“You turned me down this morning.” There’s a kernel of hurt in her voice which renders me defenseless. If rousing me to the point of pain and sending me out allows her to feel more secure, I’d go out this way every day.
“Oh, bunny, just because I don’t want to hurt you.” I lick the sensitive part of her skin where her neck and shoulder join. I’d love to put a mark there. One that everyone can see, particularly given that she wants to go to Jake’s office where a bunch of former military assholes will be tromping in and out, no doubt hitting on her every five seconds.
She shakes her head. “Shouldn’t I be the one to decide if I’m too sore?”
“Sure,” I say, but it’s my job to protect her from everything, even herself. I keep that sentiment to myself. She wouldn’t appreciate it.
With a half-smile, she turns to give me a slight squeeze and then kisses me lightly. “I’m done torturing you. Let’s get you dressed.”
After kissing her back, I reach around her for a pair of boxer briefs and start to dress, pulling on the slacks and then searching for a shirt. “You’re probably right. Louis is turning into a shrew at work since I’ve started coming in later and leaving earlier.”
Tiny hesitates handing me a dark blue dress shirt with white stripes and a burgundy tie speckled with tiny white triangles. “Am I keeping you from something important? Are you losing money because of me?”
Shoving my arms into the shirt, I root around for a black belt. “No. I’ve been exactly where I wanted to be since I met you. I think we both know I’ve got enough money to see us through two lifetimes of winters.”
Money will never be a problem for either of us.
Accepting my reassurances, she nods. “You don’t have to change your life for me.”
“Why not? I expect you to change yours for me. I want you to live with me, accept my gifts, allow me to provide for you. It’s reasonable for you to expect me to change as well. I want our lives to be different. That’s the point of being together. You are now my life, and I want to see evidence of you here.” I wave at the empty shelves and drawers.
“I love how your romantic gestures are all declarations. Accept my gifts, dammit,” she mocks. Gesturing for me to stand upright, she starts putting me together, which, unfortunately for the tight fit of my pants, is just as erotic as having her unclothe me.
“Some things can’t be changed,” I admit. “And me being a dictatorial, overbearing, possessive bastard is one of them. I’d say I was sorry, but it wouldn’t be sincere.” When her hands bump up against my cock as she’s threading the belt through the loops, I tell her, “Just ignore it.”
“I guess I love you in spite of your Emperor Napoleon ways.” With her tongue pushed again her cheek, presumably so she doesn’t start laughing, she finishes buttoning my shirt, leaving the collar upright so that I can fix my tie. It’s the one thing she doesn’t know how to do, but maybe some night I’ll teach her the intricacies of tie knots and how useful they can be.
“Whatever you’re thinking about, you should stop or you’ll never be able to tuck in your shirt,” she observes.
“Can’t stop.” I lean down to kiss her. “Don’t want to stop.”
Shrugging, she picks out a pocket square and tucks it into the suit coat. “I think the story about how you met Frank is the most you’ve ever revealed about yourself. Other than what happened with your mom and dad.”
“What is it that you want to know? I’ll tell you anything. There will be no secrets between us.” I tuck in my shirt and adjust myself. I’ll deflate . . . eventually. For now, I’ll live with my erection. There are worse things. She hands me a pair of burgundy and blue striped socks and my hand-stitched Italian wingtips, and I sit on the bench to pull them on.
“I want to know everything. I want to know which food is your favorite, what your guilty pleasures are, what movies you like the best.”
“Steak, I don’t believe in guilty pleasures just pleasure, and The Godfather trilogy.” I tie my shoes and stride to the full-length mirror at the end of the dressing room. “My turn. For every piece of information you get from me, I want one in return.”
“That’s fair.” She peers over my shoulder as I maneuver the silk length of my tie into a Pratt knot.
“Since I shared with you about Frank, I think it is time for you to tell me why you haven’t moved all your things into my home.”
She grimaces. “Precisely because it is your home.”
Her emphasis on the pronoun is not lost on me. “I have no problem selling this place and buying one together with you.”
I didn’t think her dismay could deepen, but I was wrong. “No, I don’t want that. I just . . .” She looks around and then meets my gaze in the mirror. “It doesn’t feel like home.”
The warehouse once served as home base for my import-export business—which really consisted of facilitating the trade of goods that weren’t sanctioned by the government, including things as innocuous as non-FDA-approved cheese to art with curious provenance.
Once I was completely legit, I hired an architect who converted the warehouse into plush, three-level, sun-soaked living quarters for one. The ground level houses the vehicles, the second floor houses the kitchen, exercise equipment, and big screen television. A bedroom and office on the third floor loft completes the space.
I’m asked regularly if I want to sell it. The architect, Adam Markham, is now big time, designing skyscrapers in Dubai and Hong Kong, and the converted warehouse is one of the few residential pieces he’s ever done. I’d never had the urge to sell it before, but it’d be gone in a heartbeat if Tiny didn’t like it.
I make a mental note to check with my realtor for a more family-friendly residence in the city. Maybe along Central Park. A townhome. I bought property in Long Island for us where we can spend long weekends and most of the summer, but living outside the city on a regular basis wouldn’t suit either of us.
Tiny and I love the city, from the green parks to the gray concrete. But I want her to be happy, and if a new residence will accomplish that, it’s a small sacrifice to say good-bye to this home.
She hands me my jacket, but I toss it aside. Picking her up, I carry her to the island of mahogany in the middle of the room and set her down. She’s inches taller than me, but I can look her in the eyes better.
“If you don’t want to move, then make this place your home. Let’s buy new furniture. Hell, let’s get an architect in here and we’ll remake it from the ground up. We’ll dig out the basement and put in a pool. We’ll plant a palm tree on the roof. I don’t care what we do so long as when we’re done, you can walk in here and say ‘I’m glad to be home.’ And if you can’t see yourself ever saying that about this place, then we’ll sell it.” I squeeze her hips for emphasis. “And don’t say a word about the cost because I don’t give a shit about the cost. You could refurnish the entire Meatpacking District and I’d—” I pause to correct myself “—we’d still be rich as hell.”
With a sigh, she curls my hair in her fingers. “Living together, potentially moving, ignoring Howe, not working as much are part of those things that will change? It’s a lot for me to take in.”
Dealing with her mother’s loss goes unstated but hangs there in between the words.
“Do you believe that I love you?” I demand.
“You know I do.”
“Then believe every word I say to you is the truth and exactly what I mean.”
Before she can answer, I hear her phone ring. The “Bad Company” ringtone signals it’s her stepbrother, Malcolm. Tiny assigns ringtones to all of her callers, not that she has many. I enjoy redoing them.
“Bad Company” for her drug-dealing stepbrother; “You’ve Got a Friend” sung by James Taylor—not the later covers—for her old friend Sarah; the theme from The Bodyguard soundtrack for my driver, Steve, who is not so surreptitiously s
erving as her bodyguard; and last but not least, “Ain’t No Other Man” by Christina Aguilera for me.
With pressure against my shoulder, she signals she wants to answer the phone. Reluctantly, I lift her down.
I’m not a fan of Malcolm, but right now I know to step lightly around the subject. She feels tethered to him because he knew her mother. Gritting my teeth, I finish my morning routine. I haven’t shaved yet, but the grungy unshaven look is popular and I answer to no one. Generally I shave so my coarse facial hair doesn’t scratch Tiny’s skin, but perhaps . . . I stroke the side of my face. Maybe I’ll see how she likes the different texture tonight.
From the bedroom I hear Tiny’s side of the conversation.
“No, I didn’t mind that your mom came to the funeral. I thought that was nice of her. How’s she doing?”
Malcolm’s mother is addicted to gambling, and that’s why he’s got his hands in so many different criminal pots—or at least that’s his excuse. Malcolm and Tiny shared a father for a short time when they were teens, but Mitch Hedder, Malcolm’s biological father and Tiny’s stepfather, took off and hasn’t been seen for a long time.
“No way,” she exclaims. “God, I’m sorry. Where’s he staying?”
More silence from Tiny’s end.
“How’s your mom taking it?”
“Yeah, okay, thanks for the warning.”
Shrugging into my jacket, I place my phone and wallet in the inside breast pocket and press a button to alert Steve I’ll be ready for a pick-up in ten minutes.
“What’s that all about?”
“Mitch is back in town. And he’s staying at The Plaza.”
Her worried look tells me this is trouble.
“It’s not your problem.”
“Malcolm’s family.”
“No, I’m your family,” I counter.
“Mitch was part of my life for six years. My stepdad for four of those years. Malcolm says he wants to talk to me about Mom. I can’t deny him that.” She sounds anguished, which is exactly what I’m trying to protect her from.
I count to ten in my head. And then backward. This is a tipping point. I either step right or onto a land mine. I can’t demand she not meet with him because she’s an adult and will do what she wants. I struggle to find a compromise we both can live with. “Then promise me you won’t meet him without me.”
She nods slowly. “Okay, I promise.”
“Thank you.” I kiss her slowly, because it’s going to have to last me all day.
CHAPTER 3
Not five minutes after I climb into my car, the phone rings. It’s Tiny.
“Bunny.”
“Can Steve hear you?” she demands.
“Doubt it. But the privacy screen isn’t up. Why? Do you want to have phone sex? Because I can be home in five minutes and have you naked in one more.”
She smothers a laugh. “No, I just don’t want him to know you call me bunny. I get that it’s an endearment, and I guess it is sweet, but it sounds weak. I don’t want Steve to think I’m weak.”
“No one else is going to call you bunny,” I reassure her. If they did, my fist would be in their mouth before they pronounced the last syllable. “Besides, why do you care what Steve thinks of you?”
“He’s your friend. I want your friends to think I’m good for you and that I’m not some weak chick that needs saving all the time.” She makes a gagging sound. “Barf. Who wants that?”
Tiny’s neuroses are strange. “Even if Steve thought you were weaker than a newborn, I’d get rid of him before I’d get rid of you.” In the rearview mirror, I see Steve raise his eyebrows. Apparently he can hear me. I just shrug in response. Everyone should know where my loyalties lie. “Is that what you called about, or are you in need of something?”
She sighs. “I just got off the phone with Mitch. He wants to see me. He was crying. I couldn’t tell him no.”
I’m glad we’re on the phone so she can’t see my glare. “It’s been seven years since you last saw him.”
“I know.” She hesitates and then rushes forward. “He says he has something of hers that I would want.”
Of course he would say that. He’s manipulating her, but either she doesn’t see it or doesn’t want to. With as much patience as I can muster, I ask, “When and where?”
“Maybe Friday at The Plaza?” she replies with obvious relief. Not pointing out Mitch Hedder’s manipulation was the right tactic, but at some point she will need to acknowledge his motives are not innocent.
“No problem. I’ve got a several meetings this week, but I believe my last one on Friday is at three.”
“And you said you’d stay home today,” she chided.
“No meeting is more important than you. Nothing is,” I say quietly.
She’s silent for a long time, and I begin to think she’s hung up on me when she finally says, “I’m trying to wrap my head around that. It’s just not something I’ve felt in a very long time from a man. My mother yes, but no male in my life has ever expressed that to me,” she admits.
“You take as long as you want,” I reassure her.
“I love you.”
I can almost see her biting the side of her lip as she says it, slightly afraid of my response. Her past boyfriends must have been real winners. Someday I’ll tell her that a man secure enough in himself isn’t afraid to say those words. “Love you too.”
“Bye,” she says softly.
TINY
Ever since Ian Kerr walked into my life, change has been the only constant. Change and his incredible and undeserved devotion to me. I love him, and—worse—I’m addicted to him.
He calls every day to see if I want to have lunch. Invariably, that means we have sex, because we can’t be within five feet of each other without wanting to rip each other’s clothes off. It’s bad enough that I can’t look Ian’s driver, Steve, in the eye because of all the times I’ve exited the car with my clothes askew. I need to be able to look into my boss’s face without turning all kinds of red.
Besides, Ian’s got more important things to do than eat with me. He’s in charge of a holding company that is worth a billion dollars. A billion. I can’t even fathom that. Ian wants me to stay home and suck on my toes or something. Okay, maybe not suck my toes, but he actually said I could just sit in his converted warehouse and relax. He dragged me to the rooftop, and while it’s a cool place and I don’t mind spending an hour out there enjoying a cold beer with him after work, the last thing I want to do is sit around and have to think.
If I’m not busy or Ian isn’t occupying my attention, then all I can do is think about my mom and start crying. I’ve cried enough to float an entire armada. I hate that I cried this morning. I tried to pass them off as hate tears. I hate Richard Howe for all the shitty things he’s done to Ian. Shitty isn’t even the right word for it. More like despicable. If I could read a thesaurus, I’d come up with an even better word.
“What’s worse than shitty?” I ask Jake when I go back and hand him the mail.
“Fucking shitty?” He takes the mail and rifles through it. I wonder if he regrets hiring a dyslexic whose reading level is about that of a third grader. He’s never complained about my poor writing skills. I wonder if it’s because he and Ian are friends.
If I didn’t love Ian so goddamn much I’d run away. Run away from this job I don’t really like. Run away from the lifestyle that makes me uncomfortable. Run away from the grief of my mother’s death. But my love binds me to him more effectively than a pair of gold handcuffs. If losing my mother to cancer was painful, then leaving Ian would be . . . well, worse than fucking shitty. Way worse.
The unevenness of our situation agitates me. I don’t feel comfortable at his warehouse. Stupidly, I wonder how many women have slept in his bed or made coffee in his kitchen. He’s very tight-mouthed about that. He says he�
�s not a playboy. In fact, his lip curled in disgust when I’d even implied it, as if I’d smeared his honor or something.
And I’ll never be able to buy Ian the same kind of gifts he buys me. His closet is filled with clothes and shoes that cost more than several months’ rent for many apartments. I’m left wondering how long he’s going to be interested in a deadweight girlfriend who has a hard time remembering to smile these days.
“You’re frowning,” Jake comments, waking me from my reverie.
“Sorry, boss.” Making a face, I turn to leave.
“You really dislike this job, don’t you?”
Oh god, is he going to fire me?
“No, it’s good. Great in fact,” I lie, but prompted by his knowing gaze, I fess up. “It’s not you or this job. It’s being inside. I haven’t worked indoors since my first job out of high school waiting tables. I’m used to being outside, and frankly, I miss the rush of my old job. The pressure, the challenge. Out there I felt like I was doing something. Here I feel like the only thing I’m accomplishing is a notepad full of errors.”
“I’m not going to fire you,” Jake chuckles. “So you can stop the gruesome expression that you’re trying to pass off as a smile. I want to find a job that you do like.”
“Why? It’s not your responsibility to find me a job. Is it because of Ian?”
“No. It’s because you’re a tremendously hard worker. You’ve done a job you don’t like without complaint for the last four weeks. That kind of work ethic is hard to find. With your attention to detail, good memory, and quick mind, you’d make a great field agent.”
“But?”
He gives me a knowing look but not a sympathetic one. Jake has no interest in complainers. “You’d have to write reports, conduct background checks—basically, you’d have to read and write better. Think about it.”
His last words are a dismissal, and I return to my desk. The rest of the morning I contemplate his advice. Learn to read and write better. I pretty much gave up on the whole reading thing in elementary school.
Taking Control (Kerr Chronicles #2) Page 3
