Getting It Right!

“Not tonight,” she repeated firmly. “What?” she said grimly under her breath. “You want me to walk up to him and tell him that I’m in need of some of his whispering skills?” She rolled her eyes. “Hardly. I need a plan first. I’ve got to have something to offer in return.” What, she didn’t know. Ben was a top-notch and well-paid photographer whose work had been featured in prominent glossies all over the globe. Money wasn’t going to cut it. He didn’t need it anymore.

Frankie’s eyes bugged. “You mean sleeping with you isn’t going to be payment enough? He wants you. You are what he gets.”

“No,” April said, lost in her own thoughts. “That’s not how I want to handle this.”

Frankie harrumphed and looked at her as though she’d grown a second head. “You’re insane.”

“Yeah, well, you try going without an orgasm for eighteen months and see how rational you are.”

Her friend made a moue of understanding and conceded the point. “There is that.” She paused. “But you are going to ask him for help, right? Promise me,” she insisted.

April nodded and let go a pent-up breath. She sought Ben out once more and the hair on the back of her neck prickled when her gaze unexpectedly tangled with his. That hot, familiar stare and the faint crook of his ultra-sexy lips seemingly pinned her to her seat. Without warning, the air thinned in her lungs, her skin instantly warmed and tightened, and that woeful tingle below her navel issued another faint buzz of desperation.

“I promise,” she said breathlessly.

And she secretly hoped like hell she didn’t live to regret it.

1

“YOU’VE GOT A CALL on line one and a visitor in the parlor.”

Ben Hayes wearily set the loupe aside he’d been using to study yesterday’s negatives and rubbed his eyes. Shit, he thought as he leaned back in his chair. Complete and total shit. None of it even worth developing.

“Who’s on the phone?”

Claudette’s proud Cajun-French chin lifted into a stubborn, I-dare-you angle, one that Ben recognized all too well. It was reserved for one caller, in particular. “Your father.”

Though he’d expected it, Ben felt himself tense, nonetheless, then had to force himself to relax. “Tell him I’m not here.” His tone was flat, emotionless, and in no way hinted at the anger, hopelessness and regret that twisted his insides.

“Too late,” his meddling secretary replied. “I’ve already told him you are.”

“Then tell him I’m in a meeting.”

Her thin nostrils flared as she pulled in a breath. Of patience, no doubt. Apparently running interference between him and his father was beginning to wear on her otherwise steely nerves. “He’s already asked if you were in a meeting and I said no.” The merest hint of a smile caught the corner of her compressed lips. “Looks like he’s onto all of your excuses.”

“Fine. You can tell him the truth.” He shrugged. “Tell him I don’t want to talk to him.” Another lie. He’d love to talk to his father. Tell him how things were going. Basically shoot the shit and share a beer. Perks he knew other men enjoyed with their dads. But, despite his best attempts to get past the…complexities of his father’s character, he simply couldn’t do it. He’d tried…and he’d failed. And since failure was such an uncommon and unpleasant experience, he’d rather avoid it.

“Oh, for Pete’s sake,” Claudette finally snapped. “I’ll tell him no such thing. He’s your father. You should talk to him.”

He did talk to him. On birthdays and holidays. “Claudette,” he began warningly.

“Oh, fine,” she begrudgingly relented. “I’ll make up another excuse, tell the dear man another lie.” She aimed a hard stare at him, one that seemed particularly intense considering she wore a tiny brooch with a picture of her beloved dog on her collar. “But this is the last time, Ben.” She exhaled mightily. “Now what do you want me to do about the girl in the parlor? Tell her you’re not in, as well?” she asked sarcastically.

Relief melted the tension out of his muscles, causing him to slouch back in his tufted leather chair. He arched a brow. “Depends,” he said. “Who is she and what does she want?”

“Her name is April Wilson and, as for what she wants, you’ll have to ask her yourself. She said it was personal.”

Ben blinked, certain he’d misunderstood. “April Wilson?”

“Yes,” Claudette replied cautiously, obviously sensing his surprise. “Do you know her?”

Ben felt a grim smile catch the corner of his mouth. Oh, yeah. He knew her. He could identify every freckle on her face, knew the exact curve of her brow, the varying shades of green that made up those wide expressive eyes of hers. He knew that purple was her favorite color, black-eyed Susans her favorite flower, and that when she was nervous or tense, she had a tendency to chew the corner of her plump bottom lip. He knew that she liked to wear her hair up, that as a teenager she had a huge crush on Rick Springfield and that she was missing a nail on her left pinkie toe. A biking accident, if memory served, and admittedly, his rarely failed where April was concerned.

In fact, he’d probably be a lot happier if it would.

Despite years of separation and countless substitutes, despite time, distance, a complicated family history—Ha! he thought darkly—and more sex than any man had a right to in a lifetime, April Wilson still remained, and he grimly suspected would always remain, the girl for him.

She’d unwittingly set the standard, and was the one woman every other he’d crossed paths with was compared to. For more than a decade he’d been trying to recreate the magic, to find the same sort of chemistry he’d had with her. The mind-numbing, soul-shattering attraction that made a man want to climb out of his own skin and into hers.

He’d never found it.

Hell, he’d never even come close to capturing that same sort of feeling, that awesome, unbelievable high. In fact, he’d all but convinced himself that it hadn’t really existed, that his teenage über-hormones had somehow magnified and distorted the memory until it couldn’t possibly be real.

But one chance meeting at the Blue Monkey Pub eighteen months ago had soon proved otherwise, and over the past year and a half, he’d made a concerted effort to be there on Friday nights just to look at her, share the same air, feel the buzz of her presence.

Pathetic, he knew, but he couldn’t seem to help himself. Though he was no longer the green, easily intimidated boy he’d been when her cruel bitch of a mother had banned him from her life, Ben had nevertheless resisted the almost overwhelming urge to seduce her. To see if she could still make the bottom drop out of his stomach with a mere smile.

He’d learned that she could, even when that smile wasn’t directed at him.

Which was why, over the past couple of weeks, he’d been wrestling with the idea of seducing her anyway. Quite frankly, the idea of thumbing his nose at her parents—both of them, but for different reasons—was intensely appealing.

Her mother had robbed him of April, deemed him unworthy of her daughter. Ben smiled bitterly. Oh, but that hadn’t been enough. She’d wanted to really wound him, to really hurt him and, as a result, she’d ultimately stolen his father, as well. Or at the very least, any respect he’d had for his dad. Until Morgana Wilson had spewed her poison, he’d enjoyed the ignorant bliss of thinking his father was perfect. The man had had problems, Ben knew. War had a way of ruining the best soldiers, and Davy Hayes had been no exception. But Ben had never doubted his father’s character…until Morgana had taken that from him.

As for April’s father…His lips twisted. Well, it was hard to pigeonhole his sins.

In the end, her parents had both directly and indirectly hurt him and, though he knew the best way to repay that sentiment would be to hurt their daughter, Ben had been unable to follow through. He wanted her more than he’d ever wanted anyone, but between the personal issues attached to her family and the taint of revenge attached to having her, he’d been unable to come to terms with the cost.

Both hers and his.

“Do you want me to send her in?” Claudette asked.

Still somewhat distracted, Ben nodded. Unfortunately, there was only one reason why April would come to see him—one he sure as hell wasn’t interested in discussing—but he could hardly turn her away. It was April, after all, and just knowing that she was in the next room made his heart kick into an irregular rhythm.

With an expression of extreme curiosity Claudette gave him an odd look, then turned on her heel and walked out. Less than thirty seconds later she returned with April in tow, ushered her into the room, then with another blatantly interested look, once again made a reluctant exit.

If he’d had any manners at all, Ben would have stood when she came in, but for some reason his legs had turned to lead. Only years of pretending to be indifferent kept his mouth from breaking into a wide grin and fortunately the careless smile he’d mastered slid easily into place. Words momentarily failed him—he had absolutely no idea what to say—but in the end, he settled for a weak, “Er…This is a surprise.”

April’s small hand tightened around her purse strap and she cast an uneasy look around his office. “I hope I’m not intruding.”

“Not at all.” He finally found his feet and gestured toward a chair. “Please. Come sit.”

Clad in a brown cable-knit sweater that ably hugged her curves and a pair of tailored cream wool slacks, April traveled the short distance to one of the walnut demi-marquise chairs that flanked his antique desk. Her mink curls were loose and tousled and the sting from the cold wind had colored her cheeks. A pair of diamond studs winked from her delicate lobes and the matching pendant lay nestled between her breasts, suspended from a fine gold chain. He caught the crisp scent of winter and the smallest whiff of jasmine as she settled into her seat.

As always, she looked chic, polished and approachable, a combination one didn’t always see among those who were accustomed to money. Now that he moved within her circle, he could appreciate the difference.

She glanced around his office, her keen gaze inspecting a few of his more accomplished frames. “Beautiful work,” she said softly. She gestured toward a sepia print behind his credenza. “Isn’t that the staircase in the old Belle Fontaine mansion?”

Ben nodded. “It is.”