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“Could you hold me? Just for a minute?”
Tara’s quiet question turned the dining room colder than a ship’s freezer. Rand’s muscles froze and his brain screamed, No. Hell no. Don’t fall for her tricks.
But over the past hour of packing her mother’s belongings she’d confused the hell out of him. Had she really been fighting to hide her tears and quivering bottom lip from him, or had she been giving the performance of a lifetime, letting him see just enough bogus pain to suck him in? Because her quiet, solitary grief had been so convincing she’d almost choked him up.
If she was really hurting and not acting, then a simple hug wasn’t too much to ask. From anyone other than him.
But he owed her. She’d busted her butt at the office, doing more work in three days than most assistants could accomplish in three weeks. She hadn’t complained once about the staggering workload involved in getting him up-to-date on the company, the twelve-hour days or the lack of breaks. She’d simply had snacks and drinks sent up from the cafeteria.
He flexed his fingers, knowing what he needed to do, what he ought to do, and dreading it. He opened his arms. Tara fell against him. The soft thud of her body hit him like a freight train. He reluctantly encircled her with his arms. Reminding himself this could be an act to lure him into her trap, he tried hard to stay detached, tried to ignore her scent, her softness, her heat.
But indifference was nearly impossible when he could feel her breaths hitching, could feel the tension in her rigid body as she fought to maintain control. Or faked it.
Warmth seeped through his shirt. Tears. The dampness spread across his chest and her body trembled against his.
He didn’t do crying women.
This was exactly the kind of emotionally charged situation he avoided with his lovers. Normally he’d have been long gone by now. Watching Tara hug a sweater or a book or some other trinket to her chest and then carefully sort each item into boxes had brought back memories he’d rather not revisit. Memories of the Kincaid staff packing away his mother’s possessions after her death.
Rand had wanted to keep his mother’s favorite scarf, the one that smelled like her. His father had ripped it from Rand’s hands with a terse, “What are you, a pansy-boy? Go to your room.”
All Rand had wanted was a tangible memory of his mother. Hell, he’d been fourteen and drowning in the guilt of not being able to keep her from driving. Rand had known his mother was drunk and angry with his father about another woman. He’d known because she’d always ranted to Rand when his father screwed around.
Confidant wasn’t a good role for a kid, and Rand blamed his selfish, immoral ass of a father for putting him in that unenviable position. But Rand hadn’t argued. He’d been terrified his father would find out his role in not preventing his mother’s death and kick him out.
By the time Rand had been allowed out of his room every trace of his mother had been removed from the house. Not even Nadia had been allowed to keep any of their mother’s things.
He stuffed down the memories and sat on the mattress of the mechanical hospital-style bed, pulling Tara between his thighs. Every effort had been made to turn this room into a comfortable bedroom, but not even Tara’s old headboard bolted to the wall could make this anything less than it was. An invalid’s room.
He recognized the furniture from his affair with Tara, and memories flooded him. Memories of hot sex and of the playful bondage games involving that headboard. Memories that made him granite hard.
He shifted, hoping Tara would pull it together and break up the snuggle party. “You okay?”
She nodded and sniffed. And moved closer. Close enough that her hair tickled his chin and her scent filled his lungs. Close enough that her breasts pressed his chest and her mound nudged his inner thigh. Her heat burned him. And turned him on.
He moved to ease the pressure against his growing erection by leaning back on the pillows propped against the headboard and stretching out his leg. But Tara crawled into the bed with him and settled beside him. Her hips and legs aligned with his, and she rested her cheek on his chest. She wiggled even closer, reminding him she’d always been the cuddly type.
She was the only lover he’d ever lingered with, but in limited doses. More was risky.
So was this.
He wanted up. And out. Of this room. Of this house. Of this state.
This wasn’t part of their agreement. He couldn’t trust her.
The hardening flesh beneath his fly reminded him he couldn’t trust himself, either.
“It’s like sa-saying goo-goodbye again,” she whispered brokenly before he could turn his thoughts into action and peel her off. “It’s just so … ha-hard.” The raw pain in her voice sounded genuine.
But then he’d been taken in by Tara’s lies before.
Rand awkwardly patted her back, but said nothing. He didn’t want to encourage any tearful reminiscences.
Tara’s little gasping breaths eventually slowed and the fist on his chest relaxed. The tension eased from her body on a long sigh and she sank like a dead weight on his left shoulder.
Had she fallen asleep?
Oh, hell. Why hadn’t he run the minute she’d turned those big blue wounded eyes on him?
Why hadn’t he gone to bed earlier when she’d told him to instead of insisting she eat?
His arm tingled with pins and needles and started going numb. He stared at the dining room ceiling, at the chandelier hanging on a shortened chain above the bed.
He should wake her or at the very least dump her on her pink sheets and leave her.
But he remained immobile. He’d give her a few more minutes. If she was exhausted, it was because he’d worked her flat out this week. Once she rested she’d have more control over her messy emotions and be less likely to have another meltdown.
If the meltdown was real.
She might be looking for a rich guy to make her future easier, but the contradictions between gold digger, hard worker and a woman who grieved for her mother nagged him like a puzzle with a missing piece.
Minutes ticked past. He didn’t know how many because he couldn’t see his watch and there were no clocks in the room. His lids grew heavy. He rested his chin on her crown and let the flowery scent of her shampoo fill his nostrils with every breath. She still used the same brand. It pissed him off that he recognized it.
Getting caught up in a woman’s Hallmark moments screwed with his detachment.
But he owed Tara tonight. Just tonight. For going above and beyond the call of duty. For giving KCL a year of her life. If she continued at the pace she’d been working, she’d be a bargain—even at the outlandish salary he was paying her.
But he had to make damn sure he didn’t make a fool of himself over her again.
“It’s 5:00 a.m. Why are you up?” Rand growled from the kitchen entry Thursday morning.
Startled, Tara looked up from the newspaper. “Good morning. If you’re determined to get an early start every day, then I might as well join you. We can carpool and conserve gas.”
Judging by his scowl that was the last thing he wanted to hear from her. “You won’t get overtime for going in early.”
She shrugged. “I didn’t ask for it. I made huevos rancheros. Is that still your favorite?”
Not that they’d ever had breakfast together. Rand had never hung around long enough. But he’d mentioned it once. Funny how she’d remembered, but back then she’d hung on his every word.
His jaw shifted. “I told you, no playing house.”
Was