Chapter Twenty-Three

Playing hard to get might work, or it might kill him. Archer confronted this truth from the dismal loneliness of his darkened living room, sitting on the sofa he’d shared with Bridget less than an hour ago. He sipped whiskey on the rocks now, instead of wine, attempting to blunt the memory of having her draped over him, surrounding him with her scent, her voice, her very eager body. His goal? Soften the sharpest, neediest edges of that memory just enough so he could sit there and wallow in it comfortably.

His hard-on twitched to tell him he hadn’t yet hit the line.

Maybe there was no line? Maybe he’d just sit there, alone in the dark, until he passed out from lack of blood flow to the brain?

Or he broke down, drove to her place, and accepted whatever sexual substitute for emotion she deigned to give him. Being her plaything might be better than being…well…alone, in the dark. Who knew what might take root and grow out of doing things her way?

It sounded so reasonable, and less physically punishing, he took another sip of whiskey just to make sure he couldn’t follow through on the impulse. Ultimately, he still had to pass the look-himself-in-the-mirror test and abiding by her constraints put that in jeopardy.

Some brisk popping noises told him Wally was sharpening her claws on his sofa. “Not a scratching post,” he murmured as he reached down and lifted her onto the cushion beside him. She mewed once, a small, annoyed sound, but then climbed onto his lap, curled up, and in seconds started her motorboat of a purr.

Point proven by an eight-week-old kitten. He took another swallow of his drink and let that sink in. If he allowed Bridget to do with them what she pleased, she’d tear him to pieces as surely as Wally would destroy the sofa—it was in her nature to want to keep her defenses sharp. So he’d exercise the patience and self-discipline to show her she didn’t need to keep her defenses sharp with him.

His phone vibrated, and despite all his resolve, his heart leaped. A look at the screen, however, had it settling fast. Speaking of keeping one’s defenses sharp…his father was calling.

He considered letting voicemail deal with the Chairman, but what the fuck, his night already sucked. Why put it off?

“Hello.” Just because the call came from his father’s phone didn’t mean some innocent admin hadn’t placed it on his behalf. He or she didn’t deserve the animosity meant for his father.

“So, you’re pleased with yourself, yes?”

Wow. He’d rated personal outreach. The man must be righteously pissed. “Hi, Dad. I’m great, thanks for asking. How are you?”

“Disappointed.”

“That’s too bad.” He stretched out on the sofa, feet up, head propped on the arm he folded behind him.

“Children can be disappointing. Perhaps one day you’ll discover this for yourself.”

“Possibly. In the meantime, I’ve discovered that parents can also be disappointing.”

“You want everything for nothing. All the privileges and none of the obligations. Your mother has spoiled you.”

The idea of Hannah Ellison spoiling anyone except herself—or interacting with her children enough to spoil them—made him laugh out loud. “You don’t have to blame Mom. I’m willing to take full credit for all my perceived shortcomings. But the bottom line is I want a different life for myself than the one you expect of me. That’s not a crime. Skyline’s mine, and there’s nothing you can do about it. My corporate offices won’t be with Ellison Enterprises, and there’s nothing you can do about it. My primary residence won’t be in California, and there’s nothing you can do about it. I will not enter into a strategic alliance of a marriage to the properly pedigreed candidate of your choosing, and there’s nothing you can do about it.”

It felt good…no, it felt great to finally say all this to his father. The gloves were off, at last.

“Hmm. Gordon was right. This all comes down to the girl. All this deception, because boo-hoo, I required that you leave your Palo Alto kindergarten after years of playtime and fulfill your obligations to the family that paid for your semesters of questionable diversions.”

Only his father would refer to Stanford as kindergarten, and only an idiot would refer to Bridget as a questionable diversion. But because she conveyed no direct benefit to Ellison Enterprises—beyond making him happy when she wasn’t driving him to drink—she’d never meet his father’s standard of acceptability.

Not his problem. “I wouldn’t say it all comes down to the girl. I’m not interested in running the shipping business, so there’s that. The good news is Ainsley freaking loves it. An Ellison can remain at the helm for the next generation.” Might as well get a plug in for Ains. She deserved to run the show when their father retired. Given enough time, and enough certainty that Archer wasn’t going to be threatened or bribed into changing course, their father might embrace the notion of giving her what she’d earned.

His father ignored the suggestion. “You have your business, and your home, and the girl. All that you want. Is this correct?”

A tension headache pounded behind his right temple, but he kept his voice cool. “Pretty much.”

“I see. You may be correct that there is nothing I can do about these choices, but I want you to understand they do have consequences. You deceived me into putting you in charge of Skyline and then giving it to you. That has consequences.”

Now they were getting down to it. He sat up, braced a forearm on his knee, and leaned forward. “You didn’t give it to me. You sold. I bought. It was a legitimate and legal transaction. How did I deceive you?”

“By acting as if getting saddled with developing Skyline demoralized you. By feigning reluctance when I suggested you buy out that business, when, in fact, you wanted it all along.”

“Negotiation 101. Know the value of something, but don’t act like you want it too much. You ought to be proud of me. I learned from a master.”

“Rest assured, the lessons aren’t over. I have one more for you.”

The pounding in his head graduated from mallet to jackhammer. He pressed the heel of his hand to his temple and promised himself two painkillers and sleep as soon as the call ended. “Looking forward to it.”

Thanks to Ainsley, he wouldn’t be taken by surprise, but his own self-funded legal review confirmed his initial impression. If his father wanted to eliminate him from the board of Ellison Enterprises, he could attempt to do it at the next election of directors. Not at the upcoming meeting, no, but he’d introduce the idea at that meeting, unofficially, and let Archer scramble for another quarter, trying to figure out a way to swing the votes.

“Wonderful,” his father replied in a voice as cool and sharp as an ice pick. “We’ll see you at the meeting next week.”

Yeah, he would, Archer vowed as the line went dead. Archer Ellison II would see a son following his own star, sailing far beyond the reach of an overbearing father, with the mate of his choice by his side. Thinking of where things stood with Bridget, he winced. How hysterical would she find the situation if she discovered he wanted her with him as an ally?

The irony couldn’t be denied. The only person more convinced than his father that he’d made foolish choices was the person he’d made those choices for.

Bridget.

…

Another potential drawback of his play-hard-to-get strategy hit Archer square between the eyes when he walked through the door to Captivity Air the next morning and found Bridget and Mad Dog silhouetted against the far windows, locked in an embrace. They both turned to look at him as he strode into the terminal. Mad’s expression immediately went wary. He started to disentangle and put distance between himself and the woman who was likely to get him killed. Bridget backed off considerably slower, wearing a flagrant look that sent his temper spiking.

Wing walked in the automatic doors and sized up the situation in a nanosecond. “Hey, Mad, you wanna get your ass down to your plane and help me check the—?”

“Yep.” Mad turned on his heel and shot Archer a half smile of the women-will-mess-up-your-head variety as he made his escape.

One woman in particular definitely would. He turned back to Bridget, who was inspecting her fingernails. Lenna walked in from the back, stopped, and sniffed the tension in the room. “What’s going on?”

Bridget frowned at her cuticle. “Archer’s about to yell at me.”

Lenna stepped closer. “Why?”

Bridget lifted a shoulder and let it drop. Aimed a cool violet stare at him. “Because his testosterone level is in the red.”

Enough of this shit. He pointed to the hallway. “Can I see you in the office?” Though he phrased it as a question, his tone suggested she’d be unhappy with the outcome if she declined his request.

With an eye roll that did nothing to his testosterone but shot his temper straight into the red, she turned and headed down the hall. He followed, wondering if a jury of his peers would convict him for strangling her. Probably, yes, since it was his own damn fault he’d failed to consider one possible outcome of playing hard to get with her. She’d simply find someone else to play with.

In which case he’d have to kill Mad, which was a shame, because despite having a history with Bridget he preferred not to think about, he liked the guy.

The woman in question swished into the office, turned, and sat on the desk with her jean-clad legs outstretched, black work boots crossed at the ankles—a study of casual, relaxed disinterest.

He shut the door behind him, then faced her. And waited.

One dark brow arched at him. “What?”

He crossed his arms and let his silence speak volumes.

She huffed out a breath and picked a nonexistent speck of fuzz off her snug black turtleneck. A turtleneck that showed off her slim torso and every mouthwatering contour of her breasts. Breasts she’d had pressed against Mad minutes ago. The headache from last night that he’d never really gotten rid of returned in full force. Hell, maybe he’d just have an aneurysm and be done with it. Could he be that lucky?

She exhaled again, more slowly, picked a pencil out of the cup on the desk, and fiddled it between her fingers. Nerves. That little show of nerves made him unspeakably happy.

“Stop with the silent treatment. It’s not what you think.”

“And what do I think?”

The pen stilled. Her gaze lifted, found his. “That I’m messing around with Mad to fuck with you.”

“Because you’re not?”

She tossed the pen on the desk and stood. “I’m not messing around with Mad. I was congratulating him on becoming an uncle. His sister in Wyoming had a baby boy last night. He’s stoked, and I’m happy for him. The fucking-with-you part was an unintended bonus.”

Her explanation, her ownership of the fucking with him part of it—even unintentional—smoothed his temper considerably. He stepped closer to her. “I know you two have a history.”

“History.” She said it with emphasis. “I’m sure you have plenty of history walking around out there in the world, too.”

That wasn’t his point. He came closer, so they stood toe-to-toe. “And I know that history wasn’t particularly exclusive.”

Now both of her brows shot up. “Are you calling me a ho, Archer? Because we’ve already been over this, and I’m not going to apologize for living my life the way I chose. I never broke any commitment. I never hurt anyone. If you can’t deal with the fact that I have a history now, then—”

“I’m okay with the fact that you have a history.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Are you really? ’Cause you don’t seem okay. If you were okay, this conversation would have ended at, ‘I’m not deliberately fucking with you.’”

“I’m totally okay with you having a history.” That overstated things a little, because yeah, jealousy played a part in this, but he’d work on it. “I’m not okay with you mixing your history with your present.”

He let that hang there, naked and glaring. She could deny he qualified as her present, or she could tell him he was history. Or she could just play dumb and tell him she didn’t know what he was talking about.

“We’ve been over this, too, Archer.”

She stared a hole through the center of his chest as she said it, but no playing dumb, thank God.

He notched a knuckle under her chin and raised her face until he could look her in the eye. “I never got a definitive answer.”

“I’m not mixing my history with my present. I might fuck with you, but I wouldn’t fuck around on you. I don’t know what it will take to make you believe it, but—”

He leaned in and kissed her, hard and fast, and broke away just as abruptly because he wanted to finish this. “Just your word. That’s all I need.”

She looked a little dazed—either by the kiss or everything she’d admitted just by giving him her word. But she licked her lips and said, “Well, you have it.”

He kissed her again, slower and softer, gratified when she held on and returned it stroke for stroke. “Good,” he said when they finally eased back, his senses steeped in her. A timer was ticking in his head. He had to be in the air soon. Wanting to replace her vaguely shell-shocked expression with a smile, he added, “So, I guess I don’t have to kick Mad’s ass after all?”

And there was the smile. “I’m sure he’d appreciate if you didn’t.”

He restrained his own smile of triumph until he left the office. He’d played hard to get, and though it hadn’t been pretty, he’d won an acknowledgment from Bridget that they were involved. Not just an acknowledgment of involvement, but a commitment that he was her one and only.

For now, a little voice in his brain whispered. The voice sounded suspiciously like his father.

“Forever,” he vowed under his breath and walked out to the tarmac to get on with his day. A day that was suddenly looking up.