ONE NIGHT. No one will know.
Those were the rules.
They weren’t romantic rules, but nobody had called Nicholas Chandler a romantic in a very long time. Love rarely conquered all, the true villains almost always went unpunished, and happily ever afters? Ha. Sometimes all you could hope for were secret stolen moments with one messy, royally bad girl.
Nicholas shut off the engine of his sedan. He preferred using terms that were clearly defined, so he shied away from adjectives like bad. Bad, especially when used to describe a woman, could mean too many things.
In this case, though, it meant she was bad for him.
The Open sign flashed in the window of the tattoo parlor. Dusk had settled, and the other businesses in the strip mall had already closed. He sat in one of the only two cars in the parking lot, the other a fourteen-year-old rusted yellow sports car. How the Mustang was still functioning, Nicholas had no idea. Given how far its owner had run, he was certain that car had hit the upper limit of mileage a long time ago.
He kept his hand on the keys. If he left right now, he would still have time to squeeze in his usual after-work run before he sat down at his kitchen table with a nutritionally balanced dinner for one. Plus, he could avoid the risk of someone spying him and rumors spreading about his suspicious presence in this firmly blue-collar neighborhood of Rockville.
A shadow moved in the brightly lit storefront. Every muscle in his body seized. Part of him had hoped the gossip was false, even after he’d identified her car, but he supposed his life could never be that easy.
Livvy Kane had come home.
He leaned forward, but he was too far away to see her clearly. It didn’t matter. The restless energy in that body as she walked, the curve of her hip, the whip of her dark hair. All of it was imprinted on his brain.
Livvy paused in profile, backlit by fluorescent lights, and gathered the mass of her hair up on top of her head. Her back arched, full breasts lifting. He knew exactly how those firm globes felt in his hands, the point where her light brown skin faded into a paler color untouched by the sun, the taste of her small, tight nipples in his mouth. He’d sucked them, bit them, rolled them between his thumb and forefinger. He knew how much pressure to exert to make her sigh, and how to lick her to make her scream.
Livvy’s arms slowly lowered. She pivoted and walked away, out of view.
He breathed deep and sat back, the odd spell broken. Livvy was home. His home, and technically hers, though she hadn’t called it that in a decade.
He curled his hands into fists. He wanted to march in there and demand answers almost as much as he wanted to go home and forget she was breathing the same air as him. Two contrary, irreconcilable desires.
His phone buzzed, and his head jerked toward the dashboard where it was mounted. It took him a second to process the message that had popped up. The number was unfamiliar, but the attitude was not.
Can I help you?
In terms of pure pleasure and relief, he imagined the feeling he got when he received a text from Livvy was similar to what an addict felt when they got a hit of whatever drug they craved.
This time, though, a beat after the surge of excitement came mortification. If running a corporation didn’t work out for him, he wasn’t going to be able to count on a backup career as a spy.
His phone buzzed again. Quit creeping.
Nicholas scowled. He was not creeping. He was sitting in a dark parking lot, watching a woman through a window—
His face heated. Okay, point taken. Nicholas picked up the phone, thumbs poised on the screen. He hesitated, unsure of what to say.
He’d gotten exactly nine texts from her over the years, like clockwork. With the exception of that first message, they’d been sparing on words, containing only a time, a room number, and the latitude and longitude of wherever she happened to be in the country. None of them had required a response.
His phone vibrated against his fingers, a reminder and a rebuke. If you want a tattoo, you’ll have to come inside.
He didn’t want a tattoo. He wanted her. He couldn’t have her. Bad for you. Like his weakness for sweets.
He was not unaware of the parallels between his sugar addiction and his Livvy addiction. He ruthlessly controlled himself around the white stuff, bypassing the bakery at Chandler’s entirely for long stretches of time. Until he couldn’t help himself anymore, and he found himself eyeing the cannoli in the refrigerated display case.
He only ever allowed himself to purchase two. He ate one in his car, wolfing down the treat in greedy bites. The other he took home and ate slowly, savoring every second of the flaky fried shell encasing sweet ricotta, letting the creamy, rich filling linger on his tongue in a fit of self-indulgent need.
Nicholas shook his head, hating the uncharacteristically flowery thoughts that had invaded his brain. Today’s not a day for hedonism. Which was why he could not go inside.
He could not go inside, he repeated, as he snatched his keys and got out of the car.
He could not go inside, he told himself, as he mounted the steps to the brick building.
He could not—
The bell above the door to the establishment jingled cheerfully as it opened. He stepped inside and closed the door firmly but quietly behind him, the bell cutting off.
His shoes squeaked on clean tile as he took a few steps into the deserted reception area. The shop was small but tidy, warm and brightly lit, with a colorful seating area crammed full of mismatched comfortable chairs. There were magazines spread out on the coffee table, ranging from Better Homes and Gardens to Car and Driver.
A curtain separated the rest of the business from the front. It rippled like someone had disturbed it recently. She knew he’d entered, no doubt. She hadn’t seen him yet, though. He could still leave.
Chandlers aren’t quitters.
He adjusted the cuffs on his shirt, though they didn’t need adjusting. Team See Her had destroyed Team Avoid Her at All Costs. He was committed to this now. There was no turning back.
It was fine. He wouldn’t gorge himself on her. He’d simply . . . gather information. As president of Chandler’s, it was his duty to evaluate any issue which could affect their company.
Cold. Formal. It’s business. In no way, shape, or form could he let the careful barrier he’d constructed to keep her at a distance slip.
Firm objective in mind, he squared his shoulders and walked to the curtain. As he parted it, that firm objective promptly turned into an objective that was roughly the consistency of tapioca pudding.
Livvy sat on a stool in profile to him, bent over a worktable, doodling on a scrap of paper, seemingly oblivious to his entrance. Her foot tapped, striking the concrete floor in rhythm with his pounding heart.
She decorated her sweetly rounded body like a canvas and framed it with tiny scraps of fabric: today, a red bustier and black leather pants. On another woman, he might wonder if she were in costume. On her, he didn’t care. He only wanted to rip the clothes off her.
He remembered her natural hair color from when they were young, a perfectly lovely midnight black. Her parents had grounded her for a week the first time she’d used drug-store peroxide and dye to turn it some shade of the rainbow. They gave up by the third or fourth color.
Now it was almost subdued, pulled up in a messy knot on top of her head, dark brown shot through with burgundy highlights. He failed the struggle to not think about what those waist-length waves looked like spread across a pillow. Or licking his body like flames as she slid down his chest.
She bent over her drawing, her bare midriff pooching over the waistband of her pants. She didn’t look at him, but she did speak. “I see you decided to quit lurking.”
The last time he’d heard that voice, he’d been driving into her, her snug pussy gripping his cock, toned legs locked tight around his waist, her fingernails drawing blood on his shoulders. Don’t stop, she’d whispered in his ear. Fuck me harder.
He didn’t know what he’d said in reply. Their encounters were usually a haze of sweat and pleasure and filthy words and filthier actions. Nicholas assumed he’d complied, because he’d ached the next day. He didn’t know if she’d been similarly affected. He’d always left before dawn, before she woke up.
Those were the rules. One night, wherever in the country she might be. After nine years of illicit sex, he’d learned them well.
He had to swallow twice in order to speak, but he was gratified he didn’t sound like he’d been punched in the stomach. “I was not lurking.”
“I didn’t realize there was a threshold for how long a guy needed to loiter in a parking lot in order to be classified a lurker.” She placed the pencil neatly next to the pad and stood. Her black, laced, knee-high boots added about three inches to her five-foot-nothing height. She crossed her arms over her chest. A tattoo decorated her shoulder and arm, highlighting her toned muscles, a twining vine of prickly black flowers. It was new.
He wanted to touch it, but that wasn’t new. He always wanted to touch her.
They stared at each other in silence for a long moment. The corner of her lips curled up. “Hello, Nicholas.”
He grasped on to the polite, meaningless greeting like a man grabbing the handiest lifeline. “Livvy. You’re looking well.” An understatement.
Her kohl-lined eyes dipped over his body, from his head to his feet, leaving fire in their wake. He found himself straightening. Asshole. You’re two seconds from flexing your muscles for her.
“You too. New tie?” She batted her lashes.
He automatically smoothed his hand over his tie, but then stopped. Last time they’d seen each other, she’d grabbed the strip of fabric and hauled him close to press her mouth against his. Did she remember? “Perhaps. I don’t recall.”
“Nice. It brings out the blue in your blood.”
Her attitude wasn’t new either. “My blood isn’t any more blue than yours is,” he pointed out. Both of their grandfathers had been the first generations in their families to be born on American soil. It had been one more commonality that had made the two men such good friends and business partners.
“Hmm. Must be the Scrooge McDuck vault of gold you swim in every morning that gives it that bluish tinge.” She leaned back against the table. “Who told you I was here?”
“A cousin. She saw you at a gas station.” It had taken a second to google Livvy and discover she was working at this place. Nicholas was mildly ashamed of the level of familiarity he had with her social media profiles. Far more than an ex should have.
She didn’t ask him which cousin, probably because she realized it didn’t matter much. He barely knew everyone in his clan. His vast extended family shared two things in common: one, they were amiable and bright but not terribly self-sufficient, and two, they were all employed by the corporation. Family first.
“I didn’t think gossip would spread this quick. I’ve only been here a week.”
“You’ve been gone too long if you think that was quick.” Even without taking his network of family into account, their corporation was the single largest employer in Rockville, New York. There were more than a few people, related to him or not, who figured they had a vested interest in the personal lives of the Chandlers.
As far as he could tell, no one had told his father. Yet. He’d know the second the old man learned.
“I guess so.” She spread her hands in front of her, a mocking smile crossing her blood-red lips. “Well, now you’ve seen it with your own eyes. Ding-dong, the witch is back.”
“I’ve never thought you were a witch.” With her mischievous eyes and delicate features, Nicholas would say she resembled a rather naughty punk fairy. That is, he would say that if he were a fanciful sort of man—and he wasn’t, not in the slightest.
“No? Don’t tell anyone. I have a reputation to maintain, friend.”
“I’m not your friend.” The protest was automatic, one he couldn’t stop himself from uttering.
Her eyes hardened to onyx chips. “Figure of speech. Blood enemies doesn’t sound nearly as polite. And we both know how much you like to be polite.”
“I’m not your enemy either.” Not technically. He had no idea what he and Livvy were. There was no word to encompass their relationship.
“Depends on who you ask, I guess.”
Yes. If he asked their respective families, there would be no hesitation. Criminals or cheats, depending on who was talking about whom.
Livvy examined her nails. “Gotta say, though, it’s strange for a guy who’s not my friend or my enemy to come running over here to creep on me the second he finds out I’m in town.”
He straightened. It was time for him to take control of this meeting. “First, I was not creeping. Second, I did not come running here.” He’d had to sit through two meetings. “Third, it’s not strange at all for me to be curious as to why you’re back after so many years. Working, no less.” Working implied a long-term commitment, didn’t it? He’d mulled that over during every minute of those two long, unnecessary meetings, and decided it did.
She held up her fingers. “One, I’m guest spotting.”
He wasn’t entirely sure what that meant, but it sounded more temporary. Good. He was relieved. Definitely.
“Two, you were absolutely creeping. Three, it’s not the first time I’ve been back in years. I was here for Paul’s funeral.”
Nicholas wasn’t sure if she’d mentioned her dead brother so matter-of-factly solely to rattle him, but mission accomplished. He shifted his weight and turned his head to study the bulletin board closest to him, taking a beat to collect himself. A number of pieces of paper had been stuck to the bottom haphazardly, pages torn from a sketchbook and cheap glossy prints of anonymous people’s adorned body parts. The designs were rich and bold, popping with bright colors, some of them looking more like watercolor paintings than something you would put on skin.
“I meant for a longer stay,” he finally replied. Of course she’d come home for the funeral. Jackson too, probably. Nicholas had done his best to avoid thinking about it too much, even scheduling a site inspection in another state that weekend.
His ex–best friend’s tragic death in a hiking accident a little over a year ago had been well publicized, all of the old dirty laundry dug up, everyone watching to see what he’d do. The gossip mill would have gone berserk if Nicholas had so much as shown his face in a five-mile vicinity of the church.
Paul and Nicholas were being groomed to run the C&O together, but then, you know, the accident happened, and Brendan Chandler swindled Tani Oka-Kane out of her half of the grocery store chain, and the Kanes were left with nothing. Poor Paul.
Or:
Paul and Nicholas would have run the C&O together, but then, you know, the tragedy happened, Tani Oka-Kane sold her half of the company to Brendan, and Paul’s little brother Jackson grew so enraged he burned down the first store the company ever built. Poor Nicholas.
It didn’t matter which way the gossip slanted. His and Livvy’s former relationship might be mentioned somewhere in there, but to outsiders, their breakup was probably the least exciting and most predictable part of the saga.
A particular crooked sketch caught his eye. A flighty hummingbird in blues and greens flew against a splash of pink, the initials L.K. scrawled on the bottom. He righted the angle of the drawing, adjusting it so it hung properly.
Despite dreading the subject and his feelings about it, he’d imagined what he would say to Livvy when they met up for her most recent birthday, months after Paul’s death. Though it would have been a sharp departure from their usual script, he’d rehearsed a few simple sentences. “I’m sorry about Paul.” He sounded stiff and wooden, but he couldn’t help that. He was out of practice when it came to consolation.
“Little late, isn’t it?” Her voice was quiet, subdued. Unlike her.
“Should I have contacted you earlier to offer my condolences?” What would that conversation have been like?
Her heels tapped on the tile. Nicholas concentrated on the feathers of the bird as if they held all the mysteries of life.
“I didn’t expect it. We don’t have that kind of relationship, right?” Her soft arm almost brushed the front of his suit jacket, and he glanced at her sharply. She was so close he could count the freckles scattered over her cleavage. She’d hated those freckles as a young woman, comparing herself to her blemish-free mother. He hadn’t been able to understand her dislike. How many times had he dragged his tongue from one freckle to another, playing connect the dots and creating a perfect pattern in his head? Too many, and not enough.
His body tensed and hardened, readying for her. God, he was always so ready for her.
She placed her finger on the drawing, exactly where his had been, and adjusted it so it was crooked again. Clear eyes locked on his, daring and tough, not a single vulnerability visible. “Right, Nick?”
He was Nicholas to everyone. She was the only one who’d shortened his name, but not to Nick. She’d always called him something else.
He made sure his tone was well modulated and even. She was correct. The only relationship they had was one based on lust. “Right, Olivia.”
Her frown was barely there, but he knew he’d scored a hit with her full name. He knew, and he hated himself for it.
She lifted her bare wrist and studied it. “My, look at the time. As much as I have loved this awkward visit, I really do have so much to do. So if you only came here to offer your belated condolences . . .”
“I didn’t.” He might have gotten sidetracked, but his initial objective seemed more imperative now. How long would he have to deal with this interruption in his perfectly ordered life? “I came to talk to you.”
Her sardonic smile called attention to the tiny scar next to her lips. A souvenir from her adventurous childhood. “To talk to me?”
He edged closer because he couldn’t not take advantage of this opportunity to inhale the scent of vanilla and sugar. “Yes.”
“Talking’s not usually what we do when we’re together. And last time I checked, my birthday isn’t for another eight months, so . . .”
He flinched, unprepared for her to speak so bluntly about their odd arrangement, though he should have been—she was a blunt woman.
“I know exactly when your birthday is,” he said, sharper than he intended. “I suppose I ought to give you belated felicitations as well. I missed your thirtieth.”
Her stubborn chin lifted. “Oh, were you expecting to see me?”
Of course he’d been expecting to see her. That was how they worked. For the past ten years.
For the past nine years, he corrected himself. The last year had come and gone without their annual sexual marathon. “I assumed. We’d established a pattern.” Another small step and he could get a tiny bit closer to her. How did she smell so good? Like every delicious thing he craved and couldn’t have.
Livvy had to tilt her head back to meet his gaze. If he moved his hand, he could touch her. Lord, how he wanted to touch her.
“We both know I hate being predictable,” she breathed. “Sorry if I kept you waiting.”
Her apology rang hollow. A ripple of repressed anger swirled under his careful icy calm, and he squelched it. If it were anyone else, he’d assume Livvy was playing a game, but she was far too straightforward to bother with games. Or at least she had been. “No apologies necessary,” he said. “I moved on.”
“Did you?”
“I had to.” He’d told himself her absence had been understandable, only a few months following the death of her brother. The eagerness with which he’d waited for her text . . . when he realized he’d blocked that day off on his calendar . . . that hadn’t been acceptable.
Darkness touched her expression, and she glanced away. “Right. Great. Well, I’m honored Rockville’s golden prince spared me a fleeting thought.”
He wanted to laugh, but there was no humor in his body. A fleeting thought? She honestly believed that was all she’d been worth over the years?
“I’m not a prince,” he reminded her. Both of them.
She turned and walked away, and his gaze dropped to her bottom. She’d gained weight since he’d seen her last, and it looked good on her, making her ass even more clutchable. He curled his fingers, remembering how those round globes felt when she was riding him.
“Whatever you say. If you want to talk to me, text me,” she said over her shoulder, breezy and careless once again. “You have my number now.”
“Or we can talk here.” There was no guarantee that number wouldn’t change tomorrow. The first few years, he’d saved the phone numbers that popped up on his screen with her message. In moments of weakness, more times than he’d like to admit, he’d call them. Thank God, they were always disconnected. She changed phone numbers like she changed cities.
“No, thanks.”
“I insist.”
“Just like a Chandler,” she said coldly, not looking at him. His last name dropped into the conversation with the weight of a thousand pounds of baggage. “Selfishly taking whatever you want.”
There it was. Only a few feet separated them, but the battle lines had been drawn, creating a gulf the size of an ocean.
Her harsh words stabbed straight into his heart. Electricity zipped through him, the rush of fierce blood pumping in his veins a foreign and heady sensation. Sugar rushes had nothing on this. She always made him feel alive in a way no one else did. Like he was a wind-up man resting in a case, waiting for her to apply the key.
“Just like a Kane,” he replied with devastating calm, hating himself for every word that fell from his lips, not believing a single one of them. “Running away.”
She spun around. The air crackled. “Fuck off,” she said, her soft whisper more threatening than any scream. “Like I said, I’m working. So unless you want a tattoo, you can get the hell out.”
He stared at her, took in every perfect, enraged line of her body. I dare you to kiss me, she’d smirked that first time they’d gone out. Poking and prodding and demanding and taunting him until he’d pressed her up against her front door.
The scratches on his back faded every year, but he’d always carry her marks. And he’d take any reason to steal a few more minutes in her presence, to take a few more hits of these unwise emotions.
“Fine,” he heard himself say. “Then give me a tattoo.”