Chapter Eight
Friday night. Stephanie looked at herself in the mirror and fussed with every tiny wrinkle in her knee-length dress. She’d bought the midnight blue silk because it brought out her eyes, and the matching blue heels promised killer legs. Emphasis on “killer.” She’d probably break a shin in these heels, and take Derek down with her.
Derek. She pressed her fingers against her lips. She could still taste that kiss, and her disappointment that it had been the only one. They’d played in the waves all evening, then sprawled out on their towels to rest. Stephanie had fallen asleep, and woken to find him watching her so closely it was like being kissed all over again—as if he was inside her, touching her without ever needing to lay a finger on her.
Stephanie smiled to herself and collected her purse. Tonight would be perfect. She’d wanted to give something back to Derek—something to thank him for playing along, and helping her out of the downright clusterfuck Rodgers had dropped her into. She owed him more than just a day on the beach. Dinner might cramp her bank account a little, but it would give her a chance to do something for him for a change…and what better way than a night out, immersed in Miami’s rich culture? He’d said his mother was Puerto Rican, and she could only hope he’d enjoy an evening savoring the local Latin flavor. Maybe…just maybe it might bring up good memories of his mother, and help to ease the tension that seemed to plague him any time his family came up.
Oh, who was she kidding? After that kiss…tonight was just an excuse to see him again, even if she knew that made her a fool.
She checked her phone. Ten missed calls from that unlisted number that could only be Aaron, the last one over two hours ago. He’d finally given up. Or was currently controlling a military drone fighter on its way to assassinate Derek.
A knock sounded. She smoothed her dress over her thighs and answered the door with a smile.
“Not dead yet,” she said. “That’s a good sign.”
Amusement flitted through his gaze. “More threats from Aaron?”
“Wouldn’t know. Ignoring my voicemail.” She gave herself a moment to take him in. His black suit and white shirt were impeccable as always, sitting perfectly on his broad shoulders and fitting neatly to his narrow hips, but for once he’d left his hair wild, black locks curling about his ears and falling into his bright blue eyes. He looked devilish. He looked dangerous. Like the man under the stiff social rules was finally starting to break free, and neither of them would be able to predict what would happen when he finally shook off his shackles.
She took a deep breath and stepped back. “Come in.”
He stepped past the threshold, unsmiling as always, yet his eyes told another story. “You clean up fairly well, bella.”
“The phrase is ‘you don’t clean up half bad,’ you psychotic stuffed shirt.” She grinned and leaned against the wall. “Have I ever told you I love your accent?”
He cocked a brow. “I didn’t realize I still had one.”
“Why wouldn’t you?”
He shrugged, but his shoulders were tight, his hands too deliberately still at his sides. “…because my father did his best to beat it out of me. I’d thought he’d succeeded.”
Beaten. Her heart wrenched, and she only hoped he meant that metaphorically. She knew he didn’t speak to his father anymore, but had no idea it ran so deeply. “Derek, I’m—”
“Don’t say you’re sorry.” His jaw clenched. His eyes were flinty. “It’s part of who I am. Nothing more. I shouldn’t have even told you.”
She swallowed back her reply. It wasn’t nothing more. It mattered. “Yes, you should have. There’s no reason to keep it to yourself. That’s what friends are for. Talking and listening and sharing.”
His gaze darkened. He touched her cheek, brows knitting as he lingered on her face. “Is that what we are? Friends?”
“In private, yes.” She forced a smile. “In public, we’re the greatest love story ever told.”
He said nothing, but his mouth tightened. His thumb caressed her lower lip, leaving it sensitized and pulsing. She reached up and clasped his wrist. His eyes cleared, and he dropped his hand away.
“I brought you something,” he said.
His hands were empty. She frowned. “You did?”
“There’s a plot hole in our story.”
She licked her lips. “…what plot hole?”
“We’re engaged.”
She frowned. “Technically, yes.”
He captured her left hand and lifted it to eye level. “No ring.”
“Oh. Crap. I hadn’t thought of that.”
“I hadn’t either, until last night.” He held fast to her hand; his other hand slipped into his coat pocket and withdrew a ring. Diamond. Enormous, and blindingly cut until it glittered with every hint of light from her overhead lamps. “Problem solved. I had to guess your ring size, but it should fit.”
Her throat dried like she’d swallowed a tumbleweed. “Tell me that’s fake.”
“Will it make you feel better if I say that?”
She curled her hand into a fist. She couldn’t let him put that ring on her finger. “Yes. But it’s not, is it?”
“No.”
“I can’t wear that thing.” It was gorgeous. It was massive. It was too damned expensive. “It must be worth a fortune.”
“Hardly so much as that.” He gently pried her ring finger loose. “Relax. It’s only for show.”
“Then why did you buy a real one?”
“Why would Bruce Wayne buy the love of his life a cubic zirconia?”
He slid the ring onto her finger. The metal was cool, but quickly warming to her body heat. The stone was a tangible weight that would take some getting used to.
“No one would know.” She curled her hand back into a fist. Her fingers didn’t close quite right, the presence of the ring unfamiliar. “I wouldn’t have told anyone.”
“Anyone who knows diamonds can spot a fake. Besides, cubic zirconia is not my style.” He stepped back with a shrug. “You can return it later, if you want. I’ll sell it back to the dealer and donate the money to charity.”
She took a shaky breath and rested her hands on his chest. “I love it. I do. I just feel bad that you spent so much on a lie. It’s not right.”
He tipped his chin up with his finger. “I spent that much on you because I wanted to.”
“O-oh.” Articulate. Smooth. That was her. “Um.” Another winner.
His fingertip slowly traced along the line of her jaw. “Just say you’ll wear it.”
She closed her eyes. Why did he have to make this feel real? What was he playing at? She made herself look at him. Made herself say “Yes,” even if her voice shook. But she could barely stop herself from rising up on her toes and kissing him softly, a mere brushing of lips. “Thank you. I love it.”
“You’re welcome,” he murmured huskily. For a moment his hands gripped her hips, his grasp almost…possessive, before it fell away. “Are you ready to go?”
“Sure.”
He opened the door for her. “Where to?”
She snagged her purse from the table and made herself remember how to walk. She felt disproportionately weighted, dragged to the left, her hand heavy. “We’re going—”
She hooked her toe on the leg of the coffee table and tripped. Derek caught her, his reflexes quick. One more time and this would be a pattern. He lifted her upright. They stared at each other for a moment, Stephanie’s heart a crazed bird struggling to break free from the cage of her ribs, before they both broke away.
“Um.” She tucked her hair behind her ear. “As I was saying…we’re going to a nice little Mexican place called Talavera. Do you like Mexican?”
His grip tightened on the doorknob. “Sure,” he said tonelessly. “Sounds fine.”
She cocked her head. “Would you rather go somewhere else?”
“No.” He rubbed a hand over his jaw. “I just…haven’t really indulged much in Latin food since my mother died. My father was serious about culturally whitewashing me. Anything even remotely Hispanic…Mexican, Puerto Rican, Cuban, even Brazilian…he didn’t want any part of it.”
Somehow she wasn’t surprised. She tried a smile. “Maybe it’s about time…? I tried to find a Puerto Rican restaurant, but the Internet wasn’t much help on that front.”
His brows knit, creasing a line over the bridge of his nose, before his face smoothed into careful neutrality. “It’s fine,” he said.
She was fairly sure it wasn’t. She’d been an idiot for assuming. Thinking a half-Puerto Rican would automatically like Mexican food was like assuming all Sicilians liked Italian ravioli, when she’d rather swallow a cannoli whole than eat one bite of those vile bloated pasta squares—even if she was an oddity in her boisterous Sicilian family. She’d still made a stupid, culturally insensitive mistake, and he probably hated her now.
Once again, she’d managed to trip over her feet—and this time lodged one firmly in her mouth.
As they stepped out onto the sidewalk, he offered her his arm. He remained grave and unsmiling, but at least looked a little less tense. That counted for something, right? She curled her hand into his elbow.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “That was dumb of me. I was trying to…I don’t know. Do something to thank you for how much you’ve helped me. We can go somewhere else. Seriously. I don’t want to upset you.”
“I know what you were trying to do,” he said softly. “And I do appreciate it. Let’s just go. Enjoy dinner for what it is. No baggage. No…what did you call it? ‘Daddy issues.’”
“That sounds fair.” She leaned into him. Her ring dug into his side, and he winced.
“Maybe I should have chosen the round cut, instead of princess.”
She laughed. “Sorry.”
“It’s fine,” he said, and this time she thought he might mean it. He glanced down at her hand. “It looks better on you than I expected. You should keep it.”
She swallowed. The thing had to be worth hundreds of thousands of dollars. “Not happening.”
“I don’t see why not. It was a genuine gift.” He shrugged. “You could sell it, if you don’t want to keep it. Use the money for—”
She smacked his arm. “I’d never sell it.”
“Why not?”
“Because.” Because you gave it to me. She tucked her hair behind her ear and looked straight ahead. “Selling it is just wrong. It’s…it’s mercenary.”
His hand covered hers on his arm. “You’re one of a kind, bella.”
“So Aaron says every time I piss him off.”
He paused and lifted her chin. “I’m starting to think you use humor to deflect. You’re not so different from me, Stephanie. I hide my emotions behind silence. You hide yours behind a smile and flippant irreverence.”
Her heart pounded in her ears. “What do you think I’m hiding?”
“I don’t know.” He dipped closer, leaning down as if he might kiss her. “But I intend to find out.”
She swayed into him, tipping her face up to his—but he withdrew, and guided her down the sidewalk with a hand on the small of her back. The rest of the walk was filled with electric silence, and after a few steps, she slipped her hand into his, their twined fingers swinging between them.
Now and then his thumb stroked over the ring, and her heart fluttered like the beat of a thousand dragonfly wings. She tried to tell herself it was only for show, but tonight there was no one watching them.
There was only him watching her, the moonlight silvering his blue eyes until they glowed.
The restaurant was a blaze of color and music, Southwestern décor in painted adobe shades and geometric patterns complemented by colored hanging lights. They were seated immediately, and the waitress took their drink orders. Stephanie thought soda might be a better idea tonight, after her tipsy wavering in front of Wheeler. After handing out menus, the waitress left them in privacy. Stephanie ran her finger over the rim of her glass and watched Derek from beneath her lashes. He was still tense, his jaw as hard as forged steel.
She exhaled. “There’s a French bistro two doors down.”
“I’m fine.” Always fine, even when his stone-hard face said otherwise. He tapped his fingers restlessly on the menu. “I’m just trying to decide what I want.”
“You can never go wrong with a burrito.”
“I wouldn’t know.”
The waitress returned, and Stephanie ordered a chicken enchilada. Derek ordered the same. The waitress smiled at him and said something in Spanish.
His eyes hardened. “I don’t speak Spanish.”
The waitress gave him an odd look and left. Stephanie took a sip of her coke and watched him over the rim of the glass. “You don’t?”
“I don’t,” he repeated very firmly, “speak Spanish.”
She blinked. His tone stung deeper than she wanted to admit. “Why do you have an accent if you don’t…?”
“Drop it.”
She gritted her teeth. “Fine.”
He sighed and pressed his fingers to his temples. “My apologies. I shouldn’t have snapped.”
“I’d prefer if you didn’t, yes.” She frowned. “You spoke Spanish a few days ago. You said…um…kay bellies. I think.”
“Que belleza,” he corrected, and averted his eyes. “I do speak Spanish. I choose not to. I wasn’t allowed to.”
She bit her lip. “Your father again?”
“Yes.”
“Well…well, your father’s a poop!”
The words were out before she could stop them, and she clapped a hand over her mouth, her face so hot she felt dizzy. A poop? Really? Was she five?
He stared at her, then burst into that rich, hearty laughter that could stop her heart. His eyes crinkled at the corners, their blue so much brighter, breathtaking. “Yes,” he managed around his laughter. “Yes, I suppose he is.”
She eyed him sulkily. It hadn’t been that funny. “If I ever meet him, I’m going to punch him in the face.”
“I’d pay to see that.”
“We could sell tickets and make it a pay-per-view event.”
He chuckled. “Now you’re thinking like a businesswoman.”
The waitress returned with a basket of tortilla chips and a bowl of salsa—and broke the last of the tension between them, leaving behind a companionable peace. Stephanie immediately rooted around until she found the biggest chip in the basket, with the perfect curve for scooping. Derek eyed her.
“You like those?”
“Who doesn’t? Especially with hot salsa.”
His nose wrinkled. “I think I’ll pass.”
“Oh come on. This too? Not even at like…a frat party?”
“You’re assuming I was invited to frat parties.”
“You are so developmentally stunted. I don’t care if it’s Mexican food. This is an American tradition.” She dug her perfect chip in, heaped up a mound of salsa, and held it to his lips. “Eat.”
He pressed his lips together and shook his head. “No.”
“Please? For me?” She batted her eyelashes. “You can’t deny your fiancée, can you?”
“You don’t play fair.”
He looked over his shoulder. She couldn’t help but wonder if he was looking for his father’s watchful gaze. Old habit, maybe?
Leaning closer, he took the chip into his mouth, then chewed thoughtfully, looking at the basket. “Not bad.”
“See? You’ve been missing out.”
“I was busy building a business empire. Sampling different cuisines wasn’t exactly a priority on my bucket list.”
She winced. Right. So she’d made a mountain out of a molehill. One of her specialties, it seemed. Maybe she could put it on her resume.
He picked up another chip and dug in. At least Derek didn’t seem to be too angry with her. The entire situation still bothered her, though she kept her mouth shut. It was just an appetizer, but it was a symbol that something had been much more fundamentally wrong in young Derek’s home life.
She thought, just maybe, his father might have gone a little insane with grief after his wife’s death—and that insanity had turned into a fanaticism bordering on dogma throughout Derek’s life. It was one thing to try to forget his dead wife. It was another thing to be so crazily strict about something as silly as chips and salsa, just to cut his son off from his heritage. Hell, from a heritage that wasn’t even his. Way to give your kid a complex.
What a douche.
At least the apple had fallen far from the tree.
He stopped eating and looked at her oddly. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
She smiled and shrugged. “I don’t know. Lost in thought.”
By the time dinner came, he’d polished off the basket. This time he didn’t question the enchilada, and simply began eating with a hearty appetite. Stephanie was hungry enough that the silence between them was comfortable, even warm, but after a while she noticed he’d stopped eating and was looking out into the moonlit street, a small, strange smile on his lips.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“Nothing,” he said, his voice low and distant. “I’m just…remembering.”
“Good things, I hope.”
“Yes. Things I should have remembered a long time ago, I think. I remember the night before Christmas my mother would make coconut rice pudding. The moon would be shining just like this, and she’d be in the kitchen singing and cooking.” His gaze was distant, his voice soft, and she could tell he wasn’t seeing the night outside. “And then one Christmas she was just…gone, and it was like I was supposed to pretend she’d never been there. It was like this ritual of forgetting.” He shook his head. “I fell into a pattern. It was hard to break.”
Now Stephanie only felt worse for how insensitive she’d been. She’d been too overeager, thought she could repay him by helping him remember his mother, and hadn’t even thought her crazy plan through. She reached across the table and covered his hand. “But it wasn’t your pattern, Derek. It sounds like he controlled every aspect of your life. What you were allowed to eat, every experience you were allowed to have. He’s not a part of your life anymore. You don’t have to follow his rules.”
“I know.” His hand turned and his fingers laced with hers. “It’s hard to change. But maybe I should try.”
“Starting with…?”
“Learning to let go of control.” He looked down at their twined hands. “I have a tendency to need to be involved in everything. You should see the working dynamic at my company. I micromanage. Eventually, if I don’t stop, it will sink the company.”
“That is a start.”
“I hope so.” His gaze rose to hers. “Perhaps another place to start is with you.”
“M-me…?” Her stomach flipped.
“I already seem to be in the habit of breaking my rules where you’re concerned. You’re my personal contradiction.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Give it time,” he said with a slow, thoughtful smile, and withdrew his hand, leaving her confused.
“I can’t quite figure you out.”
“Good. A man is nothing without a bit of mystery.”
“…seriously? Next you’re going to say you don’t always drink beer, but when you do, you drink Dos Equis.”
“In between making Mount Everest climb me, yes. I am the most interesting man in the world.”
If only he knew how true that was becoming.
She cleared her throat. “Funny. So. Maybe next time we can find a real Puerto Rican restaurant? I’d like to find out the differences.”
“Next time, hm?”
“Um. Maybe?” She fiddled with her fork. “If you want. Or, you know, dinner and a show tomorrow, and you should be home free. I’ve already gone through Wheeler’s proposal and prepared a response packet, in case he’s in the mood to socialize again.”
“You say ‘socialize’ like it’s a dirty word.”
“I’m just…not very good at it. And I know I need to be, if I’m going to keep doing this job. Wheeler is just the first. Maybe I’ll win the next client over by pretending to be a lesbian. You have any cute sisters?”
He chuckled. “No siblings at all.” He arched a brow. “Do I detect a note of bitterness?”
“…maybe. All the games, Derek…it doesn’t feel like me.”
“Then why are you doing it?”
“Because it seems like the only way to make a difference. I have to do bad to do good.” She bit her lip. “I’m just afraid one day I’ll end up like Mr. Rodgers. I’ll forget why I’m doing it, and start caring about nothing but the money.”
He watched her steadily. “I think you’re too strong for that to happen.”
“I think you have more faith in me than I do.” She hid her blush behind her soda. “Funny. I’m telling you to break the rules, while doing everything I can to play by them.”
“Maybe you should take your own advice,” he said.
“And get fired.”
“I could hire you. How do you feel about D.C.?” he asked offhandedly.
She choked on her Coke. “What?”
“I’m offering you a job with a corporation that actually understands ethics. I may be a micromanager, but I don’t lie to do business. You’d probably be happier there.”
He couldn’t be serious. “Taking pity on Aaron’s baby sister?”
His lips thinned. “It’s not pity.”
“No thank you.” It was out before she could stop it, pride drowning out the tiny voice that reminded her the light bill was overdue.
Before Stephanie could even reach for her wallet, he withdrew his and handed his card to the waitress. They didn’t even have the check yet. He leveled a cool look at her. “This is the part where you remind me that you don’t need my help, and you can do this yourself.”
That…that jerk. “That’s right. I don’t need your help. Or you.”
“There’s no shame in accepting help when it’s given.”
“There’s no shame in having the will to succeed on my own, either.”
He made a frustrated sound, signed his name when the waitress brought the receipt, then stood and circled the table to pull Stephanie’s seat out. “You have to know when to yield, Stephanie. What good would your work do if all the people you wanted to help felt the same way as you?”
“I accept help from my brothers, and my parents, when I need it. I’ve got plenty of help already.”
“Yet you’re stuck in a job with an employer who manipulates you into lying, and you’re so afraid of failing that you won’t stand up for yourself.”
“I’m not afraid of failure.” She ground her teeth. “I’m afraid of eviction.”
He met her irritation with infuriating calm. “My offer still stands, Stephanie. Not out of pity. I offer because I care.”
“Thank you,” she said, but couldn’t stand to say anymore. Especially when, for the first time since he’d tried to play her knight in shining armor, she was almost tempted to say yes. So many years of struggling to make it on her own. So many years of refusing money from Aaron, or from any of her other brothers. She hadn’t wanted to take the job with Rodgers. Not when she met the man and understood the implications of her job requirements. But with the economy the way it was, it was either take the job or show up on her parents’ front doorstep with her things in a cardboard box.
But now she had a way out, and a chance at something new. Something that would be given to her, instead of working for it—and that was where her pride balked. Yet she was still considering it, all because of a devastatingly addictive pair of blue eyes.
What was wrong with her?