For Another Day (One Strike Away Book 2) Page 13

  Nick squeezed Rowan's glove-covered hand, tucking it into the crook of his arm. "Why did your mother marry Cartwright? Money problems?"

  "Dad had a generous life insurance policy. The house was paid for. We would have been fine. Mom has always been open with me. She preferred the life of a wife to that of a widow. Several of the men who showed interest were nice enough. But she had already married for love. When Leo asked, she said yes without hesitation. She married for money."

  "Your mother must have liked him at least."

  "She did. Still does, I think."

  Rowan hesitated.

  "Don't hold back because of me." Nick didn't have daddy issues. What he felt for Cartwright had to do with his mother.

  "Leo wanted a son."

  Nick snorted.

  "Believe me," Rowan said. "I see the irony. Mom wanted my brother to fill the role. And Leo was willing. When she gave him a son of his own, things would change. Years went by, and Mom never got pregnant. I sometimes wonder…"

  "If she made certain there was no blood son to take your brother's place?"

  "She may have used birth control. Mom would never volunteer information that sensitive. And I would never ask."

  "So, brother Geoff was raised with a silver spoon up his ass."

  Rowan's snicker turned into a full-bellied laugh.

  "Mom has always indulged Geoff. Leo expected perfection. Neither method of parenting did Geoff any favors."

  "You grew up in the same household," Nick reminded her. "Why aren't you a self-important jerkoff?

  "A lot was expected of Geoff. Until I grew breasts, I didn't answer to anybody."

  "Bullshit." Nick supposed defending one's sibling was natural. He wouldn't know. But no matter what she said, Rowan knew better. "The way Geoff treats you? That's his choice. And a damned poor one."

  Rowan changed the subject, but Nick was right, and deep down, he was certain she agreed. However, as she said, Geoff was her brother. Good or bad, the family tie was strong. Frayed, but holding fast.

  A companionable silence fell between them as they took their time going back to the cabin. Nick's mind wandered to the text he received yesterday after they gave in and retrieved their phones from the glove compartment.

  The text he deliberately failed to mention to Rowan.

  Nick understood the need for secrets. His mother kept hers close, he suspected for her sake as well as his.

  Cartwright kept the same secrets. Though chances were, he didn't think that way. His affair with Nick's mother, the child she carried when she left town, might have been embarrassing at the time. However, as time went by, he probably stopped caring or forgot altogether.

  Now, the secret was back—and all grown up. Cartwright could no longer ignore his decades-old indiscretion. Unlike his fifteen-year-old mother, Nick wasn't young, inexperienced, or easily intimidated.

  Leonard Cartwright could make the rules. But there was no law that said Nick had to play by them.

  Which brought Nick back to the text.

  Apparently, Cartwright wanted to move up their meeting. He seemed to know everything that went on in Jasper. So, he knew Nick was out of town—and no doubt who was with him. That couldn't be sitting well.

  Like a little child who only wanted something when he couldn't have it, Cartwright decided he needed to see Nick. Immediately. Conveniently, his schedule had cleared.

  "Be here at two o'clock. Sharp. Or don't come at all."

  The text was sent Monday morning. Nick didn't bother to answer. And he didn't tell Rowan. When he said he wanted to leave all the drama back in Jasper, he meant every word. He wasn't going to mar their time together.

  Leonard Cartwright's threat was a bluff. He'd see Nick on Wednesday. Or he could go to hell. Nick was good either way.

  "Anything sound good for lunch?" Rowan asked as Nick opened the cabin door. She removed her boots, setting them just inside.

  Nick watched as she stretched her arms over her head, the berry-colored sweater molding nicely to her breasts. Rowan glanced his way, her eyes widening when she recognized the look in his.

  "Really? Again? You were blessed with some industrial strength testosterone."

  "I was." Nick grabbed a giggling Rowan before she could evade his grasp. Easily, he tossed her over his shoulder. In three long strides, he lowered her onto the sofa, following close behind. "Any complaints?"

  Rowan seemed to consider his question. However, the twinkle in her clear-blue eyes told Nick all he needed to know. He kissed her, the coolness of her lips warming quickly.

  The next time they thought about food, the sun was about to set. And lunch had become dinner.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  ● ≈ ● ≈ ●

  NICK LOVED TAKING a vacation.

  He loved his job and worked hard. Time away was important for both his mental and physical health. After a long, grueling—sometimes heartbreaking—season, he looked forward to getting away.

  Someplace. Anyplace. Where nothing mattered but relaxing and having fun.

  However, there always came a moment when his thoughts inevitably turned back to his first and overriding passion.

  Baseball.

  When Nick was with his buddies, he could go a week—maybe two—without thinking about the game and the season to come. Either he, Spencer, or Travis were always thinking up some adventure. The crazier, the better. But like him, they were athletes. Hardwired for the kind of competition they could only find on a field, between the crisp white lines.

  Nick's patience—or rather impatience—surfaced much faster when his leisure-time companion was a woman. Whoever said variety is the spice of life must have had Nick in mind.

  Tall. Short. Rounded. Lean. Smart. Slightly dim, but sweet and funny. Nick enjoyed all types. For short, intense bursts.

  The blame lay firmly on Nick's shoulders. He had no interest in anything long term. And he made certain the women he dated knew the score. A good time was had by all. Never had he walked away with an ounce of regret.

  Never—not once—had Nick looked back. Or felt the slightest urge to do so.

  After four days with Rowan where they spent almost every minute together. After marathon sessions of mind-blowing sex—followed by equally long hours just sitting and talking and never running out of things to say—Nick should have been done. Over. Out the door.

  Yet, after dropping Rowan at her house, Nick found himself looking at his watch, counting the minutes until he would see her again.

  Nick had come to Jasper with one objective. To close the door on his past, once and for all. His meeting with Leonard Cartwright was only two hours away. Where were the pre-game nerves? The anticipation he always felt before meeting an opponent?

  Make no mistake, Cartwright was his adversary. Neither of them expected a sentimental, moist-eyed, father and son reunion. Nick didn't give a shit what Cartwright wanted. Most of the time—in his mind—the meeting ended in one way. With the bastard on the floor, lip bleeding, Nick's hand singing with the satisfying pain of knocking Daddy Dearest on his ass.

  Nick smiled as the image played out behind his closed eyes. Then the image flickered and disappeared, replaced—surprise, surprise—by Rowan. Light snuffing out dark. Good triumphing over evil.

  With a groan, Nick flopped onto the bed. Light and dark? Good and evil. Where the hell was that crap coming from? Not from him. What had Rowan done to him?

  And why, Nick asked himself, scrubbing a hand over his face, wasn't he freaking out? Running for the hills? Jumping the first plane west to Seattle—or anyplace that wasn't here? He should deal with Leonard Cartwright, then head straight out of Jasper, pedal to the metal.

  What Nick should do, and what would happen were two different animals. Without trying, Rowan had burrowed under his skin, into his blood, and damn close to his heart.

  "Trouble, son," Nick said to the empty room. "You're running straight toward a big, flashing dange
r sign. The window may be closing, but you still have time. Change direction. Now!"

  As he stared at the ceiling, Nick wondered what was wrong with him. Where was the overwhelming sense of panic? The flop sweat? Just a tinge of unease?

  Nick waited. And waited. Nothing. The emotions he expected—even craved—were nowhere to be found. Considering the thoughts running through his head, he felt relaxed. Calm. Almost—dare he say—happy?

  Sitting up, he started to laugh. At himself.

  "Well, shit."

  Who could have seen this coming? It seemed Nick Sanders was well and truly hooked.

  THE RECEPTION AREA of Leonard Cartwright's wasn't any different than thousands of offices all over the world. Change the color scheme, the art on the walls. Powerful men seemed to like the same things. Plush carpets. Soft, dark leather chairs. Attractive women sitting behind wooden desks, the finish complementing the rest of the décor.

  Nick hadn't expected anything else. What surprised him was the greeting he received. A big change of attitude from Ms. Havisham. Expecting a stern—even harsh—reception, the woman's smile seemed out of place. As did the way she rose to her feet, meeting him as soon as he stepped off the elevator.

  "Mr. Sanders. Welcome."

  "Ms. Havisham."

  A little older than he imagined—a youngish forty—Cartwright's assistant ticked all the boxes. The posh accent was a nice touch. For whatever reason, when a person sounded British, they automatically seemed smarter.

  Nick knew for a fact the truth was somewhere between, but first impressions were always important, and Ms. Havisham presented an elegant, attractive, well-heeled front for her boss.

  "May I get you something? Coffee? Tea? A soft drink?" She laughed, flirting a little. "One of those energy drinks I hear athletes are so fond of?"

  Nick wasn't the least interested in a refreshment. Or flirting back.

  "Nothing. Thank you."

  "If you change your mind, let me know." Her meaning was clear. A drink? Me? Both were still on the table. "I'm afraid Mr. Cartwright is running a bit late."

  Shocking. Mentally, Nick scoffed. Adding an eye roll for good measure. He would have laid down good money—no matter the odds—that Cartwright would throw come kind of delay at him.

  "Ms. Havisham—"

  "Please. Call me Megan."

  If she expected Nick to return the favor, Megan was sorely mistaken.

  "Ms. Havisham." Nick couldn't think of her any other way. "We both know your boss isn't running late. He wants me to wait. How long?"

  "I…" Ms. Havisham swallowed.

  Nick wondered how many people dared call Cartwright on his bullshit. From his assistant's uncomfortable expression, he might be the first.

  "How long were you supposed to keep me twiddling my thumbs? And then what? Was he planning on showing up at all?"

  To her credit, Ms. Havisham recovered quickly. Cool and professional replaced warm and welcoming.

  "Excuse me for just a minute."

  "A minute is about all you have. Any more, and I'm out of here. For good."

  Ms. Havisham inclined her head. Rather than return to her desk, she slipped into Cartwright's office. Nick half-expected the man himself to emerge. He prepared himself, just in case.

  He needn't have bothered. Ten seconds shy of her deadline, Ms. Havisham closed the office door behind her. With a neutral expression, she met Nick's gaze.

  "Mr. Cartwright is at home for the day. He would like you to meet him there."

  Nick would like to kick the lot of them firmly in the ass. He didn't move, but some of his thoughts must have transferred themselves to Ms. Havisham. Wisely, she took a step to the side, using the desk as protection. If he'd wanted to do her harm, a piece furniture wouldn't have stopped him. Luckily for her, he didn't hit women.

  Nick had a rule. He rarely hit—period. Violence wasn't part of his nature. Unless he count using a wooden bat to annihilate ninety-eight-mile-an-hour fastballs.

  However, concerning Leonard Cartwright, he would be happy to break his rule. Just this once.

  Walking to the elevator, Nick didn't have long to wait for the car. As he stepped in, Ms. Havisham called after him.

  "What should I tell Mr. Cartwright?"

  Nick's lips curved into a humorless smile.

  "Don't worry. I'll deliver this message personally."

  ROWAN SPENT TWO hours in her office catching up on paperwork. A necessary evil that she would have gladly delegated to someone else. Except for one thing. Before she launched her business, she was given a ton of advice. Some she filed away for another day. Some she forgot altogether.

  However, a few pearls of wisdom were burned forever in her brain. In her opinion, the biggest—and arguably the most important? Personally sign every check, no matter how small.

  From day one, Rowan knew where every penny went. She trusted Rebecca. But the fastest way to bankruptcy was losing sight of the bottom line. And that bottom line was money. Yes, she hired an accountant who double checked Rowan's figures and handled the taxes.

  However, nobody had the authority to make a purchase using her company's accounts without checking with Rowan first.

  Satisfied, Rowan returned the books to the small wall safe that she'd had installed about a year ago. Fireproof, she kept everything there of any value. From her passport to her grandmother's pearl earrings and everything between.

  Rowan's stomach growled, a sure sign she needed food. Now.

  Because her office was on the second floor, Rowan had to pass her bedroom. And the bags she dumped by the door. Packing was fun. Unpacking? Not so much. However, the job had to be done.

  Rather than spoil her lunch with visions of dirty clothes dancing in her head, Rowan picked up her suitcases and shouldered her way into the bedroom.

  Frowning, Rowan took a deep breath. Something was off. Slowly setting down her bags, she breathed again. The smell was familiar. Pine? Not the natural, real tree kind. But from an aerosol can. And something else. Perfume.

  Out of the corner of her eye, Rowan spied a scrap of red peeking out from under her pillow. Approaching the bed, she tentatively tugged, leery about what she would find.

  A bra? Rowan held up the lace and spandex. The cups were huge. Double. Maybe triple D? Definitely not one of hers.

  Reading the tag, Rowan dropped the bra like a hot potato. One by one, pieces fell into place.

  Pine air freshener—something she never used. Musk perfume—not her scent, if she had one. And a bra big enough to hold a regulation-sized bowling ball.

  All the not-so-subtle clues added up to one nasty, unsettling conclusion. Patrice Dandridge had polluted her home with her god-awful scent. And—if the bra were any indication—ruined Rowan's bed beyond saving. Fumigation might help the room.

  The bed had to be burned. Immediately.

  Sadly, Rowan didn't have to tax her brain to figure out how and why Patrice had been here. Her brother. Geoff.

  Another mystery solved. Rowan now knew why he called her on the night she left town with Nick. He wanted to screw around with his girlfriend. What better place than his sister's house? Getting the extra key from their mother would have been easy. Make a copy. Return it. Mom would never be the wiser.

  Rowan's neighbors wouldn't question Geoff's arrival. Why would they? He didn't visit often, but they knew who he was. As for Patrice? The alley behind the house was fairly private. After dark, she could enter through the back gate.

  Easy-peasy.

  Rowan opened both windows. A frigid gust of air beat lingering Patrice any day.

  Damn, Geoff. Rowan thought he'd gotten the urge to cheat out of his system years ago. During the first few years of his marriage, he refused to change from a carefree bachelor to a responsible husband. Why his wife put up with his wandering, Rowan could never understand. Allison was sweet and kind. And she loved Geoff with a devotion he hadn't deserved.

  However, aft
er their twin girls came along, Geoff settled down. Or so Rowan thought. She didn't know if Patrice was a sudden slip, or if he learned how to hide his indiscretions. Either way, Allison and his daughters deserved better.

  Using her house meant Rowan had been pulled into Geoff's ugliness. She liked Allison. More than she liked her brother. She deserved to know what her husband was up to. If she—and the rest of Rowan's family—chose to shoot the messenger, so be it.

  Rowan had weathered worse. And probably would again.

  Suddenly tired, Rowan went to the kitchen, intent on making herself a cup of tea. Food was out. She wasn't one of those people who found solace in eating. Just the opposite. The more upset she became, the less she could face the idea of anything in her stomach.

  After Rowan had broken off her engagement, she ate an entire pumpkin pie. She didn't need a psychologist to analyze that.

  When her phone rang, Rowan checked the screen, hoping Nick was calling with news about his meeting with Leo. Between the paperwork and her brother drama, she'd successfully kept herself from worrying. He'd promised to come by as soon as he was finished. She hoped he hadn't been held up.

  Rowan glanced at the screen. Geoff. Fine. Great. She was in the mood to tear him a new one. Though she would have preferred a face-to-face confrontation, the phone would do.

  "Where are you?"

  Nick was right. Her brother was an asshole.

  "Where are you?"

  "Outside your front door. Open up."

  Rowan squared her shoulders as she stomped toward the door. She'd give her brother credit. He had a lot of nerve.

  "Only idiots return to the scene of the crime."

  Geoff barreled past her, stopping, ironically, by a picture of their father. They had the same coloring. The same fine features. And the same tall, slender build.

  Too bad the son couldn't have inherited a bit of his father's character.

  "I don't know what the hell you're talking about. And I couldn't care less."

  "No." Rowan crossed her arms, planting her feet. The battle was on. "But your wife will care."