Sin on the Run (8 page)

She opened her mouth then closed it. Opened it again, and again, closed it. Success, he thought. He'd stunned her stupid. Good. Now he had a plan. Every time she'd offer to help, he'd kiss her. He wasn't going to be a burden, and if he had to stun her into compliance, then so be it.

“Seriously,” he said, “you aren't here to take care of me.”

“I know that.”

“Okay then, so we're in agreement. The next time you come into my room it's to crawl under the covers with me.”

“Stop.” She eyeballed him sideways. “I'm not Maggie. You can't shock me.”

“I beg to differ, and as you said, I'm bored. Of course . . .” He glanced over at the big empty bed. “If you
want
to get under the covers with me . . .” He was half kidding.

“And on that note.” She stood. “I'm glad you're feeling good enough to joke.”

“Who said I was joking?”

“Holy hell, you're more persistent than some of the dumbasses that come into the club. Do I have to get rough with
you
?”

“Hmm.” He considered her offer. “Not today. I don't think the hole in my chest could handle it, but if you care to ask me again in say . . . a week?”

She laughed, the sound intoxicating. It was sexy, heartfelt, and it made him proud to be the cause of it.

“I didn't realize you were such a flirt.” She crossed her arms and leaned on one hip.

He remembered those hips, remembered his hands gripping them. He cleared his throat and forced himself to look up. “Can't hurt a guy for trying.”

“Actually, in Maggie's club, you'd be out on your ass after the third attempt.”

“Third?”

“It would depend on the flirtation. No hands, you're bothering me, three strikes you're out. With hands, no strikes, you're out.”

“Right.” He nodded. “I saw that happen once.”

He closed his eyes, realizing his mistake the moment the words had come out of his mouth. He hadn't wanted her to know he'd been in the club. It was foolish. Who knew how many men had seen her dance? And yet, he didn't want to be counted among them. Maybe it was because he thought she'd be embarrassed—but if she were, she wouldn't dance. Perhaps, when he watched, he'd imagined her dancing for him and him alone, and he didn't want to be lumped with the other slobs who'd enjoyed themselves.

“You were at the club?” She tried but didn't succeed to sound nonchalant.

“Once or twice,” he admitted. “When clients insisted on a night out.”

“Live entertainment? It's a good thing you weren't there on ladies' night. Nobody would have been watching the acts.”

“Let me guess, because I'm
too
pretty.” He remembered their first dance, the first time he held her and what she'd said.

“Well, why would they look at the men on stage when the guy next to them is the hottest man on earth?”

“You're so full of it.” He'd come to learn she enjoyed getting a rise out of him.

“Have you looked in the mirror? Again, angels cry when they look at you. You must have women pawing at you all the time.”

“You didn't.” And honestly, it had made her even sexier.

“I can't ask people, men, to respect my boundaries if I don't respect theirs. Besides,” she said, “I don't sleep around. What happened between you and me . . . that was a one-time thing.”

He knew that, but hearing her say it hurt his ego. “Agreed.” Because what choice did he have? “But for my part, that's only because Christian would have my balls if I hurt you. And while I would never intentionally do that, relationships aren't my thing.” He'd also never found a woman he thought could take on his family. His grandmother would've snapped the women he dated in half. Even Sarah, his brother's wife, had briefly reconsidered marrying into the clan from hell. He suspected Rhonda, with her tough-girl act, hid a fragility she wanted no one to see.

“Christian told you not to sleep with me?”

“More like Maggie.”

“I see,” she said. “Mamma bear.”

He laughed. “She cares a great deal for you.”

“Yup, that's Maggie. Wish I could be more like her.”

Was she kidding? “You are like her. You're both selfless people.”

“No, Maggie is selfless. She's like a bottomless pit of giving.”

Did she really not see it? What did she think all those years of taking care of her father had been? “Rhonda, you sacrificed everything for your father.”

“It's not the same thing,” she insisted.

“How is it different?”

Because
, Rhonda thought,
Maggie didn't resent her giving nature
. “Maggie can't help herself. I had no choice. Now,” she stood, “how about lunch?” She didn't want to discuss her father anymore.

“If you're up to it, let's go down to the kitchen.”

“Sure, I'd love to get out of here. Give me a minute to change into sweats?”

“I'll wait outside.” Resisting the urge to offer assistance, she left his room.

When his door finally opened, he was dressed in low-riding black sweats and gray zippered hoodie. “How was it?” she asked, referring to his getting dressed with an injury.

“Not bad. What's the expression? I won't be running a marathon anytime soon?”

“Yeah. Would you've run one before?” He looked in shape.

“Hell no. I hate running. Never been that kind of adrenaline junkie.”

“If you tell me good genes make you look that fit, I may have to put another hole in your chest.” She led the way down the hall toward the stairs.

“You have this amazing way of insulting me for being attractive. I'm ‘too pretty.' And what was that other thing . . . ‘angels cry when they look at me'.”

“It's true. It's a good thing you're not too bright.” She indicated she should take the stairs first, in case he needed help.

“Now you think I'm stupid?”

“No, but there is no way God gave you all that,” she swirled her hand in front of him, “and a brain too.”

“So, you
do
think I'm stupid,” he said, following her.

“Stupid is harsh. More like
not
a rocket scientist. That's not a bad thing.” She'd never had this kind of banter with a man, and with Blake it seemed to come naturally. If nothing else, they'd be good friends, if the future permitted it.

“Not bad? You're basically calling me a dumb blond. You
did
call me a dumb blond.”

“I never mentioned your hair color.” She might be a prisoner in this grand plantation, but she was going to enjoy it as best she could. Even if it meant teasing the guy to death. “Come along. One foot at a time, and before you know it you'll be at the bottom.”

“I'll have you know,” he said, “I graduated from Oxford at the top of my class.”

“Basket weaving 101?”

“Law, thank you very much.”

Rhonda winced, mentally slapping herself in the head. She might not be pimping him out, but was all her teasing making her any better than his boss? They made it to the bottom step when she turned, ready to apologize but caught off-guard by what he'd just said. “Oxford? Don't you have to have money to go there?”

“No, you need the grades. And one could argue that those who can afford boarding schools have better access to quality education, thereby giving them an edge. But that's a matter of opinion.”

“You went to boarding school, didn't you? You come from money.” Of course he had money. Looks, brains, and cash. No wonder angels cried. He had it all.

“Well . . . sort of . . . Ryan's services don't come cheap.”

“Ryan didn't send you to school. What? You ashamed about coming from money?” She turned and headed for the kitchen. “That's just wrong. And
stupid
.” She turned again, pointing a finger at him. “Do you have any idea how different my life would have been if I never had to worry about money? And you're embarrassed to admit you had it growing up?” Her temper was getting the best of her. “That's stupid,” she repeated.

“Well, it's a might better than
my
being stupid.”

“Or you're still stupid, only now, for real. I was kidding before.” She left him behind, made it to the kitchen and opened the fridge. She was so mad she forgot why she was even in the kitchen. She slammed the door, a feat unto itself considering it was taller than her by a foot and wider than two closet doors. It must have cost a fortune. Ryan Sheppard had no problem with money. He
had
it. He
spent
it. Some rich people just didn't appreciate how easy they had it.

“R
honda, allow me to explain.”

She inhaled deeply, the sound of his gentle voice mortifying. She had no business getting mad. Everyone had their own stuff to deal with, and she had no right to stomp all over his. Sure, her life would've been different with money. She'd have been able to mourn her father the way a good daughter should. Tears stung her eyes, embarrassing her even more. She wasn't a crier. Criers didn't survive.

Refusing to shed a tear—or worse, allow him to see her cry, she opened the refrigerator door and stuck her head inside, reaching for the leftover chicken from last night. Hopefully the cold air would shake her out of her mood.

“Rhonda? If you're trying to avoid me, there's a better way than climbing into that icebox.”

At that, she smiled, looking down at herself. The thing was so big, over half her body was inside.

“Dang,” she said. “It could fit an entire football team.”

“And a couple of cheerleaders.”

“Sorry, none of those in here. But I have two linemen if you want to give Dozier a break.” She withdrew her body from the gigantic steel box, with the leftovers in hand.

He took the platter from her and set it down on the granite island. “I can barely handle one hellcat. What am I to do with cheerleaders?” He smiled, drying the tear she hadn't felt on her cheek with his thumb.

“The cold makes my eyes water. It's how I discovered waterproof eyeliner.”

When he obviously didn't understand, she elaborated. “Maggie took me skiing. After seriously doing a number on my butt, I went back to the chalet looking like a dead raccoon. Scary stuff.”

“Looking like a dead raccoon or the skiing?”

“Both. I realized I don't like the cold, or breaking my fall with my ass . . . ets.”

He laughed. “Don't start watching your language now. I'll think aliens have taken over your body.”

“I know I have a potty mouth. But I've been trying.”

They were back to their friendly exchange. She relaxed and needed to apologize for getting on his case. “I'm sorry,” she started, her head bowed. “It's none of my business how you grew up.”

He lifted her chin with his finger, then stared so long into her eyes, she was sure he was going to kiss her again.
Did she want him to kiss her?
Of course she did. She'd have to be dead not to, but kissing got her into this mess in the first place.

He didn't kiss her. And damn if she wasn't disappointed. Instead, he dropped his hand and leaned back on the counter.

“You sit.” He wasn't used to standing. “Come on.” She took his arm and led him to the kitchen table. Pulling out a chair, she indicated he should park his sexy ass in it.

“You're mothering me again.”

“No, just being cognizant of your injury.” She pointed to the chair.

“I left the chicken on the island.”

“Sit. I'll get it.”

“Rhonda,” he warned.

“Cognizant of your injury,” she repeated, getting the food and fetching two plates, napkins and cutlery. Remembering Dozier had made some awesome potato salad, she returned to the monstrosity of a fridge and snatched it too. “Thirsty?”

“A beer would be nice.” He went to stand, but one glare from Rhonda, and he sat back down. “Cognizant of my injury. Got it.”

She grabbed a beer for him, water for her, and joined him for a late lunch.

“Dozier makes good chicken.” He took a bite and chewed.

“Apparently he worked in a great kitchen as a dishwasher. He said he never cooked, just did a lot of watching.”

“Yeah, old man Sheppard made them work in all kinds of places. He believed a well-rounded person needed to see life from different angles.”

“So I've been told.”

“You and Dozier seem to be getting on well.” He popped the cap on his beer and took a swallow.

“You have a problem with that?” she asked, noting the accusatory tone.

“No, why would I? Dozier's a good man. I'm happy for the two of you.”

“I'm not marrying him.” She laughed. “Are you jealous? I'm sorry, it never occurred to me that you might want to spend some time with your friend. But since you're feeling better, the two of you can hang all you want. I'll find something to keep me busy.”

He choked on his beer. “You think I'm jealous because you think I think you're taking Dozier away from me? That's ridiculous.”

“Really? 'Cause you sure sound jealous.” She took a chicken leg and bit into it. The colonel had nothing on Dozier's chicken.

“Want to know what I think?” he asked, plating the potato salad for both of them.

“Do I have a choice?”

“I think you enjoy tormenting me.”

“Duh. I enjoy tormenting everyone.”

“My nanny used to say the same thing about me. She made me feel like a right sod. One look of disappointment from her, and I'd behave for at least a week.”

“Nanny?” He had a friggin' nanny? Of course he did.

Blake drew a deep breath. “Since I know a few things about you, it's only fair you know something of me.”

“Like, you have money?”

“Have? Yes. I earn what Ryan pays me. But when I told you I went to Oxford, you were right. I grew up with money . . . and my family has a manor house. And yes,” he said, before she could interrupt, “don't jump down my throat, but I come from an aristocratic family. Details aren't important. Suffice it to say my grandmother would be horrified if she heard I took clients to a gentleman's club.”

“Oh. Well, how would she feel about a strip club?” She smiled. But inside, it stung to know his family wouldn't approve of her. Not that she should care or that she'd ever meet them. And wasn't she herself ashamed?

His face took on this maniacal glee. “It would most likely give her a stroke.”

“And that would be a good thing?”
Someone
didn't like his grandmother.

“No . . . no,” he repeated. “That would be bad.” He put a forkful of food in his mouth and chewed.

“Wow, I thought my family was a mess. I at least loved my dad.”

He gave her a peevish grin. “I don't
not
love my grandmother.”

“But you don't like her either.”

He shrugged. “She's a difficult woman and makes it very hard to like her. We lived with my grandparents. And my grandmother took it upon herself to make sure my brother and I were raised per our lineage. In plain English, she's a snob. More concerned about social order and our blue blood, et cetera, than whether we were happy.” He polished off the chicken he was eating and took another piece.

“What about your parents? Didn't they have a say in raising you?”

“My father was the outsider, the son-in-law,” he explained. “Look, you don't want to hear this. It's all a load of bollocks anyway.”

“Considering I grew up in a housing project with an alcoholic father and you grew up on an estate with money, I think I
do
want to hear about your wacky family.”
A manor house. Holy shit
.

“Having money isn't everything, Rhonda. It comes with its own share of crap. Sure, I didn't have to wonder where my next meal was coming from. Hell, it was served to me on a silver platter by servants. And I should be grateful.” He shook his head. “I
am
grateful. But I would trade it all for a normal family.”

He was starting to look pale, and she figured she better get some more food into him before she sent him back to bed. “All right, later then. Finish your food . . . your lordship.” She tried not to smile, but failed. This was going to make for good teasing.

Blake hoped he hadn't made a mistake in telling Rhonda. In truth, he didn't know why he did it, when even his closest friends didn't know he came from aristocracy. But there was something about her that made him want to spill everything. Perhaps this whole situation was making him see things that weren't there, but he trusted her. And it scared the shit out of him. His former girlfriends hadn't even known about his family. He'd told himself it was to protect everyone back home from things like the mess he found himself in now. That was partly true. The rest, well, the rest was complicated.

“I've seen how you are with your friends, Rhonda. I know I can trust you to keep this between us.”

“Oh hell, does that mean no lordship jokes?”

“No lordship jokes.”

“Fine,” she agreed, her tone peevish. “But you have to promise to tell me the rest. I know there's more. Like you said, it's only fair.”

Was she curious because she grew up with nothing and wanted to hear how the other half lives? Or was she genuinely interested in his upbringing, in him? Not that it mattered. When this was over, they'd part as friends and nothing more. But she made him smile because she didn't hold anything back. With her, he'd have the truth and nothing but. She didn't worry about what other people, or the world, thought of her. She did what needed to be done, no apologizing. She had guts. He liked that too.

“I'll tell you all about my crazy family, promise. But no one other than Ryan knows.”

“I'm flattered.”

“We'll have to do a lot of trusting if we're to survive this whole bloody situation. This house is safe, but who knows for how long? If Krupin or Sorrentino did take out the hit, neither is stupid. And Krupin is seeing red. Filipov was his favorite nephew. So unless we can prove I didn't kill him, if it's discovered I'm alive, it won't be good.”

Rhonda's eyes widened on a horrified expression.

“Don't worry,” he added. “I'll keep you safe.”

“What happens if this isn't resolved?”

Blake knew what would happen if that scenario played out. He'd either go into permanent hiding, or take out Krupin. Not an easy task, nor something he looked forward to doing. They'd taken out bigger thugs, but the threat wasn't only to him. He had Rhonda to think about, and a war with the Russian mob meant putting her in more danger.

“Let's cross that bridge when we come to it.” He reached across the table and took one of her hands in his. “Again, I'm sorry for getting you into this. It isn't right.”

“I don't blame you. Wrong time, wrong place.”

He sighed. “You wouldn't be the first woman to regret sleeping with me.” He let go of her hand and took another bite of chicken. She did the same.

After an awkward silence, she picked at her chicken and spoke. “I don't do things like that, you know. Sleep with guys I just met. It's a rule I never break.”

Curious, he looked up from his potato salad. “Then why did you?”

“To a girl like me, you're that piece of chocolate cake a girl pushes the vegetables aside to eat, knowing they shouldn't because their jeans won't fit right. You were the indulgence I'd never allowed myself to have because something or someone else came first. And because angels cry when they see you.” She unscrewed her water and took a sip.

“So you slept with me because of my looks?” He couldn't help the disappointment in his voice. Most of his life his looks had been used against him. Why should Rhonda be any different?

“You
are
the hottest thing on the planet. But it wasn't just that. You made me laugh. And you didn't take my sarcasm and act all goofy.”

“I don't understand.”

“Guys at the club, you insult them, and they think you're flirting. Don't get me wrong. I made a lot of money because of it. It's what inspired my act. But after a while, it's nice to find a guy who can give as good as he gets. Plus . . . angels cry when they look at you.” She grinned, wagging her eyebrows, then pointed to the food on the table. “Now eat. We can talk about how hot you are later.”

“Woman, yer really doin' ma dinger.”

She laughed. “I know that one, and I am not annoying.” They finished their food in relative silence. Every once in a while she made a snide remark.
Did it hurt to look in the mirror? Did the fairy dust get in his eyes when it was sprinkled on him? Did the bad witch hunt him down in the forest?

He didn't answer, but it was hard not to smile at her jabs. He'd considered a few of his own, but she seemed to be having such a great time ribbing him, he didn't have the heart to put a damper on her good mood. Finished eating, he stood, taking both their plates to the sink, ready to wash them.

“Leave it,” she said.

“I'm not a complete invalid.”

“It will give me something to do.” She shut off the water. “When you rest.”

“Really? Washing dishes is keeping you amused?”

“Not much else to do around here. I've beat Dozier so many times at video games, his ego can't take anymore.”

“Let him win a couple of times.”

“I tried. He caught on and hung up his paddle.”

“Have you seen Ryan's library?”

“I've browsed through it.”

“Nothing you like?” he asked, as she walked him back to his room.

“One or two. His selection of women's fiction is a little light. Do you read?”

“When I have time.”

“What do you like?”

“Anything I wasn't forced to read in school.” The only good thing about his days at prep school was being away from his grandmother.

They'd reached his bedroom door.

“Is there anything I can get you?” Her big green eyes had him sucker-punched.