by Amelia Wilde
When she sees the king-size masterpiece, impeccably made up, she gives a little sigh of pleasure. “It’s impressive,” she comments, then turns and starts to unbutton my shirt. “But not as impressive as you.”
Chapter Thirty-One
Quinn
What happens on Christian’s bed can’t be described as making love. It’s a quick and dirty fuck, with me on top, but we have a lot more room than we did in the Town Car.
When we’ve finished, I sprawl out on the bed and wait for my heart rate to quiet down and my breathing to slow.
“That…was incredible.”
“It’s always incredible with you.”
I roll over and kiss his cheek. “You’re too sweet.”
“I was thinking about something in the car.”
“What?”
He turns on his side to look into my eyes, and I mirror him. In this moment, at least, I don’t see a flicker of doubt.
“We need to come up with a title for what we are.”
My heart skips a beat, then it speeds up. Are we really going to talk about this now?
“Like, Lord and Lady Pierce?” I say, letting out a nervous laugh. I didn’t know how badly I wanted Christian to bring this up until he did, and now that he has, I’m for some reason afraid that the moment will slip away.
He grins at me. “If you want. But my thoughts were more along the lines of…introducing you as my girlfriend.”
I can’t wipe the smile off my face. “I do,” I joke, echoing hypothetical wedding vows. I’m only half kidding, but I’ll never admit it.
Christian bursts out laughing, the sound deep and musical. “I remember what we said the other night. It’s still true for me. Is it true for you?”
“Yes,” I say, my expression turning serious. “It doesn’t make sense, but it’s still true.” Truth or not, I can’t bring myself to say the words again. I’m too consumed by the jitters. The tattoo on his bare chest catches my eye, and I spend a few seconds tracings its curves and lines with my gaze. It’s an intricate coat of arms, the thick lines dark on his skin, and the design is divided into different sections, each with an image inside. Something pricks at the back of my mind. Something is off about it, but I can’t put my finger on what it is.
“We can’t be public, though. My job—”
“I know. We’ll work it out.”
“Good.” I let out a breath. I’m still not willing to give up my job over this. Maybe if we were married…nah, I’d still want to work. I’m not the stay-at-home type.
“You don’t think it makes sense?”
“No,” I say, rolling over onto my back. Christian slides across the bed, and then traces a finger over my jawline. “We just met, and I’m barely out of my last long-term relationship, and you’re a playboy who—”
“Prove it.”
“Oh, stop. You’re at the Swan almost every night with a different woman!”
“I haven’t been.”
“Since when?”
“Since you.”
His deep blue eyes are locked on mine. Maybe it doesn’t matter that all this happened fast. What we feel when we’re together is the most important thing, and right now I feel complete. Goddamn perfect.
Except…
I glance around Christian’s bedroom, at the expensive, heavy furnishings, spotless and neatly arranged. Then I look back into his eyes. “I’m not like you, though.”
A muscle twitches in his cheek, and again I feel that strange energy, that sensation that tells me I might have hit a nerve. I don’t see how I could…
“How so?” His question comes a bit too late.
“I’m not rich!” I push myself up to sitting against the pillows piled against the headboard. “I’m pretty sure this cottage is actually a castle.” I give the word “cottage” air quotes, and Christian’s face is instantly relaxed again.
“That doesn’t matter to me.”
“What does matter to you?”
He presses his lips together thoughtfully. “There’s something about you that I can’t ignore. When you’re in the room, my attention is just drawn to you. You’re so…you’re so goddamn confident, so sure of yourself, so hot…” Christian plants several kisses down the side of my neck, then pulls back. “I can trust you.”
“I’m pretty sure I can trust you, too.”
His reaction is instant, and it’s only a flash, but I see it—fear. It’s not something that often appears on Christian’s face.
“What was that?”
“What?” he says, his half-smile already back in place.
“You looked…” I don’t want to embarrass him. I don’t want to be the kind of woman who comes on a romantic getaway with a man and then hounds him for every single questionable expression that crosses his face. “You just looked a little freaked out for a second.” I try to lighten the moment. “Maybe I’m seeing things. That kind of vigorous sex we had can play tricks on your mind.”
“I’m not afraid,” he says, his voice even and calm. “I’m—I want you to be sure you can trust me.” He raises his hands, indicating the room. “That’s why we’re here. I want you to see how I really live.”
“Are you telling me you don’t always live in your apartment?”
“I almost never live there.”
I shoot him a look. That apartment was pretty damn nice.
“That’s…more of a crash pad. I spend most of my nights at my penthouse in Midtown.”
Understanding dawns slowly in my mind. “Wait. You have a separate apartment just to bring women to?”
He doesn’t hesitate. “Yes.”
I consider Christian’s face carefully. He doesn’t look ashamed to tell me this, and he shouldn’t be. He’s rich enough to have several places to stay. The crucial element here is that he’s being honest with me about it.
My heart warms, glows. He’s telling me everything, even the things that come off as a little bit unsavory.
This is the real deal.
“Well…as long as you can afford the rent.”
We both laugh at that one, and then he puts a hand to the side of my face. “You should know that I haven’t brought anyone there since we met.”
I put my hand to the side of his face. “You should know that was a smart choice, Christian Pierce.”
“Once you’ve met the right woman, everyone else pales in comparison.”
“Damn right.” I lean in and kiss him, softly, my tongue playing over his lips, then slipping into his mouth. “Any other secret apartments you want me to know about?”
“I own several other properties around the city. I’ll take you to all of them if you’d like.”
“But they don’t mean much to you.”
“No. They’re much like the apartment we were in together.” He grins wickedly. “The real action happens in my penthouse.”
“When will you take me there?”
“Whenever you want.”
“Okay,” I joke, swinging my legs over the side of the bed. “Let’s go.”
Christian wraps an arm around my waist, pulling me back down to the comforter. “With dinner on its way up? Not a chance.”
Then his mouth is on mine, and I’ve forgotten all about being funny.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Christian
For the next two days, I show Quinn firsthand what life is like at the Pierce Cottage in the Hamptons.
I start with the wardrobe I’ve had selected for her. Rosemary has arranged it in the closet of the guest suite right next to my room. Not that she’ll be sleeping anywhere but right by my side. This way, she’ll have a private place to dress and shower in the morning—if she wants it. Quinn spends a full fifteen minutes in the walk-in closet filled with clothes in her size, something for every occasion, from yoga pants to evening dresses. It doesn’t matter that we’re only staying for a couple of days. We can do anything we want while we’re here.
“You almost got it,” she says, running her hands down o
ver a dark blue sheath dress that would stun at the Swan.
“Got what?”
“My style. Where are all the cut-off shorts?” She smiles at me, her sparkling eyes dancing, and I go in for a kiss.
After dinner last night, we soaped each other up in the shower in the master bathroom. If nothing else, watching Quinn thoroughly enjoy the simple pleasure of taking a hot shower, the water cascading down over her breasts, revealing her skin from underneath the soap suds, is a memory I’ll treasure for the rest of my fucking life.
All day Saturday, I make sure she’s pampered to within an inch of her life. I hire the most exclusive masseuse in the area, who brings along a team of two other people to give us a couples massage in the downstairs living area. When Rosemary knocks on my suite’s door as we’re finishing a five-star breakfast prepared by Robert to tell us they’re here, Quinn’s eyes light up. “I never get massages anymore,” she says, beaming at me. “This place is heaven.”
When she’s here, it is.
Robert sends us meal after meal of meticulously prepared foods. Even the appetizers are a goddamn masterpiece. I wouldn’t expect anything less—he’s been with our family for a long time, since well before the divorce. I remember my mother sitting poolside, lifting each bite to her lips and then leaning her head back against the plush padding of her lounge chair, closing her eyes while she savored every mouthful.
That’s the image that comes to mind when Quinn does the very same thing in her lounge chair by the pool, reflections from the surface of the water dancing across her face, illuminating her exquisite beauty despite the shadows from the oversized sun hat she’s wearing. She laughed when she found it in the closet, but yet she refuses to sit by the pool without it, the canopy be damned.
Quinn stretches out on a lounge chair again midmorning on Sunday. The furniture has been replaced at least twice since my parents divorced, but the memory is still so powerful that I can see it right in front of my eyes. A stab of regret spears my heart realizing that Quinn will never get to meet my mother.
Or my brother.
My brother loved this place when we were growing up. The sun always made my head swim after an hour or so, sending me back to my room to read in the relative darkness, but he didn’t give a shit—he’d stay out by the pool until the sun set, doing cannonball after cannonball, sending waves of water over the sides of the pool. My father liked to stand at the grill, turning over burger patties and hot dogs—always cooking more than any of us could eat—and transferring them to a ceramic tray with a silver cover.
I was never out there long enough for him, but my brother—he was just wild enough to earn my father’s affection. A memory surfaces from the depths. A headache blooming behind my eyes, the summer sun too intense, and my father calling after me, “You’re just like your mother. Too quiet to make any real mark on the world.”
Though his tone was mocking and he said the words with a smile, he laughed along with my brother at my retreating back.
I shake it off and fill my eyes, and my mind, with the sight of Quinn, radiant in a slick black bikini, her head tilted back against the cushions of the chair, her perfect body stretched out in total relaxation. I can just see the edges of her face underneath the sun hat. Her eyes are closed to shield them against the pool’s reflection.
“It’s a relief,” she says, as if we’ve been talking this entire time instead of silently enjoying the last morning of the weekend.
“What’s a relief?”
“Being free from Derek.”
We’ve been trading life details the entire weekend, but this is the first time she’s mentioned him since that night at the apartment. My heart breaks a little that that piece of shit is on her mind, but I can see how the wound would still be fresh.
Secretly, I’m thrilled that she’s choosing to open up to me like this. If we can be totally real with each other, then…
I nod, though she still hasn’t opened her eyes. “He seems like he was an asshole.”
“Somewhere, he still is an asshole. I just wish I hadn’t wasted five years of my life on him.”
“Five years?”
“The first couple were pretty good. If they hadn’t been, I wouldn’t have let him move into my house.”
“You didn’t mention that before.”
“That he was living in my house?”
“Yeah.”
“It’s a little embarrassing to find out that your fiancé has had a woman on the side for an entire year while he’s living in your own house. Oh, and that the woman in question is your best friend on top of it.”
“You don’t have to be embarrassed,” I say, reaching out to rest a hand on her smooth thigh. She gives a soft sigh of satisfaction. “He was a prick who didn’t know what he had.”
Quinn opens her eyes then and smiles into mine. “Do you know what you have?”
“I have a decent idea.” I grin back, my voice husky.
“You know what the worst part was?” she says, lifting her head to kiss the side of my neck, her tongue darting out in a suggestion that we should consider heading back to the bedroom.
“What?”
“The fact that he lied about it for so long.” Quinn’s gaze turns steely for just a moment. “I’m fucking over liars.” My stomach flops over in a sickening thud.
Then her expression clears, and she’s looking at me with a wicked glint in her eyes. “There’s something I want to do. We have a little more time before we need to leave, right?”
I’m out of the chair in an instant, offering my hand to her.
“More than enough.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
Quinn
City noise—horns honking, taxi drivers shouting at one another, motorcycles with no mufflers—seems almost oppressive after the luxurious silence at Christian’s cottage in the Hamptons.
Cottage. Even thinking about the Pierce Cottage being called that—by anyone, even Christian—still makes me laugh.
As I stand near the outskirts of a SoHo ballroom, watching Christian work the crowd at a fundraiser to raise money for afterschool programs, my mind turns over the memories we created this past weekend. It’s been four days since we came back to the city, but my entire goddamn soul wants to be back in the perfectly cooled rooms of the mansion, or lounging poolside on the most plush pool furniture I’ve ever seen in my life.
Christian was relaxed there. Seeing him at the Cottage, away from any prying eyes, was like seeing him at the Bowery Mission at that first event. He was quieter, not so boisterous. I’d half expected him to want to go to summer parties in the evenings to drink and dance with people more of his social class—at least money-wise—but instead he planned evenings in, catered by Robert, for just the two of us.
Maybe it’s because we can’t afford to out ourselves just yet.
That’s not entirely true. Christian can afford to do anything he wants. I’m the one whose career will come to a crashing halt if anyone finds out I’m dating one of my clients.
My only client, I remind myself sternly. HRM isn’t going to look on this relationship very fondly, and that’s putting it fucking mildly.
My heart races a little whenever I think about it, but no matter how hard I try, I can’t convince myself to break things off with Christian and wait until it’s at a better time in my career. Every time I picture telling him that we have to wait, that we need to keep things strictly professional, my soul revolts. A day without touching him, kissing him, talking to him is a wasted day.
I can’t do it.
I sigh a little. Since we came back from the Hamptons, I haven’t been to Christian’s penthouse yet. He’s been showing up at Carolyn’s in the evenings, sometimes before she goes to bed, and the three of us have a glass of wine and chat. My roommate doesn’t seem to have a single qualm about me being with Christian, although this morning, when we were both getting ready to go to work—me at HRM, her at the new boutique—she asked me if I had plans with him after this e
vent.
“I don’t know. We might come back here. He might be busy. Why?”
“Just—be careful, Quinn. He seems different.”
“Different how?”
Carolyn shrugged. “Just—not like himself.”
At first I felt a flash of anger directed toward my roommate, but the concern in her eyes was genuine. She’s known Christian a lot longer than I have.
“Is it something specific?”
Carolyn shook her head. “If I think of what it is, I’ll let you know.” Then she brightened up. “It could just be that he’s in love with you, and it’s making him grow up.”
“I hope that’s it and it’s nothing serious!” I said, grabbing my purse from the hook in the entryway. “You had me a little worried there. If you think of what it is, though, let me know, okay?”
“I will. Have a good day, Q.”
Christian finishes shaking hands with a school board member and crosses back across the room to me, a hint of lust hiding behind his polite smile.
“We should get out of here,” he says to me quietly. We’re both standing up straight, not too close to one another, playing the part of coworkers, colleagues, definitely not a couple.
“Don’t even. This is a really excellent opportunity. Tons of positive press for Pierce Industries.” Jesus, it takes work to stay professional when he wants to escape.
“I think we both know that positive press is nothing compared to pressing—”
Just then, a booming voice interrupts Christian’s naughty comment.
“Pierce!”
We both turn to face a tall man in a dark suit that’s tailored perfectly to his towering frame. His freckled face is set off by reddish hair, and he’s beaming as he comes in at high speed.
“Matthews!” Christian cries, the very picture of his loud, party-boy self. The two men shake hands, then pound on each other’s shoulders.
