Double Down (18 page)

She had returned on Sunday. It was Tuesday night. If both of them made it to Friday without skinning one another, Cass would French kiss a lemur.

She struggled into her Blakely’s uniform, too cranky to even bother with her stockings. Screw them. The customers were always polite, the money was always fabulous—but damn she was tired.

On her way out of the apartment, she grabbed the letters from her mailbox. Water bill. Credit-card bill.
Congratulations, Miss Whitman, it’s twins!
With a grumble she shoved them into her purse and hurried out to her car.

Four hours later, her feet ached. Her head pounded. Tips were slow, in part because the kitchen had run out of Blakely’s famous French onion soup. Apparently this minor disappointment was excuse enough for stiffing the waitstaff. To top it all off, a particularly bitchy woman from LA had lodged a complaint against Cass.

She was on break when she learned. Gilly slipped into the employee’s eating area, which was like a six-foot-square closet where they huddled away from the bustle of the kitchen.

“Hey,” Gilly said. “That diva at table seven? She cornered the Witch and gave her a dressing down. Something about the salad?”

Cass shoved away the last of a piece of cheesecake. Her stomach had gone sour. “There was a long hair in the salad.” She gestured to her own head where she’d secured her hair in a tight bun. “Mine? I don’t think so. The woman blamed me personally. I got her a new one, but that didn’t put an end to her complaints. The steak was overcooked, the bread pudding was cold. Eighty-five trips back to the kitchen, swear to God.”

Gilly grinned. “Quite the rant. Feel better?”

“Not really. Not if Julia’s going to blame me for what happened.”

“You know she will. That’s why I thought you might need a heads-up.”

Cass licked her fork. “Thanks,” she said soberly. “Better get out of here before you’re caught giving aid to a condemned prisoner.”

“I’ll take my chances.” Gilly fidgeted with her pen, even now, four months since quitting smoking. “Hey, remind me. When is that gallery opening of yours?”

“Second Saturday in July. Can you come?”

“Should be able to. My mom isn’t flying in for her annual torture of a visit until later that month.”

“Cool.” Cass stood and stretched. Her back ached as if the dessert chef had flamed her with his mini blowtorch. “I’d love to have you there. My family’s planning to come too, which makes me extra nervous, but it’ll be good to have fans in the stands.”

“Do we get to cheer when you make a particularly astute observation?”

“I’d rather you didn’t.”

“Don’t worry,” Gilly said with a wave. “I’ll be too busy people-watching all the fancy-dress patrons ogling the nudie pics and eyeing your fighter pilot.”

She tried to keep her response down to a casual shrug. The fact was she didn’t know if they’d reached the point where making long-term, nonsexual plans was on the table. The previous few weeks had done a great deal toward upping her confidence, but she wasn’t at a place to start bossing around a hot, fantastic guy. Part of her still blinked at the unbelievable stroke of luck that had permitted her to reside, even temporarily, in too-good-to-be-true land.

“I haven’t asked him yet,” she muttered.

“Idiot.”

“What?”

“I said, I’m heading back out to the floor.”

“Right.”

Stopping off in the locker room, Cass reapplied her lipstick and checked her hair. Her fingers brushed the Bellagio chip she always carried in her purse. Strength warmed her on the inside, along with the knowledge that she couldn’t keep doing this forever.

She was ready to return to the floor when Julia Blakely met her in the kitchen, barring the way. The woman’s posture was like that of a snake about to strike. Arms crossed. Back slightly arched. Chin tucked against her wiggly throat skin. The new facelift looked great, in all honesty, and she took really good care of her body. Those assets only accentuated the few places where aging had taken its toll.

“My office,” she said. Then she snapped her son’s name. Tommy appeared from the rear of the kitchen, as if summoned by magic. Gilly called her the Witch for a reason. “You too.”

The kitchen staff watched them go, not making any attempt to hide their curiosity. Even the head chef, who would’ve given Gordon Ramsay a run for his foul-mouthed money, looked up from where he prepared another set of dishes. Working in the steakhouse meant always having a live audience, no matter the kerfuffle.

“This is your fault,” Tommy hissed as they followed Julia back through the building.

“Oh, really mature, Tommy. What are we, six years old?”

“You should’ve done more.”

“More? I did all I could to please that wingbat. Some people don’t want to be happy. They want to be pissed off and take it out on others. They’re miserable. End of story.”

“What, is that supposed to mean something, huh? Is that a jab at me?”

“Defensive much? Come off it.”

“No, I won’t,” he said, his eyes practically pulling into his head as he got riled up. “You called me miserable when I told you about Cynthia.”

Cass pressed a hand against her lower back as she walked. It was either that or curl it into a fist and give it a go. “Sure I did. I called you a miserable son of a bitch.”

“Totally uncalled for. I was trying to apologize.”

“Sorry. I missed that. My ears stopped working when you said you’d been boinking my Barbie doll coworker.”

“Don’t bring Cynthia into this.”

“You brought her into this when you turned monogamy into an option.”

“Maybe we would’ve done better had I know you prefer quickies with random strangers.”

“You asshole.”

Tommy waved his hands, brushing her off. His signet ring winked in the light. He was so damn proud of having graduated from the Cornell MBA program, but he still bowed to his mother’s wishes regarding every detail.

A long time ago, they had bonded over being perpetually trapped by their parents’ businesses, their successes, their wishes. That’s where the affair had started. Cass had loved having someone who understood how stifled she was. Everything had been…decent. Stable. A teensy bit dull. But what the hell—she hadn’t known any better. She hadn’t caught a glimpse of how it could be.

Stepping into Julia’s office was like crossing a medieval prison yard toward an awaiting guillotine. It didn’t need to be that way. Just like her relationship with Tommy, she’d since come to understand how important it was to adore,
really
adore, how she spent her time. Time at the gallery. Time with Ryan. She wasn’t going to compromise anymore.

“Miss Whitman,” Julia said, her address staunchly formal ever since learning of the breakup. “I have received a very serious complai—”

“Save it,” Cass said.

“Excuse me?”

“I said, save it. Please. My head hurts. My back is killing me. And I want to shove a high heel into your son’s eye socket.”

“How dare—?” Tommy began, but his mother beat him out when it came to being heard. Pure bitchy hostility trumped bluster.

“You have some nerve talking to me that way. You know full well that we must take any complaint seriously. The customer is always right.”

“The customer was a psychotic drama queen who felt like kicking a lackey. She must not be able to afford one full-time, so she rented me for the hour.” Cass untied her white apron. “What happened to loyalty, huh? I’ve worked here for nearly two years.”

Julia steepled her fingers. “We both know why.”

It was Cass’s turn for a harsh, “
Excuse me
?”

“My son took a liking to you.”

“Mother—”

“Oh, now you both can just can that shit.” Cass squelched the attack of nerves that came with cursing. She was too upset to care. After balling up her apron, she flopped it onto Julia’s desk. A few papers took a satisfying swan dive toward the floor. “I’m done. Really, really done. Tommy, I hope you and Cynthia and your skinny short dick are very happy together.”

She was out of Blakely’s and back in her car before another minute passed. Free. She was free. Screw the bills and the future. No one deserved what she’d put up with for so long. Her hands shook like an unbalanced washing machine. She could barely get the key in the ignition. None of it mattered.

Ten minutes later, her heart still pounding, she found herself traveling not toward her apartment, but toward Ryan’s place. A red light gave her time to debate. The adrenaline was wearing off, as was her momentary flush of bold attitude.

Never had she…shown up. Unannounced.

She whipped out her cell phone. “Hey,” she said breathlessly when he picked up. “Can I come over?”

“Uh, sure. You okay?”

He sounded sleepy, sexy, his voice a little slurred. Screw being timid. She wanted that voice in her ear all night, just like she wanted his hands, his mouth, his dick. Every bit of him.

She giggled at the power of her greedy and quite frankly
rude
thoughts. That didn’t sound like her at all, which was part of the fun.

“I’m just fine, baby. If ever there was a night for celebrating, this is it.”

Chapter Twenty-One

As soon as he hung up the phone, Ryan scooped a pair of jeans off the carpet and dragged them on. He didn’t even bother doing up the top button or grabbing a shirt.

Because he then spent the next fifteen minutes shoving laundry under the bed and dishes in the dishwasher.

He normally wasn’t a slob. Not at all. He’d grown up with enough of that crap. Having to wade through piles of filthy clothes to find something to wear had left him with a healthy appreciation for order, as did years in the Air Force, but the last week at work had been hell. Thirteen-hour days didn’t leave him much time to clean.

Instead he’d gotten in the habit of calling Cassandra, if she didn’t have a shift at Blakely’s. She’d chatter about which prints had been selected to display at the gallery—something about choosing between Bellocq’s originals or some other guy’s version. While throwing a microwaved meal down his throat, Ryan was never sure he understood what she said about the nuances. Light and shadows. Along those lines. Then he’d spend way too long saying good night before passing out, usually while watching the evening news.

Exactly as he had tonight, until the phone had woken him.

He thumbed the remote to turn off the TV right as his doorbell chimed. Scrubbing the top of his head in a useless attempt to neaten his hair, he opened the door.

Cassandra stood at the threshold. A huge smile pinched her cheeks up and made her eyes sparkle. She tossed her hands wide. “Congratulate me.”

“Congratulations,” he said automatically. “What for?”

She launched herself into his arms, a lighthearted laugh spinning around them. “I quit the restaurant.”

“That’s definitely worth a congratulations.”

Her smile only widened. “I know.” Hooking her hands over his shoulders, she leaned back. “Dang, you look good.”

Heat set up residence in his cheeks, but there was no way he’d admit to blushing. “Um. Thanks. I think?”

“You really have no idea, do you? All those lovely angles and muscles.” She sighed dramatically, then traced the bottom of his oblique as it veed down to disappear into the gaping waistband of his jeans. “I totally came to the right place to collect my reward.”

“Is that right?” He kicked the door shut, then hefted her into his embrace. His hands curved under her thighs as she latched around his waist. The kiss he claimed was flavored with her enthusiasm. “What makes you think you get rewards from me?”

“Hmm. Maybe the fact that you’ve got me halfway to your bedroom already.”

He deliberately spread his fingers over her ass. She still wore the charcoal-gray skirt of her uniform. The way she’d leapt into his arms had twisted the material around her hips. She only wore plain pantyhose that evening—just as she’d done for weeks. Shoving aside a flicker of disappointment, he scoured his evening beard growth along her neck until she shivered.

“Nope,” he said, shaking his head as he deposited her in the middle of his bed. “This is me being entirely selfish.”

She leaned back on her elbows, grinning up at him the whole while. With a wiggle of her toes, she dropped her high heels to the floor. “I don’t believe you. Not in the least.”

“Believe it.” He snagged a condom from his dresser drawer before he crawled over her. He had to taste that smile again.

With her fingers gliding up her blouse, she slipped button after button free. The bra she wore was only a shade darker cream than her skin. Incendiary lust mixed with the excitement in her eyes.

“I tell you what,” she purred. “How about we each get what we want?”

He laughed and carefully lowered to press her into the mattress. His forearms bracketed her head. “Works for me.”

He probably should have rewarded her, just as she’d insisted. Start by spending plenty of time licking her all over, with extra attention paid to her lovely, luscious pussy, but she didn’t give him a chance. Her clothes were stripped off in the midst of hot, wet kisses and giggles—every one of those from her. Ryan might have groaned a few times, especially when her hands delved under his jeans to wrap his cock in a firm grip. Cassandra pushed his jeans down over his ass, grabbing and gripping as she went, then wiggled them all the way off his legs.

He slipped the condom on, groaning again as he sank into her. Perfect. Tight. So wet that he’d like to stay connected to her forever.

She nuzzled her face against his chest, fingers tunneling through his chest hair. “Mmm. Right there. I love the way you feel inside me. The way you fill me up. Just blissful, baby.”

Those soft words went straight to his head, dove down his spine and made his hips move. Easy and gentle, he pushed into her again and again. She took every inch of him—arms wrapped around his ribs, legs curled around his calves.

Ryan was the one fucking her, but he was also the one who felt surrounded. In the best possible way.

Their climaxes rolled out with slow power. Cassandra’s head tilted back as she gasped. Her slick pussy contracting over his cock was all he needed for pleasure to stream down his back, through his limbs—a long, hot, melting orgasm. Just right, exactly as she’d said. Just what he’d needed. What he’d always hoped would be enough to keep him satisfied.