Silver Spoon (3 page)

"Nope. I lost my old cat last year to cancer and haven't been brave enough to consider another pet, yet."

His eyebrows furrowed. "I'm sorry. My friends all have animals and they seem quite happy with them."

She nodded then took another bite of her cheeseburger. While chewing, she studied the man before her. Broad shoulders tapered to a narrower waist, well defined muscles showed beneath the slightly snug long-sleeved T-shirt. A pair of worn jeans molded to his lower half, outlining a terrific rear as she'd noted earlier when walking to and from the car. Sharp brown eyes took in their surroundings with quick observation skills. She truly doubted he missed a single thing, despite the second he took to scan the room. A mouse didn't stand a chance to go unnoticed with Spoon around.

Spoon. An odd nickname. One he'd promised to explain if she ate with him.

"Okay. Fess up. How did you get the nickname Spoon?"

He shrugged while hungrily chewing a large bite of hamburger. "My comrades thought I was born wealthy. Thus, with a silver spoon in my mouth."

"Was that the case?" If he was worth a fortune, she couldn't tell it by looking at him.

"My parents' income has nothing to do with my income." The terse words warned her to quickly change the topic.

Chomping a French fry, she shifted gears. "Here I thought Spoon related to something erotic. Like it was your favorite sexual position or your tongue had spoon-like abilities." She peeked coyly up at him.

He snorted. "Is your mind always in the gutter?"

"Well, I do write romance novels after all."

"Speaking of, I bet your parents are proud of you getting published."

She automatically bristled and shook her head. "My mother passed when I was thirteen."

He lowered his chin. "I'm sorry. That's a tough age to be without a mother."

"Thanks." She chose to move ahead rather than focus on the depressing past. "My father… doesn't understand about my writing. He believes romance novels are unclean, and doesn't think anyone of worth would write such a thing." All too familiar anger reared up as she replayed the day she'd excitedly told him her first book had been contracted. Her enthusiasm had dried up like a water puddle in the Sahara desert under his biting scrutiny and judgment.

Spoon reached out to cover her hand with his, giving a small squeeze. "Sounds like a bigot to me and he's the unworthy one."

Her lips formed a sad smile. "I agree with you, which is why I rarely have contact with him anymore. I got tired of not meeting his standards and hearing about it."

His face contorted in a grimace, as if he felt her same pain.

Intrigued, she poked cautiously into his life. "You have similar difficulties with your father?"

At first, she didn't think he would answer. His shoulders lifted even as his fingers tightened around a fisted napkin. Long beats of silence passed with only the murmurs of nearby tables breaking through.

"You could say that." He released a long sigh. "It sounds like our fathers were made out of the same mold. Never satisfied with their children no matter how hard they tried." His brown eyes and face expressed tight restraint, frustration, and anger.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, returning the sympathetic gesture with her smaller hand over his. Her first date in months and they were wallowing in misery over situations out of their control. If it continued, she doubted he would even consider a second date. The thought sent a wave of sadness through her. "My, aren't we getting melancholic?" With a forced smile, she moved to lighten the conversation.

He nodded. "That we are."

"How do you feel about dessert?"

He grinned wickedly as his eyes twinkled with mischief. "What are you offering?"

She snorted as her face heated. "Letch. I swear. Although"—she tapped a finger on her chin—"you would make an ideal book cover model. Perhaps even a consultant." Peeking up through her lashes, she watched the changing expressions move across his face.

His head cocked to the side. "Consultant? I know nothing about writing."

Riley waved a hand dismissively. "No. No. Not about the writing part." Lowering her voice to a sensual pitch, she threw out the pressing question. "So, tell me, what deep, dark fantasies do you have about women in your bed?" Her voice lowered in volume while taking on a husky timbre.

Spoon's eyebrows rose while the corners of his mouth twitched. "Aim to play them out?"

She took a long drink of her soda, using the time to pinpoint the perfect answer. "That would be telling."

A spark returned to his eyes, along with a mischievous grin. Both sent her tummy tumbling in a slow, delicious somersault. Her gut instinct told her he would be a force to be reckoned with in bed for any woman lucky enough to receive an invite.

Pick me,
her inner harlot whispered in her mind. She ignored the tiny voice to focus on the light-hearted teasing. "So, what do you think?"

"Let me get this straight. You want me to spill about my sexual escapades so you can use the material for your books?"

"Yes. For the sex scenes. They have to be exciting and each one different. You seem to have the knowledge and firsthand experience. Would you at least consider assisting me with some research?"

He chuckled, his chest bouncing with the sound. "Which brain of mine do you intend to tap for this information?"

"Hmmmmm." Her focus lowered for a second before returning to his face. "That's a good question. I'll have to think about it, but I should probably warn you that I'm not a one-night stand kind of woman."

"I didn't imagine you were." Spoon's low baritone sent shivers up her arms.

"And, I don't have sex on a first date, either."

"I don't expect you to."

She beamed at him. "I think I like you, mystery and all." For the first time in forever, she actually enjoyed bantering with a man, razzing and flirting.

He matched her grin. "That's good to know."

Heady with the new found joy, she dove in once more. "I don't suppose you'd like to get together again soon? With me?"

Surprise briefly flashed across his handsome face. "Best idea I've heard all day."

Anticipation, intermingled with relief, coursed through her body. Perhaps finally her lucky star shone brightly over this prospect. Full of hope, she wrote her phone number on a clean napkin. "Call me. Anytime. I mean…" Her voice faded as her face heated at the sheer desperation she detected in her own voice.

He chuckled while pocketing the paper. "You working tomorrow?"

She nodded.

"I'll definitely make a point to drag my lazy ass out of bed and go for a workout then."

"I can't wait." To watch sweat dampen his T-shirt, causing it to cling to that delicious body. To see his strong muscles flex and extend with each set of weights. To drool as he bent over time and again to exchange dumbbells.

"Lady, take my advice. Never play poker." He grinned at her while slurping on his soda.

She chuckled. "Think I'll lose, big time?"

Spoon set his empty cup back on the table. "Money, yes. You want to play with me and lose your clothes…" He shrugged.

Boy howdy. Now that's one game I would love to play. Sign me up.

Chapter 4

Spoon returned home, tossed his keys on the countertop and switched on the lights. The paperback book soon followed, landing on the arm of his recliner. A weathered leather sofa and the chair, along with a modest television on a walnut stained wooden stand, comprised all his living room furniture.

The one bedroom apartment served as a home base, though he spent more time away than in residence. An expensive rental fee for such a small area, but the amount reflected the extra security of a gated community along with the intercom service. With his prolonged absences from home and attachment to his goods, he didn't squabble over the price. It afforded him peace of mind while he hung out at home for some much deserved rest and relaxation, and a firm belief that his small corner of the world remained safe while he chased bad guys across the continent.

Marching into the kitchen, he pulled open the fridge, peered inside at the small number of offerings, then grabbed a beer.
I really need to hit the grocery store tomorrow.
In all reality, his icebox remained bare most of the time, a side effect of being yanked away at a moment's notice, leaving any and all perishables to become a science experiment until he returned home.

Disregarding the two barstools and matching round dining table, he headed for the open living area and his favorite chair. Easing down, he released a sigh, his mind replaying the unusual events of the day.

Riley. Not the type of woman he usually dated. Yet, something about her just clicked, compelling him to ask her out to a malt shop of all places. No matter. She must have enjoyed herself since she bravely asked for another date before the first even wound down. He certainly did. Hell, he relished sitting around and shooting the bull with Riley more than he had with all the one-night stands in recent memory. Her quick wit kept him off balance even as her smile brightened up her round face. She had curves in all the right places. Brains. Personality. And a decent body. He could do much worse.

Checking his cell phone, he noticed a message from his father. With a frown, he set the device aside for the moment, refusing to listen to the recording. Why bother? He already knew what his father wanted. The same thing he wanted for the past three years. For him to return to the company as some sort of liaison between his father and the mining companies and to live under his father's heavy thumb. Every time, he told the old man no. A word Willard Brentwood didn't understand.

All in all, the reason Spoon lived a fairly frugal existence, collecting money like other people aggressively sought and purchased rare artwork, revolved around his sheer determination to control his own choices in life. Some considered him a penny pincher, but he preferred the term cautious. Why spend your entire income on unnecessary or duplicate items? That never made sense to him, not when he saved for a much more deserving cause. His dream.

Unlike many military men who lived in the present, he banked on the future with full realization that he could only continue with such a physically and intellectually demanding career for a finite amount of time. With an early retirement, he would be forced to find other means of supporting himself in a tough economy filled with bias against fresh veterans with little job experience other than Army life.

Let his brother, Matt, take the position with his father's company. It's all the kid ever wanted to do anyway. As much as Spoon rocked the boat, Matt toed the line, both falling short in their endeavors to garner their father's all important attention and approval. Instead of giving up, Matt simply shrugged everything off like a mere oversight, pointing out the many hours their father gave to the business, trading his family time for a steadily growing company that kept a roof over their heads, food on the table, allowed for an increasing number of luxuries, and eventually a solid standing in high class society.

Despite being near mirror opposites, Spoon and Matt got along fairly well, even now, with their father stubbornly overlooking the educated and willing youngest son for the prodigal wayward oldest.

Speaking of Matt…
Picking up his phone, Spoon placed a call. "Hey, bro. How's post MBA life?"

"It's going. How about you?"

"It's going, too."

"Uh huh. Wait. It's Friday night. Why aren't you going at it hot and heavy with the catch from your latest fishing expedition? Don't tell me you struck out!"

Spoon snorted. "As if."

"If a man like you can't get a woman, what's my chances?" The dramatically pitiful voice carried through the small device.

"Yeah, yeah." He chuckled. "Speaking of, where is that pretty college sweetheart of yours, anyway?"

"Spending the weekend with her parents. It's their thirtieth wedding anniversary. Crystal and her sisters are throwing them a big surprise party. I have to drive up tomorrow."

He heard the smile in his brother's voice. A sure indication of his true feelings. "How's the new job? Learning the ropes?"

Matt sighed loudly. "I don't mind working or even the marginal pay. It's…"

"Not what you wanted," Spoon finished for him.

"Yeah."

"Have you talked to Dad about it?"

"Yes, but, like always, it goes in one ear and out the other. Is he still pressing you about that managerial position?"

"Yeah. The bastard doesn't understand when I say no, I mean it."

"I think it's his way of offering an olive branch, to make up for all the bad times." Matt murmured as if thinking aloud, "He doesn't know how to be affectionate, you know."

"If that's so, then he's going about it all wrong. I don't want to work in the industry. Besides, I like the job I have and refuse to leave it because Dad has a moment of regret and decides he can make it right by putting me under his control for the rest of his life. Sorry, bro, but that's not going to happen."

"I know. I keep telling him that, too. He's just as hard headed as you are," Matt tossed out, lightening the tone.

"You're calling the kettle black." He sucked in a breath. "Keep working on Dad. If he won't listen, let me know. I'll come down there and kick his ass if I need to." He cringed at the thought of having to enter the lion's den and have yet another argument with his power hungry father, but if it meant Matt could attain his dream, then he would gladly march in, gladiator suit and all.

"Thanks, Aidan. I have a feeling it may come down to that. I hope not, but I can't see Dad just accepting your answer over the phone, either."

"I know." He had known the mulish cuss wouldn't back down until they had it out face to face. For three years he'd managed to put it off, but it appeared the finish line fast approached on their impending battle. "Give Crystal a kiss for me?"

"Sure thing. Don't be a stranger, okay?" Matt's said.

"I'll catch you in between assignments. Promise."

"You better."