Mr. Wrong Read online

  MR. WRONG

  Rebecca Royce

  Chapter One

  Cristian Tapia raced down the stairs of Lockwood Energy toward his waiting car. Thank God for assistants who were happy to move his vehicle to the front of the building so he could continue to multitask as he rushed to the airport. He needed to travel from Houston to West Texas today, then West Texas to Abu Dhabi tomorrow. Thus was the life of an oil and gas executive.

  The blazing humidity of Houston in the summer hit him like a wet slap as cars rushed by on the street. He wouldn’t be uncomfortable for too long. His freshly air conditioned car would make the temperature all better. Down the block, a car honked. He wasn’t blocking traffic. Whatever bothered the asshole on the horn would have to wait.

  Some days the grind weighed on him. Only, Cristian really loved his job and he was damn good at getting what needed to be done accomplished.

  “I hear you, Ben.” He spoke into his Bluetooth. “If the merger happens, some people will be replaced or let go.” Cristian was over these constant conversations.

  “I have been with Lockwood for ten years,” Ben answered, frustration in his voice. Cristian didn’t blame the man, but he had no choice except to deliver the bad news. His job description, as a top executive, required he ruin a whole bunch of people’s days. And when the conversations were over, he’d be a partner when Lockwood merged with Trenton.

  He wasn’t immune to his colleague’s pain, although he’d call himself numb after delivering the bad news over and over again.

  “Listen, you can do what you want. No decisions have been made yet and they’re not mine to make. The word has come from above, and I was advised to let you know to perhaps start considering other options.”

  A pause followed his statement. “Goddamn fucking shit.”

  Ben disconnected the phone, and Cristian took a deep breath. He had forty minutes to drive to the airport and he was going to have to do manage the trek in record time. His Mercedes possessed the speed if traffic cooperated and, given he lived in Houston, volume of cars on the road stayed a fixed issue in his life. Cristian might end up on a later plane.

  He climbed into the car and then plugged his phone into the ISB cord. His phone might as well charge while he travelled. Cristian had no sooner pulled into traffic than his cell rang. Again. This time, a partner wanted his attention, and he answered, making sure to merge onto the highway before he said hello.

  “How have the calls been?” Thomas Foster was a giant in the oil and gas industry and had mentored Cristian since he’d started with the company eight years earlier with only his Bachelor’s in Science and summer internships to recommend him for the job. An executive MBA later coupled with some lucky breaks and Foster wanted to make him a partner as soon as they merged. Cristian would take his calls day or night, whenever they came in.

  “Some good. Some bad. Ben wasn’t thrilled.”

  Thomas uh-huhed his acknowledgment. “He makes six figures with us, he’ll make six figures with whoever takes him next. Man has no drive. That’s why he never made himself indispensable. Not as you did, son.”

  Ben had a wife and two children to go home to every night. Cristian’s nearly unfurnished house with not a single person waiting kept him at the office probably more than a normal, well-adjusted thirty-year-old man should be. Cristian kept his musings to himself, though. No point in arguing with Thomas.

  “I’m on my way to the airport. I’ll take a look at the problems the engineers sent over on the plane and I’ll have the pipeline returned to full working by morning or I’ll know why.”

  Foster laughed. “I know you will. We always count on you. Tell me something, will you see the woman you see there when you’re in town or is the trip too quick a visit?”

  Cristian wished he had never told Foster about having a girl he sometimes fucked when he came into town. They were nothing to each other. Lucia used him to stop mooning over her ex, and he in turn liked to roll around with her when he was bored. Lately, they’d both been dissatisfied, a good indication the time had come to part ways

  “Doubt I’ll have a minute to myself.”

  “Too bad.”

  Never have four tequilas and tell the partners about the girl you’re fucking. They enjoy living through you too much.

  He disconnected the phone and took a steadying breath. Foster had pulled him to his feet when his world had crashed around him. If the man wanted to hear about hook-ups on business trips, fine.

  Cristian flipped on the radio, wanting to drown out the traffic noise. Cars were moving and he hadn’t hit any major slowdowns. So far so good. When the song started through the speakers ten seconds passed before he recognized it, and when he did, his lungs squeezed.

  Patience by Guns N’ Roses boomed through the speakers. He hadn’t heard the tune in years, and although he should make himself turn the music off, he kept his fingers steady on the steering wheel. He’d danced to the song exactly once in his life and the occasion had been on his wedding day, with his ex-wife, Dahlia.

  She’d chosen the melody, and he’d been more than happy to give her whatever she wanted then. Hell, he’d been delighted to please her every chance he could, and for a while their life had looked as though the words from their wedding song would come true in their lives. Until their marriage had imploded.

  And eventually she’d told him goodbye.

  A surprising tear slipped from his eyes and he the flicked the wetness away. Hell, he never cried. What the fuck? He’d not wept when she’d first walked out, leaving him reeling with self-doubt and a questionable future. The hell if he’d weep all these years later.

  He and Dahlia had certainly done a good job of trying to break each other before they signed on the dotted line to make their divorce official and said no more pain. Cristian flipped off the radio. Music could be really overrated. He should think about the work he had to do and how he didn’t have enough time to get it all done. He should…

  The memory pushed through his desperation to not dwell. Dahlia’s dark eyes as she had left flashed before him. Aren’t you going to tell me not to go? Tell me not to go and I’ll stay. I’ll believe we can make our relationship work if you tell me we can.

  He hadn’t because he’d never believed she’d actually follow through on her threat. The woman he’d loved his entire life would never walk out on him. Yet, she had. Walked straight out on him and the life they’d spent time building as if their marriage meant nothing to her. Had their problems been so insurmountable?

  “Dahlia,” he whispered to the empty car. “Stay out of my head.”

  Cristian never saw the truck, which swerved into his lane. The screeching breaks he heard, the glass shattering around him, hitting his body as it turned into shards. And then blackness.

  “Mr. Tapia.” Someone shouted his name. “Sir? Can you hear me?”

  “Yes.” He could hear only he couldn’t open his eyes. The light was too bright and, oh shit—his leg. Oh the pain. “My leg. It’s on fire.”

  “No, sir, your leg was. It’s not anymore. The thickness of your pants protected you a lot. Don’t worry. We’ve got you.”

  Dahlia. There had been something about her. What was he dreaming? He’d been thinking…

  “Dahlia?” The man’s voice again. “Do you need us to call someone?”

  Had he spoken aloud? “No.” He gasped for air before he dragged his eyes open to the onslaught of the sun. “She was my wife. Not anymore.”

  He wished she still was, and the time for denying his feelings had long past. He didn’t know if he would live through his accident. Pain wrecked him and yet he couldn’t move.

  “Sir.” The kind face of the paramedic caught his attention. He was an older man, grey on his temples, dark-eyed and with an an
gel tattoo on his arm. “We have you strapped to the gurney. It’s for your own safety.”

  An oxygen mask was over his mouth, and he closed his eyes. Dahlia. She wouldn’t be at the hospital or in their home if he ever saw it again. He’d let her walk out. He’d failed her. On their wedding day he’d promised to cherish her and he hadn’t done so. He hadn’t made her feel as loved as he should have, had been preoccupied and not noticed the depth of her pain when he’d faced his own.

  He’d do anything to see her face again. The gentle slope of her nose, the way her green eyes crinkled when she laughed, or the small dimple in her left cheek. Cristian would pay everything he owned to run his hands through her strawberry-blonde hair and tell her how he loved her, how he’d been lost from the first time he set eyes on her when they were fifteen.

  Anything for more time…

  Dahlia. He cried out to the universe. For the first time in years, he gave in to the emptiness her departure had wrecked on his soul. The gurney… Darkness took him deep into its clutches.

  ****

  Three months later.

  “What do you stare at when you look out the window?” His mother’s voice caught his attention and he turned around to regard her. Cristian’s parents had opened their home to him for his convalescence, and although the time had almost come for him to go, his darling mom still hovered a small distance away from wherever he was all the time.

  Her love warmed him, except parental indulgence wasn’t enough. The months following his accident and the ongoing therapy plus skin grafting, which continued on, hadn’t dimmed his thoughts of his ex-wife. They were weeks away from the official anniversary of their divorce. He didn’t intend to let another year pass without seeing her.

  The truth was, he stared out the window because the view from the living room faced the direction of Austin, where Dahlia lived. He’d deliberately not kept up with her activities over the years. The knowledge of how easily she’d moved on from him hurt too much. A quick Internet search remedied his ignorance, and he’d been shocked to discover how Google-able she proved to be.

  Dahlia had become a restaurateur and apparently flourished.

  He clenched his jaw. His looking her up had become a daily occurrence. How lovesick did his obsession make him since he stared out the window because she happened to be somewhere out there in the general direction? Over three hours away, Corpus Christi felt akin to a different world. When Cristian had left at eighteen, he’d never looked behind him. His family were wonderful people yet he’d never been made for the life they led. Worrying about money, dreaming about trips they never took.

  Cristian longed for “success,” to be more than the son of two teachers who took care to see he had everything he needed and never everything he wanted. Would they have given his desires to him if they could have afforded the expense? He really didn’t know. His father’s roots in Chile had given him values his American son had trouble sharing. Enough had never been enough for Cristian.

  He’d sworn he’d have the things the rich took for granted and he’d gotten his wish. A four-thousand-square-foot house, which was half empty in Houston and an ex-wife who wanted nothing more to do with him. Cristian thought she wanted the same things from life he did—that they were the perfect match. Somehow, he failed to notice when she stopped.

  “Cristian?” His mother brought his attention to the present. “Are you okay? I asked you a question.”

  “I’m watching the night sky.” He smiled at her. A big change he needed to make was being a better son. Call more, pay attention to the things they didn’t say since they never asked for anything.

  His mother joined him. Unlike his father, she’d been born and bred in America. Most of the time, she seemed to understand him, even if she didn’t approve of everything he did. What was there to complain about really? He’d been a straight-A student who had gotten a BS in four years, a masters one year later, been immediately employed, married to the girl of his dreams—before his life fell apart—and gotten an MBA to boot.

  Yet, the car accident revealed his failures. When his choices mattered, he was alone.

  No more.

  He was getting Dahlia back. Her online profile showed her single, and so help him he wouldn’t let her status change before he had a chance to reclaim her. She was his wife. They’d taken a detour, only they’d find their way to where they needed to be. He would beg, if she wanted him to. They wouldn’t be a blip in each other’s stories.

  Although he doubted prostrating himself would work. Dahlia respected strength and she had to be wooed. The three years she waited while they were dating to let him take her to bed had proven she could stick to her guns.

  He needed to plan a subtle yet effective campaign to show Dahlia Douglass he had changed, regained his senses, and become the man she wanted.

  Cristian could, and would, be there for her when she needed him. She would never again have to suffer on her own. He’d celebrate her joys, and support her dreams. Be everything he should have been before

  They’d spent too long apart.

  He was getting his wife back. They were right for each other.

  ****

  Dahlia Douglass stared at the charred oven and sighed. Someone was trying to put them out of business. She crossed her arms and tapped her foot while the fire marshal examined the scene for the fourth time.

  “Seems kind of suspicious, fourth fire in your kitchen in two weeks. We’ll need to launch a full investigation.”

  She took a deep breath. “I’m aware of how many times our problems have happened.”

  “Once again, I don’t find any negligence. You are staying to code. Hell, in some places you surpass what the law requires.”

  She was aware. Dahlia had spent a small fortune getting Daisy’s to be safe as hell while the restaurant served awesome food out front.

  “So either you are the unluckiest person on the planet.” She would have laughed if she didn’t want to kill someone. “Or someone is trying to sabotage you. Either way, it bears investigating.”

  Dahlia rocked back on her heels. “Are you suggesting we have an arsonist?”

  “I’m open to all possibilities.” The answer wasn’t a no. “Do you have a disgruntled employee or maybe ex-employee?”

  “No.” She couldn’t imagine. “I don’t think…”

  “We’ll take things from here. Thank you, Dan.” Her partner, and the chef who made Daisy’s everything the restaurant was and could be, stepped into the kitchen. Of course Duke would know the marshal’s first name. He knew everyone on a personal basis. They never went anywhere where he didn’t seem to be acquainted with nearly everyone in the room.

  “Duke.”

  The two men shook by way of greeting, then Duke ran a hand through his blond hair. He kept his locks long and tied away from his face when he cooked. These days his hair reached his shoulders although his coif had been slightly shorter when she had met him.

  “Are we okay to open? We’ll obviously not use the damaged stove. The other two will work for the night. It’s Tuesday. The restaurant will be quiet.”

  “You should be good.” The man shrugged. “I’m serious about the former employee. Expect to hear from the police.”

  “We’ll cooperate in any way we possibly can.” She hated these kinds of meetings. Her watch told her it was three o’clock. Duke should be prepping the kitchen while she made sure the front of the restaurant conveyed the artistic message of the night. Tonight’s was supposed to be sunshine.

  Duke was the artist with the food, while she made the place speak to the clientele. Daisy was their fifth place in as many years, and each restaurant continued to earn accolades via newspapers and blogs as local gems. Achievements the alimony she’d been awarded in her divorce helped her do.

  She watched silently as the marshal left before she whirled on Duke. “Why did you stop me from talking to him about the possibility of someone trying to hurt us?”

  “I don’t want the gossi
p. Dan likes to talk over beers. You give him too much information and the threat will be in the Statesman tomorrow. We have an issue. Would you want to eat somewhere you thought might burn while you chowed?”

  “No.” Some of her gumption deflated. Duke wasn’t trying to shut her up because he didn’t value her opinion. No, he’d never treated her as anything except an equal and someday—hopefully soon—she would stop being so quick to assume he was either criticizing or marginalizing her. A gift her years with Cristian had left her with.

  If only she could find a way to give him an answer to the question Duke posed to her over dinner the night before.

  As though he could read her mind, he spoke to her in a low voice. “You’re thinking about our talk.” He ran a hand through his hair and moved toward the stove. “I wish I hadn’t said anything. If I had realized the date, I would not have brought my…hopes to you right then. You’re currently obsessed over Mr. Wrong week. If I had waited five days, you’d be more willing to consider things. And,” he said as he spread his hands out in front of him, “we have shit to deal with.”

  Dahlia could only manage to deal with one thing he said at a time. Unbelievably, the second part seemed easier.

  “We do.” She took a step toward him. Things would be so much better if she could love Duke. “Do you think we have an arsonist?” Fire was easier than love, which was really, really bad.

  “I intend to find out.”

  Unease left her nauseated. “I’ll call the other restaurants. Put them on notice to watch for any crap. Let the managers know.”

  “Sounds good.” He seemed to deliberately avoid looking at her. There was no way he could be so fascinated with the burned stove, considering how little of the appliance had been left to be examined.

  Damn. She couldn’t let their issues fester. “You asked me a question and you deserve an answer. You’re my best friend. My business partner. The guy who made our life possible, frankly. And last night you asked me why we weren’t together, when everything seems to point in the direction of us being the perfect couple.”