by Stacy Gail
The defensiveness melted away before it could build its first wall. “It’s a beautiful thing to hear. Especially when you seem to be weathering some sort of storm now—a storm you don’t want to tell me about.”
Like a switch being thrown, his eyes went dead. “Scout—”
Before he could tell her that nothing was wrong—again—the familiar chime of her text interrupted him. When she pulled her phone out her pocket and read the screen, she almost threw it across the room.
“Damn it,” she muttered, angrily jamming her thumbs at the screen. “I don’t have time for this shit now.”
“Problem?”
“You could say that.” With a short breath, she scrolled to the beginning of the text, and read aloud, “Scout, I’m sorry I’m doing this via text, but it’s the quickest way to get it done, so here it is—I QUIT. Love, Angel.” She shook the phone, because Angel wasn’t within reach. “How many times do I have to tell everyone that I’m…on…fucking… vacation?”
“At least until Monday.” His voice held a thread of regret, like he wasn’t looking forward to losing her to her job. That warmed her heart, but it wasn’t going to deter her from getting to the truth.
“It sucks that our time together is going to be cut short by the reality of my job. But if it comes down to a choice between spending all my time over at House Of Payne or one more minute here with you telling me that there’s nothing going on with you, I’d have to choose the House.”
The arm that held her dropped away. “Good to know.”
“I’m just trying to be honest here, Trouble. I don’t like being told that there’s nothing wrong when I know there is. I can be cool with a lot of things, but you lying straight to my face is not one of them.”
She thought there was a wince in those otherwise-blank eyes before he looked away. “Stop pushing.”
“I just need to know if you’re pissed at me, or if something’s upset you, or if you’re suffering from blanket fort withdrawal. Whatever it is, I’ve got to know about it, because when you’re not happy, I’m not happy. And goddamn it, I want to be happy.”
“There is something,” came the grudging reply, and it seemed to her that he had to push even those meager words out. Clearly the man had no practice when it came to sharing, thanks to that evil bitch of a grandmother conditioning him to keep everything on lockdown. “I just… I have no idea how to talk about it.”
“One word at a time’s a good way to go.” When he only shook his head, a hint of despair in the gesture, the tightening in her stomach got so bad she thought it might send her breakfast back up. “Okay, so, um… Is it me?”
“No.” At that he pulled her hard against him, as if he feared she might suddenly vanish. “Scout, do you remember how you felt when you saw your first flower? That breathless, magical moment that lit up your world and changed it forever?”
The abrupt change of subject almost gave her whiplash. “Yes. So?”
“So I know what you felt then, because this is how I feel when I am with you. You are the first flower that I have ever seen in this horrible, colorless world. This is why I call you ma fleur. This is also why I call you ma trésor, because this is what you are at me. My treasure. Mine. That can never, and will never, change. I will not let it.”
“Then why—” Her text chime went off, and it uncorked a frustrated howl dangerous enough to make the happily nomming Red to raise her head, eyes wary. “Damn it.”
Before she could throw the offending device at the wall, Ivar rescued the phone from her hand and read the screen. “Payne. He wants you to come in.”
For a second she froze, torn. She and Payne didn’t agree on a lot of things when it came to business, but there was one thing they were in complete agreement on—vacation time was sacrosanct. They lived and breathed the House twenty-four hours a day without letup, so when they needed a break, they each honored that in a big way. Something big had to be going down if Payne felt he had no choice but to intrude on her precious downtime. But…
Ivar was more important than even her loyalty to the House.
“You have to help me out here, because I’m not any good at this sort of thing,” she said, trying to find the right words. “Like you, I don’t like talking about what’s going on inside me. Probably because for a good chunk of my life no one cared enough to ask, so I never got any practice at sharing. I’m used to keeping everything to myself, especially the bad stuff. You’re pretty much the same way—closing off and shutting down instead of airing out crap that needs to be aired out. I just need you to know that you don’t have to do that when we’re together. Both you and your demons are safe with me.”
He searched her eyes for the longest time—looking at her the same way as he had when he’d first come into her home, and at last she realized what he was doing. He was using the gift his survival instincts had given him—the ability to see through a person’s public façade all the way to their true intentions. He’d been doing that with her from the beginning. What was it he was looking for? And why did he feel the need to look now, after all they’d shared?
“I believe you.” His eyes cleared, and he bent to her mouth for a hard, all-too-brief kiss. “But I would never inflict all my demons on you.”
“I could handle one at a time.”
“You probably could, but I might not be able to.”
“Don’t underestimate yourself.”
“I will keep that in mind.” His smile was more like a grimace as he at last let her go. “I know that you have to go to House Of Payne, but… you are right. There is something. Maybe we can talk after you get done with work?”
A flash of relief added fuel to her smile. “No maybe about it. I’ll have all the time in the world for you once I get this tangle at work undone.”
“We have a date.” He nodded once, as if making a decision. “By the way, I forgot the picnic basket over at your place. Do you mind if I go and pick it up? I think I am hooked on the concept of indoor picnics.”
“I’ll call the guys at the security desk so they know to let you go on up.” She paused, not sure how to make him understand that she was on his side, no matter what. “Ivar?”
He glanced at her, brows raised.
“When we talk, try and remember you can tell me anything, okay? Just… remember that you mean one hell of a lot to me.”
The look on his face changed, becoming a hard, driven mask that made him almost unrecognizable. “I know this much, Scout. If you ever forget what I mean to you—and what you mean to me—I will do everything in my power to remind you, because you are ma fleur. Ma trésor. But above all, you are mine.”
As Ivar watched the door close behind Scout, his mind churned through all the things he wanted to tell her. That he was unworthy of her. That he was the one who wanted to make the promise that she was safe with him—but couldn’t. That his demons were closer to the surface than she knew, and no matter how hard he fought them, they were gaining the upper hand.
He was losing to them, and if he did, he ran the risk of losing her.
Maceio sauntered out, looked around and slipped into French. “You didn’t chase her off already, did you? I think you need to work on your technique.”
“She got a text from work and had to leave.”
“Ah.” He glanced at Red, now pushing the paper plate across the floor with every hungry lick, and his nose wrinkled in distaste. “I take it she didn’t like the hellcat enough to take her away.”
“That was never the reason why I brought Red home.”
“Red?”
“Short for Red Hot. Never mind,” Ivar said when the other man simply looked at him. “I’m going back out.”
“Any place special?”
“Back to Scout’s. I need to…” Betray her trust. “I need to find the answers I’m looking for.”
What he didn’t say was that he was no longer sure what questions were more important—the questions that shrouded his past, or his future.
To say that Scout was in a bad mood when she stalked up the stairs to House Of Payne’s offices was like saying the sun’s surface was mildly toasty. No matter how much she loved the House and was proud of everything she and Payne had built, this was the absolute last place on earth she wanted to be right now.
Right now, her place was with Ivar.
Below her lay the lobby and open floor plan of House Of Payne’s showroom, fashioned after famous art galleries around the world. Italian black marble floor tiles gleamed, while in contrast the pure white modular walls showed off exclusive artwork in gallery-like displays. In the center of the sophisticated showroom, a three-dimensional holographic image was spotlighted on a plinth—a heart with a missing piece, creating a window through which the darkness of demons could be seen. Also on display on a cascade of HD screens were other three-dimensional works, all cutting-edge in the world of ink, and all exclusive to House Of Payne. These works of genius came from the mind of Payne’s fiancé, Becks Delgado, a woman who had brought such great happiness to her best friend that she hardly recognized him these days.
It was a happiness she would have been working on getting for herself at that very moment, if she hadn’t been interrupted.
“This,” she growled the moment she blasted through the double doors of Payne’s office without knocking, “had better be good. Like, ‘the world is ending and only I can stop it’ kind of good. Because there’s no way I should have been called into work while on my goddamn vacation.”
Seated at his desk, Sebastian Payne was smart enough to not make any sudden moves. Tousled brown hair, a well-maintained scruff that made her roll her eyes at him every chance she got, and wearing thin red suspenders over a gray dress shirt, Payne didn’t look like a leader of an industry. But the body art industry was a world unto itself, and as the unquestioned king of it, Payne could look any damn way he wanted.
“I know, and if you’d done this to me, I probably would have slaughtered you then danced on your corpse. I get it.” Carefully, with hands palm-out to show he was harmless, he rose from his chair and rounded the desk. “Bad shit went down last night around closing, with Angel at the center of it. Long story short, she hit the eject button this morning.”
“I got a text message about it just before you texted me.” About the same time she thought she was making headway with Ivar, who didn’t seem to realize that with her, he didn’t have to hide behind his perfect blank smile. All he had to do was be himself, and trust her enough to take care of who that person was. “Yeah, it’s bad, but I repeat. Vay. Cay. Shun. Put all those random noises together and what’ve you got? A seriously pissed-off bitch who’s one thin hair away from taking heads.”
“I’ve looked at Angel’s schedule and she’s booked solid for the next half year,” Payne went on, again raising his hands. “Setting aside the not-so-small fact that she’s been with the House and absolutely loyal to us from the very beginning when we didn’t know if this place would even work, she’s a specialist. There’s no one on this planet who can replace her straight away. That means some pretty heavy-duty clients that we’re lucky to have are now shit outta luck. And that’s not good enough for the House.”
No, it wasn’t good enough for the House. But it wasn’t good enough for her, either. “This is a personnel problem. You’re good at personnel problems, because you scare the crap out of people. Why call me in? I know I come off as a graduate of Hogwarts, but here’s a newsflash for you, Payne—I don’t have a magic wand to fix every pissy little problem that comes down the pike.”
“You and Angel are tight, and she said the only person she’d be willing to talk to is you. That meant calling you into service, which I did. Kick my ass all you want, because I’d do the same if our roles were reversed. But kick it later. Right now I need you to talk to Angel and find out how we can fix this clusterfuck.”
Goddamn it. “Is she here?”
“I told her you were on your way and to wait in your office. She needed the quiet time.”
Her mouth tightened against the knee-jerk response of telling him to man up and find a way to handle it himself. The fact was, Payne had tried to handle it. It hadn’t worked, so now she was on deck. Nothing left to do but get through it as quickly as possible so she could get back to her own problems.
“You owe me,” she muttered, turning on her heel toward the doors. “I can’t even calculate how much you owe me for calling me in on my vacation. You have no fucking idea how pissed off I am right now.”
She heard him sigh. “Anything you want, you’ve got. I know it won’t make up for the time you’re losing, in addition to being pissed off—”
“I want permission to contact a few of our clients on behalf of Ivar Fournier’s art photography project.” The words were out before she knew she was going to speak. She paused with her hand on the door handle, her mouth tightening with tension as she turned back to Payne. “I’ve already formulated a basic letter to ask a few of our clientele if they would be interested in having a world-famous fashion photographer shoot their ink. Summer is coming, which means it’s the time to bare some serious skin. I think his exhibit would be perfect timing to launch our seasonal campaign to inspire people to get their summer ink done.”
Payne didn’t blink. Instead he tilted his head, something he did when thinking a strategy through. “I get to choose who this letter goes out to.”
“Naturally.”
“And I get to tweak it if I see a problem with it.”
“Of course.”
“You and Fournier hook up?”
More than ever, she wished her eyes were capable of drilling holes into people. “Yeah. So?”
Payne’s body didn’t get filled with a bunch of holes. He didn’t even look chafed, damn it all. “So, this is the integrity of the House we’re talking about here.”
“I’m aware of that.”
“My business, which you helped create. And your personal life. That’s a bad fucking mix, Scout.”
Shit, shit, shit. “This is a solid business decision.”
“Jury’s still out on that. We’ve walked down this road before, yeah?”
The reminder of that humiliating fuckup with Vishous ripped into the very core of her pride, and it took most of her strength just to keep her head up. “This isn’t the same. I’ve checked Ivar out so thoroughly, I probably know more about him than he does. Also, if we set this up right, we will be the ones in control of the clients he photographs, not him. He won’t be allowed to get a glimpse of a clientele list that you haven’t approved of.”
He looked at her for a long moment in silence, as if waiting for her to come to her senses. Then he sighed and looked away. “Just be careful, Scout. You read me?”
“Yeah.” With a curt nod she left, knowing full well what he really meant.
Don’t hurt the House.
Shame burned through her like acid, stinging her eyes and clogging her throat. Damn it. This situation wasn’t like Vishous in any way. From the beginning, Ivar had made his professional interest in House Of Payne clear, and it had nothing to do with the personal interest he’d shown her. Yes, she was the House’s official gatekeeper, but that was irrelevant. Ivar hadn’t even mentioned his tattoo project since they’d hooked up, and that was one of the reasons why she trusted him. He hadn’t pushed his professional agenda at all, and that made her come to one conclusion—he genuinely wanted to be with her. As crazy as it seemed, this gorgeous, noble-born, sophisticated man, the most perfect man she had ever known, wanted her. A product of South Chicago’s foster care system. A lover of dandelions and blanket forts.
A nobody.
Maybe that didn’t make sense to Payne. And maybe it stung that Payne suspected someone like Ivar was in her life only to use her for personal gain. But what she was building with Ivar was real. It was the most important thing she had in her life now, even more important than the House. If it made sense to only her and Ivar, then tha
t was all that mattered.
She heard shouting long before she hit her office door. That was a concern in itself, since the executive offices were soundproofed. Bracing, she sucked in a calming breath, tried to remember what it was to be a professional, and pushed through.
“…amazing how you believe I can’t do my own thinking for myself. Geez, how the hell did I ever manage to get this far in life without you to think for me?” Standing in the middle of the office done in calming shades of white and Tiffany blue, Angel Taylor was bellowing at a man Scout had suspected was at the heart of why their talented fantasy tattoo artist had finally snapped.
Twist.
In the time it took for a heart to beat, Scout took in the scene—Angel, cute and doll-like with long natural blonde hair currently twisted into dreadlocks that she no doubt thought made her look edgy, but in reality only underscored her big-eyed, waiflike adorableness. Her own colorful designs—fantastic fairytale scenes with modern-day influences—covered her matchstick-thin arms left bare thanks to a cap-sleeved pink Hello Kitty T-shirt. Coupled with a pleated plaid skirt any Catholic schoolgirl would have recognized and hated on sight, she looked about thirteen years old.
In sharp contrast, Twist Santiago didn’t have to try to be edgy; he came that way straight out of the box. Unlike Payne’s well-groomed scruff, the whiskers shadowing Twist’s granite-hard, chiseled features would never be manscaped. Likewise his thick, curly black locks swept past his shoulders, not because it was cool and anti-establishment, but because he had no patience for things like regular haircuts. He had an entire wardrobe of heavy metal T-shirts, tight jeans and biker boots. The two things that seemed to give him any purpose was his dark Gothic art and making sure he made enough money from that art to take care of relatives he had down south somewhere.
No, that wasn’t quite true. There was another thing that gave him purpose—harassing Angel every chance he got. Unacceptable at any time, of course. But now that it had pulled Scout away from Ivar, during the last week of her vacation, she doubted Twist would escape her office alive.
