by Tara Leigh
He laughed, and the sound sent swirls of warmth—the kind I hadn’t felt in ten years—licking at my ribs. “Something like that.”
5
Tripp
I hung up the phone with shaking hands, my elbows landing with a thump on my desk as I pressed my palms against my ears. But instead of muting the lilting sound of Jolie’s voice lingering in my ears, I only succeeded in trapping it inside my brain. A voice I hadn't heard in a decade, but would have known anywhere. It hadn't changed at all.
I could have listened to Jolie Chapman read the goddamn phone book and still wound up with a raging hard on, just like I was a damn teenager.
The kicker was—she had no fucking clue that it was me on the other end of the line. Jolie thought she was talking to Lance Welles, my business partner. Except that Lance was currently on the other side of the world. The only reason I’d gotten her message was because Tanzania wasn't exactly known for its exceptional cellular network, and Lance’s emails had been temporarily redirected to my inbox.
We may have sold the RiskTaker app but we were still committed to fighting fraud, and our work was extremely time-sensitive.
I couldn't blame Jolie for not recognizing my voice. I was far from the gangly nineteen-year-old kid she'd kicked to the curb when our families went from reigning Manhattan royalty to ruined embattled rivals—in one fucked up morning.
And right now I didn't know whether I should be thankful or . . . what? Furious, uneasy, nauseous?
I was all of those, and a hell of a lot more.
Shifting uncomfortably in my seat, I stared out at my still uncovered windows. Straight into Jolie's arresting face.
I needed to order those damn blinds.
Christ. I never imagined that moving back to New York would mean sharing the same city with Jolie again. What were the odds we'd both decide to come back to the place that had ripped us to shreds?
But I should have known.
Life had kicked me in the balls before, and, apparently, still wasn’t satisfied.
With a growl, I forced myself to look away from Jolie's piercing stare and at my computer. The screen had gone dark, as I'd programmed it to when not in use. No screensaver, just a blank glare. An onyx mirror that reflected the hard contours of my own face. Deep, hooded eyes, clenched jaw. Anger and regret and longing etched into the lines slashing across my forehead.
Snatching the wireless mouse, I breathed a sigh of relief when the screen blinked to life and belched up an array of spreadsheets, charts, flashing news reports, and stock prices. Much better.
I checked my email, but of course the only one I wanted to see wasn't there yet. Maybe Jolie had already thought better of it. I hadn't exactly rolled out the red carpet for her.
Why should I, though? I mean, she dumped me.
More than that. She destroyed me. Decimated me.
On the worst day of our lives. A day when we could have been a source of support, of strength, for each other. Two teenagers against the world.
In. A. Text.
So, yeah—Jolie Chapman got about as much of a greeting as she deserved.
Except, of course, she didn't realize it was me. And I couldn't quite figure out if that was a good thing, or just another squirt of gasoline on the torch I still carried for her.
Reading between the lines, our conversation had me feeling unsettled. Jolie had some regrets about her past . . . Was I one of them? Of all the times I'd thought about her over the years, I'd never considered that she might have regrets, too. Why should she? It had been her choice to end things between us.
How many hours had I spent wondering about the life Jolie was living? Whether she had a boyfriend or husband or even a child. If she loved her job. If she was happy.
If she thought about me.
If she missed me.
I'd sure as fuck thought about her.
Missed her.
Cursed her.
Hated her.
Loved her.
Even when I wasn't looking, Jolie had a way of popping up occasionally—and not just in my dreams, either. Super Bowl commercials. Sports Illustrated swimsuit editions. Even the side of a bus once. But when it came to Jolie, I was an addict. Just one glimpse of her was an overdose, an assault on my senses that caused complete system failure.
I was so fucking screwed.
For my own sake, I needed to keep Jolie firmly in the past. Exactly where she belonged. It was why I hadn’t reached out to her when I discovered the truth about the fraud that had ripped our world in two. Ripped us in two. Jolie didn’t deserve anything from me.
When her email came in, if her email came in, I was going to turn it right over to someone, anyone, in the San Jose office. They could deal with her.
I wasn't the same love-struck puppy I'd been when we were together, and I would never be that sappy-assed canine again. I’d moved on, become someone stronger, smarter. Someone who didn’t need, or want, Jolie Chapman in his life.
I probably should have waited to move to New York until Lance returned from fucking Tanzania. But as soon as I closed on my apartment, I had this strange feeling that I needed to be here.
With a guttural curse, I redirected my mental energy away from Jolie and back toward the clients I did have. Clients I had no emotional ties to, only financial ones. Without Lance, my workload was double.
For the next hour, I checked in with the dozen or so computer geeks and mathlete nerds who knew their way around cyberspace and financial records better than anyone the federal government could afford to hire, making sure every lead was chased down, every inconsistency exposed, and every red flag ripped out, examined, and replanted on my turf.
Moving on, I checked my personal investment portfolio, made a few adjustments. Analyzed several new banking regulations expected to be approved by Congress in the coming weeks. Worked on the prototype for a new app I was developing. Watched the talking heads on CNBC scream opposing views on the state of the market at each other.
Did everything I could to keep busy, be productive.
It didn't help. I was still clicking refresh on my email account every other minute like a whipped teenager. Like my damn balls were still in Jolie’s hands.
My inbox was busting from a steady stream of messages from current and potential clients, employees and work contacts, and unwanted SPAM. Even an email from my mother, which I deleted immediately.
But not the one I was waiting for.
Flickers of hope were edging their way inside the crease sealing my willpower shut, creating a tiny opening. A dangerous leak that was setting off one hell of an alarm inside my brain.
I spent my life analyzing risk. Had made a fortune quantifying it and minimizing it for others.
To ignore my intuition was lunacy. Fucking insane. When it came to Jolie Chapman, hope was nothing more than a scatter of gravel to be crushed beneath her heels.
Screw me once, shame on you. Screw me twice . . .
Who was I kidding—I didn't believe in second chances anymore.
What did I believe in now?
Revenge.
Sweet, sweet revenge.
6
Lance, I've thought a lot about our conversation the other day. As I said, I'm hesitant to provide sensitive information on my company to someone I don't know. To anyone, actually. So, I've done a little digging on RiskTaker. You don't give many interviews, but I found one where you mentioned starting the company with a partner. Since I can't find his name anywhere, I guess he would be considered a silent partner?
Anyway, that made me feel as if you might understand my concerns. Also, you mentioned something about having a bad business experience yourself. I find it admirable that you've chosen to help others through your work. I'm hoping to do the same, empowering female artisans from impoverished parts of the world to use their creativity and skills to improve their lives. Let’s speak again soon. I'd like to know exactly what information you need for your analysis, and why.
Regards,
Jolie
Tripp
Jolie's message arrived in my inbox, instantly rendering everything else invisible. I read it over several times, hearing her voice inside my head.
So she'd done her research, managing to find the one time Lance mentioned having a partner. Of course, no amount of research would reveal that partner to be me. After the article came out, I insisted that Lance never mention it again.
Lance knew my history. Hell, he practically lived it with me. None of our clients knew they were entrusting their corporate secrets to the son of a crook, and I intended to keep it that way.
I tried to pass Jolie’s message onto half a dozen analysts in the San Jose office, never quite able to hit send. Her email was radioactive. I was already tainted by its presence. Unable to stop thinking about it. Unable to stop thinking about her.
Which really pissed me off.
Jolie, We can discuss your concerns when—
With a snarl, I erased every word and began again, wishing that ridding Jolie from my heart and head was as simple as hitting the delete button.
7
Jolie, you are mistaking intuition for altruism. I merely saw a business opportunity and decided to capitalize on the need for real-time risk assessments. Nothing more. Hand-holding is not one of our services.
However, should you require a thorough risk profile, the RiskTaker team looks forward to meeting your needs.
Jolie
I felt a funny little flutter in my stomach when Lance’s return email popped up.
A flutter that quickly shriveled up and died once I actually read his response.
What. A. Jackass.
I flagged down a waitress. “I’d like a Bloody Mary, please.”
Having forgotten to buy a coffeemaker yesterday, or coffee, or groceries of any kind, I was at a cozy-looking restaurant around the corner from my apartment.
I’d tossed and turned all night, thinking about all the choices I’d made over the past ten years. Choices that had led me back to the same place I’d started from. I finally forced myself out of bed at dawn to go for a long run that had me gasping for breath, my pulse pounding. But there was an emptiness in my chest. A deep, persistent ache I wasn’t quite sure what to do with.
I needed to stop wishing I could change the past, so I could create a future of my own making. To be proactive rather than reactive.
My top priority was Romy, and being more involved in her life. I had made huge changes that would allow me to spend the majority of my time in the New York area—just a short drive or train ride from Connecticut. But if I didn’t get my jewelry business up and running soon, that wouldn’t be possible.
Which was precisely why I’d emailed Lance this morning. If Francis Hughes, Nina’s friend, checked out—I was going to take his money and run with it.
Turning my attention back to my phone, I reread his obnoxious email.
Since when was asking for more information considered hand-holding?
I was accustomed to people assuming a pretty face was just camouflage for an empty mind, but this guy took the cake.
Lance hadn’t even signed off using his own name. He didn’t sign off at all, actually. Only referencing ‘the RiskTaker team’. Did he think I was coming onto him or something?
I accepted the drink with a mumbled thanks, downing half of it before jabbing at the ice cubes with my straw.
“Whoever you’re mad at, he won’t be the one left with a stain on his shirt.” The older woman seated beside me on the banquette peered at me over the rim of her coffee cup.
I looked down, and sure enough there was a sprinkle of red across my white silk blouse. “Damn it.”
“Here, dear. Use this.” She pulled out a pre-moistened towelette from her purse. “I never leave home without them.”
“Thanks, that’s kind of you.” I tended to the fabric, relieved that the stain appeared to lighten, then glanced back up. “What makes you think it’s a he?”
“Isn’t it always? I used to be married to a man who drove me so crazy I would go into my garden after he left for work and attack the soil with a trowel.” She chuckled, the wrinkles of her weathered skin shifting upwards. “When I realized nothing was growing, I finally started telling him what was on my mind.”
I generally avoided getting sucked into conversations with strangers seated beside me, but I was intrigued. “What happened?”
“We got divorced,” she said simply, her voice even.
“Oh.” Now I regretted asking. “I’m sorry.”
She waved a swollen-knuckled hand, brushing off my apology. “Don’t be. I sure wasn’t. Not long after, I met my Tim.” She gave a contented sigh. “We’ve been married nearly thirty years now. And you know what, my garden has never looked better.”
The vodka went straight to my head, sending a stupid smile to my lips. “Good for you.”
She eyed my wet shirt. “It’s a lot less messy to give someone a piece of your mind than to go digging in the dirt. Or in your case, that drink.”
8
Lance, I'm not going to let you ruin another shirt. Do you always respond to compliments with condescension? In case you didn't realize, it's very rude and a definite deterrent to future clients. And if you really had a 'front row seat to corporate destruction' you would understand that companies are run by real people, and emerge as a nicer person yourself. Jolie
Tripp
I bit down on the grin trying to make its way across my face. Jolie had a temper. The unfamiliar side of her was a baited hook, shiny and tempting. A trap. And I knew exactly what would happen if I went after it.
My grin reversed course. Nothing good.
Undoubtedly, Jolie was still the callous, cold-hearted girl who'd turned her back on me.
A callous, cold-hearted girl who was using her company to help disadvantaged women.
Don't overthink this, Tripp. Just back the fuck up and walk away.
Inviting Jolie Chapman into my life again would elevate self-sabotage to an art form.
Of course, I’d always been an overachiever, now an overachieving asshole.
9
Jolie, not condescending. Just honest. Further, I don't expect a fashion model would understand my motives for creating RiskTaker. In fact, I would venture a guess that you've missed out on opportunities in your life because you would rather close a door than put on your big girl panties and walk through it.
p.s. I have no idea what shirt you're referring to.
Jolie
‘Big girl panties?’ Is this asshole for real? I practically choked on the ice cube I’d been rolling around in my mouth when I read Lance’s response, although at least he’d done away with the pretense of mentioning ‘the RiskTaker team.’ What he wrote was his and his alone. Lance also proved he was even more of a jackass than I’d originally thought. Practically steaming, I ordered another drink.
The woman next to me looked up from her crossword puzzle. “What the heck, I’ll take one of those, too.”
I put down my phone. “I’m Jolie, by the way.”
“Gail.” She extended a hand, and my fingers slid over paper-thin skin that was cool to the touch, although her grip was surprisingly strong. “I’m meeting my granddaughter for breakfast but we have different definitions of punctuality. And I can only spend so much time trying to,” she glanced down, “come up with a two-word synonym for ‘ax to grind’ that starts with an h.”
It sounded like Lance had one of those. “How many letters?”
She squinted at the page. “Twelve.”
The server brought our drinks and we touched rims. “Hidden agenda.”
“Hmmm. Oh, right. Best be careful of those.” I watched as she entered each letter into the grid. “There.” She closed the book, using her pencil as a bookmark. “She’s always sending me these darn word puzzles to keep my mind active, but there’s nothing better for the mind than good, old-fashioned girl talk. That is, if you’ll indulge me.”
Gail’s warm
brown eyes looked so hopeful, I couldn’t resist. “Why not,” I said.
“Oh, good. Most of my girlfriends have passed on, and my kids and grandkids never want to talk about anything fun.” She peered at my phone. “So, man troubles?”
“No.” I shook my head emphatically. “I mean, it is a man that’s getting on my nerves, but he’s not my man.”
She made a funny sound in the back of her throat. “I’ve always found nerves to be at their thinnest with the ones we love.”
“I barely know this guy.” I paused. “We’ve never even met.”
“You’re sure about that?”
I thought about the feeling I’d gotten when we were on the phone, one of familiarity. But I didn’t know anyone named Lance, and the photograph accompanying the article I’d read was of a stranger. A very handsome stranger, in a granola-crunching kind of way. “Positive.”
Gail sniffed. “Then I guess you need to figure out if he’s someone worth knowing.”
Once her granddaughter arrived, I pulled out my phone again.
10
Lance, For your information, this model rocks itty bitty bikinis . . . not that you'll ever get the chance to see for yourself. You might be nice to look at, but I'd sooner close a door in your face than spend another minute on a pompous know-it-all.
Tripp
Heat exploded in my gut as I read Jolie's latest email, traveling south. Having seen every inch of Jolie’s body, with and without clothes, I knew exactly how well Jolie could rock an itty-bitty bikini.
I tripped over that last sentence, though. How did she . . . ? And then I remembered—that damn article had run a photograph of Lance. Did she really find him attractive?
