by Aimee Carson
Carly held still, absorbing the words that were hard to hear even as her father went on, serving up more of the same.
“And since then you’ve been in and out of a number of relationships. Most of the men weren’t worthy of your time, but I wouldn’t have cared so much if you’d actually loved one of them.”
She opened her mouth to speak, but there were no words of defense. And so far love had yet to provide her that warm, fuzzy feeling that got paired with the condition. Since the moment those elevator doors had closed in her face, with Hunter’s words haunting her, she’d started to wonder if her relationships since Thomas had been about avoiding the big L. Because Hunter’s accusations had left her raw, bleeding, for the second time in her life—abandoned again, without the chance to explain herself. Her father hadn’t wanted to hear her side three years ago, and Hunter didn’t want to hear hers now.
But maybe her father was finally ready to listen.
“Thomas and I didn’t start seeing one another until after the story was done,” she said.
“I know that now.” He paused, his frank expression brutally painful. “I wasn’t as convinced back then.”
It hurt to hear the truth and it seemed horribly unfair. But life wasn’t fair, and maybe it was never meant to be. Regardless, it was up to her to handle herself, despite feeling she’d been wronged. And maybe that was the ultimate lesson.
The only control she had was over her own behavior.
“Carly,” her father said, “when are you going to grow up and stop flitting from one guy to the next?”
Her heart wrenched, the pain stealing her breath. The time to come clean was now. Would he be happy to hear she’d finally fallen in love when he learned that in all probability her emotional development came at the cost of her job? Her boss had hired her despite her past, giving her the second chance that she’d just destroyed.
But the agony of losing Hunter put the threat in perspective.
“I’ve been asking my boss for approval to write a story on Hunter Philips.” The tone in her voice must have held the warning that bad news was ahead, because her father looked as if he was bracing for the impact, and a little part of her heart died again. “She finally gave me the go-ahead, but …” Her voice stalled. She was too afraid to go on, dreading the look of disappointment in his face. Apparently her expression said it all.
“You’ve slept with him,” he said, his face resigned.
Her heart clenched even as her stomach rolled. He eyed her steadily, and she wished she could read more beneath the weary acceptance.
“You can’t do the story now,” he said.
“I realize that.”
“You have to tell your boss why.”
“I realize that too.”
Neither one of them spoke of the obvious.
Her throat so tight it was painful, she said, “I’m in love with him.”
The expression on her face must have conveyed the massive ache in her heart, because her father didn’t look happy for her. He looked like he was sharing her pain but wasn’t sure what to do about it.
He took a hesitant step closer. “Carly …”
Letting the emotion wash through her, Carly crossed the last few feet, and he folded her awkwardly in his arms.
The hug was brief, but full of the familiar smell of the peppermints he loved, before he set her back. “I’m sorry he hurt you,” her father said gruffly.
Conscious of his discomfort—her father would never be the touchy-feely sort—she tried to smile. She couldn’t have her father thinking it was all Hunter’s fault. She cleared her throat, clogged with unshed tears. “He’s a good guy,” she said. “An honorable one.”
Too bad he couldn’t believe she had the ability to be honorable too.
Her father raised a bushy eyebrow. “What are you going to tell your boss?”
She lifted her chin. “The truth,” she said. And it was a good thing Hunter had pushed her to quit being stubborn about her dad, because she would need his support in the coming weeks. “I’m going to write the best damn profile piece I can on someone else and offer it as a replacement,” she said, steadily meeting her father’s gaze. “And then I’m going to go on Brian O’Connor’s show, meet Hunter face to face, and finish what I started.”
“Were you given a hard time when you backed out of tonight’s Brian O’Connor show?” Booker asked.
Jaw clenched, eyes on the three-foot-long punching bag hanging in the well-stocked gym of his home, Hunter swung with his right arm. His fist connected with a satisfying thwack. “Not really,” he said. He did his best to ignore the digital clock on the wall.
11:44 p.m.
A sickening feeling rose, burning his chest and his gut, as Hunter went on. “There isn’t anything left to debate.” Except maybe his sanity, considering he’d had to learn the same lesson all over again.
He landed another solid punch, forcing back the urge to pummel the bag in frustration, knowing Booker was waiting for him to say more. But Hunter was washed out, too tired from his workout—and the current state of his life—to engage in much conversation.
The week since he’d arrived home from Las Vegas had been busy, consumed by a job that at one time had seemed perfect. Hunter had managed to carve out some time to explore the idea he’d formulated after Carly had questioned his career priorities. But after all that had happened, dealing with Carly on live TV again went beyond his abilities. Surviving this evening, knowing she’d be on the air without him, was proving to be tough.
It would take a miracle to get through the next quarter of an hour without losing his mind, or his resolve not to watch the show. Hunter glanced at the clock.
11:45.
Hunter began to pummel the bag, the repeated thumps filling the silence until his friend spoke again.
“It’s on in fifteen minutes,” Booker said, as if every cell in Hunter’s body wasn’t acutely aware of that fact. “Are you gonna watch?”
Hunter’s abdomen clenched as if hit. His chest and arm muscles burned from his intense workout, but in a way the pain was an improvement. Since his argument with Carly he’d moved through his days in a trancelike state. Numb. Anesthetized. Trying hard to forget the maddening sight of Carly talking with Terry.
And the devastated look on her face as the elevator doors had closed …
With a hard jab, Hunter’s fist met the bag, jarring his left arm. But the sensation did nothing to ease the conflicting images in his head.
“Because I think you should tune in to see what she says,” Booker went on.
“No.” Hunter punctuated the word with a mighty slug. “I’m not watching the show.”
Public curiosity had swelled since he’d backed out forty-eight hours ago. True to form, Carly hadn’t canceled her commitment to appear. Whether she’d stuck with it for the publicity, or for some other reason, he wasn’t sure. But he’d seen the advertisement announcing the replacement topic: the debut of Carly Wolfe’s new series. A column spotlighting a different Miami resident every week. She’d finally reached her goal.
The question was, who had she chosen as her first subject?
The clock on the wall read 11:47, and bile rose in the back of his throat. His stomach churned at the thought of watching her discuss everything he’d vomited out in a fit of anger. Muscles coiled tight, he felt the dark potential twine its way around his limbs. He refused to watch as the woman he loved traded in all they’d shared to achieve the career goal she’d chased for three years.
The familiar feeling of betrayal, the boil of resentment, left him battering the stuffed leather bag with a one-two punch that jarred him all the way to his soul.
“I find this situation very interesting,” Booker said. “I’m usually the one who sees a conspiracy at every turn.”
Hunter raised a wry eyebrow at Booker. “Are you saying I’m being paranoid, like you?”
His shaggy brown hair was in need of a trim, and Booker’s smile was wide as he brushed h
is bangs back. “Your suspicions don’t involve whole nations and large governmental agencies. So, compared to me, you’re small-time.” His voice changed to a more serious note. “But you are skeptical of everything that moves, Hunt.” He paused before going on. “And I think you’re wrong about Carly.”
Pushing aside the crushing doubt made worse by Booker’s chastising expression, Hunter shot his partner a doubtful look. “Of course you’d say that. You married her best friend,” Hunter said. He was still trying to adjust to that particular turn of events.
“Abby and I decided it would be better for our relationship if we didn’t discuss you two.”
“Smart move. Still, you might be biased.”
“Or I might be right.”
Hunter’s chest clamped hard, squeezing with a grip so tight it made breathing and circulating his blood a mammoth chore. His heart still managed to pump the lingering fear to the far reaches of his body. Fear that he’d learn he’d screwed up the one good thing to happen to him in so long that he hadn’t recognized it for what it was …
Real. Genuine. And built to last.
With a silent curse, Hunter closed his eyes. The last time he’d made love to Carly his heart had claimed it was legit. That she was on the up and up. But he’d taken one look at her talking to Terry and his heart had taken a sharp U-turn. All the old suspicions, the duplicities of the past, had come screaming back. The avalanche of anger, humiliation, the need for self-preservation had plowed into him with a force that had swept him up in its wake.
If Carly hadn’t run the story he’d accused her of going after, what then?
He opened his eyes and began punching the bag again, the lingering question feeding the massive knot growing in his chest.
Hunter was saved from dwelling on the unbearable thought when his friend spoke.
“Is it back to business as usual, then?” Booker said.
Hunter stopped punching and turned to face his friend and business partner. Regardless of the outcome tonight, the status quo had changed. He couldn’t continue to pretend his life was enjoyable. Actually, it wasn’t even tolerable. Making money hand over clenched fist wasn’t good enough anymore. It was time to come clean about his plans.
“I had a long talk with the special agent in charge of the Miami division of the FBI,” Hunter said. With a look of surprise, Booker crossed his arms and leaned against the wall, clearly settling in to hear more. “They’re very interested in help with their caseload,” Hunter said, steadily meeting Booker’s gaze as he went on. “I signed on to become a part-time consultant.”
A few moments passed, and then a smile slowly crept up Booker’s face. “Catching the criminals was always your specialty.”
Relieved Booker understood, Hunter delivered the rest of his news as matter-of-factly as he could. “Which means I’m going to need more help in the day-to-day running of the business.”
Booker didn’t hesitate. “Not a problem.”
Narrowing his eyes, he wondered if his friend understood exactly what he was asking. “I thought you hated dealing with the clients.”
The pause lasted long enough for his partner’s face to take on a guarded look. His words were cautious. “You set some pretty high standards, Hunt,” Booker said.
Hunter stared at his friend, the implication of the statement washing over him as Booker swiped a hand through his shaggy hair again and went on.
“I hate feeling as if I’m not doing a good enough job.”
Stunned, Hunter stared at his friend. “Did I give you that impression?”
“Not directly. But you’re a hard act to follow,” he said. “And you’re fairly demanding when it comes to your expectations.”
The possibility that Booker had been avoiding clients for a reason outside his social discomfort had never occurred to Hunter. Booker’s voice dropped, and Hunter got a disturbing feeling the topic had widened to include more than just work.
“Sometimes you hold the people in your life to pretty impossible standards,” Booker said.
Hunter’s throat constricted so tight swallowing was impossible. He glanced at the clock on the wall.
11:55.
Booker picked up the remote control to the flatscreen TV mounted on the wall, holding it out to Hunter. “Do yourself a favor, Hunt,” Booker said. “Watch the show.”
Heart thudding loudly in his chest, Hunter removed his gloves and took the remote. Without another word, his friend headed for the exit.
Hunter stared at the black TV screen for a full four minutes, the digital numbers on the clock marking the passage of time, minute by agonizing minute. Either way, he had to know. He just wasn’t sure which would be worse. Losing Carly as a result of her actions…or his.
Finally, unable to take the tension any longer, he pushed the “on” button and flipped to the right channel. His fifty-eight inch TV was filled with the image of Carly sitting on Brian O’Connor’s couch. Beautiful, of course, in a gauzy top and skirt. But the sight of her lovely legs, glossy brunette hair, and warm, amber-colored eyes was nothing compared to the shock he got when the camera panned to the right. Sitting next to her were two young adults in typical urban street clothes. Thad and Marcus. The two graffiti artists she’d been interviewing that day in the alley. The first Miami residents to be featured in her new series. Not him, after all, then.
Hell.
Nausea boiled, his chest burned, and Hunter gripped the leather punching bag to steady himself, his mind churning with memories. The vile words from his mouth. The stricken expression on Carly’s face. She’d said she needed a man who trusted her. A man who had faith in her. Who believed in her. He’d screwed up royally at the very moment he’d confessed he loved her.
So how could he ever convince her now?
CHAPTER TWELVE
DESPITE the ebony-colored tablecloths with their centerpieces consisting of dried dead roses, the ambiance on the restaurant’s outdoor patio was festive. Carly was amazed that Pete and Abby had managed to find the perfect balance of Gothic and elegance to celebrate their recent marriage. Lit by candlelight that reflected off the blanket of fog covering the terrace floor, the evening was cast in an otherworldly glow. Waiters circulated, their platters laden with appetizers. Guests ordered drinks at two beautiful mahogany bars, crafted to resemble coffins. Or maybe they were real. If so, Carly hoped the caskets were new.
In jeans, sneakers and a black T-shirt, Pete Booker cast his wife of two weeks an adoring look, and Carly’s heart tripped over a mix of envy and happiness.
Standing beside her, her father muttered, “This is the strangest wedding reception I’ve ever been to.” He dubiously eyed a discreetly placed fog machine before turning his gaze to the bride’s outfit.
Abby’s black long-sleeved gloves were paired with a matching corset dress that flared into a full-length lace skirt, trailing to the floor with a Victorian flare and a Gothic attitude.
Carly’s lips twitched in amusement. “Thanks for coming with me, Dad.” She clutched the strap of her silver beaded evening purse, running a hand down her halter-top dress of midnight satin. It wasn’t her usual choice, but all the guests had been requested to wear black. At least the color suited her mood. “I hated the thought of showing up alone.”
“Yeah …” Her dad let out an awkward harrumph and shifted on his feet. “Well …” he went on uneasily, and Carly’s mouth twitched harder.
“Don’t worry,” she said. “I won’t start crying again.”
Her dad sent her a look loaded with fear. “Please don’t.”
Carly almost laughed. She had rallied and poured on the charm for the final show, but when it was done she’d fallen apart—and her father had barely survived the onslaught of tears. She’d finally come to realize her dad did not handle a crying woman well—something she hadn’t fully understood until now. He would never be the perfect parent, ready with an understanding hug, a reassuring smile and gentle words of wisdom. Then again, she was hardly the perfect daugh
ter, either. But he was here tonight, supporting her in his own way. And for that she was inordinately grateful.
Because eventually Hunter would make an appearance.
Anxiety settled deep. If she ever decided to date again—like maybe a million years from now—she was going to give her choice more serious thought. Both for her sake and the man’s. Hunter might have been protecting himself by throwing up walls, but outside of Carly at least he hadn’t hurt anyone in the process. She, on the other hand, had left a trail of unhappy boyfriends in her wake.
All of them had deserved better than her pathetic attempts to stick with men who had no hope of capturing her heart.
When she spied Hunter heading in her direction, said heart sputtered to a stop, and she reached out to grasp the back of a nearby chair. After a few earth-shaking seconds she pushed away the budding, soul-sucking vortex of gloom.
Her father glanced at Hunter and then shot her a worried look. “Do you want me to stay?” he asked, almost as if he hoped she’d say no. “Or do you want me to fetch you a drink?”
She was tempted to keep him around as a shield. But she’d made a pact with herself today that there would be no more wallowing.
She tried for a reassuring smile. “Drink, please,” she said to her father. With a deep breath, she straightened her shoulders and met Hunter’s gaze as he strode through the crowd in her direction. “I’m going to need it,” she muttered.
Her dad headed for a casket lined with bottles, shooting Hunter a glare infused with a good bit of concern.
Hunter came to a stop a few feet from her. In an impeccably cut black suit, he looked as handsome and intimidating as ever—every muscle poised, prepared for battle. His cool slate-blue eyes were trained on her face. But this time his hair was spiked in front, as if he’d run an impatient hand through it multiple times. A brief flicker of uncertainty came and went, replaced with his usual determined gaze.
It took several moments and more than a few blinks of her eyelids to jumpstart her heart again. His presence had robbed her of her earlier confidence, so she’d just have to fake it until her mojo returned for real.
