The Perfect Hope (23 page)

“She’s settled down now.” He started to turn back to the door, and it started again.

He picked up the remote and again switched off the fire. “Cut it out!”

The answer was an audible click of the lock on the door.

“Maybe she’s upset you haven’t been around the last couple of days,” Hope suggested.

Ryder set the remote down. “I got the impression the innkeeper didn’t want me around.”

“You got the wrong impression. I didn’t like you doing something that involved me without talking to me.”

“I didn’t like seeing you get slapped.” He shrugged. “You can’t like everything.”

“I’m not wrong to want you to talk to me.”

“I’m not wrong to stand up for you.”

She started to argue, realized she couldn’t. And didn’t want to. “Tell me I’m not wrong about wanting you to talk to me, and I’ll tell you you’re not wrong to stand up for me.”

“Okay. You first.”

Her laugh snuck through about the same time as his quick, cocky grin. “All right. You’re not wrong.”

“Neither are you. Are we finished with it?”

“No, we’re not. I need to know you’ll consider how I feel.”

Frustration flashed back on his face. “Hope, I considered nothing but. I considered your hurt and your embarrassment. I wasn’t going to let it slide.”

“If you’d just talked to me first—”

“You wouldn’t have talked me out of it. We’d’ve had the fight sooner than we had it, but I’d’ve still gone and said what I had to say.”

“I wouldn’t have talked you out of it,” she agreed. “I would have tried, at first. Then I’d have gone with you.”

He stopped, frowned. “You’d have gone down there?”

“Yes. In fact, before I knew you had, I’d calmed down enough to think it through. I was going to handle it by letter—a letter listing the details—to Baxter Wickham. Because I realized I couldn’t, and shouldn’t, let it slide either.”

“Face-to-face is better. But I didn’t consider that part—the part where you’d have wanted to go. You were crying.”

“I stopped. I needed to cry, then I stopped, and I started to think. There were things I needed to say, and I intended to write them down. I admit I would have done several drafts, taken a few days to perfect the tone and language.”

“I bet.”

“But if you’d told me, and I’d realized I couldn’t talk you out of going, I’d have gone, Ryder. I’d have had that face-to-face.”

“Okay.” His shoulders relaxed as he nodded. “Okay. I can say I’m sorry I cheated you out of that.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t appreciate you standing up for me the way I should have.”

“Good enough. Now are we done with it?”

“No.”

“Oh, man.”

“I’ll get you a cold drink, then you’ll tell me what you said to Baxter, and what he said to you. Reverse the situation. You know damn well you’d want to know.”

“You want me to replay the back-and-forth?”

“I absolutely do.”

“Crap.” Details, he thought. Women always wanted them. “Okay, but if I do, I want makeup sex.”

She got him a cold Coke from the refrigerator, smiled. “That’s a deal.”

He could take the time, he calculated as he dropped down on a stool. It felt good to get off his feet for five minutes. It felt good to look at her, up close, to catch her scent, to hear her voice. He could tell her about the deal with Wickham. He didn’t see why he needed to tell her they’d run into each other right outside because he’d dropped what he’d been doing with the intention of coming just where he’d ended up—with her—and having it out.

He’d had enough, that’s all, enough of giving her time to cool off and the space to do it in. Enough of thinking about her all the goddamn time to the point he’d lost sleep.

He never lost sleep over a woman.

And he’d had enough of trying to figure out what the hell she wanted him to do since his ever-reliable flower gambit had gone down in flames.

So he owed Lizzy a favor for maneuvering things so he was where he wanted to be. Better than, he admitted, because he was sitting down with a cold Coke and Hope was sitting beside him, waiting. Watching.

And there was a bout of makeup sex in his future.

“Well?” she said at length.

“I’m thinking. How long do you figure before the blonde blasts the asshole she married, tossing you in his face?”

“I don’t know her that well. Probably not long,” Hope admitted.

“And being a gutless asshole, how long would it take him to turn it around so you made the moves, came onto him, that kind of thing.”

“Immediately.”

“Yeah, I figured. You still have contacts down there, people in the business, or people who like to travel, to stay in nice places, unique places.”

“Yes, I do. In your scenario, to protect themselves from someone who doesn’t even give a damn, and to protect their pride, they might try to damage my reputation. They might spread lies and gossip about pitiful, scheming Hope who slept her way in and out of a job, and now into another.”

“Not good for business.”

“So, you were thinking about business.”

“It’s a factor.” Maybe minuscule in the big picture, but a factor. “A bigger one is they—neither of them—deserve any shot of getting off easy. Kicking his ass? Owen’s always worried about arrests for assault and criminal trials.”

“It’s a factor,” she said dryly.

“But to my way of thinking, it’s mostly worth it, until you think about how bruises and broken bones heal. And some people knee-jerk toward feeling bad for the ass that’s been kicked, no matter how it’s earned. So I liked the idea of longer-term benefits. The asshole’s dickless. Plus, you take one good look at him, and the one he married, you can see what drives them is money and show and status. You’ve got to have money and opportunities for the show and the status. Old man Wickham’s still running things, so he’s the power source. He could cut off the money—or channels leading to it, and shut down opportunities.”

She’d come to all the same conclusions, but could admit—a little shamefully now—she hadn’t given Ryder credit for doing the same. “You thought of all this?”

“It’s a long freaking drive down there in a lot of freaking traffic. Plenty of time to work it out. Anyway. It’s a good-looking hotel.”

“Yes, it is.”

“I could see you there.”

“Could you?”

“Suits you, all the shine of it.”

“It did. Once.”

He studied her in silence a moment. “I guess you could say I looked a little out of place, going straight from the job. They were polite, I’ll give them that, and probably would’ve politely booted me out if I hadn’t suggested pending charges of assault if Wickham didn’t see me.”

“Assault?”

“She slapped you.”

“Yes, but—”

“It’s fucking assault. If I’d’ve punched the asshole, you can take it to the bank there’d have been cops and lawyers. Maybe we don’t handle things around here by running to cops and lawyers over a slap or punch, but I figured those kind do. Owen’s got that right.”

“You did a lot of thinking in freaking traffic.”

“It’s that or buy a gun and shoot somebody. He had his security guy bring me up to his office.”

“Jerald?”

“Yeah, that’s what Wickham called him. Once I started laying it out, Wickham gave Jerald the signal to step out. I figured it was going to take a while, a lot of moves, countermoves, defense, offense. But it didn’t, not really.”

“What did you tell him, Ryder?”

“That Jonathan came here, uninvited, unexpected, and unwelcome, claimed his father had an offer to make you if you came back to work. And that Jonathan made one of his own, if you’d hook up with him again. And that you weren’t interested. He wasn’t happy to hear it, Wickham. That’s when I got the sense he had some guilt where you were concerned. Some regrets. But when I got to the second act, told him about the blonde coming here—that’s when he sent security out of the room,” Ryder remembered.

“I imagine so,” Hope concurred.

“He got the picture, and we came to terms.”

“What terms?”

“He makes sure they leave you the hell alone, and that includes spreading lies. Then we’re square. Either of them comes here, takes any kind of hit at you, they’ll pay for it. That’s it.”

“That’s it?”

“Yeah. He gave me a card with some private number on it. Asked if I’d let him know if either of them didn’t hold the deal.”

“Wait.” Stupefied, she held up a hand. “Baxter Wickham gave you his private number?”

“Yeah, so? He’s not God. He’s just some guy, an embarrassed and pissed-off guy who’s got an asshole for a son. Now it’s done, like I said.” He took a long swallow because,
Jesus
, he felt like he’d been talking straight for an hour. “You’re the one big on communicating, expressing. Talk, talk, talk. Maybe you should’ve done some communicating, expressing, talking to him when the asshole showed up here. The old man strikes me as a pretty reasonable guy.”

Reasonable
wasn’t the word most used to describe Baxter Wickham, Hope thought. Powerful, private, occasionally pugnacious. “He was my employer for a long time. And I believed he’d be my father-in-law. But you’re right. I should’ve gone to him. I guess I was still carrying some hurt and anger in that area—plus, blood’s thicker.”

“Maybe, and maybe he’d have shrugged off his son’s offer. You were free to say yes or no. But the daughter-in-law bit? No. The dickless asshole may not be able to keep her in line, but Wickham will.”

“It shouldn’t have gotten this far. And it should never have caused trouble between you and me. I’m sorry it did.”

“Makeup sex ought to balance it out.”

When she laughed, he reached out without thinking, stroked his fingers down her cheek in a way that stilled the laughter.

“I missed your face,” he told her.

Moved, she closed her hand around his wrist. “I missed yours.”

He rose, smooth and quick, lifting her from the stool, wrapping her against him. She expected urgency and demand, a prelude to that makeup sex. Instead, the kiss floated over her senses, dreamy and sweet. It shimmered over her heart, then into it before she understood, before she could prepare.

Even when he drew away it held there, beating like a pulse inside her.

His thumb brushed over her cheekbone. Calloused skin; a gentle stroke. “I’ll pick up some food and be back later.”

“All right. I have—”

“Guests. I know. I keep up. I’ll wait.” His eyes, green and searching, stayed on hers another moment. “We’ll wait,” he amended. “D.A. missed you, too.”

He walked out, left her weak and wondering.

Is this what she’d thought she’d felt for Jonathan? Stupid, stupid to have mistaken contentment, habit, what had proven to be a foolish affection and loyalty for this overwhelming, undermining, dazzling emotion.

She had to sit, wait to get her breath back, wait for her knees to stop trembling. She hadn’t understood, had
never
understood love caused such a staggering physical reaction. She felt feverish, unsteady, and, she had to admit as she closed her eyes, frightened.

She had a
plan
. Falling in love hadn’t been part of it.

“Adjust,” she ordered herself, and laid her cheek on the cool granite. “Adjust.”

Some people never felt what she felt now. Right at the moment she didn’t know whether to envy or pity them. But realities had to be faced. She was in love with Ryder Montgomery.

She just had to figure out what the hell to do about it.

“Is this what you felt?” Hope stayed where she was, breathing in honeysuckle, struggling to find her balance. “No wonder you’ve waited. What else could you do? He loved you, too. You knew. You didn’t wonder or worry or doubt. If you’d wait, if you could, so could he. I’ll find him.”

Billy
.

Hope heard the joy in the name, the
life
in it.

Ryder.

“Yeah.” On a long breath, she pushed herself up to sit again. “It looks that way. It looks as if I started moving here, to this, from that first minute. Dizzy, hot, overwhelmed, dazzled, scared. Just like now. It shouldn’t be, but it is. It shouldn’t have been for you either, considering. It must run in the family.”

Billy. Ryder.

“And I’ll bet Billy had that same cocky nature. It shouldn’t be so appealing. Swept you off your feet. I can see it. I can see it now. It didn’t matter who your father was, what your station was. He loved you. He saw you, and that was all that mattered. I wonder what that’s like. To have someone so strong and confident see you, look at you, and you’re all that matters.”

She sighed now, got to her feet. “I can’t think about that right now. I can’t expect that. I need to finish my list, and I should bake some muffins before the guests arrive.”

The cupboard door where she kept her baking supplies flew open, slammed shut.

“There’s no reason to be annoyed with me. Billy loved you, I understand. He wanted to marry you. Ryder doesn’t . . .”

She stepped back instinctively as the door slammed again. She heard the names clearly.

Billy. Ryder
.

“All right, Eliza. Enough. If I say I wished Ryder felt for me what Billy did for you, will you be satisfied? But Billy and Ryder aren’t . . .”

She stopped, braced a hand on the counter as it sprang up in her. “Oh God, is that it? Was it always that simple. Billy Ryder? Joseph William Ryder. Is that it? Is that his name?”

The lights came on in a brilliant glow, pulsed like a heartbeat.

“Billy Ryder. Yours, and apparently mine. His ancestor? Could that be? His, like you’re mine. Wait.”

She grabbed the kitchen phone, punched in Ryder’s cell.

“What?”

She ignored the automatic annoyance. He hated being interrupted, but that was too damn bad. “Ryder’s a family name, isn’t it?”

“Huh? Jesus. So what?”

She pitched her voice up, compensating for the hammering on his end. “It’s your mother’s maiden name? Her family name?”

“Yeah, and so what?”

“Billy. It was his family name, too. He’s Joseph William Ryder.”

“Son of a bitch.”

“Do you recognize the name? Is it familiar?”

“Why would it be? He was dead a couple hundred years before I was born. Ask my mother. Ask Carolee. Call Owen. Any one of them would know more than I do.”