by Kyra Davis
“Your ego is unreal.”
“It’s not about ego. It’s about observation. I’m learning you. I’m learning your mind.” He kisses my forehead. “And I’m learning your body.” He leans in and kisses my neck.
He finds that spot, right at the base near the shoulder, his tongue darting out, sending little shivers down my spine. “You don’t have to act tough for me, Bell,” he says, whispering the words against my skin.
“I don’t have to do anything,” I say, my hands going to his shoulders, my fingers digging into the fabric of his jacket. “I don’t even have to listen to you.”
He picks me up and puts me down on the table. My legs are open as he steps between them, his hand now on the back of my neck as I look up at him.
He nuzzles his face in my hair before moving down to my ear, grazing my earlobe with his teeth.
Gently, I pull his jacket from him, tossing it onto the floor.
“Careful, warrior,” he says as his hands move up and down my back. “I have to wear these clothes all day.”
I grab his tie and pull him to me, smiling. “Not my problem.” I reach down with one hand and let it run over his erection before pulling his belt free and dropping it on top of his jacket.
He raises his eyebrows, pulls my top off, and throws it down. “Now we’ll both look guilty. Tell me, when Travis sees your wrinkled clothes, your mussed hair, your smeared lipstick . . . How will you explain that to your employer? Will he question you? Will you lie?”
“I won’t have to lie,” I say as I undo his pants and then yank them down, pausing long enough to allow him to step out of them. “I don’t have to explain myself to anyone.”
“Oh, but you do.” He unfastens my bra. Changing the pace he slowly pulls it down my arms. His fingers dance over my nipples and I feel myself flush as he looks at me. “We all have to explain ourselves, no matter how strong or independent we think we are.”
“Do we?” As his fingers continue to toy with me and his tongue tastes my ear, I find myself wriggling in my seat, my words coming out as a staccato whisper.
“Yes.” His free hand runs up and down my thigh. “In the end we’re all just pieces of a puzzle. Your piece may be more decorative in its imagery than others, but you still have to find a way to fit into the world, just like the rest of us. We all have to make our connections, link our lives to the people and places that fit us best. Otherwise we’re nothing more than fragments.”
I smile, my guard temporarily slipping. “You’re always such a philosopher. Always seeing the world in metaphors.” His fingers continue to circle my nipples, making them hard as my breath catches in my throat. I hear more voices in the hall. A lost visitor tries the doorknob before being redirected by a companion to the correct room. “Perhaps we shouldn’t do this here,” I whisper.
“The door’s locked,” he reminds me. He takes my skirt and pulls it off me, carefully putting it on an empty folding chair near him.
“But someone might hear us . . . And if they see us walk out together . . .”
“Then they’ll be envious.” His hand moves between my legs, and his fingers slide under the fabric of my panties. “They’ll know I’ve been inside the most sensual woman in the world.”
“I’m not the most . . . ” I lose my words as his finger slips inside.
“I’m learning you, Bell,” Lander repeats. “I’m learning your rhythms, your moods and tempers.”
As his finger continues to explore I feel myself rock against him.
“I know you like risk,” he says. “I know that you use the air of mystery you’ve cultivated as a shield. And I know how to break through that shield now. I know how to make you lose control.”
His thumb rises to toy with my clit and he continues to move his finger inside me as I get wetter and wetter. I can hear voices in the hall. I have to press my lips together to keep from adding my groans to the sounds around me. Once again my hands rise to his shoulders, but this time I’m not digging in my nails, I’m simply holding on for support. The day, the odd errand Travis sent me on, seeing Edmund for the first time in years . . . Even with all my planning, it was enough to make me dizzy and unsteady on my feet. But Lander, he’s here, he’s solid.
And as impossible as it is, it feels like we fit, like . . . like he’s the piece of the puzzle I need to reconnect with the world.
While the rest of the time I feel like nothing more than a shard of broken glass. A fragment.
I let myself give in to the sensation of him. The sounds in the hall now are nothing more than background music, adding the beat of excitement to our dance. My head falls onto his shoulder as his fingers continue to move. I feel myself shaking as my body contracts around him, holding him in place, making us whole.
He gently steps away, but only enough to pull down my panties. He lets them drop to the floor.
“Lie down,” he instructs. “On your side.”
At a seductive, unhurried pace, I pull my knees to my chest before shifting my position and lying down on the conference table, on my side, facing away from him. I feel him climb on top of the table with me, kneeling beside me. I hear laughter in the hall. I feel him stroke my back, then lower. I feel his knee press between my legs and then I feel him pressing against me. I don’t say please this time. I don’t ask. I just turn my head slightly and smile into his eyes.
When he enters me, as I feel every ridge slide inside me, rubbing against each nerve ending, in that one fleeting moment the puzzle is complete.
“Bell,” he whispers, and I extend one of my legs forward, straight in front of me like a dancer preparing to rest her slippered foot on a ballet bar.
But his movement is not so gentle. The table creaks slightly as he thrusts with increasing force, his hands slipping to my hips as he pulls me against him.
Outside I hear a woman call out to a colleague. On the wall I see more promotional posters for this hated bank. But all I feel is Lander.
And he feels perfect.
I throw my head back as the passion continues to build. I feel the orgasm coming and I’m not sure whether I still care if we’re caught or not. Everything outside that door is so complicated and messy. This is so simple.
We just fit.
Again he thrusts inside me and I manage to compress my cries into whimpers as he pulls my leg back to him, turning me to face him as he lies down with me so that now my legs are scissored through his. My face is against his as he penetrates even deeper. I cling to him and he continues to move. The whole table shakes with us, and for a moment I wonder about its stability. But then, what would I know about stability?
His lips are on my chin, my cheek, and then my mouth as we continue to rock. I grind against him, circling my hips, raising the intensity for both of us. I feel him tensing as my orgasm overwhelms me. It’s the intimacy that does it. It makes me forget about the compounding lies and the schemes.
Here, naked on this table, in an office building with people walking up and down the halls outside, here with my enemy deep inside me . . . here I feel safe.
It’s been a very long time since I’ve felt safe.
The feeling goes to my head, sharpens my passion and lust as I move against him, as he holds me firmly in his hands. I press my mouth against his neck to muffle my cry as he comes in me, filling me, bringing our dance to a graceful close.
For a moment we just continue to lie there, holding each other. For a moment I forget my plans, forget where I am. I forget all the lies.
Until he whispers that one word, “Bellona.”
And that’s when I open my eyes, release my grip, and pull sheepishly away.
Because that’s who he’s making love to: an imaginary woman. A goddess made up of nothing but myths and legends. That’s who he can’t resist. He doesn’t know the first thing about me.
In the end it was just a false sense of safety . . .
. . . just like it always is.
chapter six
On my walk from
the subway station to home, I stop to see Mary and hand her a plastic bag from Duane Reade. “Three Crunchy Peanut Butter Clif Bars, one Smartwater, one Strawberry Shortcake coloring book, colored pencils, and a new sharpener,” I say proudly.
“Aren’t you nice!” she says. She reaches for the food first. “Crunchy Peanut Butter’s good . . . but Apricot’s my favorite.”
I start to say something, but she nods over toward my apartment building. “There’s one of ’em fancy cars parked down there. You think the president’s come for a visit?”
I follow her gaze and see that there is in fact a limo in front of my apartment building.
That’s not normal. It’s a little smaller than Lander’s limo, so it’s not him, thank God. I don’t want him to know where I live. Still, its presence here is odd.
“Mary, I gotta go,” I say distractedly as I walk toward the car.
“Hey, how’d you know my name?” she calls out behind me, but I keep walking. As I get a little closer I can see that there’s a small dent toward the back of the driver’s side, giving this luxury ride a little roughness.
I slow my pace as I watch the back door open, and a large, bald man wearing a suit that almost succeeds in hiding all his tattoos steps out.
I know this man.
“Hello there, Sweet!” he booms in his unusual accent.
I flash him a nervous smile. “It’s been a while, Micah.”
“Too long,” he agrees. “I was just in your neighborhood and figured I’d see if you’d like to grab a bite. What do you say?”
He knows the answer is yes. No one ever says no to Micah Romenov.
And yet I almost like this guy. He’s been a kind of friend to me, partly because he’s always been able to compartmentalize his brutality and has never used it against me.
And if he ever decides to withdraw his friendship . . . if his opinion of me ever becomes less favorable . . . well, I might not be around long enough to change my opinion of him.
“Do I have time to go upstairs and change?” I ask.
“Of course, of course.” Micah laughs. “I’ll be down here making some calls. I just thought we’d take some time to catch up is all.”
“Catch up about what?” I ask as nonchalantly as possible.
“Lots of things, Sweet. Life, family . . . and your new job. Oh, are you still okay with me calling you Sweet? Or do you prefer people call you Bellona these days?”
“Sweet is fine,” I say, pulling nervously on my fingers. “I’ll only be a minute.”
For the second time today I think of the little gun in my desk. Of course, if Micah ever turned on me, such a small piece of metal wouldn’t be enough to protect me.
Less than forty minutes later we’re walking into a chic Tribeca restaurant. It’s hard not to feel a little overwhelmed by the place. The ceiling is comprised of a series of arcs. Everything in the room is sumptuous: even the upholstered chairs with their padded armrests and curved backs have a regal quality to them.
But then, perhaps all of that is appropriate, since the man I’m with is kinda like a king . . . or at least a dictator.
The hostess recognizes him right away and we’re seated within a minute. Our table’s right up against the wall, just the way he likes it. We’re both served vodka martinis before I even have a chance to unfold my napkin. The waitress stands by as Micah raises his glass, holding it with all the subtle grace and practice of an old-moneyed country-club boy. You can barely see the tips of his tattoos peeking out from underneath his long sleeves. He takes a sip and then nods his approval to the waitress, who swiftly leaves us.
“Forgive me,” he says. “I should have started with a toast. But it’s my habit to taste the martini first. If it’s not crafted well, I send the shit back.”
Again I smile. Micah was born in Russia but lived in England for much of his young adult life. He hobnobbed with the lesser-known royalty before moving his operations to the States. So now he’s a bizarre combination of the two cultures. He prefers vodka, but he sips rather than gulps. He’s a key figure in the Russian Mafia, but he’s so polite when you’re talking to him that you almost forget about all the men he’s buried. Some would say that the men he killed were also bad guys, but still, to use Micah’s words, “It’s a fucking messy bit of business.”
“Now we’ll toast.” Micah raises his glass and I follow suit. “What are we drinking to?” I ask.
“To your new job, Sweet, what else?”
My smile wavers as I bring the drink to my lips.
“You did get the job, didn’t you? I made sure my people gave you very good references.”
“Yes,” I say uncertainly. “I got the job. Thank you for your help with that.”
“Bellona,” he says, sounding out the word with a touch of distaste. “What kind of name is that? It sounds like a piece of lunch meat.”
I shrink a little in my seat. “It’s the name of a Roman goddess. I just like it is all.”
“Bellona,” Micah says again, shaking his head. “When you told me that you needed false references—some cooked-up proof that you worked for that lousy Realtor—you neglected to tell me you were applying to be Travis Gable’s personal assistant.”
“Would that have made a difference?” I ask lightly, picking up the menu. “Do you know him?”
“Simple question, complicated answer.” Micah leans back in his chair, his eyes skipping toward the door and then back again. “You’ve gone to a lot of trouble for a PA job. I assumed you’d be going for something better. Hell, I could have set you up with something a lot better.”
“I don’t think I have the skills needed for your particular line of work.”
Micah’s brow creases for a second and then he breaks out laughing. It’s such a warm laugh, I find myself tempted to relax . . . but I know better.
“You must try the ravioli,” he says, waving his hand toward my menu. “It’s fucking fantastic.”
I put the menu down, happy to let him pick my entrée. He raises his hand in the air and the waitress jumps into action, almost knocking over another guest as she hurries over to take our order.
“I wasn’t suggesting you work for me,” he says once we’re alone again. “I owe your mother a debt. I’m not gonna repay it by getting her daughter mixed up in a bunch of nefarious bullshit.”
Part of me wonders if he plans his sentences out ahead of time, figuring out which words to mix in order to amuse and captivate. When you’re as dangerous and powerful as Micah you can afford to be silly.
The other part of me wishes he hadn’t mentioned my mother. But then, he always does. If it wasn’t for her I wouldn’t even know Micah.
Again he sips his martini. “Why the personal assistant job?”
I shrug. “It’s not a bad gig. It pays well, really well. And once it’s on my résumé that I worked for the Gables, I’ll be able to work for anyone.”
“As a personal assistant.”
“There are worse jobs.”
“Yes,” he agrees. “More than a few.” He looks around the restaurant and shakes his head. “I miss the days when you could smoke in restaurants. Don’t you? Do you smoke? I’ve never seen you light up, but maybe that’s because the fascists who run this city have made sure there’s no place where you can.”
I roll the stem of my glass between my fingers. “I don’t smoke.”
“Why not? You’re afraid it’s gonna kill you?”
“No, I don’t spend a lot of time worrying about what is or isn’t going to kill me. I just don’t like the taste.”
He studies me a moment before slowly shaking his head. “It’s why you wouldn’t do very well in my profession. I’ve never gotten the impression that you care much for your own life, Sweet. And in my business, if you don’t fear death you die.”
“But they die anyway . . . the people in your business.”
“Yes, but if they didn’t have that fear they’d die faster. The fear of death always extends a person’s life a
little, even if it’s only by a few days . . . sometimes a few hours.”
“A few hours?” I laugh and shake my head. “Gee, what a privilege.”
“It is,” Micah says, his face completely serious. “Every minute of life is a gift. Do you know what happens to you after you die?”
I shake my head as a waiter pops a bottle of champagne for a couple celebrating a few tables over.
“Neither do I,” he says. “I don’t know if we go to heaven, or hell, or purgatory. Maybe we all just rot in the earth with the worms sliding through our skulls. All these preachers and scientists who try to tell us what’s going to happen to us after we die, none of them know. But I do know what happens when you live. I know what the air feels like when it fills my lungs. I know what it’s like to have the sun on my face and beer in my belly. I know what it’s like to lie awake in a dark room. I know I gotta die one of these days. Not too many people in my line of work reach a ripe old age. But even so, if a little fear can buy me two extra hours, I’ll take it.”
I run my fingers along the edge of my bread plate, take another sip of my martini.
“I know what you’re thinking,” he says.
“Yes.” I tap my foot against the hard floor. “I’m sure you do.”
“Go ahead and say it, I won’t be offended.”
I look up, meet his eyes as a busser brings over a basket of rolls before making a quick retreat. “I’m thinking,” I say, “that you rob people of those last few hours, weeks, and years all the time.”
“Yeah, well, I only give people what they deserve. And even then I don’t always take pleasure in it. What can I say?” He selects a roll from the basket before adding, “Every job has its drawbacks.”
I burst out in startled laughter. It’s not that what he’s saying is funny. He’s a horrible person. I know that.
But he’s also the only person I’m in contact with who actually knows my real name, even though he never uses it. I should probably want to avoid him just for that reason alone, but oddly enough it draws me to him.
I take a roll and tear into it, trying to figure out if I should ask why I’m here or if I should wait for it to be revealed.
