Can't Buy Me Love (20 page)

“I will,” Dennis said. “If you get me that money.”

She swallowed, silent. The scales were so heavy in both directions she felt that she might collapse.

“Seems to me Victoria might just need a friend like me. A man who can make her feel like a woman again. You remember, don’t you, how grateful those old men were—”

“I never touched them,” she snapped. “Not once. Not ever.”

“Well, Victoria is different, isn’t she? She’d probably be so damn grateful she’d give me whatever she had, and maybe whatever her brother has too.”

“Stop it!” The scales finally tipped, bringing her to her knees. “Just stop it, fine. I’ll get you the two hundred thousand. But … I’ll need some time.”

He stepped away and she took a deep breath. Another.

“Not too much,” he said, pulling the white cuff of his shirt past his jacket.

“How … do I find you?”

His grin made her skin crawl. “I’ll be around.”

“Leave this family alone, Dennis. They’re good people. They have nothing to do with us.”

For a moment the threat vanished, and she saw the glimmer of the boy she’d known. Misguided and greedy, but deep inside that thin chest had once beat a heart.

“Then why’d you come here?” he asked.

She had no answer. Guilt closed her throat and she rocked back, light-headed with remorse.

Luc wasn’t sleeping when someone knocked on his door. He was staring out the window and thinking of Tara Jean’s expression when Jacob had talked to her in the den. The mixture of wonder and fear on her face. It had been beautiful and real, and it had dredged up another thousand questions about the woman.

Questions, no matter what his better sense was screaming, that he really wanted answered.

The knock on the door shook him out of his thoughts and he was glad to have the distraction.

And even gladder to see Tara Jean standing there, looking as if she’d covered herself in armor and was about to drive into battle.

“Well, Tara Jean.” He leaned against the doorjamb and her blue eyes slipped down his bare chest like a kid on a water slide. “What can I do for you?” He checked his watch. “At midnight?”

“I need to talk to you.” Her eyes—naked and exposed—lifted to his and as tough as she wanted to be, as thick as that armor went, there was no pretense. No game.

She was a woman, smart and tough, and there was something wrong. Something that had driven her to his door at midnight. His instincts whispered that this had something to do with Dennis.

A little too slick, that Dennis guy.

“Okay,” he said. “Everything all right?”

“Meet me in the kitchen,” she said, her eyes dipping over him again. “And bring a shirt.”

A few minutes later he walked into the dark kitchen, illuminated only by the bone-white glow of the moon through the windows. Tara Jean sat on the center island, eating ice cream right out of the carton.

“Where’s your shirt?” she asked through a mouthful of rocky road.

He shrugged, not wanting to tell her that he liked her eyes on him. That he wanted more of it, more of her. And that, really, she wasn’t the boss of him. He could come into the kitchen naked if he wanted.

“You want to tell me what’s wrong?” He leaned against the counter directly across from her, stretching out his legs. She swung her feet and her bare toes brushed his knees. Both of them shifted away, as if this attraction between them was an unpredictable animal that needed lots of space.

She took a bite of ice cream and then another.

“Is this about that Dennis guy?”

The spoon paused on its way back to the carton.

“Why would you think that?”

“I don’t know.” He watched her carefully, waiting for an answer to one of his many questions. “Just a vibe.”

“How did he even hook up with you tonight?”

“I have no idea. I met Jacob and Victoria after my workout and he was with them.”

She coughed as if the ice cream had gone down the wrong pipe, and he reached over and slapped her on the back. She scowled at him.

He was getting fond of the hedgehog.

“Do I need to worry about my sister and nephew?” he asked softly, feeling her ribs beneath his hands.

She didn’t shrug away from his touch, so he stroked her shoulder, sensing she needed a little human comfort. “No, you don’t need to worry. Dennis and I have some old business to take care of, that’s all. He doesn’t have anything to do with Victoria and Jacob.”

“All right.” He leaned back against the counter and crossed his arms over his chest. “Then how about you tell me why you’ve dragged me to the kitchen in the middle of the night.”

“How much would I make if we sold Baker Leather?”

“I thought you didn’t want to do that.”

“I don’t,” she said and then laughed. “I don’t. I just … I just want to know.”

“Jenkins said your profits are good and growing. According to him, maybe as much as a million. Probably less.”

“A million?” The carton of ice cream slipped off her knee and he reached out and grabbed it. Standing so close to her in the moonlight was a heady torture, but the anxiety rolling off her was palpable. He stepped back, giving her some room. He fished a spoon out of the drawer and picked up where she’d left off with the rocky road.

“Why? You need the money?”

She was quiet, staring down at her knees, the dark denim stretched over her legs.

“Tara?”

“I’m thinking.” Her hair fell over her shoulders, a beautiful curtain that gleamed white in the moonlight. He ate silently, letting her think, wondering what was wrong and if she’d ever tell him.

“Okay,” she finally said and then lifted her head, tossing back her hair. Her smile was bright, blinding, but her eyes were calculating, measuring every angle. Looking for every escape route.

The smile was a flash, a distraction, to hide how smart she was.

Clever girl.

“You know my salary,” she said and he nodded, scooping up another bite of ice cream. “And you know
I haven’t had a raise in four years, despite what I’ve done for the company—”

“You can have a raise,” he said. “I don’t care.”

“I don’t want a raise,” she said, and then shook her head. “No, I mean, yes, a raise would be great; we can talk about that later. But what I need … what I want is a bonus.”

“A bonus?” he asked.

“Yep.”

“For what?”

Her eyebrows knit together and he smiled in the face of her irritation. “I got a bonus when I led my team to the Stanley Cup finals. And when I won the Rocket Richard trophy. Twice. I got a new car when I was named league MVP. I understand bonuses; they come after you do something to earn them.”

“Fine,” she said and sighed heavily through her nose. “In two months I have a meeting with the District Four buyer for Nordstrom.”

“Sounds exciting.”

“It is, because if the meeting goes well, Nordstrom will carry the Baker Leather signature women’s pink cowboy boot in stores all across Texas and Oklahoma.”

He hummed and dug for more peanuts. He wondered if he’d ever get a crack at the Rocket Richard trophy again. Lashenko had won it this year. What a year that would be—thirty-eight years old, Stanley Cup, and the highest number of goals scored. Had anybody done that before?

“Come on.” She yanked the carton out of his hands. “Listen.”

“I’m listening. You want a bonus if this meeting goes well. Sounds reasonable to me.”

“Two hundred thousand dollars.”

He blinked at her and then shrugged. “Okay.” She tried to hide her surprise at his quick capitulation,
but she was caught flat-footed for a second. He loved that. Surprising her wasn’t easy.

“Okay?”

“I told you, Tara Jean, I don’t care about this company. But I know you do. Do you think getting the boot into Nordstrom is worth two hundred thousand dollars?”

She nodded.

He wondered briefly about the bravado of a woman who never took a raise and had such problems asking for money in return for hard work.

“Do you think you’re worth two hundred thousand dollars?”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“I’m just wondering why you have so much trouble asking for what you’re due. What you’ve earned.”

She picked up the ice-cream carton. “I haven’t earned it yet.”

“But you turned the company around. It was bankrupt and now it’s thriving. Even growing. That’s worth something, Tara.”

“Fine. Give me a raise.”

Her back was up and this wasn’t what he wanted. He wanted to talk to that honest, vulnerable woman he’d glimpsed a few times, beneath the glamour and the hard candy shell.

He wanted to tell her that he saw the worth in her. The power and value.

He reached out and touched her, his fingers glancing off the skin of her wrist.

As if he’d held a match to her skin, she jerked away from him, jumping to her feet.

“Sex does not determine my worth,” she barked, and he saw that something had snapped in her and there was a river, wild and rushing the banks, raging right toward him. “These,” she crudely cupped her breasts, “do not
determine my worth. This,” she ran a hand over her body, “does not determine my worth.”

“Then what does?”

“Me!” She was panting, heavy and hard, and he leaned forward, felt the heat of her breath on his face.

“Then do it.”

“Like it’s that easy?” He could tell she wanted to sneer, hold on to her sarcasm, like the last piece of driftwood keeping her afloat, but the question came out plaintive.

“My dad told me I was worthless my whole life,” he said. “Beat it, and I mean
beat it
, into me. Into my sister. We weren’t good with horses or cows. We weren’t fit to be Bakers.” He rubbed a hand over his face, down his chest, wishing, too late, that he had put a shirt on. “And I … I believed him for a long time. Your dad tells you something like that and you believe it. But then, I found hockey and I was good at it.”

“And that determined your worth?”

The question blew him sideways for a second, but he shook his head. “No, I did. I worked hard. Harder than anyone else.”

“I work hard,” she said, and he nodded.

“It takes guts to be good at something. Confidence that you know you can do it. It’s not enough that I sweat through the workouts, that I train harder than anyone else. I have to work through the sprains and shake off the bad hits. I have to ignore the slumps and the off nights, and I can’t let all the damn parasites get in my head with their endless chatter about how old I am. I can’t listen to the doctors who tell me to retire. I can’t give in to the fear that everyone is right. I have to believe in my worth. In what I am.”

She put a hand on his arm and he realized he’d gotten lost in his own head. “I’m not trying to take hockey away from you.”

He looked over at her, her lithe body propped up against the counter, her legs crossed at the ankles, and suddenly he was ashamed by the way he’d been treating her. As if she were there for his amusement, his sarcasm, anger, and junior-high-style seductions.

“And I’m not trying to take your worth from you.” He wished he could touch her. Take away the sting of every hurtful thing he’d said. But that would negate everything she needed to believe. “You’re so beautiful.”

“Luc,” she admonished, but he shook his head.

“I’m not talking about your body, or the way you dress. I’m talking about
you
. You’re smart and you’re tough and I don’t know a thing about you, but I’m guessing life hasn’t always been easy.”

The tension in her rippled through the air like heat waves off Texas asphalt. She wanted to run, it was obvious, but she didn’t. Instead, almost imperceptibly, she nodded.

“The way I’ve acted—”

“Don’t worry,” she breathed, waving him off, but he caught her hand, felt the fine bones of her wrists and fingers, relished the heat of her skin, and then he dropped it.

“No, demanding you kiss me, talking to you the way I have … it’s crap, Tara, and I’m sorry. I would never have acted that way if I hadn’t been sure you were as interested as I was, but that’s a pretty shitty excuse and I’m sorry.”

The sentence hung there. She didn’t accept his apology, which frankly was her prerogative. And she didn’t confirm or deny her interest. She just stood there in the moonlight, so beautiful he ached.

He found the lid to the ice cream and pressed it back on and then he took the three steps to the freezer to put it away. But still she didn’t say anything.

He couldn’t force her to talk. To accept his apology.

“Good night, Tara,” he said.

He was walking away. The gorgeous slope of his back gleamed in the moonlight like silver and he was
walking away
.

She’d pushed a hundred guys away, watched dozens of men retreat from her barbs and her land mines. She should be celebrating, because Luc had been a difficult man to dissuade, but now, watching him go did something inside of her. Something lonely and cold, shivering in isolation, wailed a protest.

It had been a long time since a man had seen past the act, pushed aside the curtain to see the person she kept hidden. And he seemed to want her more for her reality.

And that was great and all, but standing in the dark kitchen, she
wanted
him.