by Kyra Davis
“It’s no trouble.”
I look up at him, into his perfect smile, at the little crinkles that are just now beginning to form in the corners of his eyes. They make him look . . . kind.
Again there’s that stab of guilt. Of course, it’s just an illusion. The kindness, the decency . . . It’s a trick of the light, like so many other good things in this world.
I swallow the moment of weakness as I slip my arms around his neck. “It’s not necessary, because I’m coming home with you.”
The crinkles deepen as his smile expands, his hands wrapping around me, pulling me into him so I can feel my breasts push into his rib cage, his breath in my hair.
“I like you, Bell. Why is that?”
“Because we’re two of a kind, Lander.” It might be true. He hides his ruthlessness as well as I do. His is tucked inside the corners of the friendship he offers and concealed inside his sleeve like a magician’s trick. Now you see it, now you don’t.
First I’m the upright rich kid who’s a little out of his element in a dive bar, and now I’m the guy beating the shit out of a Hells Angels prick.
Now you see it, now you don’t.
I shudder in his arms. I’ve studied, practiced, and prepared for this fight. Lloyd, the PA I’m about to replace, the one who now spends his day in an orange jumpsuit picking up trash on the side of the highway, he’s part of my history now. And there are others, other men I have quietly torn apart in my journey here . . .
. . . here to this battlefield . . .
. . . here, wrapped up in Lander’s embrace.
Lander is the first worthy opponent I’ve ever engaged with. He’s the first one who has surprised me. He’s the first one who’s inspired even an ounce of guilt.
And weirdly enough, he’s also the first one who has ever made the game fun. Really, really fun.
“Take me home,” I say again, and he leads me to the limo.
The driver comes out to open the door for us. He meets my eyes, making me blush. Before Lander I never blushed . . . not since I was a little kid, not since I learned to breathe anger and live with pain. I raise my hand to my own cheek and feel the warmth. There’s something . . . appealing about it, thrilling.
We get in the limo, the door is closed behind us, and the noises of the city are instantly gone.
As we drive through the streets, we’re quiet, like the first time we rode in a cab together . . . Was that only yesterday? It’s hard to keep track of these things when you’ve just started a relationship with a man you’ve been studying for years. Time gets all mixed up and confused. You have to remember what you’ve been told versus what you’ve secretly learned on your own. That’s what always trips people up in the movies and on TV.
I reach over, squeeze Lander’s knee, gaze at him with wide, innocent eyes. The trick is to not overthink. To always stay in the moment. To pretend that you don’t know anything, that you can’t even remember what he told you an hour ago. Pretend that all you can remember and feel is the sensations he provokes, the pulsing need you have for him when he smiles with those crinkly eyes.
With Lander I don’t have to pretend too hard.
In minutes we’re at Lander’s Upper East Side home, walking past the doorman, my hand firmly in his. Moving up the elevator, not touching but for our clasped hands, but feeling each other’s presence. His hunger for me is tangible. It tickles my skin and pulls at my heart.
When we walk into his penthouse, I lead the way. I don’t bother with the living room but instead crook my finger, beckoning him to follow me into his office.
I stand in the middle of the room, turn to him, reach out my hand. “I don’t know how much time we have,” I say softly. “Maybe we’ll last a month, if we’re really lucky a year. Maybe you’ll tire of me tomorrow.”
“Bell, I won’t—”
“But I want to treat every moment like it has value,” I interrupt. “I want to make love to you in every room of your home. I know what it’s like to be pressed up against your window, the entire city at my back. It wasn’t like flying—it was more unstable than that. It was like . . . like the only thing that kept me from breaking through that glass and falling was our lust. Like passion actually kept my feet on the floor.”
“Bell,” he breathes, but this time the word is not the beginning of a promise, or an exclamation. It’s the sound of admiration, maybe even respect.
It’s the way a goddess’s name should be spoken.
“On your bed it was all about the luxury,” I continue. “The softness of your blankets, the grandness of the bed frame, pricey comforts. Decadence.”
He doesn’t reply. He’s worshipping me with his eyes.
He worships me. Right here, in this moment, he worships me. Me, the embodiment of war. What does that say about his heart?
“And now . . . now I want to make love here, where you work, where you think.” I step forward and slide my fingers down his arm. “I want you to enter me here,” I say, taking his hand and pressing it between my legs. He immediately begins to move his hand, making me shiver. “And I,” I continue as I run my index finger along his forehead, “I want entry into here.”
He doesn’t answer. Instead he continues to move his hand, adding pressure, watching as I respond. Then slowly he bows his head, lowers his lips to my neck, makes a trail of warm, sensuous kisses up to my ear before whispering, “Bell, you’ve been in my head since the moment we met.”
It’s not what I meant, but it’s not a bad start. Desire and longing make men careless.
And yet right now he doesn’t seem careless at all. Not as he deliberately pulls his hand away, removes his jacket, then mine, and throws them both on the desk already covered in papers . . . papers I’ll look through later. But not now. Now all I can do is look at him.
He quietly removes my shirt and then steps back, just a little, as he runs his fingers down my bra straps.
“That’s nice.” He runs his thumb over my nipple as it hardens, his touch making me jump ever so slightly. “I like that.”
I grab the bottom of his shirt, yank it off him with considerably less grace and much more urgency. In a moment I feel my bra loosening, then falling to the floor, right as I move into him, pressing my bare flesh against his, feeling the competing drumbeats of our hearts. His lips press against mine again, making my whole body warm and vibrant. My jeans loosen around my waist, and as his lips move back to my neck and then to my shoulder, my jeans are pushed down inch by inch until I finally bend over to pull them off. Again he sweeps me off my feet and into his arms, but instead of bringing me to the bedroom, he lowers me onto the black leather sofa. And there he is, by my side, on one knee, his fingers looped into the waistband of my panties. With the perfect precision that I’ve come to associate with him, he pulls them off slowly, their motion both scratching and caressing my skin.
And when they’re off, he just stares at me.
“If you don’t run away from me, if this is more than a moment, then one day I want you to pose like this, for a painter. I want a master to paint you, as you lie here, naked, on my furniture. I want him to paint you when you’re exactly as you are now, all sex and longing, aching for release.”
“And what would be done with this painting?” I breathe.
“It would hang in the best gallery in New York . . . or perhaps it would be presented at Christie’s . . . and men would bid for the right to hang you on their wall. They’d bid and compete for you, because they would never have seen anything so beautiful in their lives.”
“You want my image to hang on some rich man’s wall for everyone to leer at?”
“Oh, they wouldn’t leer, warrior. They’d admire you, like I do. You’re a work of art. You’re everything that’s beautiful about eroticism.”
His words border on insanity. He doesn’t know me . . .
. . . does he?
Does he know who I am? Am I being made a fool of?
But then, I’m not the only one whose
desire is exposed here. I can see that even now. I reach my hand out, touch his pants where the fabric is now pulled taut. Slowly I raise my arms above my head, naked but no longer trembling, no longer hesitant.
His hand caresses me, from my breast, down my leg again, and then he bends down, kisses my stomach and navel, then my hip. I feel his tongue flick against my inner thigh and then he blows gently on that one spot, making my skin feel cool and alive. He continues to nip and tease until finally I feel his tongue against my very core, circling my clit. I begin to writhe against the sofa, the leather gently pulling at my skin as he increases the pressure, his tongue just a little more demanding, pressing flat against my clit now, making me moan. And it’s then that I feel his finger press inside me. I suck in a sharp breath as his index finger makes a circle inside my walls and his tongue circles in reverse around my clit . . .
And when the second finger enters me, the world explodes. My nails scratch at the leather as I search for something to hold on to, something external to stabilize me as I lose all sense of control.
But there is no stability, not right now, not anymore. All I have is this fiery, unpredictable passion for Lander. When he raises himself up, pulls off his jeans, it’s all I can do to keep from tearing into him, throwing him on the floor and mounting him.
He steps away, but I grab his hand, easily reading his unspoken intentions. “I’m on the pill; you don’t need a condom.”
He looks at me questioningly. But I smile, squeeze his hand. “It’s okay,” I say again. “I want to feel you, the real you.” He takes a step closer, strokes my cheek, lowers himself over me slowly, hesitantly. “Now, Lander,” I whisper. “I want you inside me now.”
It’s as if my whisper has sparked a wildfire. Immediately he enters me forcefully, pressing deep inside me as I arch my back and clutch his shoulders, feeling his skin against mine. Nothing’s keeping us apart. Nothing’s dividing us. I kiss his neck, my hands sliding down his back as he puts my leg over his shoulder and thrusts even deeper.
“You feel . . . perfect, this is perfect,” he breathes, lowering his mouth to mine. I respond by gently biting his lower lip, letting him know that given the chance I would devour him.
He pulls my other leg up so they are now both hovering over my head and again he thrusts inside of me, even deeper now than before, the friction driving me wild, making me cry out.
In this moment there is no plan. There is no revenge.
There’s just Lander.
And as he thrusts again, his eyes penetrating me with an equivalent force, I realize that in this moment that’s all I want.
I don’t even blush as I call out his name; I react with unadulterated pleasure when he calls out mine. I feel him pulsing inside me as he comes.
As he eases away, bringing my legs down to the leather, his breathing uneven and labored, I whisper his name again. “Lander.” My eyes slide away, almost too tired to focus, my body spent. His jacket is on the floor now, having fallen at some point during our revelry. Peeking out of one pocket is the drawing of the biker . . . along with another drawing.
It’s a drawing of me.
chapter eleven
I didn’t wear my ring tonight, which was careless. It makes sneaking into his office all the more precarious. Of course, my focus needs to be on gathering information I can use against the Gables . . .
. . . but what I really want to look at is that drawing.
As before, Lander left his clothes on the floor, and I silently thank God for his bad habits. I pull out the drawing of the biker, Cries in Rebuke . . . such an odd title, and he seemed to be so deliberate in the way he chose it, taking a minute between writing each word; Cries, and a minute later, in, and a minute after that, Rebuke. Yes, my Lander is an odd one. But I don’t really care about the drawing of the biker, so I carefully put it back in the coat pocket and take out the one he drew of me. In it, I’m lying on my side on the floor, one leg draped over the other to hide my nakedness from the waist down. He’s covered my chest with a kind of ornate, jeweled bra or bikini top. It looks a little retro, like what might have been worn by an exotic dancer in the first decades of the twentieth century. On my head is a headdress perched way back on my skull, the way you would wear a tiara. Except this hat looks almost Asian in its curved details . . . almost like something that would be worn by a princess from the Far East . . . or maybe something that would be worn by a goddess.
It’s all oddly familiar to me, the pose, the costume . . . Perhaps he’s modeled me after a famous painting, one that I’ve seen but can’t fully remember. Maybe . . . maybe something that relates to his interest in history? That would make sense since it’s period dress. But it’s more than that—this drawing is ringing a bell. If he modeled it after a painting with some kind of historical significance, then it’s probably in relation to World War I or World War II. Those are the periods of history that Lander is most fascinated by, and therefore the periods I’ve spent the most time studying over the last few years. Although how this picture could have anything to do with war is beyond me. Particularly when I consider the words written underneath the drawing:
Kind, Witty Heroine.
That’s what he wrote. That’s how he titled his drawing of me.
I touch the image lightly, tap it as if expecting that it will disappear. I’ve never seen a drawing of myself before.
In it I’m beautiful.
I stand there for a full minute, studying the lines he built me up with. And the line he wrote: Kind, Witty Heroine.
No one has ever seen me that way. I have never been the heroine . . . and it’s been a very long time since I’ve had the luxury of being truly kind.
But I can’t let myself get caught up in this. I have other things to do.
Slipping the picture back where I found it, I start looking through the other documents. There’s something here about mortgage rates and risk analysis.
What was the inspiration for that drawing? Was it what happened in the limo? Or perhaps what happened the night before?
I flip to another paper. Something about interest rates.
Does he really think I’m that pretty? Does the period dress mean something? Does he see me through some kind of classical lens?
There’s a currency conversion chart, comparing pesos to dollars.
That drawing might be the most romantic thing I’ve ever seen.
As soon as the thought runs through my head, I freeze, the conversion chart still in my hand.
What the hell am I thinking? I’m not supposed to care about whether or not Lander feels romantic about me. I’m only supposed to care about whether or not he gives me access to his home and office—so I can get my hands on the information I can use to make sure the Gables suffer the exact same loss, pain, and humiliation my mother experienced. By the time I’m done, they’ll all be behind bars, protesting their innocence to guards who don’t care and won’t listen. They’ll lose their family, friends, reputations . . . If all goes as planned, at least one will lose their life.
It’s actually less about justice and more about karma. When they say karma’s a bitch, they’re talking about me.
. . . But what if Lander isn’t as guilty as I think he is?
I have pretty compelling, albeit circumstantial, evidence that Travis was involved in Nick’s death in some manner, and I’m positive that it was Travis and Lander’s father who set my mother up to take the fall, thereby tearing apart my family . . .
But, really, other than being friendly with Sean White and making one statement to the police about Nick Foley’s relationship with the Gables, what exactly ties Lander to the whole thing?
I squeeze my eyes closed, trying to block out the doubts. The evidence against Lander might not be as strong as that against the other players, but it is there. And I’ve seen Lander’s dark side—it’s not just pretty pictures and romantic dinners. He was savage when he fought that biker. And he enjoys that dive bar because he thinks the people there are
simpler, easier—not really human at all in some sense. And those other pictures he drew, the ones in his sketchbook, they’re a little frightening . . .
It would be easier if I didn’t find his dark side as compelling as his romanticism.
We’re two of a kind.
I’m in trouble.
With trembling hands I put down the rest of the papers and take a deep, stabilizing breath. Lander could wake up at any second. I have to get back in bed with him. But more importantly, I have to refocus and remember why I’m getting back in bed with him. I’m not slipping in there to cuddle with a lover. Getting in bed with him is nothing more than a tactic. I’m Bellona, not Venus. In the mythology, Venus just fucked Mars. Bellona’s the one who got to lead his chariot and kick some ass.
I chose the name Bellona for a reason.
When I get back to the bedroom I can’t help but notice how innocent he looks while sleeping.
An illusion, just an illusion.
I sneak into bed, my back to him. And then I feel the mattress shift beneath me as he wakes just enough to throw an arm around my waist, pulling me to him as if I’m a teddy bear . . .
. . . or as if I’m his love.
While he sleeps, holding me tight, it feels a little like love.
chapter twelve
It’s not quite seven on Monday morning and I’ve just powered down my laptop. I spent some time googling the names I found in Lander’s notepad, but I’ve come up with nothing so far. I can see that they’re all Middle Eastern, but so what? It’s not like the Gables, the kings of capitalism, are going to join forces with some radical Jihadist cause. It’s much more likely that these are the names of sheikhs, oil tycoons, and international businessmen that hold their investments with HGVB. That doesn’t interest me.
What interests me is that the Gables are the sort of people who set an innocent woman up for murder . . . It’s just not the kind of thing you get yourself involved in if you aren’t already involved in other illegal activity. I just have to figure out exactly what kind of illegal activity they’re engaged in and exploit that. And Lander . . . well, he just has to be involved. He has to be. I’ve decided.
