by Lara Adrian
“I take it the deal didn’t go as you hoped.”
“No. Not quite.” I hear the rasp of his hand scrubbing over his jaw. “The old fool had too much pride for his own good. He couldn’t admit to his family’s mismanagement of their fortune. Because of his blinders, the hotel was suffering too. It was headed for bankruptcy long before I set my sights on acquiring it, but he couldn’t be convinced it was time to let go.”
As he speaks, my anger toward him slips a bit from my grasp. I distantly note how the city continues to pulse around me—cars and taxis and buses roaring by on the street, groups of chattering people strolling past on the sidewalk—yet all of my focus is trained on Nick and the darkening tone of his voice. He is all I hear. He’s all I can feel as I wait for him to tell me the rest.
“I suppose it should’ve been a clue when he abruptly phoned my team in London to say he was ready to be done with the whole ordeal. Hell, in retrospect, maybe I did know where things were heading.” He blows out a short exhalation, a vague laugh devoid of humor. “The old man insisted that we meet at the hotel in Dubai, in his penthouse suite. When my team and I arrived, he was outside on the terrace that overlooks the gulf. He’d been drinking. He demanded that he and I talk privately out there, away from his traitorous grandchildren and the two teams of lawyers.”
I don’t say a word. I’m not sure I’m capable at the moment. My breath is trapped in my lungs, my heart pounding in dread for what’s coming next.
Nick goes on, his voice level, inscrutable. “I knew immediately that he hadn’t called us there to wrap up the deal. He had a different agenda. What he wanted was to tell me to my face to go to hell. So, he did. He said he’d rather die than sell a piece of his soul to someone like me. Then he lunged for the terrace railing and leapt off the building.”
“Oh, my God.” My hand flies to my slack mouth in horror. “Nick, how awful.”
“His family was inconsolable, naturally. Everyone was in shock over what he’d done.”
“I’m sorry,” I murmur. “I’m sorry you had to be there to witness something like that. I’m sorry for the terrible things he said to you.”
He grunts in acknowledgment. “It wasn’t the way I’d have preferred to close the deal, but sometimes things don’t go the way you plan.”
“Wait. What?” My brow pinches as I register what he’s telling me. “You still went ahead with the deal to buy the hotel?”
“Yes,” he says matter-of-factly. “After an appropriate delay for the family to mourn and organize his legal affairs. We finalized the sale last night.”
I gasp at the level of his apparent detachment, although I’m not sure why I should feel so shocked. “Nick, that man killed himself. In front of you, no less.”
“Yes, he did. It’s not as though I pushed him.” He goes silent and I wonder if I’ve struck a nerve. After a long moment, he clears his throat. “It’s just business, Avery.”
“Right. Just business,” I say quietly, as something Nick said to me that first night at the gallery skates across my memory. “And when you see something you want, you reach for it.”
My crisp reminder of his own admission doesn’t escape him. “Does that bother you?”
“What bothers me is being made to feel like a fool. Why didn’t you tell me you own the gallery?”
He doesn’t miss a beat. “You’ve been talking with Margot.”
“She’s my friend, Nick. Do you know how stupid I felt when I told her I’d met someone that night—that I’d slept with you—only to find out you’d already been with her too?”
“She told you that?” He sounds displeased, his deep voice lowering to somewhere near a growl.
“Not in so many words, but then, I don’t hear you denying it.” He goes silent and my head fills with steam again. “She told me you were damaged. That you hurt anyone who gets too close to you, that you cut them loose. She warned me to stay away from you.”
He chuckles, but there’s little humor in it. “I met Margot Chan four years ago, before she came to the gallery and before she married David Levine. We had a brief affair, nothing more. I realized it was a mistake, and it ended as abruptly as it began.”
“Why?” I demand. “How come you ended things with her?”
“I decided I’d rather have her managing my gallery than warming my bed.”
I want to believe him. Since Margot still manages to work with him, he can’t be all bad. Still, her caution that he isn’t like other men I might know—the implication that he is somehow dangerous—keeps my protective walls in place. I’ve been wounded before. I’ve been damaged in ways I can never speak of, least of all to this man.
“Why didn’t you tell me Dominion is your gallery?”
“Why does it matter to you that I own the place?”
I suck in a sharp breath. “You had my art removed only a few days before that. You told Margot my work wasn’t good enough to be in your gallery, yet that didn’t stop you from fucking me the first chance you got.”
“Your art isn’t good enough, Avery. Maybe one day it will be,” he replies evenly. “But none of that has anything to do with what’s going on between us now.”
“Like hell it doesn’t!” A pair of elderly women dressed in their Sunday best turn sharp looks on me as they pass, and I realize my voice is climbing with my outrage. I dial it back, glancing at them apologetically before unleashing my anger on Nick in a tight whisper. “You lied to me. You could’ve told me the truth, but you didn’t. What else will you lie to me about?”
“And when I asked if you were an artist, you could’ve told me you had paintings in the gallery at one time. What else are you hiding from me?”
A flood of secrets and lies crowd my conscience in the seconds I remain mute. I shake my head and release a long breath. “This is a bad idea. I thought it was from the beginning, but now I know for sure. I can’t do this, Nick. Please, don’t call me again.”
He grinds out a low curse. “I’ll be back in New York in a few days. We can talk about this some more when I see you.”
“No,” I murmur. “I don’t want to talk.”
“Then we won’t talk. I can think of far better things we could be doing together.”
“Nick, I’m serious—”
“So am I, Avery. I’ve upset you, and I’m sorry.” His voice is solemn, a deep rumble that caresses my senses. “As for that night, your art and my gallery had nothing to do with what happened between us. We fucked because we both wanted it. We’ll do it again because that’s what we both want.”
I wish I could deny it. Every fiber of my being tells me this is my chance to halt what can only turn out to be a massive mistake. I don’t have room in my life for Dominic Baine or the complicated twist of emotions that he stirs in me.
And the desire.
I shouldn’t give that room in my life either.
But it’s there, just as he says.
I want him, even now.
“I have to go,” I murmur. “My friend’s daughter is being baptized this morning. I only have a few minutes to walk the rest of the way to St. Michael’s for the mass.”
“St. Michael’s on 99th?”
“No, in Queens.” I glance at the time on my phone and wince. “I really have to go now.”
“Okay,” he relents, but I can hear his reluctance to release me. “And Avery?”
“Yes?”
“I’ll see you when I get back to the city.”
I don’t reply. There’s no need to say the words. I end our call, then close my eyes on a soft curse, too well aware of my own need for this man to even think I’ll be able to deny him.
Chapter 17
Tasha’s home is small and cramped, her family large and boisterous. The chattering, happy crowd of thirty-plus aunts, uncles, and cousins of varying ages fills the first-floor kitchen and living room of the little duplex. In the hour or so following Zoe’s baptism, the women have served up a potluck buffet big enough to feed an entire neig
hborhood, and the men are clustered around, balancing paper plates in one hand, beers in the other, while they talk sports and argue over rival teams. It’s a comfortable warmth—a palpable sense of love and security—that I can’t help but envy a little.
As I weave through the guests and return to the food-laden buffet table, I smile at a shy little girl with big doe eyes and dark brown pigtails who peeks at me from behind her mama’s legs. I put my finger against my lips and wink conspiratorially before helping myself to a second piece of chocolate sheet cake. She’s enjoyed some recently, too, as evidenced by the rainbow ring of frosting still clinging to the corners of her cherub mouth.
“Are you having a good time?” Tasha appears from behind me, looking radiant in her cream-colored dress from church and her mane of spiral curls swept off her face in a pretty updo.
“Are you kidding? I’m having a great time.” I hold up my plate. “This cake is amazing.”
“I know, right? My mother-in-law is friends with one of the ladies who bakes at Martha’s in Forest Hills.” As Tasha talks to me, she waves at some more guests who’ve just arrived. “Sorry to abandon you to my family after we got back from the church. Zoe needed some mommy time after all of that activity this morning. Hopefully, she’ll sleep for a while, so I can get something to eat now.”
She reaches for a plate and begins filling it with slices of spiral-cut ham, green beans, and several dollops of the assorted noodle and potato salads.
“I didn’t mind hanging out with your family,” I tell her, forking a big bite of cake into my mouth. “Everyone is so nice. I’ve been having a lot of fun chatting with your cousins and especially your aunts, Mary and Rosa. I also met your uncle, Jerry.”
Tasha slants me a glance. “Tell me he didn’t bore you with his dissertation on homemade wine-making.”
“Yeah, he did mention it, actually.” I smile, having endured a full thirty minutes of the old man’s apparent devotion to the art and craft of kitchen-table fermenting. “From what he tells me, he makes a mean cabernet.”
She laughs. “Oh, it’s mean, all right. Trust me. Wine-making has become Uncle Jerry’s obsession since he retired a few years ago. The bad thing is, he’s even got Antonio experimenting with home-brewing. Except Tony’s been playing around with beer, not wine. For the record, I don’t recommend either one.”
“Hey, I heard that!” Antonio calls out from within a group of young men standing on the other side of the crowded kitchen. Tasha’s linebacker-sized husband is holding a dark brown bottle in his hand. He raises it in mock salute to us, then points at the homemade label. “Don’t knock it ‘til you try it. You want me to grab you a cold one, Avery?”
Tasha shakes her head at me. “Believe me, you don’t.”
“Maybe later,” I tell him, laughing as he gives me a thumbs-up then goes back to talking with his companions.
“Hey, Tasha.” Another of her relatives—one of her many cousins—comes into the kitchen from the back door. He’s holding a massive floral arrangement in his arms. An explosion of white and pink roses, freesia, and half a dozen other types of fragrant white and blush flowers and glossy greenery overflow the big vase. “You got somewhere you want me to put this for ya?”
“Oh, that’s right. The bouquet from the church. Thanks for bringing it home for me, Robbie.” When he nods, she sets down her plate and walks over to an antique sideboard in the open concept dining room, clearing a place for the arrangement. “Put it here, please. I want to be able to enjoy it from wherever I look.”
I follow her over to admire the enormous bouquet as her cousin departs. “It’s stunning.” My nose fills with the incredible scent of the blooms. “And it smells like heaven.”
“Doesn’t it? God, it must’ve cost a fortune,” she murmurs, lifting one of the roses toward her face and inhaling deeply. “I wonder who sent them.”
“Wasn’t there a card with it?”
“Nope. No card. No envelope. Nothing.” My instincts prickle at that. She lets go of the flower and gently straightens some of the greenery. “When I saw it at the church, I assumed they provided it for the mass, but Father William told me it had arrived just before we began. A mystery gift, apparently.”
No way. I feel my head slowly shaking as I recall Nick pressing me for where I was going. Had he actually sent such a generous, thoughtful gift to my friend? Someone he’d never even met? I’m surprised to think so. More than that, I’m touched.
Tasha glances over at me and frowns. “What’s that little smile about, Avery? You didn’t send these, did you?”
“No.” I shake my head more vigorously. “I wish I could say it was me, but no. I could never afford something this extravagant. Now I know why he asked me which church.”
Her eyes widen. “You mean, he sent them? Dominic-the prick-Baine?”
She’s taken to calling Nick that from the moment I told her about my talk with Margot. At the time, I’d agreed. Now, I feel obligated to defend him—at least, a little. “You have to admit, it was a nice thing for him to do. God, I can’t believe he was able to get flowers delivered so quickly after we talked.”
Then again, nothing is impossible if you have enough money. Or if you’re Dominic Baine.
“Okay, hold on one damn second.” Tasha fists her hands on her hips. “Back up, girl. Yes, the flowers are amazing, even considering the source. I suppose. But does this mean you’re actually on speaking terms with him? As in, you spoke with him as recently as this morning?”
“He texted me from London while I was on my way to the baptism. I sent him a pissy response, and the next thing I knew, he was calling me. I wasn’t going to pick up, but I knew he wouldn’t quit until he reached me. So we just . . . started talking.”
She arches a brow at me. “What the hell happened to ‘he’s a player and a liar and I never want to see him again’?”
I sigh in the face of my defeat. “It’s a long story.”
“Are you back together with him?”
Am I? I’m not even sure we were ever together. Not in any meaningful sense of the word—unless great sex counts for something.
The way my body quickens at the thought of him, it’s hard to argue that it doesn’t count. And, to be fair, the sex I had with Nick far surpassed great.
“I don’t know what’s going on with us,” I admit. “I told him I didn’t want to see him again. I let him know I was pissed as hell that he didn’t tell me he owns Dominion. I even told him I knew he’d slept with Margot before.”
“So, what did he have to say for himself?”
“He said none of it had anything to do with us.”
We fucked because we both wanted it.
We’ll do it again because that’s what we both want.
His words chase through me like a lick of fire through my veins. I press my lips together and meet Tasha’s expectant gaze. “He said he wants to see me again when he gets back to New York.”
“Mm-hm. I’ll bet he does. And what about you? Do you want to see him again?”
“I don’t know. Yeah, maybe I do.” I hedge, shrugging my shoulders. “I really shouldn’t . . .”
“No, you shouldn’t. But how often does any woman do the things she should when it comes to a man she can’t resist?”
At that precise moment, Antonio swaggers up to us. “Talkin’ about me again, I see.” He flashes his wife a devilish grin and pulls her under the wing of his beefy arm. “Got this one right where I want her,” he tells me. “She never could resist me. But I mean, really. Who could—am I right?”
“You’re such an ass,” she says, laughing as she smacks his broad chest lightheartedly.
Their affection for each other is unmistakable. They don’t try to hide it. Antonio bends his head to give her a sweet kiss. I watch a private look flicker through their locked eyes, and some of the envy I felt for Tasha’s big, loving family morphs into another shade of longing.
Will I ever have this with someone? Not with Nick—I’m not
naive enough to think we’re heading for anything long term. Still, I can’t quell the pang of yearning I feel as I watch Tasha and her husband.
“Hey, Avery,” Antonio says after a moment, dragging his gaze away from his wife. “Check it out. You ready to sample one of my best brews?”
He raises the hand that’s not wrapped around Tasha and I see he’s holding an unopened bottle of homemade beer.
Tasha frowns. “Oh, for God’s sake, Tony. Don’t make her drink that—”
“Whatta ya mean? I’ve been perfecting this recipe for a month now. It’s damn good,” he says. “Go on, Avery, you be the judge. Give it a try.”
Undaunted, he thrusts the dark brown bottle out to me, then pulls an opener out of the back pocket of his jeans. Before I can decide one way or the other if I want it, he pops the cap off the bottle and nods for me to take a drink.
“I’m sure it’s not that bad,” I offer optimistically, lifting the bottle to my lips and tip it back.
And no, it’s not bad. It’s completely awful. The bitter tang courses sharply over my taste buds like a hop-flavored mouthful of turpentine. The second it hits my tongue, I start coughing. My throat muscles contract, but I force myself to swallow the sip of so-called beer.
“See?” Tasha says while I wheeze and cough. “She hates it, Tony.”
He looks crushed. “You don’t like it?”
My eyes are watering. My esophagus feels like scorched pavement. “It’s um . . . a bit strong.”
“Look at the poor girl. She’s about to keel over.” Tasha grabs the bottle out of my slack grasp and pushes it back into her husband’s hand. “Avery and I were talking about very important things before you rudely attempted to poison her. Go on, let us chat. And take this swill with you.”
Antonio lifts his bulky shoulders. “Okay, more beer for me.” He takes a big swig of the bottle. Evidently, he’s built up a tolerance because he doesn’t even wince as he swallows the awful stuff, then heads back over to his friends across the room.
