“That’s understandable. Did she eat anything?”
“I made her some soup. She took a few sips of it.”
“Good.” Though I wish she ate more.
“She’s wearing one of your silk nightshirts. It’s very big on her, but it will suffice until she gets new clothes.”
“That’s fine.” The thought of her wrapped up in my essence both comforts and arouses me. My dick stirs beneath my desk.
“I’m laundering her clothes.” Madame DuBois dips a hand into a pocket of her smock and slips out a phone. “She gave this to me. It’s dead. She asked if you could charge it since you have the same phones.”
I take it from her and plug it into the charger coiled on my desk.
“Thank you,” I say in a tone that dismisses her.
Alone, I’m tempted to check in on Sofi, but the ping of her phone, already charging, diverts me. It’s a text I can’t access because I don’t know her passcode. Who the hell could it be? Frustrated, I stare at the paperweight again and it hits me. I bet it’s L-U-N-A. The green moth she adores. I tap the screen with the corresponding numbers: 5-8-6-2. And bingo! A screen saver—a colorful painting of a butterfly—pops up and takes me straight to her text messages. The latest is from her friend Harper.
Sofe, I’ve been calling and calling! Why aren’t you picking up your phone? I saw on the news that your apartment building burned down! Two people died! I hope you’re okay. Let me know ASAP!!!!
Then another.
PS. I guess if you’re dead, you won’t be texting me. LOL!
A third.
PSS. Let me know you’re not dead. PLEASE!!!!
Before she sends another ludicrous message, I text her back.
Hello, Harper. This is Roman Hurst. Sofi is fine. She’s temporarily staying with me.
Harper responds immediately.
Phew! BTW, why do you have her phone?
She’s resting and I’m charging it.
OK. When she gets up, have her call me. I need to know if she was able to salvage the Prada coat I lent her. And her maid of honor dress.
Sheesh! What is with this flake? I roll my eyes. Yes, both of them. Though my right eye beneath the patch is legally blind, it still has mobility and responds to my moods. And whims. I type away.
If you can, please let Sofi’s family know she’s okay so they won’t worry.
Will do. Bye!
Sofi’s phone continues to charge. As I hold it in my hand, curiosity piques me. Maybe I can find out if she has a boyfriend.
I spend the next ten minutes scrolling through dozens of messages. Most of them are from Harper, some from fickle nail clients, a few from her nasty landlord. None from a boyfriend. She doesn’t seem to have one. But why should I care? She’s young; she’s pretty; she’s funny; she’s smart. She’s entitled to have one. She should have one. But, at the thought of her having one, an acid mixture of jealousy and rage digs a hole in my gut. I’ve known her for just a little over twenty-four hours, yet I feel she’s mine. Like I possess her.
Unsure if she has a boyfriend, I click open her photos and scroll through them. There are hundreds. I skim past the photos of posed hands showcasing beautifully manicured nails . . . those with a fashionable redhead her age whom I assume must be her friend Harper . . . selfies which illuminate her outgoing personality, funky fashion sense, and unique beauty . . . some with a smiling older man and woman celebrating Christmas—maybe her parents?—and as promised, myriad close-up photos of exotic butterflies taken at the conservatory. They’re amazing, capturing the most intricate details of the winged creatures. Equally amazing are the photos of her butterfly paintings. Tomorrow, I will ask her to email them to me.
Then, about to set the phone down, I land on a photo of an artsy-looking twenty-something guy with his arm around her. Both are flashing big smiles. I feel the hair on the back of my neck stand on end. My pulse quickening, I hastily scroll through more photos and find more of bun boy. Mugging the camera. Hamming it up with Harper and Sofi. And then one of him playfully kissing Sofi—on her lips no less! Jealousy rears its ugly head and I have the burning urge to bash his face in. Make it so he won’t be kissing anyone anytime soon. Tensing, I feel my blood pressure rising. Breathing in and out of my nose like my shrink’s suggested, I force myself to calm down before I have a coronary. Maybe I’m jumping to conclusions. Maybe it’s flakehead’s boyfriend or a mutual friend. Or Sofi’s brother, though she looks nothing like this scruffy dickhead.
About to probe further—Christ, I’m a stalker!—the phone rings. I let it go to voicemail, then listen to it. A woman’s concerned voice.
“Honey, the fire’s been all over the news. Dad and I are so worried about you. Please call us ASAP!”
Sofi’s mother.
Fucking Harper. I bet she never contacted Sofi’s folks. I think about calling them back to reassure them, but a call from a strange man using her phone could be unsettling. Instead, pretending to be her, I text them.
I’m fine. Staying with a friend. Will call you tomorrow. Xo
An instant response. Thank goodness! Can’t wait to hear from you. We love you so much! ♥
Absently, I scroll through more photos—coming to another set of Sofi with her parents celebrating a birthday. It’s quite amazing how a cell phone can be a gateway to knowing a person. The people in their lives. Their interests. Their passions. Their desires. Their day-to-day activities. Even their sense of humor. I’ve learned so much about Sofi. She’s a truly gifted painter, an amazing photographer, a good friend (especially to put up with that Harper), and she comes from a loving family. And she may have a boyfriend. At that thought, my muscles tense again and I hear myself growl. Holy Jesus. She’s turned me into a savage beast—one breath away from foaming at the mouth. Collecting myself, I stare down at another selfie, her Cupid’s bow lips pursed like she’s blowing me a kiss. Fuck her boyfriend or whatever he is. The urge to see her burns through my bones.
Unable to resist, I head down the hall and rap softly on her door. It’s shut, no answer. I knock again, a little harder. Still no response. With hesitancy, I jiggle the knob and discover it’s unlocked. Quietly, I open it and tiptoe inside like a stealthy cat burglar who’s breaking and entering. She’s sound asleep in the four-poster bed on her back, the fluffy duvet kicked off to her ankles. She’s bathed in my black nightshirt, the garment so oversized it covers her hands and grazes her knees. One of them is covered with a Band-Aid. A reminder of how delicate and fragile she is. A reminder of how close I came to kissing her in the rain. Still wearing the butterfly scarf I bought her around her hair, she looks beautiful, so peaceful for someone who has been through so much. Her soft breathing is even, the rise and fall of her chest hypnotizing me. Those exquisite breasts! The pert nipples pebbling the silk. I don’t know how long I’ve been staring at her when she stirs.
She murmurs my name. So, so softly, but I hear it.
Moving closer to the bed, I lift the duvet so it covers her. Then, bend down and place a chaste kiss on her forehead. The heat of her skin seeps into my lips. Scorching them. Parching them. I long to kiss her face everywhere. Her eyelids, her nose, her cheeks, her lips. Unable to part from her, I trail my lips down the slender column of her neck and bury my mouth in its hollow. Sucking her butterfly pendant. Lapping up her goodness before my tongue travels down her chest, stopping before my hungry mouth finds her breasts and I possess them. I fantasize ripping open the nightshirt and taking her rosebud nipples in my mouth, sucking and nipping them as she screams with desire. Screams for more. Screams for me.
Fighting my arousal, I pull away. Heated, my breathing is shallow. I walk backward, one hesitant step at a time, and keep my gaze on her.
Only one other person has slept in this bed.
And she reminds me so much of her.
My shrink once told me the ten most devastating life events according to some neuroscience genius he studied with. Number one: The death of a loved one. Especially a spouse or
child. I couldn’t argue with that. Number two: Major illness. My mother was a testament. Number three: Divorce. I wouldn’t know. Others included retirement and job loss. Even Christmas made the extended list. But not a fire. Judging from Sofi’s behavior, these Freud-wannabees obviously missed one. Since her building was ravaged by the blaze, she hasn’t left the guest suite. Madame DuBois has told me she’s sleeping a lot and running a fever. My first instinct was to call my concierge doctor, but the woman I’d trust with my life said that wasn’t necessary. Sleep and fever often accompany trauma. My maternal chief of staff been looking after her and has been kind enough to buy her some basic clothing and necessities like pajamas, shampoo, and toothpaste. She’s also made sure Sofi’s eating, bringing her chicken soup for dinner from the local Jewish deli. Hardly touching her other meals, my butterfly usually consumes a bowlful. At least she’s eating something.
She refuses to see me. I’m worried sick about her and miss her presence, but compensate by spending long days working in my study. Designing the butterfly collection she’s inspired me to create. Sketching and editing. Deleting and expanding. Before returning her phone, I printed out several photos she took of butterflies as well as of her paintings and pinned them on my inspiration board. Among them, the Blue Morpho she told me she was working on. I also keep the Luna paperweight she bought me close by, in my line of vision, wherever I am.
Finally, on day four, while I’m sketching at my desk, she re-enters my life like a butterfly emerging from its chrysalis, slowly pushing through the door to my study. A frisson of shock skids through me. Unlike the vibrant butterfly she was a few days ago, she looks wan and gaunt. Her eyes are sunken and she’s lost weight—something she can’t afford to do. The pink tint is also gone from her honey-brown hair.
Clad in the outfit she wore at the museum, my butterfly scarf wrapped around her head like a bandana, she adjusts her backpack over her shoulders. I wonder why she’s carrying it.
“Hi,” she says, her voice strained like it’s an effort to talk. “Thanks for everything and for letting me stay.” She pauses, her eyes meeting mine. “I should be going.”
My brows furrow; my voice rises. “What are you talking about?”
“I need to find a new place to live. Maybe go home and stay with my parents for a while so I can save some money and get back on my feet.”
Tossing my pencil onto the desk, I jump up. “Sofi, you can stay here.”
“I can’t. It’s too much of an imposition. I’m a basket case.” She reaches inside a skirt pocket and slips out a yellow piece of paper. The check I gave her. “I can’t accept this.”
Is my feisty, fragile butterfly out of her mind? She can’t leave me. I need her. I want her. A mixture of desperation and determination swirls inside me, giving way to the I-don’t-take-no-for-an-answer man I am.
“No, Sofi. I’m not taking back your check. And you’re not going anywhere. We have a deal. You agreed to work for me for three months or until you found a new job. You’re here, so let’s get to work.”
Sofi stays frozen in the doorway. Her eyes watering. “Roman, I can’t.”
“Sofi, you can and you will.” My voice rumbles in my chest. “Now, spread your wings, my butterfly, and tell me what you think of these.” Grabbing my sketchbook, I march over to her. She meets me halfway.
As I inhale the orange blossom scent of her hair, she flips through the pages, examining my sketches. A few anxious breaths later, a radiant smile spreads on her face and I hear what I want to hear.
My new collection has captured the spirit of a butterfly.
Captured her.
CHAPTER 14
Roman
Taking Sofi to an art supply store is like taking a kid to a toy store. Though I’d never know that. I can, however, identify with her excitement because that’s how I feel when I go to my favorite factories to pick out luxurious couture fabrics and other accouterments. I get a high.
Blick is located on the corner of Sixth Avenue and 20th. It’s a fifteen-thousand-square-foot artists’ mecca, the aisles filled with everything one could need—all kinds of paints, canvases, brushes, easels, sketchpads, and more. There’s even a custom framing and printing center. Pushing an overstuffed shopping cart, my muse tells me there are several Blicks in Manhattan, but this one’s her favorite.
“Are you almost done?” I ask, my impatience getting the better of me.
“No.”
Fuck. This. Shit. I slap my forehead. Why did I bother?
“I still need to find paints that can be used on fabric.” Her eyes pan the myriad paint tubes on the shelves lining the aisle. “I don’t know much about them.”
“Hey, Sofe!” A raspy male voice comes from behind us. Sofi flips around and I do the same.
Jogging our way is a medium-height lanky kid in ripped jeans, a Blick T-shirt, and Nikes. Though now more clean-shaven with his inky black hair cut shorter, I recognize him immediately from Sofi’s photos. He’s the guy who was kissing her. Bun boy! Every muscle in my body clenches as Sofi’s face lights up.
“Vincent!”
They hug. I want to kill him.
They break apart. Just in time. Skinny Vinny’s lucky I didn’t strangle him. He has a new name: Blickdick.
Blickdick: “Sofe, sorry to hear about your apartment. I saw it on the news. I texted you, but you didn’t text back.”
Me: (Silently) That’s because I deleted it, Blickdick!
Butterfly: “It’s okay. I’m over it. I’m just sad all my paintings and art supplies got destroyed.”
Blickdick: “Looks like you’re doing a great job replenishing them. Sorry it’s going to cost you a fortune.”
My turn: “It’s not. I’m paying for them.”
Blickdick meets my fiery gaze. The little fucker isn’t intimidated.
“Sofe, so is this your fairy godfather?”
He thinks I’m some kind of sugar daddy?
Butterfly: “No. This is my new boss . . . ”
Blickdick: “Hey, dude.”
He called me a fucking dude. Do I look like a surfer? Seriously? Sofi’s voice slices through my rage.
Butterfly: “ . . . Roman Hurst.”
I bristle. Why the hell did she have to mention my name? Mental Note: Be sure to add a clause in her contract that she can’t mention my name to anyone.
Blickdick’s eyes light up like megawatt bulbs. “The Roman Hurst?”
“Yeah, that’s me.” Fuck. I should have said not.
“Holy shit. I love your work. I’m an aspiring fashion photographer and follow you online. Everywhere!”
“That’s nice.”
“I’d love to shoot your next collection.”
I’d love to shoot you. One bullet between your lecherous eyes. Bang!
“Roman, he’s very talented. You should see his portfolio.” My shopping companion’s eyes warm at Blickdick. An appreciative smile crawls across his olive complexion. I want to rip it off and step on it. Sofi gives me no chance.
“Vincent went to Parsons with me.”
Jesus. They have a history. Unnerving thoughts bombard me. Are they fuck buddies? Lovers? Even worse, a couple?
My blood curdling, Sofi surveys the cart. “Vincent, I need one more thing . . . ”
She’d better not say: Your tongue in my mouth. Your cock buried between my thighs.
“Paints that can be applied to fabric.”
“What kind of fabric?”
“The finest silks and satins in the world,” I spit out, his eyes still fixated on her.
“No prob. Follow me.”
We trail him down the aisle, me all the while wanting to knock him to the floor. Then, pour a gallon of turpentine down his throat.
With my murderous thoughts spinning, he leads us to another section of paints. “These are the best for fabric. They won’t wash off.”
“Great!” A beaming Sofi grabs a jar in every color and tosses them into the cart. “Ooh! A metallic gold one! How pret
ty would that be on a butterfly’s wings!”
In my very visual head, it’s easy for me to imagine. A black taffeta gown with dancing gilded butterflies could be stunning. Especially if gold crystals and thread are added in. My creative juices are flowing. I’m eager to blow this pop stand and get to work. And to blow off Blickdick, but he lingers.
“Hey, Sofe, I got an invite to a photography exhibit at a gallery in Soho tonight. Wanna come?”
“She can’t come!” I jump in. Not with you! Double entendre much? “She has to work. I’m paying her way too much money to go gallery hopping.”
Frowning, Sofi shoots me a dirty look, then fawns at Blickdick. “Next time, Vincent.”
There’s not going to be a next time. Not over my dead body. Make that his.
Blickdick shrugs, disappointment etched deep on his face. “Sure.”
Spotting Blickdick in his Blick T-shirt, another customer, an elderly silver-haired woman, waddles up to us. “Excuse me, can you please tell me where to find nice watercolors for my granddaughter?”
“Yeah, follow me.” He gives Sofi a kiss on the cheek. “I’ll see you later, mí amor.”
He fucking kissed her! Called her his love! I feel myself stiffening with rage. Every bone calcifying. “Later” is not happening. No fucking way.
“C’mon, let’s go,” I say, my teeth clenching.
The cart is filled to the gill. At the cash register, some goth girl about Sofi’s age rings us up. While she bags all the supplies, I pull Sofi aside.
“What’s with you and Blickdick?”
“Who are you talking about?”
“You know, Skinny Vinny. So what’s the story?”
“Huh? What are you talking about?”
“I saw the way he looked at you. And you, him. Are you fucking him?”
Scrunching her face, Sofi splays her hands on her hips. “Excuse me? What kind of question is that?”
“One that ends with a question mark!”
“Roman, you’re out of your mind.”
Before I can cancel the transaction, eighteen hundred-plus dollars is debited to my card, including the extra fee of having all the bags delivered to my atelier so we don’t have to schlep them around the city.
BUTTERFLY: A Standalone Romantic Suspense Page 7
