Winter Kisses. A.C. Arthur
thought about staying; clearly he outweighed her and could overpower her. But that wasn't his style, either. So instead, he shifted, rolling off her and watching as she quickly stood and rubbed her hands down her thighs. Thighs he'd felt flexing beneath him just seconds ago.
“I'll put your bags in the hallway,” she said then turned to leave.
He could have gotten up, stopped her, made her address this attraction between them, but decided against it. He grabbed the plastic mat, doing some kind of folding job before stuffing it into its box. For anything to happen between them, Monica would have to want it; she would have to be on the same page as he was in her wants and desires. No way was he going to force himself on any woman, especially not this one. So tonight he'd sleep on the couch and convince himself that it was as comfortable as that king-size bed in the other room.
Monica hated the night.
Hated all the shadowed memories it held and replayed for her at will.
Taking a deep breath, she burrowed deeper under the comforter and closed her eyes, tighter than they had been before. Maybe if her eyes were closed tight the memories couldn't find their way inside her head. It was childish and probably sounded way beyond crazy, but this was her nightly ritual. All day long—from the time she woke up, usually at five, until the time her workday normally ended, around eight or nine in the evening—she was just fine. Nothing and/or nobody could throw her off her game. But the minute she changed into her nightclothes and sank into bed, the problems began.
Her past wasn't an easy one to forget. On most days she figured it was best not to forget—that way she wouldn't be likely to make the same mistakes twice. On other days she wished for something to come along and wipe her memory clear—like an IT tech would a hard drive. But Monica had no such luck, never did. Sometimes she wondered if she'd just been born in the wrong place at the wrong time.
That seemed awfully selfish considering the privileged upbringing she'd experienced. Her mother, Noreen Lakefield, came from a long line of strong black women in South Carolina, while her father, Paul Lakefield, came from an industrious family who'd made their mark in the steel industry. Her mother was the nurturer, there was no doubt about that. Anything that had to do with the three Lakefield girls was Noreen's business and hers alone. Paul rarely made time for the daughters he'd been saddled with despite his desires for sons. It was from that seed that a disconnect between Paul Lakefield and his daughters had grown. With Deena, the youngest, her father just had no patience at all. Then again, no one in the family really had a lot of patience for Deena's impulsive nature, though they'd all been shocked when she had invited them to her wedding last July. Monica was still getting used to the idea of her youngest sister now being a wife, a mother and published author.
The middle child, Karena, Paul tended to ignore completely. That sometimes happened with the middle child, and it had bothered Karena so much she'd taken it out on their mother. Now it seemed Karena and Noreen had reconciled while Karena and Paul came to their own terms of acceptance. It would seem that now it was Monica's turn, only she didn't want a turn. Her father was a taskmaster where she was concerned, always had been. As the oldest she was expected to be the strongest, the smartest, the best at everything she did. It was an unspoken doctrine that she subscribed to just the same. For years Monica struggled to make sure she did everything right in her father's eyes, everything acceptable. Her reward for those efforts was to never hear an angry word from Paul Lakefield about herself. That should have been enough, but not hearing an angry word equated to not hearing anything positive, either.
Sighing, Monica turned onto her other side, clutching the pillow between her arm and her head, pulling her knees up close to her chest. She felt like a child but noted the comfort and safety most children experienced was missing. Monica hadn't felt safe, ever. Comfortable? She didn't know the meaning of that word. To be comfortable to her somehow meant she was complacent, settling for things as they were, and she didn't want to do that. Not ever again.
She opened her eyes, tried staring at the ceiling because obviously keeping them closed wasn't blocking the memories out. Her heart clenched and she bit down on her bottom lip to keep from sighing again, or Lord forbid, whimpering. Show no weakness, another one of her mottos. If the enemy knew your weakness, he'd easily exploit it. Wasn't that what happened before?
Turning again, she realized it was useless. She wasn't going to get any rest tonight. At home she survived on about four hours’ sleep each night. When she wasn't in her own bed, it was more like no hours’ sleep. So, throwing back the covers, she sat up, pulling her knees up to rest her forehead on them. She was too damned old to be going through restless nights and harboring fears that couldn't possibly hurt her anymore.
If she were totally honest with herself she'd admit that her restlessness tonight wasn't entirely due to the haunting of her past. A very pleasant distraction was keeping her from sleeping, as well. And he was right down the hall, sleeping on the gorgeous but probably not-too-comfortable couch. But did he really expect for them to share a bed? They barely knew each other and she wouldn't even count the times they had met as getting to know one another. Then again, Monica didn't spend a lot of time trying to get to know anyone. It just wasn't worth it.
Kissing him was quickly becoming addictive. And Monica definitely did not do addictions. What she did do was own up to whatever issues she had. So she took a deep breath, lifted her head and stared toward the door. Alex Bennett was going to be an issue.
Finally tired of sitting in this strange bed, Monica stood, moving to one of the windows where she used her fingers to separate the blinds. They were room-darkening, and she needed some light. There wasn't much light outside, just the illumination coming from each cabin's front-door lantern. And through that illumination she saw the huge snowflakes that had splashed against her face earlier were still falling.
The mere thought of all that snow had her searching for her purse, digging through it to pull out her cell phone. That—her heart sank as she pushed the buttons—still did not work.
“Dammit!” she whispered and clenched her teeth. The minute she got back to New York she was going to the store to replace this stupid phone.
Maybe she'd buy one from Alex. Funny how her thoughts circled right back to him.
He seemed like a nice enough guy. A very shrewd businessman, which she'd already assessed from the way Sam talked about him. Besides, after their first meeting and the resulting connection between his family and the prince and princess of Pirata, which ultimately showed up at the gallery with a link to the stolen artwork, she'd researched his family and company.
Bennett Industries had made its mark in the telecommunications industry in the early nineties with their advancements in personal computers. While they were no Bill Gates, they did hold the patent to several programs and PC accessories that were used nationwide, including in the Pentagon, which was a huge boost in their stocks. For the past few years they'd concentrated a lot of effort in mobile devices and security communication systems. They had steadily growing stock and were featured in this month's Infinity
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