“Uncle Justus!” shrieked Maya, her bare feet pounding the floor as she raced into the kitchen. Without breaking stride, she launched herself at him, hugging him around the legs. “What’re you doing here?”
“What am I doing here?” He swung her up into his lap and smacked a loud kiss on her soft little chipmunk cheek before he dropped her back to the floor. “I brought you a delicious LaRosa’s pizza to eat.”
“Yay!”
“Oh, but I forgot.” He frowned. “You don’t eat pizza.”
“Yes, I do!” She hopped up and down on one foot, her braids, now half unraveled, flapping around her face. “I love pizza!”
“No,” he said, standing up and reaching for his keys on the counter. “I’ll just go back out and get you some broccoli and cabbage.”
Maya froze and her stricken gaze narrowed suspiciously. “Uncle Justus!” she said, “you stop joking me.”
“I would never joke you.”
Maya resumed hopping happily. Justus looked up to see Angela smile at him again—a sweet, warm, and addictive smile.
His head cleared of everything but one simple thought: I want this.
And for once in his life, the this had nothing whatsoever to do with his dick.
After dinner, Justus gave Maya her bath, forgetting all about her unfortunate tendency to splash like a pod of dolphins. When it was over and she bounced off to the bedroom to find her jammies, he surveyed the damage, which was along the lines of a hurricane running aground.
Angela wouldn’t like this.
Sighing, he pulled some towels off the rack and threw them on the puddle.
The good news was that he’d had the foresight to at least take off his sweatshirt, so only his white T-shirt and the tops of his track pants got wet. The bad news was that he’d used all the towels.
Chilly now, he took the T-shirt off and threw it on the floor.
“Angela?” He stepped into the narrow hallway. “Angela!”
“Here I am.” Angela hurried around the corner from the kitchen, folding Maya’s little pink flannel Barbie nightgown as she came. When she got within four feet of him she finally looked up, saw him, and froze.
Well...most of her froze.
Her big baby browns checked him out from head to toe, hitting his chest and arms pretty hard.
And wasn’t that interesting?
“Wha—” She cleared her throat before using a shaky hand to toss her ponytail over her shoulder. “What is it?”
He stepped closer.
She stepped back, keeping her gaze lowered.
Interesting.
“Where do you keep the towels?” The huskiness in his own voice surprised him. “I’m a little wet.”
She looked him up and down again, caught herself, and blushed to the roots of her hair.
“In the linen closet.” She cleared her throat. “Right there.”
“Thanks,” he said, heart pounding.
He didn’t move.
After a beat or two, it seemed to dawn on her that she’d have to edge past him if she wanted to get down the hall.
“Well.” She smoothed her hair again, clutched Maya’s nightgown to her chest in a death grip, and squeezed by, practically scaling the wall à la Spider-Man to keep from touching him. Which was strange, because they’d touched each other a lot since the accident.
Of course, none of those other occasions had been this sexually charged.
Safely beyond him now, she paused and shot him a sidelong look over her shoulder.
He held her gaze, raising a brow.
Caught, she jerked her head back around and practically ran the rest of the way to the bedroom.
“Say your prayers, sweet girl.”
Justus, fully clothed again, sat on the side of her bed a few minutes later. Maya was already tucked under the covers and had her dog nestled in the crook of her arm. She obediently put the palms of her hands together and closed her eyes.
Justus bowed his head and they began to recite together.
“Now I lay me down to sleep
I pray the Lord my soul to keep.
If I should...”
When her voice trailed off, he glanced up.
Maya’s face had hardened to stone.
Ah, shit.
Justus braced himself for a crying jag, which was, as far as he was concerned, long overdue. She’d been brave and strong these last few days, but she wasn’t even four yet and her young life had imploded. If she needed to cry, she was certainly entitled.
“What’s wrong, Maya? Don’t you want to finish your prayer?”
Maya blinked, pulled the covers up higher, and turned to face the wall. “I don’t like this prayer.”
Her voice sounded very small and fragile.
Funny how it still managed to be more than loud enough to break what was left of his heart.
“Okay,” he said softly, leaning forward to kiss her.
She stiffened and pulled farther away.
He hesitated and then rubbed her cheek instead. “Good night.”
No answer.
He hung around for a few minutes, just in case, but when she didn’t move again, he went back to the kitchen.
Angela stood behind the counter, spraying some orange cleaning stuff all over everything, far too absorbed in what she was doing to notice him. Then she took out her sponge and scrubbed. And scrubbed. And scrubbed some more, until he was exhausted just from watching her.
“Hey,” he finally said when this showed signs of continuing until, oh, forever. “What did that counter ever do to you?”
He’d startled her. She blinked, shook her head, and grinned sheepishly. “I don’t like dirt.”
“I will try to remember that,” he said, taking a seat at the counter.
Her phone rang before she could reply. “Sorry,” she told him, turning away to pick it up. “Hello?”
She listened. Frowned. And then she said the words that made Justus’s vision dim behind an angry red haze:
“What do you want, Ronnie?”
8
“For God’s sake, Angela,” Ronnie said, his voice pitching higher. “Carolyn died and you didn’t even call me! I had to hear about it from one of the other docs. Did you think I wouldn’t want to know? Jesus! You know how much I liked her.”
Angela leaned back against the counter. “Calling you never crossed my mind,” she said.
Justus shifted, crossing his arms over his chest and watching her with a quiet intensity that belied the negligent way he sprawled on the stool.
Agitated, Angela paced to the other end of the counter.
Ronnie sighed harshly in her ear. “I still care about you, Angela. I want to do what I can to help. That hasn’t changed.”
Angela snorted, resisting the urge to curse him for being such a liar, especially after the way he’d kissed that woman in the parking lot the other night. But now was not the time. She’d die a thousand gruesome deaths before she’d let Ronnie know how badly he’d humiliated her. And she certainly didn’t want Justus to know how she’d been dumped for a younger, sexier woman—exactly the type of woman Justus liked.
“I don’t need your help, Ronnie.” Her hand began to throb and she forced herself to loosen her grip on the phone. “So if there’s nothing else?”
“Angela—”
“Good night, then.”
She hung up and pressed her hand to her forehead, unwilling to meet Justus’s gaze.
Justus sat quietly, watching her with that stare that was as hard as it was unfathomable.
After a minute, she found her cleaning spray, spritzed the counter, and began her nightly wipe-down. Hang on. Had she wiped the counters already? She couldn’t remember.
She sprayed again.
The thing was...why would Ronnie call her? Hadn’t he already hurt her enough? Why go through the pretense of caring about her when he’d hooked up with someone—
“Angela.” Justus reached out and covered her sponge hand with
his palm, which was large and warm. She froze, slowly lifting her gaze to look at him. Amusement glinted in his eyes. “The counter can’t take any more scrubbing. Look. The color’s starting to fade.”
“I feel better when I clean,” she admitted helplessly, trying to laugh at herself and failing miserably.
Justus’s hand tightened over hers. “Maybe you’d feel better if you talked about it.”
“No way.”
He scowled. “Drop it. Now.”
This time she had to laugh. Justus laughed, too, clearly relieved. Tugging her hand, he got up and pulled her to the sofa, where they sat and he stretched out like he owned the whole block, putting his feet on her coffee table.
“What do you think you’re doing?” she cried, scooting a bowl of flowers and a couple of framed pictures out of the way before he knocked them over with his size nineteen gunboats. “I know Vincent didn’t raise you to put your feet on coffee tables.”
He shrugged. “I’m loosening you up. You need it, Duchess.”
“Don’t call me Duchess,” she hissed.
To her further consternation, he leaned back and put a hand to his ear. “Wait! What’s that? I think it’s the sound of the earth still turning on its axis even though I have my feet on your coffee table. Listen. Maybe you’ll hear it.”
Angela reached around, grabbed one of her hundred-dollar pillows, and smashed him in his laughing face. She got in two solid hits before he snatched it away.
“You play too much,” she complained. “You’re like the annoying little brother I never had.”
“Don’t get it twisted.” His smile died and all traces of his humor left the building. “I’m not your brother. Don’t forget it.”
The emphatic note in his soft voice caught her completely by surprise.
The words hung in the air for a moment, as though he wanted to make sure she’d heard and understood all the syllables, before he finally looked away, jaw flexing. Then he went back to the kitchen, poured another glass of the rich Burgundy they’d had with dinner, and drank deeply.
“What’s going on with you and Ron?” he asked when he lowered the glass.
“I don’t want to get into it,” she said irritably.
“Hmm,” he said, drinking again.
She sank back against the cushions, thinking hard. She wanted to add that it was none of his business, but she had the feeling all conversation would grind to a screeching halt until he had his answer. And she wanted him to stay. The nights had been too long and hard since Carolyn died.
“Ronnie dumped me the other night,” she admitted. “I guess you figured that much out, huh?”
“Why?”
Openly sulking now, she crossed her arms over her chest. “He doesn’t want to get married.”
“Angela. Who is she?”
God, Justus was infuriating. Marching around in her kitchen, drinking her wine, and interrogating her about her own damn business. What right did he have to demand explanations and force her to share her worst humiliations?
And, more to the point—why did she feel compelled to answer?
She might as well throw it all out there. “Big breasts, big butt, younger—you’d love her. She’s exactly your type.”
His mouth twisted. “I think my type might surprise you.”
“Doubtful. So anyway, now you know my embarrassing secret,” she snapped. “Happy?”
Unsmiling, he came back and sat, putting his wine on the end table. “Am I happy to see you upset? No. Am I happy you’re not wasting any more of your life with that punk? Hell yeah.”
“You’ve got some nerve, judging him,” she said irrationally. She’d invested so much time in Ronnie she felt like she needed to stick up for him. Otherwise, she was left with the unavoidable conclusion that she was a horrible judge of character. “Like you’ve been a saint. You don’t even know him.”
“Fine. Maybe he isn’t a jerk. Maybe he’s the finest human being ever to walk the planet. But he’s still wrong for you.”
Wait, what?
Angela swiveled to face him, tucking her foot under her, propping her elbow on the back of the sofa, and resting her head on her hand.
“Why do you say that?”
Amusement glimmered in his eyes again. “Because I took one look at him and knew he’d let you walk all over him with your pretty little spiked heels. What you need is someone who’s not afraid to stand up to you when you get too far out of line.”
Outrage made her splutter.
“Excuse me?”
“Yeah, okay, you really want to do this?” he asked, laughing.
“I really want you to get the hell out of my apartment, yeah.”
He shrugged. “So life with Ronnie was never boring, huh?”
That shut her right up.
Her mind immediately shifted to the routine she and Ronnie had established. All the Friday nights with dinner and a movie. The countless Saturday mornings with pancakes and scrambled eggs. The lengthy conversations about politics, climate change, and other weighty topics of the day.
The tame sex.
She may as well admit it now. Making love with Ronnie had been exactly as exciting as...well, as...
Cringing inwardly, she realized what the problem had been:
Pretty much anything was more exciting than sex with Ronnie. Buying a fabulous new pair of shoes? Check. Discovering a new restaurant? Double check. The new bath foam she’d bought? Jackpot.
After a long pause, she reluctantly met Justus’s eye again.
Underneath his deliberately bland expression, she felt his gathering energy, as though her answer mattered, and mattered big.
“Of course life with Ronnie was never boring,” she lied. She nervously adjusted the pillow behind her back, trying to hide what was shaping up to be a terminal case of the fidgets. “And this topic is off limits.”
“Fine,” he said, satisfaction gleaming in his eyes, although, to his credit, he kept a lid on his smile. “What do you want to talk about?”
“Let’s examine your personal life in minute detail for a while.”
“Fine,” he said again. “Go ahead.”
Angela watched him dubiously, although she suspected he’d answer whatever personal question she was rude enough to ask. So, how rude was she willing to be?
Very, she decided.
“So who was your little friend the other night?”
He didn’t look a bit surprised by her choice of topic. Still, he seemed determined not to make things easy for her. “A friend. Janet Walker.”
“A friend,” she said sourly.
“What exactly do you want to know, Angela? Whether she’s a friend who grants me benefits?”
Her slippery little mind veered right back to the sight of Justus bare-chested in her hallway, and she felt her face begin another slow burn.
Dammit.
She’d never believed in the concept of a perfect body any more than she’d believed in Sasquatch or the Loch Ness Monster—at least not until she’d laid eyes on Justus tonight. He was physically perfect: long legs, tight butt, gleaming skin that had to feel like satin—and that was just the beginning. His long arms were heavily muscled without being bulky. His chest and belly consisted of slab upon slab of sinew as well defined as God could make it. He was startlingly, overwhelmingly masculine—as potently male as one of People magazine’s Sexiest Man Alive issues.
Thank God he’d put his sweatshirt back on. When he wore it, she had at least half a chance of thinking clearly.
And it wasn’t like her feminine appreciation of him was unique. Any woman even remotely interested in Justus would happily grant him benefits. Soon and often.
“Oh, I’m sure Janet gives you benefits,” she said. He laughed. “The real question is whether any of the dozens of women who give you benefits is any more special that the others.”
His smile faded.
She felt a surge of satisfaction. Maybe this once she’d touched a nerve, the way he liked
to do to her.
Had some woman broken his heart? Was that it?
“They’re all the same,” he admitted quietly.
“Doesn’t that get a little boring?”
A dimpled smile—pure mischief—crept back across his face. “Having sex with beautiful women never gets boring.”
She didn’t bother answering, instead leveling her most disbelieving look on him.
He met it for a second, but only for a second. Then his gaze wavered and fell.
He shrugged one shoulder. “Sometimes.”
They sat quietly for a minute, but then he turned back and grinned smugly, the way a poker player does when he reveals a royal flush. “But not as boring as I’ll bet it got with you and Ron.”
Angela opened her mouth, but before she could blast him, Carolyn’s image—laughing; happy; vibrantly alive—flashed through her mind. With it came the blinding pain of her loss, along with sudden guilt that she’d been enjoying herself—just for a second—with Justus.
He instantly sensed her mood change and leaned forward to catch her hand between his. “What’s wrong, Angela?”
“I don’t think Carolyn and V.J. were ever bored,” she said hoarsely. “Do you?”
His face darkened perceptibly, but then he smiled. “No.”
Sitting here, sparring with Justus, Angela had avoided thinking about it for as long as she could, but the fact was that in the morning she’d have to say goodbye to her sister forever.
“I don’t know how I’m going to get through tomorrow, Justus.” She did her best to choke back a sob. “Or the holidays. I don’t know what...I’m going to do without...my sister.”
“I know, Duchess.” He opened his arms. She gratefully scooted closer to him and laid her head on his broad, hard chest. His hand came up to cup her head, soothing her. “Maybe we can help each other through. And Maya.”
“Maybe.”
“Here.” He reached into his pocket and produced another handkerchief.
She wiped her eyes, then sat far enough back to look up into his face. His hand remained on the back of her head, his fingers stroking her nape.
“I’m really sick of crying. You probably won’t believe this, but I usually never cry. I’m going to stop after tomorrow. I swear.”
Risk (It's Complicated Book 2) Page 9
