“It’s boring.” She sounded weary, but came back to the fire, staring into it. “It wouldn’t even make one of your novels. We married too young, didn’t really know each other—” she cast him a significant look, “—and when the going got tough, we collapsed.”
“You mean, he wasn’t tough enough to stick it out with you.”
She held out a hand to the fire, as if to warm it. “No, that wouldn’t be fair. Neither of us were tough enough. There was a time I would have said it was all his fault, but it wasn’t. He’s not a bad guy. He got something different than he signed up for. So he took the out-clause. Fair enough. If I could have, I’d have done the same.” She laughed again, that bitter brew beneath it. “In point of fact, I did. Just in a different way.”
“He bailed on you because of the stalker.” A surge of anger blew through him, righteous clean and scorching hot. Not only a dipshit, but a Class A Asshole.
“You make it sound simple and it wasn’t.”
Taking a chance, he pushed her hair over her shoulder, immeasurably relieved when she let him, even bending her head to let him rub the back of her neck.
“Nothing is simple when you’re going through it,” he said, searching for the right words. “Emotional shit is just that—mucky and stinky and full of contagion. It’s only later that you can look back and see how you were waist-deep and in danger of being dragged under.”
She met his gaze, her eyes silvery with a sheen of tears. “Good analogy. No wonder you’re the writer.”
Guilt—something he almost never felt—stabbed through him. Now might be a good time to tell her you lied about the novelist gig, Sparky. But it wasn’t a good time, not with her all emotionally flayed, trusting him with her secrets and her pain. If he confessed to his duplicity right now, she’d be angry and shut down again.
Instead, he pressed his hand on the silky hot skin of her neck and urged her closer. Amazingly, she leaned against him, laying her cheek against his chest and weeping a few silent tears. It figured that she’d cry this way—nothing dramatic, as quiet and contained as everything she did.
Until she explodes, whispered that warning voice.
He ignored it and wrapped his arms around her, holding her close and offering all the comfort he knew how to give. Knowing when not to push, too, was something he’d learned. Sometimes people just needed time to process, to work things through in quiet.
When she made a movement to pull away, he took her wineglass and set it aside. Then he cupped her face and kissed her the way she liked best, soft, long and sweet. She went pliant under his hands, reaching under his shirt to touch his skin. The way her slim fingers touched him, always with a sense of hungry wonder, never failed to move him, to electrify him.
He deepened the kiss and she responded with a moan, melding her body against him. The cock he thought could not rise again after the near-brutal workout stirred, needing to be inside her. Briefly he wished they could be skin-to-skin there, too, but beggars and horses and all that.
Pulling his sweatshirt over her head, he satisfied himself with filling his hands with her, with all that satiny skin, lean length and voluptuous breasts. Then he skimmed the drawstring pants down her endless legs. Something to be said for uncomplicated clothes, too.
She returned the favor, stripping him of his sweats and running her hands over him, touching him the same way he savored her. Naked, they clung together, sharing their hunger. He indulged himself, digging his fingers through her hair, loving the transition in textures between the silken curls and the softer texture of her skin. Her nipples poked into his chest, hard points in the taut globes of her luscious tits. She began making those urgent little sounds of arousal at the same time he thought he couldn’t stand to not be inside her anymore.
“Let me get a condom,” he muttered against her mouth. Should have put one in his pocket.
She made a sound of protest, clinging to him and holding tighter.
“Emily—I have to go get it. Just hold that thought.”
She flushed, chagrined, sense coming into her eyes. “Sorry. And thank you. I wasn’t thinking. Running a risk with disease like that.”
“Well, I’m clean, but...” She looked profoundly surprised and he laughed. “Hey, I’m not that much of a whore.”
“I didn’t mean...”
“No. It’s fair. I should say that I have been that much of a whore, but not so much lately.”
She looked far more serious than he thought the topic merited. “I don’t think you should talk that way about yourself. That’s an ugly word. You enjoy sex more openly and easily than probably anyone I’ve ever met. That doesn’t make you a whore. It means you’re exactly who you should be.”
Her words sank claws into his heart and shredded it. Touching her cheek, he felt moved, unbalanced by her. “I have ugly in me, too, Emily.”
She tilted her head, as if searching for it. “I don’t see it.”
Full of emotion that he couldn’t quite name—or couldn’t bear to—he captured her mouth, winding his fingers in the tousled curls that framed her face. Surprised off balance, she clutched his wrists. Afire with need, he lowered her to the floor, then sucked one candy-pink nipple into his mouth. It still tasted of strawberries, no doubt the lip gloss she’d used to color it, an image that amused and touched him. Her unique blend of playful sexiness and lack of sexual sophistication.
As if all of this side of her was expressly and only for him.
Before she sucked him in too deep with the sweet, fevered moments of her body against his, the alluring scrape of her nails down his back, he forced himself into his office, to grab a condom from the pile she’d left on his desk. The screensaver mocked him, with its slideshow of perfect and perfectly neutral landscape shots from the stock images that came with every Windows PC. For a while he’d used his own collection, until someone he was pumping for information noticed one and asked what on earth had taken him to Mogadishu. No, nothing ugly to see here.
No wonder she couldn’t see it in him. He’d whitewashed it too well.
For a tense moment, he’d been worried she’d spot the files for his Phoenix research. Or evidence that he gamed, as he’d so blithely lied that he didn’t. It had seemed like an easy untruth at the time—all part of the cover—but it bothered him. His father had been the king of lies, weaving a web so dense that it ensnared everyone, hapless victims of his compulsions. This was different, of course. But only in terms of scale.
His own words mocked him. People fall in love and live their lives together. Isn’t that the ideal? That’s what everybody wants. Emily was the first person in a long, long time that it seemed possible to be that.
Except you’re a big, fat walking lie, Sparky.
What he needed to do was get serious about finding Phoenix. He was so close. Every bit of his intuition screamed it. Chase the internet hook-up. Phoenix needs a mighty connection. More muscular than your average islander. Find Phoenix, expose him, turn in the story and tell Emily the truth. Once the story broke, she’d understand the need for secrecy.
Then he’d stay. Or convince her to take a sunny vacation. They could really get to know each other and see where this could go. Isn’t that the ideal? That’s what everybody wants.
“Fox?” Emily called from the other room. “Do I have to come in there after you—show you who’s boss?”
For once, the idea didn’t titillate him. He went to her, where she lay propped on her elbows, a glorious nude before the fire, framed by her cloud of dark hair, sultry smile on her lips. His heart rolled over and he sank into her lovely, welcoming body.
But, he couldn’t quite recapture the moment. A vague dread crept in, niggling at him, as if he’d forgotten some important task, left something behind.
Even when Emily gasped in his ear and dug those pretty nails into his ass, just as he
’d wanted, his thoughts circled back.
And back again.
You should tell her.
Chapter Twenty-Five
He walked her home, which had begun to be a lovely ritual. She kind of liked that he dropped her at her doorstep and went home. It reminded her of being younger, before Henry and before all the rest. Midnight walks through the city after parties and dances. Returning through a quiet campus to her dorm, feeling protected and cherished that her date thought to see her safely home. Not that she’d ever felt in danger. Not then.
Talking about Henry had been strange, dislodging thoughts and feelings that had been stuck for a long time, like a wagon left in the rain to rust until the wheels wouldn’t turn. It surprised her to find that she didn’t really blame him anymore. She couldn’t forgive that he’d failed to give her that sense of safety, of being protected and cherished, but he hadn’t been in the wrong. He’d never had any reason to believe she’d want or need that from him. It had never been his job to take care of her.
He’d been a computer nerd too, not a fighter, not a macho guy by any stretch. And she’d never thought she wanted that. She’d been attracted to him for his gentle intelligence, his love of games and gaming. They’d even been good together, for a while, building their careers, sharing their lives, improving their fortunes bit by bit. Their marriage had been like having a sleepover with her best friend, every night, complete with junk food and gaming until dawn.
One thing about loss—it whittled away those fat and happy pounds.
He’d bailed, as Fox so succinctly put it, a few months after she got fired. After he continued to go to work at Gametronix every day, even though other members of the team had quit in protest of how it was all handled. Henry avoided discussing it, his solution for everything. As far as he was concerned, that ugly period had ended. She lied to Fox about that too. She’d never really talked about it. Henry hadn’t been like Fox in that way. Or any way, really.
Those last months of him struggling to find neutral topics of conversation, unable to look her in the face, as if she’d been sullied, raped and beaten in truth instead of just virtually—that had been the worst part of all.
When he’d finally left her, passive-aggressively sending divorce papers via his lawyer, she’d been relieved. He’d even ensured the terms were so generous, she could hardly refuse. He wanted out and he ponied up the money to prove it.
Signing those papers had given her the idea. She’d stop being ruined and vilified Lisa White forever. Not only by giving up Henry’s surname and her connection to the husband of her naïve youth, but by changing her entire name, her whole life.
Her own version of witness protection.
It had worked too. She’d risen from the proverbial ashes of the nuclear meltdown her life had become and risen as Phoenix. Like a superhero, with mild-mannered Emily Bartwell as her alter-ego. It amused her to think of Fox as her Lois Lane. He even had that intrepid reporter vibe with his relentless curiosity and dogged questioning.
They arrived at her doorstep and she realized he hadn’t said a word, immersed in his own thoughts. In fact, he’d seemed more distant. Since the condom conversation, really. Had she hurt his feelings by implying he’d been slutting about?
She opened her mouth to ask, maybe apologize, when he spoke first.
“I have to go off-island tomorrow. Research. For the book. I might not make it back in time for the last ferry.”
Oh. Funny, the sense of disappointment. Of course he had things to do. So did she for that matter. She should welcome the chance to immerse herself in all that programming she’d been getting increasingly behind on. Get a chunk out the door, so she could be free to spend more time with him.
“You’re disappointed.” He searched her face. “I don’t have to go tomorrow.”
“No,” she blurted out, then hastened to add, just in case she was tromping all over his feelings, “I mean, I am disappointed, but you should go. Your work is important. It’s why you’re here.”
He flinched, only a little, but noticeable. Someone better at interpersonal stuff would know what to say. Instead she leaned against him, the way he seemed to enjoy, gratified when he slid his arms around her waist to stroke her skin under the sweatshirt she’d re-borrowed.
“You get back when you get back,” she murmured, kissing him. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll be here.”
“Good.” He pressed her more tightly against him, reminding her of how he’d pushed her against the door and she’d climaxed, the porch light above her a chromium moon, just the night before. “And then it’s my turn.”
Just like him, to want to leave her with that burning thought.
“I have ideas,” he continued. “Several things I want to do to you. I might pick up some supplies.”
Feeling weak in the knees—turned out the cliché was based in something real—she nodded. “Just um...” Had she been about to say to call her? She didn’t even have a number to give.
“I know how to find you.” He kissed her, no irony or impatience in his voice. He understood and accepted that much about her, at least. It meant a lot, actually.
“Good night then. Safe travels,” she added impulsively.
He grinned, that easy, charming smile. “I’ll let you know when I return.”
“Okay.”
“And Emily? Plan on wearing the boots.” Fox gave her a little salute and strolled off, hands in the pockets of his windbreaker.
She awarded herself extra points on that one. It felt good to have had something to bring to the game, something unexpected and powerful. She sat down to peel off said boots, not easy with sweatpants over them—though an amusing combination.
Yes, amazingly enough, talking about Henry, even a bit about what had happened, had felt good also. She’d almost wanted to tell Fox the whole sordid tale, he was such a good listener. Though she couldn’t do that without also trusting him with her secret identity.
Though, what if they did fall in love?
She shook her head at herself, but—for once—couldn’t drum up much cynicism on the subject. The things he’d said about that being the ideal...she’d thought the same way, once upon a time. That she’d found her happy ever after in Henry. She’d wanted that, believed in it. Maybe Fox had the right of it and she’d only been bitter.
Not a fatal blow to her heart, just one that had taken a long time to heal.
A huger problem loomed, a stationary fog bank that wouldn’t dissipate with a few meager rays of sun. She couldn’t be in love, have an actual relationship and keep up the vast pretense of her life. Already she’d let too much work slide to preserve the fiction that she wiled her days away doing jack shit.
If they progressed into the real thing, she’d have to let him in her house, for starters. What a mess that she could give him access to the intimate spaces of her body, but not to her home—the one place where she remained, more or less, her real self. She’d have to eventually explain that she did work, which would lead to the whole, sordid story. Hell, she’d have to let him see that person, pitiful Lisa in all her crippled ugliness, hiding in her lair, stripped of the identities that protected her.
So hard to face that.
Henry had known and loved her for years and hadn’t been able to stomach her broken self. How could Fox?
No, he’d been satisfied with the answer she’d given. Absolutely true, if not the whole story. He didn’t need to know the rest. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
She’d never won at love, so it would be foolish to even contemplate going for that prize. Part of the trick of gaming was sticking to your power level, to what you could reasonably hope to accomplish.
She knew her limits. Of course, you never made it to the next level by playing safe.
* * *
Fox had been tired enough to sl
eep hard. A good thing, because the sleep gave him perspective. The intense sex of the night before had simply made him emotional. Wouldn’t be the first time. Really, he should have seen it coming.
You hand the hottest woman you’ve met in years a long-held fantasy and she fulfills it and beyond—of course you were rattled, Sparky. Of course she got under your skin. They pick showgirls with long legs to keep you distracted.
He stood out on the rain-lashed deck of the first ferry out—no doubt looking like a tourist to the locals tucked inside with their newspapers and their thermoses of fragrant coffee, along with a busload of school kids—but it helped clear his head. Emily had infiltrated his brain, her vibrant presence permeating his thoughts the same way the sweet scent of orange blossoms clung to his skin.
A serious, libido-addicting crush was what it was. A major case of lust.
And like.
He enjoyed her company, dammit, and there was nothing wrong with that. Compatibility worked that way. They both liked to run, liked dogs and cats, similar taste in food and wine. Her tendency to be quiet suited him perfectly. If he’d nursed the idea that they could spend a lot of evenings like that—mind-blistering sex followed by comfortable conversation by the fire—who could blame him?
But there was no reason, absolutely none at all, to tell her the real reason for his visit to Lyra. And there was every reason not to.
Stories had been blown on less than this. The wrong word to the right person, and the prey scattered to the wind faster than card-counters fleeing casino security. Just imagine the guys if they heard he’d blown the biggest story of his career—so far—because of pillow talk. With a local girl, no less.
Amateur mistake.
Besides, Emily had an excellent point. Neither of them had entered into this with the long-term in mind. It had been, and still was, technically, just about the fucking. He hadn’t promised her more than that and, to give her credit, she hadn’t asked for it. Yeah, that stung. But, that they’d delved beyond that lay entirely in his court. Just couldn’t give that curiosity a rest, huh, Sparky?
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