Broken (9 page)

Olivia doesn't go for a run the next morning.

Did she leave?

No
. Not yet. I would have heard Mick bring the car around, and I would have heard the suitcases being clumped down the stairs.

But she might be upstairs packing.

The thought fills me with…what, exactly?

I should be satisfied.

Getting rid of her is exactly what I was after last night when I kissed her with all the finesse of a werewolf. I meant to be a little rough with the kiss, though I'd never intended the kiss to be that aggressive. But then I put my hands on her, and my response was almost violent. I went at her like a fucking starving dog.

Which would have been fine if she'd pushed me away, scraped at me, or even slapped me, because I definitely was asking for that. But she responded. She responded like
she was made for me.

What I did is beyond heinous.

All I wanted was to take her in my arms, lay her on the bed, and just be with another human being, and for that reason, more than any other, I was cruel. Cruel even by my standards, and I didn't even realize I had those anymore. A part of me is racked with guilt. The other knows that it's better for her to find out now that I'm a monster.

But something else has been bothering me since last night.

In those first moments after I pulled back, deliberately degrading her, she was shocked and angry, as she was supposed to be. But in the moments that followed, there was something else that pissed me off: resignation. In a matter of seconds, the angry, betrayed light went out of her eyes, and she just stood there, accepting what I'd just done
as though it were her due.

I may not know Olivia Middleton well—okay, I don't know her
at all
—but I do know that she deserves more than what she got from me last night.

There's a soft knock at the door, and I hate that my head shoots up in expectation and my heart seems to beat just a little bit faster.

Then I remember: Olivia doesn't knock. It's Lindy.

“You look tired,” Lindy murmurs as she sets the tray with my lunch on my desk.

“Yeah.” I dig the heels of my hands into my eyes. “Rough night.”

She nods. “Same with Olivia. She was up early, but I sent her right back to bed. Girl looked like she hadn't slept a wink.”

I catch myself before I can beg for more detail. Did she tell Lindy what happened? I scan the housekeeper's familiar features carefully, looking for any clue, but Lindy's calm and expressionless, as always. I like that about her. She's one of the few people who've figured out how to be there for me without acting like a goddamned battering ram.
Are you listening, Dad?
And all you doctors and shrinks with your bullshit about how PTSD can be cured?

But just for the briefest second, I wish she'd ask. I wish someone would ask what happened. How I am. Something other than the vapid
Need anything?

Hell yes, I need something. I need someone to
care
.

“You're not drinking today,” Lindy says, eying my coffee mug.

I raise my eyebrows as if to say,
And?

She shrugs in response. “I asked your father for a weekend off. It won't be for a couple of weeks yet, but I'm giving you a heads-up now.”

“Fine,” I mutter, relieved that she dropped the topic of my drinking. I've been telling myself all morning I'm laying off the whiskey because of my headache. Not because a certain green-eyed girl has made me all too aware that I might be using alcohol for all the wrong reasons.

“Mick is taking some time off too,” Lindy says, heading toward the door. “We're headed to Portland for a little getaway. Your father offered to get us a hotel. Thought we'd go to the movies. Have someone cook for me for a change.”

Wait, what? My father is giving his employees free vacations now? And the two of them are taking it together? I try to think back to the times I've seen Mick and Lindy together. Not often, but then I make a point of ignoring everyone as often as possible. Are they…you know? Good for them if they are. At least someone should be getting some.

“Cool,” I say.

Lindy purses her lips. “You'll be fine. For food and stuff. I mean, it won't be
my
cooking, but…”

Technically she's talking to me, but I know from her tone she's trying to reassure herself that she's not abandoning me.

I give her a look. “Do you have any idea what they feed soldiers in Afghanistan? I'll be fine.”

“Olivia tells us she's handy enough around the kitchen,” Lindy responds, as though she didn't hear me. “I'm sure you can survive on scrambled eggs or grilled cheese, or whatever she has in her repertoire.”

Olivia.

Me and Olivia.

Alone. In the house.

Olivia in itty-bitty pajamas, with small breasts and long, toned legs.

Olivia with her don't-fuck-with-me green eyes and lips that taste better than the most expensive Scotch on the market.

I won't survive it.

“Whatever,” I mutter.

I keep one eye on the door as I eat, half expecting Olivia to come barging in with that Andrew Jackson book she's about two pages into, insisting that we share a meal. But the door stays shut. The house stays quiet.

After lunch, I try to read, but I can't concentrate. Instead, I head to the gym. Usually I hit the gym first thing in the morning, after my walk along the water and before my shower, but I didn't have the energy this morning. Not after last night.

The gym is, admittedly, ridiculous. It's huge by normal standards, but considering that only one person uses it, it's downright absurd. Mick and Lindy are welcome to use it, but they're not exactly fitness buffs. It's just me.

I move steadily through my routine, relishing the familiar burn as I push my upper body to the limit. The truth is, from the waist up, I'm in better shape than I was at the peak of my military training, and that's saying something. On some level, I guess I know that it has to do with overcompensating for the bad leg, but I don't give a shit.

For some reason, I can't stop thinking about my leg today, all too aware that it's only going to get weaker and weaker. I keep it in usable shape by taking my daily walks. I'm not a complete idiot. I might not buy any of that physical therapy bullshit, but I know that unused limbs atrophy and all that. But I draw the line at any lower-body exercises in here, even for my good leg. It's too much of a reminder of where I used to be, and where I'll never be again. No squats. No lifts. No leg presses…

I push the thought aside, and with a last grunt I finish my set of presses. I lie on my back on the bench, chest heaving.

“You're going to wind up hideously out of proportion if you keep that up.”

The voice is unexpected, and I sit up so quickly that I almost hit my head on the bar.

Olivia
.

She's wearing a sports bra and matching athletic shorts in…wait for it…pink. There's an iPod in her hand and a water bottle under her arm. It's obvious that she's here to use the gym herself, not to hound me. Probably could have figured that out from the way she looks. Her smoking body has been well earned.

She moves toward me, and although her ponytail is as perky as ever, she has shadows under her eyes and her expression is more guarded than it was yesterday. She's put walls between us, keeping me at a distance.

I feel a flash of regret, even as I mentally congratulate her. And myself.
Mission accomplished, asshole.

“You're going to be disproportionate,” she repeats. “All bulky and ridiculous on top, and scrawny on the bottom.”

“I'm not scrawny,” I say immediately. Why are we talking about this instead of last night?

She comes closer, reaching out a hand and plucking at the fabric of my pants. She raises an eyebrow. “Yeah? When was the last time you wore shorts?”

I lift my eyebrows right back. “You saw me in boxers last night. Did you see scrawny?”

She snatches her hand back. “We're not talking about last night.”

“I thought you'd be back in New York by now. Or at least all up my face demanding an apology.”

Her expression never changes. “I thought about it. But I need some distance from New York, and I know better than to expect an apology, so…” She holds out her arms as though to say,
Here we are, deal with it.

Her matter-of-fact reaction to last night pisses me off. She
should
be demanding an apology—what the hell is wrong with her that she isn't? Even more annoying…why do I want to give one?

“When was the last time you did any sort of lower-body workout?” she asks, oblivious to my inner turmoil.

I snatch her water bottle and take a long drink as I study her. “Not your business.”

She pretends to think about this. “Oh, wait a second, actually it
is
my business. If you want, I can get you my job description. It specifically says—”

“I'm sure it does,” I interrupt. “But you can go ahead and scratch that physical portion off because I'm not doing it.”

“Ten leg lifts,” she says calmly, ignoring me.

“What?” I ask, annoyed, as I get into a standing position. “No way.”

“We can start them easy. No weight at all.”

“I'm going back to the house,” I mutter, leaning down to grab my towel.

She moves in front of me. “Five. Leg lifts.”

I roll my eyes. “You're a terrible negotiator. You lower your price too quickly even before you've offered an enticing reward.”

“I'm not haggling with you for the thrill of it. I'm just trying to do my job.” She puts her hands on her hips. It reminds me that my hands were on that very spot not so long ago. And that I want them to be there again.

I tear my eyes away from the enticing points of her hip bone.

“Why
is
this your job?” I ask.

She jerks her shoulders back a little, defensively. Interesting. “What?”

“Why is coaxing me to work my shit leg your job of choice? My little recon exercise says you were a marketing major. Didn't Daddy want you in the lucrative family business?”

Her eyes flit away from mine. “Sure. That was the original plan.”

“What changed?” I ask, surprised to realize that I'm genuinely interested.

“Life,” she snaps. “And we're not talking about me.”

“Obviously we are,” I counter, taking another gulp of her water.

She opens her mouth, probably to tell me to fuck off, but then she seems to reconsider. She tilts her head, and just then I realize exactly what I've set myself up for.

“I'll trade you one question for ten leg lifts.”

“Nope,” I reply, already turning around. “No way.”

“Come on,” she says, scooting around to get in front of me. “Don't you want to know why a hot twenty-two-year-old with everything going for her is hiding out here in Maine?”

I give her a glance over my shoulder. “Did you just call yourself hot?”

Olivia smiles a
gotcha
smile. “Aren't I?”

I flick my eyes over her.
Yes.
“Maybe.”

“So you're in? Ten leg lifts for one question?”

I hesitate, even though my brain is demanding I walk away now. “Will I get the real story?” I ask. “Or some bullshit evasion?”

“I'll give you a true statement, but no guarantees that it's the
whole
story. Final offer.”

“Not good enough.”

She sighs. “How about I'll give you a true statement,
and
I'll let you give me running pointers tomorrow?”

I put a hand over my chest. “I can't believe this is happening. All my dreams are coming true.”

“You in or out, Langdon?”

Walk away. Walk the hell away.

Her green eyes are practically bursting with challenge. And, even more intriguing, secrets.

“Fuck it. I'm in.”

Yeah, okay. So agreeing to answer Paul Langdon's questions isn't going to go in my Good Choices Hall of Fame. But to be totally fair, I've been pretty short on good choices lately, so this feels about par for the course.

However, that doesn't make it any easier to think about the possibility of spilling my guts, even though I fully intend to censor the heck out of whatever truth I have to give him.

For a second I'm about to back out and tell him there's no way I'm going to spill my guts just to bribe him to do something he should have started a long time ago.

But then I see the tension on his face when he looks at the waiting leg-press machine. He's nervous. I mean, he's pissed too, because I'm guessing I'm not the only one who's furious about getting backed into a corner.

But it's not Paul's anger that has me swallowing my pride and pushing on with our agreement, even at the expense of my own privacy. It's his unease.

He's afraid of failing.

As he starts to head toward the leg-press machine like it's the guillotine, I mentally throw away the bubblegum pep talk that I figure is written in the Caretaker 101 textbook for this type of situation. We're supposed to be our client's cheerleaders, but this guy needs something entirely different. Acting entirely on instinct, my hand reaches out and gives him a sharp smack on the ass.

He halts, throwing me an incredulous look over his shoulder. His very nice, very sculpted shoulder, by the way.

“What was that?” he snaps.

I shrug as though touching his firm and, um, perfect ass cheek is no big deal. “Thought you needed a little encouragement.”

He lifts his eyebrows. “Oh, absolutely. I could use some encouragement. Why don't I show you what sort of encouragement would rev my engines?” His eyes drop to my chest, and my nipples tighten in response.

Well
…
crap. That backfired.

I shoo him forward. “Chop-chop, Langdon. I don't have all day. Women need to exercise too.”

He gives me an understanding nod. “Kegels. I get it.”

I make a face and jab a finger at the bench. “Sit.”

There's no fear on his face anymore. It's perfectly blank, as though he's preparing himself for failure.

“Okay,” I say, moving over to the machine, grateful that my mom's had me going to a personal trainer since I was sixteen. Sort of psycho, now that I think about it, but at least I know my way around weight machines.

His right leg immediately falls into place, but he hesitates before moving his left leg into position. He's wearing blue sweatpants, so I can't see his injured leg, and although I hate to admit it, I'm kind of glad.

Granted, I
could
have looked at it last night when I barged in on him in his boxers, but I had more important things to worry about. Like the fact that the guy had some seriously messed-up dreams. And that he knew his way all too well around my body in way too short a time.

I shake my head a little to clear it, carefully avoiding meeting his eyes.

“You're blushing,” he says. “Whatcha thinking about?”

I give him a glare. I'm pretty sure he knows exactly what I'm thinking about. His expression flickers with something—remorse?—and for a second I think he's going to apologize for last night. He
should
apologize.

And yet…I don't want him to. That would somehow make me into the victim of the situation, and I was very much in control. Well, not in control of my hormones. But I know that if I'd told him to back off, he would have. He hurt my pride, but not
me
. I'd wanted every second of pleasure that he gave me, even if it was for all the wrong reasons. I don't want an apology for that.

My gaze locks with his.
Drop it.

His eyes narrow slightly before he looks away.

Good boy.

I make a big show of checking the weight, but it's already at the lowest setting. Probably the factory setting, since I bet it's never been used.

“Ready when you are,” I say quietly.

His lips press together for a second as he rolls his shoulders in irritation. “Do you have to watch?”

I give a careless little shrug. “I watched the rest of your workout.”

“That was different,” he grinds out. “And, for the record, creepy.”

“Couldn't be helped. You can do a crazy number of pull-ups. I doubt I could do five.”

“You think you can do one?”

“Hey!” I say.

Paul lifts his hands, all innocence. “They're hard. I knew a handful of women in boot camp who couldn't do more than two. Men too.”

I open my mouth to argue, except I have no idea if I can do even one pull-up. I jab a finger toward his chest. “You're stalling. And I already said I'd answer one of your dumb questions. Don't try to sweet-talk me into a pull-up too.”

“Yeah, that's what every guy wants to see. A girl trying to do a pull-up.”

If it's anything like watching men do pull-ups, it wouldn't be half bad. There was something about Paul in his gray tank top and those blue sweatpants hugging lean hips as he lifted himself over and over and…

My thoughts about his perfect back scatter as I realize his legs are moving. I have to dig my nails into my palm to keep from touching him in encouragement.

The first time is ridiculously easy for him, and it's clear he's using his good leg to lift the weight.

Same with the second time.

And the third. And the fourth. And the fifth. The right leg doing all the work, with the left just along for the ride.

No way. Not good enough.
Now I do touch him. Just a gentle touch above his good knee, but it's enough to make him pause. His eyes fly to mine, although he quickly turns his head so he's not facing me head-on. Like in most gyms, the lighting in here is fairly bright, and abruptly I realize it's the first time I've had the chance to see his scars up close, without the shadows of dawn or dusk, or his gloomy den, or his dark bedroom.

There are no shadows to soften his scars in here, but I didn't even notice. I know they're there, of course, but somehow they're just part of the complex package that is Paul Langdon.

But I know
he
doesn't see it that way. So when he turns away, I avert my eyes.
First we'll fix the leg. Then we'll work on getting him to accept his new face.

I press my hand gently on his knee again, silently telling him to relax his good leg and let the other one do the work. From the shuddering breath he lets out, I know he understands my request.

His hands fist at his sides, and for a second I think he's going to tell me to fuck off, but then the bar starts to rise again. Slower this time. But steadily.

Six,
I mentally count.

He lowers his leg, staring at it as though surprised to find that it's actually moving when he wants it to.

The bar moves again. Still slowly, but still steadily.
Seven
.

This time the bar drops with more of a clank, and my heart twists as I realize just how much weaker that leg really is.

But he doesn't quit. Again, slower still.
Eight.
Then a painstaking ninth rep.

The bar halts halfway through the tenth, and his breathing is harsh. I slip my hand in his, trying to communicate palm to palm that he can do this.

His fingers clench around mine so hard I swear I hear bones crunch, but it's worth it to see him lift a few more inches. The bar falls quickly this time as his leg gives out, and the clank of metal seems to go on forever before I finally tear my eyes away from his leg to meet his gaze.

He's staring at me, and my mouth goes dry at the intensity of his stare. I want to cheer. He's defeated this first demon. But the victory didn't come for free.

I start to pull my hand away, but he holds me still.

“Your turn, Goldilocks. Start talking.”

I want to say something witty, but the best I can do is a pathetic little eye roll, and his smirk tells me he knows I'm backed into a corner I don't want to be in. It doesn't stop him for going from the kill.

“My burning question, Ms. Middleton…and I'll have the truth, please…”

I hesitate only slightly before giving a curt nod.

“Don't worry. It's an easy one.” He leans forward. “Who, my dear, is Ethan Price?”