Xquisite

by Ruby Laska

  Elegant outfit—delicate shoes. It took Chelsea’s brain a moment to catch up before she realized he was teasing her. Or, more likely, mocking her. She felt the color rush to her face, an old remnant of shame at her appearance, and for a moment, she felt like the scared fourteen-year-old she’d once been, whose “big brothers” in the salon gave her hand-me-down men’s shirts to wear to disguise the figure that was beginning to appear, the one she could not bear for anyone to see.

  She’d come a long way since then. She wore women’s clothes now, and many people had complimented her on her sense of style. But, considering her appearance through the eyes of this elegant Spaniard, she saw herself in another light.

  “I’m on my feet all day,” she protested. “I dress for comfort.”

  He said nothing, and though Chelsea could only see his profile, she felt sure he was raising an eyebrow skeptically.

  They walked the rest of the way in silence, Chelsea going over every item of clothing she was wearing, regretting all of it. The motorcycle boots had been custom made for her, a gift from a lover. Her jeans were from a West Hollywood thrift store but had once cost some rich woman hundreds of dollars, and they fit her like they’d been painted on. Her shirt was a simple black sleeveless rayon tunic, loose enough to cover the curve of her breasts. Her hair was pulled back from her face and pinned in a loose knot. By the end of the day, much of the knot had usually escaped, and today was no exception; she could feel the loose strands cascading to her neck.

  At least she’d put on makeup this morning. Some days she skipped it, but when she took the time, she favored dark kohl liner around her eyes, loads of mascara, and pale lipstick. It was a natural outgrowth of the look she’d adopted in her late teens; she liked to think that the more grown-up version looked iconic and fierce.

  But next to Ricardo, she simply felt ugly. Overdone.

  They turned into a small alley that Chelsea had passed a hundred times before and never really noticed. Halfway down the block, appended to the back of a building like a barnacle, a small patio had been carved from the broken concrete and overgrown weeds. Tiny café tables were set with embroidered cloths and vases of yellow flowers.

  Ricardo steered her to a table, pulling out her chair, as a man burst from the dark interior of the building, carrying a bottle and a linen napkin.

  “Ricardo! Where have you been!” the man bellowed in heavily accented English. He wasn’t Spanish; Russian, perhaps, Chelsea thought.

  The two men embraced, slapping each other on the back, and then the man glanced down at Chelsea, who sat primly on the chair, trying to hide her clunky boots under the table, pressing her hands between her knees so he wouldn’t see her dark chipped nail polish. She supposed that like Ricardo, the restaurant owner probably preferred women in dresses. And while ordinarily she didn’t give her appearance much thought—she blended in easily enough on the art scene—this little café was made for floral skirts and pastel sweaters and red lipstick and French perfume.

  As if reading her mind, the café owner bowed deeply, then plucked a flower from the vase and handed it to her. “What may I get for you, beautiful lady?”

  “She will have iced coffee,” Ricardo said before Chelsea could speak. “As will I. And perhaps some of the pryaniki, yes?”

  Another bow and the man disappeared into the restaurant.

  “Forgive me for ordering for you,” Ricardo said, sounding not at all penitent. “But I am sure you will enjoy the pryaniki. They are a specialty of Alexander.”

  Torn between curiosity and irritation, Chelsea said nothing. It would serve Ricardo right if she didn’t drink or eat anything since he didn’t bother to consult with her before ordering. She had been fiercely independent since her first real date, at seventeen, when a young man who delivered lunch to the salon took her to see a double feature, and she insisted on buying her own ticket. And her own popcorn. Even now, she kept careful track of who treated when she was with Caleb and Benedict and the handful of other men in various cities who she occasionally dated. It was a bit of a record-keeping challenge, but independence was worth the effort.

  Chelsea was determined never to depend on any man, ever.

  Which begged the question of what she was doing sitting in this romantic little bistro with a man she had no intention of dating.

  “I have a proposition for you,” Ricardo said, interrupting her train of thought. “It is not precisely professional in nature, so your answer may come from your heart, rather than your head. Either way, however, I’m confident you’ll say yes.”

  “How can you possibly—”

  “Ah, I see I have piqued your temper,” Ricardo said, holding up a hand to silence her. “But please wait until I have explained, before you—what is the expression?—before you bite off my head.”

  Chelsea pressed her lips together and folded her arms over her chest. Not only did he have the temerity to interrupt her, but he expected her to sit quietly while he talked. Fine—she’d hear him out, and then, if his proposal was as presumptuous as his behavior, she’d simply get up and leave. All this outing would have cost her was a quarter mile walk out of her way.

  That maddening hint of amusement played around the corners of his mouth, as it had nearly the whole time she’d spent in his presence. So, he found her comical. Or ridiculous. Her temper simmered as she gritted her teeth.

  “Chelsea,” he continued, unperturbed. “My chica bonita. I must admit to you that I did not tell you everything I know about your father’s work when we met.”

  Instantly, Chelsea’s irritation fell away. This was not what she was expecting. “My father?”

  “Through the course of my work, I have come upon a small painting which is being offered for sale through private channels. That is why I couldn’t mention it—the seller does not want its provenance to be traceable to him.”

  “One of my father’s paintings?”

  “Yes—it is called The Little Birds, signed and dated 1989. Do you know it?”

  “No, I—I’ve never heard of it.”

  Chelsea’s mind raced through the implications of what Ricardo was telling her. So much of her father’s work, especially the smaller pieces and the studies, had been sold after his death by her mother. Chelsea had catalogued every known work in a database on her computer, but she knew there were probably dozens of works missing. Her heart beat faster thinking that Ricardo might have information about one of the missing pieces.

  But there was generally only one reason that a collector wouldn’t want his identity known: if he had come to own a work by illegal means, whether that meant buying stolen art or stealing it himself. It made sense that Ricardo would, from time to time, encounter such situations, given the nature of his job. Except that, in order to preserve the integrity that made him a trusted resource, he would be obligated to report any criminal behavior he suspected.

  Instead, he was alerting her to the painting’s existence.

  Which meant either that he was crooked…or that he was taking a great risk, on her behalf.

  “Why would you do this?” she demanded. “Why are you telling me, rather than reporting the painting?”

  “You must know that if I report it, the owner will deny its existence and probably get rid of it even more quickly. And it will be tainted, after that; no legitimate collector would bid on it. It might disappear underground for many more years.”

  “I understand that,” Chelsea said impatiently. “But that doesn’t answer my question. What is it you want from me?”

  “In exchange for brokering the sale of this work to you, at a price that is well below its true value, I want you to spend a single night with me.”

  “A single night…doing what?”

  Ricardo gazed at her, his fingers drumming lightly on the marble surface of the café table, that maddening tiny smile playing at his lips. “I think,” he said softly, “you can imagine what sort of night I have in mind. A most intimate one, in your company.”

&nb
sp; But Chelsea hadn’t imagined that. If pressed, it would have been among the last things she might have guessed. Certainly, Ricardo was among the most provocative men she’d ever met, not bothering to mask an iota of his sensuality. But he couldn’t possibly want her badly enough to make such an audacious offer. She found it hard to believe that he wanted her at all, given his obvious contempt for her appearance, and the independent streak she made no effort to hide.

  Unless he wanted a challenge. Could that be it? Chelsea had encountered that before—men who were convinced they could “break” her, who were more determined to win her the more she insisted she didn’t want a relationship.

  But Ricardo was the sort of man who could have any woman he wanted. The swooning female patrons proved that the other night. And she doubted whether a bit of gamesmanship would be enough to elevate her above the beautiful and powerful women he was accustomed to dating.

  “Why?” she demanded. “Why me?”

  At this, the tiny smirk erupted into a grin. Ricardo threw back his head and laughed as though she’d said something hilarious. Alexander, emerging from the kitchen with a tray full of cups and plates, laughed along with him though he couldn’t have known what was so funny.

  Actually, Chelsea didn’t have any idea, either.

  “Two coffees,” Alexander said, setting tall glasses with milky coffee on ice in front of them. “And the pryaniki. My lady, please enjoy.”

  “You must try them,” Ricardo said, pushing the plate of delicate, sugar-dusted cookies toward her. “Or Alexander will be very hurt.”

  “I—you didn’t answer my question. Why—why wouldn’t you just ask me out if you wanted…” She couldn’t bring herself to say the words: to sleep with me. To fuck me.

  “You would have said no.”

  He said it calmly, picking up a cookie and taking a bite. A bit of sugar clung to his lip, and Chelsea imagined licking it off, tasting him…and forced herself to pay attention.

  “Of course I would have said no. You’re—you’re not my type.”

  “Ah. Yes.”

  “And I’m not yours! Why would you want this? What are you trying to prove?”

  “Ah, Chelsea. You must indulge me, I’m afraid; there is nothing further I wish to discuss about this matter. You may have all of tonight and tomorrow to decide. I will come by your gallery before you close, and you can give me your answer.”

  “But—”

  “There is nothing more to say. For now, eat your cookie.”

  It was an order, his voice stern. She wanted to refuse. She could pick up the cookie and throw it at him. Or, she could simply walk away, as she had planned.

  She picked up the cookie, her hand trembling slightly, and brought it to her lips. The bite she took was small; she could barely taste the delicate confection as she chewed. After what seemed like an eternity, aware of his gaze fixed on her, she set the remainder of the cookie down.

  Or started to. “All of it,” Ricardo said. And this time there was no trace of gentleness in his voice.

  As if her hand was disconnected from her body, Chelsea lifted the cookie a second time. It had been small to begin with; there was barely a second bite left. As she slipped it between her lips, she was aware of the heat spreading low in her body, the dampness that instantly gathered. Her arousal was instant and nearly unbearable. It was also shocking: Ricardo hadn’t even touched her. All he’d done was ordered her to perform, to—

  “Now lick your fingers. Lick off all of the sugar. Make them completely clean with your tongue.”

  Chelsea shuddered at the shocking command. It was as though he was controlling her movements with his mind, because Chelsea didn’t really mean to insert her fingertips, one by one, into her mouth. Didn’t mean to lave them with her tongue, to suck on them, tasting, finally, the spiced sugar. And if she were possessed of any of her faculties at all, she would not have been staring deep into his gaze as she did it. He sat motionless, watching her.

  “Good girl,” he said softly, almost tenderly, when she was finished.

  And just like that, the spell was broken. She looked down at her hand in horror, at her skin glistening with her own saliva. She grabbed blindly for her purse and jumped out of the chair, nearly knocking it over in her haste. Tears of mortification filled her eyes as she ran into the alley, racing as quickly as she could away from him, away from the humiliation and confusion of what had just happened. Around the corner, faster, faster, unable to put enough distance between herself and Ricardo de Santos.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Sometime after midnight that evening, Ricardo stood on the balcony of his apartment in the Hollywood Hills. His view was magnificent, but he barely noticed it. Instead, he sipped moodily at a fifteen-year-old scotch and contemplated the manila envelope sitting on his kitchen counter.

  The envelope had been slid under his door at some point before he arrived home, following a tense dinner with an associate who needed to have his expectations managed. When Ricardo saw it lying on the slate floors, he knew exactly who it was from and what it contained, despite the fact that it bore no markings. The man who he had paid to gather the information contained within was not the man who delivered it—a delivery service with no way to trace the assignment back to the source would have dropped it off—and there would be no fingerprints, no distinguishing marks on the paper within, no irregularities in the ink. Such discretion came at a price, but it was a price Ricardo was happy to pay.

  This was the first time Ricardo had hired the man in question for a personal matter, however, and that decision was the source of his mood, the reason that he hadn’t yet opened the envelope, that he wasn’t even sure he wanted to know what information he would find on the pages within. Never before had Ricardo felt compelled to know more about a woman than he could determine from a few moments in her presence. Which, to be fair, was quite a lot. Intuition and training combined to make Ricardo exceptionally good at seeing through to the core of people, which was a valuable skill both in his work and in his personal life.

  Chelsea Ryder was not the first fascinating woman to catch his attention. A fine mind was as important to him as a beautiful body, and he had been lucky to have spent time with a variety of exceptional women. Some shared his sexual proclivities more than others, but he was capable of enjoying a fairly broad range, especially because he could never commit himself to just one woman.

  It wouldn’t be safe for either of them.

  Ricardo sighed and finished his scotch in one swallow, the amber liquid burning down his throat. He welcomed the sensation; anything was better than the constant low-level urgency that had plagued him since meeting Chelsea. He set the glass down with more force than necessary on the outdoor dining table and strode to the kitchen.

  He did not understand, yet, why this particular woman had set him aflame this way, but he would. There had been no subject yet that he couldn’t master, from the baraja playing cards that his aunt gave him to occupy him on the ancient stone floor of the family house in Segovia at the age of six, to the complexities of international currency fluctuations. Ricardo was intelligent, but what set him apart from other intelligent men was the raging, raw, unchecked determination that had been his birthright.

  But why Chelsea?

  It wasn’t because of her father though Ricardo had not been lying when he said that he admired Marcus Ryder’s work.

  It certainly wasn’t her ridiculous shapeless clothes and unpainted, chewed nails and wild masses of tangled hair.

  She was beautiful, and her body was inviting even under all her poorly designed garments, but there were many, many beautiful women in the world, and few tempted him.

  The moment Marcus had seen her standing in Meredith Tipton’s gallery, however, battling so fiercely with her own conflicting emotions, convinced that no one else could tell what she was thinking, he’d been inexorably drawn to her. He wanted—well, he wanted a lot of things.

  And he would have them. Fifteen minutes at Al
exander’ bistro had convinced him of that.

  But to truly savor the woman, he had to understand her further.

  He picked up the envelope and tore it open.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  There was no way Chelsea was ever going to agree to see Ricardo again.

  After another punishing morning run, she scrubbed her skin so savagely that it was red and sore when she emerged from the shower. All night long she had tossed and turned, unable to get comfortable, unable to calm her racing mind. Something was wrong; some old anxiety had been stirred up by her encounter with Ricardo, and she couldn’t figure out how to soothe herself.

  It wouldn’t take a psychiatrist to determine that the episode in the bistro—her heart lurched just thinking about it—would provoke a woman who’d been through what she had. Endured what she had. But she had not been in the presence of Roy Huber for fifteen years now. He might even be dead though that would be the sort of luck that rarely visited Chelsea.

  She dressed in one of her favorite shirts, a blousy white tunic that floated over her hips. A pair of narrow black twill pants, her boots, and a simple silver chain bracelet completed the look. At the last moment, she added a citrine ring made by a jeweler who had traded it for a charcoal sketch done by one of her clients. Citrine was supposed to dissipate negative energy—maybe that would help quell her nerves.

  She applied layers of kohl until her golden-brown eyes looked almost luminescent in their black-rimmed settings, and let her long dark hair fall around her shoulders, thick swaths of it concealing much of her face. It had been cut in spiky layers many months ago, a sort of post-punk style she’d adopted last winter, but Chelsea was accustomed to wearing her hair long enough to hide behind, and she didn’t like feeling too exposed. She’d get it trimmed when it grew back a little more. So what if she looked like a poorly coiffed refugee from an eighties girl band—none of her customers came to her gallery because of the way she looked.

  At work, she busied herself with reviewing invoices and going through her email while one of her staff dealt with customers. But as the hours ticked by, she grew increasingly nervous. Ricardo had said he would stop by before closing for her answer. She had no way to contact him to tell him not to bother, and if she left the shop early, she had a feeling he would return another day—when she wouldn’t be able to gird herself in advance.