Wrecked Page 10

  Maybe not in so many words, but she’d agreed to have an affair with Zach. Her best friend. The person she turned to when everything in her world was falling apart.

  And here she was. Falling apart. Falling for him, it seemed. And what was she doing?

  Having an affair . . . with him. But they hadn’t even had sex yet.

  Yet. She wanted him so bad, so damn bad, she ached with it and they hadn’t done anything more than some killer make out sessions. Her body was all tight and achy just thinking about it, her heart kept jumping into these odd little twitchy races that stole the breath out of her and if she didn’t know better, she’d think she was having a heart attack.

  No, she was just dying from want, but had Zach done anything?

  After the make out session to end all make out sessions, had he done anything to follow through?

  No.

  Damn it.

  Throwing the dress down, she moved into the closet and stared at her clothes. She had plenty of them. Nice stuff. Not designer stuff like she might have had if she’d stayed in LA but that didn’t matter. It was still seriously gorgeous clothing and—

  The ringing of the phone interrupted her train of thought.

  Zach.

  She rushed over to the phone but the racing of her heart did a slow, hard thud before everything faded to ashes as she saw the name on the caller ID. Blanche Levine.

  Curling her lip, she turned away.

  Mommy Dearest.

  Storming back to the closest, she tried to focus on her clothes again, ignoring the ringing of the phone. She might have done just fine if her mother hadn’t decided to leave a damned voice mail.

  Hello, darling. It’s Mommy. I heard about the wedding . . . I’m so sorry. You know that if I’d had any input—

  Abigale curled her lip. “If you’d had any input, you would have sold me to the highest bidder when I was eighteen.”

  This Roger just doesn’t seem like he was the right man for you. But I’m so sorry you were hurt.

  “Yeah. I bet.”

  I keep trying to get in touch with you. Did that nasty Zach boy—

  Spinning on her heel, she stormed over to the phone and snatched it up. “That nasty Zach boy treated me better than you ever did, Mother.”

  “Oh. You are there. Abigale, how are you?”

  At some point in the past twenty years, her mother’s Midwestern twang had changed to a soft, breathy little drawl that just didn’t suit her. Abigale couldn’t care less.

  “I was doing so much better until you called. How in the hell do you keep getting my number? You have any idea how annoying it is to keep getting it changed only to have you track it down?”

  A few seconds ticked by before Blanche bothered to answer. This time, she responded in a flat, level voice. “Perhaps if you didn’t persist in treating me like a pariah, it wouldn’t be needed. Abigale, I’m your mother, I have every right to expect to be treated with the respect that position deserves.”

  “Oh, really.” Abigale smirked. “Mother . . . I’m your daughter. I had every right to expect to be treated with the kindness that position deserves. Instead, you stole my money, you let your boyfriend paw me, and you did every damn thing you could think of to get me to earn more money . . . for you. There was nothing left for me when I got away from you. Nothing.”

  “I put a great deal of time into your career,” Blanche said, her voice cool. So calm and disconnected.

  Sometimes, Abigale thought that was what hurt the most. Her mother’s complete inability to see why this had hurt her so much. With a sad smile, she shook her head. “You don’t get it, Mother. You never will. I’ll be calling the phone company on Monday. Save us the headache between now and then . . . don’t call again.”

  Then she cut the call off and tried to brush it aside. Her mom, in the end, didn’t matter, really. And for the most part, she even accepted that. But as she went to lay the phone back in the cradle, her hands were shaking. Trembling, like a leaf in a storm.

  “Good-bye, Mom.”

  This time, she hoped she meant it.

  A few minutes later, and a few mental kicks in the butt later, her iPhone chimed a reminder and she groaned, snatching it off her bureau to check the time. Twenty minutes. He was going to be here in twenty minutes and she hadn’t even done her hair.

  She was still torn between grieving for a relationship she knew she’d never have and kicking herself for even caring.

  And she had twenty fricking minutes.

  Storming into her closet, she stared at the dresses and in desperation, she grabbed a pink one off the hanger. Pink and her didn’t always work. It was bullshit that redheads couldn’t wear pink. Some redheads shouldn’t, but she did okay with it, depending on the shade of pink and this one was her shade. The problem was the style of the dress.

  Marin had bought it for her and although it fit like a dream, it was so full of subtle sexuality that Abby had never felt right wearing it. It was modest, but there was something about it.

  Fingering the material, she sighed and then headed back out into the bedroom. “Once more into the breach.” She had to change her bra. It had to be strapless to work with the dress and since she was wearing a different bra, she needed different panties, too. She could feel herself blushing as she found herself pulling out a pair of panties that had garter straps attached. It was sexier than anything she’d worn for Roger, sexier than anything she normally wore.

  “That means it’s perfect.” She was having an affair. Right? That called for sexy. Making up her mind, she found a pair of silk stockings to wear with the rest of the clothing.

  Ten minutes later, she found herself standing in front of the mirror, staring at her reflection and panicking.

  The dress, just as she’d remembered, fit like a dream. It looked almost whimsical, almost sweet with the pink material dotted with black polka dots. It was cut with a full circle skirt and nipped in at the waist.

  The bust had a black lace overlay and it cupped and curved around her breasts like a lover. She wore a DD bra and the dress’s bodice showcased her assets to perfection, she had to admit.

  She looked hotter than hell. She knew enough about appearances that she could admit that. Although the makeup was wrong. She hurriedly washed it off and went for a more old-fashioned style, using neutral colors on her eyelids and a darker eyeliner than normal. She echoed the neutral color with her blush and went for bold, bold red on her lips.

  There wasn’t any time to deal with her hair. Just as she finished applying her lipstick, she heard the doorbell.

  Frowning, she checked the time on her phone. Zach only knocked half the time. Why was he bothering now?

  She opened the door with a smile.

  And it fell immediately as she found herself staring at Roger.

  Roger.

  Today.

  Of all the days. She had to deal with her mother and Roger?

  What was life trying to do, just grind her into the dirt?

  The scumbag stood there with a smile on his face, one that froze as he stared at her. His gaze dropped down to linger on her chest and then jerked back up as she crossed her arms.

  “Abigale,” he said, clearing his throat. He gave her that charming smile, one she remembered all too well.

  Once it had made her sigh with happiness. Roger all but oozed normal, nice, controlled. But every once in a while, he’d flash her a certain smile that had just seemed to burn with dirty thoughts. Granted, he’d sucked on the follow-through.

  Now she found herself staring at him and thinking, that looks just a little too practiced. She wanted to kick herself, too. If anybody should realize when somebody was a fake or not, it was somebody who had lived their life selling a lie.

  Still staring at him, she arched a brow and waited.

  His smile faded as the silence dropped between them, heavy and thick. “I . . . I guess you’re not happy to see me,” he said softly.

  “Whatever gave you that idea?”
She tapped her fingers against her arm and wondered where in the hell Zach was.

  “Look, Abigale, if you’d give me a few minutes, I can explain. I just wanted what was best for us and I thought—”

  The sound of a throaty, powerful engine interrupted him and he frowned, glancing behind him. The sight of the car pulling up in front of the house had him clamping his mouth shut. “You have plans with Zach.”

  Abigale smiled as Zach climbed out of the car, and then, to her bemusement, she felt her heart skip a few beats—ten at the most—at the sight of him. Black shirt stretching across those lean muscles, covering all those lovely, lovely tattoos, but he looked so damned hot, it was almost okay. A pair of slate gray trousers and Italian leather shoes completed his outfit and she realized she felt the urge to fan herself. Zach rarely put on anything but a t-shirt and jeans and the sight of him now had her libido doing bad, bad things.

  “Yes.” Abigale stared at Zach as he came her way. “I absolutely have plans with Zach.” We’re having an affair.

  Abruptly, she realized she didn’t like the way that sounded, not even in her own mind. Affair sounded cheap. Easy. Disposable. Nothing she’d ever felt for Zach had been cheap, easy, or disposable. Especially not this.

  Zach mounted the steps and Roger continued to stand where he was, keeping his body between them. “I take it another one of your brothers is getting married or something and you need a date?” he asked, his mouth pinching a little as he stared at the other man.

  Zach lifted a brow and then looked over at Abigale. “What the hell is he doing here?”

  She sighed and shrugged. “Beats me. He just rang the bell and I assumed it was you, so I opened the door without looking.” Wrinkling her nose, she added, “I won’t make that mistake again anytime soon.”

  Zach grunted and then, ignoring Roger, he studied her, his gaze lingering first on her mouth and then traveling over her body until he’d reached her feet, clad in a pair of simple black Jimmy Choos. “You look wonderful,” he murmured. “Are you ready?”

  “Once I get rid of . . . Roger.” Her skin hummed a little under that look and she hung on to that nice, pleasant buzz as she looked back at her ex-fiancé. “Roger, Zach and I have a date, so whatever you want, it will have to wait. You can call or e-mail, or whatever. But I’m busy.”

  She reached for the purse she’d left by the door and grabbed the key fob. She’d arm the system once she was outside. She shut the door, but because Roger hadn’t moved, she was trapped uncomfortably close to him as she set the locks.

  “Did you say you had a date?” he demanded.

  Just behind him, she saw Zach standing there. Waiting. The look in his eyes was murderous and his face was set in stony lines, but he held himself still and she appreciated that. Very much. Taking a second to focus her thoughts, she shifted her gaze from Zach’s face to Roger’s. “Yes. I have a date. With Zach. And you’re sort of standing in my way.”

  “What in the hell does that mean . . . a date?”

  From the corner of her eye, she saw the look on Zach’s face and she shook her head. Don’t, she thought, hoping he’d understand. She had this under control. “It means just that. A date. We’re going out.”

  “Since when did you two date?” Roger snapped.

  She circled around him, her arm brushing against his since he wouldn’t move out of the way. “Since today,” she answered. “Although it’s none of your business, really. After all, you can’t marry me . . . I’m not being true to myself, remember?”

  “Damn it, Abby, that’s why I’m here.” He caught her arm before she got more than a foot away. “I wanted us to talk.”

  Staring into his beseeching eyes, she realized it. She’d never seen him before, not clearly. But she did now. This nice, normal guy that she’d tried to plan her life around had only been out for one thing.

  He’d wanted to use her.

  Just like her mother had.

  Just like so many others had.

  She waited for the pain to slam into her—it should hurt, damn it. But it didn’t. All she felt was . . . resigned.

  The man she’d planned to marry hadn’t loved her. And now she realized she probably hadn’t loved him, either. She’d just loved the ideal of it. Of him. Of them.

  That wasn’t enough.

  “You want to talk,” she said softly. “After three weeks, after you called off the wedding and I had to handle all of that mess on my own, you want to talk.” She shook her head. “No. I don’t want to talk to you. I’m done with you. I want to go out with Zach. I want to see a movie, or have dinner, or just go for a drive through the desert—I want to do something that doesn’t involve thinking about you, looking at you. I want to be with him.”

  She glanced over at Zach and smiled a little. “He never expected me to be anything more than what I am, Roger. He was happy with me just being me. And I’ve finally realized the truth . . . you never were.”

  “I just wanted you to be happy. This life isn’t you,” Roger said. His fingers tightened on her arm.

  Too tight now, almost painfully tight.

  Looking down at his hand, she said quietly, “You need to let me go now, Roger. And you need to leave. Don’t call me. Don’t write. Don’t come by. You obviously don’t know anything about me because that life you think I want? It made me miserable.”

  Jerking her arm, she tried to break free.

  “Abigale, please, I—”

  “That’s enough,” Zach said, his voice calm and easy. The look in his eyes was anything but and Abigale knew him too well to mistake that calm, level tone for apathy.

  Mentally, she swore and then looked up at Roger. He was still staring at her. Good. She moved in toward him, giving him a smile. He blinked, caught off guard. And the feel of him, so much closer now, left her cold. But . . . yes, she caught him by surprise and the grip he had on her arm loosened just enough so that when she jerked back, he wasn’t able to keep hold.

  “Okay, Zach . . .” She turned and gave him a bright smile. “Let’s go.”

  He stroked a hand down her hair, along her shoulder. Then his fingers stroked her arm. The touch sent fire singing through her. And just when had that happened? When had Zach developed the ability to turn her blood to lava with one simple touch? she wondered.

  “In a minute, Abs,” he said quietly, his gaze locked on her arm.

  She followed his look and she could have groaned.

  She had sensitive skin. Always had. A bump into the wall would leave a bruise on her.

  And now her arm bore a vivid red mark where Roger had been holding her arm. He hadn’t been hurting her, not really. Yeah, his grip had gotten tight there for a second, but she’d handled it.

  As he went to go around her, she caught his arm. “Zach . . . let it go.”

  He was still staring at Roger like he was trying to decide if he should cut him into two parts, three parts, or four.

  “I’ll be done in a minute,” he said, flashing her that mean little grin, the same one he had on his face when he spoke with her mom. It spoke of bad, bad things, she knew. “You can wait in the car if you want to.”

  “No.” She squeezed his arm. “Zach . . . he’s not worth it.”

  Roger seemed to have been frozen into silence, watching Zach with an expression of macabre fascination and fear. The fear was smart, Abigale knew. Roger had absolutely no idea what Zach was capable of when it came to those he loved.

  None.

  Under her hand, the muscles in Zach’s arm tensed and bunched and she could feel the tension radiating off him. Then he sighed and slanted a look at her. The gold-streaked brown of his hair fell into his eyes and she was tempted to reach up, push it back. But just then, she was afraid to move, afraid to do anything to distract him.

  Slowly, he nodded, reaching out to brush his fingers across her arm. Then he looked back at Roger and said softly, “You don’t want to touch her again, my friend. Not ever. And if you leave another mark on her, I’m goin
g to turn you inside out. Your own mother won’t be able to recognize you when I’m done.” A smile curled his lips, one that was so deadly and so beautiful, Abigale felt her blood go cold. “Are we clear?”

  Roger didn’t say a word as he beat a retreat off her porch.

  Seconds ticked away and finally, a heavy sigh escaped Zach.

  He scrubbed his hands over his face and turned to look at her. “I want to hunt him down and beat the hell out of him. Just so you know.”

  “I know.” She smiled at him and closed the distance between them as Roger laid rubber, backing out of her driveway. Wrapping her arms around his neck, she said, “Just consider it an exercise in patience. I had to have one all damn afternoon.”

  “Hmmm.” He rubbed his cheek against hers and murmured, “And why is that?”

  “A bunch of reasons.” She could name about fifty-two dozen and they all started with Zach. But instead of listing those, she rested her head against his shoulder and said, “My damned mother called.”

  “Ah. She who shall not be named.”

  Abigale grimaced. “She called and instead of ignoring the call, I answered it.” She breathed in his scent and felt a punch of heat spread through her. He was wearing cologne, she realized. Something subtle. Something faintly exotic and dark. It teased her senses and made her want to press her face against him and seek out the source of it.

  His palm came up and rested low on her spine. “If it would make you feel better, I could go call her. Yell at her. Snarl or swear or do something worse. Would that help?”

  A gurgle of laughter escaped her and she tipped her head back, staring at him. “No.” She touched her hand to his cheek. “I think I’m okay. Mostly.”

  Dark eyes searched hers for a long, long moment before he nodded. “If you’re sure. You really do look amazing, Abby. And I think I need to distract you.”

  “Distract me, huh?” She arched a brow at him. “And just how are you going to do that?”

  “I’ve got my ways,” he said easily. He stroked a hand down her back, up and down, slow, teasing strokes that felt like they’d drive her out of her mind if she wasn’t careful. “I’m going to have a hard time doing anything but staring at you.” Then he smoothed a hand down over the skirt, cupping her butt in his palm. “Are you wearing panties?”