Risk (It's Complicated Book 2)

by Ann Christopher

  And she had, miraculously, done all this before racing back over to Vincent’s to pick Maya up.

  Angela had, in short, spent a small fortune and worked her ass off to create a room any preschool princess would be proud to call her own. She’d expected Maya to, at the very least, burst into ecstatic applause and whirl deliriously around the room.

  She had not expected sullen pouting.

  Angela sank to the edge of the bed, determined not to take this personally. “But it’s beautiful! Look at the pretty purple walls. Purple is your favorite color. You told me so.”

  Maya snorted. “I hate purple.”

  What the—?

  Angela hesitated, giving herself time to sand all the sharp edges that wanted to roughen up her voice. Then she scooted around and turned on the flower lamp.

  “Look at the lamp, Maya. Isn’t that cool?”

  “I hate flowers,” Maya snapped. “I wanted a rainbow room.”

  With that, all of Angela’s good intentions went up in smoke.

  Enough was enough, she thought, her face prickling with anger. It was late and she was tired and hungry. Her feet hurt and her back ached. She still had to cook dinner, bathe Maya, and read to her before putting her to bed, then do about three more hours of work before she could even think about going to bed herself.

  She stood and decided it was time to put her foot down. How on earth had Carolyn ever let this girl get so out of hand? Surely the little diva didn’t think Angela would run right out and redecorate the room again, did she?

  “Maya,” she said sharply, “you told me you wanted a purple room with flowers, so I made this into a purple room with flowers. I worked very hard in here all afternoon. You should thank me.”

  Maya crossed her hands over her chest and studied her for a long time, clearly weighing her options with great care.

  When the process took a little too long, Angela decided to help her along.

  “I’m waiting, Maya.”

  Maya’s lips compressed into near invisibility.

  Angela put her hands on her hips.

  They glared at each other.

  Tension filled the air, as if they were opposing coaches waiting for the final ruling on a disputed call during the last two minutes of the Super Bowl.

  Finally, Maya made her move.

  She uncrossed her arms and gave Angela the finger.

  Angela went back to Maya’s room, which had, in the last couple of hours, begun to feel like a demilitarized zone teetering on the brink of renewed hostility. Maya, fresh from her bath, sat cross-legged on the bed, glowering at Angela in the soft lighting of her rejected flower lamp.

  “Maya,” Angela said in her most imperious tone, “you may get off your bed and come into my room to call Uncle Justus and tell him good night.”

  “I don’t want to,” Maya said, her lips barely moving.

  Angela snorted out a bitter laugh. “Of course you don’t want to. You didn’t like your new room, you didn’t want the spaghetti I made for dinner even though you loved spaghetti the other night—”

  “I love Uncle Justus’s spaghetti!”

  “Yeah, well, Uncle Justus isn’t here!” Angela yelled. Realizing she was dangerously out of control—in the last couple of hours, she’d begun to understand why gerbil parents sometimes ate their young—she took a deep breath and tried to calm down.

  “You didn’t want to take your bath,” she continued, counting off on her fingers, “you didn’t want to brush your teeth, you didn’t want to sit on the bed for your time-out, and now you don’t want to call Uncle Justus.”

  Angela took another deep breath, the first one not having worked very well.

  “What do you want to do, pray tell?”

  In response, Maya flopped over backward on the bed, kicking her feet out from under her.

  “Fine. Suit yourself. Stay on the bed.”

  Ignoring Maya’s groan, Angela stalked off down the hall. But before she could collapse on the sofa, the phone rang.

  Cursing, she snatched it up.

  “Hello,” she snarled.

  A long pause, then, “Duchess? You okay?”

  “Justus! Thank God it’s you!” Lowering her voice, she shot a covert glance over her shoulder to make sure Maya hadn’t somehow snaked a listening device down the hallway to eavesdrop. Then she sat on the sofa, sinking deep into its cushions. “Maya’s driving me crazy!”

  “Yeah?” He chuckled. “What’d you do to her?”

  Having her hands full with more pressing matters, Angela decided to let Justus’s obvious amusement over her misfortune slide this one time.

  “I worked my butt off all afternoon trying to put her room together and the little princess says she hates it!” she hissed. “She’s been snotty and disrespectful to me all night! She didn’t even want to call you just now!”

  Another long silence ensued. “I thought you were going to hold off on that whole room thing, Angela,” Justus finally said. “Until the magistrate decides where she should live.”

  Angela didn’t like his reproachful tone. “I never said that. I promised Maya I’d decorate her room, and I kept my promise. Anyway, if the magistrate gives her to you, she’ll still need a room to sleep in when she stays here.”

  “True,” he agreed. “But did you ever think maybe she doesn’t want a new room because she realizes if she has a room with you, then she really won’t be going back to her old room?”

  “Oh, God.” That constricting pain Angela thought had receded slightly in the last couple of days tightened across her chest again. Of course Maya didn’t want some new room. She wanted her old one—and she wanted her parents back. “You’re right. Dr. Brenner warned me. The other day when I called him? He told me to expect her to act out.”

  “Exactly.”

  Angela smacked her forehead, feeling equally frustrated and clueless. “I don’t know what to do.”

  “I could come over...”

  Yes, she wanted to say.

  As much as Angela hated to admit it, even to herself, Justus could handle Maya in a way she couldn’t. If he came, he would have Maya giggling and singing “Kumbaya” in no time, and peace would reign in the kingdom once again. Angela should invite him over for Maya’s sake.

  And maybe...for her own sake, as well.

  But if she did that, how on earth would she ever learn to handle Maya herself? What made her think she could be Maya’s guardian when she couldn’t even make it through one night alone with her?

  “No,” she reluctantly said. “Thanks. I’ll work this out on my own. And”—she cringed at the thought—“it’s Saturday night. I’m sure you have plans, anyway.”

  He grunted.

  “Well.” Angela stood and stared dispassionately down the quiet hallway. There was no telling what mischief Maya had gotten into now. In another few seconds Angela would probably start smelling smoke. “I should go check on her.”

  “Suit yourself,” he said shortly.

  But she couldn’t hang up just yet. Probably because she hated to let Justus go for more reasons than she cared to think about.

  She hesitated, wishing she knew why she always felt like she had so much more to say to him. “Well...wish me luck. She gave me the finger earlier, by the way.”

  Justus laughed.

  She laughed too. Now that a little time had passed, she had to admit the incident had been somewhat funny.

  “Was it an appropriate use of the gesture?”

  “Oh, yeah,” she admitted.

  “I hope you didn’t make too big a deal out of it. Some kid at preschool who has an older brother—it’s always the ones with the older brothers—got all the other little kids started doing it. V.J.—”

  He cleared his throat. Angela tried not to get teary.

  “V.J. and Carolyn were having a terrible time with her the other week,” he said, his voice hoarse. “They decided the best thing to do was ignore it. She doesn’t even know what it means.”

  �
��Oh.” He sounded so sad. Angela couldn’t stand the thought of him sad and alone. “You’re not brooding, are you? I hate it when you brood.”

  “Brooding is what I do.”

  “You should stop,” she told him. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow?”

  “Good night, Duchess.”

  Angela hung up and, squaring her shoulders, marched down the hall prepared to see a bonfire of new linen burning or maybe a Magic Marker mural on the freshly painted walls.

  The scene that greeted her was much more startling.

  Maya sat cross-legged in the wicker chair, a fleece throw tucked over her lap, upon which sat a small, open book. She had her head bent low, her face screwed up with concentration, almost as if she was actually reading.

  She didn’t notice Angela.

  Pointing a tiny finger at the page, Maya, with absolute focus and great effort, said, “Th...the c...the c-cat s-sat—”

  Angela cried out with astonishment.

  Maya’s head jerked up and the book slid from her lap.

  “Sweetie! You’re reading!” Angela rushed to kneel by her chair. “You can read!”

  Maya grinned and puffed up like one of the strutting peacocks at the zoo. “Yeah! I can read!”

  “Let me help you.” Angela scooped her up, sat in the chair, and put Maya in her lap.

  After raining kisses on the squealing girl’s head (Maya could read! At three and a half! What kind of precious genius child was this?) for a minute or two, they settled down to read together until Maya dozed off.

  Later, after Maya was safely asleep and Angela had finished about three hours of correspondence, research, and dictation for work, she got up from the kitchen table, rubbed her burning eyes, and roamed around her apartment, too wired for sleep.

  This was the witching hour, when her thoughts ran wild and free.

  Not her thoughts of work, or of how Maya had gotten the best of her that day, or of Ronnie and how much, to her surprise, she didn’t miss him, or even of her dead sister, whom she missed more than she’d thought possible.

  No.

  In the dark hours of the night, only one thing came to her mind.

  Justus.

  What was he doing right now? Who was he with? Did he have a good day? What did he have for dinner? Did he ever think of her late at night?

  And there were more insidious thoughts.

  He’d looked so freaking sexy in the gym earlier, with his blue polo shirt and track pants. A walking ad for his training services and gym, he had the size, lean but muscular build, and testosterone overload for which the porn industry would pay bug bucks. None of the female clients (and several of the men, come to think of it) had been able to keep their eyes off Justus, and Angela was no better.

  Hell.

  She was probably the very worst offender there.

  The crazy part was that his eyes and smile did more for her than his body did.

  His kindness. His humor. His heart.

  Seeing the way he loved Maya. Not just tolerated her or enjoyed her for a few minutes here and there. Loved her.

  There was so much more to Justus than Angela had ever suspected. She couldn’t get past the terrible feeling that she’d barely scratched the surface of all his fascinating qualities.

  But, as he’d reminded her, and as she knew in her heart anyway, she wasn’t his type.

  The joke was on her, wasn’t it? Because he sure was becoming her type.

  Was he really over his attraction to her? Did he consider her a sister now? Had he already found someone else to replace Janet? Someone who was younger, prettier, taller, slimmer, more voluptuous, and/or more uninhibited than Angela?

  Someone who could handle him in bed?

  Someone who, even now, could touch him to her heart’s content? Someone who could rub his gleaming skin, squeeze his powerful arms, and grip his hard, round butt?

  Who could press her lips to his—

  Angela groaned, sank onto the sofa, and clenched every muscle in her over sensitized body, trying to relieve some of the sexual tension that’d set up permanent residence inside her. But when she relaxed again, her flesh still felt too tight inside her skin, and her blood, God knew, was running hotter than ever.

  After a furtive glance toward the hallway to make sure Maya wasn’t about to make a surprise appearance, she stretched out, slid her hand beneath the waistbands of her pajama bottoms and panties, and began to touch herself.

  The next morning at the club, Justus hurried down the steps and headed for the café, trying to get a quick cup of coffee before settling down to do some paperwork at his desk.

  “Justus?” asked the receptionist as he passed her counter. “Someone’s here to see you.”

  She pointed to a man standing in the alcove near the bay window.

  Justus realized, to his utter astonishment, that it was his father.

  Justus’s steps slowed involuntarily. Some distant corner of his mind warned him he was in danger of stepping on his own chin if he didn’t shut his gaping mouth, but he couldn’t quite manage his surprise.

  The old man looked just as uncomfortable. He had his hands shoved deep into the pants pockets of his navy tracksuit—what the fuck? Vincent had a tracksuit?

  Justus kept staring. He’d have been less surprised to see a unicorn show up wearing a space suit.

  Vincent cleared his throat. “Hello, Justus.”

  Justus stiffened and braced for the inevitable unpleasantness. His shoulders were familiar with the drill and bunched into automatic knots.

  The man really should not be allowed to move freely among the general public, Justus thought bitterly. At the very least, he should be fitted with some sort of alarm so Justus could have ten minutes warning before he appeared. The extra time would allow Justus to get his thoughts together and prepare for a dose of his father’s venom.

  “What are you doing here?” Justus asked, dimly aware of the receptionist’s disapproving hiss from behind the counter. “I’m pretty busy today.”

  Vincent’s jaw tightened. “I just paid for a two-year membership to your club. I...thought maybe you could show me around.”

  More dizzying astonishment ensued.

  Justus would have been less surprised if that unicorn in a space suit said, in the Queen’s English, that he’d come to feed the dinosaurs.

  Justus decided he hadn’t heard correctly. Cocking his head so his ear was better positioned to hear Vincent, he said, “What did you say?”

  “I’d like a tour,” Vincent said, his voice firm now. “Of your club.”

  “Why?” Justus snapped. He really didn’t have time for his father’s little mind games and manipulations. Didn’t the old man have anything better to do today than come all the way down here to bother him on the Sabbath, which should be a day off from harassment as well as from work? “Don’t you have any ambulances to chase today?”

  The corners of Vincent’s lips turned up in what could almost pass for a smile, but of course it had been so long since Vincent smiled in Justus’s presence that he couldn’t tell for sure.

  “I don’t start chasing ambulances until after lunch on Sundays,” Vincent said.

  Justus snorted, at a complete loss for words.

  Vincent strolled to the archway leading to the crowded cafe, where he lovingly stroked the highly polished oak woodwork. “You don’t see workmanship like this anymore.”

  Okay, Justus decided. Enough.

  “What do you want, Vincent?”

  Vincent answered patiently, without a hint of disapproval, disappointment, or any hidden agenda: “I want to see what my son’s built. Please.”

  That was when V.J.’s voice, angry and frustrated, filled Justus’s head as clearly as if he’d popped down from heaven for a minute to whisper in his ear.

  How long are you gonna keep up this wounded son routine? No one lives forever! How many chances do you think you’re gonna get?

  Completely undone, Justus shoved his fists in his pockets, thi
nking hard.

  When had his father ever asked him nicely for anything?

  Was this really happening?

  Was Vincent trying to...change?

  If so, maybe Justus should give him a chance.

  Shooting Vincent one last suspicious look, Justus sucked it up and tried to meet him halfway, no matter how strange it felt. Then he pointed. “This is the, ah, cafe. And smoothie bar.”

  “Smoothies,” Vincent said with open delight. “Do you have raspberry?”

  Justus hesitated. “Raspberry was V.J.’s favorite.”

  “Oh.” Vincent’s expression fell. “I miss him.”

  Something in Justus’s heart softened. Watching Vincent, he saw the stooped shoulders, the drawn face, and the head that was now entirely gray. For once Justus looked past the frustrated dictator who’d tried to run his life for as long as he could remember and saw instead the tired old man who’d just lost a son.

  “I know, Pops.”

  Vincent nodded brusquely, then slid onto a stool at the bar.

  Justus sat next to him and signaled to the server.

  “Had an interesting talk with Angela yesterday,” Vincent said, studying a laminated menu.

  Suddenly, Justus was all ears. He waited for the rest of the story, but Vincent was completely absorbed in his menu.

  “Raspberry, strawberry...ooh, blueberry,” he murmured.

  “What did she say?” Justus barked when he couldn’t take the suspense any longer.

  Vincent chuckled, still looking at the menu. “That I’m the worst father who ever walked the face of the earth and she doesn’t like me.” He shot Justus a bemused sidelong glance. “She’s passionate, that one. She believes in you. I think she’d defend you to the death if she needed to.” Vincent rubbed his neck. “I’m lucky my head’s still attached to my shoulders.”

  Justus shook his head and rubbed the back of his own neck, battling the sweet ache in his chest as he listened to this story.

  Angela.

  If only she knew how tightly she had Justus wrapped around her little finger, he thought, she’d laugh her ass off.

  The thing was, she seriously had his mind twisted. He couldn’t stop thinking about her for one second of one minute, let alone for an entire day.