Bayou Bad Boys (27 page)

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Authors: Nancy Warren

BOOK: Bayou Bad Boys
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“Liar.” He switched on the bedside lamp, went back to his casual position on her bed.
She joined him there, sitting on the edge, and propping one knee on it. “Okay. I was thinking about you . . . and me. And what's going on between us.”
He didn't move a muscle, gave her his full attention.
She took a breath.
Tell him now, Esme, get it over with!
“I completed my sketches today—all except one that I'll finish in the morning, so . . . I'll be leaving tomorrow. Early evening, I think. I'll be stopping to visit Leonardo and Marilee, then flying home.”
His eyebrows shot up. “I thought you'd be here two weeks.”
She shrugged, determined to be casual if it killed her. “Things went better than expected.”
She couldn't read his face, but his tone was low when he said, “Probably because I wasn't here to distract you—with sex.”
Nodding and smiling, she agreed. “That definitely helped. Because as distractions go, you're world-class.” She stopped, gathered her thoughts, felt her chest tighten. “And, Dane, I want you to know that, what we did, what we had? I loved every minute of it. You're a fabulous lover. Thank you.” If that was the right note, it didn't feel like it. It felt like a gargantuan understatement, like she'd just called King Kong a monkey.
There was a moment of what she could only describe as electric silence, then Dane shook his head.
“ ‘Thank you,' ” he repeated, spitting out her words. “Just like that. Thank you, Dane, for screwing my brains out, but I have to go now.” He threw the sheet off, got up from the bed, strode to the bathroom, and retrieved his jeans. He yanked them on, walked over to where she sat glued into place on the edge of the bed, and glared down at her.
“Thank you doesn't cut it, Esme.” His dark, furious face made rain clouds look like pink cotton candy.
“I don't know what you mean.”
“No, you don't know.” He quelled her with a look. “So, for now it's best you don't say another word. We'll talk about this in the morning.”
“Talk about what?” Esme was stunned by his vehemence. She knew he'd be disappointed, but flat-out rage was more than she'd bargained for. “I'm not saying I'll never see you again, but I have to go. You knew that from the beginning.”
“You don't ‘have to go' anywhere. You're running.” He put his shirt on, didn't bother doing up the buttons, and put his hands on his hips. “I can't let that happen.”
“You can't—” She stood to face him, matched his hands on hips stance with her own. “You have nothing to say about it. Nothing at all.”
“I think I do.” He stared at her long and hard, a muscle ticking in his jaw. “And when I figure out exactly what it is, I'll say it. You may be the queen of cool, but me, I get hot. And when I get hot, I say things I regret. This is too important for that.” He took her face in his hands, lifted it to his, and kissed her until her knees gave out. “Good night, Esme. He strode to the door, swung back. “Breakfast. Tomorrow. Eight o'clock.” He walked out.
A few seconds later she heard his door close—none too lightly.
Esme plopped down on the bed, her knees trembling from his kiss, her mind a snowstorm—a complete whiteout. “Well, that went well,” she muttered to herself. She put a hand on her pounding heart. The single-minded, get-whatever-he-wants Dane McCoy intended to be difficult.
The vanity in her was pleased; the hurt woman in her, determined not to repeat her mistake, was scared sapless.
There would be no sleep tonight.
Peggy brought some fresh-squeezed orange juice to their breakfast table and went back to the kitchen. Dane took the time to study his quarry.
Esme gave off so much cool, it chilled him from three feet away. He marveled again at how such a composed woman let herself go so wild in bed. It was as if she separated sex and passion from life and feeling. Like he used to. Before Esme walked into his life. Sitting across from him, she was as quiet as that mouse Marilee had originally described.
He took a drink of coffee, drew in a fortifying breath, and said, “I think we should get married.”
When he spoke, she was reaching for some butter, and he noticed the hand holding the knife shook. Lifting her eyes to his, she said, “Can it wait until after breakfast?” Her hand steadied, and she went on to butter her toast as if he hadn't just said words that tilted his goddamn universe. Words he'd never uttered before.
Okay, not exactly the hearts and flowers version of a proposal, and definitely not a question requiring a straight yes or no answer, but hell, he wasn't going to give her that easy an out. If he planned on closing this deal—and he was determined he would—he figured he'd have to do two things: negotiate and not play fair. Giving Esme a chance to say no from the get-go wasn't in the cards. “It can wait for as long as you'd like it to—so long as it happens.”
They were eating on the east patio and when the morning sun rose at the edge of his property, it illuminated Esme's face, fading out her expression—but her eyes were wide, and thoughtful.
She put down her toast and shook her head. “I hate to say this, because it makes me sound so . . . therapist-like, but I think you're confusing things. What's between us is basic biology. It's just—”
“Do
not
say it. That
just-sex
thing, you're so keen on. That's not what's going on between us. I've had my share of just-sex in my life—”
She raised a brow. “I'll bet.”
“Enough that I know the difference.” Why he wanted this maddening woman was a major mystery, but want her he did. “What I had with you—what we had together—was a hell of a lot more than sex. You know it, and I know it.” He looked at her, wanted to see her eyes. “I'm in love with you, Esme.”
“Oh, God!”
“And I think you love me.” Arrogant, yes, but the truth as he saw it.
He was sure he heard her gasp, then she got up and walked to the patio railing. Stood there for a long time, her back to him. He left her to it.
Finally she turned to face him. “You're probably right. I do . . . have those feelings for you.”
He stood, but she lifted a hand, telling him to keep his distance. Jesus, he couldn't believe the effect her words had on him. His heart damn near jumped out of his chest. He waited for her to go on.
“But in this case what I feel or don't feel doesn't matter. You and I—for the long-term—would be a disaster.”
“Why, for God's sake?”
She chewed her lower lip. “First off, we barely know each other.”
“We know enough.”
“Given that you had me checked out before I came here, you're speaking for yourself, not me. I know nothing about you—other than you're fabulous in bed.” She looked at him a long time, as if she were trying to photograph his brain, then she shook her head. “But the big thing is, you're married to your work.”
He didn't know what he expected her to say, but that sure as hell wasn't it. But she was dead on. Hell, he
loved
his work, especially in the last couple of years, since he'd sold his company and gained the freedom to take more challenging, and ultimately more lucrative, investment directions. He'd never been more satisfied. Sure, it still took a lot of time, but every second he spent on it had a major payback. “You've got something against work? Seems to me you do your share of it.”
She nodded. “Yes, I do, but from what I see and from what Marilee tells me, your work consumes you. She says it's why you never married. Why you never had a serious long-term relationship.”
Damn Marilee and her pop psychology!
“She's right—and wrong. Building my company, making it grow, took all I had. I decided I didn't have either the time or the energy for another commitment, so I avoided it.” He eyed her, feeling oddly uncertain—a feeling he was unfamiliar with. “I was lucky. That decision was never tested, because I never met a woman like you.”
“Dane, don't get me wrong, but you have enough money for a thousand lifetimes, yet you still spend all your time grasping for more.” She lifted a hand, fluttered it. “Flying off to make the deal of the moment, secret meetings with Janzen, working until all hours in that computer room of yours, eating at your desk . . .” She drew in a breath, crossed her arms. “That's your choice as a way of life, but being married to it”—she shook her head—“will never be mine.”
Dane's head started to hurt. Shit! As objections went, this was nuts—and unexpected. Mired in his promise to himself and Janzen to keep his mouth shut about what was going on, he could only stare at her. “Sometimes things aren't what they seem,” he said. Lame, but all he could muster until he talked to Janzen—who wouldn't be back until tomorrow.
“How it
seems
is that you're asking me to play second fiddle to a bank of computers.” She stood an arm's length away. There was a wash of tears in her eyes. “I'd love to . . . love you, Dane. God, what woman wouldn't? But you and I?” She shook her head. “It would never work.” She took a step toward him, wrapped her arms around his neck, and kissed him softly.
He crushed her in his arms, deepened the kiss. Instantly hot, unreasonably pissed off, and uncharacteristically confused, the irony of his situation struck him like a low blow to the gut. He had to be the first man in America rejected because he'd made too much money—and he had nothing to say in his own defense. Hell, if he wasn't busy kissing the woman he loved to oblivion, he'd have laughed outright.
“Let's go upstairs,” she whispered against his ear.
“What about that work you wanted to finish?” he murmured, his breathing heavy, blood pulsing in his groin.
Her eyes still shiny with tears, she moistened her lips, smiled at him, and ran her hand down his zipper. “The work can wait. Right now I'd much rather make love with you.”
His lungs constricted, and he touched her face. He wanted more from this woman than a couple of hours in bed. He wanted a lifetime. “How the hell am I supposed to let you go?”
“Shush, now”—she touched his mouth—“just take me to bed, McCoy. Make love to me.”
“I make you an offer—marriage—that you refuse, and you make me one I can't. Not exactly fair.” But an excellent idea. Bed was the perfect place to convince her to stay—until Janzen got back. Either that or he'd wear himself out trying.
“I didn't intend it to be fair.” She took a step back and brushed at her cheeks with the back of her hands, gave him a wobbly grin.
He took her hand, and to avoid Peggy's censure over the uneaten breakfast, led her through the French doors leading to the library. They'd almost cleared it when the phone rang. He glanced at the call display. Damn! It had to be about Fairtowne. “Esme, I have to take this,” he said.
She hesitated, then said, “I'll wait in your room.” She kissed him once, lightly on the mouth. “Don't be long.”
 
The one call turned into three, and seventy-five minutes later he hung up the phone on the last one.
Seventy-six minutes later, he was reading Esme's note. Short and to the point, like the woman herself:
It's better this way, Dane. I'd hoped we could still see each other from time to time, enjoy each other, but after thinking about your proposal this morning, I think it's best we don't. Too hard . . .
You'll find Marilee and Leonardo's business proposal on your bed. Delivered as promised.
With love and endless regret, Esme.
When he was through cursing: Fairtowne, Janzen, and stubborn, unreasonable women everywhere, he did what every castoff man had done since they'd built their first mud hut beside a watering hole—he went back to work.
Seven
Two days later, Esme finally had the strength to pull the unfinished drawing of Dane's boat,
Too Much,
from its folder.
She was pretty, the
Too Much.
The most unlikely of Dane's possessions, she was the only one he'd shown a real affection for. Which was the reason Esme chose to draw her instead of the big house.
An incomplete drawing.
An incomplete love affair. How utterly perfect! She knew she could finish it by memory, but it wouldn't be the same. Besides, her tears would probably ruin the fine handmade paper. She sniffed.
After delivering the beach portfolio to Veronica, she hadn't drawn a line. God, all she'd done was sniffle and watch daytime TV. Something she swore she'd never do. It was hell being sane, sensible, and cool, when all she wanted was to be in Dane's arms.
Not that it would last.
She poured herself another cup of coffee, took a seat at her counter, and picked up the remote control for her tiny kitchen TV.
Might as well catch the noon news and get really depressed.
. . . all twenty-four low-income families left homeless by the Fairtowne Apartments fire in Messing, Tennessee, are in new digs courtesy of—and here's the real news—Dane McCoy. Voted Louisiana's most wanted man—in the marriage market—for three years running, McCoy's been out of sight for a while, supposedly holed up with the zillions he made when he sold MacArte Electronics a couple of years ago. Now it seems, he's turned his attention to philanthropy. Details are sketchy, and the man himself refuses all interviews, but rumors are you can find McCoy bucks just about anywhere on the globe, be it Ethiopia or some of New Orlean's, neediest neighborhoods. And last weekend, according to the burned-out, and very grateful, tenants of the Fairtowne Apartments, a good share of those bucks ended up in Messing.
In other news . . .
Esme sat back in her chair, certain her jaw was about to hit her chest bone. When she gathered her wits, they spun in confusion. He should have told her.
Why in hell didn't he tell her?
Her phone rang. On reflex she picked it up and immediately wished she hadn't.
It was Marilee, and she was so excited, her voice was ten notches higher than normal. “Esme, thank you, thank you, thank you! I thank you and Leonardo thanks you.”
Esme leaned forward, put her elbows on the counter, and tried to concentrate.
Why didn't he tell me . . .
“Are you there, Esme. Did you hear me? Dane came through with the money. The spa is a go! There are conditions, of course, my brother's a maniac for detail, but he met with Leonardo and me—he liked Leonardo, I can tell—and now everything's set.”
Guilt stabbed her. She'd forgotten about Marilee and Leonardo's spa idea, been far too busy being a righteous idiot and nursing a broken heart, which, as it turned out, was a self-inflicted wound.
Damn. Damn. Damn!
“I'm glad,” she said to her friend and meant it. “When did you get the news?” She worked to keep her attention on her friend's happiness, her brother's good fortune.
“This morning. Dane literally flew in with the news and flew out. Said he was in a hurry, that he had to deliver some beignets or some dumb thing. I had no idea what he was talking about—”
Esme's doorbell rang.
“Marilee, I've got to go. I'm happy for you and Leonardo. Tell him I'll call him. Okay.” She hung up, took a breath, walked to her front door, and opened it.
There he was.
Oh, thank God, there he was.
Holding out a sack of beignets.
She closed her eyes tight, cleared her fogged senses, and opened them again, wanting to be sure he was real.
“I knew you'd miss me,” he said, not moving an inch, just standing there looking like heaven—except for the glint of devil in his blue eyes.
She rallied. “I missed the beignets.” She wouldn't smile, she wouldn't. They still had things to settle. He should have told her . . .
He flashed a grin, then stepped inside, walked around, and looked around. “Nice,” he said. “The kind of place I'd expect you to live. All color and light.” He looked out the window, tilted his head to see the sliver of ocean, only visible to her on her tiptoes. “Great view.” Then he turned from his inspection and set his gaze on her, seriously, intently, all trace of humor gone from his face. “But you don't belong here. You belong with me.”
God, after the last few days without him, Esme couldn't agree more, but she had one more fret chewing at the back of her mind. “You were on TV. The noon news.”
“Yeah, I know.” He didn't look pleased about it.
“When I was accusing you of working too hard, trying to make more money—all those ridiculously pious things I said.” She stopped, because he'd stepped up to her, taken a long tendril of her hair in his fingers and was playing with it—like he'd done that first night at dinner. His knuckles brushed her collarbone. He was too close for her to think. When she stepped back, her hair slipped from his grasp. “Why didn't you tell me what you were doing?”
“I couldn't. Not until I'd talked to Janzen. We had an agreement that everything we did, we did in complete anonymity. And”—he hesitated—“I wasn't sure you wouldn't think I was crazy.”
“For doing good things—like helping the people of Messing. I don't understand.”
“Because Messing is a small piece of a big pie.” He took in a breath. “I plan to spend the next few years of my life giving away my money.”
“I don't—” She stopped, her eyes widening. “You mean
all
your money.”
“Pretty much. It's not my intention to start eating cat food anytime soon, but”—he looked away for a moment, his expression close to apologetic—“when a man is given too much, and so many are given so little . . .” He met her stunned gaze. “He has an obligation.”
“You weren't
given
it, Dane. You earned it. Every penny.”
“Then I was given what I needed—talent, luck, whatever—to accomplish that. Same thing.” He shrugged.
“You also changed your mind. You're backing the spa idea for Marilee and Leonardo.”
“For the same reason.” He ran a finger along her jaw, searched her face. “Everyone should have, should feel, what we have. What you've given to me. If your brother can help in that . . .” He let the sentence trail away, then frowned. “Plus, there's Marilee who, if I don't cough up the money, is liable to send me another sex therapist. And I can only handle one of those at a time.”
Esme was still processing, still trying to understand the complexity of the man she'd fallen in love with. “And that's what you do all day, you and Janzen, you give away money.”
“It's not as simple as that—and it does take work, Esme. Lots of work,” he said. “Early on we decided we'd vet our own causes. We didn't want a barrage of bogus solicitations, the hassle of a foundation, or the publicity that came with it. We keep it personal, do our own thing, limit the admin costs as much as possible, and get the cash to where it will do the most good in the shortest possible time. That's where the Internet comes in.”
She turned from him, knowing a sheen of tears misted her eyes. It wasn't easy feeling the fool—with a full heart. He put his hands on her shoulders and rested his chin on her head. “So now that you know I'm not a salivating money-grabber—at least not anymore—will you marry me?”
She faced him, touched his cheek. “On one condition.”
“Name it.”
“I have a key to that computer room of yours and permission to enter and ravish you any time, day or night.”
“So long as Janzen isn't around to watch. Done.” He pulled her close and the scent of him, clean and woodsy, filled her. “Now let me hear it.”
She smiled, tilted her head to look at him. “I love you, Dane. I think I have since the very first . . . beignet.”

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