Getting Even

by Avril Tremayne

  They’d spent Christmas texting and calling each other. When she’d arrived back in DC, he’d been waiting on her doorstep to tell her he loved her.

  He’d moved in that night. An hour after that they’d had their first fight when he’d found out (a) her parents owned the place and (b) she wasn’t going to charge him rent.

  The only way she’d been able to think of to get him to stay was to talk Romy and Matt into sharing the house, as well, so the rent could be split four ways to enable Rafael to afford what he deemed an equitable share of the market rate.

  He hadn’t alluded to it again, even though she knew it burned him up that Romy had only moved in for her sake and Matt for his—which was crazy, because those two had become inseparable. (And, hello, look at them today!)

  But if that crisis had been averted, the pattern of their first argument was to repeat itself over and over again. Disagreements about money and lifestyle squalling out of nowhere, passionate reconciliations, a cessation in hostilities, the war inevitably restarting. All the way through to the last night they’d spent together, the night before graduation, when they’d had a fight over nothing—a bottle of champagne and a teeny, tiny jar of caviar she’d wanted just the two of them to share before the full-on mania of graduation day when her parents and his mother would be in town.

  “Why not hang a gigolo sign around my neck?” he’d demanded. “It’s what your parents think.”

  The fight had spiraled, because she was tired of him misjudging her parents so willfully. She’d told him what her parents really thought was that unless he found a way to come to terms with her money, they were going to end up fighting their whole lives! In turn, he’d refused to accept her parents’ invitation for him to bring his mother to a celebratory dinner with them and Scarlett at Catch of the Day, because it was the most expensive restaurant in town. He couldn’t afford it, and he was damned if he was going to be paid for.

  Veronica knew his mother had thought he was being a dick (definitely not his mother’s word but true nonetheless) because she’d not only called Veronica’s mother to apologize but told Veronica she’d raised him to be proud, not rude, and she hoped Veronica’s impeccable manners would rub off on him soon. (Luckily, Mrs. Velez hadn’t been able to see inside her not-so-impeccable head at that moment.)

  They’d smoothed it over that night, repapered the same crack they’d repaired so many times before, and he’d made love to her as though he was escaping the demons of hell while simultaneously soaring toward heaven. And the next day—just before they’d left for Capitol U—she’d seen him slip a small jeweler’s box in his pocket.

  She’d known then he was going to propose to her, and she’d glowed throughout the graduation ceremony, despite a burgeoning unease over the extravagant graduation present she’d bought him. He’d have to see that the gift was perfect for the way they’d start their life together—soaring free.

  A dry sob yanked her back to the present. It had come from her, that anguished sound. She’d let her guard down, which was what always happened when she aired those memories. Good reason not to remember.

  She shook her head as though she could shake the memory back from whence it came and blew out a cleansing breath as she looked around. She’d walked all the way back to the mausoleum. Ha! She was sure Scarlett would have something to say about that. Her subconscious taking over, telling her she still wanted the whole till death do us part deal, despite the fact her real love, her overwhelming, passionate, first and only love, hadn’t made it past college.

  She ascended the steps to the platform and contemplated going inside this time if she could get in, wanting to read the inscriptions, hoping to be convinced it was possible to find a love that would last beyond forever. She actually went so far as to put her hand on the door handle but something stopped her. It seemed too private, too sacred, to poison the resting place of that long-married couple with her bitterness. She was better off out here, looking at the moors and dreaming of Brontë-esque separated soulmates and thwarted passion...

  She heard a sound behind her and whirled, her heart in her mouth—only to splutter out a laugh. “Teague Hamilton! You scared the crap out of me! What are you doing here?”

  “Looking for you, doofus.”

  He joined her then reeled back with a “Whoa” when he saw she had her hand poised on the handle. “If you’re going in, I’ll wait here for you. I don’t do graves, as you know.”

  She gave a sound that was between a laugh and a sigh as she took his hand. “No, I’m not going in. Let’s get our Brontë on and look at the view instead.”

  “I think the Brontës went a little further than looking at the view, V, and actually lived it,” he said as she led him away.

  “We’ll be secondary characters, not the romantic leads. More calm contemplation, less tumultuous thrashing through the heather.”

  He laughed as they stopped and stood side by side. “That’s good! Much as I’d like to go all Edward Fairfax Rochester and brood across the moors, I’m too tired to go full-on romantic hero,” he said. “Why did nobody warn me how onerous it was to double as best man for the groom and maid of honor for the bride? Maid of honor! God, I can’t believe I’m actually using that phrase.”

  “Nobody warned you because you might have backed out—and where would the bride and groom have been then?”

  “Hmm, Matt had two other options. My choice would have been Artie, though, so you could have been maid of honor without risk of a blood-drenched ‘Red Wedding’ scenario.”

  “My need to murder Rafael aside, I think two husbands knocks me out of contention for that role.”

  He examined her, mouth pursed thoughtfully. “For someone who’s been married twice, you have a distinctly unmarried look about you. I don’t think your bouquet-catching days are over.”

  She slanted him a sideways, eyelash-batting smile. “Is that a proposal, because I should warn you I’m on the hunt for husband number three.”

  He draped an arm across her shoulders. “Do you want it to be?”

  “It’d make my parents happy.”

  “Oh, well then, that’s a perfect enticement, isn’t it?”

  She rubbed her head against his shoulder. “And maybe it would make me happy, too.”

  “And maybe...not?”

  “Maybe not,” she conceded. “But I wish we’d been the ones to fall in love back then.”

  “That was never going to happen. You were already taken by the time I met you and I...” He hesitated but then shrugged and continued. “I was hoping for Romy as we all know, even if we don’t talk about it. But she was already taken, too, as it turns out. And who could ever compete with Matt?”

  “You could compete with anyone, Teague, for the right woman. I wish it had been me. We’re so much alike it would have been...uncomplicated.”

  “Are we so much alike?”

  “Aren’t we?”

  “The whole scion-of-the-family thing, maybe.” He shrugged. “But as for what lies beneath...?”

  “Are you saying you have mysterious depths?”

  “Maybe I’m saying you do. Rafael thought so. It wasn’t the scion he wanted, you know.”

  “No, he definitely didn’t want that part of me!” Silence as she wound her arm behind his back. “Tough, today, huh? But of course you handled it like a champ because you’re perfect.”

  “Beneath this urbane exterior is a seething mass of violent contradiction, ready to go on an imperfect rampage.”

  “It’s a shame you never got together with Frankie in that case.”

  “Frankie?”

  “Frankie—sexy Aussie, Flick’s boozer whisperer by day, exotic dancer by night.”

  “Yeah right!” he scoffed.

  “Why not?”

  “Because... Just because.”

  She snuggled into his side—half in s
ympathy, half needing the comfort for herself. “You know, we could give marriage a shot, T-Man.”

  “Thanks but no thanks. It’s my turn to be looked at the way Romy looks at Matt. The way you always, always looked at Rafael.” He tugged her in a little closer, tightening his arm around her. “Speaking of whom...?”

  “Speaking of whom...it’s done. Over. I’m ready to sell that motorcycle, which has been doing nobody any good stashed out of sight in the garage in Kentucky since graduation.”

  “A 1952 Vincent Black Shadow isn’t a mere motorcycle.”

  “It is to me. But to him... Well, I thought it was his dream bike.”

  “Hmm.”

  “What?”

  “Just that he never let you buy him so much as a cup of coffee, so I’m not sure what made you think he’d accept a motorcycle that cost the earth.”

  “Oh, only that we’d ride off into the sunset on it.”

  “Living on your dime.” He laughed. “Delusional.”

  “He was supposed to propose to me.”

  Teague turned her into his arms, held her silently for a minute. “And if he had, what did you think would happen? His personality would suddenly change and he’d happily retire to live off your trust fund?”

  “If we’d married, my money would have become our money, and that would have made it...made it okay for him to write full-time. That’s not the same as retiring.”

  “Jesus, V! You spent three and a half years wrapped around him—literally wrapped around him. You had to know him better than that...” Pause, as he searched her face. “Which makes me wonder why you did it. There had to be a reason.”

  “Maybe I should ask Scarlett—not that it matters now. It’s over. It’s too late.”

  “I’m not sure Rafael sees it that way. He’s certainly coming for you full steam ahead.”

  “I don’t think the few minutes’ conversation we’ve had this evening qualifies as full steam ahead.”

  “I mean literally, at this moment, walking toward us.”

  Her eyes went wide, her heart leaped, her body went rigid. “Is F-Felicity w-with him?” Oh God, she was stuttering.

  “Nope.”

  “H-he’ll leave. He’ll leave n-now he’s seen I’m here.”

  “I don’t think leaving’s high on his list of things to do in Yorkshire,” Teague said dryly. “Now—” repositioning her so she was standing beside him and tucking her hand into the crook of his arm “—stop cowering and face him head-on the way you always did.”

  Veronica’s breath caught painfully at the sight of Rafael treading up the steps. He looked like he belonged here, caught between the wild moors and the elegant lawn of the estate, with dusk approaching. Heathcliff on a mission. And she’d opened the way for him to achieve that mission because she’d been unable to resist staring at him across a dance floor.

  “You looking for me, Rafe?” Teague asked cheerfully as Rafael came to a stop in front of them.

  “No,” Rafael said, unequivocal.

  “Just needed some air, peace, quiet? We’re leaving anyway, so we’ll concede the field. If you could just edge over so we can get past...?”

  Rafael stayed where he was. “You’re welcome to leave, Teague. Veronica, however, is not.” He nodded at Veronica’s hand on Teague’s arm. “Let him go.”

  She swallowed. “And if I don’t?”

  Rafael gave a half shrug, almost apologetic. “I’ll break his arm.”

  “Okaaay,” Teague said, looking at Veronica to see what she wanted.

  She had to swallow again but then she nodded and released her hold. “Tell Romy I’ll be there for the bouquet toss.”

  Teague looked from her to Rafael, back to her. “If you need me...” he said.

  “She won’t need you,” Rafael said. He stepped aside to let Teague pass but then stopped him. “And, Teague, don’t worry—she’s the bloodthirsty one, not me.”

  Teague laughed softly. “You two do my head in.”

  Veronica waited until Teague was halfway across the lawn then gave Rafael what she hoped was an approximation of “the look.”

  “A broken-armed best man might have been a little awkward to explain to Matt and Romy.”

  “Good thing I didn’t break it then.”

  “Question is, why did you want to?”

  “I didn’t want to. I like Teague. As you know, since you watched me talk to him for twenty minutes. But you needed to stay and he needed to know he’s not going to be husband number three. At least, not yet. I’m not waiting through another marriage to get what’s between us finished, Veronica.”

  “Whatever was between us was finished when you walked out on me without giving me the courtesy of telling me it was over.”

  “You’re the one who made it over.”

  She laughed then. A desperate laugh, the cadence of which she couldn’t control. “Your memory is faulty, Rafael. Not that who did what to whom matters after all this time. Who cares?”

  “Who cares? You apparently. So go ahead and be the one to tell me it’s over. Say goodbye, formally and officially.”

  She adjusted her stance, planting her feet, ready for a fight. “Do you think I won’t?”

  “I think you can’t,” he said. “I think that’s why you blocked me. I think that’s why you didn’t read my books. I think that’s why you’ve been a pain in the ass all night.”

  “I’ve barely looked at you all night!”

  “Hence—pain in the ass. We could have built up to this if you had, but now we’re out of time, and all I have to go on is the way you looked at me across the dance floor. So if you want to say goodbye, that’s fine. But I want you to touch me as you say it.”

  “Touch you?” she asked, incredulous.

  “Touch me. Carte blanche to choose any body part you want—a fingernail if that’s all you can bear.”

  “Just because I touched you once upon a time doesn’t mean I want to do so now. It doesn’t work like that.”

  He said nothing—just waited.

  She took a steadying breath and raised her eyes to his face, hoping to find something there that would stop her. This was different from when she’d been alone with him out here earlier, different from the time in the marquee. They’d been fencing then, with face masks and buttons on their sword tips. But looking at him now, cataloging the changes time had wrought in him, she knew this wasn’t a safe sport.

  There were tiny lines at the corners of his eyes; a new gauntness in his cheeks and a hardness to his sensual mouth. His expression was cynical in a way it never had been—as though he’d finally seen everything he wanted to see. The thick black hair was longer today than he’d ever worn it, signaling he’d stopped giving a damn about looking like the Teagues of the world.

  He’d always been a soulfully beautiful man, and now he was breathtakingly so. Tougher, maybe even ruthless. He wasn’t an unknown boy who could steal your heart with one melting look across a crowded bar; he was a man who could steal your will and make you want what he told you to want. And that’s exactly what he was doing, because despite telling herself she owed him nothing, that she didn’t have to prove a damn thing to him, that he could go to hell without her saying one more word, her hands were moving—seemingly of their own volition.

  He stood perfectly still as her hands landed on his chest, but it was as though all his senses swirled around her, connecting with hers, causing a rush of wet arousal between her thighs. Her skin itched. The tiny hairs on the back of her neck tingled. She stared at her hands as though she could see through them into his heart, which was pounding in time with her own. A hard, fast drum against her palm. Once, her hands had been allowed to roam at will over his body, no permission needed. But as Scarlett had said, that was then, this was now.

  Then she’d wanted everything he’d had to give. Now all she nee
ded from him was closure. And with one small word, just two syllables, she could have it.

  A slow blink, a difficult swallow. She opened her mouth, but to her horror the word wouldn’t come out.

  His hands came up to cover hers where they rested on his chest. “You can’t say it, can you, Veronica?”

  She pulled her hands out from under his. “You’ve changed.” Not an answer.

  “True.”

  “So why does it matter if I say it or not? You’ve already moved on—you have everything you ever wanted.”

  “Do I?”

  “Don’t you?” She half turned away then turned back. “This is pointless. Felicity...”

  “What about her?”

  “She’ll be wondering where you are.”

  “Felicity knows I’m with you.”

  “What an accommodating girlfriend.”

  “She’s not my girlfriend.”

  “Then what? No—don’t answer that! It’s none of my business. The sun’s going to set any minute and...and it’s getting cold. Time to go back. Let me pass.”

  His answer was to remove his jacket and drape it around her shoulders. Oh, the feel of it. The warmth from him. The lemony scent of his aftershave wafting up from the collar. It was so unfair, what everything about him still did to her.

  She instantly removed it, held it out to him. “We’re done here.”

  He took the jacket and put it around her again. “We’re not done until you say goodbye. Or...there’s another option. I have a proposal.”

  “I told you before, when hell freezes over.”

  “No chance of anything freezing when you and I are involved.”

  “Okay, look, we both know you’re not the marrying kind, so how about you just tell me what your proposal actually is, then I can say no and we can move on.”

  “Moving on—that’s the proposal in a nutshell. A way to move on.”