by Robin Kaye
“Your home?” Bree had always wondered where he lived. The high-rises beside the harbor with million-dollar views would suit him. All she knew was that they must cost a pretty penny.
“My office. Here’s the view from my desk.” He clicked on something else, and a photo filled the screen with a breathtaking view of hundreds of sailboats filling slips, others sailing, and a beautiful bridge in the distance.
“Not too shabby. It’s a wonder you get any work done at all.” It was a far cry from Red Hook; even now, as much as Red Hook had improved, the two places were in different hemispheres—literally and figuratively. No wonder he couldn’t wait to get back and be able to look at that view every morning when he went to work. She couldn’t imagine living in a place so beautiful, so perfect. “You’ve really made something of yourself. You must be proud.”
Storm did his one-shoulder shrug she’d seen since the first day she’d met him. The man never could take a compliment.
“Did you build all those boats, Storm? Pop says you draw them and then somebody else builds them.”
He opened up another file. “Here are some of the boats I’ve designed.” A slide show of 3-D graphics of hulls flew across the screen. She didn’t really know what she was looking at, so she looked at Storm instead. “Impressive,” Bree murmured.
“Awesome. You made all those boats?” Nicki whispered.
“I designed them and worked with the boat builders, but I’m not the one building them.”
“You must be really good at drawing then, huh?”
“Most of the drawing is done on the computer, but yeah, I hold my own with a pencil. I like to sketch ideas before I draw them on the computer and see if they’ll work.”
“Will you teach me how to do that?”
Storm’s eyebrows rose, and he speared Bree with a look as if he were asking permission or direction tinged with a healthy dose of fear. Fear of what? Was he afraid of spending time with Nicki, or was he afraid that she’d say no?
Bree put her hand on her hip and tugged on Nicki’s ponytail. Nicki’s eyes met Bree’s as she leaned into Storm. “You left your sketch pad and markers in the restaurant when you disappeared—which is against the rules. You need to tell me where you’re going. I freaked when I came out of the office and saw you were missing.”
“You were on the phone, and Miss Rocki was playing the piano. You know how she gets when she’s playing.”
“Then you wait for me to get off the phone; you just don’t take off.”
Nicki looked down at her shoes. “Sorry, Bree.”
“Okay. Just don’t do it again. I’ve got to get back downstairs, and I’m sure Storm has work he needs to get done. Maybe you two can schedule a lesson over dinner.”
“Aw, Bree. Can’t I just bring my markers and paper up here now?”
“No. Miss Patrice is coming to pick you up for a playdate in a little while. She’s going to take you and her girls to the park. You wouldn’t want to miss that, would you?”
“I guess not.” Nicki didn’t look so sure as she dragged her feet all the way out of Bree’s bedroom.
Bree turned back to Storm. “We have wireless, so there’s really no need to work in my room.”
“I didn’t have the password, and this is a more secure connection—especially while I’m downloading files.” Storm smirked at her again. “I promise not to disturb your stuff. Besides, after Pete comes home, you’ll be moving back to your place, right?”
She hadn’t thought that far ahead. For her, the last few weeks had been a one-day-at-a-time kind of thing, but she couldn’t imagine leaving Pete and Nicki with only Storm to take care of them. What if Nicki had nightmares? What if Pete needed her? “You could go stay at my place if you want.”
Storm stood and moved closer to her, filling the small room with his presence. She was tempted to step back, but she didn’t. She craned her neck to look him in the eye. If she took a deep breath, her chest would hit his. Damn him.
“Why did you ask for help if you were just going to refuse it? Why the hell did I drag my ass halfway around the world to come here?”
“I don’t know. Why did you? You’re just going to take off again.” Bree turned and stepped toward the door—the door he shut before she got there.
He practically vibrated with what looked like barely contained anger. The closer he came, the bigger he seemed. “What the hell do you want, Breezy?” He breathed into her ear. “An apology for something that happened eleven years ago?”
“I want nothing from you.” She meant that to sound indignant; instead, it came out sounding breathless. She couldn’t think when he was this close. She stepped back and hit the door.
Storm slammed a hand against the doorframe, trapping her. “That’s too bad, Breezy, because I want a hell of a lot from you.” His mouth came down on hers, but she wouldn’t call it a kiss—not like any kiss she’d ever had. It was more like a war. She wasn’t sure whether he was fighting her, himself, or whatever this thing was between them.
He shuddered beneath her hands, against her body. His thigh slid between hers as he dragged her closer and pressed her back against the door. Passion—hot and furious—exploded between them. And God help her, she dug her nails into his shoulders, and held on, taking, giving, melting and inciting him, wanting more.
A knock sounded. “Bree, Patrice is here. Are you coming?”
Storm dragged in a breath close to her ear. “Not yet, but you’re close.”
She wanted nothing more than to kick him right in the balls—she would have too if her legs hadn’t been wrapped around his waist.
* * *
The look on Breezy’s face was the only thing keeping Storm from laughing. She looked pissed enough to do bodily harm, but since he was holding her up, she didn’t dare, and he was in no mood to unhand her ass. Damn, she felt so good against him, he’d almost come in his pants.
“Be right there, Nicki. Grab your backpack on the counter.” She stabbed him with those ice-cold green eyes. “Let me down.”
“We’re not finished.”
“We were finished eleven years ago when you ran out the door. Naked.”
“That was then; this is now. I’m not the one running, Breezy. If anyone is running, it’s you.” He slid her down his thigh, pissing her off even more, “Go see Nicki off, and then we’re going to talk.”
She put her hand on the doorknob and turned back to him. “I have a bar and restaurant to run, I don’t have time to talk, and I don’t take orders from you.” She sashayed out, slamming the door behind her.
She might not want to talk to him, but she would. He would hound her every step until she cried uncle and they figured out how to work together. Hell, he wasn’t even sure whether she was pissed because he’d left or because he’d come back. With his luck, it was both.
Another minute and they’d have been ripping each other’s clothes off. He sat on the edge of her bed. He’d heard of makeup sex, but never fight sex, and damn if it wasn’t the single most spectacular make-out session he’d ever had, and he hadn’t even gotten her out of one piece of clothing. He couldn’t imagine how hot it would be when he did.
* * *
Bree made sure Nicki was buckled into the back of the Jeep and did her best to avoid Patrice’s questions. Of course, Storm was all anyone wanted to talk about. That went for Nicki, Rocki, Patrice, and from what Patrice said, even Francis.
Patrice flipped her newly relaxed, sexy blond-highlighted long hair over her shoulder, making her look even more like Beyoncé, and shot Bree one of her knowing looks. “That’s okay; I was able to get a sitter for tonight, so Francis and I will be back later. We’ll just keep Nicki with our two and drop her off with you tomorrow. This way you’ll get a break, and I’ll get all the information I want straight from the horse’s mouth.”
“Horse’s ass is more like it. Besides, there’s nothing to say.” What was it with people? It was as if they’d never seen a man before.
Patr
ice got behind the wheel and started the car. After Bree waved to Nicki, she ran into the bar.
Leaving the bar in the not-so-capable hands of Rocki was usually a disaster. But Bree would have gladly spent the rest of the night picking up after Rocki not to have to deal with what—make that who—she found there.
Storm poured a drink as though he knew what he was doing. He smiled at something the customer said. His eyes never left her face, which, even Bree had to admit, was amazing, considering the woman was almost climbing over the bar to give him a cleavage shot. He took the twenty she handed him and turned back to the register.
Bree hurried behind the bar and pulled the bill out of his hand. “What’d she have?”
“Stoli on the rocks with a twist.”
When Bree started punching the order into the register, he waved her away. “I’ve been working behind the bar all my life—first as a bar back and then as a bartender. How do you think I paid for marine architecture school, Breezy? I’m more than capable of ringing up a drink.”
“That’s all fine and good, but I don’t want you in my till.”
“Do you honestly believe that I spent three grand to fly here just so I could steal a few hundred from your till? Give me a break.”
If it had been Logan or Slater helping, she’d be kissing his feet, but this was Storm. It was impossible for her to be grateful for his help. Unfair—definitely, but who the hell said life was fair, and how could she be grateful for his help when his mere presence caused her more pain and stress than she’d had dealing with everything alone? She sucked in a deep breath and let it out slowly. Fine, if he wanted blunt, she could do blunt. “This is my bar, and I don’t want you here.”
Storm leaned back against the beer cooler and crossed his arms. “Last I checked, this was Pete’s bar, and he was awfully relieved this morning when he found out I was here to help out, so get over yourself. I’m here. I’m going to help. If you don’t like it, I’ll be happy to fight about it later—just not in front of the customers.”
He shot a brilliant smile at the walking plastic surgeon’s catalogue, punched in her order, totaled the sale, and counted out her change, slamming the drawer shut with his hip.
“Fine.” Bree stomped into her office and was so angry, she slammed that door too—only it didn’t slam. She looked over her shoulder and found Rocki protecting her face. “Sorry.”
“I guess if you really want to, you can slam the door now. I’m just glad I have great reflexes.” Rocki took a seat on the other side of Bree’s desk.
“I have work to do.”
“No, what you have is a bad case of beard burn. You might want to put some cream on that. Maybe next time you and Storm go at it, he should shave first. Still, that whole scruffy, didn’t-get-the-chance-to-shave-this-morning look really works for him. But then, what wouldn’t?”
“We had a fight.”
“Why make love and not war when you can do both? That must have been one hell of a reunion, huh?”
“I think I preferred the one last night when I clobbered him with a frying pan.”
Rocki laughed. “Oh, to have been a fly on the wall…but knowing you, you would have hit me with the frying pan too.”
“This is not funny. He’s behind my bar.”
“I know—that’s usually what happens when you request help running a bar.”
“He’s supposed to help. Not take over. Not mess with my head. And not look as if he belongs here when he’s just biding his time until he can run away again.”
Rocki slid forward in her seat, “Just think of all the women he’s going to attract. We should publicize it. Of course, Patrice is already on the job, so you’d better be prepared for one hell of a night. Storm Decker is going to be quite the draw. He’s all that with a Brooklyn Kiwi accent—a tantalizing combination.”
“Why do I bother?” Bree sat at her desk and held her aching head in her hands. “You’re supposed to be my best friend. You’re supposed to commiserate with me and give me ‘poor babys.’ Instead, all I get is skin-care advice and the nauseating job of holding your drool cup.”
“I hardly drooled, not that he’s not worthy.” Rocki crossed her legs and did that annoying heel-to-sandal slap with her waggling foot. “I’m not sure what’s more interesting, watching Storm or watching you watch Storm. Girl, you’ve got it bad.”
“I do not. I can’t stand him.”
“Yeah, I can tell by the beard burn.” Rocki reached into her bag and took out a tube of cream. “If you don’t want to advertise what you two were doing upstairs, you’d better use this.” She tossed it across the desk, stood, and headed for the door. “It’s about time you let a man close enough to scrape some of that fair skin of yours off. The blush works for you too. It really brings out your eyes.”
* * *
Bree hung up the phone after her daily call from Slater asking about Pete’s condition and ran up the back stairs to her apartment. If she was going to have to deal with Storm Decker and loaded questions all night, she was going to do it looking as good as she could, and preferably without noticeable beard burn.
She piled her hair on the top of her head and jumped into a hot shower, doing her best to wash the scent of Storm off her body.
As if it weren’t bad enough that he rubbed all the skin off her face with that coarse bristle, she’d spent the afternoon squirming in her chair. Instead of doing a beer order, she relived every second of that kiss—or whatever the hell it was. Remembering the way he’d picked her up, how her thighs cradled his erection, the taste of his anger and the second it had changed to need, want, and pent-up frustration.
What was it about him that had her thoughts making a right-hand turn toward eroticaland? And what the hell was she going to do with him? He could piss her off and turn her on just by breathing. How could she fight something like that, especially with her Irish temper?
Bree tore the ponytail holder from her hair and soaked her head. It was no use; nothing helped. She was beyond horny, edgy, and exasperated with herself and with him. She’d never been one to fall all over a man. No one had ever left her wanting; no one had ever affected her to the point of madness; no one had ever made her fall in love. Except for Storm.
CHAPTER 5
Storm stood behind the bar, sipping a club soda and studying the menu. It contained a hell of a lot more than the burgers and fries Pete had always offered. The new menu had appetizers, soups, salads, entrées, and desserts.
The bar had been busy since he’d come down and relieved Rocki—something else that hadn’t happened when Pete was running the place, but not everything had changed. The menu still had everything he’d craved when he was away from the States: Red Hook’s famous lobster rolls, Key lime pie, and, most of all, beer from Sixpoint Brewery—all in all the perfect meal as far as he was concerned.
The two servers working lunch were well trained, and by three o’clock, the bar service had picked up and there was still a busy late-lunch crowd at the booths and tables.
Bree hid out in her office. If she was waiting for him to fall on his face and beg for help, she’d have a long wait.
Storm had already introduced himself to the kitchen staff and asked about the specials. He’d even received a quick lesson on how to place an order on the bar computer from one of the servers. It was an easy-enough program to pick up. Sure, he had to figure out some of the intricacies and get an employee code of his own, but for now he was using Bree’s—which must have really chapped her ass. And what a fine ass it was.
“What’s that smile all about?” Rocki pulled up a stool and leaned toward him across the bar. “And what the hell did you do to piss off Bree so badly?”
“Which time?”
“Touché.”
He leaned back, held her gaze, and waited for it.
Rocki, instead of peppering him with questions, settled for a stare off. Her eyes held questions, warnings, along with a good bit of humor. Storm had a feeling that once he got to know he
r, he’d like her as much as Breezy seemed to, even if the girl couldn’t tend bar to save her own life. It had taken him an hour to clean up the mess she’d made in a quarter of that time.
Storm wasn’t sure how long they’d stared at each other before she finally nodded and slipped off the stool. “I’m glad we understand each other.”
Storm gave her a mock salute. “Perfectly.”
She stepped behind the bar, turned off the music, and flipped another switch before sitting down at the piano to take requests for the next hour from the regulars who came in with briefcases and loosened ties for a mixture of standards and Brahms. Yeah, Storm was pretty sure he was going to like Rocki a whole lot.
He fell back into the routine of tending bar as if he’d never stopped. By five, the place was hopping—delivering Storm directly into the weeds. He was just about to send one of the servers to find Breezy, when a big guy wearing a black polo and khaki pants came around the bar and logged onto the computer, switching out the cash drawer.
“I’m Simon. Who are you, and where’s Breanna?”
Storm didn’t like his tone but couldn’t really blame him. “Storm Decker, Pete’s son. I came to take some of the pressure off Bree.”
Simon relaxed and shook his hand. “Good to see one of you finally showed up.”
“I just found out the day before yesterday—and it’s a twenty-four-hour flight. Pop’s not much of a communicator.”
Simon blew out a breath. “I’ve been worried about both Bree and Pete. I’m glad you’re here. Bree’s been running herself ragged.”
“Yeah, well, my presence here won’t make much of a difference if she won’t let me help.”
Simon stopped midswipe. “She’s got a real stubborn streak, and from what I gathered, you’re not her favorite of Pete’s kids.”
“Thanks for the news flash.”
“Hey, Breanna—looking good.”
Storm looked up from the order he was pouring. Bree walked toward the bar, wearing black trousers paired with sex-on-stilts, pointy-toed shoes that made her legs look a mile longer than usual. She topped it with a black tank under some kind of long, formfitting blouse that shimmered—seemingly changing color from fuchsia to purple every time she moved. She’d done something to her hair. It still had that just-got-out-of-bed tousle, but it didn’t look accidental. It looked as if some man had just spent the last twenty minutes running his hands through it—and he hadn’t been that man.
