Not You It's Me

by Julie Johnson

  Ew.

  Mega ew.

  I rise to my feet, keeping my eyes locked on the coffee table. “Well, you’ve got my number, Mr. Croft, if you want to talk about a new piece for your collection. Otherwise I have to be going—”

  “Sit.”

  Suddenly, there’s steel running through his soft, honeyed tones.

  My heart jumps in my chest and my eyes fly to him. He hasn’t moved so much as a muscle but he looks pissed, sitting there with one hand extended into the space between us. It takes me a few seconds to realize he’s waiting for the binder I’m still clutching against my chest.

  I swallow forcefully and make myself hand it to him, feeling like I’ve lost a vital part of my defenses when I do, and sink reluctantly back onto the leather couch.

  For a few minutes, the only sound in the room is the flipping of pages as Brett works his way through the binder, sometimes lingering over a particular piece but never seeming to dwell on any of them for long.

  Damn. Estelle is going to be so pissed at me. This is twice in a row, now, that I’ve screwed up with a VIP. It won’t matter to her that none of this is my fault. The end result — Gemma spectacularly failing to broker any paintings — is the same.

  The sound of the binder snapping closed makes me flinch.

  “I’ll take both of the abstracts by Favre, and the still by Sartre — the blue one, on page 18.”

  My mouth drops open. “What?”

  “Did you not hear me?” he asks, his tone mirthful. “I said I want the Favre—”

  “I heard you,” I say, my cheeks reddening. “It’s just… No. You can’t.”

  His brow crinkles with amusement. “I can’t buy the paintings you came here to sell me?”

  I swallow. “You’ve only seen their pictures.”

  “And?”

  “Don’t you want to see them in person?”

  He shakes his head, amused.

  I try again. “Don’t you want to hear about the artists’ backgrounds?”

  Another head shake.

  “But, Mr. Croft—”

  “Miss Summers.” His voice is firm. “Did you come here to sell me art?”

  After a beat of hesitation, I nod.

  “Then why are you trying to talk me out the sale?”

  “I…well….” I trail off.

  “Good,” he says decidedly. “It’s settled, then.”

  I sigh. “You didn’t even get to hear my sales pitch. It was good. Really.”

  A smile tugs up the left side of his mouth. “I’d love to hear it. Unfortunately, we don’t have time today.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He opens his mouth to answer but before he can, there’s another knock at the door, seconds before it swings wide.

  The Hulk is back.

  “He’s here.”

  “Right on time.” Brett laughs boyishly, but there’s a dark edge to it that makes me nervous.

  The Hulk’s expression never changes; his voice never wavers above a low rumble. “Should I let him in, sir?”

  Brett nods, his face still split by a grin. “Yes, immediately.”

  The Hulk nods and disappears, the door clicking shut at his back.

  My head swivels from Brett to the door and back again. “What’s going on?”

  “We’ll meet again, in a few days, to finalize the sale, if that’s all right with you.” He phrases it like a request, though we both know I don’t have a choice about it. Rising to his feet, he buttons his blazer and circles the coffee table until he’s right beside me. “It was lovely to meet you, Miss Summers.”

  “You too,” I say automatically, staring up at him and feeling like my brain is ten steps behind whatever’s going on here.

  He offers me a hand. “Come.”

  Not wanting to be rude — after all, the man has just agreed to purchase not one but three pieces of art, which will make Estelle so happy she probably won’t fire me any time in the foreseeable future — I slide my hand into his and allow him to pull me to my feet. His cool skin sends a strange, squeamish chill up my spine.

  “Thanks,” I murmur, as soon as I’m upright. I begin to pull my hand from his, when his grip tightens and he steps closer.

  My heartbeat picks up speed.

  “The pleasure was all mine, Miss Summers, I assure you.”

  “It’s Gemma,” I blurt stupidly, at a loss for words and rational thought with those too-blue, too-intense eyes locked on mine, less than a foot away. “Just Gemma.”

  Brett’s lips twist in a smile and he opens his mouth to say something, but before he gets a word out, the door to the study is thrown open with so much force, it rattles on its hinges. Startled, I nearly jump out of my skin as my eyes fly toward the entrance, fully expecting to see The Hulk standing there, green and raging, suit in tatters, ready to rip us to pieces.

  Except it’s not him.

  There’s another man standing there, seething, with flashing green eyes and a vein jumping in his jugular as he takes in the scene before him.

  Chase.

  And his narrowed, burning gaze is locked on my hand, still wrapped tightly in Brett’s grip.

  Yikes.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Wild

  For almost a full minute, there’s total silence in the study.

  Chase and Brett have locked eyes in a stare-down of epic proportions and, though I’m still standing here with my hand stuck in Brett’s grip, I think they’ve entirely forgotten my existence. The hatred is so think in the air, it’s getting hard to breathe and I’m beginning to think things can’t get much worse — until Brett starts speaking. At which point, I realize clogged, tense silence is vastly preferable to the two of them actually communicating.

  “Well, if it isn’t my favorite cousin!” Brett says, grinning happily. “I’d ask what made you drop by, but I’ve got a pretty good idea.”

  Chase’s jaw clenches tighter and he doesn’t bother to respond.

  “Ah, so stoic, as usual.” Brett glances at me briefly, his eyes hooded. “Miss Summers and I were just getting…” He pauses. “…acquainted.”

  I don’t look at him, but I can actually feel Chase’s anger. It’s palpable — pouring off him in waves, saturating the room around us. Brett doesn’t seem to notice — or, if he does, he simply doesn’t care. He carries on speaking, his tone cheerfully cruel.

  “We were just making plans to meet again, to finalize our…” Once again, his beat of silence is artfully timed. “…transaction.”

  Chase’s eyes cut to me — just for a fraction of a second, but the expression I see in their depths is scary enough to make my shoulders curl in on themselves. Hastily, I swing my eyes in Brett’s direction.

  “Thank you so much for your business, Mr. Croft. I’ll be in touch soon to discuss details of the sale,” I say, hoping — stupidly — that once Chase realizes this meeting is only about art, he’ll cool down.

  He doesn’t.

  If anything, the room gets even tenser. So tense, I’m afraid to look at Chase. And, because I’m me, certifiable idiot of the century, I don’t keep quiet, as I clearly should in this situation. Instead, I keep talking and shove my foot even further down my throat.

  “Feel free to call me at the gallery with any questions,” I prattle nervously, keeping my eyes locked on Brett’s chin because his too-pleased smile is creeping me out a bit, if I’m being honest. “My personal extension is on the business card in your binder. Which, you know, you can just keep here, in case you want to look at your paintings. And ‘cause, well, we’ve got like twenty of them at the gallery and I’m sure Estelle — that’s my boss — would want you to have access to all our artists’ collections without having to drive across town.”

  Brett’s grin steadily widens as I’m speaking. By the time I fall silent, it’s so big, I can see practically all of his teeth.

  Like I said — creepy.

  “How considerate of you, Miss Summers.” He leans closer and his grip t
ightens on mine. “Though I wouldn’t mind the drive. In fact, I’d love to visit your gallery sometime.”

  My mouth falls open a little when I hear something that sounds suspiciously like a growl from the other side of the room. It’s the first sound Chase has made since he arrived, and it is not a good one. In fact, it’s a downright scary one.

  “Well, I really have to be going now,” I say, my voice going up in a nervous squeak as I attempt to pull my hand out of Brett’s. My tug is no match for his grip, which only tightens around mine — not quite painful, but almost. His hold feels like a threat, and yet, despite the fact that it’s my fingers getting crushed, somehow I don’t think the threat is for me.

  My gaze darts in Chase’s direction and I see his eyes have gone scary. They’re locked on my hand —which is starting to ache, by the way — and there’s a lethal edge to their intensity.

  I gulp down a breath, trying to stay calm, though I must admit, most of my energy is concentrated in an effort not to pee my pants where I stand — which, in case you weren’t paying attention, is between two terrifying men whose anger management problems are only outweighed by their family issues.

  “Um,” I say — squeak — in an attempt to get myself far, far away from ground zero of the Croft Civil War. “I have another appointment in an hour and it seems like you two have lots to catch up on, so if you’ll just let go of my hand, I’ll be out of your hair and—”

  “Let her go,” Chase says, finally speaking. His voice is emotionless, cold, totally contained, and his eyes are locked on his cousin. “Now.”

  Brett chuckles. “Well, since you asked so nicely…”

  His hand loosens and I instantly pull mine away, feeling a rush of pins and needles shoot into my fingers as blood flow returns. My relief is short-lived. I don’t even have time to step back, to turn for the door, to freaking move, when my hand is snatched up again. My eyes drop and catch a glimpse of large, calloused fingers wrapping around mine, but I don’t have time to process the fact that they’re Chase’s, or that somehow, he crossed the room so quickly I missed it, because suddenly, I’m moving.

  Fast.

  My coherent thoughts and protests are left behind as he drags me from the room without a word, his hold so tight the bones in my fingers grind painfully together. Distantly, I hear Brett’s laughter chasing us out of the study, down the hall, into the living room, and before I know it, we’ve reached the front door and I’m being yanked into the hallway. I don’t have the wherewithal to fight, at the moment, so I follow — my feet moving automatically, forced to jog if I want to match Chase’s long-legged strides. And even though it’s a pain in the ass to run in heels, not matching his pace isn’t an option. I’m pretty sure he’s so mad, even if I tripped and fell to the marble floor, he’d just keep going, dragging me behind him like a child drags a toy doll through the mud.

  Only when we’re alone in the elevator, descending rapidly down twenty floors to ground level, do I finally realize how flipping angry I am — at Brett, at Chase, at the whole goddamn situation.

  He’s still holding my hand. I tug at it, trying to free myself, but his grip never loosens.

  “Let go,” I hiss, turning to look at him.

  His jaw is clenched tight, the vein in his neck is pounding, and there’s a muscle jumping in his cheek.

  Whoa. He’s pissed.

  “Chase,” I say, tugging again. “Let go of my hand.”

  “No,” he growls flatly between tight-locked teeth.

  My mouth drops open. “This is ridiculous! You can’t just burst into people’s apartments and interrupt their business meetings and drag them out like some kind of caveman! I’m a grown woman! It’s the twenty-first century! And frankly, I’ve reached my lifetime limit for dealing with overbearing billionaires, so let me go!”

  I punctuate my words by pulling harder against his grip, this time putting my whole body weight behind it.

  It makes not a bit of difference.

  “Chase!”

  “Quiet.”

  “I will not be quiet! This is ridiculous!”

  “Gemma, I said quiet.”

  “I don’t know who you think you are, but I don’t like it at all! This is absolutely outrageo—”

  The words evaporate on my tongue when Chase steps forward, his vicious tug sending me stumbling after him, and pushes the Emergency Stop button. The elevator jolts to a halt, and suddenly, without the mechanical buzz of the car moving on its cables, it’s altogether too quiet, too close inside this tiny floating box. He stands there, staring at the illuminated buttons, the muscle still working in his jaw as he fights for control, and the space seems to shrink around us.

  Feeling claustrophobic, I gulp for air as Chase turns slowly to face me, his expression thunderous with barely-leashed anger.

  “We aren’t talking about this here.” The finality in his tone is unmistakable, and my own anger, momentarily forgotten, swiftly returns.

  “We’re not talking about this at all!” My eyes are narrowed. “As far as I’m concerned, once we’re out of this damn elevator and you let me go, we’re never talking again!”

  “Yes, we are,” he counters flatly, his voice booking no room for argument.

  “You can’t tell me what to do!”

  “I can. I just did.”

  I shriek in frustration. “There’s something wrong with you! You say you don’t want me, then you bring me to your office. You tell the world I’m nothing but a charity case, and then you show up here like some kind of crazy person.” I throw my free hand up, exasperated. “Normal people don’t behave like this! Normal people don’t stomp around, all broody and mysterious, thinking they can do whatever they want and say whatever they want, and go wherever they want, whenever they freaking feel like it!”

  He doesn’t respond; he just stares at me, waiting for me to finish. Which might take awhile — I’ve got a lot of shored up emotions, ready to explode.

  “I’m getting pretty sick and tired of being manhandled! Guess what? It’s not fun at all! I was just doing my job, trying to sell some art, and now I’m pissed off and embarrassed and my freaking hand hurts, because apparently you and your cousin are in some kind of contest to see who can give me arthritis of the fingers first!”

  His grip loosens instantly at my words, but he doesn’t drop my hand.

  “I want to go home, Chase. I want this to be over. Whatever game you and Brett are playing — I don’t want to play. I don’t even want to know the rules, or who the winner is when you finally run out of ammunition in this pissing contest. Just leave me out of it.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Excuse me?”

  His jaw clenches again and his words are low, stripped of emotion, when he speaks. “It’s too late. You’re already involved.”

  My eyebrows go up on my forehead. “You’re kidding,” I say flatly, unable to muster even an ounce of incredulity.

  His eyes scan my face. “I tried to keep you out of this. I swear, I did. But it’s too late now.”

  A hysterical noise — half chuckle, half scream — escapes my mouth. “You’re totally nuts. Bonkers. Gonzo.”

  “Gemma.”

  “Seriously, what are you even talking about?”

  He sighs. “My cousin and I — we don’t get along.”

  “Yeah, I got that, thanks,” I snap.

  His nostrils flare with anger, but he reins it in and his voice is composed when he continues. “He thinks I’m interested in you.”

  I notice he doesn’t clarify whether Brett’s beliefs are accurate, but I’m certainly not going to ask, so instead I just bite out a terse, “And?”

  “And that makes you a target.”

  I stare at him, waiting for him to break into a grin and say, Gotcha! Just kidding, Gemma.

  He doesn’t.

  “What does that mean?” I ask. “That I’m a target?”

  “It means, he’ll do everything he can to use you against me. To hurt me.”
>
  “Oh,” I say, instantly relieved. “Well, then there’s nothing to worry about.”

  His eyes narrow. “Care to explain that statement?”

  My cheeks heat with the beginnings of a blush. “Well, I just mean, there’s nothing going on between us, so it’s not like he could use me against you even if he wanted to. We’ve only met, like, twice. We’re basically strangers. So, there’s really nothing to worry about. You can let me go, I’ll tell your cousin there’s nothing between us, and we can all get on with our lives.”

  That strange, scary look creeps into his eyes again. “You will not be speaking to my cousin again.”

  “Excuse me?” I huff. “I’ll do whatever I damn well please, thank you very much.”

  “Gemma—”

  “No!” I interject. “He’s a client, now. I’ll have to talk to him, one way or another.”

  “Find a new client.”

  “Oh, right.” I snort. “Because I can just snap my fingers and find a new gazillionaire art connoisseur.” My eyes go wide and I infuse my voice with sarcasm. “Or, hey! Maybe I can just go out into the forest and pick up a few new ones, because apparently they’re growing on trees, now!”

  “Good.” Chase totally ignores my sarcastic comments, his voice flat. “Because you’re not dealing with Brett ever again.”

  I fight a scream “Are you even listening to me?”

  “I’ll buy however many goddamn paintings you want!” he barks, his expression dark. “I’ll buy the whole fucking collection! But Brett is not your client, anymore. Do you understand me?”

  I make a concerted effort to get my breathing under control and decide to try a new tactic. “How did you even know I was here?”

  “I keep an eye on everything my cousin does.”

  “That’s insane,” I breathe.

  “It’s necessary.” His voice is unapologetic. “And it’s a mutual arrangement.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning, Brett and I both subscribe to the friends close, enemies closer, family closest mentality.”