Trashy Conquest Page 4

  “Who are you texting?”

  “None of your business.”

  Chris is busy dipping pieces of bread into egg batter, but every few seconds, he sends a glance my way. “You were smiling, Jules.”

  “I do that a lot these days.” Shit, I need to rein in my attitude. Chris is…Chris. He’ll always have a place in my heart, and I’d rather us move forward as friends than enemies.

  “You seeing anyone?” he asks, failing to mask the nervous hitch in his voice.

  With a sigh, I set my phone aside. “I’m not doing this with you.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Pretending everything’s okay. We broke up.”

  He doesn’t slow his stride in the kitchen as he places the bread pieces onto a griddle, but the set of his broad shoulders turns rigid. “I quit drinking. Been sober for over a month now. I’m even going to meetings.”

  I rise from the sofa and slide onto a barstool to watch him cook. “That’s great. I’m happy for you.”

  “At first, I did it for you.” He settles his brown gaze on me. The lines of his face are determined, and too familiar. “I wanted to be good enough for you, Jules. So I got my shit together. I wasn’t about to come out here until I’d at least come that far.”

  “You have to do it for yourself,” I say softly.

  “I know that now. So no matter what you decide, I’m staying sober. I just need you to know that.”

  “Chris,” I begin, tone heavy with objection, “It’s over—”

  “Please hear me out,” he interrupts.

  The toast is sizzling on the stove, and my gaze veers to the griddle. “How about you feed me while you talk?”

  He jumps into motion and saves the bread from burning. After the other sides cook for a couple of minutes, we settle side by side at the bar, two plates of French toast in front of us, and I wait for him to make his case. It’s something he’s always been good at—twisting the situation and his words to suit his agenda. I arm myself against this particular talent of his with the burned image of Cash in my mind.

  With the memory of him blanketing me, hands clasped together as we became one for the first time. The way he let me cry afterward, without judgment.

  The intensity in his eyes when he told me he loved me.

  Chris is studying me, mouth a severe line of suspicion as I bring a bite of French toast to my lips. And I know I’ve fucked up already, as my feelings for Cash are no doubt playing across my face in all their tender glory.

  He recognizes the lovesick expression because I used to look at him the same way.

  “You met someone, didn’t you?”

  Instead of answering, I shovel another bite into my mouth. Letting out a curse under his breath, he slides off the stool, leaving his plate untouched.

  “I didn’t want to do this so soon,” he says, digging into his jeans pocket, “but I need you to know how serious I am about us.” In his palm lies a black jewelry box, and as he lowers to one knee, flipping the lid open, I drop my fork.

  I can’t speak, can’t breathe, can’t stop him. I can’t do anything but gape at him like an idiot.

  “I should’ve done this a long time ago, Jules. I mean, hell,” he says, a derisive laugh tumbling from his lips, “I’ve had the ring for over a year now.” He takes my clammy, limp hand in his, and I’m positive I’ve never seen his gaze so bright.

  As if those deep brown eyes are on the verge of overflowing.

  “I was a fool for letting you go.” He pauses long enough to swallow hard. “My issues pushed you into Perry’s bed, and my damn pride pushed you halfway across the country. I’ve never regretted anything so much. I know we have a lot to talk about, but I’m lost without you. Please say yes.” His fingers tremble as he works the ring free from the black box.

  The silence between us is too loud, though not loud enough to quiet the memory of my mistake; it roars through my mind like a jet, and once again, I hate myself for hurting him the way I did.

  “I don’t remember it,” I say, not sure why that’s the one thing that pops out of my mouth in this moment. The crease in his forehead indicates his confusion, so I add, “Sleeping with Perry. I don’t remember it.”

  “I know. It took some time for it to sink in, but I know, Jules.” Something dark passes over his face—the shadow of a memory, the cloud of shared pain, the smothering blanket of regret. He brings my left hand to his lips, brushes the softest of kisses there, then he slides the ring on.

  And once again, I’m speechless.

  Floating in a mosaic dream that doesn’t make sense because this is too bizarre to be real.

  Except it is, and the cold weight of the solitaire diamond is proof enough. I yank my hand back as if he burned me. “Chris, I—”

  “I don’t want an answer now,” he interrupts, rising to his feet. He places a kiss on the crown of my head, and I settle my hand on his chest in a defensive move, overcome by the need for personal space.

  But the way his heart is beating so damn fast steals my breath. You can’t fake that kind of reaction.

  “I’ll call you later.” His words are low, tinged in pain and uncertainty, and as he slips out the front door of my apartment, I’m left wondering what the hell just happened.

  6. Two Steps Back

  Jules

  The diamond seems bigger than it is, weighing down my hand with a phantom twinge of pain, as if there’s an actual ball and chain attached to it. Jewelry shouldn’t make my chest ache like this, but the longer I stare at Chris’ ring on my finger, the deeper the knife in my heart twists.

  Funny, how I thought I removed that dagger two months ago. Okay, maybe not two months ago, as the breakup had been too raw, the history too long, the heartache too consuming.

  Until Cash.

  Until the simple touch of his hand and the longing in his stormy eyes edged out thoughts of my ex. It only takes a moment to change the course of one’s life and meeting Cash Montgomery was a doozy.

  I wiggle my fingers, transfixed by the diamond’s shimmer caught in the sunlight pouring through the living room window. I don’t know why I haven’t taken it off yet. Lord knows it doesn’t belong on my finger. I have no explanation for this dreamlike trance I’ve fallen into, except that I waited so long to hear him say the words, to get on bended knee and put the promise of forever on my finger in all its shimmering glory—a token as beautiful, solid, and endless as our love.

  What a fucking joke.

  My stupor shatters, and I pull at the ring, but the damn thing won’t slide past my knuckle. Already on the verge of illogical panic, I startle when someone knocks on the door.

  Again.

  My pulse is a violent drum in my ears as I cast a glance at the front entrance, unease bouncing around my gut like a rubber ball as if I’m about to get caught cheating on a test.

  This feels like a test, like a sick and twisted game fate is playing to win, because I know the person on the other side of that door is Cash. I can feel it.

  And I’m stuck in limbo with another man’s ring on my finger while my boss is rapping on my door again, his impatience apparent in the heavy cadence of his fist against the barrier of wood.

  I make my way to the door, fling it open, and one look at him sends heat splashing down my neck and across my breasts. On the outside, he’s the personification of CEO in his suit, with his dark hair meticulously combed, gray tie knotted at his throat, cuffs fastened around his wrists. He’s wearing his boss expression, but the way he’s gripping a manilla folder in his hand—tight enough to whiten his knuckles—tells me he’s on the edge of losing it. His steel gaze veers over my shoulder.

  “He already left,” I say, opening the door to let him in.

  As soon as he’s inside, he sets the folder down and wraps me in his bone-tired heat. “He upset you. What did he say?” His words are a low, hot murmur against my hair as his arms tighten around me.

  I pull back and show him the ring, fighting tears of frustration a
nd even sorrow. Just because I’ve let a dream go doesn’t mean it no longer sears. “He asked me to marry him.”

  Cash’s arms drop from my waist, and he stumbles into retreat-mode, face cut from despair. “You said yes?”

  “I couldn’t say anything. He put it on my finger then left, and now”—with a hitch of my breath, I try tugging on the ring—“the stupid thing won’t come off!” Hysteria is rising fast, and I’m not sure how to stop it from overflowing.

  Cash’s expression softens as he takes my hand. He leads me through my bedroom to the bathroom and grabs the lotion I have sitting on the vanity before pumping a dollop into his palm. Then his fingers are massaging the moisturizer into my trembling left hand. He works slowly, his brows drawn together in determination, as if getting this token of someone else’s love for me off my finger is the most important thing in the world.

  With a hard swallow, he tugs the ring over my knuckle and slides it off before setting it on the counter. A tinny ding resounds in the bathroom. “I never dreamed I’d end up taking another man’s ring off your finger.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say, the apology a gut reaction to the sadness marring his features.

  His eyes dart to mine, sharp with surprise. “You’ve got nothing to be sorry for, Jules.”

  “I know how upsetting it is.” I smooth my thumb over the wedding band circling his finger. “This ring is a constant reminder that you’re not mine.” I blink the burn from my eyes, hating myself for my over-emotional response. I’d blame lack of sleep, but truth be told, he brings it out in me.

  Cradling my face between his hands, he backs me out of the bathroom. The flick of his gaze toward my bed is dangerous, and as he lowers his head, lips parted a hairsbreadth away from mine, I know we’re too close to trouble with a capital T. We might as well capitalize the whole fucking alphabet.

  “I am yours,” he says right before his mouth closes the distance. His lips are gentle against mine at first, but then his tongue breaks past my defenses, and he pushes his fingers into my hair as we stumble across my bedroom, kiss deepening. Moans escalating. Chests rising and falling too fast as the backs of my knees hit the mattress.

  He’s pushing up my skirt and working at my buttons when I brace a hand against his chest.

  “I can’t do this,” I say, tearing my mouth from his.

  Brows narrow over hurt eyes as he backs away and puts a good six feet between us. “Do you still love him?”

  My lids flutter in surprise. “What?”

  “I need you to be honest with me, Jules. The two of you have a history.”

  “So do you and your wife.”

  He winces, and I wish I could rewind the last few seconds of this conversation. “That wasn’t an answer.”

  “What do you want me to say? Of course I still care about him. But he’s not…he doesn’t make me feel the way you do.”

  Letting out a breath, he drags both hands through his hair, leaving it in the perfect state of messy that I can’t help but love on him.

  I’m tempted to remove his jacket and tie, and roll up his cuffs, because he’s too put-together for a man who seems on the verge of coming undone. He’s too put-together for Cash. The way he wears his corporate rebellion, like it’s second nature, is sexy as sin.

  Silence stretches between us, rife with impossibilities and longing and regrets.

  “Do you want me to leave?” He’s gentleman enough to ask the question, but his tone is heavy with reluctance.

  “I don’t want you to go, but…” My gaze veers to the side, and the sight of the nightstand where his sunflower bouquet sat hours ago hurts clear to the bone.

  I’ve had a whole night to put some space between me and the memory of us in bed. It doesn’t matter that the sheets still smell like him because I couldn’t bring myself to change them—being with him like that again will only make it harder to watch him walk away once more.

  “But?” he gently prompts.

  “But later, you’ll leave, and I can’t be with you like that today to hold back tomorrow.”

  His shoulders set in defeat, and I know exactly how he feels. “I understand,” he says. “I’m not giving up, but I get it.”

  “So where do we go from here?”

  “The only place we can go.” He backs toward the open door of my bedroom. “I’ll see you tomorrow at work.”

  A thick lump of hurt swells in my throat, rendering me unable to speak, so I nod instead.

  “I’m going to go now, before I can’t.”

  “Okay.” I’m staring at his feet, too fucking close to tears. And I don’t want to cry because I know he’s not leaving by choice.

  He’s not Chris.

  “Jules.”

  At the insistent way he says my name, I raise my head. He grabs hold of the doorframe, anchoring himself to the spot.

  “This isn’t over.”

  “I know.”

  I also know he wants to say more, but he doesn’t. Five endless seconds later, he’s gone.

  7. Just Another Day

  Cash

  It’s just another day.

  Beth is sitting at the reception counter, the white marble under my shoes is as flawless and shiny as it was when I left work on Friday, and people come and go without a break in their weekday hustle.

  It’s business as usual for the thirty-eighth floor of Mont Center.

  Except my wife is missing—the company’s goddamn chairperson—and you’d think that would be reason enough to hang a sign, to set off an alarm warning of the black cloud hovering.

  “Good morning, Beth,” I say more out of habit than an actual desire to acknowledge the day.

  “Good morning, Mr. Montgomery.” She doesn’t miss a step in her greeting, but there’s a hitch in her voice, a barely discernible strain on her young face, a reminder that not all is right at MontBlake. Somehow, I find it comforting.

  I still don’t want to be here, don’t want to see people, don’t want to face the questions in their eyes. Especially the voiceless speculations.

  Those are the worst.

  Disappearing into my office, I shut the door behind me and let out a long breath. It’s true that this is the last place I want to be, but it’s the only one where seeing Jules is possible. The irony of that is a twist in my gut. As I wander toward my workspace, I shed my jacket and drape it over the back of a chair. I’ve just settled behind the desk when my cell vibrates from my pants pocket. I reach for it and find the number of the private investigator I hired flashing on the screen.

  “Please tell me you’ve got a lead,” I say, hoping like hell he found something—anything—since I spoke with him yesterday. I loathe the desperation in my voice, but there’s no hiding it. No reining it in.

  I need answers.

  I need Monica found.

  I need to move past this once and for all.

  I fucking need Jules like I need air.

  “My source told me the police don’t have jack shit,” he says as I pace an agitated path in front of the windows. “Your wife hasn’t used her credit cards, and the only people who’ve reported seeing her are nut jobs.”

  “So we’re still at square one.”

  “Not exactly.” He pauses, and I hear the tapping of keys. “I heard back from my tech guy. He tracked the photo back to Lydia Hirsch. And get this—financial records indicate that your wife paid a sizable amount to Hirsch about three months ago.”

  Drumming silence follows his words, pounding in my ears, throbbing behind my eyelids. I turn a half circle in my office. “Did you make any progress on the video surveillance in my building?”

  “Still nothing. There’s been no sign of your wife’s lover coming or going from the penthouse. We’re looking into possible video tampering now.”

  “Send me everything you have on Lydia Hirsch,” I tell him.

  More tapping of a keyboard sounds. “It’s not a lot, but I’ll send you what I have.”

  “All right. Let me know as soon as
you have more.” I end the call and drop back into my chair, spinning the possibilities in my head. The angles. The facts.

  Monica paid the woman she wanted me to hire a very large sum of money, and now Lydia is dead. Was she blackmailing my wife? The idea sends my heart to the bottom of my gut.

  I’m in a daze when a quick knock on the door alerts me of Jules’ arrival. Shaking the conversation with the PI from my mind, I call for her to come in. She edges the door open while clutching two cardboard cups in her hands. I know one is tea with too much sugar and not enough cream, and the other is for me.

  Just another day.

  Until our eyes meet.

  The explosion between us is powerful enough to stall her momentum across the office for two seconds, a hiccup in her stride. It’s fierce enough to eviscerate my mind, tighten my pants, and send a tremble through me.

  We’ve had heat from the moment we met—unbearable and suffocating in its reality—but this is levels above the sexual tension that shadows us no matter where we go. This is the kind of nuclear blast that can only happen after two people have carnal knowledge of each other.

  “Good morning,” she says, voice catching as she sets my coffee down with an unsteady hand.

  “Morning.” I clear my suddenly dry throat. “Thank you,” I say, nodding toward the coffee.

  Silence follows, shifting the air from hot and needy to cool and cautious. I hate how uncomfortable it is. Needing a distraction, I sip my coffee as Jules settles into the chair across from me and lets her workbag slide off her shoulder. She crosses her legs, brushes her hair back, and I’m drawn to the way her black dress empathizes her cleavage.

  Giving myself a mental kick, I drag my gaze to her face, but she doesn’t quite meet my eyes, and that stings. I don’t like this strained rift between us. This vibe of shame.

  There is not a goddamn thing that’s shameful when it comes to Jules.

  “Are you okay?”

  “I’m trying to be,” she says, lifting her chin, and my heart skips a beat at the vulnerability in her expression. “Are we crazy for trying to continue as if nothing happened?”