She snapped, instinct and anger and an overpowering sensation of loss taking over. The bastard wasn’t expecting anything but a gentle rebuff, and he fell to the ground, his body hitting the black carpet with a thud. Pausing only long enough to take a breath and double check to make sure it was actually Dana Carstairs she had pinned beneath her thighs, she lifted her arms and started landing her fists wherever she could get them.
Face, shoulders, head. “Fucker, fuckface, dirtbag.”
Arms, hands, stomach. “Limp-dick hosebeast bastard.”
As she hit her intended marks, she felt a mounting sense of both frustration and satisfaction fill her. In the non-fuzzy part of her brain, she knew there were better ways to handle her feelings. Ladylike ways. Rational ways.
But rational behavior didn’t begin to touch the rage that swelled in her throat, choking her. Rational behavior wasn’t going to make her feel whole again.
“Somebody get her off me!” Dana cried. “I was kidding. It was a joke. A pickup line.”
A pickup line? He thought this was about a poor attempt at getting in her pants?
Without pausing for a breath, she shoved her face close enough to rip his ear off with her teeth. Strong arms manacled her from behind and tried lifting her off his body, but Mean Max had been having her work double time on her quads lately, so she was able to keep her grip tight long enough to land something much stronger than a physical blow.
“It was you. You killed her. You pushed her over the edge.”
At the sound of her words, cold and hard, the only lucid thing coming out of her right now, Dana’s movements came to a sudden halt. So did hers, the pair of them breathing heavily as their eyes met and she was able to see his fear glinting up at her.
She recognized that fear. She understood that fear. He was panicked, trapped, exposed.
Which was why she shouldn’t have been surprised when he raised his arm and struck his fist out, catching her on the side of the head and splitting her burgeoning headache in two. Water filled her eyes, and the entire room took on an eerie, ringing silence as though she’d been plunged underwater.
Strong arms wrapped around her again, this time accompanied by Jake’s low, murmuring voice, which did more to calm her than fifty punches to the side of the head ever could. “Come on, Tiger. Relax. He’s already covered in blood and weeping for his mother.”
“Oh, I’ll make him bleed,” she said, her voice coming as if from a distance. “I’ll make him wish he’d never climbed out of his mother in the first place.”
“And I’d be happy to help, but this is neither the time nor the place for it.”
She felt herself being lifted up and away, her limbs hitting nothing but air. Flashes of light went off in the periphery, and her full capacity to hear returned as voices rose around her. Both of those things were inevitable signals that she’d drawn a crowd. Somewhere deep inside, a place where the rage hadn’t touched and the pain sometimes slept, Becca realized Jake was right.
You’re making a scene again. You’re giving them exactly what they want.
“Get that crazy bitch out of here.” Dana struggled to his feet with the help of a pair of men in dark shirts, the back of his hand held to his lip where she’d managed to land a solid enough blow to cut him open. “And have her tested for rabies while you’re at it. She’s obviously on something.”
“I’m not on anything, you fuckwit.” Since Jake was still holding her aloft while she struggled to kick herself free, she had to settle for a solid glare. “And you know it. Otherwise you wouldn’t be so scared—”
“What say we walk this one off, Tiger?” There was Jake’s voice again, crooning in her ear. He used the clipped, carefully practiced tones not uncommon among this crowd, but there was a gently soothing undertone to it that didn’t feel fabricated. “You’ve got about fifty witnesses and ten cameras to prove you won this round. Take it from an expert gambler and let it ride.”
She dropped her feet to the ground, surprised when they wobbled at the knees. Jake’s arm wrapped around her waist, strengthening her stance and causing some of the red to ebb out of her line of vision.
See? Men’s arms were always good for something.
“Don’t look at him. Don’t look at the crowd. And don’t you dare look at your feet.”
But she had to look at something.
“Right here, Becca. Look at me.”
She did. His eyes, a virulent blue, glittered at her under the nightclub lights. She thought she recognized a flash of something—maybe appreciation, more likely disdain—before she realized it was actually the dozen or so paparazzi cameras going off in the distance.
So much for the discreet backdoor exit. Not even the surly man standing guard could keep the vultures at bay in the face of such a tasty story as Rebecca Clare pouncing on Dana Carstairs in the back of a nightclub. Nine nights out of ten found them in that exact location, waiting for the moment she exposed herself as the useless, hot mess of a human being she really was.
But Jake’s arm was firm at her waist, his voice a swipe of authority she didn’t have the energy to fight. “You’ve got this. You’re going to hold on to my arm with your head held high. We’re walking out that door and going three blocks.”
“Why three?”
“Because there’s a quieter club where we can call your Liam.”
“Liam.” She whimpered. “I want Liam.”
He lifted her chin with one finger. “And don’t you dare cry.”
She clamped her mouth shut and swallowed the millions of shards of glass that seemed to suddenly lodge in her throat. “Okay.”
“Good girl.”
Jake’s arm proved useful once again as they pushed their way past the hangers-on and into the crisp night air, which smelled of fall and asphalt and rotting waste, a scent that belonged entirely to New York in September. But as they got farther from the noisy press of the club, Becca realized that pushed wasn’t the right word for it. Jake didn’t have to place a strategic elbow here or offer a polite cough there—people just sort of parted to make way for him. He was like some Biblical leader of old, except instead of serving as one of God’s chosen, he seemed much closer to the devil. Flaming hair, lithe form, expensive tailoring that fell in perfectly geometrical shapes around him.
She was so busy paying attention to his close-fitting slacks she almost missed the sleek black car emerging stealthily from a block away. Jake’s eyes—sharp and on point, the way a devil ought to be if he possibly could—spotted Liam the same time she did.
“Your chariot?”
She nodded, never more grateful at the prospect of Liam’s grim, disapproving face than she was in that moment. She’d always thought her driver could be handsome, what with his silvery hair and deep-set eyes, if only he’d smile every now and then. But in the almost five years he’d worked for her, she’d never seen him look at her with anything but a bizarrely touching mixture of pity and censure.
She knew where that look came from. Even though Liam would never do anything to hurt her, it was clear he found her reckless and thoughtless. He believed her entire life was a testament to bad decisions made in the public eye.
He wasn’t wrong.
“They’re still watching,” Jake said grimly, as if reading her thoughts. “Make it a few more feet without attacking anyone, and I’ll let you claw my eyes out in the car all you want.”
She laughed, as she was sure he intended. The idea of doing anything to Jake Montgomery against his will, of ruffling the imperturbable calm that mantled him, had a way of sending her off into giggles. She’d once seen this man fall into a pond and emerge, godlike and soaking wet, without so much as a wrinkle of concern on his brow. And he’d been wearing white pants at the time.
“Evening, Mr. Montgomery.” Liam was ready and waiting, also as calm as
if they were all finishing brunch. “Ms. Clare. I hope you don’t mind that I didn’t wait for your call. I saw the excitement outside the club and assumed you’d be in need of a quick getaway.”
Becca searched for the appropriate words of thanks—for being there, for his concern, for being her constant in a life that was anything but—but Jake took over for her.
“Your astuteness is appreciated. Let’s get her out of here, shall we?”
Jake gestured for Liam to open the door and helped Becca inside before sliding in behind her. The closeness of the familiar gray interior felt like a coffin being nailed around her. A leather-scented, silver-paneled coffin with windows so tinted no curious passersby could peek in, yes, but a coffin nonetheless.
She leaned back against the headrest and closed her eyes, more to fight tears than fatigue. The side of her head where Dana had hit her ached with a dull, persistent throb. She’d broken at least two nails in the attack, leaving her bloodied and stubby and longing for the deep oblivion of a real coffin to rest her head. And worst of all, she was no closer to feeling sleepy than she’d been two hours ago.
Becca would have done almost anything to make those feelings go away—drink too much, dance too hard, fight her battles in a highly public venue. So when Jake’s voice rippled over the short distance between them, a smoothly drawled “Well, you sure know how to make an exit, don’t you?” she could hardly be blamed for flying over the seat toward him.
She’d already attacked one man tonight. What was one more?
Chapter Three
Jake wasn’t accustomed to being the better man.
The world was filled with men who were richer than him. Stronger than him. Better in bed and kinder to others and more likely to end up as a statue two hundred years from now. In fact, his one true accomplishment was his ability to accept his failings with good grace. At least half of the corruption in this world came from men who shared his weaknesses but refused to recognize them.
He was practically a public servant.
“Becca.” Her name came out jumbled, lost as it was somewhere between the tangle of tongues and the open press of her sweet, vodka-scented lips against his. He didn’t repeat himself right away either. The better man—the decent man—would have said something more. He wouldn’t have run his hand up her naked thigh, knowing full well that there was no scrap of silk at the top to slow him down. He wouldn’t have torn his fingers through her hair, tugging her head back to give him better access to her mouth, her jawline, that sweet spot along the side of a woman’s neck where her pulse came to life under his lips. And he definitely wouldn’t have lifted her off his lap and laid her out on the seat next to him, reveling in the dazed expression and flushed skin, which practically dared him to turn her down.
Goddammit. He really, really hated being the better man.
After taking a moment to adjust the cuffs of his shirt and smooth his slacks—unquestionably askew in the front—he moved one careful seat over. Becca frowned and got up to follow him, but he put up a hand to stop her.
“Stay where you are.”
Her lower lip came out in an attractive pout. For all the rest of her charmingly unremarkable features, Becca’s lips were a sight to behold. Soft and slick, always in some state of openmouthed promise, they had a mesmerizing quality that made a man forget just about everything else.
But only just. Not even the sight of her sweet mouth parting to let him in could erase the fact that she was highly intoxicated and in a state of emotional distress. He was no stranger to taking advantage of women—or to taking advantage of this woman in particular—but even he had to draw the line somewhere.
It was liberating, in a way. Now he knew where his line was. It rested just shy of drunk and mauled, on the right side of a few months out of a rehab stint.
Hurting. It rested on the right side of hurting.
“I mean it,” he warned when she made a move to draw closer. “I forbid you from crossing this line.”
“But I don’t see any line.”
“Then imagine one. It’s thick and impenetrable—and you don’t want to find out what happens if you cross it.”
“Ooh, that sounds kinky.” She licked her lips. “I like it.”
He sighed. He liked the sound of that too, which was all the more reason to stop her before her tongue made any more of those provocative darting movements. “That wasn’t a challenge. It was an order. I’m hereby putting an embargo on all sexual relations in this car.”
“I promise Liam can’t see back here. The window is tinted.”
“Your modesty is touching but misplaced. It’s not your driver I object to. It’s you.”
She winced, and he immediately regretted his words. Oh, hell. That wasn’t what he meant. Of course he didn’t object to her. He’d slept with her before, enjoyed it very much, wouldn’t mind enjoying it several more times. But not like this.
He placed a hand on her leg to show he meant no harm, realizing as he did that physical contact of any kind was a mistake. Her skin burned hot and forbidden, and memories of the fit of her body fanned the flames even higher. Which was precisely why he forced his hand to stay in place. It was proof of his ability to master his baser urges, a promise to Becca—and to himself—that he could do the right thing. For once.
“Another time, perhaps,” he said.
“You kissed me back.”
“Yes, I did,” he admitted, “and I’d love nothing more than to do it again. But what I’m going to do instead is take you home, put some ice on your face and hear what it is that made you almost extract Dana’s eyeballs through his groin.”
Becca’s pique disappeared in an instant. She sat up, not bothering to adjust the skewed lines of the top of her dress. Jake could just make out the hint of a nipple peeking over the tight black band across her breasts and swallowed heavily, determined to avoid even thinking about it. For the duration of this evening, Becca had no nipples. No sex organs. She was a pod person.
“I wish I had done that,” she said. “He deserves it. Is he a friend of yours?”
Jake paused. Friend was such a strong word, and one he wasn’t sure fit his feelings toward the man. He sometimes found pleasure in Dana’s company, and he preferred his abrasively callous honesty over plenty of other people he could name, but his wasn’t the face Jake sought after a long, trying day.
To be fair, there was no face he sought after long, trying days—least of all his own, reflecting back at him in the mirror.
He decided not to answer that question. “What’d he do?”
Becca toyed with her skirt, plucking at strings that weren’t there. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
He could understand her reservations, but he still had to ask. “Becca? Did he hurt you?”
She set her jaw and then winced, lifting a hand to her temple. “He punched me.”
That would be a yes, then.
Aware that his question—and her answer—went a lot deeper than a fist to the side of her face, Jake nonetheless turned her cheek so he could better examine the wound. Her face was heart-shaped, her chin a tiny jut that he’d heard her lament on more than one occasion as being weak. For his part, he liked the dainty collection of bone and skin that composed her features. She wasn’t an imposing figure, like so many of the women in his life, all of them looming large and finding fault. His stepmother, his sister, his cousin, the unsated masses. Sometimes he thought the feminine half of the world wouldn’t be happy until he was broken under the collective weight of their disapproval.
But in all the time he had known her, Rebecca Clare had never been like that—mostly because in the land of family fuckups, she was the undisputed queen and leader. If he wrecked his yacht off the Spanish coast after a dangerous storm, Becca took over the spotlight by stealing a Maserati and taking it for a joyrid
e with her friends. If yet another of his ex-girlfriends leaked a sex tape to the tabloids, Becca was caught in a compromising position with a public official. And she’d more than taken the cake a few months back, when she’d been sent to an upstate rehabilitation clinic.
The way he figured it, he owed this woman quite a bit for services rendered—and the one-time fling they’d shared the night his father married her sister three and a half years ago didn’t count as payment. No matter how much fun they’d had sneaking out for a quickie in the vestry.
“I don’t think it’s going to bruise.” He ran his thumb softly over the side of her face. Before he could stop himself, he was leaning in again, those sleek lips inviting him to come closer, nibble gently, fall back into the easy promise of the flesh. Because that’s what Becca was—not easy in the cruel, misogynistic sense of the word, but in the understanding that there would be no complications afterward.
The lurch of the brakes jostled them both into awareness, saving him from making the mistake of landing the kiss. He was almost tempted to consider it divine intervention, but he made it a habit not to deal with deities of the northbound kind. This was damned good timing, plain and simple.
As if to reinforce the idea that he was a complete and utter ass, Becca grabbed his hand and clutched it tightly, transformed from a seductive woman writhing on the seat to a little girl afraid of monsters under the bed. “Come up with me.”
“I’m not so sure that’s a good idea.”
“Please?” Her eyes opened wider, wrenching sympathy from unlikely places. “If you don’t, Liam will feel it’s his duty to check the locks on the windows and make me tea. It’s impossible to drink tea while he’s hovering there, afraid I might slip twenty sleeping pills in while he’s not looking.”
When he didn’t respond right away, she sighed. “I’m not going to slip twenty sleeping pills in when you’re not looking, Jake, so you can stop frowning at me like that. My suicide watch ended months ago.”
When I Fall Page 3
