Indiscreet. Alison Kent

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      She glanced away, studied the vase of yellow calla lilies centered on a red-lacquered accent table and flanked by scrolls of painted tigers rendered in Sumi ink and color on silk. The austerity of Devon’s office usually fit her tack-sharp mood. Tonight, she simply bristled further.

      “When you come to me and say you’re in big trouble, I worry.” Devon pushed up from the love seat and crossed the small room to lean on the corner of his matching black desk. The distance gave him the edge he needed; the position gave him the upper hand. “You haven’t been yourself for several weeks now.”

      She waved off his concern with the flutter of one hand, wondering why she’d come here when she knew he wouldn’t let her hide from his probing questions or continue to deceive herself that she was equipped to handle Patrick Coffey.

      Then again, maybe that was exactly the reason she had come, she mused ruefully, getting to her feet. She needed the wake-up call to tell her she was doing the right thing in sending him away. “I was dealing with the stress of finals. Of course I haven’t been myself.”

      Devon shook his head. “I’ve seen you stressed from finals. This is different. In your words, big trouble.”

      He was right, of course. How she’d even managed finals with Patrick disrupting her schedule, not to mention her concentration…Even now he was on her mind, and she just couldn’t have that. He was getting too close; she was letting him in. She was giving in, when she’d determined that he had to go.

      Turning her back on her brother, she made her way from the love seat to the window, opening the miniblinds and peering into the darkness for the second time tonight, as if she’d find her answers outside of herself rather than within.

      Her sigh of admission was heavier than she’d intended. “Yes. It’s a man.”

      “Glad to hear it.”

      She allowed herself a private smile. Her brother’s reaction was no surprise. Over the years, he’d made his feelings on her dearth of personal relationships clear.

      When she’d joined gIRL-gEAR as a partner, the champagne he’d sent had been more a celebration of her allowing the fashion empire’s other women into her life than congratulations on the new position.

      He didn’t approve of her reasons for keeping her distance, and used every possible opportunity to tell her so. But those reasons were what had brought her as far as she’d come in her life. She hadn’t survived their childhood as well-adjusted as Devon seemed to be. Or maybe he was simply pretending, as his own relationships never seemed to last, either.

      He walked up beside her. “I was hoping that once you completed your degree, you’d be more amenable to settling down.”

      She couldn’t hold back a full-fledged smile. “With a man, you mean?”

      “Well, yes. I’m old-school. I admit it.”

      “Don’t get your hopes up. At least not this time.” She sighed. “I told him it was over.”

      “Hmm.”

      “What’s with the ‘hmm’?”

      “I’m just wondering if you told him before or after you lost your panty hose.”

      “A lady never kisses and tells.” Not that there was anything to tell, since she and Patrick hadn’t taken time to kiss. “Besides, you should know better than to press me into a relationship. Last I heard, you were on the outs with that particular bliss. Are things okay now with you and Trina?”

      Devon shrugged. “What can I say?”

      “You can say the two of you are working on it.”

      “I’m not sure there’s anything to work on.”

      She shook her head in reprimand. “Don’t tell me that. I’ve never seen a couple more suited than the two of you.”

      “Get real, Annie. What do you and I know about suitable couples? All we know is what happens when a couple doesn’t work. And right now, Trina and I do not work.”

      Annabel didn’t have anything to say in response. Devon had made his point. And all she could wonder was if either of them would ever find a partner they could fall in love with as easily as they seemed to fall into bed.

       2

      STILL WEARING JEANS, a T-shirt and a bomber jacket, Patrick Coffey leaned a hip on the low railing that bordered Annabel’s balcony, a bottled malt beverage sweating in one hand. He liked Houston in December. Nice and breezy. The perfect weather for stargazing and drinking himself flat on his ass.

      Annabel wouldn’t be expecting him, though arriving home to find him waiting wouldn’t come as a surprise. She didn’t approve of what she called his unorthodox behavior, trying to change him, fix him, turn him one way when he was headed another. At least she was finally coming to realize exactly what a pig’s ear he was, and that she wouldn’t be the proud owner of a silk purse anytime soon.

      Leaning beyond the railing, which bit into his upper thighs, he glanced down, hovering over the edge, weaving from side to side until dizziness brought him back up. He lifted the bottle in a toast, celebrating his continued resistance to the temptation of taking a dive four stories to the ground below.

      Another day, another…day.

      And, oh yeah, another toast.

      Earlier tonight in her office, after screwing the both of them mad, he’d walked out on her without saying a word, unable to respond to her statement about no longer being able to see him.

      Hell, woman, he’d wanted to say. For once, just open your goddamn eyes.

      But he hadn’t said anything. He’d needed to get his thoughts together before putting them into words. He hadn’t done a lot of talking the last few years, and what skills he’d once used to express himself had pretty much seized up.

      Not a big loss, since he didn’t have much to say these days. Neither did he have anyone wanting to listen. Really listen. Though, he supposed with another fine toast, he could probably find a willing audience if he were to make up a few horror stories about his captivity and exaggerate the reality of what had been a hell of a lot of boredom.

      He couldn’t help but wonder if the searchers would have made half the effort to find him had they known he hadn’t been strung up by his balls at all. Instead, he’d spent a whole lot of hours flat on his back, napping in the sun, an ankle shackled to the base of a huge palm. And, hey. He’d lost a good forty pounds.

      Yeah, he doubted that scenario would’ve garnered a lot of sympathy. Thank goodness he’d had his brother to count on. Ray had refused to give him up for gone. Three long years, and he’d put everything he’d had into the search, exhausting his finances, putting his own life on hold, working to right a very bad wrong.

      He’d been just as conscientious since Patrick’s return, making sure he had time and space to get his act together without the pressure of reporters and other inquiring minds butting in. Thing was, it was too much time and way too much space. Lately, they rarely spoke of anything more vital than football stats.

      Oh, СКАЧАТЬ