Back to You: Bad Boys of Red Hook (6 page)

“I’m pretty sure she won’t have a problem with it. Hell, I always thought she had a thing for you. Why do you think I beat on you so regularly back in school?”

“And all this time I thought it was just my personality—I had one, unlike someone else I knew. But you’re wrong about Patrice. She never knew I existed.”

“Oh, she knew. She was just shy. It took me a lot of years to figure it out.”

The music for
The
Twilight Zone
repeated in Storm’s head as he followed Francis to a black Jeep Liberty.

Francis unlocked the car and climbed in as Storm followed suit. “How’s Nicki handling Pete’s being sick?”

“I can’t really say. I just met her.”

“Nicki’s a tough kid; she’ll be fine. She’s great with my two rug rats. She has a way with them. She’s incredibly empathetic for a kid so young, but then she’s been through a lot.”

“She’s also a real smart aleck, but she seems like a good kid.”

“Any kid lucky enough to be taken in by Pete is a good kid. Just look how well you and your brothers turned out.”

“And you. It seems like Pete’s got a magic touch when it comes to juvenile delinquents.”

Storm was glad Francis laughed. “That he does.”

He pulled up in front of the Crow’s Nest and waved away Storm’s thanks. “Bree has my number. Give me a
call if the jet lag gets to you and you want to meet up with me and Patrice another night.”

“I should be fine.”

“Good. I’ll probably see you later, then. Tell Bree I said hi.”

Storm shut the door, and while Francis pulled away, he looked at the bottle of water in his hand. Maybe he’d be better off replacing it with a beer and a shot. Maybe then things would start making more sense.

 * * *

Storm walked into the Crow’s Nest and was tempted to step back outside to make sure Francis hadn’t pulled a fast one on him. The only thing he recognized other than Bree was the bar itself.

The antique carved-mahogany bar had always looked out of place beside the cheap vinyl-covered, metal-runged barstools Pete had favored. The ones that fronted the bar now were the high-backed swivel kind, and if he wasn’t mistaken, the deep hunter green seats were leather, or at the very least pleather. The stained, drop-tile ceiling had been replaced by what looked like antique tin, trimmed with matching carved crown molding. Cracked plaster walls had been ripped down to show off beautiful exposed brick, and the other walls were painted a deep, rich gold. Small round tables were positioned between the bar and high-backed booths with deep maroon cushions. Tasteful art and Tiffany glass lighting gave it warmth and richness.

Bree stuck a pen behind her ear and walked away from the woman she’d been talking to at the bar. “You’ve come back.”

“Disappointed?”

“Not disappointed, Storm, just wary.”

“Yeah, that’s coming in loud and clear, but thanks for spelling it out for me.”

“My pleasure.”

“And mine too, I hope.” The tall woman Bree had been talking to had somehow snuck up on him.

It was hard to believe, considering this woman would stick out in Times Square on New Year’s Eve. She wore one of those loose tank dresses that looked too long to be a top, but too short to be a dress, though that was how she wore it. Not that he was complaining about the prodigious amount of gorgeous leg she displayed, and her high-heeled sandals made her legs look longer still. Bleached blond, choppy hair, cut short around her ears, tapered down her long, graceful neck. A hot pink streak sliced through her bangs, covering one eye. The other eye was a brilliant blue he’d seen only in the Mediterranean or on girls wearing colored contacts.

“I’m Rocki O’Sullivan—the lead singer of Nite Watch, the house band.”

“Storm Decker—the prodigal son, if you believe Bree here.”

Rocki smiled and didn’t release his hand. “I usually like to reach my own conclusions when it comes to men. My taste and Bree’s differ considerably. I like them; she, for the most part, doesn’t.”

“So her dislike of me is nothing personal then?”

Rocki graced him with a sexy grin. “It’s too soon to tell. Bree didn’t so much as mention you—odd, considering she’s my BFF.”

“Pardon?”

“Best Friend Forever.”

“Good to know.” He dropped Rocki’s hand and turned back to Bree, who glared at him. “I hardly recognized
the place. Wow, Bree. You’ve worked miracles here. When Pop said that you’d classed up the joint, I had no idea what he’d meant. You’ve completely reinvented it. It’s amazing. It looks like you.”

“Thanks.”

If he wasn’t mistaken, she blushed. “I have some work to do upstairs but thought I should see if there’s anything I can do to help you here first. You never know when you’ll find yourself in need of an inflatable dartboard.”

“No, I’m good, but thanks for the offer.” Bree turned her back to him and walked around the other side of the bar, pouring a soda.

He leaned a hip against a barstool and checked out the wall of fame that Pete had made. Framed and matted copies of every article published about him and his brothers hung beside the bar. He’d had no idea Pop had followed their careers so closely. He’d always known Pop was proud of him and his brothers; he just never imagined he’d do something like this. He swallowed hard, returned his attention to Bree, and watched her work. When she looked up, her surprised gaze shot across the polished bar. What did she think—that he’d run off like a good little servant?

“Thanks for stopping by, Storm. I’ll yell if I need you.”

“Oh, I almost forgot to tell you. Francis DeBruscio says hello. He and Patrice may be coming in tonight.” He ignored Bree’s surprised look and turned to Rocki, who seemed to be keeping score. “It was nice meeting you, Rocki. I look forward to hearing the band.”

“Don’t get your hopes up, Storm. What we lack in talent we make up for in volume.”

“Thanks for the warning, and keep me up-to-date on any conclusions.” He shot her a wink and turned to leave.

Bree drank the cold soda, wetting her suddenly dry mouth, and wished she could pull a vanishing act. She looked around the bar to see who’d witnessed the exchange. Nicki was tucked into the booth closest to the kitchen, hidden by the high back. Bree stepped to the far end of the bar to check on her. She was sketching something and seemed content with the new markers they’d picked up on the way home from the hospital. Dick, one of Pete’s old cronies, had a copy of the
Times
spread out beside his club sandwich and beer. Neither of them had seemed to notice. Unfortunately, the only one who did notice was the one person Bree wished hadn’t.

Rocki was already warming up, the light of inquisition shining brightly in her eye. “The prodigal son? I thought you called Logan.”

Bree blew out a breath, ruffling her own bangs. “I did. He sent Storm.”

“Do you think if I called Logan for help sometime, he’d do the same for me? Lord knows, Storm’s the kind of help every single woman pushing thirty needs.”

Bree pretended she didn’t hear that. “Do you want something from the kitchen? I think I’m going to get the special, Moroccan stuffed cabbage. Are you game?”

Rocki wrinkled her nose. “I’ll take a bacon cheeseburger with the works, extra guacamole, and sweet potato fries. Then all I need is for you to tell me the history between you and the prodigal son.”

Bree punched the order into the computer. “Nicki, what would you like for lunch?”

“The usual.”

“One peanut butter and bacon on toast.”

Rocki sipped her Orange Crush, then placed it back on the cardboard coaster. “You can ignore me all you
want, but I’m not going away. Let’s just skip all the preliminaries. How was he?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Pretend you just pulled the question out of a fortune cookie.”

Bree still had no clue what Rocki was getting at, but she had a very strong feeling she wasn’t going to like it.

Rocki shook her head and gave her that I-can’t-believe-I’m-best-friends-with-an-idiot look. “Don’t you know? Every time you read a fortune cookie, you add ‘in bed’ at the end. So, answer the question.”

“What question?”

Rocki pinned Bree with her gaze. “How was he?”

The words “in bed” ran through Bree’s head as she tried to think of what she should tell her BFF.

Storm trudged up the stairs to set up his work space. He didn’t know why he’d flown halfway around the world if Breezy wasn’t going to let him help—not that he didn’t have enough work for three people on his own.

He booted up his computer, only to realize the bar had wireless, but he didn’t have the password, nor did he relish the thought of another awkward conversation with Breezy to get it.

He’d searched Pete’s room for a jack last night, hoping to check his e-mail on his laptop instead of his phone. Knowing Pete, he shouldn’t have been shocked not to find one. He doubted there was one in Nicki’s room—she was a little young for a computer or the need for Internet access—at least he thought she was, but then what the hell did he know?

Maybe Logan and Slater’s room still had a jack. After all, Slater had discovered the Internet before Al Gore, and he’d been hacking into computers well before most people knew about Internet security—which was probably why the Crow’s Nest’s wireless router had a password.

The moment Storm stepped into his brothers’ old room, the scent of Breezy hit him like a sledgehammer. She only lived across the hall, but her computer sat running on Slater’s old desk. He wondered how long she’d been staying at Pop’s. He was tempted to peek into her files to see what he could find out about her, but he didn’t. He did, however, check to see if her computer was hooked up to a network outlet, and he thanked God that it was. “Looks like we’re going to be sharing more than just an apartment, Breezy.”

What choice did he have? It was the only network outlet in the apartment. He shut down her computer and made room for his Toshiba Satellite with a seventeen-inch screen, which meant moving a pile of neatly folded, silky, and very intriguing lingerie.

No matter how hot Breezy’s lingerie was or how great she looked in it, she had to get over whatever the hell had her so pissed so he could help. And he would be here to help for as long as she needed him, or at least until Logan got his ass out here and took over. Unfortunately, attacking him with a frying pan hadn’t seemed to lessen her rage.

Storm leaned back while he booted up his computer and felt the lump on the back of his head. That old William Congreve line, “Heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned, nor hell a fury like a woman scorned,” came to mind. Good old Will had that right—maybe a pissed-off spitfire of a redhead went after him with a frying pan too. Storm just wished he knew what else Breezy would hit him with.

He wasn’t sure if what he and Breezy had back then was love. How the hell would he know? He refused to believe whatever his parents had together could be considered
love. He knew Pete and his brothers loved him and Storm loved them, but the whole man-woman thing was still a mystery.

Sex he knew. Lust, desire—he had those down cold by the time he was sixteen. But with Breezy, everything had been different. Sure he wanted her—he always had and suspected he always would, but it had always been more than just the need to get into her pants.

Maybe the intensity of the attraction stemmed from Breezy’s having been off-limits—and Storm had never seen a line in the sand he hadn’t wanted to step over. That was what made him such a damn good marine architect. Designing yachts involved working to a rule. He knew all about rules; he learned when designing to come up with the best solution for that rule. He had to learn the rules before he could break them, and designing taught him there were only a few rules that were truly unbreakable. The laws of physics, motion, and gravity—those were written in stone. But when it came to everything else—those rules were up for discussion. He thought outside the box, he defied the old ways, and he always looked for more—more money, more speed, more power in his boats, his life, himself. He pushed the limits until they broke.

Maybe he wanted Breezy so badly because he couldn’t or shouldn’t have her.

Unless Breezy had changed a whole lot more than her bra size, which he now knew was a 36-D, he wouldn’t have her any time soon. She had always been the most stubborn person he’d ever known.

He checked his watch; it was one thirty, which meant it was four thirty a.m.—tomorrow in Auckland. “Shit.” Too early to call Sandy. He supposed he could go through
his e-mail and create a pile of work for her when she got to the office. At least it might get his mind off Breezy, her red bra and matching panties on the top of the pile he’d moved, and the scent of her that filled the room and left him panting like a fucking virgin.

He had over a hundred e-mails—proof that no matter what happens, life goes on.

“Bree is gonna have a cow when she finds out you’re in her bedroom.”

Nicki had snuck up on him. He’d been thinking too much about Breezy’s unmentionables for his own good. “It’s not hers—it’s Logan and Slater’s room.”

“Yeah, but she’s stayin’ in it, and you’re invading her space.” Nicki’s face wore all the false indignation a ten-year-old could muster while wearing a peanut butter and milk mustache.

It made him smile—his first real smile since learning about Pete. “Are you going to run to the bar and tattle on me? No one likes a tattletale.”

“I don’t know.” She ground the heel of her sneaker into the carpet. “What’s it worth to ya?”

“Not a whole hell of a lot. The first rule of bribery is to make sure you’re holding something big over the other person’s head. And in this case, you’re not. You tipped your hand, and now I know I’m holding all the cards. That’s a bad mistake on your part. I doubt very much that a straight arrow like Bree would appreciate your trying to shake me down.”

“Tipped my what?” Nicki’s forehead wrinkled.

“Your hand.” He swiveled the chair around so they were eye to eye. “You see, life is like a poker game. You have to be pretty sure that whatever cards I’m holding—in this case it’s my working in the room Bree’s temporarily
occupying—are worth less than the cards you’re holding, which is the knowledge that Bree’s not going to be happy about that. But what you didn’t consider was the ace up my sleeve—which is that I couldn’t care less if Bree is pissed about my working here.”