Читать книгу The Best Mistake of Her Life - Aimee Carson - Страница 7

GUILT.

Kate closed her eyes as her heart strained to keep from crumpling under the weight of the emotion. She’d let the feeling drive her back to a marriage that had begun to die long before the night she’d spent in Memphis’s arms. And then she’d let the emotion keep her stuck in her vow of forever well beyond the point where all hope for a happy-from-here-on-out was gone.

But there was only so much guilt a girl could take before she eventually was either permanently crippled by it or finally declared she was moving on. And the time for that was now, if for no other reason than to save her sanity.

She lifted her lids and said the words that were five years overdue. “I’m sorry.”

Too bad the apology didn’t make her feel any better.

“Sorry?” He tipped his head skeptically, as if vaguely amused by her pitiful words. “For which part? For leaving without saying goodbye? Or for me learning the truth from your brother?”

Her heart stopped. “You called Brian?”

“The very next day,” he said. “And in an attempt to figure out what the hell had just happened, I casually asked him how you were doing.” He lifted an eyebrow. “Imagine my surprise when he said you were having marital problems.”

Heart now doing double time, Kate pressed her lips together and blindly turned to look at the dwindling crowd, but she was determined to keep moving forward. Growing up in the spotlight—with every family problem scrutinized by the public in excruciating detail—had taught her to persevere. Pretending everything was okay wasn’t always the best choice, but sometimes it was the only one you had.

“The first function is this weekend.” She faced Memphis again. “We need to make plans.”

He shot her an incredulous look.

“Part of the deal was I’d help you pick out something suitable to wear,” she went on.

After a brief hesitation, his lips twitched. “I’m sure I can find something appropriate in my closet,” he said, the look in his eyes one of pure entertainment.

At her expense, of course.

Clearly her soundness of mind was taking a brief holiday. After all, she’d convinced Memphis to spend the next month helping her. She was going to need a straitjacket before this was over, mostly to keep from pulling her hair out in frustration.

“You forget,” she said, feigning patience. “I’ve seen your idea of appropriate.”

“Fine,” he said, startling her with his easy agreement. Grateful he’d given in so easily, she let her tensed muscles relax, until he jerked his head in the direction of the street. “Let’s go,” he said.

“Where?”

“To check out my wardrobe.”

“Now?” Her heart sank and the tension returned. She hadn’t even begun to recover from seeing him again.

“No time like the present.” He sent her a tiny smile that left her hugely nervous. “You can follow me home and check out the contents of my closet.”

Still questioning her good sense, Kate followed Memphis into the upmarket apartment in an exclusive neighborhood, noting that he was all but ignoring her as she trailed behind him into the kitchen. The lack of attention was a welcome change. He tossed his keys on the kitchen table and turned to lean a hip against the counter, watching her as she assessed what was clearly meant to be temporary living quarters.

In one slow pivot she took in the kitchen and the spartanly furnished living area. A flat-screen TV, a single leather recliner and a side table were the extent of the furniture. No couch. No bookshelves. The walls were painted white, and there were no pictures or mementos to break up the bland color theme. The apartment was a blank slate waiting for the occupant to fill it with his belongings, bringing a personal touch.

Memphis hadn’t bothered.

“It could do with a little sprucing up,” she said. It was then she noticed several framed photographs on the floor, propped against the wall as if it was too much trouble to hang them in place.

For a moment he looked as if he regretted letting her come to check out his wardrobe. “My needs are simple,” he said.

“I can see you have a love of basic white,” she said dryly.

“Even if I was into interior decorating, which I’m not, I’m not in town long enough to bother,” he said. “It has everything I need: a great location, a refrigerator …” The only movement was a slight tip of the head. “And a bed.”

The silence that followed filled the room, his expression remarkably placid, no overt twinkle in his gaze necessary. The thick, dark eyelashes gave him a sinfully sated look, framing caramel-colored eyes that oozed sex, whether intentional or not.

She knew he’d brought her here to make her uncomfortable, and the sooner she got this over with the sooner she’d get out of his apartment. Her heart was pounding embarrassingly fast, and no matter how many lectures she’d given herself as she’d followed him here, it was hard not to remember the last time they’d been alone together in an apartment. Completing her task and getting out of his home suddenly became a top priority.

But clothes meant closets, and closets meant bedrooms, and suddenly her heart stopped and she couldn’t breathe.

Stalling for time to recuperate from his effect on her, she crossed to the living room and picked up one of the pictures. It was of a red convertible Porsche, top back as it sailed off the end of a towering cliff. Like a surfer, Memphis was crouched on the driver seat, his hand on the top of the windshield, body poised to push off.

She wasn’t a fan of action movies, but when the film had been released Kate had gone to see it in the theatre. Alone in the dark, with only her popcorn for company, she’d watched the hero—who, in actuality, had been Memphis—push off from the free-falling car and do a back flip in the air before unfolding into position. Arms pressed to his side, body arrow-straight to decrease wind resistance, he’d aimed for the flatbed truck far, far below. At the last possible second he’d pulled the cord to the chute on his back and targeted the moving semi, landing gracefully on the trailer.

The stunt had brought back all the turbulent emotions Memphis had elicited as a teen, the larger-than-life adolescent constantly goading her into feelings that were too messy to handle. Exasperation. Danger. And a whole lot of electric chemistry that had short-circuited her ability to function when he was near. Back then, Dalton had made her feel safe.

But the only reason she’d been watching Memphis’s stunt on screen was because her husband had backed out on his date night with her. Just another one of many nights she’d spent by herself, achingly lonely because Dalton had been buried in his studies at law school. Not the happy marriage she’d envisioned when he’d proposed. But how could she fault him for fulfilling the dreams she had staunchly supported from the beginning? So she’d headed to the theatre alone. At the last second, she chose Memphis’s latest movie instead of the indie film she’d planned.

And she’d spent the rest of the night with vivid dreams, relieving the adolescent angst and the clashing attraction she’d worked so hard to keep under wraps.

Memphis’s voice came from behind. “That was my first big film.”

Disturbed by his nearness, she gripped the picture frame. “How did you get your start?”

“BASE jumping.”

Ignoring the heat from his body, she kept her gaze on the photo. “I never understood the appeal the sport held for you and Brian. Is skydiving from an airplane too tame?”

“A bit too regimented for my taste. Where’s the illicit fun in that?”

“Illegal or not, I’m not sure there is any fun to be had while free-falling toward earth,” she said, and finally turned her face to brave a look at him. “But I don’t understand how BASE jumping led to your career.”

“The second unit director of my first paid stunt, a low-budget film, just happened to be wandering by when I jumped from an antennae tower in Hollywood. A friend had to give him my name because, when I landed, I was too busy running from the security guard.”

She lifted a brow. “The authorities don’t look too kindly on people trespassing.”

“Like I said, it’s no fun unless there is an element of danger.”

“Yes,” she said with barely restrained sarcasm. “Because plummeting toward earth at high rates of speed isn’t dangerous enough.”

He stepped around her, leaning his back against the wall, the indolent pose made all the more sensual by the lean muscle in his arms and in the thighs beneath his jeans. “There is a crazy system in the stunt business. You have to be ballsy, but not too ballsy. Four out of five and you’re crazy enough to do anything required to get the job done. When you hit five …” He lifted a shoulder and stared at her with a trace of amusement. “When you get to five you’re just too crazy to deal with on the set.”

Crazy sounded right.

Kate tipped her head. “Which one are you?”

His trace of a grin grew bigger. “Depends on who you ask.”

Chaos. Disarray. Memphis’s life had always been notably fraught with disorder, not to mention danger. It was just one of many reasons why Kate’s parents had forbidden her brother from being his friend. Not that Brian had ever followed the rules, either.

Avoiding his gaze, she ran a hand along the smooth edge of the picture frame, fighting back the memories of a passion the likes of which she had never known before nor experienced since. The messy, chaotically electric feelings overwhelmed her in every sense of the word. Their exhilarating night had marked the midway point in her bleak, eight-year marriage, leaving Kate more alive in that moment than in the four years preceding or the four years after.

“How long will you be around?” she said. She hoped the question came out as simple civil conversation instead of real curiosity.

“As short a time as humanly possible.”

For some reason, his response bothered her, and she lifted her gaze to meet his. “Are you in that much of a hurry to leave?”

Memphis let out a sharp bark of a humorless laugh. “As far as I’m concerned, there aren’t enough stunts like the one I did today. I took the job despite the fact it meant returning to Miami.”

“I heard your parents moved.”

“I bought them a place in California several years ago, so there’s nothing left for me here.”

She ignored the obvious fact that Brian lived here. That Kate Anderson didn’t factor into his equation was no surprise.

“Where is home now?” she said.

“Wherever my next big gag is scheduled to take place.”

“Gag?” she asked, confused by the unfamiliar term.

“Stunt,” he clarified.

“Do you plan to keep up this nomadic existence forever?” She narrowed her eyes doubtfully. “And just what is your long-term career goal, outside of being labeled the man who never says no to leaping off tall buildings?”

“To be the best damn high-fall stuntman in Hollywood.”

She studied him for a moment. “And when does that happen?”

He stared at her, and, although his posture was relaxed, uncaring, the intensity in his eyes gave him away. “When everyone knows my name,” he said, as if the simple statement justified his insane job.

Before she could ask any more questions, he nodded in the direction of the hallway. “If you want to check out my clothes you’ll have to go to my closet,” he said, sending her belly BASE jumping for her toes, those sinfully sexy eyes far too steady on hers. “My bedroom is at the end of the hallway.”

The mood grew strained as Memphis followed Kate down the corridor. His chest grew tight, a potent mix of desire, tension and a touch of self-directed frustration snaking around his rib cage. His bedroom was just as barren as the living area, except for the king-size bed that was currently commanding center stage like a mocking reminder of their past.

He’d sworn off touching Kate again, but right now her delicate scent was filling every corner of the room where he slept. And suddenly, her presence in his personal space made him uncomfortably aware his vow of keeping his hands to himself might be harder to pull off than he’d thought.

“Everything is in the closet,” he said.

Kate looked around the almost empty room. “You don’t have a dresser?”

“The rental apartment didn’t come with one.”

She shot him a look. “And you couldn’t be bothered with buying a few pieces of furniture?”

“What would be the point? I arranged only for what I absolutely needed because I’m not going to be around long enough for it to matter.”

He had no intention of discussing just how hard he’d grappled with the decision to return to his hometown. It was the only place his reputation as a high-fall stuntman was ever called into question. Granted, his mistake had been five years ago, and had taken place during a prank. But still …

The five-year-old ache of regret resurfaced and he pushed it aside, refusing to dwell on the role this woman had played in that moment, as well.

And if he had to spend the next month attending one pretentious social function after another, he might as well indulge in his favorite pastime from his teens: provoking Kate, if for no other reason than to arouse some kind of emotion from her. And it had nothing to do with caring why she kept herself so carefully contained.

Not only was he done touching Kate, he was done wondering why she tried so hard to keep her emotions encased in ice.

She opened the doors to the walk-in closet, staring inside, and Memphis bit back the urge to smile as a look of dismay slowly spread across her face.

The jeans and shirts on the shelves were haphazardly arranged—okay, “hastily dumped” was probably a better description. And he had better clothes at home, but why cart them along for a month’s worth of work?

Kate finally turned a doubtful face to Memphis.

He gave an easy shrug, amused by her expression. “I travel light.”

Her lips quirked at the understatement. “There must be something usable in here.”

“Nothing that will fit the Anderson norm, for sure,” he said with a hint of humor, running his gaze down her form.

Although her sundress was simple and modest, nothing come-hither about it, the dress also reeked of wealth and privilege. As always, she was meticulously put together. And the exposed creamy skin of her shoulders was tempting him to take a taste.

“If by ‘Anderson norm’ you mean an occasional article outside of denim,” she said with an overly patient look, turning her attention back to the shelves. “You’d be right.”

“Nothing wrong with denim.”

“There is when it’s all you have.”

“For a former representative’s wife, I suppose you’re right.” He shot her a skeptical look. “But I don’t give a damn about standards.”

“That’s not true.” She pulled out a pair of jeans and shook them out, staring at the holes in the knees. “What I remember is a boy who went out of his way to defy every standard society threw in his direction.” And the look she sent him challenged him to disagree.

Humor tugged at the corner of his lips. “I think you mistake me for someone who cared.”

His family might have been poor, but he was comfortable with his simple beginnings. Proud of where he’d come from and what he’d made of himself. He didn’t give a damn about people’s perception of him now, and he’d been even less concerned way back when. As a teen, the only exception to that rule had been the disapproving looks on Kate’s face.

Those had irked the hell out of him.

“I think you cared very much about helping Brian annoy my parents,” she said.

He fought back the surge of resentment. “Oh, come on, Kate. Face it,” he said. “It wouldn’t have mattered what I did. The ugly truth is your parents hated me. Still do, truth be told.”

Jeans clutched in her fingers, she dropped her hands to her waist. “They didn’t hate you,” she said with an exaggerated show of patience, though there was a hint of a defensive tone. “They simply—” She paused, as if to find the right words, and refolded the pants into a neat little bundle, placing them back on the shelf. “They were worried about your influence on Brian.”

The delicate phrasing brought a small scoff of irony. “They were more concerned about the neighborhood I lived in and the risk I’d contaminate their only son.”

When she turned with protest in her eyes, he shot her a half grin and crossed the room to lean against the doorjamb. Near enough to smell her scent, to touch her skin. And there was a lot of skin exposed in that pretty little slip of a sundress, demure or not.

If he couldn’t get her aroused, he’d have to get her annoyed. He supposed the partial grin on his face might have been a touch predatory. “Though they should have been worrying I’d contaminate their perfect darling of a teenage daughter.”

Hesitation rolled off her like sweat from a newbie poised to leap from a skyscraper, until she straightened those tempting shoulders, her blue eyes recovering their cool. “There was never any risk of that.”

Another amused scoff burst from his mouth. “I remember the heat that sizzled between us every time you showed up to coolly give me a piece of your mind.”

“That was anger.”

“That was lust.”

Her brow crinkled with disagreement. “I was just a kid.”

“You were a half-grown woman.” The words came out throatier than he would have liked. He hooked his thumbs through his belt loops and leaned in closer, catching a whiff of her scent. “You were turned on by the guy your parents would’ve never let you date. The chemistry was impressive.”

“It’s your ego that was impressive.”

“With good reason.”

“Always the hero in your own script,” she drawled lightly.

Despite her light tone, her blue eyes bubbled with barely restrained emotions, yet he couldn’t identify the first one. Memphis couldn’t tell if she was disturbed by his nearness or irritated by his refusal to go along with her interpretation of the past. Time stretched until it grew uncomfortable, their history pulsing between them. In a space of a full ten seconds filled with desire, heat and intense pleasure, Memphis relived just how right this woman had felt in his arms. Although their moment hadn’t come until long after their teens, he didn’t trust the feeling, sure it was a figment of his lust-induced mind. His adolescent fantasy come to life.

How could she have felt anything but right when he’d spent years imagining how she would taste? And when she’d finally released all that careful restraint, it had been a life-changing experience that had caused him to doubt his instincts. Because in that moment it had felt as if she belonged to him….

He jerked his thoughts to a halt. Just who the hell was the real Kate?

She held his gaze, and he wondered if her cheeks were flushed from anger or desire. There was no answer. And when she turned back to straightening out the contents of his closet, Memphis watched in amazement as she reached for the next pair of holey jeans and refolded them, as well.

He studied her profile, her movements graceful and dignified even while performing a mundane task. “When you’re done in here you can rearrange the dirty clothes in my hamper if you like,” he said with a wry twist of his lips.

“No, thank you,” she said smoothly as she continued with her self-appointed duties.

“And I have dirty dishes in the dishwasher that could use restacking according to size.”

“I’m sure you’re capable of handling that yourself.”

“My underwear could use a good ironing, as well,” he said.

Kate sent him a sharp look from the corner of her eye, but continued to fold his last pair of jeans, placing it in a neat line with the others.

“Angel Face, I hate to be the one to break the bad news,” he said softly, but with no shortage of sarcasm. “But rearranging my clothes isn’t going to change them into designer brands.”

She picked up a T-shirt and began to fold it. “I realize that,” she said as, midtask, she faced him, her clear skin and high cheekbones capturing his gaze.

The regal set to her chin begged to be challenged with a kiss. And if he concentrated real hard, he’d remember that wasn’t the job he’d signed on for.

Instead, he said, “I’ve always wanted to ask, is the politically correct Kate a fixed product of her family genes or just a result of her upbringing?”

“Neither.” Her tone was cuttingly cool as she continued rearranging his T-shirts. “What you call political correctness the rest of the world calls being civil.”

A laugh burst from his throat, and he swept a stray lock of wheat-colored hair from her bare shoulder, hoping for a reaction. Or at least to get her to stop organizing the contents of his closet.

“I can handle polite as long as it’s some semblance of the truth.” Frustration shifted his voice an octave lower. “But what I can’t stand is when you bury your head in the sand and try to rewrite the truth.”

She straightened the last T-shirt, the closet now tidy, and turned to face him, crossing her arms. But he wasn’t sure if the posture was out of defiance or to shield herself from his proximity. “What truth am I trying to rewrite?”

“Your family.” His gaze held hers. “The past.” He paused and leaned in close, enjoying the look of discomfort on her face, even as his chest twisted at the haunting sight of her luscious lips. His voice came out low. “You and me.”

She hesitated, blinked once, and then hiked a delicate brow. “I’m doing nothing of the sort.”

Disappointed he hadn’t gotten the slightest rise from her, he said, “Then what are you doing?”

“Concluding that you have nothing appropriate to wear.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Am I supposed to care about that, too?”

“Not at all.” The smooth smile on her face should have been a warning, and he barely withheld the groan when she shared her plan. “Because tomorrow we’re going shopping.”