Losing Control (19 page)

He shakes his head. “I think it’s owned by some Japanese conglomerate. They are taking over the city, you know, buying up our landmarks.”

Not wanting to see Richard veer down a dangerous and possibly racist rant about ownership of big city properties, I attempt to redirect the conversation. “What is it that you do?” Men like to talk about themselves.

“Investments, like your friend Kerr.” He gives me a strange, wry smile. “Only not as good, according to my old man. How about you? You work with your father?”

“No, I . . .” I hesitate, looking for the right words, “I was never very good in school.”

“Don’t work for a relative,” he advises. “You’ll never make them happy. Take me, for example. Haven’t had an investment turn my way in a long time.” He sounds almost wistful rather than bitter, and his obvious desire to please his father tugs at my heartstrings. My mother is my best friend, and the worst thing she’s ever said to me was “I’m disappointed.”

“I bet your dad is prouder than you think. Sometimes it’s hard for them to express it,” I console him.

“When I was like six or seven, my nanny would take me to the Central Park playground across from our condo complex. We live right on Fifth Avenue, a block from Embassy Row.” He is bragging a tiny bit, but that’s an impressive address. “Every time we went—which was like three times a week—there were two brothers. One was my age and the other was older. The older kid could do everything. He caught the ball on the first try. Could swing across the monkey bars without stopping. Could leap over the fence with a single bound. A veritable mini-Superman. His mom or nanny, I guess I don’t really know which, would always say to the younger kid that he should be more like his older brother. The barrage of criticism was non-stop.”

“Poor kid,” I murmur.

“Comparisons don’t motivate people,” he says, and this time the bitterness has erased any wistfulness. “My dad hasn’t learned that yet. Ian Kerr, once an outcast from city society, is now held up to every son and heir as the model. He left town impoverished and came back less than twenty years later with his
Fortune 500
cover and his pockets so full of money that he can barely walk.”

We both stare at Ian, lounging at the bar and chatting with a Giants linebacker with the ease of someone who is familiar in this setting.

“I’m sorry,” I say lamely, not knowing quite what the right response is. Richard is right, though, comparisons suck. And if all he gets at home are questions about why he doesn’t measure up, then bitter is a normal emotion.

“Not your fault.” He turns his bright white smile on me. “I don’t usually run my mouth like that. You’re exceptionally easy to talk to.”

I duck my head. “Thanks.”

“I need a smoke.” He runs a hand through his thick hair. “Come with me?”

I toss a glance over at Ian. He isn’t looking this way, but I sense he’s fully aware of what I’m doing. “Sure, why not?”

I totter down the stairs on the unfamiliar heels. It’s easier walking up on stilettos than down. Richard leads me through a mass of bodies to a side door manned by another beefy security guy.

“Need a smoke, man.” Richard holds up a pack of cigarettes and the bouncer steps aside, holding the door open. There are others milling around in a small, bricked-in space with tall ash trays around.

“No thanks,” I say when he offers a cigarette.

“We’re the leper colony.” Richard lights up and takes a deep drag. It’s easy to see how young women could be charmed by him and engage in a flirtation despite his marital status. Then again, his left hand is bare of any jewelry, so perhaps he pursues women who simply don’t know he’s married. Many young New Yorkers couldn’t name all the upcoming mayoral candidates, let alone their sons. “I should take up the electronic ones, but I find it offensive that everything is digital now—even our bad habits. From porn to cigarettes.” He shakes his head and takes a deep drag. “On social media much?”

“Not really.”

“I shouldn’t be, but I can’t quit it.” The lit end of the cigarette creates a delicate lace-like pattern as Richard waves his hand up and down in front of my body. “But of all the people who should be taking pictures of themselves and posting them, it’s you.”

“I’m not a fan. Too busy.”

“So if you don’t work for your dad like me, what do you do?”

Be yourself
.

“I’m a bike courier. I work for Neil’s Delivery Service.”

Richard coughs and strikes a fist against his chest a couple of times. His lack of breath is from surprise not from the smoke. He can’t believe that Ian would be with someone like me. I see it in his eyes. Though whether it’s because I work such a menial job or because I’m not smart enough, I’m not certain.

“How’d you get into that?”

“Ex-boyfriend. Kept the job. Lost the boyfriend.”

“And you delivered something to Ian?” he guesses.

“That’s right. And one thing led to another and here I am.”

“I’m sorry,” he says when he regains his equilibrium.

“Why’s that?”

“Because he’s using you.”

I freeze, wondering if somehow Richard knows exactly what Ian is up to. “For sex?” I answer glibly. “We’re friends.”

“Ian Kerr doesn’t have friends who are delivery girls.” The look on Richard’s face is of pity, albeit genuine pity. “I hope to hell I’m wrong, but I think he’s going to break your heart.”

Richard takes my lax hand and holds it up to the light, examining the calluses along the base of my fingers that I’ve developed holding the handlebars of my bike. “You’re such a hard worker,” he says, rubbing the hardened pads. I jerk my hand away and hide it in the pocket of my shorts. It’s a compliment, but it doesn’t sound like one. Rather, he sounds like he’s about to list all my shortcomings. “He doesn’t insult you, does he? Make you feel small because you don’t have as much money? I’m sure he doesn’t comment about how you don’t know the difference between leveraged buyouts and portfolio hedging.”

“No,” I answer. The money disparity has always been huge between the two of us, but I hadn’t considered our intellectual differences. I didn’t—no,
couldn’t
—read the financial pages. I knew nothing of how to run a business. When Ian jetted off to another state to look at “wearable tech,” I’d made a comic book joke. Richard is invoking doubts I hadn’t even realized I should be worrying about. The outdoor air is suddenly chilly.

“Don’t feel bad. I’m not too good at that myself. It’s why Ian looks down on me. Anyone who’s not as successful as he is doesn’t warrant more than a second glance. He’s notorious for being even worse with women. No one’s good enough for him. Not socialites or hedge fund managers. They’ve all got some kind of flaw.” Rich takes another draw on his cancer stick, the ashes almost to his fingers. “I’ve seen way too many tears wiped away after he’s tossed these poor girls aside. Guy’s a menace. Should keep his pants zipped.”

Each word Richard unfurls is like a punch in the solar plexus because they strike directly at my insecurity. I’m worried that I’m not good enough for Ian. That he’s too rich for me. Too smart for me. Too everything. Hearing it from Richard’s mouth batters me like a physical club.

Hadn’t Ian said that he’d pursued me because I was a challenge? That’s all I was. A convenient fuck and a big ass source of amusement.

“We’re friends,” I repeat numbly.

“I’m not telling you this stuff to be mean. I’m right there with you in the undesirable pool. We rejects gotta stick together.” Richard tosses the butt on the ground and grinds his foot in it. “What’s your phone number?”

I give it to him without hesitation, and he inputs it into his phone and sends me a text—which I can’t read. Richard leans close to me, the tobacco smell heavy on his breath. “Like finds like, Victoria. I’ve a lot of practice in mending broken hearts.”

“I’m still whole,” I say and wonder if I can remain that way.

“Don’t let him ruin it, ruin you,” he whispers. His mouth is only inches away from my ear. “Come dance with me.”

I don’t want to. Richard isn’t so charming anymore. His words have gouged me, and I’d like to go to the bathroom and lick my wounds. But Ian’s absence must mean that I’m supposed to use this time to reel Rich in.

“All right.” I place my hand in his upturned one.

“I’m a terrible dancer,” Rich confesses as he leads me back inside. “I always need to stand next to someone so I don’t look foolish.”

I go with him because there isn’t anyone to stop me. He takes me by the hand and leads me down onto the dance floor. The press of the crowd pushes us closer together, and Richard places his hands on my waist.

“I don’t want to lose you out here.”

I put my hands on his shoulders so I don’t look like an unwilling mannequin. Richard has lied, of course. He’s a great dancer. His hips move easily to the rhythm and his hands drift lower, fingers splaying to reach more intimate parts of my body. I back away, but there’s little room on the packed dance floor.

Under my palms, his body feels alien to me and I don’t want to touch him, but in the small space that the crowd has allotted for us, I can’t do anything about it. When he slides a thigh between my legs, the intimacy is simply too much and I feel claustrophobic. This isn’t what I want. I don’t want to have to touch him, dance with him, or kiss him.
God, will I have to kiss him?

Before I can break away, there’s a commotion behind me and then a familiar hand wraps around my waist and pulls me firmly against a hard body.

“I’m sorry, Rich, but Victoria has to leave.” Ian doesn’t wait for a response from me or Richard. Instead, he literally lifts me off my feet and carries me to the edge of the dance floor, the crowd parting before him with ease. About five steps beyond the dance floor, Ian sets me down and I totter, momentarily disoriented and unused to the heels. His hand, still latched to my side, braces me.

“Don’t you think Victoria should be the one to decide when she leaves?” Rich has followed us, but Ian doesn’t even turn to look at him. He buries his nose into my hair, and I feel the whisper of a kiss against my head.

“She’s got an urgent task to take care of,” he says flatly.

“At midnight?” Richard’s voice is full of skepticism.

“Yes, at midnight.” The hand at the small of my back presses me forward as Ian gently propels me toward the rear of the club, past the centrally located bar and the huge circular aquarium. Beyond the dancers, the partiers, and the watchers and out into the night.

“I don’t get you,” I mutter, shivering a little.

“What’s there to get? I don’t like other men touching you.” His words are clipped. When we’re at the street, the big gray car is idling, waiting like a giant gray panther to whisk us away. He opens the door and almost shoves me inside. Over the top of the roof I hear him say something to Steve, something like “long way around the park.”

As Ian settles next to me, he presses a button and the privacy screen rises. I stare at it until Steve’s head is completely cut off and we’re entombed in silence in the back. There isn’t even music and almost no street sounds inside this luxurious car.

“Are you really that compartmentalized?”

“Your change of subjects is dizzying.” He reaches for me. “And you are much too far away.”

“It’s that you told me you want me and then it turned off when Richard showed up. I can’t keep up with that.”

“You’re wrong.” His hand comes up to the base of my throat, his fingers curling around to press on the pulse of my heart. No doubt he can feel it beating rapidly.

“Stop it.” I push his hand away. “What are you doing? You ignore me for twenty minutes and then pull me off the dance floor to grope me in the car?”

He lets out a loud snort and then turns to look out the window. The lights of the street and stores flash by as Steve maneuvers us around the north side of the park. In a gruff, low tone, almost as if he doesn’t want to say it, Ian admits, “I always want you. Watching you with Howe was a miserable experience I don’t want to repeat. I hadn’t realized I’d feel this way.”

“I’m confused, too,” I mutter.

Then he lifts me onto his body in one swift move and covers my yelp with his mouth. His tongue is inside my mouth before I am even settled against the very hard column of his erection. His tongue is bold, and his lips move over mine with specific intent. This is no soft romantic kiss, this is a claiming. He’s growling and his one hand is tangled in my hair, holding me imprisoned against his mouth. The other hand is kneading my butt cheek through the silk.

I can’t help but kiss him back, playing with his tongue until we are a tangle of tongues and mouths and wetness. I have no oxygen, but I don’t need it. Ian is breathing for me. His tongue is everywhere inside my mouth. There is no place inside that recess he doesn’t explore, and all the while he holds me tight against him.

Then he breaks away almost as suddenly as the kiss started and rasps out, “I want you, Tiny Corielli. I’ve wanted you since the minute I saw you and that want has turned into a need I’ve not been able to shake. I tried to ignore what I was feeling, push it aside, but it kept returning. I’m not going to fight it anymore.”

He swoops down before I can formulate a response. When his hands are all over me and his tongue is literally having sex with my mouth, I cannot remember why I’m mad, why I’m supposed to protest. He’s so goddamned sexy. The effortless command he has over everything around him, as if he can snap his fingers and everything and everyone will fall in line, is as sexy as it is infuriating.

I want to be repelled because a sane, smart woman would be. But no, every autocratic action actually turns me on because with Ian, I don’t have to think if I don’t want to. I recognize that I could let him take care of me. That he would willingly make all my decisions for me—what to wear, what to eat, where to go.

And yet . . .if I do that . . . if I allow him that much control over me, then where will I be after my vacation with Ian is over? Back in a tiny one bedroom walkup eating ramen noodles and wearing polyester.

“You think too much,” Ian says, smoothing his hands down my arms and then following the path with his wet mouth, leaving a pattern of nips and soothing kisses down my upper arms. His tongue finds the tender skin of the crook of my elbow and the soft spot on my wrist, causing me to whimper and grind against him.