Charming You (Thirsty Hearts Book 1) (8 page)

"But I haven't even come close to doing it. I know my situation is complicated right now, and I wouldn't start something I couldn't finish."

Micky looked up at him again. He clenched and released his fists, then pulled his splayed hands slowly toward him across the tabletop. His breathing hitched.

The waiter came to the table, and Micky handed him her credit card without even seeing the bill. Nick did the same. They sat in silence and waited for the bow-tied server to return with their split bill. Micky's heart kept pounding. Signing the bill and slipping her card back into her purse, Micky knew…she couldn't see him again.

A
s Micky got
into the elevator to head back to the office after lunch the next day, she exhaled, relieved.

The shock of Nick's confession clung to her. Every time the elevator doors opened, she feared she'd see him. His green eyes would fix on her, and she wouldn't know what to do or say that wouldn't betray her attraction to him. His directness had surprised her, but not as much as her reaction to it.

She walked into her office, closing the door behind her and leaning against it. His words should have repelled her. He'd said he wouldn't start something that he couldn't finish. Now, Micky couldn't shake the desire to see how Nick finished, and that was a problem. He'd basically admitted he still had a relationship with his ex. Being the other woman
again
was not in her plans.

Micky flopped into her chair, hoping to avoid an emotional display at work. She'd done that before, after she and Eric planned a big trip to Italy that never came to pass.

They'd picked out a rental house and planned a yacht tour. He'd sent her links for Michelin-ranked restaurants and found an old church where singers performed operas once a week.

"Just think, listening to Verdi or Puccini in Italy with a gorgeous woman on my arm? Absolutely amazing," he said.

Then, one day, she called him, and he didn't call her back. Then, more days went by. Finally, he called, distracted and sounding strange, but insisting everything was fine and not understanding how he'd upset her. The only one Micky told about the ordeal was Taryn.

"Have you heard from him?"

"Kind of. He called last night and said he didn't understand why I was flipping out just because I didn't hear from him for a few days. A few days? It was a week. Over a week."

Micky felt like bursting into tears, but she'd be damned if she let herself ugly cry at work over a man.

"Listen. I don't think asking about what's going on constitutes flipping out. One minute you're planning a romantic vacation to Italy and putting a deposit down on a rental, and then he disappears on you. That's weird. All you did was ask if he was getting cold feet. He should at least talk to you, email you, text you—something."

"Exactly. I mean, I gave the property manager a thousand euros for a non-refundable deposit."

"Look. We both know this isn't about the euros. There's something going on."

"I know. I can always go to Italy by myself. That wouldn't be depressing." Micky pressed her fingers to her eyes.

"I'll go with you. You can go with Pete. You'll get your money back. Whatever. You will be okay. You're okay now, right? And you will be." Taryn's pixie looks hid an iron will. A few nights later, Micky got the call.

It was almost midnight when her cell phone rang. Eric King. Maybe he'd finally decided they needed to talk.

"Hello."

"Hello," echoed an unfamiliar voice. A female voice.

"Who is this?"

"Who are you?" the woman said, stridently.

"I'm a woman who answered my cell phone when Eric King's name popped up because I was expecting Eric, my boyfriend, to be calling with an apology. Clearly, you aren't my boyfriend."

"My husband is not your boyfriend," the woman bit out. Micky had nearly thrown up. Why argue with her? She was right. No woman's husband could ever be her boyfriend.

"I didn't know. He never said anything that made me think he was married."

Even as Micky said the words, she felt like a liar. His being married made sense. The hesitation she felt from him. The blowing hot, and then cold, and then steamy again. Eric was sometimes all over the map, but she had ignored the signs because when the hot was hot, it was hot. The Eric amusement park ride had spun her completely around.

She hadn't known he was married, but she'd known something wasn't quite right.

"Well, bitch, he is married. He's married. He's a father. He has a family. And you are just some whore. Some stupid whore who will never have with him what we have."

"I'm not a whore," Micky screamed into the phone. "Listen, you don't know me. I'd never get involved with a married man. Not if I knew he was married. He's a liar. A scheming liar. That, you and I both know, and I know I'm no whore. You believe whatever you want. It doesn't concern me anymore."

With that, Micky pressed
END
on her phone, wishing she had an old-time receiver to slam down and dispel the vibrations of anger rippling through her. Never have what she had? Micky hoped not.

She stood up and got a throw blanket from the trunk at the foot of her bed. Wrapping the soft cashmere knit around her shoulders, she climbed back on the bed, curling up into a ball.

The flood of tears swept down so fast, Micky didn't bother to wipe her face. How dare he make her the whore? How dare he turn her into a side dish? Some home wrecker? She had been good to him. Understanding. Sympathetic about his mother. Micky's sobs had hitched as self-incriminating thoughts crowded her head. Was his mother even sick?

I am a whore. I'm a slutty woman who was so desperate for a little dick that I turned off my common sense and climbed into bed with some lying snake. What a fool.

Her phone rang.
Again?
Micky had ignored it. Then, a text from Eric and another phone call
.

"What?"

"Micky. It's Eric." It was him, but it wasn't. The woman was talking in the background, "Tell her. You have to tell her. Right now. In front of me."

The woman's voice was clear, but echoing. He had the phone on speaker.

Micky wanted to tell him it was over, but why let him off the hook? He should have to say the words, but she shouldn't have to hear them.

"I won't be coming to Dallas next week."

"That's what you have to say?"

"I can't let you come between me and my wife. I have to turn my attention to my marriage."

"You are a sad coward, Eric. Hiding behind a wife and a marriage that you fought hard to hide from me."

"Don't you say a fucking thing!" The woman yelled once, then twice.

"Shelly!" Eric exclaimed. So, that was her name. Shelly.

Micky just screamed into the phone. "I don't want your husband. I don't want him. If I'd known…" Micky began, but then stopped.

Eric's wife yelled. In return, he yelled for her to calm down. Micky wanted out. She needed out of this drama. She pressed the button on her phone once more. Then, she erased Eric's number.

She jumped up, wondering what evidence of Eric's presence needed erasing from her house. Truthfully, there wasn't much. A couple of T-shirts. A button-down shirt and pair of chinos that he left in her washing machine once. Some DVDs he'd loaned her. A toothbrush. A bottle of Tylenol. Micky didn't take Tylenol, but Eric preferred it and had bought a bottle once when he had a headache. A stupid coffee mug with a longhorn on it that he bought at the airport and brought to her house so he could have something that was "his" in her kitchen.

She held up the fucking burnt orange coffee mug with "TEXAS" emblazoned on the side. What kind of man buys some bullshit tchotchke to leave at his mistress' house? She was the mistress of a douchebag asshole. Micky ran to the garage.

Where did she leave it? Micky suddenly remembered. She ran back into the house and into her spare bedroom where she'd hung a picture the weekend before. The hammer sat on top of the dresser.

As it turns out, airport tchotchkes are pretty shabbily constructed. A couple of good smacks and pieces of longhorn went flying all over her kitchen—despite her having wrapped it in a towel first. Micky searched for ceramic shards and tossed much of the liar-tainted junk into the trash.

Then, she boxed up his clothes, the DVDs, and his toothbrush, and slapped on a UPS label addressed to his company offices. By the time she finished, a numbing fatigue had knocked her into bed.
Douchebag asshole.

Micky pressed her fingers to her temples. Shouldn't that experience be enough to drive her away from Nick? He may not be married, but he'd made promises to another woman. Obviously, he was the kind of guy who took those promises lightly.

Micky would like to think the pull of attraction between them was special, but experience taught her otherwise. Once a cheat, always a cheat.

She walked across her office and threw her bags on the desk. Enough. She had her family, her friends, her job…she didn't need the Erics and the Nicks of the world to make her feel bad about herself. They weren't worth it. Never were.

N
ick slammed on his brakes
. The sound of screeching tires sent his heart racing. He brought his car up just short of rear-ending the person in front of him. He hadn't noticed the light turning red. Nick cursed and took a deep breath. Before he could deal with the potential for catastrophe on all fronts, he needed to get to Vivienne's place in one piece.

The look on Micky's face ran through his head repeatedly in the previous twenty-four hours. Her eyes wide. Her lips parted. Her skin flushed. He could have swept their drinks off the table and taken her right there. Who needed a hotel room? Then, she'd looked away in horror.

What had he been thinking to say that to her? She was right. He was a heel. He had a fiancée, and he should focus on one relationship at a time.

The only silver lining was he'd probably ruined any chance with Micky by being so crass. That meant he'd messed up any chance of getting close enough to her to find out more about Azur.

On that front, his adventure hadn't been a total loss. Azur was obviously planning a big move to expand. That was the good news. Moran Financial could put together an offer. Moran would have to move quickly, and Nick needed to find out who the other suitors might be. His screw up had at least clearly defined his priorities.

Besides, the thought of starting a relationship with another woman was insane. He just wanted to sleep with her. That, at least, he could admit to himself, but his future was with Vivienne. He'd called Viv the minute he watched Micky gallop out of the hotel bar and arranged to meet her ASAP, which turned out to be the next day.

"Good. We have something very important to discuss," she'd said over the phone.

He arrived at Vivienne's gorgeous Tudor-styled home shortly before the appointed time of eight o'clock. The door opened, and Nick glanced up at a pale and reserved Vivienne.

"Hi," he said and stepped over the doorjamb to give her a hug. Vivienne wrapped a stiff arm around his waist. He followed her through the family room and around the corner into her kitchen. The varied, floor-to-ceiling Italian tile gave an elegant country charm, which Nick had always found ironic.

"Would you like something to drink? I have the Balvenie that you love."

Vivienne pointed to a silver tray on the counter. It held a crystal decanter filled half-way with amber liquid and two crystal tumblers. Judging from Vivienne's demeanor, he would need the Scotch. She poured, added a couple drops of water, and handed the glass to Nick. He took a sip. The warmth of the whisky only made him more nervous. Bringing out the thirty-year single malt meant trouble.

"I know you must be confused about the past few months and then the other night," she said.

"I am. All I want is to talk with you and figure out what's going on. You know I'm here for you. Or maybe you don't," Nick said, shoving away the guilt over his escapade the evening before.

"I do. That's what makes this so hard."

"The last time we spoke, you said that you weren't sure where we were headed. You needed time to think. I'd hoped we could do some of that thinking together." He threw up his hands. "Now, I don't know what's happened."

"I do love you, Nick. Getting married to you is everything I could want, but…" Vivienne's voice started to shake.

"We don't have to do it for your parents, or their friends, or our friends. I don't need a big wedding. Is that what was starting to get you?"

"This isn't cold feet." Her voice suddenly popped with clarity.

Nick swallowed to dislodge the lump in his throat. "It isn't?"

Vivienne took a deep breath. "No. I have a problem. I need your help, but I'm not sure you're going to want to when I'm done saying what there is to be said."

"You're speaking in riddles, Vivienne. Just tell me."

She took an envelope out of a kitchen drawer and slid it toward him, keeping her hand on it so Nick couldn't take it and open it.

"Before you look at it. I need to tell you something. This was just a momentary thing. It doesn't have anything to do with us." Vivienne spoke in a rush, her breath trailing behind her words.

She pulled her hand back.

Nick opened the envelope and turned it upside down. A small package of pictures slid out. He squinted at the grainy images of what appeared to be Vivienne and another person kissing. Hot anger began to pulse in his chest. He looked closer. A woman. Vivienne was in the pictures kissing another woman. Despite the hard to decipher blur of short hair and unisex clothing, Nick could see the person had breasts and a softness in her figure.

One after another, the pictures showed Vivienne in various stages of making out. He flipped to another and saw the other woman with her hand up Vivienne's skirt. Maybe they were in a hallway? The lighting was terrible. Nick threw the evidence on the counter.