by Neesa Hart
“I don’t think I can walk away from you again.”
Elise felt a flutter of panic. “If you really care about me,” she told him, “you will.”
The defeated look in his eyes twisted her heart, but she held her ground. If she relented now, he’d win. And in winning, he’d destroy her.
Wil stared at her, studied her face with a close scrutiny that unsettled her. Finally he dropped his gaze. Picking up his jacket, he stood and faced her. “I’m sorry, Elsa,” he said. “I never wanted it to be this way.”
“Neither did I.” She could at least give him that.
Again that defeated look. Elise forced herself to glance away.
“Take care of yourself, Aina.”
Her apartment door closed behind him with a finality that left her feeling cold, inside and out. Unable to move from her chair, feeling deserted and alone, she stared at the winged-man hood ornament on her coffee table.
Wil had no right to make her remember these things. To reawaken the yawning ache she’d fought for so many years.
Before she had time to reconsider, she went to her bedroom and dug the cardboard box from the bottom of her cedar chest. In it were the memories. Cautiously, almost fearing her first glimpse of the contents, she removed the lid. Dried flowers, notes, photographs, ticket stubs and an assortment of other treasures met her gaze. One by one, she thumbed through them, remembering. There were pictures of Maks, pictures of her playing with Nikki, pictures of her father, of Wil. Each one brought a bittersweet pain of remembered joy, and never-forgotten sorrow.
How had she ever imagined that she could lock this part of herself away in a cardboard box? For a long time, she stared at a small, yellowed photograph of herself dancing on her father’s feet. She’d been about nine when the photo was taken. The adoration on her face as she looked at him brought tears to her eyes.
This, this little girl with the bare feet and the disheveled hair, whose greatest joy had been learning to dance, this was who she was. This was the woman she’d lost.
Suddenly, she couldn’t bear to look at the contents any longer. Wil had hurt her too deeply tonight. The pictures and cards were like salt on an open wound. Feeling a driving need to restore order to her world, she hastily crammed the contents back in the box, then thrust it into the chest. Scooping sweaters and jackets on top of it, she slammed the top shut. She turned the key. They belonged down there, safe, where they couldn’t touch her. Feeling bitter and wounded, she crawled into bed to cry herself to sleep.
Chapter Eight
The next few days passed in a blur for Elise. As the date of the Collingham auction drew nearer, Roger Philpott grew crazier. Every member of the firm, from the receptionist to the senior partner, knew how important the Col-!!lingham account, and Collingham Industries, were to the firm’s continued financial success. While the auction itself had seemed a mundane affair, the Collingham heirs had become more and more involved in its execution, elevating its importance to new levels of firm politics. It wouldn’t have been so bad if she hadn’t also been expected to continue carrying her normal caseload. Worse, Alex Devon-!!shire picked that week to move ahead on a major merger that had Elise wrapped up in more red tape than a Christmas package.
Emotionally, she was a wreck. She hadn’t spoken with Wil since that night at her apartment. On the rare occasions when business demanded that she phone the garage, Jan always answered the phone. For days, she’d been telling herself how grateful she was for that small blessing.
But no matter how she avoided the issue, no matter how hard she tried to bury herself in work, she still had the lonely hours of the night to think about what seeing Wil again had done to her. He had forced her to rediscover a side of herself she’d fought long and hard to subdue. It was the side that lived with the terrible fear that she was a fraud; that at any moment, the world around her would see the gawky kid with the poor English and ill-fitting clothes; that with one slip from her, the world she’d struggled to build would crash around her ears.
It was the side that had once loved Wil Larsen, and had come dangerously close to loving him again.
By the time Roger Philpott finished grilling her late Thursday afternoon, she’d reached her wit’s end. As if she didn’t have enough to worry about in her personal life, Edgar Collingham and Rich Proliss had Roger in an uproar. It was her job to protect Brandy and her interest in the estate. Now that Rich Proliss was brandishing Wil’s accounting ledger like a two-edged sword, Roger demanded that Elise run a second overview of the auction inventory, including the book value and estimated sale prices of all the cars. No matter how many times Elise cautioned Brandy against speaking directly with Edgar, the woman seemed determined to act as her own worst enemy.
Elise knew Brandy didn’t really care about that money, that she merely wanted time to grieve, without Edgar’s condemning looks and threatening comments. Still, in the long run, her interests needed protection, and Roger was convinced that Brandy must understand the gravity of Rich’s threats in order to act on them properly.
The way Elise saw it, she had no choice but to ask Jan for a second report. When he ran the figures for Rich, Elise hadn’t been the least concerned with the report’s readability. As far as she was concerned, the more difficult it was to understand, the better. But this was different. Brandy needed to understand the kind of money involved, the stakes she was playing with. The only way she could make informed decisions was if she had detailed information. She needed a report that carefully inventoried the value of each item in the estate, and that would make vividly clear why Edgar had hired himself one of the sharpest lawyers in Chicago.
As she studied the half-written memo on her desk, Elise conceded that she could no longer handle the turmoil in her personal life while trying to keep her professional life in order. Her mind was in chaos, her concentration shot. In a few short days, Wil had managed to turn her world bottom to top. In the process, he’d almost convinced her that he shared none of her anxieties about the past, that he’d restored order to his life, and was complete.
Almost.
But a few times, once when he’d first picked her up in his pickup, again in Chester Collingham’s garage, and then that night in her apartment, she’d seen an unguarded expression in his fog-colored eyes.
And its name was fear.
After his heart attack, Wil had given up the existence he’d carved for himself in the business world. Not for an instant did she believe that he missed the money or the power of trading on the Mere. It was the excitement he craved. The same thing that drew him to high-powered engines had drawn him to a world where fortunes were won and lost as quickly as the weather changed.
Though he claimed that he and Elise were different, she knew he was wrong. He feared being exposed as a fraud just as much as she did. Her solution had been to mask the fear. His had been to run from it.
When he turned his back on her ten years ago, he’d been running from his own fear of making the same choices. He’d left the Merc because he was too afraid of facing his former colleagues in the wake of his heart attack. And now, because he was afraid, he wanted to force her out of the world she’d built for herself.
When he came back into her life, he’d forced her to admit what she’d denied for ten years. He’d thrust her into a world where chaos ruled her thoughts, fears drove her decisions, anxiety plagued her nights. If she didn’t soon set things right, she’d lose all that she’d worked for. It was time for Wil to realize that he couldn’t use her to justify his own fears any longer. She had enough of her own without shouldering the burden of his.
With that thought in mind, she leaned back in her desk chair. As much as she’d resented Roger’s insistence that she spend yet another fruitless afternoon working out details of the Collingham estate, in retrospect it seemed like a gift from God.
This was the weapon she needed to restore order to her world. With a sense of determination she hadn’t felt in days, she tossed the memo into her briefcase
, then headed for the door. Jan had told her where to find Wil. It was time to take control.
When Elise entered the Rack Room three hours later, Wil watched her measured approach toward the pool table with the sudden, sure knowledge that she was going to kill him. Maybe not today, maybe not this week, but eventually, Elise Christopher would be the death of him.
The Rack Room, with its wood-paneled walls, leatherpadded bar, scarred walnut furniture and two pool tables, had the flavor and feel of an English pub. Rumor had it that, at one time or another, the bar had carried every brand of beer in the world. The current list boasted a selection of thirty-seven different brews, and by unspoken agreement the smoke-filled pub was a men-only kind of establishment. There was little in the way of ambience to attract a female clientele, and that suited the usual patrons just fine.
Wil paused in the process of chalking his cue to rapidly adjust his thinking. Women never entered the Rack Room. But if the way Elise’s arrival affected the place was any indication, their presence was long overdue. Her tight jeans, scoop-necked white tank top and green flannel shirt knotted at the waist seemed innocent enough, but the com-!!bined effect made his mouth go dry. The jeans hugged curves he’d previously only remembered. The tank top teased him with shadows and ripples that made his palms sweat, and the flannel shirt seemed to ask him to slide his hands inside. The way her dark hair hung in loose waves around her shoulders made his body grow heavy and warm.
Every pair of eyes in the room followed her progress to the table, but if she was aware of the scrutiny, she didn’t show it. Wil was forced to emit a warning kind of growl just to ward off the more lurid stares she received. Her gaze remained steadily on him. When she reached the table, she leaned her hip on its wooden shell. “Hello, Wil.”
Something in the controlled sound of her voice warned him that her mood was reckless, maybe even a little dangerous. The thought made his blood pump faster. ‘Taney meeting you here,” he managed. To keep from reaching for her, he returned his concentration to the process of chalking his cue.
“Jan told me where to find you.”
“Good old Pop.” He leached for the frame so that he could rack the balls. “Is something wrong?”
“No.” She pulled a folded piece of paper from her back pocket, then laid it on the edge of the table. “But I have something I need you to do.”
One of the balls tumbled from his fingers to plunk on the table. He could think of any number of things he’d like to do with Elise, but had the distinct feeling that wasn’t what she had in mind. Carefully he arranged the balls in the rack. “Do?”
“Paperwork. Roger wants Brandy Collingham to have a written analysis of the cars and their possible sale price. She doesn’t seem to understand that Edgar is trying to cheat her.”
“Isn’t this the same report you had to do for Rich Pro-!!liss?”
“Similar, but not the same. Rich is putting pressure on Brandy, and she needs something to fight him with. For Rich, I wasn’t too worried about making the numbers userfriendly. For Brandy, it’s different. I want her to be able to justify every cent, so Edgar can’t claim that she received more than her share.”
“Those cars are worth every penny you say they are.”
She pointed to the paper. “I know. And I know you think Edgar is as slimy as I do. That’s why I have to have this by tomorrow afternoon.”
“No problem. I’ll get Pop to run it tomorrow.” He’d finished racking the balls, so he forced himself to meet her gaze as he slid the folded piece of paper into his pocket. “I’m glad you came by.”
“You are?” When she reached for a cue from the wall rack, the flannel shirt pulled tight against her full breasts.
Wil swallowed, still not sure how to read her mood. “Of course. I told you how much I like Brandy. I don’t want to see Edgar get the better of her.”
“Neither do I.” Her fingers ran back and forth on the cue in a way that made him sweat.
Wil removed the frame from the racked balls. “You’re in an odd mood.”
“You think so?” She applied a liberal amount of chalk to the leather tip of her cue.
“Yeah. Is there a specific reason you decided to find me tonight?”
“I told you. I need the report.”
“You could have faxed it to me.”
“Probably. I just wanted to make sure you understood exactly what I wanted.”
He stared at her for long seconds. “What do you want?”
“I think maybe we ought to talk about that.” She had moved around to the end of the table, where she set the cue ball on its marker. “There is something I want to discuss with you.”
“I see.”
With a smirk, she centered her cue between her fingers. When she leaned forward over the table, Wil was afforded a generous glance right down the front of the tank top. A glistening bead of perspiration hovered between her breasts. His blood temperature neared dangerous levels. Belatedly he realized Elise was watching him watch her. He met her gaze, only to find her giving him a knowing look that almost knocked the breath from his lungs. He felt just as he had when she pinned him to the wall in Chester’s closet. “You want to share a game?” she asked, lazily sliding her cue across the top of her hand.
“Game?”
“Of pool.”
“Sure,” he managed to say, seeking balance in a conversation heavily laden with multiple meanings. “You take the first shot.”
Elise hit the ball with a long, firm stroke. When the cue ball scattered the arranged balls, the sound seemed jarringly loud in the charged atmosphere. Three balls dropped into the comer pockets. She gave him an enigmatic smile. “I’ll take solids,” she said.
He watched, riveted, as she caressed the end of her cue with the chalk square. The sight of her pink-nailed fingers rubbing the leather tip sent a bevy of erotic fantasies swirling through him. When she moved around to his side of the table and leaned over it, affording him an all too-tempting glimpse of her rounded fanny, he had to briefly close his eyes.
“Alex Devonshire called me today,” she told him. “Six ball, corner pocket,” she said.
The rattle of the balls, followed by the thump of the six ball into the pocket, recaptured his attention. “Alex Dev-!!onshire?”
“You remember.” She paused to study the table. “You met him at that event at the Art Institute.”
“Sure.”
Elise had leaned a hip on the table and was stretched across it in an awkward position as she prepared for a shot. “Four ball, center pocket.” The cue slid smoothly across her fingers. Wil estimated that the time of his death by unfulfilled sexual arousal would be within the hour.
The shot went a little wide. He moved hastily toward the other side of the table, needing whatever small measure of distance-between them it could afford. “So what did Alex want?” He didn’t bother to tell her he was aiming the nine ball for the corner pocket. Neither of them, he knew, was paying attention to the game.
“A reliable commodities broker,” Elise supplied.
Wil sank the shot before meeting her gaze. He saw the unspoken challenge in her blue eyes. “Tell him to call Matthew Switcher,” he said carefully. “He’s the best I know.”
“I told him to call you.”
Wil straightened. “Then I’ll tell him to call Matthew Switcher.” He pointed to the thirteen ball with the end of his cue. “Center pocket,” he said.
Elise shook her head. “I told him to call you about the broker spot, not for a referral.”
He stroked the cue with unnecessary vigor, and the ball thudded against the lip of the pocket, then rebounded with a sharp bounce.
Silence hung between them in the cloud of cigarette smoke that permeated the bar. Wil met her gaze across the table. “Let’s go,” he finally said.
“Go?”
“Now.”
She bunked. “Go where?”
He laid his cue on the green felt. “You want to talk about this, we’ll talk. But n
ot here.” Quickly rounding the table, he pried her. cue from her hand, and all but threw it back into the rack. He wasted no time dragging her from the smoky interior of the Rack Room onto the sidewalk, where the air was cooler and the lighting darker. He sensed another storm brewing between them, and knew he couldn’t concentrate while she seduced him across a pool table.
“Where are we going?” she demanded as he pulled her around the corner of the building and headed for his car.
“Somewhere we can have this conversation without two dozen spectators.”
“You don’t have to drag me by the hair, you know. I just want to talk. That’s all.”
He stopped when they reached his car. In the faded glow of the streetlights, he discovered with alarm, she looked no less appealing than she had inside the bar. He rubbed his hands on his thighs, allowing the rough denim to assuage the itchy feeling he got every time he thought about touching her. “You want to talk, talk.”
“Don’t you want to go somewhere?” she asked. She didn’t want to argue with him in the parking lot. “I could buy you a cup of coffee.”
“Believe me, the last thing I need is more energy. If I had any more energy than I do at this moment, I might explode.” The way her lips trembled all but begged him to kiss her. He recognized the slight movement as a show of vulnerability, and steeled himself not to give into it. “What are you trying to prove here?”
“I’m not sure. All I know is, ever since you walked back into my life, you’ve had me turned upside down.”
“Join the club, Elsa. This street runs both ways.”
“Wil, all I want to know is why you keep insisting that what happened between me and my family was some kind of personal betrayal.” She waved a hand back and forth between them. “You and I made a lot of mistakes, I’ll admit that. But I can’t shake the feeling that you’re holding what happened to you at the Merc against me. It’s like you feel I’m personally responsible.”
