Nick shrugged and turned to look down at the crowd below. He had a growing list of issues but none he wanted to discuss with her. He wasn’t about to tell her anything personal, so any reference to his brother or mother was not possible. He doubted she wanted to hear about Rena.
I wanted to be alone tonight. To some, finding solace at Club Skal might have sounded like a contradiction, but he was more comfortable there than anywhere else. Serge Boyd, the club’s owner, had even given him his own VIP section for his twenty-first birthday.
Not long ago Nick would have turned the balcony into a party that would have gone on until dawn. None of his friends wanted to grow up to be king or CEO. They were famous for being young, rich, and wild. Who wants to be first in line, when second has all the fun with none of the responsibility? For a long time he’d lived by that philosophy, but something had clicked within him when he’d been with his brothers on Isola Santos, the island of his ancestors. He’d stood there with generations of his family, many of whom had built successful financial empires or birthed football teams’ worth of new Andrades, and felt ashamed of the path he’d chosen. At the wedding reception, his uncles had spoken of family members who had passed—his own father in particular. They’d told stories of how each generation of Andrade worked hard to make sure the next was taken care of, and how proud Gio Sr. must be when he looked down on his sons.
Proud of me? I don’t think so.
I’ve done nothing with my life.
That realization had given way to another one: And I won’t if I keep drinking.
He hadn’t touched a drop of alcohol since.
The woman moved to stand in front of him and said, “I know how to cheer you up.” She leaned down, placing her hands on both of his shoulders, and hovered her lips just above his. “Remember that night at Siviti’s?”
He did, but the memory didn’t move him or his cock. He took her hands in his and stood. “It’s been a long day, Melissa. You should—”
Her face went red and she pulled her hands from his. “My name isn’t Melissa.”
Fuck.
“Like I said—long day. I came here to clear my head.”
She stood before him angrily and stared up at him, refusing to let him off the hook until he remembered her name. He tried, but the times they had spent together had always been after he’d given himself over to a substantial buzz.
If she’d ever said her name, he hadn’t heard it.
And it had never mattered until just then. I think it starts with an M . . .
“Michelle . . .”
“Megan,” the woman hissed. “My name is Megan.” She reached down, picked up her drink, and threw it at the front of his pants.
Nick jumped back, but it was too late. The vodka darkened a large circle around his crotch and spread down one leg. He grabbed a napkin from the table and wiped as much off as he could. “Why the fuck would you do that?”
Megan stood angrily in front of him. “Maybe now you’ll remember me.”
Shaking his head, Nick said coldly, “Get out.”
With a snarl, Megan said, “You used to be fun. No wonder you’re alone tonight. You’ve been a real drag lately.”
Nick merely raised one eyebrow, then looked at the stairs leading back down to the club. His meaning was clear.
Megan’s beauty diminished as her features twisted. “What a waste of time. I should have slept with Harry instead of you. At least I could have said I fucked a prince.”
After she left, Nick looked down at his pants and swore. The damp area was much darker than the rest of his pants. If she’d poured it on any other part of his body he would have walked out of the club and gone back to his hotel room to change, but photo hounds would love a picture of him looking like he pissed himself. He took out his cell phone, called downstairs, and spoke to the club owner. “Do you have a spare pair of pants down there?”
“Should I ask why?” Serge joked.
Nick wasn’t in the mood to tell Serge, but not because he thought it would surprise him. Nothing shocked Serge. He often said Nick reminded him of himself when he was younger, back before he’d created Skal. There were worse people Nick could imagine himself becoming. Serge was well known for owning a successful club that was packed every night with regulars drawn from the global Who’s Who list.
And when Nick was in town, he was one of them.
“A spilled drink. Nothing big, but I do need a change of pants or the use of your dryer downstairs.”
“I’ll send someone up for your clothes. I can’t have you in the kitchen half dressed or my staff will get nothing done.”
“Thanks.” There was a time when Nick’s popularity with women had been a badge of pride for him. None of that mattered anymore.
Before hanging up, Serge asked, “Nick, are you okay?”
“Yeah. Just wet.”
“I’m talking about you, not your pants. You haven’t been the same since you came back from that wedding. All you do is sit up there and sulk. Why not invite some of your friends by? Being alone isn’t good for you.”
“I told you I gave up drinking.”
“And how is that working out for you?”
“People are a lot more annoying when I’m sober.”
Serge chuckled. “That’s why I imbibe.”
“Apparently I’m not as much fun as I used to be. I’m surprised you haven’t rescinded my VIP status.”
“Never. You’re like a son to me, Nick. You and I, we belong here.”
A heavy feeling settled over Nick. “Do we? I don’t know anymore.”
“You know what your problem is?”
“Please, enlighten me.”
“You need to stay the hell away from your family. Stop trying to figure them out. You’ll only make yourself crazy. Do you want me to send up some girls? There are plenty downstairs who would jump at the invite.”
“Not tonight.”
“If you change your mind, call me. I don’t like to see you like this.”
“I’ll be in a much better mood when I have dry pants.”
“Okay, okay. I’ll send someone up for your clothes.”
Nick hung up, kicked off his shoes, and undid the top of his pants. The front of his shirt was damp, too, so he removed that as well. Thankfully, his boxer briefs were dry. He handed his clothing to the blushing cocktail waitress who appeared minutes later, then returned to his table with his seltzer water. He reached for it with a sigh.
Megan wasn’t the first to express discontent with him since he’d stopped drinking. His large circle of friends was shrinking fast. People he’d hung out with for more than a decade were more interested in getting on the list to the next big party than remaining in touch with him if he wasn’t going to be throwing it.
They said they were worried about him.
One phone call to anyone in that social circle could have had the balcony full of beautiful women and men who claimed to care about him. Maybe a few drinks didn’t matter one way or another. They’d take the edge off his anger—just as they had a hundred times before.
No, the cost of a night of excess would be facing himself in the mirror the next day and asking himself—once again—what he had ever done that his father would be proud of.
Why the hell do I care what a man like my father would think about anything? He was a liar and a cheat, and the biggest favor he did any of us was to die and reveal his double life.
Nick closed his eyes and thought back to his confrontation with Gio. It had gone badly, but that was nothing new for them. He didn’t care what Gio thought of him as long as he’d gotten his message. Their mother had been through enough. She’d survived the loss of her parents, the rejection of her in-laws, the death of her husband, and the realization that his infidelity had been substantial. Now she was facing her own mortality—and Gio was attacking her. It didn’t make sense, but it did need to end.
When Nick had given up drinking, he’d mistakenly imagined it would bring him close
r to his family. Instead, he was consumed with a level of anger he hadn’t felt since his father had died.
He hated that he kept going over what Gio had said. Why wouldn’t their mother let Luke look at her medical records? He didn’t want her to be ill, but he didn’t want to discover she’d fabricated her heart attack, either.
Serge was right. His family made him nuts.
He’d already failed as the good brother he’d temporarily convinced himself he could be. He was quickly proving himself to be a complete washout as a devoted son. I’m alone in my underwear in a dance club. Is this what they call rock bottom?
The temptation to call downstairs for a bottle of anything was strong, but Nick fought it and sipped his seltzer instead. He didn’t need a drink.
He needed something more distracting than a hangover.
Or someone.
He remembered the desire in Rena’s eyes even as she’d chastised him for kissing her. He could still taste her on his lips—still feel how she had arched against him, eager for more.
He left behind the unpleasantness of his day and gave himself to the fantasy of what he would do if she came to finish what their kiss had started. He’d push the prim hemline of her skirt up and slide his fingers into her while he fucked her mouth with his tongue. He wanted to watch her come again and again before finally sinking into her and taking his own pleasure.
***
Rena bypassed the line outside Skal and spoke directly to the bouncer. She asked if he’d seen Nick Andrade. He looked her over, then wordlessly dismissed her.
A quick glance down reminded her that she was still dressed in the gray skirt and white blouse she’d worn to work. Could I look less like I belong here? She flashed him a smile she reserved for just such situations. Her family was immune to it, but it had gotten her out of a fair share of traffic tickets. One of her old boyfriends had called it her “get out of jail smile.” She was sure it didn’t wield that level of power, but if she ever found herself sitting in a cell, she’d certainly test it.
At first she thought she’d lost her touch. The man frowned down at her. She beamed her smile at him again. Suddenly, with a curt nod, he stepped aside for her to enter. She stepped inside, and immediately her senses were assailed by loud music. Skal had a reputation for bringing Vegas-like wildness to the elite crowd of New York. No one entered unless they knew someone. The dance floor was packed, as were the darkened areas around it. Above the dance floor, two semi-private balconies looked down over the crowd. One was full of people. The other appeared empty.
Nick was in one of those VIP sections. Of that, Rena was certain.
She had decided to try the busy one until she glimpsed movement in the other. Someone was having a private party. Rena paused and touched a hand to her lips.
Was Nick up there with a woman?
Does it matter? No.
He kissed me, but that was to shut me up . . . or prove something to his brother. Gio should have never told him to stay away from me. Telling Nick not to do something was like waving candy before a toddler and then trying to convince him to wait until after dinner to eat it.
The kiss meant nothing.
I’m over it.
The outside wall of the club led to a stairway that looked as if it led up to the balconies, but it was roped off. Rena put her hand on the clasp of the rope and hesitated, mentally rehearsing what she would say to Nick.
Fresh from a conversation with Luke, where he’d reiterated his warning about putting herself between his brothers, Rena was even more determined she had to. Gio had looked defeated when Nick had stormed out of his office. His mood hadn’t improved even after Luke had spoken to him. It had taken a call from his fiancée, Julia, to get Gio to go home.
He was worried about his brothers, and he had reason to be. Whatever understanding they had come to in Italy had crumbled since they’d come home. She wanted to see them the way they’d been directly after their return. They’d laughed. Teased each other. For Rena, it had felt as if she’d gone back in time to when she’d first met them—back before their father had died.
To see them revert to mistrust was heartbreaking. It was the same old story, except this time, Patrice had declared Gio the villain and Nick her champion. For Nick, someone who had been considered the black sheep of his family for so long, it would have felt good to finally be in a position of favor. Patrice knew exactly how to play her sons against each other. Rena shuddered just thinking about her. Something cold had taken root in that woman’s heart and it had consumed her. Love should be unconditional, but in the Andrade household Rena had visited, it was given and withheld deliberately.
Everyone had some good in them, but in Patrice it was buried deep—really deep—if it was still there at all.
“Are you looking for someone?” a male voice asked from behind her.
With her hand still on the rope, Rena turned and forced a smile to her lips. The man who’d addressed her was an older gentleman who looked to be in his late fifties. He wore an open-collared white shirt and dark pants and spoke with a slight accent and an easy confidence.
Lying boldly, Rena said, “Nick Andrade asked me to drop by. Is he upstairs?”
The man raised one eyebrow and Rena blinked quickly, her sudden confidence diffusing. “He did?”
“Yes, he . . .” Rena stopped herself there. He wasn’t buying her story. Would the truth sway him? “Okay, he didn’t invite me, but I need to talk to him.” When the man continued to silently watch her, she softened her tone. “Please.”
“Interesting.” He gave her another once-over as if evaluating a puzzle piece. “I’ve never seen you here before. How well do you know him?”
Rena met his eyes with the bold honesty that was her nature. “Very well.”
“What is he allergic to?”
His question took Rena by surprise, but she answered without missing a beat. “Shellfish. It gives him a rash.”
The man nodded in approval. “It does. You explain a lot.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Where are my manners?” The man held out his hand. “My name is Sergey Boyd, but you can me Serge. Tell me, how long have you been seeing Nick?”
Rena blushed beneath his scrutiny. “We aren’t . . . we’re not . . . we’re just friends.”
“Friends.” He made a sound of disbelief deep in his throat. “I don’t believe men and women can just be friends. One always wants something more.”
Rena raised her chin and met his eyes. “I’m sorry your experiences have jaded you, but I don’t agree.”
“So there has never been anything between you and Nick?” He watched her reaction closely and Rena cursed herself for blushing.
“Not that it is any of your business, but no. Never.”
“What’s your name?”
“Rena Sander.”
An enigmatic smile spread across his face. “I’ve heard of you.”
Don’t ask. Don’t do it. Oh, what the hell. “You have?”
He stepped forward and unclasped the rope, holding it to one side to let her pass. “This leads to a landing. Go left at the top. You’ll find Nick there.” His eyes lit with a private joke.
Rena paused. “Is there something I should know?”
He shrugged and refastened the rope behind her. “Rena, next time you come here, you tell whoever is at the door that you are four-one-one.”
“What am I?” She wasn’t sure she wanted to know the answer to that question either. When Serge answered with a wink, Rena squared her shoulders and said, “I won’t be back anyway.”
He didn’t argue the point, but he was still smiling when she turned and headed up the stairs.
The music from below boomed through the hallway, and Rena could feel the bass echoing through her as she walked. She wondered what her brother, Kane, would say if he knew where she was. Most likely, he’d magically appear before she had time to reach the top step. By some people’s definition, her family was overprotective.
<
br /> Her father had always said, “Money comes and goes, youth and health will one day leave you, but family endures. In the end, it’s all that really matters.”
They loved her and, therefore, they did everything they could to keep her safe. How could she resent them for that?
She’d seen firsthand the dangerous temptations that came with being wealthy. More than a few of her old friends from high school cited boredom as the reason they indulged in self-destructive behaviors. Well into their twenties, they still wrecked cars, slept with each other’s boyfriends, and partied in VIP areas where they could do as they pleased without the prying eyes of the public.
Nick was part of that world.
The door to the balcony on the left was open. Rena took a step inside the room and looked around. Nick was standing beside a table with his back to her, just back far enough from the wooden railing that he wouldn’t be visible to those below.
Her breath caught in her throat as she soaked in the perfection of the mostly nude man before her. His dark boxer briefs clung to his tight ass and hugged his muscular thighs. She wouldn’t have been human if she hadn’t taken a moment to appreciate the cut of his bare back and the breadth of the strong shoulders above it. Apparently he worked out as hard as he partied.
Oh, God.
I told Serge he was wrong; I lied. I’m a bad, bad friend. I do want more.
I always have, no matter what I’ve told myself.
The intensity of her attraction to him made Rena nervous, and she began to babble internally.
Hello, I’m lost. Can anyone tell me how to get back to denial?
It’s a beautiful place located in the land of sanity. You know, where things make sense and I don’t leer at men in their underwear?
Nick picked up a glass of clear liquid and the napkin beneath it fluttered to the floor. He bent to retrieve it. Rena bit her lower lip as he did. The movement rippled the muscles in his back and thighs. Mouth dry, Rena imagined running her hands over both.
She let out a wistful sigh that echoed through the room.
Nick froze, straightened, and turned. Their eyes met across the room. Unable to deny herself, Rena let her gaze slide down his lightly haired chest, over his well-defined abs, to a part of him the dark briefs outlined lovingly.
Home to Me Page 3
