a happy family and normal life had died that he knew to steal this dream away for himself. Drawing was what he did alone in his bedroom when his parents were partying with their “friends,” as though sketching could somehow drown them all out, make them go away, and make everything better, at least for a little while.
Until the day his father found one of his sketchbooks during a bender. Sebastian knew it was his own fault—he’d been careless and had forgotten to shove it beneath his mattress with the others. Even all these years later, he could still hear his father’s voice. Slurred, like it so often was, but clear all the same. You drew this crap? All these pictures of me looking like shit? Like a goddamned drunk?
As far back as Sebastian could remember, probably to age five or six, it wasn’t just creative urges that made him draw everything and everyone around him. It was also his need to understand people. He’d drawn the kids at school, his teachers, the bus driver, and of course, his parents. Because if he could figure them out, then maybe he could fix them.
The sketchbook his father had torn through had been filled with sketches of his dad during—and after—his last bender. Sebastian had simply wanted to know why his father was so attracted to the high that he refused to give it up, even when their lives were falling completely apart because of it. Maybe if Sebastian knew why, then he could finally figure out how to make the drinking stop. And if his father stopped getting wasted all the time, Sebastian had been sure his mother would follow.
But those dreams were slashed the night his father had laughed in such a cruel, devastating way as he ripped out Sebastian’s sketches in big fistfuls of paper, his wasted friends laughing right along with him. My stupid, worthless kid thinks he’s an artist. But he’s nothing, his father had declared. I’ll show you where your pictures belong, you little shit. He’d thrown Sebastian’s drawings into the fireplace, and when they’d lit and flamed, his father had toasted his friends with another bottle, another shot, another pack of cigarettes.
All the while, Sebastian’s mother was passed out on the couch in the corner. Sebastian never knew if his father told her what had happened, or, honestly, if his father even remembered what he’d done. But it didn’t matter.
The damage had been done. Sebastian now knew just how worthless his dreams really were. How crazy. His father was right—he’d been kidding himself to think he could actually be an artist.
Sebastian didn’t draw for years after that, not until the itch in his fingers got so strong that he couldn’t stop himself from doodling in class. He still remembered the first time he drew again, the way his hand shook, knowing what crap he was at being an artist. And yet, at the same time, it was such a huge relief to let out the urges again.
The first time Susan had seen one of his doodles, she’d marveled at it, the opposite reaction to his father’s. Sebastian knew it wasn’t because he was actually talented, but simply that she had the eye of a mother, not an art critic. Eventually, though, he decided it would be okay to draw if he was simply using it as a way to work through his thoughts and feelings, to figure people out. But never again art for art’s sake. Never with any dreams attached. And that was fine, since his dreams had completely changed once he’d finally grown up.
Ever since the moment he’d set eyes on Charlie, he’d wanted to try to capture her unique beauty and her irrepressible spark, even if he didn’t have a prayer of actually doing her justice. Of course, he’d make sure she never found his drawings.
He flipped past a dozen sketches of his parents in the sketchbook before he found a fresh page. It still grated on him that he’d never been able to shine a light on their addictions. Though they were no longer alive, he was still d
rawing them, still trying to understand why they’d lived their lives as they had—why they’d chosen booze and parties over a life with him.
On the fresh page, he put pencil to paper and quickly worked to try to bring Charlie to life beneath his fingers—her beautiful, expressive eyes, filled with heartache and pain but also with such joy it floored him. He hated that he didn’t have the skills to get what he saw in his head onto the paper, but at the very least he hoped the pencil would reveal things he couldn’t see with the naked eye. There was so much he wanted to figure out about the woman who commanded his attention like no one else ever had.
Charlie had been helpless to cure her father’s illness, and now clearly felt helpless to ease her mother’s suffering. Just as he’d been helpless against the liquor in his parents’ cabinets. It hadn’t mattered how much gin or beer he poured down the drain or how little money there was in the house, somehow there was always enough for another bottle and another party.
Susan and Bob Spencer took him in on the nights when his own parents seemed to have forgotten they had a son. His thirteenth birthday had been just around the corner when his mom woke from a drunken stupor long enough to ask where he’d been the night before, telling him that he was her son and he needed to come home to her. She’d helped him throw out the bottles, and he’d thought things would change. He thought he mattered to her. He’d had hope for a whole week. Until his dad wanted to have a little fun, just a night out, one night.
Once again they forgot they had a son who desperately wanted to see them clean and sober. He’d moved in with Bob and Susan on his thirteenth birthday. This time, neither of his parents had seemed to miss him.
Over the next five years, no amount of AA meetings, rehab, or liquor down the drain had done a thing. He’d suffered with them through the DTs, but they’d never stuck it out. The moment his back was turned, they’d find another drink. Until finally his mother had fallen, hit her head on the edge of the coffee table, and never woken up again. He’d often wondered if his dad had died in that car crash because his luck had finally run out? Because guilt had finally soaked through his sodden conscience? Or was it simply that Ian Montgomery couldn’t live without his wife Olive?
