Fierce (Not Quite a Billionaire)

by Rosalind James

  “Yes.”

  “We’re wasting our time, then,” I managed to say. “You don’t do relationships, and I don’t do arrangements.”

  “Could be I’m going to persuade you to change your mind.”

  “And could be you’re dreaming, and I should leave right now. Or I’ll say that differently, and tell you that I’m not going to change my mind.” The disappointment pierced me, out of proportion to my investment in the evening.

  The waiter showed up with our salads at this most inconvenient of moments, setting them in front of us with more ceremony. They looked delicious, too, served on big, square, chunky plates.

  “Butter lettuce with roasted-tomato vinaigrette,” he murmured. “Bon appetit.”

  I looked at Hemi again when the waiter had left, and he got the message.

  “Well,” he said. “I’m here, aren’t I. I’m doing this date. I may not be doing it well, but I’m doing it.”

  “Yes,” I said, feeling more cheerful. “You are, aren’t you?” I’d give it one more try, if he were going to try, too.

  The salad was exactly as good as the wine, and I focused on that, closing my eyes to taste the tang, to feel the contrast of crunchy and soft, sweet and sour.

  I swallowed the bite, my eyelids floated open again, and I sighed. Yes. So worth it.

  Hemi wasn’t eating. He was watching me, and I could feel myself blushing. I touched my napkin to my mouth and took another sip of wine for confidence.

  “Do you feel every experience so intensely?” he asked.

  “Umm...doesn’t everybody, if it’s special? If it’s new, and it’s this good?”

  “No.” A light smile touched his lips. “Only the lucky ones. And the luckier ones who get to watch them enjoy it. Who get to bring it to them.”

  My heart was beating again, and he seemed to check himself. “But I’m forgetting. Or you’re distracting me. It’s your turn.”

  “My turn what?” I couldn’t even object, because all that had been was…hot.

  “Why aren’t you good at dating?” he prompted.

  So he was going to try. That was hopeful. I took another bite of salad while I thought, then took a breath and put myself out there. “My life’s been a little complicated.”

  “Coming out of something bad?” He was frowning now. “Did somebody hurt you?”

  “No. Not the way you mean. It was that I had so much else to do.” How much was I willing to share? I wasn’t sure.

  “Shall I tell you what I think?”

  What, instead of asking me what else I’d had to do? “Do I want to know what you think? Every time you’ve told me so far, it’s been fairly disastrous, hasn’t it?” Danger zone, I tried to tell him. I’m one step from gone.

  “Could be, but I’m going to tell you anyway. I think that the kind of man you want scares you, and the kind of man you feel safe with bores you.”

  How did he know? And, yes, he was doing it. He was going straight back to sex. Was that all he could talk about? All he could think about? All he was here for? Yes, and you knew it would be, and you came anyway. Because you kept hoping it could be more. Or, worse. Because you wanted it, too. Because part of you wants to be that butterfly.

  The next words out of his mouth confirmed my fears. “I know that because I am the kind of man you want. And I scare you, because you haven’t had someone like me before. You know you want it, and you’re not sure you can take it.”

  The room wasn’t comfortable anymore, because I didn’t have enough air. I couldn’t get my breath.

  Did he turn me on? You bet he did, like no man ever had. And he alarmed me and enraged me, too. You think all those things can’t be happening at the same time? Then you haven’t spent any time in my brain and body. And you haven’t spent any time with Hemi Te Mana.

  The waiter reappeared, took away our salad plates, and made a production of setting down more chunky plates arranged with delicate fillets of salmon set on a pool of sauce, tender green beans, and fluffy mashed potatoes in a presentation as beautiful as a painting.

  I welcomed the interruption. Hemi was right about one thing. He was too much for me.

  “Bloody hell,” Hemi muttered when the waiter had left again, and I felt another surge of foolish hope. “This is why I don’t date.”

  “Why?”

  “All this—dancing.”

  “I know.” The relief made me nearly lightheaded. I hadn’t been wrong to come, and the joy was filling me that he really was trying. “I feel the same way,” I assured him. “But it’s normal, I guess. It’s uncomfortable, and it’s awkward, and it’s what you have to do.”

  “Well, if it’s normal,” he said, “it’s stupid. It’s a bloody waste of time. Pretending it’s true love, that I want some forever that doesn’t exist. Why not just tell the truth? Why not just come to an agreement and move on?”

  I’d lifted my fork to take a bit of salmon, but I paused with it halfway to my mouth. “What truth?” No. Don’t say it. Please step back. Please dance. I want to dance with you. Can’t you see?

  But he didn’t dance. “This isn’t true love. There’s no forever,” he told me, and my head jerked back as if he’d slapped me. “There’s only now,” he went on, either not noticing my response or not caring. “And taking the pleasure that’s there for both of us for as long as it lasts. I know you’ve never been satisfied by a man. I know because I can see it in you. I know that you don’t date anymore because you haven’t found anyone who could give you what you needed, and that you’re scared of turning over power to a man who can give it to you like you need it. But it’s nothing to be scared of, because I want the same thing you do, and I’m not like those other blokes. I know how to do it, and I’ll treat you right. The way you need to be treated. I can start you off right, and I want to do it.”

  My fork was back on my plate, I was sitting stiff and straight, but he ignored it all and went straight on.

  “You know and I know,” he said, his eyes burning into me again, “that I should be over there with you right now, putting you in my lap, sliding my hand under that dress. You want me to pretend to be civilized, to ask you about yourself, to tell you about my bloody childhood, when all I want is your dress around your waist and you on your back, and that’s all you want, too. So let’s quit dancing. Let’s forget all this rubbish and do what we need to do.”

  This time, I didn’t hesitate. I stood up and went for my coat.

  He was up, too. Of course he was. “Hope. You know it’s there between us. You know you want it. Why are you fighting it?”

  “No,” I said, and if my voice were shaking, well, wouldn’t any woman’s have been? “No. This isn’t right. All evening, you haven’t been able to do anything but tell me how you want to…how you want to do me. For now. For a little while, until I’m…not new anymore. Not your shiny new toy. If that were all I needed, I could’ve stayed in Brooklyn. Men like you are the reason I’m a virgin. And, yes,” I said when I saw the shock widen his eyes, “you heard me right. I was little and scrawny and homely until I was almost eighteen, and once I wasn’t, I was overwhelmed by my life, the life you’re not the least bit interested in. And I knew exactly why all the guys who hadn’t given me the time of day before were suddenly asking me out. Why they were taking me to the movies and sticking their tongues down my throat and groping me without even knowing if I wanted to kiss them. Because I’m little, and I’m pretty. Now I am. But you know what?”

  The hot tears were rising, but I went on despite them. Six years of this. Six years, and it was still the same exact thing. It didn’t matter if the man made twenty thousand dollars a year or twenty million, it was exactly the same. And this time, it mattered. He was the one man I’d really wanted, and everything he’d said was true. But not if that was all I was to him.

  “I am not a toy,” I told him. He wouldn’t care, but I was going to tell him anyway. I couldn’t make him listen, but I could make my voice heard. I could stand up and be counte
d. “I’m not any man’s doll. I’m a person, and you—” I blinked the tears back furiously, because I had to say this. “You’re exactly like all those other guys. You don’t want a person. You don’t want me. You don’t want to know me. You don’t want to share anything with me, not even a little bit of conversation. You can’t even pretend to care, and yet you think I should be lying down so you can…can screw me for as long as you want to, and that I should be fine with that, because I don’t deserve anything more.”

  “Hope. Stop. Right now.” His face wasn’t impassive anymore. It was thunderous. “You’re going too far.”

  “No.” I was trembling, but it didn’t matter. “You are. You’re the one who needs to stop. You got me hired to do a job under false pretenses. Stupid me, I thought somebody wanted me for my brains. For my work ethic. For my ability. All right, yes, I was stupid. I’ll own that. I should’ve known better than to think you’d really want me for anything but sex. I should’ve known better than to come out with you tonight, too. Not like you didn’t make it clear what this was about. I should’ve left a half hour ago, but I didn’t, because I was too attracted to you. I own that, too. But that doesn’t make you right. And it doesn’t make my position any better, or make you any less wrong for putting me into it.”

  “I told you,” he said, his entire face set, grim. Dangerous. “That you could say no and keep your job. I don’t break my word.”

  Time to face it. Exactly where I was. “Except for one thing. That I’m working for somebody who wouldn’t have hired me if you hadn’t told her to. Which leaves me two choices, doesn’t it? I can try to hang on and know I probably won’t be able to, or I can let you make her keep me on and know I’m there at your whim. And what I want to know is, why? Don’t you get how close to the edge I am? I had a job. It was a lousy one, but at least I wasn’t going to lose it. At least I could pay my bills. I quit it and took this job in good faith, and I need it to survive. I need it for my sister to survive. You really care that little if you wreck somebody’s life? If you’ve got anything at all in you except what you want to do to me, except how you want to use me—at least see that. At least see what you’ve done.”

  My voice had risen, was shaking hard by the time I’d finished. The waiter, I realized with horror, was outside the door, then retreating down the stairs, and Hemi was standing there immobile, his face betraying nothing.

  Because I was right. He didn’t care about me. He didn’t care what I said, or how I felt. And I was wasting my time.

  I wrenched off the beautiful shoes, one at a time, and left them on the floor. “Keep your shoes,” I told him. “I am not for sale. And I’m sure as hell not for rent.”

  I had my coat on, and I was down the stairs, rushing through the restaurant, hitting the street, and running for the subway as fast as I could in my bare feet.

  It hurt. Of course it did. It bruised, and it burned. But my heart and my pride hurt more.

  Plus, I hadn’t even gotten to eat any salmon.

  An Unexpected Source

  When Hope had pulled off her shoes and run down the stairs, I’d wanted to go after her, throw her over my shoulder, carry her to my car, and make her listen. Make her talk. Make her stay until we could work it out. By which, yes, I probably meant, “until she saw it my way.”

  And after that…well. After that, I had a list.

  Unfortunately, I couldn’t do any of it, because this wasn’t the New Zealand bush, it wasn’t three hundred years ago, and she wasn’t mine.

  There was that other uncomfortable thing as well. That I’d made her cry. That I’d hurt her and made her feel small.

  It was the last thing I’d wanted. I didn’t want to ruin her life. I wanted to make it better. Instead, I’d done just the opposite. I’d stuffed up, in fact, about as thoroughly as a man could. It wasn’t a feeling I was used to, and I wasn’t enjoying it.

  I rang Eugene on the drive back to the house. It took him four long rings to pick up, and I nearly rang off. I didn’t ask for advice. Ever. What was I doing?

  “You know I don’t work on Sunday night,” were the first words out of his mouth. “I got grandkids. Family time, man.”

  “Not a concept an entrepreneur can afford to entertain,” I couldn’t help pointing out.

  A couple of pithy words told me what I could do with my opinion. “That click you hear? That’s gonna be me hanging up.”

  “No. Wait,” I hurried to say. “This one isn’t business. It’s personal.”

  “Mm-hm. We thinkin’ little and blonde?”

  “Yeh,” I admitted reluctantly. “Didn’t work out quite as well as I’d planned.”

  “Yep. She ain’t tough, oh, no. Not near as tough as you. And yet here you are staring at that slammed door and wondering how you screwed up so bad. That about the picture?”

  “Yeh.” I stared out the window at the Manhattan scene. “That’s about it.”

  “Here’s a straight-up gold-plated tip for you, and I won’t even charge you for it. Some girls say no. Some games you ain’t gonna win.”

  “So what do—” I stopped and cleared my throat.

  “You know, ain’t no shame in saying it. What you supposed to do to try to get her back, you mean, now you made a big-ass mess of it? First off, how bad was it? Unforgivable bad, or just asshole bad?”

  “Asshole bad,” I admitted. “I think. But she left her shoes and ran away.”

  “Her shoes? Damn, man.”

  “Because I’d bought them for her. But they were an apology, so why would she give them back?”

  “You had to apologize once already? How many times you been with this girl?”

  I had to think. “Talked to her three times, counting everything.”

  I heard the wheezing chuckle. “Oh, yeah. You got a rough road ahead for sure. You make her feel like a hooker?”

  “No.”

  “Now, how did I know? She not a real experienced girl?”

  “Not an—” I cleared my throat. “Not an experienced girl at all.”

  A sigh came down the line. “We gotta call in an expert on this one. Way over my head.”

  “I’m not talking to some shrink,” I said in alarm.

  “Nope. Just talkin’ to Debra.”

  The phone went silent, and then I heard another voice, rich and firm. “Hello? Who’s this?”

  This was mad. I should ring off now. Except that I needed to know, and who else was I going to ask? “Hemi Te Mana.”

  “Oh, my Lord.” I could almost see her head shaking. I’d only met her once or twice, when she’d called in at the gym. A woman comfortable in her considerable skin. Bigger than Eugene in stature and girth, and a match for him in personality, too. If he reminded me of one of the uncles, she was a Maori auntie through and through. “Now I’m gettin’ the picture.”

  “More than I am,” I muttered. Charles had pulled to the curb in front of the apartment block on Central Park West, but I sat still. I didn’t want to have this conversation in the lobby. I didn’t want to have this conversation at all.

  “So let me see if I got this straight from hearing one end of it,” she was saying. “You got a girl there who feels like she ain’t up to your weight. Maybe not too rich, maybe a little young. How old is she?”

  “Twenty-four. And you’re right about the not too rich.” All right, I may have looked over her application. Gathering information was critical to any campaign.

  “And how many dates we talkin’ about?”

  “One. Well, a half.”

  “A half, and she’s already run out on you? Sometimes, you just got to let it go. Some things ain’t meant to be.”

  “This is meant to be,” I said impatiently. “I just need to figure out how to fix it.”

  “Well, if you was my son? I’d be telling you, whatever you’ve done so far, do the opposite.”

  That was helpful. Not.

  “Let me guess,” she said. “You give her shoes? Expensive ones?”

  “S
he needed better shoes,” I argued.

  “Why? She barefoot? Guess she didn’t think they was worth the price. Why do I think you gave her expensive shoes, took her someplace fancy, and then let her know what her part of the deal was? And that she slapped your face?”

  “No,” I said glumly. “She’d already done that. This time, she just took off the shoes and ran home.”

  “Ran home barefoot across Manhattan?”

  “Yeh. Well, to the subway, I reckon.” I ran a weary hand through my hair.

  “You must’ve laid it on real thick. So what you do now is—you do things that let her know you’re not thinking about you and what you want, you’re thinking about what she wants, trying to make her happy. But only if you really are, ’cause a woman can tell.”

  “Only if I’m what?”

  “Only if you do want to make her happy. If you just want to get her in bed, if you’re faking it—she’ll know, she’ll tell you, ‘Hell, no,’ and you’ll be right back where you started. Might as well save yourself the time and find somebody else. Somebody you can buy with a pair of shoes.”

  “Suppose I want to do that?” I asked, ignoring the contempt in that remark. “The making her happy bit. You still haven’t told me what to do.” I couldn’t believe I was asking, but I was.

  “What I’m telling you is what to do,” she said. “Think about her. What she’s thinking right now. What she’s feeling. Do something that costs you time, not money. She don’t want your money, sounds like. Could be she wants your attention. That’s what a good woman generally wants. So give her your attention.”

  I could tell you that I didn’t cry that night after I ran out on Hemi, but it would be a lie. I could tell you that I didn’t rage inside at him, and at myself for being naïve enough to believe that he’d wanted anything more from me than sex. That I didn’t rage at life for dangling the prospect of something better in front of me, for making me hope as I hadn’t dared to for so long, only to snatch the hope away.

  This was why I didn’t dream anymore. It hurt too much when your dreams died.