by Jo Leigh
If he was going to jump off the cliff without a safety net, he was pretty sure he didn’t want to jump alone.
BREE WAS IN THE CLOSET. Her closet. On the ottoman mattress that pretended to be her bed. Her room might have been the size of a toaster oven, but it had a door and no one outside could hear her cry.
Although she wasn’t crying at the moment. She was staring at her phone. She’d already decided she wouldn’t be on the next plane to Ohio, but she wasn’t back in Amazon warrior mode, either. She was sad. About as sad as a person who had so much could be.
That was the kicker. A full-on wallow wasn’t possible, not when there were so many people with real problems. The only thing wrong with her life was that the boy didn’t like her back. Not the end of the world, not unique, and who was to say Charlie was the great love of her life? Maybe he served a completely different purpose. What if her attraction to him was a test of her fortitude, her commitment to her future? Or a reminder that she had a functioning heart, and that she had to be far more careful with her emotions?
It could have nothing to do with love. He was a fairy-tale kind of guy, and she was human. She’d grown up on Disney movies and romantic notions. Charlie was magic. Of course she’d been swept away.
The problem was in pretending, fabricating, believing he’d been swept away, too.
She picked up her phone, clicked on Contacts and went through her personal list. She liked Rebecca so much, but she was too close to the ache. Lilly was great, but they hadn’t reached the heart-to-heart stage yet.
Bree was too embarrassed to call her Ohio crew. She’d felt so damn superior to them and their tragic mistakes. Talk about falling from the height of her own ego.
No, there was only one place to turn tonight, and that was family. Beth was two years older, and she’d been through a messy breakup before she’d found Max. She was also an amazing listener, and boy did Bree need to talk.
Beth answered after one ring. “Oh, thank God. I know something’s wrong. Talk to me already, you insufferable brat.”
Bree sniffed twice, and started from the beginning.
CHARLIE STARED INTO THE fireplace. It was late, or to be more accurate, early. He was dog-tired and he needed to sleep, but a lot had happened since he’d come home, and he was still reeling from it.
The moment he’d walked in, he’d headed for the office. The morning blog had been easy. He’d done the real work and built up the party and the fragrance—after all, they were spending big bucks to advertise the scent all over his blogs—and he’d kept the talk of Bree alive. It was surprisingly satisfying to call Mia an old friend. She’d hate that. Especially the old part. But she never stayed mad for long. Of course, he’d had to pump the next few days’ worth of events, about the movers and shakers in Manhattan. Then he’d wrapped it up with something…personal.
With all that talk of Bree’s goals and dreams, he’d gone back into his archives and reread his original business plan. It had been eye-opening. He’d come so damn far since those days, yet in some ways he’d hardly moved an inch. Right next to the archive file he’d kept copies of the scandal he’d created after being accepted into Harvard law to make sure his family would never consider him for anything of importance.
He’d purposefully gotten himself arrested for drugs. He’d planned it down to the last photograph—no one had been caught with drugs but him, and he’d made damn sure it was so circumstantial he’d never be taken to court. The damage was all in the gossip, in the inferences, in the pictures in the Post and the tabloids.
No matter how many attorneys tried to get his trust fund taken away, they hadn’t been able to touch a penny.
Yeah. He could probably stop now. Give his folks and his whole family a break. Jesus, he could be an ass. On the other hand, he’d learned from the masters.
So, new plan. Bottom line? He was in a position where he could make a real difference in people’s lives. He had money, access, some power. Politics was straight out. Not even a consideration. Creative problem solving? That held a lot of appeal, even if he wasn’t sure what that would look like.
Bree by his side?
He stopped breathing as a picture formed, nothing noble or dramatic, just the two of them, lying in bed, in the dark. Naked. And yeah, okay, postcoital. But the fantasy was really about after. About talking. Soft talk in the middle of the night, about whatever. Touching her because he could, and her touching him back.
He thought about that last shot by Rebecca. The thing about fighting to be happy instead of right. Missing the premiere? That had been the easiest decision he’d made in ages. He could still feel the pleasure of having Bree sleeping against him, even with the tingling in his arms. He’d felt more relaxed, happier than he had any reason to be, and why? Not just because he’d put Bree first, but because he’d put himself first, too.
Holy…
Charlie turned away from the fireplace, and walked across the living room to the atrium, then into his office. His computer was still on. He never turned the damn thing off, so it was easy to sit back in his chair and pull up a blank screen.
As his fingers flew across the keyboard he found himself smiling. As the sky lightened over Manhattan, he got closer and closer to the cliff’s edge, and there was no net in sight.
BREE HAD LEARNED A LOT in the past week about faking not only a smile, but an attitude, and she was putting her skills to the test as the doorman ushered her into Charlie’s building.
“Nice to see you again, Ms. Kingston.”
“Thank you, George.” She nodded at the other staff in the lobby as she hurried to the elevator. She didn’t really breathe until the doors had closed and she was alone. Pressing 18, her finger shook, which was unacceptable. This was business. Charlie already knew the worst about her, so tonight would be nothing but another party, another extraordinary opportunity to learn and network. That’s what she’d told her sister, what she’d told herself over and over and over again.
Her shaking hand went back to the buttons and she pressed 17 in the nick of time. The elevator stopped with a whisper-soft bounce and Bree couldn’t get out fast enough.
She stood in a hallway. Thank goodness. She hadn’t even considered that other floors could be like Charlie’s—private residences. No, this was a hall, although from where she stood she could only see two doors.
The carpet was incredibly thick, a rich aubergine, the walls a creamy yellow, and there were several wrought-iron plant stands along the wall with fantastic red gladiolus arrangements. Bree stared for a moment, not thinking about anything but how pretty and elegant it all looked and how in all her years she’d never imagined standing in a hallway like this one. Quiet, sophisticated, beyond classy. It made no sense. Nothing made sense anymore. Most of all the idea that Charlie Winslow could ever, ever want Bree Ellen Kingston, a daughter of Hicksville, Ohio, former member of 4-H, the Girl Scouts and the Aaron Carter fan club. It felt silly, ridiculous, that she’d entertained the notion for a single moment.
She pulled her cell out and clicked on the only text she’d received from Charlie all day.
6? CW
Her response had been the eloquent: K
She pulled up this morning’s blog, Charlie’s post about the perfume party. The bulk of it was just what it said on the box: who had been there, gossip, bands, more gossip. Barely a word about Mia Cavendish.
But the last paragraph…
Bree read the last paragraph again. Surely this time her heart wouldn’t jump, her breath wouldn’t catch.
The night could have been improved if the smokers had come inside, but that’s nothing new. The upgrades at the Canal Room were minimal, but important. The men’s room, the upstairs lounge and the new bartender were all worth a look. I imagine the ladies’ bathroom was also better, but I have no confirmation. As for the reason for the party—Jazz and Cocktails perfume looks as sexy as the name, and it smells damn good. Not like the ocean and honey, but still, damn good.
The ocean
and honey. God.
No. Nope, getting off at 17 hadn’t worked. The hallway hadn’t cured her; the moment of clarity hadn’t been enough to make her see reason. She was still screwed. But she’d get through the night, because she wasn’t thirteen. She’d put on her armor along with her makeup and she would be grateful and attentive and happy.
Okay, grateful and attentive.
She had to wait for the elevator and when she finally stepped inside it was empty. Which was good. She faced herself in the mirror. Back straight, eyes open and expressive, smile—careful, not too much. There. She was ready. Even the kick in the chest when she saw Charlie didn’t knock her to her knees.
17
SEEING BREE STEP INTO the atrium stopped Charlie cold. He’d been saying something to Sveta, but he couldn’t remember what. It didn’t matter. “Hey,” he said, holding out his hand to walk Bree into the house. “Rested?”
“Yeah,” she said, although she glanced away when she spoke. “Thanks.”
“I have some deli in the kitchen. You want to eat before you get ready?”
She made a beeline to the hallway that led to the media room. “No thanks. Not hungry.”
Charlie followed, his mood on the downswing as he realized his master scheme for the evening was already going to hell. He could hear the team chattering away as they prepped the room, and he thought about the spread in the kitchen. He’d specifically gotten all the stuff Bree liked from the Carnegie Deli, including the Russian dressing and coleslaw for her corned beef sandwich.
Bree turned the corner, disappeared from view, and he staggered to a stop as it dawned on him that his “master scheme” to sweep Bree off her feet—a whole night that came complete with timetable, great mood lighting and a rather epic soundtrack—had left out only one thing. Bree herself.
Sveta swam in front of him, whipped her hair back in her usual dramatic style, then asked him three rapid-fire questions about tonight’s book party.
He blinked at the woman and let her drag him down the hall to where the action was. As he entered the madhouse, he caught a glimpse of Bree in the big makeup mirror. She stared back and her gaze was so full of pain it nearly flattened him.
He’d realized last night that his decision to step away from the hands-on editing of his media group was a huge decision, but this leap he was about to make? It wasn’t across a murmuring creek, it was across goddamn Niagara Falls. He’d sculpted himself a world that was made entirely of his rules, serving only himself, and every moment of every day was Charlie Winslow-shaped. The only thing he ever compromised on was the blog, but only when he had to, and only when it would serve the greater good—which was also all about his business, so no, he never really compromised at all.
It was good to be the king. And yet, how had he never noticed that it was also incredibly lonely?
Rebecca. She was good; he had to give her credit. She’d said this would happen. That being right only went so far. He wanted more now. More with Bree. With the woman sitting in the center of a whirlwind.
But could he do it? Could he change in the ways he’d need to, to actually be part of a couple? Put her first? A novel concept, and one he’d botched at the starting gate.
He’d been so caught up in the grand gesture that he’d forgotten that he was about to ask a great deal of this woman. She had her own dreams, her own goals, her wondrous five-year plan. Would she even want what he was proposing? Maybe he should wait, think this through. Acting rashly wasn’t in his nature. This was crazy.
He refocused on Bree. She hadn’t turned away at all. But she’d done a very good job of masking her pain. Anyone else would have thought that smile was real, that her eyes were bright with excitement and anticipation. But he’d seen her when she was truly happy.
The hell with it. He was going in. “Can I have everyone’s attention?”
It didn’t take long for the group to settle. “Something’s come up. We won’t be going to tonight’s event, so, if you guys could wrap up what you need to, that would be appreciated.”
He knew the whole team would react, but his gaze stayed on Bree’s image in the mirror. She looked completely confused, but he wouldn’t keep her there long.
“Don’t worry,” he whispered, then cleared his throat and spoke to the team again. “Don’t worry, you’ll all get paid for the night’s work. There’s food in the kitchen. Take it with you. I’ll never be able to finish it. Thank you, everyone. Sorry for the inconvenience.”
Sveta barely blinked. She started putting the clothes back on the racks, boxing shoes, making sure everything would be in order for the next event. The team followed suit, and since they’d only begun it was a matter of minutes before they were clearing out.
Bree rose from the makeup chair. She grabbed her pocketbook, tugged the bottom of her very-Bree vintage sailor dress. God, she looked sweet. He couldn’t help the ache that went from his chest on down. He wanted her to say yes as badly as he’d wanted anything in his life.
Charlie was aware that the team members were staring at him, at Bree, and that they were trying to clear out as quickly as they could. He didn’t care.
Bree had her head bowed but her spine straight and tall as she followed the small group. At the door, he caught her hand in his. “I’d like you to stay,” he said. “Please.”
When they were alone, and they could no longer hear the footfalls of the others, she met his gaze. “What’s going on?”
“I had it all planned out,” he said. “Like I was writing a play. We’d go to the party, but we wouldn’t stay late. I’d convince you to come back here with me. I had a couple of backup plans for that, just in case. It would have been great. Very dramatic.” He stared at her, at those amazing green eyes. “But all that really matters right now is how very much I want to kiss you.”
“We’re not going to the book party because you want to kiss me?”
He smiled. “No,” he said, then half winced. “Sort of.”
“Oh,” she said, as if everything made sense. A second later she shook her head. “I don’t get this at all. Charlie, what—”
He kissed her. He couldn’t wait another second. Honestly, he didn’t want to keep her in suspense—that wouldn’t be fair. As soon as he finished this kiss, he’d tell her everything.
Then she kissed him back.
His first response was thank God. This was what he’d needed. Bree in his arms, on his lips. The taste of her minty gum and the slide of her tongue made him ache.
“Charlie,” she whispered, and it was like a match to kindling, the sound of his name on her lips. He stepped into her. He would have climbed inside her if he could have; instead he walked her back until he had pressed her against the wall, kissing her as if his life depended on it.
With a gasp, her head thunked back, her mouth swollen and damp and irresistible.
He forced himself to slow down. The first brush of his lips was soft, gentle. Tender. But it wasn’t enough, and he hauled her up against him, his mouth hard, hungry, desperate, as the kiss deepened into an intense tangle of tongues and teeth that made him groan.
Tearing her mouth free, she gasped for breath as her small hands got busy on the buttons of his shirt. Her eyes were wide and wild as she fumbled and cursed.
“Bree—”
She gave up on his buttons and went for his belt. He groaned, but no.
“Not here,” he said roughly, and wrapped his arms tight around her, lifting her straight up, bending slightly until she wrapped her legs above his hips. He wanted to just get them to the bedroom, but as always, he couldn’t resist kissing her over and over. He swerved like a drunk, dizzy with the feel of her, with the promise of what was to come.
Somehow, they made it to his room and they stripped. No finesse, no teasing. Simply the need to be naked. Now.
As they stretched out on the bed, he took her hands in his and guided them above her head as he balanced himself over her body. He looked down into her face and saw a new life.
> THERE WAS SO MUCH IN HIS gaze that Bree went still. She was a lost cause, gone, any good sense she had swept away by passion and the awareness of his body. When he whispered her name, the world slowed, the air thrummed with heat and want.
His mouth spread hot, wet kisses down her jaw, along her collarbone. Her breast. His tongue curled around her nipple and he groaned when it beaded for him.
She bucked, and he did it again, reaching for the drawer, grabbing a condom. He protected them both with fingers that actually trembled, and then nestled between her legs. The moon bathed them in soft gray light, so luminous it was enough for her to see the details of his face, although she already knew each feature intimately, and could have sculpted each curve.
“Missed you,” he whispered, but his words turned into a moan when he sank into her.
Her eyes closed as he filled her, and her pulse quickened when she pushed up to meet his slow thrust.
They stilled when he could go no farther, their panting breaths loud in the room, but soon it wasn’t enough and she pushed up again.
“Move,” she said, squeezing his arms, pressing her breasts into his chest.
“God, yes,” he said, so softly she barely heard him past the pulse of her heartbeat.
“So good.” He cupped her face as he pulled out slowly, kissing her after a languid swipe of his tongue across her bottom lip.
Her breath stuttered with the shock of his tenderness. She’d been ready for frantic sex. Not this.
He slid his hands to her hips and rocked, going even deeper now, and thinking was all but impossible. Tossing back her head, she gasped his name, and he thrust as if each time would be his last. Again and again, his control driving her wild. She could hear her own heart thundering in her ears, their mingled murmurs and cries, raggedy gasps and low moans. Hers and his.
