Only You

by Addison Fox

  Fender steadied her, but didn’t let her go. “I said I should get going. I didn’t say I wanted to.”

  He bent his head and pressed his lips to hers. If he surprised her with the interrupted march to the exit, she caught up quickly.

  And once again, Fender had to admit that what he’d expected wasn’t even remotely close to reality. Although he hadn’t anticipated her to be cold—fire burned too deep in that blue gaze to suggest otherwise—nothing had prepared him for the warm, willing woman in his arms. She met him and more than matched him as their kiss spun out.

  The peaty taste of the whiskey still lingered on her lips, sexy and tantalizing. While he wasn’t choosy with his beer, he had always appreciated a particularly fine import or a good bottle of wine. Having a brother in the liquor business had seen to it he’d tried more than his fair share.

  None of it came close to the taste of Harlow.

  Sweet and sexy on the tongue, and one hundred percent addictive. The whiskey had made him punchy, but the woman made him drunk.

  Her hands pressed against his chest, the heat of her palms branding his skin through his T-shirt. He’d wanted to kiss her—wanted to taste her and feel her pressed against him—but he’d had no idea the kiss would leave him desperate for so much more.

  Nothing about this was a good idea. She wasn’t a hookup, and she couldn’t be permanent. So why the hell did she feel so good nestled in his arms?

  With regret singing in his veins, he ended the kiss. “I really should go.”

  Her hands were still on his chest, a fact she seemed to realize as her hazy gaze slowly cleared. Harlow pulled her hands away as if burned and took a few steps back on those killer heels. “Yes.”

  He resisted the urge to pull her right back against him, instead following her out of her office and back through the gallery. The paintings he’d observed on his way in were lit with individual lights, while the overheads had been dimmed.

  “You’ll be okay to wrap up?”

  “I’m fine. We’ve got an alarm, and I don’t live too far from here.”

  If he hadn’t just kissed her, he’d have insisted on walking her home, but the evening summer sun still rode high in the sky so he didn’t even have darkness as an excuse.

  “If you’re sure.”

  “Positive. It’s a short walk.” Tension lit the air between them, but that husky voice never wavered. Nor did the polite smile and professional demeanor. The gallery’s muted lights reflected off the green silk of her dress and, once again, Fender was reminded of the margaritas his brother sold in abundance.

  What he wouldn’t give to see Harlow Reynolds perched on a stool at one of Nick’s high tops, one of those margaritas in hand. Which was further proof he needed to get out and get far away from the tempting picture she made.

  Even though they both soldiered through a stilted good-bye, Fender couldn’t deny the rush that still fueled his blood. As he made the return trip to the 5 train, Fender had the surprising urge to whistle. But it was several hours before he realized something else, the taste of Harlow Reynolds still lingering on his lips.

  He might just like whiskey after all.

  Chapter Five

  Three days.

  It had been three days since the damned man breezed into her gallery, a bottle of whiskey dangling from his fingertips, something dark and compelling filling his eyes.

  Much as it had pained her to admit it, Harlow had counted each and every minute of those days, wondering when her phone might ring again.

  Wondering when she’d see him again.

  Which was ridiculous. But so was this strange, odd attraction to Fender Blackstone. The man hadn’t been far from her thoughts since they met a few weeks before, and she had no idea what to do about it.

  Whether it was a holdover from her parents’ disastrous marriage or just a personality quirk, she’d never chased after a man. When she was fortunate enough to enjoy an active, mutually satisfying relationship, she did. When there wasn’t someone in her life, she was fine, too. The situation had always seemed binary and, if she were honest with herself, probably more than a little cold on her part.

  So why now? Why Fender?

  And why, of all the times she could possibly become interested in a man, did it have to be with the one person whose family had such a sordid history with her own?

  Which is half the problem, she silently rebuked herself. Using words like sordid was the way her mother saw the situation.

  Harlow just saw it as sad.

  Although Louisa Mills had been her father’s grand romance, Harlow knew it wasn’t the only affair he’d indulged in. She had no proof and her mother had never confirmed it, but the pattern had been the same throughout Harlow’s life. He’d be home for weeks on end, her parents seeming to enjoy their time together and then he’d vanish.

  Every time her father poofed, her mother’s happiness would fade. The smiles would start to droop before vanishing all together. The laughter would grow more brittle before it just stopped. And each evening as they ate, she’d spin tales of Kindcaide’s commitments at work.

  Until one day she was ordering in and claiming a headache kept her from eating with Harlow and her brother.

  Always the same.

  And her mother always went back for more.

  As a child Harlow loved the security and the safety, but once she’d gotten out of the house and begun to live a life on her own, she’d seen something else.

  An endless cycle of emotional abuse that left scars just as deep as physical ones.

  That wasn’t love. Nor was it what one should expect from their partner in life. But her mother had not only taken it, she’d subjected her children to it, and that had always been a bitter pill.

  Add on the recent foray into crime and revenge, and Harlow had begun to wonder about her mother’s sanity. Gretchen was aging, and Harlow had grown concerned that her mother’s anger over her choice to put up with Kincaide’s behavior had finally gotten to her.

  Why now?

  A question that, when asked, was met with denials and a very large, incredibly solid brick wall.

  Sort of like Fender.

  The smile came unbidden. The man was tough. Undeniably so, yet there was a thread of vulnerability that tugged at Harlow. It was in his eyes. That veiled sense that he was waiting for the other shoe to drop.

  She had no idea why she thought that. More, she had no earthly idea if she was right. But as the thought took root, so did an idea.

  She loved shoes. And three days was long enough.

  Maybe it was high time she dropped a sexy Manolo on him.

  * * *

  “He has to eat the leg, Landon. He can’t just run around with it.”

  Fender stared over his brother’s shoulder, the images popping up on his brother’s laptop truly something out of a nightmare. Landon’s programming foray into the land of killer viruses, nomadic zombies, and the end of the world was, even now, playing out across the high-resolution screen.

  “Ooh. That’s good Fen.” Landon scribbled something on a small notepad beside him before returning to the keyboard. He hit a few keys and in moments a new scene lit the screen, this one broad daylight, a menacing horde of undead shambling closer and closer.

  “You’ve got a gorgeous woman and this is what you do with your time?” Fender stood up from where he bent over Landon’s shoulder and headed for the small fridge in Nick’s office. The fridge—and the office—had seen better days, but it served them all well as a place to regroup, catch up, and generally shoot the shit.

  Or let Landon show off the latest iteration of his gross game.

  “I’d say Daphne’s brought considerable improvement and inspiration. Besides, the game only occupies me during the day. As you so rightly pointed out, I’ve got a gorgeous woman.”

  “If you’re only enjoying her at night you’re sure as hell not doing it right.” Fender pointed his fresh beer at his brother as he handed over another. “And I wouldn�
�t go around telling the woman she was inspiration for anything you just showed me on that screen.”

  Landon grinned, his smile hovering at around a thousand watts. Fender had never seen his brother this happy—or his grin quite as dopey—and it struck him just how freaking good he felt about that.

  “My days are just fine, thank you. Daphne’s the inspiration for everything. Including that cop you see marching forward, guns blazing.” Landon tapped the screen, the character in a black uniform, guns in each hand, visible in the background. “The cop angle has added a ton to the game. My meeting’s next week with a game company that wants to see it.”

  “No shit?”

  “Yes shit.” Landon took a long swallow of his beer. “This one might put me over the edge. No more exploding jewels unless I want ‘em.”

  “Let me guess. You don’t want them?”

  Landon scrubbed a hand over his face, his dark gaze dimming. “I’m proud of the work. All of the work, whether the game’s targeted at ten-year-old girls or not. But I’d like to be working on something I’m passionate about. The programming, yeah, I love. But the creativity and the design on this one has been more fun than I expected.”

  “Then here’s to you.” Fender tapped his bottle, more than ready to believe L was going to make good on this sale.

  Landon took another sip of his beer as he closed the lid of his laptop, then turned fully in Nick’s battered old chair. “I’ve given you a few days. Four to be exact. You gonna spill on the lunch date you had on Monday?”

  “Maybe if you spill first on the jaunt your woman made into the city on Tuesday.”

  Whatever advantage Landon thought he had dimmed at Fender’s obvious knowledge of Daphne’s meddling. “Emma went, too.”

  “L—”

  “Yeah, I know. She was all excited about it, too. Couldn’t stop talking about Harlow and how great she is.”

  Since he felt the same, Fender couldn’t fault Daphne’s description, but he still chafed a bit at the intrusion into his personal life. “I can take care of myself.”

  “I know. A point I rather emphatically made to Daphne when we fought about it.”

  While he wasn’t above ribbing his brother, the fight comment caught Fender off guard. “You fought about it?”

  “A good one, too. Lots of yelling on both sides. Damn, that woman is incredible when she gets her passionate Italian on.”

  Since Fender quickly caught on how the fight likely resolved itself, he went back to irritated.

  “Does Daphne know I can take care of myself? Or Emma, the Ethel to her Lucy?”

  “You really think Daphne’s Lucy?”

  Fender picked up a small, foam football off one of Nick’s shelves and threw it at Landon’s head. “I don’t care which is which. What I care is that they went racing off to the city like a couple of hens.”

  “I think Nick fought with Emma about it, too, if it makes you feel any better.”

  Fender itched to find something harder to toss at his brother. “Rub it in, asshole. You and Nick both have meddling women, and you both got laid after fighting with them. No, you’re not making me feel any better about this.”

  He was happy for his brothers, but the very real fact that both knew Daphne and Emma had gone into the city and had kept it from him was one more sign that their lives had changed.

  Was he mad? Not really.

  Was it unsettling? More than he wanted to admit.

  The rock-solid brotherhood he’d depended on since the age of nine had been infiltrated, and that left a bitter taste.

  A hard knock on Nick’s office door was followed by Patty’s husky shout. “Fender! Someone here to see you.”

  Landon wheeled himself to the door and tugged it open. Fender had already pushed himself off the front of Nick’s desk, ready to ask Patty who was waiting for him, when he came to a stop.

  Harlow Reynolds stood in the doorway. She wore another brightly colored sheath wrapped around her body and a pair of fuck-me heels that had his eyes nearly rolling into the back of his head.

  * * *

  Harlow thanked the sweet woman with the corkscrew curls and moved deliberately into the small office that looked like a cross between a haven for a grizzled PI and a man cave.

  Based on the two men currently occupying it, she opted to go with the latter.

  She’d hazarded a guess that she’d find Fender at the Endzone on a Friday night, and her instincts hadn’t let her down. Had she been wrong, she also knew she’d likely get the details on his whereabouts from the same place.

  “Harlow.” Fender had already come to his feet from where he’d lounged against the dented desk and stood watching her from across the room. That shot of heat that had accompanied every prior encounter with him didn’t disappoint, and warmth radiated from her stomach to points farther south.

  “Fender.” She nodded before turning to the man on the rolling chair, who’d quickly gotten to his feet as well. “Landon. It’s good to see you again.”

  “You as well.” He nodded, and she was once again reminded of just how cute he was. The long, lanky frame and slightly spiky dark hair left a vague impression of absent-minded professor.

  “I saw Daphne the other day. She’s lovely.”

  “Daph mentioned you two met up. She couldn’t stop raving about your gallery.”

  “We’re opening a show in a few weeks. I’ll be sure to send you both an invite.”

  “Sounds good.” He shifted from one foot to the other before reaching for the laptop still on the desk and closing the lid. “She’s on her way here, so I’ll just head out and see if she’s come in yet.”

  When he’d vanished, laptop and all, with record speed, Harlow couldn’t resist shooting Fender a wry grin. “Was it something I said?”

  “I think he’s avoiding a second ass kicking.”

  “For what?”

  “I already gave him a hard time for knowing his woman went to roust you on Tuesday afternoon and deciding not to tell me.”

  “As we discussed over whiskey, I’d hardly call a friendly visit rousting.”

  He shrugged but made no move to come closer. “She’s a cop. She’s good at hiding her true intentions.”

  “Then consider myself rousted. Though I can’t quite imagine that’s what bothered you.”

  “I don’t need anyone meddling in my life.”

  “Neither do I.” While she understood the root of his displeasure—private lives were meant to remain private—she sensed there was something else in there. On a whim, she pressed. “Are you upset they meddled? Or that your brothers didn’t tell you?”

  “Both.”

  The response was out, and based on the slight grimace that marred his lips, she guessed the add on about his brothers wasn’t intended. “I have to agree with you. The butting in is bad enough, but to be kept out of the loop is worse.”

  Fender looked like he was about to say something, but in the end he held his tongue. It was curious because she kept getting the sense that he held a lot back from her. Which was ridiculous because they didn’t know each other. She hardly expected the man to spill his secrets to her after a few glasses of whiskey.

  And that only made her next words the height of ridiculous.

  “Want my help getting even?”

  “How’s that?”

  “I just think if people want to be nosy, then they deserve an eyeful.”

  “So you’re suggesting we give them something to talk about?” Fender asked.

  “Exactly.”

  As ideas went it was about as smart as the one that had carried her to Brooklyn. Some vague notion of a follow-up visit to catch him off guard the same way he surprised her on Tuesday. Only she hadn’t really planned it out or thought past what she’d do once she actually saw him.

  Which was as embarrassing as it was humbling. She had no peace offering via a bottle of whiskey. Nor did she even have any idea of what to say. Or how to get herself out of what had become a rather emba
rrassing suggestion.

  Smooth, Reynolds.

  Heat crept up her neck, and a series of lame excuses ran through her mind as a way to get out of there, when Fender moved. The steady stare and laconic stance vanished, replaced by a man in motion. One who didn’t stop until he’d pulled her forward, neatly dragging her into his arms.

  The move was everything she wasn’t—rough, ruthless, and dangerous—and she loved every moment of it.

  More than that, she loved that even amid the deliberate movements and roughneck edges, there was a surprising gentleness. An awareness, almost, that she was delicate. Precious, somehow.

  Yet he didn’t hold back.

  All of it flew in the face of who she was, or who she thought she was. But she couldn’t seem to find her way to caring as those lush lips roamed over hers or that tongue painted her mouth in sure, carnal strokes.

  Oh, how she wanted him. It was madness of a sort she’d never entertained before. Heady with a layer of desire that made her nerve endings tremble.

  Odd, she marveled, how her thoughts could be so coherent and so scattered, all at once. She felt him—felt what he did to her—yet the hands that roamed over his shoulders seemed like they belonged to someone else.

  The lips that pressed to his telegraphed desire, need, and want, yet she could hardly believe this was her.

  She and Fender didn’t know each other.

  They had a history neither had a hand in creating.

  And they had no possible future.

  Yet even with that insistent notion, Harlow couldn’t see her way to stopping.

  Fender Blackstone wasn’t a possibility. And unlike those mechanics classes in high school that were designed to poke and irritate her mother, but in the end did no harm, the same couldn’t be said if she started something with Fender.

  Her mother was fragile. And while Harlow didn’t normally consult her for dating approval, this was different. To assume otherwise—or to ignore that reality—was the act of a child.