I feel newly liberated, after my decision. Free to play the field, if I want to. Now that I’ve come to terms with the fact that Mr. Right is just a figment of my deluded imagination. Customers ask me out all the time. I could start to date one or two of them. It’s time. I need to start living my life and stop daydreaming about a perfect phantom lover who’ll never show.
A shadowy memory crosses my mind, of a man who came into my restaurant a while ago. The one that had reminded me of a hot gypsy or a roughed-up Ralph Lauren model who’d partied too hard, with his brooding looks and killer body. God, he’d been beautiful. Clearly a total Mr. Wrong, with his criminal’s cuff and his badboy muscles, but damn, what a hunk of prime real estate. He’d turned me on just by walking past me. I’d never had that kind of reaction to man before in my life. It’s almost too pathetic to admit, but I’d hardly even given myself the time or the opportunity to be turned on by anyone. At all. It’s downright embarrassing. I’d spent my whole life thinking about recipes and dough consistency and the ratio of cinnamon to sugar, for God’s sake. It’s time for me to get some damn action. Some hot, dirty, take-no-prisoners sex.
Yes, that’s exactly what I need.
I wonder what it would be like with him.
His face. Rugged and swarthy and ridiculously gorgeous.
That dark hair. Thick as sin and a fraction too long. In my mind I grab silky handfuls of it.
I get wet just thinking about him. I close my eyes and let my fingers trace around my nipples until they’re sensitive and beaded. My other hand slides across my soapy stomach, to the slippery warmth between my legs. He’s probably long gone by now. There was something about him that wasn’t entirely New York. You could just tell he had a history elsewhere and a checkered past. He might have gone back to Texas or his pirate ship or wherever it was that gypsies came from. Or maybe he’s back in jail.
His eyes, rimmed with thick, dark lashes. That cool, lazy arrogance, watching me.
And damn, all those crazy muscles under his cotton business shirt. His cinnamon skin. Intricate tattoos that were mostly hidden under his expensive clothes but hinted at the rebel in him. The hothouse darknesses I couldn’t begin to guess at.
I imagine how he might use all that badboy strength. How he might kiss me with that perfect, wicked mouth. On my skin, feasting slowly… oh, God, the heat of my body starts to rise …
Then I hear something.
Something close to me.
I freeze. My eyes open and my heart skips a beat. What was that noise?
Shit.
Did I even close my bedroom door? Or the bathroom door?
My eyes sting and I quickly rinse the shampoo from my eyes enough to open them. I notice it then: a tiny white light. And a dark, bulky shape behind it.
A phone.
A camera.
Jesus Christ, he’s standing there, watching me. He’s filming me!
“Welcome home, baby girl.”
Fear ices through my veins. And rage. How dare he?
My eyes focus.
Butch is standing there. His eyes – and his camera – see everything. “You sure are a sight for sore eyes, sweetheart. Damn, you’re gorgeous.”
I try to cover myself with my hands. “Get away from me. I’ll scream.”
“Scream all you want, honey. No one can hear you.”
He’s right. I’m trapped.
I try to sound tougher than I feel. “I mean it, Butch. Get the hell out. Leave me alone.”
“It’s my apartment, sweetheart. My house, my rules. Come on out here. Don’t bother grabbing a towel. I’ll dry you.”
“Fuck off, Butch.” I do grab a towel, holding it against me, shielding myself.
“Language, honey. I’ll going to have to teach you some respect. Come here, I said.”
“No.” This can’t be happening. “Leave me alone.”
“I will. After. Now walk out to the bed. I want what you owe me.” His gruff voice is so calm and so composed, a flood of terror pumps through my veins. I know if I go to the bed … if he gets himself on top of me I won’t be able to fight him off. He’s too big, too heavy.
I have to escape. I will escape.
He’s moved back to allow me out of the shower so I step out onto the bathmat, where at least I’m not cornered. I can fight. I’ll kill this asshole if I have to!
“You’re going to want to do whatever I say,” he says in that eerily calm voice. “I have it all on film, sweetheart.” He holds up his phone. “Right here. Touching yourself, you naughty girl. That kind of publicity probably isn’t good for a new business.” He slips his phone into his pocket. “Or maybe it is. Should we find out? Or do you want to pay for your rent like a good girl?”
Right now my survival instincts are pumping a lot higher than my business concerns. I reach down and grab my dress from the floor. I spy a razor on a nearby shelf and grab it. I hold it up like it’s a big-ass hunting knife and not a tiny pink safety razor. “You’re going to back up and I’m going to walk out,” I tell him. “Or I’ll use this. I swear to God, you bastard. I’ll use it.”
“You’ll get plenty of views on YouTube, I imagine. Pleasuring yourself like that. Damn, girl. Might even boost the pie sales.”
I try to appeal to his humanity. “Just let me get dressed, Butch. Please.”
But it turns out Butch doesn’t have any humanity. “I’ll delete everything if you just give me what I want.”
He steps forward and grabs my wrist. He squeezes it so tight I drop the razor. “Get off me!” I gasp. “Please.”
“You’re going to beg me for a lot of things tonight, sweetheart.”
He reaches for me, touching his fingers to my face and I push against him but he pulls me closer, jamming me up against the wall. The towel between us starts to slide. His hand closes around my neck, tight. He’s going to strangle me! I writhe against him, trying to break his hold but he’s too damn strong.
“Let me go!” I gasp.
His thumb skims my bottom lip. He’s so damn big. And heavy. His grip on me tightens as his body pins me in place.
“Get off me!” I scream.
I punch at him and make contact. He slaps me hard across the face. So hard I feel stunned, almost dazed by how fucked up this is.
Then he starts pulling at the towel, yanking it …
My mind goes blank. I can taste my fear. But I have no intention of giving this prick anything. He doesn’t know I grew up in the peach orchards where there were hundreds of young men hired to pick the fruit every summer. More than once I’d been followed around. More than once I’d had to employ a technique Grandma Mae of all people showed me. “Don’t be shy about it, darlin’,” she’d said. “Knee them like you mean it. Put all the grit you’ve got into it otherwise you might as well just lay down and give them what they’re after.” Grandma Mae never minced words; she just told you what you needed to know.
So I do put some grit into it. Everything I’ve got. All that fear and rage boil inside me and I knee him as hard as I can, right in the nuts.
He lets out a strange sound, like a strangled groan. His grip on my wrist instantly drops away and he doubles over, dropping to his knees. I take my opportunity. I pull my dress over my head then I bolt from the bedroom and out of the apartment. I start punching the elevator button until the doors slide closed. The elevator starts its descent and I can only hope he doesn’t make it down to the lobby before me.
The doorman might help me. But before the doors of the elevator even open I decide to make a run for it. Butch Flint owns this building. He probably employs that doorman. I need to get out. I need to get to my restaurant where I can call my mother and hide myself in my tiny locked office until I figure out what to do.
I’m barefoot, cold, dazed and crazed. But all I care about is getting the hell out of this building.
I find myself out on the streets. It’s freezing. Snow is falling and people are staring at me. I start running down the street, turning once
to look over my shoulder and holy shit, he’s there. Coming out of the front door. Following me. Running after me.
Jesus Christ!
I run for my life.
I turn the corner, and crash into something, which stops me in my tracks.
It’s not a something, it’s a someone.
It takes me a few seconds to comprehend that there are pink flower petals everywhere and the scent of roses almost overwhelms me.
Someone’s blocking my way. Someone big and hard and … holding a very big and now very decimated bunch of flowers.
Holy hell.
It’s him.
It’s that beautiful alpha gypsy-pirate with the haunted eyes who came to the restaurant and ordered apple pie for dinner and left an enormous tip. The one I’d just been thinking about … in the shower.
Through my haze I can see on his face that he’s not going to hurt me and I have no idea why I say it to him but I do: “Please help me.”
Butch turns the corner.
He’s limping slightly.
He doesn’t look as big as he did before. Not compared to the gypsy, who’s – now that I’m standing next to him – big. Strong-looking and muscular as hell. And mean-looking. He’s looking right at Butch. I’m standing behind him, as though my savior might shield me from my predator.
My savior takes one look at me, then at Butch, and seems to immediately read what’s going on here. “Do you want me to kill him?” the gypsy says to me in a low voice.
“No. I want you to get his phone. Please. I need his phone.”
My savior grabs a handful of Butch’s shirt in his fist and yanks him forward, like Butch is nothing to him but a puny lightweight. “Hand over the fucking phone.”
Butch starts to say, “I’m not giv –”
The gypsy punches Butch in the stomach. Hard. Butch groans. “I said hand it over or I’ll be forced to fuck you up for real, you low-life piece of shit,” says my savior. “Do not provoke me, asshole. You have no idea what I’m capable of. You heard the lady. Hand the phone over. Now.”
Amazingly, Butch does. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone, holding it out.
The gypsy takes the phone and hands it to me. I’m still standing behind him. He’s like a wall of solid, furious muscle and just happens to be most beautiful thing I have ever seen.
“Now,” he says to Butch. “What you’re going to do is to turn around and scurry back into whatever hole you crawled out of. If you ever come near this girl again I will personally make it my life’s mission to hunt you down and kill you so slowly and so painfully you’ll be begging me to fucking hurry up. You will never look at her or talk to her or make any attempt whatsoever to communicate with her ever again. Or you’ll have to answer to me. Which I can assure you is not in your best interest. Do we understand each other?”
Butch looks up at him, wide-eyed. He doesn’t look happy about being out-bullied but he seems to believe that what this gypsy is saying, he means. Butch nods. Then he turns around and limps away, disappearing around the corner like a wounded bulldog with his tail between his legs.
He’s gone.
I takes a few seconds for everything to sink in: I’m safe.
He saved me.
My savior turns and looks at me. He takes in my wet hair and my thin, short, ripped dress. My bare feet on the icy sidewalk.
Without a word, he scoops me up into his arms, enveloping me in sudden, total warmth. He starts carrying me down the street and says to me in a low, husky voice that shouldn’t calm me but for some reason absolutely does, “I’m going to take you to my apartment. It’s safe there. I won’t hurt you. I promise you can trust me.”
I shouldn’t trust him! I should run away and keep running. But his dark eyes are so intense and so honest. I look into them and I believe him.
He signals to a taxi, which pulls up in front of us. He opens the door of the taxi and places me gently in the middle of the seat. Then he gets in next to me, all six-feet-whatever of him, pulling the door closed and giving the driver a Fifth Avenue address.
As the car begins to move, I turn to look out the rear window but no one’s following us. Of course he isn’t. He’s scuttling back to his penthouse and all I can think is: thank God momma’s in Ireland. I feel for the little address book and it’s still there, zipped into my pocket. Zipped into my other pocket is my phone. In my hands I’m still clutching Butch’s phone.
We turn another corner. God, my heart isn’t slowing down. I can feel it pounding in my chest. I glance at him in the darkness of the cab and he’s watching me. He’s big and panther-dark but there’s no menace in him. Just a silent, calm depth that doesn’t scare me.
“It’s okay,” he says, with a certainty that makes me want to cry. “You’re okay.”
I don’t even know his name.
The moving city lights of the night play across her pale face and the bright-copper waves of her hair. I can’t tell how severe her injuries are. Her neck looks bruised and she’s got the beginnings of one hell of a shiner around her left eye. Her hair’s dripping wet and she’s not wearing any shoes.
Her eyes are huge. I’ve caught her at a vulnerable moment, maybe the most vulnerable she’s ever had. I want to wrap her in my arms. I want to hold her so carefully she never wants to leave me, and warm her and make her feel safe. But I don’t want to hurt her or to scare her. I don’t want her golden heart to get tainted by my darkness. I don’t want my damaged matrix to dirty her glory.
I’ll never allow that to happen, I’ve already decided.
I’ll never hurt this girl.
I try to summon everything good about myself. Since before I can even remember, I’ve been fighting my own damages. Dark demons haunt me like sticky shadows that never go away, no matter how sunny the day might be. This girl is all about the light. Even in the state she’s in, her presence and her eyes and her hair are so mind-blowingly illuminating, something in me shifts. The glow of her is so real, my demons temporarily retreat. I’m broken but I’m not bad. Sitting here next to her reminds me of that, and the simplicity of how good she makes me feel is as sweet as a drug. My first taste. Mainlined straight to my heart.
She’s watching me watch her.
I’m determined to tread more carefully than I ever have. I need to make sure she doesn’t fear me, for any reason. My urge to protect her at all costs feels more important right now than anything else about me. “We’ve met before. My brother and I came into your restaurant a few weeks ago.”
“I remember. I remember you.”
Jesus, she’s killing me. She’s so damn beautiful. Not just her hair, which might have been spun from the purest gold on earth. Or her mouth, the blushing color of perfection. It goes deeper. It shines out of her eyes, a ridiculously endearing cocktail of decency, kindness, courage and light.
She’s calmer now, but her lingering fear crackles into me. I feel like my heart is being ripped out of my chest. Her pain is more than I can take. Because I know what that feels like. And seeing it all play out there on her angel’s face is just so fucking wrong.
“Sugar,” I say, gently.
“How do you know my name?”
“You told me. Remember? You said your name was Aphrodite but that everyone started calling you Sugar when you were five years old. Right after you baked your first apple pie.”
She’s staring at me, like she wasn’t expecting me to remember all that.
“My name’s Jake Wolfe,” I say.
She absorbs this, trying to recall, maybe, where she’s heard my name. “I read about you, in the paper.”
Damn, that sweet little accent is doing some crazy things to me. Being this close to her has all my senses hyper-aware. The dizzying scent of her is like some sublime mixture of flowers and peaches and sweet, sweet honey. My cock hardens fully, pulsing slowly in red-hot throbs of lust, but this only pisses me off. Right now I’m more interested in listening to the sound of her voice, and drinking in all the details of
her. The shape of her mouth. The gentle curl of her eyelashes. The dewy perfection of her skin. It seems strange to me that all these little details in themselves could each be so outrageously appealing. And when you put them all together into one little strawberry-blond package, it’s fucking mind-blowing. I could just stare at her all night. I don’t even let myself think about how she might feel. How the shape of her softness would yield to my –
No.
Right now, I need to explain. So she knows the truth. “I got arrested for insider trading. It’s why I’m wearing this home detention device. But I didn’t do it.” I care that she believes me, so much it feels like a blade against my throat. I want to prove to her that I’m a decent human being. I can’t remember ever – not even once – caring what a stranger thought of me. But everything’s different now. With her, everything’s different, including me. “Someone hacked into my email account and framed me.”
She’s quiet for a few seconds. “You didn’t do it?”
“No.”
I’ve always been the quiet type, the kind of guy who avoids small talk at all costs. Usually my conversations with women begin and end with me giving gruff one-word refusals before making a hasty retreat into a lonely night.
Not tonight.
Tonight all I want to do is take care of her. I want to stay close to her. To feel the intoxicating effects of her beauty and to bask in her glow.
How soft and sweet she’d feel, pressed snugly against me, cradling my rock-hard beast of an erection like she was born for me and me alone.
Fuck.
I need to keep my cool, and not let my lust take over. I need to take this slow and get it right. If I fuck this up, I’ll go insane.
So I search for the best of myself, for the heart of gold that’s buried somewhere deep inside all this dark desire. I concentrate on it until I feel its slow, bright burn. “You know, I never got a chance to tell you, since you didn’t come back to our table that night,” I say, “but your apple pie is hands down the best I ever tasted. And I consider myself an expert. I was on my way back to have some more. Tonight, when I ran into you. Or … when you ran into me.”
JAKE Page 4
