She considers me a moment, then smiles. “Well, I am hungry.”
“Good,” I say, more pleased than I should be by the prospect of a simple shared dinner as we exit the car. But I really don’t want to be alone with my thoughts, and my normal outlets to escape are back in San Francisco, in the club I own.
We head inside the typical high-end hotel of marble and glass, and I pause in the entryway to give the doorman a hefty tip. “Make sure my bag is in my room when I get there later tonight.” He quickly nods, eager to oblige, and I turn to Crystal. “Let me check in so I don’t have to deal with it later.”
“Of course,” she agrees, and she motions to a couple of chairs. “I’ll be right here.”
A few minutes later, I’m done registering and I find Crystal with her head buried in her laptop again, so absorbed in her work that she has no idea I’ve stopped in front of her.
“Ms. Smith,” I say.
Her gaze lifts and snaps to mine. “Crystal, or I’m not having dinner with you.”
My lips quirk, and I’m remarkably amused by her spunk. “What are you working on?”
“I’m this close,” she says, holding her fingers up barely parted, “to snagging a couple of super-rare Beatles items for the next Riptide auction. I’m exchanging emails with the guy we’d be buying from.”
“Beatles, huh?”
“Yes,” she says, shutting her computer and shoving it into her purse. “It might not be art, but these items will bring in big money.”
“You won’t see me complaining about money,” I assure her. “Shall we go eat?”
She pushes to her feet but I don’t step back to give her space. We’re toe to toe, and I can’t seem to find a reason, aside from her being off-limits, to find this a problem. I’m in no hurry to move, either. Instead, I inhale that warm rum scent of hers. It is addictive. Damn, I like that smell.
“I’m ready,” she says, prodding me to move. “Starving, actually.”
Yes—starving. I’m starving. For her. So much so that I have to force myself to finally step back and give her room to walk. “Never let it be said I kept a starving woman waiting.” I usually do keep my women starving and waiting, just not for food. I’m not so sure this one would allow that, though, which should be a complete turn-off. It isn’t. It’s more of a challenge.
“You like word games,” Crystal observes.
I tilt my head slightly. “What did I say to merit that observation?”
“It’s what you didn’t say,” she replies, “and yet it’s in the air. That unspoken hidden meaning to a lot of what you say and do.”
“You are direct, aren’t you?”
“We’ve already established that. And that I’m hungry, so feed me. How about it?”
My lips twitch. “How about it, indeed.” I motion her onward and this time we fall into step together. This dinner is absolutely going to be the much-needed distraction from the hell going on in my head—exactly what I’d hoped for.
A few minutes later, I’m seated across from Crystal inside the hotel-sponsored Fireside restaurant at a corner table. Seated behind the rectangular bar with snowball-shaped glowing lights dangling above it, we’re secluded from the rest of the patrons, just as I’d hoped. I want this woman to myself, if only for an hour.
“Have you ever eaten here?” she asks, setting her phone on the table and her purse in the extra chair next to her. “The food is good. It’s not far from the gallery I used to work at.”
“I have,” I tell her. “And yes, it is. How do you feel about wine?”
“I love it, but I’m a lightweight so it’s not a good idea.”
“Maybe it will loosen you up and you’ll tell me all about yourself.”
She snorts and somehow it’s delicate and feminine, even sexy, when normally I would find it unrefined. “Do I really seem like I need loosening up? Because that’s a first. I’m me, no matter what, and I make no apologies for that. And what specifically do you want to know that I haven’t already told you?”
Everything, I think, but the waiter stops beside me before I can offer her my edited version of that answer. I glance at the wine menu and then at her. “Red wine okay?”
“I prefer white, but I have to drive, so I’d better pass.”
Ignoring her objection, I order a merlot I’m particularly fond of and send the waiter on his way. “I’ll get you a car to take you home and pick you up in the morning.”
She holds up her well-manicured hands. “You don’t have to—”
“I don’t do anything because I have to, Crystal.”
“Crystal,” she repeats. “Why do I feel it’s such an accomplishment for you to use my first name?”
“I don’t know? Why?”
Her brow furrows. “You really do like word games, don’t you?”
“Do I?”
She holds up a finger. “See. Answering a question with a question. Word games.” Her phone rings and she snatches it up and her eyes brighten. “It’s my Beatles man. Calling rather than emailing has to mean good news.”
I listen to the smooth, charming way she greets her customer and the impressive way she navigates her side of the exchange. She’s a master of conversation, but I knew that already. I’m not beyond seeing how she’s worked her magic on me.
The waiter returns with our wine and pours some into my glass for me to test the vintage when Crystal covers the phone and whispers, “He won’t ship the items. He says we have to pick them up.”
I sample the wine and give the waiter the go-ahead to fill both of our glasses. “Tell him we’ll insure them.”
“He axed that idea before I even got it out. He says it isn’t good enough.” She crinkles her nose. “He’s a little eccentric.”
Eccentric artists and collectors are my life. “Where’s he located?”
“Los Angeles.”
“If it’s worth my time, I’ll go pick up the items myself.”
“Perfect.” Her attention goes back to her call. “How about I arrange the pickup and call you tomorrow?” She listens a moment, and repeats what she said to me. “Yes. I’ll talk to you then.” Setting her phone back onto the table, she grins. “Done. We have a deal.”
“I take it you feel the travel is worth my time?”
“I had the items valued by a Beatles expert. They’re costing us a hundred thousand dollars.” She lifts her wine and holds it out to me. “They’re worth double.”
“Impressive,” I say, and touch my glass to hers. “Sounds like we need to feed his eccentric demands.”
We both sip our wine.
“Hmm,” she says. “This is excellent, but”—she sets her glass on the table—“I have to drive. I really can’t drink.”
“I’ve already told you I’d get you a car service.”
“No, I—”
“I just bought the wine. I can’t drink it alone.”
“Yes, but Mark—”
“You’re staying,” I insist, and I’m amazed by how much I like my name on her lips, when I’m used to Mr. Compton or Master. I like it. I like it a hell of a lot.
She purses those too-tempting lips and then sighs. “Fine.” She reaches for her glass. “But if you’re hoping to find out some deep, dark secrets about me that somehow make me a bad employee, you won’t. Not even with the grape in me.” She takes a drink and casts me a coy look. “But I might try to find out yours.”
“You can try. Others certainly have.”
“But you’ve never had me try.”
“No,” I agree. “I’ve never had you try.” And since I’m adamant about my privacy, why do I want her to try?
The waiter returns in the midst of my contemplation and we order dinner. When we’re alone again, Crystal digs into the warm bread he’s left us and I’m drawn to how uninhibited she is. Her lack of walls and barriers must be why I find myself so comfortable with her.
“A hamburger, Mr. Compton?” she queries. “How very rustic of you.”
??
?I can get my hands dirty when I want to.”
Her eyes twinkle devilishly. “I think I might like to see that.”
There’s a challenge beneath her words. For me to show her? I’d like to show her, but I won’t. I almost think she knows that, and is enjoying taunting me. “And I’d like you to tell me more about you.”
“Translation,” she replies, and flattens her hands on the table. “You want me to convince you that I can handle my job when you’re back in San Francisco and your mom is recovering.” She sits up straighter, as if preparing to give a speech, and delicately clears her throat. “Mr. Compton. I’d like to submit to you my qualifications as sales manager for Riptide.” She grins. “Beatles, baby. Doesn’t that say it all?”
I tilt my head to study her. “Beatles, baby?”
“I guess that just broke all your rules times ten.”
“Who says I have rules?”
She waves off my question. “Oh, please. You have so many rules, your rules have rules. Any woman who dared to date you would need an encyclopedia-sized book to keep up.”
“Any woman who dared date me?”
“Yes. You’re too good-looking and rich for anyone’s good. But I’m sure there are plenty of women who dare. They probably stand in line for a chance to read your rule book.”
From anyone else, being called good-looking and rich would be a compliment. I’m not sure with Crystal. I’m not sure of too much with this woman.
“But not you,” I say, certain that’s what she meant. No. She wouldn’t line up for anyone. She wouldn’t be that easy to conquer.
“I’m a control freak,” she readily admits. “You’re a control freak. We’d be like two bulls after the same red scarf.”
She’s right, and yet my blood pumps faster, just thinking about having her naked and willingly at my mercy. I can’t help but think she’s exactly what I need: a challenge. And how sweet her submission would be, because I’d really earned it.
But I won’t go there. Not with someone I work with, and absolutely not in the deep, dark hell I’m in right now. I’ll just think about it. Probably way too much.
Four
* * *
Crystal tells me stories about my mother over dinner, making me laugh. I don’t laugh a lot, but I have a soft spot for my mother. Maybe I have a soft spot for Crystal. I’m not really sure what I think about my reactions to her.
“So . . .” Crystal says, mopping up the last of her vanilla ice cream with a forkful of chocolate cake. “Why don’t you work here in New York?”
I drum my fingers on the table. “And here I thought you’d used such great restraint, not prying into my secrets.”
“So you admit you have secrets.”
She’s quick-witted. I like that about her. “We all have secrets.”
“Some more than others.”
I lean forward, lowering my voice. “And what are your secrets, Crystal?”
“They’re called secrets because they’re secrets,” she replies tartly, to put me in my place.
I’ve done my damnedest to keep my thoughts pure over dinner, but my cock thickens with what I see as a challenge. Can I make her reveal all to me? Instantly, I’m delving into the deep, dark waters of desire for this taboo woman, wondering what it would take to learn her secrets. Wondering how she would handle me tying her up. That’s when you see what people are really made of.
“Back to you,” she directs, as if she’s in charge, when she absolutely is not. “And the question you avoided several times already. Why’d you leave New York?”
I lean back in my chair, putting distance between us and studying her, intrigued by how well she handles herself. It is both a natural gift and a conditioning of those skills by life lessons. I wonder what hers have been. “If I don’t tell you why I left, my mother will, which is one answer to your question,” I finally concede. “While my family is private about most things, they tend to make my life much more public than I prefer. Distance gives me privacy.”
“That’s not an answer.” Her tone is a schoolteacher reprimand. “It’s a side step of the question yet again.”
She’s right. I am sidestepping. My reasons for leaving New York run through a muddy history I try not to travel. I sure as hell don’t talk about it.
My cell phone rings, giving me a reprieve, and I glance at the screen and see Chris Merit’s number. It’s a call I need to take, yet dread answering for many reasons. Not only is he involved with what went down with Rebecca, he’s also deeply involved with a cancer research organization.
I hit the “answer” button, not bothering with “hello.”
“I hear you’re back in Paris.”
“I am. How are you holding up?”
Uncomfortable with where this conversation is going, I glance at Crystal and cover the phone. “Give me just a minute.”
“Of course,” she says and reaches for her wine. “I’ll just drink, since I handle it so well.”
So far she’s handled it just fine, I think, leaving the table so I can talk more privately. “I was going to call you,” I tell Chris, leaning on the bar with my back to Crystal. “I’m in New York. My mother has cancer.”
Silence ticks by for several heavy seconds. “What kind and what stage?”
“Breast. Stage 3.”
“Operable or nonoperable?”
“Operable. She’s having a mastectomy tomorrow and starts radiation in three weeks.”
“That’s positive,” he says, and they’re welcome words from a man who says little and is so knowledgeable about cancer. “You know, we’ve had our differences, Mark, but I’ll walk through hell and back to help you help her, if you need me to.”
“I know.” The gnawing in my gut starts all over again, this time created by guilt. I knew Sara meant a lot to him, but I tried to get between them. She reminded me of Rebecca, and I was pissed at Chris for warning Rebecca away from me. He was right, though. Rebecca should have stayed the hell away from me.
“Mark. You still there?”
Mentally, I shake myself. “Yes. I’m here.”
“You didn’t cause Rebecca’s death. You know that, right?”
The pain moves to my chest and becomes crushing. “I used one woman to keep another at a distance. One of those women killed the other one. How is that not my fault?”
“You didn’t do this. Ava killed Rebecca.”
My other hand curls into a fist on the bar. “I should have listened to you when you said Rebecca was in over her head with me.”
“Don’t do this to yourself. Take it from me—I’ve been down this path. I’m still on it now. It won’t lead you anyplace good.”
“You don’t know everything. She left me for another man. She was traveling the world with him, living the good life, and I convinced her to come back to me. That things would be different between us. I don’t know what the hell I was thinking. I knew I was incapable of being different. And she did. She came home, and Ava got to her before I could. I didn’t even know she’d returned.”
Silence stretches between us, and I am certain he’s judging me—and, for once, I know it’s deserved. Hell, I’m judging me.
“I know this is hard to swallow,” he finally says. “I know it’s eating you alive, but this was the work of one crazy woman. Not you.”
“A woman I pushed over the edge.”
“I could tell you everything you need to hear, but you won’t hear me. Sometimes there’s only one solution.”
“And that would be?”
“Get drunk.”
I laugh humorlessly. “This coming from a man who hates booze.”
“There are times when it’s called for. I could use a good stiff drink right now myself. What’s going on with the investigation into Rebecca’s death?”
While I fill Chris in, I turn to check on Crystal, and my eyes collide with hers. I feel the connection with a surge of adrenaline like nothing I’ve ever experienced. No woman affects me like this. None. Ever. What
is it about Crystal? Is it the challenge? The time in my life?
“I’ll call you tomorrow to check on your mother,” I hear Chris say.
“Right.” I can’t look away from Crystal. And “can’t” isn’t usually in my vocabulary. “Tomorrow. I’ll talk to you then.”
“She’s going to be fine,” Chris adds and hangs up, as if he wasn’t ready to hear any other answer.
I’m not, either. She has to fucking be okay. There isn’t another option, and damn it, I plan to tell her that in the morning.
Sliding my phone back into my pocket, I motion the waiter over and have him put the tab on my room and order a car to pick up Crystal. The distraction does nothing to stop the heat racing through my blood. I walk toward Crystal, fighting that predatory male instinct I own as completely as my name. That part of me that wants to take her upstairs and fuck her until I remember nothing but the pleasure. I need that. I need it like I do my next breath, but I know it’s wrong. I know I’ve been so fucking wrong this past year about too much. I can’t do it again. I won’t do it again. I won’t fuck up Crystal like I did Rebecca.
I stop in front of Crystal’s chair and, unable to resist the need to touch her, when I’d swear I never need to touch anyone, I hold out my hand and she slides her palm into mine. It’s tiny and soft, as I know she would be in my arms. I pull her to her feet, so close that the delicious scent of her is licking at my senses the way I’d like to be licking at her mouth, her body.
Her gaze lifts to mine, and there is heat in those intelligent blue eyes—but there’s also concern that tells me she sees far more than she should. Far more than I let anyone see, and yet I still hold on to her hand. She’s real to me in a way no one else has felt in too long. In a world that seems painted in false shadows, I need something real in my life right now.
“Everything okay?” she asks softly.
“No. Everything is not okay.” I have no idea why I’ve admitted this. What the fuck is this woman doing to me? I’m feeling angry. I want to bury myself in her and forget everything, and it kills me to know how wrong that is. How impossible.
Her expression softens. “I know, and I’d tell you it’s going to be okay—but that won’t make it better and it won’t make you believe it.”