Risk (It's Complicated Book 2) (25 page)

“Your mommy was beautiful, too, little girl,” he said. “But there’s something about Angela that...”

He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down.

Suddenly Angela couldn’t stand the heat—not the heat in his eyes nor that in her own feverish body. She hurried into the kitchen to put the sturdy countertop between her and Justus and called over her shoulder, trying to keep her voice light.

“You should go easy on the compliments, Uncle Justus.” Reaching the stove, she leaned into it, trying to catch her breath and keep her balance. “Santa’s watching.”

Justus was hot on her heels. He came right up behind her and, as he’d done before, wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her back against the solid and wildly arousing length of his body. He buried his nose in her hair, breathing her in before letting out a serrated sigh, and, in that weak moment, no part of Angela’s body was capable of resisting him.

“Santa knows I’m telling the truth,” Justus murmured. “Do you, Angela?”

She couldn’t answer.

But she did succumb to the temptation, just this once, to turn her head and receive his fevered kisses on her cheek as she clung to his neck and held him close. Her eyes rolled closed. She screwed up her face, breathing in his spicy scent and shoring up the strength to do what she needed to do.

Which was to remind herself that Justus would only break her heart in the end, no matter how good this moment felt or how beautifully things might begin between them.

So she stiffened and pulled free, too cowardly even to look him in the eye and gauge his reaction as she did so.

“Maya,” she called, pretending she didn’t hear the frustrated hitch in his breath as he scrubbed his hands over his head and turned away from her. “Dinner.”

A
fter setting
out a plate of carrot cake and a glass of milk for Santa, Maya reluctantly went to bed.

Angela stayed up late, talking with Justus on the sofa.

The living room had never seemed so cozy and intimate before. Cinnamon candles burned on the mantel, and the only other light came from the tree’s white lights.

The world shrank down to her and Justus, here, now, in this room, together.

The way she wanted.

Even if, by some unspoken agreement, neither of them mentioned what’d happened in the kitchen earlier. She knew both that they hadn’t come to the agreement he wanted and that the subject was far from over.

He’d just granted her a temporary reprieve.

Justus snuck down the hall to make sure Maya was safely asleep, then came back and snatched up Santa’s snack plate, taking a large bite of cake as he sank onto the sofa beside her.

“This is fantastic,” he told her around his mouthful. “You’re a great cook. You’ve got me beat by a country mile.”

Angela smiled with satisfaction, her goblet of red wine suspended halfway to her lips. “You ate like it was your last meal. Hasn’t anyone fed you this week?”

“Not like that.” He finished off the cake and smeared a little icing around the plate for effect. “How’s that look?”

“Like Santa was hungry. Don’t forget the milk.”

“Right.” He grabbed the tall glass and downed the milk in what seemed like three swallows. “
There
.”

“Sooo...” she began carefully, well aware she was raising a touchy subject. “You’re going to your father’s for dinner tomorrow, right?”

“I guess.”

“Try not to get so excited,” she said.

His lips twisted down and she could sense one of his dark moods hovering over his head.

“Why don’t you go with an open mind? Maybe it’ll be fun. Your father seemed like he might be willing to try to be...nicer.”

Justus snorted. “That’s the first time my father and the word ‘nice’ have ever been used together in a sentence.” He leaned forward, balancing his elbows on his knees and studying his hands. “He mentioned that you and he...talked the other week.”

Uh-oh.

And had Vincent also told Justus his little theory about Angela being in love with him?

“Oh,” she said, taking a careful sip from her goblet.

Mental note: tell Vincent
nothing
.

Justus studied her with those keen eyes of his. “He said you gave him a hard time. About me. Again.”

“I see.” The effort to keep her face blank overwhelmed her, so she got up and went to the kitchen. “More wine?”

“
No
.” The first notes of exasperation crept into his voice. “Did you? Give him a hard time?”

Justus wasn’t about to let it go, but she was equally determined not to tell him the details of the discussion. Forcing herself to meet his eyes, she smiled and shrugged.

“Well, you know. There’re a couple of chapters of Dr. Spock I think Vincent missed.”

Justus scowled but didn’t pursue it.

She stalled for a minute, sponging a drop of wine off the counter, then returned to her seat on the sofa and tucked her legs beneath her when she figured it was safe.

“I want to ask you something, but not if it’ll make you sad,” she told him.

“Go ahead.”

“Tell me about your mother.”

“My
mother
.” His eyes lost their focus and he stared off in the distance. He slumped back against the cushions and threw his arm over his eyes. “God, I miss her. Especially at the holidays.”

“What was she like?”

Justus dropped his arm. “She got pancreatic cancer when I was fifteen. She was dead in six weeks. She was my biggest fan. She came to all my games. She made our Halloween costumes.” He grinned. “She beat my ass when I didn’t listen.”

Angela laughed, then decided to go ahead and push her luck some more. “Did she and your father have a good marriage?”

His smile vanished. “If by
good marriage
you mean she waited on him hand and foot and waited, night after night, for him to come home from the office at a decent hour, or to remember our games, or to go on vacation and not cancel it, or to eat dinner with us without leaving in the middle for a phone call, then, yeah, they had a good marriage.”

“Is that why you’re so angry with your father?”

Justus slouched back again, staring at the ceiling and sighing harshly. “What’re the chances of you dropping this little interrogation and letting me enjoy Christmas Eve?”

“Not good.”

Giving her a sidelong look, he warned, “Just remember, Duchess. There are a few things I want to know about you, too. So you might want to keep a little concept I like to call karma in mind.”

Angela nodded, figuring she’d cross that bridge when they came to it. “Fine.”

He sighed again, his voice dropping. “Pops never liked me. Never.”

“Justus—”

He held up a hand to stop her. “You know what? Don’t bother. Okay? I know you want to say something comforting, like ‘Oh, I’m sure your father loved you but couldn’t express his feelings,’ or ‘Oh, I’m sure you were too young to really understand,’ but don’t bother. If we’re going to talk about it, you need to listen. I was there. You weren’t.”

To her surprise he seemed only resigned, not angry.

“I’m sure he loved me, but he didn’t
like
me. He didn’t want me around. He didn’t get me. And I didn’t get him.” Justus paused. “He and V.J. got each other.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” he said, shrugging impatiently. “I got over it a long time ago. Anyway, he was always a self-involved jerk, but I could take him or leave him, I guess. But when Mama died, he went into this poor widower routine. Sobbing at her funeral, mentioning her name every two seconds, her pictures all over the house, telling me and V.J. how much he loved her, how she was his whole life.” His voice hardened. “Can you believe that shit? He broke her heart more times than I can count. He never paid her a damn bit of attention when she was alive, then when she died, he pretended he’d been the greatest husband in the world. For sympathy.” He got up to pull back the blinds and stare out the sliding glass doors. “And I’ll never forgive him for that.”

Angela sensed his withdrawal, which was the last thing she wanted. “Okay. That’s enough of that topic. Since you answered my questions, I’ll tell you something personal about me.”

He turned from the doors and stared at her with open curiosity. “Let’s hear it.”

She placed her hand over her heart.

“I wear a size nine shoe,” she said solemnly. “I have big feet.”

“Nice try.” He came back and sat again. “But I think
I’ll
ask the questions from now on.”

“Go ahead,” she said, putting her wine down. Then she twisted to face him and rest her arm on the back of the sofa.

“What about
your
parents?”

That inevitable sadness crept over her heart and she propped her head on her hand.

“My dad had a heart attack when I was ten. He was an architect. I kissed him goodbye when he dropped me off at school that morning—it was a Friday—and he promised he’d take us to Graeter’s for ice cream after dinner. But when I got off the bus that afternoon there were a thousand cars at my house and I knew right away something terrible had happened.”

Justus gently smoothed the hair away from the side of her face. “Sorry, Duchess.”

She shrugged, looking away. “So I guess I’m a little sensitive about fathers with heart problems.”

“What about your mother?”

“She died when I was a freshman in college. Colon cancer.”

“You miss them.”

Her throat constricted so painfully she doubted she’d be able to answer.

“My—” She cleared her throat. “My whole family is together except for me.”

He smiled faintly, absorbed with tracing the side of her face with his fingers. “Not your
whole
family.”

“No?”

“No.” He paused. “Angela—”

The new huskiness in his voice put her on her guard.

“Are we going to talk about anything happy tonight?” Reaching for her wine gave her the excuse to pull away before she said or did something she didn’t mean to do, although it was becoming harder to remember why she shouldn’t be with Justus. “It
is
Christmas Eve.”

He studied her for a long beat or two, his expression shuttered but thoughtful. “Yeah, but not yet. I want you to tell me about Ron.”

“
Ron?
Are you kidding me? What more is there to tell?”

“I don’t know. You loved him, didn’t you?”

She opened her mouth, but the answer wasn’t there.

Loved Ron? Had she? Once upon a time the answer would have been an automatic and enthusiastic yes, but those days felt like a millennium ago. She and Ron had been together for so long. So much of her past was tied up with him: dinners, movies, weekends, vacations, cooking, making love, and holidays.

And if he’d been such a big part of her life, shouldn’t there now be a gaping hole in her life and heart where he used to be?

There wasn’t.

When Ron dumped her, she’d been so worried about the holidays. Funny to think about that now. Funnier still was the fact that she hadn’t thought of Ron at all tonight until now.

“I thought Ron was perfect for me,” she said helplessly. “I thought we’d get engaged today or tomorrow and get married over the summer.”

“You loved him,” Justus insisted, apparently determined to wring the confession from her.

“I thought I did,” was all she could say.

But to her surprise, the storminess cleared from his expression as though her answer pleased him.

By midnight, they’d exhausted every conceivable topic of conversation, laid out all of Maya’s gifts from Santa, and stuffed her stocking. They’d even remembered to install batteries in the toys that needed them.

It was time for bed, and Angela wanted to go. Just not alone.

“I should let you get some sleep. I’m not being a very good hostess, am I?” Standing, she smoothed her pants and pointed to a stack of linens and blankets on the chair. “There are towels and sheets and a blanket. This is a sleep sofa, but it’s probably not long enough for you.”

Justus stood slowly, shoved his hands in his pockets, and studied his shoes. “Great.”

She went to the fireplace and reached for a candle. “Should I blow these out?”

“Leave them.”

She smoothed her hair behind her ear with fidgety fingers. “And there’s toothpaste in the bathroom, and shampoo—”

“There’s only one thing I need,” he said pointedly. “And we both know it’s not toothpaste or shampoo.”

Oh, God
.

They stared at each other for an endless beat.

“We have to talk about this, Angela.”

She opened her mouth, but here was way too much intensity in his expression.

Too much determination.

Too much
everything
.

“I can’t, Justus,” she whispered, that terrible fear of being hurt getting the best of her.

And not merely a garden variety hurt, like Ronnie had done to her.

A
Justus
hurt. The kind that would leave her in the emotional fetal position for months to come, if not years. Justus already affected her so much more profoundly that Ronnie ever had. And when Justus inevitably left her for his next Janet? There’d be no walking away from that nightmare.

“Can’t what?” he asked, coming closer. “Be with me? Talk about it?”

“Yes.”

And without another word, she turned and walked out on him.

* * *

A
ngela flopped onto her back
, kicked the covers off, and checked her nightstand clock for the ten millionth time: three fifteen. She hadn’t slept. Had no prospects of sleeping.

Her body was way too hot and bothered for that.

Why, oh why had she invited Justus to spend the night? What had made her think she had even the remotest possibility of sleeping when he was in the other room?

Sometimes her stupidity was as amazing as it was appalling.

After her shower, she’d listened for him, acutely aware of everything he did, even through her closed bedroom door. He’d showered. Flushed the toilet.

And then—nothing.

For three hours, she’d heard nothing. Not the rustle of his sheets, not a snore.
Nothing
. Was he dead? Had he finally overdosed on carrot cake? And, excuse her, but how the freaking hell could he sleep so well when she couldn’t sleep at all?

Maybe she’d check on him. He’d be asleep, she’d see with her own eyes that he was okay and not sleepless from wanting her, and she’d be able to go to sleep herself. End of insomnia.

Without giving it any more conscious thought than that, she got out of bed and headed down the hall in her white nightgown and bare feet. She peered around the corner and—

Nothing.

Huh?

Not only wasn’t he sleeping on the sofa, he hadn’t even made up the sofa. The linens lay exactly where she’d left them on the chair. She wondered wildly whether he’d gotten so fed up with her that he’d gone home, but he couldn’t have because she’d have heard the door.