On the Ropes (4 page)

“Well, just between you and me, Meg wasn’t so happy about what we did. She thinks we overstepped, but I wouldn’t change anything. If I had it to do again, I would have punched harder.”

“I would have never guessed you were the aggressive type. Boxer or not.”

He chuckled. “I’m really not, sweetheart. I’ve got triggers just like everyone else. I keep the angst well and truly suppressed most of the time.”

If he had been more aggressive as a child, he wouldn’t have been such a primo target for bullies. On top of being a fidgety kid, he’d been one with a speech impediment. He’d grown out of it by first grade, but apparently, some kids had long memories. That made K through twelve private school a special kind of hell because he couldn’t get away from the taunting motherfuckers.

“Stephen?”

“Hmm?”

“Were your partners annoyed at you taking an entire week off from the firm?”

“That’s out of the blue.”

“Not really. I’m just wondering how it works with careers like yours. If I go, there are people who could fill in in a pinch. I’m replaceable. I imagine you’re not.”

His ass, she was replaceable. Maybe he wasn’t innately violent, but he had a sudden compulsion to break the face of anyone who’d made her feel that way. Sighing, he scraped his hair out of his eyes. “I don’t know if
annoyed
would be the right word. I don’t use half of my allotted vacation time over the course of a year, so it’s expected I would be away from the office some. They do behave as though it…inconveniences them. I try to avoid that.”

So much so that he’d brought along some of a senior partner’s merger documents to revise. “No hurry,” the motherfucker had said. “Just by Monday.”

Partner or not, Stephen didn’t feel he was in a position to say no.

“But, you visited Bermuda four times this year, not counting Megan’s wedding.”

“Four-day weekends.”

He looked over just in time to see her forehead furrow.

“You mean to tell me you haven’t taken any other time off?”

“Have
you
taken time off before now?”

“Well, that’s hardly the same thing. I may deal with the occasional difficult guest, but my job isn’t exactly stressful.”

“But you’ve got hobbies you want to pursue in your downtime, don’t you? People you’d like to visit?”

Yet again, she withdrew. Whether or not turning her back to him so she faced the side window was meant to be an intentional clue to back off, he took it.

The lawyer part of him wanted to rephrase and needle her relentlessly until she answered. It wanted the satisfaction of knowledge that he could use to undo her later—to plan his next attack. But the part of him that was still a little boy who kept his mouth shut more often than not and just
listened
because he might get teased for speaking was good at reading moods. That part of him said,
leave it alone for now
.

He was fine with that, but he still needed her to talk. He had no intentions of making love to a stranger. By the time sex happened, he wanted her to believe she wasn’t just a conquest. He knew better than anyone that actions spoke louder than words.

Redirect.

“I’ve been holding this in all night,” he said, “but I’ve got to say it. Your accent perplexes me.”

She didn’t turn back to him, but he heard the quiet giggle at the window.

Shit, he’d never heard her giggle. He would have patted himself on the back if he weren’t trying to stay four car lengths in front of the hurtling eighteen-wheeler behind him.

“You’ve got a good ear,” she said. “There isn’t much difference between an American accent and a Bermudian one. After all, we’re far closer to the United States than Britain. Most people have to listen very carefully to hear the differences.”

“Some of my best friends are foreigners, so I’m probably more attuned to subtle inflections than others.”

“What does my accent sound like to you?”

“It shifts.” Grinding his teeth, he slowed the SUV to a crawl and moved as far right in the lane as he could. If that truck didn’t get off his ass…

“How so?”

The truck stayed where it was, matching Stephen’s speed and riding his goddamned tail. He hated that about this part of the drive. They couldn’t pass, and he couldn’t pull over.

Swearing under his breath, he brought the SUV back to just over the speed limit. “What I’ve noticed is that at start of a phone conversation or when we first interact in person, your accent is pretty much Bermudian. The longer we talk, the more it shifts. Your pronunciation and word emphasis will match mine.”

“Hmm. Perhaps that’s simply the result of working in a resort that serves international guests, most of whom are American.”

“Bullshit. Know why?”

“Ouch. Tell me.”

“Because there are certain words you’ve never heard me pronounce—city names and whatnot. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were a Yankee, yourself.”

She didn’t respond. Her hands fisted the fabric of her skirt and wrung it.

Fuck. How many of these conversational landmines was he going to detonate in an hour?

This time, he wouldn’t even try to change the subject. He just drove and concentrated on the asshole riding his bumper.

She didn’t say another word for nearly half an hour—not until he had all four wheels onto Wright Memorial Bridge. Less than ten minutes from the house.

“I was born in Philadelphia and lived in Baltimore until I was four,” she said. “I’m an American citizen. Well, dually with Bermuda. I haven’t been back since I was a kid.”

He nearly swerved into the guardrail in looking at her, but quickly corrected. Again, he wanted to needle—to ask so many questions—but he kept them at bay. He was getting a better idea of where those landmines were. There was a reason she hadn’t come back, and all those
no’s
of the past year came into perspective.

Something had happened that she didn’t trust him to talk about. He wasn’t the coach in her corner. Not yet.

By the time he settled on a benign-enough follow-up, they were at the end of the bridge and officially on the Outer Banks. “Big baseball cities,” he said.

“I know. I like the Orioles most years, but I do feel conflicted about whom to root for whenever they play the Phillies.”

“So you
do
have a hobby. You like sports.”

“I can usually muster up at least some enthusiasm for most spectator sports, but baseball has that extra element of suspense from the base stealing.”

“Ever been to a live game?”

“No.” Her voice had become somewhat wistful. “But, I’d like to someday.”

He filed that information away for later. He very rarely had time to attend sporting events, himself, save for the rare boxing bout. He didn’t box competitively anymore, but he did follow the sport and get in a workout at least weekly. It was one of the few ways he could truly let go of the stress he brought home from work. Some days, he felt like becoming partner was the worst mistake he’d ever made. He didn’t need the money. Not
really
. He had a substantial trust fund he hadn’t touched, real estate investments, and a number of other liquid assets. He could sit on his ass and enjoy life if he wanted, but…he couldn’t. Even if he
could
sit still, he just couldn’t. Scotts were used to working.

His life as it was sucked a big one, though. That aphorism “all work and no play…” always rendered him hysterical because people
really
didn’t know what it meant the way he did. That shit needed changing because it was a miserable way to live.

He pulled into The Sandbar Grille’s small lot and cut the engine. “This all right?” he asked as Jan released her seatbelt from the buckle. “It looks a bit dodgy and run-down, but I swear, they’ve got an unbelievable steamer platter, and the cook is a bit of a kook. He used to be a lawyer and decided that he’d prefer to work a deep fryer.”

She did that giggle again and clapped her hand over her mouth.

He leaned across the center console and gently pried it off. “Don’t hide your smile from me.”

She blinked a few times. The smile ebbed somewhat—of course it did, now that he was staring at her—but she nodded.

Now he had another thing to ponder. He had to figure out what her landmines were so he could dance around them, and also find all the things that made her smile. That sweet curve of her lips aroused him more than any hint of cleavage or dirty talk ever had.

“This is fine,” she said softly. “I’m actually in my element in establishments that don’t take themselves too seriously.”

Stephen released his seatbelt. “Sweetheart, this place
definitely
doesn’t do that.” Good thing, too. The last thing Jan needed was a reason to be uptight.

Janette wondered if Stephen had been understating just how much character The Sandbar Grille actually had. Sure, it seemed none of the chairs matched and the polyurethaned tables were a bit beat up, but the place still managed to have a well-tended air about it. The ocean blue paint on the wainscoting was unmarred, and almost every inch of the retro anchor and ship’s wheel wallpaper above it bore a framed art print or photo of a seaside attraction. It wasn’t just kitsch. It was
give-a-damn
. She liked it.

She must have lingered overlong by the door, because Stephen held out his arm and gestured toward the rear of the restaurant.

“We can seat ourselves. The hostess only works at peak hours.”

“Oh.” She pushed up onto her tiptoes and scanned the crowded room. There were a couple of empty tables in the middle that would require them to squeeze in tight with their neighbors, one unoccupied booth on the side, and a few unclaimed barstools in a row.

He’d been so good so far, backing off of uncomfortable topics instead of pushing her for responses she wasn’t ready to give. She harbored no hope that trend would continue much longer. After all, she was his guest and he might consider her unwillingness to converse rude. They had a week ahead of them during which he would almost certainly probe her about the subjects she’d been avoiding, but tonight, she wanted to do as little evasion as she could manage.

She pointed to the bar stools. They could keep things light and impersonal there. “Is that fine with you or would you prefer a chair with a back?”

“Not at all. Stools are fine. We’ll actually get faster service there.” He inclined his head toward the bar in an
after you
fashion and shoved his hands into his pockets.

Odd.

She would have thought he’d be taking any opportunity to touch her, even if it was just a hand at her back to guide her along.

She started moving through the room and tried to remember if he’d ever been so casual with his touch. He was flirtatious and solicitous, but he’d always kept his hands to himself for the most part.

A waitress slipped them a couple of menus as they settled in at the bar. “Be right back,” she said cheerily and left them two tall glasses of water.

Janette took a long sip of hers and couldn’t suppress her ensuing chuckle.

“What?” Stephen asked. He pulled the lemon wedge off his glass and plopped it onto a napkin.

“Kind of reminds me of the water in Bermuda. It doesn’t matter how much they filter it. There’s still that seawater flavor.”

“I’m surprised you still notice it.”

“I have a water cooler in my apartment and take bottles to work.”

He sipped his and made a grunt of acknowledgment. “Yep. There it is. Of course, I notice the difference because Boston water has its own unique qualities. It always takes me a few days at the beach to adjust. We’ll have to remember to pick up some bottles for you tomorrow.”

“I’ll be fine. I’ll drink whatever comes out of the tap.”

One of his reddish eyebrows crept up. “You sure?”

“I’m hardly a snob. It’s just a preference.”

His eyebrows swapped positions, and at the sight of the smirk that came with them, she flicked her napkin at him.

“Ass. You’re trying to get a rise out of me.”

“You’re absolutely right, sweetheart. I think you’ll agree that’s much better than me being the one with the
rising
problem. I tend to take those personally.”

She groaned. There went that innuendo. Would she ever stop blushing at it? “God, Stephen.”

“That’s what they all say.” Chuckling, he pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes and rubbed. He looked so tired. It was a wonder he hadn’t passed out on the road.

“Hope you don’t mind if I make this an early night,” he said.

An early night? That meant no questions until morning. She’d have eight hours or more to quell the anxiety that’d been riding her for the past couple of weeks and compartmentalize the facts she was willing to share from those she wasn’t. She slumped with relief and straightened up as he finished rubbing.

She nodded when he looked at her. “Perfectly fine. I’ve been up far too many hours, myself.”

“I’ll be more fun tomorrow.” He winked. “Promise.”

Dear Lord, she was long past ready to see what his idea of fun was. Somehow, she knew it wasn’t missionary with the lights on.

They put in their orders when the waitress returned, and when she walked away again, Janette caught a brief glimpse of Stephen’s face in the bar mirror before he turned to the television.

No, not tired. He seemed to be inflicted with something more than just sleep deprivation. He looked tired to his core—as if a lack of rest was only one of many aggregating issues. Exhaustion. Evidently, he wasn’t taking care of himself, and surprisingly, Janette was bothered by the fact that he wasn’t.

At the sound of an unceasing buzz, he leaned a bit to the side and pulled his cell phone out of his back pocket. The full grin that had been absent for a couple of hours returned as he greeted his sister, and oddly, one of the many knots in Janette’s gut unfurled.

He used that same grin on
her
. All this time, she’d been thinking it was just one of the tools in a playboy’s arsenal.

Huh
.

“Nope. Haven’t been to the house yet,” he said into the phone, and switched it to the other ear so he could reach for the hushpuppy basket the zippy waitress had dropped off. “Got a message from the housekeeping company this afternoon, so I know the place is at least still standing and supposedly clean.”