by Naima Simone
Silence descended on their table, smothering the chatter and noise surrounding them.
“Marriage isn’t flawed,” she finally said, voice soft…wistful. “The people going into it with unrealistic expectations and without love are.”
“And your expectations about a life with Bennett aren’t unrealistic?” he challenged, unwelcomed jealousy burning hot and vitriolic in his veins.
A small, almost sad smile curved her lips. “Maybe,” she conceded. “But avoiding a life alone and unloved is worth the risk.”
The appearance of their waitress saved him from answering. Because he had no idea how he would’ve countered her argument. He’d applied the same argument when he’d married Veronica, and that relationship had imploded like a fucking atom bomb. But Khloe was everything he wasn’t—sweet, kind, worthy. Only a fool would reject her. As Niall had demonstrated. Maybe Bennett would prove himself to be smarter.
At that instant, the haunting, bird-like note of a flute swelled in the large room, eventually joined by the light strumming of an acoustic guitar. Within moments, the sweet vibrato of a fiddle filled the air, adding its voice to the traditional ballad played by a quartet of young men gathered on a slightly raised platform in a corner of the pub. Scarborough Fair. He closed his eyes, lost himself in the music that spoke of a time far past, but the sense of loss that crossed ages. The melody resonated in his soul, snared him in its spell. And as the last plaintive note echoed and gradually faded, the vise-like band around his chest loosened, allowed him to breathe deeply.
He lifted his lashes. Found Khloe studying him with that intense gaze that seemed to perceive too much. Especially when he wanted to stay hidden. She reached across the table, grasped his left hand, and flipped it over. Gently, she smoothed feather light touches over the calluses ridging his fingertips.
“I used to love to watch you play,” she murmured. “You used to wear the same expression. Enraptured. Gone,” she added. “Like your body was still there, but mentally, emotionally—you were gone to wherever the music carried you. I envied you.”
No one had ever explained the feeling he experienced so succinctly. So perfectly. It unnerved him that she knew…that she could read him like no other.
And that scared the shit out of him.
He didn’t want to need her. Didn’t want her to become necessary.
Too late, a small, hated voice whispered.
Fuck that.
He withdrew his hand from her clasp.
“I see you still play,” she said, nodding toward his hand, and completely unaware of the battle of survival waging inside his head. He nodded sharply. This line of conversation had to end. Now. He didn’t discuss his music with anyone. “Why didn’t you ever pursue a professional music career? You were good enough.”
Pain radiated from under his skin as her words pierced him. “I’m a businessman not an artist,” he cited. The words were engraved on his mind like the epitaph on a grave marker. “You’re a Hunter, goddammit. We produce music, make money off it. Not play it like some common busker.” Even now, years later, he could hear the anger of his father’s diatribe. Feel the hot lick of disappointment and embarrassment.
“I don’t understand why the two have to be mutually exclusive.”
“Are you finished with your dinner?” The abrupt change of subject wasn’t wasted on her. She straightened, placing physical and emotional distance between them. As he’d intended. And if part of him hungered to yank her from the chair and plaster her body to his from chest-to-thigh, daring her to withdraw from him again, well…all he had to do was conjure the memory of her gazing up at Bennett Charles as if he’d created the earth in six days. That should take care of the erection pounding behind his zipper like a bass drum.
Except it didn’t.
Nothing could accomplish that feat except being buried in her slick, cock-gripping heat.
A half-hour later, he walked a subdued Khloe to the front door of her apartment building. The teasing banter and easy comfort of the day had disappeared after he’d shut her down in the pub. He cursed the loss. And accepted the blame. This strain hadn’t been his intention; he wanted the laughing, playful woman from earlier to return. For the space of a few hours, he’d been the man he used to be and not the bitter, disillusioned, guarded bastard he’d become in the last three years.
Though the cold December wind nipped and whistled around them, he clasped her hip, halting her just as she grabbed the door knob.
“Khloe.” She stiffened under his hand but didn’t flinch or jerk away. “I don’t want our time together to end like this. I enjoyed today. Enjoyed you.” He shifted closer. Pressed his chest to her back. Closed his fingers around hers. “Let me in.”
He’d meant let him behind the walls she’d erected. Let him back in her good graces and the warmth of her open smile. But then she turned, tilted her head back, and the crescent moon highlighted her fathomless eyes and full, soft mouth.
And the hunger that never fully slept around her stretched, yawned, and roared. Yeah, he wanted past those shields. He wanted inside her more.
With a starved moan, he claimed, took. Thrusting his tongue past her parted lips, he stroked deep, demanding she tangle with him, surrender to him. She opened wider, and he growled, tunneling his fingers into her hair, gripping the thick strands, and knocking off her cap. He angled her head, thrusting, sucking, ravenous for more of her. She clutched his wrists, sweetly submitting to him. Someone should warn her about giving too much to a greedy bastard like him. Because he wasn’t satisfied. Just craved more. Insisted on more…
Rolling his hips, he ground his cock against the denim-covered cleft between her legs. A whimper escaped her throat, and he answered with another slow grind. Fuck, he could almost feel the slick, wet folds of her pussy over his dick…
“Khloe.”
The harsh bark of her name doused over him like a frigid bucket of water after a steaming hot sauna.
Slowly, he loosed his fingers from her hair. Stepped back. Stared down into her wide, dark eyes. Inhaling a deep breath that stung his lungs with cold and guilt, he turned and faced the rigid, furious couple at the bottom of the stairs.
“Hello, Mr. and Mrs. Richardson.”
“Niall,” Carter Richardson greeted.
Rosalind glared at him, the heat in her eyes as hot as the frost in her husband’s voice.
“Khloe,” she repeated her daughter’s name, not even acknowledging Niall. “We’ve been calling you with no response from you. We were worried.”
Another scorching glance at Niall telegraphed she held him responsible for her daughter’s rudeness and neglect. The couple’s disgust and bitterness didn’t surprise him. They’d made it abundantly clear at Michael’s funeral that they blamed him for their only son’s death. Well, Niall did, too. So yeah, he couldn’t blame them for their anger at finding him with their daughter.
That didn’t mean their antipathy didn’t rip a hole in his gut.
At one time, the Richardsons’ home had been as much a home to him as his own—more so, actually. Michael and Khloe had been in their home. Affection, love, and discipline had been in their home. With his father back and forth between Boston and Dublin, and his mother preoccupied with this committee or another fundraiser, Niall found his best friend’s place like a haven. And while Carter and Rosalind had probably never quite understood their studious, well-behaved child’s affinity for the wild, loud Irish transplant, they’d always welcomed Niall, never rejecting him.
Until Niall had betrayed that acceptance by distracting their son away from his laid-out plans to follow a career in music, of all things, and then luring him thousands of miles away from family to another country. The final nail in Niall’s coffin had been when their son ended up in one.
“Mom, I’m sorry. I left my phone in the car by mistake while I was out.” She glanced at Niall, worry and regret heavy in her eyes. “Niall took me—”
“It was my fault, Mrs. Richardson. I
had Khloe with me all day. I apologize.” Though neither of them needed to explain their actions—they were both adults for chrissakes—he couldn’t stand the anxiety that strained Khloe’s face. Especially when just moments before there’d been the sweetest passion.
“Yes, well, why am I not surprised?” Rosalind snapped, addressing him for the first time since the couple had arrived. “It seems as if anytime my children forget their responsibilities and loyalty, you are somehow involved.”
“Mom, please,” Khloe snapped, stepping forward as if to block him from her mother’s view, and therefore her tirade. Which was ridiculous since he had about eight inches of height on her. But the gesture touched a place in him he believed long shriveled and atrophied. Still… He gently clasped her upper arm, preventing her forward movement. Allowing her to protect him—especially when he deserved this—smacked of cowardice.
“Please what, Khloe?” Rosalind snapped. “How else do you expect us to react? Him, of all people. Is he why you’ve been avoiding us for the past several days? Because he’s been in town?”
“He has a name,” Khloe snapped back.
“Not to us he doesn’t. Not anymore.”
Niall absorbed the breath-stealing verbal blow without flinching. Without revealing the wound it inflicted or the blood it drew. Inhaling a deep, silent breath, he shoved the pain down, sealing it behind a blank expression.
“Stop it,” Khloe hissed at her mother. “I know you’re hurting, but that doesn’t give you the right to take it out on Niall. He was Michael’s best friend. A brother to him—”
“I’ll go,” he interrupted, voice flat, aloof. Her defense of him only deepened the guilt clawing at him. “Khloe.” He squeezed her arm, and without glancing back, left.
Staying any longer might have resulted in begging for the one thing he knew neither of Michael’s parents would grant him.
Forgiveness.
Chapter Nine
An hour after Niall had left her home, Khloe walked into the lobby of the elegantly appointed, five-star downtown Boston hotel. But even the softly glowing old-fashioned globes lighting the reception area and lending the room an old world charm couldn’t banish the images of her parents’ faces after Khloe had respectfully told them off for their behavior toward Niall. Inhaling, she tried to woosah her simmering fury away and focus on her reason for showing up unexpectedly at this posh hotel so late in the evening. The heels of her knee-high boots echoed on the pristine black and white tiled floor, echoing like small blasts in the quiet area. God, were those real crystals on that chandelier? She wouldn’t be surprised. Hell, even the air in here smelled expensive.
“Excuse me.” She smiled at the suited young man behind the front desk, hoping she exuded a confidence that didn’t exist.
“Yes, ma’am. Welcome to the Mayflower Suites,” the attendant greeted pleasantly. “How can I help you?”
“A, um,” she faltered, “friend of mine is staying here. Niall Hunter. Would you mind calling his room and letting him know Khloe Richardson is here to see him?” Jesus Christ, why don’t I just throw on a blonde wig and wear safety pins in my boots? It worked for Julia Roberts.
The hotel employee didn’t bat an eyelash. As if he were accustomed to women requesting his male guests at different hours of the night. Although, only a couple of hours had passed since Niall had dropped her off home, and her parents had busted them on her doorstep like two horny teens. Ten was relatively early for a booty call.
“Just a moment.”
A few clicks on his computer, a murmured phone conversation, and minutes later, Niall strode into the lobby. Her breath caught. It hadn’t been that long since he’d left her, but God, it could’ve been twenty hours instead of two. He never failed to have that effect on her. Like inhaling and never releasing. Heart thumping in her chest, pulse pounding in her ears, caught right on the edge of floating…or plummeting.
His dark hair grazed the slash of his cheekbones and the granite of his jaw. He still wore the black sweater and jeans from earlier, and with his brilliant eyes narrowed on her, he more closely resembled the stalking panther he reminded her of.
He halted inches in front of her, regarded her in a silence that wasn’t silent but so thunderous, she wondered why the front desk attendant didn’t have his palms slapped over his ears.
Just when she parted her lips to say anything to break the pulsing tension, he gripped her elbow. “C’mere.”
He led her toward the bank of elevators several feet away. During the ride up, his gaze traced and trailed over her, though he continued his unsettling quiet. Nerves snapped and jumped beneath her skin, and when they finally arrived at his floor with a soft ding, she almost leaped out of the steel, claustrophobic box.
Not that the hallway offered any alleviation. Not with Niall present. His large, lean body seemed to suck the air from around him. When he opened the door to his suite, she could’ve fallen down in supplication. Space. Just a little…
She surveyed the living area. Anything to avoid staring at him like a sex-starved spinster.
Wow. Luxurious. She pivoted, taking in her first glimpse of how the rich and famous lived. Sumptuous couches and chairs. Paintings she’d bet her paycheck hadn’t come from a consignment shop. A mounted flat-screen television. A roaring fireplace. And the view. Damn, the view. She wandered over to the large bay window. The Public Garden and State House dome gleamed in the distance, the Boston skyline dark and scattered with fairy-like lights. Though she’d observed the scene before, it appeared more dignified and imposing from the presidential suite.
“While the scenery is impressive,” Niall said, moving behind her. “I doubt it’s the reason you showed up here tonight.”
In the shadowed reflection of the glass, he dwarfed her. The image shot a blast of desire through her body. It settled an ache in her breasts, swirled in her belly, and coiled between her legs, heating and moistening her flesh.
In spite of her parents’ sometimes smothering overprotectiveness, she’d demanded her independence. She’d earned her position at a company she respected, performing a job she loved. She lived on her own, supporting herself. Yet, his wide shoulders and hard chest incited a hunger to surrender to his power, his raw sexuality. To submit to it.
Briefly closing her eyes, she released a shuddering breath.
“I came to apologize for tonight. My parents,” she clarified. The memory of their treatment of Niall churned her stomach with embarrassment and anger, supplanting the need. “They were rude. And I’m sorry.” Rude was an understatement. She’d never been ashamed of her parents before. Frustrated, exasperated, yes. But never ashamed…until tonight. Her mother’s words to Niall, and her father’s coldness. In their grief and helplessness after Michael’s death, they’d been quick to blame Niall. But in three years, that initial, knee-jerk reaction should’ve been replaced by logic and reason. Apparently, it hadn’t. She shook her head. “I’m sorry,” she repeated.
As if a current of frigid air whirled into the room, Niall stiffened.
“You didn’t have to do that,” he stated flatly. Shoulders as rigid as his tone, he crossed the room and headed straight for the bar against the far wall. With almost robotic movements, he uncapped a crystal decanter of amber liquid and poured a measure of it into a squat tumbler.
“Yes, I did,” she objected. “You were Michael’s best friend. He loved you like a brother. You deserved—deserve—better treatment.”
“They have their reasons, as you must know.” He sipped from his glass, but his impassive expression didn’t reveal pleasure in the drink. “They also had a reason for coming to see you tonight. Is something wrong?”
She studied him, debated whether or not to let the not-so-subtle switch in topic fly. She decided on a compromise. “It wasn’t just today that I was avoiding their calls. I haven’t talked to them since Friday night. So they dropped by.” Which had been inappropriate. And she’d told them so. She’d moved out of their house because of thei
r helicopter parenting. “But tell me what could possibly justify their behavior? Why do you believe you’re not worth even being addressed by your name?”
His only response was to down the rest of the alcohol.
“You were their son’s best friend—his brother in every way that mattered except blood. You were the one he confided in about his love of music, and then encouraged and strengthened him to follow that dream instead of conforming to the mold our parents had created for him. You not only loved him, you accepted him, and that meant the world to him. You deserve—”
“Stop it,” he ground out.
“You—”
“I killed him,” he growled, slamming the glass on the bar top with such force it should’ve shattered. “And your parents know it. That’s why they can’t stand the sight of me.”
Shock froze the protest in her throat. If he’d run across the room and jumped up and down on the sofa like an Irish Tom Cruise, she couldn’t have been more stunned. And she couldn’t have been more disbelieving.
“That’s bullshit,” she croaked. Ice cold fury hardened his face, but his eyes…his eyes burned with pain, grief, and guilt. The guilt. God. It radiated from him. “I’m not going to let you say that. Believe that.”
He loosed a harsh, serrated bark of laughter. “Let me?” he mocked. “Too late for that, baby. You want the truth?” His mouth twisted into an ugly caricature of a smile. “I was such a good friend to your brother, I chose to get fucked rather than save him.”
“What are you talking about?” she whispered.
