Tall, Dark and Damaged (Damaged Heroes #1)

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Tall, Dark and Damaged (Damaged Heroes #1) Page 19

by Sarah Andre


  She rubbed her exhausted eyes. Reality finally weighed her down like an anchor. Walter would have to buy her out of their partnership. The thought made her sick to her stomach, but it was the only way to get out of this mess.

  Right now, rent, utilities, and groceries came from three puny sources: the measly salary she paid herself, along with Aunt Milly’s Social Security and her deceased husband’s pension. Her great-aunt’s funds by themselves would’ve landed her in a state nursing home long ago had Hannah not come over one day when her aunt complained about the lights not working. Even though this apartment was cheap, it had been evident from the pile of red-stickered bills that her aunt could no longer afford to live here. That was four years ago.

  At the time, Hannah had been working at Mannix Restoration Lab, enjoying Internet-dating, membership at an exclusive gym, and living in an upscale one-bedroom. All her wages had gone into supporting her carefree lifestyle, so she’d had none to give her aunt. Once she’d realized the extent of her aunt’s predicament, though, it was a no-brainer to move into the smaller of the two bedrooms. A month later, all the back bills were paid, and she’d begun to dream of owning her own restoration company with the money she’d been able to save.

  When another Mannix employee, Walter Morrow, mentioned a similar goal, it took them two years to gather the capital, and weekends of scouring the city for a cheap but respectable place. Then they’d stalked eBay and going-out-of-business art and hobby shops for supplies before finally opening Moore and Morrow. They’d had enough clients defect from their former employer, including a few projects from the Art Institute, to squeak by with Gretch and Bernice the first year.

  After their company was splashed all over the national news for the Rubens forgeries, business had exploded. Wealthy art collectors in general were insecure, and prone to both buyer’s remorse and a healthy sense of paranoia. Many repeat clients suddenly brought in their newest purchase with its provenance for an authenticity re-inspection.

  Hannah had no idea whether Walter had the funds to buy her share of the business. If he didn’t, she’d have to find another investor. It was the only way Aunt Milly and she could afford an apartment that accepted sixteen-year-old, obese cats and was in a decent neighborhood close to her great-aunt’s beloved church.

  A heavy rap on the door echoed through the tiny living room. All three of them jerked, and Boots scrambled off her aunt’s lap, waddling down the short hall that led to the bedrooms. Hannah frowned at the door. She knew Gretch’s knock, and her aunt’s friends were probably in bed.

  “Who would visit at this hour?” Aunt Milly fumbled with her oxygen tank, a sure sign her anxiety was spiking. Hannah hurried over and peered through the cloudy peephole. Every nerve ending flared to life.

  Devon leaned against the wall, darkly pensive in the dim hallway.

  “Who is it, dear?”

  “It’s…an old friend,” she said, the sudden tremble in her fingers rattling the chain. She paused and got a grip on herself. If her aunt clued in that the friend was Devon, aka Ashby Enterprises, the woman would sacrifice her ability to breathe just to bean him with her tank. After managing to release the chain and flip the three deadbolts, Hannah arranged her expression into cool detachment and cracked open the door. “Hi.”

  He straightened and stared at her as if he’d come to the wrong apartment. “Your hair’s down.” Her hand flew to the riot of curls, instinctively trying to smooth them down. “Don’t,” he murmured. His eyes, all the more blue because of the fitted cobalt shirt, held banked heat. His black hair was damp, the tips slightly curly, and he wore jeans that hugged his slim hips and outlined the long muscles of his thighs.

  She hated the melty feeling flowing through her. This man was responsible for her having to sell her partnership. She gazed back poker-faced until she’d channeled enough anger. “How do you know where I live?” she asked curtly. If he had a printout of all the residents’ private information, she’d slam the door in his face.

  A corner of his luscious mouth lifted. “You spat out your address loud and clear last night.” He jerked his head in the direction of the community center.

  She had no recollection of that. Shouting, yes. Telling him where she lived? What had she been thinking?

  He held up a bottle of wine. “May I come in?” he asked softly, with that mesmerizingly deep gaze she used to think made her special.

  “Why?” she asked. He flinched like she’d slapped him. “I mean…” She inhaled, her insides quivering. “Why are you here?”

  He hesitated, and his sudden wariness startled her. “I had to see you.” His solemn words and the vulnerability that flashed across his face punched her chest. This wasn’t even remotely the hard-driving executive. He looked miserable. Lonely. Maybe without that forceful personality, she could sway him not to destroy so many lives. But it was imperative her aunt didn’t find out who he was. This was going to be tricky.

  She mutely opened the door and stood aside. He crossed the threshold; the scent of spicy aftershave and clean skin wafting past. Her knees almost gave out. For the love of God, he’s engaged! And the corporate enemy.

  She bolted the door and glanced at her aunt, who sat rigidly on the sofa as if she expected him to whip out a gun. “Aunt Milly, this is…an art dealer, David Ryder.” He stiffened. “David”—she threw him a look of warning—“this is my great-aunt, Milly Seaver.”

  His beautiful eyebrows knitted in confusion. Seconds passed that felt like eternity. Finally he turned and nodded stiffly. “It’s nice to meet you.”

  Her aunt squinted, and Hannah held her breath. Aunt Milly had met teenaged Devon once, and adult Devon sported many similar facial features as his mother. “An art dealer? What could you possibly want to talk to Hannah about at this hour, young man?”

  “Aunt Milly!” Hannah turned to Devon, heat suffusing her cheeks. “It’s…been a difficult night,” she said softly. “We’re looking for apartments.”

  “Oh.” The quiet syllable held full understanding. He raised the bottle. “Would you care for some wine, ma’am?”

  “She shouldn’t drink,” Hannah murmured.

  “I’m not deaf!”

  Yep, talking to Devon about the teardown would definitely be a problem. “We can go out somewhere…” Hannah gestured helplessly in the direction of downtown.

  “Don’t bother,” her aunt huffed. “I’m not blind, either. I’m obviously in the way.”

  “Oh, Aunt Milly, he’s a friend. We just don’t want to disturb you.” It was no use. The old woman clutched the handle of the oxygen tank and began to haul herself off the sofa. Devon stepped forward, and Hannah grabbed his sleeve, shaking her head. Good hearing and great pride—those were her aunt’s assets. Even as David Ryder, if Devon tried to help her off the sofa, he was liable to get a smack upside the head. Besides, when Aunt Milly got in one of her moods, even winning the Publishers Clearing House Sweepstakes wouldn’t mollify her. “Art dealer,” she muttered as she hobbled down the hall.

  Devon wouldn’t appreciate that, as slow as she walked, this was actually a sprint. Hannah bit her lip and stared after her. She’d go check her aunt’s breathing and blood pressure in a few minutes. “Good night, Aunt Milly,” she called.

  The bedroom door banged closed.

  She sighed. “Guess I didn’t fool her. It’s strange she didn’t try her hapkido ninja moves on you, though.” She glanced back in amusement and froze. She wore her ratty aqua bathrobe and the fuzzy bunny slippers with one of the ears torn off, all of which he was perusing at leisure.

  “Niemen’s?” he asked, the laugh lines around his eyes deepening. He slowly scanned back up, his gaze landing on her untamable hair. A muscle flexed along his jaw.

  She wanted to bunch the thick strands into a tight twirl, but her hands refused to leave her sides. Stop staring at me like that!

  He sobered. “What’s that look for?”

  “What look?”

  He shifted his weight and t
apped the bottle against his thigh. “Should I leave?”

  She shook her head, forcing her shoulders to relax. “It’s been a difficult day. And we rarely get a visitor this late.” She smiled stiffly. “I’m still trying to remember giving you my address.”

  “I remember everything you’ve ever said, Hannah.”

  The rich undercurrent in his tone sent tingles through her. Why was he acting like this? He had a fiancée.

  She frowned. “This is just a friendly drink, right?”

  His eyes widened. “Of course.”

  He seemed so surprised that she wanted to drown in embarrassment. Had she imagined the attraction? She fluttered her hand toward the kitchen, trying to redirect his attention away from her flaming face. “There’s a corkscrew in the drawer next to the sink, and juice glasses on the shelf above. Make yourself at home. I’ll go change real quick.”

  He snorted a short laugh. “I’ve seen you naked, Han. I can handle the bathrobe.” Maybe to prove his indifference, he walked off, all three feet, into the center of the living room and spun in a slow circle, absorbing her aunt’s decor.

  Hannah tried to see it from his wealthy eyes. The hand-crocheted afghan draped across the powder-blue sateen sofa with butt dents; a faux-Tiffany lamp on the card table in the corner, where her laptop screensaver displayed Renoir’s Dance in the City; faded photographs in tarnished frames on every available surface; lace curtains, dusty with age. His gaze landed to her left and stayed. She didn’t need to turn. He’d found the bookcase crowded with tchotchkes. Porcelain Dresden dolls, miniature spoons, ashtrays from national parks—Aunt Milly’s prized collections occupied every shelf. Quite a change after the first editions library.

  She lifted her chin.

  “Nice digs.” He didn’t sound facetious as he took in everything again. “And it sure beats a boring hotel room. Thanks.”

  She exhaled softly. “Have a seat. I’ll be right back.”

  He nodded and headed into the kitchen. His stiff walk betrayed how ill at ease he really was. She bit her lip, her bunny slippers making scuffing noises on the beige carpet. He’d been arrested this morning and was still in Chicago tonight. What had he been through today to warrant that glimpse of vulnerability in the doorway? And how on earth could she get past her mind-melting attraction to convince a corporate shark to leave them all alone?

  Chapter 21

  Great timing, Dev. Invading her home when she’d clearly been dealing with the fallout from his company’s project. As Hannah knocked faintly on her aunt’s door, he twisted the corkscrew a final time and yanked with pent-up vigor. He should make an excuse and leave. And yet for the life of him he couldn’t bear it. He’d been in the fight of his life since his birthday. He just needed this moment, needed her. And he needed to figure out why, with his world crashing down around him, she hadn’t left his thoughts for very long all day.

  They’d grown up to be totally incompatible, given her idealistic nature and passion for old paintings. He understood P&L statements and boardroom politics, and frankly he had no patience for art of any kind—something Nicole could never understand. It reminded him of his father’s love of possessions over family. Even worse, it reminded him of his happy childhood, touring through art museums with his mom and Frannie. And Devon didn’t look back.

  Two long swallows of expensive Bordeaux from a juice glass gave him the courage to return to the doll-sized living room and wait. He placed the bottle and her filled glass on the cocktail table and wandered slowly, because there was so much to see. The place held a charm he couldn’t pinpoint. Kitschy for sure, but somehow refreshing and unpretentious. Nothing of value, no one to impress, just sentimental treasures—he liked that. And he especially liked how the place smelled of Hannah: peaches and vanilla. And old-lady hairspray.

  Wandering over to a round side table crowded with framed photos, he perused Aunt Milly’s younger years. He held only a vague memory of the woman, but then again, his life had been one big absorption of anything and everything Hannah. Or fighting with his father until he wanted to choke the bastard. He sipped his wine. Truth be told, he’d probably been a little shit at eighteen.

  He moved on to the card table with neat colored files and a laptop—Hannah’s, obviously, given the screensaver. A ceramic picture frame was on the window ledge, almost hidden behind the laptop’s open screen. He brought it into the light, and his heart skipped off beat. Hannah at eighteen, hair wild and free like tonight, sitting on his lap with her head cocked. Even now, her dimpled smile took his breath away.

  He lowered himself into the ladder-back chair, memories flooding back. It’d been spring break. They’d stayed in town because of her waitressing job, and that day they’d gone to the zoo. The afternoon had been clear and beautiful, and they’d been in that dumb, teenagers-in-love period where they weren’t as interested in seeking out animals as finding hidden alcoves to make out in. This picture had been taken on the park bench outside the monkey pavilion. It was the first time he’d said “I love you.”

  He peered at the photograph closely and smiled. Yep, you could still make out her red-rimmed eyes. A professional photographer roaming the grounds had dogged them throughout the day, and they’d finally sat for this. Devon had purchased the picture and this silly gorilla frame for her.

  Nostalgia partnered with loss as he traced the photo with his thumb. Her sweetness in high school had blossomed into grace, and innate generosity in the face of his blow-off in the library yesterday and Honey’s snub at the boathouse. She’d been admirably modest talking about her achievements. In Manhattan, you blew your own horn—loudly. He shouldn’t be surprised the Hannah he’d known had grown up to put herself through college, excel at her passion as a restorer, and care for her aunt with the same selflessness as when her mom had those depressive attacks.

  Her naivety and dreaminess might annoy him to hell and back, but it was what had made her special. She didn’t hold all this balled-up negativity inside. Being with her was like stepping into sunshine after weeks of rain.

  The love he once held for her ignited fiercely in his chest, and he rubbed it as if he had heartburn. Christ, they’d been so innocent. The drama of their lives summed up by a catastrophic test score for her or losing a baseball game for him. Their passion had been off the charts, and their breakup had crippled him so severely, the only way to survive had been to decide never to look into the past again.

  He put the picture back on the ledge, bumping the laptop in the process. The screensaver vanished, and a Tribune page filled the screen. After weeks of investigation, Winnetka PD have ruled the death of Francesca Wickham a suicide…

  Devon stood so abruptly the chair thumped onto the carpet. He glanced behind him, listening. The only sounds were outside—repetitive bass from loud music down the block and a car alarm blaring in the distance. He righted the chair but remained standing, reading the entire article. His pulse pounded erratically at the lies, and the shock of finding this on her computer. Why would she Google his mother’s death?

  “I hope none of my neighbors saw you in the hall,” she said from behind. He spun around, blocking the screen. “Especially old Mrs. Beckenstein. She owns a Glock.” She flashed him a quick smile, dimple and all, and reached for her juice glass. “Cheers.”

  He watched her sip, still trying to pull himself together. She’d left her hair down and still wore those ridiculous bunny slippers, but had thrown on gray sweats and a well-worn men’s white button-down. Somewhere in her past, she’d been in an intimate enough relationship to hang on to that shirt. Jealousy pumped hotly through his veins.

  “What’re you doing in my office?” Her dimple flashed again.

  Unable to form words, he stepped sideways. Within seconds, her smile morphed into wide-eyed, red-faced dread. It helped feed his outrage. “Why?” he rasped.

  Her mouth opened, but nothing came out. The wheels were spinning, though; he could see her frantic attempt to explain away something that was so obvio
usly none of her business. “I’m so sorry, Dev. Gretch, my friend from last night, was curious about”—she nodded to the screen—“it.”

  “You’re referring to my mother’s murder as it?”

  If anything, she blushed harder. “I figured saying either murder or suicide would set you off.”

  “Down at the boathouse, I could tell you thought it was suicide, too.”

  She held the little glass in both hands and shook her head. “I was never sure. But Aunt Milly knew your mom, and remembered the event.”

  His jaw dropped. “What did she say?”

  “That it couldn’t possibly have been suicide. Your mother loved you both too much.”

  He hadn’t known his shoulders were so rigid until they relaxed with the same fatigue as when he worked out at the gym. “I knew I liked your aunt,” he said lightly.

  Hannah took a deep breath. He was pretty sure she wasn’t wearing a bra, given the miniature peaks tenting the front of the oversized shirt. The tip of her pink tongue wet her lips and disappeared. Irritated as he was, blood dumped straight to his groin. He wanted to bend her over the cocktail table, slip down those sweats, and take her in one thrust. He’d never wanted Nicole with this kind of primitive lust. Sweat broke out on his forehead.

  Her lips shaped words, and he dragged his mind out of the gutter. “—of our concern, and I’m sorry.”

  He nodded and finished his wine in one gulp. He would’ve walked over to the cocktail table and re-poured in a heartbeat except for two insurmountable problems: he didn’t trust himself to get that close to her right now, and he sure as shit couldn’t hold the bottle steady. His insides still buzzed from the jolt of reading the lies in that article. He never looked back, and yet this trip kept forcing him to do it. He’d thought more about his mother’s death these last few days than in all the years since he’d left.

 

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