Sweet Talk. Susan Mallery

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      “Less than you would think.”

      They arrived at the house. After parking, Wyatt came around to the passenger side and opened the door.

      Nicole looked at him. “Don’t even think about carrying me. I can walk.”

      “When was the last time you let a man sweep you off your feet?”

      “I would never do that.”

      “You need to work on your trust issues.”

      With that, he gathered her in his arms. Claire had already opened the back door. She followed them inside.

      He went up the stairs and into Nicole’s bedroom. Someone, probably Claire, had pulled back the covers. When he set Nicole in the bed, she sucked in a breath, then forced a smile.

      “Thank you.”

      She’d gone pale. He knew she had to be hurting. “When can you take something for the pain?”

      “Not for a while. I got a shot in the hospital. I’ll be fine.”

      She didn’t look fine.

      He pulled off her athletic shoes, then unzipped her sweatshirt. She eased out of it and he tossed it on a chair.

      She wasn’t wearing a bra. He could see her breasts moving under her thin T-shirt and wished the curves tempted him. Falling for Nicole would solve a lot of problems. Unfortunately, he felt nothing.

      He pulled the covers over her, then sat on the edge of the bed.

      “It’s just for a few days,” he told her. “I’m happy to hang out here in the evenings and you know Amy loves you but you’ll need help during the day.”

      She closed her eyes.

      “It won’t be so bad,” he said.

      “I hate you.”

      “Is that a yes?”

      She sighed. “Yes.”

      He stood. Claire hovered in the doorway. He went past her then waited until she’d trailed after him into the hallway and downstairs. Once they were in the kitchen, he faced her.

      “You said you came here to look after your sister,” he said.

      “Yes. Obviously. Why else?”

      “Fine. Then that’s what you’re going to do. Help. This isn’t about you. Nicole is in a lot of pain. She’s going to be healing and your only job is to make her life easier. You don’t get to run off to visit clubs or hang out with your friends. You’re to be here and be responsible. This is a serious commitment. I’ll be checking in every night and I promise you, if you screw this up, you’ll be sorry.”

      Claire looked at him as if he were an alien life form. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

      “What was unclear?”

      “Is that really what you think of me?” She shook her head. “Never mind.” She crossed to the counter and leaned against it. “Part of me wants to ask what she’s told you, but I don’t really want to know. I mean, why would I set myself up that way? I’m bad and she’s good and that’s how it’s always been.”

      She paused and swallowed. Wyatt had the sudden sense that she was fighting tears. While he was a typical guy and would do almost anything to make a woman stop crying, he told himself that this was nothing more than an expert performance. He refused to be engaged by the play.

      But Claire didn’t cry. She took a couple of breaths, then faced him.

      “You don’t know me. Regardless of what Nicole has told you, you know nothing about me. I could say the same about her, which is sad. We’re twins. Fraternal, but still. I hate how much we’ve messed over each other’s lives. I hate how things are now. I don’t …” She stopped and pressed her lips together. “Sorry. You don’t actually care about any of this, do you.”

      He watched her without saying anything.

      She squared her shoulders and raised her chin. “I’m here to help. I have no interest in nightclubs, I never have. I don’t have any friends here in Seattle, so you don’t have to worry about distractions. I want to take care of Nicole and reconnect with her. Nothing more. Those are the only words I have. You’ll either believe them or you won’t. The bottom line is, I’m not going anywhere. Not until Nicole is better.”

      She spoke with a quiet dignity that appealed to him. His instinct was to believe her, but Nicole had always talked about how Claire played people with the same easy skill that she played the piano.

      Still, he didn’t have a choice. He couldn’t take off from work and he had a daughter to deal with.

      “I’ll be around,” he told her. “Watching.”

      “Judging. There’s a difference.”

      He shrugged, not caring if he offended her.

      He pulled a business card out of his shirt pocket. “My cell is on this. You can always reach me on it. If there’s a problem, call.”

      “There won’t be.”

      He handed her the card, instead of just putting it on the counter, then realized his mistake the second their fingers touched.

      The heat was so bright and raw, he expected the kitchen to explode. He swore under his breath as he glared at Claire, blaming her for the unwelcome chemistry flaring between them. She stared at the card, then looked at him.

      “That was weird,” she said.

      There was genuine confusion in her voice and questions in her eyes, as if she’d felt it, too, but didn’t know what it meant.

      Yeah, right, he thought to himself. She was playing him.

      Play away. He didn’t care. It didn’t matter how he reacted when he touched her—he would never act on those feelings. He wasn’t controlled by his hormones. He was a rational man who thought with his head, not his dick.

      Still, when she smiled at him and said, “Thank you for taking care of her,” putting her hand on his arm, he wanted to pull her hard against him and kiss her until she begged for mercy. The image was so powerful, his mouth went dry and he got hard in a heartbeat. Talk about humiliating.

      He stalked out of the kitchen without saying goodbye and vowed he would keep his distance from Claire. The last thing he needed in his life was another useless woman making him crazy and ruining everything she touched.

      CLAIRE STARED at the clothes she’d laid across the bed and sighed. Apparently packing was not an intuitive skill. She’d been so careful with everything. Yet here were all her clothes, horribly wrinkled.

      Normally Lisa’s assistant du jour would whisk the clothes away and bring them back perfectly pressed. If she wasn’t around, Claire could call the valet service at the hotel herself. But this wasn’t a hotel.

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