On the Move (8 page)

“Hey,” he said when he rounded the short wall that separated the cooking area from his tiny family room.

“We should talk,” she said, her hands in her pocket, the look on her face one of firm resolve.

“I thought I made it clear you should leave.”

“Not until we talk,” she said with a small shake of her head, one that caused her hair to swing to one side where it came to rest near the open collar of her button-down shirt.

“There’s nothing to talk about.” He crossed his arms, daring her to defy him.

She did exactly that, moving past him to the kitchen. “You want some tea?” she called over her shoulder.

“No,” he said, frustrated beyond belief. Short of picking her up and bodily ejecting her from his home, there was little he could do. Maybe he should call Scott. But, no, Scott would undoubtedly approve of Vicky’s high-handed tactics.

And God forbid she tell Scott about his disability.

“How about a rum and Coke?” she asked with a trace of humor.

He followed her into the kitchen, surprised to see her rooting around as if she owned the place.

“I don’t drink.”

“No?” she asked. “Too bad. I could use a stiff one right now.”

So could he, he admitted. Vicky now knew his little secret, and damned if he knew what to do about it.

“Ah. Perfect,” he heard her say. “Instant iced tea.”

As she stretched up on tiptoe to reach an elusive canister, Brandon found himself watching her as she moved. Her shirt stretched across the front of her body and the pants she wore dropped low on her waist.

Vicky had a hot body.

He hadn’t noticed it before—or maybe he had—when he’d pulled her up against him yesterday. But he’d never seen her in anything other than suits.

He shook his head.

He had a serious problem here, and the last thing he needed was his overactive libido rearing its ugly head.

“That might be old,” he said as she popped the lid on a can of instant tea.

“Nah,” she said. “Tea never goes bad.”

She was awfully perky all of a sudden.

No doubt because she had the upper hand. He wasn’t foolish enough to believe that she wouldn’t use her newfound knowledge to blackmail him in some small way. If he’d been in her shoes, he’d have done the same thing.

She pulled a glass pitcher down from yet another cabinet. Where he’d gotten the thing, he had no idea. No doubt it had belonged to his mother, back when his world had been relatively normal. Back before his father had discovered he had a son who might have racing talent.

“Ah,” she said, after mixing the brown powder with water. “Want some?”

“What I
want
to know is why you haven’t left when I’ve asked you to.”

“Isn’t it obvious?” she asked. “I’m going to teach you how to read.”

If she’d told him she planned to strip her clothes and dance around his kitchen naked, he couldn’t have been more surprised.

But why
wouldn’t
she offer such a thing? a voice asked. If she taught him how to read, then she’d increase the chances of his earning more money for the firm. Of course it was in her best interest to teach him.

The acid that filled his mouth could only be disappointment.

“You don’t need to do that. I’m fully capable of doing it on my own.”

“Yeah, I can see that,” she said. “That book looked like it’d been thumbed through at least a hundred times. How long have you had it, Brandon?”

The tea had left a sheen of moisture above her lips. Brandon had no idea why he suddenly became fascinated by it. He turned away again. What the hell was wrong with him?

“Brandon,” she called. “Wait. I want to talk about this.”

“And I don’t,” he said, thinking she’d leave him alone if he went into his bedroom.

He was wrong.

She followed him.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

She must have taken note of where she was then. He saw her eyes widen and then narrow curiously as she glanced around—at the socks on the floor, at the damp towel he’d left hanging on the bathroom door, at the armoire against a wall across from the bed. One of the drawers was open.

“I don’t know why, but I expected a water bed.”

She met his gaze, a slight smile on her face.

He didn’t smile back.

He just wanted her to leave. First the reading thing and now this…this invasion of his private space. It was all too much, especially since he’d started to wonder what she’d look like atop that bed….

“I think you should leave.”

“Yeah,” she said. “You’re probably right. But I’m not leaving,” she said. “I want to help you.”

“Why? Because you want to make money on me?”

Her mouth parted in surprise, brows lifting. “What a horrible thing to say.”

“It’s why you’re here, isn’t it? Why you’re so afraid to go against the almighty Scott. You want your cut of the take, too.”

“No,” she said firmly, emphatically. “That’s not why I’m here at all.”

“I gave you the perfect excuse to bow out gracefully, and yet you didn’t,” he said.

“Because I didn’t want to go back to New York a failure. Because when I thought about going home, I realized I’d be taking the easy way out. I want to be an agent, Brandon. I want to be a
good
agent. I want to help you, and if that includes teaching you how to read, then so be it.”

“I told you before, I don’t need your help.”

“But you do,” she said, stepping closer to him. “You’re just too proud to admit it.”

“That’s what you think.”

“How’d you manage it?” she asked quietly. “All those years being in the limelight, fooling your sponsors, talking to the press. How’d you pull it off?”

He debated whether to answer. Frankly, it was none of her business.
None
of this was
any
of her business and yet it’d become obvious she had no intention of leaving anytime soon.

“It wasn’t hard,” he said, brushing past her. He needed something to drink. Something that would burn a path down his throat.

“Did you have a learning disability when you were younger? Is that what happened?” He could tell by the sound of her voice that she’d followed him to the kitchen.

“Yeah,” he muttered, opening a cabinet where he kept the liquor for guests. “You could say that.”

“What was it? Dyslexia? ADD?”

“No,” he said, pouring a drink from a bottle with amber-colored liquid inside. He didn’t even know what the liquor was; he didn’t care. “My dad.”

“My dad,” he said again.

“I don’t understand.”

He slammed the glass down, turned to face her fully. He leaned against the kitchen counter, ambient light highlighting the contours of his face. Wide nose. Masculine forehead. Sexy lips. And yet…and yet…he appealed to her now more than ever because she didn’t see a dangerously sexy professional athlete anymore. She looked at him now and all she saw was a man, one haunted by his past.

“Why should you learn how to read when you’re going to make your living driving cars? You can’t read and drive.”

“Is that what he told you?”

“That was his answer for everything. From the time I drove my first go-kart, he groomed me to race cars. I was going to be a star. Racing royalty. He used to call me ‘Little prince.’ I was too young at the time to realize all he really wanted was a way to fill his own coffers.”

“So you never went to school?”

“I was—” he lifted his hand and made quotes “—home schooled. Nobody knew my dad was the one doing all the work. When I flunked the state mandated tests, he said it didn’t matter. Who cared about school when my true talent was driving? And he was right. I was talented. I had sponsors at nine. Yeah, I know. Sounds impossible. But believe me, it happens all the time. By the time I was twelve, I had a fully paid ride. When I was sixteen, I sat in my first full-size car. From there I went to Europe, where I drove for a year. Cutting my teeth, my father called it. When I won my first race over there, I knew I’d made it. It didn’t matter that I couldn’t read. My father was right. All that mattered was winning.”

“And so you ignored the problem.”

“Oh, I could never do that. Words are everywhere, Vicky. They’re impossible to ignore,” he said, going to the bottle and pouring himself a second shot.

He was going to get drunk if he didn’t watch it, she realized. She crossed to his side and took the glass away from him.

“You shouldn’t let it bother you,” she said, placing a hand on his forearm. Maybe he was already drunk because his eyes grew glassy. She thought she saw him sway, a deep breath catching in her throat as he tipped toward her. But then he pulled away and Vicky wondered what had just happened.

He’d looked as if he was about to kiss her again.

But, no, that was impossible. Why would he try to kiss her again when the first kiss had been nothing more than a ploy to get her to shut up? She’d been smart enough to figure that out all on her own.

“This is ridiculous,” she heard him mutter. He turned back to her. “And none of your business. You don’t need to know any of this. It affects nothing. I’ve gone years the way I am and it’s never ruined a relationship with a sponsor, or the media. There’s nothing for you to worry about, nothing to report back to Scott. Eventually, I’ll learn how to read, and when that happens, you’ll be the first to know.”

She knew how she handled herself now, how she responded to his verbal dismissal, would set the tone of their relationship from that moment on. She gently touched him again.

“Brandon,” she said softly. “I’m not your dad. I’m not going to abandon your needs just so I can make an extra buck. I’m not going to neglect you as a person.”

“No. You’re going to walk out that door and do your job.”

“Even an agent can be a friend.”

“Is that what you want to be, Vicky. My friend?”

“Of course,” she said. “It’s what any good agent wants.”

“And what if I want more?”

She felt her breath catch again. “What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean,” he said softly.

“Brandon, I don’t want to play games. You’re not going to scare me away by pretending you want to kiss me again. I don’t know why you feel the need to try and drive me away, but I should have thought by now I’ve proven myself an ally, not an enemy.”

“Who says I’m pretending?” he asked, moving away from the counter.

“Come on, Brandon,” she said, holding her ground. “We both know I’m not your type.”

He stopped in front of her, and Vicky’s heart was suddenly pounding. “Why don’t you let me be the judge of that?”

Her voice came out low and husky when she said, “Something tells me your judgment might be impaired right now.”

“Something tells me you might be right.”

He kissed her.

Vicky stiffened in shock. She’d thought he’d been bluffing, and yet suddenly his lips were against her own. And suddenly she wilted toward him. She couldn’t seem to stop herself. The man turned her on.

“Brandon,” she protested, pulling away from him.

“Vicky, you always taste so good,” he moaned, his head tipping toward her again.

“No,” she said, somehow managing to find the force of will to step away. “Don’t do this.” She turned her back to him, having to clench her hands to keep from turning back to him and running her hands through his hair. Damn, she wanted to do that, could practically feel the silky strands beneath her finger. “I
hate it
when you do this.”

He came up behind her, wrapped his arms around her front, pulled her up against his hard, masculine body.

Okay, so she’d definitely turned him on.
That
was now obvious. Also, she now knew that he found her attractive, that he wanted to do far more than kiss her.

She shivered, felt her legs go weak when his arms began a downward slide, when his head tipped toward her neck, his nose nudging aside her hair so he could find her ear.

“Brandon,” she huffed, thinking that it was unfair that he could do this to her with just a touch. When his lips found the shell of her ear, she hissed his name and closed her eyes. It didn’t matter that he might be kissing her for all the wrong reasons. She didn’t care. All she cared about was how good it felt to have Brandon nip her earlobe.

“Oh, man,” she moaned.

Now one of his hands was sliding across her waist.

“Please, Brandon, don’t.” She gasped, turned toward him out of self-preservation.

He immediately pulled her up against him.

“Don’t do that,” she said quickly.

“Do what?” he asked.

“Kiss me.” Because she’d begun to realize that the fission of awareness she always felt when he came near had less to do with sexual attraction and more to do with something she sensed in him, something that drew her as surely as a hummingbird to sweet nectar.
Loneliness.
She knew all too well what being alone was like.

“Why not?” he asked.

“Because I’m your agent. Or I’m kind of your agent. Scott’s still your main man. But I’m assisting him, and if you keep on kissing me, then something might happen, something we might both regret, and I don’t think that’d be good because just right now you need me—”

“Vicky?”

“Yes,” she said.

“Shut up.”

“Brandon—”

He silenced her with another kiss, even as a part of Brandon knew she was right. This would complicate matters. But he didn’t care. It was good between them…for whatever reason. Maybe it was a chemistry thing. All he knew was that every time he kissed her, every time he touched her, something went
zing
and his mind went
zap.
He couldn’t get enough of her.

“Vicky,” he moaned against her lips.

She kissed him back, her fingers caressing the nape of his neck.

Never,
ever
would Brandon have expected her touch would make his knees grow weak, but it did. Or maybe it was the alcohol. Maybe this was all because of the alcohol, but suddenly he wanted her. Up on the counter. Atop the kitchen table. In his bedroom…yeah, definitely in his bedroom.

He picked her up.

“Brandon,” she said.

He didn’t want to drop her. That would ruin a near perfect moment, but his equilibrium seemed to be just a little bit…off.

“Brandon,” she said again, more sternly.

She didn’t weigh much, he thought, hefting her so that she rested in the crook of his arm. She sure looked sexy with her hair all mussed up and her lips swollen from their kiss.

“Put me down,” she said.

“I’m gonna,” he said, having to turn sideways to fit through the kitchen doorway. Lucky, his bedroom wasn’t far. One of the perks of owning a small home.

“I mean,
now,
” she said.

He glanced down at her again, then the oddest thing happened. Staring up at him the way she was now, resting in his arms, she made him feel strange. Almost like the time his crew chief handed him his brand-new baby boy, and Brandon, who’d sworn never to have children, had looked down at that soft, wiggly little boy, and he’d felt his whole world sort of tilt.

He let Vicky go.

“Hey,” she cried, because he literally dropped her. He reached for her at the last moment, catching her under the arms. Unfortunately, his last-minute rescue caused them both to go down in a tangle of legs and arms.

“Nice move, Romeo,” she said as he lay beneath her, groaning.

“Sorry,” he moaned. She moved off of him and he slowly sat up. “You okay?” His head spun.

“Fine,” she said, sitting next to him.

“You said let go.”

“I didn’t mean
drop
me.”

“You should probably get out of here before I kiss you again,” Brandon said.

“What?”

“Leave.”

She must have read something on his face because her brows shot up. Those pretty eyes of hers widened. But then she scrambled up. “Right,” she said quickly.

“Vicky,” he called when she turned away. “You going to my race?”

That wasn’t what he’d been about to say at all, but he couldn’t beg her to stay.

“Scott expects me to.”

That wasn’t really an answer, but he let it go.

She didn’t leave. “Brandon, about your reading—”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“I really want to help you with your problem.”

The only problem he had was the nearly irresistible urge to scoop her up in his arms again—and look into her eyes again and recapture that fluttery sensation when he held her hand one more time.

“We’ll talk about it later,” he said.

He needed her to leave. Now. The sooner the better. Maybe with a little distance he could sort all this out.

“All right then. Later,” she said.

He watched her turn away. Only when she was gone did he get up off the floor.

“Good job, Burke.”

She knows you can’t read.

Yet she wanted to help him.

For a moment he allowed himself to hope that maybe, just maybe, it was possible.

But who was he trying to kid? He’d
tried
to learn, numerous times. But no matter how many hours he worked at it, the letters continued to be a jumble of symbols. The few words he did recognize were not enough that he could make sense of anything. He was beyond hope. He was probably too old to learn. Vicky wouldn’t be able to help. Besides, he needed her to act as an agent, not a reading instructor.

That’s what mattered, he finally decided, watching as she started her car and backed out of his gravel drive.

He needed her on a professional level, not a personal one. Personal relationships never worked. He should know. His father had screwed him out of his personal fortune. His mother had screwed him out of a personal life by not standing up to his father and insisting Brandon be allowed a normal childhood. Every relationship he’d ever tried to have had ended in disaster. Most of the women he dated were only after his money. A few were out to snag themselves a celebrity husband. Most could care less about him as a person.

What he needed more than a temporary lover…what he needed more than physical release, was someone to get his career back on track. That was it.

Even an agent could be a friend.

Wouldn’t that be nice? a little voice asked. He didn’t have many of those.

Hell, he didn’t have a single one.