Winter's Kiss

The breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding rushed out of his mouth on a short, surprised laugh. He needed to check his ego. She wasn’t here to seduce him. She had to use the bathroom.

He’d go to his grave claiming he wasn’t disappointed.

“Sorry,” he said, opening the door wider and moving back. “Come on in.”

She brushed against him as she stepped inside, the contact slight enough, he was sure it must have been an accident.

Too bad his body didn’t understand that the brief feel of a woman’s soft, fragrant skin and lush curves against him didn’t require the beginnings of an erection.

“Uh...the bathroom’s down the hall, first door on the right,” he told her.

Already heading that way, she waved a hand at him, the ends of her dark hair brushing her shoulders. “I know where it is.”

“Right.” Of course she did. This wasn’t the first time she’d been in his home. They were friends. In a roundabout way. A very twisting, turning, convoluted way.

In the way that meant he shouldn’t let his gaze drop, shouldn’t tip his head to the side and take in how good her ass looked in that dress, shouldn’t enjoy the sway of her hips. He jerked his eyes up but that wasn’t any better. Again, he blamed the dress. Because instead of a back, one with plenty of coverage, it had only two straps twisted together to form an X.

And he was going to hell for wanting to trace one of those straps, for wanting, if only for a brief, crazed moment in time, to brush aside her hair and trail a finger up the back of her neck. For not being able to turn away until she’d closed the bathroom door behind her.

Damn Bartasavich genes. Always trying to get him into trouble. But he wasn’t his father. Clinton Bartasavich, Sr. had spent his entire life taking what he wanted without thought or care to the consequences. Mostly because when you were one of the wealthiest men in the country, there were no consequences.

It would have been easy for Oakes to follow in Senior’s footsteps. Entitlement came with the last name. Nothing was out of the reach of a Bartasavich, a belief that Senior fully embraced, especially when it came to women. Five of his six marriages ended due to his numerous infidelities, and he’d fathered four sons by three different women.

Oakes had no doubt his father’s last marriage would have suffered the same fate as his previous ones had he not had a stroke over a year and a half ago. Senior’s young wife hadn’t been able to handle being tied to a man who could no longer take care of himself and had opted for a quick divorce—and the payout guaranteed in her prenuptial agreement.

Oakes was fully aware that he’d grown up extremely privileged, but his mother and stepfather had instilled in him a sense of gratitude for that life. Had taught him how important it was to give back, to help those less fortunate.

No, he wasn’t his father. Never would be. And that was why he’d never take advantage of any woman, especially not this particular woman, not when she’d come to him for help.

Or at least to use his bathroom.

Feeling much better, he hurried down the hall, tripping over her sparkly shoes before righting himself and continuing on to his bedroom. He changed into jeans then grabbed a T-shirt from his dresser and yanked it on. Stepped toward the door...and remembered the feel of Daphne’s hand on his skin. How soft her fingers were. How warm.

How much he’d enjoyed it.

He turned around, crossed to the closet and picked out a sweatshirt. A thick one.

He was tugging down the hem of it when he reentered the living room and found Daphne curled up on the leather sofa, her legs tucked under her, her elbow on the sofa’s arm, head supported in her hand.

“You need anything?” he asked.

She tipped her head back, her grin goofy and so sweet it made his chest ache. “Nope. It’s all good.”

He wasn’t sure about that. He flipped on the lamp, illuminating her face, then scratched the side of his neck. Was it his imagination or were her lips glossier, redder, than when she’d first arrived? And in this light, he could see she’d done something to her eyes, one of those magic tricks women performed to make the usually guileless blue of them seem somehow smoky and mysterious.

“So everything’s okay,” he said slowly. “You’re not hurt or sick and yet you’re here. At my house. At three a.m.”

She touched her upper cheek with her forefinger then slid it onto the tip of her nose, pointed at him with her other hand. A drunk playing her own game of charades. “Bingo.”

“Any reason you’re at my house and not your own?”

“Yep.”

When she didn’t continue, he sat on the coffee table in front of her. “Want to tell me what that reason is?”

“Your house is closer,” she said, as if that made all the sense in the world.

“Closer to where?”

“To the club.”

This was getting him nowhere. As a trial attorney with a high win record, he was used to asking questions and getting answers. He was damn good at it, too, if he did say so himself.

He eyed the woman currently humming a pop tune under her breath. Usually. He was usually good at it.

“I take it you went out tonight?” he asked.

He hadn’t realized she was into the club scene. Then again she was young enough that it made perfect sense that she might enjoy spending her Saturday night being jostled by bumping and grinding strangers while lights flashed and the bass pumped.

He winced infinitesimally. He was thinking like a ninety-year-old man.

She sighed—the long, drawn-out sigh of the weary and put-upon. “I didn’t want to. Nadine made me.”

“Nadine?”

“My cousin. Actually, my other cousins were there, too. Julie and Michelle and Steph,” Daphne said, ticking the names off her fingers. “But Nadine was the ringleader. She decided I needed to go out. They kidnapped me,” she said, attempting to slap the arm of the sofa but missing and almost toppling into his lap. He caught her by her upper arms, helped her back onto the cushion then quickly let go. “They told me we were going out to dinner, that Julie needed a break from the twins but they lied and they... They took me against my will. Can I press charges?”

“It might be better if we hold off on any discussions about legal ramifications until we’re both sober.”

She tapped his knee twice, left her hand to settle there. “You’re a smart one, aren’t you? But then they don’t give out law degrees just for being pretty. And when we have our talk about legal ramen...ramekin...whatever, we can discuss a civil suit against my cousins for being liars. For being no-good, rotten lying liars who lie. Don’t believe them,” she said as she suddenly clutched his hand, her voice taking on a desperate quality. “No matter what they say, don’t believe a word of it. Ever.”

“I won’t.”

“Promise?”

“Promise,” he repeated solemnly because it seemed so important to her. Then again, alcohol made even the most mundane things exciting, the most minor issue important.

“Okay.” She relaxed the death grip she had on him and eased back. “Okay then.”

“Why don’t we get you some coffee?” he suggested.

“Oh, I can’t have coffee this late,” she told him, her eyes wide, her gaze earnest. “It’ll keep me up.”

She was so adorable, he couldn’t help but grin. “How about we try it anyway? See if it sobers you up a bit?” And hopefully, helps her be more clear and concise in her answers as to why she was there.

She returned his smile. “Okay. But I should help you,” she said when he got to his feet.

She started to stand and he pressed gently on her shoulders until she sat back on the edge of the sofa. “I’ve got this.” But he realized he was still touching her. The thin straps of her dress were silky, her skin incredibly warm under his palms. The ends of her hair tickled the backs of his fingers and he sprang back, releasing her. Was fervently glad he’d put on jeans as he shoved his traitorous hands into their pockets. “You, uh, just relax. And tell me the rest of your story.”