Chapter 19
Naked .
Leaning against the door of Reese’s fancy bathroom, gray and white checked tile beneath my feet, I am naked in every possible way. What is this man doing to me? What is this crazy, wild emotion in my belly and in my chest? I don’t remember feeling this with Mitch, the little cheating bitch. Not even before he was the little cheating bitch, though I suspect he was always that, I just didn’t know it. I don’t remember feeling this with anyone I’ve ever met. Really, truly, how does an asshole that cut in line become this, whatever this is?
And he thinks I’m running. I’m not running. I’m protecting myself. I’m making sure I don’t make the same mistake twice. That’s smart. That’s not scared, which is what the word “running” implies. Scared. He called me scared. My father calls me scared anytime I do something that doesn’t fit his agenda. Suddenly I’m angry, and I shove aside the whole feeling naked thing. I decide I need to draw lines with Reese. I need to tell him exactly what I think, despite the fact that at this moment, I have no clue what that is. I do, however, have complete confidence that it will come to me, and then out of my mouth it will flow. To him. Probably loudly.
I yank open the door, and my moment of confrontation is quite anticlimactic, considering the fact that I don’t actually have a visual of Reese. He’s definitely not on top of his massive four-poster bed, which isn’t all bad, since that would likely distract me. I walk out into the room and snatch up his shirt because I’m not going anywhere. I’m not running. But maybe he is, since he’s not here. I don’t like that thought, but I stay the course. I pull his shirt over my head and let it fall to my knees. That’s when my gaze lifts right and I realize that Reese is sitting with his back to me, in a giant oversized chair in front of the wall of windows.
I inhale, and all those words I was certain I’d have at the right moment, I don’t have. At all. What I have is honesty that just decides to smack me right in the face. I did run when I darted to the bathroom. In doing so, I lost the chance to read him in the aftermath of that steamy encounter. I regret that. I don’t like regrets. I have too many of those, which finally led me to where I am now. To him. I still don’t know what I am going to say to him, but I decide I’ll know when I look into his eyes. One of the things I love about being with this man is how easy conversation is with him. How straightforward he is with me. How comfortable I am with him. It’s my past that is uncomfortable for us both.
I round the giant, oversized chair and join him, sitting down next to him, but I don’t touch him. I am so hypertensive with this man, though, that I have this sensation of touching. I can feel him everywhere, from my head to my toes, inside and out. I can almost taste him. Seconds tick by, and we both stare ahead, the connection we have shared from the moment we met expanding, intensifying, and then, proving how in tune I am with this man, at the same moment, we turn to look at each other. And in that first connected moment, he steals my breath and ravishes my resistance. He’s not overbearing or brutally alpha, like many of the men in my life have been. He doesn’t have to be those things. There is an inner strength about him, and a natural charm that allows him to own everyone around him. The way he owns me right now.
“You didn’t run,” he says softly.
“Actually, I did,” I say, giving him a small smile. “Right into the bathroom.”
“Yes,” he says, caressing my cheek. “But you’re still here. That’s what matters.”
I catch his hand. “Do you know why I called you an asshole?”
“Tell me.”
“Because then I didn’t have to be surprised when you turned out to be an asshole.”
“Guilty until proven innocent?”
“Yes, actually. I know. I’m a hypocrite, but it’s been working for me.”
“It doesn’t work for us, Cat.”
“Then I guess it doesn’t work for me.”
His eyes warm and his arm wraps around my shoulders. “Come here,” he says. Inching me closer.
I let him. I want to be closer to this man, so I snuggle into the shelter of his big, warm body. And maybe that idea is what shakes me more than anything with Reese. That he feels like a safe place, when I’ve spent so much time making sure I’m my own safe place. For right now, he is, though, and I decide to enjoy it.
For at least a full minute, we sit there in silence, staring out at the city, the quiet between us comfortable, and somehow a test that says this, whatever this is between us, is right, not wrong. “The view is incredible,” I murmur, snuggling closer to him. “There’s something about the angle. It’s like we’re floating and no one can touch us.”
“This view is why I bought this place and why I haven’t left this building. Well, this view, and that bar downstairs. It’s the view that helps me come up with answers to ten thousand questions.”
“What questions are you asking now?”
“Who was he?” he asks, and I don’t have to ask for clarification. He’s not talking about his trial, as I’d expected. He’s talking about me, and my past, and the history that I’ve forced between us.
“No one,” I say, but I know he wants more than that, and at this point, he deserves it. I settle and add, “His name is Mitch Welk.”
He”s silent several beats, in which I suspect I haven’t given him the answer he wanted. “Reese—”
“I know Mitch, Cat,” he surprises me by saying.
I twist around to face him. “What? How? Are you friends with him?”
“Relax, sweetheart.” He pulls my leg across his. “I went to school with him. I’ve run into him a few times since, but he was a dick in school and apparently still is.”
“He is what he is.”
“No trash talking?”
“Not my style,” I say.
“Good. It’s not mine either. For the record, him being a dick is a statement of fact that I could back up with evidence but I don’t have to. You know.” He moves on. “How did you meet him?”
“A party at my father’s offices. His firm partners with my father’s on occasion.”
“Did you love him?”
“If I did, I can honestly say that I don’t remember it now. And I don’t think you forget love.”
“What about the fuck buddy?”
“Did I love him? No. Who was he? Lance Parish. A professional sculptor, and where Mitch was a shark, Lance was a goldfish.”
“How long did your sculptor stay your fuck buddy?”
“He wasn’t my sculptor, and six months. It was sex. I told you that. He got the job done.”
“That is not the way a man wants his bedroom skills to be remembered.”
“You have nothing to worry about, and you know it.”
“I get the job done.”
“Yes.” I laugh, stroking his jaw. “You do get the job done, and for the record, I’m avoiding a joke with a certain nickname right now, despite the opening you’re giving me. Because I know you hate it.” I dive past the joke and turn the topic. “There has to have been some woman in your life.”
“In my early career, there was someone. But to her, my work was king, and that left no room for her.”
“Was she right?”
“Yes.”
“Did you love her?”
“If I had loved her, maybe my work wouldn’t have been number one. If she had loved me, maybe my work would have been more important to her, and less important to me. She wanted more. I didn’t understand her version of more.”
“And since her?”
“I don’t bring women to my apartment. I don’t take them into my bed. I don’t share this view. I don’t talk about my work or my life. I don’t fuck without a condom.” His hand slides to my face. “I don’t just want more. This is more to me, and I want to know where that leads. If you don’t—”
“I do,” I whisper. “But please don’t turn out to be an asshole.”
His eyes light with mischief, a hint of starlight in the depths of his blue eyes. “Since you said please.” His cellphone rings. “What do you think the odds are that this is my client actually calling me the fuck back?” he asks, pulling his phone from his pocket to glance at the screen and then me. “Royce. Let’s hope he has some good news.” He answers the call. “What do you have for me?”
He listens a minute, his leg tensing under my palm and calf that has landed on top of it. “When?” he bites out, followed by a pause, in which more bad news must follow, since his next reply is “Fuck,” followed by “Fuck.” He stands up, pressing two fingers to his temple to once again ask, “When?”
Feeding off his energy, I stand up, listening to the rest of the short exchange, with little understanding, on pins and needles, waiting to hear what has happened. Finally, Reese ends the call and looks at me. “Nelson Ward decided to leave the city by way of private jet.”
“Oh my God. You don’t leave on a plane while on trial for murder. What are his restrictions?”
“He had a liberal travel agreement compliments of me,” he says, “but it did not include traveling during the trial.”
“What does your gut say? Is he running?”
“He hasn’t returned any of my calls all day. He has to be running.” He shoves fingers through his dark hair. “Holy hell, Cat. I would not have defended him if I believed he was guilty.”
“I know that. Everyone who knows you knows that. Maybe he’s just taking a quick overnight flight and returning tomorrow.”
“Or he’s running.”
“He could be,” I concede. “But that could be about fear, not guilt. This is scary stuff he’s facing. How did Royce find out?”
“Walker Security oversees a huge portion of the airport security now. He got a flag. And he’s also got a private plane I can use to follow the asshole when we figure out where he went.”
“I know you want to talk to him for about ten different reasons, but if you follow him, you might look complicit.”
“That won’t happen. If necessary, Royce’s team will take him into custody and I’ll arrange for him to be taken into police custody. Unfortunately, it’s too late in this trial for the judge to allow me to get the hell off this ship.” His hands come down on my arms. “I want you to come with me, but I won’t put you in the sights of a man who might be a killer. Stay here at my place. Be here, in my bed, when I get back.”
“I’m in your bed for you and with you, not without you. Not yet.” I push to my toes and kiss him. “I’ll come back when you get back.”
“I’m not going to win this argument in the ten minutes I have before I have to leave, am I?”
“Not when you have to pack and leave.”
His phone pings with a text. “As if making your point,” he says, pulling his phone from his pocket and reading the message. “Royce is five minutes out, per his wife.” He slides his cell back into his jeans and kisses me. “I need to get ready, but know this, woman. I am going to come and get you when I get back.” He turns and starts walking away.
“You need to pack an overnight,” I call after him.
He pokes his head back into the room. “Can you grab me a razor and a new shirt?”
“Yes. Of course.”
“Thanks, sweetheart.” He winks and disappears into the hallway, and I’m left in his room with his trust.
It matters.
And every single time he calls me “sweetheart,” I feel it with a flutter of my belly. I’m like a silly schoolgirl, and I was never a silly schoolgirl. I’m not sure what that says about me with him, but I’ll analyze it later. I change out of Reese’s shirt, put my clothes and shoes on, and then refocus on Reese’s overnight bag, which needs more than a shirt and a razor inside. I dart into action and cross to what I assume to be the closet. Flipping on the light, I find an incredible, wonderful closet fit for a hundred pairs of high heels with a few modifications, like actually buying that many heels. It’s all gray wood with a center dresser and rows of clothes framing it, with drawers and shelves stacked between rails.
Once I’ve spied a small leather travel bag, I snag it and head to the bathroom. I pack the razor first, a few random toiletries, and the cologne that smells the most like him today. I return to the closet, opening random drawers until I locate socks and, yes, underwear, of which he has a color assortment. I choose blue and red because, hey, I’m patriotic. I then grab a pair of jeans and pack them as I debate a suit but rule it out. He just needs a few shirts. I rotate and walk to the T-shirt row and reach for one in black and another beside it in blue, but pause when my eyes catch on a pink shirt. Pink? I grab it and my throat goes dry. It’s a female-cut T-shirt with flowers on it and a V-neck. Nothing to hide, my ass. He said he didn’t invite women here.
“That’s not my size.”
I whirl around to find Reese standing in the doorway, still bare-chested, but his pants are zipped and his boots are on his feet. “I noticed,” I say.
“It is, however—or was, rather—just right for my sister, who was here right before the trial started. She left it in my closet, because I shrank it, which, she says, I need to repent for by calling her more often.”
“Your sister,” I say, my throat dry all over again.
“Yes, Cat. My sister.” He walks toward me and shows me his phone. “Look.”
I feel like I shouldn’t look, but since he’s offering, I accept. I glance down at the screen to find a photo of a pretty brunette that favors him, wearing this exact T-shirt. “My sister,” he says. “She sent that photo to me today with this message.” He pushes a few buttons and then presents me with a text message. “From my sister.”
This time I wave off the phone. “I don’t need to read that, Reese.”
“I’ll read it to you,” he says. “She says: You owe me a phone call, big brother. I know, I know. The trial. So call me after. Kill ’em while you can.” He glances up at me. “She has a horrible sense of humor,” Reese says. “Almost as bad as you.”
“Yes,” I agree, “she does, but I’m the one who is bad. I won’t pretend my mind wasn’t in the wrong place. It was. I’m sorry.” I hang the shirt back up. “Did I mention that I suck at relationships?”
“You called this a relationship, not a one and done, Cat. You were honest about what you thought. In my book, those are wins.” His phone starts to ring, and he kisses me. “Sorry, sweetheart.” He pulls his phone from his pocket and answers the call. “We’re on our way down, Royce.” He listens a moment. “Yes. Got it.” He ends the call. “Royce is picking us up. He’s downstairs.”
“Us?”
“I’m not leaving you to walk home or struggle to get a car,” he says, grabbing a shirt and pulling it over his head. “We’ll drive you home.”
“Right. Thanks. That works. I didn’t pack you a suit,” I say. “Surely you won’t need it.”
“I won’t,” he says. “And if we’re lucky, I’ll make it to the airport, figure out what the hell is going on, and get to turn around and come back home to better things, and that means you.” He eyes the contents of the bag I’ve packed, and then me. “You’re officially the first woman since my mother to choose my underwear.” He pulls the bag onto his shoulder. “I like the red, by the way.”
We both laugh as I say, “I favor the blue,” and we head out of the room and down the stairs, but despite his humor, I sense the edge to him, how bothered he is by the idea that he is representing a killer. And it’s just one more reason to fall for this man. “Does Royce have any idea where Nelson is headed?” I ask as we reach the den and start packing up our work from earlier.
“Nothing on that yet,” he says, zipping up his briefcase, “but we’re a little too close to the Canadian border for comfort. It’s a common jumping spot to another country.”
He’s right. We are, and this isn’t looking good. We walk to the front door, and as I pull the handle on my roller bag, Reese turns to me, wrapping his arm around me and pulling me close, his eyes searching mine. His expression is indiscernible. “What is it?” I ask, my hand on his chest, and I can feel his heart thundering beneath it.
Suddenly, his hands are at my face and he’s tilting my gaze to his. “Don’t get spooked while I’m gone and run. I’ll just run faster, because I don’t give up when I want something.” He kisses me then, a deep, drugging kiss, and when it’s over, he adds, “And I want you, Cat.” He doesn’t wait for an answer or allow that statement to become negotiable. He opens the door, and in a few moments, we’re walking down the hall, side by side, my hand in his again. Soon he’ll be leaving, while I’m staying, but it’s not goodbye. After tonight, it’s a whole new beginning. One where you are innocent until you prove yourself guilty.