“Is this where you say ‘too fucking glad’?”
“This is where I take you home and get you naked before I find a way to piss you off and it never happens.”
She laughs, soft and sexy, and slides into the car. I’m inside with her in a few beats, and before I start the car, she says, “Can I get the bad stuff over with real quick?”
I angle toward her. “What bad stuff, Faith?”
“Anything with the bank?”
“I filed papers. They filed papers. I’m filing more papers. Bottom line. I made a big move and I’ll know more on Monday how that plays out.”
“What big move?”
“Legal stuff,” I say, not about to tell her about the money. Not now. I’ll swim in the shit I’ve created all at once and with a plan. “And I’m asking you to trust me enough to set it aside until Monday. Okay?”
“Yes. Okay.”
“Good.” I lean over and kiss her because, fuck. I have to. And then I get us on the road.
“How was your flight?” I ask.
“Short and bumpy,” she says. “But it was great. I love flying.”
“But you’ve never flown internationally,” I say. “We need to fix that. Paris is all about art and wine. We should go.”
“That would be incredible, but right now I can’t leave.”
“We’re going to fix that and soon,” I promise. “Tell me the details you know about the L.A. show.”
“Josh just told me that I’m in,” I say. “I’m sure I’ll get more specifics by Monday.”
“And you know which pieces were selected?”
“Nick. Don’t be mad, but….”
I glance over at her and laugh. “You put me in it didn’t you?”
“I did. My first portrait and on a whim when I was filling out the forms and submitting photos, I included it. You’re not mad, right?”
“I don’t care if you put me in the show, as long as it’s about you.”
“Maybe you are a little sweet, Nick Rogers.”
“I’ll put that idea to rest before the weekend’s over, I promise you. And that means you have to let me see it.”
“I will. When it’s done. I have two weeks to finish. I think this weekend might just let me finish your eyes.”
And on that note, I silently vow to make sure that every time she looks at me this weekend, she sees all the right things, and none of the wrong.
Fifteen minutes later, we pull into the garage of my house, which is only a few minutes from my office. Faith is out of the car before I can round the BMW to help her, and gaping at the dark gray sports car beside us. She bites her lip and glances over at me. “You are such a rich guy, Nick Rogers. What is it?”
“Audi R8 5.2 V10,” I say. “And thank you. I work my ass off to be such a rich guy, and owned that assessment long before I inherited my father’s money.”
“How did you make your first million?”
“A drug company whose best-of-the-best attorney wasn’t as good as they thought.” He was also my father, but I don’t tell her that. Not now. One day when there are no more secrets. “Let’s go inside, Faith.”
“Yes. Let’s go see what a man like you calls home.”
“A man like me,” I say. “You can explain that later. Naked.”
She gives me one of her sexy, confident smiles. “I will.”
I open the back door. “I’ll get your bag. The door’s unlocked. Make yourself at home.”
She doesn’t hesitate. She drags delicate fingers through her long blonde hair and walks to the door and up the short set of steps that leads to the foyer of my home. I take my time pursuing her, allowing her time to decide what to do and where to go. Curious as to where that takes us both. Intrigued by this woman all over again, I join her, leaving her bag by the door, to find her slowly walking the rectangular-shaped space, and I scan it, taking in what she sees. Pale wooden floors, a gray sectional. Parallel to the living area is a bar that is shiny white with four barstools, and opposite it, are two modern steel and glass stairwells that climb the walls in two different directions.
She turns to face me, the distance between us I don’t intend to remain. “Clean, artistic lines. A house for a man who likes control.”
“I do like control,” I say, closing a foot of space between us. “I think that I like control.”
She replies as if I haven’t spoken those words. “It’s a beautiful house, Nick. It smells like you.”
“And how do I smell, Faith?”
“Like control. Like sex. Woodsy and sexy.”
“And you, sweetheart, smell like—”
“Amber and vanilla.”
“Yes, you do. And I’m obsessed with your scent. I’m obsessed with you.”
“Obsessed,” she says. “That sounds dangerous.”
“It is dangerous.”
And her reply is everything any man could want. “Where is your bedroom, Nick?”
“Up the stairs directly behind you.”
She turns and starts up the stairs, her pace slow, seductive, calculated. She knows every swing of her hips makes me burn. And I fucking love it. I wait until she’s upstairs, out of sight, and then with my adrenaline pumping, I follow her. I find her sitting on the end of my king-sized mattress, the centerpiece of my room, the gray headboard behind her. That card from her father in her lap.
“I need to read this. And you know that means I need you.”
I inhale on a realization. Faith is once again using sex as a wall. And I almost let her. I had the word “love” pop into my head and I just wanted to fuck. And she just wants to fuck. But I’m not letting her hide from me. Even if it means I can’t escape whatever the fuck this unknown emotion is I feel for this woman. I walk to the bed, and stand above her. She doesn’t touch me. I don’t want her to, and she knows this. I like that she knows. I shrug out of my jacket and remove my tie, both of which I toss to the center of the bed. I then set the card aside, and do what I know she does not expect me to do.
I take her down on the mattress with me, rolling her to face me. “I’m not going to spank you, Faith,” I say, sliding my leg between hers. “Not now. Maybe not even this weekend. I want you to see and feel me. I want you to remember me this weekend, not my hand.”
“Nick,” she whispers, and when I kiss her, she does that thing she does. She breathes out like she needed my kiss, like it’s why she exists. And right now, this woman is why I exist. I kiss her. I touch her. I strip her naked and me too. I lick her nipples. I lick her clit. I lick every inch of her until she is begging for me inside her and I need to be there. And once I’m inside her, and we’re staring at each other, swaying together, I don’t make love to her. I don’t do love, but I damn sure don’t fuck her, either. And when it’s over, I hold her for long minutes before I settle my shirt around her and help her roll up the sleeves.
We order Chinese and eat in my bed, me in my pants, and her in my shirt, and I like this woman in my clothes and my bed. It’s only after we finish eating that I am ready to show her one of the gifts I have for her this weekend. I take her hand. “Come. I want to show you something.”
“Now you have me curious.”
“Good,” I say, guiding her down the hallway. “That’s the idea.”
We stop at a room with the door shut and I open it and motion her forward. She smiles and walks inside and gasps. “Nick. What did you do?”
I step inside the doorway to find her standing in the center of the massive triangle-shaped room, next to the canvas I have set up for her, a supply of brushes and paint nearby. “They tell me the floor cleans right up. I had it installed this week.”
“Why would you do this?”
“I didn’t want you to be away from your brush.”
“This is incredible. It’s such a cool, crazy-shaped space. What was this room before now?”
“Nothing. I had no idea what to do with it.”
She inhales, her chest rising and falling. “What happens when I’
m not around?”
I cross to stand in front of her, cupping her face. “That’s where we’re differing here, Faith. I’m thinking about every moment I have with you and you’re thinking about goodbye.” I kiss her then, and damn it, I am obsessed with her. So fucking obsessed. And like she said, obsession is dangerous.
I WATCH FAITH PAINT FOR hours, a stack of work next to me that I barely touch. I just watch her work while my mind chases the puzzle that is her mother and my father together. Murder brought us together. Lies could tear us apart. I don’t know what time I take her to bed, or how long I keep her awake once I get her there. But I wake with Faith pressed to my side, and I have one thought. In the right and wrong of things, there is nothing wrong about this woman in my bed.
The day is lazy, rain falling outside, and we have coffee on my balcony, talking, laughing, both of us in sweats and t-shirts with no plans to go anywhere until tonight. “Are you wearing the blue dress tonight?” I ask, sipping my coffee while thinking of the blue panties.
“I’m not sure,” she says. “I wish I would have asked about the dress code. I brought several choices.”
I set my cup down and grab my phone from my pocket. “Let’s find out. I’ll call Chris.” I punch in his number from my auto-dial.
“No,” she says quickly, setting her cup down. “No, don’t—”
“It’s already ringing,” I say, and Chris immediately picks up, while I get right to the point. “What’s the dress code tonight?”
“Translation. You’re Faith’s date tonight and she doesn’t know how to dress. Put her on with Sara.”
“Good plan.” I hand Faith the phone. “Sara.”
She pales, glowers and takes the phone. “Sara. Yes. No. Great. Nice to meet you, too. Yes. I’ll see you then.” She hands me back the phone. “Chris.”
“I’m here,” I say, placing the receiver to my ear again. “And I need nothing else.”
“Works for me,” Chris says and we disconnect, and I focus on Faith. “Blue dress?”
“You shouldn’t have called them, and actually the blue dress is too fancy, and I want to save that dress for the L.A. event. It was lucky the first time.”
“Luck is good,” I say. “But you do have a dress to wear, right?”
“Yes. It’s pink and doesn’t require you to spend money on me.”
“You’re going to have to get over this money thing, sweetheart. I have it. I spend it. If I want to spend it on you, I’m going to and that doesn’t make me an asshole unless I use it against you in some way, which I won’t.” And those are words I’m going to have to repeat loudly when she finds out I paid the bank on her behalf. “Moving on,” I say. “Your dress is pink. Do I get the royal blue panties underneath?”
“They’re pink and I don’t want you to spend money on me.”
“I like spending money on you and I like pink.”
“Don’t rip them this time and you can like them twice.”
“Twice is good. More is better.”
“Do you know what you’re wearing?”
“Why? Are you considering which knife you need to undress me?”
She grins. “I think that’s a moment I need to capture on the canvas. That moment when you first saw the knife in my hand. It was priceless. I’m suddenly inspired to paint.”
“Then go and paint a masterpiece. I’ve got work that I can dig into in my office. I’ll come get you for lunch.”
“Are you cooking?”
“If ordering take out, counts, then yes. At your service, Ms. Winter.”
She laughs and starts to get up, but sits back down. “I never asked what time the party is. Chris never said.”
“I’ll find out,” I promise. “You go paint.”
Her eyes light. “I actually can’t wait to pick up a brush again.”
“I prefer you with a brush than a knife in your hand.”
She laughs and pops to her feet, rushing through the house, and I sit back and enjoy this moment. I could get used to having this woman around.
The day passes too quickly, when Faith will leave tomorrow unless I convince her otherwise.
It’s nearly seven, and I’m standing on the balcony off my bedroom in a blue suit and blue tie, waiting on Faith to finish dressing, a glass of that whiskey Abel left behind in my hand. And while outside, the storms of earlier in the day have passed, stars dotting the skyline before me, while the storm that is the lies I’ve told Faith are clear and present, haunting me tonight in ways they haven’t before now.
“Nick.”
At the sound of Faith’s voice, I down my drink, set the glass on a small table by the railing, and walk back inside. “Well?” she asks, holding out her hands to her sides. “How do I look? Is it too much? Too little?”
“Sweetheart, I don’t let women in my house, let alone invite them to dress here. So no one has ever asked me if a dress was too much or too little.” I close the space between us, my hands settling on her tiny waist. “But you look beautiful.” And she does. The dress is pink lace and knee length, which offers me the benefit of easy access to her gorgeous legs. Her shoulders are bare, her blonde hair caressing the skin the way my mouth will later. And the neckline is high, reserved, but still somehow sexy, but how can it not be? It’s on her.
Her hands goes to my chest, her eyes searching my face. “You don’t bring women here?” “Never,” I say. “In the five years since I bought this place, not once. Just you.”
“Why me, Nick?” she asks, her tone earnest
“Because you’re you, Faith. There is no other answer.” And while it’s the truth, it guts me to know that she’ll see it as one of my lies, and do so sooner than later.
“Where did you go?” she asks. “To their place?”
“Anywhere but here,” I say, when the truth is, I go to what is my club now, a place, that doesn’t matter to me, but she does. “You’re nervous about tonight. Why?”
“Chris Merit is a big deal in the art world. His support could change my life.”
“You admire him.”
“Yes. He’s talented and successful. And even though he’s really not from Sonoma, he just always felt like a local, and if one local could make it, another could, too.”
“Did you admire Macom? Was that part of the draw to him?”
“I met Macom before he made it. We both loved art and the creative process. And yes, he’s talented, but it was different. I don’t admire him.” Her hands settle on mine at her hips. “He called me yesterday and I just feel like I should tell you.”
I go very still, that possessiveness I feel for Faith rising up inside me. “And?”
“I didn’t take the call. I can guess what it was about. He heard, probably before me, that I was in the show.”
“And he wanted to congratulate you?”
“More to gloat. He’s been there done that, but of course, he’d mask it as a compliment. I don’t need that in my life right now and just wanted to tell you, Nick.” She pauses and then adds, “Thank you. I’ve known you such a short time and you’ve been more supportive of my art than anyone else in my life.”
“It’s self-serving,” I say, leaning in to brush my lips over hers. “I want a beautiful artist in my bed and if we don’t go right now, I might rip this dress, too.” I turn her toward the door.
We arrive at the gallery at seven thirty, and it’s not long before we’re ushered into a room full of at least fifty people, shiny white floors beneath our feet, wave-like rows of displays in random places. Faith and I work our way through the crowd, and when we’re offered champagne for a birthday toast, we both accept. “My preferred drink,” she tells me, sipping her bubbly. “It’s sweet and we don’t make it. It’s also low alcohol and I don’t tolerate much.”
“You really don’t like the winery do you?”
“No,” she says. “I really don’t, but I’ve never said that to anyone but you. Just now.”
My hand settles at her hip. “It’s our secret.�
��
She looks at me, shadows in her eyes. “That’s trust, Nick. Just in case you didn’t know.”
Trust.
That I’ve already betrayed.
“Welcome everyone!”
At the shouted greeting, I look up to find Chris Merit at the front of the room, the only person here in jeans, but it’s rather fitting. He’s a rock star in this world, complete with longish blonde hair and a brightly inked dragon tattoo sleeve on one arm. “I just want to say happy birthday to my wife,” he announces, “and to tell her how proud I am of her, and this gallery. Enjoy the art and chocolate cake, because it’s her favorite.”
Everyone applauds and there are shouts of ‘happy birthday.’ Chris catches my eye over the crowd right as soft music begins to play. He motions us forward and I lift a hand to acknowledge him. “Empty that glass,” I tell Faith.
Her eyes go wide. “I can’t just down it.”
“Chris is waving you over.”
She downs the champagne and I do the same with mine before handing our glasses to a waiter. I lace my fingers with Faith’s and lead her through the crowd, while cake begins to circulate on trays. Chris, however, is cornered by fans and Sara appears in front of us. “Faith!” she greets her, hugging Faith, her brown hair a contrast to Faith’s blonde, while waving at me over her shoulder.
I give her a nod, but she’s fully focused on Faith, as it should be. “I love your work,” Sara announces, leaning back to look at Faith. “Chris and I both love your work. Let’s go talk.” She motions us forward. “Come. Chris will catch up.”
She starts walking and we follow her through the gallery where two glass doors lead us to a heated outdoor sitting area, with at least a dozen seats, and rose bushes surrounding the exterior. “This space is our newest addition,” Sara says, claiming one of four seats forming a square, while primly tugging down the skirt of her emerald green dress. “I want people to come here and talk art, then buy artists like yourself, Faith.”
“I’m incredibly honored that you want to include me,” Faith says, claiming the seat across from Sara while I sit next to Faith.
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