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What Are Friends For?
Naomi Horton
Mr. Marriage-Phobic Name: Connor Devlin Turn-ons: Independent, sexy women Turn-offs: Any female looking for a ring on her third finger, left hand!Favorite Romantic Interlude: Doesn't involve a single thought about commitmentAll of a sudden I can't keep my mind - or my hands! - off Andie Spencer. Sure, she's one beautiful woman, but I've known her for years, and people who are "just friends" shouldn't act this way.But let me tell you, when I look at her, friendship is the last thing on my mind! Why, it's enough to make me forget my vow to dump any woman who even makes me think about marriage… .
What Are Friends For?
Naomi Horton
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Contents
One (#u8d633997-3a33-5fa2-b0d0-0e860cf35ffd)
Two (#u456c9bbc-e8f2-5f12-ae02-0af8e7b50f3a)
Three (#u93167afb-d873-5f67-a84e-e2ecb5f7a649)
Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
One
She’d been half expecting the call. But even so, the phone still managed to startle her badly when it finally rang, the sound shrill in the late-night stillness of her bedroom. Andie jerked awake and swore breathlessly, heart pounding with automatic alarm, and blinked into the darkness, wondering what in heaven’s name time it was.
Late—she knew that much. He never called unless it was late. In the daylight, he was too sure of himself, too full of that male self-confidence he wore like a cloak to allow himself to be beset by doubts and questions and pain. It was only in the dark, late at night, when his demons would slip free and taunt him from the silences of his mind. And that’s when he’d call her.
Andie Spencer, dragon slayer.
She smiled grimly and squinted groggily at the digital clock by her bed. Not this time, hotshot. You can just put those dragons to rest all on your own, because I am not coming out there tonight. Not this time. No way. Not at...oh, God, four-thirty in the morning. Groaning, she stared at the clock in disbelief. Four-thirty!
Somehow she managed to grab the receiver without knocking over the stack of books teetering on the edge of the table.
“Conn.” She dropped back into the soft contours of her pillow, eyes closed, the receiver tucked against her ear.
There was a pause, then a familiar husky male chuckle. “How the hell do you do that, anyway? Know it’s me, I mean.”
“Who else calls me in the middle of the night?” she muttered sleepily. “You got it, didn’t you? Your divorce decree.”
Another pause. Longer this time. She could hear him release a tautly held breath, the sound filled with pain and regret and who knew what else.
“Yeah. Yeah, I did.” His voice was soft. Rough. “How did you know?”
“I saw the envelope from your lawyer when I put the mail on your desk this morning. It had the kind of portentous weight you’d expect of a divorce decree.”
He chuckled, but she could hear the effort it took. Then he sighed again and she could hear the faint sound of fingers rubbing stubbled cheeks.
She could imagine him sitting there, lights off, staring into the darkness with the thin sheets of paper in his fingers. When he’d first slit the envelope and pulled the pages out, he’d have figured it was no big deal. Would have fingered through the thick wad of documents carelessly, telling himself he didn’t care, that he was over Judith anyway, had been for over a year and a half now. That he could handle it. That, hell, it was the second time, after all, so he was an old hand at it. That he was too blasé, too jaded, too damned cool to feel anything but impatient relief that it was finally finished.
But the pain would have been there. It ran too deep, was too complicated, for it not to hurt. Even this time. And so, much later, he’d have sat there in the vast emptiness of the big house, listening to the whisper of the air-conditioning and the sound of his own heart, alone, and would have felt the quiet and the solitude and the memories close in on him. And then, finally, he’d have reached for the phone.
She squeezed her eyes closed. She was not going to give in this time and traipse all the way out there to hold his hand and tell him she was sorry it hadn’t worked out and that everything would be all right. Not this time. Not anymore.
“How about jumping into some clothes and coming out?” he asked quietly. “We’ll pour ourselves a drink and toast old times and you can help me throw the rest of her pictures out.”
“It’s four-thirty in the morning, Connor,” Andie said through gritted teeth. She was not going out there, damn it. “And you sound as though you’ve been toasting old times half the night already. Put the cap back on that bottle of bourbon sitting on the table beside you, toss that picture of Judith you’re holding into the fire and go to bed. We’ll talk in the office in the morning.”
“Damn!” He laughed softly, the husky, honey-warm sound wrapping around her like a silken web. “You scare me sometimes, lady. But you’re only half-right—it’s a bottle of twelve-year-old Scotch on the table beside me, not bourbon.”
In spite of herself, Andie had to smile. “Well, I’m glad to hear you’re handling things with a little class this time, Devlin. When Liza divorced you, you got drunk on cheap wine, threw up five or six times and were hung over for three days.”
“Yeah, well, I guess you get better at some things if you do them often enough,” he said quietly. “God knows, I can’t seem to get a handle on staying married, but I’m getting pretty damn good at the divorce part.”
“Oh, Conn...” She could feel his despair right through the phone and fought to ignore it. She had to stop running to his side every time he called, had to quit—
“Andie?” It was just a whisper, filled with pain. “Andie, damn it, I need you.”
Teeth gritted, she squeezed her eyes closed, every atom of her being resisting the sweet pull of his voice. “I have to be at work in four hours.”
He laughed that low, teasing laugh he knew she couldn’t resist. “Come on, Andie, don’t be like that. What’s your boss going to do—fire you?”
“I should be so lucky,” she shot back murderously.
Another laugh, gently compelling. “Lighten up a little, Andie. I’ll give you the day off. How’s that?”
“And who’s going to finish that report you need for your meeting with Desmond Beck tomorrow afternoon?”
Conn groaned. “Cancel the meeting. Hell, cancel tomorrow. I’ll give myself the day off, too, and we’ll go do something. How about sailing? You haven’t been sailing with me in over a year.”
“Get serious, Devlin,” Andie drawled. “Getting a chance to buy out a major competitor like Becktron comes along once in a lifetime. That company’s worth millions to someone with the brains—and the guts—to haul it back from near bankruptcy and put it on its feet. Are you trying to tell me that just the thought of pulling off a coup like that doesn’t make your little entrepreneurial heart beat faster?”
“Okay, okay, no day off for either of us.” He gave a weary sigh. “So bring your stuff over here with you and you can go in to work with me.” He laughed softly. “Hell, Andie, you’re not going to get much more sleep anyway.”
Andie lay staring at the ceiling through the darkness, telling herself for the fiftieth time that she was absolutely not going to drag herself out of bed and go all the way out there. Not this time.
Not ever again, in fact. She was turning over a new leaf. Was giving the old Andrea Spencer the heave-ho and introducing a new improved version, one who was impervious to sweet-talking men with gray-green eyes and fetching smiles.
“Did it ever occur to you that I might not be alone?” She glared at the ceiling. “That I just might have better things to do at four-thirty in the morning than help you toast your ex-wives goodbye? I’m a normal twenty-nine-year-old single woman, Connor. I do have a life other than Devlin Electronics.”
“We promised once we’d always be there for each other. Remember?” he murmured. “Not going to break a promise to a blood brother, are you? Not going to leave your best friend in the lurch when he needs you?”
Not even thinking, she ran her finger along her left thumb, feeling the ridge of scar tissue. Twenty years later and it was still there.
Blood brothers.
Then, realizing what she was doing—what he was doing—she slapped her open palm down onto the bed, eyes narrowing. “Damn you,” she whispered furiously. “Damn you, Connor Devlin. That’s not fair! I’ve always been there for you when you’ve needed me. All you’ve ever had to do was call and—”
Gotcha.
He didn’t have to say anything.
Was smart enough not to.
Andie closed her eyes and blew out a long breath, swearing softly at him. A husky, warm laugh came down the line, enfolding her like a hug, and she swallowed a sigh, wondering who she’d been trying to kid, telling herself she’d be able to resist him. She never had. Not once in twenty-two years.
“An hour,” she muttered ungraciously. “And put the cap on that damned Scotch, because if you’re all drunk and maudlin when I get there, I swear I’ll turn around and come home.”
He laughed. “When was the last time you saw me maudlin, darlin’?”
“Seven years ago, when we went through this the first time,” she reminded him testily. “And put on the coffee.”
“Decaf?”
“High-octane.” She sat up and rubbed her eyes. “You owe me for this, Devlin. Big-time!”
“Name it and it’s yours, darlin’,” he said with a chuckle. “Love you, lady.”
And the worst part of it was—that for those few moments it took him to say the words—he probably meant them.
* * *
It didn’t take her long to get over there. She pulled on her comfortable old jeans and a sweater, shoved her makeup and hairbrush in her handbag, then grabbed something suitable for work before heading for the door, grabbing her slim leather briefcase while fumbling for her car keys.
She had to be out of her mind. Yawning and shivering slightly with the cold, Andie unlocked her little red Mercedes and slipped behind the wheel, shaking her head with disgust as she put the key in the ignition and turned it.
You’d think she’d have this under control by now. After all, she wasn’t a kid anymore. It was one thing to fall in love with the cute guy next door when she was ten, quite another when she was three weeks shy of her thirtieth birthday and he still didn’t have a clue how she felt about him.
Pathetic, that’s what it was, she told herself grumpily. Just damned pathetic!
It took her all of thirty minutes to get there, the usually crowded freeway wondrously empty, the back roads leading to the big house on its five acres of rambling hills overlooking the sea deserted and pitch-black.
It always gave her an odd feeling, driving up the winding laneway with its overhanging trees, the air heavy with the scent of pine and sea salt. She’d come up here the first time nearly eleven years ago, and the memories of that night were still tender.
Conn had been a twenty-one-year-old college senior when she’d left, brilliant and popular and filled with dreams. He and his best friend, Billy Soames, had been talking of quitting college and starting their own computer company, and not long after Andie had left, they’d done it. And by eleven months later, their small two-man company had become the fastest-growing software firm on the West Coast, its two young owners successful beyond their dreams and wealthier than either had ever imagined possible.
Andie smiled humorlessly as she drove up the circular driveway. The house rose dark and solid against the night sky ahead of her, the front entrance lit up like a Christmas tree for her arrival. There had been no lights on to welcome her arrival that night eleven years ago.
It had been late that night when she’d gotten here—nearly midnight. She’d come back to Seattle from New York because she couldn’t stay away any longer. She had decided, finally, that she was simply going to have to take the initiative and make him fall in love with her, starting out with a full-fledged seduction she’d planned down to the last detail.
She hadn’t called or even written to warn him that she was coming, wanting to surprise him, wanting to see the expression on his face when he opened the door and saw her standing there, champagne bottle in one hand, suitcase in the other.
Well, she’d surprised him, all right. He’d pulled the door open and had stared blankly at her for a full second, then had frowned and asked her what the hell she was doing there at midnight. Then, recovering, he’d laughed and had wrapped her in a long, warm hug and had invited her in.
He’d barely tossed her coat over a chair and had told her to sit down when a petulent female voice had called his name from the depths of the house. And before Andie could gather her startled wits together and collect her coat and leave with some measure of dignity still intact, a tall, slender blonde had drifted into the living room, tousled and sleepy-eyed.
She’d been wearing a satin housecoat and nothing else and had gazed at Andie with patent displeasure. And then Conn, grinning like a fool, had come back into the living room, put his arm around the creature, kissed her...and, without even a hint of irony, had introduced her as Liza, his wife.
Wife.
Even now, more than a decade later, Andie felt a wave of heat brush her cheeks. Mortified and furious, she’d mumbled something in reply, collected her coat and suitcase and had bolted, blinded by tears. Conn had come after her, asking her what the hell was wrong, why she wouldn’t stay at least long enough to tell him what she was doing back in Seattle and where she was staying. Then Liza had called him back to her and Andie had fled into the night, stumbling into her parents’ spare bedroom at one in the morning to cry her eyes out, heart broken.
If she’d had the money, she’d have been on the next plane back to New York. But she’d had too little cash and too much pride. In the end she had defiantly stayed in Seattle, finishing college, finding a good job and a nice apartment and even a boyfriend or two. And to hell with Connor Devlin and his wife.
That had been eleven years and two Mrs. Devlins ago and she was still here, Andie thought as she brought the Mercedes to a stop in front of his house. Oh, on the surface everything had worked out. She had a job she loved, a beautiful apartment filled with antiques and fine art, a city full of great friends, even a man who wanted to marry her. Everything but the one thing she wanted most of all.
She still didn’t have Conn Devlin.
He’d left the door unlocked for her, and as Andie stepped into the dark stillness of the big foyer, she paused instinctively for a second or two, listening. But there was no hint of unfamiliar perfume on the air, no tinkle of throaty female laughter.
Grinning at her own silliness, she walked confidently through the darkness to the corridor leading to the living room, instinctively skirting the antique table on her left and the pedestal with its Ming vase on her right. It was like a second home up here, everything as familiar and comfortable as old friends, part of her because they were part of Conn. She breathed in the air deeply, loving the male overtones of wood smoke and leather and a hint of that cologne he always wore.
The huge living room was cloaked in shadows and darkness, the only light coming from the embers still glowing in the fireplace. She could see Conn sitting in the massive armchair back in the shadows, head dropped back, eyes closed, one foot on the edge of the raised stone hearth. There was a bottle of Scotch beside his foot, open, maybe a quarter gone. A half-empty glass sat on the brass-and-hardwood table near his right hand. And there were papers scattered on the floor around him, the kind of rich, heavy velum that lawyers are so fond of using when they’re telling you bad news.
She stood there for a moment or two, simply looking at him, feeling the pain emanating from him. Then she slipped off her jacket and draped it over the nearest chair and walked around behind him, reaching down to gently massage his temples.
He gave a groan of pleasure and smiled, not opening his eyes. “My angel of mercy. I didn’t know if you’d come or not.”
“You knew damned well I would come,” she told him bluntly. “I always come.”
“True.” He reached up and caught her left hand in his, pulling it down and kissing her inner wrist. “I don’t know what I’d do without you, darlin’. You’re the only thing that makes sense in my world half the time. And by God the only thing I can count on.”
“Best friends, remember?” Andie said it lightly as she walked around the chair and sat on the hearth, her fingers still meshed with his. He looked tired and slightly haggard in the dim light, and his smile was only halfhearted, obviously the best he could come up with. “You look like hell, Devlin. Have you had anything to eat tonight with that quarter bottle of Scotch?”
Conn had to smile. Opening his eyes, he turned his head to look at her, liking, as always, what he saw. Even at five-thirty in the morning, in jeans and sweater and without a hint of makeup, she looked bandbox perfect, skin glowing, that mane of thick chestnut hair spilling around her shoulders brushed and gleaming. But that was Andie, always calm and serene and in control, never letting things get to her. Not even a jackass for a best friend.
He gave her fingers a squeeze, then dropped her hand and leaned forward to brace his elbows on his knees, scrubbing his stubbled cheeks with his hands. His eyes were gritty and his tongue resembled flannel. He felt old and tired and worn around the edges, like an old sofa that’s been around too long.
“I grabbed a sandwich this afternoon, I think....” His neck was stiff and he massaged it wearily. “Or maybe that was yesterday.”
“Ah, the booze-and-self-pity diet,” Andie said dryly. “I have an idea! Maybe I can find some she-broke-my-heart-and-done-me-wrong music on the country station and you can sing along with it. That would be fun.”
“Sure glad you came over,” Conn muttered, wishing his head would stop pounding. “I love it when you get all supportive and sympathetic like this.”
“Hey, I’m here, aren’t I?” She gave his knee a rap with her knuckles. “How many other people do you know who’d get out of a warm bed at four-thirty in the morning to come over here and listen to you moan and groan?”
“I’m not moaning and groaning,” Conn said through gritted teeth. “I’m celebrating. Every man has the right to celebrate a little when his divorce comes through. I’m a free man again. If that’s not reason to celebrate, I don’t know what is.” Except he didn’t feel like celebrating, Conn thought. He felt like crawling into a deep hole. And sleeping. Sleeping for about three months straight.
