Page 15 of Skin Deep

“It’s not a lecture.” Wasn’t it? Amy wasn’t sure how else she was supposed to take it. “Just...maybe you should cool it a little. Keep your head down for a bit.”

“I see.” Her temper snapped like a rubber band stretched to its breaking point. “And is this advice coming from Fred Vaughan, Esquire, part of the mighty Vaughan Enterprises? Or is it coming from the man I’ve fucked twice who thinks that there’s more between us than sex?”

Something flashed in his eyes, so quickly she would have missed it if she hadn’t been looking at him so closely. The open man who had so far focused solely on her in their interactions let a new layer slip over his face. She wasn’t entirely sure what to make of the steel that made its presence known in the rigid length of his spine, in the posture wearing that expensive suit, and in the lean planes of his face.

She’d gotten what she wanted, finally—she’d worked her way beneath his skin. Rather than satisfaction, though, she was hurt.

How had she let pasta and Duran Duran lure her into opening up, even just a bit? This man might enjoy the chemistry between them, but at his core, he was yet another man who looked at her and saw a fun fling, not someone worthy of anything more. Which was what she usually wanted too, so why was this bothering her?

The silence had stretched out, thinned, when he finally answered her question. “Can you separate one from the other, when both are who you are?”

“Right.” She closed her eyes for a moment, drew in a deep breath, then swallowed down the hurt. Standing abruptly, she pulled the offending letter out of her inner pocket, enjoying the slight widening of his eyes when he saw what she had in her hands. “Look, you must be a fairly intelligent guy to have gotten through law school, and you seem like you can at least muddle your way through a social interaction, so I’m going to just give you a little reminder of something that someone as smart as you should already know.”

Tugging up the sleeves of her jacket, envelope still in hand, she ran her hands down her forearms, drawing attention to her sleeves of inked art.

“I’m not the kind of person who is interested in cooling it. I’m not interested in keeping my head down.” She ran a hand through her chin-length blond curls as a reminder that they’d been unruly black curls when they’d first met. “I am who I am. And I’m not going to change.”

He opened his mouth, then closed it again.

“You should try being open like that.” She slapped the now-wrinkled envelope against his chest, where he caught it with one of his massive hands. She tried not to think of the way those hands felt on her body. “We’re done here.”

Spinning on her heel, she turned and stalked away. If her heart cracked a little bit when he didn’t follow...well, nobody knew it but her.

CHAPTER SEVEN

“THIS IS THE fourth night in a row that you’ve worked late.”

Fred blinked wearily as his twin appeared in the doorway to his office, propping himself up against the door frame. He blinked again when he saw two of Frank, and again to clear the image.

He’d been staring at his computer all day, and his eyes were shot. He could probably use reading glasses, but that was a problem for another day. For now, he sank back in the chair that was both ergonomic and hideously expensive. This motif was repeated throughout his office, which had been designed for function, and also to not-so-subtly showcase the Vaughan family’s wealth.“We can’t both be Dad’s favorite,” he commented. “Some of us have to work for a living.”

“I call bullshit.” Barging in, Frank flopped himself down in one of the chairs across the desk from Fred. “You’ve proven yourself to Dad—to this company—a million times over. You don’t need to work so hard.”

Frank wasn’t wrong—he had proven himself to his family, over and over again. What his twin was leaving out, however, was the fact that past efforts didn’t count for much in this family. He was only as good as his latest business triumph. Another man might have gotten frustrated by the never-ending weight of expectation that forever draped over his shoulders like a lead blanket, but not Fred...or Frank, for that matter. They’d been raised on a steady diet of family obligation, sprinkled heavily with guilt.

Family came first. Always.

“I’m almost done for the night.” Lies. He planned to push himself for at least another hour, after which he would finally head home, hopefully too exhausted to think about Amy’s face when she’d handed him the letter he’d been ordered to give to her. Or to dream about her astride him, his cock sunk deep into the heat between her legs as she rode them both to release.

“You haven’t just been staying late at work.” Frank fixed him with a narrow-eyed stare that Fred was only too familiar with, the assessing gaze of someone who had known him since they’d shared a womb. “You’ve eaten lunch at your desk every day this week instead of coming out with everyone. You’ve gone home right after work. And don’t think I didn’t notice that you sent me those contracts at two o’clock this morning.”

“Don’t you have anyone better to stalk?” Fred arched an eyebrow at his brother. “Go follow Randy or Andy or whatever the hell his name is around for a while. Something tells me he’d enjoy it.”

“All work and no play makes Fred a dull boy.” From his pocket, Frank pulled a silver-plated flask. Unscrewing the lid, he took a large gulp of the contents, then slid it across the desk with a whiff of whiskey.

“I can’t believe those words just came out of your mouth.” Fred rolled his eyes. “Just like I can’t believe you carry this around in your pocket all day. Who are you, Don Draper?”

“Just drink it,” Frank ordered. He slapped a hand on Fred’s desk, the sound reverberating through the quiet of the otherwise empty office. Fred glared at him but lifted the flask to his lips. The whiskey burned his lips but numbed his throat, and he relaxed for the first time since he’d last seen Amy.

He took another sip for good measure, and his brother nodded with approval.

“Now that you’ve unclenched, are you going to tell me what’s got your panties in a twist?” Frank took the flask back when Fred handed it to him, draining the last sip.

“That’s misogynistic,” Fred said, and Frank snorted in response.

“Fine. Will you share with me, dear brother, the reason your non-gender-specific underwear is coiled so tightly it is causing you to act so uptight?” Settling back in the chair, he pinned Fred with a stare, waiting for an answer to his question.

Fred hadn’t spoken to anyone about Amy, not since she’d come back into his life—or rather, he’d gone tromping into hers. Now, though, his tongue had been loosened by two shots of whiskey. Digging his fingers into the knot at his neck, he loosened his tie and undid the top two buttons of his shirt, then pushed back from his desk.

---