ONE WEEK dragged into the next. I’d thought ten years apart from Dakota had been torture. A decade of separation was nothing compared to seeing her every day, knowing I couldn’t touch her, knowing we were over. Every accidental brush of our shoulders sent my pulse into overdrive. Each meeting of our eyes made my groin tighten with need. I could ignore the physical aspects of my attraction, but I hadn’t anticipated the empty ache it fostered.
I missed her. Not the sex, although it had been epic. I missed the way her eyes lit up when she saw me. The flirty flutter of her lashes when our gazes collided across the conference room table. The way she bit her bottom lip when she contemplated kissing me. The secret way her little finger crooked around mine when we rode the elevator with a carload of employees. Even though we were over, she hadn’t left me. She was still here, fulfilling her obligations, showing her loyalty to me when I deserved none of it.
I was standing outside my office when she approached from the elevators, Xavier at her elbow and a takeout box in her hand. Several more employees followed. Their laughter stopped, smiles replaced by frowns. I frowned back. Her eyes met mine, and my heart kicked against my ribs until I thought they would crack. I wracked my brain for something to say, desperate for interaction with her. “Have you got that report ready yet?” I asked.
“Yes.” Her voice, devoid of warmth, bristled with professionalism. “Would you like me to email it, or do you want to go over it together?”
“Email is fine,” I replied. The thought of sitting next to her, alone in my office, made my palms sweat.
“Okay,” she said.
“Okay,” I echoed, feeling more awkward than I had since puberty.
She turned and went back to her office. I stepped behind my door and closed it, feeling a hundred different kinds of wrung out by our encounter.
This agony was no one’s fault but my own. I scrubbed a hand over my face, reminded by the stubble against my palm that I’d once again forgotten to shave. Shit like that didn’t seem to matter anymore. What mattered was the love of my life sitting in an office two doors down the hall. Because she was the love of my life. The one. The only. No other woman would ever replace her. She’d stolen my heart and now held it captive.
Tell her. Tell her. Tell her. The words cycled through my head on a loop. Get your ass out of this chair, Seaforth. Walk down the hall and tell her. Something held me back. I was reminded of the envelope in my desk drawer containing all her secrets. I should give it to her, tell her about the meeting with my father, and let her choose what to do with the contents.
“Mr. Seaforth? Mr. Tucker is on line three for you,” Mrs. Cantrell announced through the intercom.
I jerked, drawn out of my reverie by her thin voice.
“Fucker,” Tuck said by way of greeting when I picked up the call.
I felt a modicum of relief at the sound of his voice. “You’re the fucker,” I replied. The threads of my sanity began to fortify. Tuck would bring me back to earth. He’d always been able to talk sense into me like no one else.
“That I am,” he said, his lazy voice filled with amusement.
The tension eased between my shoulders. “Did you call for a reason or did you just miss the sound of my voice?” I kicked back in my chair, happy for the distraction.
“I called to remind you we’re having drinks after work tonight. Mike’s Martini Bar by the airport.”
“Right.” I’d forgotten, but some time away with my guys sounded like just the medicine I needed.
The moment I hung up the phone, a knock sounded on the door. Dahlia poked her head through the opening and smiled. I stifled a groan but motioned her inside with a wave of my hand. The hits kept rolling.
“Got a sec?” she asked. The easy tone of her voice raised my guard.
“Yes. Have a seat. I wanted to talk to you anyway.” I clasped my hands on the desk and waited for her to ease into the chair across from me.
“Sure. You first.” She crossed her legs. Her hands trembled as she smoothed back her hair.
“No. Ladies first.”
She drew in a deep breath before speaking, as if fortifying her courage. “It’s about Dakota.”
“I don’t want to talk about Dakota.”
“She’s a distraction. She’s throwing you off your game.” She leaned forward, features drawn in concern. “I’m worried about you, Sam.”
“I’m fine, Dahlia.” Was it so obvious? I studied her eyes, the dark eyeliner surrounding their perimeter, and the hedge of thick lashes. Faint lines of age webbed the corners of her eyes.
“I remember how you were before. I just don’t want to see you that way again.”
Dahlia and I had a lot of history. She’d helped me out of more than a few unhappy situations, and she’d always been there when I needed her. I liked and respected her. And I’d known her long enough to recognize the impending argument looming on our horizon.
“You don’t know anything about it.” I’d told her about the divorce years ago, but I’d never gone into the sordid details.
“I know enough, Sam.” She uncrossed her legs and placed a hand over mine. “Your father told me how she played you from the start, the poor girl chasing after the rich guy. What she did to you is inexcusable.”
“You talked to my father?” Heat climbed my torso and ignited my blood. Unable to contain my anger, I sprang to my feet and paced the length of the office. “What the fuck, Dahlia?”
“It’s not like that.” A frown flitted across her face.
“You know how I feel about my dad.” I shoved a hand through my hair to keep from exploding in a fit of temper. “You talked with him behind my back?”
“Calm down, Sam. He asked to meet with me. He’s concerned about you.” She rose from her chair to stand beside me. Her hand rested on my arm to calm me, but all it did was fuel my wrath. “I’m concerned.”
My laughter echoed through the office. “That’s the funniest thing I’ve heard in a long time. My dad doesn’t give a shit about me, and you know it.” I shook off her hand. “How much did he pay you to spy on me?” Her face fell along with the bottom of my stomach. I knew with that one gesture Dakota had been right about her. I opened the office door. “Get your shit and get out. We’re done.”
Mike’s Martini Bar did a good business in spite of its south side location. The tiny building could fit inside the bathroom of my Chicago penthouse. The floors were uneven and the food questionable, but the martinis were the best in the city. Mike served us himself. He was a middle-aged retired Army sergeant with a crew cut and a beer gut, but he had a knack with gin and vermouth that had landed him on the pages of several magazines and one television show.
“Thanks, Mike,” I said as he delivered a tray of chilled goodness to our table. I pointed to Tuck. “You can give him the bill.”
“That’s right. Put it on my tab, Mike,” Tucker said, stretching lazily as he spoke. “Now that I’m a gazillionaire, I can afford to help out my freeloading friends.”
Tucker was a millionaire several times over by birth. His father had invented one of those crazy gadgets advertised on late-night TV, the thing everyone had to have but no one ever needed. As a result, his family’s wealth exceeded my own. And like me, Tucker had chosen to make it on his own, creating video games, subsisting on popcorn and potato chips, socking every spare penny into his work. To date, he’d garnered nothing but a few freelance jobs for the big gamers.
“You mean you finally sold one of those sorry things?” Beckett asked. He’d come to Mike’s straight from the office and always exuded primal energy afterward, like a rubber band stretched too tight and about to snap.
“Not only did I sell one of those sorry things,” Tuck replied, drawing out the answer with dramatic flare, “but I also sold the entire series. All of it. For an exorbitant amount of money.”
“No shit?” I took a sip of my martini and let the complementary flavors of gin, vermouth, olive, and onion sizzle across my tongue. Warmth s
pread through my chest, and the tension of the day eased from my muscles.
“No shit.” Tuck looked pleased, his eyes bright with pride. “Big bucks, my friends.”
“How exorbitant?” Becks asked, squinting in disbelief. “Like, Donald Trump exorbitant? Or hey-let-me-get-this-round-of-drinks exorbitant?”
“Well, maybe not Donald Trump exorbitant, but enough to live on for the next forty years or so.” He grinned modestly. “Face it, boys. I’m a success.”
We raised our glasses in a toast to Tucker. I clapped him on the back, knowing how hard he’d worked and all the doubt he’d garnered along the way. His parents treated his career like a joke, and I had to admit, I had also. This put me in my place, lending perspective to how arrogant and narrow-minded I’d become.
“That’s great, man,” I said. “You deserve it.”
“So what are you going to do with all that money?” Becks asked.
“I don’t know. Take a vacation maybe. I hear the surfing is great in Australia.” His gaze rested on mine. “What do you suggest, Seaforth? You’re the money whiz.”
His words snapped the reality of my financial situation to the forefront of my thoughts. The trust in his gaze twisted my guts. I forced a bravado I didn’t feel. “Invest. Diversify. Depends on your long-range goals.”
“Don’t have any yet,” Tuck said, his interest focused somewhere over my shoulder. I shifted to follow the trajectory of his attention. Three long-legged beauties had just entered the bar. “But I think my short-term goal just walked through the door.”
“Nice.” Beckett nodded, taking in the women with appreciation. They were flight attendant types, the kind who frequented this bar between layovers, drawn by the nearby airport and hotels.
“You in?” Tuck asked with a nod toward the women.
“Nah. I’ve got work to finish tonight.” All the talk about money reminded me of my priorities. None of them included getting laid by a stranger.
“Such discipline,” Beckett said.
“He must be getting it somewhere else,” Tucker added, searching my face with more acuity than I cared for. “Speaking of which, you owe me a thousand dollars, fucker.”
“For what?” I asked.
The three women smiled at us, their gazes roving from Tucker to Beckett and finally resting on me. The game had begun. One I didn’t intend on playing. I turned away from the girls and trained my attention on the soccer game on the flat-screen TV near us.
“For the Charity Auction? You were supposed to bring a date, remember?” Tucker replied.
“I had a date.” The words stuck in my throat as memories of that night danced through my head. I still found it too painful to think about, but hell if I’d let them see it.
“Your ex-wife doesn’t count,” Beckett interjected. He smiled and nodded to the girls behind me. “I want the redhead.”
“You always get the redheads.” Tucker scowled. “Maybe I want the redhead this time.”
“Guys.” I rolled my eyes and tossed a twenty on the table to cover my bill. Before I could rise from my stool, I smelled sweet perfume and felt the heat of someone standing behind me.
“Hello, gentlemen.” The redhead spoke in a low, husky voice, the kind promising fun and heady sex. “Can we join you?”
“Please.” Tucker gestured to the empty seats next to us, while Beckett pulled a stool to his side.
“Here. You can have my seat,” I said, standing.
“Leaving so soon?” The question came from a slender brunette at the redhead’s elbow. She was tall with big tits and a tiny waist. “I was hoping to get to know you.”
Her large brown doe eyes drank me in. For a nanosecond, I contemplated my options. After all, I was a free man. Dakota and I were over. I could take this girl home, shag her rotten, and never speak to her again. I waited for the pull of lust, the familiar tightening in my groin, the surge of animal need, but it never came. It never arrived, because I wasn’t that guy anymore. Three months ago, I’d have been all in, leading the pack, vying with them for the prettiest girl. But today, I wasn’t the one who fucked anonymous girls in dark corners or had sex for the sake of getting off. I was the guy whose heart belonged to another woman. One woman. And her name was Dakota.
Chapter 26
Sam
A FEW minutes past midnight, the strain of digesting reports and figures finally got to me. I removed my reading glasses and passed a hand over my eyes. No matter how may times I read through the data, the numbers didn’t change. The balance of my accounts continued to dwindle with each passing day. Although I acted as CEO for Infinity, I had a dozen smaller companies, personal holdings, operating under different names in different locations across the country. I used these businesses to hide from my father, to make acquisitions and inquiries, stealing deals from beneath him. Every extra nickel of my personal salary went back into funding my vendetta.
I’d been so focused on my revenge that I’d failed to take into account the hundreds of lives affected by my plan. I’d done a terrible thing, something I’d regret the rest of my life. As they always did, my thoughts drifted to Dakota. Once, she’d done a terrible thing, too. It was within my power to forgive her, and I hadn’t done it. Given my current situation, I was in no place to judge her. Weariness seeped into my bones. I felt older than my thirty years, weighted down by anger and responsibility. I hadn’t realized the burden those emotions put upon me. I thought about my friends, out enjoying the summer night, the way I should be, and how disappointed they would be to hear of my failure.
I kicked back in the chair, my gaze falling on a sweater Dakota had forgotten after one of our meetings. I retrieved it from the chair where she’d dropped it and lifted it to my nose before taking a long, deep breath. It smelled like her, fresh and clean, her floral perfume mingling with a hint of fabric softener. Even if our romantic involvement had ended, we were connected by our past. We could be friends, and friends talked on the phone. Before drawing my next breath, I’d convinced myself.
I went for my phone and dialed her number. A thrill of anticipation gave purpose to my actions. She was probably in bed. The image of her curled on her side, face pillowed in one of her delicate hands, sheets clinging to her curves, revved my flagging spirits. On the sixth ring, she finally answered.
“Yes?” she shouted into the receiver, her words distorted by blaring music in the background.
“Hey,” I said, trying to hold back the twitter of excitement at the sound of her sultry voice. “What are you doing?”
“Hanging with some friends,” she replied. Hoots of laughter floated over the music. “Why? Is something wrong?”
“No.” I felt a pang of unreasonable irritation to find her out and about. I’d assumed she’d be at home, tucked into the safety of her apartment. I’d drawn upon the notion often over the course of the evening, finding comfort in the idea, but Dakota never did what I expected. Of course, she had a life outside of Infinity, one that didn’t include me. What healthy, single, attractive girl spent Friday nights at home alone? The realization realigned my expectations in a most unpleasant way.
“Are you still at work?” she asked. By the slight lilt in her speech, I knew she was tipsy.
“Yes.” I frowned at the computer screen and the ugly secrets it held. “Finishing up some things.”
“Poor Sammy. All work and no play.” Her breathy teasing stole my focus. Sober Dakota was enticing, but an inebriated Dakota held a magical power all her own. The last time I’d seen her drunk, we’d been twenty years old. She’d been at a girlfriend’s bachelorette party all night. When she got home, she hadn’t been able to keep her hands off me. We’d had sex underneath the kitchen table, on the sofa, and in the closet. It was damn near the highlight of my sexual history. That night would be forever emblazoned on my memory. The way her nails had dug into my ass as I’d pounded into her. Her tiny grunts and moans of ecstasy. The tightening of her thighs around my waist as she’d come.
“Yo
u aren’t driving, are you?”
“Nope. Are you?” she asked then giggled.
A masculine voice interrupted our conversation, low and deep, like he was close to her ear. The hairs on the back of my neck lifted in proprietary dismay.
“Hey, got to go. Catch you later.”
“Wait, I—” She hung up before I could finish. Knots of unease tightened in my gut. Who the hell was that guy? I had a vision of Dakota in one of her sweet little dresses, surrounded by horny Neanderthals eager to get their hands on her. With a growl of frustration, I paced a few rounds of the office before calling her back. The call went straight to voice mail after a dozen rings.
“What’s up?” She answered the next call on the fifth ring this time, sounding as if I’d interrupted her. Uncertainty made me hesitate. I felt like an awkward teenager with a crush, stalking the babysitter. “This had better be important.”
“We got disconnected. Where are you?” I asked.
“Hmm…don’t know.” More laughter. More music. My fingers tightened around the phone while I waited for her reply. “Where are we?” she asked someone. The man’s voice replied, and it sounded like she cupped a hand over the receiver for a second. “Uh, Dystopia.”
“Who is that guy?” I knew Dystopia, an ultra-swank club with VIP rooms and velvet ropes and bouncers dressed in three-piece suits. It was the place where guys like me, Tucker, and Becks went to pick up women. A small fire lit in my veins.
“Eric.” Her flirtatious tone knotted my gut. “Say hello, Eric.”
“Hello, Eric,” he said.
Dakota erupted into fits of laughter.
I’d never considered myself a violent man, but right then and there my attitude shifted. Breath whooshed out of my lungs, hissing like steam from a teakettle. I didn’t know Eric—hell, he was probably a nice guy—but if we’d been face to face, I would’ve been pleased to introduce my fist to his nose.
“Are you on a date?” I asked, then gritted my teeth while she took her sweet time answering.
Pretty Filthy Lies: An Unconventional Love Story (Pretty Broken Book 2) Page 12
