Or maybe I can’t enjoy him past today.
Because I have secrets that I hold close to my chest, the ones I try not to think about, to deny even to myself, and at least one of them, the one that stirs guilt in me, leads to the winery. And Nick Rogers is not the kind of man, or attorney, to leave a stone unturned. That man will wade into the muddy, crocodile-infested waters of my family secrets, and kill the crocodile. Which is good and bad. Good because I need that kind of attorney. Bad because I really care about this man and I haven’t been honest with him about who and what I am. But how could I be? We were two strangers who crossed paths and chose to stay on one.
I down the whiskey-laden coffee like it’s a shot, because Nick’s right. I need it, and the fact that he knows that I need it suggests that he’s already been diving into those muddy waters. But he hasn’t found the crocodiles or he wouldn’t be offering me hot baths. Then again, he gave me whiskey. I glance at the tub and walk to the shower, eager to just get dressed and pack, so I’m ready to leave if things go south. Moving quickly, I step under a spray of warm water in no time, when the buzz of the Baileys hits me, numbing my brain. Numb feels pretty darn good right now, too, just like the water, and while I am in a rush to get downstairs, I am not in a rush to say goodbye, and I find myself lavishing in Nick’s shampoo, conditioner, and body wash, rather than my own.
Soon after, I stand at Nick’s sink, in Nick’s house, feeling incredibly comfortable in the alpha domain, of a man who might have his head in the mouth of my crocodiles. I apply my makeup and dry and flat-iron my hair, while, of course, stuffing my face with croissants. Because why wouldn’t you stuff your face with loads of calories when you’re pretty certain the alpha man of the house won’t be seeing you naked again after this talk? Once I’ve packed on five pounds, I spray on Nick’s cologne, because he smells better than me, and I’m obviously feeling a bit more clearheaded, because I’m not vowing to eat carrot sticks, rice cakes, and nothing else tomorrow. Which is me lying to myself, the way I feel like I lie to the world. And I really hate carrot sticks and lies, I think, and part of me just wants to confess all to Nick, and see if he can handle it.
I think I will. I’ll confess all.
Or not.
I make my way to Nick’s large walk-in closet, where I’ve hung my clothes, the neat, organized way his clothes are lined up exactly as I expect of a dominant control freak. Exactly as Macom’s always were. There are similarities in the two men that I only just now am acknowledging, though on some level I’ve known they existed. But Nick is not Macom. Not even close to Macom, and it’s an insult to him that I even think of them in the same box. And damn it, all I’m doing is justifying reasons to walk away when I get downstairs, and I know it. I shove my own nonsense away and get dressed, choosing black jeans and a lacy top, I pair with knee highs, and lace up black boots. And when I’m done, I don’t let myself pack my bag. Instead, I retrieve my coffee mug and after a quick path through the bedroom, I’m traveling down Nick’s glass and steel stairwell, toward the lower level of his home. The high ceilings and long, clean lines of the entire structure, as well as the pale hardwood floors, as sleek and sexy as the man—everything in this house screams sex and power, like the man who owns it. I’m quite certain everything about my demeanor right now screams of guilt.
I step into the living area, a white rectangular island dividing the two rooms. And the man who is power and sex sits at one of the four gray leather barstools on either side of it, paperwork and a MacBook sitting in front of him. His eyes meet mine, his keen and intelligent, too intelligent for my own good, and I remind myself: I have attorney-client privilege. I’m protected, and Nick just told me himself that he’s no saint. If he knows what I’ve done, he didn’t exactly go cold and brutal on me. If anyone can handle the truth, he can. If anyone can protect me, he can. Of course, if anyone can destroy me, he can as well. And so, I have to decide, right here and now: Can I trust Nick Rogers?
CHAPTER FOUR
Nick
Faith rounds the corner looking so damn good in a pair of snug jeans, with some sort of lace top that hugs her breasts, and that makes me wish my hands were hugging them instead. And for just a moment, I contemplate marching her back upstairs, stripping her naked and fucking her one, two, or maybe ten times while having this conversation. Or perhaps before and after. But the problem with fucking is that it makes everything better while you’re doing it, even lies, and I don’t want to feel better about my lies, or invite her to spin any of her own. Not that I think Faith lies. I came looking for a liar and a killer, and all I found was a liar: me. But today is not about lies. It’s about the facts as I laid them out in my head while she slept last night.
“How was the coffee?” I ask, as she steps to the opposite side of the island and sets her cup down, my gaze finding her delicate little hands—talented, gifted hands, her nude nails somehow simple, yet elegant. I don’t notice women’s hands. But then, other women are not her, nor are they talented with a paintbrush, and Faith most definitely is talented.
She turns her cup upside down. “It’s empty and dry. And as for how it was. It was strong enough to make me stuff my face with croissants and weak enough to have to devour three thousand calories worth of croissants to return me to sanity.”
“Well then,” I say. “Let’s make you another cup.”
I start to move away and she catches my hand, and I don’t remember ever feeling a woman’s touch like I do Faith’s. Like a punch in the chest, I feel it go straight to my balls, which, to a man, might just be the perfect contradiction. “I don’t want to be impaired when we talk,” she says, her pale, pink-painted lips tightening, as she adds, “Tiger,” my legal nickname. “You’ll rip out your opponent’s throat, right?”
I turn my hand over and close it around hers. “Your Tiger, sweetheart,” I say, sensing the apprehension in her. “And the only throats I’m going to rip out are those of your enemies. You know that, right?”
“I do, actually,” she says, her eyes meeting mine. “I know, and I needed someone on my side, and suddenly you were just there. Fate, I guess, if you believe in that kind of thing, and I’m not sure I’ve told you how lucky that feels.”
“Then why are your nails digging into my hand?” I ask, while guilt over the fate that I created jabs at me like a blunt, rusty blade, trying to bleed me dry.
“I’m sorry,” she says, softening her grip on my palm. “Your ‘we need to talk’ clearly has me uptight. Maybe I do need that Baileys.”
“And there’s nothing wrong with that,” I say. “I keep a bottle of scotch in my office. Sometimes you need to take the edge off.”