Can't Buy Me Love

by Molly O'Keefe

  “Okay. But you have to have a hobby. You breed dogs? Knit? Play bridge?”

  “Does trying to keep my star center out of jail count?”

  “No. Well, maybe. Is he often in jail?”

  “Often enough.”

  “All right, that’s half a hobby. What else?”

  “That’s it, Tara. I play hockey, work out, and try to keep Gates out of jail.”

  “And I thought my life was boring.” She laughed, she couldn’t help it; honestly, what a cliché.

  “Why is that funny?” he asked, the smile gone. “I love what I do. I don’t want to think about anything else. I don’t need anything else.”

  The ferocity surprised her; the hair on her arms stood on end in a sudden prickly awareness. She should let it go, like a scab that wasn’t quite ready to come off.

  But she couldn’t help herself.

  “No wife? No little Lucs carrying hockey sticks and wearing miniature suits?”

  “No wife,” he said. “No family.”

  “Friends?”

  “I have my team, Tara. They’re all I need.”

  “Fair enough,” she said, slightly chagrined by his honesty. And at the same time a little sad for him. If he’d been a footnote in his father’s life, he was doing the same to everything in his own life that didn’t involve being on the ice.

  “What about you?” he asked.

  “No wife for me either,” she said, backing up and away from the thin intimacy they’d built, the fragile bridge between them.

  “Where are your friends?”

  “He just died.”

  The easiness between them scattered like crows after a gunshot.

  His mouth shut so hard she heard his back teeth click, and she wished she’d never started this conversation. Wished she’d never gotten in this car. They should have driven separately. Or, better yet, Luc should have acted like a reasonable adult rather than a jerk and just taken care of his inheritance when he was supposed to.

  “The private investigator told me you grew up in Arkansas.”

  She twisted her body toward the window, giving him every signal to shut the hell up.

  “Where?”

  “Does it matter?”

  He glanced at her. Her distorted body reflected back at her in his slick sunglasses. “I’m not passing judgment.”

  “A trailer.” She stared out her window. “In the middle of nowhere.”

  Her cell phone beeped and she fumbled in her bag for it. Another email from her Nigerian prince, but Luc didn’t need to know that.

  “Excuse me, but I need to do a little work.”

  “Tara Jean,” he said after a long moment. “If you’re angry about what happened in the arena—”

  “I don’t care about what happened in the arena.” She didn’t bother looking up from her cell phone.

  She could feel his gaze on her, as if it were his large, hot hands. And she wanted to scream because she was smarter than this. Savvy to the wayward temptation of a handsome man’s grin. What she was a sucker for, though, was his quiet and startling interest in her. If kissing him was a mistake, then liking him was a disaster.

  The rest of the drive passed without a word between them until Luc asked for directions to the lawyer’s office.

  Once Tara had hand delivered Luc to a very pleased Randy Jenkins, she headed out into Uptown and got herself an iced coffee and, because that drive was harder than she’d thought it would be, a donut.

  With sprinkles.

  Because sometimes a girl needed her crutch.

  She sat on a bench off McKinley, outside the lawyer’s office, and watched the world stroll by.

  “Well, well, well,” a voice purred over her shoulder. Her heart collapsed in her chest and she choked on her breath, drowning in panic.

  Run! the Demon screamed.

  Desperate, her eyes searched the faces of the men walking past, praying one of them would see the danger she was in.

  “If it isn’t sweet Jane Simmons … oh, wait, that’s not you anymore, is it? It took me a while to track you down, Tara Jean. I have to say, I don’t much like the new name. Makes you sound like a stripper.”

  “How the hell did you find me here?” Her voice cracked to pieces in panic.

  “I’ve been watching that ranch for about a week. You don’t leave the place, except to go home. And your apartment has got all those locks, Jane, honestly. Someone would think you were scared of something.” His smile showed every tooth. “This is the first chance I’ve had to catch you alone.”

  He sat beside her, a thin man, handsome to her once, terribly handsome, with his aging high-school-football-star looks. Brown hair with a hint of gold, bright white teeth, a dimpled smile. Those eyelashes that stretched for miles. It was all a façade hiding ugliness so profound it had destroyed her life.

  The donut she’d eaten began to crawl up her throat. Get up! The Demon screamed. Get up right now!

  Every muscle tensed to stand.

  “Hey now, honey.” Dennis put a hand over hers and she yanked it free, repulsed by his touch.

  “Don’t touch me,” she said through her teeth.

  “Fine.” He dropped the act, but slid in closer. “But don’t go running off. We have some things to talk about.”

  She would have vomited on him if her body weren’t frozen.

  “You’ve been busy since I’ve been gone.” He stretched his arm across the bench, as if they were just two people chatting. “Luc Baker, that’s a hell of a mark.”

  “Luc is not a mark,” she said, finding her voice and a new source of fear. Luc getting swirled into these waters was not something she wanted to consider. Ever.

  “His sister, then?” Dennis asked, and ice rolled down her spine. “The stick lady, what’s her name? Victoria?”

  While Dennis had been watching her, he’d been watching the whole Baker family. And of course he’d assume the worst.

  Suddenly, she felt her strength return like a cold wind coming down from the mountains. This man was a worm and he was dangerous, but he couldn’t hurt her in front of all these people. And she wasn’t timid Jane Simmons anymore. She wasn’t this man’s doormat. Not anymore. Not ever again.

  “Go away.” Her voice was metal and steel and it rang out in the sunshine. “Honestly, move on, Dennis. You and I are done.”

  “Come on, now, baby. Do you think I’m just going to let you go? We made real money—”

  “No.” She shook her head, resolute in this of all things. “I’m not doing that anymore.”

  “Right,” he drawled, clearly not believing her. “Fine. But you owe me some money. From that last geezer.”

  “There is no money, Dennis. I gave it back.” She smiled slightly, pleased to have thwarted him, to have taken something he wanted and tossed it away where he could never get it.

  “Now, Jane.” His fingers reached for her cheek and she jerked from his touch. “Last time you told me that line, you got hurt.”

  “You beat the shit out of me, Dennis,” she snapped. “Put me in the hospital. I’d say we’re even.”

  “Even? That was ten grand—”

  “Look at me, Dennis, I’m not doing that anymore. It’s over. There’s no money.”

  She forced herself to meet his gaze and not back down.

  You don’t scare me, she thought, not anymore. He couldn’t hurt her on this crowded street, not really, and she wasn’t about to let him back into her life. It was as if her own strength had sealed up the cracks where he’d always found entrance.

  He was so little, sitting there in his second-hand clothes.

  “You’ve gone clean.” He nodded his head, as if he was in total approval, but she knew better. He’d taught her better. “That’s admirable.”

  “Stay away from me, Dennis,” she said. “I’ve got a new life.”

  He lurched toward her, his hands clenching her wrist so hard the bones rubbed, and she gasped at the sudden pain. “You got shit, Jane. A woman like you
wants to believe you can do better. But you can’t. You’re good for one thing, and it’s best when it’s dirty.”

  She didn’t realize she was on her feet, blinking in shock, until he switched his grip on her hand, as if they were shaking hands. No one watching would think it was a manacle holding her to the past, keeping her in the filth.

  “Tara Jean?”

  She stiffened in panic. Luc. It was Luc behind her.

  Dennis stood, smiling like a salesman, and she wondered if Luc saw that or if he only saw the charm.

  So many people only saw the charm until it was too late.

  But Luc was frowning down at Dennis from his professional-athlete height. Worry in his eyes. She didn’t need Luc curious, or worried, or involved in her situation with Dennis in any way.

  So she put on a big, bright happy smile. “Luc, this is an old friend of mine. Dennis. Dennis Murphy.”

  “Luc Baker,” Dennis said, holding out his hand. “I’m a huge fan.”

  Luc’s giant paw swallowed the smaller man’s hand and Luc glanced over to Tara. She smiled, hoping—praying actually—that it was convincing.

  “Nice to meet you,” he said, and Tara took a deep breath.

  “Well, Dennis, it was good to catch up,” she said. “Best of luck to you.”

  He opened his mouth as if to say something, turn some screw, slide some blade between her ribs, but she pulled Luc close, putting her arm through his, insinuating that this big, giant professional athlete at her side would squash Dennis like a bug if she wanted. If she just said the word.

  Dennis closed his mouth.

  Giddy and light-headed, she leaned on Luc’s arm as they walked back to the car, feeling as if she’d just fought the devil.

  And won.

  chapter

  13

  Tara was good, Luc would grant her that. She was calm and cool sitting in the passenger seat of the SUV. She didn’t fidget, she didn’t seem in anyway disturbed.

  But she was one unsettled woman.

  Maybe it was the total stillness of her, the way she didn’t play with her hair or cross her legs over and over again, the way she had on the drive to Dallas. A girly, strawberry-scented tornado in the front seat determined to distract him from the road.

  Now, she just stared out the front window, her face blank.

  Eerily blank.

  “Who was that guy?” Luc asked.

  “Dennis?” Her smile was a work of art, nostalgic as if the name were attached to fond memories.

  But he didn’t believe her. Not for a moment.

  He nodded, watching her and the road in equal measure.

  “An old friend from before I started working for your father.”

  “What’s he do?”

  “A little bit of everything.” She waved her hand, like it was all nothing. “Real estate, investments; he’s a jack-of-all-trades.”

  “Did you date?”

  Now she looked at him, her blue eyes carefully blank. “Does it matter?”

  “I guess not, you just seem …” He shrugged. “Ruffled.”

  Beneath the lushness, her laugh was decidedly tinny.

  “Seeing him brought back a lot of old memories, that’s all.” She ran a hand through her hair, pushing it away from her face, and then squared her shoulders as if she’d just shed some skin. “What did Jenkins have to say? Did he help you with ice time?”

  It was a blatant change of subject and part of him resisted, wanting to pull the truth out of her like a bad tooth, but he realized it was pointless. He was leaving in five months, and maybe … well, after what he’d heard in the lawyer’s office, maybe she’d be leaving sooner.

  “He was glad to help. He knows the manager of the rink where his son plays. Says she’ll help and be discreet.”

  She smiled at him like a cat with a mouth full of cream, like a woman who owned the ground she stood on. And he couldn’t help but stare at her. Couldn’t help but want her.

  “Thank you, Tara.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “You’re not getting much of a salary.” Immediately the smile dropped from her face.

  “You talked about me?”

  “Baker Leather, mostly. You’re earning the same amount Lyle paid you four years ago. And forty thousand a year ain’t much.”

  “Well, the company pays for my apartment and utilities.” She shook her head. “Why does any of this matter?”

  “Because I can’t sell the land for a year while it’s in escrow, but I can liquidate the assets of the estate. And Baker Leather is an asset.”

  “Why would you do that?” For the first time he saw real panic in her face and it caught him flat-footed. He could only stare. “You said you didn’t care enough about the business to ruin it out of spite.”

  Ah, the million-dollar question. Why was he doing this? She was like a hedgehog—rub her one way and you were fine, rub her the other and you got nothing but spikes stuck in your hand. He thought about how she’d bristled and shut down when he’d asked her where she was from.

  She had a lot of secrets beneath those spikes.

  “As forty-percent owner of the company, you could walk away with a big chunk of money if we liquidate,” he told her.

  Her big blue eyes stared at him, unblinking. As though if she looked away for even a moment, he might yank the rug right out from beneath her.

  “You could start over somewhere new. Put this place behind you.”

  Her laughter was surprising, tired and sore, as if it had walked a long road to see the light of day.

  “I’ve started fresh more times than I care to count, Luc.” Her beauty was suddenly threadbare, but what he saw beneath the glamour was infinitely more appealing. It was tough. And honest. “I have no interest in putting this place behind me.”

  “But—”

  “I understand you hate your father and I’m sure you have plenty of good reason, but he gave me the chance for a new life. And I want that life.”

  He looked out across the highway, the black asphalt splitting the dirt and sage. Heat waves rose up off the road, the sun brutal and unforgiving. Not much lived out here, nothing that was pretty or fragile or easy, anyway.

  But it was her life. Her choice. He truly didn’t care enough to try to influence her one way or another.

  “All right then,” he said. “We won’t liquidate.”

  “Why are you doing this? Offering to liquidate for my benefit? Because I won’t sleep with you out of gratitude. Or to keep you from changing your mind.”

  “You’ve got a really dirty mind, Tara Jean.”

  “You’re saying it never occurred to you to use this to leverage me into your bed.”

  He laughed, stroking his chin, wishing with a palpable force that he could stroke her just as easily. But her spines were up.

  “I’ve thought about you in my bed almost every minute since I met you,” he said. “And should you be so lucky as to sleep with me—”

  “Lucky?” She scoffed and he turned to her, smiling slightly just to watch her bristle even more.

  She was a gorgeous hedgehog, that was for sure. And fun to tease.

  “Very. And there wouldn’t be any ulterior motives.”

  “You’re a fool, Luc Baker.” She turned away, staring out the window at the desolate landscape she apparently wanted to call home.

  “Yeah. You’re probably right.”

  Jacob hated the ballet classes Victoria had signed him up for. But the sight of him in his black sweatpants and white T-shirt standing at the barre surrounded by girls in pink tutus so delighted Victoria, she had refused to switch him out of it.

  “Excuse me,” a man whispered, and the sealed envelope from Webster and McGraw Law Offices in New York floated under her nose. “You dropped this.”

  Victoria stared at the letter from the lawyers handling the civil case against her husband’s company. It had arrived this morning and she’d tucked it in her purse and ignored it. Because she knew without openi
ng it what it said.

  We have not yet received your monthly expense report and your receipts.

  The ongoing aspect of her humiliation was having to submit a spending report to the prosecutors, who held her accountable for every penny.

  Nobody cared that she’d had no idea what her husband was doing. Nobody believed her when she’d said there was no more money. She’d sold the houses and the furniture and given all the money to the prosecutors to distribute to the people who were bankrupted by Joel’s Ponzi scheme.

  She was playing fair. Nice, even. Complying above and beyond.

  But, still, every month she had to be held accountable. Her purchases scrutinized, down to the last tampon.

  Reluctantly, she took the envelope, sparing a smile for the man standing next to her. And then did a subtle double take.

  “No problem,” he said.

  No, she thought, no problem at all. Standing beside her was one of the most handsome men she’d seen in a long time. And he was smiling.

  At her.

  Brown hair, pretty blue eyes, and eyelashes that went on forever. And his smile … his smile was kind. His smile made her smile, and that was pretty damn rare in her life. She felt something tight and closed off and nearly dead in her soul opening up, reaching out.

  “Do you mind if I …” he gestured to the seat next to her.

  “Sure,” she said, tucking her bag under her seat. “Is your daughter taking ballet?”

  “Niece,” he said, pushing the sides of his handsome gray suit jacket away from his hips as he sat. Armani.

  Nice. His brown shoes were Cole Haan and his watch was Tag Heuer.

  She summed him up in an instant and felt selfish and miserly, but her heart went pitter-patter at the sight of all that wealth.

  “Abby is the blonde facing the wrong way.” He pointed through the glass to the little girl three down from Jacob who was staring out the window while everyone else was looking at the teacher. “We need to do more work on knowing left from right,” he sighed.

  She laughed, and his attention made her blush like a peach.

  An awkward-schoolgirl peach.

  “And you?” he asked.

  “Oh, I know my left from right.”