Secrets to Hide 2: Naughty Little Christmas (9 page)

“So Damien has no clue about the baby?”

“No.”
Definitely no
. “Why?”

Hank brushed a strand of her hair behind her ear. “It’s obvious he wants you, Harley. His perpetually bad mood—which is limited to your vicinity, by the way—has ‘horny’ written all over it. Do you want him too? Is that why…” He cleared his throat, leaving the rest of the sentence unsaid. “You deserve something good in your life, if not from me, then from someone else. But I know you know that sleeping with the boss is not a good idea, especially with so much at stake.” He nodded toward the phone, the picture of Klio still gracing its shiny screen.

He was right. She knew he was right, and still she couldn’t make herself deny it. She’d loved Hank as much as she’d ever been able to love a man, but Hank had never tempted her beyond what she could control. Damien? Damien could tempt a saint to lose control, and Harley was no saint. Logic told her Hank was right, told her to stay far away, that she’d waited this long, why not wait a little longer for someone safe. But logic didn’t matter when Damien walked into the room. He seared all logic into ash. In his presence all she knew was need. Even if she never acted on it, she wouldn’t shortchange herself or another man by denying it.

And really, she wasn’t a sixteen-year-old with no idea how the world worked. She was an adult. She knew the score. If Damien gave her the choice, she understood herself well enough to know she’d probably take him up on it. She might regret it in the morning, but she would say yes anyway.

So she held her tongue. When the silence lengthened, Hank shook his head and pulled her in for a hard, quick kiss. “You are so stubborn sometimes.”

He should know that better than anyone. “I’m sorry. I—”

“Forget it, Little Miss.” He stared into her eyes for a long moment. “Just remember one thing: if he turns out to be a bastard, you know where to find me.”

She did. And her heart ached a bit at the knowledge that it wasn’t him she wanted.

“Now”—Hank plopped her into her seat and faced forward, reaching for his seat belt—“I believe somebody gave you a curfew, didn’t they? And it’s not nearly close to time. What do you say we head over to a little shop I know and find something extra special for Klio’s first Christmas?”

“Could we?” She’d barely had time to shop with work and then the trip here. Excitement bubbled in her chest.

“Of course we can.” With a last, longing look that squeezed Harley’s heart, Hank cranked the car. “Let’s go.”

* * * *

The pounding in his temples provided a bass track for the stop and start of LA traffic on Friday afternoon. Damien wanted nothing more than some Tylenol and quiet, or maybe a drink—or two—to soothe his headache. But as he maneuvered the car into the right lane to turn into Once, he spotted the couple standing out front and thought it might take something much, much stronger to ease the vise clenched tight around his head.

Hank and Harley stood, their bodies almost touching, Hank’s hand cupping her jaw. The man stared down at her, eyes burning with naked hunger. That look seared Damien’s retinas, taunting him with the knowledge and intimacy he’d denied himself with Harley. Then Hank leaned down, his mouth brushing across those full, pink lips Damien craved. Fingers clenching on the steering wheel, he forced his gaze back to the street, to the turn he needed to make, but a last stolen glance showed the couple still locked in an embrace as he lost sight of them.

He slammed the car to a stop in his reserved parking space out back. The roaring in his ears drowned out the world, tunneling his vision until all he could see was the image of Hank’s hands and mouth on the woman Damien wanted. The woman he’d vowed not to have. Jealousy gnawed like rats at his stomach, churning and tearing until the only way to stop it was to hammer out his frustration on the steering wheel. All that left him with was an aching fist. Damn it, this had to stop. He’d spent all week watching and wanting Harley so desperately he couldn’t fall sleep at night without jerking off to fantasies about her. The need ached in his muscles like a bad case of the flu, not to mention it was embarrassing as hell; he’d worn a lot of untucked shirts this week. What he wouldn’t give to go back to the days when he was sane and in control, when the world made sense: work, fuck, eat, sleep. Nothing was that simple anymore. Nothing.

He forced himself to breathe, to choke back the swell of emotion and lock away the image of Harley, her lips on Hank’s, her body melting into the other man’s instead of Damien’s. Work called. His salvation, the only cross he wanted to bear. He wouldn’t jeopardize everything he’d accomplished for any woman, no matter how she made him burn.

The rest of the afternoon he spent buried in business and as far away from Harley as he could possibly get. Yet as it grew later and the club began to fill, the rock in his stomach only felt more solid. And bigger. Damien knew, with just the right pressure, that rock was sure to explode.

It was close to nine o’clock when he commandeered a seat at the end of the bar. “A Jack and Coke,” he told Henry, leaning forward to rest his elbows wearily on the bar edge. He glanced around, knowing whom he was searching for but unable to admit it, even to himself.

“Damien, there you are!”

Sasha Ashworth’s voice flowed through the air like honey and silk. From one of the dynasty families who had made their riches off LA’s abundant natural resources—and the tourists who paid handsomely to enjoy them—Sasha regularly visited Once, though less for the atmosphere and more because she enjoyed slumming, he suspected. Blonde and chic, she sashayed through the tables to his side, the possessive cast of her face scouring steel wool over his nerves. Which he didn’t get, because though a bit uppity, Sasha had become a friend in the last few years, a friend who didn’t mind sharing the occasional “benefits,” no strings attached.

Telling his newly discovered emo self exactly where it could go, he opened his arms to Sasha’s approach and forced himself to smile.
Fake it till you make it, right?
“Here I am.”

Sasha’s slender, waiflike body felt frail in his embrace. If he pulled back a little faster than he normally would, he chalked it up to his bad mood and not the desire for a curvier, less put-together model.

Sasha settled between his bar stool and the next, tucked close under the protection of his arm. The expensive floral designer scent she always wore filled what little space there was between them, a reminder of nights gone by, yet his dick remained limp at the memories. Even the feel of her small, rounded breast brushing his chest didn’t entice. The knowledge angered him and, perversely, made him desperate to prove he could respond to whomever he chose. Turning toward her, he drew Sasha between his legs like he normally would, allowing her to nestle herself into the V of his crotch without comment. If other types of distractions hadn’t worked, perhaps this would. But when he raised his eyes from Sasha’s face to see Harley striding into the room, he stiffened everywhere but the one place he should with a beautiful, eager woman rubbing against him.

The sound of Sasha’s voice pulled his attention away from his would-be general manager. “I’m sorry, what?”

The siren-red bow of Sasha’s mouth turned down at his question. “I said, how are things looking for tomorrow?”

Sasha was on the board of the women’s and children’s shelter that would benefit from the concert tomorrow. The O’Connells’ story had hit him hard when Sasha shared it with him one night over dinner. At the tender age of twenty-two, their daughter had been murdered by her abusive husband. Now, ten years later, the couple oversaw a charity that operated half a dozen safe houses for abused women and children in the Los Angeles County area alone. After meeting them personally, he’d become determined to do something to help the people who’d suffered so deeply and yet had given back in equal measure.

“We’re sold out,” he told Sasha, warmth spreading through his chest. The smile he gave her didn’t have to be forced this time. For just a moment the other issues bombarding him retreated as he considered the big check he would be handing over to the O’Connells. If his sister needed help, he would want to know she could find safety and shelter somewhere, and this couple provided that safety every day to women much less fortunate than Shaw.

Reaching for his drink, he swept the room with a glance and met Harley’s dark green orbs head-on. Her gaze dropped to Sasha, then met his again, the faintest hint of something he couldn’t define bleeding into them. He broke the connection, unable to bear what he couldn’t understand and couldn’t fix even if he did, only to find himself seeking her out not a moment later. Harley stared at his chest, and Damien realized Sasha’s hand had settled there, caressing the ridges and valleys, her intimate touch screaming their history in a single simple gesture.

Marc approached Harley then, claiming her attention, but not before the sheen of her eyes stole Damien’s breath. Tears? A swirling mass of
what the hell?
swamped him as he watched her walk toward the opposite end of the bar with Marc. Mere hours ago she’d been kissing Hank out on the street for the entire world to see, and now she came close to crying because another woman touched him? He didn’t get it, and suddenly the whole mess pissed him the hell off.

Sasha reached up, nudging his chin with cool fingers until they were face-to-face. “You are very distracted tonight.”

“I apologize.” He allowed a small, insincere smile to cross his lips. “It’s been a busy few days.”

“Hmm.” Sasha’s blue eyes glittered in the twinkling lights decorating the club, considering, weighing he knew not what. Then, “Maybe we can do something about that.”

God, no
. The faint burn of bile tinged the back of his throat. All he needed was to take Sasha to bed, only to find he couldn’t get it up without thinking about Harley. He enjoyed sex as much as the next guy, but not enough to do that to Sasha. He wasn’t a bastard.

Before he could figure out a way to let Sasha down gently, she threw him an impish smile. “Dance with me.”

His shoulders sagged in relief. Still… “I don’t think I’d be the best bet for company tonight.”

Sasha pouted. “Oh, come on, Damien.” She tugged at his sleeve-covered arm, drawing him with her step by inevitable step toward the lightly filled dance floor. “I haven’t gotten my dance yet this trip. You always give me one. Please?”

Yes, he always did. So why not now? Or was he going to let Harley and his unwanted attraction to her rule him?

Gritting his teeth, he stepped around Sasha and took her hand as he weaved through the crowd toward the opposite side of the room. The driving rhythm of the music reached for him with greedy tentacles. It shot adrenaline through his veins that tangled with the mass of anger deep in his gut. In the center of the room, he turned, arms rising automatically to catch Sasha to him. But it was his eyes that got him in trouble. They zoomed in on Harley where she stood at the bar. Her veiled gaze met his with the force of a tsunami.

Like the masochist he was becoming, he held the link between them and began to move—arms, shoulders, hips, especially the hips. He prided himself in the ability to make a woman feel fucked when he had her on the dance floor, and he would uphold that rep tonight, would relish showing Harley exactly what he had to offer the women who sought him out. She might choose Hank, but not without seeing everything she was skipping out on.

He commanded Harley’s gaze as he controlled Sasha’s body. Hands smoothing over her slight curves. Knee sliding between her legs. He guided Sasha against him until her hips cradled him perfectly, her body responsive, fluid, melting like chocolate beneath his touch. Sasha pressed close, the pointed tips of her breasts stabbing into his chest, then stepped away with a flirty shake and turned her back to him, reaching to intertwine her fingers with his. He lifted their arms above her head, displaying her in a blatantly male show. It should’ve felt perfect. Right. Hot. But the heat was missing. Sasha wasn’t the one he wanted.

A woman in his arms, on the dance floor or in a bed, had always been one of life’s greatest pleasures. Now, even with Sasha’s expert, knowing touch, his body refused to respond. His libido wasn’t shouting
hallelujah
like it should be. Instead of soaking up the warmth of a woman’s flesh, he shivered with the need to retreat, not because Sasha was unattractive—she wasn’t, as their history testified—but simply because she wasn’t Harley. He told himself to stop, to put an end to something he never should’ve started, but with every second he held Harley’s gaze, he was reminded of Hank’s touch branding her, owning her, and the acid sting of anger drove him harder than the unease crawling across his skin.

Okay, so maybe I am a bastard.

Harley slowly took over his mind. His skin flushed. His heart raced. The woman in his arms transformed into the woman he wanted, and his dick responded with a vengeance. When he dipped his hips to grind against Sasha, it was Harley’s sweet ass that cushioned his hard-on. When he ran rough hands along Sasha’s ribs and narrow waist to dig into the flesh of her hips, it was Harley’s abundant curves that cushioned his fingertips. With every shared twist and turn, Sasha’s panting breaths caressed him and her scent filled his nostrils, but it was Harley’s fresh scent his mind registered. And the whole time, Harley’s eyes filled his vision. Her surprise, hurt, and finally, anger stared back at him. As the song came to an end and Sasha collapsed, laughing and breathless, against him, Harley did an about-face, body rigid, and disappeared in the direction of Marc’s office.

“You never lose your touch, Damien,” Sasha said. She stood on tiptoe, offering her deep red mouth for a kiss. Before their lips could touch, he stepped back, the move as involuntary as it was necessary. Sasha’s brows dropped into an unhappy V.

“Damien—”

At that moment Marc walked across his field of vision. Sensing an out, he adopted his usual cocky expression and dropped a kiss on Sasha’s smooth and much less intimate cheek. “Thanks for the dance, Sasha. I have to see Marc real quick.”