She unfastened the final button of the suit coat and slipped it off his shoulders. He exhaled deeply and sank down on the edge of the mattress. That damn coat. It had restricted his movements all night like a straight-jacket, and now he wanted to burn it.
“Fireplace,” he called out into the darkness. With a flash of bursting light, flames rushed up from the gas fireplace and illuminated the bedroom like the devil’s lair before settling into a dim, methodical crackle. He expanded his chest, feeling the relaxing heat rush through the silk of his black dress shirt.
“Please—” he implored her, fidgeting with the shirt’s Mandarin collar, the final constricting yoke around his neck. “I never want to wear this outfit again. Let’s destroy it.”
She came to his rescue and unclipped the collar. “The tailors in Luxembourg would be extremely disappointed to hear that.”
Kicking off his dress shoes, he rolled up his sleeves. “Let them go out of business. They have no business making suits.”
She giggled and laid the suit coat over the back of his leather armchair. “I thought you rocked it.”
He peered over at her with curiosity. “Rocked it? You mean like a rock star or something?” He sat up straighter, inflated by her compliment.
“Maybe more like a killer ninja,” she tossed back. “Stealthy and menacing.”
“Stealthy,” he repeated, amused by her English. “Yes,” he agreed, crossing his arms, considering how to draw her closer to him in the stealthiest way possible.
She seemed to sense his intentions and glanced over at the clock on his night stand. It was 11:38 PM.
“Well, it’s getting late. I better go and get myself undressed—”
“No, wait—” he said in earnest. “Don’t change yet. Not yet.”
She stopped and narrowed her gaze at him. “Sven…a girl in a fancy red dress with five thousand dollars in her purse riding the ‘L’ train at midnight in downtown Chicago is the beginning of a bad horror flick.”
“Scarlet,” he corrected her. “Scarlet dress. And you look lovely in it.”
He was surprised by his confession. And so was she. She fell silent, watching him watching her.
“Thank you,” she said politely, as if she didn’t want to encourage more.
He paused, considering the implications of his compliment. It had been partially fueled by his desire not to be left alone and partially fueled by his need to let her know the truth. It was the first time he had allowed himself to conspicuously take in the full curves of her body, accentuated by the flickering flames of the fireplace. He didn’t care anymore about being guarded or stern with her. He only wanted to keep her with him.
“And you won’t ride the train. James will drive you home.”
He said it like a protector. Perhaps he was yielding to his desire to protect her. But he knew she was not a woman who would be easily tamed, and she wanted him to know it.
“The Van Buren stop is two blocks from here. I’ll be perfectly fine taking the train.” She kicked off her heels and took them into her hands, a deliberate assertion of her independence. She moved forward, preparing to leave him.
“No.” He rose from the bed, blocking her. “You’re not going to travel home alone on the train at midnight. Not all the way to Northside. And not when I’m offering you a ride.”
“I’m not going to remain Cinderella much longer, remember? My carriage will turn back into a pumpkin and my dress will turn back into rags.”
Her trademark sarcasm, he thought. She was always hiding behind it, and it spurred him to get closer.
“Not if you stay,” he countered, his voice deep and husky. “Stay.”
He pushed even closer. Their eyes locked. She eyed him, holding her ground, as if she was granting him a rare privilege—allowing him the proximity to admire her fearlessness.
“That would complicate our employee-employer relationship, Sven. And I think I prefer our current arrangement.”
He held her gaze, searching for any hint of weakness in her voice. “After midnight you’re no longer my employee. You’re free to do whatever you want.”
His words dangled like a tease. He reached down for her hand, expecting to feel only resistance. Instead, her elbow slackened as he drew her into his body. He glimpsed down at the sensual crescents of her breasts and the tender slope of her neckline, wondering how she would respond if he kissed the hollow of her throat. Would she let out an audible sigh as he slipped his hand up the high slit of her dress? Would she drop her head back and moan while his fingers skated behind her thighs and massaged the fleshy cushion of her backside? Would she relax her stance and allow him to slide his hand between her inner thighs, granting him access to the silky crotch of her naughty panties which he had imagined her in all night? Would she acquiesce with a reluctant groan and submit herself to his invading caresses while he kissed the gentle curve of her collarbone?
“Stay,” he requested.
He peered into her bold, cherrywood eyes. It was the first time since their interview that he had the chance to focus his good eye on their beauty—and the intensity of the woman behind them.
She did not look away or avoid his cautious advance towards her. His hand passed along the indent of her hip, just above the side seam of her dress. He fingered the cold metal tab of her dress’s zipper and yearned to buzz it down to loosen her strapless bodice and reveal her cinching corset. He ached to drop his chin down her neckline and tease the buxom arcs of her breasts with his lips before nudging each one out its satin cup, exposing her tits to his mercy.
All day she had punished him with her mocking wit and sarcasm—despite the fact that he was her boss and she was his employee. Now, he craved her submission by taking her lush body in his possession and dominating every inch of it with long curling flicks of his tongue and teasing nips of his teeth until she gave into him with breathy uninhibited moans.
He edged his face towards her, lowering his chin and fighting his instinct to kiss without her consent. He paused, hoping to feel the rotation of her pelvis and her soft warm breath against his lips—a sign of her surrender. He yearned for a sign—any sign—granting him permission to draw her down onto his bed, where he would smother her mouth with his own and kiss her with passion, aiding her to release all the anger and resentment she was holding against the world. He understood her anger because he had felt it, too—a scowl of bitterness permanently imprinted across his face, threatening to consume him with hatred. Hatred not only for his life, but for himself.
But she merely granted him a knowing smile, an enigmatic expression, barely discernable through the flickering shadows from the fireplace. It was as though she was silently acknowledging that she had rescued him today, rescued him by helping to maintain the charade of being indomitable and unshakeable—at least for one more day. Perhaps it was the way that she had helped him to preserve his pride—as a man—that ignited his desires to seize her into his arms, spread her across his bed, and rip off the folds of her dress to expose her bare legs and black G-string that he knew was hidden there. He wanted to force her heel up onto his shoulder and make her shudder as his fingers slipped beneath the thin strip of her panties to fondle her clit and invade her wetness. He wanted to make her gush with long, rhythmic strokes of his fingers until she fully parted her knees and begged for his touch. He wanted to bury his chin against her flesh and taste her wetness, unleashing her panting cry with every forbidden lick of his tongue while her fingernails pressed into the back of his scalp, urging him not to stop. She had bewitched his desires in a mysterious and incalculable way, and now, there was nothing to stop him from pursuing her except her own challenging eyes and the assumption that they would likely regret it in the morning.
He savored the whisper of her breath against his neck and the way the soft contour of her cleavage grazed against his firm chest. It was enough to grant him hope until she spoke.
“I’m going to undress now, Sven.”
He exhaled and repeate
d her words in his mind, fondling the metal tab of the zipper on her dress.
“Upstairs,” she asserted, covering his hand with her own. “By myself.”
He closed his eyes and bowed his head against her shoulder, as if her rejection wounded him, despite the fact that he fully expected it.
“Good night, Sven.” She softly touched the nape of his neck.
“Good night, Miss Sanchez.” He inhaled her scent to commit it to memory before permitting her to escape up the spiral staircase to the guest bathroom where he heard the door shut and lock with finality.
Chapter Eight
Sven sat on his sofa, staring at all the blurry water lilies within the Monet painting. Yesterday, he had strained his eye the entire day, and so it wasn’t a surprise to him when he woke up with a headache and diminished sight. This morning, he only counted eleven water lilies before giving up completely. Eleven… Things were deteriorating faster than he had ever expected. Shutting his eyes, he pressed the cold ice pack against the socket of his good eye and exhaled as it numbed him into relaxation.
He knew it could all change by tomorrow. If he rested his eye, he might be able to find at least fifteen or sixteen. That would be an improvement. It could all change by tomorrow. Nothing was certain yet. Some days were better than others, and not even the doctors were certain he would go completely blind. No one had any idea what was going to happen. Nothing was certain.
Buzzzzzz.
The front doorbell. He sat up straighter and removed the ice pack.
Inez?
It was a whisper of hope. When he had awoken this morning, alone and nursing a headache, he remembered how he had propositioned her last night and how reprehensible it had been. But she had not given in to him. She remained loyal to their arrangement and proved she was nothing less than the wise, self-controlled woman who he had hired to help him get through the week. Yes, she had escaped from him last night. But now, as the front door buzzer of his penthouse rang again, he wondered why the doorman hadn’t rung his phone to announce the visitor before allowing her into the elevator. It had to be because he recognized her. It had to be because it was Inez.
He rose from the sofa, motivated by expectation and anticipation. It was only nine-thirty in the morning. He looked down at himself and smelled under his arm. He was without a shower or shave and wearing only his silk pajama pants. He hadn’t expected to see her again until this afternoon. Perhaps she had forgotten something. Or perhaps she had reflected on the evening, and now, she had come to tell him that she had reconsidered working for him.
A sudden pang of dread constricted his chest. He still needed her; there were still so many events this week that he couldn’t navigate without her assistance. He paced across his living room, summoning the resolve to make her change her mind. He would convince her to give him a second chance. He would promise her that he would be a better man. He would admit that she had seen a rare moment of weakness which had fueled his desire to keep her with him as long as possible. He was a flawed man, and he wasn’t as invincible as he pretended to be.
He counted his steps to the front door, vowing to himself not to lose her before he even had an opportunity to get to know her, because the truth was when he woke up this morning, he hadn’t regretted his actions last night. He only regretted not finding her sooner.
He whisked open the door and felt his heart sink into the pit of his stomach. “Celeste?” His voice wavered before he had a chance to mask his disappointment.
She laughed awkwardly and brushed past him without waiting for an invitation to enter.
“Good morning, handsome. I know it’s early, but you’re a morning person, so I didn’t think you’d mind the house call. Unless, of course, I’m interrupting…” Her voice trailed off as she cocked her head, listening for the presence of another person—another woman.
He closed the door, watching her blurry image sashay across the hardwood floor in her electric blue heels. In the past, Sven had always enjoyed watching Celeste’s long sensual legs and tight secretary skirt follow an invisible tight rope whenever she entered his penthouse. But not this time. This time, he lowered his gaze and covered his eye with his hand, feeling the nagging ache returning with vengeance.
Celeste moved into the living room and spotted the ice pack on the leather sofa.
“Long night?” she asked.
“Before the cocktails or after Inez and I left?” He knew what she was thinking and he didn’t mind letting her imagination run with it.
She scoffed. “If I didn’t know you better, I’d think you were trying to make me jealous.”
Silently, he turned away. There was more truth in that statement than he cared to admit. Games. It was always a game between them. When he was dating her, she was one of the few women who kept him both sexually stimulated and intellectually interested. But now, it all seemed like too much work. And she had only been there two minutes.
“You’re here for a specific reason, Celeste. What is it?” The edge in his voice made it clear that he was in no mood for games.
“Well, no need to sound so impatient.” She glanced up the spiral staircase, again studying the silence. When she was certain they were alone, she untied her leopard-print wrap coat and draped it across the high-backed lounge chair. “I’m here to make peace with you.” She said it simply, almost sincerely.
He strained his unpatched eye and focused on her face. Her sharp cheek bones, high forehead and coral pink lips reminded him that she had paid her way through college working for a local modeling agency. Beautiful…no, stunning. But more importantly, she knew how to turn her good side towards the camera and use it.
He had taken too long to respond and she circled away from him, as if his silence made her nervous.
“I realized after last night that I’m tired of this…animosity between us, and I think it’s time that we both try to reconcile the past.”
“Reconcile the past? Which part of the past exactly?”
She avoided the emotion in his voice and turned away to gaze out at the skyline.
“I’m not proud of the way things ended between us. But you make it sound like it was all a sordid act of malice against you. When you left for Shanghai, I was hurting, too, Sven, you know?”
Was he still hurt? It felt shameful and juvenile to still be hurt over her betrayal, and everything that had spiraled out of control after it. Shameful and juvenile because it had partly been his own fault.
“But you can’t blame for me moving on after I realized you never had any intention of making a commitment to me,” she added.
“We were together for two years, Celeste. What more of a commitment would you have liked?”
She looked at him like he was the one playing games.
“You mean a proposal?” he replied.
She shrugged. “Your work always came first. And look at it…isn’t it magnificent?”
Her gaze shifted out the windows onto the stunning view of The Spire. Her compliment softened the lump of bitterness in his throat. She had always supported his work. Even when The Spire had been defiled by the locals; Celeste had been a handful of influential voices in the media who openly defended his ambitions. And perhaps that was a large part of why he believed he had loved her.
He studied her now. The sunlight streaming through the windows sharpened the alluring lines of her navy suit jacket and matching skirt. She stroked the fox fur that trimmed the lapels of her fitted jacket, accentuating her long torso and slender waist. How many days—just like this one—had they spent together, here in his penthouse? How many nights had they spent together, naked in his bed like lovers, laughing, kissing, and plotting the roadmap of their own grandiose future?
Yes, he still hurt. He closed his eyes, as if he wanted to erase the past from his mind. But none of it mattered now. Perhaps that was the realization that hurt the most—so many visceral memories, so many private conversations, so many intimate emotions that, in the end, didn’t seem to mean any
thing at all.
He touched his eyepatch. His head ached like his resentful soul.
“I was…am not a perfect man, Celeste. You said you came to make peace, but the fact of the matter is that you are now engaged to my brother, and so I do not believe it is the past that we must reconcile, but our present situation.”
“And can it be reconciled?” She pushed towards him. “We used to be so familiar and candid with each other. Don’t you remember all those summer nights we used to spend out on your sailboat, just the two of us, alone and perfectly free with each other?”
His head flinched in pain. “I try not to think of sailing, anymore.”
“Yes, of course.” She paused and stared at his wounded eye. “You must know, Sven…I want you to know that when I told you about Hans and me the last time we were together on your yacht, I never thought you’d react the way that you did.”
“He’s my brother, Celeste. And you were my lover.”
“Were,” she stressed, like she was asserting her innocence. “You made it very clear that you couldn’t be bothered with making promises to me before you traveled to Shanghai because you weren’t the marrying type. And it was at that moment that I realized our relationship was over,” she said with a subtle grimace. “Most girls believe in a certain type of fairy tale, Sven. And one of those fairy tales is that her Prince Charming will fall in love with her at first sight and love her more than anything else in his life. But on that day—the day you left for Shanghai—I realized you didn’t love me. Not like I wanted you to…not like I had always hoped you would.”
Sven fell silent, as if she was describing a stranger. Had he been that cold and detached from her? It was entirely possible that he had.
Closer Page 9
