by Laura Moore
She wanted that pleasure. Already she’d come to crave the skill of his hands and mouth, the strength of his beautifully coordinated body. Yet even as her pleasure mounted ever higher, as he sent her riding the crest of a giant, glorious wave, she sensed troubled waters ahead, there in the deep pain that lingered in his gaze.
—
Since her clothes—and destroyed undies—lay in a heap downstairs, Max had lent her a pair of sweats that she had to roll at the waist and bottoms, and a cashmere sweater that enveloped her in his scent. While he went downstairs to make coffee, she stripped his bed and remade it. Professional habits die hard. And as dangerous as the impulse was, she wanted to do something for him.
He would thank her for the clean sheets, but not for what truly showed she cared: asking him what was wrong.
It would be so much easier to pretend that all that counted was the truly splendid sex they’d shared, and simply enjoy the excellent and super-strong coffee he’d made, drinking him in with surreptitious glances as she sipped.
Max was eating a bowl of cereal. She’d helped herself to one of the muffins she’d baked for him. Breaking off a chunk, she debated how to ask…whether to ask.
She was chickening out. Annoyed with herself, she forced the words out. “So what happened last night at the party?”
His spoon stalled in midair, then resumed its trip to his mouth. He chewed a little longer than necessary for a mouthful of soggy cereal. “What do you mean?”
“I’m talking about whatever made you leave the party so abruptly.” She recalled his stricken expression. “Did it have something to do with Jamie and Sophie?”
“I hadn’t realized they were twins.”
It was only because she was watching carefully that she realized he was holding the spoon in a death grip.
“You hadn’t seen the photographs of them all around the house?”
“I don’t look at family photos.”
The very opposite of her. More than expensive tchotchkes, it was the pictures scattered throughout a home that drew her attention. When dusting, she would study the candid shots of mothers and fathers with their kids offering their smiles to the camera as well as the more formal photos—the graduations, the weddings, the award ceremonies—that marked the milestones of a life. She loved the moments captured and the stories told.
“So the twins, why would they—”
The spoon hit the edge of his bowl with a sharp clatter. “Christ, Dakota, I just wasn’t expecting it, all right? Now will you leave it the fuck alone?”
There, in stark relief, was the pain she’d only glimpsed before. Then it had been focused inward. Now it radiated out, sharp and jagged as broken glass.
She pushed her stool away from the island.
“What are you doing?” His voice was quieter, yet the strain remained.
“I’m going home. I apologize for invading your privacy.” She felt like an idiot. He’d made it clear what the rules were. It was her fault for thinking he needed something more than a one-night stand.
His curse was swift and fluent. “I had a twin sister. Her name was Rosie.”
She’d frozen at “had.” “She died?” The question hardly made it past her lips.
“Four days after our high school graduation. We had the summer before us. And then college to look forward to in the fall. Seeing Jamie and Sophie, hearing the way they talked to each other…it was hard.”
He’d averted his gaze while he spoke, but she could see the corded tendons in his neck and the rapid blink of his eyelids, and her heart ached for him. “I am so sorry, Max.”
He shrugged, obviously uncomfortable with her sympathy. “It caught me unawares, that’s all.”
“How—how did Rosie die?”
At her question he turned his head. His expression was bleak, his eyes empty. “Car accident.”
There were more questions she wanted to ask. They remained lodged in her throat, along with her aching sadness. “I am so very sorry, Max,” she said again.
“It happened years ago.”
“Some wounds don’t heal.”
“Don’t play psychiatrist with me, Dakota. I don’t want or need one.” The scrape of the stool legs on the floor was discordant, like the mood that had settled over them. “I have to read some emails and catch up on work,” he said, and strode out of the kitchen.
—
She gave him time; she needed time. Of all the various explanations that had gone through her mind, never once had she entertained the possibility that Max had a twin. Whenever she considered her childhood, how messed up it was to grow up in a family who treated her with a combination of hostility and careless neglect, and how much she’d longed for a father who regarded her as more than a stupid mistake or afterthought, at least she hadn’t faced real tragedy or a terrible, wrenching loss, as Max had.
The death of one’s twin? Losing the person who came into existence simultaneously? Who shared the same womb? She’d heard stories from Alex and Gen about the closeness Jamie and Sophie shared. Beneath the bickering and teasing existed an extraordinary emotional connection. Sophie, the more forthcoming of the two, described it as a kind of telepathy.
No wonder Max had looked like he’d seen a ghost.
—
Max had it under control again. Numbers, projections, acquisition potential, bid strategies—those were his comfort zone. He was in the midst of writing an email to Bob Elders and his partners at Summit outlining the exit strategy—in this case a secondary buyout by another private equity firm—for a healthcare company that designed electronic medical devices when Dakota entered his study.
From the corner of his eye he saw the cup in her hand, but she remained silent, waiting while he continued typing. When he finally pressed send and looked over, he made sure to keep a blank expression on his face.
“I thought you might like some more coffee.”
He gave a short nod. “Yeah. Thanks.”
She placed it on a hammered-tin coaster that she’d told him came from a store in Sag Harbor. He liked it. He liked everything she’d done in the house. And he liked her, which was too bad, because he should be formulating an exit strategy for Dakota as well.
Her shoulders rose as she drew a breath, and he thought of how he’d run his tongue along the line of her collarbone, and then how his hands had cupped her shoulders as she’d lowered herself onto his cock. He’d loved exploring every inch of her last night. And this morning, watching his hands glide over her while the water streamed and the suds ran in rivers, leaving her sleek curves glistening, had been the perfect wet dream.
“Listen,” she said. “There’s this spot in Montauk, just past the lighthouse, where I sometimes go. Being there, well, it’s like the earth has slipped away, leaving nothing but ocean and sky. It helps me.”
“That’s nice.” He injected a bored tone into his voice. “But like I said before, I don’t need help. I’m fine.”
He’d devised excellent ways of coping. He worked hard and he screwed even harder. Last night was the perfect example and the reason he was weighing the cost versus benefit in having Dakota stick around. The sex between them had been stellar. He wanted her still. Would like nothing better than to take her over to the leather couch and once again lose himself in her deliciously hot body.
But now she knew about Rosie. For that alone he should be hustling her out the front door. He never talked about his sister’s death, or any of the rest. Yet he’d looked into Dakota’s eyes, lit with expectation and compassion, and confessed that he’d had a twin. And lost her.
His insides twisted as if he’d ruptured something.
He’d even admitted how hard it had been to see the twins. Hard? It had shredded him. While Sophie and Jamie didn’t particularly resemble Rosie or him physically, hearing them talk to each other had been harrowing. It was as if someone had switched on a recording of him and Rosie goading each other.
He didn’t know why Dakota had been the one to extrac
t that confession from him or why he hadn’t simply blocked her questions. He could close down a person with a single look. Just as troubling was the fact that he’d fallen asleep inside her. He was the kind of guy who withdrew. Yet he’d spent an entire night with her wrapped about him and his body blanketing hers—as if he needed the connection with her.
His irritation must have showed, for she said, “I can see you’re busy. I’m going to head off.”
So she was showing herself the door. Good. Perverse bastard that he was, he found himself asking, “What are your plans for the day?”
She hesitated. “I’m going to swing by my place and grab my board. The conditions aren’t great, but…” She shrugged.
She didn’t need to explain. He’d become hooked himself. Dakota would want to be out on the water, hoping to eke out a few good rides. True surfers didn’t just hit the waves under ideal conditions.
“And then I’ve got some homework,” she said.
“Homework? What kind of homework?”
“I’m getting an MBA. Online. Through Carnegie Mellon University.” She shifted her gaze to a ceramic bowl that was sitting on the mantelpiece, focusing on it as if it contained the mysteries of the world.
He should have guessed. Dakota was smart and serious about her business. Yet he’d assumed that her life as it was, an elegant balance of guiding Premier Service to whatever profit goals she’d targeted and spending her free time carving rides out of shifting arcs of water, was all she was looking for. He wondered what else he didn’t know about her and wasn’t surprised to find his curiosity reawakened. She did that to him.
“Carnegie Mellon, that’s a good program. So what are you interested in doing next?”
“I’d like to get into early-stage investing.”
“Start-ups, huh?”
Maybe she’d been expecting him to ridicule her idea of pursuing an MBA. When he only expressed professional interest, her expression lost some of its wariness.
“The courses are helping me learn what to look for in start-up companies and identify the ones that have what it takes to last.”
“There’s some good profits to be made from early investments.”
“There are some excellent businesses out there that need financing and guiding,” she countered.
“Ah, a do-gooder,” he said mildly.
“Having a conscience and making money don’t need to be mutually exclusive objectives, do they? Yes, I want to make a nice profit, but at the end of the day I also want to feel good about my involvement in a company.”
“So you didn’t start Premier Service because you’d identified a potentially lucrative pain point?”
“Lucrative pain point?” A smile tugged her lips. “Gotta love the lingo you Wall Street wolves use.”
“How about this, then: you saw you could make a killing from a lot of fat cats?”
She bit her lip, and he knew it was to keep her smile from spreading. “That’s downright nasty. No, I started Premier as an extension of the jobs I had as a kid and because I found I liked being around other families and other people’s homes. I figured out that I could do things to improve their lives and make them happier. I still get satisfaction from that. If I didn’t, it would show, and there’d be no profit for me and my employees.”
For the moment he chose to ignore her comment about wanting to be around families—a land mine of a subject—focusing instead on how sexy he found her ambition to be a venture capitalist. As if she needed to be any sexier.
“Well, I should…” She shifted, obviously ready to leave.
“Can I come out with you again? I don’t have to head into the city until tomorrow,” he said, even though while composing his email, he’d been considering going back in time to hit the bar scene. “I’d like your company.”
While he resented Dakota for having witnessed him at a vulnerable moment, he wasn’t ready to let her go. And he was in control once more, he reminded himself. There’d be no further contact with Alex Miller’s extended family, no reminder of family lost or wished for. No talk of it, either. He was offering simple companionship and unrestrained sex.
Several seconds passed. By this point she could certainly recognize his hunger for her. And in the slight parting of her lips, he saw her sudden awareness. Heard it in the quick catch of her breath as her body responded and the attraction between them flared to life.
“Yes,” she said.
They had three weekends together. With Max touching down in East Hampton at eight in the evening on Friday and leaving on a six o’clock flight the following Monday morning, they spent those 174 hours as they pleased: in each other’s arms, surfing, walking on the beach, and touring the Hamptons, Dakota showing Max all her favorite spots and sights. With the holiday season in full swing, it was a magical time, the shop fronts gaily decorated, the restaurants serving delicious specials. With each weekend, she fell a little harder and deeper for him. With every smile and laugh they shared, a secret part of her wondered if this might be something more than a strings-free affair.
It was stupid, really, but in hindsight so obvious that a Christmas tree would serve as the death knell to their relationship. She recognized the enormousness of her error the second that Max walked into the living room where earlier she, Rae, and Jarrett had put up a freshly cut Douglas fir in the corner to the right of the fireplace. Dakota had spent the rest of the afternoon decorating the tree with tiny white lights and shiny red and gold balls. She’d found a copper star to top it. A pretty tree. Restrained as well, unlike a number she’d decorated for other clients. Yet from the expression on Max’s face—a mix of shock, anger, and betrayal—when he took in the tree and the cheerfully crackling fire she’d lit, the scene obviously screamed domesticity.
She wanted to blame him. Had Max not reverted so seamlessly to the cool and self-possessed Wall Street tycoon, she wouldn’t have forgotten how his blue-gray eyes had grown stark with pain when he’d revealed the death of his twin sister, and she would have reconsidered installing a ten-foot symbol of joy in his living room. But the Max with whom she’d spent days laughing and talking about everything from favorite movies to investment strategies and nights writhing and gasping under and over him—that man, wholly in command of all he surveyed, wouldn’t be rattled by a Christmas tree.
But Dakota knew she was as much at fault. She’d been selfish. Presented with the chance to create a new memory in Windhaven and banish the horrid ones of Christmases past, she’d grabbed it eagerly. In so doing, she’d willfully ignored the unspoken terms of their time together.
No heavy emotions.
No expectations.
Just sex and good times while they lasted.
So she’d overstepped the boundaries, broken the rules. Sue me, she thought to herself, fatalism seeping in. Fatalism colored with resentment. How foolish she’d been to believe that Max might want something more meaningful with her.
He was still standing, immobilized, next to the long, narrow table that backed the sofa. Another Friday would have already seen them half naked, laughing as their hands grappled with their remaining clothes to caress exposed flesh. She might already have sunk to her knees, hungry for his taste and heady with the knowledge that when she took him deep in her mouth, he was completely in her thrall. The fixed distance between them screamed what her heart already grasped: they’d reached the end.
There was no use in pretending she hadn’t seen his reaction to the tree or that he looked like he wanted to whip out his phone and arrange for a flight back to the city.
“My mistake. I’ll take the tree down,” she said.
Her words seemed to take him aback.
What? Did he think she hadn’t memorized every emotion that crossed his face when he was suspended over her by mere inches, his body sliding against her, inside her? That she wasn’t as hungry for his feelings as his passion? Did he think she didn’t watch him over their candlelight dinners at the 1770 House or any of the other Hamptons restau
rants she’d taken him to? Did he truly believe she didn’t study him when she recounted her week’s homework, when they sparred over a professor’s or fellow student’s pronouncement, or when he gave her advice on how to gauge a company’s financial health? Was he truly unaware that she soaked up his carefree happiness while they bobbed on the ocean, and delighted in his fierce anticipation when an incoming set of waves looked promising? Hadn’t he realized that seeing him like this and knowing she’d introduced him to this world made her own happiness that much brighter?
She had her answer. He had no idea how much she’d learned about him. Dakota’s challenge would now be to unlearn. And forget.
“It’s just—I’m not big on Christmas trees. Or Christmas. Damn it, Dakota…” Max’s voice trailed off as he raked a hand through his hair. It had grown almost shaggy, but he’d put off a trip to the barber, saying he liked the way she ran her fingers through it. And, he added with a rakish grin, why waste time sitting in a barber’s chair when he could be with her and have her sitting on him?
Was it any surprise she’d begun to think the lines were blurring?
“I understand. I’ll have it down and out of the house within an hour.” Stiffly she walked over to the tree and reached out to pluck the first ornament off.
From behind she heard him mutter, “Christ.” And then louder, “It’s all right. Leave it. Just take it down after the weekend, okay?”
She lowered her hand. “Okay.”
Except it wasn’t.
That night and for the rest of the weekend, he avoided the living room. And for much of that time he avoided her. He didn’t simply go for his hour-long run on the beach on Saturday and Sunday. He also hit his personal gym to lift weights for another solid hour to emerge drenched in sweat. Normally he would have reserved his lifting, pumping, and deliciously salty sweat for her.
