Kept (12 page)

“You’re still in bed?”

“It’s only seven thirty here.” He talked about how his arm felt, about the massive bruise on his thigh from the comebacker that nailed him last week. He talked about plans he and some teammates had to go deep-sea fishing in Seattle and about the fish they’d caught there last year.

Before long, she couldn’t keep the smile off her face or the laughter from her voice. Dad was so wrong about Mark. This wasn’t about sex. Even if Mark wanted to, he couldn’t see her for almost two weeks. No, this had everything to do with who they were. This was a real relationship.

“I miss you, Miska.”

His longing swirled in her chest. But how many times had he said it? Last November. Christmas Eve. Late January. So many other days during the season. “We don’t need to be apart, Mark. You’ve had all these years with Darcie. You know what life’s like with her, but you don’t know what life’s like with me.”

He chuckled in her ear. “I think I do.”

“Maybe that’s just a taste. Do you realize I can take my work wherever I want? Where would you live in the off season if you could choose?”

“Maybe I like Milwaukee.”

“You’re Texas born and bred. You hate cold.”

He sighed deeply, as if he were stretching.

“Where would you spend your winter?”

“Honestly? Somewhere warm and tropical. Hawaii. The Caribbean. With you.” His words were a seductive caress. “What do you think? The Bahamas? Jamaica?”

“Or maybe the Maldives. Bora Bora. Fiji. Imagine two or three months there.”

He groaned.

“You do your work, I do mine, we go to the beach, come back in for the night—”

“You’re making reservations, right?”

“Only if you’re not with Darcie after August.”

She had him. She’d painted paradise, and it only included her. If he wanted the life he said he did, if he were a real man, he’d jump on it.

No waiting for August.

But silence answered. “Are you there?”

“I’m thinking.”

“What is there to think about? You love me; I love you. I give you freedom to spend your precious offseason however you want. I’m freedom, Mark. Me, not Darcie—”

“I told you not to push it, and I meant it.”

“Don’t you try to string me along. Don’t you test me.”

“Go get your—”

“Don’t come back to me on September first ’cause I won’t be there—”

“Go look up
nag
in your dictionary. See whose picture—”

She laughed at the juvenile cutdown. “Are you serious? You went there? That’s supposed to put me in my place?”

“You’re nagging me, Miska.”

“You’re on thin ice with me. Thought of that? I live in a big city. Lots of good-looking men everywhere I go. Lots of rich, good-looking men. Single too. I’m not going to play this game much longer, and I’m giving you plenty of warning.”

Silence.

She couldn’t even hear him breathing. Was he listening? “We’ve been playing this long-distance romance for too long, and I’m about done. You either make me an honest woman, or you make your bed with Darcie. You go past August, and you won’t see me anymore. That’s a promise.”

The call ended.

Miska screeched at the phone. Of all the idiotic, stupid men out there, and she had to run into this one. Of all the brainless, bonehead jocks in the world— She banged the phone down on the end table. She picked up the laptop and set it down hard on the coffee table. If only Mark were here. She’d bang his head against her desk.

Ooo, he made her mad.

She clenched her hair behind her neck. She was never going to get anything done now. She might as well do some yoga or cook or—

The lasagna!

Suddenly she was glad Mark had called. It put things into such perspective. She and Mark were far from a done deal. It would be wise to keep her options open.

And Dillan was option number one. Dillan, who just might like lasagna.

While the lasagna baked, Miska got herself ready—fresh makeup with bold eye shadow, eye liner, and lipstick, and a sleeveless, plum-colored shirt with a decent amount of cleavage. She played with her hair, finally leaving it down, and touched up the polish on her toes and fingers.

By then the lasagna was done—the basil, oregano, tomato sauce, and sausage smelling as wonderful as she remembered. Amazing that Dillan wasn’t knocking on her door already.

Dillan and his silly tuna. She smiled at his cuteness. What the guy needed was a woman to feed him. Among other things.

She sprayed herself with perfume, took one last look in the mirror, and left. Outside his door, she took a deep breath.

Faint laughter sounded deep inside the condo.

What if he had company?

There was no going back. Everything was ready. He had to be there. He had to come over.

She knocked on the door and waited. She wasn’t in a rush. Really. She’d just cooked a little too much. Was he hungry?

She raised her hand to knock again, but the lock turned on the other side.

The door opened just enough for Garrett to poke his head around it. His hair was messy, as if he’d just gotten up.

“Did I wake you?”

“No. I just—” He waved a hand behind him, eyes fighting to stay above her neck. “I’m home sick today. Not feeling good. Just resting. Watching a little TV.”

He was rambling. Good. She’d dressed well.

“Can I help you with something?” he asked.

“I was looking for Dillan. Is he here?”

“It’s his day off. He’s with Jordan.”

A brother who hung out with his little sister. How perfect was he? “That’s so sweet. What are they up to?”

“I don’t know—exploring the city, I think. Or was it the beaches? Or swimming over to Michigan? Can’t remember.”

She rewarded his lame joke with a smile.

He grinned, gaze finally staying north of her shoulders. “What’d you need him for?”

“Oh. Nothing.” No, there had to be something. “He said something in the gym this morning, and I wanted to ask him about it. I can do it later.” She flashed him a smile, hoping it looked nonchalant. Disappointment seeped through her. “I’ll let you get back to your nap. Feel better.”

“Yeah, thanks.” He closed the door.

Miska returned to her condo. She sank onto a bar stool and flopped across the island top, arms spread. First Mark, now Dillan. Her forearms glided over the cool granite. What next?

Back to work
.

She could almost hear Mom’s voice. How many times had she said that, the Monday morning after a man had moved out? Back to that thing she loved that could never throw her aside. Look how far she’d come, freelancing for two New York publishers and a Chicago one. Look where she lived, how she lived. Yes, man-money helped—a lot—but still…

Day off. What kind of nonsense was that? Who took off Monday?

She ate a large square of lasagna, then wrapped up the steaming leftovers. There was a second, smaller lasagna in the refrigerator. Maybe she’d try again tomorrow.

She finished off the meal with a salad. Now it was back to work.

But as the afternoon wore on, all she could think about was the threat she’d made to Mark and how Dillan hadn’t been around to make it legit. Maybe she needed to go out. Make sure those rich, single, good-looking men were out there.

The longing built until she could think of little else. She ate a light dinner and called Adrienne who was still at work. “Aid, I need to get out. You up for hitting a club?”

“I can’t.” A drawer closed on Adrienne’s end. “Something happened, and I’m going to be here late.”

“But I’m dying. Your stuff can wait.”

Adrienne laughed. “No, it can’t. I probably won’t leave the office until seven. By the time I get home, it’ll be eight. You know how early I get up. Got to save the partying for the weekend.”

“But my weekend stunk, remember? I need another one.”

“Go solo. I’ve seen you in action; it won’t take long.”

Going alone wasn’t something she normally did. “If I turn up dead tomorrow, I’m holding you accountable.”

“Just don’t do anything stupid. Don’t go to his place; don’t take him to yours.”

“You’re no help.”

“I know. Sorry. Have fun.”

Fine. She’d go alone.

Miska searched her closet, finally settling on a sleeveless black sheath dress. If Garrett thought this afternoon’s outfit was something, he’d love this one. She pulled it on and smoothed the low-cut square neckline. She pulled on her favorite, sparkly-black stilettos and twisted in front of the mirror. A little more makeup, something fun with her hair—tonight would be good.

An hour later she sipped her drink as she surveyed men in the poorly-lit club. Two blonds over there, one smiling and starting toward her. No blonds. She looked away, hoping he’d catch the snub. A well-built Hispanic man, another blond—

There. A tall, dark-haired man with his profile to her, deep in conversation with the blond and the Hispanic. She studied him. Maybe Garrett’s height. Maybe Mark’s. Hair a rich chocolate brown, face clean-shaven, his build—what she could see through the blue dress shirt and dark suit pants—lean and athletic.

He must have come from work. What did he do, dressed like that? Something that made money, for sure.

She let her gaze roam over him, though he wouldn’t be the one to notice.

The blond nudged his friend, then nodded in her direction.

She pretended not to see that, but when the man faced her and showed the strong lines of his jaw, she held his gaze, letting her interest show.

He said something to his friends, pushed back from his table, and approached her. He came closer, taking her in with his eyes, his mouth working to control itself. He was taller than she’d thought, which made her even happier.

“May I sit here?” he asked as he sat on the stool beside her.

“I was saving it for you.”

He caught the bartender’s attention and ordered a drink. “I’m Eric. And you are lovely.”

She ducked her head as if his words were sweet. “I’m Mariska. Thanks for coming over.”

He raised his eyebrows, but she didn’t care. They both knew where this was going.

She asked him about his work and where he lived, not paying attention to his answers as she finished one drink and moved to another. When he said something funny, she touched his knee and leaned toward him as she laughed. His eyes lingered where she wanted, and her body warmed when his fingers covered hers.

A few drinks later, he led her to the dance floor and pressed her close while the music played. His hands roamed, and she let him go where he wanted, not caring, not stopping.

But when he whispered, “Mariska,” and she looked up, the lights emphasized the green of his eyes. She blinked. He should have deep brown eyes that matched his hair. And he wasn’t quite tall enough. Another three inches maybe.

“Mariska,” he whispered again, “where can I take you?”

It wasn’t him she wanted. He was close, but he wasn’t right. And no matter how far she went tonight, no matter how many times she satisfied herself, it wouldn’t be enough. The buzz cleared long enough for her to see his desire to get her alone and do whatever he wanted.

She couldn’t think past Dillan messing with her incline in the gym and playing dumb when she’d said there was something wrong with him. About Garrett’s arms wrapped awkwardly around her while she cried. Had she really expected to find men like them here?

“No.” The word came out in a whisper. She pushed Eric back. “No, I can’t.”

“What?” His laugh flowed with incredulous disgust.

“I need to go.” She turned, searching for the exit.

“This way.” He grabbed her hand and tugged her after him.

“No—”

His grip tightened.

“No!”

Around them people turned to look, gazes darting from her to him to her again.

He stepped up against her, his whisper fierce. “Don’t play with me. You made it clear what you wanted.”

The room shifted. She closed her eyes.

Eric wrapped an arm around her and marched her outside where the street seemed to dip. He pulled her closer as he waved for a taxi.

“No,” she whispered again.

He tugged her to him and kissed her, his mouth digging into hers.

She pushed against his chest, but his arms locked around her, keeping her flush against him.

Did it really matter who it was? In the end it wouldn’t last. She could pretend he was someone else.

Except he didn’t smell right. His cologne was closer to Garrett’s—

She couldn’t kiss Garrett. She would never do that to Tracy. So whose arms was she in? Not Garrett. Not Mark. This man was taller.

Dillan.

She wrapped her arms around his neck and molded her body to his.

He chuckled and loosened his death grip.

“Dillan,” she breathed.

He tensed. “Sorry. You’re stuck with me.”

No, she wanted Dillan or—no, just Dillan. What would it be like to have him hold her? Have him look at her without that emotional shield across his face?

“Cab’s here.”

She opened her eyes. They were on the sidewalk, people watching them. Heat flooded her cheeks. What was she doing?

Eric opened the cab’s door and gestured for her to enter.

“No—”

He grabbed her arm and pushed her partway in.

She spilled across the backseat.

He shoved her deeper inside, then half-sat on her. He yanked the door shut.

“Where to?”

Eric rattled off a Gold Coast address.

“No!” She lunged upright. “I don’t want to go with him.”

The cab driver twisted in his seat, his tattoo-covered arm draped across the back of the front seat. “You forcing the woman?”

“Of course not. Just take us—”

“Take me to a police station. Please! I changed my mind.”

“That’s it. Out.” The man jerked a finger toward the sidewalk. “Or I do what she says. Police or nothing, bud.”

Eric swore.

“A cop just passed us. I can catch him fast.”

Eric flung more insults as he shoved the door open, but she didn’t care. He was out.

The door slammed.

“You okay? Need the cops? Hospital?”

“No. Thank you.”

Eric stood on the sidewalk, hands on hips, glaring.