by SM West
Like the shocking crackle of thunder, without warning, Tate surprisingly breaks away. I easily falter back a step or two at her sudden, rapid retreat. Her actions kill the moment like only an ice-cold shower can.
“We can’t do this,” she whispers, her words rushed and breathless.
She’s now out of my reach. Completely caught off guard, it takes me more than a few seconds to gather my thoughts and even register what she’s saying, let alone react. A flash of golden tendrils and a swath of black fabric fill my vision as she flees the room.
GATHERING THE PAPERS SCATTERED ACROSS the desk, I curse my tardiness. I’m meeting Wolfe in twenty minutes. I’m late and that’ll tick him off. It’s been almost two months since we met, and despite our rocky start and senseless attraction, we’ve settled into a comfortable groove. I enjoy our time together; it’s become more than an information dump. In fact, I look forward to our meetings. We get the business out of the way and then spend the time getting to know each other. Talking about movies, music, sports and yes, even politics.
Things have been a little tense the past couple weeks, since our ‘almost kiss.’ We are both trying to act like it never happened, yet I can’t stop thinking about it. I’d forgotten what it felt like to want a kiss. To be ravenous for the touch of man’s lips upon mine. I’d not wanted anything intimate or sexual for so long and now, he’s turned my world upside down. My traitorous body succumbs to the mere memory of us meshed together. His intoxicating scent and enthralling touch around and on me. His lips so close I could lick them, relish in the taste of him.
I constantly battle my pent up, scarlet desire for him. Our last two meetings have been deliberately short and professional. I’ve succeeded in keeping my distance, burying my cravings under lock and key. Rylan Wolfe and I have no future. He and the FBI are a means to an end.
Opening my office door to leave, my mother stands poised to knock. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m taking you to lunch,” she states, unfazed by my rude greeting.
“I can’t. I’m late,” I reply, trying to hide my irritation. Her scowl indicates it’s not working.
“What appointment? I checked with Clara yesterday. She said you’d be free.”
Clara’s my assistant, soon to be ex-assistant. As much as I love her, I’m going to kill her. How many times must I tell her not to discuss my schedule with anyone?
“She was wrong. That’s why you contact me when you want to see me.”
I grind my teeth in what I’m sure looks like a grimace. She wants in my office. I want her gone.
“Reschedule your appointment. We need to talk.”
Pushing past me, she deposits herself in a wing-back chair facing my desk. Without thinking, I exhale a deep, aggravated sigh. Arching her eyebrows in displeasure, I seriously don’t give a rat’s ass. This woman knows how to test my last nerve.
“Let me see if I can push back my appointment.”
I’m not supposed to call Wolfe on my personal phone, but the burner’s in the safe. I’m not about to get it with my mother feet away. Hopefully, they can erase the record of the call. Bobby tracks my calls weekly, if not daily.
Like usual, my mother’s arctic stare is on me. Listening to the ring, I mentally prepare my narrative. I need to let him know I’m not coming and make it sound innocuous to my mother’s prying ears.
“This is Ms. Conrad. Unfortunately, I now have a conflict and am unable to make my appointment. Do you have anything available in the next two hours?” I peer down at my mother in question. She raises three fingers. Damn. “Make that three hours.”
“Tate, there better be a good reason for you calling me from this number. You’re supposed to be here any minute now.”
Wolfe’s deep, gravelly voice sends an involuntary quiver low in my belly, even with the hint of acidity. He’s not pleased with me. Get in line, buddy. And why does the thought of ticking him off excite me?
“Good, three hours it is. And yes, I will need a removal for both hands and feet before we start. Please make a note of that,” I say.
The removal is an attempt to remind them to remove the call from my phone records. I’m hoping in addition to being seriously hot and ticked off, Wolfe decides to use his brain.
“There’ll be no trace of this call,” he reassures with a somewhat softer tone and then the harshness is back. “You’ve got three hours, don’t be late.”
With that weight off my back, I steel myself for the onslaught of Taya Conrad. “Where were you going?” she asks.
“The spa.” Her disdain at me brushing her off for that excuse is written all over her face. And as payback, she goes in for the kill.
“Tate, I’ve booked an appointment for you with Dr. Fraser.”
“What?” I fight to stay calm. Dr. Fraser is a fertility specialist.
My first impulse is to protest, but that’s the last thing I should do. She likes to think she has the power and uses any chance she gets to lord it over me. In fact, she’s like me, father’s puppet. Refusing her will only lead to a fight.
“She’s the best. I want my daughter to have the best and we need answers as to why you’re not pregnant,” she cuttingly states. Her accusation evident in her tone.
I don’t like what she’s doing. Alarms bells ring loud and clear. I can’t protest too much. Bobby wants children. He wants me pregnant, like yesterday. We’ve been “trying” for months now, but little does he know I had the shot. While the possibility is small, I won’t get pregnant no matter how hard we “try.” Delaying my mother is my only option. Once I see that specialist, it’ll be game over.
“Mother, I’m sure Dr. Fraser is the best, but I don’t see why we need a fertility specialist. We’ve only been trying for about six months. There may be nothing wrong. My doctor told me to give it a year before we need to talk about other options.”
“I’ve already arranged for you to see Dr. Fraser. There’s no point in waiting. Your appointment is next Friday.”
My first impulse is to scream at her for always controlling everything. I know better. “Mother, if this is really important to you, I’ll seriously consider it, I must speak with Bobby first. This is really our decision.”
I’ve got her. She’s likely already spoken to Bobby, but she won’t say that for fear of an outburst from me. While we’ve come a long way since my drunken days of disobedience, as my parents like to refer to it, she knows I’m more pliable under the illusion of having some control over my life. It’s all a joke. To keep the peace and buy some time, I make it look like I’m willing to play the game as long as I can draw the cards from the deck.
“Of course, darling, I totally understand.”
Bobby will hear this conversation and like my mother, he won’t mention it until I do or unless he wants to remind me he’s always listening. Like I’d forget.
“Thank you. I’ll talk to him and let you know when my first appointment with Dr. Fraser is.”
Again, I give the illusion I’ve accepted my fate. With Bobby out of town this week, I’ll have a legitimate excuse in rescheduling the Friday appointment and enough time to come up with something.
***
WOLFE’S DISTRACTED. MY DELAY LIKELY messed with his day. He barely glances my way upon arrival, busy scribbling notes as I sit down. Things have been stilted our last few meets. Both of us keeping our distance.
“Sorry for being late. My mother showed up and I couldn’t get rid of her.”
“Yeah, Noel told me. I’ve got somewhere else to be so let’s make this quick.”
He’s fiddling with his phone while I give my update. Bobby’s currently in Boston for a few days, then back for two days before leaving for California. I have no idea why but I promise to find out more.
“Okay. We’ve got a team on him in Boston and I’ll set something up for California. I’ll see you next week.”
Obviously done, he turns his back, I’m being dismissed. His rebuff stings and pisses me off. Yes, I pu
t the brakes on whatever was going on between us. Still, his cold demeanor is uncalled for. Shit, isn’t this what I wanted? Strictly handler and asset?
“I need to use the bathroom before I go.”
I’m stalling. Being alone is the last thing I want. The penthouse is my prison even with Bobby away. You don’t need shackles, bars and locks to be trapped.
Julia’s the only true friend I have, though she’s not an option for company tonight. We can’t just be, she knows me too well. My walls have to be up, my emotions buried deep.
Drying my hands, a phone rings. I step out of the bathroom wondering if it’s mine. Ry’s back to me.
“Hey darling, I’m on my way,” he says softly. “What’s wrong? Are you crying?” he pauses. His hand curls into a tight fist. “Van…” he snarls. “Are you sure?” Fisting his hand into the air. “I’m going to kill that motherfucker.” He’s silent for a few beats, listening to whoever is on the other end. “Baby, I’m coming right now. Sit tight.”
At his affectionate tone, my stomach lurches and a lump lodges in my throat. Ending the call, he turns and says, “Tate.”
Busted. My eavesdropping doesn’t faze him. His mind’s elsewhere, probably on the woman he was just talking to. I’m guessing it was a woman. I doubt he’d call a man ‘baby’ and certainly not in that gentle tone. He encloses his hand around my bare, upper arm.
“You gotta go,” his tone is clipped.
Practically shoving me into the hallway, he shuts the door in my face. Staring incredulously at the closed door, I seethe. And the most irritating thing of all? I’ve no right to be upset. He doesn’t owe me anything. Why does his rejection hurt so much?
On the drive back, his phone conversation is on an endless playback loop in my mind, right until he shut me out, literally. Once home, my skin’s prickly and hot. I’m agitated. I don’t like it. I don’t like it at all.
With nowhere to go and no one to talk to, I’m left to stew in my anger and frustration. Of course, he has a woman. A hot, sexy FBI agent, with a body and a face like that, is definitely not single. Or at the very least, he’s not lonely. Although his tone implied, it wasn’t casual. His voice was intimate and compassionate.
Maybe he’s married? I don’t remember a ring. Maybe he takes it off on the job? If so, what game is he playing with me? Undressing me with his eyes every time he sees me? Flirting? Our almost kiss? This is why I shut my emotions down. Feelings are highly overrated and extremely painful.
Stomping to my bedroom, a shower and bed sound like the best thing to do. Yes, I’m being a bratty, sulky teenager and try as I might, I can’t seem to curb it. And to make matters worse, it infuriates me that he gets under my skin like no other man ever has.
Shit, that’s it. I haven’t experienced any emotions remotely passionate or sexual toward another man in five years, but this isn’t even some fleeting attraction, I’m out of my depth. When we’re together, the intensity and volatility is unlike anything I’ve ever felt before. It’s consuming.
And on top of everything else I’m dealing with, he scares me. Maddens me. He’s awakened me. And what disturbs me the most is the temptation of Rylan Wolfe. There’s nothing little, simple or usual about his appeal. It’s miles, mountains, and oceans above and beyond what I’ve felt before.
“TATE,” BOBBY HOLLERS, AGITATION CLEAR in his words. With my face in the pillow, I scream as a poor attempt to release my rage. No matter what I do, I can’t escape him. Not yet, anyway.
“I’m in here,” I call out, tying my robe.
Wrapping his arm around my middle, he tightly squeezes. His hand brutally grips the nape of my neck. Locking me in place, his lips suck the air out of me. Disgust swims in the pit of my stomach.
His wavy, brown hair is slicked back how he likes it. His eyes ablaze with wickedness. Contrary to the infinite ugliness within him, he is a handsome man. Countless women have propositioned him, many of which he’s acted upon. His dark, brooding presence with his six-foot frame, good looks, money and power entice them.
Continuing his manhandling, he twirls me around, so my back’s against his broad chest and his palms splay across my stomach, “Why didn’t you answer me?”
Inhaling deeply, I try not to gag. His touch repulses me. It’s a constant battle to conceal my true feelings. But even more important to do so because he gets off on my distress. The harder it is on me, the harder he gets. I will not give him anything, especially pleasure at the expense of my pain.
“I was sleeping.”
“I missed you,” he murmurs. His lips sliding up my neck as his hand molests my breast. “Fuck, Tate, I want you so badly.”
His arousal grinds into my lower back and his teeth sink into my shoulder. For one fleeting moment, I contemplate encouraging his desire. Not because I want it. Never.
I’d rather be stretched on a medieval rack, but I’m hoping good old reverse psychology will work. If he thinks I want it, he’ll withhold it. Fortunately, my sanity returns and I decide against it. I know better.
The first year of our marriage was unbearable torture. Months in captivity. Deprived of necessities, left tied, beaten and raped, I was only allowed out of the apartment if he was with me.
Sometimes, he’d let me see Max or Julia if I’d been good. He’d stay close, watching and listening for fear I’d say something. I never would. Knowing what he was capable of, I’d never put them in harm’s way. Every time he took me, I fought. Using whatever was at my disposal, teeth, nails, legs, glass, dishes. His strength didn’t scare or deter me. I soon realized my fight gave him sadistic pleasure.
There were countless house calls from his doctor, following hours of physical and sexual abuse, including surgery after one vicious incident with my backside. I snapped when he dared to take me that way again. Without hesitation, I pressed a butcher’s knife firmly against his jugular. His throbbing vein on the sharp knife’s edge, holding his life in my hands, was wildly powerful and terrifying. I promised to kill him if he ever tried again. His expression was blank in that moment of retaliation, and while severely punished for my bold move, he never tried again.
His brutality broke me. After rehab, my return to him, my prison, was soul-destroying, all over again. At that point, lying there was the best course of action or more accurately, inaction. Lifeless, his proclivities for brutality lessened as did the sexual encounters. My limp body gave him no thrill. There were still times he’d let the beast out, especially when he felt I’d disobeyed or displeased him. But for the most part, he saved my bloodshed for outside of the bedroom.
I should have killed him that day. I’ve had some sick, twisted fantasies where the outcome is oh so bloody and so different. But I wasn’t who I am today. I was acting on survival instinct. Once he backed down, the threat gone, I retreated. There was no forethought or higher thinking behind it. I used to beat myself up over many things including that potential opportunity. Not anymore. What’s the point? I’m proud of surviving those darkest days. For walking through the savagery and despair despite any light or hope.
Bobby’s hands now travel down my bare thigh, then up under my robe. His rough fingers sharply digging into my skin. Holding my breath, I mentally prepare to shut down. To disappear into nothingness. His phone rings.
“Not one goddamn minute of peace,” he roars, sinking his fingers deeper into the flesh of my inner thigh. I wince at the pain.
As he steps away, relief floods me. Never one to let escape pass me by, I flee to the bathroom, locking the door. His angry voice bellows into the phone.
An hour later, I enter the kitchen, showered, dressed, prepared for anything. Bobby’s staring at his tablet and takes no notice of me. I grab my purse and give him a customary peck on the cheek. All the while shutting down, getting into the zone.
It’s the only way I can muster the impression of affection. I dare not leave without giving him a kiss or I’d never get out of here. I made that mistake once and paid for it dearly. Once was enough.
Grabbing, he wrenches me violently to his side. His hold constricting my breath. “Where are you going? It’s Saturday,” his tone is accusatory.
“Bobby, I can’t breathe. Loosen your grip.” He squeezes harder.
“Answer me, where are you going?”
“I’ve got work. I’m meeting Leland Cartwright in an hour.”
“Leland Cartwright?” His eyes of malice pin me. “Why are you meeting that asshole? I don’t want him anywhere near you.”
Tightening further, my hands push against his chest. My airway compresses as I wriggle to loosen his grip.
“Bobby, I told you, he’s asked me to acquire the art for his new home.”
We’d had this conversation weeks ago. At that time, it had almost escalated into a full beat down. Leland and I have history. We briefly dated in high school. Bobby was the reason we broke up.
At the time, I had no clue who Bobby was, nor what havoc he was wreaking at the expense of my life and freedom. I soon learned from his first sight of me, I became his crazed obsession.
Controlling my life is his favorite pastime. He forced Leland to end our brief relationship, the only way he knows how, with fists and threats. It didn’t matter that the Cartwrights were one of the wealthiest and most respected families in Manhattan.
Bobby made sure Leland, or any other male for that matter, didn’t go near me. Leland was hospitalized and became the example of what would happen if a boy dared approach, talk or date me.
Like a panther lurking in the shadows, waiting to pounce, I was his target well before I even knew he existed. Knowing that, I realize no matter what I could have done differently, it wouldn’t have changed anything. I’d always end up here. I never stood a chance. You can’t defend against something you can’t see coming.
When Leland contacted me to acquire the art for his home, I tried to dissuade him. I gave him other contacts who were just as good. He refused, claiming I was the best in the city and his sole reason for seeking me out.
