Emma Holly (29 page)

"Charity," he said, his hand reaching toward her arm. She turned back halfway, the look in her eyes cautious. He willed his tone to be soft. "I'm glad you're here. I'm glad you're shaking things up."

Her smile wasn't as sure of itself as it could have been. "Good," she said over her shoulder. "I'll see what else I can shake up tonight."

His blood pumped faster at the promise. He had no doubt she meant what she said.

B.G.
slapped off the view screen, walked four steps toward his favorite chair, and picked up a glass of partially drunk pinot noir. He was distantly aware of his face being boiling hot.

Eric and Charity thought he was a hermit. Today's excursion had been about pity, not friendship.

He clenched his hand around the stem of the glass. He had no one to blame but himself for this unwanted knowledge. He shouldn't have watched them. He should have turned away the moment he saw their interaction was personal. He should have remembered how easily people forgot the presence of cameras. If nothing else, that stupid
Real World
show should have taught him that.

Without taking a sip, he put down the wine and sat. The bowling shoes pinched his feet. Maybe rentals

would have been better. Maybe a normal person wouldn't have cared about a few old germs.

Honestly, though, what was Eric thinking? Why didn't he verbalize his sentiments? Anyone could see Charity was smitten, but B.G. knew women needed words. If Charity didn't get them, she wouldn't feel secure enough to give hers back. The exchange of emotional confidences was a crucial stage in developing a relationship!

Anger made for a more comfortable heat than humiliation. Letting it rise, B.G. toed off his shoes and kicked them across the rug.

They were idiots, the pair of them. B.G. wasn't romantic, and he had no trouble picturing them happy, the solution as clear as any scientific theorem he'd ever solved. He shifted in his seat as the picture rose.

Eric and Charity would buy a little Craftsman-style home on the slopes of Queen Anne Hill. They'd sit on the porch each morning, drinking coffee and taking in the view. B.G. would visit them for holidays—platonically, of course, because they'd be married by then. Naturally his daydream wouldn't match reality point for point—one couldn't give dictation to the universe—but he knew his instincts were sound.

Those two fit each other: Eric's responsibility, Charity's wildness, the way they worked as a team.

Although the game had gone off the rails of late, its basic structure heightened their reactions admirably.

B.G. shouldn't have had any difficulty nudging them together. He'd proved his methods for success too many times to doubt them now.

He worried his lower lip between his finger and thumb, despite knowing how little this agitation would help his cause. He hoped he hadn't been mistaken in introducing his methods to Charity. She seemed to be making progress, but perhaps her long habit of doubt was obstructive.

Let it go
, he thought, closing his eyes and forcing a slower breath. If his confidence remained firm, the universe would do the job for him. Serendipity worked better than human will.

When he'd pushed away his frustration, his hurt remained. It didn't matter. He
was
a creature of habit—a hermit, as they had said. He'd always be more comfortable here than out in the world. He'd made his peace with that—more than made his peace, he'd turned it into an asset.

His calm was an asset, too, letting his mind roam free. The answer already existed in the quantum realm.

He would find it if he relaxed.

Hermit or not, Charity wasn't the only one who could shake things up.

"Have
you seen this?" Sylvia demanded.

She pushed off the wall outside Charity's room to flap a sheet of folded stationery in her face. Clearly, she'd been lying in wait for Charity to return from her swim.

Just as clearly, she'd spent the wait fuming.

Reluctant to open her door and allow the other woman to continue her rant inside, Charity took the letter from her hand. Her brows went up as she read.

"It sounds like B.G. has given up on enforcing the rules. 'Until further notice, guests and staff may form whatever personal arrangements they choose without said arrangements negatively impacting the terms of their employment.'" Charity looked from the neatly printed letter to Sylvia's white-faced rage. "Well, I don't know why he did it, but I admit I also don't know why you're mad. How can this be a bad thing?"

"He didn't tell me," Sylvia said. "This"—she tapped the paper—"was taped to your door. I had to hear the news through Michael."

"The surveillance guy?"

"Yes. He's support staff like I am, though
he
rates a notice." Her mouth twisted to one side.

"Apparently, the high and mighty B.G. Grantham no longer cares what I do."

"I'm sure he values your skills. Maybe he overlooked your copy because, um, your responsibilities changed recently."

Sylvia glared at the reminder, causing Charity to pull her terrycloth robe closer to her neck.

"He's a capitalist pig," Sylvia snapped, "changing the rules to suit himself."

"I thought you liked him."

"I do!" she said, then pressed her fist to her mouth. "Most of the time."

In spite of her annoyance, Charity softened when she saw the other woman's eyes well up. Sylvia was a drama queen, and odd to boot, but nobody liked feeling slighted. Hoping to calm her, she put her hand to Sylvia's impressively hard bicep. "Can't you make the best of it? Have your fun and ignore the rest? I mean, now you can see Michael all you want without sneaking around."

Charity realized sneaking around might be part of the appeal, but she didn't expect Sylvia's abruptly glacial regard. "Michael told me you walked in on him," she said. "He told me you guessed he was screening surveillance tapes for me."

"I didn't tattle to B.G., if that's what you're getting at. I only asked him not to do it again."

Sylvia continued to stare, her arms now folded across her chest, her expression measuring. Her slender fingers tapped her elbows. When she forgot to frown, she was one of the loveliest women Charity had ever seen: a true sculpted ice princess. She could understand how a man's better judgment might be dazzled.

Finally, Sylvia stopped tapping. "I'm sorry," she said. "I shouldn't be mad at you. You're only trying to be nice. It's simply that Michael isn't the point."

"He's cute," Charity said. "And smart at his job."

At this, Sylvia rubbed her lower lip. "Do you want him?" she asked. "Michael enjoys being dominated. It makes him quite excitable."

Charity couldn't help it: The thought of accepting flashed through her mind. If Eric or B.G. wanted to watch, she might have been more inclined to bite, but she got the distinct impression that wasn't what Sylvia was suggesting. Either this was Sylvia's idea of a friendly gesture, or she was hoping to participate.

"Um, my, plate is kind of full right now."

"Yes," Sylvia said with an expression she couldn't read. "I guess it is. You're welcome to change your mind, you know. I have no hold on him."

From what she'd seen, Charity doubted that. Michael was as obsessed with the blonde masseuse as a man could be.

"I appreciate the offer," she said, hoping to avoid insult.

"Hmpf," Sylvia snorted and spun away. She was wearing tight black leather jeans, and her little fanny twitched as she walked. As if she knew Charity was watching, she wagged one finger in the air. "You're also welcome to change your mind about me."

She said this without turning, but Charity still did her best to hide her reaction—just in case the masseuse had eyes in back of her head. Pretty or not, pitiable or not, Sylvia wasn't someone she wanted to tangle with… on any basis.

She shook her head, then noticed she'd unknowingly crumpled B.G.'s letter in half. Here was another mystery. Did B.G.'s change of heart mean she'd passed a test or failed one? Would suspending the game increase or decrease the closeness between the three of them? Most of all, what did she really want to happen?

Unable to answer, she turned to open her door. Working herself into a state would do her no more good than it had Sylvia. Rather than jump to conclusions, she could ask B.G. what he meant.

For all she knew, he'd simply decided bowling was better than sex.

Steam
rolled through B.G.'s private sauna like Hollywood horror fog. B.G.'s and Eric's backs were propped in opposite corners, their legs stretched down the same cedar bench. With the ease of long association, their knees lolled together lazily.

"You're sure about this?" Eric asked, the tension from his talk with Charity nearly sweated out. His tension at B.G.'s decision was a different matter. That cohabited just fine with the oppressive heat. "You want to throw the rules out the window. No more waiting. Everyone can ask for what they want and say

'yes' or 'no' as they please."

"Everyone could always say 'yes' or 'no.'" B.G.'s eyes were closed, his hands folded loosely across his flat belly. Like Eric, his hips were wrapped in a towel. Despite the sweat beading on his face, he looked ready to fall asleep.

"Just tell me why," Eric said, unaccountably frustrated. It wasn't his job to be annoyed—or pleased—by B.G.'s choices.

"Perhaps I think our guest has the right to know the difference between what each of us truly feels and what we do for the game." B.G.'s eyelids tipped halfway up, but between the clouds of vapor and his boss's talent for concealment, Eric couldn't read his emotions.

"You heard us talking," he said, guessing that much.

"Yes," B.G. admitted.

"Shit." Eric sat up and pressed his fists to his thighs. "You heard what we said about you not getting out enough."

"Yes, but that has nothing to do with this."

"The hell it doesn't. You've got to be a little angry and hurt."

B.G. closed his eyes again. "If I am, it's my concern."

"You're pissed at us. You want to push us away."

"If I wanted to push you away, why would I make it possible for us to be together without limits?"

"I don't know." Eric swung his feet onto the sealed-concrete floor. "Maybe Charity makes you uncomfortable. Maybe you're hoping you'll get tired of her if you can have her all you want."

"Does that scenario seem likely?"

"No, but I'm not you."

B.G. seemed to like this answer, surly though it was. "It's an experiment," he said with a gentle smile. "I want to observe the effects of this change. You know I'm always interested in human behavior."

"Charity isn't your guinea pig!"

B.G. drew his finger and thumb down either side of his grin. "Why do you assume I'm experimenting on her?"

Eric had no answer. How could he when B.G. kept the majority of his thought processes to himself?

Stymied, he settled back into his corner, his knees drawn closer to his chest. Sometimes it really ticked him that he didn't understand better this man he loved.

"You don't have to stay with me," B.G. said. "I'm perfectly fine on my own."

"Are you kicking me out?"

"Of course I'm not. I merely thought you'd want to spend time with her now that you don't have to hold back."

"People always hold something back," Eric retorted. "It's human nature—as you should know."

B.G. laid his hand on Eric's ankle. His fingers were slick with sweat, his expression watchful and calm.

"Maybe you're afraid of what would happen if you opened up."