Being Me (11 page)

“I emailed you a list of those prospects earlier this afternoon.”

“Oh. Hmm. I guess I should check my e-mail. I was slammed with people today.”

“And yet we had no sales.”

My spine stiffens and I am instantly transported back to my past, when my father, and yes, Michael, were quick to flatten me when anything went wrong. Anger begins to stir inside me and not at Mark. I thought I’d put it behind me, but I clearly have not. Choose success, Mark had said, and yet he’s here trying to make me admit to failure that doesn’t exist? My anger shifts, twists, and turns inside me. No matter what the outcome, I cannot lie down for Mark as I have others in the past.

“You know,” I say, and I am proud of how strong my voice is, how steady my gaze, “if you’re trying to get me to ‘choose success,’ assuming my failure isn’t going to help. No sales today might be correct, but I have several customers I feel will buy, and buy well.”

His lips twitch. “Good to see you feeling confident enough to put me in my place.”

My eyes go wide. Had I really just put him in his place? And
he let me, even seeming amused when I barely think he’s capable of such a feeling. Self-doubt rips through me and I try to reel it in, to remind myself he doesn’t seem upset, but I can’t do it. He’s my boss. He’s my path to financial security. I have to justify my reply. “I’m just . . . trying to make sure you know I don’t like failing, either.”

“And I approve.”

A frisson of pleasure runs through me with his words and the light in his eyes. Pleasing Mark pleases me and it’s not sexual. No. Chris has that part of me wrapped up tightly enough that there is no room for anyone else. It’s that power thing Mark has along with his role of authority. The pleasure of seconds before begins to ebb and fade at the uncomfortable reminder that even after daring to stand up to him, I did not stand my ground, and I am not in full control of how my past influences me.

“You look tired,” he says. “And so am I. Why don’t I walk you to your car?”

“I look tired,” I repeat. “Compliments will get you everywhere, Bossman.”

“Ah now,” he purrs, his voice low and rough, “if only it were that easy.”

I swallow hard at the heat in his stare and quickly reach for my purse and briefcase, and words, oh the words I can never control, tumble from my mouth. “Somehow I doubt anything easy would hold your interest.” Oh shit. Had I just issued him a challenge? I didn’t mean to. My eyes jerk to his. “Not that I—”

Laughter rolls from his lips, deep and rough like his voice. “Relax, Ms. McMillan. I know you weren’t issuing a challenge, though if you have a change of heart that sways in my direction,
I’ll be happy to take you up on one.” He pulls his keys from his pocket. “Let’s get out of here. I’m of the opinion we both had way too long of a night for a long day like this one.”

No, I think, as I push to my feet, already feeling the absence of Chris in his own apartment. Mine was too short considering Chris was gone for a few more days.

We exit the gallery, the dim glow of a streetlight illuminating the back of the building and parking lot, where our two cars are the only ones left, and that means by process of elimination, the sporty silver Jaguar is Mark’s. He glances at the 911.

“I see he made sure to stake his claim,” he states dryly.

“Or he just really hates my Ford Focus.”

His eyes narrow sharply. “Don’t get used to what he gives you or you won’t want to earn it for yourself. And that, Ms. McMillan, would be a problem for us both. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He has dismissed me but he does not walk away, and I realize he’s waiting for me to get into the car. He’s hit a sensitive spot with me and I level my stare at him. I hesitate and consider letting it go, but I don’t. “I come from money, Mark. I’ve had money, lots of it, and I could have it now if I chose to comply with the expectations. So Chris can’t get me used to anything I don’t already know and am already willing to walk away from. I want to make my own money. And . . . .” He arches a brow at my hesitation and I realize I don’t want to say more. I don’t need to say more. This is not Mark’s business. “And good night.” I climb into the car without giving him another chance to speak, and the regret I felt about driving the car is gone. I don’t want to hide my relationship with Chris or make apologies or excuses for driving his car. This is my life and I plan to live it.

I pull onto the road, and the adrenaline high is back and I love that it comes from my actions. My thoughts go to Rebecca and how she used the man in the journal for her highs, how easily another man who wasn’t Chris could have brought that out in me. My desire to find her and confirm that she has found a path to her dreams, and is safe and happy, becomes more powerful than ever.

•   •   •

The 911 is a smooth luxury ride I am familiar with from my father’s preference for the car, but it’s been years since I’ve ridden in one, and certainly I never drove one. That Chris has easily handed me the keys is far more meaningful than he understands. Not that I didn’t have a nice car. My father wouldn’t allow his daughter to embarrass him in a Ford Focus like I have now. I’d driven a conservative little Audi during both high school and college, traded in every two years, of course. I’d loved the first car, and hated the two that had followed, as I’d begun to see beneath the veil of the life my mother and I led. No veil now, though. I’m on my own and I’m in a 911.

My lips curve and I hit the gas and indulge myself for a blast a short half block long. The instant I ease up my foot, the car goes into an easy glide. The smooth ride after the wicked acceleration reminds me of the extreme shifts I’ve experienced in Chris’s moods and I decide the car fits him well. I also wonder if I’ve truly seen what lies beneath the surface to cause those ups and downs. I wonder what he would think if he knew what lies beneath my surface.

I shake off the place my thoughts are going as I pull up to Chris’s fancy high-rise only a few blocks from the gallery and
the doorman opens my door and greets me. “Good evening, Ms. McMillan.”

Handing over the keys, I am reminded of Chris teasing this doorman as he had another at a hotel not to joyride in the car. “I didn’t joyride.” I grin. “Much.”

He grins back at me. “I won’t tell.”

“Thank you,” I say, giving him a small nod before I slide the strap of my briefcase over my shoulder and head inside the building, where I find Jacob standing by the front counter.

“Ms. McMillan,” he says with a nod when I stop beside him. “I trust the day was uneventful in a good way since I didn’t hear from you after our phone call this morning.”

“It was,” I confirm. “You know, I just didn’t want to risk bothering you if you were off duty this morning.”

“I’m always on duty,” he informs me. “I live on property and I made a special promise to Chris to look out for you. He doesn’t ask for favors, Ms. McMillan. He did for you. I don’t intend to let him down. You’re on my radar but I need you to communicate with me. If you’re going out, let me know.”

I have a flashback to the many years of my life my mother and I went nowhere without a security guard we didn’t need. I didn’t understand that in my youth, of course. Not until college, when I’d torn away my rose-colored glasses, did I realize we were like kept animals, pets to my father, controlled, not protected. Sheltered from the many lives he had led and the many women my mother had pretended she didn’t share him with.

“Ms. McMillan?” Jacob asks, and I snap my gaze up from the floor to his.

“Yes,” I murmur. “Thank you, Jacob.” And despite my walk
down memory lane, I mean the words. Contrary to my actions the night before, I don’t make a habit of being stupid, no matter what my father might say otherwise. Someone was in that storage unit with me last night. Maybe it was teenagers, or maybe it wasn’t, but with my worries about Rebecca, I’m not sure I’m over the fear I felt inside the darkness.

His eyes narrow and glint with understanding. “I don’t care what time of the day or night, you call me if you need to. There is no reason too small. Better safe—”

“Than sorry,” I finish for him. “Yes, I know.” I incline my head. “I’ll call if I need you.”

A few minutes later, I walk off the elevator and into Chris’s apartment, taking in the twinkling skyline. Exhaustion begins to seep into my bones and I head to the bedroom, pausing at the doorway, entranced by the giant, unmade bed.

Baby, the ways I’m going to fuck you are too many to count, but not tonight. Tonight, I’m going to make love to you
.

And he had. I have no idea if that means he’s falling in love with me, but I am falling in love with him. I have already.

I wet my suddenly parched lips and kick off my shoes before walking to the bathroom and finding Chris’s shirt, which I’ve saved to sleep in. After undressing, I pull the shirt over my body and inhale deeply. The scent of Chris is a little piece of heaven. I head to the kitchen and spend some time exploring, pleased to find a box of macaroni and cheese that I quickly whip into dinner. Once it’s ready, I cave in to curiosity and end up at the door of Chris’s studio with dinner, my laptop, and my phone in hand.

I flip on the light and I don’t see the gorgeous city surrounding me. There is only the roll of tape lying by the stool. I squeeze
my eyes shut and I can almost put myself back on that chair with Chris’s mouth and hands on my body. I settled my things on the floor by the wall where I intend to get comfortable, but I don’t sit. Now, and only now, do I let myself think about what has randomly slipped into my thoughts today, to be dashed away.
The painting
.

Slowly, I walk forward, my pulse accelerating as I near Chris’s depiction of me, bound by the ankles and wrists, in the center of the studio. As I bring it into view, my throat goes instantly dry, and heat burns low in my belly. It’s a black-and-white image, which he favors, and well developed with fine details, too well developed to be a draft. He’s been working on this for a while and he left it in the open for me to see, this morning and now. Chris does nothing without purpose. This is a message or a challenge. I’m not sure which, or maybe it’s both. I’m not clear on either. And considering I’m both aroused and uncomfortable, I’m not even clear on what I feel. This is Chris’s sanctuary. What does it mean that he’s bound me in real life and on canvas?

Tearing my gaze away from the painting, I walk to where I’ve left my things. Knees weak, I slide down the wall and sit there a moment, trying to make sense of what I’m feeling, when a mission for knowledge hits me. Powering up my computer, I google “pain for pleasure” and find myself greeted by an eyeful of bound naked bodies and dungeonlike playrooms. Whips and chains appear to be a predominant theme and the idea of educating myself isn’t working. I’m just plain freaking myself out. I try bondage and BDSM and it’s pretty darn close to the same results.

Finally, I land on a site that highlights stories like “Toy with your lover” and contains links to products such as a pink fuzzy paddle and a pair of butterfly nipple clamps. Picturing Chris with anything involving the words
soft, pink
, and
butterfly
is almost comical.

My cell phone rings and with his usual perfect timing, it’s Chris. I punch the answer button. “Hi.”

“Hi.”

The instant I hear his voice, the unease of moments before begins to uncurl and disappear, and I know it’s simply because he is Chris. It’s the only explanation I require anymore. My lips curve and I can tell he is smiling, too, and alas, that knowledge tears down any wall my unease over my Internet searches might have erected.

“What are you doing?” he asks.

My hesitation is all of two seconds, and considering how uneasy I’d been minutes before, my confession falls freely from my lips. “Eating macaroni and cheese and searching a site called Adam and Eve.”

A low rumble of deep, sexy laughter fills the line and sets my blood to simmering. “Adam and Eve and macaroni and cheese. I wish I was there. See anything there you like?”

There is mischief in his voice and I can imagine the wicked dancing in the depth of his green eyes. “So you know the site?”

“Yes. I know the site.”

This surprises me and I wonder if some other woman tried to soften his dark side by presenting him with the softer side of BDSM. Maybe one of the L.A. actresses I’d read about him dating before meeting him. It’s an unpleasant thought for too many reasons to count and one that doesn’t fit the puzzle that is Chris. “I find myself the least intimidated by pink furry paddles and a pair of butterfly nipple clamps. Nothing quite in your league.”

“Don’t decide for me,” he orders, his voice going all low and rough, but still gently seductive. “Let’s discover what works for us together. What made you start looking up sex toys anyway?”

“The painting.”

“Of you in my studio.”

“Yes. Of me. You wanted me to see it this morning and tonight.” I don’t phrase it as a question.

He’s silent a moment, and I sense one of his shifting moods, the subtle edge of one of his many layers. “Yes. I wanted you to see it.”

“To scare me?”