Wild Hyacinthe (Crimson Romance) (2 page)

I scoffed.
Not much of a family
. I drained my shot of whiskey and tossed the blue streak of bangs out of my face, scanning the crowd.

Indulging in the fantasies of books used to satisfy me enough that I didn’t seek anything else. Didn’t plan anything but the travels I longed and saved for. The stories swept me deep inside them, the ending always happier than real life, and it kept my mind busy enough to forget the dysfunction of home. I tapped my shot glass on the bar and ordered another, closing my eyes as the alcohol slid through my body, warming me inside. My books weren’t enough, anymore. I needed someone real to sweep me away, and though I knew it wasn’t likely to be the hero of my dreams, all these men around me held no appeal. I felt nothing toward the useless meat who delivered me glances and body-scans from head to toe. When they opened their mouths and asked to buy me a drink, my stomach rolled and I turned away.

Most often, I retreated to my car and dove back into a book, a strange sense of dissatisfaction settling over me as I drifted to sleep in the driver’s seat. Tonight, I took a little extra time in the bar, scanning the masses of people flashing red, purple and green beneath the strobe lights. I
wanted
to feel something toward one of these guys. I’d spent too long dwelling on the past, and seeking the answers of the future. Now, I just wanted to get laid.

It’s about damn time I take the leap.

I scooted up onto the barstool and let out a sharp curse when my black lace sleeve snagged on a screw protruding from the backrest. I tugged it free and gazed around again, the swirl of alcohol enhancing the colors of the dancers but slowing their motion.
I’m wasting my time.
I could be sitting in my car with a book,
not
blowing my money on alcohol. Yet here I was. Seeking something I’d never had before. Seeking something I should have done long ago. But these guys around me, stumbling and reeking of body odor and beer, layering on the saccharine compliments to any set of tits that strolled by, were not what I had in mind. I didn’t want just another in the herd.

What did I want? I glanced at the door of the bar and chewed on the corner of my lip, wondering how many pages I could get in before last call if I left now.

I gazed up at the executive level of the club, the balcony overlooking the general population. It was a part of every bar in which I’d never be fortunate enough to sit. Way too expensive. And a girl with punky, blue-streaked short hair and over-pierced ears didn’t belong up there with the suits and the gowns. I could never hope to attract a man from that level. It worked in the books, but in real life, a poor girl chasing down a rich man just stunk of desperation.

I ran my fingertip around the rim of my shot glass as a blond with endless legs leaned over a table in the balcony where a man dropped an empty glass onto his table, adding his own percussion to the rhythms around me. The blond leaned further and damn near flopped her tits into the guy’s face and I snorted. I’d rather remain a hopeless virgin than stoop to such lows. The guy stirred his ice cubes with the short straw in the glass, his thick arms bulging beneath the black, button-down shirt he wore. He shook his head and waved the woman off. Rejection shown plainly on her face and I couldn’t hide a smirk as she wandered away, insulted.

The man spun around in his chair and leaned on the railing of the balcony, facing me, and my breath caught in my chest. Nearly-buzzed, short, dark hair made his body look even more solid than I’d originally thought. A chiseled jaw, clean-shaven, drew my attention to his mouth as he stroked his chin once, scanning the crowd. He had the look of fighter, his arms thick. I couldn’t make out the color of his eyes, but they were dark and mysterious as he gazed around, his expression somehow less expectant than that of the other men up there. What was that edge to the set of his mouth, that tightness in the way he peered down? Anger, or envy?

He’s close to my age.

I blinked. One guy caught my interest: one guy with whom I didn’t stand a chance.

His gaze darted straight to me and pierced through my soul. Such darkness . . . such depth. He didn’t look like the shallow voids of men who usually sat up there, peering down on the rest of us. He didn’t have the expression of a man who had everything handed to him glazed in gold.

He looked like a man with a lot on his shoulders. A lot more than merely all that muscle. Damn! Was it the stresses of money, or something more personal that weighted his gaze? His lips tugged up on one side as he looked into my eyes, a half a smile warming the air between us. The grin brought a lighter, boyish charm to his already-stunning looks, and I couldn’t believe this man was smiling at
me.

I glanced away, picking up a rocking motion in time with the pounding bass, hoping he hadn’t noticed me staring. Another guy walked by and checked me out, slipping onto the barstool beside me, but I couldn’t concentrate well enough to even level him with a dismissive glare. My heartbeat sprinted faster than the rhythm of the music, hitting harder than the bass, and I couldn’t sway in time to the beat anymore. I felt that gaze still upon me—heavy, dividing me away from the rest of the crowd as though the lights had gone out on everyone else—and I didn’t dare to look up.

Holy crap, holy crap. What do I do?
I tucked my bangs behind my ear and wanted to hide, but at the same time, the alcohol—or perhaps that electric glare—lit a fire inside me deep down low, and I crossed my legs. I came here looking for action, and here was more of a man than I could ever ask for, taking an interest in me. A higher caliber man than those on the dance floor. And he couldn’t tear his eyes away.

I knew I should flirt, or look back, or tug the neck of my shirt lower or something, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. My history was too contrary to a relationship with a man in the executive level of the nicest bar in touristy Duluth.

Relationship? I thought this was about getting laid.
I mentally slapped my own hand. I pushed off my stool, stood, and crossed the dance floor to the door. When I stepped outside I drew deep breaths of fresh, spring air, washing away the aroma of alcohol and sweat. Even in the warm, humid breeze, that burn still ignited my nerves. I wanted to go back in. I wanted that man to touch me.

I broke into a sprint across the parking lot, desperate to shake the urges. He was too good for a homeless girl and I knew it. The vigorous motion of running pressed back the disappointment of total failure to flirt in my months away from home. But halfway down the rows of slanted white, painted parking spaces on pavement, a voice tugged me back and I skidded to a stop.

“Hey!”

My heart rate picked up again, though not from the cardio. I knew the face to which that voice belonged . . . I knew it without ever hearing him speak before. I turned around slowly, my arms tense with nerves. “Uh . . . what?”

It was him, as I’d suspected, feared and hoped all at once. The dark eyes and the chiseled chin, and
oh
he was even more solid-looking than he appeared from the balcony inside. I pressed my lips together as he slowed from his own jog out the door of the club and stuffed his hands into the pockets of his dark cargo pants. He cracked a grin at me and shrugged. “Hi.”

I gulped. Hi? Hi from lips on the body of a Greek god?

“Hi,” I whispered, and I hoped I only sounded out of breath from running, and not from the urge to strip off my clothes and straddle his flawless face. I mentally slapped my hand again, ordering myself to behave. Acting like a whore wouldn’t get me anywhere with a guy like this.

Or would it? It didn’t matter. I couldn’t manage more than one syllable around this one, much less hike up my skirt and show some thigh. Er . . . more thigh. I resisted the urge to tug it down and hide.

He extended his hand, his expression curious. “I’m Asher.”

I glanced at his hand and back at his face, wishing I hadn’t suddenly reverted to the vocabulary of a toddler. “Okay.” Two syllables.
Good job, Aria.

He frowned and pulled his hand away, tucking it into his pocket. “Asher Chain.”

I blinked. Then the realization hit me: this was Asher Chain, the man who inherited his parents’ billions when they died six years ago,
the
Asher Chain who could get any woman he wanted. From the tabloids and TV, playboy, personal trainer, male-model billionaire
Asher Fucking Chain.

Panic seized my throat. If I thought I had little chance of scoring a guy who looked like him before, I was certain of it now: I wasn’t even close to his league. Hell, I was such a nothing beside him I didn’t even
have
a league. And here we stood in the parking lot, his gaze wandering over my silver-hooped earlobes and cartilage, my black-lace-wrapped arms and bare legs beneath my miniskirt, and even down to the neon socks tucked into my running shoes.

Asher cocked an eyebrow with interest and stepped closer. “And your name is? Since you already know mine,” he said.

His voice slipped through my alcohol-lubricated body and I wanted to punch my hormones down into submission as I smelled the faint odor of rum on his breath, and some expensive shampoo or other rich-guy-product wafting off his skin. I met his gaze and was spelled by his eyes: they looked darker than I’d realized, his pupils dilated.

Is he high?
I peered closer. No. His pupils weren’t dilated. They exploded into the white-streaked blue of his eyes like starbursts, the streaks extending through his irises as though a bright, many-pointed star shone behind a smaller, black one. I shook my head, nerves overtaking desire. “Look, I’m not . . . you’re Asher Chain.”

He chuckled. “Yeah. I’ve been aware of that since I was born, I think.”

Of course he was. “No, I . . . ” I stammered and fought back the urge to run the hell away or pee my pants. “I’m not interested, okay? I’ve got shit to do.”

“Shit like what?” He raised an eyebrow, challenging me.

“Shit like run home.”

“Or,” he held up a finger, “and this is just a thought: I could drive you.”

I glanced around at the vacant parking lot and Asher did the same.

“Uh . . . my garage is just a few blocks away, beside my gym. I can go get a car and be back in a flash.”

I hesitated, so he shrugged. “I’ve only had one drink. I’m good.” He grinned again.

That grin made me want to leap on top of him and lick his pearl-white, perfect smile until he convulsed against me.
Hand slap.
“Or,” I held up a finger to mimic him, “and this is just a thought: I could run home.”

Asher paused, his eyes tight at the corners, as though my refusal confused him. Women probably drank up his words like water in the desert.
Hell, I do.
But I couldn’t do this, not with him, no matter how badly I wanted to inside.

“Okay,” Asher said. “Moonlight walk at midnight it is! A little cliché for a first date, if you ask me, but that’s alright.”

A first date? His candor disarmed me completely, and I didn’t know what to say, so I spun around and broke into a jog, ignoring his advances, racing away as fast as I could.

“Wait, wait!” Asher called, his feet pounding the pavement behind me.
Jesus, how heavy is that muscle he packs around him?

I stopped and planted my hands on my hips, turning to face him once more. I didn’t want to reject him, especially when he was hotter than any of the many men who had shown me interest in the bars as I sought something I knew I needed. What could I say to a man like Asher Chain, though?
Sure, I’d love to come home with you tonight, but in the morning I’ll have to take a cab back to my fucking car where I live like a hobo?
To be in his bed would be something of which I’d never dared to dream, something from the books—a fantasy, not real life. But to be the woman Asher regretted having in his bed in the morning . . . well, that was a humiliation too thick for me to swallow.

He looked genuinely confused as I caught my breath, staring at him again. It was as though he didn’t understand why I said no, why I didn’t melt into putty in his hands, though not for lack of wanting to.

“Can I get your name?” he asked. “Number? Anything?”

I shook my head. “I’m sorry.” My voice caught in my throat with shame. “I can’t . . . I’m not interested, okay?”

His arms bulged against his shirt as he flexed his fists, angry at my rejection. For a moment, my heart iced with fear. But that fear was replaced by a need so hot inside me I could hardly bear to keep the distance between us. This glorious, beautiful man, every woman’s object of longing and every man’s envy, wanted me. And I refused him.

He raised his chin, tension rolling off his shoulders in waves and crashing into my defenses, and nodded sharply. “You’d better go, then.”

Was that a threat? I couldn’t tell. So I tore my gaze away from his hungry eyes, swallowed the tears that threatened my cool exterior and turned around, sprinting across the parking lot. I ran down the orange-lit street and into the night, away from the one thing I’d ever seen that I actually wanted, the man way too amazing for a girl like me.

Morning coffee
was always a pleasure. I only entertained four affluent customers in my gym, each three days a week for private, two-hour sessions. Exercise kept my need for sex at bay, as did the occasional, casual touch of my clients during workout. Gypsy suggested that the release of endorphins—both mine and that of my clients—during exercise was similar to that during sex, so the profession suited me nicely. I sat at my table at the Lacy Teacup in between clients, the nicest café in the touristy town. It was my table because I paid well for it, tipping my waitress double the tab amount every day. They kept my preferred table open for me at all hours.

“Mr. Chain.” The café owner’s voice startled me from my newspaper.

“Yes?” I pressed, irritated by the bother.

“Forgive me,” the balding man muttered, “but Lisa was offered a sudden internship in Wisconsin. Your waitress will be Aria today. She’s taking over Lisa’s section.”

“Fine.” Lisa was a cute but harmless lesbian who tended to my coffee needs every day without fail. I didn’t have any sexual attraction to her, so the news did not sit happily. I didn’t want distraction here, in the one place of calmness in my life: my daily coffee ritual.