Just Let Go… (11 page)

He looked smug and manly. “I know.”

On the other side of the lawn, Carolyn Carver was still watching them, all pouty smiles and bedroom eyes that most men seemed to go for. Gillian pushed her hair back, and smiled politely in return.

This was the way women fought in this state: lipstick, compliments and a dash of hemlock splashed in sweet tea.

“I want to meet her,” Gillian whispered in his ear, accidentally brushing her lips over the warmth of his skin. He shivered. She noticed. So did Carolyn Carver, and Gillian knew she was in for trouble because the woman’s dress was couture, and that wasn’t cubic zirconia that dangled from her ears.

Austen, not sensing the territorial undercurrents, pulled her behind the roses. “Don’t waste your time on something that doesn’t matter.”

He seemed unmoved, but that was the problem. “Doesn’t anything matter to you anymore? You used to care, you used to feel.”

He smiled at her, careless and cool. “Not me. Not ever.”

“They why are we here?”

“Can’t figure that one out, can you?” His hand slid over her bare arm, and suddenly she wasn’t sure what was pretend and what was real. Conscious of a thousand prying eyes, Gillian pulled him beyond the high row of roses.

She searched his face, looking for some sign of caring. “It’s the right thing to do. It’s a good thing, and an honorable thing, and you don’t have to lie and pretend that it’s only lust that is driving you.”

His eyes flickered, there was a softening in his mouth, but then from a thousand miles away someone laughed, loud and rough, and Austen held her against him.

His mouth covered hers like a man without a country, his tongue sliding boldly between her lips. His hands slipped beneath her dress, pulling her tight to his body, letting her feel the thick length of his erection, fitting himself snugly between her thighs as if she was nothing more than a thing.

His kiss was crude, pillaging and raiding like a destroyer intent on burning the land. Stupid with fury, her hand raised, ready to slap, ready to hurt.

But something stopped her just in time. Beneath her thin dress, beneath the veneer of his suit, she could feel the beat of his heart—rabbit scared.

Her fingers rose, not so angry. She cupped the rigid planes of his cheeks, tender and warm, feeling his mouth gentle on hers.

At the unexpected turn, her own pulse quickened, the late-afternoon sun beating down, the fine rose scent heavy in the air. She could taste the burn of whiskey on him, the dark fire of a man who was determined to stay in hell.

Her fingers tangled in his hair, and her hips arched against him because she wanted to feel him, and she needed to see what he would do.

Austen drew back a mere inch, his eyes heavy and black with desire. The sound of his breathing was staggered and angry, but he stayed frozen, controlled. Gently, oh-so carefully, she smiled.

Instantly his breathing calmed, and the forgotten finger slipped beneath her panties, slipping inside her. All the while he was watching her, waiting for her to fight or pull away, but she would not. Frozen and controlled she stood, her muscles clenched and tight. It was anger that was driving her, anger and lust.

While his treacherous hand played her, Gillian didn’t flinch, she didn’t blink, she locked her eyes with his. Back and forth he stroked, and she could feel the swelling of her flesh, the all too human moisture giving proof to his particular brand of the truth. He wanted to believe it was lust, because he was too stubborn to believe anything else.

His face was carefully still, waiting for her to break, waiting for her to come. Her muscles began to contract, and if she were a little stronger, she would have pulled away, but he expected that from her, thinking she was stronger than she really was.

With each touch of his hand, her blood throbbed, the warm sun heating her skin, and inside her, everything wanted to drift and let go. Still he watched her face, his fingers thrusting deep, his movements faster, and Gillian could feel the pressure building between her thighs.

Not willing to let him win, she locked her knees, focusing on staying upright, focusing on the single drop of sweat on his brow.

A tiny pulse in his cheek gave him away. Her muscles began to spasm and she knew he could feel the release in her, but she didn’t gasp, she didn’t close her eyes, and as the orgasm took over, she withstood the pressure, showing him exactly how calm and controlled were done.

Long seconds later, he withdrew from her, took a slow step back, but this time there was no patronizing wink or soulless smile. He was absolutely still, waiting for her to explode.

Efficiently she smoothed her skirt, her hands steady. When she thought her appearance was suitably restored, Gillian raised a brow. She wanted to yell at him, but she kept her voice carefully in check. “I will not let you spit on this. I will not let you spit on me, and I will not let you spit on the remaining pieces of your heart—small and pitiful as they might be. There is a state representative who is waiting to be charmed by the potency of your smile. There is a young lady, and I use that term only in the loosest sense of the word, who is waiting to see if my lipstick is smudged, or whether my dress looks especially mussed. I will not give her that satisfaction. Do I make myself clear?”

It was a rhetorical question. She didn’t wait for a response because she was about to collapse. A stiff shot of whiskey was what she needed. Most of all, she was terrified that he would walk away.

So she marched off to the bar and sweet-talked the bartender out of a quick shot of whiskey. Courage now duly fortified, Gillian strolled past Carolyn Carver with her head held high. There were some women who would run away from a fight, but not Gillian. Not a fight with Austen, and not a fight with the governor’s daughter, either. Carolyn might not know they were at war, but they were….

Just as she was within spitting distance, Carolyn smiled, warm and full of charity, as only Texas women can do. “Hey, sugar. Love the dress. It does great things for that sleek figure of yours, but I think the back is hanging a little off.” She pitched her voice low. “You should find a mirror.”

Then Gillian patted her arm just so, and headed for the ladies’ room, a hidden tree, a linen closet, or pretty much anywhere else she could go and fall apart in peace.

T
HERE WERE FEW TIMES
in his life when Austen felt shame. He spent most of his childhood pretending shame didn’t exist, but once he’d finally pried himself out from under the thumb of Frank Hart, he found that life was a bottle of tequila, meant to be chugged and then tossed. The downside to tequila chugging was that each morning you woke up with a worm in your mouth.

In short, the Three Horsemen of the Apocalypse—shame, guilt and regret—were a big waste of time. Still, as he watched Gillian walk toward the house, as he watched that stiff-legged pride, he couldn’t help but feel…well,
uncomfortable
seemed the word that he found most acceptable.

Most of him could not comprehend why she bothered with a professional liar who had a foul-mouthed drunk for a father, and a brother who apparently cooked up crystal meth when he wasn’t in the operating room.

It was a good thing he’d never told her about his sister, Brooke.

Slowly he scratched his chest, his nose enamored by the lingering whiff of her wildflower perfume. His cock stiffened at the dark smell of her sex. And from his heart, from the small and pitiful pieces of his heart? He felt a distant thumping, and he told himself that he was still woozy from lust.

A few minutes later he returned to the party, potent smile back in place. There were a few judges that he slapped on the back, a few faceless wives whom he flirted with shamelessly. All while he waited breathlessly for her return.

When Gillian did emerge from the house, she stood poised in the doorway, the sun’s glow glinting off her in a way he knew she had planned. Feeling the draw of his gaze, she shot him a smile that was full of triumph and innocence, of sins not forgiven and tears that would never be shed.

From deep within his chest, the small and pitiful pieces of his heart coughed and sputtered, angry at being disturbed from their rest.

There was nothing that would ever come of this, since he could never be the man she hoped he was, but Austen Hart was damn good at playing the game, and for a few days—a few glorious days—he would.

G
ILLIAN LAUGHED AND
told stories, and listened with awestruck eyes to every elected official she met. There was one state senator, a very soft-spoken young man, who explained in great length about the tragic plight of the brown-backed scorpions who were being chased farther from their native habitat by the callous developers who thought nothing of squishing them like bugs.

As he talked on, she noticed the abundance of limestone on the garden wall. She squinted carefully because if perchance she ever did see a scorpion, that bugger was toast.

Austen, perhaps noticing the unattractive pallor of her skin or the glazed look in her eyes that seemed at odds with her mission, gallantly appeared to rescue her.

“I need to introduce you to Jack,” he told her as they strolled across the lawn. “I put it off as long as I could, but he thinks he’s the reason we’re here, and I don’t want him to think otherwise and start asking questions. Are you okay with that?”

It was an odd question from a man who had made it his life’s mission to disrespect her daily. His tone was gentlemanly and appropriate.

Progress had been made on the political battlefield. They now had four state legislators ready to raise up against the governor—definite progress—and there had been progress on the personal battlefield, as well.

Gillian, who had managed more victories than Alexander the Great, knew how to accept the triumph with good manners, and he was damned lucky that she noticed and had graciously chosen not to rub his nose in it.

“So Jack’s the turncoat who diverted the rail route, the one who opted to destroy my town without an ounce of compassion for the people whose very existence will now be squashed like a bug?”

“Franklin was talking to you about the brown-backed scorpion?” he asked, in a completely unsurprised voice.

“At great and wearying length.”

“I trust you won’t feel the need to lecture Jack on his lack of compassion, nor shoot him between the eyes?”

She sighed. “You sure do know how to ruin a girl’s fun.”

At her purposefully provocative words, she waited for the lewd wisecrack or the wolfish leer in his eyes, but Austen Hart only said, “Buzzkill, that’s me.”

They laughed and mingled and oh-so casually made their way over to Jack.

Jack Haywood looked to be in his fifties, steely gray hair, icy blue eyes and a simpering young thing who thought that a white linen dress was best worn without a bra.

“You must be Jack,” Gillian said, holding out her hand, somewhat surprised that his grip wasn’t clammy.

“Jack, meet Gillian, an old friend of mine from high school.”

Gillian, knowing her part, acted appropriately impressed.

Jack, knowing his part, acted appropriately pleased. “I wish I’d been at your high school, Austen. Maybe my grades would have been better.” He shrugged beefy shoulders. “Maybe not. How long will you be staying in town?”

Gillian turned to Austen and laughed. “Oh, who knows? I’m not big on rigid schedules and structure. You know, life is too important to put it on a timer.”

Jack chuckled, then squeezed the young thing that was hanging on his arm. “That’s exactly what I tell my doctor every time he wants me to give up my evening scotch. Austen says that you’re fascinated with the government process and came here to check out the behind-the-scenes wheeling and dealing.”

“I had a couple of civics courses in college, but it’s a lot more interesting to see the way it actually plays out.”

Jack looked at her oddly, and she realized a woman going to college confused him.

“I failed the classes, of course,” she added with a wistful tone in her voice, and Jack and his friend laughed once again.

Austen, she noted, did not laugh, only coughed to the side.

“I saw him taking you around,” Jack said, “making the introductions. I hope your time here is productive.”

Productive?
That was a weird, and possibly cover-blowing choice of words. Not ready to believe the worst, Gillian chuckled, shaking her hair back and forth in a carefree manner. Two seconds of silence passed before Gillian figured out that the man had expected an answer. The icy blue eyes were studying her much like developers studied the pesky brown-backed scorpion. Gillian knew that Jack Haywood was not nearly as clueless as he pretended to be, possibly because he was aware that Gillian was not nearly as clueless as she pretended to be. Although frankly, if she’d been smarter, she probably would not have rushed to judgment so fast.

Now appropriately respectful, she met his eyes. “Today wasn’t nearly productive as I had hoped it would be,” she told him, sounding tired and frustrated because she was.

Something passed over the man’s face, something that made her skin crawl. It was then that Austen stepped in between them. “Gillian’s an idealist, Jack. Don’t burst her bubble too soon.” He placed a protective, possessive arm around her shoulders. A very nice touch.

That was the sort of cro-magnon tactic that Jack Haywood seemed to understand best. “You should introduce her to J.C.,” the man said, sensing the pesky bug had been crushed and the crisis had passed.

“Who’s J.C.?” asked Gillian, in her happiest, peskiest voice.

“J. C. Travis. The railroad commissioner of this fine state. She’s third in line to the governorship. I bet you two would get along fine.” Then Jack turned to Austen. “J.C. will listen and smile, cluck her tongue in sympathy, and tell you how mad she is about the changed route. In the end, there’s not a thing she can do about it, but you should try. I’m assuming that J.C. is next on your list?”

At the question, Gillian kept her face carefully blank. Austen’s smile turned cold, much colder than she’d ever seen. There was no pretense here. That was all mean. “That’s good advice,” he said, the cold smile staying put. “I knew you were my mentor for a reason.”

She survived a few more minutes of strained conversation before Austen decided that they’d stayed long enough.

The fierce eyes of Jack Haywood were watching her take her leave, but Gillian still managed to smile graciously, her hand clutching Austen’s arm more firmly than she intended, but he didn’t seem to mind. “Good to meet you, Jack,” she said, because certainly, the man had taken the gloves off, but there was no reason to forget good breeding.

He nodded. “Always a pleasure when a beautiful woman graces us with her company. Austen’s sticking his neck out awfully far for you, Miss Wanamaker. I hope tonight you’ll be appropriately grateful.”

Underneath her hand, she felt Austen’s muscle tense, but he was foolish if he thought a few adolescent remarks were going to move her to violence. There were so many more options.

She laughed then, because when in over your head, confident superiority worked best. “Mr. Haywood, I’m not exactly sure what your idea of gratitude entails, and I’m not sure my feeble brain can comprehend all these subtle nuances. Regrettably, I think you’re saying that appropriate gratitude involves sucking a man’s balls until his head explodes, and let me clarify, I’m referring to the little head rather than the big head, in case you were confused by the subtle nuances between those two. I’m surprised you don’t know that there are people who indulge in sexual congress because they like each other, are attracted to each other, and possibly respect each other, too. Let me tell you something, there are women who actually bed a man because they want to, rather than because they
owe
him.”

Jack’s eyes narrowed to mere slits, and he started to speak, but she held up a finger and turned to his companion. “I don’t know what you
owe
him, but take it from me, even the promise of world peace isn’t enough.” Unable to help herself, she nodded at the woman’s chest. “And buy a bra. That’s just tacky.”

With those parting words, she and Austen walked off.

“
Tell me
I didn’t ruin it. We only have three days to change their minds before the governor’s press conference. And I think I ruined it.” Gillian was currently sitting on her hotel bed, her head in her hands, nursing the mother of all morning-after regrets.

Austen tried to comfort her, albeit pointlessly, and they both knew it.

“You didn’t ruin it.” He sounded so earnest, so sincere, she had to look up and see who was actually speaking.

Noting the hard truth on his face, she swore. “You’re such a liar.”

“Hey, it’s not a huge surprise that Jack would figure out that if we can’t get the route changed through the front door, then we’ll try to change it through the back.”

“Which we’re going to change,” she corrected.

“Which we’re trying to change,” he corrected, and she let it slide only because there were bigger things to worry about. Namely, her mouth. “But if he’s right about J.C., we were screwed before we started.”

“Are we going to meet her?”

“Yeah. I called her last night. I can’t go to my boss for help with this one, but I can go to her. If we jam up the budget vote, I’ll need to dole out some favors, and J.C. likes to play Santa Claus.”

“And Jack can stop all this?”

Austen shrugged. “I don’t know.”

She buried her head in her hands. “I should have kept my mouth shut.”

“Don’t worry about it.” The words rolled off his tongue because no, he had never shot off his mouth and ruined things. “So what if Jack found out that I wanted to torpedo the budget process. Who cares? Yes, it was earlier than might be strategically advantageous, but when life hands you shit…” He stopped, frowned.

“What?” she asked, curious.

“Nothing.”

“No, finish it. When life hands you shit, you what? Fertilize the roses, turn it into organic fuel?”

“No. You open a new bottle and get yourself good and drunk.”

She pushed herself up from the bed, wondering if everyone was right about Austen. Maybe it was pointless. A fool’s errand, but dammit, Gillian wasn’t wrong. She couldn’t be. Why couldn’t he see what she saw in him? Right now, he was her only hope, and to be perfectly honest, she wished he would put more effort into the process. “That’s your idea of positive platitudes?”

“It’s better than what Frank always said.”

Hearing that, Gillian glanced over, surprised at Austen’s words, but it was safer to stay casual, make a joke, as if discussing Frank Hart was everyday conversation. Like the weather.

“What did Frank—” she started, her voice light, and then held up a hand. “No, I don’t want to know.”

He hadn’t noticed, his face distracted. There was a tension in his shoulders, his jaw tight, and as she paced around the room, his eyes followed her, filled with something primal. Something predatory. Something that made her body yearn. After a few moments, he stood. “Let’s go eat.”

Food? The man wanted food? Now? When she had other…more stimulating ideas? “How can you be hungry? I’m too wound up to eat. That smarmy bastard, Haywood. God, it’s like he oozes instead of walks. I don’t know how you can do this all the time without needing some antivenom vaccine.”

“I take a lot of showers,” Austen answered, sounding as if he were serious.

She looked wistfully in the direction of the bathroom. “I think a shower is a top-shelf idea.”

At her suggestion, his skin turned pinkish pale, and Austen Heartless Womanizing Whore-Dog Hart studiously inspected the color of his sapphire blue tie.

Gillian was intrigued. So the idea of a shower was making him nervous? Fascinated by the contradiction, Gillian smiled to herself. “We’ll do dinner, and figure out the best way to play it with J.C., but let me get cleaned up first. You don’t mind, do you?”

He looked as if he’d rather be scraping up roadkill, but he nodded like a trooper. Gillian opened the closet and pulled out a dress. The perfect black chiffon with the swirling skirt and the classically low halter neckline. Elegant, sophisticated, it screamed “I want to have sex.” Discreetly, of course.

Holding it up in front of her, she moved to the mirror. For a second she met his dark eyes, and felt the temperature shoot up a hundred degrees. In the end, it was her gaze that slid away although her heart seemed a little fascinated by the game.

Avoiding the danger in his direction, she grabbed fresh underthings and escaped to the bathroom because she had trusted Austen Hart more times than she could count, and she wasn’t quite ready to trust him again. No matter how much she wanted to.

S
EX WAS NOT SOMETHING
that Austen usually struggled with. He believed in it, knew the medical benefits of it, really enjoyed it, and although perhaps he couldn’t satisfy a woman emotionally, for a good hour, sometimes four, he could make sure that woman had a heullva good time. He’d never done that with Gillian, not once.

From the bathroom, he could hear the sounds of Gillian getting naked, Gillian soaping some sort of bubbly gel stuff over that soul-stealing body. He could hear her fingers skimming over her soft skin, the wet slide of her body against the tiles. Most devastatingly of all, he could hear the quiet moans as she made herself come.

No, Gillian Wanamaker would not pleasure herself in a shower. Most likely—because he had given the matter some amount of thought—she would have a vibrator that she kept tucked away in her closet behind her Lionette cheerleader uniform. When the house was quiet and the town at rest, she would lay herself down on the bed, spread her legs only just enough, and then after all the lights were off, she would turn on the radio. George Strait’s smooth voice would fill the air. Then, with no one to see, she would touch herself gently, a small smile on her lips.

Her hands would trail over her breasts, light as a feather, amused by the idea of a good girl gone bad. Then, because Gillian Wanamaker did nothing half measure, she would move on to serious fondling of the pair of rosy-tipped nipples. The night air would dampen her skin, making her body shimmer like gold. Her laughter would be smothered and soft. She would draw a quick breath, those perfect breasts rising, her fingers skimming down to the neatly trimmed curls of gold that ruled from the top of her thighs.