Getting Naughty. Avril Tremayne
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a quizzical look. “Why are you brooding at me?”
“I’m not brooding.”
“Yes, you are.”
“I don’t brood. Rafael broods.”
“Rafael only ever brooded in Veronica’s direction. You brood all over the place, you always did. It’s just that you’re an iceberg, so it’s hidden beneath the surface. It’s irresistible, you know. Makes women wonder what lies beneath.”
That threw him, so much that it took him a moment to relocate his voice. “I don’t brood,” he said again—it seemed to be the best he could come up with.
She leaned back in her chair. “Okay, you don’t brood, and you’re not irresistible. Happy?”
“Yes. No. I don’t—” He stopped abruptly, telling his feet to move. Frustrating as hell when they wouldn’t.
She sighed gustily. “Taking a wild guess here, but did Matt not explain any of the background to the ring?”
“He doesn’t have to explain it to me, only to—” He cut himself off again, bit his lip to stop her name from coming out of his mouth.
Her eyes narrowed. “Not to you, but to...Romy?” She sighed. “Romy. Of course. I see.”
And because the thought of her “seeing” enraged him when he’d been hiding it for so long, the words “You see what?” snapped out of him like a whip. He was almost vibrating with the need to tell her she was wrong.
“Things you don’t see, Teague. Things you could never see, things you seem to be unready to see even now, things you might never see even if someone waves them in front of your face before beating you over the head with them.” She stood then, too, as though spoiling for a fight. “But you know what? Good for Romy. Lucky Romy, to have two men so devoted to her, so in love with her for so damn long their brains turn to mush!”
“I didn’t say I’m in love with her,” he said, way too loud.
She snorted. “Oh, please, don’t even. That year I spent in DC there were plenty of women who wanted a piece of you, but they all knew they were wasting their time. The only one who didn’t know how you felt about Romy was Romy—and that was willful ignorance, because if she’d let herself see it she’d have had to let you go.”
“She did let me go. She’s married. They’re married! They have Rose now.”
“And Romy made you Rose’s godfather—which means, bozo, she’s not letting you go.” She rubbed the heels of her hands over her forehead and made a sound redolent of both frustration and disgust. “And why should she when you won’t let yourself go?”
“There’s nothing left to let go of.”
“Sure there is. Your propensity to wallow in misery over what you can’t have! How many years have you chalked up pining for her? Eleven? And it was hardly the love story of the century—only two measly months, and nobody ever saw you hold hands, let alone kiss! So perfectly discreet, so completely passionless! Yet you hung in there and let no one take her place with you. And now to find you’re still hanging in there?” She laughed, but there was a jeer in it. “All I can say is you must enjoy being miserable.”
“I don’t enjoy it!”
“No? Then get over it, the way the rest of us do. ’Cause I can tell you, lots of us want people who don’t have the good sense to want us back.”
“If you’re talking about Matt—”
“I’m not talking about Matt. God! I’m not interested in Matt and I never have been—not like that. And he’s never been interested in me that way.”
“How can you say that when he bought you an engagement ring?”
“I can say it because he wasn’t my fiancé—you were.”
WHAT THE FUCK am I doing? was the thought uppermost in Frankie’s mind as she let those words settle.
Making an idiot of herself over Teague Hamilton seemed the best answer. It’s what she’d done that whole year in DC—lusting, very obviously, for a man who was hung up on someone else.
She thought back over that harried phone call from Matt, the to-and-fro about the ring, about Teague, Matt’s slight hesitation before he’d said that last thing and disconnected: You’re a smart girl, Frankie, figure it out, will you?
Since it was obvious Teague remained hung up on Romy—and damn if she didn’t find that infuriatingly stubborn loyalty as attractive as everything else about him—Frankie wasn’t sure what there was to figure out. Did she want to waste any more time? Because even a normal ménage à trois was overrated, if you asked her; one where the third participant was purely a fantasy in the thick head of one of the active players had to be straight out masochism.
If only he didn’t look so delicious, standing there all frosty-fronted and buttoned-up.
If only she wasn’t so sure she could defrost and unbutton him if he gave her a chance!
If only he’d give her even half a chance...
He sat again, reached for the whiskey, poured out another nip and wrapped his fingers around the glass without lifting it. She marveled at that magical something he had that could make anything near him transform into something whole and lovely—even that crappy chipped glass.
Oh, God, she had to have him. Had to try one last time. Maybe if she tamped down the femme fatale, parceled out the offer of sex in digestible chunks, she might not scare him off this time.
He raised the glass to his mouth at last and took a sip.
“Better?” she asked, taking her seat again.
All he did was look at her.
“Not better,” she said. “Want me to explain?”
He flicked a vague hand on the tabletop as though he’d reached the end of his stamina, which she interpreted as an invitation to proceed.
“Remember Kyle?” she asked, starting easy.
“Big, muscles, tats. Badass.”
“More asshole than badass,” she said, and sucked in a quick breath. “Well, a year after I came home, he turned up in Sydney, engaged to an Aussie. He clearly has a thing for the accent—not that I’m throwing stones, seeing I’m partial to American ones.” She paused to give him a chance to register that he, himself, had an American accent. But...nope. Blank.
“A-a-anyway,” she went on, “Laura—the fiancée—understandably wanted to get married here in Sydney, where her family is, and because Kyle really is an asshole, he decided it’d be fun to invite me to the wedding. I was on the verge of sending back a thanks-but-I’m-pairing-my-odd-socks-that-day reply—” she had to pause there, because she needed a moment to rein in the fury that Kyle would dare expect her to turn up, after what he’d done to her “—until a week before the wedding, when he came to King’s Castle, the club where I work, with an entourage of drunks, presumably an early bucks night. At that point, I figured I’d go to his goddamn wedding and take the hottest date I could get.”
“And you chose Matt.”
“Well, not exact—”
“Because Kyle was always jealous of him,” Teague interrupted, pouring himself more whiskey. “I remember Matt and Romy talking about it.”
“As I was about to say, not exactly.”
He frowned at her. “But