Artistic License (12 page)

“Thirty-three.”

Good grief.

“Geez. They didn’t all die in mysterious circumstances, did they?” she said without thinking and then visibly cringed.

Her poor tired feet had suffered enough abuse tonight without being shoved between her teeth like that.

Fortunately Mick laughed, a huff of tension leaving his body.

“Not that I’m aware of,” he said, his eyes smiling at her. “Last I heard, they each vanished into the sunset clutching a hefty cheque. And good luck to them.”

“I’m not really feeling the brotherly love.” Sophy tucked her hand beneath her cheek, weighing her words. “Are you…not a very close family?”

She sensed that some of the answers to the Mick-puzzle could be found here, but the navigation was a bit rocky.

“I wouldn’t say that.” His mouth twisted wryly. “They’re peas in a very narrow pod.”

They’re
peas in a pod.

She reached out and took hold of his hand again, clasping it between both of hers. Her palms were swallowed up against his much larger fist. A startled flash of emotion crossed his features, a blend of surprise, gratitude and something infinitely more disturbing. She jumped slightly when he lifted their joined fingers and pressed a kiss to the back of her wrist. She was half-anxious, half-hopeful in trying to anticipate his next move, but he merely dropped his head back against the cushions and closed his eyes. His barrel-like chest moved in a deep sigh. He looked exhausted.

“You should get home to bed,” she said quietly.

His lashes barely flickered.

“Are you going to be all right?” he asked, and the words were a deep, sleepy rumble.

“Of course I will.”

The desire to lean forward and touch her lips gently to his was almost insurmountable. There seemed to be a new closeness, a comfort, between them. And it was bothering her that it
wasn’t
bothering her.

This seemed to be the night for confidences and there was one more subject she desperately wanted to raise. She had the feeling that if she didn’t bring it up now, perhaps she never would. It wasn’t nosiness. She hoped. It just felt like she should know. Even if it went against a lifetime of caution to return to a point of contention.

“Mick,” she said, firmly enough that he opened his eyes and looked at her fully. “I realise that this is the conversational version of poking a bruise with a stick, but I’m just going to come out and ask properly this time. It wasn’t my business before and it’s not my business now, so if you really don’t want to talk about this, just say so. I promise I won’t flee sobbing into the night.”

He had let go of her hands and was sitting up on the edge of the couch, his forearms resting on his knees. Of the two of them, he looked far more inclined to bolt. There was an air of resignation about him, however, rather than the defensive anger she had feared.

“What happened with Jennifer?”

The question fell between them like a gambler throwing down a last-ditch attempt at a winning hand. Everything hinged on the other player’s response.

Mick stared at the floor, one hand rubbing the back of his neck, his movements unhurried and thoughtful. When he spoke, it was without looking at her.

“She slept with me on a bet.”

Whatever Sophy had been expecting, it hadn’t been that.

“What?” she asked blankly, and watched as his fingers tensed against his collar.

“She was headhunted into Ryland Curry last year from a firm in Ireland,” he said evenly, still to the carpet. “I had no personal interest in her, but after a month or so she started a pretty heavy pursuit. She was…fairly relentless.” He glanced at her and his expression, until then lacking any sort of emotion, became tinged with self-disgust. “I eventually took what was on offer. It was only later that Sean discovered she’d made a bet with two other consultants, Anya Hollings and Jack Trevallion, that she could go through with it.” He shrugged. “Trevallion’s an inept prick who’s had it in for me since I gave him a written warning for a misdemeanour last year. I’d always had a reasonable working relationship with Anya.”

He’d been betrayed by one trusted colleague; treated without kindness, respect or decency by another. And he was so bloody
polite
about it.

Sophy was actually trembling with anger.

“I don’t…” She swallowed the harsh words and tried again. “I don’t understand. Why? I don’t get it.”

The look he gave her hit her directly in the throat.

“Sophy,” he said, and the very
ordinariness
of his voice brought tears stinging to her eyes. “
Look
at me.”

She moved so quickly that he didn’t have time to retreat. Her hands came up hard against his jaw, gripping his dear head between her palms and forcing his face to meet hers. She pressed her forehead to his and felt her lashes sweep the curve of his brow.

“I do look at you,” she said fiercely. “I haven’t
stopped
looking at you for days. And I will
never
understand her.”

His arms were achingly slow to come around her and then they tightened in a compulsive movement, hard bands across her back, enveloping her in warm, firm muscle.

It wasn’t the crescendo peak of a grand seduction scene. It was a quiet embrace of deep, even breaths and shared comfort. And love. For that instant of time, it was a touch of love, given freely, without strings, conditions or promises.

His fingers were tracing gentle patterns up her spine as they sat there quietly. A hand came up against the back of her head, smoothing the flow of her ponytail, playing with the ends of her hair. 

“Sophy,” he murmured, and her name thrummed between his chest and her ear.

“Mmm.” She was slipping into a floaty, contented doze.

Her leather-clad pillow shifted and rolled irritatingly as he bent to try and see her face.

“Honey.”

“Ssh.”

His soft, ragged laugh was the last sound she heard as she fell deeply asleep.

***

His completely standard, garden-variety security detail in Queenstown was turning out to be an emotional trial by fire.

Mick tightened his hold around Sophy, slipping one arm under her knees to lift her high against his chest as he stood up. He wasn’t used to handling anything with such a delicate touch and managed to find a flicker of amusement in the fact that he was carrying her as cautiously as he would a live explosive. Her elbows curved about his neck as she snuggled into his throat and he remained motionless for a few seconds, just breathing her in. She smelled faintly of perfume, one of those ultra-feminine, synthetic scents that were pleasant when women didn’t get carried away with the spray. Also ever so slightly of beer from the bar, which wasn’t unpleasant either. 

He wasn’t entirely sure what had happened this evening. This morning.

There were very few people in his life who truly knew him and for whom he would take a hit without hesitation. Sean was his brother in all but blood. He had several army buddies who had walked at his side into hell. On the family side of the ledger, he was now only close to a paternal aunt, a politically liberal yoga instructor whom his father had all but disinherited. His relationships with women had been largely and even then sporadically sexual. He was aware that he had a physical frame that was attractive to a certain type, but as he’d tried to tell Sophy, he was under no illusions about his lack of good looks. Women in general were not interested in taking things further than the bedroom; many had difficulty even in making eye contact. He was not the sort of man whom they were proud to be seen with in public and wanted to take home to meet their mother.

It was what it was.

As usual, however, Sophy apparently marched to her own beat. She might be skittering around the prospect of pursuing a physical relationship, but it wasn’t because of the limitations of his appearance. And he truly did believe that, for possibly the first time in his life.

As for how he felt about her –

After a lifetime of distance, it was a bit mind-blowing that he could bond this quickly and this hard with someone. He cared about her in a way that was completely out of proportion with the shortness of their acquaintance.

Moving slowly, he walked with her out of the living room and down the hallway to where two bedrooms faced one another, the doors thankfully open. There was no problem in identifying which room belonged to Sophy.

Easing the door wider with his shoulder, he carried her into the messy one.

She basically expanded the moment she touched the mattress, arms and legs flying in all directions and seriously hampering his attempts to cover her with the patchwork quilt. Giving up, grinning, Mick checked the fastenings on her windows and pulled her curtains.

Before he quietly left the house, snicking the lock behind him, he ran the back of his knuckles down the smooth exposed plane of her arm, and shook his head.

He was dead on his feet by the time he got back to the hotel, so knackered that he made a very rare usage of the elevator. Letting himself into his room with a passkey, he didn’t hold back a pained groan when Sean looked up from his sprawled position in the armchair.

“For fuck’s sake, it’s a five-star hotel. If there’s another spider, call the reception desk.”

Sean turned down the volume on the late-night game show and took a leisurely sip from a glass of whisky. He was eyeing Mick with malicious satisfaction.

“You know, if you’re going to do the Walk of Shame properly, bro,” he said, grinning widely, “you should really have smudged lipstick, high heels in your hand and lace panties in your purse.”

Mick pulled off his watch and started emptying his pockets, dropping his keys, wallet and electronics on the bedside table.

“I was giving Sophy a ride home from work,” he said flatly. “She thought someone was following her through the streets. Dark car, unknown make and model, didn’t catch the license plate number.”

Sean’s lascivious leer faded.

“Jesus. Is she all right?”

“She’s fine. She was asleep when I left.” Mick flicked him a tired, pointed glance. “Don’t be a dick.”

“I didn’t say a word,” his friend protested virtuously.

“Experience.”

Flopping into the other chair, he ran both hands over the closely shaved stubble of his hair, stifled a yawn.

“Not to be unwelcoming,” he said, “but what the hell are you doing in here and is there any way to speed up your departure?”

Sean lifted a manila folder between his thumb and forefinger.

“Ryland called and asked me to get your signatures on these. And yes, he does know what time it is, and no, he doesn’t care and neither should we if we want to continue to receive a pay cheque with his signature.”

“Fuck. Fine.” Mick shook off the tiredness, leaned forward and pulled the file toward him. Opening it, he scanned the papers within and made a slight noise of disgust. “None of this is urgent.”

“So I tried to tell him. He seems to be having a pre-emptive panic because his Golden Boy is taking a few days off this week.”

“Three days, and I’m not leaving until Friday.” Mick flipped through the pages, scrawling his name at each flagged line.

“Speaking of which,” said Sean, “do you have everything you need for the wedding? Booze, pills, a concealed weapon?” He raised a meaningful eyebrow. “A date?”