An Unlikely Deal Read online

  “Nicky adores you. He never liked English much and had behavioral issues, but those seem to have been resolved,” the Chinese billionaire from Hong Kong had said in lightly accented but otherwise impeccable English when we met for the interview. “I think it speaks to your ability as a teacher.”

  “I’m very flattered, Mr. Liu.”

  “I believe our school would benefit from having a teacher such as you.”

  I merely smiled. It’s one thing to receive praise, but quite another to agree with it. Asians and their modesty.

  “This interview isn’t just about you trying to impress us, Ms. Huss, but also for us to impress you. I understand you are happy at your current school.”

  “It’s a great place.”

  A middle school—which means my students aren’t under pressure to take college entrance exams. So many Japanese high school kids seem ready to crumble under the expectations imposed upon them by themselves and their parents. Every time I see them rushing from club activities to cram schools, my heart squeezes a bit.

  “You should take the job,” Bennie says, interrupting my reveries. “Unless the pay’s bad.”

  “Seriously? And leave a troublemaker like you behind in Osaka?”

  He scoffs. “This is probably going to be my last contract. I’m thinking about going back to the States next year.”

  “You are?” I sit down, slightly stunned. “What about Drew?”

  He’s Bennie’s boyfriend of two years. He comes by almost every day and never forgets a birthday or anniversary. In addition, he brings gifts just because, and from the sounds they make in Bennie’s room, Drew’s great in bed. Bennie and I have dubbed him Mr. Perfect.

  “I have to go,” Bennie says abruptly. “I forgot I have to submit my grades by tonight.”

  “Grades?”

  “English tests. Due in, like, an hour, and you know how slowly I type.”

  That’s true enough. He’s a two-finger hunter-and-pecker. But I’m not dumb enough to believe he suddenly remembered a deadline. Concern for my best friend settles in my belly with unease, but we can talk about Drew tomorrow when I’m back home.

  “All right, have fun. I need to puff for a bit then grab something to eat.”

  “You haven’t eaten?”

  “Not yet. Two hours behind, remember?”

  “That’s right. Hey, we should go out tomorrow.”

  “It’s a date. See you.”

  We hang up.

  I toss the phone back into my purse, get up and change into a T-shirt and jeans. Despite being October, it’s surprisingly cool in Chiang Mai…actually much cooler than Osaka. The frequent showers lower the temperature and keep the air comfortably moist but not crazy humid. Mr. Liu told me the hottest months are April and May, when the temperature can hit forty-plus degrees Celsius, which is something like a hundred degrees Fahrenheit. Ugh. I shudder. Might as well sit in a steamer.

  After shoving my feet into a pair of comfy flip-flops, I take the key from the slot by the door and leave. The lights go off automatically behind me.

  My phone pings, and I fish it out. A Google alert notification pops up over my smiling baby wallpaper. I take a moment to gaze at the baby’s face—Mia’s face—then bring up the message. The subject is Faye Belbin. Some pictures of her in Spain.

  I check them out, my fingers shaky. A skintight black dress is wrapped around her, almost startling against her milky skin. Despite her paleness, she’s a vibrant, arresting woman. Her glossy jet-black hair, wide amber eyes and full, rosy lips make me think of Snow White—the stunning fairy-tale princess with skin the color of fresh snow and hair like onyx.

  My mouth dries as I look for a boyfriend in the pictures. Thankfully she isn’t draped all over Lucas, unlike the alert I got two weeks ago.

  Why do I torture myself like this? It’s been two years. It’s obvious to everyone, especially me, that she is exactly what a man like Lucas wants on his arm. I was just a girl he fucked in secret because I was willing and he was horny and slumming.

  I should unsubscribe from the alerts. I really should. But somehow my finger always hovers over the unsubscribe link without actually tapping it.

  Damn it.

  My lips tight, I shove the phone into my purse. Tomorrow. I swear I’ll do it.

  It’s the exact same thing I’ve told myself for the last two years.

  I exit the hotel lobby and cross the fantastically crowded street toward the Night Bazaar. No matter how preoccupied you are, it’s impossible not to absorb the atmosphere. Tuk-tuks blare their horns at straggling pedestrians still on the road after the lights turn red. All of them have bright advertisements for malls and Tiger Kingdom and elephant trekking tours. I haven’t had time to do any of that, and now that I’m about to return to Japan, I regret it. Should’ve figured out a way to do some sightseeing.

  Still, I file everything away in my head, so that when I get a chance to sit down and finally write my Great American Novel I’ll have something to draw on. I don’t know if I’ll ever set one in Asia, but it’s got to be good for my writing to be exposed to different cultures and localities.

  I wend my way along the sidewalks. The already narrow strips of concrete are now barely wide enough for a person to pass, with street vendors setting up shop and hawking cheap clothes and merchandise. Naked bulbs light the souvenirs—softball-sized elephants carved out of some kind of black composite, T-shirts with filthy slogans, varicolored dresses. A few women stand in front of massage parlors and call out, “Madam, foot massage?”

  It’s tempting. My feet are killing me after a day spent in pumps, and the prices are ridiculously low. Only about ten bucks for an hour of massage.

  “Maybe after dinner,” I say with a smile as I pass by.

  Carts selling fresh fruit smoothies are already out. Each clear plastic cup contains overripe mangoes, watermelon chunks, bananas and other tropical fruit I don’t recognize. The ladies call out prices, again incredibly inexpensive for something so fresh and scrumptious. Maybe I’ll get one of those after dinner, too…if I can still eat. The scent of grilled seafood and meat and curry permeates the air, and my stomach growls.

  “Madam, hamburger?” a man says in front of a western-style bar and grill.

  “No thanks.” This is my last night in Chiang Mai, and I want to try something more interesting and authentic. I can get a burger in Osaka anytime.

  Around a corner is a modest-sized restaurant specializing in curry. It doesn’t look Indian, though, so I stop to check out the menu.

  “Would you like to go in, madam?”

  I lift my head at the lilting suggestion. A soft-faced man is watching me with a smile.

  “Is this place Indian?”

  “No, madam. Moroccan.”

  Moroccan. That sounds both delicious and exotically intriguing. I smile, about to say yes then stop as my gaze drifts away from the man to something else beyond the smoothie carts I just passed by.

  It’s a western man. Not unusual; Chiang Mai is one of the major cities in Thailand and there are lots of foreigners. But…

  The bold dark slant of eyebrows, the unusually sharp eyes. The masterfully carved bones on his arresting face…and his expensive semi-formal clothing that establishes his station in life and subtly warns people to stay away…

  All the air leaves my lungs; the world seems to spin and grow dim at the same time. I can’t sense anything over the deafening roaring in my head.

  Lucas.

  His hair is longer now, and styled differently, with bangs covering most of the left side of his face, but it has to be him. No other man can make me so aware…like an electric current has gone through me.

  “Madam?”

  I jerk my head back at the man and merely blink at him. Who is this man? Why is he talking to me?

  “You like a table?”

  Right. Dinner. “No… No, thank you. I’m sorry. I have to go.”

  I turn and start walking, intent on returning to the hotel. I gl
ance back over a shoulder, and Lucas is still there, standing next to a local merchant. He’s alone. But for all I know Faye Belbin is here too, maybe haggling with a vendor over an elephant carving.

  Mocking laughter echoes in my head. Haggling! Ha. That’s so funny, Ava. The women Lucas dates do not haggle. Ever. The kind of women he dates are otherworldly beautiful, sophisticated, wealthy…

  Not like me.

  It takes no time at all to reach the big intersection. The light’s red, and I grip my hands together in front of me. I want to cross now, but too many tuk-tuks and cars are speeding past. Unless I don’t mind being plastered all over a windshield, I’m stuck until the light turns.

  Someone tugs at my shirt, and I almost cry out in alarm. My heart thumping at a hundred miles an hour, I spin around, ready to face him.

  “Flower?”

  I look down at the young voice. A girl who can’t be more than six or seven shows me a long string of small white flowers. Her hand is tiny, her wrist bony and delicate. The dingy pink dress she wears is overly big, and her skinny legs are bumpy with bug bites. Her dark eyes beseech me to buy something. It’s obvious if she can’t sell, she and her family may not be able to eat. Why else would a young girl like her be out and about at this hour in an area full of tourists?

  The light turns green, and the girl’s eyes flicker to the people starting to cross. The corners of her lips droop, and I reach into my wallet and pull out a hundred-baht bill.

  “Here.” I hand it to her and take the flowers without thinking. I have to go. Now. “Keep the change.”

  I trot fast to make the light. The girl yells out something behind me, but I don’t stop. She’s most definitely not telling me I paid her too little. I’ve seen skewered meat carts selling their goods for no more than twenty baht apiece. There’s no way her little flowers can cost more than a meal.

  When someone catches me by my shirt, I turn my head over a shoulder. “You can keep the cha…”

  My words trail off as I take in Lucas’s face, so close to mine that our noses almost touch. I can smell his favorite soap, mint and warm skin, a combination that leaves me breathless. Unblinking, I take in his masculine magnificence. The eyebrow that isn’t hidden by his hair is tilted in that familiar arrogant line that says he’s too smart and too used to getting his way and that’s exactly how he wants his life. The bridge of his nose is strong and straight, the kind that creates a bold profile in men. His jaw has the same hard, square look, like it’s been carved from granite. The only soft part of him is his mouth, which is currently set in a flat line.

  Suddenly I can’t think, can’t move. The flowers fall from my limp grasp. But his hand at the small of my back pushes me toward the other side, and we cross before the light changes. My foot catches on a crack in the uneven sidewalk, and I stumble. He catches me, pulling me closer to his large, muscled body, and I cover my face, hoping and praying that I’m hallucinating.

  But when I drop my arms to my sides, I still see Lucas. I still feel his hand wrapped around my biceps.

  Why now? Why here?

  Why?

  “Ava.” His voice is the same, gravelly and low. And I shiver as it envelops me like the softest silk.

  My breath catches in my throat, and suddenly I can’t speak. My stomach roils like a thousand angry bees are buzzing inside it.

  I whisper the only word I can. “Why?”

  Clarity

  Lucas

  People say you gain clarity when you’re about to die—the things that matter most flash vividly through your head, while the things that you fought tooth and nail for over reasons that really won’t matter two weeks down the line get dumped.

  I’ve always thought it was bullshit. When you die, you die. What the hell can you possibly be thinking at that moment?

  Then it happens to me. I lose control of my Harley, and I’m falling and spinning, leaving what feels like half the meat on my body smeared along the wet pavement. My chest feels like it’s on fire, and my leg… Holy shit… The pain is so excruciating, the edges of my vision turn black.

  But in that split-second, my mind isn’t on how I’m going to fix everything that’s broken. Or how I’m going to screw my father over.

  No. The image that comes is Ava’s face.

  Ava smiling.

  Ava laughing.

  Ava gasping my name in climax.

  I regret that I haven’t spent even one entire night with her in the seven months we’ve been together…that I haven’t tried to be with her more. I know she wants to take our relationship to the next level. She tries to hide it, but sometimes when her guard is down, I can see the longing in her eyes.

  I dimly hear a siren screaming somewhere…getting louder.

  If I survive this… I’m going to show her the world—and all that the two of us can be together.

  Chapter Three

  Lucas

  Why?

  I don’t know how to respond to her question. I asked myself that the entire time my plane was crossing the continental U.S.—and the Pacific—and still didn’t find an answer.

  Yes, I want closure. Yes, I want my pound of flesh.

  But neither are sufficient on their own…or together. And I didn’t make my fortune by being half-assed about things.

  So why?

  I asked myself that question—again—when I finally reached the hotel in the note. The concierge helpfully called Ava’s room, but nobody answered. Would I like to leave a message?

  No. I had no idea what to say. Instead I asked if they happened to know where she might be. Or when she might be back…

  Unfortunately, no. However, as it was dinnertime perhaps she went to get something to eat…? But it would be hard to find her. There are so many restaurants in the area, not to mention street food stalls.

  The concierge forgot to mention how crowded it would be. October isn’t a high tourist season, but there were so many damned people, so many damned carts and vendors all calling out what they were offering, trying to drum up business. How the hell could I find her in the chaos? And I was assuming she’d gone on foot. She could’ve taken one of those tuk-tuk death traps and gone someplace farther out.

  Still, I wandered around the Night Bazaar like an idiot. Most merchants shook their heads when I asked them if they’d seen a blond woman about this tall. Either they didn’t see her or didn’t want to waste their time with someone who obviously wasn’t buying.

  But I knew when I found Ava…when my entire body tightened and sharp awareness tugged at me so swiftly that I couldn’t breathe with the shock of it. I stopped for a second to regain my composure while my eyes scanned the area. The last thing I wanted was to stagger and lose my balance.

  I almost missed her when she made a sharp turn around a corner. I dashed after her, not caring if my gait was uneven or that I was acting without a clear plan. All that mattered was catching her.

  Thank god for the red light. Thank god for the girl who delayed her.

  Now I breathe in Ava’s jasmine and vanilla scent, feel the exquisite warmth of her smooth skin. Her eyes are so large, so dark—twin pools of deep sapphire rather than her usual ice blue. She’s close enough that if I tilt my head just a few degrees, I can touch her full, lush lips with mine.

  My cock twitches at the thought, growing semi-hard. So. My body isn’t dead after all.

  Why?

  I consider the question. I imagined many scenarios on my flight to Chiang Mai, how Ava would react at seeing me again, but none of them involved her asking me why.

  “Why” is my question.

  Why did you leave? Why didn’t you wait until I was out of surgery? Why didn’t you dump me face-to-face? I deserved better than a fucking cardboard box.

  When the nurse brought it into my room—apparently Ava left it with the receptionist—it was like the planet fell away from under me. Everything I’d ever given her was inside it—the clothes, the accessories, the fob to the fucking Lexus. Turning away from the nurse,
I clutched my chest with a trembling hand as my heart pumped icy bitterness through my veins.

  “Dinner,” I grate out.

  “What?”

  “We should have dinner.”

  She stares at me dumbly.

  “Or we can stand here all evening long.” My left leg throbs. I ignore the pain.

  Suddenly she looks away. “Your date must be waiting.”

  For a moment, I don’t understand. Then I laugh dryly. “I’m here alone.”

  Her gaze darts back to my face, her face registering shock and something that makes the hair on the back of my neck bristle.

  Suddenly the need to corner her grows more urgent. “Dinner.”

  Letting her gaze slide from my face, she tries to pull away. I change my hold and grab her wrist. I haven’t flown for over thirty hours to lose her now. If she’s trying to solicit help, that’s not working either. People aren’t interested in what’s going on around them. They’re either minding their own business or too busy staring into their smartphones.

  Her pulse flutters wildly against my palm. “Fine. Dinner.”

  She’s still not looking at me. Why not? She used to hold my gaze for hours when we were together.

  She tugs. “Let go.”

  “I’m not letting you go.”

  She lets out a slow shaky breath. I recognize that tell. She only does it when she’s nervous or trying to make a very difficult decision.

  “Do you have a place in mind?”

  I look around and see a bunch of restaurants back on the Night Bazaar side of the street. They’re busy but not full.

  “There.” I jerk my chin. “We can go to any one of them.”

  Her mouth tightens. “Slumming again?”

  A corner of my lips lifts in a sardonic smile. How she’s changed… I like that. At least this version is honest.

  “One of the restaurants at Le Meridien then.”

  I half drag her to the hotel, which is right on the street. The security guards smile and greet us, and I wave at them with a grin as though dragging an unwilling woman inside is an everyday occurrence.