Wounded Birds (The Grayson Series Book 1)

by Unknown

  My insides begin to turn to liquid. My heart pounds harder within my chest. I’m filled with anxiety, more like terrified. How can one man affect me to the point of lusting over him? I should run and never look back. Get out while I still can. I take several breaths to ease my fast beating heart and talk myself down the ledge, not literally. Relax Ariana; of course, you’re going to react this way. He’s an attractive man, with wealth and power. Its normal, loosen up a bit; nothing will come of it.

  I hear a faint voice in the background and get a glimpse of the hostess who is standing behind Michael with two menus.

  “Shall we?” He gestures toward the dining room, diverting my attention away from the energy enclosing us.

  “Yes, of course.” I shake my head a little to clear the misty haze. He places his hand over the small of my back and sends a thrilling chill up my spine and down to my core. We settle at a secluded table in the corner. I notice several people are waiting to be seated, and yet there are six large empty tables surrounding us, which I find to be strange. I wonder if he purposely reserved them. I read he can be a very private man.

  “Miss DiMarco.” His tone is soft, yet it secretes with dominance. His tall, masculine form moves behind me and pushes the chair in for me. He then sits across from me, and I’m drawn to his eyes, captivated by them as they shimmer under the dim lights. I’m doomed damned-by-fate. I’m going down with the ship. I’ve never experienced heart palpitations by any man until now.

  “Please, let’s not be formal; it’s. . . A . . . Ariana.” Ugh! I can’t believe I forgot my own name. This is beyond embarrassing. I’m like an obsessed admirer gaping at him. The magazines weren’t exaggerating when they said this man radiates a magnitude of authority and confidence. I’m rather intimidated.

  “You may call me Michael,” he whispers and waves his hand to the waiter. The server rushes over as if he understands Michael is not the type to wait.

  “Yes, Mr. Grayson. What can I get you?” He asks. Michael must be a regular here.

  Michael faces me. “Red or white wine?”

  “White, please,” I say. “Thank you.”

  “Two Pinot Gris, please. We’ll skip to the main course and have two Scottish salmon entrees.” He glances my way with a stoic look, waiting for my approval.

  I nod in agreement with his choice. How did he know?

  “That will be all, thank you,” he says curtly.

  “How did you guess what I was going to order?” I ask, astonished.

  “I can’t take credit for mind reading.” He raises his hands up. “Sean told me salmon was one of your favorite dishes.” He slants his head to the side with a slight curve of his mouth that can cause your brain to malfunction.

  Why am I not surprised? I wonder what else Sean might have told him about me. I say to myself, shaking my head as I stare down at my bouncing knee, a bad habit I have when I’m nervous. I let out a long breath and remove the napkin from the table, placing it over my lap. I’m curious to know how he felt when Sean asked if he would be interested in having lunch with me.

  “I hope Sean didn’t pressure you into this lunch,” I blurt out. I reach for my glass of cold water, placing it over my lips and swallow, relishing the coolness gliding down my throat. This whole set-up is uncomfortable, but it doesn’t compare to the mass confusion of emotions stirring within me. I can’t even think straight and as far as my heart goes, the poor thing hasn’t stopped racing since I laid eyes on the Adonis.

  “I was mortified when Sean admitted he was the one who initiated the lunch.” I take another sip, hoping it will cool me off.

  His lips twitch as if he’s about to laugh, and sure enough, he chuckles. “At first I hesitated, but after he had revealed your name, to be honest, you peaked my interest.”

  I stare at him in shock. I peaked his interest?

  “Why do you look so surprised?” He questions me. His eyes fixated into mine; spellbinding me to the point I lose myself for a moment, forgetting what I wanted to say.

  “I . . . I . . .” I’m speechless. “I just never thought . . . What I’m trying to say is . . . . Why would a man of your prestige be interested in dating someone like me?” I rush out. Crap, and double crap, how pathetic did that sound? I’m such an idiot.

  Michael was about to make a comment, but the waiter arrives with a bottle of wine. He disperses a small amount in a wineglass. Michael takes a sip, he looks up and nods at the waiter with his approval. He fills our glasses half way and rushes back towards the kitchen.

  Michael lifts his glass. “To a wonderful lunch,” he states.

  I lift mine and we clink glasses. “Likewise.” I say in agreement.

  He shakes his head and says, “You must have poor self-esteem. You’re extraordinarily attractive, and even more beautiful in person. You’re also intelligent, a diligent worker, and, Sean tells me, you’re a generous philanthropist. All precious qualities I search for in a woman.” He reaches for my hand. His gentle touch kindles such a soft and warm sensation over me I find it alarming, and I pull away.

  “Not really,” I say. “Let me give you my perspective. You’re the cherry sitting on top of a whipped cream sundae, and I’m . . . the fudge over the ice cream.” I shrug and realize what I just said. Shit, shit, shit, I berate myself for my stupidity. Oh, Ariana, that is the most asinine excuse you ever came up with. I wipe my sweaty palms against the napkin wishing I could shrink under the table to recover from my embarrassment.

  He stares at me with a puzzled expression and bursts out laughing filling the room with an exotic sound like a breath of fresh air.

  He takes my hand again, this time with a stronger grip. I start as a prickling sensation travels up my arm, causing me to shudder. I stare at his long, masculine fingers and find myself glancing up at his soft, full lips. Our eyes meet, and a strong bond begins to unfold as if I’ve known him my whole life. I feel at peace with him. The kind you find when you’re walking along the beach, and your feet descend into the moist sand as the waves wash over them against the shore.

  A powerful impulse has me reaching out, and with a gentle touch I stroke his face. He lurches back, shocked. I gasp with surprise, jerk my hand away. You idiot, I curse at myself, but when I touched him, a strong current of electricity rushed through my fingers leaving behind a tingling effect, and judging from the way he pulled away from the touch, he felt it too.

  Mortified at my actions, my cheeks flush, and my stomach grows restless. “I’m sorry. I have no idea what came over me,” I say in a rush, and I reprimand myself. You fool, now he probably thinks you’re desperate or easy. The only explanation for my bold actions would be the strong force of energy between us.

  He stares at me with a wry smile, making him appear all bad-boy sexy. “No need to apologize. I was taken aback from . . .” Before he can finish his thought, the waiter shows up with our order.

  Halfway through our meal, I ask. “You never finished your sentence. You were taken aback by what?”

  He places his fork down. I watch him swallow, and I find the movement erotically arousing. It touches something deep in my core.

  “I meant to say I was taken aback by the shock of your touch.” He takes my hand and caresses the knuckles, sending soul-stirring pulses up my arm. “I’m sure you felt it.” His expression is soft and gentle.

  “Yes,” I whisper, and I try to hide the pulsating vein against my neck with my other hand.

  He gently grasps my fingers and pulls them toward his lips.

  “May I?” He asks with a twitch of his eyebrow.

  I swallow hard over the large lump in my throat, and the heat surfaces to my face.

  “Yes,” I breathe out.

  His warm lips press softly against my hand like silk velvet. His eyes close, and he inhales the scent of my skin. I can’t seem to catch my breath.

  “Michael,” I manage to say.

  His lids open and the sensual look in his eyes has me dissolving in the chair. My heart flutters and I
feel the perspiration and heat radiating through my skin. He leans forward all calm and composed and here I sit a clustering mess.

  “You’re mouthwatering,” he breathes and kisses each finger with such tenderness I disintegrate. “I apologize. I too lost control.” He places my hand down, picks up his fork, and takes a small morsel of his salmon as if nothing happened.

  I blow out a breath, feeling flushed and sweltering. I pick up the glass and gulp down the cold, sparkling water to lower my body temperature a few degrees, but it’s hopeless. Sitting here with Michael is stimulating sensations inside me I didn’t even know existed. I feel alive, my insides buzzing with exhilaration. I jolt as the waiter startles me.

  “My apologies, Miss DiMarco,” he interrupts.

  I place the fork down and tilt my head up with a smile. “Yes?”

  “You have an urgent phone call. Would you like to take it?” He asks.

  “No. Tell the caller she is detained and is not to be interrupted,” Michael orders.

  My mouth falls open with a gasp, and I am shocked at his audacity. “Excuse me,” I say to Michael. I turn to the waiter. “I’ll take the call, please. Thank you,” I reply and glare at Michael.

  “I’ll get you the phone, Miss DiMarco,” he says and sprints away.

  “I’m bewildered. I don’t know what to say to you,” I snap out.

  “There is no need. Your expression says it all.” He points out, his eyebrow lifted.

  “What compelled you to answer for me?” I’m staggered, fuming with anger. He has some nerve.

  “My apologies, I don’t like being interrupted during a meal, especially with a lovely woman.”

  What the hell do I say to that remark? “Thank you... umm.” Humph, damn him; he has me all disconcerted, turning me inside out. “It wasn’t your choice to make. If you don’t mind, I’ll be taking the call.” I tap my fingers on the table waiting for his response.

  He places a gentle hand over mine, awakening the nerve endings. “Of course, please forgive my forwardness.” His eyebrows arch up. A boyish grin spreads across his face, giving him an innocent and angelic appearance. As if.

  I burst out laughing, and he joins in. “Apology accepted, Mr. Bulldozer.”

  His eyes grow wide, stunned at my reply. “Mr. Bulldozer?”

  “It suits you,” I answer with a shrug, “after your boldness.”

  He chuckles. “Point well-made,” he delivers with a wink. The waiter comes back and hands me the phone.

  “Hello, this is Ariana DiMarco,” I greet.

  “Hello, baby doll. How’s your lunch with Mr. Grayson?” The caller pants out heavily with a grating voice that cuts right into my gut.

  “This is your number one fan. Did you get my love notes?” His raspy laugh echoes through the phone.

  I gasp and drop the receiver, immediately bending down to pick it up from the floor with shaky hands. It nearly slips away from my fingers. My heart begins to thunder wildly, making me dizzy and unbalanced along with a prickling sensation that has the hairs on my arms to stand and all the blood to drain away from my face.

  Oh my God, it’s him, from the e-mails. I dig my nails deep into the palm of my skin, feeling every muscle in my body tighten painfully. I push the button to end the call and place the phone on the table with an unsteady hand. I cringe at the dreadful name he calls me. Baby doll. Danny was the only one who ever called me baby doll.

  Suddenly a cold chill fills the room. I take several deep breaths to ease the nausea swirling in my stomach and the raw terrifying terror that’s encircling around me. Michael watches my every reaction with unease. I feel the moisture and heat surfacing to my face. I sag in my chair, bewildered as an unsettling awareness sinks in. Oh, my God is it possible I have a stalker?

  “Are you okay?” Michael asks softly with a worried expression over his face.

  I look at him with wide eyes, like a deer staring into headlights. “I’m fine,” I say, my voice small, I don’t even think he heard me.

  “You look as if you’ve heard from the dead. Who was on the phone?” Worry and uneasiness seeps through his beautiful English accent.

  “Umm . . . wrong number,” I lie. My heart continues to rumble, threatening me with an aneurysm.

  I think back to the disturbing e-mails, especially the most recent one, which read, ‘You’re Mine, signed by your future husband’. I shudder thinking of his words. Could he be some obsessed fan getting a rise out of scaring me or does he have something against me, and how did he know where to find me? He must have followed me here, but how did he know I was with Michael?

  My heart won’t stop pounding against my chest. I search throughout the restaurant for anyone suspicious or glancing our way. Nobody, they all seem to be deep into their conversations and meals.

  I stare blankly out the window, clasp my hands together feeling the anxiety building up, and I bite my lower lip so hard I break through the skin, tasting the metallic flavor of blood seeping into my mouth.

  “Shit! What the hell is going on?” His thunderous voice reverberates through the room. I’m startled by Michael’s reaction. He places his napkin in his glass of water and is at my side. “Something’s wrong. That phone call disturbed you. Look up,” Michael orders and applies the cold, wet napkin over my bottom lip, lightly adding pressure to stop the bleeding with pristine care. After a minute, he pulls it away and gently dries the area, his eyes narrow, examining the cut.

  “Talk to me. I’m serious. Who was on the phone?” His voice is low but explosive, staring me straight in the eyes.

  “I told you they had the wrong number,” I snap, caught off guard by his behavior.

  “So, you expect me to believe that excuse? You turned white as a ghost, and you’re trembling,” he says, his lips pressed in a hard, thin line and eyes wide open. He places the napkin down, waiting for me to answer him.

  “I’m fine,” I whisper, but I can tell from his clenching jaw that he doesn’t believe me.

  Michael lets out an exasperated breath. “Don’t take me for a fool Ariana. I can find out, I’ll trace the damn call,” he threatens. His eyes stare into mine, growing angrier. “Are you going to tell me?” He scowls, and the tension in the air increases.

  “No,” I retort, with a glare. How dare he threaten me, but then the look on his face softens my heart.

  He frowns as his lips compress together, a genuine expression of sincerity and concern. “If anybody is upsetting you, I would like to know. I want to help,” he offers.

  I attempt to speak, and he holds his hand up to stop me.

  “I don’t mean to be bold or interfere, but I have a low tolerance for anyone threatening or harming women in any form of abuse, whether verbal or physical,” he explains in a soothing tone. His eyes doleful, and he reaches for my hand. “Please tell me.”

  “Thank you, I appreciate your concern, but there is nothing to disclose, it was a wrong number. The call just rattled me. They were looking for a Crystal, which happens to be my mom’s name.”

  “Why would that upset you?” Michael questions as his eyebrows knit together.

  “My parents’ and sister passed away when I was twenty-one,” I answer feeling my heart sink deep into the pit of my stomach.

  “I’m sorry to hear,” Michael whispers with remorse.

  “Thank you, can we just enjoy the rest of our time together? I would like to be back at my apartment by three. I plan to work from home the rest of the afternoon.”

  He takes a deep breath and runs his hands through his hair with frustration. “Very well,” he exclaims and drops the subject. He isn’t satisfied with the answer, but he abides by my wishes and changes the subject.

  “Ariana, I hear you’re from Texas, but you don’t have an accent,” Michael comments.

  “That’s because I’m originally from Annapolis, Maryland. We moved to Texas when I was in high school,” I answer.

  “That explains it.”

  “You don’t sound like you co
me from Texas either. I know you studied at the University of Cambridge.”

  “True. It’s where I learned everything I know about construction and architecture.” He smiles and takes a drink of his wine.

  “Did your family also live in England?” I ask.

  “No, just me.”

  It’s funny, but I feel comfortable with Michael. He may have a stern and unapproachable look to him, but he’s a pleasure to speak with, easygoing, real down to earth, and genuine.

  Chapter 2

  Needing Some Space

  We finish our meal, and the waiter hands the check over to Michael. Michael places several twenty-dollar bills into the billfold. He stands and offers me his hand. “Are you ready?” He smiles.

  I nod, and our palms meet, sizzling several layers of my skin. I stand, and my legs are unsteady. He gives me a gentle squeeze and bends down close to the curve of my neck. I stiffen, wondering what he’s up too.

  “We must share the same electricity,” he whispers, and his lips skim over my outer ear, making me shiver. I go weak in the knees and melt like hot caramel sauce over vanilla ice cream. My heart is overjoyed, pounding hard against my chest.

  We walk over to the coat check, and he hands the girl our tickets. He turns to me. “Thank you for meeting me for lunch.”

  “You’re welcome. It was extraordinary, along with the company. Thank you,” I say, staring into his eyes and find myself drowning.

  His fingers brush over my mouth. I pull away, and he shakes his head. “They’re appetizing,” he rasps out, and with a slow swipe of his tongue, he licks his lips, causing me to groan, praying he didn’t hear me.

  I could use some air. Hell, screw the air; I need to get out of here before I do something foolish in the middle of a crowded restaurant. Like slamming him up against the wall and having my wicked way with him, kissing him as he’s never been kissed before. I squeeze my eyes shut, scolding myself again for my wicked thoughts. I jump and snap my eyes open when he says something that caught me by surprise.