No Perfect Princess (23 page)

“Great idea,” I returned. “
Perfect
idea, actually.”

“You’re making no sense.”

“Another good point.” I swept my gaze away long enough to take in all the nouveau-industrial décor—then dismiss it in one grunt. “Not a lot of ‘sense’ going on in here at all.”

She cocked her head. “Which means…?”

“You need to get the hell out of here. So
that’s
what’s going to happen.”

She stiffened. “Ummm, negative. It’s a damn freak show down there, with the holiday crowds and the guys from the base. Besides, I thought you weren’t interested in…” Her voice trailed as her stare narrowed, hooking into the steady intent of mine. “Shit. You
don’t
mean dinner.”

I curled my grin wider. And yeah, it probably made me a bit of a pig, but watching her fidget in expectation of my next words…instant wood sprung again between my thighs. Sometimes one had to leash a tigress for her own good. Didn’t mean it had to
all
be work.

“You have ten minutes, Miss Asher,” I charged. “Pack a bag. You’ll need to bring shit for five days.
Casual
shit—got it? That means denim. And cotton. And a warm jacket. And
comfortable
shoes.”

She glowered. “Heels are comfortable.”

I lifted a brow at my watch. “Nine minutes, thirty seconds.”

“Michael, I’m not just packing a bag and leaving with you.”

“Good enough.” I folded my arms. “That means you’re ready to tell me,
right now
, why you’re as skittish as a virgin in an HBO script.”

She grimaced. “I don’t know whether to applaud you or smack you for that.”

“Go for either, but you’ll be eating deeper into your allowance. Which, by the way, is down to eight minutes, forty-five seconds.”

Her glare weakened. The convict-in-conflict thing rushed over her face again, though this time, her eyes were brighter, almost hopeful, before diving under their shadows again. “No,” she asserted. “
No
. Come on. I can’t.”

I gave my eyebrow another workout. “Or won’t?”

“
Can’t.
How the hell do I explain this? Claire’s still not settled in after the honeymoon. She also has a bad case of the flu and—”

“Don’t worry about Claire.” I backed that up by pulling out my phone and flipping to my friend’s number. “I’d be stressing more about the seven minutes you now have left to pack a full bag and change your clothes. Or not. Your choice, as well. I
do
like those shorts…”

“Or what?” She persisted with a defiant stance, bunching fists to her waist, but now it felt like watching a poodle taunt a Great Dane. Everyone in the room could smile about it, knowing exactly which dog would end up on top in the end. “You going to just throw me over your shoulder and—ahhhh!”

I opened a smile into the luscious curve of her ass—now taking up most of the view on my right side. “Thanks for the suggestion,” I drawled. “One of your best ideas, sugar. Really.”

She groaned but ended it in a giggle as she took advantage of my distraction to snatch my phone from my hand. “You get this back when you put me down.
And
add ten minutes back to the timer.”

I reached up and landed a firm spank on her cheeks. When she squealed, I chuckled. “You really want to play the negotiation game with a lawyer, Miss Asher?”

“And are you really tossing
that
one out for a slice-and-dice under my Louboutins, Mr. Pearson?”

“For the next five days, your Louboutins will be useless.”

“And your law degree will be any different?”

At the top of the stairs, I followed the hall to the end, where a king-sized production of a bed was centered in a room evoking the rest of the condo’s minimalist chic. The whole place was clearly some overpaid designer’s idea of what “Margaux Asher” stood for.

Idiot.

Everything in here would be so much different if he saw the woman I set down on the mattress, hair tumbling into her face, mouth parted in impish delight, eyes shining with joy. The sight of her…consumed me. Overjoyed me. Already made me feel like a goddamn firework.

I wanted to tell her just that. Managed to stop myself by kissing her, instead—this time, turning the union of our lips into a thorough, passionate exploration. She moaned to me in welcome, meeting every sweep of my tongue with her own, but pulled back when I tried to press in even deeper.

“I’d—I’d—better get packing. Tick-tock, right?”

I snorted. “Touché, Miss A.”

“What? You don’t want to look at me in this for the next five days, do you?”

I groaned while rising up, now standing in front of her—and battling back all the urges to join her again, tangling her six hundred thread count sheets. “You want the real answer to that?”

She pushed at my stomach with a finger. “Get lost. Knowing you, I only have thirty seconds left.”

With phone back in hand, I jogged downstairs and out to the terrace again. The smile hadn’t left my face. The sky was on fire now, a blaze of red, purple, and orange left behind by the sun—though even the colors consuming the sky paled against the detonations now defining my spirit.

Want some tongs for that fucking corn, man
?

I snorted. If that was the best my ego could come up with, I was sticking to the early fireworks show in my chest. Made it easier to concentrate on the business at hand, anyway. Two calls, fast and fun, if a little loud. Claire shrieked with joy when I told her she’d have to make do without her wing woman for a few days. Mom did the same when I told her I was returning home for another visit, starting tonight—with a special guest in tow.

*

Mom’s excitement only
grew during the wait, a little over an hour long. She texted three times to ask what part of the journey we’d hit, something she’d never do if I was driving up alone but taking shameless advantage of Margaux’s presence to be—well—Mom.

Not that the sixty-eight minutes weren’t interesting otherwise. On one hand, I was just as exhilarated as Mom, though everything was tempered by a sense of the surreal. I’d driven every curve, dip, and switchback of this mountain a hundred times in my life, but it was a trip into brand-new when accompanied by Margaux’s commentary. Her touristy squee when we passed the Safari Park. Her bigger yelp when the headlights caught a family of squirrels, dashing out of the way just in time. Her fascinated gasps at the blanket of stars above, becoming astonished cries as we climbed to higher elevations.

She captivated me in equal measure. I had no damn doubt it would’ve been more, if the road didn’t demand my attention. Her delight, authentic and unguarded and untamed, flung open yet another window I never imagined her having, let alone letting me look into. A year ago, had anyone told me I’d have a finger hooked into the belt loop on Margaux Asher’s jeans as she hung out the window of my truck counting stars, I would’ve asked what crack they were smoking. Now, I grinned like a fool at the breathtaking creature next to me, wondering how her light had been purposely snuffed for so many years.

“Michael!”

“What?”

“There’s millions of them!”

We’d reached the straight stretch before home. I took advantage of that to grab a longer stare at her. “From where I’m sitting, sugar, there’s only one.”

Screw the tongs. You’ve popped the fucking corn off the cob. How about some butter with that
?

Sanity came with a sobering thought. It wouldn’t last. No way. Undoubtedly she was on a little natural high after my ballsy Luke Skywalker move, crashing into her “cell” and freeing her from her invisible Darth Vader. Besides, it was after dark, providing an added rush of romantic adrenalin for our secret adventure.

But that was psycho-babble for tomorrow morning. Right now, I greedily sucked up the little look she flashed, lips jutted in a silent
I’m impressed
, as we turned in at the farm. I gave in to a little pride as she eagerly took in everything, deliberately driving more slowly to stretch the moment. If showing her my place in town was like showing off the winning science project, this was nabbing the fucking prom king crown.

All too soon, I had to pull up to the house. As soon as I braked next to the kitchen door, the screen door was punched open hard enough to slam the side of the house. Mom appeared in the portal, no less a force of nature, an effect aided by the bright lights from behind. I chuckled as she forced herself to remain there while I circled around to help Margaux down from the car. As soon as Margaux was safe on the ground, I chuckled and gestured to Mom.

“Okay, come on. Hit me with all you got, mama bear.”

Mom didn’t need a second invitation. With Margaux watching, she damn near took a flying leap at me—in short, the usual—before mushing me with a cheek kiss then rubbing my jaw scruff. “Well, hello there.”

“Hi. Whoa, you look nice. Why the makeup?”

“City council photos.”

I chuckled. “That time again already?”

“It’s a dirty job but someone’s got to do it. Besides, I
am
the one with the hotshot son now.” She ruffled my hair. “My beautiful baby bear.”

Margaux giggled. I growled. “Mom…
sheez
.”

“Shut up. I’m due. This is the carrot God dangled while I wiped your ass for two years.”

“You’ve washed up since then, yeah?” I glanced toward Margaux. “I am so,
so
sorry about—”

I wasn’t sure what snatched the rest of the words from me. The wistful smile on her face…or the pooling tears in her eyes.

Instant promise to the Guy Upstairs.
I will never “apologize” for my mother’s affection again.

To ensure I remembered it thoroughly, the woman herself stepped forward to salvage the moment, extending a hand like Margaux’s tears were no more than the interference of summer bugs. “Welcome to Pearson’s,” she greeted. “I’m Diana Pearson, but nobody calls me that. Just go for Di and we’ll be good.”

Margaux dipped her head. I almost wondered if she was going to bow next. “Okay then, Di. Nice to meet you. I’m—”

“Oh, I know who you are.” Mom dashed off a little wink. “And it is very nice to meet you too, Margaux Asher. You’re every bit as lovely as I expected.”

Enough light spilled out from the house to pick up the flush in Margaux’s cheeks.
Whap.
Another window to the woman flew open—a huge, fascinating one. I’d seen her flummoxed, furious, flirty, and haughty as all hell, but never—what was this, anyway? Bashful? Embarrassed? Cautious?

“Well,” she laughed out, “I guess you keep an eye on the gossip magazines.”

“I keep an eye on my
son
.” Mom’s warmth eclipsed the words of anything except love and pride. “Including how he talks about the important people in his life.”

That
didn’t go unnoticed. With gaze flicking to me, Margaux quipped, “And…I’m important?”

“Do bees crap honey?” The two of them shared a giggle, which Mom interpreted as permission to link arms like they’d been girlfriends for years. I watched in shock as Margaux squeezed back.

This wasn’t good. At all. “It’s getting chilly,” I interceded. “Let me get Margaux’s bags and we can all go—”

“Great idea, honey. We’ll see you inside.” As Mom pulled Margaux toward the door, she went on, “So I already know some of the important stuff. You like chocolate, French movies, girl pop, and my son’s humor. I’m sure there are a few things still missing from that list…”

I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry as I paced around to retrieve the two suitcases, garment bag and makeup satchel from the truck. After lugging them up the back stairs and parking them in the “girlier” of the two guest bedrooms—still wondering what the hell she could’ve been capable of with ten minutes to pack—I followed the sound of more giggling down to the den.

Two hours ago, I’d seriously wondered if zombies were going to materialize from the walls of Margaux’s place. Now, I realized fate was holding back on the true horror scene of the night.

“I think he was about five or six in these.” Mom swiped the screen of the electronic photo album I’d given her for Mother’s Day. “God, he loved that little cape I made for him.”

Heat claimed my face. I scrubbed at my jaw, glad I hadn’t shaved. Thick scruff made for good ground cover in a pinch.

And gave me an excuse to pause, still unnoticed, to watch a soft smile breach Margaux’s lips. “Captain America,” she murmured, “even back then.”

Mom popped her head up. “His favorite. How’d you know?”

“We’re talking Michael, right? How could anyone
not
know?”

“Many don’t.” Mom tried to be light and fluffy about it—but the woman clearly didn’t know who she was dealing with. Margaux “I-See-Through-People-Like-Cellophane” Asher.

Sure enough, Margaux forgot about the picture, swinging up her stare, intent on drilling through Mom’s pretense. “I don’t follow. Your son’s pretty amazing, you know. No secret behind that.”

Mom’s face dipped into the same conflict punching my chest.

Oh, princess…if you only knew.

But she couldn’t know. And wouldn’t. I’d all but absconded her ass all the way up here because of the escape I wanted it to be for her, not the complication. Cleaning out her mind was the goal, not clogging it more with bullshit from
my
past—and the demon from it who thought he could terrorize his way into our future.