Redeemed by Passion Page 3

  Teresa gestured for Corinne to sit. When Corinne’s eyes met hers, she saw her curiosity and knew a dozen questions were hovering on Corinne’s tongue. Teresa’s respect for her increased when Corinne just powered up her iPad and asked a simple question. “So, what’s the plan?”

  Teresa tucked a strand of hair that had fallen from her loose bun behind her ear. “The plan is that we arrange Brooks Abbingdon’s big blowout wedding.”

  Corinne’s brown eyes widened. “He’s getting married? To whom?” Corinne read the social pages and entertainment magazines with utter dedication and Teresa knew that she was wondering whether she’d missed a crucial piece of gossip.

  “He didn’t say.”

  Corinne looked at her like she was, finally, losing it. “I’m sorry? I don’t understand.”

  Yep, crazy. “Brooks didn’t tell me who he was marrying. I suspect it’s someone very famous and intensely publicity-shy. And that’s okay. We don’t need her input because Brooks was very explicit in what he wanted.”

  Corinne leaned forward, her expression intense. “So what does he want?”

  Teresa half smiled. “He wants me to recreate Delilah Rhodes and Alex Dane’s wedding. With one crucial difference...”

  Corinne bounced up and down and gestured Teresa to keep talking. “What? What’s the difference?”

  “Delilah and Alex had a massive budget.”

  “Our budget is smaller? Dammit. Okay, we can get creative.”

  Teresa shook her head. “No, we have an unlimited budget. We can spend what we like, how we like, but it’s got to be blow-your-socks-off amazing. But we only have two weeks to get everything organized.”

  Corinne pulled a smile up onto her face in an effort to appreciate the joke. “Ha ha.”

  “I wish I were joking. But I’m not. Brooks has thrown Limitless Events a lifeline. Minimal time is the cost of that lifeline.” Teresa forced a smile of her own. “But, if we work every hour of the day, maybe we’ll all still have jobs at the end of the month.”

  Teresa watched as confusion and disbelief flew across Corinne’s face and gave her assistant a minute to take in the news. She’d come into her office thinking that the company could not possibly recover from Saturday night’s fiasco but instead of getting pink slips, they were going to organize the wedding of the year.

  How did this happen? Why was this happening? Teresa couldn’t answer Corinne’s questions, not without explaining that she owed someone a favor and that this was his way of collecting. The Fixer had told her, when he checked on Joshua to see if the $7 million debt was real, that she owed him a nonmonetary favor and she was finally being asked to cough up.

  She’d always worried that The Fixer would ask her to do something illegal, something below board—she wasn’t an idiot; she knew that he wasn’t a law-abiding angel—and she was so relieved that he was asking her to use her skills to repay her debt. Yeah, Brooks’s time frame was totally ludicrous but, compared to some of the scenarios she’d imagined, this was child’s play. And, thank God, legal.

  And best of all, Brooks was still going to pay her. Bonus.

  Teresa couldn’t help wondering how Brooks had heard of The Fixer and whether asking for help on organizing his wedding was all he’d asked of the man who, it was reported, could arrange anything, anywhere. She’d heard of The Fixer through her previous boss, Mariella Santiago-Marshall, but how had Brooks connected with her sure-his-hands-are-dirty angel? It had to be word of mouth, whispered over boardroom tables or over glasses of five-hundred-dollar whiskey. But unlike hers, The Fixer’s fee to Brooks was sure to be hard cash.

  Hey, she didn’t care. She was ridding herself of one debt. And she’d use the enormous fee Brooks had offered her to pay some of Josh’s debt, hoping to placate Joshua’s money lender and buy them some time.

  But nobody would be getting paid if they didn’t get to work. Teresa looked at Corinne and issued the first of many instructions. “I’d like you to make up a mood board of all our most expensive weddings to show to Brooks, to get an idea of what he does and doesn’t want. Focus on the Newport Bridge wedding.”

  When Corinne left the room, Teresa stood up and walked over to her window and watched the Seattle-Bremerton ferry cross Elliott Bay. She placed her hand on the window and sighed at the wet, miserable day. Normally, the weather didn’t bother her but today it just reminded her of her soggy heart, her tear-soaked soul.

  She missed Liam...

  Get used to it; you’re going to be missing him for a long, long time.

  Never again would she feel his mouth on hers, the scratch of his two-or three-or four-day stubble on her skin. Her body wouldn’t hum in pleasure as he traced her lips with his, drawing out the anticipation of his tongue moving into her mouth to tangle with hers. She doubted that she’d ever again experience the flood of wet, warm heat between her legs as his hands tightened on her hips and he laid siege to her mouth.

  Memories of how he made her feel rushed over Teresa. He’d slowly, too slowly, pull her shirt from the waistband of her trousers or skirt, his fingers drawing bright, bold patterns on her skin. Liam loved to turn her around in order to trace the bumps of her spine, his hard and rigid cock pressing into her butt. No matter how much she begged, Liam treated her like a present he wanted to take his time opening, slowly removing her clothes, one feminine piece at a time. His words burned her skin—“You’re so pretty,” “God, I want you,” “Can’t wait to watch you come”—and with a flick of his tongue across a lace-covered nipple, he’d have her hovering on the edge of an orgasm, desperate to take flight.

  He’d take his time, too much time, before slipping his fingers into her panties, to find the heat between her slick folds. He always knew how to touch her, whether it was with a flick of his finger or a swipe of his tongue. He’d bring her to orgasm, sometimes once, a couple of times twice, with his fingers and his tongue, not entering her until she was limp and languid and so very, very well loved.

  Then he’d push inside her, hot and long and devastatingly masculine and build her up again. And again. And yet again before allowing her to crash and burn and flame.

  None of that would happen again.

  The thought made her want to cry. But she didn’t because she was Teresa St. Claire, and when had tears helped with anything? No, the best she could do was to soldier on because that was what she did best.

  Like brightly colored pieces of a shattered mosaic pile, Teresa always picked up all the pieces she could and rearranged them to make a new pattern or picture. But damn, it was getting harder and harder to do.

  * * *

  In his office at the Abbingdon private airport on the outskirts of Seattle, Brooks lifted his head to watch an ACJ—an Airbus Corporate Jet—land on the runway to the left of his office on the top floor of the office block that housed Abbingdon Airlines’ headquarters. The jet was exquisite and the touchdown perfect on the slick runway. Brooks looked at his watch and yep, the limousines were leaving their hangar to pick up the twenty guests who had flown in, as he’d heard, for Carmen, playing at the Seattle Opera House. He’d been offered tickets to attend but couldn’t remember by whom.

  Brooks shrugged. It didn’t matter since he didn’t have time to waste attending the theater when he had a wife to find, a future to secure.

  Pulling his eyes off the ACJ and its fluid, feminine lines, Brooks looked at his computer monitor and opened the email he’d received while he was salivating over the jet. Brooks read the two-word correspondence:

  For consideration.

  Knowing, without a smidgen of doubt, that the message was from The Fixer, Brooks double-clicked on the first of three files. A photograph of a raven-haired beauty popped up in front of him and Brooks lifted his eyebrows in appreciation. Beneath the photograph The Fixer had a brief paragraph detailing why she was a suitable candidate to become the first Mrs. Brooks Abbingdon. In M
ari Ruiz’s case, she was a divorcée who’d been skinned by her husband, leaving her with a taste for high living but with no one to fund it. She had two degrees, was a champion ballroom dancer and spoke three languages. She was also a gourmet cook.

  Mmm, interesting. Brooks opened the next file, a sultry redhead, who was a young widow looking for a dad for her three kids, all under the age of seven. Brooks dismissed her immediately; this situation was messed up already without adding kids to the chaos. Sighing, Brooks opened the third file and sucked in a surprised breath.

  Well, well. Nicolette Ryan wasn’t someone he’d expected to find on his computer at nine thirty in the morning. He knew Nicolette, had been introduced to her once or twice and he’d had her microphone pointed in his face on various occasions. She was intelligent and witty and, holy hell, with her long black hair and petite frame, and those expressive, brown-black eyes, as sexy as sin. He liked her. She was the one journalist most of his friends and acquaintances found tolerable.

  But why was she on his list of prospective brides? Intrigued, Brooks read The Fixer’s report. Nicolette Ryan was, per his comments, brainy and ambitious and wanted to make a break into serious reporting. Apparently, she’d been floating a documentary film to any producer who’d listen but nobody was taking her seriously. The project was important to her—personally important and related to something in her past—and The Fixer was convinced that there was little she wouldn’t do to see the project on the big screen.

  Brooks scrolled down, annoyed to realize that The Fixer hadn’t explained his cryptic comment about her past. Brooks touched the reply button and banged out a quick message asking for an explanation. He was about to hit the Send button when the thought occurred that, had The Fixer wanted him to have that information, he would’ve given it. A demanding email wouldn’t change his mind.

  The point was: Nicolette Ryan wanted something and if he could provide her the means to achieve that goal, she might be amenable to a temporary marriage.

  Brooks flipped back to look at the picture of the sultry brunette but, compared to Nicolette, she looked over-the-top, too high-maintenance.

  He’d met Nicolette; he liked her and there’d been a buzz of attraction when they spoke. It wasn’t love at first sight—who believed in that anyway?—but something definitely arced between them.

  He was hopeful. After all, everyone had their price—his was Abbingdon Airlines—and he just needed to find out whether her documentary was important enough to her to sacrifice her single status. God, he hoped so.

  He was running out of time.

  Three

  Nobody in Seattle refused to take his calls and Teresa St. Claire wouldn’t be the first.

  Liam stepped into the large open-plan office and met the wide eyes of the young receptionist sitting behind a sleek desk. Early twenties, first job out of college, wide eyes and desperate to please. Child’s play.

  “I’m on my way to see Ms. St. Claire.”

  Liam had to give her credit; she did jump up from her desk and did try to run after him, but his legs were longer and her headphones were connected to her laptop. Besides, he was a foot taller, bigger and broader; how on earth could she stop him?

  Walking across the open-plan offices, he ignored the buzz of chatter his presence generated and ignored the eyes boring into his back. Limitless Events occupied one corner of the top floor of this building and high, arched windows flooded the office with natural light. He flicked a glance outside; it was still raining, and he thought that Teresa had a hell of a view. Slowing down, he approached a messy desk in front of the only self-contained office and growled when he saw that the doors were closed. He looked at Teresa’s PA, surprised to see her leaning back in her chair, legs crossed, a smirk on her pretty face.

  “To what do we owe the honor of your illustrious presence, Mr. Christopher?” Oh, yeah, there was a ton of snark under the sweet smile.

  “Cut the crap, Corinne. You know damn well that I’ve left six messages and that I’ve been trying to talk to her since early Sunday morning,” Liam retorted. “She’s avoiding me.”

  “So you thought the best way to deal with her was to show up at her place of work?” Corinne had the audacity to roll her eyes. “Do you know anything about women, Mr. Christopher?”

  Obviously not. Up until Teresa appeared in his life, he thought he had. He could charm them into bed, show them a good time and when he was bored, extracted himself quietly, easing his way out of their lives with flowers or perfume or more expensive gifts, depending on the woman and the situation. Once, when that Russian ballet dancer refused to go quietly, he’d needed to say goodbye with a holiday in Cannes and a diamond tennis bracelet. But generally, women weren’t difficult.

  And then there was Teresa...

  “Can I go in?”

  Corinne bared her teeth at him. “Let me see if she has time for you.”

  Before Corinne could connect the call, Liam turned at the sound of a door opening. Teresa stood in the open doorway, looking beautiful but fragile. Her creamy complexion was two shades paler than usual, her sexy mouth was pulled tight and the bags under her eyes were a darker blue than her irises. But as he was coming to accept, Teresa could look like a ghoul and she’d still manage to turn him on.

  “What are you doing here, Liam?”

  Since there was only one answer to that question—he wanted to speak to her, dammit!—he shook his head and took two steps in her direction. When he stood close enough to her to inhale her sweet breath, close enough for his chest to flirt with hers, he placed both hands under her elbows and lifted her off her feet. Hell, his woman, this woman, needed to eat more! Walking her backward, he deposited her inside her office, back on her two-inch, ice-pick heels—black today to match her severe black suit and, probably, her mood—and kicked the door shut with his foot.

  When he heard the snick of the lock, he shoved his hands into the pockets of his suit pants. His hands, stupid things, desperately wanted to pull that black sweater from her skirt and lift it up and over her head. Would her bra be black, too? Her panties? He thought so but he sure as hell would like to make sure.

  “I do not appreciate you barging into my office,” Teresa told him, trying to sound snotty.

  “I do not appreciate you not taking my calls,” Liam whipped back, not fazed by her cool eyes and her tight mouth. He knew her well enough to see the pain lurking beneath all that liquid, velvet blue, knew that she was fighting the urge to weep or scream.

  She had a right to.

  Liam couldn’t resist running a thumb over her cheekbone, skirting the edges of her eye sockets. “Have you slept at all since the weekend?”

  He knew that her pride had her wanting to lie but at the last minute she shook her head. “No, I’ve dozed here and there.”

  “Things will seem better after you’ve slept.”

  Teresa stepped away from him and walked away, dropping into the sleek office chair behind her desk. She placed her hands on the table and her amazing eyes flashed blue fire. “So if I sleep, will I wake up and find that my brother didn’t gate-crash Matt’s party, you didn’t hit him, he wasn’t seen on YouTube and I didn’t have to force him to stay in rehab, with him insisting that he’s not an addict? Will that just all go away with some sleep?”

  She had him there. “No.”

  “Exactly.” Teresa scratched her forehead and she released a long stream of air and her shoulders fell from somewhere near her ears. “I don’t want to fight with you, Liam.”

  “I don’t want to fight, either.”

  “But I can’t deal with you right now. Right now I have another commission, an event to organize, and everything is riding on it.” Teresa picked up a pen and rolled it between her palms. “I can’t be distracted and I need to focus. And I really do believe that it’s better that we not see each other anymore.”

  “BS,” Liam
shot back. “You’re just feeling overwhelmed. Possibly scared.”

  Teresa nodded. “Sure I am. But maybe I am also trying to protect you. I’m not good for you, Liam.”

  Liam slapped his hands on his hips, anger coursing through him. She sounded too much like his mother, who’d made her own disparaging comments about Teresa over the past few weeks. Not good enough, a tart, so little class. They were both wrong but there was only one person whose mind he wanted to change. “I’m a big boy. I don’t need you protecting me.”

  “No matter what I say, there are people out there, including your mother, who believe I had an affair with your father, who think I’ve only latched on to you because I have my eyes on your company.”

  He didn’t give a rat’s ass what other people thought and, honestly, he didn’t care much what his mother thought. “So? Let them think what they want.”

  A pencil hit his chest and dropped to the floor. Liam looked at it, raised one eyebrow and returned his eyes to Teresa’s face. On the plus side, she had color in her cheeks. She also looked like she was about to blow.

  “Liam, listen to me. You and me, it’s... Whatever the hell we had, it’s over! Whatever it was, it’s done.”

  Liam sent her a steady look. “I’m not trying to be a jerk, Teresa, but it’s not as easy as that.”

  “Just go, Liam. Please.”

  God, this woman was as stubborn as a boulder. He could tell her that their attraction hadn’t died, that it would take more than her calling it to end this craziness between them. They couldn’t just switch off the taps and walk away. Like her, he couldn’t define what they had but it sure as hell wasn’t something that could be simply and easily dismissed. He’d tried that several times and it never worked. But that argument wouldn’t work with her so he latched on to what was tangible. “Linus’s will stipulates that we still have to work together at Christopher Corporation for a whole year.”