Today I had intended to try on both counts.
As obvious as it is that she’s not going to give me that chance, some pathetic part of me wants her to know I’m not a complete asshole. Why it feels important to me, I have no damn idea.
But that’s not entirely true.
It’s important because in the few times we’ve been together, I’ve glimpsed a goodness in her, something that shines past the pained shadows in her luminous gray-blue eyes. Her goodness shines through in spite of that pain she works so hard to hide.
The same goodness I set out to corrupt from the instant I first saw her.
If not for the clumsiness of my failing hands, that corruption would have started right there on the kitchen floor of my beach house. I groan at the memory, and at the fresh jolt of lust it chases through me.
A better man might regret the kiss I forced on her, along with everything else. I don’t. I can’t. Not when her mouth felt so perfect against mine, her body pliant and willing. She burned so hot when I took her in my arms, I can still feel the singe of her warmth everywhere we touched.
Jesus Christ. The MacCallan must have really soaked my brain, because even now, three days later, I still have myself nearly convinced she had wanted me every bit as much as I still want her.
My cock would like nothing better than to believe that, too. Just the thought of kissing Melanie stirs a swift erection and sends fire licking through my veins.
Fuck.
On second thought, it’s a damn good thing she didn’t show up this morning. Not only for her, but for me.
I’ve never been this hungry for a woman before, this consumed with need. I don’t like the feeling one fucking bit.
I’ve made it a point to always remain in control of every situation. It’s how I’ve survived.
Detached. Opportunistic.
Numbed to everything but my own needs and pleasures.
Staying in control was the only way to navigate the brutal early days after I first arrived in New York. It’s also how I’ve swum the equally shark-infested waters of the city I’ve since made my own through my art and the wealth it’s earned me.
But all those years of hard lessons and discipline might as well have been built on sand because now, after one taste of Melanie Laurent’s lips, all I’ve thought about since is how I can have another, deeper taste of her.
I have her phone number, though I’ve resisted calling it. I have her address, too, thanks to the hundred-dollar tip I gave the Hamptons Uber driver who took her home for me.
I could have Nate call and remind her that she’s legally obligated to fulfill her contract with me. Or I could get in my car and drive out to her little house in Queens to tell her myself. That ought to solidify her contempt for me.
I’ve given her no reason not to despise me already, so what difference would it make?
I pace another hard track in the rug, trying to talk myself out of caving to any of my worst urges where she’s concerned. Instead, I decide to make the most of my day’s suddenly cleared schedule and take care of a few business matters that require my attention.
First on the list is a face-to-face with my old friend, Dominic Baine.
Forgoing my driver, I head down to the mansion’s underground garage where I have my pick of half a dozen luxury cars. I choose the fastest one, an aggressive black Aston Martin DBS Superleggera that crouches like a sleek predator among its staid, pricier German neighbors. The sports car starts up with a low, animal rumble before I send it screaming out onto the street.
A few minutes later, I roll up outside a private entrance for the soaring, dark glass tower of the Baine International building on West 57th. A uniformed valet takes my car while a similarly dressed doorman shows me into the modernly elegant lobby.
The place is bustling with suited corporate types and uptight-looking business executives coming and going from the gleaming elevators at the center of the spacious reception area.
I’m out of place in my jeans and boots and rolled up shirt sleeves, my hair loose around my shoulders. As I cleave through the center of the place, a few heads turn in my direction, though whether in disapproval of the rough beast prowling among them or in recognition of the artist with an equally crude reputation I can’t be sure. Nor do I care.
I’m used to being a disruption, a source of contempt as much as cautious curiosity. I’ve made my fortune off disturbing society’s delicate mores and I do it unapologetically, both through my paintings and my various other business pursuits.
I nod at the pair of security personnel posted inside the lobby.
I haven’t met the strawberry-blond female officer in the black suit and earpiece behind the desk, but I know the tall, chestnut-haired man standing on the other side of her. With his military posture and precise haircut, Gabriel Noble wears his dark suit like a uniform, unsurprising, considering the combat veteran’s service time overseas.
“How’s it going, Gabe?”
