Obsessed

by Deborah Bladon

  OBSESSED

  Part One of

  The Obsessed Series

  by Deborah Bladon

  Copyright

  First Original Edition, February 2014

  Copyright © 2014 by Deborah Bladon

  This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is entirely coincidental. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events and situations either are the product of the author's imagination or are used factiously.

  All rights reserved. No parts of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without written consent from the author.

  For Miranda,

  My heart is without the right words.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Thank You

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  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  This is what I'm sacrificing my Friday night for? I tilt my head to the left hoping to gain some much-needed perspective. I find nothing. I tilt it back to the right so swiftly that the chandelier earring in my left ear bounces against my neck. It's not helping. I'm still at a loss. The large canvas hanging on the gallery wall directly in front of me still looks like something my three-year-old nephew might have created if given an abundance of finger paints and five minutes of unsupervised time to use them. I sigh heavily. How did I end up at another of these pretentious, stuffy, art events? It's all Liz's fault. My best friend had whined for days about not wanting to attend the opening of Brighton Beck's collection alone.

  I turn, my eyes quickly scanning the few familiar, and the many unfamiliar, faces in the gallery. No Liz. I try to discreetly adjust the neckline of the extra low cut black dress I'd hastily chosen for the occasion. I feel like the definition of cleavage all wrapped into one ill-fitted, overpriced creation of an up and coming designer who doesn't understand the concept of women's breasts. I regret not giving myself a once over in the mirror before rushing from my apartment. I also regret not trying this on last month when I found it on the discount rack at a boutique in Chelsea. I'm uncomfortable, I'm hungry and I'm quickly resenting Liz for abandoning me as soon as we walked through the gallery doors an hour ago.

  As I circle back towards the enormous and all-encompassing piece of questionable artwork before me, I fumble in my clutch for my phone. If I can't find Liz by sight, surely she'll answer a quick text suggesting we make a hasty exit to grab some dinner.

  "This is called Seduction." I feel the rush of a man's breath on my neck. He smells of cologne, soap and there's the subtle hint of a woman's perfume.

  I stand silent for a moment, imagining the man attached to the voice. It's a game I first played when I was a freshman in high school. He'll be mid-height I decide, perhaps five or six inches taller than my five-foot-two inch figure. His hair will be black and cut short, in direct contrast to mine, which is shoulder length and blond. And his eyes, his eyes will be a deep blue that will draw me in the moment my green eyes lock with his.

  I turn slowly.

  My gaze is met with the chest of a man, dressed sharply in a crisp white shirt, open at the collar and a dark blue, flawlessly tailored suit. Even though I'm wearing heels he towers over me. He's at least six-foot-two.

  "You consider breathing on a stranger's neck seduction?" I smile coyly.

  "It can be." He tucks his hands into the pockets of his slacks as he lazily runs his eyes over my body.

  "Does that work for you?" My face flushes at the thought of being seduced by a man like this. My heart pounds as I try to level my breaths. I'm reacting as if I've never been this close to a man before. If I'm being honest with myself, I've never actually been in the presence of a man who exuded so much raw magnetism.

  A hint of a smirk brushes across his lips. "More often than you'd imagine."

  What am I supposed to say in response? "I imagine you've bedded many women just by glancing in their direction and if you stand any closer, you can take me right here on the gallery floor."

  "For the record, I was referring to the painting." He points to the wall behind me with a sudden flick of his wrist. "That piece is titled Seduction."

  "Confusion might have been more appropriate," I say quietly, disappointed that I'd assumed he was trying to seduce me when all he was doing was appreciating the art.

  He smiles. When his grin opens his brown eyes widen just a touch. He runs his hand through his thick brown hair, pushing it back from his forehead.

  I study his face while he looks over my head at the painting. His jaw is uncompromising. There's a quiet sophistication woven into his features. He's strikingly handsome and the way he carries himself suggests he's very aware of it and its usefulness in getting what he wants.

  "Do you like it?" His voice is deep and rich.

  Again, I'm not certain what to offer as a reply. Do I like it? I like it so much I want to run my hands along its face, down its chest and torso before wrapping my fingers and lips around its...

  "Are you a fan of the piece?" He gestures over my head towards the wall behind me. The raised eyebrow that accompanies the question rattles me. Does he realize where my mind keeps wandering to?

  I hesitate briefly before blurting out, "not especially." I shake my head faintly back and forth, wrinkling my nose.

  He laughs. Not a voracious laugh, but more of a chuckle. "Honesty. Nice." There was that smile again.

  My hand jumps to my mouth. I'm mortified by the sudden realization that in my dazed state I may have accidentally insulted one of Liz's most promising allies. She's been chasing after the illustrious Brighton Beck for the better part of the past three months and I could have destroyed all of her hard work within a minute of meeting him. Why the hell didn't I Google him so I'd recognize him tonight? I briefly contemplate making a mad rush for the gallery doors but there's the little matter of the hundreds of people standing in my way.

  "Are you alright?" His voice takes on a softer tone.

  "Please tell me you're not Brighton Beck." I wince as I say the words knowing that if this is indeed the star of tonight's gallery showing that I'll be dealing with a very pissed off best friend.

  "Not." He leans down so his breath grazes my forehead. "I'm Jax." He offers his hand and I reach for it. It's much larger than mine. He cradles my hand in his right as he covers it with the left. "It's nice to meet you."

  "Ivy..."

  "Marlow," he interrupts. "You're the jewelry designer. I read the piece The Dialogue did on you. What did they call you? You're one of the hot twenty-five entrepreneurs under twenty-five."

  I'm stunned. I instinctively retreat, pulling my hand back with a quick jerk. I've never been recognized by a man. Ever. It made sense given that my jewelry line was an eclectic mix designed just for women. Yet here was a man who knew exactly who I was.

  "I'm flattered," I blush slightly realizing that he's recalling an article written about me more than a year ago in the alumni newsletter of the small community college I went to in Rhode Island.

  "You're very talented, Ivy." He shifts closer until his lips are mere inches from my cheek.

  I close my eyes, inhaling the subtle scent of his breath. It's a heady mixture of bourbon and peppermint. I take a deep, heavy mouthful of air, placing my hand on my abdomen to steady myself. I can feel him step even closer, the w
armth of his body radiating.

  "Is this one of your designs?" I feel his fingers lightly graze my neck before there's tension pulling softly on my earring.

  I nod, reaching for his shoulder to steady myself.

  "What about this?" His hand glides back to my neck. His index finger traces a pointed line down the gold chain until it reaches the black onyx pendant hovering between my breasts. My eyes are glued to his finger as it brushes against the top of my red lace bra that is peeking boldly past the neckline of my dress.

  My breathing stops as my body tightens. "It's all mine," I whisper.

  "Yes." His lips sweep against my ear. "But for a price it can all be mine."

  "Ivy! Ivy!" Liz's voice breaks the moment.

  I glance at Jax, the grin on his face a clear sign that he has enjoyed our brief rendezvous in the middle of the crowded gallery. He steps back allowing Liz to march right up to me.

  "I thought I lost you, sugar." Liz Sander's southern drawl, although misplaced at an event like this in the heart of New York City, is always a pleasant surprise. She still looks as perfectly put together as she did when we left her apartment two hours ago. Her makeup impeccable, her brunette hair tied tightly into a chignon and her blue Chanel dress clinging to her slender frame like a glove.

  I sigh, disappointed that Liz has decided to pick this second to come looking for me. Where had she been ten minutes ago when I was ready to bolt for the door in search of a glass of Chardonnay and something decadent to ease my ever growing hunger?

  I open my mouth to speak, but Liz isn't done yet. "I need you to come with me, Ivy. There's someone you absolutely must meet." She gingerly grabs my elbow to direct me to walk with her.

  "It was nice meeting you, Jax." I reach for his hand, forcing Liz to halt in her tracks.

  "Your pleasure was all mine." He lightly runs his fingertips over my palm. "Wait...I mean..." His dark eyes look directly into me as he continues, "no, that's exactly what I mean."

  I stare at him unable to pull myself free from his gaze. Liz pulls harder on my arm, forcing me to turn and follow her.

  We aren't more than five feet from Jax when the expected inquisition begins. "What on earth was that?" Liz is pulling me towards a group of people gathered across the gallery.

  "Apparently it's a painting, but I'd beg to differ." I try to keep a straight face as she stops mid-step to frown at me.

  The heavy groan she exudes is more dramatic than necessary, which is a character trait of Liz's that I both love and loathe. "Ivy. Be serious. You know exactly what I'm talking about."

  "Where's Brighton?" I feign searching the room for the artist I have little interest in. "I'd love to meet him."

  She takes the bait. "He's there. Come." She jerks my arm and pulls me unexpectedly to the left.

  I turn for one last lingering glimpse of Jax, but he's not where I left him. "Damn," I grumble under my breath. He certainly had potential.

  Liz steers me towards a group of men and I instantly pick Brighton Beck out of the bunch. He's average height, slight, with expressive hands, vibrant blue eyes and light brown hair. He's excitedly telling a story to the spellbound crowd. His hands are rushing to keep up with the words as they effortlessly flow from his lips. He has artist written all over him.

  He stops mid-sentence. "Liz, there you are." Brighton reaches to kiss her, first on the left cheek, then the right.

  Liz giggles which in turn makes me smile. Her preoccupation with male artists, those of the straight variety, has become fodder for much good natured teasing by me.

  Brighton turns his attention to me. "You must be Ivy." I offer him my hand, which he graciously accepts, bringing it to his mouth in one fluid movement. I feel his moist lips press against my skin, lingering there for a moment too long.

  "Are you enjoying yourself?" His smile is infectious.

  "Yes, thank you. I am." Or I was, I think to myself, when I was talking to that delightfully tall creature named Jax.

  "Do you have a favorite piece, Ivy?" Brighton asks confidently.

  I shift my focus to Liz who has a look on her face that screams, "Get this right Ivy or I'll never let you hear the end of it."

  "Seduction..." I pause for effect, "is breathtaking." For good measure I raise my left hand to my chest and let out a deep sigh. I instantly realize that it’s over-the-top but Brighton strikes me as the type of man who has women praising his work, among other things, on a daily basis.

  He beams and looks at Liz. "I like her."

  "Brighton, we must talk." Richard Feist has appeared out of nowhere. I've never been happier to see New York's premier art critic before.

  "Liz. Ivy." Richard doesn't look our way as he brusquely acknowledges our presence.

  "Brighton, I..." Liz's voices trails in disappointment as Richard places his hand on Brighton's shoulder briskly guiding him away from us.

  "Hell," she says under her breath causing me to laugh out loud. It's always amusing to hear Liz curse. She is the personification of a southern belle right down to her aversion to four-letter-words.

  "Let's get some dinner." I look at Liz who is on her tip toes, trying unsuccessfully to see over the growing crowd. I assume her radar is still locked on Brighton.

  "Maybe we should stay a spell more," she calls over her shoulder to me.

  "You'll see him tomorrow." I plead my case. "He's busy. You're not going to get time with him tonight."

  She twists around and grabs my shoulders pulling me into an embrace. "I can't leave without saying goodbye to him. Go on without me. I'll text you later."

  With that, she disappears into the crowd and I'm left alone to weave my way to the exit.

  Thirty minutes, and two conversations with acquaintances later, I'm still working on breaking free of the gallery and the now almost-to-capacity gathering.

  "Ivy, wait!" A vaguely familiar voice rises above the buzz of the room just as I have the door within my sight.

  I turn to my left to see Brighton rushing towards me. Unfortunately, Liz is nowhere in sight.

  "Liz is looking for you." I smile at him. I realize this is my opportunity to sell all of Liz's artistic attributes to her current idol.

  He frowns slightly, the disappointment flowing into his voice, "She's not with you?" He skims the room behind me and his expression speaks of his frustration.

  "No. She set out on a search for you. Do you want me to text her and let her know where we are?" I reach inside my clutch fishing for my phone.

  He touches my forearm softly. "That's not necessary. Can we talk for a moment?" He motions to the glass doors that lead to Ninth Avenue.

  Brighton holds the door open for me as the welcome rush of cool spring air greets us.

  "You're Brighton Beck!" a woman entering the gallery shrieks. The man accompanying her looks horrified by her outburst.

  Brighton stops to talk with the woman and her companion. I can hear him expressing his delight in their desire to preview his latest creations.

  I stand a few feet away, waiting for Brighton to finish, rehearsing in my head what I'll say about Liz and her watercolors. She's gifted, she's eager and she's in need of a moment to shine.

  While I run through my mini-speech I turn to the street. There hailing a taxi is Jax. Next to him a beautiful, tall brunette is attached to his other hand. The subtle suggestion of women's perfume that he carried with him now has a face, a fabulous figure and a pair of gold Louboutin pumps my feet are instantaneously infatuated with.

  A taxi rushes to the curb as Brighton joins me. "My apologies, Ivy but an adoring fan is impossible to ignore."

  I nod, my eyes still fixed on Jax as he opens the door of the taxi and helps the leggy brunette in.

  I turn my attention back to Brighton and my quest to help Liz. "It's wonderful that so many people appreciate your unique talents, Brighton." I'm optimistic that he's hearing sincerity in my words. I can already tell that coddling his ego will get me everywhere.

  Brighton reaches for my
hand, once again bringing it gently to his lips. As he does, I look over his shoulder to see Jax, standing next to the open door of the taxi, his eyes fixed on us. A female hand reaches out of the back seat encouraging him to get in. He's frozen. I can't hold back a grin.

  "What's so fascinating over there?" Brighton turns to look at what I'm obviously fixated on. "Jax," he calls with a wave.

  Jax raises his hand in a weak wave, shakes his head and lowers himself into the taxi.

  "You know Jax?" I ask meekly not wanting to seem overly curious.

  "Of course." Brighton offers nothing more. I inwardly curse.

  I decide to shift the conversation back to the reason I'm shivering in the chilly May air, starving and sleepy. "You see the potential in Liz, yes?"

  "She lacks confidence," he says with little emotion.

  I'm slightly offended. "I don't understand." I'm being genuine. If he knew Liz the way I did, he'd never question her level of self-assurance.

  "She's brilliant, Ivy. Liz is very talented. Her belief in herself is lacking." His voice takes on a softer tone and I feel myself relaxing. "She's not like you."

  I ignore his remark, and keep my thoughts focused on Liz and her aspirations to one day have a showing of her work as extravagant as this evening has been for Brighton. "Please consider her for the mentorship program you offer. It would mean the world to her."

  "And what would it mean to you?" he counters.

  "It would mean my closest friend would be within grasp of her dream." Those are the words I manage to say to Brighton. Internally, they translate within my own mind to, "Not a moment in a bed with you."

  I can't read his reaction so I quickly turn on my heel and walk towards the street in search of a taxi. As much as I want to help Liz attain her goal, I have to draw the line somewhere. She might find Brighton captivating but he’s definitely not my type.

  He calls after me, "I bought one of your rings last week at Veray, Ivy."

  I stop. I'm in shock. Not by Brighton's restrained proposition but by the fact that in the space of an hour two, attractive, refined men have recognized me as a jewelry designer. One even bought a piece at the store that commissions my work. Maybe the evening wasn't such a waste of time after all.