by Cecy Robson
My father had hounded me all week. It’s not like him to call me this frequently, but for some reason he felt the need to rein me in, tug on that leash, and remind me that he commands every aspect of my life.
Well, perhaps not every aspect….
I hold tight to Curran’s gaze. What would my evening have been like without him? Likely, just as it had been these past two weeks: boring, uneasy, and almost pointless.
“What are you thinking about?” he asks me.
“You,” I admit, quietly.
“Yeah?”
I nod.
“What about me?” he murmurs.
Oh, where do I start? “I’m glad we went out,” I tell him. “I had a really nice time.”
Initially, I welcomed Declan’s invitation to dinner as a distraction from my workload and the loneliness that plagues my life. Now, I welcome only Curran: his deep voice, his hearty laugh, and his way with words. He has a way of stirring me up and breaking through the monotony and solitude of my existence, something I didn’t think was possible.
He cocks his head, taking me in. I wonder what he sees when he looks at me, but I don’t dare ask. I just hope it’s good. After all, he’s so…
He pushes off the wall and prowls forward, reaching for me and cupping my face with his large hands. His fingers thread through my hair, his light blue eyes so intense, my breath lodges in my throat and balls into a lump.
He leans in, closing his eyes. “What are you doing?” I stammer.
He pauses, then opens his eyes. “Ah, trying to kiss you.”
“On the lips?”
“I could do the forehead if you want,” he offers, slowly. “But it’s kind of not the same.”
“What does this mean?” I ask, barely able to spit the words out.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, what are you trying to do here?”
“I told you, kiss you.” He drops his hands away. “I thought we were having a moment. But I gotta tell you, Tess. You’re kind of ruining it for me.”
“Um.” I look around, my palms unusually sweaty. “Okay.”
“Okay, what?”
I let out a breath. “Okay, you can kiss me.”
I rub my palms against my coat and close the space between us. You can do this, I tell myself. And you know you want to. I lift my chin, close my eyes, and wait.
Until Curran’s laughter jolts my eyes open.
My face heats, which only makes him crack up harder. “You really know how to kill a moment. You know that?” he manages between bouts of laughter.
My shoulders slump as I admit defeat. He’s right. I took a perfectly sweet moment and ruined it. But that doesn’t mean that I don’t want this moment to happen, or that I’m ready to let it go. “Believe it or not, I’m trying here,” I tell him.
He leans back on his heels and crosses his arms, a big grin fixed on his face. “Let me take you back to college for a second. Think back to the night we went back to your sorority house.” He laughs when I blush yet again. “Before I ended up tied to your bed. Were you nervous?”
“Yes, I—no.” My hands slap at my sides. “A little,” I admit. “Mostly I was just having fun.”
Curran steps forward, his arm immediately claiming my waist while the knuckles of his free hand brush my cheek. “So just have fun,” he whispers.
I’m ready to tell him I’m not sure how, but his kiss immediately silences me.
At first, I think he’ll take his time, sweep his lips softly and romantically against mine, the same way he kissed my hand. I also think he’ll move his tongue to gently prod until I invite him in.
But I’m wrong.
Way wrong.
Good God.
Curran’s open mouth conquers mine, his lips fastening firmly and his tongue probing and teasing so that I easily surrender to the invasion. The Contessa Newart who’s so awkward and dorky gets kicked to the curb, succumbing to the Tess Newart who the cute guy wants, and needs, and, and— Holy shit.
I moan, my arms curling around his neck and drawing him closer. I’m briefly aware of my coat being yanked open, just as I’m aware that I don’t give a damn. Curran swears as he comes up for air before eagerly returning for more. He wants me. I know it by the possessive claim of his lips and the way his hands travel the length of my body.
His hand splays over my face, then moves down to smooth against my throat. It slides between my breasts and back up again, trailing to the base of my neck and repeating, each pass to my chest tugging at the front of my blouse.
His arm winds around my waist, gripping me and pressing me tight against his muscular body. I gasp when his teeth nip behind my ear and his movements grow more intense. He’s not touching my intimate parts, but I need him to—goodness, they’re practically screaming for his attention.
Unlike his, my hands aren’t so shy. They stroke up and down his torso, pulling at the buttons of his collared shirt. With every pass of his mouth, I grow more daring, needing to set his skin free and feel it against my palms—to reinforce that he’s real, and that this isn’t merely a dream.
I moan again when his chest shoves against mine, pinning me to the wall with his weight. But when he grips my backside and lifts me from the floor, it’s all I can do not to beg him to take me to bed, just like I did all those years ago.
And yet as I muster the courage to ask him inside, my feet return to the floor and his weight eases off me.
He steps back, falling against the opposite wall and breathing hard. Not that I blame him. As it is, I can’t control my racing heart or the harsh rise and fall of my chest.
Curran continues to stare at me. “Holy shit,” he says.
Ah, yeah.
I adjust my glasses and try to smooth my wild hair. I don’t need a mirror to know it’s a useless gesture.
“Sorry,” he says.
My hands fall away slowly. “What?”
He jerks his head to the side and mutters a curse. When he faces me once more, a slew of emotions riddle his features. I can’t make out all of them, but I do recognize the most prominent: remorse. It’s one I’m familiar with, and the one that destroys me to find in his face.
“I shouldn’t have done that. You’re my charge.”
“But I wanted you to,” I confess. “You didn’t force me. I wanted…this.”
Curran mumbles another curse. I meant to reassure him, but somehow I upset him more. “I should go,” he says.
I wish you wouldn’t, I want to tell him. But of course, I don’t. Not when he flat out told me he regrets our kiss. So instead, I nod stoically and reach for my purse. My fingers slip over my keys several times before I finally grasp them. Somehow, I manage to slip the key into the deadbolt on my first try.
Curran places his hand over mine before I can turn the knob. “Wait, me first.”
“It’s not necessary,” I say to the door.
“Yes it is, Tess. I meant it when I said I wouldn’t let anything happen to you.”
But you already did.
For all intents and purposes, and in every way possible, Curran did a real number on me. Maybe he didn’t mean to, but with him, I feel everything in its greatest extreme—happiness, humor, and now, sadness. He leaves me embracing every emotion, even when I fight not to.
I want to tell him as much, my need to practically thrashing its way out of me. Yet this isn’t the right time. For now, I need to let him go. I can’t have him if he won’t have me.
I step back and allow him ahead of me, wondering if I did something wrong. Yes, I’m his charge, but if he really wants me, should it matter?
“I’ll be quick,” he says, as if to make me feel better.
In truth, it only makes me feel worse.
I wait in the small hall, barely moving, until Curran finishes his sweep.
“All clear,” he says.
“Thank you,” I tell him, quietly.
He releases a heavy breath. “I shouldn’t have done that to you,” he tel
ls me again. “I’m sorry.”
I look at him then, trying my best not to cry. “I am, too.”
Another hint of emotion marches along his features before his “cop” face returns and erases any clue to what he’s feeling. “I’ll be outside if you need me until Lu gets here. I’ll see you tomorrow, all right?”
Curran marches past me when I say nothing more, shutting the door tight behind him. But it’s not until I flip the deadbolt that I hear his heavy footsteps stomp in the direction of the elevator.
I am sorry.
Sorry that Curran didn’t spend the night.
Curran
I sit in my car for fifty-four minutes. Fifty-four goddamn minutes, waiting for Lu to show up. It doesn’t seem like a long time, except that it is—long enough to feel like a complete screwup. What the hell is wrong with me? Didn’t I tell Declan I’d keep my distance—keep it all professional? And just this afternoon—when he caught me eyeing her up—I assured him nothing would happen.
Christ.
Every bit of common sense warned me against kissing Tess. Well, where was that common sense when I needed it—when I all but dry-humped her against the wall?
Hell, though. Can you blame a guy? Her laugh, that smile, those legs, and the way her green eyes flare behind her glasses are like magnets hauling me to her. I wanted that mouth so I took it. I also wanted to grip that ass and yank up her shirt and bra so I could tug on her nipples with my—
Every swear word I know shoots through my teeth. Holy Mother above, I could kick my own ass for being this horny. The thing of it is, if I were just horny, I’d head down to the nearest bar, pick up a girl, and take care of business.
So why don’t I?
’Cause you want Tess, asshole.
I run a hand over my face. Yeah. Pretty damn bad, based on that kiss. That angel face of hers gets me every time, even when she’s shaking her head at my stupid remarks. Pissed or happy, stressed or relaxed, Tess is a knockout, and she doesn’t even goddamn know it.
Damn, it felt good to have her body glued against mine. And didn’t she know how to work it, giving me everything back as hard as I took it.
I know she means it when she says she wants to be construed as a professional. Problem is, Tess is a nymph in nerd’s clothing. The night we spent in college didn’t involve that spooning shit or the cuddle time girls are supposed to like. It was rough and fast. We couldn’t get enough of each other. Even when we finally finished, we didn’t cuddle. We more like collapsed in a mess of sweaty limbs.
Something occurs to me, and it hits me like a punch: I want her. But unlike when we were in college, it’s not because she’s a challenge. I like her. She’s smart, and she’s sweet. Yet for all she seems to have going on, something’s way off. The way she eats, how she dresses, and where she lives seem all wrong.
And for all the ways I can describe her, “happy” isn’t one of them.
She never smiles…except maybe around me. That thought shouldn’t make me grin, but it does. I like having that effect on her.
“O’Brien!” Lu bangs her fist against the window. “You gonna sit on your ass with that stupid smile on your face or are you going to give me some kind of report?” she growls.
Shit. I roll down the window. “Why don’t you wave a sign over my head announcing I’m a cop—who happens to be the brother of the DA the mob is targeting—so any perp tracking us can just put a bullet in my head and be done?”
“Because I already swept the area for any unknown cars, called and checked in with our girl, secured the first, second, and, yeah, the other three floors of the building—in other words, did my job—while you sat there on your ass, again, with that asshole grin on your face.”
“Assholes don’t grin,” I counter.
“Fuck you” is her response.
Chapter 8
Tess
“How about this one? Contessa?”
I’m looking in the same direction as Mallory when the boutique owner presents yet another atrocious gown. “It’s fine,” I mumble.
My stepmother sighs dramatically. She resents spending time with me and only dragged me here because my father ordered her to. “Will you at least try to appease your father?”
“I’m here, aren’t I?” Instead of typing the legal briefs Declan needs, and studying for my exam in Criminal Law, and prepping for my upcoming mock trial.
Mallory eyes me, surprised by my tone given how anything I say will get back to my father. At this point, I don’t care. She’s betrayed me constantly to stay in Father’s good graces, giving no thought to how it affected me, or how badly I needed a supportive parent in my life.
In fact, Mallory married Father six months after my estranged mother’s suicide. We’ve never been close. To her I’m simply a burden to endure in order to belong to a family of prestige.
She never realized what marrying my father would cost her.
At only forty, and twenty years his junior, she is well within my father’s grip. She sits beside me, ramrod straight as he expects, dressed in suits or dresses he selects, belonging to charities and clubs he’s forced her to join, and associating with only women he approves.
While she enjoys certain perks I lack, like a cellphone and a car, they come at the price of being married to a dictator. Yet she stays, holding tight to her lavish home and lifestyle.
“Perhaps something in more classic tones,” she suggests when I say nothing more.
I glance around the shop. Curran would call it an old biddy’s wet dream, or something to that effect. I smile to myself, thinking about all the inappropriate comments that would shoot out of his mouth if he were here.
Mmm. That mouth.
I pass my fingertips along my lips, remembering the sweep of his tongue and how the stubble on his jaw had grazed my skin.
Damn, it was an amazing moment, until it wasn’t.
Sorry, he said.
I shouldn’t have done that to you, he added.
I know he didn’t mean to insult me. Curran isn’t cruel. But his reaction was an emotional blow I didn’t need, and one that really hurt.
God, Curran.
“Are you all right, Contessa?”
“I’m fine,” I answer, keeping my eyes ahead.
Three more gowns. Three more atrocities. “Just pick something,” she hisses when I pass on something that resembles a bicycle reflector instead of a piece of clothing I’d slip over my head. “I have a Daughters of the Confederacy meeting to attend. You know how testy they can be when someone arrives late.”
I fold my hands on my lap and try to breathe. This is the future that awaits me if I don’t break free of my father. “Do you have something more trendy?” I ask the store owner. “Perhaps something in black?”
The poor woman nods, and shuffles to the back of the store. I don’t want to be here, any more than her or Mallory. What I want is to see Curran, even though he may not want to see me.
When the store owner returns and shows me the next gown, I almost can’t believe my eyes. The gown is reminiscent of a dark sky filled with stars, like midnight in the summer along the shore. It’s all black, covered in iridescent beading that circles the turtleneck and swirls out and into the long sleeves.
I cross the small space, hardly believing a gem exists in this sea of paisley and polyester. “It’s stunning. I’d like to try it on, please.”
“No,” Mallory insists, forcing a laugh as she addresses the owner. “Forgive me, but your instructions were for more conservative and traditional attire. This is too, ah, formfitting.”
She means sensual. “I like it,” I say, quietly.
I pass the stretchy material along my hands, examining it closely. With a smile, I lift the dress from the woman’s arms and place it against me, ignoring Mallory’s warning.
“It will look gorgeous on you,” the woman says, her face beaming.
Her kindness makes me smile even more. “I hope so. May I use one of your dressing rooms to see if i
t fits?”
The woman motions to the right. “Of course, dear.”
My first thought is of Curran, and whether he would like it. It’s a silly thought, but if he liked me enough to kiss me in my old-lady shoes and nerdwear, maybe he’ll reconsider that kiss and a lot more if he sees me in this dress.
“Contessa, your father won’t approve,” Mallory insists.
“It has sleeves and a turtleneck. What more could he want?”
“A daughter who would be more appreciative of his efforts and grateful for his generosity,” he growls behind me.
I squeeze my lids tight. Shit.
Once again, my father arrived, unexpected and unwelcomed.
Panic replaces my shock. I don’t turn around, even when he reaches my side. “Why must you make such a simple task as picking out a dress so arduous?” he asks, his voice loud enough for the owner to hear.
Maybe it’s the humiliation, or the fact that I’m just so tired of taking his crap—whatever it is makes me snap. “Because it’s something I’m being forced to wear to an event I have no desire to attend,” I fire back.
My father hasn’t struck me in years. But if we were alone, he would have then. “Shut your filthy mouth,” he demands, seething with rage.
The sharpness to his tone causes the boutique owner to edge away. But from one blink to the next, the fury cutting ugly lines into his face dissolves, revealing the fine features of the gentleman he pretends to be. “We’ll take the blue one,” he tells the boutique owner, pointing to my left.
I make the mistake of looking, expecting the worst, and am not disappointed. There on a rack is a sexy number befitting most women in their nineties. I want to scream, but instead, there I stand, fighting the angry tears that come with being the daughter of Donald Newart.
The woman rushes away to fill Father’s order, falling all over herself to please him, as most do. It’s then that he leans in close, speaking through his teeth. “You walk a thin line with me, Contessa. Bite the hand that feeds you, and you’ll find it biting back.”
