Her Wicked Heart (11 page)

My heart skips a beat.

“But I’m not sure if I should,” he continues, the roughness of his tone belying the hesitation of his words. “I don’t know what’s going on with you and this mystery guy, whoever he is. And I’m not sure if you’ve had enough to drink that it could be considered taking advantage.”

He pauses when his face is only a few inches away from mine. I sit frozen against the hedge, too stunned to speak.

He’s waiting for my permission
, I realize.
He wants me to acknowledge that I want him.
Heat floods my lips.

And I do want him, I’m forced to admit to myself. I want him to kiss me. I know exactly how warm and soft his mouth is. I know exactly what he can do with that tongue. It would be so easy to nod my head, to part my lips and meet his.

But Ian’s image floats into my mind. I can still see the pain and anger in those gray eyes. I can still feel the kindness, the gentleness in his touch on my skin. How can I sit here, aching for Ward to touch and kiss me, when not an hour ago I left Ian like that?

But the other half of my brain urges me forward.
You already know you’re selfish and cruel
, it says.
You already know there’s no hope for you.
If I’m a lost cause, then why not abandon myself to a moment of pleasure? A moment of release from all this madness? We’re not even touching, Ward and I, and yet I feel as if a surge of energy is pulling me forward, drawing me toward him. His lips look so inviting. And anyway, what harm could a kiss do?

I lean forward, my mouth only an inch away from his. He doesn’t come nearer, but his hand finds mine in the darkness. His fingers drift across the back of my palm, then up my bare arm, sending tiny tremors across my skin. When he reaches my shoulder, they skim lightly across my sleeve and toward the back of my neck. And still his lips don’t move.

I have to say something, I know. I must take responsibility for this. Tell him it’s okay. All I have to do is say one little word and I can lose myself in the fire that burns through my veins.

But maybe there’s a speck of decency in me so
mewhere because I can’t do it. I pull back.

For the second time tonight, I watch disappointment flood a man’s eyes.

“I can’t,” I say. “I’m sorry.”

He sits back. “The other guy?”

I feel like all the energy’s drained out of me now that he’s a respectable distance away from me again. I cross my arms, suddenly cold.

“No. I mean, partially yes.” I clamber to my feet. “It’s hard to explain.”

He’s on his feet in an instant. We’re directly in the moonlight now, and the light gives his auburn hair a metallic, almost bronze sheen and highlights the lines of his face: straight nose, cheekbones, strong jaw. He’s wearing a white T-shirt with a V-neck that gives me the barest glimpse of his collarbone.

The reaction he stirs in me is very different from the one Ian inspires. With Ian, it was always about warmth and affection and comfort. He was a safe harbor, a solid strength when the rest of the world was falling down around me. It’s the opposite with Ward. Alternate flashes of fire and ice move through my body, and I feel anything but steady.
He
is the chaos. He threatens to pull me off-balance.

And strangely, I find myself longing for that madness.

He’s right in front of me now. There’s a heat in his eyes, a look that might have been possessiveness if he had any claim over me. I raise the wine to take another drink. But he stops me, taking the bottle from my hand. I can’t escape this moment by drowning myself in more alcohol.

“Tell me about him,” he says.

“About…”

“This guy.”

“He’s not… I mean, it’s hard to explain. Complicated.”

“Do you love him?”

I look up into his face, waiting for the roguish grin, but Ward is perfectly serious.

“It’s complicated,” I repeat.

“So you don’t love him.” He looks thoughtful. “But he loves you?”

Geez, did I make it that obvious?
“It’s none of your business.”

“You shouldn’t lead him on.”

“Oh, please. You are the last person who should be giving me a lecture about this.”

He doesn’t seem to agree.

“You should break things off,” Ward says. “If you don’t love him, then break things off and let the poor sap get on with his life.”

I’m trying
, I want to say. Instead, I tell him, “It’s not that simple. There’s nothing to ‘break off.’ There are just some things to sort through.”

“Then sort them.”

“It’s not that
simple.
”

“Yes. Yes it is.”

I’m about to tell him he can shove it, but then I see the look on his face. He’s not arguing for the sake of arguing.

“The only thing making it complicated is this.” He taps the side of his head. “Same with everything in life. Things are as they are. The complicated part comes from our own heads.”

He’s making a lot of sense for someone who’s had at least a bottle of wine tonight. Then again, maybe I think it makes sense because I’ve had the same.

I
wish
it were that simple. I wish I could just close my eyes and accept things as they are and forget about stupid little inconveniences like feelings.

Ward’s hand comes up and tangles in my hair. I close my eyes and lean into his touch.

Suddenly, it
does
seem simple. Right now, all of my other problems seem far away. And not because I’m distracted or running toward something else. Because here, looking at Ward, I feel hope. There’s something warm in my chest—a sense that the life I had doesn’t have to be my only life. There are a thousand possibilities ahead of me, and not just paths of mourning and loss and selfishness. There are paths of happiness, too, if I open myself to them. It’s that simple.

I feel myself leaning toward him, though I don’t remember making the decision to do so. His hand stills on my cheek and his eyes drop to my lips.

“Addison,” he says softly.

And then the real world comes crashing down.

Addison.
He thinks my name is Addison. He has no idea who I am, no idea what I’m doing here. And based on some of the things he’s said about people like my family, he wouldn’t like me very much if he knew the truth.

This isn’t simple. No, this is a big fat mess. Right now, I’m living a lie, and this is really freaking complicated.

I draw away from him for the second time tonight.

“I can’t,” I whisper.

“Addi—”

“I can’t.” I can’t hear that name. I can’t kiss him. I can’t just close my eyes and wish away all the emotions I’ve kept bottled up this past year.

I start to back away from him, and it’s only by some miracle that I remember the wine bottles. I grab the one with the gold label from the ground before taking the other from Ward. He doesn’t put up a fight.

“I’m sorry,” I tell him as I back away again. He has no idea how much.

This time I don’t run from him. But I feel his gaze boring into my back as I walk away, and for the first time since I can remember, I have to fight the urge to run
back
to someone.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Surprise, surprise—I don’t get much sleep that night. It doesn’t seem to matter how exhausted my body is. The minute I lie down, my mind starts to race, and on the occasions I do manage to drift off, strange dreams keep waking me up again.

I use the time to my advantage, getting to work on the wine bottles. A quick Internet search brings up several ways to remove a wine label without damaging it, and a short time later, I have the labels from both bottles in my hand. I consider keeping the one for the Miel Doré, but it’s not worth the risk. Tomorrow, I’ll sneak back into the cellar and glue these labels on other bottles—ones that haven’t made it into the database yet—and if I pull this off, no one will notice that either wine was gone in the first place.

The project keeps me busy, but it doesn’t keep my mind from drifting back to Ward. To the way he looked at me. I already know what it feels like to kiss him, how fully my body responds to his. If I’d wanted, I could have abandoned myself to that feeling. Seen how far he’d let me go this time.

But I’m horrible for even considering it. For wanting it at all after falling into Ian’s arms earlier this evening.

I don’t care what Ward says. It’s not
simple.
I’m supposed to be enjoying some self-imposed celibacy here. Why am I throwing myself at every man who crosses my path?

There’s something different with him
, I tell myself. Different than anything I’ve felt for a guy before. It’s brighter, somehow. More vibrant. Something deep inside me comes alive when I’m near him, which is silly because I hardly know the guy.

It’s just an excuse. I’m just trying to convince myself that this is okay.
The sad truth is that at the end of the day, he’s just another man, and I’m just looking for another crutch. I need to stop pretending otherwise.

Still, I can’t stop thinking about it as I head down to my office in the morning. For those first few hours, I try to lose myself in my work. Mr. Haymore’s in rare form today. The press members arrive in a handful of days, and there are approximately a thousand things left to do. I’ve got a full day ahead of me, and that means downing two cups of coffee right away. Several days without a good night’s sleep is starting to wear on me. My head is throbbing, and all my thoughts are running together. I’m sure I look like a wreck. More than once I catch Mr. Haymore glaring at me, but fortunately he’s too busy with his own things to give me any lectures.

And then, at about half past ten, my boss comes racing into my office, his eyes wide with panic.

“Call security. Tell them to get to the spa immediately.”

“What’s going on?” I reach for my phone. “What—”

But Haymore’s already running from my office again.

What the heck is happening this time? I quickly phone the security office, and as soon as I hang up, I’m heading out the door in the direction of the spa. Whatever is happening, I have a feeling that I’m going to have to clean up after it.

When I hear the angry shouts, my stomach clenches. It sounds like another fight, and I have a feeling I know who’s involved. Someone curses loudly, and then there’s a huge splash just as I enter the spa lobby. When I hurry into the facilities, sure enough I find that the fight has spilled into one of the soaking pools.

But maybe
fight
isn’t a strong enough word.
Brawl
is much more accurate. There are at least five guys in the pool, and there are so many flailing limbs and punches flying through the air that it takes me a moment to spot that head of red-brown hair. Just as I suspected, Ward is at the center of it all. Even as I watch, he gets a fist right to the face.

Mr. Haymore’s on the edge of the pool, shouting. But we’re not the only onlookers. A couple of the construction workers still stand by the scaffolding on the far side of the room (from the looks of it, they were finishing up a large section of tilework today) and a handful of employees from nearby sections of the house have come to gawk at the commotion. Looks like no one wants to miss a good brouhaha around here.

Even, it seems, the owner himself.

I jerk back a step when Carolson enters beside me. He doesn’t give me a second glance, but his eyes dart around the rest of the room—from the men in the pool to the unfinished tiles to the crazed Mr. Haymore—and his mouth curls down into a sharp frown.

“Charles,” he says. It’s not very loud, but Mr. Haymore’s back stiffens instantly. He stops shouting and turns toward us at the door.

“Security’s on its way, sir,” he says. His gaze shifts back to the men in the pool—who’ve still shown no signs of breaking it up—then back to Carolson. “Please, sir, stand back. They’ll get this under control.”

I risk a glance up at Carolson, but the frown has disappeared, replaced by his normal emotionless mask.

A
crack
resounds through the room, and I swing back towards the fight, fearing the worst. My mind floods with images of Ward’s head bashed against the side of the pool, of the water running red with his blood.

It’s clear, the longer I look, that this is a four-against-one battle. Ward is swinging at everyone, and everyone else is swinging at him. How he’s managed to hold his ground for this long, I have no idea.

My throat is completely dry by the time security arrives. They’ve sent five guards, but even then I’m not sure that’s enough to subdue the men in the pool. The brawlers haven’t even noticed these latest arrivals.

“Break it up!” one of the guards shouts. He’s a large, stocky man with a clipped gray mustache. “Break it up!”

Two of the security officers jump right into the pool. The other three fan out along the nearest edge.

“Break it up!” the big one shouts again. The guards in the pool have started grabbing some of the brawlers, pulling them back by their arms, and only now do the workers seem to realize they have an audience. Slowly, they all fall back, leaving Ward panting in the middle, letting me see him clearly for the first time.

His left eye is swollen and his nose is bent at an odd angle. His lip is busted and getting puffy, and there’s so much blood—from his nose, from his lip, from God knows where—that it’s soaked through his shirt and started to form a crimson cloud in the water.

The others look bad, too, but none of their injuries compare. One of the guards moves toward Ward, offering an arm for support, and he staggers forward a step. I suck in a breath.

That stupid idiot! How did he get himself in this mess?

“Someone get the medic.” Carolson’s voice, cold and even, breaks the awful silence.

Mr. Haymore, too flustered to even remember his assistant is standing right next to him, nods. “Right away, sir.” He turns and darts out the door.

I can’t take my eyes off of Ward. The guard is helping him to the tile steps of the pool, letting him lean on his shoulder. There’s a red trail in the water behind them.

There’s so much blood.
He needs to stop the bleeding. His nose is broken, certainly. But right now he needs a bandage, or a rag, or a—I turn and dart back to the spa’s front desk. Just as I’d hoped, there’s already a supply of towels on one of the shelves. When I get back to the pool, they’ve already helped Ward out of the water.

“Here,” I say, pushing through the others.

I hold out the towel, and he grabs it and presses it to his face. Only then does he look up, and his eyes widen slightly when he sees me. He looks down again almost immediately. I’m not sure whether it’s from shame or something else.

Mr. Haymore returns a moment later, the medical team on his heels. I slink back against the wall, trying to get out of the way but unwilling to leave the spa. Over by the door, one of the other brawlers is talking to a security guard and Carolson.

“He started it,” the man says. He pushes a bit of wet hair out of his eyes. “He’s been trying to pick a fight all morning. Insulting Jacobs. Giving us attitude. He just—”

I can’t listen to this. I didn’t think Ward was just an innocent victim in all this, no, but I don’t want to hear that he was looking for a fight. Anger flares inside of me. What is it with men? How does punching something or someone ever make anything better? Ward looks like he was run over by a truck, and that’s just a casual analysis of his current condition. Who knows what other injuries they’ll find when they examine him? What the heck was he thinking? He’d better hope
they take him out of here soon because I want to throw a few punches at him for being such a hot-headed idiot.

I glance back over at him. His shoulders are slumped and he’s looking down at his lap while the medics examine him. He still holds the towel to his nose, and though it’s drenched in blood, he’s sitting perfectly still. His wet hair is plastered to his forehead and neck, and his clothes are dripping onto the tiles. He looks so… vulnerable.

“Something has to be done about this,” I hear Haymore say behind me. “This kind of behavior is unacceptable.”

This is it
, I realize. Ward might have talked his way out of trouble after his first fight, but there’s no way he won’t be fired now. Especially since Carolson witnessed the whole thing.

I’m saddened by the realization more than I want to admit.

But I don’t have the chance to analyze that feeling too closely. The medics are moving Ward, taking him back to the clinic, I assume. I wouldn’t be surprised if they end up calling an ambulance and shipping him off to the hospital.

He can walk, at least, though it takes two of the medical personnel to support him. I want to say something as he passes, to reach out and tell him that it will be okay, but Ward doesn’t even glance at me, though I know he must know that I haven’t left. He walks right past me without any sort of acknowledgment.

When they reach the men by the door, though, Ward jerks out of the medics’ grip. He takes a step forward, wobbling slightly, and raises his head to look Carolson right in the eyes.

Then proceeds to spit right in his face.

I gasp, and I’m not the only one. For a moment the entire room freezes, stunned by this display of disgust and disrespect. Mr. Haymore looks like he might explode.

The only person who’s managed to avoid showing any shock or anger is Carolson. He blinks once, then raises a hand to wipe the spittle from his nose. His face remains blank.

Only then does one of the guards leap forward, and the medics quickly grab Ward’s arms again. As soon as he’s been escorted out of the room, Mr. Haymore steps forward.

“Sir,” he says. “See what I mean? Completely unacceptable. We can’t have men like that working here.”

Carolson doesn’t say anything. He pulls a handkerchief out of his pocket and dabs at his face. Mr. Haymore keeps going.

“…just completely unprofessional,” he says. “We only have a handful of days unt—”

The other man clears his throat, and Mr. Haymore falls silent.

“It certainly is unprofessional,” Carolson says. He stuffs the handkerchief into his pocket and looks up, taking in the rest of us with his measured gaze. “But he’s not the only man at fault here. Every man who raised his fist is at fault.” He walks deeper into
the room. “I will have the name of every man involved. The cost of the damages will come equally out of each of your paychecks.”

One of the men starts to protest, but Carolson raises a hand.

“You’re lucky I don’t fire all of you right now,” he says. “This spa will be finished today. I don’t care if you’re here until midnight. You will take responsibility for your childishness. If I get word of any more trouble, I won’t be so lenient. Get yourselves cleaned up and get back to work.”

He turns without even waiting for a response. Mr. Haymore is instantly at his side.

“Sir,” he says. “There’s still the matter of Ward Brannon. He’s been in fights in the past, and I—”

“I’ve made my decision,” Carolson says. “If we’re going to have to pay out any medical bills, then I want the work he promised us.”

“Certainly there are others who can—”

“Not others with his skill who have been with this project since the beginning. What I’ve seen of his work has been exceptional.”

“I’m sure there’s someone else—”

“There are only a handful of days left, as you said. Certainly he can’t get himself in too much more trouble, especially in his condition.”

They’re both out the door before I can catch the next sentence. Mr. Haymore seems to have forgotten I exist.

I lean back against the wall for a moment, letting the back of my neck rest against the cold tile. I’m confused. Carolson is keeping Ward on? Even after
this
? I glance around. The other guys seem just as stunned as I do. A couple of them are still talking to the security guards, but even the men who weren’t involved in the fight seem too startled to get right back to work.

There’s something going on here.

I push myself off the wall and walk slowly back toward the main part of the building. As much as it would have disappointed me, I wouldn’t have blamed Carolson for sacking him. I mean, Ward is clearly a danger to this project—both to the physical property and the general employee morale around here. This display of leniency seems odd, to say the least.