by Mary Beesley
“No bother. I’m not busy.”
Should she be worried about that? Should she go into this stranger’s house? He didn’t seem like a serial killer or a rapist. But how would she know? She wasn’t familiar with any that she knew of. She wobbled on her right foot and reached out to him, catching her balance.
His arm went around her middle, and a jolt of attraction hit when his palm wrapped her waist. Each of his fingers seemed to burn through the silk of her shirt and send sparks along her nerves. She glanced over at him in surprise. Really? This regular dude? He was partly turned away, focused on the bike. He had thick eyelashes. The small round nose and smooth pale skin made her wonder if he was younger than she’d first thought, but then she noticed a few gray strands hiding in the light brown hair above his ears.
“How old are you?”
He chuckled. “Twenty-nine.”
And she was twenty-eight. A nice match. He looked at her sidelong, the return question dancing in his pale eyes. But he didn’t ask, so she didn’t answer. She guessed he was five eleven, one inch taller than she was. Another good fit. She lifted her arm and rested her hand on his shoulder. Her fingers melted into downy fabric.
“Wow, that’s soft.”
“I hope you’re talking about my sweater and not the iron muscles underneath.”
She felt around the ridges of his deltoid. He wasn’t a big man, but he was wiry and hard. He turned his hairy jaw her way, his face so close she could see the patterns in his irises, like the sky before rain. His eyelids half closed, and his face dropped into a humorless mask as her fingers continued to prod over his shoulder, feeling the lines of lean muscle. Very nice indeed.
She waited another moment before saying, “Cashmere?”
“That’s what the store claimed.” He took a step forward, and she hopped to keep up. She balanced while he used his key in the gate and held it wide.
“You’re just going to let me in?”
“I was, but now you’re sounding like a stalker. I do not like stalkers.”
He said it like he knew from experience. She hopped forward, steadying a hand on the fence. “Who does?”
He pulled her bike through, closed the gate, and offered her his arm again. “I suppose police like finding them.”
“I see. Helpful and funny.” She gladly slid under his cashmere wing again.
The date with Leonard Allred would have to wait until tomorrow.
Arty leaned the bike against a planter by the front door. “Are you fine with me leaving this here? It should be safe inside the gate, and it’s not like it’s…” He looked down at the peeling paint.
Tempest chuckled despite the pain growing louder in her foot. “I’m pretty sure my roommate bought that at a yard sale for fifteen dollars.”
“I have a wrench in the garage. I can straighten out the handlebars.”
She took note of his generosity. “No. I’m looking forward to giving it back mangled.”
He glanced over, as if trying to decide whether she was truly a bad person.
“She deserves it. Trust me.”
He looked like he was about to ask, changed his mind, and opened the door.
She stopped on the threshold, leaned against the frame, and inhaled the smell of fresh linen and lemon blossoms. A hall of gleaming white tiles spread out before her. “Do you want me to take my shoes off?” She looked down at her slip-ons. “You’ll have to take them off for me.”
“It’s fine. Come inside.” He stepped up and put his arm around her waist as if it were his right. As if they weren’t strangers.
She liked it there, the pressure of his fingers against her shifting core. She liked the comfort of being held up. When had someone else supported her last? She’d moved away from home at eighteen and paid her way since. Thirteen months ago, Mom had lost her battle with lung cancer. Dad lived forty minutes away in Southlake, but it felt like he’d disappeared, swallowed up by his own grief. Dad was usually as attentive as a hollow pumpkin when she saw him once a month at the mandatory family meals her sister, Jo, set up. Maybe she should call him, check in and tell him about her lack of employment. She hadn’t even told Jo yet. Merely thinking about having that conversation was exhausting. She’d tell them at next month’s family dinner. Crap, that was scheduled for tomorrow. She had one day until she had to face the Swan Family Council.
Arty dropped his keys by a hunk of swirling gray rock that looked like it had smoke trapped inside.
“That’s pretty.”
“And it’s supposed to have healing properties. Don’t remember what they are, but maybe you should put your foot next to it.”
“I’m not that gullible.”
“Plenty of people really believe in those crystals.”
Had she offended him? Of course she had. He was obviously one of those people. This was why she didn’t have a boyfriend. She sent him an apologetic grimace.
“It was a gift.” Amusement lightened his voice. “I’m not one of those people.” When he turned to her, he was so close, his blue eyes like the open sky. No one came this close without kissing her. Except Blair sometimes. That girl had no boundaries.
Tempest faced forward, looking over his home. How did someone who had a full beard and wore sneakers paired with a cashmere sweater have such a well-designed house? The walls were pale cream. Obviously the best color for walls. Through an archway to the right was an office with a sleek gray desk and a huge black-and-white print of a horse. Through the arch on the left was a formal sitting area with four chairs angled toward a grand piano. Did he play or just appreciate the design esthetic? Clinging to him, she hobbled into a kitchen with dark cabinets and white Carrera marble.
“Well, this is lovely.” She stated it as fact. It was the truth.
“Thanks.”
They moved into the adjoining living room, and he eased her onto a plush fabric couch, facing a massive TV.
She didn’t want him to let her go. Maybe today wasn’t a total bust after all. He stepped away. Friendly plants waved from the corners. The coffee table looked like an enormous piece of petrified wood coated in a glossy polish. She couldn’t get over it. She loved his house. “Did you do all this yourself?”
He answered from the kitchen. “I hired the designer. Does that count?”
“I’ll give it to you.”
“How generous.”
“Do you live here alone?”
“Yes.” He returned with a bag of frozen mixed vegetables and a towel. He sat on the petrified wood and gestured for her to lift her foot. Without asking, he eased off her shoe, leaving on her thin ankle sock. Good. She wasn’t ready to have her bare feet scrutinized. She went for a pedicure every five weeks, and she was almost due. The inked word “steps” was visible above the low line of the no-show socks. She’d gotten the tattoo in high school with some friends when she was feeling particularly righteous. The words of the psalm wrapped her foot arch. You enlarge my steps under me, and my feet have not slipped. That verse didn’t feel so true now. Where would her next steps lead? Was God even watching?
She shaved her legs every morning, and Arty’s fingers sliding over her smooth skin brought her focus straight to him. He folded back the bottom of her jeans to reveal scratches along her ankle. His touch sent a zing all the way up her leg. Who was this guy again? Did she approve of her growing attraction?
He rolled her ankle gently. “Does this hurt?” He flexed and straightened her foot.
“Not any more than it already does.”
“That’s good.”
“Are you a doctor?”
“Not in the least.” He set her foot on the towel on the table and laid the frozen vegetables on top.
“Then how do you know?”
“I don’t really. But my guesses are usually very good.”
Her mouth hung open.
“And I guess it’s a bit twisted.”
“A bit twisted. How scientific.”
That muted smile came back, as if he
were trying to be serious but couldn’t quite manage it. “Maybe a minor sprain. May I recommend ice, ibuprofen, and rest?”
Tempest chuckled. “Arty’s orders.”
“You know what free advice is worth…”
She shifted the cold pack more to the throbbing side.
“Nothing.” He stood. “I’ll drive you to the doctor if you want, though. That’s worth something.” He padded back to the kitchen. “What can I get you to drink? Water? Or wine?” A pause as a refrigerator door opened. “I have a disturbing amount of drink options in here. You name it. I think I’ve got it. There’s even tomato juice.”
How much needier could she get? “Nothing for me. I’ll call my roommate and make her come get me. I’m sorry to be such a bother. Thank you for helping me.”
A moment’s hesitation before he said, “You’re welcome.”
She’d been hoping he’d disagree, tell her to stay forever. She reluctantly dialed Blair. Her roommate didn’t answer. Oh yeah, she was at work tonight. Tempest forced a smile when Arty returned and set a cold bottle of water by her elevated foot. “Thanks.”
“Don’t bother your friend. I’ll drive you home.”
She exhaled in defeat. “Again, thank you. It’s not far, only one point two miles.”
He raised his brows. “Wow. That’s precise.”
She swallowed a grimace, praying he wouldn’t ask her why she knew that. It was time to go. She shifted as if to stand.
He held out a forestalling palm. “We’re not leaving until that ices for twenty minutes.” He looked at his smart watch. “That’s another seventeen minutes.”
“Wow. That’s precise.”
The conspiratorial grin he gave her sent warmth down her veins, the feeling clashing with her freezing foot. He sat at her side, just close enough to not touch.
“So, Tempest.”
“Yes, Arty?”
“I was just thinking about this event I have coming up I’ve agreed to go to.”
Her pulse sped. Please ask me out. She turned her voice high with mock insult. “That’s what you’re thinking about right now?”
“It’s more of a Halloween party.” He held his own hands in his lap and didn’t look at her as he spoke.
Was he nervous? She found that hard to believe. She certainly didn’t feel intimidating at the moment. Or most moments, really.
“That’s not exactly accurate either.” He forced a weak chuckle. “It’s the Thanes’ annual masquerade. It’s next Saturday night. The twenty-sixth.”
She knew about it. The Thane Masquerade. Food. Drinks. Music. Glitz. Glamour. At least that’s what she’d heard. She’d never been invited. It was an exclusive list. And Bearded Arty here had made the cut. Interesting.
“Would you go with me?” The words came out in a rush.
Blair was going to be so jealous. Tempest thought she might be jealous of herself. Or maybe the slightly sick feeling was just the mixing of too many hormones in her belly.
“You have to dress up, though. Like a serious costume. If that’s annoying, then no worries. I think it’s a little ridiculous myself, but that’s the deal.” He finally looked over at her. Gray eyes above a small nose.
“Your sales pitch could use some work.”
“Not the first time I’ve heard that.”
“But I’ll come with you. Sounds fun.”
He had a nice smile. What would it look like without the fur? He pulled out his phone, and she typed in her name and number.
“You’re not going to leave me on my own to come up with a costume, are you?” she asked, trying to make light of it, but she was deadly serious. The Thane Masquerade was no neighborhood Halloween party. What were his expectations of her?
“I was hoping you would come up with something for the both of us.” He grimaced.
“The truth comes out.”
“It always does.” A beat of silence struck. An unidentifiable emotion flashed over his face before he brightened. “But I’m teasing. I’ll figure out the costumes for us both.”
“Phew.”
“I thought ladies liked dressing up.”
“There’s a stereotype if I’ve ever heard one.”
He lifted his hands in surrender. “I retract the comment with apologies.”
“Stricken from the minutes.”
“Thank you, madam chairman.”
“Has it been twenty minutes? Because my foot is halfway dead by now.”
“Ah. Then we are halfway to our costume. You can be an amputee.”
“How delightful.”
He lifted the frozen vegetables. “How does it feel?”
She rolled her ankle. The sharpness had dulled to a low throb. “A lot better. Thank you, Doc Arty.”
“But still not well enough to stand.”
“Well, I think I can man—”
“More rest, I think. It’s a long walk to the car. Dinner first.”
She settled back into the couch. She didn’t want to leave anyway. “Okay.”
He turned away with the makeshift ice pack, but not before she saw his grin. “What is the patient in the mood for? Thai? Pizza? Chinese? Mexican?”
****
They spent the thirty minutes waiting for dinner connecting over science fiction novels and geeky movies. When the food arrived, Arty insisted she stay on the couch. Tempest refused to eat curry over the cream linen. She hobbled to the table, her limp more pronounced than was strictly honest. Her ankle was hardly throbbing anymore, but she felt weird being suddenly fine after all that hurt foot drama.
She set out the foam containers while he washed his hands and got a bottle of wine and two porcelain plates. When everything was ready, they looked at each other expectantly for a moment. He must have grown up saying grace before meals too.
“What do you want to try first?” he asked.
She scanned the many choices. “Should I be offended that you ordered enough for a basketball team?”
“Are you?”
“No. I’m pretty good at basketball. Please pass the veggie makhani.”
They shuffled around dishes. Sitting here in his kitchen with him felt so normal. How was she not freaking out about this guy right now? She felt like he was already in her life. For real. Maybe she was calm because he wasn’t drop-dead gorgeous. He was regular. And nice. She hadn’t enjoyed this level of comfortable companionship with a man in a long time. She put a scoop of rice in her mouth. But she knew nearly nothing about him, except that he kept a sparkling, clean house and over-ordered takeout. And he helped damsels in distress.
“How long have you lived here?”
“I’ve been in this house about twenty months. What about you?”
“Born and raised. I grew up in Southlake, went to SMU, and now I work just…” The words faded, and she looked down.
“What’s wrong?”
Her cheeks burned. Why had she brought that up? “I used to work a few blocks from here, but I lost my job yesterday.”
He blinked at her.
“I was an insurance underwriter for Salvo Insurance. I loved my job. I have, I mean had, been doing it for five years, and I was really good at it.” Why did she feel the need to defend herself? “But the company got this new software that apparently can do my job better than I can.” Her voice caught. Hell no, she was not going to cry right now. She swallowed, blinking her lashes at hummingbird wing speed. She spooned lentils into her mouth.
Arty had gone white. “I’m so sorry.”
She forced a smile. She did not mean to get so personal and heavy right now. “It’s not your fault. It’s that prick’s—Leonard Allred.”
He jolted.
“He developed the software program.”
“Yes.” His voice was raspy and dry, like he’d choked on some rice. “I’ve heard of him.”
“He might be a genius, but I can still hate him and his shiny hair and pretty face for destroying my life.”
Chapter Three
The Lie<
br />
She hates me.
Leo looked at his plate, trying to avoid those burning blue eyes while he got his bearings. He took a bite of tandoori chicken, his thoughts flying. He knew insurance companies were cutting back on personnel because his software was so efficient. He prided himself on Red Rocco’s optimization of underwriting analysis. But to experience the aftershocks of her pain…
It was much easier to read about these people in a report. He felt better seeing the tally of people he was helping dwarf the number of people he was hurting. Clean cut columns on a page. A net positive.
He couldn’t look directly at her; she was like the scorching sun. “I’m sorry.” His voice was heavy with sincerity.
He finally looked up when she didn’t respond. She was studying him, the sharp angles of her face softening. Her anger dissolved now that she was looking at Ardy, or Arty as she’d understood it. Giving strangers the ridiculous nickname had become habit. He liked his privacy, and he liked not being recognized as a twenty-nine-year-old billionaire.
“What about you?” she asked. “Tell me something.”
He should start by telling her his real name. He liked this woman. A lot. And that was exactly why now he could not fess up. If she hated Leonard Allred, he would remain Arty. Simple. “I like swimming.”
“Is this a ploy to get me into a swimsuit?”
He burst out laughing, bringing his napkin to his mouth just in time to catch the spew of half-chewed chicken.
“That was charming.”
How did she keep a straight face? He was bent over with laughter, his stomach cramping, and she had let loose the barest hint of a curved lip. She took a controlled bite of curry, the picture of poise.
He wanted to know everything about her. Starting with what was tattooed on her foot. He’d been so close to taking off her sock, but he wasn’t sure he would have been able to stop there. She was all lean length. The kind of body that looked good in a fashion magazine. Or strutting down a catwalk in lingerie. Or naked. Keep it soft, man. This whole date…was this a date? Whatever it was, it was better than any date he’d been on in a long time. And he’d been on quite a few. Why did everyone assume a single man with a good job was obviously seeking a wife? A least now that his mom was having a little romance of her own, she was leaving him alone for the moment. He didn’t expect that to last long, though.
