The Scandal (Billionaire's Beach Book 4) - Christie Ridgway Page 0,33

Yeah. Yeah, I’m here.” With the solid island between them, disguising his reaction to his wayward thoughts, thank God. “And anyway I have a second point. Probably,” he added, muttering.

What the hell might it be? His brow furrowed as he deliberated. Hadn’t he considered Sara not the type for a short-term affair between the sheets? She’d expect more—women were raised that way, right?

“I’d hate to see you disappointed,” he finally said.

Okay, now she really looked as if she was going to laugh.

“Disappointed?” Her lips twitched. “Men rarely express such a lack of confidence.”

Shaking his head, it was he who had to laugh. Okay, so his making the case for abstinence was a big fail. Why shouldn’t it be? He didn’t want to abstain. Even ten feet away, she held some sort of draw for him.

She was so damn pretty.

Those big blue eyes, that prim-yet-puffy mouth, the faint flush of sunburn across the bridge of her nose and cheekbones she’d probably gotten during their coastal drive. Then there was the trim little body, those neat curves that he wanted to stroke with his hands and skim with his tongue.

Shit. The tongue that was a minute from lolling around his knees.

Shaking his head again, he tried to pull himself and his thoughts together. Remember that first night? When his sister had shown up? He’d been adamant Sara stay at the house while the teenager was in residence, and if an affair between them went wrong, it could screw that up.

He hauled in a breath. “Essie’s a concern—” he started.

As if summoned, the young female in question skipped into the room. “Essie’s what kind of concern?”

“Never mind about that.” Turning to his sister, he latched on to her presence as a welcome interruption. Maybe his mind would work better later. “What have you been up to since dinner?”

Without answering, she pounced upon the tub of red licorice sitting on the island. “These are my favorite!”

Joaquin’s breath stalled in his chest, taking in her delight. Felipe had loved red licorice—it was likely why Joaquin had unconsciously reached for the candy in the grocery store earlier that day.

His brother was never far from his mind.

As Essie pried open the top, she threw him a bright smile.

Felipe’s smile.

Joaquin still couldn’t breathe. Sometimes he could go for days without pain, but as the anniversary neared, it could strike like vicious claws at any time. It tore at him now.

His sister grabbed a fistful of vines and thrust the container toward Joaquin. “Want some?”

Like a robot, he plucked a few.

Sara came over. “Joaquin.” Her cool hand touched his forearm. “Are you all right?”

He would never be all right. “Fine.”

But her sharp gaze didn’t waver and her soft concern didn’t subside. Both seemed to be boring a hole through his skin and bone. Soon, she’d see directly inside him if he didn’t stop her.

“We’re about to start a movie.” Essie wagged a licorice whip at him. “Watch with us?”

“Sure,” he said, needing space and distraction even more than before. Glancing at Sara, he registered her little frown. Yeah. Space and distraction.

His sister dropped onto one of the couches next to Lulu. Joaquin opted for an oversized easy chair. RJ manned the remote, and the program on the big screen changed from a laugh-track sitcom to a black screen and then to a title sequence.

Familiar music began to play. Joaquin stiffened as an acoustic guitar picked out a single melodic line.

Get up, an inner voice urged. You don’t have to stay for this.

But his muscles felt encased in concrete and his heartbeat had gone sluggish. His limbs wouldn’t obey the commands of his brain. He closed his eyes, awaiting another lash of pain.

“I’ve seen it like a million times,” Essie said blithely. “But this time will be special. That’s you, isn’t it?”

Joaquin opened his eyes. As he watched, the movie played.

In the distance, a skinny young teenage boy palms a basketball on a weed-dotted outside court surrounded by a ragged chain-link fence. The blacktop is crumbling, and the metal rim of the hoop is rusted.

Bounce. Bounce. Rattle as the ball drops through the net-less rim.

Bounce. Bounce. Rattle.

A beat-up old station wagon passes by, equally beat-up suitcases strapped on top and the cargo area filled with boxes. Another, slightly older boy, leans out the back window and waves.

“Seeya, sucka!” he calls, his friendly grin belying the words.

Felipe’s grin.

The younger kid runs along the fence as the car cruises on, waving and waving, like he’ll never see the other boy again and