Saving Cruz (The Moran Family) Page 7

  Disappointment shadows her face, but she’s quick to shove it aside. “Of course.”

  I admit, it’s early—too early to shut ourselves off into our hotel rooms. But the lure of the forbidden speaks loudly, even though I continue to shove any and all improper thoughts aside. I have to remind myself frequently that I didn’t bring her here to socialize. I brought her here to do a job. I’m not responsible for entertaining her, seeing that she’s fed or showing her the nightlife. Even though I want to do all of that more than anything I’ve wanted to do in the past fifteen years.

  Her hotel room door closes with a firm bang, and for a brief moment I consider that maybe I’ve pissed her off again. With a curse, I let myself into my room, toss my bag and briefcase on the bed, and tug off the tie that once again feels like a noose.

  The lights of Atlanta glisten below as I step up to the wall of windows and wonder briefly what she thinks about her hotel room. I like the innocent joy she gets from never having been around such opulence. I like that she’s not the least bit shy about showing how impressed she is, and for once I actually hate myself for barking at her like I did. She deserves a nice meal out, if for no other reason than she puts up with me and all my crap each and every day.

  Done with second guessing myself, I quickly pull out my phone and shoot her a text. Sure, I could walk across the hall and simply ask her, but chances are she’ll find it easier to be honest with me without having to look me in the eye. It sure as hell will be easier to turn me down.

  When my phone dings, less than a minute later, I find myself smiling at her exuberant response. “YES! I’d love to go to dinner.” The woman constantly surprises me, waffling from timid and shy one minute to confident and enthusiastic the next. I wonder what else she hides behind that shy, exotic exterior.

  Enough, I chide myself silently. It’s none of my business what makes Miss Mia Elliott tick. The fact I’ve discovered these tiny details is more than enough to remind me—yet again, I might add—that I am her employer, and nothing more.

  Electing to leave the tie behind, I undo a few buttons on the collar of my shirt then splash cold water on my face. It’s just the wakeup I need. A quick glance in the mirror makes me cringe; the past few sleepless weeks are definitely taking their toll, if the dark circles under my eyes and the lines around my mouth are any indication. For someone just over thirty, I’m not aging well. I wonder what I’ll look like ten years from now. Not surprisingly, I cringe again.

  Funny, but when I was a teenager, I was approached repeatedly to do some modeling. Something both my parents immediately protested each and every time. But I remember there was this one time, I was seventeen or so, and I simply could not resist the draw of the money. And truth be told, I was just that cocky and full of myself to believe I could make bank on my face alone.

  Sure, I’d heard before, many times, how handsome I was, how it was a crime to be so beautiful. I remember always laughing at comments like that, until the words were echoed by Daniella—usually while we were wrapped around one another. We’d share a laugh, which I’d silence with my mouth, and then we’d make love like only teenagers can: fast and hard with every emotion right at the surface. The amazing thing about Dani, one of the amazing things really, was that she was never swayed by my looks. She never let me get away with being a cocky asshole. She held me accountable when I treated her with anything less than the respect she deserved and always took me to task, demanding the truth in everything.

  The one modeling gig quickly turned into two and between the sneaking around behind my parents’ backs and counting the cash I was making, I somehow neglected to see the disappointment in Dani’s eyes every time we were together. And when it all eventually blew up in my face, which of course it did the first time someone recognized me in print, I had only myself to blame. My parents were angry and disappointed, and Dani? Well, as she put it, she simply could not believe I’d ever be that shallow.

  Dani had high expectations and impeccable standards which may have annoyed me at the time, but now years later I’m grateful for it. I wish I could have told her that. I wish I could have told her so many things, but I lost that privilege years ago, and I’ve been paying the price ever since.

  A knock at the door startles me out of my painful daydream, and with a shaky breath I move out into the bedroom. My hand is trembling when I pull the door open and am greeted by a smiling and very casual Mia.

  Her hair is still up, but she’s pulled it into a high ponytail, leaving the thick curly mass to spill down her neck and over one shoulder. She’s dressed simply in a non-descript white shirt, dark jeans, and flat, glittery sandals on her small feet. She looks so young, so very beautiful, and so unlike the buttoned-up professional she portrays each day at the office. And I’d be lying if I said she didn’t take my breath away.

  Her smile fades the minute she looks at me and a frown burrows between her eyes. “Are you okay? You look upset.”

  I shove aside the pain from a few minutes before and force a neutral expression. “I’m fine. Let’s go.” I watch her visibly bristle at my harsh tone then pivot on one foot and begin walking away.

  The silence between us is thick with tension as we move down the hall and into the elevator. Out of the corner of my eye, I watch her fingers fiddle with the strap of her handbag, the nervous tension quite literally spilling out of her.

  I instantly regret the decision to invite her to dinner. What the hell could I hope to accomplish, except throwing her more mixed signals and making her feel more uncertain about what to expect from me? If I’d been smart, I should have simply reminded her to utilize the room service menu, or at the very least I could have recommended a restaurant close by. I sure as hell shouldn’t have made her believe this evening out would change anything between us. I’m still her arrogant ass of a boss, and she’s still my assistant. Nothing more.

  I lead Mia into the first restaurant we come to, a trendy eatery I’ve been in a time or two. The hostess directs us to a booth at the back, shrouded in low lighting and perfect for a date night with its seclusion away from most of the other tables. A date which we are not on, I remind myself.

  We sit at opposite sides of the cloth-lined table, and she immediately hides behind the menu, fingers gripping the edges so tightly she’s white-knuckling it just as she did on the airplane. The waiter comes over, tells us the specials and does a little flirting with her, which immediately annoys me. Ball-buster that she is, she grins up at the young man, thanking him by name, and immediately shoots me a dark look.

  Take that, Moran.

  Over cocktails, I break the tense silence by giving her some history about the city of Atlanta. I may build state-of-the-art high-rises, but I’ve always been fascinated by the early building history of most cities. She listens intently as I speak, asking a few questions and taking occasional sips of her Cosmopolitan. She’s smart and curious, contributing to the conversation when she can and eagerly soaking up the information I provide.

  By the time our entrees arrive, the thick tension from earlier is now gone, and she’s launched into some amusing story about her childhood in Hawaii, where she informs me she was born and lived until her early teens. When her father got a new job, the family relocated to St. Petersburg. Family visits are few and far between, although she makes a point of saying she does converse frequently with her parents. She’s animated when she talks, waving her hands around and grinning beautifully ear to ear, those dark, almond-shaped eyes sparkling as she speaks lovingly of her Hawaiian grandparents and her mom and dad.

  “We lost my grandmother a few years ago,” she says softly, sobering at the thought. “She and I were very close.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  She shrugs and offers up a small smile. “Me too. But I’m so blessed to have had the years with her that I did. No one can ever take that away from me.”

  Her words hit me directly in the solar plexus, knocking the breath from my lungs and pinching my eyes with tears I’v
e refused to shed in years. Quickly looking away, I take a big gulp of scotch, let it burn down my throat, and ease the knot of pain that’s settled there. God, what I wouldn’t give to be able to walk out of this restaurant and disappear.

  “Cruz, are you all right?” she whispers, reaching across the table to lay her hand on mine.

  Fuck. What I don’t need right now is her touching me. I sure as hell don’t need her sympathy either. Gritting my teeth, I quickly pull my hand away and force myself to grasp the fork and resume eating, even though food is the last thing I want.

  We somehow manage to finish our meal, despite the fact that we’re back to sitting in silence. Every minute or so I can feel her confused and anger-filled eyes trying to dissect me. When the waiter returns to check in and see how we’re doing, she hurriedly asks for the check, ignores his blatant attempt to flirt once again, and finally ends up snapping at him until he hustles away to do her bidding.

  The walk back to the hotel is fast paced, with her leading the way and me right behind her, careful to keep my distance. Her rage is now tangible, and justified, I concede. But I’m still her boss, and she still has a certain responsibility to respect me as such, though I sure as hell have no intension of telling her that. Shy, timid Mia is easy to handle. This new, pissed off and unpredictable Mia, I’ll gladly stay away from, especially since I’m the one who pissed her off in the first place.

  She doesn’t speak until we’re both at our respective doors, facing away from one another, and even then her words are barely audible. “I’m sorry for whatever I said to upset you.” Then she disappears into her room, and once again I’m left hating myself more than I did the day before.

  Blinking back tears, I stare out across the Atlanta skyline and ask myself for like the four hundredth time why I think I can work for someone like Cruz Moran. Every time it feels like we’re making some headway, not friends exactly but not enemies either, I do or say something that sets him off and he’s right back to snapping at me once again. Right back to hating me for some unknown reason.

  Maybe I should quit, find another job, and chalk this experience up to a good lesson learned. But the fighter in me, the strong girl my parents raised me to be, simply can’t give up. Not yet. The truth is I see something in him, something he tries so hard to bury underneath that bristly exterior. Something broken, bruised, and tormented.

  Secretly, I’m nursing a serious crush on this beautiful enigma of a man who holds his privacy so close to the chest. I’m well aware that it will never reach fruition, and chances are if he doesn’t fire me first, he’ll end up driving me away with his heated words and anger. But just watching his sweet exchange with his mom that day, seeing the love in his eyes and the gentle way he held her, proved to me that there’s much more to him than the cold-hearted businessman he prefers to let everyone believe he is. He has the capability to love and be loved, he simply chooses to ignore it.

  I shudder to remember how he reacted to my simple statement at dinner—something that wasn’t more than a statement of facts but so painful he lost the ability to speak, to breathe. He tried, I’ll give him that, but there’s no way he could hide the agony that flowed from his eyes to mine. A driving, deep pain that left him white-faced and shaking.

  With a heavy sigh, I slide beneath the crisp sheets and shut out the light, letting the two walls of floor-to-ceiling windows filter light across the plush gray carpet. This hotel is posh and unlike any place I’ve ever stayed before, with all its cool, clean lines and contemporary furnishings. Not my style, but I’m not complaining. Between the view, the pillow-topped King-sized bed, and the huge shower, I’ve been spoiled. Better not get used to it, I think as I roll to the side and pick up my phone from the side table, considering for a brief moment texting him to say goodnight and make sure he’s okay.

  Grumbling to myself, I toss the phone aside and pull my knees to my chest. Cruz Moran is untouchable and always will be. The smartest thing I can do is accept that, enjoy the money he pays me, put up with his attitude when I have to, and live my own life. Who knows, maybe somewhere along the way I’ll find myself a new man in my life. One who will listen when I speak, one who cares about what happens to me. A man who makes my skin tingle with one simple touch.

  Thank God that person is not Cruz.

  I step out into the hall at exactly 8:00 a.m., suitcase in hand and hurriedly packed after I received his text thirty minutes ago informing me that we are heading back to Miami after the meeting and not staying another night like we’d planned. He offered no reason why, and truly I wasn’t owed one, but I have the distinct impression last night has something to do with it.

  Cruz is leaning against his hotel room door, typing furiously into his phone, a thick scowl gracing his brow. His packed bag is at his feet, as is his briefcase, and I swear I can feel the ice rolling off his skin from the three feet that separate us.

  “Good morning,” I state.

  He ignores my greeting, picks up his bags, and heads off toward the elevator at a hurried pace. I follow along dutifully, waffling between anger and hurt and fighting like hell to remain as detached as possible. I fully expect the firing now, for whatever it was I’ve done, and a part of me is ready to fight like hell to stay just to prove to him that I’m not a coward.

  The silence remains the entire time we drive to our destination, until we pull up in front of the elegant high-rise where he finally glances at me briefly and snaps, “Take notes. Don’t ask any questions.”

  I nod. “Yes, sir.”

  “Leave your bag here. We won’t be long. Our flight leaves in a few hours.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Like the good little employee I am, I follow along behind him while we’re led upstairs to the large conference room. He declines anything to drink, but I stubbornly request coffee, mostly because I’m running on only two hours sleep and chances are I may fall asleep during this meeting. He shoots me a dark look but continues to remain silent.

  What a surprise.

  The meeting commences a few minutes later and to my surprise, Cruz greets the attendees with warmth and grace. He makes no effort to introduce me, which further infuriates me. Trying not to scream is becoming more difficult with each passing moment.

  I take copious notes as he requested, sip my coffee, and wrestle with how I’m going to address this situation with him. Sure, I could ignore it, which I’m certain is what he expects. I could mention his treatment of me, though I’m sure he’ll use the time to remind me that I am his employee and as such, he’s not obligated to be kind. Or I could let him have it, try to berate him for being so cruel, so blatantly disrespectful, but all that would give me is more silence and potentially the unemployment line.

  What is with this man? And why do I, of all people, seem to rub him the wrong way? I’ve really tried my best to be polite and professional and everything he could want in an assistant. Yes, I’ve let things get personal once or twice, but I’ve always been quick to rein it in. Why, then, does he look at me like I’m the enemy half the time?

  Thankfully the meeting doesn’t last more than an hour and before I know it, we’re being whisked off to the airport. I’m once more surrounded by thick, uneasy silence and a whole bunch of icy, cold looks from the complicated man I work for.

  My stomach is rumbling, but I’m too nervous and anxious to think about eating. Besides, I reason to myself as we settle in the waiting area at the airport, if I eat, there’s always the chance that I might vomit when we take off or land. It’s happened before, though you’d think with all the flying back and forth to Hawaii I’d have reached a certain level of comfort in an airplane.

  Predictably, I’m white knuckling it as we taxi down the runway and unlike yesterday when he so kindly inquired if I was okay, Cruz continues to ignore me as if I’m some stranger sitting next to him and not the woman he sees at the office each and every day.

  I immediately down one of those travel-sized bottles of tequila, which sits uneasily in my
empty stomach but has the added effect of making me instantly drowsy. Closing my eyes, I snuggle down into the comfortable seat and let the sound of the plane engine lull me to sleep.

  Coming awake feels like I’m easing myself out of a coma. My head is heavy and my eyes feel like they need to be pried open one at a time. There’s something warm against my cheek; something warm that smells amazing. And had I been coherent I might not have inched closer to the warmth, might not have breathed in deeply then exhaled a soft moan.

  “We’ve landed.”

  The cold, hard voice snaps me awake, and with horror I realize that I’ve fallen asleep against Cruz’s shoulder. Quickly sitting upright, I attempt to shake off the dizziness and come fully awake. “Sorry.”

  I’ve made many mistakes where this man is concerned, but as we rise to exit the plane, I suddenly realize that my attempts at friendship, at closeness, are what push him away. I scare him and I wish I knew why. I wish I could ask, wish he’d let me in, wish for one moment he’d consider that a friendship with me might be a good thing.

  But as we drive back to the office, and once more he pretends like I’m not sitting in the seat next to him, I have to wonder if maybe having me as his assistant isn’t somehow detrimental to him. Maybe he needs someone older, a mother figure if you will. He might be more comfortable with a male assistant, although from what I’ve heard he’s never had one working for him before. I can’t begin to assume anything where Cruz Moran is concerned, except that I know something about me sets him off. Something about me unsettles him to the core. And for someone so confident, so sure of himself in everything he does, feeling insecure about this one thing must be incredibly unnerving. Maybe the best thing for us both would be for me to say goodbye.

  There are days when I fully believe it’s not possible that I’m a well-educated man with loads of money in the bank and a company worth more than most people can ever imagine. Today would be one of those days. The type of day when everything I’ve touched has fallen apart, when every person I’ve spoken to has replied to my questions like a dimwitted idiot, and when I’ve asked myself once again why it is that I haven’t yet fired Mia.