Undone by the Ex-Con

by Talia Hibbert

  Infuriating man. How typical of him to be so awfully divine.

  Their faces were close, so close, as he leant over her. The vast sky stretched out behind him, and his eyes matched the inky-blue night perfectly. Stars twinkled from afar and from within his gaze, and Lizzie let every detail of her plan fade into the mists.

  It wouldn't work with him. It had to be real.

  He pulled her up, drawing her close, bending slightly to meet her. His lips were just a breath away when he murmured, voice low and urgent: “But what? You hate me, I'm awful—but what?”

  For a second, her mind stuttered like a record. Her carefully prepared script was useless now.

  “But you make me feel like myself again,” she said. And then she winced, embarrassed by how breathless she sounded. Even more embarrassed because she was telling the truth.

  Since everything changed—her health, her career, her friendship with her brother—Lizzie had become someone she didn’t particularly like. Someone pathetic at the best of times and empty at the worst, who performed more than she lived. It was like being at home again, confined by Mother's expectations, but it wasn't Mother at all. Lizzie was doing it to herself, and she knew it, and she couldn't stop.

  Unless she was around this man. Something about him—about his intensity, his abrasive nature—revived the woman she used to be. Razor-sharp, proud, forceful, unafraid. Some might say those were not qualities to aspire to. Her parents always had.

  But she didn’t give a shit.

  They were her, and she had been missing them, and around Isaac Montgomery, they all came flooding back.

  “That’s a good fucking reason,” he said softly. She blinked. He hadn’t heard her meandering thoughts—couldn’t have—but he was looking down at her as though he had. As though he knew everything about her.

  “Why did you let me kiss you?” She asked. Which was ridiculous; she already knew why. She'd orchestrated the whole thing, after all; become the kind of woman he would want.

  But she hadn't been faking it. Not for a minute.

  He paused for a moment. She didn’t mind. She knew, as silent as he was around everyone else, that he would speak.

  Finally, he said, “Trade, yeah?

  “Yes. Question for question.”

  “Right.” When he spoke, she felt each puff of air against her lips; saw it coalesce before her eyes. They were still so close. He held her comfortably now, cradling her, and she relaxed in his arms despite herself. As though it were normal that he hadn’t let go, that he drew her into the comfort of his broad chest so intimately. They were dancing without movement. Static, like characters in a music box waiting to be wound up.

  Then he said, “Because you’re beautiful. And I like the way you hate me.”

  “What does that mean?” She whispered. “You like the way I hate you?”

  He shrugged. “You don’t hate where I come from. You don’t hate what I am. You don’t hate my family or my accent or the place I grew up. You hate the things I’ve done. You hate me for me.”

  “Ah,” she murmured. And somehow, that twisted justification resonated within her. Still… “I wish I could say the same for you.”

  He jolted, as if startled. Frowned down at her. Said, “Explain.”

  “Well,” she said. "You hate where I come from. You hate my family and my accent and the place that I grew up. Don’t you?”

  “No,” he said, shocking her. Because he wasn’t lying. She could tell. “Wanted to. But no.”

  “Then what?” She asked. “What is it?”

  His wide mouth quirked, and her heart jumped at the threat of a smile. But no; false alarm. He was back to his usual scowl. “Why do you think I hate you at all?” He asked, his tone oddly light. For him, anyway.

  “I see it when you look at me.” With burning eyes. Burning and blue. An ocean aflame.

  He shrugged. “You're confusing. Don't act the way you should. Can't place you; don't like it. But mostly it's because... Because you were right about me, the day we met.”

  Lizzie blinked. Of all the things she’d expected to hear, that certainly wasn’t one of them. And it emphasised a crack in her logic, a question that had been nagging at her for a while.

  “Isaac,” she said carefully. “I know what they say about you. And I know why you… Why you went to prison. But I’m starting to wonder if I really understand what happened. What happened with the man you—”

  He stepped back, his touch becoming instantly impersonal. No longer did he hold her; now, he merely offered stability, a courtesy. Startled, Lizzie regained her footing—which wasn’t difficult, considering her perfect balance—and pulled back too. God forbid she hang on to him like a puppy.

  Over the last few minutes, he had bloomed under the moonlight like an evening primrose. Now, she expected him to close up again, to slam his walls back into place so fast and so hard that they'd graze her damn nose. But he didn’t. He seemed to be struggling, true; the harsh lines of his face became even tighter, and his muscles quivered with that instinctive awareness she’d noticed about him before. But there was a battle taking place behind his eyes, rapid and too bright to understand, like lightning.

  Then his face relaxed, as much as it ever did, and the crackling air around them became still.

  “Enough,” he said. “Let’s race.”

  She frowned. “What?”

  And he repeated, “Let’s race.”

  And then… Lord, then. He smiled. She’d never seen him smile. And although she’d noticed the lack, Lizzie had never dreamed that his grin, when it finally came, would be so breathtaking, so unexpectedly sweet. Adorable, unguarded and surprisingly mischievous, as though there was a little boy hiding somewhere inside that terrifying mountain of man.

  “All this time,” she said. “You’ve been glaring and moping and brooding in silence, and all this time you had a smile like that?”

  And now, God help her, he looked embarrassed, and that was so bloody cute she might just die.

  He leant in close, and her breath hitched at his nearness. He murmured in her ear, “Secret.”

  She said, “Tell me.”

  “Can’t smile in front of people. I get nervous.”

  And then, before she could fully register the enormity of what he’d just revealed, the little cheat turned away and jogged off towards the hotel. He was starting the race without her.

  Indignant, Lizzie began chasing after him, trudging through the snow as quickly as she could. “That’s not fair!” She cried. “Where is your sense of sportsmanship?”

  “Ain’t got one,” he called back.

  He was moving insultingly slowly. No doubt, he thought that she’d be easy to beat. Well. She’d soon disabuse him of that notion.

  Gritting her teeth, Lizzie forced her way out of the snow, reaching the salted path where she could move unhindered. Isaac, with his greater weight, had already broken free of the snow’s grasp and was at least ten metres ahead. Determination rising, Lizzie put on a burst of speed, gratified to see the distance between them shrink rapidly.

  He took a casual look over his shoulder, and the shock on his face when he saw her sprinting towards him was hilarious. To her satisfaction, he immediately sped up. He didn’t intend to let her win, then.

  But she still might.

  She didn’t doubt that he was fit—his muscular frame hadn’t happened by accident. But he was huge, and that would slow him down. She, meanwhile, was strong, and fast. Fast enough to cross a stage in seconds; fast enough to beat him to the hotel's front steps.

  She gained on him slowly but surely, pushing herself to the absolute limit, and never mind the nagging worry that her body would make her pay for this later.

  But she didn’t win, damn him. No; when they finally arrived at the front of the hotel, near-hysterical with laughter, panting and breathless, he was a good few metres ahead of her. She didn’t mind; not really. He bent over and slapped his hands against his knees, and she pressed her palm to he
r heaving chest, and they chuckled and choked and regained their breath, the air turning silvery with the clouds of their fatigue.

  His laughter was even better than his smile. Lizzie’s heart swelled curiously as she watched him, her own smile fading.

  He was shy.

  She’d been wrong about him. He was shy.

  What else had she been wrong about?

  He straightened up, his breathing even now, and moved towards her with heated intent in his eyes. She stepped back once, twice, until her back bumped gently against the hotel’s wall. The steps leading up to the grand entrance were at her right, but the doors were closed and no-one was around. He probably knew that—had probably taken in the entire scene at a glance before he came to her with seduction written all over his face.

  He pressed his palms against the wall on either side of her shoulders, and the movement sent a heady thrill through her, tearing her breath away once more. His eyes focused on her mouth, and then his tongue slid out to wet his own lips in a move that had Lizzie clenching her thighs. When she’d left the hotel in search of him, she hadn’t known how things would go. In fact, she’d been horribly nervous.

  And yet, she thought she’d earned an inch of his trust tonight. Because when he looked at her, there was no lingering resentment in his eyes. There was nothing but desire. And as he leant down to kiss her, she thought: I could do it. I could have him.

  Just like someone had her brother.

  Jesus Christ. She was complete and utter scum.

  “What’s wrong?” He whispered, his breath warm against her wind-chapped cheek. And that just made it worse; because she thought she’d remained perfectly still, and yet the second her thoughts turned dark, he knew.

  Something connected her to this man. This man she should never have met. Fate was hilariously cruel.

  “Nothing,” she lied. God, even she could hear that her voice was stiff.

  He straightened, pulling away from her. And she wanted to say, No. Come back. Fill up my world again.

  But leading him to his doom was bad enough. She couldn’t ask him outright.

  “Okay,” he said. Clearly dubious. “Should I walk you to your room?”

  It was unreasonable, but his response—the fact that, despite everything people said about him, he was a fucking gentleman—made Lizzie suddenly angry.

  She rolled her eyes. Knew she was about to be awful. Suddenly, recklessly, didn’t care.

  “I’m not a child,” she said acidly. Waiting for him to pull back. To lose his temper in turn. To hate her all over again.

  But he folded his arms and eyed her calmly and said, “Wouldn’t know, with the tantrum you’re throwing.”

  Her mouth working silently, Lizzie stared up at him. He remained silent in the face of her outrage, impassive.

  Finally, she let out a huff of frustration—which she immediately wished to take back, because now it really was a tantrum.

  Ugh.

  Clenching her fists, she gave him a cool nod before turning to climb the stairs, her head held high.

  When she reached the top, she looked back, stealing a glance at him.

  And the awful man was leaning against the wall, a smirk on his face, staring at her backside.

  “I changed my mind,” she shouted down. “I do hate you.”

  “No you don’t,” he said mildly.

  Lizzie stormed inside.

  Twelve

  The elegant swirl of the cream fleur de lis on his carpet receded, grew closer, receded again. Isaac grunted as he ground out his last few push-ups, sweat blurring his vision. And probably staining this obviously expensive rug. Oh-fucking-well.

  He didn’t always push himself this hard. He had his routine, devised over years of mind-blowing boredom in shitty cells, and he stuck to it. But when his thoughts took on a life of their own, Isaac had to scour them from his mind. Even if that meant punishing his aching muscles until he wanted to throw up.

  Only it wasn’t working. Jesus fucking Christ. How long would he torture himself over Lizzie?

  Sighing, Isaac flopped onto the floor, rolling over to stare at the ceiling. It was perfectly smooth and blindingly white, just like the untouched snow outside his window, glinting in the morning sun. Mark had already knocked on his door and invited him out to ski, about an hour ago. Isaac had told the man he’d rather fucking die.

  Wait; no. He’d just said, No thanks.

  But it was all in the tone. That’s what Mam used to say.

  He wondered if Lizzie was skiing. He wondered if he should’ve dragged himself out there and strapped those ridiculous things to his feet for the chance to speak with her again. Not because he was some smitten fan. No; he just wanted to test out his theories. It was practically scientific.

  See, he'd spent half of last night held prisoner by unfulfilled lust, and during that time, Isaac had come up with three explanations for Lizzie's behaviour.

  1. He was projecting his sexual obsession onto her, and she actually found him hideously unattractive.

  Isaac would like to think that option number one was unlikely, but the fact was, his social instincts left a lot to be desired. Of course, she had kissed him first. But maybe... Maybe she'd changed her mind. And he just hadn't caught up.

  The possibility stung. He'd move on, for now.

  2. Lizzie was a manipulative, spoilt brat with poor impulse control, torn between the attraction they shared and the fact that he wasn’t good enough to lick her boots.

  This theory should seem likely. It happened a lot, after all. Half the women he met these days were guilty of similar internal conflicts. But then, none of those women had made him desperate for their touch. None of those women had been Lizzie.

  Which left him with the final theory:

  3. Lizzie’s hot-and-cold routine was actually a defence mechanism that she pulled up when things got real.

  See, he knew more than a little about that third option. And, truthfully? It was his favourite. Because walls could be torn down.

  Not that he'd be the man to do it.

  Ah, who the fuck was he kidding? It was pathetic enough that he'd spent so long mooning over the woman; he might as well stop lying to himself. He wanted her. He wanted everything about her. Badly.

  Tutting at his own foolishness, Isaac sat up, his abs screaming at the movement. He’d already torn them to shreds this morning. And that was after all the damn squats.

  He’d better shower and eat. If the portion sizes at dinner were anything to go by, he’d need three helpings for breakfast. And it was already past 10.

  Mopping his brow with a discarded T-shirt, Isaac heard his phone ring from somewhere on the bed, the sound muffled. He tossed blankets and pointless pillows around until he located his battered old smartphone.

  It was Kev. Finally.

  Bringing the phone to his ear, Isaac answered, “Yeah?”

  “Morning, you grumpy bastard.” Kev’s hoarse words were predictably sarcastic, but his tone was… Off. Far too serious.

  Isaac frowned. “What’s up?”

  “Nothing we didn’t expect. Finally got the contract—they took their bloody time screening it.”

  “They don’t like you working.”

  “It’s not work. It’s a favour for my mysterious benefactor.”

  Isaac rolled his eyes, heading towards the bathroom. “Not your benefactor.”

  “My wife and kids are living in a house you bought. You're my benefactor."

  Isaac simply grunted.

  "Listen; you were right about this contract.”

  Coming to stand before the bathroom mirror, Isaac stilled. “Yeah?

  “Yep. There’s a shit ton of bullshit hidden in here. Starts at II, 4. a) 1—”

  “Kev. English.”

  The other man sighed down the phone. “He’s having you over, mate. Sign this, and you give up all rights to the last two books along with the next.”

  Frowning, Isaac dragged a hand over the thick scrub of his stubbl
e. He should probably shave. In fact, he thought, remembering the delicate skin of Lizzie’s cheeks, he should definitely shave.

  Wait. Focus.

  Turning away from the mirror, Isaac leant against the bathroom’s marble counter. “So we…?”

  Kev puffed out the air from his cheeks. Isaac could almost see his old cellmate now: his narrow face would be pensive, his bulging eyes wide. “I don’t know, mate. Could draw up a counter-offer. But the way he’s shafted you here, I don’t see as you’d want to keep working with him.”

  Isaac clenched his fist, then released, feeling the stiff joints ease up. “Who else?”

  “What, you ain’t got any fancy writer contacts? No publishing buddies? All these bloody soirees you go to, mate; you gotta start making connections.”

  Isaac snorted. “Don't like 'em. Don't speak. You know that.”

  “True. Alright; what about this publicist woman. Jane. You like her, eh? She must know someone who knows someone.”

  Jane. At the thought of her—she of the iron hair and steely spine—Isaac brightened. “Yeah,” he agreed. “She’ll help.”

  “Good. Cuz this contract’s a pile of wank. Cheeky bloody fucker. But listen—don’t have him out, yeah? Not until you finish this little holiday. I know what you’re like. Keep it light, mate.”

  Isaac grunted.

  “I need a yes on that one, son. Behave yourself. Alright?”

  Isaac rolled his eyes skyward. But he felt himself smile, just a little. “Alright.”

  “Good. Now, how’s things? Been skiing, your highness?”

  “Nope.”

  Kev chuckled. “Don’t blame you, mate. T’ain’t natural.You enjoying yourself, anyway? Anything kicking off?”

  Isaac thought of melting eyes and warm lips and wide hips. He thought of easy laughter and easier words.

  He said, “Nope.”

  “Thought not,” Kev muttered. “Bunch of boring pricks.”

  “Well done, Audrey. You may go.”

  Her skin rosy and glowing, Audrey sank into a swan-like curtsey that looked out of place in the small, modern sports hall. The hotel was so elegant, Lizzie had assumed there'd be a studio somewhere in the building. But no. The Spencers had to hire out one of the gym's private rooms, bursting with high-tech exercise machines.