by Jamie Beck
“I understand. But be honest with me. Exactly how many cupcakes did you give my son today?”
Gentry stared into his intense hazel eyes. “Not near enough.”
Ian’s plan to slip up to his room unnoticed fell apart the moment he entered the condo. Gentry lounged on her sofa in pajama shorts and a tank top, a MacBook resting on her thighs, with a glass of red wine keeping her company.
“I thought you’d never come back.” She set the laptop to one side and crossed her legs. Raising her hands in a “hold the phone” manner, she launched into a recitation of her afternoon. “I have good, bad, and frustrating news. The good—Hunter didn’t kill me, and Colt went down easily tonight, thus the celebratory glass of pinot noir.” She pointed at the wineglass, then huffed, moving on. “The bad news? Hunter and Sara probably won’t let me be alone with Ty for months—maybe years. I’ve been crossing my fingers and toes that he has sweet dreams tonight instead of nightmares. Our whole beautiful morning ruined by one snap decision.” Gentry took a break to sip some wine.
“Gentry—” Ian began, but she cut him off without sparing him more than a passing glance, eager to finish her diatribe. She must’ve been storing up all afternoon, waiting for his arrival.
“And finally, the frustration. There are a lot of options for the crowdfunding, but I need your input. Different platforms require different things, like photos versus videos, details about the purpose, and so on. I couldn’t get very far on the scant information I have. Of course, I can make suggestions if you’d like, based on what I did learn.”
“Stop, please.” Ian held up his hand. “This can all wait.”
Her brows rose high on her forehead in surprise, as if he’d slapped her across her cheek. Only then did she take a breath and actually examine him.
“Sorry,” he mumbled, tossing the key on the entry table.
She set her feet on the floor, then narrowed her eyes. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing you need to worry about. I appreciate that you’re trying to help. I just . . . can’t . . . do this now.”
He started for the stairs, but in a few hurried strides, she beat him there.
“Hold up.” She rested one hand on the iron banister, turning her body into a tollgate, the price of which—information—he didn’t want to pay. “Tell me what happened.”
Another night, he might. But the last thing he needed just then was Gentry Cabot standing so close. “I know you’re used to getting your way, but not tonight. I want to be alone.”
“Whoa! Insults? Okay, Ian, what’s got you this upset?” She displayed uncommon patience as she reached for his hands, but he pulled away, making her frown. “I don’t understand. I thought we were—”
“What?” he snapped, head pounding so hard he thought his temples might explode. “Thought we were what?”
“Friends,” she finished, blinking twice.
Friends? Whatever they were or might ever have become, he doubted it was that. And while he’d been playing make-believe family today on a grassy knoll, his actual friends were in trouble.
“I’m off the clock now, so if you don’t mind, I’d like to go upstairs.” He immediately regretted that remark.
Her green eyes flickered from hurt to anger.
“I see.” Crossing her arms, she argued, “In that case, as your boss, I need to know if whatever hijacked your manners will affect your ability to take care of Colt tomorrow.”
“It won’t.” They stood at the base of the stairs, locked in a game of chicken. The night-blackened windows behind her reflected the pristine interior of this home. A home that wasn’t his and was as opposite of where he should be as possible.
She stepped aside and waved him on. “Fine.”
He brushed past her and took the steps two at a time, but not fast enough to avoid catching her staring at him from below. He’d apologize in the morning. Right now he needed to close his eyes and think.
He shut his bedroom door and flopped onto the mattress. The pillow-top support and snowy-white linens surrounded him in lavender-scented luxury. His skin itched from the sin of it; his hands balled into fists.
Marie Ormont’s friendly smile surfaced in his memory. A Kansas native and middle-aged mission worker, she’d spent the past four years running a home in Port-au-Prince that fed children two meals per day. Or she had, until this week. Some gang members had shot her in her car and had taken her ten-year-old son, Timmy.
Missing. Kidnapped. Disappeared. Whatever the word, the result was the same. Two more victims of the poverty and corruption that would never end if people like Ian got distracted and failed to make a difference. He punched the down comforter, as if flattening it would change a thing. Not that his being in Haiti would’ve made much difference for Marie.
Ian flung an arm over his eyes to relax. He remembered his father’s advice when, a decade earlier, a native they’d worked with had also “disappeared.” We do what we can, when we can, but we can’t save everyone. All we can do is honor their lives by continuing to serve those in need.
When that didn’t make him feel better, he rose from the bed and stalked into the bathroom.
He stripped out of his clothes, tossing them in the corner, and stepped into the enormous slate-and-glass shower stall. Four people could comfortably shower together here. Last week it had taken him several minutes to figure out all of its nozzles. Now he set them all to ninety-four degrees.
Any other day, he’d never stand there watching gallons of water flush down the drain for an unnecessary shower. Had he convinced himself that the citrus-scented shampoo and soap might wash away his angst or his worry for other friends who might become targets? More the fool.
The hot water didn’t even ease the tension in his shoulders.
He toweled off and then rummaged in his drawer for clean boxers. Pacing the room, he shook out his arms. Eventually, he pulled back the gauzy drapes and peered into the darkness, catching sight of his own reflection. He ran his hand through his hair and rubbed his jaw. Clean-shaven, another rare circumstance that he didn’t want to grow accustomed to.
Below him, a golden glow shone onto the lower deck from the living room. He heard nothing, though. Perhaps Gentry had fallen asleep on the sofa, like she’d done twice this past week.
Gentry. He hadn’t meant to snipe at her, but she kept pushing. Always seeking a way in. She didn’t respect boundaries—not her brother’s, not his. Infuriating.
And yet she was generous and playful. He’d been mesmerized today, brightened by his proximity to all of her sparkle and youthful exuberance. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d felt so free. She’d also spent her evening reading up on NGOs. For him.
He’d repaid her interest and efforts with insults. He’d been an ass, mostly out of fear of his own confused emotions.
His father wouldn’t understand. Not even a duty to his own wife and child had kept him from putting himself on the line for others. Yet here Ian sat, in this safe, lavish home, while others fought on in his absence—some losing their lives in the process. In the quiet, he wondered with a shudder whether his dead father could see into his heart, to the most unwelcome truth. To the part of him that wanted to stay put. That wanted the kind of happy moments and memories Gentry promised.
He laughed aloud at the ludicrous reality. Eight days. Eight days since meeting Gentry Cabot, and his life had run amok. She was a different kind of natural disaster, he supposed, but none of his skills could save him from the danger she posed.
Tap, tap, tap.
He glanced over his shoulder toward the bedroom door.
“Ian? I see your light on.” Beneath the slight space at the bottom of the door, a shadow fell from where her bare feet stood.
Relentless woman. Had she marched up here to punish him? He certainly deserved that.
He crossed the room and stood—hand on the doorknob, forehead pressed to the door—not knowing what he wanted, or what to say.
“Ian,” she said, her v
oice low. “Please.”
Closing his eyes briefly, he opened the door. She stood in the hallway, arms at her sides, chin raised, proud as ever. When her gaze dipped to his bare chest, she pressed her lips together and raised her eyes to meet his.
“I’m sorry I snapped at you,” he said.
She strode past him like she owned the place, which she did. When she reached the middle of the room, she stopped to stare at the indent that remained in the comforter. She pivoted toward him and drew a deep breath. “If anyone understands pushing people away on purpose, it’s me.”
He leaned against the wall by the door, tucking his hands behind his back. To discourage a long conversation, he kept quiet.
Gentry didn’t take the hint.
“Please tell me what’s wrong. You need to talk to someone so it doesn’t eat you up. Unfortunately for you, I’m all you’ve got right now, even if you don’t consider me a friend.” She sat on the bed, then stretched out on one side, supporting her head with her hand. “Believe it or not, I’m a good listener. So go on. Share.”
He caught himself gawking at her long form sprawled across his bed, before his brain circled back to the conversation. No way would he risk moving from his safe spot by the door.
Knowing Gentry wouldn’t stop until he satisfied her demand, he said, “Archer finally replied to my e-mail . . . with terrible news.”
He paused, expecting a barrage of questions and guesses. When she remained quiet, he shifted his weight to his other leg. “A friend of ours was shot, and her young son kidnapped.”
Gentry pushed herself upright, her forehead wrinkling above a frown. “Oh my God. That’s awful.”
“Yes.” There wasn’t more to say. Gentry didn’t know Marie. She didn’t know Haiti. She didn’t know a lot of things, and he had to remember that.
“Is she . . . Did she die?”
“Yes.” He nodded, trying not to picture Marie’s gentle face warped by fear and panic. “She was killed.”
Gentry flattened her hand against her chest. “How old is her son?”
“Ten.”
“Oh no!” Both hands covered her mouth. She shook her head as if that could change the story. “I’m so sorry. What happens now?”
“I don’t know. There will probably be a ransom demand, but sometimes people are taken and you never learn what happened.”
“Wait a second.” She scrambled to her feet, eyes filling with a different kind of alarm. “You mean this kind of thing is common?”
“Not as common as it was six or seven years ago, but it still happens. Especially in certain areas of the country.”
She raised her hands out from her sides. “Then you should not go back there, Ian.”
“No? Should I hide here, in obscene luxury, and let it be someone else’s problem?”
“Absolutely. Yes, you should. You’ve done more than most already. It’s okay to retire from that life now.” Her red hair seemed to vibrate with the vehemence of her voice.
“No.”
“Well, don’t count on me to help raise money so you can return to a place where you could get killed or kidnapped. And I won’t let my sister help you, either.”
“This isn’t about you, or what you will or won’t do to stop me.” He waved her off. “And you think you’re a good listener.”
“I did listen. I heard what you said, and what you didn’t say. What you never say. There’s something you’re not telling me. Something about why you’re determined to risk your life.” She crossed her arms. “Was Marie someone special?”
He rolled his eyes. “Who knew you were prone to romantic fancies?”
“Fine, if it isn’t love, then what’s driving you? You’re relentless. You’ve let it destroy your last relationship. Worse, you’re so fixated on it you punish yourself for enjoying anything normal.”
“I don’t punish myself.” He pushed off the wall and paced. “This conversation is over. I’m going back, with or without your help. If I were you, I’d use the next couple of weeks to figure out your situation with Colt, because I won’t be here much longer.”
“I never expected you would be. But am I supposed to let you fly off and never know what happens to you?”
“You didn’t even know me eight days ago.”
“But I know you now.”
“You’ll forget about me just as quickly, especially once Smith shows up.” He might be throwing wild jabs at her, but he just clocked himself with that one.
Gentry caught his arm and gently pushed him against the wall, crowding him with her heat and perfume and all that loose hair. “How can you be so brave about some things yet such a coward now?”
“How am I a coward?”
“Pretending we’re not friends. Pretending you don’t watch me when you think I’m not paying attention.” Gentry flexed the power of her physical appeal, which made her particularly lethal. She placed her hands on the wall on either side of him, pressing forward until they were nose to nose. “I don’t run into disaster areas, but at least I’m not afraid to admit that I won’t be forgetting you any faster than you’ll forget me.”
Her voice had gone husky at the end of her rant, and her gaze dipped to his mouth. “If you’re hurting, let me help you feel better. If you want to make something good of the life you’ve been given, follow your heart, Ian.”
He might be standing there, nearly naked, practically skin to skin with a scantily dressed goddess, but he still had willpower. Or so he thought until she pressed her lips to his clavicle.
God help him, his hands shot to her hips. He gripped the flimsy cotton fabric in his palms and then let it go, skimming his hands around the curve of her ass. She held still, letting him touch her. Eyes wide-open, her gaze locked with his, she held herself mere inches away from him.
Her breath heated his skin. The bedroom turned hotter than Haiti, with his heart beating like a boula drum.
Gentry’s hands remained planted on the wall as he traced his fingers along the outline of her waist and up her spine. He hesitated when his hands reached the underside of her breasts. Three heavy breaths later, he tenderly cupped the weight of her in his palms. The thinnest cotton separated their skin, yet somehow touching her like this seemed infinitely more intimate than if he’d removed her clothes.
When his thumbs brushed against the buds of her nipples, her eyelids fluttered. Her response unlocked the last bit of his resistance, so he kissed her.
She fell against him, her fingers threading through his hair. Thankfully, the wall supported them, because his knees were giving out.
Chapter Nine
Risk
According to Merriam-Webster: possibility of loss or injury : PERIL
According to me: kissing Ian
A year of celibacy urged Gentry to climb Ian’s body like a tree. She would’ve if her arms and legs weren’t laden with want. Whether her long dry spell or Ian’s magic touch caused her full-body inferno almost didn’t matter. Except it did, because she suspected that making love with Ian would be a singular experience—figuratively and literally.
In almost any other case, that result would fall somewhere between “fine with her” and “perfect.” With Ian, she grudgingly admitted that a one-and-done would not, in fact, be enough. Right now her heart and head were too steeped in happiness hormones to care about self-preservation.
His firm chest and shoulder muscles flexed with each pass of her hand. The growly sound at the back of his throat made her wet with longing.
“Ian,” she panted, now running her hands down his waist. Her body trembled with eager anticipation, and that rarely happened.
Gentry reached between his legs to discover that every part of his body was long and hard.
“Wait.” He grabbed her wrist, prying her hand away. “Stop.”
Ian shook his head as if awakening from a dream—or possibly a nightmare.
“Why?” She leaned closer, hoping another kiss would clear whatever imaginary hurdle he’d hit.<
br />
For a second, she thought she’d won the little contest, but he pushed back again, this time breaking free and stepping away.
“We shouldn’t do this.” His hungry gaze roamed her body. He pressed the heels of his palms to his eyes. “Go downstairs now, please.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I think you do. I’m gone as soon as I can afford to go. You’re hunting for Colt’s dad. This”—he gestured between them—“can’t lead anywhere good.”
“Oh, I beg to differ. I think it’s pretty obvious we could both benefit from a good f—”
“Don’t say it, Gentry.” He cut her off. “Don’t reduce all this to that.”
“So you admit that ‘this’ is something?”
Ian crossed his arms and looked at his feet. She supposed that was as much of an answer as she would get tonight.
Options came to mind. A: strip and seduce. B: throw that stupid baseball on his dresser at him. Or C: sarcasm. Any of those things would get his attention and give her a chance to wear him down. But Ian was unlike any man she’d ever met, and although she didn’t always understand him, she suspected those antics would push him further away.
She stood there, waiting for him to do or say something. When he refused to even meet her gaze, she walked from the room. Closing his door behind her, she left him with his precious solitude.
That might be the most perplexing thing of all. She’d been alone for much of her life—granted, some of it self-imposed in a twisted kind of rebellion. Still, she couldn’t imagine choosing it now, when faced with the possibility of something genuine. Not that she had much practice with genuine relationships. Could “this” be one if neither of them ran or pushed the other away?
Ian swore he wouldn’t be anything more than a cameo appearance in her life.
A vivid, memorable one—like Smith—but still merely temporary. Temporary had always been enough before. But despite his behavior tonight, Ian had swept into her world and opened her heart.
She couldn’t pretend that loneliness didn’t hurt anymore. Her siblings’ loving relationships glittered like another medal for an achievement that eluded her. Her only solace now was Colt. With him around, she’d never be totally alone again.
