“That’s it. Everyone out.” Eli stood and grabbed his beer. “Your love connections are very inspiring but I’m not hooking up with my”—insanely gorgeous—“personal assistant. Take your matchmaking abilities over to the local college campus and do some canvasing there. Leave me out of it.”
He turned for the living room, but since it was attached to the dining room and there was no wall, it didn’t offer much privacy. And none of his helpful family members bothered standing and leaving. Instead, they fell silent for the count of five while Eli stared down his couch and weighed his exit, before he gave up and returned to the table.
Merina and Rachel went back to chatting, and Reese asked Tag if he’d heard back on the Texas Crane Hotel’s pool bar numbers yet.
Eli let the din fade to the background and tipped his beer to his lips.
For whatever reason, their being here didn’t bother him as much as it used to.
* * *
Monday morning, Isa swept in with her tote and double-shot cappuccino, phone to her ear as she slid the elevator door open.
“Yes, Chloe, that’s fine. Thanks.” At the dining room table, she found Eli’s laptop at her usual place. The screen was open to a document, one with a blinking cursor where he’d stopped typing. She poked her head down the hall. His office was dark. So was the kitchen.
“Eli?”
No answer.
She glanced back at the screen and saw the words my leg and was lured like Icarus to the sun. Prying could lead to her demise but she read the passage anyway.
I don’t miss my leg as much as I miss Christopher and Benji. Dumb sons of bitches. If I could go back three seconds, I would. I’d haul them both up by the fatigues and throw myself on that grenade instead. They could be here with their families nursing a lost leg or a scarred face. I don’t have a death wish, but dammit, I’d trade my life for both of theirs.
Benji’s wife won’t talk to me. I know Michelle misses him, but all I want for her is—
“Sable!”
Isa spun away from the computer to face the bedroom where Eli stood in the doorway. He wore jeans and a tee as per his usual, arms at his sides, hair damp like he’d just finished showering.
Shit.
“Help you find something?” He advanced with smooth strides, veins popping from his forearms and his forehead at the same time.
She had no idea what to say. Just no earthly idea. There was no spin to put on the fact he’d caught her snooping. She had no plausible excuse. Gee, I thought that was my computer wouldn’t work and neither would I was just stretching my back, not leaning over reading your private journal entry.
Given that she couldn’t lie, she’d have to say something else. So she went with the question rattling her brain since she’d read what she shouldn’t have.
“Who are Christopher and Benji?”
He blinked in surprise like it pained him to hear their names out loud.
“Dead soldiers.” He didn’t move for the laptop to shut the lid or come any closer to her. He simply folded his arms over his chest, and stared her down.
“Oh.” Her heart ached from what she’d read, but she guessed telling Eli as much would silence him before opening him up. She licked her parched lips and told him the other thought in her head. “I didn’t realize your injury was caused by a grenade.”
A beat, then two, passed before he spoke.
“We were lucky. Some guys drive by roadside bombs and none of them walk away from it.” His voice betrayed his words.
“You don’t sound like you feel lucky.”
“Doesn’t matter how I feel. I am lucky. Many men have lost a hell of a lot more than I have.”
It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him it wasn’t a contest, that pain was pain. But she bit back the retort.
“I shouldn’t have—”
“No,” he agreed. “You shouldn’t have. What are you doing here so early?”
“I’ve been awake for two hours, so I thought I’d get a head start. You’re always up early.”
“Marine,” he said in explanation, his voice stone cold.
“Are you going to fire me? Because if so, there’s no reason to unpack my tote.”
The corner of his mouth flinched into an almost-smile. So close. She’d give anything to see it, to hear a full-on belly laugh from him. To know what caused a man like him to smile or laugh. She wondered if he’d ever been the laughing or smiling type, or if he’d always been serious and quiet.
“I take it you don’t need coffee.” He dipped his chin at her paper cup.
“No, I…I should’ve called and offered to bring you one.” She clucked her tongue. “No wonder you fire me all the time.”
A sound came from Eli that made her snap her head up and look at him. She caught the tail end of a smile as he turned and strode into the kitchen, her chest lifting with pride. She’d made him laugh.
She grinned at his retreating back, wishing he hadn’t robbed her of the full effect. Did the brief laugh light his eyes? Twist his lips? She put a hand on her belly where butterflies came to life.
Someday she’d find out.
* * *
Isa spent the rest of the afternoon half in work mode and half in wonder.
When she’d first taken on this assignment, she’d sent the handful of potential assistants to sensitivity training so they knew how to deal with a man who’d literally lost part of himself in war. And while Eli definitely had signs of mild PTSD, she could now see it wasn’t the main motivation directing his life.
She would brew a pot of coffee to share with him this afternoon, and then she’d find out what that motivation was.
“Sent you an e-mail,” he announced as he strolled into the kitchen.
“Okay. I’ll check it in just a second.” She finished measuring fresh grounds and pressed the button to start the brew. When she turned, she found him scowling—nothing new there—but he didn’t look angry. He looked…worried?
“What’s wrong?”
“I”—he pulled in a deep breath—“need help.”
“Well, that’s what I’m here for.”
His frown didn’t let up. “I wasn’t going to ask for help but you’re you and you’re good at what you do and I need help.”
Every bit of his request was said through his clenched teeth and she felt her eyebrows lift. He’d spoken like a man who asked for help…never. It was music to her ears. Handling tasks people dreaded had always given her a feeling of supreme satisfaction.
“It involves you contacting Zach.” He cleared his throat and finished on a thick growl. “Who I trust you won’t date since I’ve asked.”
Scratch that. His tone was more petulant than growly.
“I don’t recall you asking.” She leaned a hip on the counter, enjoying Eli’s fidgeting.
“He’s an important piece of what I’m crafting and he doesn’t need the distraction.”
“Ha!” She folded her arms. It wasn’t as if she were Poison Ivy. She couldn’t do anything to Zach against his will. Men did possess self-control.
But then she thought of her buttons plinking off Eli’s concrete floor. She hadn’t exercised much control with him, but it was because she hadn’t wanted to. Couldn’t he see that?
“Fine.” She held up her hand like she was taking an oath. “I swear not to seduce Zach with my potent, exotic wiles, so help me God.”
Eli’s mouth started to smile until she added a caveat.
“If you agree to one small favor.”
It was impressive how many lines he could call forth from his forehead.
“Be my stand-in date next Saturday, so I’m not forced to ask Zach.” She was desperate. Chloe had overturned every stone and besides her twenty-three-year-old brother from Maryland, Isa was out of options.
“Stand-in date for what?”
“Fancy function.” Snobby bankers and carefully measured insults from her parents. But more importantly, a place where Eli would be recognized.
Showing up with a Crane was as good as getting a Crane seal of approval in that group. She’d impress clients simply by being there with Eli.
“Forget it.”
Which was exactly what she’d expected him to say.
“Okay.” She shrugged and walked to the dining room, calling over her shoulder, “I’m sure Zach looks great in a tux.”
“Sable.” There, now, that was a growl. She ignored it, sitting down at her laptop and pecking in her password. He hovered while she opened and read the e-mail he’d sent.
“You need a website.”
“And a FAQ page,” he said, pointing at the bulleted list. “And a contact that is not me. Also, a way to accept donations online.”
She let his requests soak in as she reviewed the list and the paragraphs of carefully prepared descriptions for something called Refurbs for Vets.
“You’re working on a charity.” She announced her epiphany to the screen.
“Yeah.”
“That’s what you were doing instead of COO for Crane Hotels.” She looked up at him, seeing him differently than she had a moment ago. This man who had lost so much wanted to give back. It was like a light-blocking curtain had been lifted.
“Can you help me or not?”
Okay, the curtain had parted. Definitely not lifted.
“I am being paid by your brother to do Crane Hotels work, so you may have to pick up the slack on COO duties while I work on this.” She gestured to the screen, knowing she’d hand most of the items off to third parties rather than sweat over the details herself, but he didn’t know that. “This is going to take time.”
The sooner Eli was acclimated at Crane Hotels, the sooner she could resume her position at her own company. If she ever hoped to replace herself with another assistant, Eli taking the reins on Crane business was paramount.
“Fine,” he gritted out, and she resisted punching the air in celebration.
“Perfect.” She offered a folder. “Next week’s meeting notes and numbers. Your brother wants your take on it and since I haven’t read through them yet, I won’t be able to summarize in five or ten questions like I normally do.”
His eyes narrowed like he suspected foul play.
She smiled, doing her best to project innocence.
“I’ll get to work on finding a webmaster, securing a home page, and”—words…website-related words…think, think—“um, figuring out the best metadata for your charity.”
“No need to oversell it.” He snatched the folder.
“And, Eli?”
He let out a sigh like he knew what was coming, stopping short of his office and rocking on his heels while he studied the ceiling.
“Next weekend. Are you in?”
“Sure.” He didn’t know it, but he was doing her a huge solid. “I’d hate to subject you to Zach.”
She beamed. Eli raised one eyebrow.
“Do you have a tux,” she asked, “or do I need to arrange a fitting?”
He turned, rolling the file in both hands like it was a tube. She tried not to fixate on the way he was curling the edges of the perfectly flat papers within.
“Both,” he answered. “I have a tux, and I need a fitting.” He watched her when he said, “Clothes don’t fit now that I’m a different man.”
She turned over the phrase a different man for longer than she should, wondering what, other than the obvious, had changed him. And whether he was trying to become who he used to be or create someone new altogether.
* * *
“It better not be a wedding,” Eli told the white-haired man currently measuring his inseam.
Isa had arranged for the tailor to come to him, which Eli appreciated, since that meant he didn’t have to go downtown and deal with people and traffic.
She wasn’t there to oversee the process either, which he also appreciated.
“Or a charity event,” he added. He didn’t need recognition for helping others. It was enough just to do it.
The tailor continued working quietly and Eli gave up on voicing his litany of wishes. Whatever “fancy function” Isa had invited him to didn’t matter. He’d be trussed and pressed and present much like he’d been at a number of formal events his father had dragged him and his brothers to over the years.
“I’ll have it to you by Thursday afternoon,” the tailor told him. “Be careful not to remove the pins when you take it off.”
Eli went to his bedroom and carefully removed the suit, changed into his jeans and T-shirt, and returned the chalked and pinned tuxedo to the older man.
“It’s a lost art, tailoring,” Eli said.
Suit in his grasp, the tailor’s brow pinched and once again, he didn’t reply.
This was why Eli didn’t start conversations. Small talk had never been his forte. That gene had skipped over Reese and Eli and been given in triple measures to Tag.
“Good day, Mr. Crane.”
Eli opened the elevator and ushered out his guest, then walked to the window and examined the street below. This was his favorite part of Chicago. An area where tall new-build skyscrapers shined like mirrors next to rustic, hundred-year-old churches. The warehouse had been an abandoned machine shop when he found it and he’d had it completely overhauled to live in. He’d left the downstairs empty, figuring he’d install huge garage doors and park his fleet of expensive automobiles in it. Thing was, he never did buy a “fleet” of anything.
He’d reported for duty in the Marines repeatedly over the last ten or so years, and material possessions took a backseat to the real world. In between being gone, he used his time home to chill, check in with his family, and hook up with girlfriends, old or new. It had only taken a few days to slip back into his prestationed self.
This bout of recouping was taking a lot more doing.
When he’d returned home last year, he’d planned on holing up at home and not going anywhere. At least, that’d been the case until recently.
He didn’t know why things had changed. Autumn was edging closer, which meant colder nights and crisp days. Soon it’d be icy and snowy, the wind blowing off the lake and frosting the entire town.
Perfect season to stay in, stay warm, and work on his pet project.
He had wanted to be left alone.
Had. That past tense was pushed farther into the past after his family refused to stop showing up with takeout and after he’d reached out to Zach.
After you kissed your personal assistant.
Yeah. About that.
He was intertwined with Isa, not only because he’d curled her close and tasted her mouth. He’d let her talk him into attending an unnamed event he was dressing like a penguin to attend.
He’d let her believe he’d agreed so she wouldn’t ask Zach, but his needs ran deeper than a competing male. Being needed was a rare occasion in Eli’s life. Being needed by a woman an even rarer one.
Eli slipped on his shoes and pocketed his keys, setting off for a destination he’d been putting off for weeks. Months.
To visit Benji’s widow.
Eli had reconnected with Christopher’s widow, Amie. He knew too well what it was like growing up without a parent—his own mother had died when Eli was a kid. He’d wanted to make it right with Amie, to help her and her sons in any way he could.
Amie had been polite and agreeable when he’d asked if he could honor Christopher by posting the picture of the three of them—Eli and Benji included—on the Refurbs for Vets website. She’d wished him well and mentioned she was seeing someone. “A great guy I used to date in high school. He loves my boys,” she’d told him.
Knowing she was moving on, that she had someone who loved her—that Christopher’s boys were loved—had made it easier for Eli to shed some of the guilt that had built up over his friend’s death.
Benji’s widow, Michelle, was another issue altogether. She’d been just twenty-two years old when he died. They’d been married a handful of months. Eli’s stomach twisted every time he thought of her.
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br /> He started his car’s engine and navigated the route he’d driven many times, only to fall short of Michelle’s house. He wondered if he’d make it there today or stop at the edge of her neighborhood and go home instead.
Eli had been a lauded a hero, but after his injuries and surgeries and the realization he’d never measure up to the two men who’d saved his pathetic life, he didn’t feel like one.
He felt like an invalid, and not because of the leg. He felt like an invalid because in the clutch, when he could have saved two men—one a father, both husbands—he hadn’t done it. His counselor at the hospital reminded him repeatedly that he hadn’t had a second to react, and she was right. He hadn’t.
One second he’d been laughing at one of Benji’s horribly uninventive limericks, and the next his ears were ringing and there was sand in his eyes. And then the pain.
God help him, the pain.
Searing hot like red pokers through his foot and leg. He’d had a hell of a bout with phantom pain after. The military doctor explained it was because his foot had been so severely damaged that his brain held on to the image Eli could to this day call up without trying too hard. Getting past it had required a lot of meditation and a brief stint with prism glasses to make him see two whole legs instead of one and a half.
But. He’d survived. He’d rehabilitated even though it broke him into a sweat simply to put pressure on his prosthesis. He’d learned to shower without it, was careful not to drink too much water before bed so he didn’t have to get up to pee in the middle of the night and fuss with snapping it on. He’d learned to move without a stagger or a noticeable limp, his new walk a far cry from his formerly smooth, confident gait.
He hung a left when his GPS told him to, though he knew the route by heart. He’d traveled it the second he’d been able to drive.
The traffic blurred as he slipped into autopilot, his mind on Isa’s curves and thick hips, perfect for a man’s grip. To her molasses-colored hair and deep, dark eyes. He wanted to know the way she moved during sex. Hear if she moaned or mewled or was as quiet as a church mouse. He wanted to know what color nipples rested on the tips of her lush breasts.
The Bastard Billionaire Page 8
