by Carol Caiton
"Absolutely."
"Lydia, I'm not you!"
"You'd rather be dull and boring and wallowing in guilt?"
"I'd rather be who I am! How could you have done that? To me, to Mom and Dad . . . . I'm so mad at you right now, I'd dump you out of your wheelchair if we weren’t in a public place. It's not funny, damn it! I nearly ended up out on the street. I had nowhere to go. Can you begin to guess how scared I was?"
"And look at you now. Look how you've changed. You're beautiful. You're confident. Look at your clothes, your hair, even your skin . . . . Never in a million years would you look the way you do now if you'd stayed at home. You were only half alive."
"I was plenty alive!"
"Ha! You never would have talked to me like this before. You never would have talked to anyone like this. You were meek. You were placid. You never argued about anything."
"Well I've had plenty to argue about lately. —Lydia, Mom threw me out of the house. And Dad . . . ." She shook her head with sadness.
"Mom and Dad would never let you live on the streets."
"You didn't see them that morning."
"Maybe not, but I've seen them since. And I sat with them through the worst Thanksgiving ever. I'm glad it's over."
"What happened?"
"Mom cried all through dinner, and that wasn't the first time." Her sister frowned. "The thing is, I did it for me as much as I did it for you, and I did it for you as much as I did it for me. I've been trying to make this happen for three years."
Three years ago she'd still been in college.
"I wanted you to meet someone, get married, and move out. But you worked, you went to school, you studied, and you slept. That was your life. And it didn't change when you graduated. Every time you handed over your paycheck, I hated my useless legs. I hated how you made me feel. Like I was everyone's burden. Like I was only half a human being. And don't you dare say you're sorry. I'm not half a person. I'm a productive member of society. I have a good job, good friends, and a sister I adore who gave up everything for me."
She reached across the table and clasped Nina's hand. "You gave too much, Nina. I know you thought you had to. But Mom and Dad shouldn't have taken it—not all of it anyway. Maybe it got to be habit. Maybe they were scared and worried about me and your contribution gave them less to worry about. But they should have looked for another way after a while. They should have looked at you and seen what was happening. You needed to move out as much as I needed you to move out and I swear I won't speak to you again if you start sending money home when you start your new job. We're okay. We've cut back on a few things, and we're doing just fine."
Nina looked down at her sister's hand wrapped around her own. She didn't know how she felt about the things Lydia said. Part of her—a big part—was angry. The panic of feeling trapped, of finding herself out on the street was too recent. The hurt and strain between her and her parents was close to unforgiveable. And she was still dependent on the good will of others for a place to live.
"RUSH was perfect, Nina. Or as perfect as it could get. It just took a lot of time and patience to make you want it too." She released Nina's hand and reached for her sandwich. "So if you're not there anymore, where are you living?"
And just that quickly Lydia was back to her normal jaunty self, as though everything was fine and dandy now that she'd confessed the intricacies of her plot.
Nina decided in that moment that if God intended to punish her for scoring points off a handicapped woman, then so be it. Lydia owed her a few.
"I met a man," she said, carefully choosing words that would put an intimate spin on her relationship with Ethan. "He's one of the owners of RUSH, and I'm living with him."
It was true. Every single word. And the absolute pleasure of watching the sandwich slip out of Lydia's fingers, hit the edge of the table, then drop onto her lap was wickedly gratifying.
It was still gratifying, Nina admitted, listening to the garage door slide down behind her. In fact, she was very pleased with herself.
Over the course of the afternoon she'd had a lot of time to consider her conversation with Lydia. During the drive across town to have her car serviced, she'd tried to recall just when it was that her sister first began talking about RUSH. Then, while she sat in the waiting room breathing the odors of grease and old oil, she tried to separate all the lies from the truth.
By the time her car was ready she'd calmed down enough to remember her own part in the decision to join RUSH . . . her own vanity and selfishness. Lydia may have played puppet-master, but Nina's strings hadn't been that difficult to pull.
On the positive side, her sister's confession added much to the peace budding inside her . . . a lessening of guilt so new and fragile, she cradled it carefully.
But she'd taken a firm stand when the subject came back around to money. Once she had a chance to figure out her budget, she intended to send a check to her parents every month. And if Lydia thought she'd grown stubborn and argumentative, well, she could blame the two human bulldozers who kept trying to override her decisions.
Turning off the engine, she looked down at her lap and stared at the double stitching on the outer seam of her jeans. The present course of her life was still shaky and apt to change, but she had two clear goals—working, and finding a place to live. If she could stick it out at Ethan's house for just a little while, and if she could keep Simon at a comfortable distance, she might finally be able to enjoy the independence she'd paid for so heavily.
She looked up at the dashboard clock. Seven forty-five. Ethan must be starving. He may have gone ahead and eaten but if he hadn't, she'd better be prepared to find him seriously drunk.
Letting herself into the house, she called his name but got no answer. She turned on the kitchen light, set her purse on the counter and considered letting him fend for himself. She really didn't want to go looking for him. She'd done that before and she'd paid for it. Twice.
"Ethan?" she called out again, louder this time. But again she got no response.
She stood at the island, undecided. Then she scolded herself for feeling obligated to check on him. The man had been taking care of himself for years. She wasn't responsible for his eating or drinking habits. But she'd made a deal and he expected a hot meal each night. She certainly wasn't doing anything else to repay him for taking her in.
Sighing, she started toward his wing of the house. What was it about her personality that so readily accepted guilt? Other people brushed things off with a simple apology and went on with their lives. Why couldn't she do that? She wasn't responsible for the world.
She rapped firmly on his door and called his name in a loud, crisp tone. "Ethan!"
The door flew open. "What's wrong?" he demanded, clearly braced for trouble.
Her artist's eye took in his wet, uncombed hair, the drops of water clinging to the dark springy hair matting his chest, measured the span of his shoulders, registered the shadows that defined his muscles and ribs, and followed the taper to the waistband of a silky pair of gray boxers, down to thick, corded thighs, then back up to study the silky gray boxer shorts.
He hissed in an audible breath.
Horror-stricken, she jerked her gaze up to his. "I'm sorry! I'm sorry!"
She whirled around, fixing her eyes on the opposite wall, and knew every shade of red in the universe burned in her face.
"I didn't mean it," she gasped. "I was just— I wasn't checking—"
"The hell you weren't."
"You opened the door like that!"
"Well don't expect me to apologize."
"You shouldn't have opened the door."
"This is my fucking house."
"I know. Yes, I know."
"If I want to, I'll walk around buck naked."
She stared straight ahead.
"I was in the shower."
"Yes, I guessed that."
"The door was closed for your benefit."
"I . . . . Thank you."
&nbs
p; "But don't expect me to start putting the toilet seat down."
The toilet seat?
The door snapped shut with a sharp, distinct click and she jumped. Then she jumped again when it whooshed back open so fast, it drew a breeze through her hair.
"Where the hell have you been? It's eight o'clock."
"Out," she sputtered, reminding herself not to turn around. "I was out."
"I know you were out."
She opened her mouth to answer but her shock-frozen brain suddenly thawed. To hell with his bedroom, his boxer shorts, and his damned toilet seat!
Spinning around, she planted her hands on her hips and glared up at him. "Don't you dare try to ruin my day! I'm going to buy a cowbell to call you to dinner from now on!"
She whirled on the ball of her foot. But Ethan's hands shot out, grabbing her arms from behind, and twisted her back to face him. "You ever ring a goddamn bell to get my attention and I'll wrap it around your neck."
She raised her chin, stared him right in the eye, and angled one brow, using the same imperious gesture Marguerite employed to intimidate the R-links.
His eyes took on an unholy light. "Don't think I won't, sweetheart."
It had to be stubbornness that kept her standing there . . . the temptation to push him, to test him. Or it could have been the dangerous purr in his rough tone . . . or the endearment wrapped inside his mocking words.
Whatever it was that spurred her moment of madness, the glitter in his eyes darkened, then melted to a stunning, smoldering heat.
She grew very, very still, hardly daring to breathe.
His eyes lowered, drifted to her mouth and lingered. Then moved slowly back up.
He wanted to kiss her. She could see it. She could sense it with everything inside her, felt it in the flexing of his fingers around her arms.
Her mind flashed to Thanksgiving afternoon, to the brush of his body against hers and the erection that had shocked her. And suddenly she knew it hadn't been simple proximity that stirred his body to arousal. Ethan was attracted to her. He wanted her.
Her lips parted. She lowered her own eyes to his mouth. Masculine. Tempting. Sexy when he quirked that half smile and teased her.
The door slammed shut in her face.
One minute she was waiting for him to kiss her, the next she was staring at six raised panels and a doorknob.
Eyes wide, she stood for a moment, surprised, confused by the abrupt transition from passion to . . . rejection?
This couldn't be happening. What was she doing?
She turned and made her way swiftly back to the kitchen. She'd wanted that kiss. And Ethan had wanted it too. She was certain of it. He was attracted to her and she . . . God, she didn't know what she was. Half the time he was drunk. The other half he yelled at her or taunted her. How could she be drawn to a man like that?
She started to open the refrigerator then stilled.
How could she be drawn to two men at the same time?
Absently she began removing G's leftovers but decided she wasn't ready to face Ethan. She prepared one plate, heated it, and set the table for one.
Reaching for her purse, she removed the bag of M&M's she'd bought while waiting for her car to be serviced. It was hardly an apology, but leaving it beside his plate just felt right . . . as though it helped to restore some semblance of normalcy to their situation. She seemed to be finding a lot of reasons lately to communicate this way.
It wasn't until she turned off the foyer light and started toward her bedroom that she realized there had been no smell of alcohol on his breath.
* * *
Ethan dropped down onto the bench at the foot of his bed and shut his eyes.
She was making him crazy. She was one of those women with so much fire and moxie she struck sparks off a man with nothing more than that mutinous little chin and a haughty brow. He should have given her a good shake. If he had, she would have twisted out of his hold and run off.
But he hadn't.
Like a fool, he'd held on one second too long. One second. That was all it had taken to make the shift from antagonism to desire—a mutinous chin and a haughty brow. From one moment to the next she'd pushed his buttons and just like that, brought him to heel. It happened so fast, he hadn't had a chance to guard his expression until it was too late.
Simon may have introduced her to the pleasures of sex, but her body was hungry for more. She was curious now. Living together in the same house had kindled a mutual awareness between them. He opened his eyes and stared at the carpet. Despite his calculated attempts to push her away, she'd made up her mind to try out her newfound knowledge with him.
He'd give a lot to know what was going on in her mind right now. She'd shown no sudden shock of discovery this time. No flash of confusion. She'd connected the dots and the attraction he felt for her had registered.
He didn't need this. He didn't want it. He wanted his house back. He wanted his privacy. He wanted RUSH's linking program to match him with someone so he could focus on anyone other than Nina Millering.
CHAPTER 31
Hovering in the hallway, Nina listened to Ethan move about in the kitchen. She'd been hiding there for several minutes, listening to the occasional chink of his fork against the plate she'd prepared. She was glad he'd decided to eat, but he was clearing up now. If she wanted to talk to him, she'd better push her embarrassment aside and go out there.
Padding into the living room where a single lamp spread its glow over the entire room, she wondered if he'd forgotten to turn it off. She made her way through the dining room to the two huge columns framing the entrance and stopped. He was standing beside the sink, her small bag of M&M's upended as he dumped what was left into his mouth.
Her heart gave a little lurch.
"Ethan?"
He stilled for a moment, then lowered the candy wrapper and dropped it onto the countertop.
Clearly he was no happier to see her than she was to be seen. His dark eyes met hers with polite inquiry, cool and distant, as though they were strangers and she just happened to know his name.
She moistened her lips. "Do you by chance have a key to Simon's house?"
He seemed to measure his response before answering. "Yes, I have a key. Why?"
"Because I've decided to move in with him."
Something flickered in his eyes. Then it was gone. "Simon's in New York."
"Yes, I know. But he wanted me to move in, and I thought—" Solemnly, she gazed into his eyes. "I thought it would be a good idea."
She watched as he read between the lines and registered everything she hadn't said. After a short silence he gave a single nod. "You're right. It's a good idea."
It wasn’t relief she felt, but it wasn't dread either. She'd made the right choice and Ethan's quick compliance confirmed it.
"Are you packed and ready to go?"
"I've got a couple of boxes ready, but I'll need about an hour for the rest."
"Show me what you've got and I'll start loading the Hummer. It'll take a few trips." He gave her a wry smile. "You'll get that ride you wanted."
A thirty-second roll down the street wasn't the ride she'd had in mind, but she answered with a crooked smile. "You've got a skewed sense of humor."
He reached over the sink, scooped up the bar of soap from its ceramic dish, and held it up. "Then we're evenly matched, sweetheart."
Their eyes locked and held. Then he turned away.
Sweetheart.
With a mental shake she headed for her bedroom. But she hadn't missed the teasing warmth in his eyes. For just a few seconds he'd been the Ethan of Thanksgiving Day and it soothed some of her uncertainty. She'd made the right choice. They were back on track again without the threat of attraction looming between them.
Half an hour later they made the first trip. She hadn't quite finished packing yet but she rode with him in the Hummer so she could choose a bedroom and show him where to put everything. He might think it odd when he realized she didn't plan
to share Simon's room, but she didn't think he'd comment on it.
"I'm going to check the house first," he said, pulling into the driveway.
"Okay."
He didn't come around to open her door so she let herself out of the Hummer and followed him up the walkway. Evidently he hadn't meant her to accompany him because he scowled before pushing the key into the deadbolt.
The flick of a switch turned on the overhead chandelier and he dimmed it to a comfortable glow, then reset the burglar alarm.
"Wait here," he told her, and stared toward the darkened living room.
Open and spacious, the foyer stretched up three stories, topped by a domed cap from which the chandelier was suspended. The wide winding staircase leading to the wraparound second floor balcony drew her eye and she followed the curve up to the ornate crown molding.
That was when she heard the faint, muffled sound of a woman's laughter.
Unsure, she tilted her head and focused on the modulation of the sound, listening for it again. But several seconds passed and she heard nothing more. Still, she hadn't been mistaken.
Crossing the pale marble floor, she placed her hand on the banister and listened again.
Maybe she should have called to Ethan, but it didn't occur to her. Nor did she stop to think she could be walking into danger. Instead, focused on that light lilting voice, she started up the staircase. At the landing she walked over to the hallway on her left and peered around the corner.
The chandelier, hanging nearly at eye level now, lit nearly the entire way. But two rooms down, full bright light spilled out into the hall. And just this side of the threshold, in the middle of the entrance, sat a single royal blue high heel. It stood straight up as though its owner had simply stepped out of it and into the room.
Nina stared at it, unable to take her eyes away. She started slowly forward, drawn by the oddity of that thoroughly feminine, stiletto-tipped shoe. Its image burned on her mind. Then, just before she reached the stream of light, she heard it—the slap of flesh against flesh, the heated groan of female ecstasy.
It never crossed her mind to turn back. She took those last few steps and walked into the light. Beside her the lone high heel sat undisturbed, its match just on the other side of the threshold. And a few feet beyond that, on the floor in the middle of the bedroom, Simon's big body plunged heavily into a woman whose passion-glazed eyes reflected the mindless throes of sexual pleasure.
