Parker’s Price (3 page)

“Look on the bright side.”

“What bright side?” she asked, sounding a little forlorn. She noticed the lipstick marks on the glass and rubbed at it with her thumb.

“Your ex won’t be bothering you anymore.”

“Please.” She made a face, an uneven mix of misery and hopefulness. “He’s probably figured out we were faking in front of him.”

He took back the Scotch, brought it to his lips, and drained it, watching her out of darkened, enigmatic eyes. “It felt pretty real to me.”

Parker froze, then wisely decided to ignore his remark.

“But he did buy that Russian model. She should have no problems making him forget about me.” She took a deep breath. “And there was only minimal press. The auction won’t be anything more than a side note.”

He caught the attention of a passing waiter and gestured for another Scotch.

“Who has you so worried?”

“My mother,” she blurted out. She glared at him. “Stop laughing.”

He swallowed his laughter and cleared his throat. “Sorry. She wouldn’t approve of what happened tonight?”

“No,” she replied emphatically. “Definitely not.”

“Because of what happened or because of this reputation you seem to think I have?”

She hesitated, then said, “Men like you always have a reputation.”

“Men like me?”

“Insanely wealthy, under forty, sexy.”

Those sexy, sculpted lips stretched into a slow smile that made her feel like she had another sip of Scotch. “I’m glad you find me sexy.”

“I’d be dead not to,” she admitted truthfully. “But I stopped allowing my hormones to make my decisions for me after I became old enough to drive.”

“So, you were attracted to your ex’s intelligence? His sense of humor, perhaps?”

Busted.

“Okay, I had a temporary lapse in judgment. It happens. I’m not perfect.” She arched a brow. “Are you going to sit there and tell me all the women you date are for their brains and personality?”

The waiter arrived and swapped the empty Scotch glass with a fresh one.

“I never said otherwise,” he said, after nodding his thanks and the waiter retreated.

Uncharitably, she wondered if he normally dated women whose names ended with an
i
.

“However, since I enjoy intelligent conversation, I generally want an IQ that’s larger than the bra size.”

“So, if I’m a drooling idiot, you’ll leave me alone?”

His low laugh sent heat rippling over her skin. “Too late for you to fake it with me.”

She blew out a breath. “It’s only one date. I can do it. And you’ll probably lose interest afterward.”

“No other woman’s ever needed to give herself a pep talk to spend time with me.”

“That you know of,” she qualified.

He nodded once, conceding her point.

The waiter returned with their food. Grateful for the distraction, Parker picked up her fork and studied her artfully arranged pistachio-crusted tuna ahi. “It’s almost too pretty to eat.”

He looked up from his bison filet. “Want to split mine so you can take yours home to admire?”

“I said ‘almost,’” she reminded him, and speared off a small chunk of raw tuna, touched a tip in the chocolate sauce and popped it in her mouth.

They had snippets of conversation while they ate, mainly about the upcoming mayoral election and the slim chances of newcomers against the incumbent. When they finished, the scarily efficient waiter came by to clear the table and inquire about coffee and dessert.

Parker shook her head. “It’s getting late,” she said. “I need to get home.”

He took care of the bill and they headed for the exit to the foyer. They stepped outside, where an attendant waved down a taxi for them. They climbed in the back and Parker gave the driver her address. As the taxi merged into heavy traffic, Parker crossed her arms over her chest and hugged herself, and the man sitting next to her started to shrug out of his jacket.

“No, please don’t bother. I’m fine.”

“I can see the goose bumps on your arms,” he told her, but kept his jacket on. “Come here.”

Without waiting for her to comply, he slipped an arm around her waist and dragged her toward him. His body heat too enticing to rebuff, Parker remained pressed up against him. His fingers stroked the length of her upper arm.

“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” he asked quietly.

“If I agree, will you count that as the date I owe you?”

He pressed his mouth into her hair and she could feel his smile. “Think of it as the trial run.”

“You’ve been preoccupied all morning.”

Parker glanced up at her mother’s words. Her niece grabbed a fistful of Parker’s hair and tugged, not wanting to share her favorite—and only—aunt’s attention. Parker gasped and captured the little girl’s chubby, yet delicate fist.

“Savannah, honey, Auntie Parker likes having her hair attached to her head,” she said chidingly as she very gently pried each one of the fingers open. Savannah only smiled, revealing two rows of baby teeth. Parker grimaced with pain and rubbed her stinging scalp as she distracted the three-year-old with a plush animal, which Savannah poked and prodded to find the source of the giggling. Satisfied that Savannah’s attention would be diverted for a whole two minutes, Parker turned to her mother. It was like looking into a gently aged mirror. Kelly Quinn was still slim, thanks to her daily power walks, and her hair was still as dark as both her daughters’.

“It’s nothing, Mom. I’m fine.”

“You’ve barely said two words since you got here.”

Parker grimaced. She was guilty as charged. Like every other Sunday, she’d endured the trip through the Holland Tunnel to her mother and sister’s home in Jersey City for lunch and, if she had the time, dinner. Today, however, she couldn’t banish Dean Maxwell from her mind. Last night, he’d taken her home and escorted her to her door, and, true to his word, he’d left her with nothing more than a brotherly kiss pressed into her hair. She’d told herself she’d been relieved and she’d tossed and turned all night
not
because of sexual frustration. Truly.

“I’m just tired. I had a late night last night.”

Her mother’s gently lined face softened. “How did the auction go?”

She managed a smile. “It was good. We raised a lot of money. More than last year.”

“Well, you worked hard enough to make it a success.” Her mother pursed her lips. “I think you’ve lost weight.”

Parker shrugged, feeling a little uncomfortable. “Probably.” Her eyes fell to Savannah’s sweet face. She searched it. However, try as she might, she only saw the stamp of her younger sister in the wide-set eyes, chubby cheeks and plump, bow-shaped lips.

She studied Savannah and couldn’t see any traces of Dean Maxwell.

Parker reached out and brushed back the soft, dark hair. Unlike her mother, aunt, and grandmother, Savannah’s hair was naturally curly, looking like a nimbus around her face if left untamed. Perhaps the curls came from somewhere on Dean’s side of the family.

Slim hands, roughened with calluses from years of hard labor, brushed back Parker’s own hair. “Sweetheart, you don’t look fine.”

Parker managed a small smile that she hoped looked reassuring. “Really, I’m okay. I’ll ease up the hours at work.”

She scooped up her niece and got whacked in the side of the head with the plush toy. She aimed a disapproving frown at Savannah, who only smiled sheepishly at her, and stood up.

“We’d better go downstairs and give Brenda a hand in the kitchen.”

Her mother sighed but thankfully didn’t probe further.

Parker led the way to the cozy kitchen, where her younger sister was sliding something wrapped in foil into the oven.

“Your salmon’s going to take fifteen minutes, Mom,” Brenda said as she set the oven timer.

Parker put Savannah down on her feet and watched, with a twinge of envy, as the little girl waddled over to her mother and wrapped herself around one of Brenda’s legs like a vine. Brenda absentmindedly patted her daughter’s head as she started clearing away the counter.

Brenda glanced at Parker. “I’m almost done here. If you can set the table, we’ll be good.”

“No problem, sis.”

Parker went to the fridge and retrieved the large sushi platter she’d brought over. She and Brenda would split the platter while their mom and Savannah shared the baked salmon, steamed peas and salad. She set the platter on the table and went back to the fridge for the wasabi and ginger. She pulled out soy sauce from one of the lower cupboards.

“Sushi’s good, Mom. You need to try it,” Brenda was saying.

Parker caught her mother making a face. “All food should be cooked,” Kelly stated.

Brenda laughed as she wiped down the counter. “This from the woman who eats her steak practically raw.”

Watching her sister work, Parker couldn’t help but be amazed at the twenty-seven-year-old. Four years ago, she would’ve never thought her flighty younger sibling would ever grow up. Brenda had been the typical rebellious teenager. She had to be blackmailed into attending a post-secondary institution. After four years in NYU, she’d ended up with a degree she didn’t care for and, subsequently, didn’t use. Another two years were spent flitting from clerical job to clerical job in Manhattan. Parker and her mother had learned by then that pressuring Brenda down the path they wanted for her was not a wise move and had allowed her to lead her own life, praying she would make the right choices.

After Brenda had held the same job for six months, Kelly and Parker had allowed themselves to hope. And then their hopes had been dashed when Brenda came home one day and tearfully announced she was pregnant. She’d had an affair with the CEO and president of the brokerage firm where she’d worked. When she’d told him about the baby, he’d offered her money for an abortion.

Brenda had been inconsolable for weeks. Parker had wanted to confront Dean Maxwell and tear a strip off him, but Brenda wouldn’t let her. After several weeks, Parker and her mother had decided a change of pace and scenery would be to Brenda’s benefit. Parker had found a lovely Victorian house in a quiet neighborhood in Jersey City, dipped deeply into her emergency fund to make the down payment and moved Brenda and her mother there.

Since her mother had never finished high school because she’d been pregnant with Parker during her senior year and Brenda no longer had a job, for the first year Parker had to stretch her single income to cover two mortgages.

Despite Parker’s protests, Kelly Quinn had found herself a job in a textile manufacturing plant to help ease the financial burden. The three women agreed that Brenda should stay at home with Savannah until the little girl entered the first grade. Brenda, to both Kelly and Parker’s surprise, excelled at motherhood. With Savannah, Brenda had found a purpose in life.

As the memories rushed through her, Parker’s anger returned, making her chest tight. Dean Maxwell had cruelly rejected both her sister and her niece. The more recent memories fought their way to the fore, and guilt made her uncomfortably warm. How could she want the man who’d seduced and abandoned her baby sister? True, he was extremely attractive and she could see why her sister had so readily fallen into his bed, but she, Parker, should know better. Behind the sexy exterior, the man was cold and calloused.

Then Parker recalled the feel of him pressed against her, his skin on hers, his voice in her ears. Well, perhaps not cold, she thought.

“Auntie Parker, you look funny,” Savannah called out from between Brenda’s legs, her large brown eyes studying her aunt curiously.

Parker flushed but was glad for the interruption.

Dean Maxwell had not wanted the sweet little girl staring up at her. She would have to remind herself of that fact during her future encounters with him. Perhaps Savannah could help combat the uncharacteristic weakness that assailed her every time Dean Maxwell was around.

“Have you been avoiding me?”

Parker bobbled the ring of keys in her hand, nearly dropping the jangling lot. She spun around, a hand pressed to her racing heart as if to keep it in place, and glared at the man standing at the bottom of the stoop. “Make some noise if you’re going to come up behind a person!”

“I called your name, but you didn’t hear me.” Dean lifted a questioning brow. “Or were you ignoring me?”

“If I was ignoring you, I would’ve known you were behind me and my heart wouldn’t have tried to leap out of my chest just a moment ago,” she pointed out tartly.

He walked up the steps and, before she could stop herself, Parker shrank back until the closed door stopped her retreat—and told herself the twisting in her tummy was a natural reaction to being cornered by a man she didn’t like and, even worse, couldn’t trust. He was close enough to force her to tilt her head back to meet his gaze. Lips pursing in irritation with herself, she hitched the straps of her designer hobo bag higher up on her shoulder, fingers tightly curling around the leather strips. “What are you doing here?”

Male fingers brushed back a stray strand of hair and tucked it behind her ear. “I wanted to see you.”

“You’ve seen me,” she said, her tone uninviting but her response a beat too slow in coming. Well, the sudden jump in her pulse had distracted her.

“And to talk to you,” added Dean.

And she wanted to do more than just talk to him, she thought as she took in the rugged features, wind-tousled hair, and long frame in blue jeans and a dark, fitted sweater that told her shoulder padding wasn’t required in his suits. Her fingers tingled with the need to trace the hard line of his mouth, to feel his cool hair, to chart the warm skin underneath the clothes. If possible, he was more potent to her senses now than he’d been last night decked out in formal black and white.

She swayed on her feet—and saw the triumph glinting in blue eyes.

She shook her head. “No,” she said emphatically, more to herself than to him, and turned her back to him. Her irritation grew when she fumbled to find the right key for the brownstone’s main door, very aware of his looming presence at her back, taking note of each and every unsteady, betraying movement of her hand.

Hands reached around in front of her and plucked the heavy ring of keys from her grasp. Hot color stained her cheeks.

“The brass one, right?”

She nodded mutely. He’d remembered from last evening, despite the late night darkness.

He unlocked the door and held it open for her. She sidled past him and hurried up the two flights of stairs to her apartment. Despite his seemingly leisurely pace, he reached her door a step before she did. He grasped the doorknob, her key ready in the other hand, then he looked at her, his brows drawn together in consternation and disapproval.

“You should lock your doors,” he chided. “A woman living alone in New York should know better.”

“I did,” she protested. “I do.”

“No, you did not,” he countered, and opened the door to her apartment without the benefit of the key.

She stared at the gaping entrance, feet rooted to the ground. “I’m sure I locked it,” she said, not sounding as entirely certain as before as her conviction wavered.

He cast her a sharp look. “Wait here,” ordered Dean, and he went inside, leaving the door open behind him.

She obeyed him because she couldn’t seem to breathe, let alone move a muscle. Distantly, she registered doors opening and closing as Dean moved through her home.

He reappeared in the doorway shortly. “It’s clear.”

The breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding escaped slowly between parted lips. She stepped inside, eyes darting about. Everything looked okay.

“I guess I must’ve forgotten when I left this morning. I was…distracted.”

To say the least.

The sound of the front door closing and the deadbolt sliding into place jarred her. She whirled around. Dean was dropping her keys onto the console table beside the door. Suddenly feeling constricted, Parker unbuttoned her fitted corduroy jacket as she scurried toward the living room window, dropping her hobo bag onto the seat of an armless leather chair en route. She twisted the fastener in the center of the meeting rail, unlocking it. Her fingers scrabbled for the edge of the lower sash of the double hung window, found it and slid the panel up.

A breeze blew in through the opening, bringing with it the scent of exhaust, mature leaves, cooked apples, caramelized sugar, and vanilla. Her upstairs neighbor was indulging in his favorite pastime, making her wonder if she could sweet talk him into parting with a slice of his apple pie. She had a pint of pistachio ice cream with which to barter. Parker inhaled deeply, letting the cool air fill her nostrils and expand her lungs.

Soft footsteps sounded behind her. She looked over her shoulder. Dean Maxwell, tall and imposing despite the casual clothes, stood in the center of her living room, transforming the space from cozy to claustrophobic.

And the open window was no longer enough.

Testily, she said, “Since you confirmed there aren’t any boogie men hiding under my bed, don’t you have to be somewhere? Isn’t there another woman some place waiting breathlessly for you?”

He remained unruffled by her rudeness. “I want to talk to you,” he reminded her calmly. For some inexplicable reason, his composure only seemed to provoke her ire even more.

“About?” she prompted waspishly as her feet found their way into the kitchen. It was a mistake because he followed her into the tiny area.

“The cold shoulder treatment you gave me after learning my name.”

She went rigid, her eyes locked on the hand she’d wrapped around the refrigerator handle and her blanched knuckles. She’d been expecting his question; she’d had an answer prepared, but it escaped her at this precise moment. She wanted to be blunt, to bring up Brenda and Savannah, but neither her sister nor her niece needed this kind of turmoil in their lives.

Parker dropped her hand and, with the need to escape clawing at her throat, spun around. And collided with a barrier in the form of Dean’s broad chest. His hands came up and caught her shoulders. She shoved at him, the heels of her palms digging into hard muscle.

“You’re crowding me,” she hissed between gritted teeth when he wouldn’t budge.

“Stop running and I won’t have to. You’re making me dizzy with all your evasive maneuvers.” His head came down until he was hunched over enough to capture her eyes. “Deal?”

She glared at him but replied, “Deal.”

He searched her eyes, obviously not trusting her. Only when her muscles relaxed under his palms did he remove them, albeit with unflattering hesitation.

She quickly scooted out of his reach. “But I need to change clothes first. This sweater’s making me too warm,” she explained, recklessly tugging at the crew neck of the cashmere garment as she all but ran from the kitchen, cut across the living room and rushed into her bedroom like it was a sanctuary. She shut the door and promptly fell back against it, her head tilted back, her eyes closed. A long sigh escaped her.