Burned Hearts (8 page)

He'd once confessed, though, that he regretted throwing in the towel on a pro career when he could have taken a chance and gone for the draft. I still didn't know exactly what had held him back and found it incredibly difficult to believe anything had given him pause—because Kyle didn't have a pause button. He went full throttle. Something that had saved my ass on more than one occasion. And which Dane had to respect, even if he didn't always admit it.

“So, the key here,” Kyle explained with regard to the iPads, “is for me to get tuned into the cameras surrounding the property, while still keeping an eye on what's happening inside, and then expand my view to new surveillance being planted by Amano farther outside the perimeter fencing.”

“Farther outside?”

“We're going to have a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree view of, like, ten acres. Fucking unreal, right?”

I stared at him a few moments, then asked, “When do you plan to sleep?”

He made a
pshaw
sound. “This is exciting, Ari. It takes my full concentration.”

My eyes narrowed. “Does this have anything to do with football?”

His head whipped up. “Huh?”

“Well.” I thought back to our discussions on his last year playing ball. “You were really good. But you were concerned about whether you'd be able to walk when you were thirty. You said it made you freak out a little. Like, you were supposed to not give a rip about that sort of thing when you were only twenty-one. But you couldn't get your mind off it.”

He shrugged. Went back to studying the screens.

“Kyle.”

With a grunt, he said, “It sucks to blow out a knee; I've told you that before. I had a boatload of cortisone injections, rehab in the off-seasons, knee braces year-round, just to cover it all up. I pretended it didn't hurt like hell. I—” He shook his head and turned away.

“Hey, what about Amano's test?” I challenged.

Kyle whirled back to face me. “I popped pills, Ari. That was the reason I spent so much time at my aunt's retreat in between semesters and during winter and spring breaks. I needed physical rehab, yeah. But I also had an addiction to kick. Exactly why I'm not taking anything stronger than ibuprofen right now when my biceps hurt like hell.”

Because his shirt pulled tight against his muscles, I could see the outline of the bulky bandage covering his stitches, high up by his armpit.

“I took a ton of painkillers,” he confessed. “All the time. The only thing that got me through my last two years on the field was natural talent—I can assess exactly where the ball needs to go and it's there. I just need the receiver on the other end to do his job. As for my studies…” He rapped his knuckles on the marble counter agitatedly.

“What about your studies?” I implored, happy he was finally opening up about all of this. “You had a fantastic GPA.” I'd seen his résumé. I'd been the one to submit it to HR at the Lux, behind Dane's back, because I'd believed in Kyle and wanted him to have the chance to get his foot in the door, without being stonewalled from the onset, since he was my friend and Dane was of the superalpha variety.

“Ari,” Kyle said. “I'm not really cool with talking about this.”

“Did you cheat?” I asked. “Is that how you maintained a three-point-seven average?”

“I didn't cheat,” he said, his tone adamant. “I did my homework, I read the books I was supposed to read, did what I was supposed to do. It was just that … I couldn't quite form thoughts on paper because I was doped up. I could verbalize them. Surprisingly, I had a shitload to say about everything. I could pontificate until the cows came home.”

I laughed. “Classy.”

He flashed his megawatt grin. But it faded much too fast. “When I stared at a blank piece of paper or computer screen, though, nothing crystallized in my head. I was always looking at—visualizing—the playbook, feedback from the coach, strategy, you get the picture, instead of what I needed to be concentrating on. I was obsessed with whether I'd make it through the next game. So written communication was pretty much my downfall.”

“How'd you get through your courses, then?”

He went to the double, glass-door fridge and pulled out two bottles of FIJI water. He set them on the counter, twisted the cap off one, and handed it to me. Then he uncapped the other and took a few long swigs.

Finally, he said, “I had some friends who helped with the homework. I spewed, they typed, and then they cleaned everything up for me. Technically, it was all my cognitive thinking. I just needed someone to edit my rants.”

“Girlfriends?” I asked with a lifted brow.

He snickered. “Does it matter?”

“Well, I can see how you might have your own groupies.”

“Who, thankfully, appreciated the fact that I wasn't just some dumb jock.”

“So they knew about the pills?”

“Yes.”

“And didn't say anything—report your problem?”

“Ari.” He gave me a
come on
look. “They wanted their football team to win as much as I did.”

“Ah. Your groupies were cheerleaders who needed a reason to jump up and down on the sidelines in their short skirts.”

“Did you even go to high school?” he quipped. Though he knew the answer to that—I'd also graduated from college with a business degree, while building my wedding consulting company, long before managing events at the Lux.

Yet I sucked down some water and said, “Sort of.”

“What does that mean?”

“Nothing, really.” I got to my feet.

“Oh, hell, no,” he suddenly said. “You don't get to play all supersecretive. Not with me.” His blue eyes were piercing, boring into me.

“Kyle.”

“Tell me about it, Ari. For fuck's sake, I've
met
your mother, remember? Nut job to the extreme. And your dad's, like, so normal. Very laid-back. What the hell was he doing with
her
?”

“That's pretty much the million-dollar question.” I raised my hands in the air, indicating I had absolutely no clue what my dad had been thinking when he'd hooked up with her. And even less of an idea as to why he'd married the ice queen. “My best guess is that when you're a PGA golfer and have your own high caliber of groupies it's not so difficult to lose sight of what's real and what's not. She definitely is
not
. Never was and never will be.”

“That's just crazy, considering how down-to-earth your dad is.”

“I know. That's what has always made this beyond annoying for me. He'd do anything for her—he'd help anyone, whether he knew them or not. He's genuine. Totally amazing.”

I loved my dad fiercely. I suddenly realized that was likely why I loathed my mother with equal passion.

“He never deserved to be treated the way she treated him,” I said. “She cheated on him; she spent every penny he had when they were married, then made off with an even bigger haul when they divorced. Thanks to her and the team of lawyers my father had to pay for, he and I lived in absolute shit—I'm talking hellholes. After the divorce, she traded in the house awarded to her in the settlement and bought a gorgeous Scottsdale condo. Had it professionally decorated. I was rarely welcomed there.” I shook my head. Waved a hand in the air. “Whatever, right?”

“Don't dismiss this, Ari. That's bullshit.” He kept his gaze on me. “You pulled this nonchalant crap when she came at you in the hospital. Wanting to file lawsuits against the investors of 10,000 Lux—and reap the financial benefit personally, despite the fact that you were the one in the ER, bleeding, and thoroughly fucked up.”

I shuddered at the reminder of that entire nightmare. “She didn't care about any of that—and, of course, she has no idea I'm married to Dane or that Amano is my bodyguard. As for the rest of it, she looked right past the stitches and bruises. Didn't see them at all. Can you imagine how rabid she'd be if she knew about the wedding? That all of Dane's money is also mine?”

Perhaps that was my poetic justice. That my mother had done her best to weasel cash from me, thinking I was only worth a small amount, having no idea what my investment portfolio really looked like.

I'd been upset at first that Dane and I were subjected to a private wedding. Being an event planner, naturally I'd wanted a magnificent ceremony and reception. Now it was a huge relief that very few people knew I was Mrs. Dane Bax—and that my mother currently thought I was unemployed because the Lux had been destroyed.

I tried to shove aside the dismay all this brought on. “Really,” I said to Kyle, “the most incredible part about our seclusion is that, right now, I can phase her out. I don't have a cell phone, since I never replaced the one that went up in flames with the Lux and because our last residence had zero reception in that box canyon. And well, she has no fucking idea where I live.”

I convinced myself all of that was enough to keep the wicked witch from materializing.

In fact, I patted my stomach and grinned. A little peace from Kathryn DeMille drama was a good thing.

Kyle said, “She'll never know about the kid, will she?”

“Not if I can help it. And let's face it, Dane is his own wraith. He makes ‘donations' to ensure only approved photos of him and select information about his investments post to the Internet.” It'd blown my mind he had that sort of influence—and financial stature—to make that happen. But I'd come to realize the importance of safeguarding one's personal details, especially when involved in such a precarious situation with an Illuminati faction. “There won't be pictures of our son on the Web, and chances are, it might never even be divulged that Dane and I are married.”

“And you're okay with that? I mean, the last part?”

I'd already considered this. Sure, what woman wouldn't want to show off her tall, dark, and sinfully delicious man?

Conversely, after all Dane and I had experienced since getting together I wasn't opposed to the hush-hush relationship.

So I said, “For now it's all right. I feel better keeping all of this amongst us. It's unbelievable how the vultures circle at the tiniest whiff of blood.”

“No shit.”

“Dane's parents died in a plane crash when he was just a month old. To have grown up with all those vultures had to be difficult,” I lamented. “Dane didn't even know at such a young age why everyone wanted to be near him, be a part of him, be included in every aspect of his life. Thank God he had Amano looking over his shoulder for him. But even so, Dane eventually had to accept and acclimate to the fact that he was a hot commodity. That couldn't have been a good feeling, knowing so much of it was based on his bank account.”

I gave this further thought and conceded, “Then, later on, because he's so damn good-looking.”

Kyle scowled. “That whole skyscraper height and dark, broody looks thing again.” He rolled his eyes. “Whatever.”

I laughed softly. Kyle was six-one, so Dane didn't exactly dwarf him. “Anyway, we're all kind of messed up in our own ways, huh?”

“Yeah. I'll give you that one.”

I didn't mention Dane's childhood friend Mikaela Madsen, whom Kyle had also met. She'd had a pretty tumultuous upbringing as well. Mikaela didn't know I was pregnant or that I'd married Dane. Which meant I also had yet to share with her the miraculous news about Dane surviving the explosion. A peculiar cross to bear in that, of all people, she should be a part of those in the know.

She'd even orchestrated his memorial service at my prompting—since it would have made no sense for me to do it when no one knew Dane and I were more than just boss and employee at the Lux. I knew how torn up Mikaela was about his death. It disturbed me greatly not to be able to ease her pain. Yet there was nothing I could do about it at the moment.

“So,” I ventured, wrapping up my discussion with Kyle. “Do your awesome reconnaissance and I'll get out of your hair. I have a nursery to decorate.”

“You ever gonna name the kid?”

I shrugged. “Nothing's sticking. I figure it'll hit me when it's the right one.”

“Sure. We'll see how that works out for you. Otherwise, we'll just go with ‘Kid Bax' for the first few years.”

I laughed again. “Get back to your
Mission Impossible
work.”

Leaving the kitchen, I went into the room designated for Kid and eyed it speculatively, taking in every square foot. A nice, spacious area. Windows with striking scenery beyond the glass panes. Wood floors. Walls trimmed with smooth, waist-high river rock. All in all, elegantly rustic.

It occurred to me that the best way to tackle this enormous undertaking was to go at it from the stance of wedding planner. I could take a million ideas from a bride and pull together one specific theme to make it all gel once I saw the photos and concepts staring me in the face.

I grabbed my laptop, went into the great room, flipped the switch that brought to life a roaring fire in the tall hearth, and settled on one of the sofas scattered about.

A color scheme was the first order of business. That entailed envisioning what our child might look like, who he might become. I pictured Dane, of course. Our son would be strapping, powerful, gorgeous—just like his father. Girls would fall at his feet.

I frowned. That'd be quite the challenge for me. I'd always teased Dane about his possessiveness. Suddenly I realized I'd feel the same about the baby. Because he was ours.

All I could fathom was providing him with the best of everything, all the opportunities in the world. And showering him with love.

I groaned. I might
smother
rather than
shower
. I'd have to work on that. Strike a balance.

It was a strange conundrum. For me, I'd only had the love of one parent. Had, admittedly—and not at all via fault on my father's side—suffered from that. I'd grown up closed off, standoffish, a loner.