Temptation’s Edge (33 page)

With a small sigh she kicked her way out of her Ugg slippers, stripped off her yoga pants and her hooded sweatshirt and took
her pink satin robe into the bathroom. There, she turned on the taps, letting the water run to heat up, which took forever in these older buildings.

She caught her reflection in the oval mirror above the pedestal sink. She was pale. Not that she wasn’t always pale, but her fair skin had a distinctly gray cast to it. Her eyes were huge. Haunted. Which was exactly how she felt, so she shouldn’t have been surprised. But she was. Seeing the pain so stark on her face came as a shock to her. It was why she’d put on her makeup the last few days using her tiny compact to see just one eye at a time, just her lips, her brows. Luckily she was able to do her hair with little effort and without really looking. Because seeing her face like this was too damn awful.

She turned away. She’d have to continue avoiding mirrors for a while. But what really concerned her was that she’d have to return to Seattle soon for Dylan and Alec’s wedding; it was only two weeks away. The idea seemed impossible at the moment. It made her stomach churn, her pulse hammer in her veins.

She reached in to the old black-and-white-tiled shower stall to check the water temperature, adjusted it before stepping in, getting under the warm spray.

Yes, this was what she needed. A hot shower to relax. Maybe a few glasses of wine after. She just had to wind down. Because there would be no avoiding Seattle. No avoiding Connor. She would simply have to find a way to do it.

Damn it.

Connor got out of the cab at the address Alec and Dylan had given him after a little strong-arming, some begging, and making them promise not to tell Mischa he was coming, to let him work this through with her on his own. It seemed strange now that
Mischa had never given it to him herself. Or maybe not. Things hadn’t been like that between them. No talk of a future beyond what they might want for dinner, what the coming weekend might bring. Certainly nothing beyond Alec and Dylan’s wedding.

He stood in front of a row of older homes, Victorians and Tudors that had probably been split up into apartments in this part of town—North Beach, the old Italian section of the city. There were a lot of good restaurants in the area, he knew. It was also home to a number of tattoo shops. He wasn’t surprised that this was where Mischa lived.

Her address was a pale pink Victorian with gray and white trim. Pretty place, he could see, even though the sun was mostly set. There were three heavy oak doors at the top of the stairs, with planter boxes on either side of the narrow porch. He checked the address one more time and saw that her door was the one on the left.

He made himself drop his shoulders before ringing the bell, heard it echo somewhere inside, and waited for her to answer. And waited. He listened carefully to see if he could tell if she was in there, but he had no idea which floor she was on, if he’d even be able to make out where any sound might be coming from. And there were the noises of the city all around, as there were at his place in Seattle: cars going by, the voices of people walking down the street, the noisier chugging of a bus somewhere.

Impatient, he rang again, but still, there was no answer.

He took a breath, pulled in the damp San Francisco air that so reminded him of Seattle. It calmed him a little, for some reason, that tiny bit of familiarity. He’d better calm, he guessed. There was nothing for it but to wait until she got home from work, or wherever she was. He set his overnight bag down on the porch and settled on the top step, watching the traffic go by, letting the hum of cars and people and city life lull him.

“Excuse me, young man, but you’ll have to let me pass. And tell me who you are. I don’t know you.”

He looked down at a woman who had to be at least ninety, with a frail, tiny frame and a wrinkled face with dark, wizened eyes framed by thin wisps of white hair. He didn’t know her, either, but his manners were good enough that he knew to introduce himself in the presence of a lady. He got to his feet and said with a slight bow he couldn’t quite help, but which made him feel a bit foolish under her discerning glare, “I’m Connor Galloway, ma’am.”

She continued to stare up at him from the bottom of the stairs. “Hmm. What are you doing loitering on the steps to my building?”

“I’m waiting for Mischa to get home.”

“She is home.”

“I don’t mean to argue, ma’am, but I’ve tried the bell.”

“Then maybe she didn’t feel like answering.”

“That had occurred to me,” he admitted.

“Anyway, her lights are on. She’s not one to waste, so my guess is she’s in there. Stand aside.”

The tiny, commanding woman took the stairs more quickly than he would have given her credit for, passing him and raising her gnarled fist to knock on the door. He stood behind her, his heart hammering.

To his surprise the door opened. Mischa stood in the doorway in a pink silk bathrobe. Even with her damp hair flowing around her shoulders she looked like some glamorous 1940s film star.

“Mrs. Tucci, I…” She caught sight of Connor, then, and her mouth made a small
o
.

“I came for the rent. Your check is late.”

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Tucci. You know I’m never late, but I’ve been traveling. I’ll bring it over as soon as I’m dressed.”

“I was just checking. I know you’d never skimp on the rent. Oh, you have a gentleman caller.”

Mischa’s gaze flicked back to Connor, her tone going a little dead. “Yes, I see that. Thank you.”

The woman—Mischa’s landlady apparently—turned with a sniff and batted Connor’s hand away when he tried to help her down the stairs.

Once she was gone he stayed where he was. He could tell from Mischa’s expression she wasn’t happy to see him. Not that he’d expected her to be. Not entirely, at any rate. Why couldn’t he find his voice, damn it?

He tried clearing his throat. “Mischa—”

She cut him off, saying flatly, “I’d have argued the point about you being a gentleman but I hate to upset Mrs. Tucci.”

“You’re right.”

She pulled the tie around her waist tighter, and he couldn’t help but notice how the pale shade of the silk made her skin look even more like milk. “And yet knowing that doesn’t help.”

He moved up the stairs, then, until he was on the small front porch. Until he could see the shadows under her blue eyes, the wary, haunted expression on her face. Beautiful as ever, but she looked wrung out. It made him feel like shit. “Let me in, Mischa. We should talk.”

“Should we? We really should have talked days ago. Like the day you left me asleep on the sofa. Or even the day after. We should have talked when I called you. Or at the very least, when you called me back. Except that you never did.”

“I did call,” he protested. “You wouldn’t pick up.”

“Too little, too late, Connor.”

“I know. But I’m here now.”

“And I’m supposed to be impressed and go all girly on you?
Melt at your feet, as I’ve done all too often? As dozens of women have before me, I’m sure.”

There was a hardness, a flintiness, to her blue eyes he’d never seen before.

“Mischa, I get you being mad.”

“You’re not the only one with a temper, Connor, Irish or not.”

He was momentarily stunned. He rocked back on his heels, felt his nostrils flaring. His voice was a low growl. “I never once showed temper to you. Not once.”

“Oh, get over your sore spot, Connor. I’m just being pissy.”

“Fuck. I know that. I…” He paused, scrubbed a hand over his head. “I don’t blame you. I was an ass of a million kinds. My actions were unconscionable. And I came all this way to apologize. Please let me in. Let’s talk this through.”

“Why, Connor? Because you can’t stand losing?”

“This was never a competition. I don’t even understand that. Who would I have been competing against?”

“Yourself, maybe. I don’t know, Connor. All I know is that I’m over this.”

“Over this?” he repeated.

“Over the dancing around it all as though we’re not supposed to have any feelings—you and I, who are far too cool for all that. Right? The badass dom. The badass tattoo artist. Well, we
are
tough. Or, we were, in the beginning. And personally, I plan to get back to that place. Where I don’t have to worry about all this…bullshit. Where I don’t get led on, then fucked over.”

“Mischa, please…Look, everything you’re saying is fair, I won’t deny it. I’m not here to argue.”

“Why are you here, Connor?”

She sounded tired now. But not defeated.

He was tired, too. Exhausted. And although he’d expected her
to be angry, he hadn’t expected her to be so strong in her convictions. So steadfast in turning him away.

“I didn’t think you’d have a good answer for me,” she said quietly, beginning to shut the door.

“Mischa, wait!”

He lunged, but stopped himself just as the door clicked shut. What the hell was he going to do? Jam his foot in the doorway? What kind of jerk would he be?

But he hadn’t had the chance to tell her why he’d come. That he was there because he loved her.

Even if he had, he wasn’t sure she’d believe it. Or, at this point, if she’d even care.

Mischa took a step away from the door, then another. It was almost as if she could feel the heat of his big body on the other side. She clenched her hands into fists, her nails biting into her palms until it hurt. But she needed it to ground her.

Her pulse was thundering in her ears, her head spinning.

What the hell had just happened?

Connor, here on her front step. What was he trying to prove? Was it some Dudley Do-Right thing that he felt he had to redeem himself for his crappy behavior? Well, she wasn’t having it.

She took a tentative step toward the door, peered through the peephole. He was standing at the foot of the short flight of stairs, his back to her, staring out at the street. If he’d been any less hulking in stature she wouldn’t even be able to see him down there. But he was so huge.

There was a time when she’d found the sheer size of him comforting.

She watched through the tiny hole as he stepped into the street and flagged down a cab.

It was then that she cried.

The tears were no small thing this time, but enormous, wracking sobs that instantly made her ribs ache. She wrapped her arms around her body as if that alone could hold them in. Hold her together.

Why had he had to come to San Francisco before she’d had time to gather her strength? It was too much, seeing him. Wanting nothing more than to be in his arms, no matter how angry she was.

But what he’d done was unforgivable. And even if it wasn’t…well, she wasn’t going to take that chance. She couldn’t do it. No man was worth losing everything for, feeling this terrible emptiness, this pain for.

Except that some small part of her was telling her he was.

She realized she had pulled the belt to her robe so tight it was cutting off her circulation. She let it go, flexing her fingers, taking in deep breath after deep breath, pacing her living room.

How had she let this happen? How had she let herself care so damn much?

She knew she’d been horribly rude in not at least letting him come in and have his say. Knew she’d been impatient, that if she’d given him a few moments to speak he might have said…something she wanted to hear. Wanted too damn desperately. Which was why she’d had to turn him away.

She shoved both hands into her damp hair, let herself fall into her big velvet chair. God, she could barely stand the idea that he’d been right there at her door and she’d let him go. But even more, she couldn’t stand what might happen if she’d let him in, let him talk, let things go any further with a man she cared about.
Loved
, for God’s sake! It was too damn risky. And she was still just mad enough to feel some sense of self-righteousness. The fact was, he had left her, snuck out while she was sleeping. She
didn’t care what the state of their relationship was, she didn’t need to be treated like some cheap one-night stand. She deserved better than that. Yes she did, damn it!

Feeling a little stronger, she stood and went back to the bathroom and began to brush out her hair.

He’d done wrong by her. Even worse than if he were just some guy she’d been sleeping with. But after all that talk about what being a good dom meant, all that crap about what a responsibility it was…He’d used that line as he pleased to keep some control over her, but when it was time to carry through on his end, look what happened.

The brush caught in a tangle and she ripped through it with a savage yank.

“Ouch!”

She shook her head at her reflection in the mirror.

She was not going to ruin her hair over this man. She was not going to ruin anything: her hair, her business, her
life
.

So she was in love with Connor Galloway. So what? She’d get over it, in time. She had plenty to keep her busy. Her shop to run. The new shop opening. Dylan’s wedding.

Fuck.

Dylan’s wedding. Connor would be there.

Well, she’d simply have to find some way to deal with it. And the wedding was two weeks away. Plenty of time for her to get a handle on her ranging emotions. She would make sure that whatever was happening—or wasn’t—between her and Connor didn’t get in the way of her best friend’s wedding day. No matter how it broke her heart to think of seeing him again. No matter how it had broken her to see him today, her heart like a thousand fucking pieces on the floor.

The damn tears started again, and she gave up, dropped the brush and braced both hands on the counter, let the tears fall.

She was never doing this again. Never risking this kind of pain. She would never love another man again.

No. Because the only man she would ever love was Connor.

The phone woke her, not for the first time that morning, but she decided she’d better find out who it was.

She saw Dylan’s name on the caller ID.

Mischa rubbed her aching eyes. Too much crying had made them feel like they’d been sandpapered. Or tattooed. It was that same kind of sharp, insistent irritation, a stinging, raw ache.