Wicked Need Read online

  I can almost see her identity disappearing right before my eyes. What did this asshole do to her? He left her destitute after already stealing who she was right out from under her.

  Taking my cup from the counter, I walk over to the table and sit opposite of her. I make a command decision, knowing it's the right thing to do in this moment. I know Jake will tell me I'm slipping into my savior role, but fuck him. Cat needs help and I don't think she has anyone else to turn to right now.

  "Here's what we're going to do," I say in a firm, take-control voice. Her eyes immediately snap up to mine. "You're going to stay here in my apartment with me. If you want to remain stubborn and stick with the couch, that's fine. No argument from me. That will let you get your feet underneath you. You can take a bit of time, figure out what you want to do... or where you want to go."

  "I don't have any money--"

  "If it's that important to you, you can pay me back when you get some." I don't even consider trying to talk her out of just accepting my generosity because I can see Cat has pride. I can see that's about the only thing she has of value to her name, and I'm not about to steal it from her. "How's that sound?"

  She turns slightly away from me, letting her gaze roam over the tiny space of my apartment. It takes her two seconds before returning to me. "You don't have a lot of room here. I wouldn't want to get in your way."

  "I'm not here a lot," I tell her as I stand from the table with my cup in hand. "I have a full-time day job. Between that and being at The Silo, we probably won't run into each other that much."

  And why do I feel a crushing sense of disappointment over that thought?

  "I'd want to pay you rent once I maybe get a job or something," she says, her chin lifting higher. Christ... the sexy seductress looks just adorable right now, all bowed up with dignity and determination.

  "What kind of work would you want to do?" I ask her, thinking I've got contacts in this area. Maybe I can help her out that way too.

  "I've only ever done two things to get by in this life, Rand," she says softly with just a trace of bitterness. It sucks to hear that tone the first time she calls me by my name. "And that's dancing and fucking."

  "Dancing?" I ask, because I can't bear to think of her prostituting herself to make a living. Although really... wasn't that what she was doing by marrying an older man?

  I mentally curse at myself for letting my head go there.

  "I was an exotic dancer in Vegas," Cat says with a grim smile. "That's where Samuel met me."

  I've seen Catherine naked many, many times and yeah... she has a dancer's body. Long limbs, soft curves in just the right places, and breasts that are spectacular. I bet she put on a fucking fantastic show.

  But that wouldn't benefit her here in Jackson as there aren't any titty bars and the thought of her returning to Vegas isn't all that appealing to me either for some weird reason. So I point her in the next best direction for now.

  "I suggest you work on finding out more about your legal rights," I tell her with a pointed look before lifting my cup to my mouth for a sip.

  "My legal rights?" Her eyes blink in confusion.

  "Well, yeah. I mean... you thought Samuel was going to take care of you, then some attorney shows up and tells you to get out of your house. Did he even show you a copy of the will giving him that authority?"

  Cat shakes her head, cheeks turning red with embarrassment. "I didn't ask. He was pushing me hard to get my stuff packed and to vacate."

  Even though I may not have gone to college and only have a degree from the school of hard knocks, I know enough to know that doesn't sound right.

  "You need to go to that attorney's office and ask for a copy of Samuel's will," I tell her. "As his wife, you're entitled to see it. I seriously don't think they can just kick you out like that. I'm sure there's some long process they have to go through or some shit."

  Cat's cheeks turn even redder. "I didn't even think to ask for a copy. God, I'm so stupid."

  Before I can stop myself, I take one step to her chair, grasp her chin with my hand, and squeeze slightly to get her attention. "You are not stupid. You're in a bad place and that attorney took advantage of that. But now you're on solid ground and I'll help you figure this out. Okay?"

  For a moment, I think she might cry on me, and I brace myself for it. I don't do well with tears. I'm a sucker for them. If I see one drop spill, I'll pull her in my arms. At that point, I'll really have to take shit from Jake that I can't seem to help myself when it comes to a lost woman.

  She surprises me though and nods against my grip. "Okay."

  Though I'm loathe to release her, I do it anyway. "Okay then. I think your goal for today is to go to that attorney's office and ask for a copy of Samuel's will."

  "Just show up without an appointment?" Cat asks with hesitation.

  "Yup. Just walk in and ask for it. You shouldn't need an appointment for that."

  I think. Fuck, I don't know, but it's a start.

  "I can do that," she says as she stands from the chair.

  For the first time since last night, I actually see a glimmer of hope in her eyes that perhaps things will turn out okay. I don't know that they will, but I know for sure I'm not going to abandon her.

  Jake's going to give me so much shit.

  Chapter 2

  Cat

  So I have a plan.

  A temporary one, but at least I have a plan.

  I also have a roof over my head for the time being, and since Rand told me to help myself to anything in the apartment, I will also have food in my belly. While he takes a shower, I make use of the carton of eggs in his refrigerator and scramble some up for both of us. I have a plate waiting for him when he emerges from the bathroom, wearing nothing but a pale blue towel wrapped low around hips.

  I know that body well. It's tall and lean with just the right amount of muscles gracing a broad chest and strong arms. I happen to know when he flexes his abs, they'll tighten into a six pack, just as I know his pierced tongue feels good between my legs. I know well those green eyes that will stare at me with frenzied lust and the soft brush of his blond beard against my skin.

  Rand is a beautiful package, no doubt. He's edgy with his golden hair shaved on the sides but long on top. He often brushes his fingers through it, pushing it away from his face. I find it amusing that he always seems exasperated by the length, but he never cuts it any shorter. Add in a multitude of tattoos over his chest, back, and upper arms, a silver ring through his left nostril and a matching one through his left eyebrow, and you have a man who's edgy, cool, and sexy all at the same time.

  So I feed him scrambled eggs while he sits at the table. I try not to stare at the gap in the towel that rides up his right thigh and instead focus my attention on his apartment.

  It's small in and of itself, but it's cramped with so much clutter that it feels like you're in a closet. Not the type of small clutter like unwashed cups left on tables, but rather his mudroom has at least four pairs of ski boots shoved under a bench along with a pair of snowshoes in the corner and puffy ski pants and coats hanging on hooks on the wall. In his living room, two corners have various skis and poles leaning in causal stacks. A bookcase holds trophies and glass-encased medals I briefly noticed last night as he was making up the couch. So many, in fact, they appear just haphazardly jammed on the shelves, not to display but merely to just put them somewhere out of the way.

  I was so exhausted last night I didn't take a very close look, but while Rand was getting my luggage out of my car, I went to the bathroom and my attention was caught by a framed photo. It was pushed into the back corner of the second shelf from the top. It caught my attention because of one of the most recognizable logos in the world displaying prominently in the background.

  Five circles.

  Three on top. Two on the bottom. All interlinked.

  Each a different color. Blue, black, red, yellow, and green.

  I halted as I recognized the Olympic rings,
but more importantly, I recognized Rand standing on a tiered podium, right in the middle and on the highest dais. Both arms were raised high in the air in victory, with one hand clutching a bouquet of flowers and the other raising his index finger pointed upward to the sky.

  Around his neck, a large, round gold medal hung on a thick white ribbon.

  I was stunned.

  Rand was an Olympic medalist?

  My eyes roamed around his small living room again, taking in the ski equipment. Back to the photo where he was wearing a heavy, puffed overcoat on the stand done in pristine white with the American flag patched over his left breast.

  Holy fuck. Rand won an Olympic gold medal.

  I didn't say anything when he came back in as he dropped my luggage next to the couch and said he had to jump in the shower and head to work. So I made eggs, my gaze flicking periodically to the shelves of trophies and medals, wondering what else was in there.

  Now I look over Rand's shoulder as he hunches over his plate, shoveling the food in, which makes me suspect he might be late for work. My eyes come to rest on the photo I studied earlier.

  "You won an Olympic gold medal?" I blurt out, dying to know more about him. I mean... he's always just been Rand. A gorgeous, sexy man who's tremendously talented with his cock, mouth, and fingers, but past that, I know nothing about him.

  His eyes rise up to meet mine as he finishes chewing the eggs in his mouth. After he swallows, he swipes his lips with the paper towel I laid next to his plate and gives me a wolfish smile. "That was five years ago in Vancouver. Won the gold in the Super Combined as well as two silvers in the Super G and Downhill."

  My mouth hangs slightly open in astonishment. "Three medals?"

  He nods, gives me a wink, and takes another bite of his eggs, seemingly not interested in touting his accomplishments to me. But I'm amazed I didn't know this about him. "Did you compete in last year's Olympics?"

  I can't say he gives me a look of sadness. It's not even bitterness. Maybe just a fondness for what will never be again, but he lays his fork on his plate, wipes his mouth again, and says, "I was going to. Made the U.S. Ski Team, but about a year prior to the start of the Games, I took a bad fall at an event in San Sicario. Injured my right knee pretty badly. Tore three of the four major ligaments in my knee."

  "They couldn't repair it before the Olympics started?" I ask, feeling terrible he lost such an amazing opportunity.

  Rand shakes his head and stands from the table. I get a flash of the golden skin covered in coarse hair on his thigh with rippling muscle, and for the first time, I notice scars on his right knee.

  "Wasn't the first time I injured that knee. I competed in the 2006 Games when I was nineteen. Took a bad spill on my first run on the Super G. Knocked me out completely. So I had surgery to repair the damage and built myself up for the 2010 Games. Luckily, my knee held strong and I picked up a few medals along the way."

  I stand up from the table as well, taking my plate and following Rand to the kitchen sink. Before he can start to rinse his own, I take it from his hands and say, "I'll clean up. You go get ready for work."

  Our fingers touch as he gives up the plate and I swear I can feel the touch down to my toes. So innocent yet so powerful. When Rand turns toward his bedroom, I can't help but ask, "You don't seem all that bitter about losing out on those opportunities."

  He turns to me with a wide grin. "Yeah, well, I guess I choose to focus on the successes I had while I was competing. And I always knew it was a fleeting career that could be cut short at any time. It's too dangerous and was bound to happen anyway."

  "Do you still ski?" I ask, even more curious about this man.

  He nods. "Sure I do... for pleasure only. And I don't get crazy or anything. You stick around when the snow starts falling and I'll take you out. You ski?"

  I shake my head. "Never been."

  "Then we'll have to do it," he says, and it almost makes me believe he means that. As if he expects me to be sticking around long enough to see the snow. Granted, the weather is getting colder and there have even been some scattered flurries, so it won't be long, but I have no clue where I'll be come wintertime.

  In fact, I know absolutely nothing and it scares the shit out of me.

  "I don't even know your last name," I murmur, pathetically aware that I know Rand is an Olympic medalist, but I don't know something as intimate as his complete name. I've let this man fuck me and I've sucked his cock, but I have no clue what his last name is. That makes me feel small and filthy.

  "Bishop," he says softly, his head tilted to the side. "Rand Bishop. It's a pleasure to formally meet you, Cat Vaughn."

  Shaking my head, I correct him. "Lyons."

  "Lyons?"

  "My maiden name. It's Lyons. I'd prefer not to have Samuel's last name attached to me anymore."

  He nods with an understanding smile. "Cat Lyons. There's a redundant name for you, right?"

  The small laugh that pops out of my mouth is unbidden and feels strange. It makes me realize I haven't had a genuine laugh in quite some time.

  Without another word, Rand turns toward his bedroom and shuts the door behind him. I've seen him naked many times, but it doesn't feel weird for him to seek privacy to get dressed either. I use the opportunity to riffle through my bags where I find a pair of clean underwear, a bra, and a pair of jeans, as well as a lightweight cashmere sweater. Standing up with the items in my hand, I take two steps toward the bathroom, and then change my mind. If I'm going to see the attorney who has this supposed will that kicked me out of my home, I need to look more like the wife of a dead billionaire.

  I go back through my clothes, choosing a black wool pantsuit with flared legs and double-notched collar on the jacket. Grabbing a pale blue silk blouse to wear underneath, I leave my black Louboutins in the duffle bag. I'll grab those before leaving.

  In the bathroom, I'm momentarily shocked by my reflection in the mirror. My hair is a disaster, and I look like a raccoon with the mascara ringing my eyes. I have to laugh at myself. A silent laugh that I'd dare let anyone see me looking so wretched. Samuel always demanded I appear my best, even insisting I attend to my beauty ritual before I came downstairs to the kitchen for a morning cup of coffee. This meant shower, shave, full-blown makeup, and artful hair designs, as well as my designer clothing with the appropriate accessorized jewelry in place. It was the only way I was allowed in his presence.

  I take a moment to appreciate that I just sat through breakfast with Rand, probably looking my worst, and yet not once did he even seem to notice. In fact, several times when he gazed at me, I could see that look in his eyes that he liked what he saw. I didn't miss the hard-on he was sporting either. I wanted to do something about that, yet for some reason, it seemed important to Rand that I not feel beholden, and it was equally as important to me that it not feel like a job. He knew that about me even before I did, and I appreciate it more than he'll ever know.

  Sadly, my beauty ritual takes an extraordinarily long time. While I think I have a great body and amazing bone structure, it still takes a lot of work to apply the perfect makeup and dry my thick hair before curling or flat ironing it to get the crazy frizz out. By the time I'm polished and groomed, stepping out of the bathroom in a mild cloud of designer perfume Samuel gave me last Christmas, the apartment is silent and empty but for me.

  My eyes drop to my purse on the table, taking in the white note sitting on top. I grab it and read, squinting and even stumbling over Rand's messy scrawl. I think it says:

  Cat,

  After you get a copy of the will from the attorney, come see me at the shop, Westward Ink. It's at the corner of Cache and Pearl. I want to see what it says.

  Rand

  Several things about this note hit me at once.

  Rand works at a tattoo shop? By the name alone, it could be a print shop, but I know it's a tattoo shop because I've walked by it several times. It sits right in the heart of town, just a few blocks off the main square. Whenev
er Samuel brought me to Jackson so he could get his rocks off by watching me in The Silo, I'd have plenty of free time in which I was desperate to escape the house and proximity to his cold, leering eyes. So I wandered around Jackson and came to know a great deal about all the shops here.

  I'm having a hard time wrapping my mind around this. Does Rand run the tattoo shop? Or does he just work there? And why? How come he doesn't work in the ski industry, which is absolutely booming around here in the snow months?

  The other thing that hits me--almost with a warm, tingly sensation in my belly--is that he wants to see the will. That means his interest is deeper than just letting me crash on his couch, and the warm, tingly sensation flares a bit. I can't remember the last time someone took care of me or wanted to see me safe and secure. In fact, outside of the initial illusions Samuel gave me when we first got married--that he was my salvation, ha!--there's never been another person in my life who worried about my welfare.

  I'm inherently distrustful nowadays, especially after Samuel roped me into a sham marriage and abused me in every way possible. This was only fortified when I was kicked out of the Jackson home and turned out in the street.

  It would be very easy for me to suspect Rand's motivations, yet for the life of me, I can't help but believe he's a genuine person. As such, after I visit the attorney, I intend to visit him at his shop and let him read the will with me.

  Chapter 3

  Rand

  I got into work right at ten, which is what time the doors are supposed to open at Westward Ink. I'm not a tattoo artist. My reasons for working here are varied, in no particular order, and really don't define who I am.

  After getting knocked out of competitive skiing two years ago, I decided to make Jackson my permanent home. I'd spent a great deal of time here, skiing the double-black diamond slopes as part of my training. I liked the locals and the atmosphere. I also liked the powder that was always in abundant supply. In addition, Jake Gearhart, one of my closest friends, made this his permanent home and opened up a ski shop, so I figured... why the fuck not? This was as good a place as any to settle down.

  What I did not want to do was work in or around the ski industry. It's not from sour apples or bitterness over my injuries and the early end to my career. I wasn't lying to Cat this morning. I choose to glory in the fact that I had a great career while it lasted. She didn't ask about it, but there's more to competitive skiing than just winning races. And I'm really talking about endorsement deals and sponsorships. Like I said before, I could afford much bigger and better than the tiny apartment where I live as I made a fuck of a lot of money during my heyday. But I don't need more, so my money is banked, along with my gold and silver medals, in a secure lockbox. I spend my money if I want something, and I still buy my mom Louis Vuitton and my dad expensive cigars.