by M. J. Lowell
The throbbing between my legs was almost unbearable. He hadn’t even touched me and I was teetering on the edge of a precipice. “Just the one finger sliding inside you,” he said, “as I continued to polish your clit. You can imagine it, can’t you?” he asked, his fingers still teasing the rose.
I nodded, unable to speak.
“The pressure would be building inside you, and you’d beg me to let you come, but I would make you wait. I’d be there with you, reveling in every tremor of your body, every sigh as pleasure suffused you, waiting for the moment that your very last thread of restraint was ready to snap.” He went silent, his fingers still, cradling the rose against his palm.
“And then?” I asked hoarsely, my voice barely more than a whisper.
His eyes locked on mine. “I’d watch your face as I rammed my fist into your pussy and made you come over and over.” His hand closed around the flower, crushing it in his grasp.
I don’t know if it was the gesture or the words that sent a convulsion of something between pleasure and panic rolling through me, and I had to swallow back a gasp. I should have pulled away, but I was powerless, overwhelmed with a dizzying mix of shock and heady arousal. I wanted him, wanted what he was proposing, ached for the rawness of it. I crossed my legs, desperately trying to silence my body.
He opened his fist and the peachy pink petals spilled out, scattering across the snowy white tablecloth, only the tiny center bud still intact. Like a pair of emptied champagne glasses catching the early light on a bedside table, they were evidence of a debauch, broadcasting a story of two people coming together completely.
A story that could never, would never, be mine.
“Pleasure transforms,” Rhys said thoughtfully, touching the tiny bud with the tip of his ring finger. The simple gesture made me shiver.
I dragged my eyes from his hands and the dismembered petals to the remaining roses, pristine in their silver bowl. “Or destroys.”
I felt Rhys’s gaze on me for a long moment, but I couldn’t look at him. When he spoke, his voice was low, intimate. “What did he do to you?”
“Who?” I said, startled, meeting his eyes. “What are you talking about?”
“The man who damaged you. The one who made you so afraid of giving in to your desires that you locked them away.”
My head spun. How could he tell? Long-suppressed memories crowded into my mind, a flood of cruel words. What are you doing look at yourself two things you never regret here kitt—
Anger blazed inside of me, coming to my defense. My hands curled into fists. “You don’t know anything about me,” I said.
“You don’t have to stay damaged. I can help you.”
“I don’t want anything from you and I’m not damaged,” I said. My voice sounded high-pitched, brittle. “Excuse me,” I managed to say, stumbling to my feet.
He rose as I did but didn’t follow as I rushed across the Palm Court, blinking back tears. By the time I reached the ladies room I was shaking all over. I was furious, but not with Rhys. With myself. For losing control. For allowing him to affect me. For letting the memories come back, the sound, the feeling—
No, I stopped myself. It was the past. Sawyer was the past. It was over and done with. I’d locked what happened away, banished him to the remote corners of rare nightmares. I’d moved on.
Not well enough apparently, said the ever-present voice in my head.
I splashed cold water on my cheeks while I struggled to get my emotions in check. In the mirror, hollow eyes accused me. You behaved like a fool. In front of Rhys Carlyle. Where was the sophisticated woman of the world now?
Worse, I hadn’t learned anything about his potential connection to my father. I’d been so—
Mesmerized, I thought, hitting on the right word. So mesmerized by Rhys Carlyle that I’d completely forgotten what I was doing there. He’d only touched my knee. And yet I’d been closer to giving into him completely, giving into anyone, than I had been in—
A long time.
It would not happen again, I told my reflection in the mirror with grim determination. I dried my face, smoothed my hair.
I would go back out there, thank him coolly for an interesting tea and revert to watching him from a distance. Because being near him was clearly a terrible idea.
But when I returned to the Palm Court, there was a fresh white cloth on our corner table, and fresh white napkins centered on the clean gilt-edged plates. Empty water glasses sat waiting to be filled for the next guests.
If I hadn’t seen the single peach rose petal, forgotten on the floor next to the velvet banquette, I could almost have believed it had all been a dream. Every trace of us being there, of what had happened between us, had vanished.
And so had Rhys Carlyle.
Chapter Eight
I knelt and picked up the discarded petal, to prove to myself it wasn’t a mirage, that it had all been real. The petal felt cool and silky against my fingers, and I slipped it into my purse as I went to retrieve my coat from the hostess.
It was better this way, I tried to tell myself. In fact, it was a relief he was gone, that I was out of harm’s way. Now I was safe from Rhys Carlyle’s reckless games, from his ability to overwhelm me with a single touch. The disappointment coursing through me was only because I’d squandered a chance to find out what he might know about my father’s death.
But deep inside I knew that was far from the whole truth. Part of me had believed in the sudden and certain rightness I’d felt with Rhys, that sense of pure connection. And the same part had believed he must feel it, too.
You are too old for fairy tales, I told myself sternly, blinking away the tears that threatened again. Fairy tales weren’t the kind of thing that happened to me – he wasn’t the kind of thing that happened to me.
And even if I was right, even if there was….something…between us, it was hopeless, already doomed. Rhys created his own worlds just to be sure of people, to know whom to trust, while I’d been lying to him from the moment we met.
Distracted, I made my way back through the marble lobby and pushed through the heavy glass door to the outside. I was halfway down the steps, bracing against the frigid wind, when I heard a man say, “Miss Granite?”
My heart skipped a beat.
But it wasn’t Rhys. Instead I saw a man in a black chauffer’s uniform waiting on the curb.
“Yes?” I said.
“I’m Davies, miss. I work for Mr. Carlyle.” His voice was gruff, and his British accent was even rougher than Rhys’s. Despite the immaculately tailored uniform, he looked more like a bodyguard or bouncer than anyone’s driver, with short graying hair, a compact but powerful build, and a nose that had met a dozen fists. “He told me to take you home.”
“He did?” I asked, confused. Was this Rhys’s idea of letting a girl down gently – ditching her but making sure she had a ride home?
“Yes, miss. If you’ll just follow me.”
The silver Bentley was waiting across the street, and Davies ushered me into the backseat. He shut the door behind me, encasing me in a cocoon of buttery leather and brilliantly polished burr walnut. I took a deep breath and smelled Rhys.
My body reacted instantaneously, instinctively. I could hear his voice in my head describing what he’d do to me and had a hotly primitive desire to touch myself.
Davies’s voice broke into my thoughts. “Where shall I take you, Miss Granite?” he inquired as he took his seat behind the wheel and started the engine. “What is your address?”
I opened my mouth to tell him but caught myself right in time. Rhys might be finished with me, but I still didn’t want to risk him figuring out who I really was. I gave Davies the address for Val’s office instead.
My mind was still churning with a mix of conflicting emotions as we headed downtown on Fifth Avenue. Only as we passed the corner where I’d been staked out the previous evening did it occur to me that Davies himself might be a potential source of information. After all,
he knew nearly everywhere Rhys went, and he’d probably heard Rhys’s end of countless phone conversations. It was even possible he’d heard Rhys speaking to my father. Maybe this afternoon wouldn’t be a total loss.
“Have you worked for Mr. Carlyle a long time?” I asked him, catching his eye in the rearview mirror.
I could see his startled expression. “Are you speaking to me, miss?”
Had I done something wrong? I didn’t have a lot of experience riding in chauffeur-driven Bentleys – only tailing them. “Is there any reason I shouldn’t?”
“Not in the least, miss,” Davies said in a slightly easier tone. “It’s unusual, one of Mr. Carlyle’s guests taking an interest. But yes, I’ve been with him for years now. Met him when he was barely more than a boy.”
“Was that in London?” I asked.
“Aye,” Davies said, warming to his topic. “I was a trainer in a boxing gym in the East End. One day young Rhys comes in, saying he wants to learn to fight. Just a scrawny scrap of a lad.”
“Scrawny?” I echoed in disbelief. Scrawny was not a word I’d ever use to describe the physique I’d seen last night.
Davies chuckled. “Could barely keep his gloves up. Course, I didn’t know who he was, not at first. It wasn’t until his father came strolling in looking for the boy a month later, and then I was fit to be tied.”
“Why was that?” I asked, intrigued.
“Why? Because Ned – Mr. Carlyle’s dad, that is – could have been one of the best fighters in all of England. And there’s his own son, learning to fight at a rival’s gym.”
I leaned closer, resting my elbows on the back of the front seat. “Rhys’s father was a professional boxer?”
“Said could have been, didn’t I?” Davies repeated with careful emphasis. “Except he liked his whisky too much, and that spoiled his chances. In the ring, at least. Didn’t stop him from brawling outside it.”
“What about Rhys’s brother?” I asked. “Was Joff a boxer, too?”
I thought I saw Davies stiffen, and when he spoke his tone was suddenly wary. “How do you know about Joff?”
Somehow I’d hit a nerve, but I wasn’t sure why. “Rhys talked about him. About how they didn’t have money for computers or gaming consoles growing up.”
“He told you that?” Davies asked. The surprise in his voice was almost tangible, but the answer seemed to satisfy him. “Now Joff, he was a natural, like their dad. But naturals, they don’t develop the discipline that comes with having to work at it. After six months with me, Rhys could have taken Joff, and after a year he could take his dad.” He smiled to himself, remembering. “I’ve never seen anyone work so hard at a thing. Always saying he wanted to be unbeatable.”
“And was he? Unbeatable?”
“Aye. Not for the usual reasons, mind you. Other lads were bigger, could hit harder. But young Rhys, he had brains.” Davies tapped his head. “He’d study the other fighters, get inside their heads, suss out their weaknesses. And then he’d use that to take them out. Brawny toughs with fifty pounds on him and down they’d go, out for the count.”
“He could really do that?” I asked.
“Once Rhys Carlyle sets his mind to something, nothing stands in his way. Not size. Not skill. Nothing. He might not have been a natural, but he was more dedicated, more driven than anyone around. Got to a point where he could have gone pro himself.”
“Why didn’t he?”
“Not interested. Learning to fight was about one thing for him: protecting his family. Once that was out of his system, he moved right on. But I’ll tell you, when I see that same look in his eye now, the one he had when he turned up in my gym all those years ago, I know he’s found something he wants and won’t rest ‘til he gets it.”
Davies slowed to a stop at a red light, and I realized we were only a few blocks from Val’s office. I needed to bring the conversation back to the present and Rhys’s business if I was going to learn anything useful. “How did you end up working for Rhys here in New York?”
“Always kept an eye on him, didn’t I, even when he stopped training. When he tells me he was coming to the States a few years back, I figure I’m going to have to come, too. He’s a man who fights his own battles, but who’s going to take care of his odds and bobs, if not me?”
“Odds and bobs?”
“Candice, his secretary, does the scheduling, but everything else, the driving, the errands, the loose ends – that’s all on me. Whatever he needs done.”
I saw my opportunity. “Do you get to play the new games before they’re released? Try out all the new technology? You must see some amazing things.”
Davies chuckled again, but he didn’t start talking about any inventors who’d been phoning Rhys. “Mr. Carlyle’s not what you call a delegator. He holds his cards close to the vest when it comes to the business. To tell you the truth, I didn’t have much of an interest in it after the first game. That one was personal. Made us all rich, didn’t it? Everything after has just been gravy.”
“You had stock in the company?”
“Did and do. I’m not what you’d call a billionaire, but I made out all right.”
From his tone “all right” sounded like he didn’t exactly need to earn a salary. “But you still work for Rhys?”
“And proud to do it. Finest man I know. Kind, honest, and loyal to a fault.” He paused. “Long as you don’t cross him, that is.”
Was that what had happened? Had my father crossed Rhys somehow, come between Rhys and something he wanted?
I tried to sound casual. “And what happens when you cross him?”
Davies hesitated, and when he spoke there was an edge to his voice. “That’s a thing I reckon it’s better not to find out.”
A moment later, he steered the Bentley up to the curb outside Val’s office building and hurried around to open my door. “Was a pleasure talking to you, miss,” he said, extending his hand to help me out. “I look forward to seeing you soon.”
Our conversation had put everything that happened at the Plaza out of my mind, at least for a little while, but his parting words brought it all back, along with a fresh rush of bitter emotion.
Davies couldn’t know he wouldn’t be seeing me again, soon or otherwise. Rhys Carlyle’s disappearing act had made that only too clear.
Chapter Nine
The next morning I headed to the lab in Red Hook, to see Nico as promised. The wind blowing off the Hudson was fierce, and my hands were stiff with cold as I parked the Vespa at the deserted curb.
The lab had been like a second home to my dad, an old glass-blowing factory he’d always said was perfect for his work – mostly because of its industrial-strength furnace. From the outside, it appeared to be a simple single-story structure, but inside it extended down an additional two stories to accommodate the massive furnace. A catwalk ringed the upper perimeter, and I’d spent hours there, practicing my violin and staring out the windows at the spires of Manhattan across New York Harbor, daydreaming about performing at Carnegie Hall. Those dreams, that girl, seemed hopelessly far away now.
When I’d left home for the conservatory, my father moved a cot and a hot plate into the lab and began spending more and more of his time there. Since his death, Nico seemed to be spending more of his time there as well, and I wondered if this was his way of trying to compensate for my father’s absence. As I let myself in, I heard an unfamiliar whirring noise and caught the scent of brewing coffee and cinnamon. My stomach rumbled – I couldn’t remember my last real meal.
“Hello?” I called.
The whirring noise slowed and then stopped. “Down here,” I heard Nico say.
I leaned over the catwalk’s railing and saw him peering out from a dimly lit corner. He was wearing a rowing singlet that left his broad shoulders and well-muscled arms bare, and the sight elicited a surprising bolt of appreciation from me.
Something unexpected had happened to me in the short time since tea with Rhys. After returning Oli
via’s outfit to Val, I’d caught a few hours of sleep before my set at Le Bungalow. But my dreams had been suffused with the sound of Rhys’s voice and hectic with images of his hands on the rose. Later, at the club, I’d found myself aware of the guys there in a way I hadn’t for— well, for a long time. Being with Rhys seemed to have momentarily lifted the lid on a box I’d been keeping firmly shut.
I clattered down the stairs. I hadn’t been to the lab in nearly a month, and Nico had made some changes, including the rowing machine, which had been the source of the whirring noise. He’d also added a toaster oven to the small kitchenette, and I could see cinnamon rolls browning inside.
“I thought the least I could do was give you breakfast,” Nico explained. He reached for a potholder and removed the cinnamon rolls from the oven, sliding them onto a plate. “I got almond milk, too. That’s what you like in your coffee, right?”
Nico remembering that I like almond milk in my coffee was really…sweet, and thoughtful, and—
Creepy, Val’s voice supplied.
One of these days I was going to have to figure out what it was with her and Nico. I had a sneaking suspicion her animosity actually masked a secret crush, but the one time I’d floated the idea, Val had denied it with so much emphatic gesturing I nearly lost an eye.
Now Nico handed me a steaming mug of coffee laced with almond milk. I took an appreciative sip. “Delicious.”
He looked pleased. “Great, I’m glad you like it.”
He picked up the plate of cinnamon rolls and his own coffee and led me to the chipped yellow Formica table. My father had been especially proud of this find, which he’d rescued from the curbside. “Imagine throwing away a perfectly good piece of furniture!” he’d cried, unfazed by its missing leg. He simply fashioned a new leg out of a sawed-off broom handle.
That was my father. He never threw anything away, and he never ever gave up.
