Dirtiest Secret Read online

  "A helicopter?" The redhead pursed her swollen lips into a pout. "You're really leaving?"

  "You were eavesdropping?"

  Her mouth curved up impishly. "I guess maybe you should punish me."

  "I'll add it to the agenda," he said. "But you're right. I have to leave." He checked his watch. He wanted to be on the pad when the helicopter arrived. He didn't want to waste a moment. "You have my cell number?"

  "Of course."

  "Text me pictures." He shifted his gaze to the blonde. "Text me very interesting pictures."

  He took more pleasure in the blush that crept over both women's faces than he probably should, but what the hell. He wanted what he wanted. And if a bad selfie of those two kissing could get him hard--could get his mind off Jane and where he was going and what he was doing--then he wanted it in his inbox. After all, it was a very long flight to Argentina.

  He'd just grabbed a black T-shirt from the back of a chair when he heard the light tap at the door. "Come on in," he called, hoping Archie wasn't going to tell him the 'copter was held up.

  But when he looked inquisitively toward the opening door, it wasn't Archie's efficient face that appeared at the threshold--it was Jane's. And in that moment, Dallas's heart stopped beating.

  He stood frozen, like a fucking idiot, staring at the door as if he were looking at a ghost. Hell, maybe he was. It was more likely that a specter would grace these halls than this woman who'd once lived there.

  She wore only jeans and a pink tank top under a transparent, white blouse. Her lush brown hair was pulled back into a messy ponytail, with a few loose strands framing her face. She wore no makeup, and her brown eyes seemed huge against her pale skin.

  She looked frazzled and rushed. She looked stunning. And even after all this time--even after fighting against it every goddamn day--he felt desire curl through him, hot and demanding and far too dangerous.

  Her eyes found him almost immediately, and he saw her visibly calm, as if he was exactly what she'd been searching for and all she could ever need.

  Her eyes were bright, her smile as fresh as sunshine. And for that moment, time stopped and everything was frozen in possibility.

  Then the warmth in her eyes cooled, and her gaze flicked down over his bare chest to where his jeans hung on his hips, still unbuttoned, the fly open to reveal the faded black briefs he wore. He felt his cock--already going hard simply from the sight of her--twitch under her inspection. And he wasn't certain, but he thought he saw two spots of pink touch her cheeks.

  She didn't meet his eyes, but quickly turned her head, her attention now going to the bed, and the two naked women who were still there, looking defiantly at her, as if they owned his heart. As if they meant more to him than a diversion.

  He watched as she licked her lips, then rolled one shoulder, like a fighter about to enter the ring. When she looked back at him, her eyes were flat. "I didn't realize when I walked through the crowd downstairs that you were having a private party up here, too. I guess I should have. That's what you do now, isn't it? That's what you are?"

  "It's what I am," he confirmed, though everything inside him wanted to scream that she wasn't really seeing him. That these women--this life--was only a play in smoke and mirrors. A disguise.

  And, yes, a defense against her. Because so long as she looked at him with such contempt and revulsion, they were safe. He'd built a wall around himself because it needed to be built. And like those Chinese peasants who'd found themselves bricked in as they built the Great Wall, he, too, was trapped inside a barrier of his own making.

  "It's not who you are." He thought he heard a plea in her voice. "It's what you've let yourself become."

  A thousand retorts welled in his mind. He didn't voice any of them. How could he, when every word she said was true? When the only thing she got wrong was that he was playing a role? Calculated and planned. And secret from everyone but those who knew him best. And that was a category in which she no longer fit.

  She waited a moment, as if she expected him to contradict her, as any self-respecting man would.

  When he remained silent, she made a low scoffing noise and shook her head, and the disappointment he saw in her eyes hurt him more than any harsh words ever could.

  "Did you come here to criticize me?" He spoke casually as he walked to the bar, hoping she couldn't see how much simply having her in the same room affected him. "Because honestly, a phone call would have been just fine." He held up a clean glass. "Want one?"

  He couldn't read the expression that washed over her face. Disgust? Regret? Didn't matter, anyway. It was replaced quickly enough with the fake, polite smile that every child who grows up in the spotlight learns at an early age. The smile that protects them from the nosy press and pushy outsiders.

  And now she was aiming it at him.

  God, how far they had fallen.

  "I should have called first. Obviously." She ran her palms down her jeans, the only sign that she was agitated. And, frankly, he would have preferred if she'd raged at him. It was this polite, level bullshit that was really pissing him off.

  "Jane--" He cut himself off, unsure what to say. And so he said nothing, just reached his hand out and prayed she would take the offering.

  She didn't.

  Instead, she shook her head, and his gut twisted when he saw tears glisten in her beautiful eyes.

  "I made a mistake," she said as she turned for the door. "I should never have come to you."

  And then she rushed out the door before he could make a move to stop her.

  For a moment, he just stood there like an idiot. Then he started to follow. He had to know what she'd come to say. What had driven her to him after all this time. But the blonde's simple question brought him to a halt.

  "Who the hell was that?"

  Dallas shoved his hands into his pockets, his back to the women and his eyes clenched shut in protest against the truth. The only truth that mattered. She wasn't his lover, not anymore. He wasn't even sure if she was still his friend.

  She was lost to him now in every way that mattered. Every way except one. And that was what he had to keep clear. That was what he had to keep in mind. That one connection that still kept them together as firmly as it kept them apart.

  "My sister," he said, the word turning like worms in his gut. "She's my sister."

  Bastard.

  I let the word roll through me, pushing me to move faster, to get out of this house that had once held such happy memories, and away from the boy--now a man--who had once been my everything.

  I race down the window-lined hall, ignoring the beauty of the moon-dappled ocean that fills the view to my right. Instead, my head is filled with images of his bed, and of the naked women who shared it. Women, as in two of them.

  Horny asshole bastard.

  He's supposed to be hosting a goddamn party, and instead he's hidden away in his bedroom fucking two women. At least I only saw two. For all I know there was another one hidden in the bathroom, just waiting for him to join her so she could suck his cock, just one more in the pile of women he went through. One more bimbo who would write in her journal that she'd joined that exclusive club and the King of Fuck had impaled her with his golden sword.

  I grimace at the image, and at the nickname. I'd heard it for the first time tonight as I'd moved through the party trying to find him or Archie. Since I'd crapped out on both counts--earning myself only stares for my so-not-party-ready outfit--I'd decided to let myself into the residential wing and simply wait for him.

  Clearly that wasn't my best decision ever.

  I push through the heavy wooden doors that separate the private area of the third floor from the rest of the hall and the landing, then slam them shut behind me, the clicking of the latch underscoring my irritation.

  The King of Fuck. Christ, now that I've heard it, the phrase is determined to circle in my head, over and over like an earworm, only far more annoying than the most irritating tune.

  It'
s a ridiculous nickname, not to mention demeaning, but the women who'd whispered it had done so with reverence.

  And the worst part isn't even how vulgar and stupid it is.

  No, the worst part is the way it made me feel.

  Not angry. Not disgusted.

  Jealous.

  God help me, I'm actually jealous. Because those gossiping bitches had been in his bed. They'd felt his fingers stroking their skin, his mouth brushing their lips.

  I recall the shiver that had cut through me when I'd first entered his room and found myself face-to-chest with his well-muscled abs that I had once explored with my fingertips. With my lips.

  But that had been a boy's chest, and Dallas was a man now. Hard and lean and utterly beautiful.

  Objectively, I'd known that. Didn't I see his picture in the tabloids almost every day? But that was print and pixels. Up close and personal was a wholly different experience. In print, he's stunning. In real life, he's a god, or at least a fallen angel, with power and poise and a defiant confidence.

  His hair is the color of caramelized sugar, a rich brown with hints of blond. He wears it short on the sides but longer at the top, and that, along with about three days of beard stubble, gives him the appearance of a man who's just come in from his sailboat--or who's just spent long, lazy hours in bed.

  He looks like a man who can run an empire. Who spends millions of dollars on his toys.

  He looks like a man who can have any woman he wants, and probably has.

  A man who enjoys his life.

  A man who has long since forgotten about me.

  He'd stood in front of me shamelessly, his fly open, his cock straining against his briefs and the denim as his green eyes flashed like the devil.

  I'd wanted to reach for him. So help me, I'd had to pretend that my feet were cemented to the floor. And then I'd turned to look at the women, relying on my anger and frustration to keep me anchored.

  He'd touched them. Hell, he'd fucked them.

  And dammit all, I wanted that to be me.

  Except I don't just want a fuck, I want everything. And he and I both know we can't have it. We'd tasted forbidden fruit seventeen years ago, and we'd paid a heavy price.

  I don't have the right to want him. Hell, I don't even have the right to be angry with him for shucking off all his talent and education and hard work in favor of the life of a billionaire playboy asswipe.

  But I am angry. And I do have the right. Because even though we don't share a single drop of blood, we're siblings, by law and by adoption.

  We're family.

  And that pretty much sums up exactly why he's so fucked up.

  For that matter, it sums up why I'm so fucked up, too.

  I tell myself that I need to get my shit together and get back to Manhattan, and I'm just about to start down the stairs with that goal in mind when I hear the doors open and Dallas call my name.

  For a second, I consider running, but I don't. I stop.

  A moment later, he's at my side, and I say a silent thank you that he's put on a shirt. His hand closes over my elbow, and in that moment of contact a hundred memories flash like fireworks in my mind. His touch. His kiss. His scent.

  I jerk my arm away, and I know he thinks I'm angry. But the truth is far more disturbing--it's self-preservation. I can't bear being touched by him. Or, more accurately, I can't bear his casual touch, when I still crave an intimate one.

  "I get why you ran," he says gently. "But why did you come here in the first place?"

  For a moment I can only stare at him, shocked into silence by his soothing tone, so like a caress and so unlike what I would expect from Dallas Sykes, the Playboy of the Western World.

  I watch as his tender expression hardens in the wake of my silence. "Dammit, Jane. You're the one who crashed my party. If you're expecting an apology, you're not going to get it."

  For just a moment I allow myself another prick of jealousy. Because this is his house now--our parents transferred the title into Dallas's trust when he turned thirty.

  It's not the value of the property that upsets me--my Upper West Side townhouse is equally posh, and I love living in the city.

  No, what bothers me is the memories, because this house is filled with them. And now they belong to Dallas alone.

  "Pardon me, sir..."

  At first I only hear Archie's voice. But when I step to the side, I can see him striding down the hall toward us.

  "The helicopter is approaching the pad," he says. "You really should hurry if you don't want to--oh! Miss Jane." He inclines his head in greeting, and when he looks up, his face is alight with a pleasure as bright as my own.

  His hair has gone completely gray and he's gained a few more wrinkles, but his eyes are still as sharp as ever, and I want to run to him just like I did when I was a little girl and he would sneak cookies into my room well past bedtime.

  What the hell.

  I fling myself at him and give him a hug, knowing it will embarrass him, but not caring in the slightest. I adore Archie, and I've missed him terribly.

  I breathe in the scent of his uniform--mothballs and mint--and then back away feeling more centered than I have since the moment I pulled my cherry-red Aston Martin Vanquish up to the valet stand.

  "It's a joy to see you here, miss, isn't it, Mr. Sykes?"

  I almost expect him to disagree, but I hear the sincerity in Dallas's voice when he answers, very simply, "Yes. It really is."

  For just an instant, our eyes meet, and both our guards are down. I want to just stand there, drinking him in. I want to touch him. More, I want him to touch me.

  I shouldn't have come, I think. I should never, ever have come.

  "I'll tell the pilot you're running late," Archie says, his crisp, efficient voice completely breaking the spell.

  I gasp a little, feeling flustered. Dallas, damn him, looks as cool as he always does.

  "Miss Jane," Archie says, "it was lovely to see you."

  "You, too," I say sincerely, and then watch as he turns and heads down the stairs.

  "Why did you come?" Dallas asks again, and his voice is so flat that I have to wonder if I'd been mistaken. If the desire I saw in his eyes was just an illusion. Or, worse, wishful thinking.

  I want to tell him that it doesn't matter, but this is the one thing that I won't lie to him about. We suffered through too much together. And while I may not respect the man he's become, I love the man he could have been.

  "I got a call from Bill this morning," I admit, then watch his face for his reaction.

  It's not hard to miss. He winces. "Your husband."

  "Ex-husband," I remind him. "You know damn well we divorced two years ago." William Martin and I were married for almost three years, which was almost three years too long. I'd known from the first week that saying yes had been a mistake. I'd respected Bill, trusted him. And I think I even loved him on some level. But there wasn't passion, not really, and there was never an us.

  But I'd been lost for so long, trying to hold together all the various strands of a life that was spinning out of control. Trying to figure out what I needed. How I could heal.

  I'd thought having a husband would help. A normal life with a normal family.

  I hadn't understood then that normal isn't something you can play at. It has to be there at the core. But I'm a long way from normal, and I probably always will be.

  "You still keep in touch with him?"

  "I divorced him, Dallas," I say. "I didn't banish him."

  Not like I banished you. I don't say that aloud, though. Doesn't matter. I know he's thinking the exact same thing.

  "Bill Martin was never the man for you," he says, and my simmering anger really starts to boil.

  "Really? Did you really just say that? Because at least I tried to move on, to grow up. To find something in my life that mattered, and didn't just sit around mourning what I couldn't have."

  "Is that what you think?"

  "Honestly, I try not to
think about you at all. I saw your potential once. I saw your heart. Now, all I see is bullshit. Now all I see is what the world sees--a class-A fuckup with too much money, too much time, and way too little discretion."

  He drags his fingers through his hair, and I see the apology on his face, even before he says, "I'm sorry. He's a good man. I shouldn't have--you threw me off kilter," he admits. That, at least, I know is honest.

  "Bill's one of my best research sources," I say and hate that the words sound almost like an apology, as if I have to justify continuing to talk with the man who was once my husband and is now my friend.

  "For your books."

  "Of course," I say. "What else?"

  He doesn't answer. Instead, he takes a step toward me. I take a corresponding step back, and feel the bannister press just below my waist. He doesn't relent, though, and there's nowhere for me to go when he closes the distance until only a few inches remain between us. At six foot four, he has a good eight inches on me, and I'm forced to tilt my head back so that I can see his face. I can smell the scotch on his breath. I can see the way his shirt moves with the beating of his heart, a fast rhythm that matches my own.

  I hold tight to the polished rail in defense against the unwelcome urge to reach out and touch him.

  "And what the hell could Bill have to say that would send you running to me?" he asks.

  I lick my lips, knowing how my words will affect him because I know how much they affected me. "Not here," I say, glancing down the stairs to where some of the partygoers have started to drift up to the second floor. "Not where anyone can overhear."

  He studies me for a moment, then nods. He takes my arm, and I try not to react as sparks shoot through me from nothing more than that simple connection. I let him lead me down the hall and into the third floor den, a room that I know so well. It's pristine now. The wooden furniture polished, the silk pillows neatly placed. There's a glass coffee table in front of the sofa, and a basket with logs near the fireplace, even though winter is months away.

  It looks neat and tidy and relaxing. Not at all like the place where we used to spread our toy cars all over the floor. Where Liam used to set up his train set, and Dallas and I would tie one of my hated Barbies to the tracks before getting bored and racing our Hot Wheels across the polished-to-a-shine floors.