“You forget that when I designed The Spire, I had two good eyes. Now, I only have one.”
Eliot slowly crossed the room and peered out across the skyline shrouded by nightfall. “Well, Sven…if you’re not capable of designing it, then maybe Hans is right. Maybe the only thing the investors of the Li Long Towers are going to care about is the Van der Meer name.”
Inez slowly stood up from her seat. The Devil’s veiled threat polarized the lounge like The Bermuda Triangle, threatening to imprison Sven and her within the magnetism of its menacing storm.
“Which means what?” Sven challenged him. “You only need one of us to get the deal done and the other one is disposable?”
“There’s always safety in numbers,” Eliot conceded. “Better to come along for the ride than be left behind.”
Sven returned his gaze on his brother. “So not only are you scheming to transfer my ownership in The Spire into your pet project, but you’re planning to steal credit for my designs as well?”
“The world is large and memories are short,” Eliot answered for Hans. “History is only going to remember the Van der Meer brother who built the tallest buildings in the world, not the one who walked away from the challenge.”
Sven glared at his brother whose silence confirmed his misplaced allegiance.
“I will remind you, Watercross—” Sven warned “—that you already went down this path with your own architect, Symeon Colovos, and failed.”
The mocking glint in Eliot’s green eyes turned cold and callous. He moved away from the window and stalked closer towards Sven.
“You went into a joint venture with Harvey Zale to construct the Li Long Towers using Colovos’ design and it was summarily rejected by the Chinese officials as completely unstable and unfeasible for the proposed cost. Now, Harvey Zale wants out, but you still want to claim success.”
Eliot chewed on Sven’s words, the glow from the magenta lamp shades reflecting off his eyes. “I’ve never been a man to accept failure. And neither are you.”
“Which means you can’t return to Shanghai with designs produced by just any architect or architectural firm. You need designs that will be approved by the Chinese government. So if you expect to successfully build the tallest towers in the world, you don’t need more money, or more power, or more connections, or to spill brotherly blood…you simply need me.”
Sven swept up Inez’s hand like he was rescuing her from a pack of wolves. “And my cooperation is something you will never receive. Talent can be bought and sold. Reputations can be fabricated. But true ingenuity cannot be stolen.”
He led Inez away from the table and down the corridor. Thank freaking, God. She sighed with a deep breath. It had been the longest cocktail hour of her life and the only thing she enjoyed was her French Martini and how Sven’s verbal swordplay dashed The Devil’s smile off his smug face.
“The opening gala for The Spire is less than a week away, Sven,” Eliot called after him like a warning shot. “Don’t end up on the wrong side of the deal.”
Sven halted their pace and sneered back at him. “I may have sold half my soul to you in order to be a part of The Spire. But I still have my other half, which is just enough to make me want to do everything in my power to ensure your failure.”
Chapter Six
As his driver cruised along Michigan Avenue back to his penthouse, Sven rubbed his head, attempting to relieve his punishing headache, partly from straining his blurry eye throughout dinner and partly because he had come to hate everything about his bleak, uncertain life.
The Spire. He spotted its radiant spiral tip, glinting like a silver prism, higher than any other building in the northern sky. It was the crowning achievement of his professional career, and now, it filled him with nothing but vexation and dread. He had tried to sound unintimidated at the prospect of being forced out of his equity interest through the sale of The Spire as well as being excluded from participation in the construction of the Li Long Towers. But the truth was, after one tragic accident, one major eye surgery, and the slow handicapping decay of his other eye, Sven was far more vulnerable than he cared to admit. Two years ago, he was confident everyone in his life revered him and he could conquer the world. Now, he only felt the cruel hand of fate working against him, wielding its vengeance against him for uniting with dishonorable men for dishonorable gain.
“Your friends are all assholes, Sven.”
He glanced over at Inez, suddenly realizing he had rudely ignored since they had left the Watercross Tower. Her dark, challenging gaze was barely discernable within the shadows, but he knew she wasn’t going to let him off easy.
“It really was quite uncomfortable, wasn’t it?” he acknowledged. “And at this point, I wouldn’t categorize them as friends.”
Inez Sanchez. Even she was karma’s handmaiden. With her sarcastic wit and lashing tongue, she happily punished him—and all his asshole friends—for their offensive conceit and felonious aspirations. She considered The Spire a blight on the cityscape, a garish symbol of narcissism and ego, designed and constructed by greedy, selfish men who sought to openly mock the rest of Chicago with their superiority. And her scorn unnerved him because, deep down, he knew she was right. There had been very little dignity in what he had accomplished with The Spire. From the beginning, he had been motivated by the superficial allure of grandeur and ambition, which somehow made the threat of losing it all seem tolerable and even strangely fitting.
“How was your French Martini?” he asked, a pitiful attempt at consolation.
“Delicious. It was the only reason why I didn’t stab myself with the prawn fork.”
“Well, you did quite well tonight, considering everything,” Sven confirmed. “And I especially enjoyed the way you handled yourself with Celeste.”
“You mean the way she dragged me into the mud pit by the hair before I body-slammed her with my cleavage?”
“Precisely.”
“She’s still in love with you. You know that, right?”
“No,” he said, shifting his gaze out the window. “I’m certain that’s not true.”
“She definitely gave me the stink eye most of the night, and you only do that to your ex-boyfriend’s girlfriend if you’re still in love with him.”
“Are you speaking from experience?”
“I’m speaking as a woman,” she insisted. “And all women know the subliminal signs behind ‘bitch-don’t-steal-my-ex-boyfriend-because-his-ass-still-belongs-to-me’. It’s girl code. We’re born with it.”
“Really?” Sven raised his eyebrow. “That sounds quite sophisticated.”
“It is. Especially the laser glares.”
“Are you also born with knowing all about The Mariana Trench?”
“Probably.”
“And fracking in South Dakota?”
“What? You don’t believe I’m naturally a genius?”
Sven squinted at her, gauging how to answer her honestly without offending her. “Not completely.”
“That’s because you’re a cynic, like me.”
As the lights from Buckingham Fountain danced off her face, he discerned her smile.
“But you’re also clearly not…” he paused, struggling to find the right word.
“Average?” she tossed at him.
He looked away, avoiding her teasing gaze, and mulled through the strange mixture of shame and enchantment that she inspired in him.
“The truth is I’m a reader,” she confessed. “I read everything I can find. Now you know my horrible dirty secret.”
“Everything except for old-fashioned newspapers The Chicago Tribune.”
“No, that was a lie, too.” She fiddled with the hem of her dress. “I read The Tribune. I just didn’t realize your ex-girlfriend was the Celeste Cartwright, art critic extraordinaire. But it dawned on me the moment she called The Spire a ‘fearless feat of architectural and structural brilliance’ because she was quoting from her own article and I remembered reading t
hat piece and hating every word of it. But there was no way in hell I was going to give her the satisfaction of letting her know it.”
“Ahh, I see. More girl code.”
“No. That was just flat out bitch anti-freeze.”
Sven laughed and rubbed his good eye. It was late and his English was failing him. He felt both entertained and exhausted by their conversation.
“The fact of the matter is that I owe much of my success to Celeste,” he replied. “She’s a well-respected figure within the community. She was the one who convinced me to design The Spire and she always supported my ambitions.”
Inez didn’t respond. She didn’t seem impressed. She never seemed impressed and it made Sven feel strangely vulnerable.
“Until the day she didn’t,” Inez finally said.
Sven looked away. “Until the day that I pushed her away.”
“So you’re still in love with her, too?”
“No,” he said quietly. A fearless feat of architectural and structural engineering brilliance. He had loved those words when Celeste published her first public review of The Spire because he had believed them, and perhaps he had thought he loved Celeste because she reinforced his shallow aspirations for greatness.
“I’ll admit to my dirty secret. I’m fairly certain I’m too selfish and egotistical to fall in love with anyone.”
“Oh, that’s right. You only own half your soul.”
“Yes.” He nodded. “And whatever part of my soul Eliot Watercross doesn’t destroy, I’m certain no woman will want to claim it for herself,” he teased with a self-deprecation that felt liberating. He was so used to taking himself so seriously. It was refreshing to be around someone who couldn’t care less about the fact that he was Sven van der Meer.
She smiled. It soothed him. She had a lovely smile.
“It’s eleven o’clock, Miss Sanchez. One more hour until the stroke of midnight when your gown will turn back into rags and your carriage will turn back into a pumpkin.”
“I’m fine with it. I’ve never been the princess type, but it’s a good thing for you that I’m an excellent liar and damn good at pretending to be your girlfriend.”
“Yes, you are,” he conceded with a sidelong glance at her.
“And now that you’re on the outs with the cool kids, you’re going to need an ally more than ever.”
The truth behind her playful jest dampened the mood between them. There would be repercussions for what had transpired tonight, and Sven had avoided contemplating them until that moment.
“You know,” he said slowly, cautiously, as if he almost hated to admit it. “If I was an honest, honorable man, I would realize the folly of our charade and immediately release you from our arrangement.”
“Shocker alert, Sven,” she replied. “You’re a conceited egotistical bastard who’s paying me five thousand dollars a day to pretend to be your girlfriend. There’s not much room there for vindication.”
“No, I suppose not,” he agreed, then paused. “But are you certain you’re prepared to endure the consequences of becoming my ally?”
She fell silent within the darkness. The car rolled to a stop along the circular driveway of his penthouse building.
“I’ve only known you for about seven hours, Sven.”
“Eight,” he corrected her.
“Okay, eight. But in that time, I’ve learned one crucial thing about you.”
“Really, what’s that, Miss Sanchez?”
“It’s way easier to be on your team than it is to fight against you.”
Sven waited to see if he could hear her trademark sarcasm slipping beneath her compliment. But in the end, he only heard sincerity and it disarmed him. Dangerous and unpredictable like a firecracker. The moment he thought he knew how to handle her, she sizzled and popped and threatened to blow his hand off.
“So that means you won’t be quitting on me?” He had feared it, especially after their dinner tonight.
“My last temp job was a week ago, and I only lasted for three hours. You’ve already beat that record and I haven’t quit on you—yet.”
“Hm,” he pondered, rubbing his chin while wondering what made her tick. “That only tells me that you need my money.”
She shrugged, pretending it was both true and completely irrelevant. “There are lots of ways for a woman to make an easy buck, Sven. And definitely easier ways than pretending to be your girlfriend.”
A firecracker in the palm of his hand. And truth be told, he yearned to set her off, just to see what kind of explosive streams of color and light would illuminate his darkened sky.
Yes,” he mused, squinting at her with mischief. “Like coming upstairs to my private penthouse and helping me get undressed.”
Chapter Seven
Listening to the steady clicks of Inez’s high heels behind him, Sven passed through the shadows of his penthouse and through the private hallway leading to the master bedroom, encouraged by the fact that she was following him without distrust or protest. It had been a long day filled with conflict and antipathy, and he was grateful for the prospect of silence and peace. He moved to the foot of his king-size platform bed, its silk black sheets beckoning him like drowning waters. He stopped and heard her footsteps, narrowing the distance between him.
Here they were again, back in his bedroom. It had only been a few hours since they had been here together, passing through the unpretentious motions of preparing themselves for dinner. Almost like a normal couple.
But they were not a normal couple—or even a couple at all, and yet, that didn’t change the fact that all evening he had suppressed his smoldering desires—desires kindled by the sight of her in that scarlet dress with her long black hair, pouty lips, and exotic face. He had felt her cinched waist beneath his fingertips, and the certainty that she was wearing a boned corset that accentuated her arcing cleavage made him yearn to remove it. And although her sassy tongue and acerbic wit fueled his attraction for her, it was her feminine sensuality tonight that lured him into a dangerous maze of wanting more. Unsettled by the consequences of their cocktail hour with Eliot Watercross, he had forced himself to suppress his arousal. But on the elevator ride up to his penthouse, he was consumed by his forbidden urges.
It had been the same during his interview with her, except at that time, he had concealed his attraction behind condescension. He was fully aware that he needed someone like her more than she needed him—or his money—but his ego and pride weren’t prepared to let her know it. But now, after rolling through the flashes of tonight’s conversation in his mind, it had become impossible for him to deny his good fortune: she had been the perfect choice because she refused to acknowledge her subordination to anyone. Not even to him. And he needed that now. Perhaps more than he needed anything else in his life.
The room was dark and silent. He considered calling out, “Blinds” in order to automatically open the vertical slats and allow the moonlight to stream in through the patio bay windows. But he decided against it.
“Here. You need to take this back before I get used to wearing it.”
He heard the jingle of gemstones and platinum behind him. He turned and she held out the emerald necklace to him. He reluctantly accepted it. He had noticed during dinner how stunning she had looked in it, and he had caught himself fantasizing about seeing her wearing it—and nothing else.
She stood there, silently staring at him, waiting…
Of course, he realized. She was waiting for payment.
He counted his steps to the wall safe, pressed keypad numbers to open its door, and deposited the necklace back into the velvet pouch. Reaching into the back of the safe, he removed a tidy stack of one hundred dollar bills, wrapped in the center with a paper band.
“Five thousand dollars. As promised.” He handed it to her.
She stared down at it without accepting it.
“You can count it if you like. I won’t be offended.”
“I’m not certain I would know how to
count up to five thousand dollars,” she finally answered.
He smiled. He had only spent one day with her, and this was the first time he had rendered her speechless. “There’s only fifty bills. Mint condition.” He waved the stack of bills, encouraging her to take it.
She moved towards him and plucked it from his hands. “Are you sure you didn’t rob a bank? They can trace the serial numbers, you know.”
“So you know about bank robberies, too?” He felt the urge to re-establish their lighthearted rapport.
She delicately flipped through the bills with her thumb. “They’ll nab me the moment I try to buy hand lotion at the convenience store.”
“That would be very expensive hand lotion.”
“I have sensitive skin,” she said quietly.
He stared at her, trying to make out her face in the darkness; she met his gaze and granted him a lingering moment of indulgence.
“Will you come here and help me undo these buttons now?”
She nodded and approached the bed, laying the money on the black silk sheets. She turned and reached up to unfasten the first button of his suit coat, just below the rigid Mandarin collar. He stiffened, attempting to keep her sudden touch from arousing him. But it was impossible. Her long black hair had fallen over her bare shoulder and the scent of her skin—a mixture of vanilla and baby powder—raided his inhibitions. Her proximity allowed him to study her Cuban profile and the sensuality of her neckline. He peered down at her, wondering if she could feel his heart pounding through his coat or if she could sense the only thing he wanted more than to remove all his clothes and crawl into bed was not to do it alone.
Her fingers diligently worked along the seam of his coat. Freeing him. She glanced up, studying his unflinching gaze.
“Your brother said…” she started before pausing to tread carefully. “He said there was an accident.” She shifted her gentle eyes up to his eyepatch. “And that you were injured?”
“Yes.” He replied without offering more. He understood her motivation. Within the secrecy and intimacy of the darkness, it felt natural to want to discuss everything avoided in the daylight. But in that moment, he was acutely aware that she was a stranger to all his personal conflicts and pain and he yearned to keep it that way. She wasn’t a part of his hurtful past and it gave him solace. She didn’t press him and he appreciated her all the more for it.
Closer Page 8
