Melt Into You (35 page)

Damon’s eyes widened. “It wasn’t about that! Natasha—”

“Good luck, Damon,” she interrupted. Then she realized the irony of saying that to
him
, of all people, and tried again. “I
did
come to this party to try to help you,” Natasha admitted. “I came here to network, like I’ve been busy doing all week, with the hope that I could get you on your feet again. I didn’t tell you because I didn’t think you’d come here if I did.”

“You would have been right. I wouldn’t have. But that’s only because—”

“We were both on the guest list,” Natasha went on. “The invitations came weeks ago. I got them from your office, with Jason’s help, and I accepted them. I’d forgotten all about it until we walked by. But then I realized what a great opportunity this party might be, and it sounded like fun to crash, so I—” She stopped, then shook her head. “It doesn’t matter anymore. What matters is, I felt sorry for you—”

“
Sorry
? For
me
?” For the first time, Damon seemed angry.

“—after what happened to you in Las Vegas,” Natasha continued with a hitch in her voice. “I felt sorry for abandoning you the way I did. But you know what I just realized? It doesn’t matter if I abandon you. And it doesn’t matter if I stick by you ...
again
. Again and again and again, like I always do. Because what matters is that you’re no good at sticking by
yourself
when the going gets tough.
That’s
what brought you down during your chocolate workshop with Tamala in Las Vegas—”

Damon’s eyes widened. “You saw that? But I thought—”

“—
that’s
what you’re covering up with all your relentless swagger and refusal to grow up—”

He glowered harder. “I can’t believe you can’t see—”

“—and
that’s
what’s making me walk away right now.”

With tears in her eyes, Natasha approached Damon. She put both hands on his shirt, straightened his tie, then smiled.

“I love you,” she said. “That’s the whole truth, whether you believe it or not. But I won’t stand by and let you hide away from the life you’re meant to live—not even if doing that would bring me you. I wanted to let you stay forever and just play house with me, but that would have been wrong. For both of us. So I worked to make things right,
for you
, because that’s what I’m best at.” Natasha inhaled deeply. She stroked his jaw, wanting more than anything to throw herself in his arms and pretend this wasn’t happening. “Now it’s time for you to go back to your real life, Damon. Go back to your easy, privileged, happy-go-lucky life. Because that’s what you’re best at: being careless and advantaged and lucky. Not being with me or Milo. Not living in suburbia. Not any of it.”

“I’m different now.” Damon’s eyes bored into her, dark and full of what she imagined was anguish ... even though it couldn’t be. At his sides, his fists tightened. That seemed convincing, too. “I’ve changed,” he said. “You
must
be able to see that.”

Natasha couldn’t. Not then. Especially not a minute later when, from down the hall, a short-haired brunette with a lithe, lanky figure approached them. Her smile looked tentative.

“Hey there, sailor,” she told Damon, hefting the twin cocktails in her hands. “I’ve been looking all over for you.”

Natasha scrutinized the woman—and the vaguely shamefaced way Damon greeted her. The brunette’s bright-eyed, tipsy gaze swept over Damon, Wes, and Natasha in turn. Her attention swerved back to Damon. A coy smile edged onto her face.

“Here are those drinks we were talking about,” the brunette told Damon flirtatiously. “You didn’t bring them to me yourself like you promised, you bad boy.” She blinked, belatedly catching the tension in the air. “Oh. Is this a bad time?”

“Nope.” Natasha took Damon’s drink, knocked back the whole thing, then gave back the glass to Damon’s apparent next-in-line. “This is a great time—for me to say good-bye.”

“Tasha,” Damon protested in a beleaguered tone. “Wait.”

But even his use of that affectionate nickname for her couldn’t stop Natasha now. She felt much too hurt for that.

“No, Damon. I’m not waiting anymore. I’ve already waited a long time for you.” She glanced at the perplexed-looking brunette. “Turns out, it wasn’t worth it. You might think a few days in suburbia changed you ... but all I see is the same old you.”

“It wasn’t suburbia that changed me!” Damon grabbed her arm. He gave her an almost-convincing pleading look, heedless of the rudely inquisitive way Wes watched them both. “It was
you
.”

“Nice try.” With a bitter laugh, Natasha finally broke free. “But I’m not dumb enough to believe that one twice.”

Then she swiveled around and marched away ... and this time, Damon didn’t try to call her back. He didn’t even argue his point again. Evidently, he’d already ceded her victory.

Too bad no victory had ever felt less victorious.

“Well,” Wes said behind her, “I guess there’s no point letting that last drink go to waste. How about sharing, doll?”

“Um, I brought this drink for Damon,” the brunette said tentatively, “but I guess I could share with you, too. Is that okay with you, Damon? We
were
supposed to have drinks together—”

Natasha didn’t stick around to hear Damon’s response. She only set her Wellies in motion, hit the stairs, and escaped through the party into the formerly romantic night outside. This time, her beachside stroll would be a whole other experience.

But she knew she could handle it. She always had before.

Chapter 24

By the time Damon woke up the day after his unexpected falling-out with Natasha, it was late afternoon. Feeling bleary-eyed, hungover, and strangely hollow inside, he opened his eyes to find himself in a brightly lit bedroom he didn’t recognize. Worse, he had no memory of how he’d gotten there.

It was just like old times.

Too heartsick to be alarmed by his unfamiliar surroundings, memory lapse, and pounding headache, Damon rolled over. He tried to go back to sleep, but for once the universe didn’t cooperate. The dark, all-encompassing slumber he wanted wouldn’t come.

Instead, fragments of the previous night’s events paraded through his mind, jumbled and nausea inducing. Damon remembered accepting a drink—no,
several
drinks—from Sloane, the leggy brunette. He remembered meeting Sloane’s party-girl friends. He remembered going to an after-hours club with Sloane and her flirtatious all-girl posse, spotting the B-Man Media crew that Wes had assigned to tail him and Natasha, and punching one of the cameramen in the face. He remembered shouting invectives, breaking a few cameras, and getting thrown out of the club.

He remembered feeling that destroying something that belonged to B-Man Media was only poetic justice. Because Damon had lost something. Now they’d lost something. Even Steven.

Except it wasn’t even, Damon realized as he dragged his palms over his face, reluctantly growing a little more alert.
He’d
lost Natasha.
He’d
lost his hopes for a different kind of future. Without those, nothing else seemed to matter.

Last night, all Damon had wanted to do was forget. He’d wanted to box up the time he’d spent with Natasha and stash it away where it couldn’t torture him anymore. So he’d done his best to revert to his old ways, which—while not perfect—were usually excellent at helping stem the tide of reality.

But for once, drinking and dancing and carousing hadn’t worked.
Nothing
had worked. Nothing had made him feel any better. Because last night, as now, all Damon had wanted to do was brood. He’d wanted to rage at ... someone.

He’d wanted to cry. And he still did.

Because he missed Natasha already. Because he couldn’t stop wondering if Milo still wanted a piggyback ride and if Carol had remembered to take her recycling to the curb and if Natasha was really as hurt as she’d looked when she’d said good-bye to him. Because she’d looked wrecked and disillusioned and sad.

She’d looked the way Damon had felt. She’d looked ... alone.

Hell. A few days in suburbia had totally unmanned him, Damon realized. He was probably better off without it.

He was probably better off without
her
.

As though underscoring that fact, someone shifted in the bed beside him. With a sleepy murmur, Sloane rolled over.

She saw him. She smiled. “Good morning, tiger.”

Oh, Christ
. What the fuck had he done now? He’d honestly thought his days of waking up with near strangers were behind him for good. He’d honestly thought he’d changed.

Even if Natasha hadn’t agreed.

“Sloane.” Damon squeezed shut his eyes in instant remorse. “Tell me this isn’t what I think it is.”

“Well, I
could
do that,” she hedged with a playful grin, “but that wouldn’t be any fun, now would it?”

“
Fun
. Right.”
My old pal
. Regretfully, Damon stared at the ceiling. Sunshine splashed into the room from its twin mullioned windows. “So, I don’t remember much about last night, but—”

“But nothing happened. Between us, I mean,” Sloane interrupted, giving his shoulder a nudge. “I was just kidding before. Wes told me it would probably go one of two ways—”

“I don’t want to talk about Wes.”

“—either you’d take one look at me and decide I was just the girl to drown your sorrows with ... or you’d take one look at me and decide I could never replace the girl you
really
want.” She gave him a compassionate look. “I guess you went for option B.”

Nothing had happened
. Engulfed with relief, Damon stared at Sloane, being careful not to glance any lower than her neck. Doing anything less wouldn’t have been chivalrous. Because it seemed suddenly apparent to him that Sloane was naked. And that he was nearly naked, too, wearing just his boxer briefs.

“I did.
I
chose option B,” Damon said.
Unbelievable
. Pride momentarily overwhelmed him ... but a second later, the reprieve he experienced was followed by another dose of ruthless reality.

If even
he’d
doubted that he’d behaved himself last night—and he had, seriously, doubted it—how could he expect Natasha to believe in him? How could he expect her to believe he’d really reformed? To believe he
hadn’t
used her in the process?

The painful truth was that he couldn’t. Not yet.

Even Damon had to admit that the evidence against him looked pretty damning. Clueless Wes had seen to that.

“I’m sorry,” Damon told Sloane, forcing himself back to the here and now. “It’s not you, it’s me. You’re an interesting girl. Maybe under different circumstances, we could have ...”

“Hey, it’s not too late.” Wearing an inviting look, Sloane rolled over to face him. The sheets dipped dangerously low, revealing the pert curve of her breast ... and more bare skin that Damon made himself not look at. She propped her elbow against the mattress, then cupped her short-haired head in her hand. She gave him a direct, sensual smile. “I hear tomorrow’s another day. If you want to give it a go, I’m game.”

Rebelliously deciding that he owed it to himself to at least consider Sloane’s offer, Damon looked at her. She was attractive. She seemed nice. She seemed eager for an easy, no-strings-attached encounter they would probably both enjoy.

She seemed ...
not
to be Natasha. Damn it.

As kindly as he could, Damon shook his head. “I can’t.”

Sloane’s raised eyebrows gave him pause.

“I mean, I
can
. I
can
all night long! But right now—”

“You can’t. I get it.” Sloane touched his beard-stubbled cheek. She heaved a regretful sigh. “If you ever change your mind, I programmed my number into your phone.” She winked, then got out of bed, gloriously naked. “Just don’t look at the accompanying photo while at work or in public. It looks a lot like ...” With a seductive twirl, she held out her arms and then struck a pose. “Well, a lot like
this
. Naked, is what I mean.”

“I’m hungover, not blind. But ... I won’t be calling.”

“Yeah. I figured as much.” Sloane shimmied into a pair of jeans. Topless, she took her time selecting a silky shirt from the nearby closet. Aha. This was
her
place, then. Buttoning her shirt, she added, “But a girl’s got to try, right?”

“That’s always been my motto.”

“Good motto.” Seeming surprisingly carefree, Sloane stepped into her strappy metallic sandals. With a graceful move, she fastened them on her feet. “I’m still glad I brought you home with me last night. You were in no shape to be alone.”

Damon didn’t have a ready response to that. He didn’t doubt it was true, but given how little he remembered ...

“Anyway, no hard feelings, Mr. Torrance.” Sloane pointed to the doorway. “I’m meeting friends for brunch. Feel free to use the shower while I’m gone. Help yourself to whatever looks good in the kitchen, too.” A grin. “I have to warn you, though, the fridge is pretty bare. I hope you like champagne and leftover chicken vindaloo. Just let yourself out when you’re done.”

“Thanks.” She was an unlikely Good Samaritan, but Damon felt grateful for her help all the same. He watched her pick her way daintily through the other items strewn across the bedroom floor—most of them belonging to him. His dinner jacket. His trousers. His shirt and tie and studs. “You’re very kind.”

“Nah. I just recognize a useful contact when I see one.” Sloane grabbed her cross-body purse and keys. “I’d still like to meet with you once you get your new project off the ground.”

“My new project?”

“Yes.” Sloane peered into the mirror, seemed to decide she looked presentable, then glanced at him via her reflection. “Your line of allergen-free candy bars. You couldn’t quit talking about it last night. Anybody who came within earshot got the whole spiel. How it was going to open up a whole new underserved market. How it was going to revitalize gourmet retailing. How it was going to be aimed at kids instead of thrill-seeking foodies who want bacon-matcha truffles and chocolate shiitake ice cream. How it was going to be delicious and accessible and—most of all—safe for people with food sensitivities.”