The Harder They Fall

by Jill Shalvis

  “Trisha, what have you done now?”

  “You mean besides crashing into your car? Or destroying two floors?”

  “Yes. Exactly like that.”

  She laughed shortly. “I can’t believe you think I’ve done something bad.”

  “Well, have you?”

  She just studied her hot-pink fingernails silently, wanting him to suffer.

  “Trisha.” He put his hands on his hips, the elegantly tailored suit he wore stretching appealingly over his shoulders and back. “Tell me the house is still standing.”

  She caught it then, the laughter in both his voice and face. The teasing tone went a long way toward soothing her ruffled feathers, but she wasn’t finished. “The good news is that the foundation of the duplex is still intact.”

  She had the immense satisfaction of seeing him lose some color, of watching that wide, chiseled jaw drop open, but she couldn’t hold back her laughter.

  “Oh, you’re funny.” He smirked at her. “Are you going to tell me why you came here before I have to attend my meeting? Or are you going to make me sweat all day, wondering?”

  So the blonde was still waiting for him. “Wouldn’t want to make her wait, now, would we?”

  He looked at her blankly, clearly puzzled, for one long moment before he rubbed his chin slowly. If she didn’t know him better, she would have sworn he was biting back a smile.

  “You think my meeting is with Sheryl,” he said finally.

  “Is that her name?” Trisha shrugged indifferently. “It could matter less to me.” She smoothed down her bright pink jacket, studied her hopelessly scuffed pumps.

  “Naturally.” But Hunter just continued to stare at her, looking suspiciously pleased with himself.

  It was then she realized he had no intention of telling her a damn thing. Fine. “I just wanted to know about your car. I want to get estimates done for you so I can pay for the damage.”

  “Ah, yes, the fender.”

  “Don’t tell me you’d forgotten,” she said.

  “Did you know that red lipstick is nearly impossible to clean off a window?”

  “Sorry.” She smiled sweetly, innocently. “But I didn’t know your phone number and you didn’t answer my knock. The estimate, Hunter?”

  “It won’t be necessary,” he said evenly, slipping his hands into his trouser pockets.

  He’d already gotten them. Well, that was quick. She hoped it didn’t cost as much as she feared. Stupid, stupid, she thought. When would she learn to slow down? Reaching into her purse, she pulled out her checkbook, trying to remember exactly how much she had, and when she’d last reconciled her accounts.

  It’d been a while. Her motto—make sure the checkbook balances only if she had money—meant that she rarely had to perform the task. “How much?” she asked, fishing for a pen in her huge, overloaded purse. “I’ll just—”

  “My insurance will cover it,” he said quietly, reaching out to put his hand over the top of her purse. “Forget it.”

  His touch made her skin leap. It also increased her pulse rate uncomfortably. “I can’t do that,” she whispered.

  “Sure you can.” Bending around her, he opened her door, which served to remind her that he was in a hurry, and that he couldn’t wait to get rid of her. “It’s nothing, really,” he said.

  “Of course it’s not. Not when you’re late for your important meeting with the bombshell.” Good Lord, where had that come from?

  “Oh, Hunter!”

  At the sound of a voice and the rapid clicking of heels, Trisha looked up to see none other than the just-alluded-to “bombshell” herself. Smiling, Sheryl waved a piece of paper and blew Hunter a kiss from a neighboring car. “Thanks so much for the tuition, Uncle Hunter! Great-Aunt Gloria and Great-Uncle Patrick said you’d come through for me because you always come through for them, and they were right. Thank them for me, too, will ya?”

  “I’ll see you next quarter.” Hunter waved back, then turned to Trisha with raised eyebrows. “You were saying?”

  Oh, dear. She’d done it again. “I was saying I still have one foot left to stick in my mouth. Give me a minute and I’ll be sure to do it right here so you can get some enjoyment out of it.”

  She had to give him credit, he didn’t laugh at her. But he wanted to, she could tell. Unable to stand there feeling humiliated a second longer, she again turned away.

  And again he stopped her. “Trisha.”

  Good Lord, the way he said her name, as if it were golden honey dripping from his mouth. It completely undid her. “No, please,” she begged softly. “Don’t say anything. I’ve really got to go. About the car—”

  “I said, forget it,” he said firmly.

  Thankful, she slipped into the driver’s seat. “For now,” she agreed, because she so desperately needed to get away from him. “But I’m going to pay for that damage.” She managed a smile. “Maybe I’ll even throw in a car wash, to get any traces of lipstick off. It’s the least I can do.”

  She shut the door, but he leaned down and tapped on the glass with a patient look on his face. With a deep breath, she rolled down the window. Casually, he rested his arms on the door and filled the window with his face, so close she could have moved a fraction of an inch and kissed him.

  Light as a butterfly, he ran a finger over her lips, then gave her one of his rare, heart-stopping smiles. “Pink today,” he said, looking down at his finger.

  “Wild fuchsia, actually.”

  “It suits you. You have an incredible mouth, Trisha. It makes me think of things I have no business thinking.”

  Good thing she was already sitting because her legs became useless.

  His gaze roamed her features, then ran slowly down over her body, making her tingle in each place his eyes settled. When that gaze hit her exposed legs, covered only in sheer stockings, it heated, making her rethink her opinion about him never giving her a second look. He’d definitely just given her one. And a third look, and that third one had made taking another breath utterly impossible.

  The sudden sexual tension had to be stopped, if only for health reasons. She’d suffocate this way. And her heart was pounding so fast, it was about to explode. “Great-Aunt Gloria and Great-Uncle Patrick—your parents?” she asked.

  “One and the same.”

  The tone of his voice said back off, so did the sudden tension in his large frame, which served to rouse her hungry curiosity about him. “You never told me if you were close.”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  Obviously, he had hoped she’d drop it. “Are you?”

  “Depends on what you consider close.”

  “You’re being purposely difficult.”

  He cocked his head. “I’m very aware of that fact. My secretary says I define the word. According to her, I’m also obsessively single-minded, a bit arrogant, and more than a little annoying.”

  Trisha smiled, thinking his secretary must be a keen psychologist, if not a saint. “You’re changing the subject.”

  He sighed. “I’m trying.”

  “Do you give your parents money too?”

  He shrugged.

  “I thought you said you never let your family get the best of you.”

  “They haven’t.”

  “Looks to me as if you’re supporting the entire Adams clan,” she said.

  “I’ve got some extra money and they don’t have any. Doesn’t hurt me to help.”

  “You know something, Dr. Adams?”

  His eyes regained their sparkle at her haughty tone. “What, Ms. Malloy?”

  “I think you care a lot more than you let on. Which makes you kind and generous as well as difficult and annoying.”

  “What about arrogant?”

  “No,” she said slowly. “Not arrogant. Just basically quiet. Maybe even a little shy. People always mistake that for arrogance.”

  Startled, he let out a sound that might have been a muffled laugh. “My two ex-fiancées might disagree with you.”


  “Two?” she squeaked.

  “If I recall correctly,” he said dryly, “they both said nearly exactly the same thing when they left me. Cold, callous, and miserly with my affections.”

  They’d left him. “Did you love them?” she asked softly.

  Again, she’d startled him. “I thought so at the time, but in retrospect, I decided I know little to nothing about that particular emotion. Nor,” he added quietly, “do I want to.”

  Ah, now she understood, and her heart broke a little for him. “We’re not all bad. You just can’t ask everyone to marry you. You’ve got to be picky.”

  His mouth quirked. “Now you tell me.” He sighed. “Marriage isn’t for me. Getting engaged is just too damn expensive.”

  “You should have had them return the engagement rings.”

  A muffled sound that might have been an embarrassed laugh escaped him, and he avoided her gaze.

  “You let them keep the rings,” she said, not surprised. Hunter, a wealthy man in his own right, probably wouldn’t blink an eye at the cost of an engagement ring. “You, ah ... hadn’t started wedding plans on either of those marriages, had you?”

  “Maybe.”

  Now she understood. “And you covered the costs afterward, right?” That he didn’t answer told her everything. “How much?”

  “It’s considered tacky,” he said wryly, “to hound a man left at the altar with questions about how much he’s spent.”

  “Oh, Hunter,” she breathed, picturing this tall, proud man being stood up in front of his friends, his peers, his wretched family. “I’m so sorry.”

  “It’s definitely for the best,” he said with a small smile. “I could be shackled right now.”

  Yeah. And unavailable. Forget being sorry and thank God he’d been dumped. “That heart of yours is pretty big,” she whispered. “Add that to kind and generous.”

  “Don’t.” His voice sounded rough with emotion. “I’m not kind, or generous.”

  “I think you are.”

  Reaching through the open window, he flicked at her long, dangling pink earrings. The pad of his thumb touched the sensitive spot beneath her ear and a shiver raced through her.

  “You’re wrong,” he assured her, frowning with intense concentration as his thumb continued making soft strokes to her skin. “I just like to get everyone out of my hair. Nothing seems to do that quite like money.”

  He was making light of what he’d done, which touched her unbearably. She had to leave before she made a bigger fool of herself. “See you later, Hunter.”

  He didn’t smile, but something passed between them, something unspoken, something hot enough to steal what little breath she’d managed to regain.

  “See you later, Trisha.”

  Just as she turned to start the car his hand slid down softly over her hair, so lightly, she couldn’t decide if he’d really done it, or if it was a case of her overactive imagination.

  When she looked at him again, he’d straightened, his gaze impenetrable. “Try to stay out of trouble.”

  It coaxed a smile from her, and seeing this, he looked satisfied. Turning, he walked away, his long legs covering the ground with ease, his shoulders straight, his stride impossibly confident.

  He’d never looked more distant, more unattainable. Didn’t matter much, Trisha thought. No matter how many times she’d been forcibly reminded of their differences, she still wanted that man. Helplessly.

  Trisha had no idea why her world suddenly didn’t seem enough. She had the freedom that she’d yearned for all those years while she’d been browbeaten and restrained by her aunt and uncle.

  No longer did anyone tell her what to do, how to dress, whom to associate with. It was wonderful, and exhilarating. She had her own shop, which she ran as she wanted. As her own boss, she came and went as she pleased.

  And she hadn’t had to move once.

  She’d had all this while scorning the things she saw as tethers; things like marriage, having children, a man to love. None of those were for her.

  So what was wrong? Why wasn’t this happy, carefree life enough anymore? Why did she suddenly crave the very things she’d always sworn to avoid?

  It horrified her, these yearnings and needs she couldn’t control. Even worse, she had a terrible suspicion that they were due to Hunter Adams.

  He drew her, and it wasn’t simply because he was gorgeous. Despite her jokes about his profession, his intelligence drew her. So did his quiet decisiveness, his intuitiveness, his sensitivity. And then there was his surprisingly wicked sense of humor.

  Too bad every little thing about her wrecked the poor guy’s peace of mind. Because of that, there was no future for her with him except heartbreak and disappointment.

  Celia, sensing her friend’s melancholy, had splurged and brought Trisha a present meant to cheer her up—a basket filled with dozens of scented candles of all sizes, bath oil, and a bottle of wine. For distraction, Celia had insisted.

  Trisha never drank, never, but Celia had wanted her to consider this an experiment in relaxation.

  Alone in her apartment that night, Trisha stared at the pretty basket and its contents. With a fatalistic shrug, she set about preparing the bathroom. Finally, she stripped and sank into her tub. Glorious, scented bubbles rose, tickling her nose, and on every available surface candles flickered and glowed, casting a warm light about the room.

  Nose twitching, Duff moved cautiously into the bathroom, slowly inspecting each candle.

  “Watch that,” she warned, when the sleek but none too graceful cat moved toward the bottle of wine. She’d opened it and set it on the edge of the tub next to an empty glass.

  The cat moved closer, sniffing curiously.

  “Duff,” she said, watching him over the bubbles. “I’m not interested in a wine bath, or mopping the floor tonight. Go to bed.”

  The one thing that interested her tonight was peace and quiet. She wondered if she’d achieve it, or if her thoughts of Hunter Adams would hound her. Only if she let them, she assured herself, eyeing the bottle of wine.

  “What the hell,” she told Duff, who had jumped lightly on the edge of the tub to watch. She poured herself a glass. “How much damage can just a bit do?”

  Apparently quite a bit on an empty stomach, in a lightweight woman who never drank. Within fifteen minutes of finishing her glass, Trisha had the giggles.

  “Duff, sweetie...” Trisha squinted at the cat to make sure. “You’ve got four eyes.” Laughing, she gestured with her glass. “Pour me another, honey, will you? But make it a small one ‘cuz I’m driving.” She laughed uproariously at her own joke. “Oh, dear, this stuff seems to have gone straight to my head.”

  Duff sat on his haunches and studied her seriously.

  “Don’t bother getting up, Duffy, I’ll get it.” Still giggling, Trisha leaned forward and poured herself another glass, dribbling a good portion of it on the floor. “Darn.” Frowning, she leaned over the tub to inspect her spill and, in the process, swished half of her chilled glass of wine on her bare breasts.

  Sucking in air through her teeth, she looked at Duff. “That,” she said slowly, trying to breathe, “was not a good relaxation method.”

  The second glass went down much faster than the first, but gave her the hiccups, which annoyed her. “This drinking thing is definitely not all it’s”—hiccup—”cracked up to be.” Hiccup. Hiccup.

  Suddenly the smell of the bath oil made her feel a little sick. To top it all off, she’d forgotten to turn her heat on and her arms were covered with gooseflesh. “Duff, I’m thinking”—hiccup—”that this basket thing wasn’t such a great idea.”

  Her stomach grumbled loudly. Duff straightened, alarmed, peering into the tub at her belly.

  “Food,” she decided. “I need”—hiccup—”dammit, that hurt. I ... definitely need food.” With the room spinning wildly, Trisha rose from the tub, sloshing water over the side. “Oooh, it’s cold,” she said, then sat back down with
a splash. “No way am I getting out of here.”

  “Mew.”

  “Okay, okay ... but first, just one more little itty-bitty glass of wine,” she told the cat, who was studying her thoughtfully, as if she’d come from another planet. Chuckling at herself, she reached for the bottle ... and knocked it into the tub with a splash.

  “Oh, my,” she squealed, leaping up. “A wine bath for a wino!” She grabbed the now-empty bottle, set it on the floor. Reluctantly, she pulled the plug and stood there watching in fascination as the bubbles swirled down the drain.

  Then her world started spinning. “Whew!” she said, teetering wildly, befuddled. “I’m dizzy!”

  “Mew.”

  Bed, she decided hazily. Forget the food, she needed her bed, and she knew she had to get there fast.

  But suddenly she had four feet and no eyes. Well, hell, she thought. Nothing seemed to be working properly, including her legs. With the slow, calculated precision only a very drunk person can obtain, she stepped over the tub, carefully avoiding the flickering candles.

  “No need to set the spacey scientist’s house on fire,” she told Duff, slurring her words slightly. “That might just be the icing on the cake, you know?” Carefully, she blew out each of the candles. “I still can’t believe he got dumped”—hiccup—”twice. Those women must have been crazy.”

  She and Duff stared into the dying candles. Trisha’s thoughts turned muddled. “I wouldn’t have left him at the altar.”

  Duff backed away from her, curling his tail close to his body, giving her a hard, unsympathetic look.

  “Smart cat, keeping your paws safe,” she muttered, holding her hands way out in front of her as if to compensate for the fact that her world seemed to be revolving too quickly. “In my condition, I’m liable to trip over my own two feet.”

  Then she did exactly that.

  From her sprawled, graceless position on the floor, she lifted up on her elbows and stared balefully at the cat.

  He looked disgusted, making her burst out laughing at herself. “Didn’t Aunt Hilda warn me?” Hiccup. “She must have told me a thousand times how I had two left feet.”

  Relaxation had finally come, and now her muscles seemed reluctant to work. But she could hardly stretch out wet and naked on the bathroom floor for the night. Besides, the floor felt cold, damp, and the cold seeped quickly into her exposed skin. She shivered.