Legally Yours (Spitfire Book 1)

by Nicole French

“Holy shit,” I finally murmured into the crisp edges of his shirt collar. I felt like a sponge that had been completely wrung out. Emptied. And yet perfectly content. “Holy shit.”

  He chuckled, stroking my hair gently as he pressed my head against his chest. He was still fully dressed, I realized, while I was almost completely naked. My limbs, however, felt like noodles, and I was too exhausted to care about anything else.

  “Do you have a washcloth somewhere?” he asked gently a few moments later. He gently disengaged his arm from under my heavy head and pushed up from the bed.

  With my eyes still closed, I gestured vaguely with one spaghetti-like arm. “There’s a stack in the bathroom cupboard over the toilet.”

  He chuckled. “Okay, Red, I’ll be right back in a sec.”

  Alone, as my senses returned, the magnitude of what we had just done hit me like a truck running full speed. My eyes opened and I stared up at the cracks in the ceiling, which suddenly seemed as gaping as canyons. Shit. This wasn’t just a fun flirtation with my former boss anymore; with his deft touch, the balance of power had been completely knocked astray. I had just been rocked completely, irrecoverably to my core. But men like Brandon Sterling could have anyone they wanted—there was absolutely no reason for him to stick around when things inevitably got tough.

  If this ended—no, when it inevitably ended—how could I be happy with anything else knowing this was the possibility still lingering out there? This was bad. Suddenly possessed with the need to cover myself, I yanked the edge of my quilt over me and burrowed under it, eager to curl up like a shrimp and cover my nakedness. We hadn’t even left my apartment yet—we hadn’t even been on a date!—and I already knew I wouldn’t be able to say no to him. This was very, very bad.

  “We still have time to make our reservation if we hurry,” Brandon called from the bathroom. “You don’t have to worry.”

  I wasn’t about him that what he had just done had completely shattered every other sexual experience I had ever had, and he had only removed his jacket. Don’t worry? How could I not?

  ~

  Chapter 14

  When he emerged from the bathroom, I had already picked my clothes off the floor and thrown on my bathrobe. The tatty blue thing wasn’t the sexiest thing in the world to be wearing, but I wasn’t planning to put on the dress he had immediately managed to get me out of, nor was I going to parade around my room naked except for my bra and stockings. Sex was obviously not going to be an adequate means to assert myself with Brandon Sterling.

  I sheepishly took the damp cloth he had brought back for me and ducked into the bathroom myself without looking at him.

  In the mirror I took one look at my swollen lips, mussed hair, and blotchy skin, and smacked myself lightly in the forehead. What the hell was I thinking? Duh, you weren’t. Instead, I had come apart at the seams with someone I hardly knew.

  It didn’t matter if I was feminist or not. The reality was that most men thought little of women they perceived to be easy. While normally I wouldn’t care about such designations, I certainly cared about what Brandon Sterling thought. All it would take would be a look or a glance to intimate the worst to a colleague and get the rumor mill started.

  On top of which, I had simply never experienced anything like that before. I had definitely been with other men; it had never been anything close to that kind of heat. But what had we done, exchanged maybe five or six words before he basically pounced on me? My insides crumbled as I realized that he must have walked in thinking I was going to be an easy score. As much as I hated hearing other people shame women about having casual sex, every obnoxious comment I’d ever heard about giving away the milk for free chanted through my head on a repeat. I knocked my knuckles on forehead again and again, wincing at the memories. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

  And now, as likely as not, he was getting ready to bolt, if he hadn’t already done so. How embarrassing would it be when I walked out there after having freshly redone my makeup for no one at all? I turned the water on in the sink and proceeded to scrub it all off. If I was even going to face him, it would be with a fresh face. It with be without any pretense.

  When I finally ventured out of the bathroom, Brandon was sitting on the corner of the small sofa in the living room, buffing the face of his watch with a small handkerchief. He had put back on his jacket, and his shirt and tie had been smoothed back into place. The only signs of our little tryst remaining were a few stray hairs out of place at the crown of his head.

  My stomach simultaneously calmed and leapt at sight of him (how were such contradictory emotions even possible?). As I shuffled to stand next to the couch, he looked up with a shy smile before glancing away. Shit. He seemed as unable to make eye contact as I was.

  “I was afraid you’d gotten lost in there.” He reached out and squeezed my hand and then, as if by afterthought, tugged me closer to sidle awkwardly next to him, his arm draped around my waist.

  Just as awkwardly, I rested my arm on his shoulder. “I’m fine.” I wasn’t, but he didn’t need to know that.

  “Good.” He held up his wristwatch, which looked like a very expensive Rolex. “We should get going. Are you going to wear the same thing?”

  I glanced down the hall, where my dress lay in wrinkled heap at the edge of my bed. It was a good outfit, and I felt good in it, but I also knew I had chosen it specifically for him. “Ah, no. I’ll have to find something else.”

  “Well, hurry. We’ve got that reservation.”

  Somewhat taken aback by his newly curt tone, I shuffled back into my bedroom and shut the door before proceeding to search out a new pair of panties and a new outfit. When I discovered that I had a sizable run down the back of one stocking, I decided to hell with his original request for a dress, and pulled out my favorite pair of black jeans, a slouchy, cream-colored sweater, and comfortable oxford shoes. The outfit was the opposite of sexy.

  When I walked back out with my thick parka over my arm, Brandon looked up, confused. “I thought you were going to wear a dress.”

  I looked down at my outfit and shrugged. “It’s cold outside. And now my stockings are torn.” I grabbed my purse from the rack by the door and slung it over my shoulder. “You ready?”

  His face twisted momentarily into an adorable pout as he took in my covered legs, but he shrugged and followed me out the door, quickly catching my waist as we walked down the hall.

  “It’s just as well,” he growled in my ear, making my skin tingle under his lips. “I’m not sure I could have focused all night with the dirty thoughts those stockings put in my head. It’s bad enough looking at your butt in those pants.”

  With that, he briefly squeezed the outline of my ass, and I yelped, banging my head on his shoulder. He only flashed me a toothy grin in response, and proceeded to make me laugh and yelp all the way down the stairs with his continued onslaught to that part of my anatomy.

  ~

  It wasn’t until he ushered me into the back of a sleek black vehicle that I realized it wasn’t just a run-of-the-mill car for hire, but a Mercedes S-Class AMG. I didn’t know much about cars, but my dad drooled over this particular model every time he dragged me to the yearly car show at the convention center. They retailed for more than all three years of law school tuition combined.

  “That’s David, my driver,” Brandon said, gesturing to a middle-aged man in the front seat who wore a neat white shirt and black tie. David waved a black-gloved hand, but didn’t turn around. He gave me a friendly wink through the rear-view mirror as he pulled out from the curb.

  “Hi David,” I said with a brief smile at the face in the mirror as Brandon tucked me neatly into his side. The spacious back seats of the sedan were an extremely soft, camel-colored leather, and as the engine purred to life, I marveled at how quiet Boston suddenly seemed from inside this car. I could understand now why Brandon had scoffed at the Town Car in New York. It was like equating haute couture with the Goodwill.

  “All right?” he murmur
ed into my ear.

  I nodded. “Yeah. Where are we going for dinner?”

  “One of my favorite restaurants. You’ll see.” he said cryptically, but said no more.

  I was still feeling shy after our encounter, and felt relieved when Brandon didn’t press me for conversation. He seemed just as content to look out the window, drumming his fingers with nervous energy on the pane until, a few moments later, a flurry of emails announced themselves on his phone.

  “Sorry,” he said as he unwrapped his arm from around my shoulder. “These won’t take long.”

  “No problem,” I said, and slid over to the other window. He frowned at the action, but quickly turned his attention back to his phone while I watched the city pass by.

  It was hard to imagine having the money required for this sort of lifestyle—cars, drivers, live-in help. The kind of money required to spend money on these sorts of things without even thinking about it. While I had a modest cache courtesy of Janette, I had only ever used it to pay for Dad’s previous “issues” and for the very expensive education that would have forced him to empty garbage cans into his eighties. My original goal was to give what remained to my dad as a retirement gift when he qualified for his pension in another four years, although, I realized with a sinking stomach, that prospect might now happen if he was getting into trouble again.

  But that was clearly chump change compared to the kind of wealth that Brandon Sterling obviously had. Live-in staff, a top of the line Mercedes, a ten-million-dollar townhouse on the Commons. Wikipedia had informed me that his net worth was upwards of two billion dollars, and a number likely to grow once his investment firm went public. Guys like this didn’t even need to work—their money made money for them, more in year—or even a week—than most people could hope to make their entire lives. I ran a finger over the seat back, a softer leather than any jacket I had ever touched. I peeked at Brandon, who returned my look with his familiar half-smile as he finished off another message on his phone.

  “Sorry,” he said again as he continued to type. “I did say this would be hard, didn’t I? Some things won’t keep until the morning.”

  “It’s all right,” I replied as I turned to look out my window again. “I know your business is important.” I just hoped he’d let me see what more he had to offer than just wealth. And sex. He already knew so much about my life, but the truth was, I knew very little about him beyond the smattering of information on the internet.

  Like a shadow of the other cars on the road, the Mercedes wove its way on and off the highway down to the South End of the city. I started to wonder if Brandon was taking me somewhere in Back Bay, or maybe even Dorchester, although that seemed like a weird choice for a date. Maybe he was going to show me where he grew up too. The thought cheered me. But when David pulled off at a private drive next to Logan Airport, my eyes blinked wide open. This definitely wasn’t a quick visit to the old neighborhood.

  The car came to a silent stop in front a small building guarding the mostly empty airfield, and David quickly jumped out and ran around to my side to open the door. On shaky legs, I stepped out of the car and looked suspiciously beyond the chain-linked fence. A few small planes were corralled in rows at the far end of the field, next to a closed hangar. They all looked deserted and completely unready for flight. However, nearer to the small building guarding the entrance to the runway, a small, sleek jet was testing its engines, lights on, side door open, and a small portable set of stairs pulled up for passengers to board.

  I flipped my head back toward Brandon, who was now standing behind me watching carefully for my reaction.

  “Is…is that plane for us?” I asked.

  He nodded, eyes wide. “It is.”

  I balked, my head swiveling back and forth between the plane and him. “You chartered a jet for our first date?”

  His offered a small, tentative smile. I would have found the twinkle in his eyes charming had I not been completely floored by what was happening.

  “Well, no,” he said carefully. “The jet is actually mine. Or at least the firm’s. I can use it whenever I want.”

  Looking back at to airfield, I saw that Sterling was painted clearly across the jet’s steel siding in bold black letters, accompanied by the sharp black and red logo of his company. I pivoted on my heel to face Brandon, starting to feel like I was watching a tennis match.

  “What…where…why? Where are we going that we have to take your private plane?” I sputtered.

  He leaned toward me, his smile disappearing as the sound of my tone. A big hand reached out to steady my elbow; I felt like I was about to topple over.

  “Well, my favorite restaurant is a small brasserie in Paris,” he said slowly. “They’re open late. I thought you might like to go, considering your history there.”

  This time I coughed, hard. “My…my what?”

  The smile on Brandon’s face vanished. “Your history. It said on your resume that you spoke French, and you mentioned the other night that you studied abroad there.” He leaned in and studied my face, all traces of triumph gone. “What’s wrong, Red?”

  It wasn’t his fault. I had confirmed those things. And there was no way he could know that although I loved France, my year in Paris was one of the darkest of my life, one stained with rejection from my mother and a lot of self-medication courtesy of Parisian nightclubs. But still.

  “I…don’t have a passport with me,” I faltered.

  “Oh, I may have snooped around your place a little while you were in the bathroom,” he said with another cheeky grin, which immediately flattened to a frown as he fully observed me. I could feel the color falling from my face. I must have looked like death. I certainly felt like it.

  “It wasn’t hard to find,” he continued, obviously confused. “You keep your desk very organized. Skylar, what the hell is wrong? I thought you’d like this.”

  I couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. Kieran’s words from Monday echoed through my head, her descriptions of the psychopaths that ran over women who came to the clinic for help. Sometimes a man who comes off as a prince is really just the devil in disguise. This was a first date, for Christ’s sake. Who whisks someone off to Paris in a private plane for dinner? Not to mention stealing my passport? That, after following me to New York. The ostentatious shoes. All of this felt at once grossly strange and also too familiar. Suddenly all I could think of was Patrick, with his habit of rewarding me with some fancy dinner or theater tickets when I suspected him of cheating. There was a pawn shop in East New York that had made some serious money off the consolation jewelry I’d deposited there after that relationship was finished.

  Yes, once it was described to me, I realized I was very familiar with sociopaths, considering I’d already been with one. It wasn’t a situation I ever wanted to be again, and dinner in Paris was exponentially bigger—and more inappropriate—than diamond earrings or tickets to Aida.

  Full of sudden resolve, I looked up at Brandon. My body was starting to shake, fury slowly mounting. First the guy essentially asks me to be his call girl, then stalks me through New York City, more than two hundred miles away. I thought we had come to an understanding about his boundary issues. Clearly not.

  “Where is it?” I asked quietly.

  “Where’s what?”

  “My passport.”

  Frowning in confusion, Brandon reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the thin blue booklet. It was well worn and nearly full, mostly full of stamps from the traveling I did while living in France. I plucked it neatly from Brandon’s grasp and shoved it into my purse.

  “Did you take anything else?” I demanded as I stepped away.

  His thick eyebrows crinkled together in confusion. “What? No! Red, what’s going on?”

  “I’m going to go,” I announced a little too loudly, glad that my tongue wasn’t choosing this moment to tie itself into knots. Hands shaking, I turned and started to walk down the sidewalk toward the gated entrance to the airfield, be
yond which I hoped there would be an easy walk to the main terminal. The shuttle to the T wouldn’t be far from there; I could possibly be home in an hour.

  “What?” Brandon jogged after me, grabbing my hand and forcing me to turn around. “What the hell, Skylar? Where are you going?”

  I spit out the strands of hair that flew into my face, now too mad to speak calmly.

  “A plane to Paris? Really?” I huffed as I wrenched my hand out of his clutch. My accent was starting to come out now. “It’s our first date. I’m a poor student. I would have been impressed with anything more than Dunkin Donuts. I thought you understood now I didn’t want to play these kinds of games! What the fuck are you trying to prove with all of this?”

  His mouth hung open for a moment as he shook his head. “What…are you serious?”

  I didn’t reply, just stared at him in the wind and begged myself inwardly not to cave. His eyes, so wide and so blue, almost made me believe that he was innocent, that he really did just want to show me the best time he could. But visions of Patrick’s sly smile danced through my head, right along with Brandon’s coarse words in his office. No. I wasn’t doing this again.

  “This is really not how I saw this going, you know,” Brandon said coldly. “Is this how you normally show your gratitude when people do nice things for you?”

  “Don’t give me a guilt trip just because I’m not falling for your manipulative bullshit,” I snapped at him. “None of this—” I waved a gloved hand erratically in the general direction of the plane “—is not about me. Obviously.”

  “Do you think I regularly just hop on my plane to Paris whenever the mood strikes me?” he asked incredulously. “Of course it was for you. I told you, I needed to make time for this. Do you have any idea how much it costs me to do something like this? Now come on, let’s go!”

  He reached out to grab my hand again, but I yanked it quickly out of reach. “I do know how ridiculously much this costs, actually! Which is exactly why I know it has more to do with your ego than it has to do with someone you just met. And any sane person would know I couldn’t possibly accept this kind of gift from someone I hardly know!”