Risk (It's Complicated Book 2)

by Ann Christopher

  “Not even close,” she muttered, too exhausted now to even bother denying it.

  “You want a white-collar guy that’ll make you proud at all your little firm cocktail parties?”

  “What? No! Why would you even say something like that, Justus?”

  “Are you trying to get over me, then? You’re putting me out of your mind? Is that it?”

  If only it were that simple, she thought bitterly, shaking her head and swiping away the single tear that dropped to her cheek.

  “Then how can you keep doing this?” he shouted.

  She shook her head again, wishing she had a good answer for him. “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know. Well, thanks for clearing up that mystery so I can sleep tonight.”

  She crossed her arms and dropped her head, determined to hide her despair just long enough to make it out of the room without looking like a complete idiot.

  And then, when she’d mastered her emotions and looked up again, they paused and watched each other warily, like boxers between rounds.

  “I hope I live long enough to see the day when you realize this is not just about sex for me,” Justus said harshly, his expression murderous. He turned away to pace, thumping his fist against the wall as he went.

  She jumped, stifling a cry.

  With his back to her, he put his hands on his hips and hung his head. His shoulders heaved up and down for several charged seconds.

  She watched his every move, frozen on the other side of the abyss between them.

  After several seconds, he collected himself and faced her again. He seemed to have aged ten years, and the fierce light she knew so well was gone from his eyes.

  “And maybe one day you’ll realize if you want anything worthwhile sometimes you have to take risks, Angela.”

  Hot tears collected in her throat, nearly choking her in her effort to swallow them.

  Poor Justus. He was so misguided. Didn’t he know that if it came to a choice between taking risks and hiding in a safe corner, her fear would win every time?

  She bit her lip, trying not to lose it.

  Luckily, he also seemed to have had enough. He shuffled to the sofa, collapsed heavily on it, propped one elbow on the back, and stared at the tree, refusing to look at her.

  “Go to bed,” he said harshly. “Maya’ll be up soon.”

  “Justus—”

  “Lock your door while you’re at it.”

  After bouncing on Angela’s bed at six thirty, Maya graciously allowed her about ten seconds to brush her teeth (Angela winced when she saw her own haggard reflection in the mirror) before she grabbed her hand and tugged her to the living room to see if Santa came. By the time they got there, Angela’s grogginess from a near total lack of sleep had morphed into a powerful case of nerves. While Maya dove beneath the tree to survey her loot (“Oooh! A Scooby Doo Mystery Machine! Yay!”), Angela focused on Justus.

  He sat on the sofa, pretty much where she’d left him last night. Mercifully he’d thrown on a white T-shirt, not that that did anything to hide the perfection that lay underneath. Glancing at the pile of linens and blankets, Angela realized he was either as meticulous a folder as she was—doubtful—or he hadn’t bothered with trying to sleep at all last night.

  His eyes looked every bit as hollowed-out and bleary as hers did.

  “Hey, little girl,” he cried, perking up when he saw Maya. “Merry Christmas!”

  “Merry Christmas,” Maya sang over her shoulder, reaching for the nearest present.

  Justus grinned indulgently after her, then looked to Angela. By now her overwrought nerves had turned her into a solid block of anxiety, so she just stood there, waiting to see what he would do. When his gaze flickered over her velour robe, her sex and breasts tightened hopelessly in response. All of the sexual frustration that kept her from sleeping last night came roaring back with a vengeance.

  And for what? She thought about his angry words.

  Is this making you happy? The way things are right now?

  No. She wasn’t happy.

  In fact, she’d never been this miserable (couldn’t eat; couldn’t sleep; couldn’t work; couldn’t think straight) in her personal life.

  Ever.

  “Morning, Duchess,” he said quietly, his expression bland and unfathomable. “Sleep well?”

  “No. I was thinking about what you said.”

  He raised a brow, then hesitated, studying her closely. “Which part?”

  “All of it. Especially when you compared me to Vincent. I didn’t like that.”

  “Was I wrong?”

  “No,” she admitted.

  “Oooh, Twister!” Maya uncovered her game with a huge, flourishing rip of Santa wrapping paper, releasing Angela from the steady power of Justus’s gaze. Turning away from him, she knelt beneath the tree to admire Maya’s new toys while Maya rummaged among the boxes.

  “Uncle Justus! This one’s for you!” Maya found a large square box and slid it across the carpet to him. “Open it! Open it!”

  Justus frowned at the box, which was wrapped with red paper and a thick red-and-green plaid satin ribbon.

  “This is for me?” he asked Angela.

  “Isn’t that your name on the card?” Angela asked, pointing.

  Justus slid to the floor and picked up the box, looking dubious. “I didn’t expect you to get me anything. Wow. It’s heavy.”

  Angela and Maya giggled conspiratorially. Maya clapped her hands.

  Justus looked at Maya, his eyes narrowing. “Is this from you, little girl?”

  Maya looked to Angela.

  “It’s from both of us,” Angela said quickly.

  Justus grinned with boyish delight as he leaned down to whisper in Maya’s ear. “Tell me what it is.”

  Maya shrieked with laughter. “No! It’s a surprise!”

  “You don’t think I’m foolish enough to trust a preschooler with a secret, do you?” Angela asked him smugly.

  Justus scowled, ripped into the package, and gasped when he opened it.

  “Holy shit,” he said.

  “Uncle Justus!” Maya flopped onto her back and convulsed with laughter. “You said a bad word!”

  “Sorry. Angela, this is way too much!”

  “No, it’s not,” Angela said, thinking that she’d happily have spent ten times more for the thrill of seeing Justus’s face light up like that.

  “What is it?” Maya crawled across the floor and leaned over his shoulder to see.

  “It’s a chess set and board,” Justus said. “It’s white and green marble—”

  “Onyx,” Angela said.

  Justus’s smile widened. “I stand corrected. White and green onyx, little girl. And the pieces represent Ancient Egypt.” He unwrapped a piece and gave it to Maya. “See this pharaoh piece? This is the black king—”

  “But it’s green.”

  “Well, yeah.” Justus laughed and took the piece back from her. “But the colored piece is always considered ‘black’ in chess.”

  “Oh,” Maya said with complete disinterest, turning to her pile of stuffed animals.

  Sobering, Justus turned to Angela. “I love it,” he said hoarsely.

  “I thought you would.”

  “You know,” he said, carefully rewrapping the king piece and placing it back into the box, “I think Santa may have left something in your stocking.”

  Frowning, Angela looked at the mantel. “I don’t have a stock—oh, what’s that?”

  A creation too beautiful to be a mere stocking had appeared since last night and hung next to Maya’s stocking. A dark, rich purple velvet, it had intricate silver embroidery and was studded with glittering crystals.

  “Oh, Justus, what a gorgeous stocking!” Angela cried. “Thank you!”

  One side of his mouth twisted up. “The stocking’s not the present, you silly girl.”

  “Oooh! Easy Bake Oven!” cried Maya from the far side of the tree.

  Sparing Maya only a qu
ick glance, Angela got up, rooted around in her stocking, and discovered a small box wrapped with green paper and an elaborately tied gold lace bow.

  Oh my God, Angela thought, her pulse skittering.

  “Open it,” Justus said.

  “Okay,” she said, laughing as she struggled with the wrap and her trembling fingers. “This is such gorgeous wrap, I hate to—oh, Justus.”

  Inside the black velvet box was a stunning brooch. It had three long feathers that curled at the tops—plumes, right?—standing inside a gold crown. The plumes were made entirely of diamonds. Well, cubic zirconia—probably even Justus’s father couldn’t afford such a piece with real diamonds. But it was an exquisite and expensive reproduction and the most wonderful gift she’d ever received in her life, bar none.

  Angela stared at it in absolute disbelief.

  “It’s a—” Justus began.

  “I know what it is.” She touched the plumes with the tips of her fingers. “It’s a duchess’s pin.”

  “You know it?” he asked quickly.

  “It’s the Prince of Wales pin. The Duke of Windsor—King Edward—gave it to his duchess, Wallis Simpson. And after she died, Elizabeth Taylor bought it at auction.”

  “And now it’s for my duchess,” Justus said.

  As she looked up into his intent brown eyes, Angela realized, with a rush of panic, that all her best efforts to keep him at arm’s length had been a complete waste of time and energy.

  Somehow—completely against her will—she’d fallen hopelessly in love with this man.

  19

  Justus had to find her. Soon.

  A quick glance at his watch told him what his knotted gut already knew: time was running out, and when time ran out, he’d be screwed. The New Year’s Eve party hummed along at full speed, and he’d survived enough of these gigs in his twenty-seven years to know how they worked: at midnight, everyone broke out ridiculous hats, drank champagne, sang, and kissed.

  He had no intention of missing the kissing part.

  His frustration grew. With each tick of his watch he felt chances slipping away, precious opportunities evaporating; magic vibrated in the air tonight, and he fully intended to take advantage of it.

  If only he could find her.

  He should've arrived earlier. Craning his neck to look over the black-tie-clad crowd, he paused to consider the oddness of his situation. Here it was, ten years later, and he was in the same candlelit ballroom—now dressed with expensive centerpieces of holly, ivy, and berry laced with gold satin ribbons—looking for the same woman.

  He devoutly hoped tonight would end more satisfactorily than that night had.

  “Don’t worry. She’s here.”

  Startled, Justus turned to see his father’s girlfriend Lena, champagne flute in hand, watching him with more amusement than was strictly necessary. He leaned down and kissed her soft cheek.

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about, but you look gorgeous. Love the pink.”

  Lena’s smile widened as they stared out over the crowded dance floor. “Oh, I think you know exactly what I’m talking about. Angela’s here. And you and I both know she’s the reason you’ve come to your father’s big party for the first time in the last ten years.”

  Justus fought and lost his struggle not to grin like a twelve-year-old with his first crush. Recovering quickly, he stuck his hands in his pants pockets.

  “I take it you think something’s going on with me and Angela.”

  “Isn’t there?”

  There went that stupid grin again. Justus dropped his head to study his shoes and get a grip on his teenage behavior. “Let’s cut through all the cat-and-mouse, Lena, and you can tell me whatever it is you want to say.”

  Beaming, she straightened his bow tie and smoothed his lapels. “Angela’s a wonderful girl. You could do worse.”

  “Worse for what?”

  Frowning, she said, “Worse for someone to get serious about, of course.”

  An automatic denial rose in his throat, but he clamped his mouth shut. Why pretend?

  Leaning down, he kissed her again on the cheek. “Did I mention you look beautiful?”

  Lena giggled and made a show of primping her hair. “Ah, well.”

  “You’re damn near perfect.” He caught sight of his father, who was across the dance floor, gesticulating as he talked to a laughing couple. “Except for your taste in men. Do yourself a favor, though. Don’t ever marry him.”

  He’d been joking—well, mostly joking—but Lena’s face fell anyway.

  “I didn’t mean—” he began quickly.

  “I’d marry your father in a minute if he ever asked me,” Lena said quietly. “But he won’t.”

  “Why not?” Justus demanded, stunned. This poor woman had devoted years of her life to Vincent, and he’d never asked her to marry him?

  Lena took a sip of champagne, then lowered the glass and studied the bubbles. “He’s always said he’ll only ever have one wife.”

  “But he loves you...?”

  Her smile was sad, but resigned. “Not like he loved her.” Shrugging, she reached up to stroke his cheek. “I’ve made my peace with it. Anyway, why are we talking about this when Angela’s out there somewhere, waiting for you?”

  Troubled, Justus nodded and watched as Lena moved away to greet some other guests. Had his father really loved his mother, then, or was this just another one of his attempts to play the martyr? And why did Justus care about such ancient history either way?

  Shaking his head—tonight was not the time for sad memories—he went to the enclave where the musicians played to have a word with the pianist.

  And then he’d find Angela.

  “I still can’t believe you wore that dress, Angela,” Carmen said in a scandalized voice. “You look amazing. None of the men in the room can take their eyes off you. Neither can I, for that matter.”

  Angela smiled nervously, tossed her hair—which she’d curled, waved, and tousled until she looked like some French courtesan freshly emerged from an afternoon in bed with her lover—and resisted the urge to fidget with the spaghetti straps of her dress.

  She felt naked.

  When Vincent, in what was probably another one of his misguided attempts to win her favor, had invited Angela to his legendary black tie New Year’s Eve party—the one she’d read about for years in the Life section of the Enquirer—she’d jumped at the chance. She hadn’t had any other plans, and she certainly didn’t want to spend the night on the sofa watching the ball drop in Times Square. So she’d sent Maya off to spend the night with the housekeeper at Vincent’s, brought Carmen as her plus-one, and wined and dined her way across the ballroom.

  No big deal.

  But the dress was a little harder to explain.

  Fresh from Saks, the bias-cut, floor-length satin gown was made of a silvery gray silk and had a plunging neckline that was, she devoutly hoped, sexy without being slutty. The back of the dress was pretty much nonexistent. Nevertheless, in theory and, on the hanger, the dress was tasteful and lovely. On her body, however, it slid over her curves like running water. Worse, the bodice and straps had clearly been designed for someone a little less busty than her.

  She’d have to remember not to raise her arm to wave to anyone tonight, or else this provocative dress would become a scandal of Jayne Mansfield proportions.

  The thing was, she’d wanted Justus to see her in this dress. And in case the message wasn’t clear enough, she’d taken her brooch and pinned it to the vee between her breasts, where he couldn’t miss it.

  “Do I look like a slut?”

  “God, no!” Carmen cried. “You look gorgeous! It’s just not the kind of thing I ever thought you’d wear.”

  “Me either,” Angela muttered into her champagne glass as she took a sip. “I’m freezing my ass off.”

  “Hey, listen.” Carmen hesitated. “I hate to do this tonight, but...Olivia Warren faxed over her preliminary report today.”

 
“The case worker! What did she say?”

  Carmen smiled gently.

  Angela’s heart crashed through the floor.

  “She said that while you and Justus both have great apartments and jobs and seem loving—”

  “Blah, blah, blah,” Angela interrupted. “Cut to the chase.”

  “She’s concerned about your work hours and your ability to supervise Maya effectively. Also, she knows you haven’t exactly been close to Maya up till now.”

  Without warning, Carolyn’s reproachful voice filled her head.

  You’re the only aunt she has! You and she are the only family I have!

  “Oh, God.” Angela pressed a hand to her roiling belly, afraid she’d barf all over her lovely dress. Her chances of keeping Maya had just plummeted exponentially. “So that’s it, then? Maya goes to Justus?”

  “No, that’s not it. We’ll still have our day in court,” Carmen said firmly.

  Have you ever thought about how much it would mean to me if my sister actually liked my daughter? Can’t you do it for me?

  “Is there any point when the expert thinks I’m not the best choice for Maya?”

  “Of course there is! The child psychologist you hired could be very helpful, and didn’t you tell me Vincent said he’d be willing—”

  “No,” Angela said flatly.

  Carmen stared at her. “Why not?”

  Over Carmen’s shoulder, Angela saw Vincent walking toward them, and seeing him reminded her that this wasn’t the time or place for this discussion.

  “Because,” she said, keeping her voice low, “I don’t want Vincent’s help. I’ll never do anything to come between Justus and his father. So we’ll have to think of something else.”

  Carmen’s lips thinned. “Fine. But you’re not leaving me much to work with.”

  Turning on her stiletto heels, she stalked off toward the pastry table just as Vincent arrived.

  He raised an eyebrow. “Was it something I said?”