The Harder They Fall Read online

  “I know, I know.” Trisha sighed. “He’s—” What had his secretary said about him? “Single-minded, a bit arrogant, and more than a little annoying. But it’s all just appearance, Celia. I know it is. It’s a cloak he wears, almost as if it’s protection. And think about it, a man like that would need protection. He’s affluent, wealthy, well-known. He’s probably hounded regularly.”

  “Yeah,” Celia said dryly. “I bet it’s real tough looking as good as he does, and having money too! How awful for him. My sympathies.”

  Trisha ignored that. “Beneath that cool, distant exterior, there’s so much more. He’s intelligent, funny, sensitive. Passionate.”

  “Oh, man,” Celia breathed, staring at her. “You’re gone. Really gone.”

  “Yeah,” Trisha said miserably, dropping the lacy garment she was holding to cover her eyes. “I am. And it’s just awful.”

  “Don’t worry. If he hurts you, I’ll kill him.”

  Trisha laughed weakly. “My hero.”

  “Are you sure, Trish?” Celia asked suddenly, grabbing her hands, staring into her eyes. “Is he really the one?”

  Another weak laugh came from her. “I’m sure he wouldn’t think so.”

  “It’s what you think at this point that matters.”

  “He’s the one,” she whispered.

  “He’s very different from you, from what your hopes and dreams are,” Celia pointed out needlessly.

  “My hopes and dreams were to be left alone to be as I wanted to be. But now ... well, I’m still wanting to be as I am, but I don’t think I want to be alone. Does this make any sense?”

  “I just don’t want to see you let down. Are you really, really sure?”

  “I’m sure,” Trisha whispered. “I can tell he has feelings for me, deep ones he won’t give in to this easily. I’m not sure why, but he won’t.”

  “Maybe he’s been hurt,” Celia suggested reluctantly. “Or maybe he just isn’t the type to let go easily. He does seem to be really disciplined.”

  “Yes,” Trisha said, thinking of how he’d been able to walk away last night when she’d been a quivery mass of nerve endings. Then she thought of his deep eyes and their swirling secrets. She’d sensed his hurt. “But he isn’t cold. Far from it.”

  A customer walked in then, and desperately needing to stop thinking, Trisha moved to offer assistance. “I just need to forget this madness,” she whispered over her shoulder to Celia. “It’s a dead end for me, no matter how much I want it.”

  Her face tight with love and worry, Celia watched Trisha walk away. “Your entire life up until recently has been a dead end, honey. It’s time things went your way. For once. You deserve it. You can’t just forget about him.”

  Then she sighed, knowing Trisha wouldn’t act on this advice herself. A smile touched her face. “But I can act on it for her,” she murmured.

  Ten

  She’d been perfect, the stuff dreams were made of. Jaw tight, temper questionable, Hunter strode down the long corridor of NASA, for the thousandth time dwelling on what had happened with Trisha a few days earlier.

  He’d wanted her, badly. Still did. Any normal man would have gone back for her, he thought, disgusted with himself. But he wasn’t normal. Not by a long shot.

  Cowardice.

  That’s what held him back. What he wanted with Trisha couldn’t be easily relegated to the file in his brain labeled TENANT. Or even FRIEND. No, what he wanted was much more complicated than either of those. Nor could he wish her to the back of his thoughts, acting on the principle of out of sight, out of mind. She stayed front and center inside his head, where she could worm her way into his heart and soul.

  He couldn’t have it. They were a poor match, and he hated poor matches. He liked order, daily planners, thinking ahead. Organization meant everything. Trisha liked chaos, going with the flow, and being impulsive. The word organization wasn’t in her vocabulary.

  It wasn’t meant to be.

  It’s not that he didn’t like her as a woman. Hunter sincerely liked women, but tended to go out only sporadically, choosing someone who wanted a pleasant diversion and nothing more.

  Trisha was definitely more than a diversion. Tempting as she was, she also meant trouble, and he always avoided that.

  He had to come up with a plan so that he didn’t have to see her, hear her, crave her. Only one way to do that, he thought dismally. He had to sell the house. She’d hate him for it, yet he could see no other way.

  But God, he wanted her.

  Walking through his office door, he picked up his phone messages, walked to the window, and stared down into the courtyard below.

  Peace. Calm. Joy. His work gave him these. And since he was about to start working, he could relax. Then he looked down at his messages and tensed up again.

  His mother had called. Her message read: Your father is at it again. If I don’t kill him by the time you get this, make sure you talk to him and tell him I won’t consider coming back until he straightens out.

  He sighed and hoped it wasn’t too late to stop his mother from committing murder. Why, he wondered as he moved toward his phone, couldn’t his parents just simply stay away from each other?

  It wasn’t just his parents that had him riled. It was everything. His neat little world suddenly seemed ... not so neat.

  Just the day before he’d come out of the house to find the trash can knocked over on his front lawn, Duff sitting daintily in the middle of the grass, snacking on leftovers. Trisha had rushed out of the house, obviously late as she struggled with several boxes, slipping on her heels as she ran.

  With a small, apologetic smile, she’d shooed Duff away and had prepared to clean up the mess. He’d pulled her up, taken her boxes to the car, and cleaned up Duff’s mess himself.

  He’d ended up with squashed banana on his black silk shirt, much to Trisha’s muffled amusement. With some desperate, ridiculous need to wipe that laughter from her face and replace it with half of the hunger he felt, he’d hauled her against him, backed her to his car, and kissed her until they broke apart, panting.

  Right in plain sight of anyone passing, yet at the time he couldn’t have cared less if the entire neighborhood drove up to cheer him on.

  The aftermath of that one violently tender kiss left him unable to emerge from behind his desk that entire day.

  Then, just the night before, while trying to read through several trade journals, flecks of plaster had rained down on him. Above him, to the beat of the loud music, he could hear Trisha dancing and singing at the top of her lungs.

  All he’d been able to do was wonder what she was wearing, and wish Eloise had installed a peephole of her own so that he could watch.

  There’d been no more lipstick messages, but he had to deal with the indignity of finding his mulberry bushes trimmed into the shapes of bunnies, apparently courtesy of Trisha plying the new gardener with fresh chocolate-chip cookies.

  With her joyous, carefree ways, she’d wormed her way right into his life, even as she drove him to the brink of insanity.

  Restlessness forced Hunter to push himself hard, then when he could still think, he pushed harder. His staff, long used to his perfectionism and dedication, didn’t blink an eye at his increased hours. Nor did they dare comment.

  Except his secretary. Entering his office, Heidi handed him the report he’d requested. Then stood there.

  “Is there something wrong?” he asked, putting the file down when it became apparent that she wasn’t leaving.

  “I was going to ask you the same thing.”

  Hunter sat down and stared at her. “What?”

  “I know this is none of my business,” she began. “But we’ve worked together a long time, and well...”

  “Just tell me,” he said gently, thinking she was working herself up for another pregnancy leave.

  “Okay.” Heidi fidgeted her fingers. “I’ll just tell you. I’ll just spit it out—”

  “Heidi, please. Just say
it.”

  “Rumors are flying, Dr. Adams,” she said quickly, with sympathy in her gaze. “I wouldn’t have said anything at all, but you’re expected at the charity event tonight, as is everyone else you know, and well...”

  “Well what?”

  She made a face. “I’m sorry,” she said carefully. “But I feel I must warn you. Speculation is rampant, fueled by the fact that you were seen racing after some woman the other day in the NASA parking lot.”

  Oh, perfect. Closing his eyes, he pinched the bridge of his nose with two fingers and struggled to shrug off all the tension.

  “Just the fact that the unflappable Dr. Adams was caught running was amazing enough, but the woman ... when you so rarely are seen showing emotion to one ... I’m sorry,” she said again, blushing. “But I wanted you to know.”

  “I see.” What the hell was he supposed to say? That he had a new tenant, a wild, crazy, beautiful, sweet woman who was slowly driving him insane? That she somehow drew out the worst and best in him at the same time?

  That he couldn’t stop thinking about her?

  “It’s just that you never lose your cool,” Heidi said, breaking the silence. “You’re always so in control.”

  Maybe, but he’d lost it, hadn’t he? “Thank you, Heidi,” he said calmly. “Tonight should be ... interesting.”

  “To say the least.”

  Hunter realized exactly how much she’d risked to warn him. After all, they didn’t talk often. He typically wasn’t even in his office much, spending most of his time in the lab. But he appreciated what she’d done. “I guess I’m the main topic in the secretarial pool these days.”

  “Yes, you beat out Dr. Jansen, who was caught in the buff under his desk with Dr. Phillips.” Now she grinned, more relaxed. “Don’t take it personally, Dr. Adams. The men are just jealous, and the women...”

  He was sure he didn’t want to know the rest. “And the women ...?”

  “They just wished that they were on the receiving end of the Devil’s attention.”

  Once Trisha came to the startling if not slightly terrifying realization about her feelings for Hunter, everything made more sense.

  Or at least it did until she came home one evening at the end of the week and found a realtor scoping the place out.

  “Excuse me,” she said to the small, weaselly-looking man in a red jacket holding a clipboard, pacing out the perimeter of the property.

  He lifted his nose from his board. “Yes?”

  “What are you doing?”

  He was rather young. And given the way he eyeballed her, allowing his gaze to rove slowly over Celia’s latest creation—a deep green jersey mini-suit—she figured his interest in measurement extended to more than the property.

  Long before he’d finished introducing himself as Sam Walters, real-estate agent, Trisha started to sweat. Her lungs labored, and her knees felt weak. It was a familiar panic attack, one that she hadn’t had since the last time she’d been forced to move, but she knew how to deal with it.

  All she had to do was lock her knees and remember to breathe.

  “I’m measuring the size of the lot,” Sam Walters said with a smile meant to charm. He moved closer. “You live here?”

  “Why—” Her voice sounded so hoarse, she had to clear her throat and start over. “Why are you measuring the lot?” Breathe, she reminded herself as she felt the panic surge, double in force. Breathe.

  “Trisha.”

  She whirled at the sound of Hunter’s voice and dragged in a deep gasping breath. He stood there, having just gotten out of his car. She had been so intent on the way her heart was racing, on her feelings of betrayal, fear, worry, and a million other things, she hadn’t even heard him drive up.

  Though they’d seen each other on and off during the week, they hadn’t really spoken since that night of the fire-alarm incident when he’d ... Trisha swallowed hard, shoved away the heated memory, and faced the horror of the moment. By now she could feel the sweat pooled at the base of her spine, could feel herself start to hyperventilate. “You’ve decided ... to put ... the house on the market.” The last part of the sentence came out in one breathless rush.

  Hunter frowned with concern and stepped closer.

  The agent shifted on his feet, ears perked up. Probably hoping for a scene, Trisha thought with disgust, and promised herself she wouldn’t give him one. But breathing became more difficult at the shuttered truth in Hunter’s eyes.

  “Please, answer me,” she said, struggling to take in more air.

  “You’re so pale. Are you all right?”

  She added fury to her present panic. Except for that kiss in the driveway, he’d avoided her after giving her the most erotic experience of her life. Now he was going to take away the only home she’d ever had, and he wanted to know if she was all right. “Are you ... or are you not putting this place ... up for sale?”

  His frown deepened. “Trisha.”

  The weasel Walters divided his attention between the two of them, moving his head back and forth as if watching a tennis match. Trisha wanted to smack him, but the loss of oxygen had spots swimming before her eyes. “Just tell me,” she said to Hunter as softly as she could—not difficult when her lungs had refused to work. “Is it true?”

  Hunter’s eyebrows came sharply together as he stared at her. “I’m thinking about it.”

  “I have a lease.” Dammit, her voice shook. “You can’t break it. Eloise promised me.”

  “Mr. Walters, thank you for your time. I’ll speak to you another day,” Hunter said, dismissing the other man.

  The weasel’s nose twitched, sensing defeat. “But—”

  “I’ll be in touch,” Hunter said firmly, his eyes never leaving Trisha’s. “Again, thank you.”

  Trisha watched the real-estate agent walk down the long drive, lined with the rosebushes she herself had planted last spring, and concentrated on dragging air into her aching, shaking body.

  Hunter was going to sell.

  As Walters drove off she took in the old but absolutely charming white house and experienced a pang so sharp she bit her lip against it. The pain reminded her to suck in some more air, which was a good thing since her vision had started to waver with the lack of oxygen.

  “Trisha.”

  Selling. Moving. Packing. Losing all sense of place, of being. Could she do it again?

  No. No, she thought with welling panic, she couldn’t.

  From far away, she heard a soft oath, then felt a hand grip her upper arm. Next thing she knew, she was sitting on the porch step, her head thrust between her knees and held there by a firm hand. She struggled violently.

  “Stay still, dammit,” Hunter said in a low, rough voice. His hands held her. “And breathe, for God’s sake.”

  She tried, and made a horrendous gulping noise that would have immobilized her with humiliation if she could have thought beyond her own misery.

  “Again,” he demanded, and she realized from her limited view from beneath her knees that he’d sat down next to her. Vaguely, she wondered about the obviously costly trousers he wore, and what sitting on the step was going to do to the fabric. He’d have an expensive dry-cleaning bill.

  Great. Between his car and the damage to the bathroom and kitchen floors, she didn’t owe him nearly enough already.

  “Keep breathing.... That’s it,” he said quietly when her next breath came easier.

  “Let me up,” she snapped.

  “Well, you’re talking, at least.”

  The hand that held her head down loosened its hold to stroke her hair, soothe the taut muscles in her neck and shoulders, reminding her yet again of another night when he’d touched her with that same tenderness. She gulped in more air.

  “Much better,” he said softly, encouraging.

  When she could, she lifted her head, torn between embarrassment and bitterness. “I’m fine.” But her hands shook as she smoothed down the skirt of her suit, which had risen high on her thighs.
>
  “Are you really?”

  That was it. Exploding off the stairs, she wavered for a minute, flinging off the supporting arm he had placed around her waist. “No, actually I’m not fine,” she said, her heart still racing, her palms damp. In the face of her anger and betrayal, the panic had receded for now.

  Hunter’s hands were tucked casually in his trouser pockets, his feet planted firmly apart, as if ready for battle. His voice came quietly. “What’s the matter, Trisha?”

  She wanted to cry, laugh, scream. “You know what’s the matter. You’re going to sell, after you said you wouldn’t.”

  “I never told you I wouldn’t.”

  “You moved in here,” she pointed out. “I thought that meant—that you wouldn’t—Oh, hell,” she said softly, pushing her hair from her face. “I’m sorry. I...” She looked wildly about her, in desperate need of an escape. Her bike, lying against the side of the house, seemed the perfect getaway vehicle. “I’ve got to go.”

  Without a thought for the jersey suit and heels she was wearing, she yanked the bike away from the house and got on.

  “Trisha, wait.”

  The fitted military jacket didn’t pose a problem, nor did the short, snug skirt. But her open-toed shoes gave her a rough moment when they got caught on the pedals. In less than two minutes, however, the house—and Hunter’s anxious, angry voice—had faded from view.

  Moving wouldn’t be so bad, she reassured herself as she hit her stride, peddling along the quiet streets of South Pasadena. After all, she should be used to it.

  And maybe, just maybe, if she got real lucky, the new owners of the duplex would want a tenant.

  Hunter Adams would be just a bad, distant memory.

  Right.

  Hunter stood there for exactly half a second, rooted in shock at Trisha’s abrupt departure, before he jerked his keys out of his pocket and ran to his car.

  He had absolutely not a clue as to what exactly he’d just witnessed, but he’d bet his last dollar it had been a panic attack. “Crazy woman is in no condition to be riding a bike,” he muttered, quickly unlocking the car with the intention of following her.