Busted

“Different how?” Her tone was tart. “Let me guess . . . you’re fine with pushing the dark and the dismal and the intellectual, but bring something fun and sexy to the table and that is a problem?”

“Hell, no.” Aggravated all over again, he shot her a look. “Have you seen my bookshelves downstairs? Those are my books, Ressa, and you know what kind of books I read. They are mine. There’s everything from The Story of O to Jules Verne to The Iliad to Grisham and J.D. Robb. If I can read about sex, then I can damn well write about it.”

“Then what’s your problem?” she asked, lifting a brow. “Why do you look like you got caught sneaking your dad’s Playboy magazine? Why do you look so embarrassed?”

He snorted. “First of all, assuming my dad had them, I never would have found them—and I doubt he had them. The only time I ever got my hands on them was when I found Zach’s old stash. Second of all . . .” His mind went blank. Once more, he found himself floundering for words, because he was absolutely incapable of figuring out how to put it into words. “It’s not about . . .”

Trey sighed and gave himself a minute as he mixed up some olive oil with garlic, red pepper, and salt. After his mind settled a little, he glanced at her. “It’s not about being embarrassed, okay? I write. It’s what I do. It’s what I’ve always done. It’s like . . . I’ve always breathed. I was able to learn how to walk well enough, too, although I don’t remember doing that. I’ve always been able to write. I’m good at it—I know that, and I work hard at it, but . . . I’ve always done . . .. It’s . . .” Lowering his hands, he scowled at her. “It’s weird having the woman I’m sleeping with making a big deal out of it. Especially with those books, because I saw that ARC I gave you in your bedroom. You’ve already practically read that L. Forrester book to pieces.”

*   *   *

Ressa had never realized how appealing it could be to see a man look that flustered. Although she realized she’d been off target—embarrassed wasn’t quite right.

Self-conscious was the term she needed.

He focused on the food he was putting together with a single-minded intensity, although considering how easily he had done everything, she suspected being in the kitchen came about as easily as everything—well, everything that didn’t involve anything public. “It’s done,” he said less than a minute later, while she was still pondering her next step. “They ate earlier. I ordered pizza, but I didn’t eat much and I’m starving now.”

She moved to block him.

“So . . . what? You think this is just a regular, old, everyday job and people shouldn’t be interested?” she asked, her eyes narrowed on his face.

“It is a job. It’s one I’m just suited for better than some others—like any one of my brothers.” A wide grin split his face as he said it, and then, as it faded, he turned toward the glossy blue refrigerator and opened it up. A line formed between his brows as he looked at her. “It’s a job. Some people are born to be soldiers, some are born to be cops. Zach was born to act—for a while, and then he lost touch with it. He found what made him happy. Others are good with kids and they go on to teach or be counselors or that kind of thing. I’ve got stories in my head. I didn’t ask for them to be there, although I won’t complain that I have them. It’s a job, Ressa.”

“It’s a damn good job, most of the time,” he said softly. Turning away, he got plates from a cabinet, focusing on that simple task. “People pay me to do the one thing I have to do if I want to sleep at night . . . but yeah, it’s a job.”

“It’s a job you’re brilliant at.” She slid a hand up his back. “I don’t see why you feel so self-conscious about it.”

“Yeah, well, I’d probably feel just as weird if I was into roofing and you discovered I secretly did plumbing and were all excited about that, too.” He pushed the plates into her hands. “Here. You can do this part.”

*   *   *

Thirty minutes later, she sat outside curled up on a lounge watching the fire dance in the fire pit in front of her. It was gas and it had only taken her a few seconds of fiddling with it to get it going.

She heard a door open but she didn’t move.

She had managed to keep her mind off everything that had happened with Kiara earlier, but now, in the quiet of the night, it was harder.

Kiara.

She thought she was getting out.

And she just might be right.

She’d done four years. This was her second offense and yeah, it had been one hell of an offense, but she’d been on the straight and narrow ever since.

Kiara had stayed out of trouble, kept her nose clean, taken college courses, all the things a parole board would look for.

Trey sat down beside her and Ressa still continued to stare out over the yard. The pool sparkled, the blue light glowing faintly in the darkness. There was something soothing about it, the way the water flowed and rippled in the night.

“Tell me something,” she said after a long time had passed. A car pulled up nearby and they listened as the engine cut off, as a door shut.

“What do you want to know?” he murmured.

“I don’t know. I just want you to talk.” Then she frowned and lifted her head. “Tell me about the books . . . the Forrester ones. How did that happen?”

“What, you couldn’t ask me about how me and Travis would talk Zach into ganging up on Zane?” he asked, his voice grouchy. Then he sighed. “That’s fun to talk about.”

“Yes,” she said, her voice dry. “I’ve gotten the point . . . you kind of hate to talk about the books. But I’m curious.”

“I’ve noticed.” He slid her a look from the corner of his eye. “Look, the Forrester thing . . . nobody knows.”

“Yeah?” Curious, she studied him. Firelight danced over his face, casting him into ever changing slivers of light and shadow.

“Yeah.” He shrugged. “I mean my editor. Some of the people in house. My agent. Travis does. My assistant, although she’s been on leave . . . sorta . . . for a while. But that’s it. None of my other brothers know, my parents don’t. You know now. I want to keep it quiet.”

“Okay.” She laid a hand on his cheek, studying his eyes. “But can I ask why? I mean, it’s your call and everything, but I don’t see why you don’t want people to know or anything.”

“I . . .” He rolled his eyes and rose to his feet. She watched as he moved to the fire pit, crouching down to fiddle with the controls. “I get nervous in front of people. I always have. I’m fine if I’m talking about my brothers and even better if I’m not the only one up there—growing up, there was almost always a couple of us together anyway, so I had to learn to deal with that.” He grimaced and shot her a look. “I had to or I might as well become a recluse. But when it comes to me? I don’t know. I tend to half panic and I have to spend days—sometimes weeks—psyching myself up for it. It’s stressful enough to do it for one. I don’t know if I can handle doing it for two.”

As he slowly straightened from his crouch, he shot her a caustic look. “And it’s even more nerve-wracking thinking about doing it in front of a bunch of women.”

“Whatever.”

“Yeah, you roll your eyes.” He scraped his nails down the five o’clock shadow that had darkened his face. “You’re not the one who damn near had panic attacks every time an essay or a project was due in high school. Shit, I even bribed Travis into doing it for me a few times—until we got caught.”

“You bribed . . . you mean you had your twin giving your reports in class?”

“I wrote them,” he said defensively. “He just read them.”

A smile twitched at her lips and he had to clench his jaw not to smile back. Okay, yeah, that had been this side of desperate, the two of them swapping out classes, just so Trey didn’t have to give those damn reports. Getting caught—thanks to a teacher who had figured out he couldn’t go from panicked and ready to puke, to suave and cool within the span of a month or two—had probably been the kick in the pants he needed to actually learn how to handle getting up in front of people on his own.