For 100 Nights

  I nod, more than all right. I’m on the verge of breaking, overwhelmed by sensation and the even greater arousal that comes from feeling his care with me. One hand guiding his cock, he reaches around me with the other to stroke my clit. Pleasure throbs across all of my nerve endings. As soon as I start to come, Nick pushes inside my ass.

  And, oh, God, it feels good.

  He’s barely begun, and yet my orgasm slams into me in wave after wave, electricity pulsing through my veins, into my limbs, into the marrow of my bones. The fullness is intense, commanding all of my attention even as my body splinters in a hard release.

  “Avery.” Nick starts to move, his thrusts slow and shallow, giving me all the time I need to adjust to this new sensation, this darkly erotic new pleasure. His breath saws out of him. He is trembling beneath me, his iron control clearly at war with his body’s own needs.

  “Fuck, baby . . . what you do to me.”

  I moan in response, grinding against his touch, spurred on by the low sounds of arousal he makes as we continue to move together. His cock swells within me. His tempo tightens, quickens.

  When he comes an instant later, he roars with the violence of his release.

  “I love you,” I whisper, unable to hold it back. I’m too vulnerable in this moment, laid bare for him in every way. “I love you so much it hurts.”

  He shudders deeply, murmuring my name as his orgasm slowly subsides. He pulls out, only to shift his body until he’s covering me from behind. His strong arm snakes around my waist, holding me against him as he sinks his teeth into the soft flesh of my shoulder, claiming me.

  Marking me as his.

  I tell myself it’s enough.

  This passion we share. This insatiable need for each other that neither of us has known with anyone else.

  I tell myself this is the way that he shows me I mean something to him, that he cares about me.

  Maybe even that he loves me a little bit too.

  It’s not much to cling to.

  But tonight, with my hideous past looming and the troubling words of Nick’s former lover still echoing in my ears, what I have with him here and now is enough.

  Chapter 17

  When we step into the elevator together that next morning, Nick’s hand rests possessively on the curve of my backside. He’s dressed for the office in an impeccably tailored dark gray suit and tie, while I’m headed for the studio wearing a loose white T-shirt and faded, torn jeans cuffed over lace-up summer flats.

  As the doors slide shut and we descend toward the lobby, he draws me against him, sealing his mouth over mine in a bone-melting kiss.

  “I want to take you to dinner tonight,” he murmurs against my lips. “And then I want to bring you back home and devour you. From this wicked mouth to your sweet, greedy little pussy and your very delectable, very fuckable ass.”

  I smile up at him. “Why, Mr. Baine, you’re making me blush.”

  His gaze smolders. “And you’re making me hard, Ms. Ross.”

  “After last night and again this morning, I don’t know how you could be.”

  He smirks. “When I find something I enjoy, I give it my all. And making you come is most certainly something I enjoy,” he says, slipping both hands into my back pockets and pulling me into the firm ridge of his erection.

  I laugh, but it dissolves into a moan as Nick squeezes my ass and licks his tongue into my mouth with deep strokes that leave me breathless. Like him, I am far from sated, even though our passion reached erotic new heights last night. If anything, I only want him more. I want him in every way, with a need that is only deepening every moment we’re together.

  I would let him take me right here, right now. There’s a wanton, reckless part of me that’s tempted to beg him to, but in that same moment the soft chime of the elevator announces that we’ve reached the lobby. On a low, predatory growl, Nick releases me and we step out together.

  Manny stands at the building entrance, assisting one of the residents inside. He smiles and nods to us in friendly greeting as we approach. Patrick waits beside the car, which idles beneath the glass overhang outside.

  “Glorious day today, isn’t it, Miss Avery, Mr. Baine?”

  “That it is,” Nick replies, guiding me out to the car ahead of him.

  Manny gets the back door for us and I slide in, making room for Nick beside me. As we settle in, Patrick gets seated behind the wheel, smiling at me in the rearview mirror as he bids us a good morning. Nick gives him instructions to drop me at the studio first, lacing his fingers through mine as he speaks.

  As we begin to pull out of the porte cochère, I don’t know what draws my attention to the other side of the street—not at first, anyway.

  But the instant I see Rodney, my blood freezes.

  He’s standing on the other side of Park Avenue, leaning casually against a building and smoking a cigarette. I feel his dark gaze on me like the steely point of a dagger. A shudder races through me, leaving me cold and unmoving with alarm.

  He wants me to feel this chill.

  He wants me to know that he’s this close to me and that he’s not going away. Not until he gets what he came for.

  Patrick turns out onto the avenue and we make our way across the traffic to change direction and head the opposite way. Our new course takes us directly past Rodney. My lungs seize. I know he can’t touch me, but that doesn’t stop my heart from banging like a caged bird in my chest.

  As the limo rolls past the spot where he stands, I force myself to look anywhere but at him. I feign interest as Patrick jokes with Nick about the score of last night’s baseball game, but I’m hardly listening. All I can hear is the heavy drum of my pulse as the hairs on the back of my neck prickle with dread.

  “They’d do a hell of a lot better if they had a pitcher who was less of a prima donna,” Nick says, his thumb stroking the back of my hand where it rests on his thigh.

  He’s chuckling at something Patrick says when his phone begins to ring in his jacket pocket. He fishes it out with one hand and swipes the screen to answer the call. “Nick Baine. What?” His voice goes terse with impatience. “Try again. You’ve got the wrong number.”

  Shaking his head, he glances at me as he slides the phone back into his pocket. “Some jackass calling to see if my piece of shit Honda is still in the shop.”

  I blanch. The odd reference cannot possibly be coincidence.

  No. Far from it.

  That call was no wrong number; it was Rodney. There is not a shred of doubt in my mind.

  Oh, my God.

  I feel suddenly sick. My throat is parched, my skin clammy.

  Fortunately, Nick is distracted just a moment later with another call, this time from his assistant, Lily. As he runs through his morning’s schedule with her, I turn to stare out the window, seeing nothing but the gray haze of my barely contained panic.

  I have to get rid of Rodney.

  I have to find a way to pay his price.

  Nick draws my hand up to his mouth, startling me out of my dark thoughts. His lips are warm and tender on my knuckles. The car is stopped now, parked at the curb on Lexington outside the studio building.

  “I’ll call you later,” Nick says. “Any preference on where we go tonight?”

  I blink, trying to wrestle my focus back to him and me, not the threat that lurks just a few miles behind us.

  “Dinner,” he prompts when I stare at him blankly. “Where would you like me to take you?”

  I shake my head. “Um. Surprise me.”

  His answering grin is positively sinful. “Careful, Ms. Ross. That could become one of my favorite things to do.”

  As heavy as my misery is right now, his smile and the heat of his low-voiced promise has the power to kindle true joy inside me. Framing my face in his palms, he leans forward and tenderly kisses me.

  “I’ll see you tonight, sweetheart.”

  “Okay.” I nod, my heart so full of affection for him it reduces my reply to a whisper. ?
??I miss you already.”

  He climbs out of the car, helping me alight behind him. I manage a smile as I leave him, waving to both him and Patrick as I enter the building.

  As soon as the limo drives off a few moments later, I reach into my purse and pull out Kathryn Tremont’s card.

  I don’t know if she’s the answer to my problems with Rodney.

  I don’t know if she’s the answer to my questions about Nick, either.

  Right now, all I do know is that she’s the only hope I’ve got.

  My fingers tremble as I call her number. I’m surprised that she answers personally. She sounds tired, slightly distracted, but I forge on.

  “Hello, Kathryn. It’s Avery . . . Avery Ross. Are you still interested in seeing my art?”

  Chapter 18

  Not even an hour later, I am being shown in to Kathryn Tremont’s Fifth Avenue apartment. Although calling the massive, richly appointed residence in one of the loveliest pre-war historic brick and limestone buildings a mere apartment is tantamount to calling St. Patrick’s Cathedral a simple church.

  I have my large zippered portfolio in my hand as I enter the elegant vestibule, following the handsome blond male attendant who greeted me at the door.

  “Kathryn’s in the drawing room,” he says, walking ahead of me.

  He is young—probably younger than my twenty-five years—and he carries himself with the smooth fluidity and vague aloofness of a model. Or an escort. It wouldn’t surprise me if he is both. At least when he isn’t playing doorman for the lady of this grand house.

  He leads me off the main hallway where I find Kathryn seated in the middle of a large room with soaring ceilings and windows that must be twelve feet tall. The long draperies are drawn, dimming the room to a state of near darkness.

  Ornately framed art graces the silk-covered walls. Beautiful antique sofas and chairs upholstered in gleaming velvets and rich satins are arranged in intimate groupings within the formal sitting room, but Kathryn isn’t using any of them.

  Dressed in black silk pajamas and robe, she lies on an overstuffed modern recliner, her bare feet elevated on the raised footrest. A nurse is seated on a stool beside her, monitoring the portable machine and tubes that are hooked up to Kathryn’s body. One of the tubes is attached to a taped port affixed to her chest.

  She glances up as her male attendant parks me in the open doorway, then struts away without a word. “Ah, Avery. You’re a bit earlier than I expected.”

  “I’m sorry.” I feel awkward and intrusive. I had no idea she wasn’t well. No wonder she sounded weary when she answered the phone. “I didn’t mean to interrupt your day. I, um . . . I should come back some other time.”

  “Don’t be silly.” She waves her hand faintly, motioning me in. “We’re just wrapping up.”

  I take a hesitant step inside the room, marveling at the enormous collection of fine art on display all around me. Everything from masters to unknowns, all of it awe-inspiring. And then I see it—a full portrait of Kathryn at a younger age, when her hair wasn’t steely gray but rich, dark brown. She is lean and vibrant, her gaze tenacious yet vulnerable.

  Arresting and . . . familiar.

  “Beauty,” I murmur, glancing back at her in surprise. “It’s you. Jared Rush’s painting on display at Dominion. You’re Beauty.”

  And now that I’m looking at Kathryn, I don’t know how I didn’t realize it either of the times I saw her in person. The haunting nude portrait of a defiant, beautiful woman taking pleasure in her body despite the disease that was ravaging it had mesmerized me when I saw it at Nick’s gallery. It had disturbed me, even aroused me.

  “That painting was done several years ago,” she confirms. “It was meant to be a celebration. A declaration of war. It was my way of telling cancer to fuck off.” She gestures to the medical apparatus sprouting from her body. “Jared’s the only one who knows it’s come back. They already took my ovaries and uterus. Now it’s in my bones.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “For me? Don’t be.” She scoffs, her lips curved in a tenacious smile as the nurse begins to carefully remove the chemotherapy tubes and equipment. “I’ve never backed down without a fight. I have no intention of starting now.”

  I say nothing as she is attended to, then given instructions for her medicines and reminded of her next appointment. I don’t know Kathryn well enough to be standing here now, but there is a part of me that feels closer to her than any other woman in the world.

  After all, we both love Dominic Baine.

  Kathryn’s love for him might not be the same passionate, all-consuming kind that I feel for him, but I have no doubt that she still cares about him. And in that sense alone, we are connected.

  “I was surprised to hear from you,” she says, once her nurse has departed the room. “I didn’t think you’d call.”

  “I didn’t want to,” I admit. I’m still uncomfortable with the whole idea. Coming here like this. Keeping it from Nick. “I haven’t told him that we met. He doesn’t know I’m here.”

  She nods, understanding without me telling her that Nick’s feelings about her may never warm. “Of course, he doesn’t know you came. He would never permit it.”

  “Permit it?” No matter how guilty I feel for keeping this from Nick, the implication that I should need his permission to do anything grates on me. “He doesn’t control where I go or who I see. He doesn’t own me, if that’s what you think.”

  “No,” she says. “It’s not what I think. But you love him. And so I’m trying to decide why you would risk coming here, knowing he won’t approve.”

  I hold her shrewd stare. “I had to come.”

  “Because you want me to buy some of your art? Or because you think I can help you understand him?”

  “Both.”

  “All right,” she says, lowering the recliner’s footrest, then slowly easing herself out of the chair. “We can begin with your work.”

  I set down my padded portfolio and unzip it as Kathryn slides her feet into Chanel logo scuffs, then walks gingerly to the windows to open the drapes. I’ve unpacked all three paintings and leaned them against the wall, waiting in silence as she returns to me.

  I can’t read her pensive expression. The long moments of silence seem endless as she looks from one piece to the next, then, finally, to the next.

  “How long have you been painting?”

  “Ever since I can remember. I started painting with my fingers when I was a kid. Once I picked up a brush, I never looked back.”

  “Hm.”

  That wordless response is neither a comment nor a critique, yet I see her shrewd gaze narrowing slightly as she studies each of my pieces. She tilts her head as if looking for meaning in the dark, abstract compositions. Does she see their sensual nature, the eroticism that inspired them? Maybe she does, and the images are offensive to her more conventional tastes.

  I clear my throat, feeling the need to fill the lengthening quiet. “Until recently, I painted mostly architecture and still life. Portraiture here and there. I’m trying new things now.”

  “I have no doubt about that, dear.” Kathryn’s slender brows quirk almost imperceptibly, the first crack her implacable veneer has allowed. “Has Dominic ever given you his opinion of your art before?”

  “Yes. He has.” I swallow, glancing away from her. As much as I hope she’ll like my art enough to offer for one of my paintings, I can’t stand here and pretend I’m better than I truly am. “Some of my earlier work was on display at Dominion a few months ago. Nick didn’t think I was a good fit for his gallery.”

  “Is that right?” There’s no masking her curiosity. She doesn’t even pretend that she’s anything but avidly intrigued. “What, precisely, did he say about your work?”

  “That it was self-conscious.” There was a time when I might have recited Nick’s criticism with embarrassment, even shame. But the sting is gone as I recount his words now. “He said my art was dishonest, fearful. He said
I wasn’t letting the truth take shape on the canvas, that I was hiding from it.”

  Kathryn exhales a slow, thoughtful sigh. “Harsh judgment. And so classically him.”

  “He was right,” I admit. “He made me better by telling me that. He’s made me a braver artist, a better one.”

  She considers me for a moment, something cryptic flickering in her weary eyes. Something that looks very much like sorrow, like unbearable regret. “Dominic has unerring instincts when it comes to art,” she murmurs quietly. “The only thing more extraordinary than his eye was the depth of his own gift.”

  “His—wait. Are you saying,” I stammer, mentally tripping over what I just heard. “Are you saying Nick is an artist too?”

  “Was,” she replies. “One of the most talented painters I’ve ever seen. His work was breathtaking, raw and unrestrained. Heartbreakingly sensitive. It was astonishing.”

  I realize I’m gaping at her, but I can’t help it. Nick, a painter? I’m not surprised to hear that he possesses this other talent among all of the other things he seems to have mastered so expertly, but why has he never mentioned it to me? Am I the only one who doesn’t know this?

  “Even to this day, I’ve seen few who compare to him,” Kathryn adds. “But that was before, of course.”

  “Before?” The word hits me even harder than her first revelation. It hits me like a body blow, knocking the wind from my breast. “You mean, before the accident that ruined his hand.”

  “Accident.” She slowly shakes her head. “Is that what he told you?”

  “He told me he got into a fight with a drunk when he was eighteen. Things escalated, and the man sent him through a plate glass window.”

  I recall how Nick told me about the incident over dinner on our first getaway together. I remember how he had relayed the details—scant as they were—in that nonchalant way of his, which neither invites questions nor offers any answers beyond what he is willing to share.

  “What really happened to him, Kathryn?”

  “Yes, there was a fight,” she says, “but it wasn’t an accident that stole his ability to paint. Dominic was nearly killed that night. And the drunk who pushed him through the glass was his father.”