Flirting with Sin (8 page)

“And he expects you to carry on the tradition,” Ari concluded.

She nodded, raising her cup for another sip of undoubtedly cold coffee.

Did she realize sadness and hurt colored her voice, darkened her gaze? Even at his lowest moments in these last few years, he’d never doubted his love for music. Never desired to do anything but play, perform, sing. Yes, he’d felt trapped by expectations, obligations and pressure, but never by the music.

This time, he reached across the table and clasped the hand fiddling with the cup. He threaded his fingers with hers, and her surprised gaze locked with his. But she didn’t pull away.

“Heaven and I had an older brother. Walker. He died six years ago at twenty-five from an aneurysm. His death destroyed Dad, but it also robbed him of the person in the family who shared his passions for fishing, baseball and business. Walker was supposed to take over for Dad when he retired. Since I’m the ‘fixer’ in the Morgan clan,” a self-deprecating quirk lifted the corner of her mouth, “I stepped in to try and fill the hole our brother left in Dad’s life. Including dragging my ass out of the bed at the ungodly hour of five am to go to the lake with him, buy season tickets for the Mariners and, yes, learning the family business.”

“The fixer?” he repeated.

“Heaven calls it my pathological need to be everything to everybody. For Dad, I try to fix his grief over Walker by becoming Walker. For my mom, I try to fix her embarrassment and dismay over Heaven’s crazy ass behavior by trying to be the ‘good’ daughter. For Troy, I tried to be the perfect girlfriend. But it’s depressing as hell to one day wake up alone with no idea who you are or what you want. The only thing I know for certain is who everyone else thinks I should be, and what they want for and from me.” She huffed a breath and the gust of air ended on a sad chuckle. “So, Heaven entered the contest pretending to be me, and blackmailed me into coming up here to find out those answers as well as—and I quote—remember who the hell I am.”

“What
do
you want, Neveah?”
And what can I do to help you get it? Anything to erase the broken look from your eyes.

“I don’t know.” She scrutinized their hands as if the tangle of fingers contained the answer. She scoffed. “Twenty-five years old, and I have no clue what I want to do with my life. How pathetic, right? Hell, by the time Walker was my age, he was poised to take over Dad’s company. As off-the-reservation as Heaven can be, even she knows her passion. Drawing. Painting. And even though our parents believe it’s a waste of time and irresponsible…and tell her often…she follows her heart and pursues her art. She drives me crazy at times, but I envy her, too.”

“You aren’t Walker or Heaven. Look at me.” He didn’t wait for her to comply, but nudged her chin up from her careful examination of the table with his free hand. Her soft skin caressed his fingers like the finest silk, and he couldn’t stop himself from stroking the alluring flesh. Her low gasp whispered over the back of his hand and, though he’d just delivered a stern reprimand to himself minutes ago about touching her, he couldn’t resist one last caress.

“You’re Neveah.” He lowered his arm. “Intelligent. Selfless. Compassionate. Brave. So fucking brave it’s a little intimidating. And beautiful.” Desire thickened his voice. He couldn’t resist that either. “So goddamn beautiful. Who gives a fuck if you haven’t decided what your dreams are yet? Who said there’s a time limit or a ticking clock? This is your life. You’ve spent the last few years ensuring everyone else’s happiness at the expense of your own comfort and needs. But you have to live this life. No one else. And, baby, you shouldn’t just be content, but deliriously happy. Whether it’s taking over for your father, creating your own business or working in a damn McDonald’s, you live it and be. Happy.”

Moisture glistened in her eyes and, though he didn’t possess proof, something told him he might be the only person besides her twin to order Neveah to put herself first. Funny how she tried to be enough for others, and he’d acknowledged long ago he never could be. “We’re a fucking pair, aren’t we?”

She squeezed his hand. “You think we can get matching straitjackets?”

He snorted. “Only if mine comes in black.”

“W
hat the hell have I done to make you think I’m that kind of bastard? I’ll never regret one second of it, and I don’t think you do either.” He picked up her panties and dropped them on her bare belly…

Neveah jerked her head up from her book at the quick rap on her bedroom door. She glanced back at the pages of
Flirting with Fate
, the delicious romance novel she’d been reading.

“Come in.” As if she didn’t know who waited on the other side of the door.

Ari entered a second later and she smothered a groan. If a woman could come just from looking at a man, she would be catatonic with orgasmic bliss. He closed the door and she tried not to ogle the subtle play of muscles under his white T-shirt. Or how his faded jeans draped over his hips like a jealous lover. Or the sexiness of his bare feet. Damn. Did Wilma Flintstone get this worked up when Fred walked in the door after a long, hard day?

Shit. She’d just reduced Fred Flintstone to a sex symbol.

Yabba dabba doo.

Either this novel was getting to her or Ari should be locked up for the mental and sexual health of women everywhere.

Probably the former. Definitely the latter.

He sprawled in the arm chair next to one of the large windows offering a dazzling view of the white, stark trees that seemed to rise up out of and float on the frozen lake. In the distance, she could make out the gazebo adorned in white Christmas lights and the wooden bridge reminding her of something out of an Indiana Jones movie.

Yet, the splendor of the scenery couldn’t compete with the man shrinking the large, airy room to a size fit for a Lilliputian.

Ari was a beautiful male animal.

Of course, with Joseph Sincero and a stunning, former Bollywood actress as parents, his unique, exotic appearance wasn’t surprising. Still, he encompassed more than golden-green eyes, a gorgeous face and a hard, sexy body. Sexual magnetism hummed below his skin. Carnal knowledge seemed to exude from every move he made, every word he uttered.

She crossed and uncrossed her legs under the blanket, never more conscious of sitting on a big, four poster bed than with him lounging only several feet away. Their closeness, the loveliness of their surroundings, the orange and red flames leaping in the fireplace… Intimacy permeated the room, slid over her skin, pooled in her belly…and lower.

She’d escaped to her bedroom after dinner to try and avoid her growing attachment to the man who’d revealed so much of himself to her earlier. The man whom she’d trusted enough to divulge her secrets.

The famous rock star she could’ve managed to shore her resolve against. The vulnerable, burdened man beneath? Her resolve resembled a pile of day-old ashes. And now, the source of her weakness had cornered her in her hiding place.

Logic argued for kindly but firmly kicking him out. But her heart—and traitorous body—craved more time with him. Especially since in just a few short days, he would be gone from her life forever.

“What are you reading?” Ari linked his long, elegant musician’s fingers over his flat stomach.

Tearing her too-rapt attention away from him, she returned her regard to the book on her lap.

“A romance novel.
Flirting with Fate
by Jerrie Alexander. It was a gift from the hotel.” She hadn’t noticed the present until late Monday night before going to bed. Heaven must have included a list of her hobbies on the contest application.

“Romance novel, huh?”

“Yes.” She arched an eyebrow. “And one of my favorite authors, too, so tread very lightly with your next words.” He wisely remained silent, so she dipped her chin toward the chest of drawers next to the fireplace where a flat gold and maroon box sat. “They left you a gift, too. I brought it in here the other night, but forgot to give it to you.”

Surprise flashed through his eyes. “Yeah?” He rose and, seconds later, had the present unwrapped and opened. “Damn. This is really nice.” He held up a leather bound black journal.

She smirked. “Maybe they figured your little black book was filled to capacity, and you needed a replacement.”

“Smart ass,” he shot back, but without heat as he stroked his palm over the cover. The gesture spoke of reverence. “My mom gave me a journal like this for my fourteenth birthday. Right when I started writing songs. I still have it.” He glanced at her, memories heavy in his eyes. “This is nice.”

After setting the leather notebook back in the box, he replaced the lid then climbed onto the bed. The mattress dipped as he settled beside her, his back propped against the headboard. Her stomach executed a flip and roll worthy of a gold medal.

One day, when she was old and gray and past the age of giving a fuck, she would embarrass the shit out of her grandchildren by telling them about sitting on a bed in a hotel suite with a rock star. About how the heat from his skin warmed her more than the flames dancing in the room’s fireplace. About his special, wild scent, and how it teased her with images of what she craved but couldn’t have.

“What are you doing in here?” She slid the gold-plated bookmark—also a gift from the hotel—into her book then placed it on the night stand.

“Too quiet.” He crossed his arms.

Taut muscles flexed, and the vivid mural painted over his skin drew her attention like a bee to the sweetest honey. A beautiful but haunting Day of the Dead tattoo covered his bicep. Long, dark-brown hair flowed around her human and skeletal features. Hearts, graceful lines and swirls decorated her face, rendering her lovely but almost…disturbing. Life and death. A remembrance of someone lost.

A fist-sized lump lodged in her throat. God, how he must have loved her—love her still. Raising a hand, she stopped just short of tracing the inked art, her finger hovering above the rendering.

“Your girlfriend?” She didn’t say her name. Didn’t need to. There was only one woman who would warrant such devotion to be permanently marked into his skin.

Silence beat between them, loud and thunderous. Cursing herself for prying and bringing up “she who shall not be named,” Neveah dropped her hand. “Never mi—”

“It’s my mother.” He lowered his gaze to his arm, his voice a low rumble. “I inherited my love of tattoos from her. She used to wear Mehndi designs on her hands and feet. They were gorgeous…just like her.” Tracing the lines of the tattoo, he smiled. “I think she would appreciate my tribute to her.”

“I’ve seen pictures of her.” Neveah hesitated, unsure if he would welcome her talking about his mother. “She was a beautiful woman. I see her in you and your brother.”

He lifted his head, a small smile gracing his sensual mouth, though his eyes remained shadowed and soft with memories and an old sadness. “Did you just find a round-about way to call me beautiful?”

She snorted, shaking her head.

“I love when you do that. When you snort. It’s like you’re saying, ‘I call bullshit.’” The corner of his mouth hiked higher. “Other than my brother, Liam, Oliver and Jack, no one has the balls to do it.”

The compliment scored her, and she must not have been able to conceal the hurt, because a frown replaced Ari’s smile. Concern deepened the green in his eyes as he reached for her, stroked the back of his finger down her cheek. Her lashes fluttered close, and she savored the gentle caress even though indulging in any touch from him was a mistake.

“What’s wrong?”

Nothing
hovered on the tip of her tongue. But unlike in the kitchen—God, had it only been this morning?—she didn’t avoid his question. Didn’t want to. Not anymore. It’d just been a few hours ago, but they were past evasion and non-answers.

“Troy, my-ex, hated when I snorted. He called it unladylike. Said I sounded like a pig.” Humiliation singed her face.
God.
She inwardly cringed, detesting the remnants of shame shimmering through her.
Why am I even telling him this?

“What a fucking douche.” His full lips flattened into a grim line. “How long were you with him?”

“Two years.” Again with the mortification. Not only because of her admission over how she’d allowed a man to systematically flay her self-esteem. But because she’d stayed.

“Why?” His tone was just as soft as hers had been, but void of the condemnation. “You don’t strike me as the kind of person who would put up with his kind of shit. Not even for a minute.”

She huffed a humorless chuckle
. “Remember my fixer syndrome? Well, I’m also a chronic people pleaser with the unfortunate habit of choosing assholes as partners. Troy worked for my father, who really liked him, and he seemed nice, stable. Even when signs popped up—his coldness, the criticisms, punishing silences—I explained them away and racked my brain for things I could change to please him. I was so
tired
of failing at relationships, I convinced myself this one could work if I only did better.”

“Oh, baby…” he breathed, cupping her face.