Читать книгу Winter's Kiss - Beth Andrews - Страница 10

CHAPTER ONE

Six years later

OAKES BARTASAVICH CONSIDERED himself a lucky man. He was healthy, had a large and close-knit family and had recently made partner at one of Houston’s most successful law firms—two years ahead of his original schedule.

And yet, despite all that good fortune, this was the first time he’d awakened at 3:00 a.m. to find a beautiful woman in a tight, short red dress on his porch, with a pair of sparkly silver high heels and matching purse in one hand.

Too bad. A man could get used to this.

Not this particular beautiful woman, he amended quickly. Another beautiful woman. One who was closer to his own age of thirty-one, whose ties to him and his family weren’t so complicated.

Definitely not Daphne Lynch, with her dark hair, blue eyes and curvy, voluptuous body. Daphne Lynch, the twenty-three-year-old half sister of Zach Castro, one of Oakes’s five half brothers.

Yeah. Complicated summed it up. And was the best possible definition of his family.

“Daphne,” he said, his voice rough from sleep. He cleared his throat. Wished he’d thought to change into jeans, maybe pulled on a shirt instead of rushing to the door in his bare feet and a pair of thin pajama pants. There was definitely a chill in the early December air. “What’s the matter? Are you hurt?”

“Nope. I’m just fine and dandy. I haven’t been mugged or in an accident. I’m not being chased by a crazed lunatic or running from the cops.” She patted his bare chest, her fingers cool against his skin, then lowered her voice conspiratorially. “I’m drunk.”

“Yes,” he said, taking in her flushed cheeks, glazed eyes and the way she was swaying, like a tree in the wind. “I can see that now.”

Would have seen it right away, he assured himself, if he hadn’t been so shocked by her presence. It was the dress’s fault. The neckline was too wide and low, showing ample amounts of golden skin and the rounded tops of her full breasts. It was too tight, the gathered material clinging to her waist and hugging her hips. And it was way too short, ending an inch above midthigh.

“Well?” she asked, her hand now pressed to his chest, her pinkie rubbing the spot just above his heart. His body liked her touch way too much.

Stepping back, he grabbed her wrist and tugged her hand away before she noticed how hard his heart was beating. “Well what, Daphne?”

“Aren’t you going to invite me in?”

Invite her in? As in inside his house? No. Better yet, make that hell no.

He was a smart man. A cautious one. Cautious enough to know that letting Daphne Lynch into his home at this late hour, in her current state, wearing that damn dress, would be the beginning of the end of his life as he knew it.

A life he liked just the way it was.

“Please, Oakes.” Her voice was low. Sexy. Inviting. The hairs at the nape of his neck stood on end. His fingers tightened on her slender wrist. She shifted closer, her knee brushing his leg, her scent clouding his brain.

For a second, a brief, terrifying moment in time, he forgot all the very valid, extremely reasonable reasons why he shouldn’t want her. All the problems that would arise should he give in to his baser instincts, the ones that had dogged him with increasing intensity over the past few years.

In that all-too-fleeting space of time, he allowed himself the luxury of imagining they were just two unattached adults with no crazy family connections. No shared siblings. No tangled ties to trip over. If he wasn’t a Bartasavich, if she had a different mother, if Zach hadn’t been born, Oakes could take what he wanted. Could finally bend his head, press his mouth against hers and see if the spark he’d been doing his best to deny for six years would sputter and fade. Or burst into flame.

Daphne shifted. And shifted again, her left hip, then her right. “I really, really have to pee.”

The breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding rushed out of his mouth on a short, surprised laugh. He needed to check his ego. She wasn’t here to seduce him. She had to use the bathroom.

He’d go to his grave claiming he wasn’t disappointed.

“Sorry,” he said, opening the door wider and moving back. “Come on in.”

She brushed against him as she stepped inside, the contact slight enough, he was sure it must have been an accident.

Too bad his body didn’t understand that the brief feel of a woman’s soft, fragrant skin and lush curves against him didn’t require the beginnings of an erection.

“Uh...the bathroom’s down the hall, first door on the right,” he told her.

Already heading that way, she waved a hand at him, the ends of her dark hair brushing her shoulders. “I know where it is.”

“Right.” Of course she did. This wasn’t the first time she’d been in his home. They were friends. In a roundabout way. A very twisting, turning, convoluted way.

In the way that meant he shouldn’t let his gaze drop, shouldn’t tip his head to the side and take in how good her ass looked in that dress, shouldn’t enjoy the sway of her hips. He jerked his eyes up but that wasn’t any better. Again, he blamed the dress. Because instead of a back, one with plenty of coverage, it had only two straps twisted together to form an X.

And he was going to hell for wanting to trace one of those straps, for wanting, if only for a brief, crazed moment in time, to brush aside her hair and trail a finger up the back of her neck. For not being able to turn away until she’d closed the bathroom door behind her.

Damn Bartasavich genes. Always trying to get him into trouble. But he wasn’t his father. Clinton Bartasavich, Sr. had spent his entire life taking what he wanted without thought or care to the consequences. Mostly because when you were one of the wealthiest men in the country, there were no consequences.

It would have been easy for Oakes to follow in Senior’s footsteps. Entitlement came with the last name. Nothing was out of the reach of a Bartasavich, a belief that Senior fully embraced, especially when it came to women. Five of his six marriages ended due to his numerous infidelities, and he’d fathered four sons by three different women.

Oakes had no doubt his father’s last marriage would have suffered the same fate as his previous ones had he not had a stroke over a year and a half ago. Senior’s young wife hadn’t been able to handle being tied to a man who could no longer take care of himself and had opted for a quick divorce—and the payout guaranteed in her prenuptial agreement.

Oakes was fully aware that he’d grown up extremely privileged, but his mother and stepfather had instilled in him a sense of gratitude for that life. Had taught him how important it was to give back, to help those less fortunate.

No, he wasn’t his father. Never would be. And that was why he’d never take advantage of any woman, especially not this particular woman, not when she’d come to him for help.

Or at least to use his bathroom.

Feeling much better, he hurried down the hall, tripping over her sparkly shoes before righting himself and continuing on to his bedroom. He changed into jeans then grabbed a T-shirt from his dresser and yanked it on. Stepped toward the door...and remembered the feel of Daphne’s hand on his skin. How soft her fingers were. How warm.

How much he’d enjoyed it.

He turned around, crossed to the closet and picked out a sweatshirt. A thick one.

He was tugging down the hem of it when he reentered the living room and found Daphne curled up on the leather sofa, her legs tucked under her, her elbow on the sofa’s arm, head supported in her hand.

“You need anything?” he asked.

She tipped her head back, her grin goofy and so sweet it made his chest ache. “Nope. It’s all good.”

He wasn’t sure about that. He flipped on the lamp, illuminating her face, then scratched the side of his neck. Was it his imagination or were her lips glossier, redder, than when she’d first arrived? And in this light, he could see she’d done something to her eyes, one of those magic tricks women performed to make the usually guileless blue of them seem somehow smoky and mysterious.

“So everything’s okay,” he said slowly. “You’re not hurt or sick and yet you’re here. At my house. At three a.m.”

She touched her upper cheek with her forefinger then slid it onto the tip of her nose, pointed at him with her other hand. A drunk playing her own game of charades. “Bingo.”

“Any reason you’re at my house and not your own?”

“Yep.”

When she didn’t continue, he sat on the coffee table in front of her. “Want to tell me what that reason is?”

“Your house is closer,” she said, as if that made all the sense in the world.

“Closer to where?”

“To the club.”

This was getting him nowhere. As a trial attorney with a high win record, he was used to asking questions and getting answers. He was damn good at it, too, if he did say so himself.

He eyed the woman currently humming a pop tune under her breath. Usually. He was usually good at it.

“I take it you went out tonight?” he asked.

He hadn’t realized she was into the club scene. Then again she was young enough that it made perfect sense that she might enjoy spending her Saturday night being jostled by bumping and grinding strangers while lights flashed and the bass pumped.

He winced infinitesimally. He was thinking like a ninety-year-old man.

She sighed—the long, drawn-out sigh of the weary and put-upon. “I didn’t want to. Nadine made me.”

“Nadine?”

“My cousin. Actually, my other cousins were there, too. Julie and Michelle and Steph,” Daphne said, ticking the names off her fingers. “But Nadine was the ringleader. She decided I needed to go out. They kidnapped me,” she said, attempting to slap the arm of the sofa but missing and almost toppling into his lap. He caught her by her upper arms, helped her back onto the cushion then quickly let go. “They told me we were going out to dinner, that Julie needed a break from the twins but they lied and they... They took me against my will. Can I press charges?”

“It might be better if we hold off on any discussions about legal ramifications until we’re both sober.”

She tapped his knee twice, left her hand to settle there. “You’re a smart one, aren’t you? But then they don’t give out law degrees just for being pretty. And when we have our talk about legal ramen...ramekin...whatever, we can discuss a civil suit against my cousins for being liars. For being no-good, rotten lying liars who lie. Don’t believe them,” she said as she suddenly clutched his hand, her voice taking on a desperate quality. “No matter what they say, don’t believe a word of it. Ever.”

“I won’t.”

“Promise?”

“Promise,” he repeated solemnly because it seemed so important to her. Then again, alcohol made even the most mundane things exciting, the most minor issue important.

“Okay.” She relaxed the death grip she had on him and eased back. “Okay then.”

“Why don’t we get you some coffee?” he suggested.

“Oh, I can’t have coffee this late,” she told him, her eyes wide, her gaze earnest. “It’ll keep me up.”

She was so adorable, he couldn’t help but grin. “How about we try it anyway? See if it sobers you up a bit?” And hopefully, helps her be more clear and concise in her answers as to why she was there.

She returned his smile. “Okay. But I should help you,” she said when he got to his feet.

She started to stand and he pressed gently on her shoulders until she sat back on the edge of the sofa. “I’ve got this.” But he realized he was still touching her. The thin straps of her dress were silky, her skin incredibly warm under his palms. The ends of her hair tickled the backs of his fingers and he sprang back, releasing her. Was fervently glad he’d put on jeans as he shoved his traitorous hands into their pockets. “You, uh, just relax. And tell me the rest of your story.”

“What story?” she asked, still smiling at him.

Holy hell, this was going to be a long night. “About how your cousins forced you to get drunk.”

Laughing as if that was the funniest thing she’d ever heard, she fell back against the couch, breasts bouncing, bare legs stretched out. She had a low, throaty laugh, the kind that scraped pleasantly along a man’s nerve endings.

“Don’t be silly,” she said, still chuckling. “They didn’t force me to get drunk. They forced me to go to the club. After dinner they told me we were going home but instead, we ended up at The District.”

The District being one of Houston’s most popular dance clubs, less than a mile from here. “I stand corrected. Although I’m a little confused as to why you stayed at the club if you didn’t want to be there.”

“I was going to leave,” she said as she got unsteadily to her feet, bringing their bodies much too close for Oakes’s comfort, “but then the DJ played ‘Uptown Funk’ and it’s impossible to hear that song and not dance so I had to get on the dance floor.”

“Right.” He tried to put some distance between them but only managed to collide with the coffee table when he stepped back. He shifted to the right then circled around the sofa. “None of that explains why you came here,” he said as he walked behind the granite-topped island, which separated the kitchen from the living room. “Why you’re not still with your cousins.”

“It doesn’t?”

A headache began to form behind his right eye. “No.”

“Oh.” She flopped back down, crossed her arms on the back of the couch and watched as he opened an upper cabinet for the coffee. “Well, I’m not with my cousins because Julie and Steph went home early—Julie’s husband has to work in the morning and Steph’s youngest has an ear infection. Then Nadine took off in a huff after getting into an argument with her boyfriend via text and the last time I saw Michelle she was dirty dancing with a leggy blonde in a leather miniskirt.”

Frowning, he measured out coffee beans, dumped them into the grinder. “They shouldn’t have let you drink so much if they were just going to ditch you. One of them should have made sure you got home safely.”

She laughed again, but didn’t raise her head from her arms. “I’m twenty-three years old, Oakes. I can drink as much as I like. And, anyway, I’m perfectly safe, aren’t I?”

“Safe,” he pointed out, pouring distilled water into his coffeemaker, “but not home.”

Still not moving her head, she waved a hand. “I didn’t want to go home. I wanted to see you.”

His shoulders tensed, his fingers tightened on the plastic bottle. “What do you mean? I thought you just needed to use the bathroom.”

“Why would I come here in the middle of the night just to use the bathroom?”

He had no idea and no, it didn’t make sense when she said it like that. But neither did her dropping by his place, drunk, at three in the morning.

Then again, women were a mystery so what the hell did he know?

“What did you want to see me about?” he asked, turning on the coffeemaker. When she didn’t answer, he turned to find her eyes closed. “Daphne?” Nothing. “Daphne?” he repeated louder.

She blinked at him then smiled dreamily. “Hmm?”

Right. This obviously wasn’t getting him anywhere. “We’ll put your coffee in a travel mug,” he said, pulling one out of a drawer.

“Okay. Am I going somewhere?”

“Home.” But that only brought up the issue of him getting her into her apartment—a third-story walk-up across town—and into bed.

She snuggled back down into her arms, shut her eyes. “Don’t wanna,” she murmured.

And getting her up the stairs and into that bed would be even more difficult without her cooperation. Hell. Being a nice guy just didn’t pay some days.

“Life’s tough that way,” he said, not sure if he was talking to her about doing things she didn’t want to, or himself for his incessant need to always do the right thing.

He headed toward the hall only to stop at the sound of someone knocking on his front door.

“If that’s another drunk woman,” he muttered, “I’ll tell her the bathroom’s closed for the night.”

Daphne stirred. “Did I tell you I didn’t pay the cab driver?”

He pinched the bridge of his nose. “No,” he managed to say from between clenched teeth, “You failed to mention that.”

But her head was back down, her eyes shut. Another knock, this time louder.

“One minute,” Oakes called then hurried into his bedroom for his wallet. Two minutes later he’d paid the understandably irritable cab driver—adding a hefty tip—and shut the door. He leaned his head against the cool wood, gathering his thoughts. The scent of coffee filled the air. He’d dump some into the mug, haul Daphne to her feet and settle her into his car. Forty-minutes—fifty, tops—and he’d be back home and in his bed, trying to forget this ever happened.

But when he lifted his head and turned, he saw all those hopeful plans go up in smoke. Daphne was asleep. Or, passed out if the sound of her snores was anything to go by. And there was no way in hell he was carrying her.

Looked like he had himself an overnight guest.

He locked the door and shut off the porch light, then crossed to the kitchen and turned off the coffeepot before he got a blanket from the linen closet. As much as he wanted to, he couldn’t let her stay crumpled up like that, her neck bent at an awkward angle, her legs curled under her. He wiped his tingling palms down the front of his jeans as he studied her, tried to figure out how to make her comfortable with the least amount of touching possible—though any contact seemed inappropriate given her current state.

Deciding to start at the bottom—and pray like hell the rest of her straightened out of her own accord—he wrapped his fingers around her ankles and slowly swung her legs around.

She snored on.

He went to encircle her waist only to yank his hands back when he brushed the silk of her dress. He considered slipping his arms under her, but didn’t want to take the chance of accidentally touching her butt. Not when he’d admired it only a few minutes ago. He could take a hold of her shoulders, but that would bring him close to those amazing breasts, to her open mouth.

In the end, he settled on taking her by the ankles again, this time gently pulling her until she slid onto her back on the cushions. His plan worked great, except her dress had slid up, showing a great deal more of her bare thighs. Keeping his gaze firmly on her face, he unfolded the blanket over her, tucking one end under her chin, the other over her toes.

He straightened. It was easier to look at her with all those curves covered. Easier, much easier to remember how young she was with her face relaxed, her mouth open, one hand curled by her cheek.

Easier to remember all the reasons he shouldn’t want her.

But he couldn’t stop himself from brushing a loose lock of hair from her forehead, then letting his finger trail ever so slightly over her arched eyebrow before he turned off the light and went to his room. Yanking off his sweatshirt, he tossed it aside then fell facedown on his bed, his feet hanging over the edge. He pulled a pillow over his head, but that did little to help him forget about the woman on his couch. The woman he thought about way too often. The one woman he wanted above anyone else.

The one woman he could never have.

* * *

SOME KNUCKLEHEAD WAS singing along to a Mumford and Sons song. Loudly. And badly.

Daphne would have covered her ears but really, lifting her arms at what had to be an ungodly hour was just too much effort. She settled for pressing her face into her pillow. It might not mute the sound, but if she kept it there long enough, maybe she’d suffocate. Either way would end her misery.

The idiot chose that moment to attempt a bit of harmonizing with a particularly high note, causing her back teeth to ache. Talk about freaking torture. Honestly, some people were so rude. Singing this early with no thought or care that other people were trying to sleep.

Jeesh.

She snuggled farther into the mattress, but instead of the softness of her sheets, she encountered smooth, cool leather. Shifting her leg to the right, she bumped something hard. She frowned. That wasn’t right. There should be ample empty space in her king-size bed. Of course Cyrus, her golden retriever, took up a great deal of it but that hadn’t been his large, warm body, either.

Even racking her sleep-laden brain it took her a moment, surely longer than it should have, to figure out she wasn’t at her apartment, wasn’t all cozy and safe in her bedroom. She wasn’t even in a bed.

As she processed that bit of reality, the events of last night unfolded in her mind, frame by frame, like a movie in slow motion. There was dinner with her cousins at her favorite restaurant, good food and lots of laughs, then that fateful trip to The District, where, despite being irritated that they’d tricked her into a night out, she’d danced and drank. And drank. And drank.

Squeezing her eyes shut harder, she remembered being hit on by a cute blond physical therapist, then later, by a darkly handsome electrician. When she’d declined to give either of them her phone number, Nadine had gotten on her case about turning down not one, but two potential soul mates, badgering her as only Nadine could until Daphne had blurted out the truth. That she had no interest in getting to know random strangers or taking part in the whole dating scene. Not when she couldn’t stop thinking about one particular man she already considered a friend.

Oakes.

While she hadn’t exactly been pining for him all these years, the possibility of them as a couple had never fully disappeared. It was always there, in the back of her mind. In her heart. Like a dream of the future for when they were both single and ready to act on the attraction between them.

When the time was finally right.

Last night, with her brain muddied by tequila and her pride stinging with the news of her ex’s upcoming wedding, the timing had seemed perfect.

So, in the infinite wisdom of the inebriated, Daphne had decided the best course of action was to tell Oakes she’d fallen in love with him six years ago and still was in love with him today.

She groaned and pulled her knees closer to her chest, curling into a protective ball. Yes, yes, it was all coming back to her now. How very wise she’d felt about her decision. How comfortable with the plan to win over the man she loved with a heartfelt declaration. She’d ridden that wave of alcohol-induced confidence from the club all the way to Oakes’s house, and had let it carry her up to his porch, pushing her into pounding on his door.

But now she slowly sank with the realization that showing up at his house, stinking drunk, at 3:00 a.m. might not be the best way to convince him that she was not just serious, but, more importantly, sincere.

For some crazy reason people in her life had a hard time believing she could be either.

The song changed but the singing continued, Oakes’s usually pleasant baritone ruining “Little Lion Man” for her for life. A cupboard door opened then shut, and the smell of fresh coffee filled the air.

Ca-rapity crap crap. Once again she’d acted before thinking things through. If she wasn’t careful, that could become a bad habit.

But she at least had figured out where she was and why her back and shoulders ached, and her left hand was numb. Seemed she’d ended her night by passing out on Oakes’s couch. Great. Mystery solved. And since there was nothing she could do about the events of last night, couldn’t undo them or wish them away, she might as well go back to sleep.

She’d deal with the consequences of her actions later.

Much, much later.