What to Read After FSOG: The Gemstone Collection (WTRAFSOG Book 4)

by Selena Kitt

  “And if I said I wanted to help you out, would you believe me or would you twist it into something it isn’t?”

  I shook my head, my fists clenched. “I don’t need to be saved. I can save myself.”

  “Oh, that’s right,” he said quietly, walking toward me, watching me with stony eyes. “That’s what this whole auction was about. You ‘saving’ yourself.”

  I stared into his face as he came to a stop inches from me. I could smell him. That warm, male body of his that smelled of ocean breezes. I swallowed, wishing I could clamp my own nostrils shut. Even when I was annoyed with him, he still affected me like no one else ever had.

  “If indeed you ever intend to take the auction seriously—”

  He shook his head. “And that three hundred and seventy-five thousand in your bank account means, what? I’ve been paying for the pleasure of your company these past three weeks?”

  I shrugged. “I have no idea. Only you know the answer to that. And you don’t seem to be sharing.”

  Now he looked supremely annoyed. “So should we just drop on the floor and fuck right now?”

  I brought my chin up and looked him straight in the eyes. “Sure, let’s have at it. Get this over with.”

  “Is that what you want? For it to be over with?”

  My mouth opened to shoot the sharp retort on my tongue but nothing came out. I clamped my lips shut. My shoulders shook so I grabbed my arms, crossing them over my chest. My hesitation confused me. Why not just say “yes?” I blinked. Because I didn’t want it to be over. Not yet.

  “Why are you drawing this out?” I finally asked, my voice hardly more than a whisper. I was aware that I wanted a certain answer from him. I didn’t know precisely what that answer was. But would he tell me what was going on inside that ultra intelligent brain of his? Or would he pull back into his cold façade again?

  “I don’t have to share my reasons with you. I’m the wallet in this deal, remember?”

  Yeah. That wasn’t the response I was looking for. Definitely not. Heat crawled up my neck to infuse my cheeks.

  “I’m not a call girl. I’m not your mistress. So stop trying to treat me like one.”

  “See, you’re doing it again. You’re twisting it into something it isn’t.”

  I clenched my teeth. “I’m not moving into your fucking apartment.”

  His expression did not change and he didn’t even move. “Tell me why not.”

  “I don’t have to share my reasons with you,” I mimicked his words back to him.

  “Because you think it means I’m treating you like a mistress?”

  I tensed, thinking of my mother’s story. One with a sad ending for someone I loved most in the world. She was young, fresh and naïve. She thought she’d found the man of her dreams. Turned out he’d only used her and then discarded her, leaving her to fend for herself and a baby besides. My hands squeezed my upper arms and I blinked.

  “The Biological Sperm Donor did the exact same thing. And that’s exactly what it meant when he did. To make sure my mother was always under his thumb until he was done with her.”

  His expression changed, just slightly, as if understanding dawned. Then he shook his head. “I’m not him.”

  “I know.”

  “No, I really don’t think you do.” Then he lifted his hand to my face, touching my cheek, then back to my ear, until he trailed a finger down my neck to my collarbone. His touch was ice and flame. Thrilling. I trembled under his hand.

  He felt it, his eyes darkening. He bent his head until our faces were inches from each other. “I’m never going to give up, you know.”

  I tilted my head toward his, our lips less than an inch apart. I peered into his eyes. “Neither am I.” Then I grabbed his tie and pulled his mouth to mine.

  When our lips met, it was explosive, a clash of wills, of unrealized anticipation. His hands moved to my shoulders and he pushed me toward the nearest wall, pinning me between it and his hard body, never removing his mouth from mine.

  His lips, his tongue devoured me. His body, every delicious, solid contour of it, imprisoned me. His hands slipped from my shoulders, moved down my arms to encircle my wrists. With this hold he pinned my hands against the wall to either side of my head.

  I pressed against the resistance—not struggling to break free, but to test the strength of his hold. His hands pushed against mine, then he laced his fingers through mine, fusing our palms flat against each other and holding my hands, like he held my body, against the wall. His tongue explored my mouth, his head moving against mine.

  When our lips finally parted, our breath came in short, needy gulps. He pulled back just far enough to pin me down with his stare. “I’m in control, Emilia. Don’t forget it,” he said in a voice like steel.

  I was about to reply when he cut me off, sealing his mouth on mine again. I halfheartedly tried to free my hands and he held them fast, his fingers tightening around mine. Like a wildfire catching on dry grass after a hot California summer, scorching heat raced through me.

  He pulled away again. “I say when this is through. And I don’t have to tell you my reasons.”

  “You asked for one more night. I’ll give it to you. But after that—” He cut me off again, kissing me forcefully. Arousal glowed red-hot deep inside me and his stirred to life against my abdomen.

  With an abrupt jerk, he retreated, loosening his hold on my hands. I could free them easily if I wanted to, but I didn’t. I didn’t want to talk. I didn’t want to think. I wanted to surrender to the feelings inside me—the ones screaming for control. But like he’d insisted—he was in control, if only for this moment, by pulling himself away. By depriving me of more of his succulent mouth.

  He swallowed. “Next week I’m going to the Caribbean on business. I want you to come with me.”

  I finally remembered to breathe again. “For some chaste sightseeing, amusing dinner conversation and coitus interruptus?”

  The dark eyes glittered, but whether with annoyance or suppressed amusement, I couldn’t tell. “You’ve promised me one more night.”

  I knew he had something up his sleeve. He was maneuvering something. My heartbeat buffeted every pulse point in my body.

  “That’s more than one night,” I whispered.

  His eyes darted a challenge into mine. “Yes.”

  “And what happens afterward?” I barely managed to get out.

  A long pause while he looked at me. He released my hands but did not move. I slowly lowered them. “I guess we’ll see.” And then he waited, running a hand through his hair, taking a step back.

  As usual, he had completely flipped the dynamic between us. I’d walked into that confrontation thinking I had the all power. And I did. Until he had decided it was enough and wrested it from me as if I was a toddler with a toy she shouldn’t have been holding.

  We watched each other for long moments. “You can’t keep doing this,” I said.

  “Actually, I can. Say you’ll come, Emilia.”

  Oh, I knew Heath would freak when he heard this—if I agreed to go, be gone practically a week. My mom…what would I tell her? She’d call and want to know why I wasn’t getting back to her. And the blog. And my hospital job.

  But this would be our last time together. He couldn’t drag it out any longer. And the feelings he was stirring inside me, quite frankly, terrified me. The sooner we were through with this and I was back to my safe, normal life, the better.

  My answer came out in a breathy sigh. “I’ll go.”

  “Now tell me you are going to move in here,” he said in a deadpan voice.

  “No fucking way,” I breathed.

  The right corner of his mouth tugged up in a smile. “I figured I’d give it a shot.”

  I stuck out my tongue and he laughed.

  He checked his watch and backed away suddenly. “We gotta go grab some lunch downstairs. You like Cuban?”

  “Floriano’s? Sure.” Heath treated me to Floriano Café when he h
ad the urge for Cuban. I didn’t know whether it had anything to do with his ongoing crush on one of the waiters or his constant craving for a plate of Pork al Habañera.

  I followed Adam down the narrow antique stairway, through the glass door and into the alley. He held the door for me and, walking beside me, placed a hand at the small of my back. Every muscle there pulled taut in response to his touch.

  We shuffled down the narrow alleyway and past the cigar shop, where old men sat outside blowing sickly sweet smoke into the Plaza, and settled in to one of the metal tables on the sidewalk.

  “So tell me, whose idea was it to dress the female characters in Dragon Epoch in armored lingerie?” I said, finally broaching a subject I’d avoided until now—my teasing commentary of his game on my blog.

  He glanced at me sidelong from his study of the menu. “I came up with the story concept and the game architecture. I didn’t design the women’s clothes.”

  “But you had final approval. Why not throw the poor things in something that will cover up their bare midriffs? How would that armor even help them, anyway?”

  “I bow to the overwhelming research provided by my marketing people and the game devs who push the issue constantly. Were it up to me, those poor elf maidens would be covered from head to toe.”

  I smirked. “And would they be as busty as they are now? Who makes bras in Yondareth, anyway?” I said, referring to the fictional world in which Dragon Epoch was situated.

  He suppressed a laugh. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

  Suddenly the flash of a memory popped up in my mind. All those figurines that William had been painting—most of them had been women! “Shut up—not your cousin!” My mouth dropped in shock.

  “Yep. Blame Liam. I’m totally innocent.”

  I peered at him. “I could call you many things but ‘innocent’ is not one of them.”

  As we talked, a group of people came out of the nearby Starbucks on the corner and one of them stopped when she saw us at our small table.

  “Adam?” she said. We looked up. It was Lindsay, of all people, and when her eyes landed on me, they widened.

  “Linds,” he said mildly. “How’s the coffee break?”

  Without being invited to do so, she grabbed a chair from another table and plunked down in front of us. I glanced at Adam, who looked uncomfortable—probably because I knew their history now. Oh, I could turn this into a thing of beauty. Make Adam suffer a little bit and stick it to this lady with her sneers at my faded jeans and T-shirt.

  I scooted my chair closer to Adam’s until they were flush up against each other. Adam cleared his throat. “Lindsay, you remember my friend Emilia?”

  “Everyone calls me Mia, actually,” I said, leaning forward to shake her hand with the fakest damn smile I’d ever faked. “Adam was just talking to me about you!” I said sweetly.

  Lindsay turned to Adam with a small smile. “All good, I hope.”

  He shifted in his seat and I laid my hand on his upper thigh, curling around the inside—like I’d seen couples who were obvious lovers do so many times. I rubbed him there, affectionately, and leaned into his shoulder.

  “Oh, of course good! He thinks the world of you,” I said, shooting a worshipful smile at Adam. My hand crept northward.

  Adam clamped his hand on top of mine under the guise of holding it, prying it off his leg and lacing his fingers around mine. He brought my hand to his lips and kissed it. The shock of it raced down my arm. “You’re so patient with me, sweetie.”

  Lindsay’s eyes almost popped out of her head watching Adam’s display—although faked, as I knew. I surmised that Adam, who acted awkward and stiff whenever I leaned up against him in private, was not prone to open affection like this. Given Lindsay’s openmouthed reaction, this was completely out of character for him. Maybe we could really put on a show and have him jumping all over the chairs like Tom Cruise on the Oprah Winfrey show.

  Just then, the waiter came to take our order. “I’ll have whatever he’s having,” I cooed dreamily, hoping he didn’t order something vile. He ordered the Floriano combo plate—way too much food for me. But, hey, I never complained about leftovers.

  “What are you doing up this way, Adam?” Lindsay asked.

  He looked at me and then back at Lindsay as if to say, Isn’t it obvious? And suddenly I got the spark of an idea that this meeting wasn’t coincidental. I shot a sidelong glance at Adam, who still had my hand clamped inside his.

  After only a few more minutes of empty conversation, Lindsay pushed her chair away from the table. “Sorry, didn’t mean to interrupt and I have to get back. You are coming to the party on Friday, Adam?”

  He smiled. “Yes. We’ll definitely be there. Emilia’s my ‘plus one.’ Thanks for the invitation.” I scowled. What was this? A party? A Newport Beach party thrown by Lindsay? Ugh. No, thank you.

  Lindsay’s shoulders visibly slumped and she turned away, adjusting her designer sunglasses and walking off toward one of the business buildings in the plaza.

  “Well, that was lucky,” he said. I noted that he still hadn’t let go of my hand, but I didn’t say anything.

  “No, it wasn’t,” I said. “You planned that.”

  Adam reached into his pocket with his free hand and pulled out his sunglasses. “Maybe I did.”

  I studied him. “Why?” He hesitated and I added, “If you say you don’t have to tell me your reasons, I’m going to kick you where it counts.”

  “So violent,” he grimaced, shooting me a sidelong glance. “She came down to the complex the other day for lunch. Told me she’d filed for divorce from Jerome.”

  I grinned at him. “Did she put the moves on you?”

  He shot another look at me and then away, clearly embarrassed.

  “She did, didn’t she? I knew it. She wants you.”

  Adam’s mouth quirked. “Lindsay is a friend. Nothing more. That’s not going to change.”

  “Why not just tell her that instead of throwing me in her face?”

  His hand tightened around mine. “Is that what you think I was doing? You’re twisting again.”

  “Kissing my hand and calling me ‘sweetie’ is not your typical behavior.”

  I couldn’t read his face, veiled behind the sunglasses. “Perhaps not.”

  Our food arrived then and he released my hand so we could eat. We dug in, silent over our meal for a few minutes. I shot him a few speculative looks, which he pretended not to notice. So I was his decoy. That explained a lot, actually. He was keeping me around to deflect Lindsay—or maybe others—from getting any ideas. With Lindsay beginning a divorce, she’d be vulnerable, on the prowl. Perhaps this was Adam’s way of letting her down easy. Or avoiding her during this period where she might have a wrong idea, because even if he pretended not to notice it, it was clear to me that Lindsay wanted Adam.

  “Can’t avoid it forever, you know,” I said, picking at my maduros.

  He swallowed a forkful of Spanish rice. “What’s that?”

  “Marriage. Someday you aren’t going to have a shield to hide behind.”

  He seemed to intuit my meaning immediately. In response, he only shrugged.

  I pressed the matter because I’d forgotten how he tended to turn my position of control back on me. Even when it came to conversations. “No desire to find the right person, settle down, make little baby prodigy geniuses?”

  He snorted. “Maybe I’ll think about that when I’m forty.” He ate for a moment in silence before he looked at me. “And you? What’s your plan?”

  I chewed a mouthful of chicken and bell pepper. It was spicy, flavorful and tender. I shrugged. “I told you, I don’t date. If I don’t date, I’m never going to meet that special guy—especially since I don’t believe he exists in the first place. I’m going to live a life devotedly single and on my own terms. It was good enough for my mom.”

  “But your mom had you.”

  I thought about that for a moment. “Sure. We
got along, mostly. Sometimes more like sisters than like mother and daughter. If I ever have the desire to become a mother, there are options for that, too, that don’t require a man.”

  He didn’t say anything in reply and we finished our lunch soon thereafter. He took a phone call that came in, handling some new crisis during the length of our walk back to my place. I walked beside him, silent but for the squeaking of the Styrofoam box that carried my leftovers.

  At my doorstep, he ended the call, shoving the phone in his pocket. “Emilia, will you come to the party with me on Friday?”

  I raised a brow. “I’ve been wondering when you were going to ask me, seeing as you already volunteered me to be your ‘plus one.’”

  “I’m asking you now.”

  I took in a deep breath, knowing that I probably shouldn’t. “I don’t think—”

  “I’ve been waiting to see you in the red one.” He meant the red dress—the one I hadn’t worn yet. I’d kind of been wondering what it would look like as well.

  Maybe I could get away with this by not telling Heath. I knew what he’d say. He’d say the exact same thing that tiny whisper of rationality at the back of my head was saying. Tell him no. You’re already giving him more than one night.

  I took a deep breath. “Okay.” Geez. Sometimes I just seemed determined to go against everything in my better judgment. And lately, every one of those decisions somehow involved this man.

  “I’ll see you Friday,” he said stepping away as if afraid I’d change my mind if he lingered on my doorstep.

  I watched him go, headed back into Old Towne to get his car. A knot twisted in my chest. This was dangerous. I was in too deep. And he was in control, just as he’d said. Instead of one more night, as I’d promised him, it was now a cocktail party and a week in the Caribbean. Soon it would be more. And I found it increasingly difficult to tell him no.

  My head wanted me to resist, but my heart wouldn’t allow it.

  Chapter Eleven

  After work the next day, I met Heath at his place. I brought the fixings for a Caesar salad and he’d bought the ground beef and stuff for hamburgers.