Sexy as Sin (Sinful, Montana Book 3)

by Rosalind James

  This ache. It filled Willow’s chest. “I’ll tell him,” she promised.

  Nia wiped her eyes again, leaving streaks of black on the white serviette, and said, “So how’s he doing? Is he happy? With the business, I mean, because otherwise, he’s always exactly the same. How could anybody tell? And you’re not American. Why not?”

  Why not? “Uh . . . I’m Australian. He’s doing a new development there. That’s where I met him. I think he’s doing well. Professionally.”

  “How many houses is he up to now?”

  “Ah . . .” What was she supposed to say? “The loft here, and one in Montana?”

  Nia had stopped crying, at least. Now, she was staring at her. “Is that what he told you?”

  “Well . . . yes.” If this wasn’t the most uncomfortable talk in the history of conversation, Willow didn’t know what would qualify. She was blindfolded, trying to find her way out along a corridor of closed doors.

  “Why would he say that?” Nia definitely didn’t seem like she was going to cry anymore. “Damn Brett. Why can’t he ever show his cards like a normal person? At least be reasonably honest? Partially emotionally available? He told you about Claire, but not about that? Why? Sympathy . . . vote? Is he actually that cold now?”

  “Vote” wasn’t the word she’d come up with first, and Willow’s blood was boiling. She’d opened her mouth to say something, but before she could, Nia said, “I take it back. Blood from a stone.”

  “Excuse me?” Was this woman actually mad, or was it pregnancy hormones?

  “You seem like a nice person, and you look at him like you love him. I know that look. I used to have it myself. When we got divorced, he was worth almost two hundred million dollars, and I know he’s done better since then. Who knows, it could be half a billion by now. He was worth millions by the time he was twenty-six. Don’t ask me how. I’m not sure he knows. It’s like money’s magnetized, and he’s the pole. It’s been almost twenty years since then. Do the math. And, no, I didn’t take half of what he had when I left. I took the house we’d bought and left him the rest. I didn’t want to get paid for losing my baby.” A few more rapid blinks, and she went on. “He’s done a development in Nelson—that’s up in Canada—and I know he has a condo there, a good one, because there was a magazine spread on him a while back. It also showed the loft here, because the building was his development. Surprise. That penthouse has to be worth a few million. He’s got another one in downtown Seattle that won’t be any cheaper. He doesn’t like hotels. They don’t appreciate. And then there’s the ultra-high-end golf resort he did in New Zealand, and something in Greece, because their currency fell and he saw the opportunity, and who knows what else, though I don’t know if he has houses everywhere. Something in north Idaho. And Montana? Probably. Whatever the best house is, it’ll be his. He won’t have anything in Switzerland, or Colorado, or California. He finds the next big thing, the place the filthy rich will be next year, and he’s got it ready for them to move in when they come. That’s his specialty.”

  “But he . . .” Willow didn’t know what to say. “He doesn’t have a . . . a jet. Or a . . .” What did extremely wealthy men have? Half a billion dollars? American dollars? A yacht, but Brett would never have a yacht. Polo ponies. He wouldn’t have those, either. The idea of him playing polo made her want to laugh, and at the same time, the skin on her arms was prickling. “How much does a necklace from Harry, uh . . . Harry-some-diamond-guy cost? Do you know?” She touched the thing at her neck. She’d thought it was gorgeous, and it was. But it wasn’t some enormous sapphire pendant given to you by your royal suitor. A “wearable piece,” right? Surely, it wasn’t that valuable.

  “Of course he doesn’t have a jet,” Nia said. “It’s not necessary, and it doesn’t appreciate. Did I mention that was a thing? He’ll have bought a share of one instead, because I’ll bet you flew here in one. Brett only does what’s necessary. He doesn’t have an ego, not the way most men do. It would get in the way of rational decision-making. Which makes him the most aggravating man in the world. You’ll never win an argument, because he’ll go to logic on you every time. ‘Let’s find a solution.’ I hated that phrase. I didn’t want to find a solution. It wasn’t about the solution. It was about us. I wanted him to be messy and just . . . wrong sometimes, the same way I was. And if you mean Harry Winston, because he gave you that—which, yes, is the other reason I assumed you were together—tens of thousands of dollars, is how much. He’s good at jewelry, and he’s good at knowing the best designer. He knew you’d love it. It doesn’t appreciate, either, but he’ll overlook that in this one case. It’s an investment in you, and it’s a great substitute for his heart.”

  Willow had been trying to signal her for a long time. Nia ran down at last, and at her shoulder, Brett said, “I don’t know whether to say, ‘I’m glad to see you’re expressing yourself,’ or ‘Let’s find a solution.’”

  Nia jumped, then gathered herself and stood up. She told Willow, “He can be your hero. He just can’t let you be his. I’m sorry for him, truly I am. But you can’t get blood from a stone.” And left.

  Brett sat down and didn’t say anything. He ate a piece of pizza, then chewed his way stolidly through another one, and Willow pushed her salad around the plate until he said, “If you’re not hungry, you could take the rest to go. I do have another meeting.” His tone absolutely polite, and his face absolutely expressionless.

  She wanted to say something. She just didn’t know what. But he was already reaching for his wallet, throwing notes on the table, and standing up, so she did, too. Outside the restaurant, he said, “I’ll be home about six. Don’t worry about making dinner, if you’d rather not,” then turned and walked off. The jerkiness of his gait could just be the cane, but she didn’t think so.

  He didn’t kiss her goodbye. She doubted he’d even thought about it.

  This isn’t about you, she told herself on the walk back to the loft, as her fingers froze around the handle of her shopping bags and she balanced the pizza box on her other hip. Once in the building, she took the lift to the floor labeled “P” for penthouse, punched the code into a stainless-steel keypad, and walked into a soaring space with floor-to-ceiling windows on two sides, looking out onto terraces that covered twice as much ground as her entire flat, and beyond to the city skyline on one side and tree-covered hills on the other. She didn’t take off her coat, because she was still cold, but put the pizza, the fish, and the other groceries she’d bought into the cavernous stainless refrigerator. Three wall ovens to choose from for her veggies: steam, convection, and warming, all of them separate from the professional-grade BlueStar rangetop with a built-in griddle and charbroiler, set into a marble island boasting a separate deep prep sink and a stainless-steel hood equal to every one of the BlueStar’s BTUs.

  It was the perfect home kitchen, very nearly professional. You could roll out the most delicate pastry on that marble island, and every single maple cabinet in it was lit inside with LED strips that turned on automatically when you opened the door, so you could put your hand on everything instantly. On the other hand, she was Rafe Blackstone’s cousin, and she’d been in perfect kitchens before.

  She’d never seen that kind of blankness in Rafe’s face, though. Rafe was an open book, quick to laugh and to love. Jace? Not so much, but even Jace was easier to read than Brett. Would you ever unpack all the layers of Brett? Would he ever let you?

  Would he ever let her?

  She washed her hands, pulled out a plastic cutting board, and thought, This should be wood, and he needs three of them, but he probably never cooks more than eggs in here, but the idea couldn’t sink more than an inch beneath the surface.

  She needed to swim. She needed to surf, but it was the Frozen Tundra out there. No sea breeze, and no dolphins.

  Once, she’d been out in a kayak well out from the Cape, and had stopped paddling at the sight of an enormous tail fluke emerging to her left and rising straight up into the air.
Another moment with her heart in her throat, and a huge gray shape had emerged in a fountain of seawater, then splashed back down in a full breach. The kayak had rocked hard in its wake, and she’d wanted to paddle away fast and to shout with joy, both at the same time.

  A pod of humpbacks. One of them had emerged, showing all of its back, and she’d heard the whoosh of breath from its blowhole. And then she’d seen her calf, swimming right beside her, playing in the swells, and had felt as insignificant, and as exhilarated, as she ever had in her life. So blessed to be here to see this, to hear it, and most of all, to feel it.

  She needed whales right now. Failing that, she needed air, the movement of the clouds and the wind in the trees. What had Aunt Fiona said? The sound of the world’s heart beating. She needed to remember that humans weren’t the only species on the planet, and that every trouble in the world passed eventually.

  It was too quiet in here, and too lonely. She needed to think, but she couldn’t think until she could feel.

  A look at her phone. Nothing. No text, and no call. She set the phone on the counter so she wouldn’t keep looking at it, but she took her wallet. No need to be stupid.

  Brett focused. It was what he did. A presentation to an investment group introducing his upcoming venture in Ecuador, and an after-session with his team before the next meeting, scheduled for four o’clock. The most important of the day, a catch-up with his major lender’s board for the Byron Bay development, doing what Rose Williams had suggested. Selling the lifestyle.

  Outside the window of the conference room, the gray skies deepened to dusk, office lights shining in the buildings opposite like teeth in a smile. Behind Brett, a slide show played. He didn’t look at the slides. He looked at the faces, because the faces were people, and the connections he needed to make. Besides, he knew what the slides showed. The banner for Coorabell Heights floating in the breeze with green hills and the ocean beyond, and then a woman crouched low on a surfboard, carving a path along the crest of a wave, seizing her moment. The Saturday market, a man in board shorts with a toddler on his shoulders, and a little boy with his face painted like a dragon, roaring for the camera. A shot up a trail at Nightcap National Park, with ferns and vines growing amongst the complicated buttresses of a fig tree. The curve of the boardwalk at sunset, with the lighthouse shining at the end like a promise kept. A basket of chocolate croissants on the counter at the Byron General Store, with a chalkboard in the background listing today’s offerings.

  Finally, the hand-lettered sign on the way into town.

  Welcome to Byron Bay.

  Cheer Up. Slow Down. Chill Out.

  He said, “Pre-build sales on the condos are at twenty-eight percent and rising, and we’ve sold twelve homesites with almost no marketing spend, including one of the upper corners. I propose making an offer on the parcel to the north and doubling the size. This is the time to jump. It’s more the Summer of Love than it is resort town. Cafés nearly on the beach, because the beach isn’t allowed to be private property. Quite a concept. Live bands, and dancing half the night, but a half-hour drive away, you’re golfing with kangaroos and black cockatoos, then heading across the road to the spa for a hot-stone massage. A couple hours to the north, and you’re walking through a tunnel of pink bougainvillea on the South Bank of the Brisbane River, or eating haute cuisine on the terrace of the Customs House.” That was a slide it hurt to look at right now, so he didn’t. “Or use the local airfield, of course, and do it all faster. We add a helicopter landing pad onsite, and we’ve just made it all that much easier. It’s southern California fifty years ago, but with good coffee, more bicycles, and the Internet. It’s the south of France with no tipping and happy servers. It’s happiness on a stick.” The last shot was of a heap of Willow’s popsicles in a galvanized tub, with a pail of sunflowers behind them. “And it’s going to blow up.”

  Questions, then. About being so far from the surfing—“Twenty minutes,” he answered. About services. “We do a building up at the top, by the main road. Small grocery store on one side, and a café on the other, where visitors can stop, too. Aussies love a café, especially when you can sit outside, and you can always sit outside, as long as you put a roof on it. If you’ve come all the way to Australia, you want to hear the accent.” That had been Willow’s idea. “You can sample everything there is on offer, up and down the coast, or you can stay where you are and enjoy the sunshine and the views and the animal life, and air that always smells like vanilla. Summer all year, and nobody complains about warm weather when they’re on vacation.”

  About sharks. “They’re talking shark nets,” he said, which was the truth. He wouldn’t be saying how he knew, or what a great white looked like with its mouth open, preparing to take a bite out of a redheaded mermaid, until she fought it off with her bare hands.

  The meeting devolved into finances, then ended at last. The sky outside was dark, the rain had started, pelting the windows with icy droplets, and Brett was shaking hands, inclining his head, and listening with seventy-five percent of his energy. He couldn’t make it to a hundred, but it didn’t matter. Gathering up his notes, his laptop, and heading out with the team, climbing into another waiting SUV and headed back to the office, grateful to be using a cane instead of crutches.

  And knowing that he absolutely had to get home, the need pulling at him like something physical. “Postmortem and next steps on both projects tomorrow at eight-thirty,” he told the others just before they climbed out of the car. “Please be ready to discuss.”

  Rose looked at him with surprise and asked, “Is your leg still bad, then? You could’ve said.”

  “No,” he said, even though it wasn’t true. His leg and back ached from shoulder to toe, and he felt a hundred years old. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Never complain, never explain. The door shut behind them, and he told Ed, the driver, “Home, please,” and allowed himself the blessing of silence.

  He was going to have to say something to her. He had no idea what.

  Normally, his steps would have been slowing in the hallway outside the loft door, once he was out of public view. Today, he was moving faster despite his fatigue. He should have texted between meetings, at least, he realized now. A little late, Hunter.

  He typed the code into the door and shoved it open, to be met by empty air. He called, “Willow?” and knew as he did it that she wasn’t there.

  He checked anyway. Her phone sat on the countertop, its glittery pink flowers-and-unicorn case a mockery of the way he suspected she was feeling. She wasn’t in the living room or the family room, and she wasn’t in his office or the downstairs bedroom, either. He headed upstairs, forcing himself to ignore the protest from his leg, and checked the master bedroom and bath. As far as he could tell, she hadn’t even been into them. The bed was made and her things put away in the bathroom cabinet, but there wasn’t a drop of water in either sink, and the towels on the heated rack were bone-dry.

  Downstairs again. The pizza was in the fridge in its box, three lonely pieces gone, same as it had been when he’d last seen it, and so was a bottle of white wine, a new carton of milk, a dozen eggs, and a plastic bag of fresh fish, shoved onto a shelf like she’d done it in a hurry.

  Five-thirty. He’d said home at six, hadn’t he? He couldn’t remember.

  She was probably swimming. That was it. In fifteen minutes, or in thirty, she’d show up in a rush, her hair still wet, wearing his robe, because she hadn’t bought one yet for herself, and underneath it, the new white bikini with the ruffled bottom she’d shown him, teasingly, after their day out in Brisbane. Deceptively innocent, and all the way sexy.

  He got a hard rush at the thought of it. He wasn’t good at explaining how he felt. As often as not, he didn’t know how he felt. He knew how to show her he wanted her, though. And his leg was better. They wouldn’t make it to the bedroom, and that suited him fine. Bent over his dining-room table? Oh, yeah. They could talk afterwards. Right now, he needed to be inside
her.

  Except that he was probably supposed to be tender. He didn’t feel tender. He felt hot, and urgent. He needed to grab her and hold her here.

  All of that would have been fine if she’d shown up. It was six, and then it was six-fifteen. He’d have texted her, but her phone was here. He went upstairs again on the thought, his heart beating like thunder, and checked for what he’d missed. Her suitcase was in the dressing room, and her clothes were in the chest of drawers. A pair of jeans and three sweaters, everything she’d bought except what she’d be wearing now. A few thongs, two bras, some socks, and the white bikini. Her clothes took up half of two drawers, and that was all. They looked lonely in there. Temporary.

  She was taking a walk. Having a drink.

  Relax.

  He finally remembered to change his clothes. You didn’t look cool pacing the floor, still in your suit and tie, with sweat on your upper lip. Jeans were better. Shirt in a muted blue plaid. No shoes. Calm.

  His phone rang, and he grabbed for it on the center cabinet of his dressing room, and watched it slip through his fingers. It bounced off the gray carpet, and he got down there, somehow, and picked it up.

  It had stopped ringing. A number he didn’t recognize, and not a Portland area code. Somebody else, then. Not her.

  A buzz as the voicemail came in, and he clicked on it. Just in case.