“Sara, baby, if it’s about money, that’s not an issue. I want to spend it on you.” He slides his hands to my cheeks, framing my face. “You’ve spent five years without the nice things you grew up knowing. Let me do this for you. I want to do this for you.”
“Chris—”
“You can’t tell me you don’t miss these things.”
“I do fine with the simple life.”
“That’s not the point. You have to miss these things.”
Denial is on my lips, but he’s watching me closely, and he’s too smart to not see the truth. “Out of sight, out of mind. It’s how I cope, not like this.”
He runs a hand through my hair. He’s gentle and I fight the urge to lean into him, aware it will lesson my position. “You think I’m going to get you used to nice things and then leave.”
“I know you are, Chris.”
He presses his forehead to mine, strokes my cheek. “I told you. You’ll be the one who’ll run away, not me.”
Me? Run away from him? He keeps saying that and now more than ever, it confuses me. Mr. No White Picket Fence, and no relationship, is sounding like he’s in this to stay and I’m not. His actions and words don’t compute and there is deep-seated need inside me rising and taking shape. A relationship with Chris beyond sex is becoming far too appealing to be safe. I don’t want to fall for him. I don’t want to convince myself there is more between us than there is. “Chris—”
He kisses me, a long, deep, drugging kiss that leaves me panting. “Get dressed, baby.” He nuzzles my neck and pulls back, a surprised look on his face. “Are you wearing my cologne?” And the erotic heat in his eyes burns away my objections about these gifts.
“Yes,” I whisper. “I like smelling like you.”
The yellow flecks I adore in his green eyes burn nearly orange. “I like you smelling like me.” He kisses me again, his tongue stroking mine in a deep, seductive caress before he sets me away from him. “Get dressed before I don’t let you.” He turns and heads out the door, shutting it behind him.
I stare after him, feeling dazed, and my confusion ranks as perpetual. He really wants me to have these clothes, I realize. And more so, it feels like he wants me to have them to please me, not him. Though I’d not allowed myself to have the thought upon seeing the bags, deep down I’d feared he was trying to make me fit some acceptable mold before taking me to a public place he knows well. I’ve been there, done that, lived in the place where I had to meet standards to be seen in public.
But no. I don’t believe Chris needs me to fit some perfect image to be on his arm. I felt his sincere desire to do this for me. Emotion wells inside me. This is the first time since my mother died that I truly feel cared about. It matters to me. Chris is beginning to matter to me. I have to take the gifts.
My gaze falls on the bags. Maybe I do need these things. They will motivate me to study and earn a place at Riptide. It’s not like before, when there was no hope of extra income. Yes. I am good with this. Chris is helping to motivate me.
Nevertheless, there’s a knot in my stomach as I go through the items and pack the suitcase, finding several dresses, a pair of boots, several heels, lingerie and toiletries. The lingerie is beautiful and expensive, and my blood heats thinking of wearing it for Chris. Since we are traveling and I have no idea where we’re going, I decide to go casual since Chris is in his typical biker gear.
After trying on a few items and picking my favorites, I choose a pair of slim black jean leggings and a sleek camel-colored blouse with sequins. The outfit is complete with a pair of high-heeled boots that lace up to my ankles. Beneath it all, I am wearing a cream-colored jeweled bra and thong set I’d pulled a ridiculous price tag from.
The flat iron is a relief, and I quickly put it to use, and note that I also have a curling iron for later use. For now, thanks to a high quality flat iron, and some styling products also in the bags, my hair falls in sleek, shiny brunette waves down my shoulders. I glance at the two kinds of perfume that were included but I choose to spray on another dollop more of Chris’s cologne.
Finally, I’m ready and I head to the living room with my new Vuitton bag in tow. Chris is sitting in a leather chair, legs propped up on an ottoman and a sketch pad in hand. He sets the pad aside the instant he sees me and stands up.
“You look beautiful, Sara.”
“Thank you. I wasn’t sure how to dress.”
He walks towards me, all loose-legged swagger and hotness. “You would have been perfect no matter what you chose. You are perfect.”
No one in my life has ever said that to me but my mother. That it’s Chris saying it now, that he is saying it with appreciation glowing in his hot gaze, warms me in ways well beyond the words.
He strokes a lock of my hair behind my ear, something I’m becoming accustomed to him doing, but I still shiver from the gentleness of the touch. “Ready to leave?”
“Yes. Where are we going?”
His lips curve. God, he has great lips. “I told you, baby. It’s a surprise.”
More of the emotion I’d felt in the bedroom, rises inside me. “Chris—”
“Don’t thank me. Just be with me, Sara.”
“I am. I want to be.”
His lips curve. “Good.” He motions toward the exit. “Let’s blow this joint, then, aye?”
I laugh. “Aye.”
We head to the elevator, me pulling my roller Vuitton and him with a black leather case he throws over his shoulder. There is a raw energy and excitement in the air, and we glance at each other and smile. I’ve never had that kind of energy with anyone. I feel suddenly light and free. This is an adventure. Chris is an adventure.
We exit in a garage and I immediately spot not one, not two, but three Harleys, and stop dead in my tracks. “Holy cow, they’re all yours, aren’t they?”
He grins. “Yeah. You ever been on one?”
I shake my head.
“We’ll have to fix that soon.” He clicks his key ring and the Porsche’s lights flicker.
We approach the car and next to it I admire a sky blue, classic Mustang that’s been remodeled. “Is this yours too?” I ask, pausing beside it.
“I have a thing for remodeling old Mustangs.”
“How many do you have?”
“Five.”
I blink at him. I know he has money. I know he’s sold a lot of work. But still. “How rich are you, Chris?”
He barks out a laugh, his eyes twinkling. He knows I’ve mimicked his words when he’d asked about my father. “My father was an accomplished musician and well paid for his craft. My mother was Danielle Wright — as in the founder of the cosmetic line that still exists today.”
Holy crap. He inherited a fortune on top of what he makes himself. “Do you own Danielle Wright Cosmetics?”
“I’m not a boardroom kind of guy. I sold out years ago and re-invested in things of more interest.”
Stunned does not describe what I feel. “You’re filthy rich, aren’t you?”
He laughs. “It depends on how you define filthy, sweetheart.” He wiggles a brow and opens the door to the Porsche.
“You don’t seem that rich. I mean, clearly you have money, but you don’t act like it.”
“I don’t know if that’s a compliment or an insult.” He doesn’t look insulted though, more entertained.
I study him a long moment, trying to see something I’ve missed in him. Some hint of what makes him like my father, or Michael—who rides my father’s coattails and acts like he’s successful on his own—but I see nothing. He doesn’t treat people like they are beneath him. In fact, when he’d given me the clothes, he’d acted like wearing them was a favor to him, not an honor he’d bestowed upon me.
I lean forward, push to my toes, and kiss him on his sexy, perfect mouth. “It’s a compliment, Chris. In every way possible.” I pull back and see a flicker of surprise on his face before I slide into the car, letting the soft leather absorb my weight. He said I was never
what he expected. He is never what I expect. And when Chris slips behind the wheel, and revs the engine of the 911 into a soft purr, I do not think about the car’s connection to my father. I revel in how utterly male and sexy Chris is as he maneuvers the sleek vehicle onto the highway.
We are weaving through several side streets and Chris cranks up the radio to the old AC/DC song ‘Back in Black’ and I laugh. “Old school rock n’ roll? I guess it goes with a Mustang obsession.”
“I use music to paint by. This one reminds me of a particular work I created not so long ago.”
“Every piece of art has a song attached?” I’m thrilled to see inside his creative process.
“Some pieces I play the same song over and over. Some I have a collection of songs I use.”
“And this song goes to what work?”
“A ‘Stormy Night‘ San Fran piece I sold at auction last year.”
We begin to cross the Bay Bridge and I am growing curious about our destination, but not as curious as I am about Chris. “A Dark Sea ,” I say, knowing exactly the work he means.
He casts me a sideways look. “You do know your art and artists, don’t you?”
I smile and sink lower into my seat, wondering if I will truly know this artist. “It sold for an astounding amount of money, Chris.” Seven figures.
“Yeah,” he agrees. “It did.”
I turn to face him, studying his profile. “How does it feel to have people pay seven figures for your creation?”
“Like validation.”
It’s not the answer I expect. “Surely you’re well beyond needing validation?” He steers the car out of the city and onto a major highway.
“I create in solitude and then take whatever I put on the canvas out to the world. And not all of my work sells for big money. A lot doesn’t.”
“You make millions a year on your art, Chris. That’s big money.”
“It’s not about the money. I donate most of it anyway.”
“You donate your art proceeds?”
“That’s right.”
“To whom?”
“Some years back, I was talked into an event held at the Los Angeles Children’s Hospital and it was pretty mind-blowing. All those brave kids, and the parents who were dying inside right along with them. I knew I had to do what I could to help and I have since.”
He donates his money to save dying children. There are so many layers to this man — deep, dark, wonderful layers. I know he’s fucked up. I know he’s damaged. I know this need to help children must call to some part of him that’s raw and bleeding. Which part?
“Have you guessed where we’re going?” he asks, before I can find the words to express how much I admire what he’s doing.
I glance around and realize we are on highway 29 North. “Napa Valley?” And it hits me he’s taking me to a winery to show his support of my career.
“Have you ever been?”
I laugh. “No. I wasn’t kidding when I said I have zero knowledge of wine. Well, I guess now I can say I have some knowledge but not much.”
“We’ll fix that,” he promises.
My lips curve. I’m going to my first winery. I’ve always thought it would be a neat thing to do. “I’m excited, Chris. Thank you.”
He grabs my hand and kisses it, cutting me a mischievous look. “I’m looking forward to having you alone and well wined.”
I bite my lip. “Chivalry will get you everywhere.”
“I’m counting on it.”
“You didn’t sleep much,” he comments. “Maybe you should rest your eyes so you can enjoy our getaway.”
“What about you? You slept less than me.”
“I slept enough. Rest, baby. This is the one place you can count on me letting you sleep this weekend.”
My lips curve. “Sounds like I should take a nap.” I let my eyes shut, the soft hum of the car vibrating through me, and Chris at the wheel. I find I am more relaxed than I have been in a very long time.
Chapter Twenty-Two
“Wake up, baby. We’re almost there.”
I blink to feel Chris’s gentle hand on my arm. “Where?”
“The hotel.”
“I don’t remember closing my eyes,” I admit. “How long did I sleep?”
“Half an hour, out cold.”
I sigh and sit up, aware of the hollow moan of my stomach as I stretch and bring the scenery into view. I gape at the miles and miles of beautiful green mountains and countryside. “It’s gorgeous. Absolutely spectacular.”
“The Mayacamas Mountains. And yes, they are.”
“I’m surprised they haven’t shown up in your artwork.”
“I’m not a landscape guy. You know that. I can’t believe you’ve never been here. You’ve lived in San Francisco since college, right?”
I nod. “Yes. I just…it’s the out of sight, out of mind thing.” And a teacher’s pay, I add silently, as my eyes light on a gorgeous hotel property and the name on the sign. Auberge du Nuit, the hotel for the rich and famous, like Chris. I remember reading about it in a magazine I’d tossed in the trash because it was torturing me with all I couldn’t do and see.
“I’m going to put an end to that out of sight, out of mind thing, baby. Just you wait and see.” He whips the vehicle onto the long driveway and I shove aside the tension his words create. I’m not going to think about adjusting to him being gone, and he will be gone. For once, I’m living for the moment, and for the dream I am chasing.
The instant the Porsche is under the awning at the front door, a bellman in a sharp black suit opens my door. I step out of the car and Chris does the same on his side.
“Good to see you, Mr. Merit,” the bellman says in greeting.
Chris rounds the hood and tosses the keys at him. “Don’t go on any joy rides, Rich.”
“No sir,” Rich agrees, grinning, and Chris slides him a tip I’m pretty sure is a hundred dollar bill. One sixth of my weekly pay for parking the car. “Luggage is in the trunk.”
“I’ll have it up right away, sir,” Rich assures him. “Are you doing an event at the gallery I haven’t heard about?”
“Not this time,” Chris replies. “For once, it’s all pleasure.” Chris laces his fingers in mine and waves at Rich.
We head toward the checkin desk. “A show?” I ask, unable to douse my curiosity.
“They have a gallery on the property.”
My eyes light up. “It seems wine and art go hand-in-hand.”
“A little too much for my taste,” he mumbles under his breath and it’s not the first time I’ve gotten a negative vibe from him about the association.
We are treated like royalty at the front desk, or rather Chris is. I am warmed by the way he keeps me close to his side, always touching me, as if he can’t stand not to be with me.
By the time we step onto the elevator, headed toward the penthouse suite and he leans against the wall, pulling me against him, my hips to his, I am all melted butter, and dripping chocolate. Yes, it’s a silly saying Ella had used when she’d first met her doctor, but it’s fitting. Ella. I miss her, and wish I’d hear from her, but Chris strokes a hand down my back, molding me closer, and my mind is pretty much mush.
He nuzzles my neck. “I cannot wait to get you alone.”
My hands settle on the hard wall of his chest and I peer up at him. “I thought we had reservations.”
“We do.” He pulls my ear to his lips again, and I know there must be cameras and recording devices. Of course, there are. “Which is why I’m going to fuck you hard and fast. We’ll go slow later.”
I gasp at the wicked words and my sex clenches, wetness clinging to my panties. Hard and fast. Oh yes. Please.
The doors ding a warning and open. Chris takes my hand and all but drags me down the hallway. The walk is eternal, the Alice-in-Wonderland tunnel of forever, before he slides a card through the door lock and we are inside. Before I can blink, I’m against the wall, with Chris pressed deliciously against
me, his thick erection nuzzling my belly, his mouth devouring mine.
I moan into his mouth, the taste of him rich with desire, hungry for me. Me. That’s what makes me hottest of all, beyond his hands stroking my body, palming my breasts and nipples. How much I taste his desire for me. How much I feel his need.
“No one has ever made me lose control the way you do, Sara.” The confession is sealed with another scalding kiss, and oh yes, I am melting.
A knock sounds on the door. “Bellman.”
“Fuck,” Chris hisses, pressing a hand to the wall, and I sense him reaching for control, and have this sudden desperate need to keep him from finding it. This sudden certainty that the only way I will ever know this man as I want to is to take his control.
“Come back later,” I call out, and press my lips to Chris’s, my hand sliding down his hip and around to cup his shaft, stroking the thick ridge through his jeans.
He growls low in his throat and pulls his mouth from mine, and his eyes are dark pools of turbulent passion. He’s mad. Holy shit. He’s furious. “Losing control and you taking it from me are two different things, Sara. You won’t ever take it from me.” He shoves off the walk and stalks to the door and opens it, whistling to get the bellman’s attention.
Frozen to the wall, I feel shell-shocked. The dark Chris, the dangerous damaged Chris I keep forgetting exists, is back. What just happened to set him off? And damn it to hell, why does it turn me on when it shouldn’t?
The bellman is in the door with our bags and I haven’t moved. I feel his eyes on me and I know I must look a disheveled mess. Somehow, I focus on the room, bringing the amazing detail into focus. Vaulted ceiling encase me and to my right is a living area and full kitchen. A California King-size bed is to my left, a stucco fireplace in the corner in front of it, and beyond that a private patio overlooking the mountains.
The hotel door shuts and Chris locks it. My heart is thundering in my chest. I can’t look at him. I don’t think he wants me to look at him. I don’t know why. It’s just a feeling.
He rolls my suitcase to the center of the room and unzips it, pulling out a pair of cream-colored strappy high heels he drops on the floor, and a pale yellow chiffon dress he lays on top of the case when he closes it. “Put them on.”
If I Were You-nook Page 19
