Everyone knows Joey by reputation—he’s the wealthiest, sexiest bad boy on campus, with a different girl on his arm every week. But Joey’s hard-partying ways are a front, his way of escaping a painful past, and limited to weekends only—Monday to Friday he suits up and stays in control while working for his developer father to make amends.

Tucker is Joey’s polar opposite. Growing up on the wrong side of the tracks made her determined to make a better life for herself—and others—by helping to save the local community center similar to the one where she found support during tough times. When she runs into Joey (literally), the attraction is immediate—but her distrust runs deep.

Joey is equally smitten with Tucker, and throws himself into helping her with her fund-raising. Soon they start to fall hard for each other—but how can Joey convince Tucker she can trust him with her heart, when he’s hiding a secret that could drive them apart for good?

Bad Reputation

Melinda Di Lorenzo

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

Before you start reading, why not sign up?

Thank you for downloading this Mills & Boon book. If you want to hear about exclusive discounts, special offers and competitions, sign up to our email newsletter today!

SIGN ME UP!

Or simply visit

signup.millsandboon.co.uk

Mills & Boon emails are completely free to receive and you can unsubscribe at any time via the link in any email we send you.

I would like to dedicate my book to my family—my parents, my husband, my kids and my brother, for always supporting me.

Table of Contents

Prologue

Present Day Friday

Saturday

Sunday

Monday

Tuesday

Wednesday

Thursday

Friday

Epilogue

Prologue

Eighteen Months Ago

Tucker

I sat on my bed in the room I shared with another student, enjoying a rare moment of solitude. I didn’t actually mind having a roommate, but she was the fourth one I’d had in six months. She wasn’t someone I called a friend. Living in Residence Hall Three—the official name for our dorm—provided little opportunity to be alone. Even when the odd time did arise, more often than not, I avoided it by spending my spare waking moments with Mark.

I sighed a little when I thought about him—the icing on my cake.

Smart, dependable Mark, who had his life mapped out in the most perfect way possible. I’d spent my whole life trying to escape from unpredictable moments, and I think Mark’s predictability drew me to him even more than any kind of physical attachment. I was in my second year at Juniper College, but I met Mark on my first day. I hadn’t noticed him as particularly striking, and his horn-rimmed glasses had made me smile to myself when he wasn’t looking. But we were both studying environmental law, and we got to know each other through group projects and our common interests. The beautiful thing about our relationship wasn’t its ease. It was its productivity. Our dates weren’t just dinners and dancing, they were meaningful protests for important causes and petitions sent to politicians. We wanted to end poverty and hunger and carve out a greener planet. Mark was kind and steady, and his beliefs lined up with mine so perfectly that it was almost like we were made for each other.

My childhood was marked with enough unpredictability, provided almost exclusively by my father, and compounded by my mother’s enabling personality. Drug addictions led to drug debts. Drug debts kept us living in a tiny, one-bedroom apartment, and tore apart the possibility of any kind of relationship with my mother, turning it into something that seemed beyond repair.

I spent hours—days, even—at the local youth center, seeking respite from the continuous stream of unhappiness.

The only sliver of hope had come when my father disappeared. I didn’t know if he was dead, or just gone. I tried not to care if he was either, because suddenly my mom’s two jobs were enough to pay the bills. My belongings no longer went missing, only to turn up at the pawnshop three blocks from home. Strange women didn’t call our house, making my mom cry when they asked for “Paulie, baby,” and menacing men didn’t sit on our stoop, waiting for a payday that was more likely to wind up in broken fingers than actual cash.

I still wanted to get out, and suddenly it seemed possible.

I buckled down at school, pulling grades that would have been unachievable if my father’s life had still been interfering with mine. And once it was in my sight, college became an imperative thing, rather than a choice, and I had made it happen.

At Juniper College, I was only eight miles away from my devastating childhood, but I was on my way to becoming the adult I’d always wanted to be.

So Mark…studious, sweet, smart Mark was the icing on the cake that was my new life. He didn’t make my heart pound, or my mind spin, but that was perfect. I wanted nothing to do with emotional outbursts or irrational behavior.

As I thought about it, my short-term aloneness in my room suddenly seemed a little lonely after all, and I kind of wished he hadn’t begged off to study.

I was relieved when the door squeaked open.

“I hope you have chips,” I said as I turned to greet my roommate.

The rest of whatever I’d been going to say died in my throat when I caught the look on her face. It was ashen.

“What’s wrong?” I asked immediately.

She shook her head and handed me a piece of newspaper. I frowned. I recognized the letterhead as one from the local paper. I scanned it, and panic reared in my chest. Select words jumped off the page, lodging in my brain. Stonewood Gate Apartments. Twenty-one dead. Estranged husband. Drug and alcohol abuse suspected. Fire. And the headline: No Survivors.

I dropped the article like it was burning.

“Tucker.”

I heard her say my name, but I was already on the move. People stared as I ran through the common area on our floor in nothing but pajama shorts and an ill-fitting tank top, but I didn’t care. I needed to get to something solid. Something that would solidify me. I needed to get to Mark.

By the time I reached his apartment building—a squat, three-story building just a block away from my own place—I was shivering and sweating at the same time, and the tears were starting to come. I let myself in with the key that Mark had cut for me months earlier, and pushed blindly through the hall to his first-floor unit.

“Mark!” I called in a quiet, desperate voice as I opened his apartment door.

“What was that noise?”

“Nothing, baby.”

I stopped dead in my tracks at the feminine voice that asked the question, and at Mark’s casual reply. I inhaled deeply, catching a whiff of perfume, mixed with the dizzying sent of marijuana. I stepped more cautiously into the living room.

I heard a choked sob come from somewhere deep in my throat, and a woman, sprawled on the sofa and clad in a satin thong, turned to look at me. Her gaze was angry and offended, as if I was invading her boyfriend’s house, and not the other way around. I felt the bile rise in my throat at the view. Mark was standing there naked, and his back was to me, but I knew every line of his body as well as I knew my own. I tried to look away, but there was nowhere for me to focus. A joint was burning in an ashtray on the table, and a satin bra was slung over a near-to-empty vodka bottle.

“Mark?”

My voice was very small, and held none of the fury I knew it should.

Shock. The word came to mind, taking a life-size meaning it had never had before. This is what shock feels like. Numbness and sadness and madness that won’t come out.

“Mark?” I repeated, a little more loudly, and he finally glanced my way.

“Jesus, Tucks,” he swore. “What are you doing here?”

“My parents died,” I told him.

His eyes went wide, and I noticed he wasn’t wearing his glasses, either.

“You never take them off when you’re with me,” I whispered.

“What?” Mark stared at me stupidly.

“I have to go.”

I grabbed the vodka and fled the apartment, seeking solace in my own bed. I shoved off my roommate’s attempts to comfort me, and drank the liquor straight. I sobbed until I ached inside and out, and I didn’t know if the tears were for my mom and dad or if they were for Mark and me. It didn’t matter. I cried until all the fight went out of my body and then let sleep start to take me. My final thoughts were of the stark, heart-wrenching headline.

No Survivors.

In the morning, I knew I would pick up the pieces of my life as I had done in the past and move on. Because the headline wasn’t quite true. There was one survivor. It was me.

Joey

I couldn’t feel my face, and that probably wasn’t a good thing.

“I can’t feel my face!”

Saying it out loud to the room didn’t help, even when someone replied with a whooping cheer.

“Gotta get some air,” I muttered, and tried to shove myself up off the couch.

I couldn’t move, and I knew I was way past my limit, even though I was the kind of guy who could—who did—go hard most of the time.

“You need some help?”

I peered around, looking for the source of the voice, and finally zeroed in on the petite girl beside me. Her face was close to mine—inches away—and I couldn’t make her features focus properly. Why was she so damned close?

“S’okay,” I slurred in her direction, and vaguely hoped that my breath wasn’t overtly noxious.

I tried to make sense of what was going on. I could hear people all around me, still partying. I swiveled my head. The room was a little dark, but I could see the blurred outline of a couple making out against a nearby wall, and another pair dancing lazily near a tall speaker.

“Wheremeye?” I muttered, and I knew it came out a garbled mess.

“Joey?”

I automatically turned my face at the sound of my name. It was the too-close girl again. What was she doing there, draped across me? Her legs were bare, and wrapped around mine. I gazed down at them, dragging my eyes across their tanned smoothness and up to her lacy underwear.

Oh no.

I could see she was wearing my oversize T-shirt, and I realized my own chest was bare.

“Whadeyedo?” I asked.

I flipped the girl off me, and I heard someone laugh as she hit the ground. I felt bad for a second, but then nausea overwhelmed me. I grabbed my keys and my wallet from the table, and I crashed through the house, searching for the door. I found it just in time to puke my guts up into the bushes. Which was better than into the pile of shoes in the foyer.

I stumbled out to the street, searching for my truck.

“Wherezstupidthing?” I mumbled.

I finally spotted it, parked crookedly right in front of a hydrant. I lurched toward it, knowing somewhere in the back of my mind that I shouldn’t—couldn’t—drive, but wanting to get out of there bad enough to try it anyway. I shoved the key into the lock and turned.

“Whoa.”

A soft hand accompanied the word, and it tried to yank the key ring from my shaky grasp. I managed to hold on. Barely. I squinted at the woman attached to the grip. Dark hair framed a familiar face, and the effects of alcohol weren’t enough to block out the pain any longer.

“Amber! I know you,” I slurred.

“And I know you, Joey. If you get in that car, you’ll regret it for the rest of your life.”

“What’s it matter to you?” I demanded harshly, drunkenly.

“We’re friends. Or at least we were before—”

I cut her off. “I don’t like to talk about that.”

“I won’t make you talk about it. If you give me the keys.”

“No.”

“Where you going, anyway?”

“Home.”

“Is it close?”

“Nope.”

“I’ll give you a lift.”

“I’ll drive myself.” I hiccuped. “Thank you very much.”

With an exasperated sigh, Amber reached forward and reached for my keys again.

“Can’t catch me!” I shouted gleefully.

I dove sideways, tripped over a bush and landed on my ass. My keys sailed from my hand about three feet away.

“Whoops.”

I struggled to grab them, but one of Amber’s high-heeled boots kicked them out of my reach. When I looked up, there were three Ambers glaring down at me. That, or the alcohol was seriously inhibiting my ability to see properly.

“S’matter with everybody?” I asked.

“Everybody?”

“All three of you.”

She grabbed the keys from the ground and rolled her eyes. “Joey, we were friends once, right?”

“Once,” I agreed. “With one of you, anyway.”

“Then please. Let me take you home.”

After a moment, I shrugged and climbed into the passenger seat. In seconds, we were on the road, and the familiar rumbling of my diesel engine lulled me into a drunken sleep.

When I finally opened my eyes again, the sun was beating through my windshield relentlessly, and my head was throbbing. I was also in an all-too-familiar place—a full four-hundred miles from where I’d been the night before.

Amber was nowhere to be seen.

What the hell? I thought.

I was home.

Actually home. The home I’d fled from three-and-a-half years ago.

I opened the truck door and gagged out the rest of whatever I’d consumed the night before. When I righted myself, I stared up at the ominously cheerful house where I’d grown up. I stepped out onto the concrete and took a reluctant step toward the door.

Coming home should be a good thing. It shouldn’t be a reflection of the guilt, anger and other shitty things that have happened in your life. Even so, as I let myself into my parents’ house and dragged my feet all the way to my dad’s home office, those were the only things I could think about.

My dad barely blinked as I collapsed into the chair across from him.

I watched him, waiting for the self-righteous rage I knew was there, just under the surface. I’d spent my whole life trying to live up to the expectations that went along with being his son. I had lived up to them until everything had gone to shit five years earlier. The man was a corporate mogul, and a financial guru, and a tough-as-nails father. I knew what he wanted from me, and it wasn’t another excuse.

I wished I’d had time to brace myself for his disappointment on the long drive here.

What’s the matter, Joey? I pictured him saying. You run out of girls to string along?

I bristled at the imaginary accusation, just as if he’d actually said the words. I felt tense, waiting for it to come.

We’ve been through enough. You being here…it will just add something else for us to worry about.

My shoulders drooped, and I slipped farther down into the stiff chair that faced him. My dad still kept silent. He sipped his ever-present rye and Coke and looked at me without expression. I wondered if he’d found some new kind of Zen, maybe the result of a concoction of pills and a heavy dose of Irishing everything from coffee to water.

“Dad, I think I need this.”

They weren’t the words I’d been thinking, or even anything close. As I watched him, though, I realized that coming home was exactly what I did need. Maybe it was the only thing that could save me from what I was becoming. I cringed inwardly as the memory of the unknown girl wrapped around me came to mind.

“Please,” I said softly.

Then my father smiled a self-satisfied smile, and the man I’d grown up with was back. I realized he’d just been waiting for me to beg for his help, for me to admit that I needed him. As far back as I could remember, he had this desire to hold every card, to have all the power. Even when he did have it, that wasn’t quite enough. He also wanted an acknowledgment of that power.

“You’ll be working for it, Joey,” he told me.

I knew he was thinking about the thousands of dollars he’d forked out for over three years of therapy, and about the fact that I’d insisted on finishing my degree out of town to distance myself from the very place I was coming back to now. I was thinking about both, myself.

Waste of time, waste of money, was my sudden conclusion.

My dad wasn’t in the habit of wasting either of those things. He reached into the desk and pulled out a leather folder. He slapped it down in front of me.

“These are my conditions, Joey,” he said coolly, and took another sip of his drink.

I didn’t even know what was inside it, and I already wanted to throw it back in his face. I made myself push down the urge.

“What is this?” I asked.

“A contract.”

“For work? Dad, you know I’m a reliable employee. I’ve been working for you since I was sixteen.”

“It’s not about reliability. It’s about accountability. And more than that, it’s about credibility,” my father informed me. “And it’s about you not winding up…” He paused, cleared his throat uncomfortably and continued. “I need some assurance. These are the conditions of me allowing you to work for Fox Enterprises, and the conditions for me allowing you to live here.”

A sneer built up on my face, and I grabbed the leather-bound contract and lifted it in front of me to cover my expression. As I read through the contract, I was glad my dad couldn’t see my expression.

Some of it was businesslike and made sense.

If you were employing a total stranger.

He wanted me to commit to twenty hours of work per week, on a flexible schedule around school. He wanted me to book my vacations three months in advance and to wear a suit to the office.

Fine.

It was the second half of the paperwork that infuriated me. I let the contract slide down into my lap and I stared at him from across the desk.

“Is this a joke?” I asked before I could stop myself.

“Not in the slightest.”

No more than seven alcoholic beverages in a month. No revolving door of women. An 11:00 p.m. curfew on weeknights and a midnight one on weekends.

My father shrugged unapologetically. “You can’t blame me for keeping tabs on you.”

Of course I could. Had he forgotten I was a twenty-two-year-old man? I stared at him, and he read my face perfectly.

“When you’ve shown me that you are an adult, I will consider some flexibility,” he said.

I wanted—badly—to push back.

“I need the sixth of every month off” was all I said. “Other than that, I’ll do whatever needs to be done, Dad.”

He nodded thoughtfully. “Fine. A day off, every month. Hell, make it thirty-six hours. It starts at midnight on the sixth, and it ends at noon on the eighth. I don’t want to know what you’re doing during that time, and I don’t want it to interfere with your work. If you do what you’re supposed to do, and abide by my rules, I’ll continue to pay for your education, and I’ll let you live here.”

I sighed with relief.

“One more thing, Joey.”

I tensed. “Yeah?”

“The girl who drove you here. You owe her your life. Try not to forget it.”

Present Day

Friday

Joey

“Shots, Joey?” asked a girl I didn’t know.

She was dressed in a tight black skirt and a hot-pink halter, and carrying two tiny plastic cups full of something blue and gelatinous. Jell-O shooters, I assumed.

I glanced down at my watch. Midnight on the sixth. On the dot. Perfect.

“Brought my own,” I replied with a purposefully winning smile and held up my bottle.

Her eyes widened. “You’re that guy.”

“Aw, damn. Does my reputation precede me?” I teased.

She tipped her head to the side thoughtfully. “My roommate’s sister said some dude with his own bottle of tequila took her home a few months ago and humiliated her.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Did she say whether or not she liked it?”

The girl suppressed a smile. “She called you a jerk, actually.”

“Jerk. Hmm. That’s fairly mild. Most of my…er…lady friends…toss around swear words.” I leaned down to whisper in the raven-haired beauty’s ear. “You can pour me a drink if you like.”

She downed the shots her in hands, then eagerly grabbed the bottle of tequila from me. She didn’t need to know half of the liquid gold was water.

I watched her with a smile as she traipsed off to the kitchen. She wasn’t my type, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t appreciate her assets. In a few seconds, she returned with an overflowing shot glass tucked into her cleavage and an expectant look on her face.

“Well…thank you,” I said.

I grabbed the drink with my teeth, tipped it back expertly without spilling a drop, then took a little bow. The girl clapped, handed me my bottle and waited.

“I’d like another,” I told her regretfully. “But I’m here with someone. And I’m a one-woman kinda guy.”

“That’s a lie if I ever heard one.”

“I’ve never said a truer thing.”

“You don’t come with girls. You leave with them.”

I made a wounded face. “I’m hurt.”

“Which one is it then?” she asked.

“Which one what?”

She rolled her eyes. “Which girl?”

“A…brunette?”

She handed me my tequila. “Which brunette?”

I laughed and grabbed a random girl as she walked by and nuzzled her neck playfully. She pushed me away.

“Stop that!” she said.

I chuckled as she took off in the other direction. She wasn’t my type, either, in her buttoned-up blouse and designer jeans.

“C’mon, babe,” I called mockingly. “Give me a chance.”

“Have another shot!” she yelled back.

“Talk me into it, why don’t you?”

I took an enormous swig of the watered-down liquor and whipped back to the Jell-O shooter girl. She was already gone. I slumped into a couch, and after just a few minutes, a smiling blonde put her hand on my knee.

“You wanna get outta here?” she whispered.

I gave her a quick once-over. Was she my type? I liked them pretty. I liked them vapid. I liked them to be so utterly self-involved and terrified of ruining their otherwise perfectly cultivated reputations that they wouldn’t give out details to their friends. Calling me a jerk was fine. Calling me an asshole was all right, too. All I wanted was a girl who did the name-calling without maniacal enthusiasm. I didn’t need my misadventures getting blown out of proportion and then getting back to my dad. Because that would ruin my own carefully cultivated reputation.

After a year and a half of operating under my dad’s rules, I knew exactly how to ride the just-tame-enough line. Taking one girl home every month could hardly be called excessive. So long as she was on board with the fact that all I could ever be was a one-night stand.

Would this girl be like that?

Impossible to tell in five seconds. In the smoky, party-dark room, I couldn’t even be sure if she was attractive. I decided quickly that I would take my chances. After all, my thirty-six hours of freedom would go by very quickly. It always did.

* * *

“You have to be super quiet,” she whispered. “The girls in here are ridiculous about men.”

A warning bell went off in my head.

“Ridiculous how?” My voice echoed in the stairwell, and the girl shushed me immediately.

“I said super quiet.”

“Sorry.”

“And my roommate might be home, so when we get up there, let me check before we go in.”

“And if she is home?”

“Then we have to be super-duper quiet.”

“Uh-uh,” I muttered

“What’s wrong?”

“I don’t do group living situations.”

She turned to give me a coy smile. “Do what with them?”

“Anything.” We’d reached the top of the stairs and I gave her a bleary-eyed grin.

“Very funny.”

She dragged me into the hall, and I gave the line of doors a horrified look.

“So, I’m gonna go home.”

“You’re what?”

“Listen…” I blanked on what her name was, and struggled to find an endearment that wouldn’t lead her on. Not any more than I had already. “Kiddo.”

“Kiddo?”

Whoops.

Quickly, I switched tactics, launching in my favorite rejection speech. “Do you really want to be that girl?”

“What girl?”

“The girl who has a one-night stand while her roommate sleeps in the other bed.”

That was enough. Even in the dim light, through my tequila haze, I saw her face cloud over.

“Go,” she ordered. “And don’t you dare tell anyone you were here with me.”

She shoved past me and let herself into one of the rooms without looking back. I felt momentarily triumphant. Until I remembered that the girl—shit, what was her name?—had driven my truck from the party to the dorm, and my keys were still in her purse.

Damn. I’d screwed myself over.

“The Joey Fox MO,” I muttered to the empty hall as I settled down for the night. “Through and through.”

I debated on whether or not I should try to find a couch somewhere in a common area, then swiftly rejected it. I might be a bit of dumb ass sometimes, but I’m not so much of an idiot that I want to risk incurring the wrath of an entire dorm full of women. It was bad enough that the one who’d stormed off would complain to her roommate about me. They always did. Then the roommate would probably tell two or three of her friends what a jerk I was. Maybe one day I’d find the campus completely plastered with least-wanted posters featuring my lovely face.

I grinned at the mental picture.

Until that point, though, I needed to pull up a piece of floor and wait for the girl to simmer down and bring me my keys.

I slid to the ground, closed my eyes and did my version of passing out.

Tucker

I woke up in a panic, then lay there in the dark, trying to calm my racing heart and isolate the source of my worry. It took a few moments, but as my pulse normalized and my sleep fog lessened, I was able to grasp it.

I’d been dreaming of my mother, and a promise she’d had me make when I was twelve years old.

I’d been holed up in the coat closet at our apartment while my parents argued about money, about unmet dreams and about God knows what else. I drifted in and out of doziness as the screaming went on, jerking awake when it finally reached its crescendo. My father stormed out, drunk and angry, with our grocery money in his hands, ready to hand it over to his preferred dealer. It had been very quiet for a few a moments after that, then my tearful mother had dragged me out of the closet and sat me down on the couch.

“Promise me,” she said.

“Promise you what?” I replied resentfully, not wanting to meet her mascara-smeared eyes.

“Swear that you will never settle for less than you deserve.”

“I will never settle for less than I deserve,” I repeated automatically.

“Tucker. Look at me.”

And I forced my gaze to her face. She looked feverish, and very nearly frightening.

“Okay, Mom,” I agreed.

And then she laid out a list. Her list of more. She made me repeat it until there was no way I could forget it.

Ten years from now, I will have gone to Europe at least once.

Ten years from now, I will have met the love of my life—a kind, smart, generous man. He will value me.

Ten years from now, I will have a successful career. It will be one that matters.

We never talked about it again, but the memory struck me sometimes, and when it did, it would fill me with the panic I was feeling at that exact moment. Because I was right on the cusp of my twenty-second birthday, and I had not accomplished a single thing on that list.

“Liandra!” I hissed.

She muttered an incomprehensible response.

“Liandra!”

“Tucker,” she groaned from across the room. “What do you want?”

“What if I never amount to anything?”

“You’re not even going to make it until morning if you don’t leave me alone,” she grumbled.

I waited, knowing that any second she would remember how many times she’d woken me up over the past year for things far less significant than a crisis of self-faith. She sighed resignedly.

“What’s this about?” she asked.

“I just thought I would have it all together by now,” I replied.

“Does this have anything to do with the fact that you’re turning twenty-two in three months?”

I nodded, even though she probably couldn’t see me in the darkness of our shared bedroom.

“And because you got that letter this past week, asking you to declare your major?”

“More like demanded it,” I told her.

She ignored my comment. “And because of what happened with Mark…an awfully long year and a half ago?”

“Are you trying to make me feel worse?” I asked.

“No,” Liandra said. “I’m just gathering all your points so I can accurately refute them.”

“And now you’re resorting to lawyer speak?”

“I’m not a lawyer.”

“Not anymore.”

“Tucker.” My friend sighed. “How old am I?”

“Twenty-eight.”

“I’m thirty-four!”

“I know,” I told her. “I was trying to soften you up so you’d be nicer to me.”

“Well, stop it.”

“Sorry.”

“How many boyfriends do I have?” Liandra asked.

“None.”

“None,” she repeated.

“But at least you’ve been married,” I reminded her.

“None,” she said a second time, this time heavily.

“But—”

She cut me off. “So. I’m a thirty-four-year-old woman with one failed marriage, one failed career, living off a student loan that I will probably never pay back, in some run-down, all-girls dorm with a self-pitying twenty-one-year-old who is sad because she has never been to Italy.”

“You are trying to make me feel worse,” I accused.

“I’m giving you perspective,” she corrected.

And truthfully, what she was saying did make me feel better about my situation. When I had come to Liandra, I’d been in the lowest state of my life, and she had helped me rebuild. She’d had her share of hard times, and she understood loss. In fact, it was often what she had been through herself that inspired me. She’d left those details out of her little rant, but my mind went to them immediately. I thought of the fact that she’d battled breast cancer for eight years, and that the radiation treatment had resulted in infertility. And how her boss at the law firm where she’d worked had also been her husband. And that he’d fired and divorced Liandra after impregnating his office assistant.

“Liandra?” I said softly.

“Is it working?” she replied.

“Is what working?”

“My evil plan,” she said. “Are you lying there thinking about my crappy life instead of yours?”

“Yes,” I admitted.

She chuckled. “Good. And you’re welcome.”

“Thanks,” I said belatedly.

She was quiet for a minute, and I wondered if she had drifted back to sleep. Then she leaned across the space between our beds and squeezed my hand.

“Your mom would be proud,” she told me. “I know it.”

My heart ached for a single beat, and I pushed the pain aside. I’d come eight-hundred miles away from home so I could put the past and all that pain that went with it behind me.

“Do you feel any better?” Liandra wanted to know.

“A lot.”

There was a pause, and I thought she might call my bluff, but instead she just said in a teasing voice, “Good. Now can we please get some rest? It’s 2 a.m.”

“Today is Friday,” I reminded her. “You don’t have any classes. And neither do I.”

“I know.” She yawned. “But you’ve got that rally thing in the morning, and work in the afternoon. And let’s face it, if you’re tired, you’re cranky. And if you’re cranky and tired, then you’re noisy.”

“It’s not a rally, it’s a business meeting! And now that I’m thinking about that, I’m all anxious again.”

“See?” she said. “Already cranky.”

I threw my pillow at her, and grinned to myself when I heard her responding squeak.

“Good night, Liandra,” I called out sweetly.

“Good night, Tucker.”

After a few more silent moments, my roommate’s breathing became even and slow, and I knew she had fallen asleep. But I was still wide-awake, thinking of my immediate future instead of my long-ago past.

The project I’d taken on was a big one, and close to my heart. In fact, it was the biggest thing I’d ever undertaken. And the most personal. This wasn’t just some cause I’d read about, or some park that needed to be cleaned up. This was about me.

A full year earlier, when I’d still been more or less picking up the pieces of my life after my parents had died and I’d left Mark, I’d heard that a local community center was being shut down. At first, I’d just felt a little sad that a place so similar to the one where I’d spent so much of my youth was going to be turned into high-rises and a mini mall. But the more I’d thought about it, the more it had upset me. And when I’d decided to visit it, I’d seen the number of kids there, and something in me had snapped. I couldn’t let it close.

So I did the only thing I could. I volunteered to fix the whole damned thing. So I’d started researching. I invested quite a bit of time looking over the details, finding out how I could save it, or even if I could. The city owned the land and the community center, but the building was old and expensive to maintain, and someone in the line of officials had decided it was no longer worth the amount it cost. So the bottom line came down to one thing. Money. Of which I had little.

I couldn’t buy the land, or even the building. But I could bring it back up to code. If I could come up with the thirty-thousand dollars.

And then came the windfall, painful as it was.

A fifteen-thousand-dollar insurance settlement from my mom. The lawyers had originally told me that my mom’s policy had been voided by the arson, but further investigation revealed that it was still valid.

I couldn’t keep the money. Not for selfish reasons. But for the community center…it was just the bump I needed. Half the money I needed, ready to go. It gave me sway with the city officials and validated my proposal enough that they gave me a year to come up with the other half. Which led to the birth of my not-for-profit gardening service. With Liandra’s help, a generous grant and the assistance of many patrons of the community center, I was damned close to my goal of raising the other fifteen-thousand dollars.

And the whole thing was a bonus I hadn’t counted on. The work distracted me from Mark and all the pieces of my heart he’d left behind. I didn’t need him, or romance or anything but my own cause. I felt good about myself. I could be happy on my own terms.

Then, only just this week, I received a call that made me think it might all have been for nothing.

Some bigwig developer wanted the land. Whoever he was, he thought we needed something better. Something bigger. Something profitable.

With only six weeks left to raise the money, the city officials wanted to meet with me. Tomorrow.

* * *

I rolled over in my bed, found my phone squished under my face and realized immediately that my alarm hadn’t gone off.

“Crap!” I yelled, then clamped my hand over my mouth as I remembered what Liandra had said about me making a lot of noise.

She stirred, but didn’t wake up. I peered down at my phone. I was forty-five minutes behind schedule. And I’d done quite a number on my phone while I’d slept.

Sometime during the night, I’d acquired a new low score on my Bejeweled game, turned off my alarm and sent Mark a nonsensical text.

I’ll be paying for that one.

I got out of bed as quickly as I could, trying hard to keep quiet.

I struggled to get dressed in the dark, rushing as best I could while trying to prove Liandra wrong. I slid into the black skirt I’d preselected and attempted to button my blouse correctly. It was hard to be fast and silent at the same time. I cursed myself for needing to be right, cursed my roommate for making me feel that need.

I finally brushed my curly hair out of its braid, wound it into what I hoped was a tidy bun and got my feet into my shoes. I stuck my tongue out at Liandra’s sleeping form and glanced at my phone again. If I was going to make the bus on time, I was going to have to run.

I swore at myself as I made my way through the narrow hallway, past the long strip of dorm room doors.

Damned stubbornness. Damned roommate. Damned cell phone alarm.

“Hey!”

I stumbled as I swerved to avoid smashing into the source of the deep and surprised voice. I flailed as I tried to stay upright, grabbing the nearest wall to keep from falling. My hair flew out of its bun, blinding me as I wobbled.

“Dammit!”

I willed myself to stand up, and glared at my feet. That was when I realized that I was wearing two distinctly different sandals. One was gold and dressy—the pair I’d selected to wear—but the other was a sporty number with a Velcro toe strap. The only thing they had in common was that they were both on my feet.

“How did I not notice that?” I muttered to myself.

I stared accusingly down at the guy who was sitting on the floor. The mismatched shoes might not be his fault, but he had nearly made me break my leg. I had a snarky comment on the tip of my tongue, until he flipped his blond, boy-band hair out of his face, and I found myself gazing into the greenest eyes I had ever seen. They were breathtaking; they were filled with concerned sincerity and a hint of something else I couldn’t quite pinpoint.

My heart raced. His hand found mine and squeezed it firmly, confidently, like he was put on the planet to keep me upright. My palm tingled at his touch. Want licked through my hand to my wrist and across my chest. In two seconds flat, I was breathless, almost panting.

When was the last time someone touched me like that? When was the last time I reacted to a man’s touch with such fervor? I answered myself immediately. Never.

I knew my eyes must be open wide in surprise. I looked away and I pulled my hand from his grasp, then planted myself firmly on the ground.

What just happened? What did that kicked-in-the-gut moment mean?

“You okay?” he asked, breaking the spell.

“This is a girls’ dorm.”

I spun around and forced myself to walk until I hit the end of the hall and could run again without feeling those green eyes on my back. I fled down the stairs, glad to get away before I could be sucked in by the inevitable story he would tell about how his girlfriend was afraid of the dark, or how his sister was sick and needed him to stay over. I’d heard every lame excuse in the book. With an averagely aged population of about twenty-five, it was inevitable that guys were often found stashed throughout our residence.

I didn’t normally care. As long as they stayed out of the shower and refrained from dropping dirty boxer briefs in the common areas, it was fine. But my mood was bad, and getting worse by the second.

When I hit the final step, I flipped my shoes off and tossed them into my backpack.

At least it’s sunny, I thought.

I twisted my hair back into its bun, this time giving it a tug to make sure it was secure, and sprinted across the lawn.

I moved more quickly now that my feet were free, and I even enjoyed the sensation of grass beneath my feet. It was dry enough to be springy and pleasant, and for about forty-five seconds, I felt completely liberated.

When I got close enough to see the bus stop, I reined myself in, slowing to a hurried walk. Moments after I planted my bare feet on the cement pad, the bus wheezed up. I boarded it breathlessly, and tried to fill my head with thoughts of a rebuilt community center rather than a green-eyed boy.

Man, I corrected mentally, remembering the way my body lit up when our palms touched. Definitely a man.

I shrugged off the residual desire, and focused my mind on the upcoming meeting.

* * *

I crossed and uncrossed my legs nervously. I was already getting a headache and I hadn’t even started my presentation yet.

“You don’t need to be worried.”

I glanced up at Keith Bomner and frowned. He was so quiet and nondescript, it was easy to forget he was there. He had a face that would blend into a crowd if it wasn’t hidden behind a pair of thick-rimmed glasses, and his clothes were plain. My own outfit looked slick beside his. But Liandra had assured me that he was the best person to help me with my plea to the city, and so far he hadn’t let me down. Today, he was going to help me remind the city officials that that they had a legal obligation to let me continue my quest, at least for another six weeks.

In fact, he was in my good books because he’d met me at the bus stop with a pair of shoes.

“How’d you know?” I asked.

He shrugged. “Liandra called. She said she found a pair of mismatched sandals on your bed. It seems she knows you well.”

I’d slipped on the flats gratefully and followed him into city hall.

Now I was tapping them nervously on the floor. Keith put a hand on my knee to stop me.

“This will be an easy meeting,” he said.

“I’m not worried,” I lied.

“Relax. This is a sure thing.”

“How do you know?”

“Because going back on their word would make for bad press.”

My heart beat nervously. “The press?”

“Liandra told me how you feel about the spotlight and I’ll respect it, even if I don’t understand it,” he let me know.

I let out a breath, and ignored the lawyer’s briefly curious expression. My mistrust of the media wasn’t without reason. For months after my parents’ deaths, reporters hounded me, begging for the inside scoop. The last thing I wanted was my name aired in public once again. The city officials knew who I was, of course, but the bulk of the fundraising was carefully hidden behind my not-for-profit business, and virtual anonymity suited me just fine.

“Thank you,” I said gratefully.

“But just because I know about your media ban doesn’t mean that they need to know about it.” Keith inclined his head toward the boardroom.

On cue, the door swung open, and a bald man wearing an ill-fitting suit cleared his throat and invited us to join him and his colleagues. I followed Keith into the room with my head down and my stomach churning. I noted in a vague way that there were several men and no women at the long table, and that all of them were dressed in similarly grey suits with similarly unremarkable ties.

I wondered if Keith hadn’t received the memo about the dress code. But he didn’t seem bothered by it all. He nodded at the group and dropped his briefcase onto the table.

One of the men stood up and reached out to shake my hand. I stared at him, thinking of how he was going to react to my sweaty palm wrapped in his. Thankfully, Keith intercepted and gripped the man’s hand firmly.

“Have a seat,” one of the city officials suggested.

I started to pull a chair out, then froze as Keith spoke.

“Thanks, but no,” he said.

It wasn’t his words that held me in place. It was my glimpse of a dark-haired man at the table. My stomach dropped at the sight of the familiar face. I marveled that even after all this time apart, I still felt the residual pain of what he’d done to me. I didn’t love him anymore. I’d been telling myself it was true for a long time. Seeing him sitting there confirmed it. There was no leftover attraction, no spark of hope. But that didn’t mean that there wasn’t a gaping hole left behind by his betrayal. It was that hole that formed the foundation for the carefully constructed wall around my heart, after all.

“What’s he doing here?”

I didn’t realize that I’d spoken out loud until one of the other men answered. “Mark is our intern.”

He was staring at me, too, with frank curiosity. I looked away first.

“Is there a conflict?” Keith asked with a frown.

“Not at all,” I said quickly, and didn’t meet Mark’s eyes.

My lawyer didn’t look like he believed me, but he just snapped his briefcase open and began presenting my ideas in an authoritative voice.

As he outlined my plans for fundraising and alluded to a potential media hailstorm, he sounded logical, believable and convincing. I was impressed, and I wanted to focus on what he was saying. But most of my energy was used up on keeping my eyes away from the man across the room.

For a crazy minute, I wondered if my sleep-text had somehow brought Mark here.

I looked down at my fingers and tried again to listen to Keith. He was talking about my nonprofit company and asking the room to direct questions to him rather than me. He threw out numbers that made sense and fielded their inquiries confidently.

My mind wandered helplessly, and I hoped no one was watching me.

What are the chances that Mark just happened to show up here, hundreds of miles from home, on the day you’re presenting?

I glanced at him from the corner of my eye.

“Thank you, gentlemen,” Keith said, and I realized he was finished. “We’ll come back to you in six weeks with the agreed-upon amount.”

I avoided my ex’s stare and followed my lawyer out into the hall.

“Tucker, are you okay?” Keith asked.

“Fine.”

“Hmm.” He shrugged. “I hope you’re better at raising money than you are at lying. You’ve got forty-five days to come up with the balance. Can you do it?”

I nodded. “I’m already set up to do the student market this afternoon.”

“Good,” Keith said. “You seemed a little unsure in there.”

“Just nerves,” I stated with a tinny laugh.

I cringed as the boardroom door swung open.

“I’m sorry, Keith. I’ve got to go.” I took off before Mark could make his way out.

By the time I got back to my dorm, the unsettled feeling in my stomach had calmed enough for me to begin thinking about my next move.

Joey

I woke up to find myself sitting up. Admittedly, that was a new one. Asleep in my truck, or fully dressed in my bed, or dozing on some girl’s floor—those were to be expected after my monthly night of freedom. This was a new low. The sense of dread wracking my body was all too familiar. I didn’t have to think too hard to recognize the relationship between the three things—the sixth of every month, feeling sick, and the parade of women—but I chose not to acknowledge it. I shoved aside the automatic connection and assessed my situation instead.

I started by trying to recall the events of the evening before.

Everything was an unpleasant blur that started with the Jell-O shooter girl and ended with me waking up with a stiff back and an aching head.

Where was your brain last night, Joey?

The problem wasn’t even the seven watered-down shots. I could drink twice that and keep standing. It was just that it was the same thing every month. I flirted with a few girls, sorted through them like a deck of cards, and went home with whichever one was most likely to kick me out before the night was through. I had getting tastefully out-of-hand down to a damned science.

I stretched my legs across the hallway as I planned my escape from the dorm. I knew I needed to get out before some girl saw me.

That was when I saw the mismatched shoes approaching at breakneck speed. They flashed—green/gold, green/gold—in contrast with the speckled linoleum.

What the—

My thought cut off as I realized that the girl attached to the shoes hadn’t seen me, and wasn’t going to stop.

Green/gold, green/gold, green/gold.

“Hey!” I yelled.

My warning was about two seconds too late, and suddenly a swirl of vanilla-scented hair cascaded across my face. I inhaled, trying to catch a bit more of the pleasant smell.

As she stumbled and reached out for the wall, I caught sight of her face. It was one of the most beautiful I had ever seen. She had a perfect, upturned nose and a mouth that begged to be kissed. An attractive smattering of freckles peppered her nose, and when she stared down at me, I saw her eyes were a gorgeous, deep brown. I took her hand to steady her and a jolt of electric attraction swept through me.

Her eyes held mine for a second longer. Desire played across her features, made obvious by the flush in her cheeks and the parting of her lips.

Forget it, I grumbled at myself. You’re in enough trouble as it is.

She recovered quickly and snatched her hand away. I made myself smile, polite but reserved, then asked if she was okay. Her response sounded as forced as my politeness, like she was trying to cover that hint of raw passion.

Why was she hiding it? I wondered.

I wanted to know.

Damn.

I felt a nearly unfamiliar pull on my heart, and tried to think of something to say to make her stay.

She shook her head at me, then walked away stiffly. I watched her go, mesmerized by the smooth, curved line of her backside as she moved. She was quick, and in a second she was gone.

She’s going to get away. I jumped to my feet.

I jogged to the end of the corridor and shoved open the door. The hall on the other side split in two and I didn’t know which way she’d gone, or even if she’d taken the stairs or the elevator. Feeling desperate, I pushed aside a potted plant and pressed my face against the window.

I peered outside. My heart lifted when I caught a flash of red moving across the commons, but when I blinked, the flash was gone.

Damn, I thought again, followed by another, far less pleasant mental exclamation.

I made my way back into the hall full of bedroom doors, an unusual sense of loss hanging over me.

Feelings, too closely linked to my past, struggled to find their way to the surface of my mind. Why now? What was it about the seconds-long encounter with the redhead that had brought them out? I ran my fingers through my hair, a dangerous recklessness coursing through my veins.

I tried to shove it down.

She was just a girl. A pretty, sexy, damned-near-perfect-to-look-at girl, but just a girl nonetheless.

I immediately wondered where she was going, and if she was meeting someone. I wondered what kind of guy got a girl like that to pay attention to him. I was envious of him, whoever he might be.

You’re being ridiculous. You’re getting jealous over the fictional boyfriend of some girl you’ve never met.

I felt angry at myself and at the girl. I knew that I had to find her, even if it was just to prove I was wrong about what I was feeling, or maybe about the fact that I was feeling.

With a sigh, I strode to the door that belonged to the girl who had booted me out the night before. I knocked, then waited. After a few seconds with no answer, I knocked again, more loudly.

“What time is it?” muttered a feminine voice from behind the door.

“Early,” replied another.

I tapped a third time, attempting to make it sound worth answering. I heard some shuffling, and the door squeaked open a few inches. A tired blue eye peeked out at me.

“Hi,” I greeted with a smile.

The girl opened the door a little further and eyed me curiously from behind a mess of blonde hair. I didn’t recognize her, but I continued to smile anyway.

“Hi,” she said back hesitantly.

The door swung open all the way, and a tall brunette stepped into view. She glared at me. Her angry expression was familiar enough, but aside from that, I didn’t recognize her any more than I did the blonde. Of course, it wasn’t the first time I’d forgotten a face, either.

“This is a girls’-only dorm,” the brunette snapped. “What do you want?”

“Probably to talk to me,” said a voice from across the hall.

I spun around, relieved to finally see a girl who I did recognize.

“Morning, Patty,” I said.

“It’s Peggy,” she corrected.

“Easy mistake?” I offered.

She tossed my keys at me, and I grabbed them out of the air before they could hit my already aching head. Peggy slammed the door.

I turned back to the other girls. “I don’t suppose you want to help me?”

The brunette rolled her eyes, but the blonde hesitated. I turned on my best smile, and the girl’s mouth went up tentatively at the corners, too.

“With what?” she wanted to know.

“Just some information. Do you know a redhead who lives in this dorm?”

“There are three of them,” called the brunette.

The blonde shrugged apologetically. “She’s grumpy, but she’s right. You’ll have to be a little more specific.”

“She’s…” I paused.

I’d been going to say she was the prettiest woman I’d ever seen, but that probably wasn’t the best way of getting another girl to help me find out who she was. Even if it was true.

“She’s what?” the blonde prodded.

“Short,” I replied lamely. “She was wearing mismatched shoes. She had an army-green backpack.”

“He means the hippie!” the roommate yelled.

The blonde frowned. “Seriously? That’s who you’re looking for? Why?”

The brunette was back at the door, scrutinizing my appearance. I looked down at my white T-shirt and sports shorts. Judging from the brunette’s face, my clothes definitely fell short of whatever her expectations were. It wasn’t my finest look, but I didn’t think it was that bad.

“I doubt you’re her type,” she told me. “She’s probably into guys who hug trees and wear hemp pants.”

“So you know her well?” I asked.

“No,” both the girls said at once.

“I don’t think she even talks to anyone else in the dorm,” the blonde informed me.

“Unless she’s crusading for a cause,” the brunette added.

My shoulders dropped. The blonde put her hand on my arm sympathetically, and her roommate quickly swatted it away with a warning glare before she slammed the door shut.

This is a hint. I turned to walk away. It’s the universe’s way of reminding you that you’re not right for a girl like that.

* * *

As I made my way out of the dorm, my spirits dipped even lower. For the first time in ages, I had actually felt motivated to do something for myself rather than for my dad’s prearranged schedule.

Something besides throwing a Joey pity party, you mean.

For once, I hadn’t been focused on the past and all the pain that I associated with my memories. Not being able to accomplish the goal—not finding out who the redhead was—brought the sick feeling back with a vengeance.

On most of my days off, I spent the morning thinking of how everything had started on the sixth. I woke up with the familiar guilt and dread in my chest. It hung on for the day, and I saw her face in my mind. Then my own voice, hurling angry accusations at her. I pictured her, not ever denying what I said, grabbing her scarf and hat and storming out of the house. Even if I could brush those things off, I would remember the sound of the sirens, and the smell of lilies, and the sight of the pale faces.

Sometimes the day would go better than others. I might reach the point of emotional hangover by noon, if I could get through the rest of the day unscathed.

I had a feeling today was going to a bad one, though. I thought it might even carry over to Saturday. I doubted I could force my way through, drinks or no drinks, girls or no girls.

Redhead or no redhead, I added before I could stop myself.

As I arrived at the parking lot and scanned it for my truck, my cell phone chimed. I glanced at the number on the call display and sighed. I let it go to voice mail. I reached my truck and my phone went off again. I ignored it a second time, choosing to climb into my vehicle instead. I sat down with a crunch. A large, yellow envelope was sitting on the driver’s side seat. I yanked it out from underneath me and glared at the logo on the corner. My phone rang a third time. I pounded the answer button irritably.

“Hi, Dad,” I greeted cheerfully through my gritted teeth. “I got the package you left in my truck.”

“Cut the act, son,” he said. “I need you to be somewhere today.”

“It’s the sixth.”

“So?”

“So we have a deal. And this weekend is—”

“Open that envelope.”

“Dad—”

“Now.”

I tore the yellow paper open, feeling a petty bit of satisfaction when the whole envelope split. I scanned the contents.

“This looks like a City ordinance request,” I said.

“It is.”

“What do you want me to do with it?”

“I want you to go to that meeting.”

I glanced at the paperwork again. “It’s today. It’s ten minutes from now.”

“So you’d better hurry.”

“This says the meeting is a private one between the City and the applicant.”

“It is.” My dad paused, then sighed loudly before he continued. “But this request threatens a potentially important project for our company. I want to know what we’re up against. I want to know who we’re up against.”

“Is it even legal for me to be there?” I wanted to know.

“You’re signed on as an observer from the school paper,” he replied.

“Seriously? You think they’re going buy that?”

He ignored me. “This is as important for you as it is for me.”

“I somehow doubt that,” I muttered.

“Joey…one day my company will belong to you.”

I don’t want it. I’ve never wanted it. Even before—I cut myself off midthought. I knew what he was expecting from me, and I made an effort to live up to that. It helped me stay focused, to keep from perpetually laying the blame at my own feet.

But why did it have to be today?

“I haven’t let you down once since I signed that contract. I close more deals than anyone else on your team,” I replied. “But you know why I need this day off, Dad.”

He tried a more sympathetic tactic. “At some point, you have to get past this.”

“I don’t know if I can.”

“This has been hard on all of us,” he said.

“It didn’t happen because of you,” I growled. “It happened because of me.”

“It happened because of that woman,” he corrected. “And today, they don’t need you. But I need do. There’s a suit in your backseat. Get dressed and get there. Please.”

He hung up, and I gritted my teeth again, turned the key in the ignition and drove at full speed to City Hall.

* * *

There’s nothing quite as humiliating and infuriating as trying to get dressed in the men’s room at an office building where no one knows you. Except maybe being caught doing it. Which I was. First by an unsuspecting mail delivery boy, then a thick-necked businessman, and finally a cop, all of whom had eyed me suspiciously. As I tucked my dress shirt into my pants and finished a double Windsor knot on my tie, I happened to glance in the mirror, and I saw that my face was red with exertion and embarrassment. I had no time to spare.

I paused very outside the boardroom, doing a quick inventory of the men seated at the table inside. Five stuffed shirts and a stuffed-shirt wannabe. I wondered which one was my dad’s informant.

Not informant, I corrected myself mentally. Informant would imply that Dad is the good guy in this situation.

I knew he wasn’t. Which didn’t bother me as much as one might think. My father wasn’t without scruples. He just did what he had to do to be successful. To stay successful. He ran a hard line in his business pursuits, and it worked.

I should be asking which one is the leak. That’s probably a more accurate descriptor.

One of the stuffed shirts checked his watch, then glanced up and saw me. I hurried to join them at the table, feeling like an imposter. I was sure I might as well have had a sign on my head.

“I’m the…” I trailed off and faked as cough as I almost said the word spy out loud.

“You’re the student observer from the paper at the college?” the wannabe filled in.

“Right. That’s me,” I agreed.

The door swung open and the representatives who were delivering the request to stay my father’s building plans came walking in. I took in the lawyer first. Keith Bomner was a man I recognized. He was big into causes, big into pro bono work and good at taking on both. My dad would be very interested in discovering that Bomner had been at the meeting, and I started to make my first note.

Then I caught sight of the redhead and all logical thought left my brain.

She was dressed the same as she had been earlier this morning, in a hip-hugging skirt and a conservative blouse. As I eyed her from head to toe, I noted with a smile that the only real difference was the lack of mismatched shoes.

My eyes traveled the length of her body a second time, enjoying the subtle muscles in her calves and each curve that led up to the tightly wound bun, fastened at the nape of her neck. I had a perfect view of her creamy throat, and my gaze couldn’t help but rest there. I pictured myself tracing the line of it, working my fingers into that vanilla-scented hair, pulling it free and surrounding myself with it. I imagined it was rich and soft—the kind of hair that would look stunning splayed out across a crisp, white pillow.

What would she do when she spotted me? Would a pretty blush creep up those cheeks?

I hoped to God it would.

My appreciative stare worked to her lips, and I wondered what it would be like to taste them. Would they have the same rich texture of her hair, the same airiness of her scent?

Her mouth. Her neck. Her—my runaway imagination came to a halt as I saw her soft expression change from guarded determination to complete devastation.

My heart sunk, flowing downward with the tilt of her lips, and I watched all the color drain from her face. For one second I thought that the sorrow there was directed at me, but she was staring right at the wannabe stuffed shirt.

Mark, I heard someone say.

Her intent gaze was so focused, it seemed like the object of her interest was the only thing in the room. I didn’t like that she was looking at him like that. I didn’t like that he made those deep brown eyes darken with pain. And as selfish as it was, I really didn’t like that it meant she hadn’t noticed me.

A dangerous rush of emotions coursed through me, and I realized my hands were balled so tightly that white had formed along the ridges of my fingers.

Focus.

A pretty face had never stopped me from doing my job before. I made myself concentrate on Keith Bomner’s words.

“I’d like to point out that the media tends to look favorably on the underdog,” he stated. “And rarely seeks to laud those who seek to crush him. Or her, as the case may be.”

I mentally rolled my eyes. If scare tactics were all he was working with, he didn’t stand much of a chance against my dad. But he quickly switched topics, and after a few minutes, I found myself paying attention. The proposal they were making—she was making—involved saving a run-down community center. I wondered why it was so important to her.

Bomner talked about the youth center and its various programs, and appealed to the councilmen’s sense of community. He gave all the credit to the girl standing silently beside him, and I had to admit, it really sounded like the redhead had done a lot of work. She was running the project from behind some kind of nonprofit organization. I was impressed. Which meant that my dad wouldn’t be.

I needed to concentrate on making a list of what I would have to do to put a stop to her plans. I glanced down at my notepad. All I’d done was scribble a question mark beside the word name. Somehow, I’d missed it.

I looked back in her direction, wondering what it was about the other man that was making her stare down at her hands in such a defeated manner. I couldn’t decide what I wanted more—to comfort her or to punish him.

“So,” the lawyer said as he closed up. “We’ll have half the funds ready within the designated time. There will be no need to consider other options.”

The city officials looked convinced, and one of them went so far as to nod his head enthusiastically. My father wasn’t going to be happy with the way things were looking.

And you can forget about having anything to do with the redhead on a personal level.

“Thank you, gentlemen.” Bomner snapped his briefcase shut, nodded his head at us, and ushered the girl out.

I jumped up, automatically inclined to follow the redhead out. One of the older men coughed emphatically. I paused in my pursuit, released a breath I hadn’t even realized I’d been holding, and turned to face the table. The man named Mark was staring at me curiously.

“Did you get the information you needed?” he asked.

I nodded dumbly, because I didn’t trust myself to answer him in a calm manner. I hated him, even though I didn’t know him.

“Do you have any questions?” This came from one of the grey-haired, suit-wearing men.

I glanced at the door, then shook my head. The only real question I wanted an answer to was what the girl’s name was, and it would look as if I hadn’t been paying attention if I asked.

I wondered if Mark knew it.

He must.

I resisted a desire to demand that he tell me what it was.

“Excuse me,” I choked out, and exited the room, knowing they were all staring after me, and not really caring.

* * *

I caught up to her in the stairwell.

“Hey!”

She spun my way and stopped, like she was startled to see another human being, then looked guiltily at her hands, which clasped her shoes tightly. I suppressed a grin. Her gaze came up again, and for a breathless moment, they held me fixed to the spot.

Then her eyes narrowed in recognition.

“Are you going to trip me again?” she asked.

“I didn’t trip you. You came running at me.”

“You were sleeping in the hallway. At my house.”

She started to turn on her bare heel.

“Wait!”

“Dammit,” she muttered. “What?”

“I’m with the school paper,” I lied.

She stared at me blankly, and I shoved down irritation that she hadn’t noticed me in the meeting.

“I sat in on your meeting with the city just now,” I clarified. “I was hoping we could do an interview? An exclusive, maybe?”

Her pretty mouth tightened up. “Press inquiries go through my lawyer.”

“I’m not real press.”

“Please?” I turned on my sexiest grin. “It’s mean a lot to me, Miss—”

Crap. What was her name?

She rolled her eyes. “You’re kidding, right? You work for the paper and you sat in on the meeting and you didn’t even catch my name? That doesn’t bode well for your career in journalism.”

“I just started. And it’s more of a hobby than a career.”

“Find a new hobby,” she suggested.

My phone vibrated in my pocket, and in the brief second I glanced down, the redhead disappeared down the stairs.

Dammit.

My phone buzzed again, and I fought an urge to toss it out the window. Instead, I answered it without bothering to check the display.

“What?” I growled.

“Is that any way to greet a nice girl like me?” asked a teasing voice.

My heart did the weird twist and release thing it did every time Amber called. I knew what I owed her, but she was still a constant reminder of my past.

I took a breath and put a smile into my reply. “Hey, sweetheart. Bad timing on my part. I thought you were my dad.”

She laughed. “You’ve got to start remembering who I am.”

“How could I forget?” I joked.

I meant it in a light-hearted way, but the second I said it, my mind went to Beth, and I wished I hadn’t spoken. They were cousins. I’d known Amber first, in fact. She was the daughter of one of my dad’s golfing buddies. Our mothers attended the same social functions. At a party one night, Amber had introduced Beth and me, all those years ago.

“Too late,” I murmured out loud.

“Pardon?” Amber said.

“Nothing. It’s just always a relief to hear your voice.”

She snorted, but I knew she liked the flattery. “You promised me you’d show up tomorrow.”

“I promise a lot of girls a lot of things,” I teased.

“I’m sure that’s truer than I want to think about,” Amber said. “But you made this one to me.”

“Babe…” I searched for the kind of excuse that usually came so easily, and failed. “I’m not going to be great company tomorrow.”

My honesty was a testament to how on edge I was feeling.

“I know. You really aren’t all that much fun in general. But you did promise,” she told me in a sweet voice.

I wanted to laugh at her obvious manipulation. I’m generally impervious to any and all attempts to reel me in, and I was sure Amber knew it. Maybe my emotions were just raw enough, or maybe I just wasn’t in the mood for letting anyone down. Whatever the reason, I found myself agreeing.

“A promise is a promise,” I said.

“Yes it is.”

For one second, I thought I heard a hint of smugness in her voice, and I was immediately regretful of agreeing to meet her. I held my temper in check and refused to back down. I clenched my teeth together and made myself bury the irritation under a chuckle.

“You’ll have to remind me where I said I’d be,” I told her cockily. “Lots of promises mean lots of forgetfulness.”

She drew in an irritated breath, and this time I chuckled for real.

“It’s the market in the commons,” she reminded me, just shy of completely impatient.

I should apologize.

I couldn’t make myself do it.

“All right, sweetheart,” I said. “I’ll be there. I’ll even dress nicely so you don’t regret inviting me along.”

“Oh, I won’t,” she assured me, and hung up.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.