Exposed Page 9

  “So you’re both charting new territory. No hard and fast rules in new territory. She wants to cling to what’s safe. So do you. But you’ll never know if there’s a compromise unless you try.”

  Austin lifted his gaze to his brother’s. “And if she turns me down again?”

  Tag’s crooked smile emerged. “You sell yourself way too short.”

  Austin sighed, shoved to a stand. “Yeah, well, that’s easy for you to say, Mr. I Spend My Life in the Jungle. You just wait, some woman is going to come along and want to play Jane to your Tarzan and then we’ll see who’s giving advice to whom.”

  Tag just laughed. “Uh-huh.” He reached out and snagged Austin’s arm, pulled him into a back-slapping hug. “You and Jace go find your happily ever after and leave my and Burke’s enduring male bachelor fantasies alone, okay?”

  “I hear you.” Then he shot Tag a look and a smile. “But man, you have no idea how much better that fantasy can be.”

  “Well, since you won’t share the actual details of hot train sex, then could you just please get the hell out of here and go find her already?”

  “Yeah. Maybe I will.” He stood there for a moment, let the decision settle inside him a little, feel it out. It felt . . . right. “I will.” He looked at his brother. “Thanks. For listening, for kicking my ass when I need it.”

  Tag grinned. “Always a pleasure.”

  “Just keep a bottle or two of something strong on hand in case said ass gets royally kicked all the way out of New York City, okay?” Austin was halfway out the door when he stopped, turned back. “Hey,” he said, serious now. “I’ve been so wrapped up in my own shit I haven’t asked you about . . . you know. Any decisions? You want to talk about it?”

  For all that Taggart Sr. had been an equal opportunity son of a bitch, he’d reserved a special place in hell for his eldest and namesake. So it had come as a shock to them all, when the will was read, to discover that their father had left the entirety of the Morgan’s share of Rogues Hollow to Tag. And nothing to the rest of them.

  The last part had been more of a relief than an insult to Austin. But that didn’t negate his concern, or Jace’s or Burke’s, for their big brother. They’d tried to talk to him about it then, but he’d stormed out of the lawyer’s office and hadn’t shown up on the property for two days. When he had come back, it had just been sort of understood that they’d let him bring it up. He hadn’t.

  Tag just shook his head. “No. I’m—I’ll handle it.”

  Austin struggled to find the right words. “We’ll all help, you know. In whatever way we can. If there’s a tax burden or—”

  Tag lifted his hand, but said nothing else.

  Austin fell silent, then said, “Since Jace is moving back permanently, maybe you two can work something out. Burke and I were going to talk to him, but we haven’t seen much of him.”

  Tag’s lips quirked. “Understandable. Zanna turned out pretty damn fine.”

  Austin smiled a little. “Damn, if she didn’t.” He fought to keep the tone light. “I just want you to know we’re all here for you. I know we’ve all spent our lives off doing our own thing, but don’t think that just because of Dad that we don’t respect family. We—”

  Tag lifted his hand again, only this time he closed the distance and pulled Austin into another hug, this one tight, emotional. “I know. Thanks,” he finally said, his voice rough. “But this is something between me and Dad. I want—no, I need to work this out on my own.”

  “Yeah,” Austin said, his own voice a bit raspy. “Okay. Just—well, anything you decide is going to be okay with us. Know that, too.

  “I do.” He shoved Austin out the door, finding a smile. “Now do us all a favor and go get this woman and make her understand she’ll never do better than a Morgan.” He winked. “And if she needs an endorsement—”

  Austin laughed. “Right. No thanks. You stole every girlfriend I ever had. This one is all mine.”

  Tag leaned in the doorway as Austin took the stairs two at a time, intent on packing and booking the next flight to New York.

  “I hope she appreciates it,” Tag murmured. “She’s got herself one of the best.”

  Chapter Eleven

  “Oh good, you’re still here.”

  Del sat hunched over a specially lit bench table, her eye pressed to the magnifier. She didn’t look up. “God help me, Enrique, yes I am.” The pictures on the proof sheet were all crap. Row after row of crap. How hard was it to take pictures of sandals, for God’s sake? Apparently it was beyond her meager talent. Three weeks. It had been three weeks, dammit, and she still hadn’t gotten her head back together. Or her heart.

  “Someone left a package for you.”

  “Great. More shitty proofs I don’t need to see.”

  “I don’t know what is it. I was asked to bring it to you. You want me to put it on your desk?”

  She sighed, looked up at the night maintenance man. “Yeah, sure. And thanks, Rique. You shouldn’t have to play delivery man after hours. I don’t know why they can’t leave after-hour deliveries at the lobby desk like they’re supposed to.”

  The older Spaniard lifted a shoulder in a simple shrug, but his eyes twinkled. “Some are just more persistent than others in getting their way. And I didn’t mind. Got me away from a faulty sink in the men’s room on seven.”

  Del gave him a tired smile, and took the flat, rectangular package from his outstretched hands. It was surprisingly heavy for a relatively small package. Definitely not contact sheets.

  “Don’t work too late,” Enrique admonished her, as he often did.

  And as she often did, she nodded absently and waved. But instead of turning back to the proof sheets and the layout design she had to deliver in the morning, she stared at the package in her hands. There was no label. No postmark. “Hand delivered?” She glanced at the clock on the wall. “At nine at night? I bet that cost a fortune.” The box was long, flat, and wrapped in brown paper. And she hadn’t the faintest clue what it was. One way to find out, though.

  She tore at the paper, only to reveal a flat, white corrugated box. She let the paper fall away, and turned it over. Nothing printed on it, front or back.

  “‘Curiouser and curiouser, Alice,’” she murmured. She opened the flap and pulled back the tissue paper. A thick white envelope lay on top of a picture frame, but when she lifted it, saw what was in the frame beneath, the envelope fell from her hands. Her mouth fell open on a gasp. And her heart teetered and fell right after it. “Oh. Austin. Oh.”

  In a thick black frame, matted exquisitely beneath textured white board, were four photographs, positioned vertically, all shot in subtly lit black and white. Below each picture, in carefully scripted black ink, was one sentence.

  The first photo was a close-up of a pair of eyes. Nothing else. But she knew they were her own. The desire so naked in them clutched at something deep inside her. Below the picture, it said: I want to look into these a hundred times a day. Her throat tightened as she dragged her attention to the next one. It was her hand, tucked flat between her legs, as one thigh rubbed in front of the other. The line below it read: I want to run my tongue here. She shuddered, and felt those very same muscles twitch in remembered pleasure. The next shot was of her fist, gripping so tightly there was no color in her knuckles. Below it: I want to make you hold on to me this tight. Tears had gathered in her eyes by the time she got to the last picture. It was taken from the caboose. Gray skies and snow-filled tracks. Desolate. Lonely. Beneath it was: I don’t want to let you go.

  She pressed a trembling fist to her mouth as she stared at each picture again. Tears tracked down her cheeks unbidden. She could marvel over his technique, the lighting, especially given the circumstances under which they’d been taken. But her professional eye was not the part of her that was engaged here.

  And her heart didn’t care about technique. It was too caught up in the man who had taken the pictures.

  It was only when she pulled h
er gaze away long enough to look for a tissue, that she remembered the envelope. Carefully setting the frame aside, she grabbed a tissue first, blew her nose, dabbed at the tear tracks on her cheeks. She picked up the thick envelope. Dying to know what else he’d sent . . . and terrified all at the same time. She fingered the edges, but didn’t open it right away.

  “Jesus, Del,” she said, angry at her own ambivalence. He was putting it all on the line. She admired him greatly for that, given she hadn’t been able to summon up the courage to do the same. Heart pounding, she opened it and slid out a folded note and a slim white packet. With her heart in her throat, she opened the note first.

  It took me two weeks to finally decide I couldn’t let things end as they did. It only took me a day to find you. But another week has passed while I tried to figure out the best way to contact you. You were right. I was angry. You want to cling to the fantasy. It was a pretty damn fantastic one, so I guess I can’t blame you for that. And yet, lingering memories, powerful images, crowd my brain, making it difficult to think straight. Much less to work. Or do much more than sit, and think about you. What you’re doing. Where you’re going. Who you’re seeing. And how much I’d like the opportunity to be doing with you, going with you.

  Seeing you.

  It’s been almost a month. Surely long enough to get over something that happened in a day. Only I find I’m not. I can’t. Every minute with you felt like a year, and at the same time, passed in a blink. It felt like I’d made love to you for eons . . . and yet I’d only begun to explore you.

  I know you, and yet I don’t.

  But I want to.

  You spoke of a secure base. Of risk. I think we all cling to what makes us feel safe. For me, it’s independence, calling my own shots. I think in that way, we’re very much alike. Somehow, though, all this independence I had to have, hasn’t seemed so damn important since you walked away from me. So . . . I’m willing to take that leap, off my base. Risk that, in the cold light of day, we remain strangers. Two people who happened to spend a moment out of time in spectacular, earth-shattering fashion, but have nothing more to say to one another. I’m willing to risk that it was illusion . . . for the chance that it might be reality.

  It’s been three weeks. It’s been forever.

  A new year has begun. I’d like to begin something else.

  With you.

  Del wasn’t sure when she’d begun to cry again. She dabbed at her eyes with her sleeve, then looked away, and blinked back fresh tears. She felt blindsided . . . and yet, there was no denying the absolute relief that had filled her. He didn’t want to let her go. And wasn’t page after page of crappy shots, weeks of crappy work, proof enough that just maybe she wasn’t ready to let him go either?

  She blew out a long breath, pressed a fist below her heart to quell the jumpiness in her stomach.

  Because it had been three weeks. And it had been forever for her, too.

  A tear tracked down her cheek as she unfolded the large piece of paper that had been tucked in with the note. Inside the first fold, he’d written:

  I’m in town for the next five days. I want to know your world, through your eyes. I’ve spent too long being an observer of life. I want to step into your picture.

  She unfolded the rest of the note, gasping when a plane ticket fell into her hands. On it was another note that read:

  Then, if you feel the same way, I want you to step into mine. Whatever happens after that, happens.

  She turned the ticket over and saw it was to Milan, Italy.

  She stared at it, her first instinct was to run to him, wanting what he offered so fiercely it scared her. What about that secure base? All that bullshit about stability? About a home? She had three projects in the works and four meetings lined up in the next three days with prospective new clients. And after that, there would be more meetings. More clients. More projects.

  And none of those things offered her the one thing she truly wanted.

  Austin.

  And suddenly everything she’d based her life on began to tilt and waver. Her solid base felt like it was crumbling away around her. But instead of being terrified by it, she was . . . exhilarated. Excited. Curious.

  Stability, security, reliability were great, but what good were they if they kept her from living? She looked at the ticket. The offer of the trip dazzled . . . certainly. It reached down deep inside and tugged at something she’d denied she wanted, or simply hadn’t had the courage to do anything about . . . the temptation to wander. To be a little aimless, to drift . . . to take the risk of letting the chips fall where they may. Even if they all fell on her head.

  And yet, more surprising was the realization that showing him her New York was just as dazzling to her. He understood it was special to her, precious. And always would be. That she guarded her feelings about it, protected what she’d built here, the safe, secure haven she’d erected for herself when she needed it most. And yet he’d asked for a glimpse of it, to be part of it, even for a little while. That took guts.

  Just the thought of sharing her world with him energized her in a way she couldn’t remember ever feeling . . . except perhaps for that brief time stranded on a train in the snow. The sights, the sounds, the scents of her city, experienced like a first time, because it would be with him. He was a connoisseur of the senses. It would be a smorgasbord; sensory overload.

  She wanted it. Wanted that. With him.

  She looked at the ticket. Italy. She knew what it meant to him. The serenity and peace he’d found there. And yet he wanted to share it with her, bring her into his haven, risk the ripples on the pond that she might create in that world, so far away from the chaos that apparently had been his childhood as well.

  Risks. So far he’d taken all of them.

  Hand trembling, this time with anticipation . . . she set the letter, the tickets, beside the frame. It was her turn, to reach for what she wanted . . . and damn, for once, the consequences. To give up the sure thing, for a chance to see what might turn out to be the very best thing that ever happened to her.

  Except . . . Her shoulders drooped. She had no idea where to find him. How to contact him. Was she supposed to do what he’d done? Do whatever it took to track him down?

  Okay, then, she could do that. Prove she wanted this. He deserved that. She thought for a second, who she could call who would likely have any clue who he was working for, or where. He said he was in town. Surely she knew someone who knew someone who knew something.

  She spied the clock and swore. But none of those someones were likely to be at their desk at this hour. “Dammit, dammit.”

  Crappy sandal photos and morning meetings completely forgotten, she shoved off her stool and paced to the door, then back to the window. She stared out at the twinkling lights of the city and sighed. “Where are you, Austin Morgan?”

  “He’s right here.”

  She jumped, hand plastered to her chest. Then swung around to find Enrique pushing at Austin, who was standing just outside her doorway.

  “I tell him it’s okay to come up, but he’s no wanting to barge in,” Enrique said, eyes twinkling, gold caps gleaming. “I tell him he must. He didn’t come all this way to wander around down in the lobby.” He gave Austin one last shove, sending him fully into the room. “Now, you two talk about things. Make her smile,” he instructed Austin. “She no smile anymore.” He ducked out before Del could respond.

  Not that she would have. She was hardly listening to Enrique. Her eyes and head and heart were too busy soaking up the reality that had just walked through her door. “Hi.”

  He stopped beside her workbench. “Hi.” He glanced down, saw the picture frame, his letters and the ticket on the surface. He looked back to her, and though he said nothing, it was clear he wanted to know, needed to know, her reaction to his offer.

  Her chest was so tight, her heart thundering so loud, she didn’t know if she could form actual speech. Don’t blow this, don’t blow this, were the words runni
ng through her mind. “It’s amazing, Austin.” You’re amazing. “I’m . . . I’m stunned by it.

  “I was going to give you time. To think about it, decide. But I couldn’t seem to make myself leave the building.”

  Her lips curved just a little when he shifted his weight from one foot to another. Her confident, worldly, courageous lover was nervous. Thank God she wasn’t the only one.

  “I know you wanted to leave things as they were. I tried to go along with that, but. . .” He trailed off. “Well, if you read my notes, then you know how I feel.”

  “I read them.” Every word was emblazoned across her heart. “You’re a lot braver than me.” She took a breath. “I owe you an apology. I should have stayed, talked to you, explained why I had to go. But I was afraid.”

  “What did you think I was going to do?”

  She held his gaze. “Convince me to stay.”

  He took an involuntary step forward, and she could see the heat flare in his eyes. He stopped himself, but the heat didn’t fade. “Would that really have been so bad?”

  She wrapped her arms around herself. Mostly to keep from running across the room and wrapping them around him. “Yes. And no. I—you said in your note that you spent your time observing life, that I made you want to step into the picture and live it. Well, that’s what scares me about you. I guess I figured if I ever got serious about someone, it would be here, in the city. It’s terrifying enough to tie your heartstrings to someone else’s, to allow yourself to be that vulnerable. I—I’ve never even been tempted to do that.” She took a breath, made herself finish. “Until you.” She raised a shaky hand when he stepped closer. “That would have been a big enough leap for me, but the fact is, you lead a very different life than I do. I—” She stopped, lifted her shoulders, let them fall. “I figured it was better to quit while I was ahead.”