The CEO's Surprise Family (13 page)

“Oh, I don't know, assassins, kidnappers, zombies? Whatever else you believe can make off with Jazi or me.”

“You're spooked. Is that why you want Clay to give you self-defense lessons?”

“I'm not spooked.”

She stopped her efforts to be released. All she'd succeeded in doing was rubbing her body against his, which she liked way too much. And it distracted her from arguing with him. Holy tomatoes he smelled good.

“You're the one who is spooked. I freaked out because I woke up to find a strange man standing over me.”

“I'm not strange.”

“That's debatable.”

“I meant I'm not a stranger.”

“That's debatable too. Are you going to let me go or should we put music on and dance?”

She felt an odd shaking behind her and glared at him over her shoulder. “Are you laughing at me?”

“Would you hate me if I was?”

That made her stop and think. “No. But only because you don't laugh enough. Are you going to release me anytime soon?”

“I like you where you are.”

She sucked in a breath. So he felt it too. The awareness between them that never really went away. The heat and sizzle that caused her skin to tingle whenever he was close. Like now.

“All the more reason you should.”

“You're right, of course.” And still he held her.

After a moment, his grip loosened and she forced herself to step away. She needed more wine. She picked up her glass and held it up. “Want a glass?”

“Sure.” He followed her to the kitchen. “Zombies?” he asked.

She shrugged expressively. “It seems as likely as the other options.”

“The other options are viable threats. I have letters to prove it.”

“OMG.” She handed him his wine. “You have letters threatening you? Why?”

He sipped his wine, hummed his approval. “I don't explain the crazies. I take steps against them.” He gestured to her with the glass. “If you're not spooked, why do you want Clay to teach you self-defense?”

She carried her glass back to the living room, but his question riled her too much to sit. “Because I feel like a delinquent teenager whenever I go out of the hotel. If I know how to defend myself, and Jazi, then you won't have to send an escort with us every time we leave the casino grounds.”

He shook his head. “You won't be proficient enough in two months to be effective.”

“I might surprise you. I'm a dancer, which makes some men think I'm easy.” She flexed her biceps. “I've learned to handle myself.”

“Really?” He cocked a brow. “Because you'd have broken your thumb if you'd landed that punch.”

She frowned. “Okay, I forgot about the thumb. I just need a refresher on some things.” Getting into the mood, she bounced on her toes. “But I'm light on my feet and a quick study. You'll be surprised at what I can learn in a month when I'm motivated.”

“Okay.” He shrugged out of his jacket, tossed it over the sofa. “Let's see what you've got.” He pushed the sofa back and then picked up the ottoman and carried it into the foyer.

“What?” She landed flat on her feet. “Now? Right here?”

“Yes.” He moved her to the middle of the room and shoved the chair back against the wall. After shifting a couple more items out of the way, he faced her. “Here. Now.” He curled his fingers at her. “Come at me?”

Narrowing her eyes, she looked him over. She was awake now and thinking clearly. He wanted to see her moves? She'd show him.

The black yoga pants she wore along with an oversize tee over a white tank were perfect for this exercise.

Bouncing on her toes, she shook out her whole body, arms, fingers, legs. And then she bent at the waist and stretched, keeping her legs straight as she touched her toes. Next she turned her back to him and spread her legs a bit, stretching down to touch her right foot, then up, and down to her left foot. A peek between her legs showed an upside-down version of Jethro with his feet shoulder-width apart and arms crossed over his chest.

But, oh, yeah, he was watching her butt.

Just the distraction she wanted.

“Are we going to do this tonight?” he demanded.

“Just loosening up,” she responded. She faced him again and drew the oversize tee off over her head. His dark gaze zeroed in on her unfettered breasts. Normally she'd want a bra for any workout. Tonight, it worked to her advantage not to have one. Or so she hoped. “I don't want to strain anything.”

Tossing the tee on the floor behind her, she did a few more stretches, twisting at the waist to the left and then the right, watching Jethro' eyes follow the movements. Now she was ready.

She prowled across the room, slowly approaching him. “So you want to tangle?” she asked, her voice breathy. All soft curves and subtle hip action, she moved closer, invading his space to whisper in his ear, “You want to dance?”

His hands circled her waist. Check. His head lowered. Check. He pulled her closer. Double check.

Her knee flew up aiming for a vulnerable target. At the last moment she pulled to the right meaning to hit him in the thigh instead, only he was already countering her move. Instead of blocking her, their weight went in the same direction, taking them both down.

Jethro tried to catch her, to save her the brunt of his weight. His effort kept her from landing hard. The plush carpeting helped. But then his body slammed down on top of her, and she lost all the air from her lungs.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

L
EXI
GASPED
,
BUT
no air went in. Unable to breathe, she grabbed at Jethro.

He pushed up on his arms, starring down at her. “It's okay. Stay calm. You've had the air knocked out of you.”

She knew that, wanted it back. Every instinct screamed breathe in. But she could only gasp, the breath sticking at the back of her throat. This happened to dancers all the time. She knew what to do but couldn't think.

She was going to die choking on her own air.

“You're okay—” Jethro brushed the hair off her forehead “—it takes a minute. Breathe out first then you'll be able to breathe in.”

It went against every action her brain was sending her way, but she was desperate so she followed his instructions and pushed air out. Immediately air flowed back in. She drew in deep breaths. She just may live after all.

The tension went out of him and his body settled on hers again. He laid his forehead on hers. “You scared me.”

“I scared me.”

“Is that how you fight zombies?”

“No, that's how I fight sloppy drunks except I hit my target. I was trying to save you.”

“Thank you.”

“You didn't fall for my act.” She cringed at the pout in her voice.

“Oh, I enjoyed the performance. I just didn't let it distract me from your purpose.”

“Your enemy's goal,” she muttered.

He reared back. “You know
The Art of War
?”

The action ground his hips against hers, providing proof his equipment survived the altercation just fine.

She found herself gasping for air again. “There was a copy in my room.” The man probably had the book memorized.

“Are you looking to use my library against me, Lexi?”

She noticed he hadn't moved. Why wasn't he moving?

Why wasn't she pushing him away?

“I don't want to be at war with you.”

“What do you want?” He finally rolled to the side. He leaned on his elbow and gazed down at her. “Why do you really want to learn to fight?”

She sighed and stared at the ceiling. “I told you, I detest having a babysitter when I go out of the hotel.”

“I remember. It makes you feel like a delinquent teenager.” He ran his fingers through her hair. “Bad memories?”

“I know you have a file on me,” she challenged him. “It probably says I had a privileged upbringing. I did.”

“The outside picture doesn't always show all the facts.”

She met his dark gaze, trying to read what he felt. “I suppose someone who went through the foster system would know that better than most.”

“Privileged doesn't mean happy. You mentioned your life changed when your father died.”

“Yes. He was a genius, but he knew how to have fun. Mother wasn't so bad back then. He was a professor and he and my mom homeschooled me. He made learning interesting and he'd take me to class with him sometimes.”

“What did he teach?”

“Math. I was twelve when he had an incapacitating stroke. Mother couldn't handle it. She hired someone to care for him and focused all her attention on me. I spent as much time with him as I could. He died when I was fifteen. I'd just graduated from high school. My mother immediately enrolled me at the university. Because of my dad's connections, I was able to do most of my work at home and email in my assignments. Except for piano. I got to go to class for that.”

“It sounds like you led a sheltered life.”

“It didn't feel like it until it was just mom and me. She loved my dad. He and music were her whole life. When she lost him, first to the stroke and then for good, she focused on the music and I was part of that. She wanted more, bigger, better for me.” Lexi picked at the material over her knee. “At first I welcomed the attention. I was missing my dad and the music was something we could share. Until it became clear that what I wanted seemed to matter less and less.”

“You wanted to dance.”

“Yes! I loved making music, but for me it's more about feeling it. The beat and rhythm connect with something in me and my world comes alive. Mom couldn't—wouldn't—understand that. She saw dance as an unnecessary distraction.”

“You got your doctorate at the age of twenty-two.” His comment confirmed he'd read the reports given to him.

“A slacker by genius standards. I had to work to support myself the last few years.”

“Because you left home when you turned eighteen.”

“I couldn't stay any longer. I felt smothered in that house. She was the only family I had so I kept hoping she'd see reason. But the more I pushed for freedom to do things I liked, the tighter she got on the reins, until I felt like a prisoner in my own home.” She reached up and pulled the band from her hair, sighed at the release of tension.

“For her it was always about playing, about the performance. Not for me. I had a hard time with the symphony because the conductor's version of the music jarred with what I felt. I played it, but it always felt off to me. That's not the career I wanted.”

“And not what your mother wanted to hear.”

Red strands of hair fell in her face when she shook her head. “No. And as long as I was in her house, I had to do things her way.” She lifted one shoulder, let it fall. “So I left.” She met Jethro's dark gaze. “I had to dance. More than the hidden moments I stole for myself. I longed to learn, to know what my body could do. When she did allow me to go somewhere, it was only with an approved companion. As if I couldn't be trusted out of her sight.”

A low growl sounded in the back of his throat. “You know my escorts are there for your safety.”

“Yeah, that's what my mother said too. They were just there in the event something happened I wouldn't be alone. It all boils down to a lack of faith in me.”

“Lexi, that's not true.”

She shrugged. “It's what it feels like.”

He swept her hair behind her ear. “How'd you manage on your own?”

“I had a small trust fund my father left me. I rented a room from one of the professors and added cosmetology to my curriculum. I can play most instruments so the symphony hired me as a backup artist. That was kind of fun. Between that and a few other pickup jobs, I managed until I got my doctorate. As soon as I finished my last course, I bought a bus ticket to New York and never looked back.”

“The Big Apple. You didn't stay there long.”

“I couldn't afford to. That is one expensive burg. And you need to be good, I mean seriously good, to dance in New York. I didn't have the chops or experience they wanted.”

“You met Alliyah there.”

She nodded. “In a dance class. She was the teacher. Now, she was good. I'd watch her and burn with envy. Not because she'd already been in a couple of off-Broadway productions and was working her way up, but because she made it look effortless. She was so beautiful, so graceful. I wanted to be her.”

“How did the two of you end up in Las Vegas?”

“We became friends and then roommates. She got the chance to do a music video with a hip-hop band as the lead dancer. She talked the artist into using me as a background dancer. The choreographer wasn't too pleased, wanted me to pay for my own flight. It was a tough decision, but I'd be getting paid and it would be my first credit. I went for it. Turned out the choreographer liked us, so we got more work and then he offered us spots in the show he was starting for the Monte Carlo. The money was good so we decided to stay.”

“And it wasn't long before the student outreached the teacher.”

“Never. Alliyah was a headliner well before me and would have continued to be, except she got pregnant. Jazi was the most important part of her life. She dropped back into the chorus because it was less demanding and allowed her more time with her child.”

“If the money was good, why was she moonlighting?”

A sense of aggravated fondness lifted the corners of Lexi's mouth. “Alliyah liked to shop. For herself, for others. Her lack of discipline in that area was the only thing we ever fought over. She had no real money sense. More than once I had to cover the rent because we all had new pretties.”

“I'm sorry.”

Lexi shook it off. “I didn't mind. We were a family. I just wanted her to be more responsible with her money. For Jazi's sake.”

“You cared.”

“Well, yeah. Of course. She was my best friend. And I loved Jazi from the moment she was born.”

“It shows.” He ran his fingers over the back of her hand. “Thank you for everything you've done for her. Knowing you'll be her mother is the only thing that keeps me sane about this whole arrangement.”

A wash of emotion flooded her, relief, gratitude, affection and so much more. She turned her hand over and curled her fingers with his. “That's the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me.”

“I mean it.”

“I know—that's what makes it matter. Goodness.” She swiped at the tears leaking out of the corners of her eyes. “I'm a mess.” She waved toward him. “I've spilled my guts and now you know my whole life story. What about you? How did you end up in foster care?”

“My mother threw me in the garbage when I was a few weeks old.”

Something, maybe the way he looked away, kept her from laughing at his comment. Because surely he couldn't be serious. People didn't throw infants away as if they were trash.

Except sometimes they did.

“I'm so sorry. Did they find her? Did you ever get to know her?”

“No.”

That was it; he offered nothing more.

His stiff posture shouted his discomfort. Knowing how reticent he was she imagined he rarely, if ever, spoke of this. She'd always wondered what put him off having a family. He was such a strong, intelligent, competent man. Sure he was overprotective and autocratic at times, but he could also be kind and gentle. No one would ever look at him and see a lost little boy.

This was at the heart of the vulnerability she occasionally glimpsed. Why he allowed so few people to get close.

So why spill his guts now? Why to her?

Duh! Because in spite of his desire to remain autonomous, he was a father and he was struggling to find his way.

Her heart bled for him, but she didn't know how to help him. What she did know was keeping it bottled up solved nothing.

“How do you know it was your mom?”

He went still and a scowl darkened his features. “Who else if not my mother?”

She leaned forward, kept her tone soft, gentle. “Maybe your father, or a grandparent?” Neither were acceptable substitutes, but slightly less traumatic than being rejected by your mother.

How often had she angsted over why her mother didn't love her?

He pulled away from her touch. “Is that supposed to make me feel better—that my whole family threw me away?”

“No.” Not letting him push her aside, she wrapped her arms around one of his and propped her chin on his shoulder. “I'm saying you don't know what happened. It takes a lot for a woman to abandon her child.”

“Then where was she?” he demanded. “Why didn't she fight for me?”

And there was the little boy.

“Maybe she couldn't. Maybe she died and your dad panicked. Maybe she was a runaway forced to work the streets and her pimp threw you away. Or maybe someone from another town stole you and then couldn't live with what they did so they left you somewhere on the way home.”

A heavy sigh lifted his chest. “Oh, that's nice.”

“I'm sorry, but an infant in the garbage is ugly. What led to it is going to be just as ugly. Maybe whoever threw you away thought you were dead.”

“You're just full of colorful scenarios. Maybe it was a zombie.”

“Ha-ha. Haven't you ever made up stories imagining what happened?”

He shook his head. “Being thrown in the trash seemed a pretty clear message to me.”

“Not to me. How about this? High school sweethearts very much in love. She gets pregnant at sixteen. He stands by her, but her parents kick her out of the house. It still happens. His parents refuse to take her in so the young couple leaves for the big city. He'll get a job, they'll get an apartment, everything will be fine. Instead they end up on the streets. They have no money, no insurance. You come early. Your dad tries to get your mom to a hospital, but you come too fast. He has to deliver you himself, and then your mom hemorrhages, and he can't stop it.

“Someone finally comes to help him. They call 911. She's dead and you're crying. He's seventeen and afraid. All he can think is if the authorities come they'll take you away. He grabs you and runs. But he has no resources, no way to feed or clothe you. He tries his best, even robs a convenience store, but those supplies don't last long, and it's cold, and you're sickly.”

Into the story, Lexi cleared a lump from her throat. Jethro sat still as a stone next to her.

“He wants to take you home except he can't. It was because of his parents and hers that she was gone. He can't go back to that life, to the people who saw honor in death over morals. He needs more supplies so he hides you in a trash can a safe distance away and attempts to rob another store. This time the owner has a shotgun under the counter and your dad is shot and killed. Sometime later you're found in the trash can but the two incidents are never linked.”

Silence followed the end of her story. Lexi bit her lip, waiting for Jethro's response, which remained unvoiced for long minutes.

“You do realize,” he finally said, “in this version I'm responsible for the destruction of my parents.”

“Oh, come on.” Frustrated with his pessimism, she reared back and socked him in the arm. “Clearly this was a story of two people who loved their son so much they'd give anything for him, including their lives.”