by Naima Simone
“You could’ve texted,” Morgan murmured, inspecting her flawless manicure. “I was a tad bit worried. Just a tad, mind you.”
Khloe snorted, though her heart warmed at Morgan’s confession. She didn’t pretend to understand the elite, glittery social circles her friend traveled in. The circles that required she erect gilded steel around her heart and view emotions as a weakness. Displays of affection didn’t come easily to Morgan, so Khloe appreciated every effort she made.
“Well, no need for concern. Other than an extra-strength antacid and a potato chip intervention, I’m fine.”
Morgan nodded, ended the perusal of her cuticles, and pinned Khloe to the back of her chair with a hard stare. “So what’s the deal with tall, dark, delicious, and broody?”
Tall. Dark. Broody. Yeah, those fit Niall. Delicious? No. She might have found him sexy, and hot, and hard, and gorgeous… She briefly squeezed her eyes shut. Rein it back in! She might have found Niall attractive at one time, but not anymore.
“Like he said, he was my brother’s best friend.”
“Now, if I can remember correctly,” Morgan said, crinkling her forehead in a thoughtful frown and tapping her pursed lips with a fingertip. “My older brother has had best friends, but I’ve never told them to go to hell. Nor have I ever been willing to suffer through a Brazilian to spare myself their company. That’s a special kind of hate.”
Okay so the wax might’ve been a little over the top. Niall possessed the power to incite that much anger inside her—and masochism. “It’s a long story.”
“Use short words. And hurry. Those office supplies aren’t going to order themselves, sweetie.”
Khloe sighed. A dog with lock jaw had nothing on the other woman when she latched onto a subject. “I had a pathetic, clichéd crush on my older brother’s best friend. When Michael died three years ago, Niall and I ended up having sex. And the morning after, he kicked me out, practically chewing through his arm to escape. That was the last time I saw or heard from him.”
Morgan gaped at her, eyes wide, mouth open, for once the ennui absent from her expression. “You ho,” she whispered, a healthy amount of scandal and admiration coloring her voice. “A one-night-stand? You?”
“Yes, me,” Khloe drawled, crossing her arms. “And apparently my slutty skills are as stellar as my dating skills—which explains why I haven’t been engaging in either.”
“Wow.” Morgan grinned. “I’m impressed. He’s hot as hell. Was he good? He looks like he can have a girl swinging by her panties from the chandeliers.”
Khloe tightened her arms around herself, rolling her lips into a thin line.
Morgan hooted with laughter as she fell back against her chair. “I’ll take that as a ‘hell yes,’” she crowed. “Does he have a big d—”
“Morgan,” Khloe snapped.
“I’ll take that as a ‘hell yes,’ too.” Morgan snickered then sobered. “Seriously, though. True, he pulled a dick move with leaving. But Friday was your chance to make him pay. I hate to tell you this, but I think you bit off your nose to spite your face. You could’ve had revenge sex and a date for the gala.”
“No, thank you. On both accounts.” She shook her head. “Besides, I need a man to pretend he’s madly in love with me. Or at least in lust. Niall proved he wouldn’t be able to pull either off. I’m just sorry you spent twenty-thousand dollars, and we came away with nothing to show for it.”
Morgan dismissed Khloe’s apology with a flicker of her hand. “Don’t worry about that. Father will just write it off. But what are you going to do now? Please tell me you don’t plan on asking your parents to help you out.” She shuddered.
Morgan had attended one of her parents’ get-togethers—just one—and witnessed their attempt at matchmaking for Khloe firsthand. That night, it had been the nephew of an English professor. If a news bulletin with his face and a shot of police carrying body bag after body bag out of his basement ever flashed across her television screen, Khloe wouldn’t be one of the people interviewed who claimed, “He was so quiet. I would’ve never guessed he would do something like this.” Quiet and creepy. With I-dissolve-my-dates-in-hydrochloric-acid written all over him.
“No. I haven’t told them about,” she paused, “my plans.” Khloe didn’t feel like hearing them caution her about being realistic in her relationship goals. Or suffering through the “He’s not one of us” speech. Anyone not part of their insular, academic world was inked with the “not one of us” tattoo. They chose to ignore that Khloe wasn’t either. “Not that it matters now,” she murmured.
Niall had screwed her both literally and figuratively. Once in the bedroom of his Dublin home and then again Friday in a Boston ballroom. Thanks to him, she didn’t have a date to the company’s holiday gala in five days. And no time to find a gorgeous, sophisticated, debonair replacement. Her chance of the man she loved finally seeing her as a desirable woman instead of a buttoned-up, quiet wallflower was gone.
“So you’re not going?” Morgan asked. “Don’t stay at home. Come with me. I don’t have a date either.”
“Please.” Khloe scoffed. “You show up without a date, it’s considered swagger. I do, and it’s pathetic. Forget it. The idea was good, but…” She shot to her feet, snatching up her “Geeks do it better” mug. One definitely should not plummet into the I’m-going-to-be-a-spinster-with-99-cats doldrums before the first cup of morning coffee. She circled her desk and strode from her office, Morgan fast on her heels. Khloe rolled her eyes as she headed to the break room at the end of the hall. Apparently, her friend didn’t consider the subject of her impending spinsterhood as shut as Khloe did.
She gritted her teeth, shutting out Morgan’s ongoing diatribe as she selected a French vanilla K-cup and dropped it into the single-cup coffee maker. Moments later, the light, sweet scent of freshly brewed coffee teased her nose, and she inhaled, her lashes fluttering down. Nirvana. She reached for it, anticipating that first taste.
“Good morning, Khloe. Morgan.”
She jerked, and hot liquid splashed her hand. Damn! Skin smarting, she grabbed a couple of napkins and dabbed at her abused flesh before blotting up the small splatters on the counter. But the heat of the coffee was no match for the searing lick of fire that blazed up her chest and streamed into her face. She shot a glare that promised death by stiletto at Morgan, and her friend shrugged in response, mouthing “sorry.”
Heart pounding, she turned and faced the owner of the smooth, deep voice with its soft drawl that hinted at southern roots. So different from the light, lilting Irish brogue that had tormented her since Friday night…
Stop. Thinking. Of. Him.
“Um, hi, Bennett,” she stammered, turning and giving the chief operating officer of System Solutions Unlimited—and the man she was hopelessly in love with—a tremulous smile. He returned hers with a blinding grin. And every clever quip she’d practiced in her mirror for moments when she came face-to-face with him skipped out of her head with a fuck-you-very-much wave.
God, he was gorgeous. From his golden cap of hair and dark green eyes that were a much more vibrant and lush hue then her own to the tall, fit body that wore a three-piece suit as if he were born in one…he exuded confidence, sophistication, and an elegance that were simultaneously attractive and faintly intimidating.
Intimidating because in his presence she was never more aware of her own awkwardness. Never more aware of her mousey plainness that rendered her invisible or pitiable. Never more aware of the quiet, unassuming manner that seemed even dimmer in the face of Bennett and Morgan’s vibrancy.
He was perfect. And she was…not.
If she were interesting, desirable—memorable—how could her ex-boyfriend have found it so easy to use and discard her so easily for her work and a promotion?
How could Niall have found it so easy to have sex with her and then abandon her?
A sharp pang spasmed in her chest. Inhaling, she squelched the pain. Bennett, with his own success, wouldn�
��t have to use her to get ahead. And once he finally saw her—really saw her—he wouldn’t use her as a booty-call then leave. She’d devoured everything she could find on her supervisor. Articles about being a founding member of their small software company, pictures of him with the family he appeared close to…and gossip about his romantic relationships. A couple of which had been long term. Bennett wasn’t afraid of commitment.
Unlike a certain person she could name.
Stop thinking about him, she silently scolded herself. Especially since thanks to that “certain person”, she’d lost her opportunity to shine in front of Bennett. To finally grab his attention and become something more than the programmer who blushed and mumbled every time he spoke to her.
Like what she was doing now.
“Are you,” he tipped his head toward the coffee maker, “finished?”
“Oh!” Jesus H. Christ. “Yes. I’m sorry. Let me get out of your way.” She snatched up her cup and backed away from the coffee maker. Her hip glanced off a drawer handle, and she stumbled. Damn it. “Sorry about that,” she apologized again, cheeks blazing hotter.
“No problem.” He shifted forward and selected a K-cup. Bold Breakfast Blend. Of course. There was nothing weak about him. Not even his choice of coffee flavors. “So,” he said, above the hum and percolating of the machine. “How was your weekend?”
She resisted the urge to glance behind her to check and see if he was addressing Morgan. But the bright, intelligent gaze focused on her as well as Morgan’s not-so-subtle poke in the rib informed her his question had been directed toward her. Oh shit. Okay. Breathe. And answer, damn it!
“F-fine,” she replied with another shaky smile and only minimal stuttering. “And yours?”
“Wonderful. I started off the holiday season with a performance of The Nutcracker at the Boston Ballet.” He arched a dark blond eyebrow. “Speaking of the holidays, you are attending the gala this weekend, right? Morgan?”
“Oh, I plan on going. What about you, Khloe?” her traitorous friend purred. Bitch.
Her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth as if suddenly coated in peanut butter. No. God, no. She couldn’t show up dateless to the biggest event of the year to repeat her wallflower act from the previous year. Not to watch Bennett hold court with a beautiful woman on his arm while she sat at an empty table once again, wishing she could be the woman he bestowed admiring glances and intimate smiles on. Going to the gala would be the epitome of masochism…
“Of course,” she blurted.
“Great.” He treated her to another flash of his heart-melting smile, sending her heart from a trot into a full-out gallop. “I look forward to seeing you there. Have a great day, ladies.”
She murmured a response, staring after his broad shoulders until he disappeared down the hall.
“Smooth,” Morgan drawled beside her.
“Oh, shut up.” Khloe slapped a palm to her forehead. “What the hell did I just do?” she whispered. Lied to your boss about attending the company gala to which you have no date, her mind supplied helpfully.
Groaning, she grumbled a good-bye to Morgan and retraced her steps to her office, closing the door behind her. She set her coffee on her desk and plopped down in her chair. Don’t pass out. Don’t panic.
The mantra did little to ease the yoga-like bends and twists contracting her stomach.
Bennett. She had to remember all she had to gain—love, family, security. With Bennett. For that, she would go to this gala. So what she didn’t have a date? She was an independent, strong woman. Morgan’s idea of buying a man had been crazy anyway. It was past time for Khloe to snatch off her big-girl drawers and drag on a seductive, confident woman’s thong.
Fortune favors the bold.
The only thing to fear is fear itself.
Love is a battlefield.
Oh shit. Now she was quoting Latin proverbs, FDR, and Pat Benatar.
She was so screwed.
Chapter Four
Mondays sucked shit.
Niall threw open his front door and strode into the reception hall of his home. Usually arriving at his house in the suburb of Dalkey after a long day in his Dublin office eased him. The beauty of the private gardens surrounding the steel and brick welcomed him like a mother’s open embrace. The house, with its spacious, airy rooms, floor-to-ceiling windows, and minimalist décor that he’d actually had hands-on input, was his oasis in an often hectic, always demanding world. When he closed that front door, he shut the shit out.
Not today.
Hell, over three-thousand miles hadn’t dimmed the memories from Friday night. A day packed with marketing meetings, contract disputes, and distribution negotiations hadn’t distracted him. Why shouldn’t Khloe follow him into the peace and quiet of his home?
He dropped his briefcase in the entrance to the sitting room, pausing long enough to peel off his suit jacket and toss it over the back of a chair. Jerking his tie loose, he continued down the inner hall, past the dining area, and into the family room. Aside from his bedroom, this was his favorite area in the house. The low couches, large chairs, and limestone fireplace decorated the large room, but it was the selection of instruments that reflected the heart of him. His bodhràns sat in the corner, the collection of Irish drums requiring more space than the flutes and pipes. But in front of the fireplace stood his most cherished possession. His fiddle. Even with his mind in a whirling, restless shit storm, just glimpsing the instrument protected in its case arrowed a small measure of pleasure into his chest.
Exhaling hard, he unlocked the large glass door and stepped out onto the balcony that wrapped around one half of the house. The stunning view of the sloped Dalkey rooftops, Dun Laoghaire Harbour, Dublin Bay, and the village of Howth stole his breath as it always did. He inhaled, allowing the beauty to infiltrate the chaos brewing in his head and chest.
A corner of his mouth lifted as memories drifted over him like the light mist beginning to fall. He’d returned to Ireland from the States after his mother died five years ago, since it had been her yearning for her homeland that had brought them to Boston in the first place. And Michael had volunteered to come with him. His friend’s joy and wonder in the country had been fun to watch, deepening Niall’s own appreciation. It was almost as if Michael had been the one finally coming home after a long absence. Having Michael by his side as he’d slowly taken the reins of Duir Music from his father had been invaluable. He’d been a quiet strength, an unshakable support that had never wavered even when Niall’s confidence and resolve had.
And he’d repaid that loyalty by not being there the night Michael had needed him most.
Pivoting sharply on his heel, he reentered the house. The claws of grief and anger that had blunted in the three years since Michael’s death sharpened and scored his emotional skin. The pain and emptiness of loss and guilt welled up like a bubbling geyser, pressed in on him, and he turned to his comfort, his joy, his peace.
His fiddle.
Striding to the case, he removed his tie and rolled up his sleeves. Carefully, he removed the fiddle from the case and settled on the stool with it before the fireplace. The dark wood gleamed, its gorgeous shape reminiscent of a curvaceous woman. Using the electric tuner, he quickly tuned and adjusted the fiddle and rosined his bow. Then, he stood, tucked the tail beneath his chin, rested the body on his left shoulder, and positioned his fingers on the strings. Inhaling deeply, he closed his eyes, released the breath…and played.
Just let the music carry him to a place that was his and his alone. The melody built walls around him like a castle turret, where no one could penetrate or intrude. This belonged to him, and he didn’t allow anyone to listen or impede on this time. Only Michael had been privy to this most personal side of him…and Khloe.
Sighing, the tension eased out of him as the last note vibrated and died on the air. He replaced the fiddle in its case and set it once again in its place of honor. Straightening, he moved toward the entrance, jerked at the sud
den vibration against his thigh. Frowning, he removed the cell from his pocket, his scowl deepening at the unfamiliar number appearing on the screen. Wait. A 617 area code. Boston. Not Khloe’s phone number though—unless she’d changed it. His grip nearly threatened to crack the phone in half. He swiped a thumb across the call bar and held the cell to his ear.
“Hello.”
“Niall Hunter?”
Relief and disappointment crowded into his chest, vying for dominance. Not Khloe. But he didn’t recognize the feminine voice on the other end either.
“Yes. Who is this?” Irritation sharpened his voice, but damn if he could contain it. He should be happy Khloe wasn’t on the other end. Nothing could come of her reaching out to him. Didn’t stop the regret from sinking low in his gut, though.
“Morgan Lett. We met at the bachelor auction Friday night. The one who bought and paid for you lock, stock, and barrel?”
Yes, the blonde. Khloe’s friend. The friend who’d laid down twenty-thousand dollars so Khloe could have a date. Right. Her.
She laughed, and though the sound was light and pretty, it nonetheless reminded him of an evil cackle. As his mother used to say about him when he was up to no good: “That one has been twice-cursed by Adam’s slip-up.” This woman—this Morgan—definitely sounded like she suffered from a double dose of original sin.
“I know I’m the last person you expected to call,” she said.
“Especially since I don’t remember giving you my number,” he interjected dryly.
“I know, right?” she continued, either oblivious to sarcasm or just didn’t care. He would bet on the latter. “Let me tell you, I had to do some serious browbeating with that Rhodonite committee to get your personal information.” A pause. “By the way, I might have mentioned you were trying to skip out on the date you promised, so don’t be surprised if you receive a call from them.”
The woman was crazy. The fucking bullocks on her. “I don’t mean to be rude, Ms. Lett—”
She snorted, cutting him off. “It’s Morgan. And whenever someone starts a conversation with ‘I don’t mean to be rude,’ it lets the other person know they’re about to be just that. So I’ll make this quick, Niall.”
