Not Another New Year’s (13 page)

“We’re going to leave now, sweetheart. We’re going to go to my place.”

Somehow he managed to scoop up her dress and get her zipped back into it, even as she found places on him to kiss. His chin. The side of his neck. His shoulder, which he felt even through the thick sweater.

Then he buckled her into her seat, thankful for the wide space between them because he was hard and hurting and so damn horny that he might just pull over and pull her over on top of him.

It took him too long to get to his place. Oh, God, really too long.

“Hell!” he said, slamming the side of his fist on the steering wheel as he came to a stop in the middle of the street in front of his house. He glanced over at Hannah. “One of my brothers is crashing here. That’s Terry’s truck in my driveway, which means his girlfriend has been throwing house hold goods at him again.”

She bit her swollen bottom lip, all big eyes. “I…I don’t know about bringing you to Desirée’s suite. She’s been so generous, but…”

“I’m with you there. That hotel is not an option.” A dozen possibilities rushed through his yet unsatisfied brain—from finding a motel room to flipping her into the Mercedes back seat—but none of them sounded right.

None right enough for Hannah’s first time in four years. For their first time together.

With a sigh, he turned the car around and headed toward the Del.

“Where are we going?”

“I’m leaving you off at your hotel,” he said.

“Tanner…” There was uncertainty in her voice and he hated hearing it.

He grabbed her hand and pulled it to his crotch, fixing her palm over his rock-hard erection. “Don’t you dare think I don’t want you.”

Her palm moved in a soft caress. “But then—”

He pressed his ass into the leather instead of thrusting into that sweet touch. He was a saint. A saint!

“I have my New Year’s Eve memory to sustain me, sweetheart,” he lied. “Until a time when we can be together alone.”

Hadn’t he said it from the beginning? The world just wasn’t freakin’ fair.

H
annah shared a late breakfast set up by room service on the balcony of Desirée’s suite. Even a woman from California’s farmlands was awed by the bounty: creamsicle-colored pieces of succulent cantaloupe, chunks of watermelon as juicy as a kiss, strawberries as red as a woman’s love-swollen mouth.

Her mouth.

The fruit looked like Hannah felt: succulent, juicy, swollen by a man’s kiss, a man’s touch.

“I guess we both needed our sleep, huh?” Desirée asked, lifting her cup of coffee to her mouth.

“I guess.” Though the truth was, Hannah had woken at her normal time—early—between the warm sheets, her toes seeking cool corners, her hands grabbing the headboard so she could stretch out the body that had come alive the night before.

After four years she was awake.

So she couldn’t be ashamed of what she’d experienced with Tanner in his car the night before. Shame was the way she’d felt for months in her hometown, as the whispers and the pitying looks followed her from school, to grocery store, to gym. To her own mirror.

What had she done wrong? How had she not been enough?

And then later, as she was forced to reexamine her life: How could she have allowed herself to follow choices everyone else made for her? She’d bowed to the pressure of her loving family, going along with decisions that made them feel happy and safe.

With decisions they thought made
her
safe.

But just as she couldn’t be angry with Duncan, she couldn’t be angry with them.

“So your date was successful?” Desirée asked.

Hannah stuck to the party line, though she was a lousy actress. “I told you it wasn’t a real date.”

Desirée smiled, the kind of smile that women who hadn’t sat around for years waiting for a fiancé could smile. “It was a real red dress.”

“I had fun.” There was an understatement. She’d been slayed with plea sure, bowled over by sticky, yummy desire and then extravagant release. Hungover with the memories, she’d spent hours since awakening reliving every one.

“Tanner’s a nice guy.” Desirée speared a section of pink, peeled grapefruit.

Hannah’s gaze fixed on the plump, glistening slice. It looked wet and wicked, luscious and ripe. A shiver rippled over her skin. Was everything going
to remind her of sex for the rest of her life? “Tanner’s a very nice guy.”

That was the bittersweet aftertaste to the delicious evening. While she’d been thrilled to prove to herself she wasn’t a dried-up prune of an old maid schoolteacher, her schoolteacher sensibilities had still scolded her. She taught the students in her class to treat others as they would like to be treated.

She’d treated Tanner with nothing.

She owed him.

Desirée leaned across the table to fill Hannah’s cup from the carafe of piping hot coffee she’d ordered. Hannah owed her, too.

“I’m going to move out,” she said. “Tomorrow at the latest.”

Desirée stilled, then carefully set the carafe back on the white tablecloth. She turned her head to look out at the incomparable view. Wide stretch of sand, blue-gray ocean, blue sky. The rain was definitely gone.

“Do you need to go?” the other woman asked, her face still turned toward the surf.

“I’ve imposed—”

“No.” Desirée looked at her now. “I’ve enjoyed the company. Do you have sisters?”

Hannah shook her head. Her sister had been gone a long time. “Two older brothers.”

“I don’t have anyone.” Desirée made a face. “That sounds pitiful.”

“No.”

“You’re kind.” Desirée gave a little shrug. “It’s just that this is nice. Eating breakfast together. Choosing clothes for a date. Talking things over.”

Hannah’s schoolteacher instincts were screaming
at her again. “What do you want to talk over, Dezi?”

The other woman’s gaze drifted off toward the surf again. “Maybe this is better than having a sister, now that I think about it. There could be competition with a same-sex sibling, right? You’d wonder which one was loved the most?”

You’d wonder if anyone ever loved you, for you.

Hannah jerked her mind away from the thought. “What do you want to talk over?”

“Last night I made money for the first time in my whole life.”

Hannah wondered what that would be like. Weird, she figured, looking around at the banquet of food on the table and the banquet for the senses that was the view from the balcony, just two of the things that were Desirée’s accustomed lot.

“It was the second best thing that ever happened to me,” the other woman whispered.

“And the first?”

Desirée ignored the question to ask another. “Should I back off or go forward?”

It was obvious there was more to the story. Hannah didn’t dig for it, though. How could she? Her ability to offer advice on such a subject was absolutely nil. She was twenty-seven years old and had only “gone forward” once in her life—with this trip to Coronado.

And even now she was already late if she thought to confront Caroline today in the park.

“Oh, never mind,” Desirée said. “Let’s forget all that. How about a spa day?”

“Spa day?”

“Mmm.” Desirée picked a strawberry from the
bowl and held it out by its green stem. With its plump size and ruby red perfection, it looked more like Eden’s apple. “You know. We’ll get massages. Have them slather something gooey and sweet-smelling all over our skin so it glows.”

Hannah figured she was already glowing. The look of the strawberry, the sound of the words—slathering, sweet, gooey—sent her mind reeling back to the night before. Tanner’s mouth, his touch, had burned away that cool blue starch from her veins, and all that was running inside of her now was hot and vital and alive.

“What’s Tanner doing today?”

She had to clear her throat. “He’s working with Troy in the bar all day, he said. Inventory?”

Desirée smiled, then dropped the luscious fruit to her plate in order to rub her palms together. “Then come with me, my pretty, and we’ll have the masseuse melt the very marrow in your bones.”

As long as they wouldn’t remove her spine, Hannah thought. If she gave in to Desirée and her yearning not to do anything today but dream about last night, she’d be needing it to face down Caroline tomorrow.

Things I Hate about New year’s:

Brother already reminiscing about his frat’s infamous “Burp or Barf” Super Bowl party.

D
esirée arrived for her shift at Hart’s smelling of lemongrass and tea tree oil. Unlike the night before, Troy strode toward her as she opened the door, as if he’d been anticipating her arrival.

Instead of feeling weird or annoyed or standoffish after the kiss as she’d feared he would, seeing him hurrying in her direction told her maybe, just maybe, she’d been wrong. Maybe he’d liked the lip-to-lip too. Maybe he liked
her.

She smiled as he came closer, trying to look as if she’d just thrown on the tight white T-shirt, teensy burnt-orange denim skirt, and a pair of wildly embroidered stilettos. The bar was already pumping, it was a special microbrewery night, and the scent of chili and fries wafted from the small kitchen. At the moment, the music was twangy and country and, as
usual, loud. Troy stopped in front of her and she rose on tiptoe to check out his ears. Yep. There were those telltale neon plugs.

Her grin made him frown. “What?”

“I can’t explain it exactly,” she said. “I guess you seem less Terminator and more human to me knowing you have a weakness such as disliking loud music.”

“I don’t have any weaknesses,” he refuted, crossing his arms over his chest.

Desirée rolled her eyes. “Oh, please—”

“And I also don’t have time to argue with you about it.” He shoved one hand in the front pocket of his jeans and withdrew a set of keys. “I need you to go pick something up at my house.”

“Oh?” Plea sure swirled inside of her. Not only might he like her, but he
trusted
her. You didn’t give just anybody access to your home.

He looked around the packed floor, gesturing toward Tanner behind the bar and the cocktail servers moving between the tables. “Yeah. Everyone else is too busy.”

The plea sure swirled right down the drain. “Right.” She wasn’t so much trustworthy as she was expendable. Grabbing the keys out of his hand, she matched her tone to his businesslike one. “What am I retrieving?”

“A clipboard with my order sheets. I can’t remember exactly where I left it, though. Maybe on the chest of drawers in the bedroom. Maybe on the table in the living room.”

Groovy. Permission to snoop. “I’ll find it.”

She spun on the sharp toes of her high heels, then
felt a long finger slide inside one of the back pockets of her skirt. It jerked her back. His knees bumped the back of her thighs and she could feel his solid chest against her shoulder blades.

“About last night…” he said, his voice low.

His breath brushed across her left ear and she could have sworn goose bumps raced inside, tickling the sensitive skin. Her heart expanded in a big whoosh, squeezing out the air in her lungs. “About last night?” Her voice sounded a tiny bit squeaky, but who could blame her? “About last night” made her think about last night. About Troy’s possessive arm around her. About the way his mouth had landed on hers, hard, and then the strong thrust of his tongue.

Hard and strong, that was the entire kiss. That was Troy himself.

He cleared his throat. “Listen, Desirée. I don’t want you to think…”

At his second hesitation, she glanced up and over her shoulder. His face was hard too, intently expressionless, if that made any sense.

It did to her. It was sending a message, and okay, she got it. This was more than hard and strong. This was Troy as the Terminator again, pure robot, and not a man who wanted her rehashing their kiss. It didn’t mean a thing to him.

Yeah, she got it. Loud and clear.

“Are you trying to say you don’t want me to think I’ll miss out on any tips while I’m gone?” She tossed her hair over her shoulder and hoped the ends slapped him right across his cold but handsome face. “Just remember to stuff what you owe me into my jar.”

“Oh, you’re going to get what I owe you all right.”

Now
that
sounded more promising. As she broke away from his finger hold and moved toward the door, she threw him another glance. Same expressionless expression. Geez. What did a woman have to do around here to feel the love?

“And Dez,” he growled—yes, growled, there was no other way to describe it. “Don’t take all day.”

She put a sassy swing in her walk and an Austrian accent in her voice. “I’ll be back.”

Her usual style of driving got her to his place in minutes. She noted he hadn’t bothered giving her the address or directions. Her stomach twisted. Had he caught her cruising his place before, driving by like a teenager crushing on a boy?

Troy lived in a small, beachy-looking bungalow, similar to the one that Tanner owned a few blocks away. Next door there was a yellow, top-heavy two-story resembling a dumb blonde with a double D-cup boob job. The house on the other side made Desirée pause. She hadn’t noticed it the times she’d driven this street, probably because she did her looky-looing in the wee dark hours of the night. Now Troy’s neighbor’s place was well-lit, from the lamp post at the sidewalk, to the front porch fixtures, to the mullioned windows.

That home was two stories as well, but looked as if it had started life out that way. It was painted a pale blue with white trim, with a tub of flowers on the brick porch and a flag flying from a brass pole, and the whole picture was so welcoming that she wanted to step inside the Dutch front door and take a place at their dining room table.

Mom and Dad would be seated there, she imagined, with the kids crowded around. There’d be roast for dinner—or roast chicken, heck, this place looked as if it was Thanksgiving every day, so maybe even roast turkey. Of course there’d be all the trimmings.

The important ones.

Laughter.

Love.

There wouldn’t be a corner left free for loneliness.

For the rest of your life you’d be able to count on the support and care of the ones who lived inside.

Smiling at her fancies, Desirée parked in front of the pretty place, then walked past to go up the walkway of Troy’s house. She quickly let herself inside.

Her first inhalation of Troy air was slow. She figured her customary disregard of the posted speed limits had bought her some extra time, even though she was under orders not to linger.

Troy’s house smelled…good.

She didn’t know what she’d expected. Sweat socks? Motor oil? Moldy beach towels?

It was like none of those. His house smelled like…like sage or rosemary or basil or something. She didn’t cook, so she couldn’t quite pinpoint which herb or herbs she was sniffing, but it was a clean, green scent.

The house was clean and green too. Pale celery-colored walls, a darker green trim, natural fiber carpet covering bare wood floors. Plain, Shaker-style furniture. Wow. Given the chance, she would have predicted shag carpeting and a Bow-Flex serving as both sculpture and clothes hanger.

Instead the living room was in those quiet colors,
and making it even more quiet, there was no tele vision or stereo in sight. The adjoining small dining area held a simple table. A framed scroll covered with Chinese characters hung on the wall.

A nearby switch plate allowed her to light up more of the house. It illuminated the overhead fixture in the dining room and pointed the way to the kitchen. Desirée made it there in seven steps, and again noticed how clean it looked and smelled. White tile sans pizza boxes and crushed beer cans.

Across the kitchen there was another doorway, leading out past the refrigerator to a short hallway. From there a quick left revealed a bathroom that appeared unused. To the right, an office with phone, computer, fax. In the free floor space stretched a black yoga mat. Hmm.

She kept going, and located a nice-size master bedroom suite.

Big bed.

Troy’s bed.

It was covered by a pristine comforter that was crisply spread like icing over a king-size petit four. Enlarged photographs were framed and hung in an interesting pattern on the wall. Most of them appeared to be of family—black-and-whites of kids living the surreal life—well, surreal to her eyes, since there was always an adult participating in the shot.

Mother leaning over to help blow out birthday candles.

Dad’s arm curled around a little boy’s waist as he sat on a pony.

The scattered results of a messy sled overturn,
with a passel of kids laughing as hard as the parents pictured in the shot.

Sur
real.

There were families who really had a life like that?

The darkened door of the attached bath beckoned.
Bad, Desirée, bad!
She didn’t listen to the half-scolding voice, though she did accommodate her guilty conscience by tiptoeing into the room, her feet clicking with subdued taps on the tiled floor.

Troy’s soapy spice-and-lime scent lingered in this room. Neatly hung on a rack was a towel, still damp, and she ran her fingertips over it, then drew them along her cheek. Inside the shower was a squat bottle of liquid soap. No shampoo.

Hah. Shaved heads didn’t need such a thing.

There was toilet paper in the holder. She was impressed. A roommate she’d had in college claimed that men
never
bothered replacing a used roll. “They just prop it on the spool, or maybe set it on the ledge of the bathtub, or on the tank behind the toilet. What—are they animals?”

Surprise, surprise, the Terminator was at least semitamed.

Without a qualm, she opened the medicine cabinet. Regular first aid stuff. Boring.

The cabinet under the sink had lots of shaving cream—made sense—and a big box of condoms.

Desirée stared at them. Where did he buy such a big box? Why did he need such a big box?

It was open.

Before she could stop herself, she’d yanked it out
and set it on the tile counter. At purchase, it held forty-four. It would be her secret until the day she died, but she counted how many remained.

Twice.

Six were missing. She began picturing humiliating moments for half a dozen faceless women. Stuff like wearing two different colored shoes, a skirt tucked into panty hose, a toilet paper streamer stuck to a heel. She was still trying to come up with three more scenarios when she heard a noise.

From the front of the house. Someone turning the doorknob.

Desirée froze. Had she locked it behind her? Who could it be?

Probably Troy, she thought, come to check up on her. As silent as a ghost, she placed the condoms back in the cabinet and shut the door. Now he wouldn’t know what she’d done.

But he’d known she’d come to his house, so why hadn’t he called out her name?

Prickles of warning shot up her spine. In a flash of alarm, she remembered the call she’d received from her father’s assistant, Ameer, just a week before.

The royal family had heard a rumor implying that the assassination attempt on her father hadn’t been the act of one random crazy, disgruntled at some imagined maltreatment. The gunman killed by the Secret Ser vice almost a year ago had perhaps been part of an organized group, one with the possible intent of revenge that went beyond the prince. If she had any security concerns, Ameer had said, she should contact the local authorities.

Imply. Perhaps. Possible.

Desirée had dismissed the idea altogether. Her father and the rest of the royal family never bothered to pay attention to her. Why would anyone else?

But now…now…

The front door squealed as it opened wider. Two sets of footsteps marched in. They weren’t stealthy steps, so maybe she shouldn’t be afraid.

Or maybe the intruders weren’t afraid of
her
—a lone woman without anyone to give a hoot what happened to her.

Still, she couldn’t stay trapped in the bathroom like flaked tuna in a can. Hoping no one could detect the knocking sound of her heart in her chest, she bent to slip off her shoes. Carrying them in one hand—the ice-pick heels might come in handy as a weapon—she slinked out of the bathroom and into Troy’s bedroom.

Wouldn’t you know, he didn’t have a phone beside his bed like a normal person.

Okay, her cell phone. Where was her cell phone?

In her purse, which she’d left in her car because this was just a quick errand that she’d made longer due to snoopiness.

She drew closer to the bedroom door, straining to hear what was going on at the front of the house. The intruders were talking to each other. They weren’t trying to quiet their voices. They were a man and a woman, and they were talking about…

The merits of tricycles over bicycles with training wheels?

Desirée’s heart settled into a more normal rhythm. She almost thought it was safe to breathe. Unwilling to completely abandon her wariness, however, she
crept down the hallway, pressing close to the wall so her shoulder brushed more framed photos.

Just a couple more feet and—

A man’s meaty hand appeared through the kitchen doorway to grab her arm.

She shrieked, jerking away to smack against one of the frames. It fell to the floor, the glass shattering.

“Hank!” A woman gasped from around the corner. “What is it?”

The big hand on her let go, and she knocked against the wall again, this time her sleeve catching on the protruding picture hanger. When she straightened, the sleeve pulled, ripping at the seam.

Desirée looked at the long tear, then looked up, her gaze catching the surprised ones of two strangers.

Strangers, except she had a stomach-shrinking idea she knew exactly who they were.

Sometimes she hated being right. The man and woman who had slipped into Troy’s house were none other than his mother and father. They apologized for frightening her when she produced his keys and explained that, as one of Troy’s employees, she had been sent to his house on an errand.

“I’m Ann, and this is Hank, Troy’s father,” the pretty, fifty-something woman said. Her hair was a wavy mix of gray and blond and her tan told of year-round outdoor activities. Golf, Desirée guessed, or maybe tennis.

“I hope I didn’t hurt you,” Hank said, shaking his head. He was a big, burly man with a silver brush cut and a commanding voice. “I never expected to find a woman at Troy’s.”

“Oh?” So then where had he used those six condoms, pray tell?