On the Steamy Side (15 page)

“You think the reason I haven’t been part of his life is that it’s not convenient? Of course you do. What else would you think?”

The bitterness in Devon’s voice took her aback. She studied him for a moment as the fog of her own emotions lifted slightly and allowed her to see how wrung out he looked. And beneath the exhaustion was a lurking pain she couldn’t give a name to, quite, but its presence reminded her of the momentary flash she’d seen in his eyes when the officer gave Tucker into his keeping.

Making her voice soft was easier this time. “If that’s not the reason, Devon, then why?” He looked away from her, staring out the window. “It doesn’t matter. Because I’m a heartless prick.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“Well, it’s all you’re getting.”

And with that, they lapsed into a tense silence.

She must’ve dozed off, because she was barely aware of the car pulling smoothly into the garage, or Paolo coming around to unbuckle and lift Tucker free of the vehicle. Yawning, cold without that warm weight snuggling against her, Lilah struggled with her own seat belt until a pair of large, fine-boned hands brushed her fumbling fingers aside and deftly released the catch.

Blinking blearily up, Lilah saw Devon’s hand held out, palm up, to help her from the car. She placed her hand in his, shivering minutely at the feel of his hard, callused palm, and let him draw her to her feet.

It was surreal to be back in this fairy-tale apartment building. Their odd procession of child-laden chauffeur, yawning nanny, and grimly reluctant father didn’t turn any heads, but Lilah couldn’t help comparing it to her first trip through the marble lobby and up to Devon’s penthouse.

He unlocked the door while Lilah suppressed another yawn, this one strong enough to bring tears to her eyes. The driver preceded them into the apartment and carried the still-sleeping Tucker away without a word to Devon. Lilah stepped inside just in time to see them disappearing down a side hallway.

“He knows where to put Tucker?” she asked.

To her surprise, a dull red flagged Devon’s high cheekbones. “There’s only one guest room that’s suitable for a child,” he said gruffly.

Heart warming strangely, Lilah laid a hand on Devon’s tense arm. “You kept a room in your home for Tucker, even though you didn’t have custody or get to see him.” Devon scowled. “It was smart business. Sometimes my producer or my agent likes to fly in from L.A. for a visit. They might bring their kids. It made sense to have someplace to put them.”

“Sure,” Lilah said, letting him get away with it. For now. But she smiled to herself, relieved to have another indication that her instincts had been right. She was willing to bet no producer’s kid had ever stayed in the room Tucker was now sleeping in.

As if aware that she was humoring him, Devon set his mouth in a firm line and made a curt after-you gesture down the hall. Trying not to smirk and managing to yawn instead, Lilah went.

They passed several closed doors—the place was even more enormous than she’d realized the night before, distracted as she’d been—before Devon pushed one open and ushered Lilah into a pretty wood-paneled room filled with sleek modern furniture. The bed against the left wall was low and wide, set under a creamy tufted suede headboard.

“The bathroom is fully stocked; anything you need should be in there.” Lilah went where Devon pointed and found a white marbled bathroom with gorgeous antique mirrors on the walls and a deep tub with jets.

It wasn’t quite as breathtaking as the master bath with Devon’s beautiful mosaic shower, but it was still more luxurious than anyplace Lilah’d ever lived. And it was hers for the next four weeks.

She blinked at herself in the mirror. Yep, still plain Lilah Jane staring back at her, kinky curls, freaky green eyes, too-small mouth and all.

“Did you find the toothbrushes?”

Lilah looked blankly at the smooth mirror. It didn’t appear to be a medicine cabinet, but there were no obvious cabinets or drawers, only a freestanding pedestal sink with a gracefully curved bowl.

A tanned, corded forearm dusted with mahogany hair moved past her face. Devon tapped his closed fist against the corner of the mirror and it swung forward on silent hinges revealing five shelves stocked with assorted jars and bottles.

Lilah reached in and snagged a toothbrush still wrapped in plastic.

“My, my. What a well prepared host you are.”

Devon arched a brow and she met his eyes in their reflection in the mirror. “I want my guests to feel comfortable,” he said.

“I guess I should be glad you’re such a popular guy,” Lilah said, trying to smile. It was only hard because she was so tired. “Did any of your guests leave a nightie, by chance?” Devon’s mouth quirked. “I might be able to rustle something up,” he drawled.

“Thanks,” Lilah said, and started working at picking apart the plastic encasing her toothbrush. After a moment, Devon left her, presumably to rifle through a pile of discarded thongs and teddies left here by his multitude of lady friends to find something Lilah could wear to bed. Maybe she should’ve been more specific about what she looked for in a nightgown.

Lilah went through the motions of her normal evening routine, getting jarred out of it from time to time by the extraordinarily shmancy soap, or facial cleanser, as it said on the box, and by the tiny tub of lotion—crème luxe moisturizer—which felt like pure silk on her skin.

She stared at herself in the mirror. What in the world was she doing here?

A soft knock at the bathroom door startled her. She cracked it open to find Devon with some blue cloth draped over his outstretched hand.

“This should fit you,” he said.

Lilah took it, almost surprised that the material felt like plain cotton rather than the racy satin or lace she’d half expected.

“Thank you,” she said. There was an awkward pause where Devon didn’t leave and Lilah didn’t start changing into the nightie and neither one of them said anything.

The moment had a very odd feel, as if Lilah hadn’t ever woken up from her nap in the car. As if she were caught in a dream.

Which must have been why, when Devon took a step toward her and bent his head to hers, Lilah didn’t push him away but wrapped her hands around his strong shoulders and dragged him closer.

The heat that had been simmering in her belly since—well, practically since the night before—

exploded into a fiery maelstrom that swept Lilah up and into Devon’s arms.

His chest was solid and hard against hers, a wall of shifting muscle that made her want to rub herself against him like a cat. Devon’s hands speared into her hair, fingers molding to her head and holding her for his mouth. Lilah couldn’t help it.

She absolutely melted.

Never would’ve thought I was this kind of girl, she thought dazedly. The thought brought her up short.

Oh, wait. I’m not.

Lilah pressed her palms to Devon’s chest and pushed until she could reclaim her mouth. Dragging in air like she’d been underwater for three minutes, Lilah gasped out, “Hold your horses, there.” Devon flexed his hands in her hair, sending prickles of sensation racing down her spine. “What’s the matter, Lilah Jane?”

Ignoring the warmth that spread through her at the soft way he said her name, Lilah shuddered and pulled away. Her smile felt shaky, but it was there. “Come on now. You didn’t think it was going to be that easy, did you?”

Huffing out a laugh, Devon said, “Looking back at today, I guess I should’ve known better. It’s not like anything has turned out the way I thought it would since I met you.” Lilah leaned on the sink to hide the fact that she felt like a newborn colt trying to stand for the first time. “Unpredictable. I can live with that.”

“More like ‘harbinger of chaos,’ ” Devon corrected her. “Jesus.”

“A little bit of chaos would do you good. And don’t take the Lord’s name in vain.” Devon pressed his hands together as if he were praying, but the look in his deep blue eyes was all sin.

He grinned and bowed once, quickly.

“Yes, boss.”

Devon wandered out to his living room. He didn’t bother turning on any lights; the darkness suited his mood.

Everyone else in his odd new household was still in bed, tucked up and cozy, but despite the exhaustion weighting his bones, Devon’s sleep had been restive at best. And now here he was, up at the ass crack of dawn, wondering if there was anything on TV at this godforsaken hour.

He was slouched into the buttery leather comfort of his ultra-modern couch, flipping through channels, when an unsettling feeling of not-aloneness crawled up the back of his neck.

Whipping to the side, Devon threw out the arm holding the remote and accidentally lost his grip on the thing. The all-in-one contraption that controlled every piece of state-of-the-art electronics in his apartment, from lighting to stereo to the enormous flat-panel television, flew from his hand and smacked against the opposite wall. Plastic snapped, batteries bounced in all directions, and Devon squeezed his eyes shut and said, “Well, shit.”

And then he grinned, wondering if his pretty little nanny was about to scold him for naughty language again. Why that was such a turn-on, Devon would never understand.

Except when he squinted one eye open, it wasn’t Lilah standing behind the couch, but Tucker.

The kid was sleepy-eyed and rumpled, hair smashed flat against his skull in a way that made one tuft poke straight out of the middle of his head. One small hand curled in a death grip around the ratty straps of the backpack he’d brought with him.

He didn’t look fazed by Devon’s language.

“What are you doing up?” Devon asked, working embarrassingly hard to keep his voice normal.

Tucker shrugged.

“You want to go back to bed?”

Tucker shook his head.

“Lilah’s still asleep,” Devon said, feeling helpless and hating it. Inspiration struck. “Do you want to go wake her up?”

Tucker shook his head again.

Devon was running out of options. Stalling for time, he hauled himself off the couch and went to gather the pieces of the remote control. Luckily for him, the thing seemed to be basically fine.

Snapping the batteries back into place, Devon scrolled through a few channels to make sure everything was working properly. All the while, he was hyper-conscious of the boy standing behind him.

Why was this so fucking awkward? Tucker was only a kid, but Devon was as nervous under his silent regard as he’d been when the New York Times critic was at Appetite.

All that comforted Devon was that Tucker seemed at least as jumpy, if not more, judging by the way the kid startled when Devon moved to sit back down on the couch. Maybe they were both feeling their way a little bit.

Casting a surreptitious sideways glance at Tucker, Devon said, “You want to watch TV with me? I could maybe find some cartoons. They still run on Saturday mornings, right?” Tucker didn’t answer in words; instead, he shuffled forward and perched on the other end of the couch from Devon. Who tried not to move too much or too quickly, as if Tucker were a deer at a watering hole, easily startled into bounding away.

It was only because Devon was so attuned to his son’s every movement and expression that he noticed the flicker of interest when the screen scrolled past the Cooking Channel. Focusing back on the television, Devon winced. It was his show.

He paused in his channel surfing and glanced over at Tucker, who had settled deeper into the sofa cushions and appeared rapt.

“Do you really want to watch this?” Devon asked, incredulous.

Tucker didn’t glance away from the opening credits. “Yeah, I like it.” Devon ground his molars and forced himself to look back at the screen. He despised watching himself.

His idea of hell was to be strapped into a chair with his eyes taped open, à la Clockwork Orange, with One-Night Stand playing on an endless, soul-crushing loop.

They watched in silence for several minutes. Devon remembered this episode. It was from a few seasons back. His challenge had been to take charge of the kitchen at the Waldorf-Astoria Hotel during a wedding reception. Two hundred and fifty drunken guests in the Starlight Roof ballroom, half wanting steak tournedos, half wanting gril ed salmon, all demanding perfection. They’d gotten a great promo for it, as Devon recalled, using teasers playing up the bride going toe-to-toe with Devon over the prosciutto and melon canapés.

Four million viewers had tuned in to see a tiny woman in a huge white confection of a dress begin her married life by exchanging curses with Devon Sparks. The actual screaming argument had been real; Bridezilla had stamped her little foot and tried to ram through the plebian, unimaginative ham-wrapped melon balls, but she’d thanked Devon later when the smoked duck breast and cherry chutney on chèvre wafers he sent up instead were a huge hit.

What the cameras didn’t catch was the even uglier bout of tears and recriminations near the end of the reception, when the bride, after too many champagne toasts, had cornered Devon in the kitchen and attempted to seduce him. It was astonishing how many of his shoots for the show ended that way.

That, plus the evidence of his own childhood observations, was almost enough to make Devon think that all women were turned on by being publicly berated.

All women except for Lilah, he amended with a private smile. His new nanny was more turned on by promises of obedience and gifts of plain pajamas than on-air shouting matches. Not enough to succumb on the very first night of their new arrangement—but he admitted to himself he would’ve been a little surprised if she had.

Devon didn’t know when he’d ever found himself quite so fascinated by a woman. A glance at Tucker reminded him of the last time, and he sobered. Heather Sorensen was Devon’s personal cautionary tale—How Not to Get Your Heart Butterflied and Roasted. Heather had taught him the dangers of getting in deep without really knowing each other.

Thinking of the soft slide of Lilah’s mouth under his, the clean, lemon-thyme scent of her skin, Devon decided that the situation with Lilah was entirely different. He already knew they were compatible in bed. Well, in the shower. He grinned to himself.