If I Were You
Page 13
Mischief dances across his features. “I like watching you. You spark my creative side.”
My stomach flip flops at the reference to the sketch. “You can’t watch me and eat.”
“I could argue that, but in the interest of getting you to eat, let’s dig in together.” The final word rasps with an underlying meaning, or maybe, I simply want it to.
“Fine,” I agree. “Together.”
His lips quirk and so do mine. Without breaking eye contact, we both reach for a taco, and only look away when we each take a bite. This time spicy, delicious flavors explode in my mouth, and I moan with pleasure. Either this is great food or I am too hungry to know better.
Chris swallows his mouthful of fire without so much as a blink and stares at me with a look that I can only call ‘hungry’. “I take it that’s a sound of satisfaction?”
I find my own fire again but this time it’s in the form of blood flooding various inappropriate parts of my body considering our public location. “What can I say?” I manage. “The end of starvation is quite delicious.” I use the spoon by my plate to taste the green sauce. “And so is that. I like it.”
He holds out his beer to offer me another swallow, and I am all but certain he is purposely reminding me of our intimate act of sharing. I stare at the beer, remembering his mouth, where my mouth had been, before I force my gaze to his. “No. Thank you.”
He considers me a moment, his expression unreadable, and then slowly lifts the bottle to his mouth and takes a deep swallow. Again, I watch the powerful muscles in his throat bob, feeling my muscles, the ones low in my belly, tighten. What is this man doing to me?
He lowers the beer and I quickly, guiltily, reach for my taco and dig in. Chris does the same and I begin thinking about all the questions I yearn to ask him. When does he paint? Where does he paint? What’s his inspiration? His favorite brush? Questions I know he has heard a million times and probably doesn’t want to answer so I hold back.
“This is the perfect corner for watching people,” he comments.
I follow his lead, searching beyond the glass to the activity on the street, thinking about how black and white I’ve let life become, when I want to live it in color. We fall into a surprisingly comfortable silence, both of us watching the people scurry by on the street. A man and woman arm and arm. A woman struggling to get a little boy to put his coat on. Another woman who pulls her coat close to her and seems to be crying.
Chris turns a thoughtful inspection on me. “Everyone has a story. What’s yours, Sara McMillan?”
The question takes me off guard, and I fight the answer that comes insistently to my mind. I have no story, not one I wish to claim. “I’m just a simple girl living out a summer dream of being around the art that I love.”
“Tell me something I don’t already know about you.”
“I have not one single artistic bone in my body, so I have to live vicariously through you.”
“Let me paint you and you can.”
I scrape my teeth fretfully over my bottom lip. “I don’t know.”
“What’s not to know?”
“It’s intimidating to be painted by someone like you, Chris. Surely, you have to know that.”
“I’m just a man with a paintbrush, Sara. Nothing more.”
“You are not just a man with a paintbrush.” And my gaze lowers, caressing a three-inch scar along his jawline I haven’t noticed until now, and I wonder how it came to be. I wonder who the man beneath the art really is. My eyes find his, search the green depths of the stare that has already seduced me ten times over. “What’s your story, Chris?”
“My story is on the canvas, where I’d like you to be.”
Why is he so insistent? “Can I…think about it?”
“As long as I can continue to try and talk you into it while you do.”
I take the opportunity to ask a question I’ve been burning to know the answer to. “How long are you in town?”
“Until it doesn’t feel right anymore.”
“So you don’t have set times of the year you’re here and set times you’re in Paris?”
“I go wherever I feel right at the time with one exception. Every October I’m in Paris to participate in the annual celebrity charity event at the Louvre Museum.”
“Where the Mona Lisa is on display.” There is a wistful quality to my voice I don’t even try to hide. I would die to see the Mona Lisa.
“Yes. Have you ever seen it?”
“I’ve never been out of the States, let alone a famous Paris museum. Actually, aside from my childhood home in Nevada, this is it for me.”
“That’s unacceptable. Life is too short and the world is too large and too full of the art you love, not to see everything you can.”
“Well, the nice thing about the art I love is its ability to allow the viewer to experience a piece of the world, or a story that can never be theirs, through someone else’s eyes. I’ve certainly seen Paris through yours.” I briefly think of the mural behind Mark’s desk, but shove aside the thought. I don’t want to change the tone of the light conversation.
“Sounds like you’re convincing yourself you don’t need to travel when you want to travel.”
Ouch. I almost flinch. Talk about hitting a nerve. First, about teaching instead of working in the art world, and now this. “Some of us are not rich and famous, and able to soar around the world at will.”
“Ouch,” he says, repeating the word I’d only dared in my mind. “That hurt.”
“Good, because pointing out that you can see the world and I cannot, was insensitive, Mr. Rich and Famous Artist.”
He wiggles a brow. “Who looks cool in leather.”
“And that helps your case right now, how?”
“I can offer to show you around Paris.”
I blink. Did he just suggest I go to Paris to see him? No. No. I’m reading too much into it. “Paris is a big order. I’ve decided to start my travel goals with New York City in the number one spot.”
“For any specific reason?”
“Opportunity. Mark seems to think I’m Riptide material. That’s why he’s forcing me to learn wine, opera, and classical music.”
His expression doesn’t change but the charge in the air does, snapping tight with tension. “Mark told you that he’s going to get you a job at Riptide?”
“Well, I guess he more alluded to it.”
“Alluded how?”
“The general gist was that he sees bigger things for me than a summer on the gallery floor, but to achieve those things I need to be ready to interact with the type of clientele Riptide events attract.” I frown to realize his finger is tapping on the table. “What? What is it?” My cell rings with horrible timing and without taking my eyes off of Chris, I dig it from my purse. I glance down and cringe at the sight of Mark’s number before I look at Chris again. “It’s…” My voice trails off. I don’t think Mark’s name will go over well right now. “I have to take it.” I punch the ‘answer’ button and immediately hear Mark’s voice.
“Have you quit your job without notice, Ms. McMillan?”
I cut my eyes to my plate, trying to hide my stress over the agitation crackling in my boss’s question from showing to Chris, and willing my heart to stop racing. “I’m grabbing a late lunch. It was after two and I hadn’t eaten all day.”
“It’s after three.”
I bite my lips. Crap. How did I let time get away from me? “I’m headed back now.”
“Now would be good, Ms. McMillan. Amanda needs to review details with you for Friday night’s event. Call me when you get to the gallery.”
“Yes. Of course, I-“ The line goes dead. I glance up at Chris.
“That was Mark,” he supplies.
I give an awkward nod. “I’m late back to work.”
He grabs his wallet from his pocket and tosses a hundred dollar bill on the table for what I estimate to be a forty dollar ticket. He’s sliding on his jacket, clearly ready to go, and I quickly reach for my purse to pay my half of the tab.
“Don’t even think about it,” he says and his easy-going manner is nowhere in sight. My hand freezes on my wallet and I open my mouth to argue but decide against it. He is edgy and…mad? Surely not. Why on earth would he be mad?
“Thank you.” I slip my purse over my shoulder.
He pushes to his feet and motions to the door. I stand up and fit my briefcase strap over my shoulder with my purse. “You don’t have to walk me back.”
His eyes glint with a hardness that matches the set of his jaw. “I’m walking you back, Sara.”
His tone is steely and almost as sharp as Mark’s had been. Uncomfortably, I head to the exit, unsteady on my heels as he holds the door and I step outside. What’s wrong with him? Why has he gone from fire to ice?
We begin our walk, faster this time, and the cold wind has nothing on the chill between us. Conversation is non-existent, and I have no clue how to break the silence, or if I should even try. I dare a peek at his profile several times, fighting the wind blowing hair over my eyes, but he doesn’t acknowledge me. Why won’t he look at me? Several times, I open my mouth to speak but words simply won’t leave my lips.
We are almost to the gallery, and a knot has formed in my stomach at the prospect of an awkward goodbye, when he suddenly grabs me and pulls me into a small enclave of a deserted office rental. Before I can fully grasp what is happening, I am against the wall, hidden from the street and he is in front of me, enclosing me in the tiny space. I blink up into his burning stare and I think I might combust. His scent, his warmth, his hard body, is all around me, but he is not touching me. I want him to touch me.
He presses his hand to the concrete wall above my head when I want it on my body. “You don’t belong here, Sara.”
The words are unexpected, a hard punch in the chest. “What? I don’t understand.”
“This job is wrong for you.”
I shake my head. I don’t belong? Coming from Chris, an established artist, I feel inferior, rejected. “You asked me why I wasn’t following my heart. Why I wasn’t pursuing what I love. I am. That’s what I’m doing.”
“I didn’t think you’d do it in this place.”
This place. I don’t know what he’s telling me. Does he mean this gallery? This city? Has he judged me not worthy of his inner circle?
“Look, Sara.” He hesitates, and lifts his head to the sky, seeming to struggle for words before fixing me with a turbulent look. “I’m trying to protect you here. This world you’ve strayed into is filled with dark, messed up, arrogant assholes who will play with your mind and use you until there is nothing else left for you to recognize in yourself.”
“Are you one of those dark, messed up, arrogant assholes?”
He stares down at me, and I barely recognize the hard lines of his face, the glint in his eyes, as belonging to the man I’ve just had lunch with. His gaze sweeps my lips, lingers, and the swell of response and longing in me is instant, overwhelming. He reaches up and strokes his thumb over my bottom lip. Every nerve ending in my body responds and it’s all I can do not to touch him, to grab his hand, but something holds me back. I am lost in this man, in his stare, in some spellbinding, dark whirlwind of…what? Lust, desire, torment? Seconds tick eternally and so does the silence. I want to hold him, to stop whatever I sense is coming but I cannot.
“I’m worse.” He pushes off the wall, and is gone. He is gone. I am alone against the wall, aching with a fire that has nothing to do with the meal we shared. My lashes flutter, my fingers touch my lip where he touched me. He has warned me away from Mark, from the gallery, from him, and he has failed. I cannot turn away. I am here and I am going nowhere.
Chapter Twelve
January 12, 2012
There are roses everywhere in my room, and I feel like a princess who’s found her Prince Charming. Okay, so maybe he’s not exactly my childhood version of Prince Charming, but life changes how you look at things. I just finished counting the vases again because I can’t help myself. There are twelve of them, each holding a dozen beautiful, sweet-smelling buds. New buds soon to blossom. And the card. Imagine me sighing right now. The card is so perfect. I can’t stop staring at the words ‘they are delicate and ready to bloom like you are, little one’. Like me. I do feel the roses are like me. I do feel ready to bloom, ready to go wherever he leads me. He’s hard sometimes, demanding, but he makes me feel protected. He makes me feel special. I think I’m ready to put aside my fear of the things he wants me to do with him, and to take the next step. The idea of him being my ‘Master’ is incredibly arousing. He is so…powerful.
I know I’ve let fear hold me back. I’m not really sure what I’m afraid of. Unfamiliar feelings? What he will do to me if I grant him full control? He has kinky desires and it’s scary to think about taking part in those things. What if he binds me and does something to me I don’t like? And why does the idea of being that submissive to him turn me on? That I could want that is a part of me I don’t understand, but I know I can no longer run from me, any more than I can run from him. I need him. I need him so badly that the pain of potentially losing him is far worse than the pain he might inflict during our games. I can-
“I take it you’re ready for our event tonight, Ms. McMillan?”
My stomach flip flops at the reference to the sketch. “You can’t watch me and eat.”
“I could argue that, but in the interest of getting you to eat, let’s dig in together.” The final word rasps with an underlying meaning, or maybe, I simply want it to.
“Fine,” I agree. “Together.”
His lips quirk and so do mine. Without breaking eye contact, we both reach for a taco, and only look away when we each take a bite. This time spicy, delicious flavors explode in my mouth, and I moan with pleasure. Either this is great food or I am too hungry to know better.
Chris swallows his mouthful of fire without so much as a blink and stares at me with a look that I can only call ‘hungry’. “I take it that’s a sound of satisfaction?”
I find my own fire again but this time it’s in the form of blood flooding various inappropriate parts of my body considering our public location. “What can I say?” I manage. “The end of starvation is quite delicious.” I use the spoon by my plate to taste the green sauce. “And so is that. I like it.”
He holds out his beer to offer me another swallow, and I am all but certain he is purposely reminding me of our intimate act of sharing. I stare at the beer, remembering his mouth, where my mouth had been, before I force my gaze to his. “No. Thank you.”
He considers me a moment, his expression unreadable, and then slowly lifts the bottle to his mouth and takes a deep swallow. Again, I watch the powerful muscles in his throat bob, feeling my muscles, the ones low in my belly, tighten. What is this man doing to me?
He lowers the beer and I quickly, guiltily, reach for my taco and dig in. Chris does the same and I begin thinking about all the questions I yearn to ask him. When does he paint? Where does he paint? What’s his inspiration? His favorite brush? Questions I know he has heard a million times and probably doesn’t want to answer so I hold back.
“This is the perfect corner for watching people,” he comments.
I follow his lead, searching beyond the glass to the activity on the street, thinking about how black and white I’ve let life become, when I want to live it in color. We fall into a surprisingly comfortable silence, both of us watching the people scurry by on the street. A man and woman arm and arm. A woman struggling to get a little boy to put his coat on. Another woman who pulls her coat close to her and seems to be crying.
Chris turns a thoughtful inspection on me. “Everyone has a story. What’s yours, Sara McMillan?”
The question takes me off guard, and I fight the answer that comes insistently to my mind. I have no story, not one I wish to claim. “I’m just a simple girl living out a summer dream of being around the art that I love.”
“Tell me something I don’t already know about you.”
“I have not one single artistic bone in my body, so I have to live vicariously through you.”
“Let me paint you and you can.”
I scrape my teeth fretfully over my bottom lip. “I don’t know.”
“What’s not to know?”
“It’s intimidating to be painted by someone like you, Chris. Surely, you have to know that.”
“I’m just a man with a paintbrush, Sara. Nothing more.”
“You are not just a man with a paintbrush.” And my gaze lowers, caressing a three-inch scar along his jawline I haven’t noticed until now, and I wonder how it came to be. I wonder who the man beneath the art really is. My eyes find his, search the green depths of the stare that has already seduced me ten times over. “What’s your story, Chris?”
“My story is on the canvas, where I’d like you to be.”
Why is he so insistent? “Can I…think about it?”
“As long as I can continue to try and talk you into it while you do.”
I take the opportunity to ask a question I’ve been burning to know the answer to. “How long are you in town?”
“Until it doesn’t feel right anymore.”
“So you don’t have set times of the year you’re here and set times you’re in Paris?”
“I go wherever I feel right at the time with one exception. Every October I’m in Paris to participate in the annual celebrity charity event at the Louvre Museum.”
“Where the Mona Lisa is on display.” There is a wistful quality to my voice I don’t even try to hide. I would die to see the Mona Lisa.
“Yes. Have you ever seen it?”
“I’ve never been out of the States, let alone a famous Paris museum. Actually, aside from my childhood home in Nevada, this is it for me.”
“That’s unacceptable. Life is too short and the world is too large and too full of the art you love, not to see everything you can.”
“Well, the nice thing about the art I love is its ability to allow the viewer to experience a piece of the world, or a story that can never be theirs, through someone else’s eyes. I’ve certainly seen Paris through yours.” I briefly think of the mural behind Mark’s desk, but shove aside the thought. I don’t want to change the tone of the light conversation.
“Sounds like you’re convincing yourself you don’t need to travel when you want to travel.”
Ouch. I almost flinch. Talk about hitting a nerve. First, about teaching instead of working in the art world, and now this. “Some of us are not rich and famous, and able to soar around the world at will.”
“Ouch,” he says, repeating the word I’d only dared in my mind. “That hurt.”
“Good, because pointing out that you can see the world and I cannot, was insensitive, Mr. Rich and Famous Artist.”
He wiggles a brow. “Who looks cool in leather.”
“And that helps your case right now, how?”
“I can offer to show you around Paris.”
I blink. Did he just suggest I go to Paris to see him? No. No. I’m reading too much into it. “Paris is a big order. I’ve decided to start my travel goals with New York City in the number one spot.”
“For any specific reason?”
“Opportunity. Mark seems to think I’m Riptide material. That’s why he’s forcing me to learn wine, opera, and classical music.”
His expression doesn’t change but the charge in the air does, snapping tight with tension. “Mark told you that he’s going to get you a job at Riptide?”
“Well, I guess he more alluded to it.”
“Alluded how?”
“The general gist was that he sees bigger things for me than a summer on the gallery floor, but to achieve those things I need to be ready to interact with the type of clientele Riptide events attract.” I frown to realize his finger is tapping on the table. “What? What is it?” My cell rings with horrible timing and without taking my eyes off of Chris, I dig it from my purse. I glance down and cringe at the sight of Mark’s number before I look at Chris again. “It’s…” My voice trails off. I don’t think Mark’s name will go over well right now. “I have to take it.” I punch the ‘answer’ button and immediately hear Mark’s voice.
“Have you quit your job without notice, Ms. McMillan?”
I cut my eyes to my plate, trying to hide my stress over the agitation crackling in my boss’s question from showing to Chris, and willing my heart to stop racing. “I’m grabbing a late lunch. It was after two and I hadn’t eaten all day.”
“It’s after three.”
I bite my lips. Crap. How did I let time get away from me? “I’m headed back now.”
“Now would be good, Ms. McMillan. Amanda needs to review details with you for Friday night’s event. Call me when you get to the gallery.”
“Yes. Of course, I-“ The line goes dead. I glance up at Chris.
“That was Mark,” he supplies.
I give an awkward nod. “I’m late back to work.”
He grabs his wallet from his pocket and tosses a hundred dollar bill on the table for what I estimate to be a forty dollar ticket. He’s sliding on his jacket, clearly ready to go, and I quickly reach for my purse to pay my half of the tab.
“Don’t even think about it,” he says and his easy-going manner is nowhere in sight. My hand freezes on my wallet and I open my mouth to argue but decide against it. He is edgy and…mad? Surely not. Why on earth would he be mad?
“Thank you.” I slip my purse over my shoulder.
He pushes to his feet and motions to the door. I stand up and fit my briefcase strap over my shoulder with my purse. “You don’t have to walk me back.”
His eyes glint with a hardness that matches the set of his jaw. “I’m walking you back, Sara.”
His tone is steely and almost as sharp as Mark’s had been. Uncomfortably, I head to the exit, unsteady on my heels as he holds the door and I step outside. What’s wrong with him? Why has he gone from fire to ice?
We begin our walk, faster this time, and the cold wind has nothing on the chill between us. Conversation is non-existent, and I have no clue how to break the silence, or if I should even try. I dare a peek at his profile several times, fighting the wind blowing hair over my eyes, but he doesn’t acknowledge me. Why won’t he look at me? Several times, I open my mouth to speak but words simply won’t leave my lips.
We are almost to the gallery, and a knot has formed in my stomach at the prospect of an awkward goodbye, when he suddenly grabs me and pulls me into a small enclave of a deserted office rental. Before I can fully grasp what is happening, I am against the wall, hidden from the street and he is in front of me, enclosing me in the tiny space. I blink up into his burning stare and I think I might combust. His scent, his warmth, his hard body, is all around me, but he is not touching me. I want him to touch me.
He presses his hand to the concrete wall above my head when I want it on my body. “You don’t belong here, Sara.”
The words are unexpected, a hard punch in the chest. “What? I don’t understand.”
“This job is wrong for you.”
I shake my head. I don’t belong? Coming from Chris, an established artist, I feel inferior, rejected. “You asked me why I wasn’t following my heart. Why I wasn’t pursuing what I love. I am. That’s what I’m doing.”
“I didn’t think you’d do it in this place.”
This place. I don’t know what he’s telling me. Does he mean this gallery? This city? Has he judged me not worthy of his inner circle?
“Look, Sara.” He hesitates, and lifts his head to the sky, seeming to struggle for words before fixing me with a turbulent look. “I’m trying to protect you here. This world you’ve strayed into is filled with dark, messed up, arrogant assholes who will play with your mind and use you until there is nothing else left for you to recognize in yourself.”
“Are you one of those dark, messed up, arrogant assholes?”
He stares down at me, and I barely recognize the hard lines of his face, the glint in his eyes, as belonging to the man I’ve just had lunch with. His gaze sweeps my lips, lingers, and the swell of response and longing in me is instant, overwhelming. He reaches up and strokes his thumb over my bottom lip. Every nerve ending in my body responds and it’s all I can do not to touch him, to grab his hand, but something holds me back. I am lost in this man, in his stare, in some spellbinding, dark whirlwind of…what? Lust, desire, torment? Seconds tick eternally and so does the silence. I want to hold him, to stop whatever I sense is coming but I cannot.
“I’m worse.” He pushes off the wall, and is gone. He is gone. I am alone against the wall, aching with a fire that has nothing to do with the meal we shared. My lashes flutter, my fingers touch my lip where he touched me. He has warned me away from Mark, from the gallery, from him, and he has failed. I cannot turn away. I am here and I am going nowhere.
Chapter Twelve
January 12, 2012
There are roses everywhere in my room, and I feel like a princess who’s found her Prince Charming. Okay, so maybe he’s not exactly my childhood version of Prince Charming, but life changes how you look at things. I just finished counting the vases again because I can’t help myself. There are twelve of them, each holding a dozen beautiful, sweet-smelling buds. New buds soon to blossom. And the card. Imagine me sighing right now. The card is so perfect. I can’t stop staring at the words ‘they are delicate and ready to bloom like you are, little one’. Like me. I do feel the roses are like me. I do feel ready to bloom, ready to go wherever he leads me. He’s hard sometimes, demanding, but he makes me feel protected. He makes me feel special. I think I’m ready to put aside my fear of the things he wants me to do with him, and to take the next step. The idea of him being my ‘Master’ is incredibly arousing. He is so…powerful.
I know I’ve let fear hold me back. I’m not really sure what I’m afraid of. Unfamiliar feelings? What he will do to me if I grant him full control? He has kinky desires and it’s scary to think about taking part in those things. What if he binds me and does something to me I don’t like? And why does the idea of being that submissive to him turn me on? That I could want that is a part of me I don’t understand, but I know I can no longer run from me, any more than I can run from him. I need him. I need him so badly that the pain of potentially losing him is far worse than the pain he might inflict during our games. I can-
“I take it you’re ready for our event tonight, Ms. McMillan?”
