House of Payne: Styx

by Stacy Gail

  Sydney nodded. “There’s a lot of stress going around these days, isn’t there?”

  Her friend made a sound of sympathy. “I’m such an idiot, going on about my problems when you’ve had a week from hell. Any news?”

  “Not any that I want to talk about.” She sounded so self-pitying it pissed her off, so she tried to smile at her friend. “On the upside, my insurance company’s cut me a check for a new car, so that’s one thing I no longer have to worry about. Better yet, Styx volunteered to help me find a replacement. Hopefully finding a new car won’t be too much of a headache.”

  “Ooh.” Zemi’s eyes lit up. “I love how your new man is all over making sure your path is as smooth and carefree as possible.”

  “He’s not my man, Zemi.”

  “I know what the story is, which means I know that Styx is your man for now. Living in the moment, remember?”

  “Right. Living in the moment.” Sydney took a deep breath, trying to chase away the tension. “My for-now man has magical kisses that instantly make me want to have sex, and I’m meeting his entire family tomorrow for Sunday dinner. Tell me how to be Zen about this.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me.”

  “Meeting his family might be a job for vodka rather than meditation,” Zemi said honestly, looking as bug-eyed as Sydney felt. “Help me understand. How in the world did this happen? I thought you were going to have six whole weeks to get ready for his big family shindig.”

  “I know, same here. But apparently the Hardwick family likes to do things together. Like, all together, and more than once or twice a year.”

  “That’s so weird.”

  “I know, right? I’d leave the country and change my name if my parents insisted on us gathering every single Sunday for freaking dinner. Honestly, who does that?”

  “Probably well-adjusted, happy families. My family’s full of yellers and smackers, so I can never find my inner peace when I’m even close to driving through their neighborhood.” Then Zemi’s brows quirked. “Wait. Magical kisses?”

  Sydney searched for the right words. “Let me describe it this way. Most kisses don’t immediately get you so crazy-hot you’re ready to have sex right then and there, like a mindless animal in heat. Right?”

  “Depends on who’s doing the kissing. But if we’re talking immediately, like the first touch of lips on lips, then… yeah. Most kisses don’t make me fall over and spread my legs. I make a man work for the good stuff.”

  “Exactly. There’s usually a build-up, a nice incremental raising of the temperature and tingling of girly parts.”

  “Right.”

  “With Styx’s kisses, there is no build-up. We’re talking instantaneous, zero-to-sixty fire.”

  Her friend’s mouth made a perfect O. “Daaaamn.”

  “And trust me, it’s a fire that’s hot enough to melt panties. I’ve never experienced a kiss where I instantly craved sex like I do when Styx kisses me. I’ve never even used the word crave when it comes to sex, you know? But I do with Styx, and it happens the moment his lips touch mine. If that’s not magical, I don’t know what is.”

  “That’s a good word for it,” Zemi breathed, looking awestruck. “I take it the two of you have been, uh, practicing?”

  “I guess that’s what it was. When he kissed me, it was because he knew his brother was nearby. Which is fine,” she added, as much for herself as for her friend. “I’m not forgetting that this is all a show for his family, and that he and I are virtual strangers. That isn’t going to stop me from enjoying having my mind blown to proverbial pieces whenever he kisses me.”

  “Mind blown and panties melted?”

  “He’s multi-talented.”

  “Damn,” Zemi said again, fanning herself.

  “And,” she went on, determined not to get too bogged down, “it isn’t going to stop me from trying to make Styx see stars every time he touches me, either. Turnabout is fair play, so that’s what I’ve decided my plan of attack should be.”

  Zemi went still. “Wait. Are you saying you’ve decided to—”

  “Seduce the hell out of Styx Hardwick? Yup,” Sydney nodded firmly, even though her heart was just about to beat its way out of her chest. “We’re going to spend the next two days together—in fact, he’ll be here any minute to pick me up—so I’m going to do exactly as you suggested. I’m going to enjoy him while I can, so that when this all comes to an end, I can look back without a single regret.”

  “If his kisses are that good, I don’t blame you,” came the wide-eyed reply. “Get that man between the sheets as fast as you can, honey, and see if Mr. Magical Kiss has a magical dick to go along with it. I could even teach you a few Tantric tricks to help the cause.”

  “Seriously?” Sydney sat up straighter, suddenly alert. “Have you been keeping secrets from me?”

  “I would’ve been happy to share if you’d gotten your head out of your ass and hooked up with someone sooner.”

  Sydney gave a snort of laughter. “That’s fair.”

  “Okay.” Folding her legs so that her knees almost touched Sydney’s, Zemi rolled her shoulders a bit in a tension-relieving move. “So, Tantric. The first thing you have to remember about Tantric yoga, at least the way it’s taught now, is the theory that the most important sex organ the body has is the brain.”

  “For women, maybe. Personally I have a very different take on that.”

  Both women jumped at the sound of Styx’s voice as he rounded a pretty, three-paneled fabric screen that separated the reception area from the rest of the studio. His thick, dark brown hair was damp, as if he’d just come from the shower, which had the unfortunate effect of making Sydney imagine steaming hot water rolling down his beautiful, muscle-sculpted, inked-out body…

  Wow. There went the tingling girly parts again.

  “Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it.” Zemi rose to her feet, breaking Sydney out of her increasingly steamy daydream. Hastily she stood as well and kept her attention on rolling up her yoga mat. If she so much as glanced at Styx, she had no doubt he’d take one look in her eyes and know exactly what she’d been thinking. “Tantra yoga is an ancient practice, full of rituals and philosophies. It could broaden your horizons.”

  “They’re broad enough, thanks.” A large, masculine hand appeared in front of Sydney’s face. “I can take that for you, Syd. You ready to go?”

  “Mm-hm.” Without meaning to, she looked up into his eyes and instantly had trouble getting her lungs to work properly. How was it possible he got even hotter since the last time she saw him? “’Morning.”

  “’Morning, baby.” A smile began in his eyes before it showed up on his mouth, and she loved watching its commute. “How was yoga class?”

  “Sydney is my most flexible student,” Zemi offered as she began tidying up the studio. “Must’ve been all those interminable dance classes she went through from the time she was a toddler. Girl can do splits in ways I didn’t even know were possible.”

  “Okay, we’re going to go now, Zem.” Horrified, mainly because she heard Styx’s poorly stifled snort of laughter, Sydney felt her cheeks burn as she aimed for her sports bag hanging by the door. “See you later.”

  “I knew your mom was a ballet dancer, but I didn’t know you were.” Styx held the passenger door open for her, then dropped her bag off in the trunk before getting behind the wheel. “I figured you had to be, though, the way you move. Every step you take is like a poem. Why didn’t you stick with it?”

  She was still trying not to tear up at the unexpected sweetness of his words. Every step you take is like a poem… “It’s kind of painful to talk about.”

  “Yeah? Was it an injury that sidelined you?”

  So much for hoping he’d take the hint. “I was forced out.”

  “Forced out? How?”

  Damn it. “I was seventeen, a junior in high school, and my whole world revolved around dance. I adored everything about it. My sisters are almost six
feet tall and built like our swimmer of a father, but I’m a virtual replica of our mother. The great Ksenia Koroskova-Bishop seemed to take great pride in that fact, and so did I while growing up. It made me feel special. Then one day, something happened. Something horrible.”

  “What?”

  “I had a bad evaluation. Just one, and a few hours later I was hit with the worst case of ‘flu I’ve ever had. But it didn’t matter that my balance was off because my head was filling with snot and I was starting to run a fever. The only thing that mattered was that I hadn’t been perfect. That meant I was a disappointment that couldn’t be tolerated. So that was the end of dancing for me, because it was the end of my mother’s interest in me.”

  “What the fuck,” he muttered, looking furious. “That’s messed up.”

  “It took me a long time to realize that. But at that time, when my parents stopped all lessons and my mother personally went down to an audition I was supposed to go to and struck my name off the list without my knowledge—because she didn’t want me to embarrass her, according to her—it just crushed me. I thought I was a failure. I’d never failed before, so I didn’t know how to handle it. I think that’s when my stress-apologizing came into being.”

  “Wouldn’t surprise me in the least.” His mouth was a grim line as he digested her words. “Did you have anyone in your corner? Your father or sisters?”

  “We’re not that kind of family. Standing alone builds character, I guess.”

  “That’s bullshit right there.”

  “Yeah, but it’s how we roll. Bishops focus on being the best at whatever it is we do, to the exclusion of everything else. Even family.”

  “No one can live like that long-term. I can’t believe your family hasn’t realized that by now. Question is, did you ever realize that?”

  “I eventually got there.” She nodded as he took a turn that headed away from the heart of the city. “I had to go through a little rebellion first, though.”

  “What kind of rebellion?”

  “The usual teenage kind, though mine hit before my senior year in high school. That’s kind of late for a teen rebellion, don’t you think?”

  “Depends on the circumstances. The way I see it, rebellions happen when they’re absolutely necessary, and not a moment before.”

  “That’s true.” And it became truer the more she thought about it. “In my case, having ballet taken from me destroyed the one thing that made life tolerable, but it also freed me in a way that’s hard to explain. It’s like it made me realize that everything I did—the Russian and French lessons, the violin and cooking classes—all of my dutiful hard work might amount to nothing in the long run, just like ballet had. So screw it. I would do whatever pleased me. If that ticked my parents off, so much the better.”

  “I wouldn’t call that a rebellion so much as an awakening.” He nudged the Corvette onto a street she rarely traveled, and in a blink the scenery went from residential to snazzy, uptown commercial. “From the time you were born up to that moment, your crazy-ass parents told you what your interests and talents were going to be. They never gave you the chance to figure your own shit out for yourself.”

  She nodded, absurdly happy he understood. “That’s exactly what my life was like while growing up.”

  “Bet you went crazy with the freedom, once you got it.”

  “If by crazy, you mean running away to France after high school to work as a short-order cook and live with a sexy but chronically self-absorbed chef while studying at the Sorbonne, then yes. I went crazy.”

  He darted a quick glance her way. “You’re kidding.”

  “Studying abroad was something I’d always wanted to do—mainly because evaluations couldn’t happen if I had the Atlantic Ocean separating me from my parents. My sisters and I had always been told that we would go to Northwestern University, or barring that, Marquette in Wisconsin. When I was a little girl, I’d once told my parents I’d like to go to Europe to study, like Oxford. They forbade me and my sisters to apply to any university that was beyond their reach, so naturally when the time came, applying to the Sorbonne was the first thing I did. Hooking up with Maurice was the second thing I did, and the first mistake I corrected.”

  “Good for you.” He nodded once, keeping his eyes on the traffic. “What’d you study over there?”

  “I have degrees in Russian and in Media Communications, and the equivalent of a minor degree in Culinary Arts, mainly because I love to cook.”

  “Holy shit.” He kept looking over at her as if he suspected she might sprout another head. “How the hell did you wind up as a secret shopper for my neighborhood grocery store?”

  “I didn’t have any plans to come home once I left, but then my father had a stroke almost a year ago. A mild one, but bad enough to force my mother to call for help. Neither of my sisters answered the call—Roma was tucked away in some Florida thinktank working on top-secret space stuff, and London was on a three-month Western European tour with a senator researching green energy practices. I was the only one who was free to come back to Chicago. I’ve been here ever since.”

  “I thought you said they live in California.”

  “They do, now.” Out of long habit, she tamped down the hurt. She’d cried enough tears over this already. “They decided to leave a few months after I got here. Convalescing in Southern California is so much better than doing it in cold and windy Chicago, apparently. Wish my parents had told me that before I’d moved my life back here to this side of the Atlantic to help out, but they neglected to.”

  “Assholes.” He caught her hand up in his so he could bring it to his mouth. “Sorry. And by sorry, I mean I’m sorry you’ve got assholes for parents.”

  That surprised a laugh out of her, and suddenly she felt lighter. “I do, don’t I? Good thing they’re not a part of my life anymore.”

  “Yeah, it is. So tell me about Market Place and how you wound up there. You could get a job anywhere.”

  “At the time, I thought it was going to be temporary. I still feel like it’s temporary,” she added honestly, looking out the window at the passing scenery. “I never planned on being a secret shopper for a grocery store chain. Wesley gave me that position when he spotted me at corporate headquarters, and I’ll be the first to admit it—I was as surprised as anyone at how well-suited I was for it. Come to find out, I’m cool with being unseen, probably because I spent most of my life under a microscope. Invisibility can be bliss.”

  He snorted. “There’s no way you could ever be invisible.”

  “I was to you.” The words were out before she could stop them, but once the truth was out, she was glad of it. It wasn’t his fault he’d never noticed her; if anything, that fact only underscored just how badly suited they were. “I spotted you weeks ago, buying out the triple meat party pizzas. Those disgusting things will kill you, by the way,” she felt it prudent to add. “All that frozen crap has more chemicals and preservatives than actual, you know, food. It’s a crime against humanity that it’s even allowed to be sold. I wouldn’t feed that junk to stray animals.”

  “Not everyone has a culinary arts degree from fucking Paris, and don’t change the subject. You saw me, but I didn’t see you. How the hell did you do that?”

  “I told you. I’m invisible.”

  “No, that doesn’t cut it. See, I’ve got this thing I was born with. I call it the hot-babe radar.”

  She burst out laughing. “A hot-babe radar? Did you actually just say that?”

  “I’m serious. Most guys have some form of it, but mine’s always been fan-fucking-tastic. Pinpoint accuracy. It’s never failed me, so I’m not getting how I didn’t pick up on you checking me out for weeks on end.”

  “The answer to that’s obvious,” she muttered, trying not to squirm. “I’m not a hot babe.”

  “What the actual fuck.” He looked at her for so long she feared they’d crash. “You fishing for compliments? Because I’ve got ‘em.”

  “Styx,
I do know what I look like, you know. At best, I’m cute. The proverbial girl next door. I was invisible to you and your hot-babe radar because I’m not a hot babe. I never will be. You didn’t see me because—like I’ve been trying to tell you—I’m not your type.” More’s the pity.

  “Okay, we’re having this out right the fuck now.” To her shock, he pulled the car into an empty parking lot of an office building and brought the car to an abrupt stop. “What do you think my type is?”

  “Uh…” The fire in his eyes told her there was a right answer and a wrong answer, and she’d better find a way to figure out which was which pretty damn quick. “Well, first of all, you’re an artist, which means you have an inherent appreciation for physical beauty. Like I said, I’m cute, but I’m no beauty.”

  “Wrong.”

  She waited a beat. “About how I think you have an appreciation for beauty?”

  “About how you see yourself. Everything about you is grace and beauty, but I could tell you that until I’m blue in the face and you won’t fucking believe me, because you don’t believe in yourself. Just know that my eyes don’t want to see anyone else but you. Now, what do you think my type of woman is?”

  Wow. “Oversexed Playboy bunny?”

  “That’s every man’s type, for about ten minutes, anyway. Then bitches like that open their mouths and the spell is broken. Try again.”

  Wow, again. “A sexual athlete, then.”

  His brows quirked. “Don’t tell me you don’t like sex.”

  “I love sex. And I’m good at it,” she added somewhat defensively. “Zemi wasn’t kidding when she called me flexible. I haven’t met a position I haven’t liked.”