Kept (20 page)

“You change your mind?”

“You trying to get me pulled over again?”

“No, just helping you remember.”

He chewed on his lip.

So the moment was really over. She adjusted her seatbelt.

“Miska, what do you… How do you see yourself?”

“What do you mean?”

He pressed his lips together, slowing through the curved interchange ramp. “You are beautiful.” He glanced her way. “Don’t you see that?”

She caught her breath.

“You’re kind. Caring. Don’t—don’t throw it away on Mark.”

He looked back at the road, but Miska couldn’t take her eyes off him. He was the beautiful one. All six foot, nine inches, two hundred and more like forty pounds of him. He was a gorgeous man, in and out.

And she wished she’d met him before Mark.

Oh, how she wished she’d met him first.

Working was pointless. Absolutely pointless.

Dillan pushed his chair back and stretched his good arm high over his head. Maybe he needed a break. He checked the clock. Four-thirty. There had to be something good on ESPN. That might get his mind off Miska.

He swallowed, remembering everything about the night before. The way she’d looked running down the field, dark hair bouncing around her shoulders. Her teeth bright against her skin, her cheeks flushed. The feel of her on his back, her scent when he turned his head. Oh, man. He dragged his hand down his face. The way she looked at him after he’d been pulled over, like she was waiting for a kiss.

She wasn’t. But it had been tempting.

Which was scary.

He tapped his fingers against the laptop, staring at his notes. He pictured Miska between Jordan and Tracy, the three of them laughing about something, looking so different yet seeming as if they belonged together.

He clenched his jaw. He couldn’t go there. She wasn’t a Christian.

The intercom buzzed.

He jumped on the interruption, hurried into the hall, and pressed the speak button. “Yes?”

“This is Scott downstairs. I’ve got a package for Dillan Foster.”

“Be right down.”

He grabbed his keys and left. Had to be the commentaries he’d ordered. Maybe that would help him focus.

An elevator came quickly, and he rode uninterrupted to the main lobby.

Scott stood behind the front desk, on the phone. Across from him a well-dressed African-American man waited.

The man flashed him a smile, and Dillan nodded back. The guy looked familiar. Tall, just a couple inches shorter than he was. Well dressed in a bright orange sweater with light blue shirttails and collar sticking out. Dark jeans and boat shoes. His hair in short dreads and a diamond in each ear. Some fat silver watch on his wrist.

Where had he seen him before? Was he new to the building?

No, he hadn’t seen him here.

Scott hung up the phone. “You can go up, Mr. Sullivan.”

Dillan blinked. Kendall Sullivan? Shooting guard for the Detroit Turbines? Now he could picture the man in the hated jersey, playing for the Bulls’ rival.

“Thanks.” Sullivan tapped a knuckle against the raised desktop and walked past Dillan, a wheeled suitcase in hand.

What was he doing here? Dillan faced Scott. “You got a package for me?”

“I do.” From beneath the desk Scott pulled out a box. “Here you go, Dillan.”

“Thanks.” So he was just Dillan while Mr. Athlete was Mr. Sullivan. Good to know.

Sullivan was still waiting for an elevator when Dillan entered the glassed-in lobby. The man smiled again. “Whatcha got there?”

“Just books.” Dillan took a deep breath. Whatever the guy said, he was not going to act like Garrett. “Are you Kendall Sullivan?”

His smile grew. “That’s me.” He stuck out his hand, and Dillan took it. “And you are?”

“Dillan. Foster. Nice to meet you.”

“You too. It’s always a pleasure to meet someone in Chicago who isn’t a Bulls fan.”

“Actually…”

The elevator dinged, and Kendall laughed a deep, rolling laugh as the doors opened. “Do I want to get in an elevator with you?”

Dillan grinned. “We’ll keep the rivalry on the court.”

“My man.” Kendall slapped him on the back as they entered. “Chicago’s too cool of a city to pretend I hate it.”

He pressed the eighteen. “Lots better than Detroit.”

“You don’t hear me disagreeing.” Kendall reached for the floor buttons, then stopped. “You live on eighteen?”

“Yep. You headed there?”

“Oh, yeah. Love the views.” He laughed that deep, throaty laugh again, but this time the sound grated.

Dillan held the smile on his face. He wasn’t going to… He couldn’t finish the thought. There was no way. No way. “What are you doing in town?”

“Just having some fun in my off season. My hockey team’s playing for the Stanley Cup. Got to support my boys, you know?”

Dillan’s stomach turned. This couldn’t be.

“You like hockey?”

He tried to smile at the guy, but it fell flat. “Not much.”

“I used to play. Fun sport.”

He stared at his toes. “What made you choose basketball?”

“My coaches thought I could make it. I gave up hockey in middle school, but I still love it.”

Dillan nodded. The elevator slowed, and he jammed his lips together. What on earth was Miska doing?

“You play basketball?” Kendall asked. “You’re tall enough.”

“No.” He followed Kendall out of the elevator, and the man turned down his hallway. Dillan muffled a groan.
God, no.
He couldn’t be seeing Miska. She couldn’t be… sleeping with another athlete. He slowed his steps, finally stopping to retie his shoe.

Kendall glanced back at him. “Have a good day, man.”

“You, uh, you too.” The words were foul in his mouth. Kneeling on the floor, still tying his shoe, he watched Kendall walk past his door and stop at Miska’s.

He knocked.

The door opened immediately, as if she’d been waiting. She stepped into view, and Dillan froze. Long curls danced across bare shoulders, a gauzy, pink top barely covering what had to be covered. She wore tiny, white shorts, and between the top of the shorts and the bottom of her shirt, a band of tanned skin showed.

Kendall’s face lit up. “Hey, sweet thing.” He held her face in his hands and lowered his mouth to hers.

Dillan wanted to look away. So much. But he couldn’t tear his eyes from the awfulness of what he was seeing—Miska’s hands on Sullivan’s waist, Sullivan’s fingers traveling down her shoulder, her arm.

He’d never seen her like this, flaunting everything, kissing a man she’d never mentioned, letting his hands run across her body. What had happened to Mark?

Forget Mark. What had happened to last night?

He couldn’t watch. She was nothing but a skank. A whore. He stood, the contents of his box thumping inside, and started for his door, toward the couple displaying their immorality to anyone who happened to look.

She pulled back from Sullivan and peeked at Dillan.

He searched his keys. So she was embarrassed. Good. She should be.

Her voice was almost a whisper. “You coming in?”

Sullivan grabbed his suitcase. “Absolutely.”

Dillan jammed his key into the lock, unable to keep from glancing her way. Miska had already disappeared, but Kendall sent him a wink.

Dillan set his jaw. He tossed the box beside his desk, then wandered into the living room. The windows beckoned him, and he took in their view, trying to empty his mind of what he’d just discovered. Of what he was pretty sure was going on next door.

The woman knew how to cast a spell on him, just like she had with Scheider and Sullivan. He rubbed his throat. It was amazing, really, how she could seem so innocent and sweet, all soft and safe around him. And the next day be opening her home to some other guy.

Some guy with boatloads of money.

His words from the night before came back to him, his warning not to waste herself on Mark. She had to have been laughing at him. She wasn’t wasting herself on Mark. She was wasting herself on him and Sullivan and who knew who else.

She was disgusting.

And she and Mark and Sullivan—they could have each other. His fist fell against the window. He’d learned his lesson this time. She was a beautiful woman on the outside only. Inside she was all filth and perversion and—

He sighed. He was a fool. A stupid, stupid fool. From now on he’d keep his distance.

He didn’t want any part of her.

When the front door squeaked open and Tracy and Garrett entered, laughing about something, Dillan still leaned against the window. He pushed off the glass and turned toward the recliner, hoping he looked busy.

“Dillmeister.” Garrett set his briefcase on the counter. “What’s up, bro?”

“Not much.” He plopped onto the couch and flipped the TV on to SportsCenter.

“You eaten yet?”

“Nope.”

“Everything go okay with Miska last night?” Tracy asked.

Oh, yeah. “Yep. How’s your tire?”

“Between Garrett and your dad, it’s as good as new.” She sank onto the far end of the couch, water bottle in hand. “More sports. Do you watch anything besides sports?”

Dillan grabbed the remote and turned the TV off. Tossed the remote onto the coffee table.

Silence filled the room.

“Dill?” Garrett asked. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” He cleared his throat. “Just—kinda bored.”

Tracy watched him, eyebrows furrowed.

He stood, waved a hand at the TV. “You guys watch what you want. I’ve got stuff to do.”

“Like?”

“Work. A run.” Actually a run sounded good.

He slipped past Garrett and grabbed an empty water bottle. While he filled it, he heard Tracy whispering. He rolled his eyes. He just needed to leave.

No, he
needed
to calm down. Miska shouldn’t be able to ruin a perfectly good day. How dumb was that?

Tracy picked up her bag. “I think I’ll say hi to Miska, see what she’s got going on.”

“She’s busy.” Dillan snapped the cap onto the bottle. “She’s… entertaining.”

“Entertaining?”

“Oh, yeah. She and Kendall Sullivan seem very close.”

Garrett cocked his head. “Kendall Sullivan?”

“That’s what I said.”

“Detroit’s Kendall Sullivan?”

“Nice guy. Very friendly.”

“Who’s Kendall Sullivan?” Tracy asked.

“Basketball player for the Turbines.”

“Another—another athlete?”

He could see it all coming together for her. “She’s a classy lady, isn’t she?”

“Are you sure that it’s…” She held out a hand.

“Saw it myself, Trace.” He glanced at Garrett who looked shocked—which was saying something. “She actually wears clothes for Mark. Kendall, not so much.”

“So what…” Tracy sank back to the couch. “She’s dating two athletes? Do you think—I mean, why? Do you think she’s…”

He decided to say the words Tracy couldn’t find. “Do I think she’s prostituting herself? Absolutely.”

“Dillan.”

“What?”

“Don’t be so hard on her.”

“Come on, Tracy. I know you want to see her get saved and all that, but get real. This woman is so far gone.”

“You don’t know that. You don’t know what’s going on inside her.”

“And you do? What’s she said? That she’s agonizing about which guy to sleep with? I’m beginning to wonder how much Mark’s paying her.”

“Dillan!”

He jerked his chin at Garrett. “Am I right?”

“Probably.” Garrett sighed. “Tracy, a woman with two rich guys? You know what’s going on.”

“Yes, but you don’t have to be so cynical about it.”

“We aren’t.” Garrett’s voice stayed calm. “A woman doing what she’s doing? She’s into it for money.”

“But what about Mark? She talks about him all the time. This other guy doesn’t fit.”

“Yet he’s right next door. Go figure.” Why did he care? Why? “I’m going for a run.”

In his room he pulled off his Bears jersey and tossed it in the hamper. He stared at his open closet, at the mix of T-shirts, button-downs, dress shirts, and suits. Why had he ever met Miska? He blinked, unable to move.
God, why?
He’d had every intention of forgetting her, of leaving her to her life and moving on with his. Like he’d told Tracy, she was too far gone. He’d known it from the moment he’d met her.

But he hadn’t been able to avoid her.

Okay, that wasn’t completely true. He’d run into her a few times, and he’d enjoyed her company and her looks enough that he’d allowed himself to run into her again, to pretend a friendship existed where none did.

At least she’d never propositioned him. Would he have been strong enough to resist that?

Well, he was now.

Against his will, he saw Miska standing in her doorway again, saw the scant clothing, saw Kendall’s hands on her.

He gritted his teeth. It was his own stupid fault he was feeling this way. But he let the image play in his mind, branding into his brain who she was. What she was.

He wouldn’t forget.

Miska pushed a kalamata olive around her plate while her father took another bite from his panini.

“Mmm,” he mumbled around the bread. “Good.”

She glanced across the crowded café. Tables were filled with people on lunch break and suburbanites enjoying a day downtown. In the corner a couple with two-year-old girls in ponytails scarfed their food while the baby boy banged his high chair.

What a life.

“Don’t you like your salad?”

She looked at Dad. He’d polished off another three bites while her mind wandered.

“Told you the sandwiches are great. A little bread wouldn’t hurt you.”

“I’m not that hungry.” She stabbed a forkful of lettuce and olives. She’d eaten too well while Kendall was in town—a different brand of average deep-dish pizza, a steak place, a sushi restaurant, and two breakfasts at a great diner. Not to mention the food at the hockey game.

She was thirty now. She wasn’t burning calories the way she used to. She couldn’t afford to put on a few pounds.

Which was ridiculous. She set her fork across the plate, not caring that it clattered. How crazy that a few pounds could make a difference between staying in her home and having to sell. How wrong.