Can't Buy Me Love (29 page)

“Never mind—”

“Yes.”

“But … you know what I did.”

“Yeah.”

“And you still want me there?”

“I still want you, Tara.”

This was a
nightmare of epic proportions. Three hours ago, Dennis had been excited about coming to the ranch and she’d set the table with such care, her heart on fire with hope, setting out the good crystal so that it caught the end-of-day sunlight and threw prisms across the formal dining room.

But then the sun set behind the trees. And six o’clock came and went.

And she stood in the dark dining room unable to turn on the lights feeling the weight of everyone’s expectation and disapproval pushing nails into her skin.

“Vicks?” Luc called from the kitchen, his footsteps coming down the small hallway toward her. She couldn’t face him. Couldn’t face any of them. Not like this.

“Put on the steaks,” she cried and ran to the bathroom, her cell phone gripped in her cold, clammy hands.

Locking the door behind her she sat on the stool, grabbed the bluebells she’d put on the windowsill in an effort to make everything lovely for Dennis, and dumped them in the garbage.

And then she took a deep breath and called him.

“I’m sorry,” Dennis said, answering after the second ring. “I’m so sorry. Something came up.”

“Will you be here soon?” she asked, trying not to sound desperate but failing, at least to her own ears.

“I’m sorry, Victoria. But I just can’t get away. We’ve
had some developments on that land deal outside Phoenix and I have to drive down there tonight. I’m on the road.”

“Phoenix? Now?”

“It’s the nature of the business, Victoria. You wouldn’t understand.”

His tone, his words rankled, setting loose the small beasts left over from her marriage.
Do. Not. Condescend. To. Me
.

But, because she had the practice, had gotten so good she didn’t even realize she was doing it until it was too late, she swallowed her protests, like a swarm of angry bees.

“How long will you be gone?”

“A week. Two at the most.”

She’d been down this road before with Joel, and arguing, begging, and pleading for attention only got her less.

“I am sorry,” he said. “Really. I was looking forward to spending more time with you.”

She licked dry lips. “It’s … it’s okay.”

“I’ll talk to you later tonight.”

It was her brother’s fault, Tara Jean’s fault, but suddenly she felt suspiciously played. Orchestrated.

“We’ll see,” she whispered and hung up.

Victoria carefully smoothed back her hair and ran a hand down the front of her ivory silk shell, as if it were the combination to a lock. Hair in place, clothes orderly, life in control.

She splashed some water over her face and then carefully applied lipstick, a little more blush.

With hands that shook.

He could be lying, she knew that. She was in fact terrifyingly aware that he probably was, but she couldn’t help wanting to believe him. She couldn’t help wanting his words to be real.

In fact, staring at herself in the mirror, she was well aware that she needed to believe them.

She needed a man to give her worth.

She met her own eyes, so dark in the ghostly face in the mirror.

“I hate you,” she breathed.

Someone rattled the door and she jumped, dropped her phone into the sink, and swore, blinking back acidic tears.

“Just a second,” she called. Using the cream hand towels, she dried off her phone and swung open the door.

Only to find Tara Jean, like the Spanish Inquisition with a boob job, waiting for her.

Instinctively, Tara Jean stepped back, because for all her silk shells and knee-length skirts, Victoria looked like a nuclear bomb about to go off.

“It’s all yours,” Victoria said, trying to slide past Tara Jean. Tara Jean sidestepped in her way, and Victoria reared back as if she had been slapped.

And people call me dramatic
, Tara thought.

“He’s not coming,” Victoria hissed like a cornered cat. “He had to leave town. Are you happy?”

Tara shook her head, sympathy nearly swamping her. “No. I’m not.”

“Oh, stop pretending like you care about me, or my family. No one is going to marry you and make you rich anymore. You can drop the act.”

“I don’t want to fight,” Tara Jean said, feeling as if she were negotiating with a crazed gunman. “I just … I wanted to make sure you’re okay.”

“Bullshit.” The curse was surprising. Guttural. And then, much to Tara’s surprise, Victoria pushed her, a sharp jab to the shoulder. The woman’s eyes opened
wide and then … she did it again. Hard enough to hurt a little. “You don’t care about me.”

Well, well, well
, thought Tara Jean. Though it had been a while since she’d been in a hair-pulling catfight, it might just be what Victoria needed.

In fact, Tara Jean would put money on it.

She pulled off her earrings. She’d learned the hard way about big hoops.

“What are you doing?” Victoria asked as Tara Jean braced herself against the wall to kick off her shoes.

“Getting ready to fight. Isn’t that what you want? I’d lose the necklace if I were you. Those pearls are going to be a bitch to find once I snap the string.”

“I’m not going to fight you.” Victoria channeled the aghast queen pretty well, and Tara smiled.

“You sure? Because I think you could use it.”

“You have no idea what I need,” Victoria said, and Tara sobered. This wasn’t funny, and a fight—just like screwing around with Luc—wasn’t going to change that.

“I do,” Tara Jean said. “I know you don’t want to believe that, but I do. And I think, down under those pearls and the uptight hairdo—” Victoria put her hand to the loose bun at the back of her neck—“you know it, too.”

Victoria opened her mouth to say something, but nothing came out and sensing weakness, Tara Jean pushed ahead.

“Whatever Dennis has told you,” she said, “or made you believe, it’s a lie. It’s what he does. He lies.”

Victoria’s cheeks went white and then bright red, and in a heartbeat she knew what Dennis had made Victoria believe.

That she was beautiful. Womanly. Desired.

“You guys okay?” It was Luc coming around the corner
at the worst possible time and Victoria went on the attack, like a wounded, cornered badger.

“What the hell is she even doing here?” Victoria asked Luc, pointing at Tara.

“I didn’t know there was a guest list.”

“And you want to fuck her.”

Oh!
Tara Jean would have applauded if it wouldn’t have made things worse. It seemed Victoria was finding some backbone under that ugly cashmere sweater.

Honestly, it was June in Texas—who was that woman dressing for?

“Vicks?” Luc stepped toward her, but Victoria slapped his hand away.

“You are just like Dad.”

Luc’s head snapped backward and Tara held her breath, knowing that wasn’t an insult he would let slide.

“That’s not true. And you know it.”

“Are you going to deny that you want to fuck her?”

“Okay,” Tara said. “This is getting a little—”

“I like Tara Jean,” Luc answered as if she weren’t actually speaking, and Tara’s mouth shut so hard her teeth clicked. “I like her a lot, and if you gave her a chance you would like her too.”

“I doubt it. I don’t have a dick.”

Tara Jean went back to slipping off her shoes. Now, she was the one who needed a fight.

“Stop.” Luc held out his hands—a bad referee between a wounded badger and a wounded slut. “Just … stop.”

“Dad’s dead, Luc,” Victoria snapped. “He can’t see you chasing after his would-be-wife, he can’t see you killing yourself on the ice or bossing me around—”

“I know that,” Luc insisted.

“I don’t think you do, because you’re still waiting for that guy to give you a reaction. Or his approval. And it’s not going to happen!”

“Yeah, and what are you waiting for?” Luc asked back. “Another man to come along and screw up your life even worse?”

“Luc,” Tara said, stepping in where she knew she wasn’t wanted, but just might be needed. “I think she gets the point.”

Victoria’s eyes darted between Luc and Tara Jean and slowly she smiled, and Tara realized too late what this looked like. What she looked like.

“If you were waiting for a woman to screw up yours, I think you found her,” Victoria said, snide and superior.

And right.

Victoria stomped off, her head held high, and Tara had to give the woman points for her exit.

“You all right?” Luc asked.

“The day I can’t handle your skinny sister is the day they put me in my grave.”

“I don’t know, she was pretty pissed, wasn’t she?” His lips curled up in a soft smile, utterly at odds with the insults his sister had thrown at him.

“And that’s a good thing?”

“Anger has to be an improvement, doesn’t it? Over depression? And desperation? Over lying down and playing dead every time someone recognizes her and hates her for crimes she didn’t commit? Anger is better.”

Tara couldn’t help but admire Luc’s brain. His empathy. His too-big heart. He saw things for what they really were, past the lies people told and the walls they put up. Lord knows, most of the time when he turned those handsome hazel eyes on her they felt like a spotlight she had no hope of hiding from.

“Probably,” she agreed. Anger had kept her warm on many a cold night.

His regard grew familiar, intimate, and she realized how small this corner was. How dim. How little effort
it would take to believe the rest of the house, the whole world was gone.

And it was just them.

He was so close she could smell the beer he must have drunk on his breath. She’d smelled beer on a hundred men’s breath. And somehow it was always sour, the smell of a bad decision.

But Luc smelled sweet. Intoxicating.

“You like me, huh?” she asked, relaxing into the shadows. Relaxing into the way this man made her feel.

His hand landed on the wall beside her head, his body close enough that she could feel the heat of him. The smell of him, beer and spices, soap and that little something extra that was all him. She wanted to investigate that smell, trace it back to its origins.

“I think I’ve made that clear.”

He didn’t ease closer, just left that distance between them, and she wanted to arch toward him. Pull him flush against her body—and she could have done that a month ago, but now she found herself lacking the courage. Unbelievably, she felt shy. Unsure of her welcome.

She played with the collar of his golf shirt, her finger brushing the hot skin of his neck, and her body woke up with a hum, a long, slow purr of pleasure.

When he leaned down, she closed her eyes, her body thrumming, pulled taut on a wire of expectation.

“I’m not used to begging.” He breathed against her skin and her breath left in a whoosh, leaving her empty, waiting to be filled.

By him.

“You don’t have to beg.” She nearly laughed. She was ready to beg; she was ready to do whatever this man wanted.

His fingers left the wall, feathered across her collarbone, then his thumb traced her ear. He breathed a kiss across her cheek. Her lips. She sighed, reached for him,
and he was gone—a wind she couldn’t catch. She smiled, her eyes fluttering shut. This felt like falling backwards into a dream. Some kind of fantasy. A game for someone younger, far more innocent than she.

“It seems I do.” The air between them, the inches that separated them, was thick. Flush with restraint. Ripe with illicit possibility.

“You’ve pushed me away too often, Tara, for me to accept this at face value.” His thumb traced her eyebrows, her hairline.

“You want to know if my intentions are honorable?”

“I want to know if this is just a game for you. A chance to fuck with my head.”

Oh, oh she hated that that was what he thought, but of course he did. What else could he think?

She put her hands against his cheeks, feeling the rough scrape of his beard, the hard clench of his muscles. In the dark room his eyes shimmered.

“My intention is to get into your pants.” She couldn’t resist the sudden sweetness of his smile, so she kissed him, a hard smack. “I won’t push you away again, Luc. I don’t have the strength. I like you. A lot.”

His chuckle against her ear lit fires along her body, small pockets of heat that breathed to life in her neck, her breasts, between her legs, and her blood began to hum, carrying the fire across her skin. All she could do was stand there, inches from him, and burn.

He leaned closer, his chest meeting her breasts, and she gasped, melting hard against him. His big, hot hands curled around the small of her back, making her feel delicate, a feather on a breeze. Finally, in the dark, in the heated shadows, she found his mouth.

And it was like the answer to a question she didn’t know she needed answered. Curling her hands into the silk of his hair, she held onto him and opened her mouth, licking his lips. Taking her time to taste him, to chart the
contours of his mouth, the delicate arch of his lips, the hard ridge of his teeth.