I’m just thinking of her.
In the silence of the evening I hear the catch of her breath then, to my shock, a sob.
“Don’t,” she says as if she can see my hand reaching for her shoulder, which it is.
“Don’t what?”
“Touch me. Or think I need a hug. It’s a stress thing. An anger thing.”
“I get it.”
Sometimes tears happen. When the Chechen rebels put a mask over your head, you cry. When you see the bodies of 30 Syrian children laid out in a dusty street, you weep.
When you’re seventeen years old and contemplating murder, you cry or you’re dead inside.
For a second, I envy her, her tears. Because it’s been a long time since fear made me weep.
There’s the rumble of a car starting then a dark pickup drives out of what must be the staff parking lot. A middle finger extended out the driver’s side window.
“Fuck that guy,” I sneer.
That makes her laugh, which is the goal. But the laugh breaks into a hiccup and the moment is broken enough that I’m reminded why I’m back here in these shadows. I’m reminded who she is.
Or might be.
And it’s my job to find out.
“Come on,” I say, leaning hard on the compassion card. She might buck it, considering her attitude about fighting her own fights and hugs while crying. But I give it a shot. “Give yourself a minute.”
Her sigh is ragged but she unties the bandana around her neck and wipes at her eyes.
My heart surges into my throat and I step to the left of her, but the jacket is still tight against her collarbone and, in the shadows, I can’t see anything.
I need her to unbutton that jacket.
“Shit was going too well, you know?” she says, still not looking at me and I need to figure out how to change that. “Something had to go wrong.”
“Murphy’s Law.”
“I feel like it’s my law.”
“Everyone is Murphy when it’s happening to them,” I say.
Finally, she turns, looking at me for the first time and her damp eyes gleam in the shadows. “You,” she says, recognizing me. She smiles a little. The tears gone.
I shrug, like I’m simply happy in her attention. “Me.”
She steps forward, her hands on her hips, her neck and face are still in shadow. But I see her full body. She wears dark jeans and boots with her chef jacket and something about the combination screams outlaw.
Not Iowa farm girl.
“Why aren’t you still inside? You don’t like figs?” she asks.
“I like them fine, I just…I wanted to see you. That sounds ridiculous. And stalkerish… I’m sorry. I —”
I step back, ready to leave her in the shadows. A calculated gamble, but I’m betting she calls me back.
There is a wild energy rolling off her, and I recognize this wildness. I know it well. The jet-fuel burn of adrenaline and success, a near fight, a good cry. The combination is ripe for disaster. But it’s the kind of disaster that feels so good when it blows up.
“Stay,” she says.
Yes!
“How is your fist?” I reach forward carefully. When I touch her fingers, hers jerk as if startled and I expect her to pull away, but she doesn’t. She blows out a long breath, holds her hand still and lets me touch her.
Her palm is calloused and strong, the skin slightly chapped. There’s the red slash of a burn on her thumb.
I nearly lift her hand to kiss the mark, but stop myself. Too much. Too far.
She’s barely letting me do this.
Hard-line tension is rolling off her body like smoke. The kind of tension a screaming orgasm will cut right through. It’s not a come-on, or a joke. It’s a proven fact.
The number of ill-conceived hook-ups in military green zones that resulted from mortar shells too close to home, or a ride-along gone almost wrong is too high to count.
I turn over her hand to look at her knuckles. I rub my thumb over the hard knobs of them and watch as goose pimples rise up on her skin of her forearm. I see the edge of a tattoo on the inside of her arm, a green vine reaching out under the sleeve of her coat to tease at her wrist.
I wonder what it is, what kind of artwork this woman would put on her body. Then I put that wonder away. Because it’s useless.
The jacket. Just get in her jacket.
“Your knuckles look okay,” I say.
“My mom taught me how to throw a punch.”
“Your mom throw a lot of punches?”
“Enough that she made sure I knew how.”
“You throw a lot of punches?” I ask, leaning back like I might be next on her list.
She laughs in her throat, low and dark.
“I think you’re safe,” she says.
“I don’t know. Something about you, right now, doesn’t feel safe.”
She sucks in a breath, stealing all my oxygen. She’s panting and I can’t breathe.
Calm the fuck down.
“I feel a little dangerous.” She squeezes my hand. Like she’s squeezing it as hard as she possibly can. Like she’s trying to wring blood from me, or force me to my knees. She squeezes me like she needs something.
I know all too well what she needs.
She looks up at me, her eyes parted, her lips parted, nothing but agreement all over her face. Her body. Her entire self is giving me the green light and I know how I’m going to get that jacket unbuttoned.
It’s nefarious. But I am a nefarious man.
I step backwards slightly, pivoting and she follows with her own step and shift so we’re even deeper in the shadows. Lavender is crushed under my shoes and the air is ripe.
“This is a terrible idea,” she says.
“The fun ones usually are.”
“You don’t have a reputation for ruining things,” she says, like it’s a joke.
But her words slide through me. Slip right through my ribs and I cling to not caring. I work hard to remember who her father probably is, and how she might have gotten the money for this place.
But part of me wants to tell her that I’ve ruined so many things. That I’m going to ruin her.
“And Jeff…” She pulls in a breath and holds it. Her face turned away. Embarrassment colors the air around her, dimming her fire.
You’re a shitty fucking lay.
“Jeff’s an idiot,” I say.
And I kiss her.
She’s tense for a second like she’s going to push me away. But then she’s kissing me back. Her hands are wrapped in the lapels of my tux and she’s on her toes, her weight, bit by bit, presses into me.
Her chest. Her belly. Her legs.
Everything explodes.
Desire and regret and excitement. The thrill of finding out. The weight of the lie. Everything turns to fire and it rages in me.
I groan low in my throat and put my hands around her back.
Calm. The. Fuck. Down.
And it hurts and it’s so hard, but I push it away, everything I’m feeling. Every biological reaction I’m having. I shove it down, down, down.
Until the only thing I feel is purpose.
Revenge.
She moans against my mouth, and pulls me harder into her. I know she can feel my erection because she pushes against it, her hips pulsing against mine. Her breasts are against my chest. I thought she was thin and wiry, but she is soft. And she is sweet. Like the honey drizzled over the figs and the cheese.
Open. The. Fucking. Jacket.
Right. I clear my head, push away what’s happening my body. Physical reactions to stimulation, I tell myself. It’s nothing. And I tilt my head, opening her mouth with mine.
“Yes,” she moans into my mouth, as if answering a question I ask with my body.
I turn her, push her up against the building. Keeping her there with my leg between her thighs. The weight of my hips against her body.
I reach for the buttons of her jacket, starting at the bottom, they slip
out easily, willing accomplices to my deceit.
“Wait,” she says and I lift my lips from hers, my fingers still opening buttons, willing them to move faster. To get the job done before she stops me.
“Do you want me to stop?” I ask, even as I’m not.
Two buttons left. She’s wearing a black tank top beneath the jacket and it clings to her body. Her waist is trim and her chest is covered in tattoos, from just below her collarbones to the edges of her shirt and underneath. Mermaids in a wave. A girl jumping off a cliff with a net in her hand. A star caught in the net.
She can’t stop me. I can’t let her stop this until I find out about the birthmark.
My knuckles graze her nipples and her mouth falls open. Her breath comes in harder. I slip one hand beneath the edge of the jacket, my fingers touching the firm skin of her breast above the tank top. My palm cups her and she moans.
“Should I stop?” I ask, but I know the answer. I feel it.
“No.”
She pulls me down for another kiss, my hand caught between our bodies. I palm her, cup her. My thumb rubs the hard bead of her nipple. My other hand tries to work the button open but I can’t do it one-handed from this angle.
I pull my hand away from her breast, lifting my fingers to the buttons on her coat. But she moans in protest.
My fingers drop back to her breast. My fingers find the hard edge of her nipple.
Her hand lifts from my tux to my hair, her fingers brushing my ear as she pushes back my hair. Her fingers are strong and rough and the sting of pain licks across the pleasure I’m trying not to feel.
My dick, so fully engaged in the moment, almost pulls me under, pulls me into her, but I stop it.
Desire is like fear, in a way. If you let it take over, it runs the whole ship. But if you ignore it, it’s simply an echo.
I kiss her, my knee lifting up against her, pushing her harder against the wall and she cries out, biting her lip against the sound and it’s so earthy. So real. And I have no right to see it. No right to be here with my hands full of deceit and my heart hard against her.
But it’s happening.
I’m doing it.
I am this man.
“Chef?” a voice shouts from the doorway we can’t see, but isn’t far enough away. “Chef? You out here?”
Her eyes go wide and I felt her body stiffen, tense. All the pleasure ebbing away. Business returning.
And that last fucking button is still done up. I can’t see her neck.
I pull her off the wall and turn my body, so my back is to the corner if anyone comes around they’ll only see black shadow, or me. Not her. I spin her in my arms, my strength and my size making it easy. Her back is against my chest. My dick, pressed uselessly against her spine. I spread my hands wide against her stomach and her head rests against my shoulder.
She’s tense, but she’s not leaving.
“Do you want to come?” I breathe into her ear.
“Oh, my God,” she whispers, her knees buckling.
“Tell me, Penny.”
“I have to…go. They’re calling me.”
“Do. You. Want. To. Come?”
She pulls in a breath. Holds it. Holds it forever and I realize I’m holding my breath, too.
“Yes.” She says on a soft, sweet exhale, her body relaxing against mine. The perfect curve of her ass resting against me. “I want to come.”
“Will you let me…?” My fingertips pop open the button of her jeans, slide down the zipper. I see the slice of her belly in the shadows. No tattoos there. I ease my fingertips under the elastic band at the top of her underwear. I wait for her consent and get it in spades when she puts her hand over mine and pushes me between her legs.
She is hot and damp. And her hand stays over mine as I stroke through her thick folds finding the hard knot of her clit.
“Hard,” she breathes into the night air. “Fast.”
And that’s what I give her. My fingers, calloused and rough, play over her clit. I map her and palm her. I push hard against her and she’s practically climbing up my body.
My other hand finds her throat, the last button on her jacket and I work it through the hole. It’s awkward one-handed but it’s coming and so is she and I can taste my victory.
She makes that grunt again, that earthy primitive sound, so fucking sexy, but too loud and I give up on the button and put my hand over her mouth before she brings her staff out here to investigate.
Her head falls back against my shoulder in surrender.
I feel her tension. The impending orgasm, the bright, hot thrill of it not too distant and I use her harder. Faster. And her cry, her near-scream is caught in my palm.
She shatters against me, her body a long tense wave against mine and I stand there, still and quiet, forcing myself not to respond to any of it.
When she’s still, I lift my hand from her mouth and ease my fingers from her pants and carefully, quickly, before she realizes what I’m doing and can wonder why, I undo the last button on her jacket. I turn my head, easing behind her to look at the other side of the neck, where the birthmark would be, but in that moment, in that breath of air between our bodies, she steps away. She steps away and begins to button up her jacket.
She is silent and panting and I feel the fucking edge of my control looming.
“Hey,” I say, reaching forward to turn her to face me, but she pulls away.
And I can’t see that side of her neck.
“What are you thinking?” I ask, shifting my weight trying to get a better look, but like she knows, she turns away, too.
And I realize she’s doing it so I can’t see her face.
She’s embarrassed.
Ashamed.
“Penny,” I breathe. “Please look at me.”
Finally, she squares her shoulders and turns to face me. “This…is not professional.” She laughs as she says it, but I can tell she doesn’t find this funny. She’s ashamed. Disappointed in herself. And I know from first-hand knowledge that orgasms and regret are an awful combination. “You’re a guest.”
“I’m not,” I say, lifting my hands up like it’s good news. “I’m a passing stranger.”
“No, you’re a guest at my opening-night fundraiser.” The recrimination is ripe in her voice. “And I just …” She stops herself like she just can’t say it and I know better than to fill in the words for her.
I ruin things.
She said that. It’s a thing she knows about herself and she has no idea what she’s actually done.
I can’t keep her here under any more pretenses. She’s not interested in being seduced. She’s not inclined to tell me any more secrets. She let me in, I blew my shot and she has now kicked me right back out. Boarded up her windows and locked her doors and pulled in the drawbridge.
“I’m glad I was here,” I tell her. It’s not a lie, but it feels like one.
She laughs as she walks past me, leaving behind a trail of smoke and sugar and sweat and sex in her wake. And I’m counting my failures, trying to formulate a Plan B, when her hand touches my wrist.
Her fingers circle the bone and sinew, her thumbs on the tender inside where she can feel my heart pound against my flesh. And in the past few fevered minutes, it’s the first time she’s touched me. My skin. And my body is suddenly consumed in flame. The disconnect between my brain and my dick is gone and I am wrecked by this touch. I am destroyed by her scent.
Every single thing I forced myself not to feel shoves its way into my body and I nearly fall to my knees.
My cock throbs. My brain burns with all the wants I forced myself not to feel. I want to fuck her. Taste her. I want to hear her scream and cry out, without my hand there to stop it. I want her undone beneath me. Wild.
Ruined.
In this moment, I want her more than I want revenge.
I yank my hand away.
And she does the same, her eyes wide.
“I’m sorry,” she says.
“Don�
��t be.” My voice is hard and dark and I’m freaking her out. The smiling man at the bar, the man with his hands down her pants is gone and I’m revealed.
Too hard. Too cruel.
“Thank you,” she says, her voice soft with sincerity. “You are very…kind.”
I nod because I can’t speak. My throat is full. My body in revolt. Because of all the things I am…none of them is kind.
I fight the urge to grab her back, to make her want me again. To redo the moment with whatever honor I still have left in my body. She walks into the slice of light of the open kitchen door and I hear someone yell.
“There you are!”
And just before she steps into her kingdom, she tilts her head, facing me.
And the birthmark is there. On her neck, just below her chin.
The girl from the court house.
Tina Andreas.
I was right.
She’s not Penny McConnell, the youngest daughter of farmers from Iowa. She didn’t learn to hunt from her daddy and cook from her mama.
It is all a lie.
She’s Simpson’s daughter.
I brace my hand against the stone wall, the scent of lavender making me sick.
“I’m glad you were here, too,” she says.
Then the daughter of the man who killed my mother and drove my father to suicide steps out of sight.
EIGHT
Simon
SHE’S CREATED A STORY. A lie. An entirely new life. And she’s hiding out here in the mountains. Building a family from employees. A home from a business.
Is she hiding?
Or is she hiding something?
My body is still on fire. The things I don’t want to feel with her body against me, flooding all my nerves. Making me dizzy. Angry. Blind. It seems impossible to believe she’d build this place with her father’s money, but people have done worse in the name of ambition.
I don’t go back to my car.
Instead, I go to the front desk where I try to be charming and sheepish.
“I’m afraid I’ve had too much to drink,” I tell the young man at the desk, wearing a red tie and black coat. “I’m going to need a room after all.”
“All of the guest rooms for the event are booked,” he says.
Ruin You Page 7
