Wicked Need (The Wicked Horse Series Book 3)(6)
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 f*ck 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.