by Lucy King
So if there was anything she – Mercy – could do to fix things, she’d do it, which was why she was here, at Seb’s door on a mild September Friday evening, burning with a sort of righteous anger and the need to put things right.
One last shot, she told herself, feeling adrenalin begin to flow through her veins as she knocked twice and bellowed, “Seb? Are you in there? Open up.” One last shot.
For Zelda.
Not for herself.
For Zelda.
As long as she remembered that she’d be fine. And she would remember that because this time, unlike the last time she’d tried to make Seb see what was happening to his sister, she was not going to let him distract her. This evening, she’d stay strong, say her long overdue piece, and if she was convincing enough, firm enough, she might even achieve the impossible and actually get through to him. She might make him realize what a shit he was to humanity in general, what a cold, callous cabrón he’d been – and was still being – to Zelda in particular, and persuade him to make amends before it was too late.
And, yes, pigs might fly, but they hadn’t taken off yet, so, as the thud of approaching footsteps reached her ears, Mercy pulled herself together and rallied her thoughts.
Focus, she instructed herself, her pulse picking up and her head buzzing with a sudden flurry of unbidden and unwelcome memories. Do not think about the last time you saw him, the last time you were here. Do not remember the scalding heat of his touch, the dark intensity of his eyes, the feel of his body beneath your hands. Or the spectacular all-night-long sex.
That is not what this is about.
If you have to, remember instead that he took advantage of your pathetic teenage crush on him and used that spectacular all-night-long sex as a weapon to avoid a discussion he did not want to have.
Remember that the following morning you woke up alone, riddled with guilt and self-disgust, and then, burning with mortification and remorse, had to creep out of the house making sure you weren’t seen.
Most of all, though, focus on the misery he’s inflicted on your best friend, because that’s why you’re here.
The steps stopped and Mercy set her jaw. The handle turned and she straightened her spine. So when the door swung open she was more than braced for the sight of him, standing there and filling the space, tall, lean and still so darkly, staggeringly handsome he’d rob her of her wits again if she let him.
But there was no danger of that, she assured herself, sweeping her gaze up and over a chest that appeared to have broadened since she’d last seen him, letting it linger for a moment on the still sexy scar at the corner of his mouth and then looking up into eyes so deep and dark you could drown in them.
She was older. Wiser. No longer a hormonal sixteen-year-old with a crush, nor an impressionable twenty-one year old with good intentions but weak willpower. No. She’d gotten over her ridiculously ill-judged obsession with him years ago. She’d moved so far on she could hardly remember where she’d started. She was now confident, successful, mature.
And above all, immune.
“Hello,” she said, and cleared her throat which had strangely gone all rough.
“Mercedes,” said Seb.
A shiver rippled down her spine that obviously came from a draft and had nothing to do with the sound of his sexy cut-glass British accent and she blinked because she really hadn’t expected recognition. “You remember me?”
“Of course,” he said, his dark, unfathomable gaze roaming slowly over her. “How are you?”
How was she?
Taken aback and tingly. That was how she was, now he asked. Getting hotter by the second. Sort of melting inside. Suddenly keenly aware of him and actually feeling a little woozy, because those eyes, that mouth, and his scent… Dios, his scent… It was still woody, still soapy, and still so deliciously intoxicating that she wanted to lean in, press up close and inhale. She wanted to touch him, kiss him, stroke him and lick him and –
Mercy froze.
What the hell was she thinking? What was she doing? Had she actually started moving?
No. Impossible. She was immune. Immune.
Blinking to clear the fog in her head and swallowing hard to get some moisture into her desperately dry mouth, she pulled herself together and made herself think of the skiing holiday she’d been on last year. Bariloche. August. That had been ass-freezingly mind-numbingly cold. There’d been blizzards. Relentless sub-zero blizzards.
“Fine,” she said, as the heat and the dizziness and the madness dissipated. “I’m fine. You?”
“Couldn’t be better. It’s good to see you.” Was it? Why? “How long have you been back in New York?”
“Four months.”
“Work?”
“A bit. Mostly, though, an MBA.”
His eyebrows rose. “What happened to making wine?”
“I’m taking a sabbatical.” And she was explaining this why? She wasn’t here for a catch-up or, heaven forbid, a trip down memory lane. She was here for Zel.
“So to what do I owe this pleasure?” said Seb, pulling her back on track.
“Zelda’s having a slumber party.”
His eyebrows rose. “Is she? She didn’t mention it.”
“We – her friends – are throwing it for her. It was a surprise. Are you going to put in an appearance?”
“Am I supposed to?”
Well, no, technically he wasn’t, but apparently Zel had invited him to dinner, an invitation he’d baldly declined. “She would appreciate it if you did.”
And wasn’t that the understatement of the century? Zel would kill for even a millisecond of her brother’s attention, would have done for years now, and still he withheld it. Deliberately, or simply out of habit, Mercy didn’t know, but either way it had cut far too deep for far too long.
“Given the way our last conversation went,” said Seb dryly, “I very much doubt that.”
Hmm. “You could always apologize.”
“I have nothing to apologize for.”
And Zel did? Mercy felt her indignation spike and then plummet because actually Seb might have a point there. By simply not showing up to that gala at which she was supposed to be representing the Madison family, maybe Zel did have something to apologize for, but still, that was over three weeks ago, and compared with his behavior towards his sister over the years and this evening in particular that misdemeanor was trifling. Trifling. Today’s New Word of the Day, and a good one. “Don’t you think it would be at least polite to come and say hello?”
“I’ve been busy,” said Seb, his jaw tightening a fraction.
“Of course you have.”
His eyes narrowed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“From what she’s said, it sounds like you always come up with some excuse to avoid her. Work. Travel. Pencils to sharpen. It’s a wonder she still cares.”
“I’ve never asked her to,” he said. “And I’d rather she didn’t.”
“She does nevertheless. She’s never stopped.”
“More fool her.”
“My thoughts exactly,” said Mercy a bit hotly. “But you’re all the family she has and apparently lousy family is better than none.”
Seb’s jaw clenched at that, the something in his eyes flickered again, and for the briefest of moments she wondered if she’d pushed him too far. If maybe she’d hurt him. But no. She hadn’t. She couldn’t. No one could. He was like granite: hard, unfeeling and utterly unassailable.
“If my company is so abhorrent,” he said so flatly that she thought she must have imagined the flare of emotion, “then why are you at my door?”
“I want to talk to you.”
“I don’t do talking.”
“I’m well aware of that,” said Mercy, determinedly ignoring the memories of exactly how far he’d go to avoid it. “However, this time you have no choice.”
He sighed with what sounded like exasperation. “Oh, go away, Mercedes.”
What? Oh no. Not a
chance. She wasn’t going anywhere. So she pulled her shoulders back and tilted her head in challenge. “Are you really so afraid of what I have to say?”
“Of course not.”
“Then prove it.”
*
Catching the glimpse of triumph in her dark, flashing eyes, Seb swore inwardly and realized he should have shut the door in her face when he had the chance because Mercedes Hernandez was trouble and always had been and how he could have forgotten that he had no idea.
Better still, he should never have answered her knock in the first place. He wasn’t entirely sure why he had. He was in no mood for company. He was in no mood for anything. The conversation his sister had insisted on having with him earlier had ensured that.
Normally he had no trouble zoning Zelda and her melodrama out. After all, he’d had thirteen years’ experience of doing exactly that. This afternoon, though, had been different. She’d found him in his rooftop rose garden where he’d been nailing a trellis to the wall and had launched into a conversation – no, a confrontation – that had been unusually harsh.
The accusations she’d flung at him… The questions she’d shot at him… And the fire with which she’d done it… He’d neither seen nor heard her like that before. It had shocked him and made him feel like he’d swallowed a ton of lead, although he didn’t have the first clue why.
Once she’d run out of steam Zel had stormed off and he’d returned his attention to the construction of the next trellis, intending to brush off everything she’d said by immersing himself in some hard physical labor. But five minutes later, after incorrectly measuring two lengths of wood and nearly hammering a nail into his thumb, he’d had to give up. He hadn’t been able to concentrate. He’d been too wired. If he’d carried on and taken up the saw, as had been the plan, he could have done some serious damage.
So he’d whipped off his tool belt, headed into his study and switched his focus to work in the hope that staring at a computer screen might give him the numbness he craved. Which, slowly but surely, it did.
Therefore he shouldn’t have wanted to be disturbed. He hadn’t wanted to be disturbed. Yet mystifyingly, the minute he’d heard the rap of knuckles on oak, and the yell of his name in the voice that had once upon a time haunted his dreams, he’d leapt up, stalked down the corridor to the double door and had had to actually make himself stop, take a breath and compose himself before opening them.
When he’d seen Mercedes standing there, a burst of heat had shot through him and his pulse had spiked, and for some odd, alarming reason he’d thought, about bloody time, which should have put the fear of God into him and had him closing the door right then and there but even more alarmingly hadn’t.
And then, instead of using his brain, pretending he didn’t know who she was – as if that was possible – and closing the door, he’d looked her up and down – which had been a mistake because she was still as breathtaking as she’d ever been – and then, clearly on some kind of kamikaze mission had actually prolonged the conversation.
What was going on there he had no idea, but it was way too late for regrets now. While his brain had been busy disintegrating from the impact of her on his senses, Mercy had laid her trap and he – unsuspecting fool that he was – had fallen headlong into it, which meant there was now a situation.
And one to which there was really only one solution, because as tempting as it might be, closing the door on her was no longer an option. It would make her think she’d gotten to him when she absolutely hadn’t.
“Do come in,” he said, levering himself off the door frame, standing to one side and unfolding his arms to jam his hands in the pockets of his jeans as memories of that unexpectedly hot night five years ago slammed into his head and began to have their inevitable effect.
“Thank you.”
She flashed him a smile, and it was so annoyingly smug, so infuriatingly victorious that suddenly, irrationally, he wanted to unnerve her the way she unnerved him. “If you’re sure you can handle it,” he added softly, leaning in a little as she took a step forwards.
Mercy stopped. Turned to him. Looked at him squarely in the eye, the full force of her gaze pretty much lasering him to the spot. “And why wouldn’t I be able to?”
“Remember what happened the last time you pitched up at my door wanting to talk and asking me to let you in?”
Her eyes widened for a moment, and then narrowed. “Barely,” she said archly, although the pulse hammering at the base of her neck and the faint flush that hit her cheeks would seem to suggest otherwise. “You?”
Every single second – unfortunately. “Barely.”
“Then I think I’m prepared to risk it.”
“Brave.”
She shook her head and gave him a haughty look. “Immune.”
Yes, well, she could tell herself that if she wanted to, but despite the passage of time he suspected that she was no more immune to him than he seemed to be to her, which was, for some reason, really rather satisfying.
“Go on through,” he said.
“Thank you.”
Waving her in, Seb closed the door behind her and watched for a moment as she sashayed down the hall. The way she moved was just as captivating as it had been the last time he’d seen her. With every sensuous step her fall of thick dark wavy hair shifted, whispering against the fabric of her shirt and shimmering in the low light of the hall. The subtle swing of her hips drew his attention to her narrow waist, the curve of her bottom, and memories of how she’d felt wrapped round him, arching against him and writhing beneath him, suddenly slammed into his head.
He wanted her again. Here. Now. Up against the wall. On the floor. Anywhere. Everywhere. Again and again, until neither of them could think straight.
But that was not going to happen, he told himself, ruthlessly stamping out the dizzying, appalling, wave of desire. Memories were all he was ever going to have of Mercy. She was simply too dangerous for anything else. That night she’d turned up wanting to talk about Zelda and had instead yielded to the kiss he’d given her largely to shut her up she’d stripped him of his control. She’d brought him to his knees with the need and desire she aroused in him, and left him feeling exposed and vulnerable and wishing he was a different kind of man.
But he wasn’t a different kind of man. He hated feeling weak. And he needed control like he needed oxygen. So Hell would freeze over before he had her up against the wall, down on the floor or wherever else his imagination took him.
Mercy might have tricked her way into his apartment but he’d handle it. He’d dealt with worse. So she could come in and say what she had to say. If necessary he’d block her out. And then, when she was done, he’d simply let her go.
Chapter Two
‡
With hindsight, thought Mercy, standing in Seb’s vast open-plan living space, her knees weak and her heart galloping, confronting him here, at home, hadn’t perhaps been the best idea she’d ever had.
Nothing had changed. In front of her was the couch where he’d first kissed her then gotten her naked, where he’d pushed her knees apart, knelt between them and set his mouth to her until she sobbed his name and came apart mere moments later. To her right stood the armchair upon which she’d later straddled him, nudging her breasts in the direction of his mouth and begging him to take them as she sank herself down onto him. And then, over there in front of the now dark and empty fireplace was the huge white sheepskin rug where they’d ended up, gasping and moaning before collapsing in an exhausted heap of hot tangled limbs.
Hmm.
On second thoughts, she might have been better off waiting until Monday morning and seeking him out in his office.
But no. That wasn’t an option. She didn’t want to wait. She couldn’t. Not when Zel was downstairs and hurting. And definitely not after Seb’s sly reference to That Night. That hadn’t been casual. That had been calculated, designed to rile. The glint in his eye, the one she didn’t trust one little bit, had told her
that.
But no matter. If he thought he could ruffle her feathers with that, he was wrong because she was immune. Over him. And over it. She wasn’t riled in the slightest. She could handle anything. So memories? Pah. What memories?
Channelling her thoughts to the matter in hand Mercy sat herself down right in the center of said couch in a deliberate move to show just how perturbed she was, and looked him dead in the eye. “So,” she said brusquely. “You and Zelda.”
“What about us?” said Seb, making himself comfortable in the armchair with the hint of a smile that she presumed was designed to unnerve her further and that she duly ignored.
“You saw her earlier. You upset her.”
“I usually do.”
“Doesn’t it bother you?”
He gave a slight shrug. “Not particularly.”
“But she’s your sister.”
“That’s her bad luck.”
Huh. Wasn’t it just. “She needs your support, Seb,” she said, undeterred by his indifference because she had every intention of just ploughing straight though it. “Now more than ever.”
“Why?”
“Her love life is in bits and the press are out for her blood.”
“The latter I’d noticed. The former is nothing new.”
“You could help with both, if only you pulled your head out of your ass.”
A muscle jumped in his jaw, a reaction at last. “This is no more any of your business than it was five years ago, Mercedes.”
“It is my business, Sebastian,” she said, the heat and indignation rising up inside her making her think, OK, so maybe she was just a little bit riled. “Whether you like it or not. Zelda’s one of my best friends. I saw her when she was at rock bottom. I hauled her out. I helped get her into rehab. I was there for her when you were nowhere to be seen. I still am. But she needs you, and unfortunately, as much as I’d like to, I can’t fix that for her. Only you can. And you owe it to her to try.”
