Tall, Dark and Damaged (Damaged Heroes #1)

by Sarah Andre

  “Don’t you want to conference me in? I can get Frank here in a heartbeat.”

  “Not for this particular meeting. Having the CFO and corporate lawyer on the line is admitting we’re running scared.”

  “We are running scared, Dev. This isn’t the time to let your pride interf—”

  “I know my father,” he snapped. “This cat-and-mouse game is just beginning. There’s no reason to look like we’re surrendering, or compromising, or even taking his threat seriously.”

  “Shouldn’t we at least call some board members? Like Ken Tucker?”

  Dread washed over Devon. “Not yet,” he responded carefully. “The bastard doesn’t think I’m good enough for his daughter as it is. If I lose the company…” He could go no further. He’d lose more than his life’s work. And his fiancée’s respect. Her incredibly high standard of living. And his mother’s inheritance. Chills turned to sweat as the potential fallout hit him. The job losses. The dishonor. And the satisfaction on Harrison’s face. “Let me see if I can talk some sense into my father. He could be blowing smoke up my ass for all our personal shit.” Twelve years later.

  “The stealth that Bryant used to accumulate this much stock doesn’t look like smoke, Dev. If this is Wickham, tread carefully.”

  “Just keep checking into the Bryant end,” he ordered. “And did you hire a PI to look into Honey and O’Brien’s backgrounds?”

  “Just about to. The workday did just start, dude.”

  The tone brought Devon up short. He’d thrown all of this into Eric’s lap in the wee hours of this morning. He didn’t need to vent the fury he held for his old man onto his cousin, the closest friend he’d ever known. Selling a few shares wasn’t a crime. “Sorry. Just keep me in the loop.”

  “Same goes for you, Dev.”

  He tapped End and stared blindly at his surroundings. How his life could’ve gone from a relatively boring routine yesterday morning to so far off the grid boggled his mind. His frustrated gaze landed on the threshold that led to Hannah. Unbidden, her fleeting expression replayed. Hurt, maybe? Was it possible she still held feelings for him? Naw. Not the way he’d left their relationship DOA on her mother’s doorstep. Should he go get reacquainted like he’d promised? At least apologize for his behavior back then? He hadn’t been man enough to do it amid his heartbroken stupor when he’d disembarked in New York, and once he’d matured enough to realize just how in the wrong he’d been, the timeframe for apologies seemed long gone. But the words were still owed.

  He glanced at his unread emails on the phone’s small screen and mentally listed all the tasks he needed to do before his ten o’clock meeting with O’Callaghan and one o’clock meeting with Harrison. Number one was getting back on George Fallow’s schedule. Signing for his inheritance. Shaving. Hannah’s expression flashed through again, distracting him. He clicked open another urgent email. He’d problem-solve this one, then go find her and appease his curiosity. Five minutes of catching up. Definitely an apology. Maybe a quick hug goodbye for closure. What could it hurt?

  Chapter 5

  “You’re too quiet.” Devon shifted closer to Hannah on her mother’s sofa and clasped her hand. “What’s wrong?”

  She shrugged to give herself time. Conflict made her yearn to crawl inside herself like a turtle—with anyone, even the bullies in school. Until Devon. On the outside, he was this gorgeous, popular athlete, and no one seemed to get that he had this really gentle spirit. And the way he looked at her with unconditional love¸ as if he were the one lucky to be dating her, always gave her the courage to open up. Until today, with this mother of relationship conflicts. She couldn’t answer. If she put words to her emotions, she’d cry, which would make it all so much worse. If only she could outright lie about her morose mood, but her palms would itch, and he knew the tell.

  Still, he waited patiently. She had to think of something… Another incident today had been expected but was still a blow. It would do. “I didn’t get the Denison scholarship.”

  He snagged a strand of her hair and coiled it slowly around his finger. “You were like this in trig. Before you got today’s mail.” His long-lashed eyes searched hers for a long moment. He always looked at her like this. Like he had a high-def view into her soul. “Tell me.”

  She glanced away. This was so hard. Even after six months together, even knowing he loved her…she couldn’t say this out loud. Dread pitted her stomach. She couldn’t bear the fallout. She changed the subject. “Why do you like me?”

  “Not this again.”

  “I’m serious, Devon. You know it’s what everyone whispers about when we’re together. You belong with Amber or one of her cheerleader friends.”

  “Amber’s interested in how far dating me can get her. I’m a prize, not a boyfriend, and I’m tired of shallow people. I want you.”

  The chronic insecurity of how she’d captured his love only took deeper hold. He’d answered why he wasn’t dating Amber. “But why me?”

  His eyebrows rose comically, and his face lightened. “Because you always let me have the last slice of pizza?”

  Despite herself, she laughed. Ask Devon to sort through his feelings and he turned into a slippery goofball. She gestured to the cocktail table where the greasy box lay open with one lonely pepperoni slice left. “Help yourself.”

  “See? I love you.” He shoved a third of the slice in. He chewed for a few seconds and then shrugged loosely. “I love how different you are.” It came out garbled, the reason too vague, but at least he was trying. He chewed even quicker and waved a hand between them. “We both have one parent who’s a pain in the ass, but somehow you let it roll off you. I don’t know how you stay positive, but it makes you…special.” He finally swallowed without spitting any food out. “I keep hoping some of your sweetness rubs off on me.”

  “I think I’m pregnant,” she said, and promptly burst into tears.

  His eyes widened, an electrifying blue in his suddenly pale face. The slice sagged limply in his hand as he held deathly still. Hannah sniffled and wiped her eyes on her sweatshirt sleeve. God, she’d do anything to curl up in a ball and wish this all away. “I’m sorry. I’ve suspected for a few days and was too afraid to say something.”

  He opened his mouth and closed it. Emotions flitted across his face, none of them joy, which she hadn’t expected—but now, faced with everything she feared, she palmed her face and sobbed in loud, jagged heaves. What would she do without him in her life? What would she do with this damn baby? Her mother would probably kill her, which would solve everything.

  “Hey.” He pulled one of her trembling hands away and held it in his damp, hot one. “Hey.” He pressed her fingers gently until she reluctantly raised her head. “We’re in this together, Han.” His voice shook a little. That was the only emotion she was going to get. “I meant what I said—you and I belong together. I can’t live without this.” He motioned between them, taking her hand with. “Not even five minutes. We’re soul mates. Tell me what happens next, and I’ll be there for you. Forever.”

  The sooty residue from the Wickham paintings stung Hannah’s eyes. She blinked rapidly. Impatiently. The tender moment and Devon’s young, earnest face dissolved.

  There were certainties in life. The sun rose in the east, green was a combination of blue and yellow, and Devon would never come back to Chicago. But there he’d stood—an older, chiseled version of the ridiculously handsome boy who’d walked away, like her love meant nothing. His emphatic promises a product of nothing but the pregnancy scare.

  She peered at the geometric details barely visible in an oily Vermeer, but in her head she was still in the first editions library, locking eyes with Devon. The intensity in his cobalt stare had altered time to slow motion. Her brain had promptly ground to a halt. God, he looked incredible. As a teen, he’d always sported a trim, athletic body, and the years had hardened it to pure muscle—from the etched hollows beneath his lean cheekbones to the sleek torso in that black knit sweater.
The only unaltered part of him was the rebel. The unshaven jaw. Those fierce brows. And the fact that he’d chosen to make calls in the one room she remembered was strictly off-limits. Sweet baby Jesus, that irresistible side of him left every molecule in her quaking.

  She sank weakly into a Queen Anne chair, glaring at her traitorous limbs. How could he still have this much effect on her? She’d had the strongest urge to run to him as if the years hadn’t passed. As if he hadn’t left her with a heart so smashed she had yet to meet a man with the patience or skill to mend it. How was it possible for her inner scars to vanish so completely? Only his curt dismissal had saved her from making a bigger fool of herself than standing there gaping like a star-struck groupie.

  The stark truth she’d avoided for twelve years swamped her, and she bent forward, clammy palms pressed to fiery cheeks. His love, his “soul mates” declaration—everything she’d swallowed hook, line, and sinker—had been one-sided after all. All these wasted years believing that maybe he was gazing at the moon, wondering whether she was too. Or that he sent out a happy birthday wish to the cosmos, like she had yesterday. What a stupid daydreamer. He’d chosen New York over her, made a success of himself, and was now so busy he couldn’t even say hi. Well, that was that, right? Message received. Maybe she could finally, finally, put him behind her.

  She bolted out of the chair, filling her lungs with acrid oxygen, and resolutely shoved him from her thoughts. She snatched the list of tasks the team needed to accomplish from her briefcase and attached it to a clipboard. She and Sean could handle retrieving the remaining art from the smoky gallery. And she wouldn’t be surprised if Robbie called in sick, so she hurriedly prepared backup assignments for everyone just in case. During her lunch break, she’d tackle the stack of apartments and—

  “What a mess.”

  Hannah whirled around clutching the clipboard to her chest. “Frannie! You startled me.” The house was over a century old; the floorboards creaked and groaned with every footstep. It hadn’t occurred to her that the industrial fans in the theater could cover someone’s arrival so completely. “It’s good to see you again.” Another sibling who’d grown up to be über-toned, although awfully thin.

  “I saw you yesterday, but you guys looked way too busy to say hi.”

  Hannah nodded. “There was no way we could work in the gallery.” The remnant smoke had been too thick for her employees, a testament to the amount of art that needed cleaning and maybe restoring. It’d taken her team most of yesterday just to transfer the paintings down the hall to this sitting room.

  Frannie shook her head as she studied the filth. “This damn house has an eighty-year-old electrical system. Hard to believe the fire department suspects arson.”

  Hannah stiffened. Frannie had naturally been a de facto acquaintance, but she’d also been two years behind Devon and Hannah, so they hadn’t hung out with her at school, and Hannah hadn’t seen her too often here. Still, it wasn’t like the quiet loner she remembered to gossip about arson. “Well, uh—it wouldn’t have been to destroy your father’s paintings,” she said. “The gallery had its own state-of-the-art ventilation system and a reinforced wall between the theater.”

  “Then explain this.” Frannie fluttered a hand at the black canvases.

  “A hole burned through the gallery ceiling, which let in the smoke, and in the case of your dad’s van Huessens, water damage raining in from the hose.”

  Frannie opened her mouth and then hesitated. “You do know Dev is back,” she said bluntly.

  Hannah fought the newest blush and lost. She couldn’t discuss running into him. “Yeah.” She waved the list like a white flag. “I’d love to talk, but I’m so busy and all—”

  “Of course.” Frannie backed up a few steps. “I’m actually looking for Honey. You haven’t seen a gorgeous blonde wandering around?”

  Hannah shook her head, her mood sinking even lower. Devon must’ve brought his fiancée; no wonder he’d brushed her off so quickly. Honey? She’d Googled pictures of the engaged couple; the woman was a stunning, statuesque blonde. Odd that a New York socialite named Nicole Tucker would call herself something as frivolous as Honey. “Devon’s in first editions. He’ll probably know.”

  Francine raised a shapely brow. “I highly doubt it. Anyway, if you spot someone who belongs in a beauty contest, let her know the caterer’s here.”

  “Okay.” Caterer? Had Devon and his dad made up? The girl inside found it hard to believe, and yet so many years had passed. Maybe incinerated ash could be built into a bridge.

  Francine sighed as she headed for the door. “You’d think my father would haul this house into the twenty-first century and install an intercom system.”

  And a sprinkler system. Hannah finished jotting in team names, trying not to think about Devon mere yards away. Or someone deliberately setting fire to the theater. Not a minute passed before a male said, “I can’t believe this sight didn’t bring the old man to his knees.”

  She jumped once again, pulse fluttering. Looming in the threshold was an overweight man, hair the color of fine yellow ochre, wearing saggy jeans and a rumpled T-shirt that said: I’m Jealous of Me Too.

  Cripes! “Ricky?”

  “In the flesh. Although I go by Rick now. You were Devon’s girlfriend when I was, like, nine, right?”

  “I guess so.” She’d never paid much attention to the boy—hadn’t thought he liked her because he’d always wanted to hang with Devon, and her presence interfered. In fact, her only vague memory of the chubby boy was his sulky scowl whenever he saw her. “Hard to believe you’re so grown up.” Just another reminder of all the wasted years, pining for Devon to come home and beg for her love.

  Rick wandered closer, smelling strongly of cigarettes and minty mouthwash, neither of which covered the pungent whiff of alcohol. Pillow wrinkles crosshatched his cheek, and when he turned to survey the art again, he displayed a serious case of bed-head. Why would he come straight to the gallery project? “Did you…have a question about the paintings?”

  “Nope.” He looked around like his sister had. Was Mr. Wickham sending in his children to keep a close eye on her? She bristled.

  “The team should finish crating and transporting by Monday at the latest,” she said stiffly.

  He grinned. A kinder version of Harrison’s robin’s-egg blue eyes twinkled mischievously. “I don’t care.”

  “Oh.” Her cheeks heated, as usual. “Sorry, it’s…been a weird morning.”

  “Mornings are always weird. I try to avoid them completely.”

  “Aren’t you in the family business?”

  “Can’t—health hazard. I’m allergic to boredom.” Although he attempted a boyish grin, it didn’t reach his eyes. Matter of fact, he looked a little pasty. Maybe the hangover had finally caught up with him. He stuck his hands in his pockets and shifted his weight. “Say, any chance you’d be able to clean a painting I gave my dad last night?”

  “Of course. That’s what we do.” She dug in her lab coat for a business card. Out came a crumpled Kleenex. Flustered, she looked in her other pocket. Two pens and lint. Way to look professional, Hannah. “I should be able to call you with a cost estimation and delivery date in a day or two.”

  “Naw, don’t bother. Clean it up and bring it back whenev—”

  “Stop flirting with Hannah and let her get back to work.”

  Frigid chills blanketed her, followed by a flash of heat that knocked out her equilibrium. It took enormous effort to turn with casual disinterest toward the familiar tenor, but she pulled it off. Devon stood close enough that the overpowering stench of ash changed to coffee and something unique she’d forgotten until now—a kind of pheromone that reminded her of warmth or sunshine… Eyes the color of lapis lazuli squinted as he smiled, which slanted those wide, sexy brows further.

  Presto change-o, her knees weakened to noodles. She tore her gaze back to his brother. Had she known Devon would be in Chicago, she would never have taken this project,
lucrative as it was. That’s how much she couldn’t handle seeing him again. That’s how utterly un-grown-up she really was.

  “I wasn’t flirting, big brother.” Rick winked at her, obviously to taunt him. Which was sweet, given Devon was engaged.

  “Beat it,” Devon ordered, his warm gaze still on her. “I want to talk to her in private.”

  His brother saluted and sauntered out, whistling the K-I-S-S-I-N-G nursery rhyme. Even though she knew Devon’s fiancée was lost somewhere in the mansion maze, Hannah’s blush burned.

  Devon, however, didn’t react as he wandered a few feet past her and surveyed the paintings like his siblings had before him. He stuck his hands in the pockets of his charcoal pants, which bunched the muscles of his back and triceps. She studied the hard curves with the same attention she gave a Bernini sculpture. When she glanced lower, at seriously tight curvature, her blood turned to liquid heat. There was a time she wouldn’t have thought twice about stepping behind him and cupping that.

  Hannah mentally slapped herself. He’d delivered his message loud and clear in the library. Why was he here? She exhaled audibly, but he remained motionless, those luscious muscles still taut. She tap-tapped her pen on the clipboard. Instead of clueing in, he reached down and grabbed a can of expandable spray foam and read the label. She cleared her throat. “Is there something you need?”

  He swiveled around, nailing her with the stare. The one that used to precede a long, lazy kiss. Her breath hitched, and, as if he’d read her thoughts, his mouth formed the ghost of a crooked grin. He put down the can. “Yeah, Hannah, there’s something I need. To come say a decent hello.”

  She nodded like that were a rational sentence. What was a decent hello from someone who’d once meant the moon and stars? A handshake? A brief, one-armed hug where most of her body avoided contact with his?

  While she debated, he closed the distance, and suddenly she was smothered in a bear hug like in the olden days, only formidably more powerful than an eighteen-year-old boy’s. Now the front of him was unyielding rock encased in cashmere, his arms defined steel. He palmed her head, burying his nose in the curve of her neck. She almost shivered at the intimacy of his touch. “You still smell like peaches and vanilla, Han.”