Dirtiest Lie (6 page)

And Hawthorne…

Slade’s cryptic
Exactly my point
soon makes sense. Hawthorne takes the game seriously, and even though he doesn’t yell at me, I suspect that if I were someone else, another man, perhaps, he’d be cursing up a storm.

He’s a different person when he plays. It’s like all the smoldering frustrations and disappointments that give him his aloof reputation get worked out on the court.

So even though I’m no longer nimble, and even though my serves are particularly embarrassing, Hawthorne and I are able to hold our own, even if just barely.

The number of times Hawthorne nearly bowls me over to hit a down-the-middle volley… I lose count. He’s a greedy player, intent on winning. I’m not sure if that surprises me or not. On one hand, I know better than anyone how much he dislikes having his authority challenged. On the other hand, it’s a little shocking to see his competitiveness laid bare.

To shamelessly desire something is to expose oneself to the possibility of denial and heartbreak. It makes him vulnerable.

I appreciate seeing this side of Hawthorne. Or at least I will once my clumsiness isn’t making me the object of my boss’s frustration.

We win another game, and it’s my turn to serve again.

Hawthorne’s eyes burn into me. Smiling, I ignore him completely.

I bounce the ball a few times, enjoying the slightly hollow thump. The sun spreads warmly across my face, my arms, my legs. Up and down the courts, the sounds of squealing sneakers, rackets slamming the balls, occasional grunts…

These are things I haven’t heard in years. Sudden emotion wells up in me.

Even though I’m not ready, I have to do something or I’ll cry. I start to toss the ball high.

“Stop!” Hawthorne yells. I sense him coming toward me.

Across the net, Slade shrugs one shoulder in commiseration.

“That’s it for me,” Romeo calls out. “I think Bill’s working. I’ll send him over.”

“Or we could stop,” Slade suggests.

But even though Hawthorne is driving me crazy, I’m not ready to stop. I didn’t know how much I missed this, but it’s like all the years of doing without have folded in on themselves, turning dense, turning into a black hole, and I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to fill it, but I have to try.

“Why don’t we work on your serve while we wait,” Hawthorne says. It’s not a question.

I don’t mind.

“Go ahead,” Slade says, backing up to the service line, his racket at the ready.

For several minutes, I work on it. It’s easier to focus without the pressure of an ongoing game.

My coordination, the muscle memory is there, somewhere. When I stretch up high, I can feel neglected muscles slowly uncoiling, stretching.

“Watch your feet,” Hawthorne says, and to underscore his point, he smacks at my toes with his racket.

“I know where my feet are,” I say, and he swats my ass with his racket. It’s a friendly gesture, but my butt is already sore, and I yelp.

A retirement-aged man playing on a neighboring court glances our way.

“I’m surprised you don’t have tennis courts at home,” I say to Hawthorne.

“Of course I do,” he says. “But it’s too much of a drive for the middle of a workday just to do drills with a machine. Do you want to try something for me?” He takes away my racket, then shadows my body with his. “Try this…”

Using my left hand, he mimes tossing the ball into the air. His fingers are curled around my empty right fist as he brings my arm up.

“Lean back a little more,” he says into my ear. “You’ve got solid technique—”

“I haven’t played in years,” I say irritably.

“Obviously. And you’re very good. However, I’ve been watching you closely, and your axis of rotation could be adjusted. You’re compensating by choking the racket, adding unnecessary tension.”

“My axis of rotation is fine.” It’s not something the coach, or my mother, would have overlooked.

“Maybe it
was
fine,” he says patiently as he brings his body closer against mine. “But I’m guessing you haven’t played much since you finished puberty.”

“There wasn’t much time for it,” I admit grudgingly.

“Ok,” he says softly, and I swear I melt. In that instant, it all gets jumbled in my mind. Hawthorne, my desire for stability…

For the first time ever, Hawthorne slips easily into my fantasies. Slade was always the one I wanted to run away with. Romeo would have been more than acceptable, but I knew he was too responsible, that he’d never leave his work behind.

Hawthorne was never really on the list, even if we had our moments. Too rigid. Too demanding. Yes, he took care of me, but I knew I’d always feel self-conscious around him.

And that’s certainly still true, but at this moment, as he moves my arm through the air, an imaginary racket pounding an invisible tennis ball, the sun warm on us, I realize that he has more to offer than I ever imagined. I may not always appreciate his methods, but his intentions are solid.

My eyes drift closed, and I let myself get lost in the feel of his body, his warm, masculine scent.

Hawthorne Tarraget.

“Sometimes I like to add ‘the eighth’ to the end of your name,” I murmur. “Hawthorne Tarraget VIII.”

“As I’m well aware,” he says in a no-nonsense tone. “Pay attention. Your upper body is where it should be, but now you’re not loading your back leg properly.”

“Hi, Hawthorne,” a female voice says from behind us. My eyes fly open, and I feel myself blushing as Hawthorne turns. The moment our bodies separate, I miss him; even though the temperature is perfect, it’s like a cloud has moved across the sun, and I feel colder now that he’s not touching me.

Rather than turn—I don’t want Hawthorne to see my face and guess at what I’m feeling—I glance over at Slade, who is staring past me.

The slightly horrified expression on his handsome, aristocratic face is enough to make me not want to turn around.

But I have to, especially because Hawthorne is now talking to someone.

At first I can’t see her because his broad-shouldered body is in the way. Intentional? I don’t know.

But then she leans to the side, and I find myself looking at one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen.

She’s got the small chin and large, wide eyes of a fashion doll. Her shoulder-length blonde hair is either natural or she’s found the best colorist on the planet—one who also lightens her eyebrows and tints her lashes.

Her eyes are an amber shade of brown. Sensual. Sexy. Innocent. All at the same time.

The clothes she’s wearing are similar to mine, but hers are custom made. Because of the short skirt, I’ve got a nice view of her bronzed legs. I’m sure it’s a fake tan—she doesn’t seem like the type to open herself up to wrinkles and saggy skin—but the color looks natural. The muscles of her legs are perfectly toned.

If I had a personal trainer, I’d have perfect legs, a perky ass and a flat stomach, too. Oddly, I find myself staring at her neck. It’s slender and long, though not freakishly so.

Some people have perfect everything, and some people are even more attractive than the sum of their parts. This woman definitely falls into that category.

She wrinkles her cute nose and smiles. “Looks like you need a fourth,” she says to me.

I freeze for a moment.

I’ve been through a lot of things with my bosses. Heavy, life-altering shit.

But now an uncomfortable feeling is slithering around my body.

I hate this woman solely because she’s gorgeous and because she knows my bosses.

No, those aren’t the only reasons. She wants Hawthorne, and she knows the game. Her smile is fake. I know exactly how she feels.

“The four of us are a set team,” Slade says, coming to stand beside me. “We’re waiting for Bill.”

“Bill?” She tilts her head. “I overheard him telling Romeo that he wouldn’t be free for twenty minutes.” And she winks—she
winks
.

At that moment, there’s no doubt in my mind. This woman knows their sexual secrets, and I can tell from the way Slade is bristling that she’s experienced them firsthand.

“I’m Karen,” she says, extending a delicate hand, which is cool when I shake it. “And your name is?” she prods.

I just smile. “It’s so nice to meet you.”

“You’re with Slade,” Hawthorne tells her.

“Fantastic!” She loops her arm through Slade’s. “You look great, Rick,” I hear her saying as they walk away.

I cut a desperate look Hawthorne’s way. “Is she an ex?”

“We all have a past,” he says.

I’d like to say something about how my past isn’t flirting with me in front of them, even though from the way Slade is acting, I have nothing to be jealous about.

But jealous is exactly what I am. It’s an unfamiliar sensation, and not a pleasant one.

It’s enough to motivate me to play even harder. Karen’s a mediocre player. If she weren’t so intent on always presenting a pretty picture, she might even be good, but it’s like every move she makes is calculated to turn men on.

That, I must admit, is a kind of talent when applied to an athletic game. One that I strangely don’t possess, but only because it never occurred to me.

Under different circumstances, Karen and I might be friends. We could share tips and complain about men.

But as she sends the tennis ball hurtling my way, I suspect the interest is one-sided.

I jump backward, and the ball lands out of bounds.

Ten minutes later, she sends another fastball right at me.

No one seems to notice.

When the next one comes, I slam it back, toward Slade, hoping to get his attention. Karen practically dives for it, her back arching and her breasts thrusting out, and Slade jumps back.

The ball bounces between them.

“Good job, Lindsay,” Hawthorne says, oblivious.

“I’m taking a break,” I say in disgust. I don’t exactly drop the tennis racket, but it does end up on the court, and I head inside. If Karen wants my bosses, and if they want her, who am I to stand in the way?

But I don’t know the code to get into the private locker room.

“Allow me.” Slade leans over me to punch in the code—which I make a note of. He also pushes the door open. “Ladies first.”

Ladies? I glance behind me to see if Karen is also coming in, but no, it’s just Slade.

“She’s a bit intense,” he says apologetically.

I don’t actually have to use the bathroom, but I pretend to. When I come out, Slade’s clothes are in a rumpled heap, spilling over one of the flat benches.

“I’m in here,” he calls out. I follow the sound of his voice to the hot tub. His shoulders, chest and torso are masculine perfection, and the way his smooth skin glistens is appealing indeed.

Smiling, I raise my eyebrows. “Are you naked?”

“Why don’t you come find out?” he suggests.

So I strip off my clothes and turn my ponytail into a bun. As I walk across the tiled floor, Slade watches me with open appreciation.

“How was your morning with Hawthorne?” he asks.

“Weird,” I say.

That makes him frown, and I struggle to put into words what was so uncomfortable about it. “I think Hawthorne and I need you two there,” I say. “Otherwise, it’s just awkward. I get pissy about him ordering me around, and he gets irritated.”

“We should have started you with Romeo,” he says. “But don’t be so sure that it was wasted time. Hawthorne knows what he’s doing.”

“If you say so.” As I slip into the hot, soothing water, I discover that he is most certainly naked. “Hawthorne kept telling me to ask for what I wanted,” I say.

“And you couldn’t?”

“I don’t know what I want. Other than the obvious. To be rid of my grandfather’s threats. To have my freedom. I haven’t thought beyond that.”

“And you explained all this to Hawthorne?”

“Well… no..”

Slade leans back against the rim of the hot tub and stretches his arms along the top. The flexing of his muscles mesmerizes me.

“My eyes are up here,” he says.

Blushing, I look up. “So they are.” Hazel eyes. Warm. Perceptive but not probing. “Tell me about Karen.”

His mouth closes, and a muscle in his jaw twitches. “She’s hardly a cipher,” he says.

“An ex?”

“Ex-fling.” He runs a hand over his dark hair, pushing the wet mass out of his face.

For any other man, that would be more than enough information, but instead my curiosity is even more piqued. “All of you?”

“Me and Romeo,” he says.

“Does Hawthorne know?”

Slade nods slowly. His gaze inches over my face. “You’re so beautiful like this, when you’re being yourself. I feel honored that you let your guard down with me.”

The unexpected compliment leaves me blinking. Slade moves across the churning water until he’s between my legs, and I remember my silly, comfortable fantasy about running away with him.

“Penny for your thoughts,” he says.

“Sometimes I think it would be nice to disappear with you,” I say, the truth slipping out. As my words hang in the air, I’m so embarrassed that I can’t think of anything else to add.

“Sometimes? Are you thinking that now?” He sounds pleased. “I could have run away with you. We would have been happy, I think.”

My breath catches in my throat.

Any woman, I think, would be stunned to hear such words from a man as perfect as Slade. He’s sane (unlike Hawthorne), he’s got work-life boundaries (unlike Romeo), he’s gorgeous and rich and mind-blowingly amazing in bed.

But for me, it’s more than that. While my former friends were in high school and falling in love, I was in hiding. Slade’s words are a vote of confidence, one I’m not sure I deserve but will greedily accept nonetheless.

He brushes his lips against mine. “If only you’d come to me with that before you ran off,” he says. “But now… My best friends would never talk to me again.”

“I doubt they care that much,” I say.

“They do.” He kisses me again.

The timing seems perfect to ask for something. “What’s your secret, the one I was supposed to guess?”

“You haven’t figured it out?”

“Is it about my lingerie?”

“I love your lingerie, but that’s not it.” Grinning, he leans over to adjust the water temperature, and I watch the muscles in his back ripple.