An Unlikely Deal Read online

  The second we step through the four imposing columns of the main entrance, we’re plunged into a cool air-conditioned environment. The lobby is contemporary and chic with warm colors and shiny stone finishings. Lots of plushy armchairs and tables are positioned for relaxation and small, impromptu meetings.

  A crisply uniformed concierge welcomes us with a friendly smile, palms together in a typical Thai greeting. I nod. “What are your dining options?”

  She asks what we want, and I tell her anything is fine, but ideally something nice and expensive, emphasis on expensive. I pull Ava closer and put an arm around her shoulders. She feels thin…much too thin for my taste. Why the hell is she so frail?

  “My date adores good food,” I say in a saccharine voice.

  “Well.” The concierge shoots me a quick smile for indulging my significant other and recommends Favola on the second floor. Contemporary Italian made with Royal Project organic produce.

  I give Ava a look. Does this sound sufficiently gourmet and high class?

  She looks away again, which only makes me more determined.

  One of the staff leads us to the restaurant. It isn’t that busy, so we’re seated immediately at a table past a glass wine cellar that occupies the center of the dining area. The host pulls out a cream-colored chair for Ava, and she sits down with forced good grace. A server comes over and gives us two menus on the table made with wood as dark as that used for the flooring.

  “Would you like something to drink, sir?” he asks.

  “Water. Plus…” I gesture at the racks of wine carelessly. “A Pinot Noir No. 3 if you have it.” Ava reaches for the menu, and I smile. “And we know what we want.”

  Her chin snaps upward. “I haven’t ha—”

  “The most expensive appetizer,” I say, pinning her with my eyes. “The most expensive entrée. And the most expensive dessert.”

  “Certainly, sir.” The waiter confirms our order, shooting a quick glance in Ava’s direction, whose face is now bright red, and vanishes.

  “That was uncalled for.” Her voice is barely audible, but the force of anger underneath is formidable.

  I lean back expansively in my seat. “Sue me.”

  Our server brings out a large bottle of water and fills our glasses. Then he runs back within a minute with our wine and lets me taste. When I nod, he pours for us then disappears again.

  I raise my glass with a mocking smile. “To another meeting.”

  She picks up hers and drinks without a word like she’s chugging down cheap vinegary junk. If she noticed the excellent vintage, she doesn’t show it. But then she was rarely impressed with wine.

  After placing her empty glass on the table, she looks away and leans back in her seat, toying with the neckline of her shirt. She’s nervous. Feeling guilty about the way she left me? She should be. What she did was a shit move. And I want her to feel terrible about it. That’s the least she owes me.

  Our server brings out our appetizer. I barely glance at it. My attention is on the woman opposite.

  I can’t help but notice—again—how much thinner she is. And it’s annoying as hell. She didn’t weigh much to begin with, and she really can’t afford to lose more and stay healthy.

  Why should I give a damn? She should be as miserable as I’ve been.

  But I can’t help caring. She told me once…

  “Seriously? You actually like peanut butter and jelly sandwiches?” She makes a face, her fork hovering over her salad.

  “Sometimes, when I’m in the mood.” I grin. “Why? Did you think my favorite food was caviar or something?”

  Her nose wrinkles adorably. “It wouldn’t surprise me if you were born with it clutched in your fists.” She shakes her head. “I can’t stand them. I even looked forward to Mondays when I was growing up because of them.”

  “What does a PBJ have to do with Monday?”

  “I got to go back to school.”

  She stretches her legs under the shabby table at the small Greek restaurant and pops an olive into her mouth.

  I laugh. “You must’ve been a nerd.” I generally found Mondays unbearable because my classes were boring and pointless.

  She snorted. “No. It’s because on Mondays I was able to eat something other than peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  A mild flush rises in her cheeks. “When I was growing up, that was basically all we could afford. My mom… She tried really hard, but it wasn’t easy on minimum wage.”

  I still can’t quite connect the dots, which makes me scowl. I’m usually great at connecting dots.

  “You can’t relate, can you?” she asks, half-amused and half-sad.

  “Sorry.” Ava seems disappointed somehow, so I do something I don’t usually do with women—I explain. “I grew up in Europe. Boarding schools.” The best money could buy, et cetera, et cetera.

  Sighing, she drops her gaze. “We were poor enough that I got free lunches, and the school cafeteria served pasta and pizza and…you know. Anything but PB and J.”

  I stare at her. I donate regularly to Elizabeth’s charitable causes, but I don’t understand that kind of poverty. I probably never will. I study her thin frame. I assumed she got her figure from diet and exercise, but now I realize she got it from not eating enough—from hunger. The fact that Ava suffered at all makes me angry, but I stop before showing how upset I am. Her gaze has lost its happy glimmer.

  I force myself to say lightly, “Then it’s a good thing none of the restaurants I plan to take you to serve that abominable sandwich.”

  She blinks, then giggles. “Oh yeah. That’d definitely be grounds for a breakup.”

  As the merry tinkling sound of her laughter washes over me, I vow she will never lack for anything. I will never let her go hungry again.

  And I’m not letting her go hungry now.

  “Eat.” I push the appetizer toward her. “We can talk afterward.”

  She stares at a point somewhere behind me. “Why don’t we just pretend that we ate?”

  “Because Ava… I’m hungry, and I’m ill-tempered when I’m hungry. You know that.”

  “Ah yes. You and your food.” Her lips purse for a moment—a sign that she’s thinking. Finally, she reaches over and begins nibbling. Then she starts eating with more gusto. Probably it’s finally hit her that she really ought to eat more.

  I sip my wine and let the excellent flavor coat my mouth. Just what happened to her since she left me? It never crossed my mind that she might not be doing well. In my mind’s eye she lives a kickass life, carefree and merry without a fucked-up shit like me by her side.

  I wait until we’re done with our entrées, noting her clean plate with approval. I give her the rest of the wine, and she accepts. Her face is no longer pale, the alcohol and food giving her a rosy glow.

  “Thank you,” she says.

  “My pleasure.”

  My well-mannered response rolls out, bred into me by a desperate need to please my mother. But it isn’t just a platitude. Watching her eat the food I provided for her is satisfying. Absurdly so.

  She puts a hand on her belly. “I can’t eat anymore. So…” She starts to push her chair back.

  I raise a hand. “We’re not finished.”

  “Lucas… There’s nothing for us to discuss.” Her eyes slide away.

  She’s hiding something, something she knows will upset me if I find out. An ugly knot of jealousy starts to burn in my gut.

  “Got a sugar daddy waiting?”

  Both her eyebrows rise as she swings her gaze back on my face. “Excuse me?”

  “Oh, right. ‘Sugar daddy’ is offensive. Should I say ‘boyfriend’ instead?”

  She snorts, then shakes her head.

  The knot eases. Not a boyfriend then.

  “Why are you so anxious to get out of here? And why are you always avoiding looking at me?”

  Her tongue sweeps over her lips—a nervous gesture, and I can’t help but
notice the soft fullness of her mouth, with upper and lower lips equally plump and oh-so sensitive. I almost run a hand over my eyes. I so fucking need to get laid.

  She makes a show of pulling out her phone to check the time. “I have a flight to catch.”

  “Which doesn’t leave for more than three hours.”

  “Okay, just how much do you know about my life?”

  “You still haven’t answered my questions.”

  She tilts her chin up, meets my gaze, and says, “I’m looking at you now.” She sighs to good effect, but there is an unnatural stiffness to her that betrays her. She might be a decent actress, but I grew up with Ryder Reed, who’s a freaking brilliant actor. After a moment she adds, “Was I supposed to stare at you the entire time we were eating?”

  “No.”

  “Lucas, I have to go—”

  “Is it the scar?”

  My hair usually hides it, but the cover isn’t perfect. I push it out of my face so she can see the whole ugly jaggedness on the left side of my face.

  She inhales sharply and her hand flies to her mouth. “What happened?”

  The question severs the tight rein I have on my temper. My voice rises. “What the hell do you mean, what happened?” I drop my hand, letting my hair conceal my disfigurement again. “You were there.”

  She shakes her head. The luminous sheen of unshed tears in her eyes is like pouring oil over a fire. What gives her the right to look so stricken when she dumped me like so much trash? How dare she?

  Maybe I underestimated her acting skills.

  “You came by the hospital and left me a box.” I don’t mean to sound so damn bitter, but I can’t help myself. It festers like a wound that won’t heal.

  “I was giving you back the things you gave me.” Her voice is hoarse.

  “They were gifts. You were supposed to keep them.”

  Then the fucking box wouldn’t have sat in a corner of my office and taunted me for months. You weren’t enough. None of the things you gave her—none of the things you could have given her—ever mattered.

  Failure. Failure. Failure.

  “It wasn’t right for me to keep them, given the circumstances. I couldn’t take anything from you.”

  “But you did. You took something from me, and I want it back.”

  The blood drains from her face, leaving it sheet white. She sways, knocking over her half-full wineglass. The Pinot Noir spills; the stemware shatters against the floor. The red drips over the table’s edge, soaking her shirt and jeans, but she doesn’t seem to notice.

  Alarm clangs through me.

  “Ava!”

  She starts to slump. I jump up to catch her lest she fall on the broken glass.

  My arms wrap around her. She’s so damn slight, so fragile. Her skin feels too cool, her breathing shallow. Her heart is racing like a terrified sparrow’s.

  Our waiter assesses the situation and comes over with a broom and dustpan. A busboy appears with a couple of hand towels. I help Ava up, not caring that the wine is staining my clothes.

  “Ava.”

  She blinks a few times and looks up at me. There’s some life in her eyes now, and I let out a shuddering breath.

  “I have to go,” she whispers almost soundlessly. “I have to go.”

  “Ava.”

  She shoves me with more strength than I would have thought possible from such a small body. I stagger, my body tilting backward. The stiff muscles in my left leg protest the abrupt movement. As I step back, she grabs her purse and runs.

  “Ava!” I start to rush after her the second I regain my balance.

  “Sir.” The waiter physically blocks my way. “The bill.”

  Ah shit. I reach into my pocket, pull out my money clip and hand him a couple of hundred-dollar bills. “That should cover it.”

  He glances at the money, but doesn’t move. “This is not Thai baht.”

  “It’s U.S. dollars.”

  “But, sir…”

  “You have currency exchange places everywhere! Do it and keep the change.”

  The waiter wets his lips and shakes his head. “We cannot accept foreign money in this restaurant. If you want, you can exchange at the concierge desk.”

  Oh for fuck’s sake! I throw my Amex Centurion Card his way. “Charge it. I’ll be right back.”

  Before he can protest again, I dodge around him and run out. Ava’s gone. I search the elevator bank, but she isn’t there either.

  I drive my fingers into my hair and bite back a curse. I have to talk to her. Something I said—the thing about wanting what she took from me—scared the shit out of her.

  I have to know what she did two years ago.

  Chapter Four

  Ava

  You took something from me, and I want it back.

  He can’t know. How could he? I’ve been so careful. Used my middle name. There’s absolutely nothing that can tie me to it.

  But what if he found out anyway?

  My belly churns dangerously as Lucas’s words ring in my head. My fingers are shaky, and it takes me two attempts before the door unlocks. I shove the card in the slot by the entryway and run straight for the toilet.

  The second my knees hit the cold floor, everything comes up. I retch until there’s nothing left, until my stomach and throat are so raw it hurts to breathe. My legs feel like quivering gelatin, and I slowly sit back and stare at the wall.

  Lucas has money, and he’s very well-connected. Google told me he’s related to some very powerful people.

  If he really wanted to, he could figure it out.

  I jerk my torso back up and dry-heave into the toilet. There’s absolutely nothing left in my gut, but I can’t stop. By the time I’m through, I’m completely wrung out. I collapse on the floor, feeling like a corpse.

  Why did I tell him I had a flight to catch? What if he follows me to the airport?

  I need a simple game plan, something I can stick to no matter how emotionally upset I am.

  Deny everything. Pretend ignorance. Distract him if I have to.

  Besides, it’s not like he has any room to talk or get upset. What he had his brother say to me…

  He has no right to barge back into my life like he’s entitled to something.

  Anger reenergizes me. I push myself up. I need to get back on my feet and keep living my life. Fuck Lucas. Fuck him and his money and his gifts and his entitlement. I’ve been fine without him, and I will continue to be fine without him.

  I flush the toilet, rinse out my mouth, splash some cold water on my face. I’m still pale, except for the red splotches on my cheeks. My eyes look listless, and now that the lipstick’s worn off, my mouth is almost ashen.

  This won’t do. I look weak and pathetic. And the wine stains on my shirt and jeans just add to the air of slovenliness.

  I change into a fresh set of clothes—a fitted pink button-down shirt and black jeans—and reapply my makeup. I’m not great at applying cosmetics, but I know enough to make myself look okay, like I haven’t just been ambushed by the former love of my life.

  Lipstick goes on last. I finally settle on a bright red. It’s bold and aggressive, just the color I need to feel like myself again.

  That done, I toss everything into my suitcase. I don’t have the mental energy to organize everything neatly like I did when I arrived. But it doesn’t matter. I’ll have to wash most of it when I get home anyway.

  I drag my rolling suitcase out of my room, my chin held high. The entire time I’m checking out and requesting the concierge to grab me a cab, nobody approaches. My eyes scan the lobby, but I don’t see anyone except a few Chinese tourists lounging by the tables closest to the Latest Recipe restaurant.

  In spite of that, the base of my skull tingles as I climb inside the waiting taxi. Relax, girl. Lucas is gone. Stop being paranoid.

  I look back to make sure. There aren’t any cars following us.

  See?

  He probably decided I was too crazy and split. Now
that I think about it, my reaction was a bit over the top. Knocking the wine over and breaking the glass? Almost fainting? Running out of the place like my clothes were on fire?

  I acted insane…which turned out to be perfect. Nothing repels a man better than a woman who looks like she’s off her meds.

  By the time I reach the check-in counter at the airport, I almost feel normal again. I slide my passport on the scratched and worn surface toward the airline representative. She takes my ID and types a few things on her computer, the keyboard clacking loudly. A frown tightens her forehead.

  “Miss. Um… There seems to be a problem.”

  Shit. “Is the flight delayed?” I really want to make my connection from Incheon to Osaka.

  “No, but… You are not on this flight. Are you sure you’re supposed to fly today?”

  “Yes.” I pull out my phone and show her the email I received with my flight information. “See?”

  “Mm.” She nods. “But our system does not have you as flying today or…any day.” She purses her bright pink lips. “Let me check something. I’ll be right back.”

  She spins her wheeled chair, gestures at a middle-aged Thai man in an ill-fitting dark brown suit and gives him a thirty-second spiel in Thai. He listens, nodding a few times, then talks into his radio.

  Come on. I have to be on this flight. I have to get out of here today.

  Finally, the man comes over. “There’s been a change in your itinerary,” he says, his English slightly halting but still confident. “Do you mind if I take you to the new gate?”

  “Sure. Please,” I say, relieved.

  “Don’t forget your passport.”

  “Right.” I grab it from the counter and walk with him.

  He takes me past the main international terminal’s security and immigration control. We get to a small, private area where a glossy black SUV is waiting. “Please get in.”

  Unease trails a cold finger down my spine. “What is this about?”

  “It will take you to your new jet.” He smiles winsomely. “There’s been a change of plane.”

  I eye him. My imagination says he’s part of an elaborate plan to kidnap me or worse. But the logical part of my brain says he’s just an airport employee doing his job. He has a plastic security badge with his headshot and name clipped to his jacket, and the lady at the check-in counter obviously trusted him.