“Not so fast, sugar. I’ll accept your apologies if you have lunch with me tomorrow.”
I was sure that my mouth was hanging open. I didn’t know exactly whether he had sincerely accepted my apology or was simply trying to get his revenge by ridiculing me. Another infuriating quality about Marcus King: he excelled at keeping me off balance.
“No.” It wasn’t only a negative response but a protest. And yet, why did I want to say yes?
“Then your apologies have no meaning to me.”
His flat words hit me like a kick in the gut. Then, once again, he turned around and walked away, and I, to my rising frustration, kept on following him. Somewhere in a corner of my mind, I wondered what it was about him that compelled me to earn his forgiveness. In any other case, with any other person, I would have already given up and probably wouldn’t have even cared.
“But I honestly—”
“Lunch. Tomorrow,” Marcus repeated with an edge of finality. “You can choose the location. Somewhere with lots of people, preferably, and maybe a few policemen, just to be sure.”
I didn’t like his sarcasm, but I deserved it, so I kept my tongue in check. He took my left hand in his, and with his right, he pulled from his pocket a small pen that was tacked to his keychain and started scribbling on my skin.
“Text me the address,” he instructed as if I had already accepted to go out with him. His confidence was irritating. It was suspicious. It was completely alluring. “And, Charlotte, stop thinking so much. You’ll implode.”
Then he left.
In a matter of seconds, his silhouette got lost in the growing crowd. His bottomless, blue eyes, though, remained stuck in my brain even as he disappeared from sight. I could still see the fierce determination that had flickered in them just before he departed. Marcus King was not good for me, not good to keep around.
“But I can’t,” I breathed in his wake, staring at the phone number he had written on my palm.
I couldn’t stop thinking, and I dreaded that if he wanted, he could make me stop thinking altogether.
The prospect of simply feeling horrified me.
It impelled me.
Chapter 8
Marcus
I threw a quick glance at myself while instinctively clutching the handles of the motorcycle. The black waistcoat I was wearing suddenly squeezed me so tightly that breathing became difficult. The matching trousers seemed too long, too loose, and too elegant to suit me. Even my lacquered shoes shined disgustingly clean.
I scoffed at my own appearance and instantly missed the comfort of my black jeans and black leather jacket. This man dressed to the nines was not me, and yet, I had dressed purposefully so to impress her.
I was pitiable.
What was going on with me, and what was so special about Charlotte Burton that lured me back for more? The demon on my shoulder, who fed off my darkest side, reminded me of the anger she had awakened only two nights ago, the demeaning way her eyes had looked at me, and the throbbing blisters that she had so carelessly poked.
The reasonable side of me, which at times was so small and so wavering that I feared it had ceased to exist, wisely prompted that Charlotte didn’t even know who I truly was, so how could she have known the damage she had done? Moreover, she had been adorable while apologizing.
But why did I still pursue her?
She liked harmony, while I was chaos itself. She was a damn lawyer, while I partook in questionable events as a form of relieving stress. She sought calm waters, while I craved the adrenaline of a storm. She was north, and I was south. She was all I never wanted to become, and I was everything she disapproved of in a man. There was no common ground to bind us, but hadn’t I been the one to say that opposed characters were inevitably drawn to each other?
I chided myself for not having severed our relationship once and for all, then I recalled the tremble of her lower lip when I refused to accept her apology. She had been delectable, so much so that I just couldn’t deprive myself of seeing her one more time.
The front door of the building opened. I could feel the cold texture of the grille as if it were my own hand pushing it open. The last time I held that door, it had been for Liv. Groaning and willing the memory out of my head, I straightened on my motorcycle and folded my arms on my chest, adopting a casual attitude that had nothing to do with me presently.
My former mystery and current temptation walked toward me somehow hesitantly, her eyes shifting from me to the motorcycle I was straddling to the clothes I wore. She was surprised, and I was baffled. What did she have that all other women I had met in the past couple of years hadn’t? What pulled me to her when I should have stayed away?
“Hello, sugar.”
I drank her in, wondering how Charlotte Burton would have acted if we had met under different circumstances. If we had known each other from childhood, for instance?
Her jaw tightened, and her eyes turned suddenly defiant. With her, it was difficult to decide whether I wanted to please or taunt her. But I got the feeling that, whereas she turned into wildfire when angered, she would open like a delicate night flower when properly cared for. She could satisfy both the need of the mindless beast and that of the protective warrior that hid and battled for supremacy within a man.
“How should I explain to you that I do not like to be called like that?”
“Nicely?”
“You’re funny already,” she scoffed and bowed her head to hide her expression. Nevertheless, I still caught a glimpse of a smile playing on her lips.
“How should I call you then?”
I decided, perhaps instinctively, that I did not want to annoy her, so I was going to play by her rules.
“Charlotte.”
Her name as well as her quiet yet determined voice invaded me. Charlotte—I feared it was not a name that could be easily forgotten.
“Well, Charlotte, I need to tell you something first. I do know you. Not personally, obviously, but I do know of you. My father is Isaac King. He told me many things about you.”
At first, her eyebrows flew so high that I feared they wouldn’t go back down, then she pressed her lips into a thin, red line. Lastly, as she bit her lower lip and settled her stare on me, understanding seemed to sink in.
“I wondered about the coincidence of your name,” she admitted. “But I never imagined you were truly Isaac’s son.”
“I’m not his best feat,” I replied with a shade of bitterness that I was unable to hide. I got that all too often—people who knew my father couldn’t comprehend how one like me was his son. Sometimes I couldn’t either.
“Nor should you be. You are his son, not some achievement.”
I was so used to my bitterness that I didn’t miss her own. In the depths of her chocolate eyes had clearly shone a form of support that could only be mustered by somebody who had undergone similar emotions, by somebody who had lived a life of not feeling enough, of always fighting and failing to live up to somebody’s too high or misplaced expectations.
She empathized with this part of me. Yet, I couldn’t understand why the precious and sublime Charlotte Burton felt any trace of resentment.
“Now that we settled this, we should get going.”
“I texted you the address of the restaurant. Shouldn’t you—” But she trailed off, her attention focused on the black Yamaha underneath me.
Confusion, trepidation, and excitement mingled together, rendering her all the more beautiful. I imagined how she would feel riding behind me, her arms locked around my waist. Would she tremble, scream, or stiffen with the fear of the first ride? Or would she embrace her curiosity and enjoy the wind blowing in her face as the motorcycle moved at full speed?
“That wouldn’t have been very gentlemanly of me,” I laughed but eyed her carefully. I was pretty sure her vision of me was anything but that of a gentleman.
“Then I should get my car,” she mumbled hesitantly.
“Oh, no. Letting you ride your own vehic
le wouldn’t be very gentlemanly either.”
“I am not getting on this—thing,” she hurried to say, her voice shrill with the slight hint of panic.
I forgave her for having called my baby a thing because she was too gorgeous. I leaned against the steering handlebar and locked my eyes with hers. Had her pupils just dilated?
“You should know one thing about me, Charlotte. I will never allow you to hold back. You are curious about being on this thing, so you will get on it.”
She swallowed with some difficulty, eying the motorcycle tentatively but not fully convinced. I climbed off and took the only step that separated us. From this close, she was small but soft and curvy in all the right places. She was neither too slender nor had any more weight than a woman should. She moved, and the sudden impulse to touch a lock of her hair and inhale her scent overwhelmed me. She smelled of tuberoses and enticement.
“I will keep you safe,” I said.
As soon as the words left my mouth, my jaw clenched. I felt a tingling down my spine and a stiffness that contracted my whole body. Was I really the best man to keep a woman safe?
When I showed her the helmet, Charlotte eyed it dubiously but with the same excitement she could not conceal. There was a battle inside her between reason and recklessness, between curiosity and restraint, between the known and the unknown.
“Okay,” she muttered, seeming to will herself to be brave. “But drive within the speed limit.”
“I will,” I promised.
Driving within the speed limit for her must have been customary. For me, it was a rarity. With a woman like her, however, tightly pressed against my back, so tight that her warmth became my own, forsaking the speed that freed me wouldn’t be as torturous as it would have if I were on my own.
I got on the motorcycle first to steady the lissome beast then held out a hand for Charlotte. She straddled the bike, endearingly hesitant. I waited for her to wrap her arms around my body, but when she just remained frozen behind me, I guided her arms slowly around my torso.
Letting my hands linger on her soft skin, I chuckled when she didn’t manage to intertwine her fingers but instead tightened her hold on my hips. She didn’t reject my caress, maybe because she was too edgy to manage a protest or maybe curiosity just gave her courage. There was still a part of me that hoped that she enjoyed the connection as much as I did.
“Hold tight, Charlotte,” I instructed her although I doubted she would let go once the bike was in motion. She nodded against my back, then we were off.
Within the speed limit.
When we arrived at the restaurant that Charlotte had chosen, I hurried to place our orders so my attention could be entirely focused on her. The short ride had brought a flush to her cheeks, and the helmet had marvelously mussed her formerly perfectly styled hair. This way she looked more human, more reachable—and definitely less lawyerly.
“Now it is your turn to talk,” I told her as soon as the waitress left our table.
During our movie encounter, which, in truth, had been anything but a proper date, I had been the one who talked, the one who avoided pressing her for answers of her own, the one who had unconsciously sought her trust. Now I wanted to listen, to watch her while she opened up to me, even for a little bit.
Charlotte’s eyes widened as though my statement had somehow surprised her, then the color in her cheeks deepened slightly but enough to reveal that she didn’t enjoy being in the spotlight. That stunned me. A woman like her should always be in the spotlight.
“That was—something else,” she said and glanced across the road where I had parked my motorcycle.
“You can breathe now. You are on solid ground,” I teased, and Charlotte surprised me with a sheepish smile.
When she became aware of my scrutiny, the small smile vanished from her face, and she slightly stiffened. She didn’t like to be scrutinized, but that was a side of me I simply couldn’t change.
When something interested me, my full attention and endeavors were dedicated to that particular target. I wanted to capture even the smallest facial change or the quietest of sighs.
“Tell me about yourself, Charlotte.”
“I don’t even know how to ride a bike,” she confessed with a laugh and pulled a lock of hair behind her ear—a nervous gesture that made her even more gorgeous.
I couldn’t help but enjoy the change in her attitude, yet at the same time, my own suspicions stirred, creating a nagging feeling inside me. Was her sudden eagerness and confidence based on the knowledge that I was Isaac King’s son, or had she decided to take a chance on me, regardless of whose son I was?
“Afraid of them?”
“I don’t think so,” she answered, shaking her head. “But when I was little, there never seemed to be the proper time for learning that. And now I think it is too late.”
“It’s never too late although I hope you understand my dislike for little, skinny bikes.” She rolled her eyes, and I grinned, faking a shudder. “So what did you have time for when you were little? And don’t tell me studying.”
“All my time has always been for studying,” she said, the same bitterness I had detected earlier staining the delicate tone of her voice. “But I did do something else. I liked to dance. I never did it professionally, though.”
“That was your form of freedom.”
I still had trouble connecting the Charlotte Burton my father had always told me about with the woman sitting across from me. The Charlotte Burton my father praised was an untouchable woman, an accomplished professional with a career he approved of. The Charlotte Burton sitting across from me seemed to be a woman with emotions and vulnerabilities, with regrets and wishes she didn’t dare to seize. I wondered who was the real Charlotte, the one my father had always been on familiar terms with or the one I was beginning to know?
“And riding is your form of freedom?”
“Yes.”
The waitress returned with a salad for Charlotte and steak for me, but eating was the last thing I was interested in doing. Before she picked up her fork, she subtly rolled her left shoulder then brought her fingers to gently massage the flesh covering the bones. Ever so fleetingly, a trace of discomfort flashed in her eyes. Then it was gone.
“So what else is there to know about the mysterious Charlotte Burton?”
“I’m twenty-six and a Cancer, allegedly the most emotional sign. I would like to protest, but unfortunately, it is the truth.”
I grinned idiotically while she hid behind a forkful of salad. So she had listened to me that night, and she remembered. That shouldn’t have pleased me so much, but it did. She might have been reluctant, but what if she was as intrigued by me as I was by her?
“I’m weather sensitive, and I cannot stand the winters. I love the ocean, but I am utterly unable to swim. And yes, I know. As a water sign, I should have learned long ago.”
“Not necessarily. I am a water sign too and half my life I have been terrified of deep waters. I learned how to swim on a dare...and to avoid drowning.”
“W-what?” she gasped and nearly choked. Her surprise brought a bright smile to my face. I had walked the thin line between life and death on more occasions than I could count.
“I was fifteen, I think, at my cousin’s lake house. We were a large group of stupid boys playing around. We were on the pier, and they dared me to jump in the lake because the water was freezing cold. When I said I wouldn’t do it, somebody shoved me off the pier, and I was forced to kick and slap at the water to keep afloat. After that, I was determined to learn to swim only to avoid similar situations.”
The truth was that I had learned to swim to avoid the embarrassment. I had fallen in love for the first time that fall. It had been the first time I wanted to impress and be in the good graces of a girl, and Kai had ruined everything for me that night as he jostled me into the dark waters. He had been remorseful ever since, but of course, not because he had embarrassed me before the girl I liked, but because he had alm
ost killed me.
“Similar experiences of your own?’
“No,” she replied. I wasn’t certain if her voice sounded outraged or just panicky. “I told you I am not so daring.”
“I do not believe you. You are daring. I can see it in your eyes. You only have to understand that yourself.”
“What else can you see?” she asked, slightly breathless.
Her fingers returned to her left shoulder, massaging the pain away. It was then that I remembered how her small body had slammed into mine the previous day. For me, it hadn’t even been a slight discomfort, but for her fragile feminine frame, the impact must have been harrowing.
“You have locked the true Charlotte within yourself, so deeply that perhaps even you have forgotten who she truly is. I would really like to come to know that woman.”
That resentment that I had recognized earlier and often felt myself fluttered over her delicate features. I was right. There was another Charlotte deep within her. She had sealed away a woman full of dreams and hopes, and the idea of setting that person loose terrified her.
I was more than politely empathic. I was curious to bring that woman to life, and when I was curious, matters turned very tricky. When I got curious, I got determined. When I got determined, I got relentless. When I got relentless, I started feeling. And feeling something for Charlotte Burton could be very dangerous for a man that was already broken.
“Why did you go to law school?” I asked her all of a sudden.
“Why are you asking me this?”
“I’m curious.”
“I didn’t have any other option. I come from a family of lawyers. My profession had been chosen for me before I was even born.”
She talked like the answer was clear as daylight and I was an idiot for even asking in the first place. Revolted, I flexed my fists on the table. I wanted to tell her that there was a choice—that there should always be a choice. I wanted to tell her that her life shouldn’t be dictated by her family—that her life should be lived according to her own judgment. But I knew the story. It was my own.
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