Crash Into Me

by K. M. Scott

  The night air was unseasonably chilly for May, so my little sundress and sweater weren't going to do much to keep me warm. I hadn't planned on walking very far that night, so my shoes weren't really right for what he wanted to do either.

  Tristan remained his quiet self as we made our way one block and then two away from the bar. Unable to contain my curiosity, I asked, "What did you want to talk about?"

  Glancing at me, he said, "You."

  "That's the second time tonight you've answered that way. What about me?"

  "What made you decide to live in this section of Brooklyn after college?"

  I stopped dead and stared at the back of him as he continued walking. After a few steps more, he noticed I wasn't next to him any longer and stopped to turn around. "Nina?"

  "How do you know so much about me, Tristan?"

  "I asked."

  "Asked who?"

  He closed the space between us and stood no more than six inches from me. That gentle smile spread across his lips again. "People who'd know. I like to know about the people I surround myself with."

  "What are you talking about? Do I have to ask you to do the straight answer thing again?"

  He cocked one eyebrow and then finally said, "You make me smile, Nina. I can't say that about most people."

  "That's nice. It's not a straight answer, though."

  His hand clasped mine, sending a jolt of electricity straight up my arm. "Let's keep walking so you don't get cold. Your place is near here, isn't it?"

  I felt like I was dealing with a madman. It was like we were having two different conversations, neither of which was very satisfying. And now he was holding my hand and appeared to be directing me back to my apartment—a place he'd only been once. I didn't know whether to be flattered he had made the effort to find out about me and remembered where I lived or concerned that he was some kind of scary stalker.

  The fact that I had done a little of my own stalking of him didn't escape me either. We made one interesting couple.

  "Tristan, please just tell me what you want. I know you're probably used to women who love this mysterious Bruce Wayne-Batman behavior, but I'm just an ordinary soul who likes straight answers."

  "Why do you always think you're so ordinary?"

  I yanked my hand from his and shook my head. "No more! You show up out of nowhere in the alley behind the gallery, force me to go for a ride, and now you show up at a bar I hang out at. Are you some kind of scary stalker guy or do I owe your company for some kind of bill and you're here to collect? Either way, you're driving me crazy!"

  I hadn't meant to sound so emotional, but there it was. The truth. I barely knew this person and already he drove me nuts.

  Instead of looking surprised like I thought he would, he just smiled. Not that it wasn't a gorgeous smile, but something about it just sent me over the edge. I stalked away toward home, frustrated enough not to care whether he liked it or not.

  I heard his footsteps behind me as he walked quickly to catch up with me. It felt good knowing he wanted to talk to me, even if all he said sounded like damn riddles!

  "Nina, I'm sorry. Stop and let me talk for a minute."

  Spinning around, I was nearly knocked over as he took a step right into me. His much larger and muscular body crashed into mine, and I went tumbling backwards. Thankfully, he caught me before I landed on my ass.

  There I was, in his strong arms, staring up into those dark eyes as he gazed down at me. "You want to talk? All you say are one syllable words and sentences that make no sense. I'd love it if you'd talk, but you don't."

  "I'm not usually much of a talker, but you seem to want to hear what I have to say, so let's talk."

  He released me and I stood up, smoothing my dress over my thighs. "About what?" I didn't mean to sound so exasperated, but the man had a way of bringing that out in me.

  "Art."

  More one syllable words. If it wasn't no or yes, it was art with this guy. "Art? What about it?"

  "Why do you work at that gallery if you went to school for art history?"

  Talking about work wasn't talking about art. Deflated, my shoulders sagged under the disappointment that he seemed once again interested in hearing about my job as personal gopher to Sheila Anderson.

  "Because even though I possess more knowledge about the art world in my little pinky finger than my boss does in her entire body, I also only possess a bachelor's degree in art history. To be a curator or someone who deals with exhibitions, you have to have experience in the gallery world, which is what my slave labor job is."

  "It's too bad you don't know anyone who owns their own art gallery."

  Blowing the hair off my face, I said in frustration, "Yes, it is."

  We stood there at that odd point in the conversation looking at each other like neither one of us had understood the other one's language. To be honest, I was beginning to think he was from some other planet by the way he behaved, but since he hadn't grown tentacles or extra heads and was getting more gorgeous by the minute, I still liked him, as bizarre as that seemed to someone like me who prided herself on good judgment.

  "You could work at one of mine."

  And with those seven words my spirits were buoyed once again.

  "You have more than one art gallery?" I asked in stunned amazement, jumping over the obvious first question about him having even one art gallery.

  "In some of my hotels. The one here in the city might work, wouldn't it?"

  He was sounding decidedly clear, which made me think I must have slipped into some dream dimension or lost my mind. "You have an art gallery in one of your hotels in New York and you want me to work at it? As what?"

  If he said anything that even remotely sounded like the job I had at the Anderson Gallery, I was going to punch him right in that beautiful mouth.

  "I have a curator, but would assistant curator work?"

  I understood the words he was saying, but my brain seemed to have short circuited because I was unable to form an answer. Would assistant curator work? Hell, yes!

  He was all smiles, but I wasn't so sure. Putting my hand up, I said, "Wait. This all sounds too good to be true. What hotels do you own?"

  With a sense of pride, he answered, "Richmont. I assume you've heard of them."

  "And you want to offer me a job as an assistant curator at the Richmont in Manhattan?"

  "Yes."

  "And what do I have to do for this job?"

  "Whatever an assistant curator does."

  I looked up into those beautiful eyes and wondered if he was just playing dumb or if it was possible he was really that obtuse. "You know what I mean. What do I have to do to get that job?"

  Then I waited for it. There was always a catch. As my father always said, "If it sounds too good to be true, it probably is." Tristan's response certainly wasn't what I expected, though.

  "You'll have to pass one test. After that, the job is yours."

  "What kind of test?" I asked, wary of where he was going with this. I didn't mind taking tests, but something told me he had something else in mind than a paper and pencil exam.

  "I want you to tell me what picture I should put up on the wall in my home."

  "The one all the way upstate?" I asked, praying that I didn't have to take that drive again tonight. The buzz from the two beers I'd drunk earlier had worn off, and the thought of speeding to the middle of nowhere again didn't thrill me, even if it was with Tristan Stone.

  "No. Come with me," he answered as he took my hand and led me to his car parked at the end of the block.

  I went as he ordered and let him take me to the Richmont downtown. I'd seen the hotel from the street once or twice, but seeing it from the owner's point of view was an entirely different experience. A valet parked the car as we were shown into a private elevator lined with mirrors that traveled exclusively to the penthouse. I stared straight ahead at the mirror on the elevator door, my gaze drifting down over the figure standing next to me. I noticed he s
eemed bigger than I'd thought he'd been the other night, with the top of my head reaching only his broad shoulders. His face was placid, and even now as he stood silently staring at the mirror in front of us, he was beautiful with chiseled features and powerful body. But what made Tristan stunning were those deep, soulful eyes. Warm brown eyes the shade of melted milk chocolate I could have spent the rest of time getting lost in. I looked for any sign that the man from Page Six was there beside me, but the Tristan I got to see was still with me. Quiet, but gentle and drop dead sexy.

  The elevator doors opened up to a penthouse unlike anything I'd ever seen. Tristan's home was something right out of a design magazine. I walked around with my mouth agape at the opulence of his place. He seemed almost disinterested in his own home, though, except for the one bare spot on the wall in his bedroom. That seemed of the utmost importance to him.

  Pointing at it, he asked, "What do you think should go there?"

  I stared at the wall as my mind quickly went as empty as the blank space. "Is this the test?"

  "Yes."

  "I don't know. I'd have to spend some time examining the rest of the decor. You don't want just anything hanging there. If that were the case, the poker playing dogs picture would work."

  He chuckled but wasn't going to be put off. "All you must do is answer the question correctly and the assistant curator job is yours, Nina."

  He stood so close that my mind went from blank to muddled. All I could think of was the luxurious feel of his suit as his arm brushed the back of my hand and the sexy smell of his cologne filling my nose. I turned away from looking at the spot to see him staring down at me. I could think of nothing, but I blurted out, "A Cooper," knowing in my heart that wasn't what he wanted to hear.

  His expression showed his disapproval—or was it disappointment?—and he turned away, shaking his head. "No."

  I had no way of disagreeing, but even now as I knew I'd failed the test and lost out on the dream job of my life, I still couldn't think of an appropriate choice. Dejected, I looked up at him and quietly said, "If you can just take me home, please."

  He pulled his phone from his suit coat pocket and spoke into it in a flat tone. "I need a car downstairs to take a young lady to Sunset Park."

  Whatever the person on the other end said I had no idea, but in seconds the elevator door opened and Tristan ushered me toward the exit. He said nothing, and I got into the elevator, sad that I'd failed the test and lost my chance but also sad that I'd let him down. It was strange, but although I barely knew him, I was uncomfortable with him being unhappy.

  The doors began to close, taking him away, and I pushed back the tears welling up in my eyes. Just before he disappeared from sight, I whispered, "I'm sorry."

  And then he was gone.

  If I could have called in sick from work on Wednesday, I would have. Just going to the gallery reminded me of him, and even more, it reminded me of how I'd utterly failed at my one chance to really do something in the art world. By the time the day was over, I was committed to spending the night in bed with ice cream and a sad movie so I'd feel justified in crying my eyes out.

  Jordan had end of year conferences, so the apartment was all mine to mope around to my heart's content. It was strange, but I felt empty inside after what had happened with Tristan. I knew it should have been over the chance he'd given me, but it was because I'd lost him. But had he ever really been mine to lose? I had no idea. I just knew that as I walked around the apartment aimlessly I was missing him.

  By seven o'clock, I had devoured a pint of mint chocolate chip ice cream and was ready for the DVD player to deliver enough sad love stories that I'd cry the memory of Tristan Stone right out of my heart. I needed true love separated by horrible circumstances and life changing romance.

  A knock at the door just before the first movie began slowed my mourning, and as I padded barefoot down the hallway to the front door, I hoped it wasn't Alex, who'd called three times since the night before. I didn't have the answer no matter what the question was he wanted to ask.

  I opened the door, and instead of Alex, there stood Tristan. My heart leaped in my chest at the sight of him. Dressed impeccably in a suit, as always, he was a sight for sore eyes. I knew I shouldn't be thrilled to see him, but I was.

  "Come for a ride with me. I want to talk."

  And with that everything that had happened between us came rushing back. All the confusion. All the frustration. And now, all the anger at how he'd toyed with me.

  "Go back to your penthouse, Tristan. Find someone else to do your charity work on."

  I threw every bit of power I had into slamming the door in his face, but he jammed his foot in the opening. It pushed back against my hands as he tried to stick his face in through the crack to speak.

  "I just want us to talk. What can that hurt?"

  "Go away. Your brand of talking just confuses me and then I feel bad after," I said as I pushed on the door to no avail.

  "Please."

  And there it was. The magic word. Please. God, my father's good parenting had come back to haunt me yet again. Something in the word please had a way of making any argument I had melt away.

  I stopped pushing on the door and opened it up to see him staring at me with those brown eyes of his. As usual, they told me more than his words had, and now they were pleading with me to go with him one more time.

  Even if I wanted to say no, which I didn't, I couldn't have. Whatever power he had over me I just couldn't fight it.

  Hanging my head in resignation, I welcomed him in. "Give me a minute to get dressed."

  As I walked to my room, I thought about how much I wished I could say no. It was no good that even before a man kissed me that he had this much control over my heart and mind. I couldn't imagine what he'd be able to do if we ever slept together.

  He drove out of the city, and I knew where we were going. Back to the middle of nowhere, but this time my fear wasn't that he would kill me and leave me in pieces on the side of the road. No, this time I was afraid he'd already taken the most important piece of me and there was nothing I could do about it.

  Chapter Four

  We pulled up to the house he showed me the other night, and he turned off the car. He hadn't said ten words the entire way there, but now he turned to face me and said with a smile, "I didn't want things to end like they did last night."

  His voice sounded sincere and made me want to make things better. "I'm sorry I didn't know the right answer."

  "That's not important. The test was unfair. I'm the one who should be apologizing."

  "Why did you bring me here, Tristan?"

  "Let's go in."

  As we walked toward the front door, he took my hand in his. His fingers enveloped mine and my hand seemed to disappear into his beneath his jacket. I felt small next to him now.

  And then I looked up and what stood in front of me took my breath away. Massive white marble columns held up a front portico a full story high and flanked by the tallest evergreen trees I'd ever seen. A huge center section of the house broke off into a wing on the left and right sides, each the size of a full home itself. A second floor the same size as the main floor sat below a blue-grey color roof forty feet above the ground.

  "Wow...your house is..." I stammered out as I stopped walking and craned my neck to take it all in.

  Tristan smiled at me and my amazement. "I'm glad you like it. It's got twenty acres too. Come see the inside."

  Just like his penthouse, the country house looked like something straight out of a magazine. A massive wrought iron and glass light fixture hung from the twenty foot ceiling in the wide entryway, and the beige marble floor gleamed beneath my feet. The walls were painted a cream color and looked like old world plaster. The entire room was simply stunning, and it was just the foyer!

  Room after room unfolded before my eyes, each one unique and gorgeous. By the time he'd finished showing me the main area of the house, I'd seen four fireplaces already. Each room
came with an explanation about how he planned to change it or what he wanted to keep, but I couldn't help but wonder what one person would do with all this space. I imagined him wandering through the rooms lonely and looking for someone to talk to.

  He led me back to the main entryway where the home branched off into two wings. "Is anyone else here or will you live here alone?" Just asking the question made me sad.

  He didn't seem bothered by it, though. "I have a man who handles things, a gardener who moved into the carriage house already, and a few other people who will be working for me here."

  "Oh, so you won't be living alone?"

  He didn't answer and pointed toward the left side of the house. "I want to show you that wing. I think you'll like it."

  "Tristan, how many bedrooms does this house have?"

  "Six."

  Six bedrooms for one person? "Does that include rooms for the people who work for you?"

  Shaking his head, he smiled. "No. They don't count."

  He continued to talk about where he was taking me, and I wondered if he meant the bedrooms didn't count in the total or the people who worked for him didn't. After a hallway that left the main part of the house, we entered what looked like an apartment. Well, not an apartment like mine but one that someone like him would live in.

  "Do you like it?"

  I looked around at the bedroom, which was no less than four times the size of mine and decorated impeccably, and couldn't help but laugh. "I can't imagine anyone not liking it."

  His voice turned serious. "I don't care if anyone else likes it. I want to know if you like it, Nina."

  I was startled by his tone. What did it matter if I liked a room in his house? "It's very nice."

  This was the thing that confused me about Tristan. He never seemed to act the way other people would. He'd taken me for a drive twice, and neither time we'd done much talking, as if sitting next to someone and not saying anything was normal. Now he'd showed me his house and seemed oddly concerned that I like it. Why?

  I wanted to ask, but I doubted I'd get a straight answer anyway. That definitely wasn't his way.

  He led me back to see the indoor pool, and I fell in love. Even if we only stayed whatever we were at that moment, I hoped I'd get to swim in that pool. It had been designed to look like an enormous Roman bath with a sixty foot pool and sauna. The back wall of the room was an exquisite mosaic tile design that portrayed Neptune riding in his undersea chariot led by a team of sea horses. Artistically, the varied shades of blue and white in the intricate mosaic were stunning. The other three walls of the pool area were filled with floor to ceiling windows along with four sets of double doors that I was sure flooded the area with gorgeous sunlight in the afternoons.