Some Like It Hopeless (A Temporary Engagement) (3 page)

“I was just going to write Cassandra’s.”

“It’s the writing it down at all that’s the problem. It’s so. . .horribly. . .boring. We’re scheduling our fling?”

He mimicked what she’d said last week. “Today, you got lucky. I rarely have time for unscheduled activities unless it’s a burning issue.”

Cassandra pinched her lips together and he said, “Wednesday night?”

She grimaced, then sighed loudly. “Fine. Maybe I’ll be able to get the mood back by then. But we are going to work on your spontaneity.”

“We’ve gotten spontaneous three times now.”

She eyed him. “Well, technically, it was more times than that.”

Brady bit his cheek to keep from smiling and blocked off Wednesday night. He put the phone back on the nightstand before he could check the thirteen new messages he’d missed.

He looked at Cassandra and said, “Just let me know when you’re ready.”

She raised an eyebrow in question and he said, “For my name.”

Cassandra stared at him long and hard. Then said, “I know your name.”

“Since when?”

“Since I tried to get a message to you. Your staff politely informed me that the person I was looking for was a Mr. Tight-Ass.”

He barked out a laugh, making both himself and Cassandra jump.

She grinned at him. “Don’t do that a lot, do you?”

He shook his head. He did that never. “Remind me to fire whoever said that.”

“I’m pretty sure it was all of them. Who’s going to be left to run your hotel if you fire all of them?”

“I’m pretty sure it was only one of them, and I’m not ready to fire you yet.”

She laughed, rolling onto her back and pulling the sheet with her. “You can’t fire me; you’re not paying me anything. Although, I am thinking of negotiating for pool privileges.”

“Done. And now I can fire you.”

“Oh, man. I should have brought my bathing suit. I was sure you were going to say the pool was for guests only because you’re such a tight-ass about breaking laws.”

“Only actual laws.” And only laws that resulted in death when broken.

Cassandra turned her head, running her eyes down his uncovered body. She wiggled under the sheet and Brady forgot completely about those thirteen messages waiting for him.

She said, “I’m ready now.”

Brady shook his head, trying to bring his mind back to their conversation. He opened his mouth to tell her his name and she poked him. “No. I’m
ready
, Shane.”

“Oh. Have you forgiven me for that scheduling fiasco already?” He rolled toward her, sliding under the sheet and glancing at his watch. “We’ll have to be quick.”

“Okay. Just whatever you do, don’t check your calendar.”

She scooted closer, her legs tangling with his, her arms sliding around him.

“There’s no calendar for a good thirty minutes, Cass.”

She froze, then whispered, “Don’t call me that.”

Brady stopped, pulling back to look at her. “Too real?”

She nodded, her smiling mouth no longer smiling, her laughing eyes no longer laughing.

He said, “What should I call you?”

Cassandra took a shaky breath, then cracked a small smile. “I liked your majesty.”

He let out a long, put-upon sigh and said, “You would.”

She relaxed against him, the sparkle coming back into her eyes. “You would,
your majesty
.”

Brady bent his head, taking her lips and whispering against them. And it wasn’t your majesty.

She laughed, and then they had a little fun with each other.

Fun, and not too real.

Brady had gotten Cassandra out the door and down to the lobby in time for his next meeting. She’d sighed longingly when he asked if she was going to use the pool, then said, “Next week. I’ll bring my suit.”

Brady wondered if he’d ever take her to his home. Let her have free reign over that pool. Then he shook his head. Of course he wouldn’t take Cassandra to his home.

His home was his wife’s domain. He wouldn’t take a piece of tail there and disrespect her memory.

He made it back to his office in time for the weekly meeting with his father and three brothers via video conference. They talked business, and that was it.

Sometimes their wives, and his sister, sent Christmas cards. Sometimes his mother sent a photo of a niece or nephew, but Brady never responded. He knew, as did his brothers, that there was no point.

His father, Carlton Brady Roberts III, had never forgiven his oldest son. Would never forgive him. Not for the embarrassment, not for the shame, not for the pain.

The whole family had left L.A. when Brady had been convicted. Because it didn’t matter how good your attorney was when you insisted on pleading guilty.

Brady considered himself lucky. When he’d got out, unlike most ex-cons, his job had been waiting for him. His family ashamed of him but still family. It was all Brady would ask from them.

The Roberts family owned hotels around the world, on every continent but Antarctica, but L.A. was where he stayed. Because his wife and son were here and they couldn’t leave.

He’d decided years ago that neither could he.

Living in L.A. wasn’t exactly a punishment, except for the traffic.

And even that usually worked in his favor since Brady always drove the speed limit. It was a daily reminder, a daily punishment. To own a car that was built for speed and never let it have its head.

When the meeting finished, Brady signed out, calling down to get his car ready. In a few hours, Tokyo would wake and start the week, but he had until then to take his usual Sunday drive.

These meetings with his family always reminded him. Of what he’d had, of what he’d thrown away.

Brady didn’t blame his father for writing off his oldest son. His father’s legacy had died with Carlton Brady Roberts V. The child and the name and all it meant, gone forever. Brady accepted that, to his father, he’d died that day, too. Not should have, but did.

Brady had given up judging others years ago. Hard to have fun with it when your own fucked-up life beat everyone else’s.

He’d come to the conclusion somewhere between the California state prison system and his penthouse suite that life was life. People were people.

Life was a bitch. And people were crazy. And that was that.

Outside, Rodrigo handed him the keys with a head nod and silence. Understanding these weekly drives, Brady’s need for penance, like no one else could. Understanding what a man with blood on his hands had to do to keep the demons away. What it took to keep from becoming that man again.

He was a drunk who didn’t drink. He was a user who didn’t use.

Not a drop, not a snort, since that night. It would have been easier to lose himself in that instead of constantly living with the battle. But he knew, this was why he had been spared. To suffer. And maybe if he suffered enough in this life, he could find a modicum of mercy in the next. He would find, when he saw his wife and child again, that there was not hate in their eyes but love. Not cold justice but forgiveness.

The morning’s traffic was lighter than usual and drivers flipped Brady off as they tore around him. But he stayed exactly at 45 mph, cruising past again and again.

No little white cross marked the spot. No flowers.

But here, where the road turned slightly, was where his wife had died, instantly. Here, his son had fought to stay alive and lost. Here, his child had screamed with pain, the last memory Brady had of his son.

Here, Brady had killed his soul.

Tokyo woke, and Brady was still driving. The sun set, and Brady was still driving.

He finally turned off the memory-filled road, but kept on driving.

When he pulled in front of Cassandra’s house, he left the engine running and gripped the steering wheel.

Cassandra opened the front door and Brady looked at her through the car window. He finally turned off the car and slowly got out.

She said, “Well, this is spontaneous.”

He looked at her, silent. Not wanting the pain to stop, but here anyway. Not deserving any kind of relief, but here anyway.

She cocked her head and said, “Are you going to come inside, Shane?”

Brady shook with his fear. Afraid that he’d found something that eased his suffering. Afraid that he’d found something worse than alcohol, worse than drugs. Something that he just didn’t have the strength to fight.

It wasn’t the sex. It was the being someone else. It was being someone who was loved so completely that no wound could ever stop it.

He said, “Could you ever stop loving Shane?”

She blinked. “No.”

“No matter what he did? No matter what he’s done?”

She looked at him and Brady whispered, “No matter
what
he did?”

She crossed her arms. Belligerent and unrepentant. “I will love him until the flesh is stripped from my bones. I would love him no matter who I had to share him with. I love him no matter what.”

Brady didn’t see his wife when he looked at Cassandra. His wife had been sweet, kind. She’d had long blond hair and blue eyes and a smiling mouth.

Cassandra had a sarcastic mouth. Her hair was brown and chopped short. Her eyes gray and worldly.

But when she called him Shane, he saw in her eyes love. Love that lasted through the pain. Love that Brady had seen in his wife’s eyes.

And when Cassandra called him Shane, Brady could believe that his wife still loved him. Through the pain. No matter what he’d done.

He said, “I’d like to come inside.”

“As Shane or as Brady?”

Cassandra did know his name, after all. But he didn’t hesitate. “Shane.”

She turned, walking back inside and leaving the door open for him, and he followed.

Of course Cassandra had Googled him. His polite staff had told her she was looking for Mr. Roberts and it hadn’t been hard to connect him to his hotel.

Carlton Brady Roberts IV. It was a lot to stomach but she’d remembered his bulging body and decided to forgive him. He hadn’t picked the name.

He’d obviously worked for the body. Had paid for that scar running down his face.

She’d found the news of the car accident where his wife and son had died. Had found his arrest photo. Had even found his marriage announcement.

Young and happy.

We were all young and happy, once.

Cassandra thought she probably wouldn’t have liked him when he was young and happy. He looked like he’d been a douche.

She looked at him, sleeping on the bed next to her, and thought that some people were just more interesting, a little more tolerable, with a little tragedy behind them.

He sighed, his fingers twitching, and Cassandra wondered if she was supposed to wake him. Surely he had things to do. Meetings and other important stuff.

But she let him sleep. And when her alarm woke them in the morning, he jumped out of bed, looking around wildly. He stopped when he saw Cassandra.

He said, “What the hell time is it?”

“Seven.”

“In the morning? Shit!”

Cassandra rolled out of bed. “Don’t you have an alarm on that fancy phone of yours?”

He grabbed for his phone, groaning as he thumbed through his missed calls. “I’ve never needed to use it. When did I fall asleep?”

He stopped looking at his phone to watch her pull underwear out of a drawer and put it on.

“Around midnight.”

“Seven hours? I haven’t slept seven hours since. . .never.”

“I must have worn you out.”

She grinned at him over her shoulder, and he looked so confused, so surprised, that she walked over to him and wrapped her arms around him.

She said, “You’re welcome.”

“I’ve missed
hours
of work.”

“You’re welcome.”

He let out a breath of air, laughing and not laughing at the same time.

She said, “Don’t you feel relaxed and well-rested? Maybe you’ll get twice as much done today.”

“Hmm.” He looked down at smooth skin ending in tiny little panties and started walking her toward the bed. “Maybe you’re right. And my staff
is
well-trained. One more hour won’t hurt.”

She shook her head. “I have exactly one hour to get out the door so I’m not late for work. No minutes to spare.”