Driven By Fate Page 14

  Porter sensed the men at the table trading nervous glances, but he kept his attention on Joe. If he didn’t think it would upset Francesca, he would tell the man to mind his own damn business. Francesca was twenty-four and had apparently been tasked with paying the bloody mortgage, so if she wanted her man upstairs, she’d have him. But she’d just agreed to accompany him to Miami. No way he was about to fuck that up.

  “Pleasure to meet you, Mr. De Luca.” He extended a hand toward Joe. “I’m seeing your niece.”

  The older man’s eyebrows went up, but he shook Porter’s hand. “That right?”

  “Quite.”

  One of the men pushed back in his chair. “Frankie doesn’t date.”

  Beside him, she smacked a hand to her forehead and Porter smothered a smile. “She doesn’t date anyone but me,” Porter corrected, setting off another round of anxious glances.

  Francesca shifted from side to side. “Did the game end early?”

  “No, we’re just getting too old to sit outside in the rain, even for the Jets.” Joe flexed his hand with what appeared to be serious difficulty before shoving it into his pocket. “We still have some of that spaghetti lying around? We’re starving.”

  She shook her head. “It’s not enough I cook you breakfast, now its dinner, too?”

  “Book club night for the wives,” Sanchez explained. “Also known as drink-too-much-red-wine-and-swap-recipes-that-they’ll-never-actually-use-on-us night.”

  “And what’s preventing you from making your own dinner? Are your opposable thumbs in the shop?” Laughter rumbled in the room. “Fine, I’ll heat you up some leftovers, but someone pays to have my cab cleaned.”

  Francesca started toward the refrigerator, but didn’t get three feet before being yanked to a halt. By him. His hand was still wrapped around hers, refusing to let go. Every eye in the room was trained on him; he could feel them, but he couldn’t seem to pry his fingers from hers. They’d only been standing in the room for one minute and he already had more questions than he’d walked in with. Why wasn’t Francesca at wine and recipe night? Did no one invite her? If he wasn’t here, would she have been sitting inside the dark house all by herself? The questions must have shown in his eyes, because she tilted her head, not the least bit uncomfortable with his behavior, more curious than anything. Instead of trying to pull away, she leaned down and kissed his wrist.

  “Do you want some spaghetti?”

  He did. He wanted to eat something she’d prepared. More than anything. But he didn’t belong in that kitchen and they both knew it. Coming down the stairs, he’d not given a fuck what anyone thought. Now that he stood in the middle of this scene that represented her life, he realized how little foresight he’d employed.

  His hand opened and let hers go. “No, thank you. I can’t stay.”

  Time slowed for a beat, then sped up, too quick for him to grasp. The men resumed their boisterous conversation as if to say, He’s not one we have to worry about. He won’t be around long. All because he’d let go of her hand? Francesca’s lashes fell, shielding her eyes as she turned and continued to the refrigerator. Porter started to follow, but the child jumped down from the counter, launching himself at Francesca. Without missing a beat, she scooped him up in a bear hug, leaning into his sticky face, obviously not caring that she’d just cleaned her hair.

  “Frankie, I leaned into a pitch today at practice.” He yanked up his sleeve to reveal a baseball-sized bruise. “It hurt really bad, but I didn’t cry. I walked to first and stole second. Are you coming to my game on Saturday? The team we’re playing is undefeated. Their pitcher is eight. Eight. I told dad it wasn’t fair and he told me to grow a pair. What does that mean?”

  The look she sent the men over her shoulder was incredulous and endearing. Beautiful. It sent Porter’s pulse surging through his veins. How could he enjoy it, though, from so far away? So much more than a kitchen separated them now. Why had he let her hand go? Why hadn’t he just said yes to the goddamn spaghetti?

  Porter felt Joe watching him and schooled his features, but he suspected the older man had already seen too much and would only see more if he continued to stand there, gaping at Francesca. This was her life—high-fiving the kid as he relayed an animated story while she reheated sauce on the stove, stirring with the opposite hand. Her future would look just like this. Eventually there would be a husband at the table. More kids. More bloody spaghetti. Knowing he wouldn’t be a part of it, knowing he’d be an ocean away in his gray apartment while her happiness fulfilled a prophecy she’d made as a little girl…

  Too much. All too much.

  “Have a good evening,” he managed, nodding at Joe, before striding from the kitchen toward the front door. I need to get away. I can’t watch. He’d made it halfway down the driveway when he heard Francesca’s voice behind him, and her jogging footsteps.

  “Hey, monocle man.” He turned to catch her before she plowed into him. Until she looked up at him, breathless and gorgeous, he didn’t realize it was still raining. Droplets gathered on her eyelashes and cheeks, exactly how he’d pictured her upstairs, except she wasn’t smiling. She only looked uneasy. “Where did you go in there?”

  He brushed the rain from her face, wishing like hell he were the kind of man who made her smile. “It’s not me. I don’t do spaghetti.”

  “You can if you want to. You’re overthinking this.”

  “Am I?”

  “No,” she whispered, swiping her damp hair back. “I don’t know.”

  The house was lit up behind her like a beacon, yet he’d drawn her out onto the dark street, in a downpour. The symbolism of that wasn’t lost on him. “Please, go back inside before you get sick.” He leaned down and kissed her wet lips. “I will see you tomorrow, Francesca.”

  A relieved sound puffed out against his mouth. “I wasn’t sure.”

  It tore him up, the realization that she’d thought he’d been walking away for good. Why wouldn’t she? He knew nothing of reassuring her or making promises. Bodies were outlined in the windows of the house now. The people who had the right to love her were worried. “You can be sure I would never give up time with you if I could help it. Never.” He swallowed the growing knot in his throat. “Good night.”

  “Good night.”

  She was still standing on the driveway in the rain when he drove away. He fought the urge to turn around—to dry her, to warm her—the entire way back to Manhattan.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Frankie stood at the drop-off curb at JFK Airport, one hand wrapped around the strap of her backpack, the other keeping her skirt from flying up. Of course the first day she wore a dress since eighth grade graduation happened to be the windiest day of the year. Shuttles lumbered past, police officers blew whistles, and travelers rolled luggage over the concrete sidewalk—familiar sounds that seemed foreign simply because of her daring new attire.

  Okay, daring was a stretch. After class that morning, she’d stopped into the Macy’s on Woodhaven Boulevard and picked up two dresses she really couldn’t afford, but still on the cheap side compared to most of the surrounding price tags. For the trip, she’d worn a light denim shirtdress, paired with her knee-high leather boots. She’d left her hair down, too, which the wind seemed to be getting a big kick out of.

  She’d refused Porter’s offer to send a car service for her, grabbing a ride with one of the guys instead. Trips to JFK were usually on their itinerary anyway, so it wasn’t out of their way, assuaging her guilt for asking. Unfortunately, she’d arrived earlier than their agreed upon time of one thirty, leaving her ample time to think, an activity she’d done plenty of since the night before. Something had changed between her and Porter, but hell if she knew exactly what. Sometime around three o’clock that morning, she’d come full circle to where she’d been before they’d gone downstairs—downstairs to where Porter had looked at her as if seeing her for the first time. Or the last time.

  Don’t think about him going back to London.
Enjoy the here and now. That’s all she’d come up with.

  “Francesca.”

  Everything changed when she heard him say her name. There was a note of awe in his tone, appreciation. It stirred up a chemical reaction in her body, sending a fizzing river of champagne through her middle. Underneath the exultant bubbles, though, was something deeper—a need to hear him say her name constantly, forever. She didn’t want to ignore the idea of him leaving. She wanted to prevent it. Starting today. Now.

  Frankie turned and watched Porter stop in his tracks, gaze traveling from the hem of her dress, up and over her hips, to linger at her breasts, her neckline. Devour. That was what his expression said. The lace material between her legs dampened as they stood staring at one another, yards apart. Oblivious to the crowd streaming along the pathway, Frankie didn’t think, she simply dropped her backpack and went to him, the man who took care of her when she got aroused. He took a step just before she reached him and yanked her up against his body. Their mouths stopped a breath apart, eyes locking.

  “How long have you been standing there with your thighs showing?”

  “It’s windy,” she breathed. “Can you kiss me now?

  “No.” He fisted the hem of her dress and tugged it down. “No, I’ll be thinking of your thighs wrapped around my head until we land. You can go without your kiss as punishment.”

  “I missed you. You’re grumpy and your rules are pointless and I missed you.”

  He stared at her hard, letting his arms fall away. “Get inside.”

  Ignoring the stab of disappointment, she peeled herself away from his hard body. She felt him watching her as she retrieved her backpack, heard his growl as she bent over to pick it up. When she straightened, her back encountered his chest. She hadn’t even heard him move.

  “I missed you, too.” His voice was hoarse against her ear. “Now, inside with you.”

  The check-in process was interminably slow, probably because she knew they had a whole flight, plus drive time to the hotel, before they could be together. They were led to a shorter security line because Porter had booked first class tickets, but with his hand settled just beneath her hip, the line might as well have been a mile long. As they waited for the flight to board, she leaned into Porter’s chest where he’d propped himself against a pillar, closing her eyes as his big hand massaged her scalp. They didn’t say a word until ten minutes after take-off. It felt unnatural to stay silent so long, but she suspected he was still a little stunned over his admission outside the airport.

  They’d missed each other. It had to mean something, right?

  If she wanted him, wanted to keep him, she had to believe it did.

  Frankie slipped her backpack out from under the seat and removed her presentation notes. Tomorrow morning she would miss class, which had essentially turned into a study hall since they were approaching finals. She’d planned on using the flight to go over her presentation, but Porter’s scribbling onto a yellow legal pad distracted her.

  “What are you writing?”

  His pen paused. He used it to scratch the back of his neck. “Just some business matters we’ll need to get in order when we return.”

  She’d never seen him make the gesture before and it made her suspicious. A man like Porter rarely made a movement unless it had a purpose. Hmm. “Business matters. Such as?”

  “Why are you being so inquisitive?”

  “Because you’re bluffing.” She grinned at his forbidding look. “There’s a reason I clean my uncle and his friends out at poker every Tuesday.”

  “Poker night,” he muttered. “I assure you, it’s nothing.”

  Frankie put up her hands. “If you say so, monocle man.” Whistling under her breath, she flipped open her notebook. “But I’m not going to give you your present.”

  “Present?”

  “It’s nothing,” she said, waving him off.

  A full minute of silence passed. “I’ll decide if it’s nothing.”

  Maybe this had been a bad idea, because honestly, compared to the antique taxi cab he’d given her, the present was nothing. Just something she’d dug up last night after his odd departure had left her in such a restless state. Actually, no way in hell was she giving it to him. Why hadn’t she just kept her stupid mouth shut? “Forget it. Scribble on your pad. Business matters. I believe you.”

  His right eyebrow dipped. “Is it in your backpack?”

  They both lunged for the canvas bag at the same time, each grabbing onto a strap and pulling. “Let go, let go, let go. Please.”

  “You are fighting a losing battle, I assure you.”

  “It’s a vinyl. Billy Joel.” she blurted, letting go of her strap so she could cover her face with both hands. “Your office is so quiet and boring and you don’t even have an iPhone. I saw the record player downstairs, so I just thought…” She reached over to unzip the backpack, taking out the 45 and setting it in his lap. “Here. I’m just answering your cry for help.”

  Porter stared at the vinyl as if it had dropped from the sky. He picked it up and carefully turned it over, but didn’t say anything. From the way his eyes moved, she could tell he was reading the song titles. The longer he stayed silent, the more anxious she became. What would a regimented British man want with a Billy Joel album? Dumb. So dumb.

  “It was my mother’s.” The words just slipped out. She hadn’t planned on telling him, but it became clear to her why her exhausted brain had deemed Billy Joel the perfect gift. She’d wanted to share something important with him. No one ever brought her mother up anymore and maybe she’d just wanted to say mother out loud, to remind herself she’d had one once. “Look, I know you’re not exactly the chatty type, but—”

  He cut her off with his mouth. Both of them kept their eyes open for a split second, long enough for her to register Porter’s hunger, possibly even surprise at himself for kissing her. Then, very slowly, his eyes closed. Tightly. He grabbed the back of her head, hauling her close while his tongue swept into her mouth. Hesitation gone, he angled her face and devoured her with a low groan, slanting his lips over hers again and again until weakness began to invade her limbs. Lack of oxygen? Or was he absorbing her willpower, making it his possession the same way he’d done with her body? Her last coherent thought fled and all she could do was cling to him, and let him take.

  …

  At some point you have to stop.

  Porter was shocked that the thread of common sense found its way through the thick haze of lust swamping him. He didn’t want to stop. Ever. She tasted like berries. Any hint of fight had fled her body the second he kissed her; she’d submitted so perfectly that it was fast becoming a necessity that he end the kiss or attempt to fuck her without an airplane full of people being the wiser. Yes, he’d seat her on his lap, slip into her snug pussy and let her rock back and forth on his stiff dick. Yes. Yes.

  Christ. He couldn’t. Too bright. Too public. Flight attendants walking back and forth. Get ahold of yourself, man. Where is your control? Porter broke the kiss but kept her face close, wanting to feel her breath against his mouth.

  “I, um…” Her inhale was shaky. “I thought you weren’t going to kiss me until we landed.”

  Why did his chest hurt? It felt full and empty at the same time. He quelled the urge to rub at the gaping center. “Yes, well. Someone told me recently that my rules are pointless.”

  “They sound wise.” She rubbed her nose against his. “You should listen to them.”

  The vinyl’s weight in his hand reminded him why he’d kissed her in the first place, as if he needed a reason. She’d given him something…important, decided he deserved to have it. And the entire time, she’d had the nerve to look as though she’d welcome the earth swallowing her up. He’d wanted to shake her until she realized how honored he was to have something of hers, but it seemed an odd way of thanking someone for a gift. He wouldn’t know. He’d never gotten one.

  A sweeping need to give her something in return wouldn
’t be denied. Not just something. The one thing he’d never planned on showing anyone. It would be opening himself up, losing a piece of his carefully concealed psyche.

  Don’t be such a coward. Look at her. She’s already become your biggest vulnerability. What’s adding one more thing? Without taking his eyes from her, he reached for the legal pad containing the first three chapters of his thriller novel and tossed it onto her lap.

  Her answering smile knocked the breath from his lungs. She picked the notepad up and flipped back to the first page. How stupid that his palms started to sweat as she scanned the first few lines, that his throat suddenly turned dry as dust. Bad idea. This had been a bad idea.

  “You’re writing a…book?” Her silver eyes sparkled as she looked up at him. “Porter, are you writing a book?”

  “It’s just a hobby.” He attempted to look bored. “A way to keep my mind occupied when the antique business isn’t devastating me with excitement.”

  “London Larceny,” she murmured, reading the title he’d written at the top of page one, before scanning a few more lines. “Why…why are you writing it on a legal pad?

  “Because if I write it on the computer, it’s more than a hobby.” He crossed his arms. “It’s officially work, and then I’ll be forced to finish.”

  “Remember that person who said your rules were pointless?”

  “Yes.” He swallowed a smile. “I’ve decided my initial assessment of her wisdom was made in haste.”

  “Are you teasing me?” She clutched the legal pad to her chest. “I don’t even know you anymore.”

  “You know me better than anyone, Francesca.”

  Her smile faded in degrees, but the light stayed in her eyes. Jesus, what had possessed him to say something like that? Possibly because it was the truth and he didn’t appear to be capable of giving her anything else. She must think him pathetic. They’d known each other all of a week and already she was closer to him than anyone he’d had in his life prior to now.