“Hi, guys.” Maya paused long enough to allow Angela to slip off her jacket. “How was dinner?”
“Good,” Maya called as she fluttered off to the living room.
Justus took off his own jacket. He intended to help get Maya into bed ASAP and then talk to Angela.
Angela’s smile faltered when she realized he intended to stay, but then she recovered and hung their jackets in closet.
“Maya didn’t eat much, though.” He lowered his voice. “You’re right. She’s not okay.”
“Oh.”
Frowning, Angela led him into the living room. He checked her out, something he’d wanted to do earlier, but hadn’t. For once, she’d worn jeans that accentuated her fantastic body, and it was hard not to gawk as she walked.
Hips.
Ass.
Hips.
Ass.
Man, she was packing an ass on her.
She’d also let her hair down, which softened her features and accentuated her sweet brown eyes.
What’d made her dress like this? Could his little jab about her not being his type have anything to do with it?
He hardly dared hope.
If she’d done it to taunt him, it was another brilliant Machiavellian move on her part. She’d practically had him on his knees already. If she unleashed any more of her killer body on him, he’d be crawling along in her wake before it was all over, trailing spit from his chin.
“Maya!” Angela clapped her hands. “Time for bed! Let’s go! Get your jammies!”
Maya, who’d stretched out on the sofa, groaned. “Noo-ooo!”
Angela’s shoulders squared off. “Maya,” she said briskly. “I hope we’re not going to have a problem.”
Justus, standing safely out of sight behind Angela, rolled his eyes. He could feel Angela’s hackles rising and sensed an imminent power struggle from which Maya would undoubtedly emerge the victor.
“Come on, little girl.” He stepped around Angela and squatted in front of the sofa, his back to Maya. “If you come right now, without whining, I’ll give you a piggyback ride.”
Maya popped up, beaming, and jumped onto his back. He stood and, holding her ankles, headed off down the hall.
As he passed Angela, she stiffened and pursed her lips, oozing disapproval from every pore.
As usual, he couldn’t resist needling her.
He leaned close, murmuring in her ear, “It’s all in the technique, Duchess. You’ll learn that one day.”
After helping Maya with her pajamas and teeth, Justus ducked into the bathroom. When he emerged, he looked for Maya in the guest bedroom, but she wasn’t there. Listening, he heard soft voices and followed them down the end of the hall to the one part of the apartment he’d never seen:
Angela’s bedroom.
His heart rate doubled as he stepped into the doorway and studied the room.
Huge black wrought-iron bed. Nightstands. Fireplace. Chairs. Bookshelves. Family photos. Bathroom.
The room was exactly as warm and inviting as he’d imagined.
The bed fascinated him.
It was tall enough to have a stool, not that he’d need it. It was more than long enough to accommodate someone as tall as he was, so that was good. Crisp white sheets, a pretty gray duvet, and expensive pillows made it seem even cozier.
A raw ache of longing throbbed in his gut.
After noticing the fine details about the bed, it occurred to him that Maya, clutching her little dog, was in the bed. She was leaning against Angela, who sat on it, reading to her from a picture book.
In one of the truly bizarre moments in his life up until now, he fixated on Maya, feeling his body tense with a jealousy that was as intense as it was irrational.
Look at her! Sitting there in Angela’s bed! In what should, by rights, be his spot in Angela’s bed!
Oh, he was ridiculous, yeah. But he still wanted to grab Maya’s little butt and chuck her out.
A new thought hit him, and that was when the bizarreness level quadrupled.
He wanted sex with Angela. He was willing to fight for that right and, more difficult for him, to be patient. But he wanted more—much more—than sex from her. He wanted to lounge in that bed with her, to watch Prime Suspect or NYPD Blue with her, to cook dinner, to tell her about his day and hear about hers.
He didn’t want to be an invited guest who lived his life at the mercy of the inviter. He didn’t want to spend his days miserably wondering whether he’d be welcome tonight, or tomorrow night, or whether he’d have to wait until next week to see Angela again. Especially not while Maya had her place here with Angela and was always welcome.
Hell no.
He wanted equal status as an insider. He wanted to belong here with Angela.
He wanted, in short, a prominent place in Angela’s life.
And he’d have it, too. Come hell or high water, he promised himself, he’d have it.
Being patient, though.
That was the tricky part.
If he had his way, he’d reannounce his intentions, throw Angela over his shoulder, and carry her off to bed. She wanted him sexually and he could have her if he finessed the situation a little. And as for gaining the right to belong here? Angela would come around eventually, especially if they were as compatible sexually as he suspected they were.
But he didn’t want her coming around eventually. That wasn’t good enough. He wanted her as hot and eager for his company as she’d be about him sexually. That was the brass ring.
But she wasn’t ready for that. Thanks to Ron (worthless punk), Justus was now paying for another man’s mistakes. This unfair truth made Justus seethe, but he tried not to focus on it lest his head explode.
There was nothing he could do about the facts on the ground. They were what they were.
So, fine. If Angela needed time, he’d be patient. She deserved no less.
And one glorious day, Justus would have it all.
Or die trying.
Well, anyway. Enough staring. He cleared his throat.
Startled, Angela looked up from her book. “Come on in. We’re finished now. Maya can’t keep her eyes open.”
Sure enough, Maya’s eyes had drifted closed. He walked to the bed and stood next to Angela. Ignoring her sharp intake of breath, he leaned down and, pressing his hand to her shoulder as if for balance, kissed Maya’s smooth cheek. When he straightened, he kept his hand on Angela’s back, fully expecting her to pull away, but she didn’t.
“She...sleeps with you?” he asked around his dry mouth. “Is that a good idea?”
Angela ducked her head. “Probably not, but it comforts her.” She eased the girl onto the pillow and smoothed the linens around her. “And me.”
“Hmm,” he said, looking down at Angela’s upturned face and wishing he could live here, in this quiet moment, for the indefinite future.
Her eyes, man.
There was just something about her eyes.
And then, with zero warning whatsoever, the contact point between his palm and her shoulder became too hot and sensitive. His gut-deep longing for her became too fierce, and his need for some indefinable more became way too overwhelming for him to manage.
His heart’s frantic beat crowded everything else out of his body, including his breath.
For the first time in his life, he couldn’t play this...this...game, whatever it was, and there was no graceful way off the court. The only thing he could do was cut and run, so that was what he did, wheeling around and hurrying out without another word.
Reaching the relative safety of the kitchen, he planted his hands on the counter and bent double at the waist, trying to get his lungs back to full capacity before he messed around and made himself pass out, which would be a disgrace.
He was twenty-seven freaking years old. He’d made it this long without a panic attack.
He wasn’t about to start now.
After several deep breaths, his heart returned to a steadier rhythm, which was goo
d. But his hands still shook when he helped himself to some of her wine, and that was bad.
He drained the glass in two gulps.
There. That was better.
Angela came out of the bedroom with a penetrating look that swung between him and the empty wine glass. “You okay?”
“Yep,” he said tightly.
“What was that?”
Since he wasn’t touching that question with a forty-foot pole, he ignored it. “She asleep?”
“Justus—”
“Do me a favor. Drop it, okay? Just this once.”
Long pause.
He tried not to feel the clammy sweat collecting between his shoulder blades.
“Fine,” she said.
He breathed a sigh of relief, even though there was a definite edge to her voice.
Maybe she didn’t like being shut out any more than he liked slamming the door in her face.
“Your father called earlier,” she said after another long pause. “I’m going to drop Maya there tomorrow while I go to work for a while and work on her room. More wine?”
“Thanks,” he said, gratefully accepting the refill while she poured her own. “What did Ron want?”
She quickly turned away and went to the sofa, where she sat with her legs curled under her. “Just to tell me how sorry he was and to offer his help.”
He followed, sitting on the chair closest to her. “Then why are you so upset?”
“I’m not!”
“Skip the denials. You’ve been cleaning again.”
“I don’t want to talk about it.” She took a sip of her wine. “Let’s move on.”
“Yeah, no. You make me spill my guts about my father and now you want me to swallow this ‘I don’t want to talk about it’ crap? Are you serious?”
For a few seconds she just stared at him, nostrils flaring, although with hurt or anger, he couldn’t say.
“It’s personal,” she said finally.
“Angela,” he said, infusing his voice with that mocking tone he knew she hated. “I can keep a secret. And nothing you could possibly say would shock me.”
She took a deep breath. “Fine. Ronnie left me because of sex. There you go.”
Justus gaped at her in absolute shock. He felt like someone had clanged his head between a pair of cymbals.
“I thought maybe he’d fallen in love with this other woman at first sight. Or wanted to marry her or thought she was his soul mate or something...profound.” She laughed bitterly. “But I don’t think he’s in love at all. He just wants to be free to have sex openly with her. Like they pretty much were when I saw them in the parking lot the other night. So. I guess I’m not your type or Ronnie’s type.”
Justus ran a hand over the top of his head, trying to make sense of what he’d just heard.
It was inconceivable that anyone—even someone as obviously foolish as Ron—would ever dump Angela. How could any straight man keep his hands off her? Justus certainly couldn’t if she was his. Angela was, by far, the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen, and he couldn’t even think of a close runner-up.
And her passionate nature was every bit as exciting to Justus. It shimmered around her, barely contained, and Justus had noticed it ten years ago. Didn’t Ron see it?
Suddenly everything came into focus, the way it did when Justus took pictures with his camera and adjusted the lens that last millimeter.
That was just it: Ron didn’t see it. He didn’t see what Justus saw in her. And their sex life, obviously, had reflected it. What a fucking idiot. That bastard had made Angela doubt herself.
Wow. The irony was staggering: the sexiest woman Justus knew—the only woman he wanted to have sex with—didn’t know she was sexy.
He wanted to kill Ron.
But beneath his anger he felt a powerful sense of satisfaction. So Angela didn’t know how much pleasure her gorgeous body could bring both of them?
Outstanding.
Justus would be the one to teach her.
“Did it ever occur to you that he was the problem?” he asked.
Angela nearly choked on the sip of wine she’d been taking. “Come again?”
“It’s amazing,” he said casually, somehow keeping his gaze on maximum security lockdown so it didn’t wander to her lips or, worse, her breasts, “how many men think women are bad in bed, like it’s the woman’s fault. I mean...come on. A woman’s body is a complicated instrument. What fool doesn’t know that?”
Angela stilled, the glass of wine hovering just near her parted lips, her gaze unfocused.
Unstated answer? Ron was the fool who didn’t know that.
Justus somehow kept his expression bland. “I mean...You don’t blame the Stradivarius if the violinist can’t play,” he said, shrugging. “You might mention that to Ron.”
Angela dropped her gaze and studied the floor, clearly too stunned to answer.
The next morning, Angela adjusted the treadmill’s settings and began her cooldown. After doing a couple hours of work at the office, she’d raced over to Justus’s gym. She’d done her four miles and, probably due to her agitation over the conversation she’d had last night with Justus, had maintained her eight-minute-per-mile pace the whole time.
Even now, though, her mind couldn’t stop spinning.
She wiped the sweat off her face and bare chest, keeping an eye out for Justus. Once again today she’d found herself dressing in clothes she thought might catch his eye: a black tank top and black shorts. But even though she’d been here at his club for half an hour or so, she hadn’t seen any sign of him.
Served her right for being so vain, she supposed, trying to quash her disappointment.
She loved his club. The main gym, where she was now, was sunny and open, the equipment all state of the art. The women’s bathroom was spotless. There were delicious European pastries, quiches, and soups in the little café-juice bar, and she planned to grab lunch there on her way out.
And she wasn’t the only one he’d impressed. The place was hopping with the kind of hip young energy that singles enjoyed. Luxury cars packed the street and parking lot. Young, well-dressed professional types—disproportionately beautiful women, she noted sourly—streamed in and out and greeted each other warmly, as if they were the regular crowd.
Justus had done a great job here. She was so proud of him.
“Angela!” said a voice beside her. Not Justus’s voice, alas. “Hey!”
She glanced around and recognized Justus’s friend from the funeral.
“Brian. Hey! What a great club you have here!”
Brian’s grin widened, and she realized for the first time how attractive he was. Tall and handsome in a Brad Pitt sort of way. He and Justus had probably broken a lot of hearts.
“Do you like it?” he asked.
“It’s wonderful. You should be very proud.”
He leaned his arm on the rail of her treadmill. “Did you join?”
“Not yet. Justus gave me a one-month trial.”
He studied her closely. “Does he know you’re here?”
“I haven’t seen him. I was starting to think he wasn’t here.”
“There’s another gym on the third floor. It’s where he trains his clients. Saturday’s his busy day—he’s got appointments all day—”
“Oh,” she said, trying to keep the disappointment from her face.
“—but I’ll tell him you’re here. He’d want to know.”
The treadmill stopped. She hopped off, grabbed her water bottle, and wiped down the rails. “Oh, don’t bother him. I’ll probably talk to him later anyway.”
“Yeah, no.” He said it as if she’d suggested a joint bank heist. “You’re not getting me in trouble. Don’t go anywhere.” He strode off toward a second staircase she hadn’t noticed before.
Angela went to the huge arched doorway to wait. On the way, she caught sight of herself in the wall of mirrors and grimaced. She looked awful. Big surprise. Flushed and sweaty, with her hair slipp
ing out of her ponytail. She smoothed the loose strands back, a move as effective as spraying air freshener on a landfill. Realizing she’d officially become one of those vain people she so hated who were obsessed with their looks, she gave up and dropped her hands.
She peered up the staircase, but no sign of Justus yet. If she were smart, she’d use the delay to get a grip where Justus was concerned.
Yeah. Good luck with that.
It was bad enough that she was ridiculously glad to see him for someone who’d just seen him, oh, eleven hours ago. To make matters worse, she couldn’t stop thinking about what he’d said—that the problems with her and Ronnie’s sex life had been his fault rather than hers.
Ronnie’s fault.
More insidious was Justus’s comparison of a woman’s body to a Stradivarius. And the implication—unspoken but nonetheless hovering in the air and filling the room like oxygen—that Ronnie was a sausage-fingered clod who couldn’t play “Mary Had a Little Lamb.”
While Justus was Yitzhak Perlman.
Oh, Justus was a maestro, all right. She didn’t have a single doubt in her tingly body. Hadn’t she known, after their dance at the wedding, that he was a prodigy at seventeen? That he knew much more about sex than she did?
And that had been ten long years ago. Surely by now he was a virtuoso—
“Angela?”
Startled, Angela looked around and discovered that Janet had materialized right next to her and was smiling the way Angela imagined a cat would smile before torturing and eating a mouse. To no one’s surprise, Janet looked fresh, beautiful, and available in an itty-bitty bra top and painted-on yoga pants.
Angela tried to smile pleasantly, but it was hard when a sickening knot of jealousy was forming in her belly.
Janet, here, knew firsthand what a great lover Justus was, something Angela would never discover.
Janet, here—who somehow managed to have perfect hair and makeup in a gym, could exercise without breaking a sweat, and possessed a body that was tall and willowy, yet boasted breasts the size of small watermelons—was Justus’s type. The type who could keep up with him in bed and surprise him with a few new moves while also unabashedly pursuing—and finding—her own pleasure. The type who unapologetically wallowed in her own sexuality.
Risk (It's Complicated Book 2) Page 18
