That I wasn’t craving him.
That I wasn’t desperate to taste his lips.
The problem was, it was all a big fat pile of lies.
Taking a deep breath, I slipped over to the large window that looked out onto the street and pulled back the curtain—some ten-dollar Ikea special that had been there forever—to peer outside.
For once, the Manhattan night was quiet. I wasn’t hearing the usual din of New York horns honking or people screaming at each other to get out of the way. Something had draped an almost eerie silence over the city that never sleeps.
I stared at the building across from ours—another set of apartments—where a couple was engaged in some sort of animated argument, their arms flailing around, bodies leaning forward in accusation as each of them tried to emerge victorious. Ah, there it was. Big city animosity, hard at work behind closed windows.
I breathed a sigh of relief, grateful for my life of perpetual singleness. Nothing and no one in my world inspired me to engage in confrontations or screaming matches.
I liked my freedom. At least, that was what I told myself over and over again, even in the most soul-sucking moments of abject loneliness.
The good news was that when the theater shut down, I’d have more freedom than I’d ever bargained for. At some point soon, I was going to have to confront the fact that I might have to move out of this apartment, or even out of this city. Maybe I could work in a coffee shop in small-town Iowa. Or maybe I could even fly to Paris and find work there…if someone gave me a plane ticket and about five-thousand dollars to rent an apartment for a week.
Slightly ashamed to realize that my eyes were still locked voyeuristically on the angry strangers across the street, my gaze slid down towards the sidewalk. Rain had just begun to fall in large, aggressive drops, somewhat obscuring my view of the world below. A hot downpour, no doubt, to match the heat of the air that had hung in a heavy veil over the city for days now.
It seemed fitting to end my insane evening with the sky weeping.
My eyes landed on a shadowy figure outlined against a yellow door on the ground floor. It looked like the shape of a man, though he was so still, the rain beating so hard through the air that I began to doubt my eyes.
That was, until his face lifted to look up at me. His eyes flashed reflectively, like a cat’s in the dark of night, two bright pinpoints set in a dark face. They were only details I could make out.
But they were enough to tell me everything I needed to know about the shadow in the rain.
Tristan Wolfe had figured out where I lived. Not only that, but he’d followed me home.
No way, I told myself. He couldn’t have. I took a cab here with Clarissa. There was no way he could have stayed close enough to follow us. He would have had to get in a car immediately after we did, and I knew for a fact that he’d still been in the bar when we’d flagged down our taxi.
So how the ever-loving hell had he found me?
A noise startled me nearly out of my skin and I spun around, pulling myself away from the window as if I’d been caught in the middle of some nefarious act.
“Honey, I’m home!” sang Marcus as he strode in, carrying a gigantic bag of groceries.
He said those same words every time he walked in. It was one of the reasons I adored him. He was my husband without the stupid obligations.
A perfect spouse.
He turned my way when he figured out where I was and shot me his usual enormous smile. “You’re here!” he said. “I didn’t see you at first.”
“Yes, I’m here,” I replied. Sort of.
“Jesus, Ariana, you look like you’ve seen a ghost,” he laughed as he set the bag down.
“Not a ghost. It was…” I muttered, moving back towards the window. I turned and looked out again.
But the figure was gone.
“It was what?” chuckled Marcus, joining me to take a peek.
“I guess it was a ghost after all,” I said, relieved to think maybe I’d only imagined Tristan out there. Somehow, finding out that I was insane seemed better than the alternative—that I’d fallen hard into Lustville for a stalker who knew where I live and might kill me in the night.
Marcus pulled away from the window and gawked at me. “Seriously, you okay?” he asked, taking my shoulders in his hands. He rarely touched me. We seemed to have an unspoken rule about touching. I guess it was to avoid sexual tension or awkward situations. Whatever it was, it seemed to work for both of us.
I nodded. “I’m fine,” I said, throwing him a smile that probably said I don’t want to talk about it anymore. The night had been too weird already.
“Okay. Then come sit for a second and put your feet up. I’ll put the groceries away later.”
We worked our way over to the couch and I plopped down, one leg tucked under my butt. “What’s up with you?” I asked him.
“Nothing much. Work’s insane,” he said. “I just wanted to relax with you for a minute before I lock myself into my room for the night.”
“Why insane?” I asked. He never talked much about his job. I’d asked him once what he did, and he just told me that it was complicated, that he had a lot of very demanding clients, that sometimes it was stressful and he preferred not to get into it too deep. If anyone understood secrecy it was me, so I chose not to push him.
“The boss came to me today,” he said. “He wants something I’m not sure I can give him.”
“Well, that’s vague,” I laughed, tucking my hair behind my right ear. “Did he ask you to marry him or something?”
“That would’ve been easier,” Marcus chuckled. “No. What he wants is someone’s head on a platter. Not literally, of course. Not yet, anyhow.”
“He wants you to fire someone?”
“Sort of,” he said. “But I get sick of being the bad guy, you know?”
“I can’t imagine you as the bad guy. You’re so sweet,” I told him, leaning my head on his shoulder. Another touch. Probably a bad idea, but he didn’t seem to take it the wrong way, at least. Our unspoken rule remained intact.
After a few seconds, I felt his breath on the top of my head, like his nose had moved in close to my scalp.
“Marcus, are you sniffing me?” I giggled, pulling away to look at him. No, of course he wasn’t. Why would he do something like that?
But when I saw his eyes, I gasped.
Normally, Marcus’s irises were dark brown, like his hair. But for some reason they looked strangely light, reflective, like a cat’s in the dark of night. They looked almost like Tristan’s had as he’d stood in the doorway across the street.
I must have been imagining it, though, because a moment later, they’d returned to their dark brown shade, and once again I found myself questioning my sanity.
“You were sniffing me,” I said slowly.
He shook his head. “No, I mean I was sniffing, but not you,” he said. His tone was evasive, like he was trying to hide something “I just…thought I smelled smoke. Maybe someone’s using a grill on their roof or something.”
“Maybe,” I said, trying not to let my imagination get too carried away. Even if Marcus was hiding something, I knew perfectly well that he wasn’t going to tell me what was really going on. Like so many men, my roomie had a habit of pulling back before he revealed too much. He threw up walls whenever anyone threatened to figure him out. I’d seen him do it to his friends, as well as to me. I knew the habit well. After all, I did the same thing to almost every person in my life.
As for his sniffing, the day had already been so far beyond weird that I wasn’t sure I could trust any of my instincts anymore, let alone my brain. I was probably just projecting some fantasy about Tristan onto him. Trying to read things into his behavior.
“Listen, I think I’ll go take a bath,” I shot out, leaping off the couch and turning to face him. “Do you need the bathroom before I hog it?”
“You go ahead,” he said. “Enjoy. Listen—I’ll bring you a coffee at work t
omorrow, okay? That’ll make you feel better about whatever’s bugging you.”
“Who said anything’s bugging me?”
He shot me a chastising glare and clicked his tongue. “Your face, your body language and your voice said, for starters. Coffee. Tomorrow morning. I’ll be there.”
“That would be really nice, thanks,” I replied. “Coffee would perk me up, or at least give me something to cry into.”
“Then consider it done.”
I smiled at Marcus and trudged towards my bedroom to get my robe, telling myself that maybe tomorrow, things would go back to normal.
Though somehow, I hoped they wouldn’t.
Chapter 4
The next morning at eight-thirty I was already sitting on the stage of the Venezia Theater on West 44th Street. I wore a pair of old denim overalls, grateful to have a job that allowed me to show up looking like a total slob.
I had the whole place to myself, which was how I liked to work. No eyes scrutinizing my craftsmanship, no one breathing down my neck or making demands. Nobody moaning that I was in their way, or that I had to work faster. The crew wouldn’t be here for hours yet, not until the afternoon rehearsal, and I was pretty damn happy to have the run of the place.
At moments like this it felt like my theater, my own private kingdom. I got to control how things went, how things looked. It was like a zen meditation, everything going according to my personal rhythm. This was my territory. My true home. I was a goddess overseeing my domain. For a few precious hours, anyhow.
To top it off, for once I was in a good mood. One that only brightened when at 8:45, as promised, Marcus came striding in with a latte in hand and charged up the stairs at the side of the stage, a big smile on his handsome face.
“You’re a living god,” I told him as he handed it to me. I looked him up and down, almost unable to recognize the man who spent so many hours crumpled in a heap on our communal couch. He was wearing a well-fitting suit jacket, tapered trousers and brown leather shoes. Very stylish, for a guy who often sat around in a Knicks jersey drinking beer.
“Whoa. I don’t get to see you in your work clothes often,” I said. “You clean up nice.”
“I wish I could say ditto,” he laughed, gesturing towards my motley assortment of worn-out clothing. I looked down at the paint-splattered black tank top I had on under my overalls and my ugly, tattered sneakers, and let out a snort.
“What’s wrong with my exquisite haute-couture ensemble?” I retorted. “Dior was charging, like, fifty thousand dollars for this outfit at fashion week. It’s a one-of-a-kind monstrosity.”
“Uh-huh,” he said. “Whatever you say, fashion queen. Listen, I have to take off in a minute, but can I have a look at your set before I go?”
I nodded. “You brought me a latte. You can have anything you want. Come this way.” I led him deeper onto the stage, where a gigantic mock town was set up on all sides. Mostly it was a set of homey-looking houses with pretty flower boxes and white picket fences. A rickety-looking ladder stood at the center of the stage. At first glance it probably appeared to be temporary, but the sad truth was that it was a part of the set. We were in no position to afford high-tech, well assembled ladders. Only the worst, most likely to fall apart pieces of trash for us.
“Our Town, right?” he asked. “I recognize the look. I played the stage manager in our production in high school.”
I nodded. “It’s a classic,” I said. “I guess we wanted to give the audience something that makes people feel good before the demolition company blasts this place to holy hell and turn it into overpriced condos.”
“Well, the stage looks amazing,” Marcus said, wandering up and examining the outer wall of a white-paneled house. “Really amazing. Who knew my roomie was so talented?”
I opened my mouth to offer up some kind of smart-ass reply when another voice, from somewhere far behind me, beat me to the punch.
“I suspected it from the moment I first laid eyes on her.”
The words came from the direction of the front door. The voice was deep, commanding…and devastatingly familiar.
Chapter 5
My heart threatened to leap out through my chest as I spun around to peer out into the orchestra section where the audience sits. The lights were too low to pick anyone out from the thick veil of shadow that hung over most of the theater’s interior. But after a few seconds, the distant reflection of two light eyes revealed itself. Two dots of fiery intensity, moving through the darkness as the figure began to make his way towards us.
I didn’t need to see him clearly to figure out who it was; I knew perfectly well who had shown up at my work place. His name throbbed inside my head like a dull ache, a reminder of my embarrassment, my arousal, my regret from last night, a jumbled medley of every emotion imaginable. Good and bad. Terrifying and exciting.
Tristan. Fucking. Wolfe.
By now, Marcus had also turned around to look. He too seemed startled, his breath trapped somewhere inside his chest. Apparently Tristan had the same effect on him.
It seemed the guy was universally terrifying.
“What are you doing here?” I called out as he made his way down the center aisle towards us. But he didn’t answer. When he got to the front row, he leapt deftly up onto the stage, the five-foot height no match for his athletic stature.
Tristan stared at the set, his neck craned to the side, head tilted like that of a curious dog. “Just looking,” he said. After a few seconds he pulled his eyes to me and looked me up and down like I was breakfast, his gaze settling for a little too long on my cleavage.
The silent, all too direct gesture sent a sharp jolt to my sex, and I cursed my body for feeling the attraction so acutely. Damn you, hormones. Damn this man for his mind games. For making me want him so badly.
I should kick him out of here right now.
Marcus didn’t say anything, which was unlike him. Normally he would have introduced himself, inquired about Tristan’s job, his life, the whole nine yards. But something was muzzling him. I nearly forgot that he was even there until I heard him let out a hard exhale.
“Marcus,” I said, “This is…” I was about to say Tristan’s name, then I remembered that he’d never actually introduced himself last night. I wasn’t supposed to know who he was. All of a sudden I felt empowered. Maybe I could find a way to make him feel just a little bit inadequate.
I turned back to face him. “I’m sorry, I don’t actually know your name.”
“Yes you do, Ariana, just as I know yours,” he said, stepping forward and extending a hand to Marcus. “Tristan Wolfe.”
So much for my brief power trip.
I wasn’t sure if it was just my imagination, or if Marcus actually hesitated to take the other man’s hand for a moment before reaching out. Something about Tristan really seemed to put him off. Maybe it was a sixth sense, or maybe he was just being protective of me.
Or…could he have been jealous?
No, surely not. Marcus had never given me any reason to think he was interested in me. The guy had had plenty of chances to put the moves on me, had he wanted to. This had to be something else.
“Marcus Granville,” he finally said.
“Nice to meet you,” Tristan replied.
Marcus winced as the other man squeezed his hand, apparently a little too hard. When Tristan pulled away I could see his thumb print whitening my housemate’s flesh, evidence of an aggressively tight grip.
Okay, now I was just plain baffled. Was this some kind of weird-ass alpha-male behavior? Did Tristan think Marcus and I were an item? Was this his way of asserting dominance?
Well, that settled it—sexy or not, Mr. Wolfe had now officially taken up residence on my shit list. No one was allowed to hurt my roommate.
Not on my watch.
“I asked you before, Mr. Wolfe,” I said, my tone abrupt and irritable, “what exactly are you doing here?”
“Oh, I just thought I’d come take a look at my newest ac
quisition,” he told me.
“Your…acquisition? Are you saying you’ve bought something in the theater? Because you do realize it’s being demolished in a couple of weeks…”
“No,” he said, interrupting me. “I mean the theater itself. The Venezia Theater is mine, as of seven this morning. I plan to restore it to its former glory.”
My heart jumped again, a violent blast of excitement hitting me like a swift blow. “What?” I all but screamed the word. I had no idea how to feel. Happy? Terrified? Confused?
Yes. Confused was the answer I was looking for. Tristan had made me nothing but confused since the moment we’d met.
Well, confused and horny.
“I need to go,” Marcus blurted out, which only served to make things even more awkward. He sounded off-center, as befuddled by all this as I was. “I need to get to work.”
“Yes, of course. I’ll see you at home,” I told him, my eyes still locked on Tristan’s like we were embroiled in some staring contest that would end with one of us on the floor.
“You’re going to be okay?” Marcus asked.
“Yes, I’ll be fine,” I said, a slightly irritated growl in my voice. I wasn’t sure who I was irritated at, though.
Probably myself.
“See you at home, then.” Marcus took off in a hurry, like he was running scared. Whatever weird alpha male tactic Tristan had pulled, apparently it had worked.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I asked when Marcus was out of earshot, narrowing my eyes at my unwanted-yet-totally-wanted visitor. It was hard to hold him in my sights like this, to challenge him as though I was the strong one. But I was pissed. He had no right to yank at my emotions like this. No right to follow me around from place to place, like he was an all-seeing god, keeping track of his subjects. “I don’t even know how you know my name, let alone where I work. And I don’t particularly appreciate you showing up here like this.”
The problem was, part of me was lying. Part of me was enjoying this whole fucked up situation. If there was one thing I knew in this world, it was how to survive fucked up situations. It was familiar. It was my comfort zone.
Wolf's Hunger Page 3
