“Here’s to me changing your mind,” he said with an arrogant smile. He would find out what she was running away from, and he would eliminate it from the face of the planet.
She laughed, and the sound did magical things to him even as she declined the wine he offered her. “Oh, no, I don’t drink when I’m working.”
He snorted. “I should’ve stopped seven glasses ago, and yet here I am. Still going strong. Drink with me, Freckles.”
“Well it is your birthday. You might as well enjoy.”
“Come on. Join me on this toast. I relieve you of your duties.” He pressed the glass against the back of her fingers, glad when she finally took it. He felt cocky and arrogant as he lifted his glass. “Here’s to me changing your mind,” he repeated.
Kate’s eyes gained a new sparkle as she did the same. “And to me, and my new life in Florida.”
They knocked glasses in toast, and it was on.
It was on.
Like when they were kids playing Battleship...hell, yeah. Garrett was going to sink Kate’s Florida ship to the bottom of the ocean.
As though mentally plotting, too, Kate quietly sipped, watching him over the rim with a little glimmer in her eyes. A glimmer that told him she was definitely onto his plan.
Think what you want, Freckles. But you won’t be going anywhere.
“I’m not backing out until I get my way, Kate. You know this, correct?” Garrett warned with a smile
Kate shook her head, but was smiling, too. “See? And you asked me why I didn’t tell you? There’s your answer. I can’t deal with you right now, Garrett. I need to pack and make plans, help Molly with preparations so I can leave after the wedding.”
“You don’t need to deal with me. I will be the one dealing with you,” he countered as he finished his glass. He snatched another and then gazed out at the gardens, the alcohol already slowing his usually sharp brain. Oh, yes, he was determined.
He just couldn’t imagine his life without Kate in it.
Every family celebration—hell, every family dinner, gathering or festivity—she would be there. Every morning in his office, her delectable croissants would be there. In his mind, his very dark soul, every second of the day, she was there....
“Will you be spending the night here?”
The lights in her eyes vanished at his question, and she nodded sadly. “Your mother said I could use my old room. She doesn’t want me driving alone so late. You know what happened...”
To our fathers, he thought. They’d taken Garrett to watch a rock concert.
Neither had returned.
The reminder made his stomach twist and turn until he thought he’d puke.
He wanted to discuss Florida, take back control, make her promise she would stay and settle this here and now. But he didn’t feel like he was in control of all five senses anymore; he’d drained the second glass already, which brought tonight’s drink count to almost a dozen, so perhaps he could save this for another day.
Setting down the empty glass on the tray, he said, “All right, Kate. Sleep tight. I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Garrett.” Her voice stopped him, and he turned from the terrace door. There was regret in her eyes, and he worried she’d see the truth of his torment in his. Then she sadly shook her head. “Happy birthday.”
“You know what I want from you for my birthday, don’t you?” he asked, his voice so low she’d probably barely heard it.
For a long, charged moment, their gazes held. The wind rustled the bottom of her dress and pulled tendrils of hair out of her bun. Watching the way the breeze caressed her, he felt unraveled on the inside with crazy thoughts about tucking that hair behind her ear, feeling the material of her silky dress under his fingers.
“What?” she asked, sounding breathless. “What is it that you want for your birthday?”
Her eyes had glazed over. Now her chest heaved as though his answer made her nervous and, at the same time, excited, and for a moment, Garrett felt equally nervous, and equally excited. For that fraction of a second, he just wanted to say one word, just one word, that would change their lives unequivocally in some way. But he forced himself to say the rest.
“You,” he whispered, barely able to continue when he noticed the way her cheeks flushed, the way she licked her lips. “Here. I want you here on my next birthday. I want you here every day of the year. That’s all I want, Kate.”
* * *
You...
Kate felt strangely melancholy, lying in her old bed, in her old room, with its decorations still left over from her childhood. She didn’t want to think that this was the last time she’d be sleeping here, a door away from Garrett. She didn’t want to think it’d be the last birthday she spent with him and that some other guy she’d meet in Florida, a cabana boy or whatever, would be the one she’d settle down with.
She’d been barely seven when she buried her dad, and in that strange reflective moment when a grieving child gains the maturity of an old person, Kate had realized that her chance to be loved, to belong to something and someone, was now buried six feet under, in a smooth wood coffin.
She’d never blamed Garrett for anything, at least not at first.
She hadn’t been told what had happened in the beginning. She’d only learned that two men had been murdered and the killers had been caught and would spend their lives behind bars. Which had seemed like such an easy punishment, compared to how her father and Garrett’s had lost their lives. Garrett and his brothers had grieved their father, and Kate and Molly had quietly grieved their own. But then she had overheard a conversation Garrett’s mother had had with the police, and Kate had found out what really happened. She had felt betrayed, kept from the truth by their whispers. Garrett’s betrayal had hurt most of all.
She’d always had a soft spot for that dark-haired boy, and she’d felt like he hadn’t even cared enough for her to tell her the truth. That her father had not died to save his dad. He had died to save Garrett. She’d rushed up to him one day and told him he should be ashamed of himself. She’d asked him how he could stand there with that poker face, and laugh, and try to pretend nothing had happened, when it had been his fault! Her father had died protecting Garrett from the gunshots. All because Garrett hadn’t run for cover when he should have. She’d been angry because they’d all lied to her, to her and poor innocent Molly, who was merely three and lonely. But she had been especially angry at Garrett.
She’d regretted the words instantly, though, when she’d seen the way his neck had gone red, and his fisted hands had trembled at his sides, and his eyes had gone dead like she’d just delivered the last blow that he’d needed to join the two men down under.
The death wish the boy had developed afterward had alarmed the family to such an extent that the Gage matron had asked Kate to please talk to him. Horribly remorseful, Kate had approached him one day and apologized. She’d realized that her father would have done that for anyone, which was true. No matter how painful it had been to speak, she’d said that it had been his job, and he had done it well. He was a hero. Her hero, and now he was gone.
Garrett had listened gravely, said nothing for long moments, and Kate had felt a new, piercing sense of loss when she realized in fear that she and Garrett would never be friends again. They would never be able to cope with this huge loss and guilt again.
“I wish it had been me.”
“No! No!” She’d suddenly hated herself for having planted this in his head, for not coping well with this strange anger and neediness inside her. Maybe she’d been so angry because all she’d wanted was for someone to put his arms around her and Molly and say it would be okay, even if it was a lie and it would never be okay.
But Garrett had tossed a small twig aside, and gazed down at her hand like he’d wanted to take it. She hadn’t known i
f she wanted him to hold it or not, but when he had, a current had rushed up her arm as if the tips of her fingers where he touched her had been struck by lightning.
“I’m gonna be your hero now,” he’d said.
And he was.
He’d protected her his entire life, from anything and everything. He’d become not only her hero...but the only man she’d ever wanted.
* * *
He could feel Kate in the house somehow.
Of course his mother wouldn’t let her drive so late back to her apartment alone. Garrett also had an apartment of his own in a newer neighborhood, but tonight he’d also planned to stay in his old room so he could get blissfully inebriated without having to drive. And yet even after all the wine he’d drunk, he didn’t feel so high.
The news of Kate’s plans to move had sobered him.
Now he lay in bed with just a little buzz to scramble his brain, not enough to numb his thoughts. He couldn’t stop thinking about her.
He might as well have been eighteen again, staring at the ceiling, sleepless with the knowledge that Kate slept nearby. Except now, Molly no longer slept in Kate’s same room, and Kate wasn’t a teenager anymore. Neither was Garrett.
With the vivid imagination of a man, he imagined her red hair fanning out against the white pillow, and the mere thought of her in bed caused his muscles to tighten.
His chest became heavy as he grappled with the same feelings of guilt and solitude that he always did when he thought of her.
Garrett had also denied little Molly of a father. But Molly had never looked at him with resentment. She had never really looked at him like she wanted something from him, like Kate did.
Sometimes, when he got drunk and reflective, he wondered if that night had never happened, would things have been different for him? He might have been happier, like his younger brother. He could have also waited until Kate was the right age, and then, if there had been any hint of her having any special feelings for him, he might have let himself feel them back for her. But it was pointless to imagine it. Pointless torture and torment. Because that night had happened, and Garrett could still feel the dank air, hear the gunshots and remember it as if it had happened less than twenty-four hours ago.
Yeah, he remembered exactly how those gunshots had exploded so close to him, how they’d burst between the buildings of downtown San Antonio like an echo. He remembered his father’s grip—which had been firm on Garrett as he guided him into the concert entrance—and how suddenly he’d jerked at his side and his fingers had let go. His father had crashed like a deadweight to the asphalt.
“Dad?” Garrett had said, paralyzed in confusion for a second, only to be instantly shoved aside by Dave Devaney, whose expression clearly told Garrett he’d already figured out what was going on.
“Get down—run!” the man had shouted, reaching for the weapon Garrett knew he carried inside his jacket. But Garrett could hear his father sputtering, struggling to breathe, and he had been paralyzed for a stunned moment. The world could have been crashing over him. As far as he’d known, it had been. But all he had been conscious of was his father. In the middle of the street, clutching his chest, where blood spurted through his open fingers like a fountain.
Instead of running away, Garrett had run back to him. He hadn’t known what he planned to do. He’d only known his father was covered in blood, choking on his own breath, and that his eyes—dark as coal like Garrett’s—looked wild and frightened. As wild and frightened as Garrett felt.
He’d dived back for the figure on the ground and gripped him by one arm, trying to drag him aside, when he’d heard Devaney’s “No, boy! Dammit, no!” A half dozen more gunshots had exploded, and in that instant, the weight of a man had crushed him to the ground.
Garrett had cursed in front of his father for the first time in his life and squirmed between both men. Something hot and sticky had oozed across both his chest and back as he’d tried to push free, which had proved immensely difficult being he was only ten, and Dave Devaney had been a big man. His father had sputtered one last time beneath him, and when Garrett swung his head around, Jonathan Gage’s eyes had been lifeless.
Garrett had gone cold, listening to sirens in the distance, footsteps, chaos around them.
Suddenly he’d heard Dave’s voice, saying, “Garrett,” as he rolled to the side to spare Garrett his weight. He’d blinked up at the man, shocked, mute when he realized the man had stepped into the line of fire to save him. Him. Who hadn’t run when he’d been told to.
The man had reached out to pat his jaw, and Garrett had grabbed the man’s hand and attempted a reassuring squeeze. He’d shaken uncontrollably, felt sticky and startlingly cold. “My daughters... They have no one but me. No one but me. Do you understand me, boy?”
He’d nodded wildly.
The man had seemed to struggle to swallow. To speak and breathe. But his eyes had had that wild desperation Garrett’s father had worn, except his gaze had also been pleading. Pleading with Garrett. “Help me.... Be there...for them...”
He’d nodded wildly again.
“So that they are not alone...taken care of...safe. Tell ’em...I l-love...”
Garrett had nodded, his face wet and his eyes scalding hot as he tried to reassure the dying man. His chest had hurt so much he’d thought he’d been shot, as well. “Yes, sir,” he’d said low, with the conviction of a ten-year-old who’d suddenly aged to eighty. “I’ll take care of them both.”
But how could he take care of Kate now, if they would be miles and states apart?
* * *
Kate was jolted from her thoughts when the door of her bedroom crashed open. She sat upright on the bed, her heart hammering in her chest. A huge shadow loomed at the threshold.
Garrett.
“I don’t want you to leave,” he said gruffly.
Shock widened her eyes. His voice was slurred, and she wondered how many more drinks he’d had after they’d last seen each other.
From the light of the hall, she could see he was still partly dressed in his black slacks and button-up shirt. His tie was loose around his collar. His hair rumpled. His sleeves rolled up. Oh, God, he looked adorable.
“I’ve made up my mind,” she told him.
“Then unmake it.”
He shut the door behind him and strode into the darkness, and her heart beat faster in response.
“I can’t unmake it,” she said, her voice raspy. Her throat was aching and she thought that the night of no sleep yesterday and the marathon to get everything set up today had just set her up to fall ill. “Look, I made up my mind. I can’t stay here.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m unhappy, Garrett. I’ve got everything I ever wanted, and yet don’t. I make money for myself, I’ve got great friends, and Molly, and I’ve got you and your family...and I’m so unhappy.”
The mattress squeaked as he sat down, and suddenly she felt his hand patting the bed as though to find her. “Why are you unhappy?” he asked. He found her thigh over the covers, and when he squeezed, her stomach tightened, too.
She couldn’t remember ever being in a dark room with him, or maybe she could, decades ago, when he had been sick and she would help Eleanor nurse him and feed him soup. But now she was no longer a girl. Her body was a woman’s, and her responses to this man were purely feminine and decidedly discomforting. Her blood raced hot through her veins as her body turned the same consistency of her pillow behind her. Soft. Feathery. Weightless.
“Why are you unhappy?” he murmured. She felt the mattress squeak again when he edged closer. He seemed to be palpating the air until he felt her shoulder; then he slid his hand up her face. The touch of his fingers melted her, and she closed her eyes as he cupped her jaw and bent to her ear. “Tell me what makes you unhappy and I’ll fix it for you.”
>
He smelled of alcohol. And his unique scent.
She shook her head at his impossible proposition, almost amused, but not quite. More like unsettled. By his nearness, his touch.
She had promised herself, when she’d decided she had to move away, that she would forget this man. And now all she could think of was reaching up to touch his hair and draw his lips to hers. She couldn’t see him in the darkness, but she knew his face by memory. The sleek line of his dark eyebrows. The beautiful tips of his sooty eyelashes. The strikingly beautiful espresso shade of his eyes, dark brown from up close and coal-black from afar.
She knew his strong face, with that strong, proud forehead, as strong as his cheekbones and jaw, and she knew the perfect shape of his mouth. She might not have touched his face with her fingers in her life, but her eyes had run over those features more than they had touched any other thing on this earth.
“You can’t fix it. You’re not God,” she sadly whispered. Her throat now ached with emotion, too.
“You’re right. I’m a devil.” He cupped her face in both hands and stroked his thumb across the flesh of her lips, triggering a strange reaction in her body. “Why did you wear lipstick tonight? You look prettier bare.”
Her breath caught as she realized he was stroking her lips with his thumb like he wanted to kiss her. He’d called her pretty. When had he ever called her pretty? Decades ago, maybe by accident, he’d blurted it out. But it had been years since he’d ever complimented her. Or touched her.
He’d just done both.
And suddenly the only thing moving in the room was her heaving chest, and his thumb as it moved side to side, caressing her lips, filling her body with an ocean of longing. She swallowed back a moan.
“You’re right to want to leave here, Kate.” His voice thickened as he bent his head, and he smelled so good and exuded such body warmth and strength, she went light-headed. “You should run from here.”
It took every ounce of willpower for her to push at his hard shoulders. “You’re drunk, Garrett. Go away and get out of my bed.”