Caroline Cross - Tame Me

“Excuse me?”

“I realize the past months must’ve been tough, but—”

“Tough?” Her voice started to climb; she wrestled it back down. “Please.” She flicked her fingers dismissively. “I was a debutante, and everyone knows that once you’ve learned how to waltz in high heels and make a perfect curtsy, you can handle anything. Having my home foreclosed on, my belongings auctioned off, my car repossessed, the family name dragged through the dirt by the press? No sweat. Learning the city bus routes, now, that’s been a real challenge—”

“Don’t,” he said flatly. “I’m not trying to downplay the seriousness of the situation, and you know it. There’s no excuse for what Cal did, ripping off the Morgan Creek investors, then bolting the way he did. But that doesn’t explain what you’re doing working at Annabelle’s—”

“Formerly working at Annabelle’s, thanks to you,” she murmured, ignoring his reference to her father.

“—or living here, like this.” He made a dismissive gesture that encompassed the kitchen with its single scarred counter and old hot plate as well as her living room-bedroom, where the nicest thing in the space was the pair of mismatched TV trays she’d lugged home from the Goodwill nine blocks away.

“I know, isn’t it ridiculous? Just because I have limited funds, no job experience and a woeful lack of references, employers and landlords seem reluctant to take me on. Who would’ve figured?”

This time the jab hit home and that sensual mouth tightened, if only for an instant. “The last time I checked,” he said evenly, “you had a trust fund that the courts and the banks couldn’t touch.”

“Ah, yes, my trust fund.” Knowing she was on dangerous ground, she made a moue of regret—and shrugged, making no effort to stop the robe as it slid dangerously low on her shoulders. “The sad truth is, between travel and partying and my inordinate fondness for Jimmy Choos, Dom Pérignon and silk lingerie…it’s gone.”

“Are you serious?” He stared hard at her, clearly not certain whether to believe her or not.

She looked steadily back. “As a heart attack.”

“And…this?” With a twirl of one long forefinger he indicated the shabby little room with its Texas-shaped water stain on the wall between the two narrow windows.

Before she could stop herself, she raised her chin a notch. “The best I can do.”

He went utterly still, his impossibly green eyes seeming to spear right through her as he appeared to weigh her words. Then he uttered a single searing expletive and turned away, his coat billowing out as he paced three strides into her living room before running out of space.

“Get your things together,” he commanded, his back still to her. “Whatever you’ll need for tonight. I’ll send someone for the rest tomorrow.”

He couldn’t have surprised her more if he’d fallen to the floor and declared he couldn’t live without her. “What?”

He pivoted. “I said, pack a bag. You’re not spending another night here.”

Okay. This had to be a dream. She might feel wide-awake, but the truth was she’d fallen asleep on the lumpy little pullout sofa and everything that seemed so real—the chill of the worn linoleum against her bare feet, the faint, heady scent of Gabriel’s aftershave, the jump of nerves in her stomach that his presence always provoked—was just a product of her imagination.

She cocked her head, wondering what would happen next. “And where, exactly, am I supposed to go?”

“My place.”

Wrong again—definitely not a dream. Because no matter how wild and crazy her subconscious got, no matter how alone or desperate or frightened she felt, she would never consider moving in with him a solution to her problems.

It would be like agreeing to share a cage with a tiger.

Fascinating for maybe half a second. Totally terrifying after that.

So why, just for a moment, did she want more than anything in the world to take him up on his offer? Why did she want to close her eyes and step into the hard circle of his arms and say, yes, Gabriel, please take care of me?

Habit, she told herself angrily. Twenty-eight years of careless living, of always taking the easy path, of giving away her power and allowing others to dictate her fate.

Something she’d sworn on the day she’d been evicted from the estate that had been in her family for ninety years she’d never let happen again. A vow she refused to forsake, no matter how many jobs she lost or how many meals she had to skip to make ends meet or how long she had to live in a place like this.

If that meant thwarting Gabriel, who was, after all, responsible for lighting the fuse that had resulted in her life being blown up, it was simply an added bonus.

“Thanks so much,” she said with patent insincerity, “but I’ll pass.”

She’d always considered him astute—on several occasions more than she might’ve wished—and he didn’t disappoint her now. “You don’t want to come home with me? Fine. Pick a hotel. You can stay there until I arrange something else.”

She thought about her last experience at a hotel and shuddered. Still, she couldn’t deny she was curious. “You’d do that? Put me up somewhere at your expense? Even if I tell you I’m not about to forget your part in everything that’s happened?”

“Yes.”

“Even though no matter how nice you pretend to be, I’m not going to sleep with you?”

“Yes, again—and I don’t recall asking you to.”

“Then why? What’s in it for you?”

He shrugged, broad shoulders moving easily beneath the supple leather of his coat. “Peace of mind. It doesn’t take an expert to know this place isn’t safe. The building entrances aren’t secure, there’s no dead bolt on your door and I’d bet a year’s profit an anemic five-year-old with a toothpick could jimmy your windows. Factor in that this is one tough neighborhood, which you’re about as equipped to handle as a kitten dropped into a kennel of pit bulls, and there’s no way I’m letting you stay here.”

If it had been anybody else, she’d have considered that last statement the height of bravado. But not Gabriel. In her experience, he said what he meant, then followed through.

Too bad that nobody—not even him—always got their way. “That’s not up to you,” she said flatly. “It’s up to me. And I’m not going anywhere.”

“Mallory.” He spoke in the ultrapatient way adults reserve for recalcitrant children. “Be reasonable.”

“No.” One little word. So much power. “I don’t want your help, Gabriel. I don’t need it. I can take care of myself.”

“You actually believe that?”

Of course she didn’t. Not yet. Not entirely. But she’d beg for change on the street before she’d admit it to him. “Yes. Absolutely.”

He stared at her, his expression once again guarded, displaying not a trace of surprise that she’d say something so outrageous. Trapped in the tractor beam of his gaze, with no clue what he was thinking and no words as a distraction, she found herself waiting.

For what, she wasn’t sure.

Yet as the silence dragged on, her mind began spinning scenarios. If he wanted to, she mused, he could toss her over his shoulder and simply carry her out of here. Or—the old familiar thrill of awareness slow-danced down her spine—he could walk over, tug her close to that hard, elegant body, tumble her onto the couch and—

“All right, then. I guess we’re done.”

His flat, uninflected voice startled her out of her reverie. Yet it still took a good long moment for his actual words to sink in.

That was it? They were done? Really?

For one appalling moment, she didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Then her common sense, which she’d done her best to shun most of her life, kicked in.