by Lara Adrian
I can still hear the dark vibration of his deep voice so close to my ear. I can still feel his heated breath against my bare skin. I feel it so intensely, I shiver with it even now.
God, what is wrong with me? I need to forget about Jared Rush. I need to forget about all of the confusing things he makes me feel every time I’m near him. He is a means to an end, an opportunity for a new start for both Daniel and me. Once he has his painting and pays for it as promised, Daniel and I can try to get past this whole troubling situation and move on with our lives. Although, I can’t deny my trust in him may never be fully repaired.
As for the way Rush behaved with me this morning and his unsettling remarks, for all I know it’s just preparation for him getting me in front of his canvas. I should expect him to probe for weak spots, to look for cracks in who I am.
He won’t find them. I can’t let him.
Blowing out a sigh, I push through the swinging door into the kitchen, which is operating at full tilt for the busy lunch hour.
“Order up,” the cook calls out, punctuating it with a ding of the bell beside him.
The plate of pasta marinara and garlic toast is for one of the other servers’ customers, but I snag it after ladling a small bowl of steamed broccoli and carrots for my table.
“I’ll take this out, Chuck.”
He gives me a wink and a wave of acknowledgment while moving on to tend the burgers sizzling on the grill. When I step back out to the dining room to deliver the food, I practically crash into Daniel.
“Hi, Mel.” He’s wearing a suit as if he’s come straight to Queens from his office in Midtown, which he apparently has. In his hand is a large bouquet of red roses.
He’s never come to the diner before. It’s so unexpected to see him now, I can only frown. “W-what are you doing here?”
He gives me one of his boyish smiles that never fail to charm me. Except for today. “Is that any way to greet a man holding a dozen long-stemmed roses?”
“I’m sorry. Just . . . give me a minute, okay?” I gesture with the plates in my hands, then squeeze past him to bring the food to Mrs. Augustino and the other table.
Daniel is leaning against the lunch counter when I come back, his smile dimmed a little as our gazes meet. He’s trying to be cheerful, but there’s a note of worry in his expression. “I’ve been calling and texting you all morning. I got very concerned when you didn’t reply.”
“I’ve been working for the past few hours.” It’s not really an excuse for ignoring him, but I’d rather not lie, either. I feel my frown pinch even more. “How did you know I was working today?”
“I stopped by your house. Your mom told me you picked up a shift.” He leans in close and lowers his voice to a whisper. “I thought you were meeting Rush this morning.”
“I was. I did.” I shake my head. “I really don’t want to talk about it. Like I said, I’m working.”
It’s a brush-off and he knows it. I can see the note of rejection in his eyes. “Mel, are we okay?”
“Sure.” I tilt my head at him. “Aren’t we?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
At that same moment, Shelly, the server whose order I delivered, swoops up from her break in a cigarette-scented flourish. “Ooh, roses for me? You shouldn’t have!” She cackles, draping her arm over my shoulders. “Who’s the good-lookin’ suit, Mels?”
“This is Daniel,” I murmur, an awkward tension pulsing unnoticed by my coworker.
“I’m Melanie’s boyfriend.” Without missing a beat, Daniel’s gaze flicks to the plastic nametag pinned above her left breast. “Nice to meet you, Shelly.”
She beams at him before glancing at me and widening her eyes. “You better get those pretty roses into some water, girl. Go on, take your break. I’ll watch your tables.”
“Thanks, Shel.” I’d have preferred to keep working, but avoiding Daniel isn’t going to make things better. I take the bouquet from him and he follows me through the kitchen to the small break area near the back door of the diner. Although to call the battered card table and rickety metal chairs a “break area” is a stretch.
He takes a seat as if he intends to stay a while.
I can’t resist inhaling the sweet perfume of the flowers, no matter how inconvenient it is to be given them while I’m in the middle of the lunch rush. “I’ll go look for something to put these in.”
I return with the roses placed in a water-filled iced tea pitcher. Daniel grins up at me while I choose to remain standing.
“Do you like them?”
“They’re beautiful.”
When I don’t offer anything more, he puts his elbows on his spread knees, clasping his hands together as if in prayer. I’ve seen this pose before, when he and I stood in front of Jared Rush that first night. Now, I can’t help but consider this Daniel’s groveling stance.
“So, you did meet with Rush today, then?” he asks after a moment.
I barely nod.
“For how long?”
“Not long.”
He swallows, his hands still fused together as he glances up at me. “Did it . . . go all right?”
“Not especially, no.”
The breath he exhales carries a heavy edge. When he speaks, his voice sounds contrite, almost pleading. “Aren’t you going to tell me what happened?”
“No, Daniel, I’m not.” I set the roses down on the table, then step back a pace. “The only way this is going to work between us is if I do this thing with Jared Rush and we never speak of it. Not now, and not after.”
A tendon throbs hard in his jaw. “If he touches you, Melanie—”
“He hasn’t.”
“Goddamn him, if he hurts you in any way—I’ll kill the son of a bitch.”
“Maybe you should’ve thought about that before you asked me to agree to pose for him.”
Daniel’s anger stutters to a halt. “W-what?”
I didn’t say it with any venom, but he sounds so horrified and wounded, I’m almost sorry I said it. Almost.
“Mel, what other option did we have? Rush wasn’t going to let me leave that house without paying him what I owed. I don’t have that kind of cash.”
“Not to mention the money you owe in Las Vegas,” I remind him.
His brow furrows. “That’s right,” he says, keeping his voice low enough to be drowned out by the rest of the kitchen activity. He reaches out and takes my hand between his. His palms are moist and cool, but his grip is firm. His eyes implore me. “Listen to me. I love you. I know I’m never going to be able to make this up to you, but I’m going to do my damnedest to try.”
“Then you can start by telling me why you kept your gambling problems a secret from me.”
He flinches, his head snapping back before he blows out a heavy sigh. On a low curse, he drops his gaze to our joined hands. “I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want to see you looking at me the way you are now. I didn’t want to lose you. I don’t want to lose you.”
As I stare at the top of his lowered head, more of Jared Rush’s words come back to me. All those little seeds of doubt that I wanted to deny have started putting down roots since I left his house this morning.
“Are you keeping any other secrets from me?”
“What? No.” His head comes up, his gaze stark. “I’m not, I swear to you, Mel.”
I want to believe him. God, I’m desperate to believe him. After several months together, I need to be able to trust that this kind, loving man is who he’s shown me to be. If the solemnity in his handsome face is any indication, he must be telling me the truth.
So why am I still hearing Jared Rush’s deep voice warning me that Daniel is hiding something from me? That he doesn’t deserve me?
Because I’m already allowing Rush to take me down a dark path, that’s why. It has to be. Maybe he only said those things to manipulate me, to begin deconstructing me before his brush makes its first stroke on the canvas. Or maybe he just thinks I’m a fool for l
oving Daniel.
Anyway, it doesn’t matter why Jared Rush said what he did.
It doesn’t matter what he thinks.
If I have my doubts about Daniel, they’re my own to either work through or leave behind. Right now, I’m not sure I’m ready to do either one. Especially not here, in the middle of the clamor and chaos of the diner.
“I should get back to my tables.”
When I pull my hand away, Daniel comes off the chair to stand with me. His touch moves to my shoulders, resting lightly there, his thumbs stroking absently. “What time does your shift end? I have a client meeting in an hour that I can’t miss, but I want to see you. I need to see you.”
“Daniel, I can’t.” I step out of his touch, out of his reach.
“Can’t, or don’t want to?”
“I have a paper to write tonight.” Which is true, but also a welcome excuse for some space to myself. It won’t last nearly long enough, though. “In the morning, I have to go back to Rush’s place,” I say, feeling a strange mix of curiosity and trepidation over the idea. “We’re going to his studio in the Hamptons tomorrow.”
“The Hamptons.” Daniel scoffs, his voice tight. A bleak acknowledgment settles over his face before he curses under his breath. “I hate everything about this damn arrangement. You belong to me, Melanie. I hate the idea of Rush being alone with you. I hate the idea of him looking at you, even if he says it’s only to paint you.”
I can tell he hates this, and for the first time, I wonder if that might have been the point. Knowing what little I do about Jared Rush, it wouldn’t surprise me if he isn’t taking some amount of satisfaction in the idea of causing Daniel distress.
“How long have you and Jared Rush known each other?”
He shrugs dismissively. “I guess about a month, a little more. We were introduced at the firm, when he approached us about his Gramercy Park hotel project. Why?”
“I’m just curious.” But it’s more than that. I am suspicious in a way that makes little sense to me. Suspicious of Daniel, of Jared Rush, of things I’ve never questioned before in my life.
Meeting Jared Rush has raised countless questions in my mind. He’s stirring a paranoia in me, along with other, uninvited feelings I can’t deny. Those feelings still linger inside me as powerfully as his dark, dangerous voice.
“Mel, what’s wrong?” Daniel reaches for me and I flinch at his touch.
“I’m sorry,” I murmur, distracted and edgy. “I should get back to work now.”
“All right.” He frowns, letting his hand fall slowly to his side.
He walks me out to the busy restaurant dining room. When we pause at the exit, he leans forward to kiss me and I move my head, giving him my cheek instead of my lips. I tell myself it’s because we’re in front of a diner full of nosy customers, but the small niggle of unease in my stomach is saying something different.
Daniel clears his throat. “Will you promise to call me tomorrow . . . after? I need to know you’ve gotten home safely. Can you at least give me that?”
“Okay.” I nod, forcing a smile I don’t really feel.
12
MELANIE
That next morning, I find myself seated between Jared Rush and the pilot of a sleek black helicopter chopping high above Long Island under beautiful, sunny skies. The private charter had been waiting for us at an exclusive heliport along the East River just a few minutes away from the mansion at Lenox Hill.
When Rush had accompanied me to his chauffeured Mercedes parked at the curb outside his home nearly an hour ago, I hadn’t been expecting we’d be flying to Sagaponack. Least of all suspended in a small, speeding metal box with far too much window glass for my peace of mind.
“Nervous?”
His deep voice vibrates close to my ear. Every time I hear him speak, it unravels something inside me. Now is no different. The low rumble cleaves through my thoughts, and my anxiety, which is hardly insignificant.
My stomach climbed up behind my rib cage the moment we took flight and still hasn’t come down. I want to chalk it up to the fact that I’ve never flown in a helicopter before, but part of the distracting flutter inside me has to do with the close proximity of Rush’s body to mine.
I give him a half-shrug, half-shake of my head. “I’m fine.”
He tilts his head, obviously unconvinced. “Is this your first time in a helicopter?”
“Yes.” The bird dips a little at a hiccup in the air, and my hand shoots out in reflex to brace myself. Rush’s denim-clad leg is the closest thing in my reach. I grab for him without even realizing it until I feel the heat of his hard thigh clamped under my fingertips.
Oh, God. I snatch my hand back on a wince. “Sorry.”
“No worries.” That easy Southern drawl sounds more pronounced with the low chuckle that accompanies it. Everything about him seems calm and unfazed the farther we get away from the city. All except the look in his dark gaze. It sears me with its intensity as he watches me. “I take it you don’t like flying?”
“It’s not flying that bothers me.” The helicopter bobs again, and I suck in a breath. “I don’t really like heights much.”
“You don’t like heights and you don’t like the dark. I’m intrigued,” he says, studying me with a look that seems more serious than his easy tone would indicate.
My stomach clenches for a different reason now. I hate that he remembers Daniel’s careless blurt about my fear of the dark, but, of course, he would remember. I don’t suppose Jared Rush is the kind of man who forgets anything. Just as he won’t forget this added admission of weakness I’ve volunteered to him. I can only wonder how it might color the way he sees me, or the way he’ll choose to depict me on his canvas.
“It’s not a big deal.” I lift my shoulder, trying to ignore the way his penetrating gaze moves over me. “Everyone’s got their quirks.”
He acknowledges with a slight nod. “True enough.”
“Even you?” I ask.
As eager as I am to deflect his unnerving focus away from me, I can’t deny I am curious about the man. I know he’s arrogant and infuriating. I know he’s dangerous in more ways than I want to admit, even to myself. Yet no matter how much I’d like to pretend differently, I want to know more about Jared Rush.
“Do I have quirks?” He grunts. “More than a few.”
“Such as?”
He stares at me. “Ms. Laurent, are you asking me to share something personal with you?” A cool, sardonic humor glints in his dark eyes. “I thought we’d established fairly firm rules of engagement yesterday. As I recall, personal questions are off-limits.”
The reminder of what happened at our breakfast meeting sends heat into my face, along with other places I’d prefer to ignore. He knows it, too. I can see the glimmer of awareness in his schooled expression.
He’s used to being in control. Used to being the one who sets—or breaks—the rules. He demonstrated that clearly enough yesterday. I had marched into his house determined to let him know he wasn’t going to rattle me. It took him only minutes to show me that he could not only rattle me, but leave me burning with a mixture of outrage and uninvited desire.
Jared Rush is not only used to calling the shots. He’s used to winning as well, and I can’t dismiss the way he’s just referred to our conversation in combat terms. Rules of engagement. The kind of rules made for entering into battle.
Is that what this is to him—some kind of war? If so, what does that make me?
Am I his enemy simply by association with Daniel? Or am I something even less? Something expendable, a pawn?
I suppose I’ll have that answer soon enough. In approximately two weeks, Jared Rush will have his painting. Daniel’s debts will be forgiven, my own financial concerns will be lessened, and this will all be over.
At least that’s what I tell myself as the pilot radios our approach to the small tower up ahead. Over the vibration in the cockpit, he informs us we’ll be on the ground in ten minutes.
> With a nod, Rush leans back in his seat next to me and taps out a quick text to someone. No matter how hard I try to ignore him, my gaze follows the long, muscular lines of his body, the elegant strength of his hands and fingers.
The calm confidence that surrounds him, whether in motion or at rest, is starting to feel familiar to me now. His air of total control in any situation had felt abrasive when we met, but it also soothes me somehow, even though he’s the last person I should look to for reassurance.
We land as softly as we took off, the helicopter parking on a small target not far from the gray cedar shakes-sided terminal building at East Hampton’s airport. Rush guides me off the aircraft, the heat of his palm hovering at the small of my back until we clear the slowing rotors.
The salty summer breeze riffles my long ponytail and sends the hem of my loose dress dancing around my bare calves as we walk toward the terminal. He opens the door for me as we step inside, smoothly navigating us past the handful of attendants and locals who greet him like an old friend, not the rich and famous artist he is.
We head straight through to the entrance on the other side, where taxis and ride-shares jockey for positions at the curb. Rush leads me to one of the half-dozen idling vehicles.
“This one’s us,” he says, gesturing to a beige Toyota sedan with a decal in the window.
“You called an Uber?”
He glances back me, grinning. “Were you expecting a limo?”
It’s the first time I’ve seen such a relaxed and purely natural expression on his face. With his thick, tawny-brown hair brushing his broad shoulders and his handsome face lit up with a boyish smirk, it’s hard to reconcile this side of him with the ruthless, intimidating man who has bought and demanded my presence here today. The sight of him like this all but stops me in my tracks.
“Don’t look so shocked,” he says when I slow behind him. “My place is only ten minutes away. Let’s get out of here.”
His place, as it turns out, is a large cedar-shakes beach house and three-car attached garage situated on what appears to be a two-acre lot. The weathered gray shingles and creamy white trim are set off by pops of colorful hydrangea bushes, wild roses, and thick, green hedges.
