Risky (Torn Between Two Lovers #2)(6)

Trace placed his fork on his now-empty plate. “So you’re Mexican?”

“Half,” I corrected. “My mother was Caucasian American. I was born here.”

To be honest, we’d traveled a lot within the U.S. up until my father had died. He went where there was work on the farms, and my mother and I had gone with him. Mom had constantly complained about the dirty, squalid life my dad provided, but he’d always worked long, hard hours out in the fields to keep us fed.

Sometimes I wondered why my mother had married my father. My childhood had been nothing but listening to her criticizing him for their poverty. Nevertheless, my father had never stopped trying to please her.

Unfortunately, he’d never made her happy, even when he’d died trying to keep our family intact. She’d been bitter about my existence keeping her trapped in the same place until the day she’d left to seek out a different kind of life, leaving me—and apparently all of those bad memories—behind.

My father had loved me; my mother had hated me.

Maybe I’d made peace with the fact that I wasn’t responsible for my mother’s unhappiness. But occasionally her bitter words still haunted me.

“Why were you left on your own when your mother remarried?”


Trace’s question made me uncomfortable. “I was an adult, graduating from high school. She was done with her obligations to me.”

Trace’s eyes turned glacial. “A seventeen-year-old living here isn’t equipped to live her own life yet.”

Apparently, my mother had thought differently. She’d left me with more than just overdue bills and an eviction notice.

I looked at the man defending me, and all of the misplaced anger I’d carried for all of the Walkers faded. What had happened had nothing to do with the Walker family and everything to do with only one person: my mother.

“I made it. It doesn’t matter.” Nobody had ever cared about me enough to actually be angry that my life had been difficult. But for some reason, I didn’t want Trace’s pity.

“Barely,” Trace grumbled as he stood up. “Let’s get out of here.”

I shoveled the last of my burrito into my mouth as I watched him pay the bill, giving the waitress a generous tip and a charismatic smile.

God, he was charming when he wasn’t growling. I watched as he complimented the Hispanic waitress in fluent Spanish, letting her know how much he’d enjoyed the food. Somehow, it didn’t surprise me that he could speak a foreign language so perfectly. He looked like the type of guy who did everything well.

Looking at his empty plate across from me, he was probably telling the truth about liking the food, even though he obviously wasn’t impressed with the atmosphere.

His eyes shot back to me, still chewing the last of my burrito. I was full, but I’d be damned if I was going to leave one bite of food on my plate. When a person doesn’t know when they’ll eat again, leaving food when they have it seems almost criminal. I swallowed hard as his molten green eyes seemed to be urging me to move. Trace held out his hand, and I hesitated for a moment before I reached out and clasped it. I was on my feet with a single tug of his strong arm, which was attached to a very hard body.

My breath caught, the feel of his palm caressing mine sending shivers of longing through my body. How long had it been since I’d had the intimacy of a simple touch? How long had it been since someone had looked at me with such focused attention?

I was both relieved and disappointed when he looked away and started pulling me gently toward the door.

When we were back in his fancy black sports car, I gave him directions to my place, cringing as I led him up the creaky stairs to my second floor apartment.

He didn’t comment as I gathered up my clothing and left my key on the small kitchen counter.

“I’ll settle up with the landlord later,” he remarked, his arm propped against the doorway, waiting.

“You’re paying me. I’ll take care of it.” I sounded defensive, but I couldn’t help it. I didn’t want him dealing with my landlord or any of my other responsibilities.

“You’re on the job, now. Didn’t I say you follow my orders?” His voice was husky and firm.

“Not when it comes to my personal life.” I was starting to get irritated.

“This job is personal.”

I slung my backpack over my shoulder and glared at him. “Look, I want this job. I need it. But you said yourself that this was strictly business. Other than a job and payment, you have no right to interfere in my life. Teach me what you want me to know, how you want me to act, how you want me to look, and I’ll do it. But managing the rest of my life isn’t part of the deal.”

“And if I think you need someone to manage your life?” His question was surly. “It doesn’t look like you’ve done all that well doing it yourself so far.”

Anger surged to the surface as I thought about every dirty, difficult job I’d had in my short working life. I’d survived any way I could. “What the hell would you know about survival?” I spat out at him. “Like you really understand what it’s like to be a woman like me? I’ve worked my ass off since I was old enough to have a job. Do you think I want to be this way? Do you think I want to have to beg for employment, for food?” I took a deep tremulous breath, trying to control my rage. “No doubt you were handed everything you needed, went to an Ivy League college. I’m sure you started with at least a couple of billionaire dollars, a hard beginning for you.” My voice grew louder and was dripping with sarcasm. “I’m sure you’ve never wondered whether you’d be better off dead than to keep trying to survive.”