Wicked Winters: A Collection of Winter Tales

by Lucy Smoke

  Their eyes met, gazes clashing, but he was the first to glance away. Her first impression of Dov had been that he was a steady presence. A doctor, he usually exuded competence, but right now, he seemed overwhelmed. “Yaphet’s right. It will probably be swarmed with reporters from the Post or New York Daily News. They love stories like hers.” He raked his hand through his dark hair in a manner so like Ravi’s, she had to glance to the side to make sure she hadn’t mistaken one brother for the other.

  She hadn’t.

  Ravi, sad-eyed, watched her. “I’m so sorry, Shira. Please come home with us. You can rest all day. I’m sure you’re exhausted.”

  Jeremy drove straight by the turn-off. With a sigh, she leaned back in her seat. “Next left, Jeremy. Then another left, and straight three blocks.”

  “No.” Dov’s voice came out louder than he perhaps meant it, because he said it again, quieter. “No. They’re right. You can come to my place.”

  Jeremy nodded, and made a righthand turn.

  It killed her to ask, but she had to. “Do you all know what I was arrested for?”

  “Yes,” Yaphet answered. “I explained to them what happened. We know you didn’t do anything wrong, Shira.”

  “It feels like I did,” she answered without meaning to.

  “Why?” Pascal touched her shoulder, but she couldn’t meet his eyes. “Why would you feel that way?”

  How was she supposed to explain that every moment in this job had been a mistake? She’d been so full of herself. She believed she was ready to curate a collection. Clearly, she didn’t have what it took. She couldn’t even authenticate a simple Impressionist painting’s provenance.

  And they were some of the easiest trails to follow in the world. Everyone wanted a Monet. Or Pissarro.

  Everyone.

  And she couldn’t do it.

  She was a fraud, and Director Lohse knew it. No wonder the man couldn’t stand her. He was faced with her incompetence day after day.

  Jeremy pulled to a stop. “I’ll come by later, so we can talk out your case. I’m more than just a fantastic driver, you know.” He winked at her and smiled, but it dropped away when he met Dov’s glare. He gave a more solemn nod to the brothers, waiting for them to get out.

  Her door opened, and Pascal held out his hand. Whatever else he might be, however he may have acted in the past, his compassion right now was everything Shira needed. She placed her hand in his as she jumped out of the car, but he didn’t release it right away. Instead, he held on as they went up the stairs, under the scaffold, and into Dov’s apartment.

  “Do you want to call anyone? Do anything?” Dov asked. “A shower maybe?”

  A shower sounded like heaven. Her time in the cell had left a miasma of dirt on her.

  “A shower would be great,” she answered.

  “Okay.” There was a moment where he stared at each of his brothers. It was a little weird to be surrounded by all of them while they had some kind of loaded, silent conversation.

  “Which one is it?” she asked, trying to remember. She hadn’t used the bathroom when she was here with Ravi.

  Her mug was still next to the sink in the kitchen. Had that only been a few hours ago?

  “Here.” Ravi stepped forward, hand on her arm. He opened one of the doors and gestured for her to go inside. She thought he’d leave her there, but he stepped inside and closed the door. The next thing she knew, he’d wrapped his arms around her and buried his face in her hair. “Shira. Are you okay?”

  He had her so tightly it was hard to move her arms. She gripped what she could reach, handfuls of his shirt. “I’m better now. Thank you for coming for me. You have to know—” She drew back to meet his gaze. “I didn’t do this. I didn’t make up getting mugged. I didn’t steal from the gallery.”

  “I know,” he said. He cupped her face, thumbs brushing her cheekbones. “We all know. We’ll do everything we can to help you.”

  “Why?” she asked. “Why are you helping me? From the moment you met me, I’ve been nothing but trouble.”

  He jerked back like she’d slapped him. “Is that what you think? That this—No. No. Shira. You’re not trouble. Calling Jeremy, that’s nothing.”

  Shira wrapped her hands around his wrists, the soft hair on his arms tickled her palms. “It’s not nothing, Ravi. Not to me.”

  Someone pounded on the door. “Let her be, Ravi.” She couldn’t make out who it was through the heavy wood door.

  “Dov.” Ravi answered her unspoken question. “He gets anxious when people need to rest. He’ll be concerned until you get some sleep, so hurry up.” The last part was said with a smile. Shira smiled back, but her face fell when he left. She caught its disappearance in the mirror, and she turned to study herself.

  She looked as horrible as she imagined she would. Dark circles. Mascara streaks. Chapped lips.

  Sighing, she reached into the shower to start the hot water. The water soaked into her sleeve and she stared at her arm.

  Why was she still wearing her coat?

  She unbuttoned it, and dropped it on the floor before kicking out of her shoes. Next came her blouse, skirt, tights, and underwear. With nothing else to wear, she’d have to put some of it back on, so she tried to make a neat pile. Her hands shook as she folded, and eventually, she dropped the blouse in her hands onto the coat.

  Shower first. Deal with the clothes later.

  Someone had left her clean clothes. Shira clutched the towel she’d tucked under her arms and stared at the pile.

  Shorts. A t-shirt.

  The thoughtfulness of the gesture made her bite her lip to stop from crying. She remembered what Ravi had said about Dov; he grew concerned about people who hadn’t slept.

  She was starting to grow concerned about herself.

  Her hands, as she finger combed her hair, still shook, and her face was deathly white. It wasn’t like her to be so emotional.

  She was better than this. It had to be sympathy at the mess she was in that prompted the brothers taking any sort of interest in her.

  She was like a stray dog. Her fingers caught on a knot and she hissed. A wet, stray dog.

  They couldn’t help but feel sorry for her.

  Slowly, Shira opened the bathroom door to peer out into the living room. Pascal was the only one there. He sat on the couch, posture straight, and met her eyes.

  It was as if he’d been waiting for her.

  “Where is everyone?” she asked.

  “Dov was called away. Our grandmother is very sick. He’s with her.”

  “Sarah? Will she be all right?” The woman’s sweet nature and easy acceptance made her someone Shira wanted to know better.

  “She’s dying, Shira. So, no. She won’t be all right.”

  His words were like a blow, and in her rock-bottom state, it was too much. A sob welled from Shira’s chest, and she slapped her hands over her mouth. She swallowed, again and again, but it was like she was choking, suffocating. Pascal stood, and pushed her hands away from her face.

  “Breathe, Shira.”

  She couldn’t. Her lungs wouldn’t work right. Pascal held her hands in his, and it was too much. She ripped them away, fluttering them near her face. “I can’t—” Why couldn’t she get any air? “I can’t breathe.” The room spun and swam as Pascal grabbed her. Each of her hands were held in his. He sucked in a deep breath, blue eyes blazing at her, and let it out through his nose. He didn’t say a word, but she knew what he wanted her to do. She tried to mirror him. Each inhalation wasn’t smooth, but air filled her lungs.

  He did it again, and so did she. This time it was smoother, and the next time even more so. “There you go.” His voice was kinder than she’d ever heard it before.

  “Why—” She sucked in a breath. “Are you being so nice to me?” Each word was divided by a short breath, but at least she could speak again. “I thought you hated me.”

  He didn’t answer. “Come on.” He jerked her to her feet, and then into his ar
ms so her head rested on his chest. Too shocked, she only held onto him tight as he brought her into one of the bedrooms and laid her on the bed. “You need to rest. Dov is right. No one can go this long without sleep.”

  Movements abrupt, he pulled the comforter over her before striding to the window and flicking the curtains closed. Shira caught a brief glimpse of a sunny sky before they shut. “Get some sleep,” he said, voice gruff.

  She was wide awake, no way could she fall asleep. Jail. Death. An art heist. Her head spun.

  Pascal must have seen the chaos of her thoughts written on her face, because he sighed loudly and flopped onto the bed behind her. “You’re not going to prison,” he started. “Even though you stupidly didn’t report being mugged outside the gallery, and caused yourself all sorts of trouble.”

  “Muggings take place in New York every day,” Shira whispered, snuggling into the pillow and blankets. “What good would it have done?”

  “It would have saved you a trip to jail.”

  Shira closed her eyes. Even though he was scolding her, she got the sense he wasn’t really angry. Why was that? At one point or another, each of these brothers had been prickly to her.

  Except for Yaphet. He was just a mystery. A glasses-wearing, blonde, dark-eyed, muscley mystery.

  “I’ll tell Yaphet that’s how you see him.” Pascal’s voice cut through her consciousness. Had she said that out loud? Oh, well. She was too tired to care.

  “Go to sleep, Shira. We’ll work this out,” Pascal whispered.

  We. What a nice word, “we,” was. She wouldn’t have to do things on her own. She’d have someone with her, to help, to guide.

  “Sleep,” Pascal repeated.

  And unwilling to argue anymore, Shira did.

  6

  The Sixth Day

  Pascal had an internal heater. That was the only explanation for the temperature he threw off. The man currently wrapped around her back, arm thrown over her waist, and snored in her ear.

  Shira buried her face in the pillow to stop from laughing. Dour Pascal snored.

  “Are you laughing at me?” His voice was even rougher when he first woke up. “After I put you to sleep, and was kicked at least four times in the balls, and elbowed once in the temple? Now you laugh?” His arm tightened around her waist.

  “I’m sorry.” Shira tried to turn, but he squeezed her. A warning to stay still. When had he gotten beneath the covers with her? His legs were bare, and though she couldn’t see to confirm it, she had a suspicion his chest was too. What had prompted this sweetness?

  “Stay where you are,” he commanded, and then sighed. “It’s easier to apologize without you looking at me.”

  His words froze her. Carefully, she tucked her hand beneath her cheek. “Why are you apologizing?”

  “Last night, I was cruel. I knew you met my grandmother. No one who meets her doesn’t immediately fall in love with her. She’s just like that. Always has been. My grandfather met her at a USO dance and proposed to her that evening.”

  “Did she say yes?”

  Pascal chuckled, and the sound vibrated against her back. She couldn’t help wiggling a little when a shiver ran down her spine.

  “She did. Said she knew he was the one for her.” He was silent for a long moment before he continued. “Anyway, I shouldn’t have sprung what was happening on you the way I did. Not last night.”

  “Why are you being so nice?” she asked and then wished she hadn’t. Inevitably, it would ruin the ground they’d seemed to gain.

  But he answered. “I made assumptions about you. Thought you did something you didn’t do. Thought you a certain kind of person. And you’re not. You’re good. Kind. Tried to do the right thing.”

  “Even though I do stupid things?” She remembered how he’d taken her to task for not reporting her mugging to the police. She really wished he would let her turn around and see his face while he was saying all these nice things about her.

  “Even though you made a bad decision,” he allowed, “you’re not stupid. I don’t think you’re stupid at all.” His arm released her, as if he was giving her permission, and she flipped around.

  Pascal in the morning, without the shield of anger, was beautiful. His jaw was darkened by a shadow of beard. The barest gleam of sun tried to peek through the curtains, highlighting the gold in his hair.

  And she had been right.

  His chest was bare. She was eye-level with his throat, and his Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. Hesitantly, she touched his neck, and he allowed it.

  Encouraged, she dragged her fingers lower, along his shoulders and collar bone before resting it on the center of his chest. Near her thumb, she could feel his heart thumping. A steady rhythm that was as soothing as his presence had been to lull her to sleep.

  A raised scar near her pinky made her frown, and she narrowed her eyes, adjusting her body to look closer. When she realized what she’d done, she paused, expecting him to stop her examination, but he didn’t. The scar was round, but torn along the edges, like a sunburst. Near it, barely visible in the waning light, were a myriad of other scars. There was no discernible pattern, none were similar in size or shape. Some were tear drops while others were longer, the size of her thumbnail.

  She flicked her gaze toward him. He stared at her intently, and she realized, his breathing had become shallow and rapid.

  What was it Ravi said he did? Dov was a doctor. Pascal?

  A soldier.

  Now his scars made sense. And they broke her heart.

  “I’m very glad you survived these,” she said, touching each one she could reach with her fingertips.

  “Thank you,” he said. He cleared his throat, glancing toward the door, but then returned her gaze.

  Shira didn’t know what came over her, but she shifted, tipped her head forward and kissed the sun-shaped scar. The skin was smooth, smoother even than the skin surrounding it. She moved to the next scar, but it had no detectable difference between the smaller scars and the broad expanse of his skin. Still, she found herself wanting to cover each and every one with her lips.

  Without realizing it, she’d squirmed lower on the bed. Pascal’s hand, strong fingered and warm, held the back of her head. He kept her in place, encouraging her descent along his body.

  His chest was covered with a light smattering of the same golden hair as on his head. Curling her fingers, she raked her hand down his chest, and was rewarded with a deep-throated groan.

  His nipple was right in front of her mouth. Breathless, she touched its pebbled peak with her tongue before wrapping her lips around it and biting gently.

  Pascal groaned again, louder, and her hips jerked forward. Somehow, in all her squirming and wiggling, he’d managed to get a knee between her legs. The rocking motion she made brought his hard length right where she needed it.

  It was her turn to moan.

  Shira could feel him, lips grazing her head, hands leaving her hair to drag along her back.

  “Shira.” Pascal pushed her away, cupped her chin and dragged her face to his. “Tell me if you don’t want this. Tell me now because if you don’t, I won’t stop.”

  She wanted it. She wanted it so bad.

  He went on. “I know what’s happened with Ravi. I can see it written all over his face when he looks at you. And Dov, that night we found you in the street. You could have all of us tied in knots, Shira. But. I. Don’t. Care. So tell me now. You willing to do this? See where this mess takes us?”

  Through the haze of her arousal, she tried to consider his words.

  Ravi. Last night she’d been on a date with Ravi. What would it do to him if she slept with Pascal?

  Because that’s what she was considering at this moment.

  As if he could feel her confusion, Pascal rubbed his knee between her legs again. What had he been saying? He held her gaze, but dropped his hand from her face. Slowly, he trailed it along her arm, past her fingers, and dipped it beneath the waist band of her sho
rts.

  His fingers slid through her soft folds and into her.

  “Oh, God,” she moaned, throwing her head back and closing her eyes.

  He withdrew his finger before plunging it in again. He added a second finger, and it was very possible her eyes crossed.

  “This is going to happen,” he whispered along her jaw. His stubble scraped her skin, but she loved it. Combined with the smooth thrust of his fingers, she nearly came right then. “It’ll happen now, or it’ll happen later, but Shira?” His fingers stopped and she opened her eyes. He stared at her, eyes bright like they were lit by a fire. “It will happen.”

  His fingers, wet with her arousal, cupped her face and he kissed her. His tongue plunged inside her mouth, taking what he wanted.

  And he wanted her.

  Inside her, the girl she always thought she was, had another epiphany. Nothing she planned in her life was the way it should be.

  She should be a success at her job.

  She wasn’t.

  She should be taking her time to get to know these men. Ravi. Pascal. Dov.

  God, even Yaphet.

  But her heart told her she already knew them.

  Pascal was braver than her. He was gruff, and direct, and at times cruelly honest, but what he said was the truth.

  This was going to happen now. Or it was going to happen later.

  But it was going to happen.

  “Now,” she whispered when his kisses moved to her cheekbones. “I want it now.”

  “Good girl.” His praise lit something up inside her, and she pushed him onto his back to straddle him.

  With a move she’d never imagined herself capable of, she tugged the shirt over her body and tossed it into a corner of the room.

  Pascal leaned back into the pillows, smiling up at her. He lifted his hands to her breasts, covering them with his big hands, and massaged her. “Take off my shorts,” he told her.

  How was she supposed to do that when he was touching her so perfectly? He applied just the right amount of pressure, pinching her nipples between his fingers with each squeeze.