Sexy as Sin (Sinful, Montana Book 3)

by Rosalind James

  “Oh,” she said, and stared at it stupidly.

  “You don’t like it?” Brett asked, and she jumped.

  “No!” she said. “No. Of course. I . . . I love it.” She laughed. “I don’t know what to say.”

  Brett smiled. Slowly. And Jamila Amal could go hang. “That first day,” he said, “when I bought flowers at Woolworth’s for you after our curvature in the plan, I bought sunflowers. I saw them and thought, ‘Perfect.’ I still do.” He touched the edge of a blossom with a finger. “Turning their faces to the sun and blooming where they’re planted, no matter how harsh the soil. May I put it on you?” He glanced at Jamila Amal. “My hands are clean.”

  Oh, bloody well done, Willow thought. “I should pretty well think so,” she said, and he laughed.

  Oh. Whoops. “Is it allowed?” she asked Azra’s mum. Ice queen or not, she surely knew the answer, because no woman had ever looked more polished. “Isn’t there a rule about diamonds and daytime? I never know these things. I’m not as girly as I might be, as you’ve clearly seen.”

  Jamila Amal had unbent a tiny bit. Jewelry could do that to you. “That is what you call a wearable piece,” she said. “A day-to-night item, as it’s smaller, and the chain is of platinum rather than diamonds. Harry Winston can overwhelm a woman’s good sense in any case, but you may wear this in the daytime without reservation.”

  “Oh, good,” Willow said. “Not that I wouldn’t anyway. If we’re in . . . what are we in?” she asked Brett, “if it’s not an apartment? Something with a door, clearly, if we have a butler, so nobody to see my possibly inappropriate diamonds. Seriously, Brett. A butler?”

  “The Residence,” he said, only slightly sheepishly. He had the necklace in his hands, and she turned her head and pulled up her hair to give him access, then trembled a little at the brush of his fingers at the nape of her neck. Diamonds were sexy, or maybe that was just him.

  She put a finger to the pendant and said, “I’m dying to see it,” and Jamila Amal pulled a large tortoiseshell compact from her purse without a word, flipped it open, and handed it over.

  Willow had to sigh. “Oh, it’s . . . it’s gorgeous. I can’t . . . thank you.”

  “You’re welcome,” Brett said. “Drink your champagne.”

  Brett was out of the warmth and back to Portland-winter cold, with one meeting down and two more to go. And that was just today’s schedule. If you spent three extra weeks in Australia, there was a price to pay. He hefted his new cane, gritted his teeth against the discomfort of a leg protesting against bearing this much weight, headed into Pioneer Courthouse Square, thronged with its usual crowds even on a chilly February afternoon with the wind whistling, and looked for Willow.

  “I’ll meet you by the fountain at one,” he’d reminded her when he’d left her at the loft this morning. He’d been propped on his hands, over her at last, at least for the moment, looking down into emerald eyes, and she’d been wearing nothing but a sleepy smile, with her own arms around his neck. “My assistant says Nordstrom, which is, fortunately, across the street from the square. I sent the directions to your phone. If it’s too cold for you getting there, and it probably is, take a cab. Ask for a parka, Brenda says, and tell them it’s for Montana. Apparently, there’s a certain quilted coat that’s filled with duck down and has a hood trimmed with coyote fur. I’m supposed to tell you to get that, so she can own it vicariously. I should buy it for her for Secretary’s Day, probably. When is Secretary’s Day? My problem is, I need my secretary to tell me. Sort of takes the surprise factor out of it. Also: possibly inappropriate. I don’t think clothing’s an allowable gift, even a coat. It’ll have to be a gift certificate.”

  She was laughing. “Brett. Go. And I am never wearing something with a fur-trimmed collar. I don’t care if it is Montana. Just no.”

  “It’s a coyote. You wouldn’t call them endangered.” He got off the bed, though, and halfway to the door, then turned back. “Also, you need more sweaters. I should be saying something about a high neck, but I’m going to say wrap front instead, because I like looking at your skin. You need a bigger suitcase, too. Ask them for help. Pretend it’s Azra, and that when you say, ‘It’s too expensive,’ she’s putting her hands over her ears and singing.”

  “Leave,” she said. “Now. It’s one week. There’s a limit.”

  Now, he searched for her from across the square, thinking, At least it isn’t raining. And forgot all about it as a figure in a cherry-red, slim-fitting parka stood up on the steps beside a fountain, turned off for the winter. She waved, and something happened in his heart.

  She’d found a red coat. Of course she had.

  It had been the flight that had thrown him, and everything that had come before it. When she’d sat beside him on the glove-soft brown leather seats, had chatted with the onboard chef in French in that voice like music, and he’d watched the play of emotions over mobile features, the sparkle of diamonds on pale skin, then turned back to his laptop, thought, Hang on. Don’t get ahead of yourself, and hadn’t succeeded one bit.

  Or later, when they’d eaten a dinner that, he was sure, she could have cooked even better and were sitting with wine glasses in front of them, and he was looking over the presentation for the Coorabell Heights project, thinking of the right words to use to sell the expansion he was already contemplating, and Willow was watching a movie. He’d had the bed in the next room in his mind, and a vision of her stepping out of the shower and not bothering to dress again. How he’d pull her down onto the bed and she’d laugh, until she wasn’t laughing anymore.

  He was thinking that, at least, until he stopped working to watch her movie.

  It was something about the stillness in her body. On the screen, a slim redhead with subtle curves, in an evening dress that made her look like a mermaid, was putting her hand into a man’s as if it belonged there and being led onto a dance floor. Some sort of fairy-tale thing, he’d already surmised from the costumes, not to mention the singing and dancing.

  The man—the hero, he guessed—put his hand on the woman’s waist. Carefully, like she was precious. The redhead put her hand on his shoulder, light as a whisper, and neither of them looked . . . exactly happy, but like once they’d touched each other, there was no choice. They were holding their breath, because it was too good to be true. And so hard to believe in.

  He put on his headphones and plugged in. Willow’s face was absolutely rapt, and if this was her fantasy, he should know what it was.

  A man on stage, singing a ballad. A chandelier, and under it, a woman in a mermaid dress being twirled and spun, then caught again in sure hands, until at last, the man had both hands on her waist and was lifting her off her feet. The two of them dancing like Willow’s aunt and uncle had the night before, like they were the only people in the world.

  Willow had her hand over her heart, and then she must finally have realized that he was watching, too, because she ripped the headphones off in a hurry, paused the movie, and said, “Sorry. Romantic. Silly.”

  He took off his own and said, “Has to be Disney.”

  “Yes. Enchanted. Is this bothering you? I could watch in the bedroom.”

  “No. You know . . . dance lessons are a thing. We could take a few sometime. How long has it been since you did it? Waltzed?”

  “Oh.” She laughed, sounding a little breathless. “Not since I was little, dancing on my dad’s feet one night. That’s my waltzing experience. He told me I’d be ready, when I was old enough to go along to parties. He was joking, I realize now, but I believed him. It was a special night. By the time I was old enough, though, that part of my life was over. Things don’t turn out the way you expect, do they?”

  “No,” he said. “So rarely. But there could be something good around the corner all the same.”

  If he’d been able to run up the steps to the fountain now, he would have. Instead, she ran down to him, and what could he do but take her in his arms and kiss her like he’d missed her?
/>   “Nice coat,” he said when he could say something again. “No coyote fur, though.”

  “I took it off,” she said. “You can laugh, but I’ve surfed with dolphins. I can’t wear something’s fur. Please don’t mention the lamb biryani I had on the plane. Cute little fleecy baby lambies, and I ate them.”

  “All right,” he said. “I won’t.”

  “Also . . .” She unzipped the coat a few inches and showed him her neckline. His necklace, sparkling like a promise, and a deep purple sweater. A wrap sweater. If he’d been allowed to, he’d have put his hand there. “Are you happy?”

  “Yes,” he said, and it was true.

  “Good. Let’s go have lunch.” She lifted the paper shopping bag in her hand. “Steelhead fresh off the boat, boy, and a bottle of Chardonnay from right here in Oregon that the bloke swore would be brilliant with it. Winter veggies and fresh herbs, because local and seasonal is always best. That’s your dinner, though. For now, let’s have pizza at the Crown, because I need to try it and see what’s so special, and then I’ll go back to your house and make the magic happen.”

  She should really, really be thinking about Nourish. Amanda hadn’t answered her email, and she needed to talk to Brett about what that meant, and what she did now. Dinner was soon enough, though, surely. For now, she wanted to hear about his meetings, and to know that he wanted to tell her.

  It was freezing. She hadn’t known there was cold like this in the world. Her coat was warm, and she’d bought leather gloves and a fuzzy hat at the saleswoman’s insistence, but her face felt like it was cracking, and she might as well not have been wearing the jeans at all. If Montana was colder than this, which she couldn’t imagine being possible, she was going to be a block of ice.

  She was thinking it, seeing the restaurant’s name written on the window, when she realized she was walking by herself. She whirled, thinking, He’s fallen. The cane. Ice.

  He hadn’t fallen. He was standing still, looking through the plate glass. She took a few steps back and asked, “All right?”

  He looked at her with blank eyes, then blinked and said, “Sure. Let’s get out of the cold.”

  “You’re worried we won’t get a table,” she said. “I booked ahead. Or did you not want pizza?”

  “No,” he said. “It’s fine.” He’d withdrawn, though, back behind his smooth, polished mask, and she couldn’t see why.

  They went inside, and she was glad to be out of the cold. When she took off her coat, though, Brett didn’t look at her sweater in the way she’d expected. Instead, he was studying the menu, then giving his order like she wasn’t there. She wasn’t sure what to say about that, or whether to say anything at all.

  A work thing, probably. He was back in his element, and however busy he’d seemed, being in Oz had been a holiday for him. Holidays didn’t last forever.

  A shadow fell over the table, but when she looked up, it wasn’t the waiter. It was a brunette in a jewel-blue knit skirt and matching wrap jacket not too different from what Willow was wearing, except that there was so much more body under it. The woman had to be in her late thirties, from the few faint lines at the corners of her eyes, but the word “bombshell” had surely been created just for her, from the lustrous mink-brown hair pulled back into a knot to her perfectly cut cheekbones to her black suede heels, and so had the word “confident.”

  Some Italian star from the middle of the last century, that was who she reminded you of. “Sultry.” That was the other word. You could fully imagine her pulling her hair out of its knot, shaking her head, kicking off her heels, crooking a finger, and not even needing to smile. The man in the picture would follow her anywhere.

  “Hello, Brett,” she said. “It’s been a long time.”

  Brett had stood, and now, his face defined “wooden.” He said, “It has. This is my friend Willow. This is Nia Hernandez, Willow.”

  “Brett’s ex-wife,” the brunette said, putting out a hand, then looking down at Willow’s as she shook it. One of their hands had a perfect wine-colored manicure. The other had—well, completely unpainted nails filed to practical length, and fingers marred by scars from knife cuts and old burns. Because she was a chef.

  “How are you?” Brett asked. “I see you in the news from time to time. You did well in that real-estate fraud case. That made some waves in the industry. Still keeping me honest. How’s Aaron?”

  “He’s switched jobs,” she said. “You probably don’t know that. He’s been teaching high school for a year and a half now. Chemistry, and he coaches the debate team, too.”

  “Really,” Brett said. “That’s very . . . noble.”

  “We’re having a baby. He wants to be there for her.”

  Brett, Willow could swear, rocked back on his heels. “That’s . . .” he said, then cleared his throat. “That’s great. How far along are you?”

  “Fifteen weeks. And, no, you don’t have to say anything. We’ve done all the testing, and every way they can watch, they’re watching. Every care we can take, we’re taking. Travel is another thing Aaron isn’t doing.”

  “I can imagine.” Brett was back to “wooden” again. “Congratulations to both of you. Will you send me an announcement?”

  The waiter appeared behind her with a pizza, and Nia looked around, then said, “Of course, if you’d like one.”

  “I would,” Brett said. “And I’m happy for you. You deserve it.”

  A crumbling of the façade, instantly put to rights, and she said, her voice only a little strained, “Thank you. Nice to meet you, Wendy.” She headed off, bumping into a chair in the process like she couldn’t see, and Brett, who’d started to sit, was up again and stepping forward. Nia straightened herself again, though, and headed over to a table in the corner, where three men in dark suits were engaged in earnest conversation. A work lunch, clearly.

  Brett sat down. Slowly. And the waiter set the pizza and a salad on the table. The pizza looked like everything Willow would have eaten in heaven—pesto, gorgeous white stracciatella buffalo cheese, and arugula, all of it arranged on a thin, crispy crust with the popped bubbles that told you the oven had been exactly the right temperature.

  She wanted a sip of her red wine. Correction. She wanted the whole glass, and then possibly another one. She asked Brett, “Would you like to leave? I’m happy to go someplace else.”

  “No,” he said. “Let’s eat.”

  She hesitated, then served him up a piece of pizza and a spoonful of chopped salad and did the same thing for herself. After that, she did take a sip of wine, and a few more, and Brett still sat there without eating, like he hadn’t noticed there was anything on his plate, and he’d long since forgotten to be hungry.

  What did she say now? She was still working on it when he said, “Excuse me,” and headed back behind the bar, walking as upright as anybody with a cane possibly could.

  She waited. Nothing else to do. She couldn’t exactly barge into the men’s toilet after him.

  Somebody slipped into the seat across from her. Nia again. Oh, this was a wonderful day.

  “Is he all right?” Nia asked.

  Willow wanted to hate her. There was no way. She told the truth. “I don’t know.”

  “It came out wrong,” Nia said. “I thought—I can’t just ignore him. I’ve done that before. I’ve been on the other side of the street and pretended I didn’t see him. Oh, have I ever done that, and I’m sure he’s noticed. And—oh.” She laughed, not looking at Willow, and passed a hand over her hair, like a woman who wasn’t used to being at a disadvantage. “I just realized that you could be a work colleague. But you’re in jeans, and you seemed—I don’t know. In love. Don’t tell me I messed up on that, too. Aaron’s going to look so understanding tonight when I tell him.” Her eyes were bright, and now, she grabbed Brett’s serviette, touched it to each eye in turn, and muttered something that could have been a curse word, then, “Sorry. This is not me.”

  “We’re . . .” Willow stopped. She did
n’t know exactly what they were. She decided on, “Together. He told me about you. And about Claire.” She reached out a hand and touched the other woman’s arm. Tentatively, in case it was wrong. “I’m so sorry. I can’t imagine how hard that was. Is.” What did you say? Aunt Fiona would have known. She didn’t.

  Nia set down the serviette. “He told you about her? Brett?”

  “Yes. Why? It’s been a . . . a weight, clearly, the same way it is for you. A sorrow. You don’t get over a sorrow like that.”

  Nia shook her head. “Don’t tell me my mother was right.”

  “Pardon?”

  A long silence, then Nia said, “I was so furious with him. I wanted to scream at him. I wanted to claw his eyes out. I did, too. Not the clawing, but the screaming? I did that. He was like . . . stone, and I couldn’t stand it. I told my mother, ‘You can’t get blood from a stone. I need him to shed blood the way I am. Why doesn’t he hurt, when I hurt so much? How can he keep going to work like Claire was nothing? Like it’s too bad, but it’s over now?” Two tears had escaped her perfectly lined eyes and were making their way down her cheeks, but she didn’t seem aware of it. “And my mother said, ‘He’s hurting. Men hurt differently from women. They bleed in, not out. When he shows you the least, it’s because he’s feeling the most.’ I didn’t believe her. Maybe I should have.”

  “I think,” Willow said, “that she was right. I’m sure she was. And I’m also sure it will help him to know that you’re having a baby girl now, that you’re strong enough to try again.”

  “I’m terrified to try again,” Nia said. “Every night, I go to sleep with my hand on my belly, thinking, ‘Please, God, let me keep this baby. Please, mija, please keep growing.’ And really, it’s my body I’m trying to tell. Not to let go this time. Not to stop working for her. And before you say anything—I know it wasn’t my fault. It just happened. Sometimes it does. I haven’t dared to name her yet. It feels like I’ll be struck down for it. Or she will.” Two more slow tears, and then some more. “But tell Brett, please—I know it wasn’t his fault, either. I was so angry with him, and, yes, that was because I couldn’t stand to take it on myself. My mother said that. My therapist said that, although they never actually say it. They try to get you to say it. I could put it all on him, though, because he could take anything. And I did.”