Skin Deep Page 6

  She didn’t want the feelings that might come along for the ride.

  “Guess we need a distraction, then, because if the rest of the meal is this good, I make no promises.” She bit into the bread again but this time kept her eyes open and took her time.

  “A distraction. Right.” Fred swallowed thickly, running a hand through that thick, dark red hair until it stood up on end. “Oh! I forgot the last component to our picnic.”

  “Last component?” She cocked her head, questioning, as he pulled out his cell and a portable Bluetooth speaker. A moment later, music wafted from the small device, and Amy dropped her bread right into the fountain water.

  “‘Ordinary World’? Duran Duran?” Her mouth was dry. “This is my favorite song. My absolute favorite song. How on earth did you know?”

  “I didn’t know it was your favorite.” He grinned, and it was the sexiest freaking thing she’d ever seen. “But I noticed that you’re always playing ’80s music. I, ah, made a playlist. To go with the picnic.”

  She couldn’t do anything but stare. Romance wasn’t something that usually came her way. Lots of men—and women—wanted a wild night or two with a woman covered in tattoos and piercings and confidence. They never thought, though, that she might want—need, even—something more.

  She didn’t often think that she did. And now it was being given to her by the man hiding something from her.

  As Fred handed her a second hunk of bread to replace the one now floating in the middle of the fountain, she wondered what the hell she was supposed to do with that.

  Maybe...maybe she should give him the benefit of the doubt. Maybe he’d never intended to give her that letter. Or maybe his family had told him to, but he didn’t want to, because it was her. He hadn’t mentioned it, after all, not even when she’d deliberately poked at him this afternoon.

  Maybe...maybe she could let down her guard, just a little bit. They had chemistry. Maybe they could have more, even just for a little while.

  “How’s your dinner?” Fred gestured to the paper carton of fettucine alfredo that was good enough to make Amy’s toes curl. “I wasn’t sure what you liked to eat, but this is from Luigi’s. I have lunch there sometimes, and I just can’t understand why they’re not ever busy.”

  “That’s the one by the north entrance?” Amy twirled her fork in the rich noodles. Fred nodded. “They’re not busier because they just rely on traffic to the plaza.”

  “What do you mean?” Fred furrowed his brow and stilled, a forkful of spaghetti noodles frozen in midair. “The plaza does heavy marketing itself, to get people in the door. That’s why it costs more to lease a retail space here.”

  “As someone who pays that higher monthly lease, I’m well aware,” Amy replied dryly. “But a smart business owner uses that as just a base. If every shop in the plaza promoted themselves even a little bit, this place would see double the traffic at least. It doesn’t take much. Social media posts about new items in stock, or contests, or special events. Every little effort to get people through the door helps out every other vendor.”

  “Events like the one you held today?” Something in his voice had Amy looking up sharply. His face revealed nothing, but something told her she wasn’t going to like whatever it was he said next.

  “Exactly.” Slowly, aware of his eyes on her, she twirled another fork full of noodles and slid them into her mouth, chewed and swallowed. “All I did was send out a newsletter to my mailing list and make a couple of social media posts. It took hardly any effort, but look how many people were here.”

  “There were a lot of people, and that’s great.” She heard the but before it came out of his mouth. “But I guess I’m wondering why you had it in the promenade, instead of inside your shop?”

  Amy was rarely embarrassed, and she rarely second-guessed her decisions. Hearing Fred ask her this simple question in a quiet, level voice, however, made her squirm a bit on the marble bench. She was pretty sure that because I wanted to annoy the hell out of you wasn’t the right answer.

  “Why not?” She shrugged to avoid the question, then set her carton of pasta down, fork sticking out. “Thank you so much for dinner. I’m so full.”

  “Look, I get that you don’t like to play by the rules. It’s one of things that fascinated me about you since the first time I saw you.” Fred yanked on his tie to loosen it. “But sometimes you need to think about how what you’re doing affects others.”

  “Excuse me?” Amy froze midreach for her wineglass. His words had been mild, but they stung regardless. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  “Amy—” he sighed, loosening the tie entirely and pulling it up, over his head and off “—come on. Can’t you see why your neighboring stores might not have liked what you did today?”

  “You mean by getting some foot traffic into their boring storefronts?” Her cheeks flushed. “They’re welcome.”

  “Right. But you were still the star of the show. The one getting all the attention...while they were the ones following the rules.” He pinned her with a stare. “And you know...if it happened over and over again, they might start to resent it. They might want to do something about it.”

  Amy slowly touched a hand to her side and felt the paper envelope crinkle again beneath her touch. So that’s why this lovely little missive had come to exist. Heat blazed along her skin as emotions tangled in her gut—a touch of embarrassment, incredulity and, under it all, a snaking tendril of hurt.

  Fred had no way of knowing this yet, but when she got hurt, she kicked back.

  “What are you saying here?” She uncrossed her legs and straightened her spine. “I assume there’s a point to the lecture?”

  “It’s not a lecture.” Wasn’t it? Amy wasn’t sure how else she was supposed to take it. “Just...maybe you should cool it a little. Keep your head down for a bit.”

  “I see.” Her temper snapped like a rubber band stretched to its breaking point. “And is this advice coming from Fred Vaughan, Esquire, part of the mighty Vaughan Enterprises? Or is it coming from the man I’ve fucked twice who thinks that there’s more between us than sex?”

  Something flashed in his eyes, so quickly she would have missed it if she hadn’t been looking at him so closely. The open man who had so far focused solely on her in their interactions let a new layer slip over his face. She wasn’t entirely sure what to make of the steel that made its presence known in the rigid length of his spine, in the posture wearing that expensive suit, and in the lean planes of his face.

  She’d gotten what she wanted, finally—she’d worked her way beneath his skin. Rather than satisfaction, though, she was hurt.

  How had she let pasta and Duran Duran lure her into opening up, even just a bit? This man might enjoy the chemistry between them, but at his core, he was yet another man who looked at her and saw a fun fling, not someone worthy of anything more. Which was what she usually wanted too, so why was this bothering her?

  The silence had stretched out, thinned, when he finally answered her question. “Can you separate one from the other, when both are who you are?”

  “Right.” She closed her eyes for a moment, drew in a deep breath, then swallowed down the hurt. Standing abruptly, she pulled the offending letter out of her inner pocket, enjoying the slight widening of his eyes when he saw what she had in her hands. “Look, you must be a fairly intelligent guy to have gotten through law school, and you seem like you can at least muddle your way through a social interaction, so I’m going to just give you a little reminder of something that someone as smart as you should already know.”

  Tugging up the sleeves of her jacket, envelope still in hand, she ran her hands down her forearms, drawing attention to her sleeves of inked art.

  “I’m not the kind of person who is interested in cooling it. I’m not interested in keeping my head down.” She ran a hand through her chin-length
blond curls as a reminder that they’d been unruly black curls when they’d first met. “I am who I am. And I’m not going to change.”

  He opened his mouth, then closed it again.

  “You should try being open like that.” She slapped the now-wrinkled envelope against his chest, where he caught it with one of his massive hands. She tried not to think of the way those hands felt on her body. “We’re done here.”

  Spinning on her heel, she turned and stalked away. If her heart cracked a little bit when he didn’t follow...well, nobody knew it but her.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “THIS IS THE fourth night in a row that you’ve worked late.”

  Fred blinked wearily as his twin appeared in the doorway to his office, propping himself up against the door frame. He blinked again when he saw two of Frank, and again to clear the image.

  He’d been staring at his computer all day, and his eyes were shot. He could probably use reading glasses, but that was a problem for another day. For now, he sank back in the chair that was both ergonomic and hideously expensive. This motif was repeated throughout his office, which had been designed for function, and also to not-so-subtly showcase the Vaughan family’s wealth.“We can’t both be Dad’s favorite,” he commented. “Some of us have to work for a living.”

  “I call bullshit.” Barging in, Frank flopped himself down in one of the chairs across the desk from Fred. “You’ve proven yourself to Dad—to this company—a million times over. You don’t need to work so hard.”

  Frank wasn’t wrong—he had proven himself to his family, over and over again. What his twin was leaving out, however, was the fact that past efforts didn’t count for much in this family. He was only as good as his latest business triumph. Another man might have gotten frustrated by the never-ending weight of expectation that forever draped over his shoulders like a lead blanket, but not Fred...or Frank, for that matter. They’d been raised on a steady diet of family obligation, sprinkled heavily with guilt.

  Family came first. Always.

  “I’m almost done for the night.” Lies. He planned to push himself for at least another hour, after which he would finally head home, hopefully too exhausted to think about Amy’s face when she’d handed him the letter he’d been ordered to give to her. Or to dream about her astride him, his cock sunk deep into the heat between her legs as she rode them both to release.

  “You haven’t just been staying late at work.” Frank fixed him with a narrow-eyed stare that Fred was only too familiar with, the assessing gaze of someone who had known him since they’d shared a womb. “You’ve eaten lunch at your desk every day this week instead of coming out with everyone. You’ve gone home right after work. And don’t think I didn’t notice that you sent me those contracts at two o’clock this morning.”

  “Don’t you have anyone better to stalk?” Fred arched an eyebrow at his brother. “Go follow Randy or Andy or whatever the hell his name is around for a while. Something tells me he’d enjoy it.”

  “All work and no play makes Fred a dull boy.” From his pocket, Frank pulled a silver-plated flask. Unscrewing the lid, he took a large gulp of the contents, then slid it across the desk with a whiff of whiskey.

  “I can’t believe those words just came out of your mouth.” Fred rolled his eyes. “Just like I can’t believe you carry this around in your pocket all day. Who are you, Don Draper?”

  “Just drink it,” Frank ordered. He slapped a hand on Fred’s desk, the sound reverberating through the quiet of the otherwise empty office. Fred glared at him but lifted the flask to his lips. The whiskey burned his lips but numbed his throat, and he relaxed for the first time since he’d last seen Amy.

  He took another sip for good measure, and his brother nodded with approval.

  “Now that you’ve unclenched, are you going to tell me what’s got your panties in a twist?” Frank took the flask back when Fred handed it to him, draining the last sip.

  “That’s misogynistic,” Fred said, and Frank snorted in response.

  “Fine. Will you share with me, dear brother, the reason your non-gender-specific underwear is coiled so tightly it is causing you to act so uptight?” Settling back in the chair, he pinned Fred with a stare, waiting for an answer to his question.

  Fred hadn’t spoken to anyone about Amy, not since she’d come back into his life—or rather, he’d gone tromping into hers. Now, though, his tongue had been loosened by two shots of whiskey. Digging his fingers into the knot at his neck, he loosened his tie and undid the top two buttons of his shirt, then pushed back from his desk.

  “Do you remember our trip to Europe after we got our undergrads?” Closing his eyes, he let the images wash over him, the lights and languages, textures and tastes.

  “In a hazy sort of way.” Frank grinned, but the smile quickly slipped off his face. “The girl. The one in Amsterdam.”

  “How the hell did you zero in on that so fast?” Fred furrowed his brow at his twin. “She wasn’t the only girl on that trip.”

  “She’s the only one who sent you into a funk that lasted six months.” Frank looked at him, assessing. “Wanna tell me how the hell some strange girl from Amsterdam has managed to make you depressed again five years later?”

  “I’m not depressed,” Fred said as his brother eyed him skeptically. “I’m not. It’s just...it’s complicated.”

  “I’m waiting.” Frank reached reflexively for his flask, frowning when he shook it and found it empty. “Hold that thought. I’m going to go raid Dad’s stash. Be right back.”

  Fred waited as his brother darted out of the room. He wasn’t depressed that Amy was probably never going to speak to him again. He wasn’t.

  “Look what I found.” Frank burst back into the room, a bottle of amber liquid and two snifters in hand.

  “Fifty-year Glenfiddich?” Fred shook his head. “That’s his closet stash. Dad will kill you if you drink that.”

  “Please. He only drinks it because it fits his image.” Frank made a great showing of pulling out the cork stopper. “I’ll top it up with Maker’s Mark and he’ll never know the difference.”

  Fred wasn’t so sure of that, but he said nothing as his brother poured generous splashes of the pricey whiskey into two snifters, then handed him one.

  “Now talk.” Frank picked up his own snifter and settled back down in his chair. “Tell me what’s going on with this girl.”

  “Remember that petition that was circulating among the vendors here?”

  “The one to evict the tattoo shop girl?” Frank whistled through his teeth. “Yeah, I remember. Lots of oomph behind it. Too bad, really. She’s hot. Looks like she’d be a freak in bed.”

  “Watch your mouth,” Fred snapped, slamming his snifter on the desk with a loud thump. Frank blinked, forehead furrowed as he worked it through.

  “Holy shit. Amsterdam girl and tattoo shop girl are the same person.” Frank’s eyes went wide. “Please tell me she recognized you.”

  “Her name is Amy.” Fred sipped his drink. “And yes, she recognized me, you know, when I went to deliver that eviction notice.”

  “Shit.” Frank sucked a breath in through his teeth. “Awkward.”

  “You’re telling me.” Fred sat back, traced a finger over the rim of his glass. “I was so shocked I didn’t give it to her.”

  “Fred.” His twin sat up straight at that bit of news. “That’s not cool. The tenant has to be notified or we can’t legally rent that space to anyone else.”

  “I’m a lawyer, Frank. I’m well aware,” Fred snapped, scrubbing a hand over his face. “There’s more.”

  “Oh, I bet there is.” His twin raised his brows, settling in for the story. “And I bet it has to do with the two of you naked.”

  “Sucker’s bet.” Fred smiled grimly. “And it was every bit as good as it was that night in Amsterdam.”

  Fred a
nd his brother had never had that telepathic connection so many sets of twins had reported, but they still knew each other better than anyone else on the face of the planet. Therefore he wasn’t surprised that Frank picked up on what he hadn’t said.

  “You like her.” Frank watched his twin, assessing. “That’s a plot twist.”

  “Indeed.” Fred grimaced. “Especially when she found the letter anyway.”

  “Wait a minute. You slept with her before she got the letter?” Frank pinned Fred with a withering stare. “Dick move, bro. Even I know that.”

  “I know that now,” Fred snapped in return. “I just...she blindsided me. I lose my mind when I’m with her. Which isn’t an excuse, I just... I messed up. And now she’s not talking to me and I don’t know what to do.”

  “Well, that’s easy.” Frank swigged the remaining liquid in his glass, then stole his brother’s and polished that off, too.

  “Is it?” Fred wasn’t surprised that he’d fucked up. But Frank had always been the Superman to Fred’s Clark Kent, so he felt a small bud of hope that his brother knew how to get him out of this. “Well? Tell me.”

  “You’re going to forget about her.” Frank stood.

  “What? Why?” Fred stared up at his brother, who stood just a smidge shorter than Fred’s own six foot four. “Surely you’ve got better advice than that.”

  “You’ve already fucked it up. You said so yourself,” Frank reminded him. Fred narrowed his eyes and contemplated bringing up that hair’s width difference in their height, just to poke at his brother.

  “No need to rub it in.”

  “My point is, maybe she’ll forgive you. Maybe, if you work hard enough.” Frank’s face was set in serious lines. “But I mean...where do you see this going?”