by Deanna Lee
“It’s true. The last thing I think about when I look at him is what happened to me in New York.”
“What do you think about?”
“Sex. Hard, relentless sex.”
“How do you feel about wanting him?”
“It’s difficult. I mean, he’s hardly the first man that I’ve been sexually attracted to.” I bit down on my lip.
“Is he the first since you were raped?”
“Of course not, there was Martin.” I pressed my lips together when I looked toward her. Her disbelief was very obvious. “I was with him for nearly six months before I left New York.”
“Yes, you did spend six months hiding in the relationship with your friend Martin.”
It sucks when someone you give money to doesn’t bother to agree with you even half the time. “Okay, fine, perhaps I wasn’t as attracted to Martin as I could’ve been.”
“And your reaction to this new man after two years of celibacy?”
“It takes my breath away,” I whispered. “You know, in that romance novel kind of way? I’ve never felt this way about someone in my life. It’s more than wanting him. It’s more than anything that I can even define, and I barely know him.”
“And you want to know him better?”
“Yes.” I frowned and shook my head. “But it’s more.”
“Just get it out, Mercy.”
I sat up and pushed the footrest back into the chair. Nervous, I stood and walked away from the recliner. “There is nothing soft or forgiving about the way I want him.”
“Sometimes sex is dirty and violent.”
“Yes.” I closed my eyes and then took a deep breath. “How can I even think about sex like that after what happened to me?”
Lesley paused and then nodded. “I see.” She closed the folder on her desk and folded her hands primly on top of it. “There is nothing wrong with the way you are responding to this man. Sexual desire can manifest in a variety of ways.”
“I don’t want to be one of those women who needs to feel forced and violated to get off.” I turned and looked at her.
“And you aren’t.”
“Are you sure?”
“Aren’t you?” she asked softly. “No one reacts to being violated in the same way, Mercy. You survived it, you’ve done your level best to put it behind you, and for that you should be proud.”
“Okay.” I nodded and went back to my chair. “So the fact that I want this man to push me against a wall and fuck my brains out doesn’t make me a freak?”
“Think about the types of sex you enjoyed before you were raped. Is it really all that different than what you are wanting with this new man in your life? What was your ideal lover like before you were raped?” She paused and inclined her head. “Did you do the homework I assigned?”
“Not yet.”
“Since this isn’t a regularly scheduled session, I’ll give you a pass for the moment. Just talk to me about sex for the time being.”
“I suppose I was like most other women.” I shrugged and crossed my arms over my breasts. “Let’s see…I’m tall for a woman, so I’ve always found taller men attractive. Strong but careful hands, stamina, and of course a big dick.” I laughed softly and shrugged. “I mean, some women will say that it doesn’t matter that much.”
“But you don’t agree?”
“No, I don’t. Size matters. It matters a lot. I’ve always enjoyed men who are comfortable with their own bodies and with a woman’s body. I never dug on domination in the extreme, but in the past I liked a man to be strong and in charge. There is something really amazing about giving your pleasure over to someone else. It isn’t about giving or taking power.”
“It’s about trust.”
“Yes.” I relaxed in the chair a little more. “Okay, so I’m not a freak.”
“No,” Lesley laughed. “And you wouldn’t be much of one if you liked to be to tied down and spanked. There is nothing wrong in domination games as long as the persons involved are of a legal age, find it pleasurable, and no one is damaged permanently.”
Damaged permanently. For a moment those words moved around in my head. I’d been forced to realize some time ago that what Jeff had done to me had changed me, and that no matter how much I tried, that he would be with me for the rest of my life. He’d invaded my soul as much as my body, and nothing I could say would change that. Nothing.
The only thing I could do was make room in my life and in my mind for more experiences. If Lesley had taught me anything, it was that my past couldn’t be ignored. But more importantly, I couldn’t push aside my future forever. I’d channeled all of my energy and ambition into the gallery, and it was beginning to pay off.
With my career goal firmly in sight, my empty personal life seemed to loom larger every day.
“What are you thinking about, Mercy?”
“I don’t want Jeff King to dictate how I live the rest of my life, and it seems that I am.”
“Explain.”
“I don’t date men who I’m attracted to because I don’t want to risk sexual involvement. I’ve made all of these plans for my future and my career, and none for my personal life. I haven’t let myself think about a husband or even children. Not even five or ten years from now.”
“You think this makes you abnormal.”
I crossed my arms over my breasts and shook my head. “No. It’s just that before I was raped, I could see a man and children in my future. I don’t even think about that now.”
“You’ve been in the healing process for a long time, Mercy. Focusing on your career gave you a good way of shaping and controlling your life. You needed that control, and we both know it. Involving a person, another man, takes away some of that control.”
“Will I ever be ready for it?”
“Of course.”
I laughed softly. “You say that like it’s a given. But I’ve heard about women who never recover from it. They end up locked in their apartments, afraid to leave, afraid to trust even themselves.”
“You’re on a good path, Mercy.”
I nodded. “Okay.”
I exited my therapist’s office building and pulled out my cell phone. It had vibrated twice while I’d been in the session. Both numbers had been unknown. I was wondering why I paid for caller ID when it started to ring again. It was an unknown number again. Frowning, I pushed “on” to connect the call.
“Hello.”
“How are you, Mercy?”
I closed my eyes and opened my car door with a shaking hand. Secure behind the locked car doors, I forced myself to respond. “Jeff.”
“I’ve been thinking about you.”
“Funny, I pay someone a great deal of money to help me forget you exist,” I responded and was, for the moment, proud that I wasn’t in tears. “How did you get this number?”
“That’ll be my secret for now. I’d like to see you.”
“No.”
“We are civilized and educated adults. Meet with me.”
Hearing his voice was painful, almost in a physical sense. I could remember the bite of his fingers on my arm, hard words that had told me plainly that he would hurt me more if I fought. But more than that physical reminder, there was the betrayal of our friendship and my trust. Before it had happened, I would have considered Jeff King a friend. Now he was a living, breathing nightmare, and every time he broke into my life I was reminded exactly how foolish I had been.
“The answer is no, and it will remain no.” My words came out strong and convincing. At least my voice wasn’t betraying how I felt on the inside.
Carefully, I ended the call and turned off my cell phone. It was as if the whole world was out to make every waking moment of my day as difficult as possible. Embarrassed that I’d suddenly developed a persecution complex, I started my car and pulled into traffic.
CHAPTER 4
O nce more, I found myself sitting in front of Shame’s brownstone. The drive over had done little to calm me. Jeff’s voice w
as still moving around in my head, and I could almost smell his aftershave. I rubbed my face, undeterred by the damage my damp palms did to my makeup.
Since cowardice was not an option, I got out of my car and set the alarm. Bravery just plain sucks sometimes. Squaring my shoulders and gearing myself up for the pleasure of Shame’s company, I entered his gallery. The showroom lights were already down, and the PRIVACY sign was gone from the stairs.
The silence in the room was wretched, and made my stomach tighten. Though I hated to admit it, the conversation I’d just had with Jeff King had set me on edge. His ability to wrench me from the secure world I’d built around myself was overwhelming. But I could only blame myself. If I’d pressed charges, he might’ve gone to jail.
Looking toward the stairs, I wondered where Shame was. It was the first time he hadn’t greeted me in the gallery. I pushed the door to set the bells off again and then moved further in. “Should I lock up?” I called out.
My question fell on the silence of the gallery. Then a decidedly female form appeared at the top of the stairs and stomped down them. Shame was fast on the woman’s heels.
She glared at me as she buttoned her blouse. She had a sleek figure, and for all of her anger, looked like an angel. It was easy to see how an artist could find her inspiring. I understood the look on her face. Women like her weren’t familiar with rejection. The same look of shock and confusion must have been on my face the night before. Even now, anger surfaced at the way Shame had ignored my obviously heated body and forced me to deal with my own pleasure.
“Her? You replaced me with her? You ungrateful bastard.” The woman glared at him and then ran out the door.
I jumped a little as the string of bells clanged against the glass. Going back to the door, I locked it and pulled the key out. Carefully, I closed the blinds and turned to look at him. “She didn’t look pleased.”
He shook his head and sighed. “She’s young.”
“Yes.” I walked toward him and offered him the key. “Am I her replacement?”
“No. I used her in two earlier pieces in the collection. She wasn’t a fit for the last piece, and disagreed with me on the matter.” He pulled the key from my fingers and dropped it into his pocket.
I wanted to ask if she was his lover, but didn’t. Meeting his gaze, I realized he was staring at me. “I’m ready.”
“No, you’re not, but you will be. I had the food delivered.”
He took a step back from the stairs, allowing me to go up ahead of him. The platform was gone, and in its place was a large red chair. I stared at it for a moment and wondered what Shame was up to. What made a man like Shamus Montgomery tick? What were his hang-ups? Did he hate mornings like I did? I focused on him then and cleared my throat.
“Maybe we should just get to work.”
He motioned toward a table and two chairs. “I think we should eat first.”
Glancing briefly at the table, I returned my gaze back to the large red chair. “Restroom?”
He motioned toward a door near the stairs that led to the third floor. “Take your time.”
I glanced at him briefly before hanging my purse on a chair and going into the small restroom. One glance in the mirror told me why he’d suggested I take my time. What was left of my makeup only served to highlight my pale features.
It occurred to me that I was in no condition on an emotional level to deal with Shamus. The night before had been difficult, but I felt like I’d held my own. Tonight was different. My emotions were raw, and I felt tainted because of my conversation with Jeff. Suddenly, I just didn’t think that all the time I spent in Lesley’s office had done a whole lot for me. Shouldn’t I be past this phase? Why did that son of a bitch’s voice still make me shake?
I washed my face with the hand soap on the sink, grimacing at the knowledge that it would dry my face out. I took a peek in the small medicine cabinet and found a small bottle of moisturizer. It wasn’t what I would’ve chosen, but it would have to do.
Realizing that I’d spent nearly ten minutes in the bathroom, I forced myself to open the door and walk out. Shame was on the opposite side of the room I’d left him in, standing in front of the chair.
I sat down, grabbed a carton of kung pao chicken, and resolved to meet the coming torture with a full stomach. From my position at the table, I watched him walk across the room and join me. My gaze went back to the chair several times before I settled on his face.
“The chair makes you worry?”
Make me worry? The damn thing had my insides tumbling around. Was that what he’d intended with it? The chair was bold, big beyond anyone’s needs. I felt like it might swallow me. “Isn’t that the purpose of it?”
“It occurred to me that you might like some defined space.”
“Space?”
“Yes, space. Space that won’t be intruded upon. Whether you believe it or not, Mercy. it is not my intention to make you so uncomfortable that you get sick over it.”
“I’m not afraid of you.”
“No, I don’t imagine you’re afraid of much.”
Brushing my hair back from my shoulder, I met his gaze. “I try not to be.”
“What are you afraid of?”
“I’m no different than anyone else in this world. I suppose the loss of control is my biggest fear. Aren’t most fears rooted in that?”
“I would say so, yes.” He looked down at his food briefly and then leaned back in his chair to look at me.
I asked him, “What do you fear?”
“It’s an odd thing, thinking about what I’m afraid of. When I was a younger man, I suppose most of my personal fears involved rejection of my work or maybe myself on a personal level. I’ve never liked being told no, not even as a child. These days I have very little reason to fear rejection on either level. As an artist, I’ve carved a niche for myself that is comfortable but not so comfortable that I don’t get a bit nervous when I take a risk.”
“And on a personal level?”
“I’ve known enough women to know that for every one that will say no, there are several others who will say yes.” He drank deeply from a bottle of water. “My parents gifted me in the genetics department, and I take care of myself. The rest will either come or it won’t.”
“And when a woman rejects you?”
He grinned. “It’s her loss.”
“No anger?”
“No. I am entirely too old to get caught up in that game. A woman is either available to me or she’s not.”
“Yet you tricked me into posing for you.”
“That’s different. The steps I’m willing to take on a professional level are entirely different than the ones I’d take on a personal level. The fact is, if my interest in you had been merely personal, I would’ve approached the situation much differently.”
He pushed his untouched food aside, and I wondered briefly why he didn’t seem interested in eating. Did I make him nervous? It was a tantalizing if rather impossible notion. “So, you aren’t interested in me on a personal level.”
“I didn’t say that.” He smiled briefly, and I felt like punching him right in the mouth. “You know you’re beautiful.”
“I’ve been told that before.” Picking up a fork, I speared a piece of chicken. “When I was younger I found the attention of men very discomfiting. Not that I ever wished I were ugly, I just often found myself frustrated because people never tried to see beyond my face.”
“And what is beyond that charmingly beautiful face?”
“I have degrees in business and art history. If all goes well, I’ll be the director of the Holman Gallery in August of this year. I’m an only child, born to a set of disappointed parents who didn’t imagine that their daughter would turn out so different from them.” I opened the bottle of water he’d set out for me and took a deep drink.
“Are your parents truly disappointed in you, or is that something you imagine to be so?”
Laughing, I couldn’t help but shrug
. “Well, it’s obvious I’m not what either of them imagined I would be. If they’d realized I would never share their insane need for social standing, they might have had another child. They don’t understand why I choose to work, how I can possibly function outside of New York, and why I don’t settle down with some narrow-minded little man from the social set and give them a grandchild.”
“Is there a man in your life?”
I dropped my gaze to my food. “No.”
“Tell me why you choose to be alone.”
“Just because you’ve backed me into a corner, Mr. Montgomery, doesn’t mean I’m going to bare my soul to you.”
“Do you want to know what I see, Mercy?”
“No.” I looked at him. “But I have a feeling you’re going to tell me anyway.”
He laughed and leaned his chin on his hand as he looked over my face. “I see a woman who works too hard at looking happy instead of being happy. The first time I saw you, you struck me as a woman who had control of her world. That was more than two years ago when you worked in New York. What happened there that changed you?”
“I don’t remember ever meeting or seeing you in New York.” Surely that was something that I would’ve remembered.
“No, we never met. Though we have a mutual friend in Edward Morrison.” He paused briefly. “Why did you leave New York?”
“I found that museum work wasn’t my passion. Discovering an artist is far more exciting than protecting the work of those long dead. Life is about living. Museums are about the past.” I’d said that same thing more than twenty times since I’d come to Boston, and I still didn’t sound convincing. But since I couldn’t fathom telling anyone that I’d run from New York because I was afraid of Jeff King, it was all I had to work with.
“There is more.”
I met his gaze. “You’re pushing me, Mr. Montgomery. I don’t like it.”
He leaned back in his chair. “I’d assumed that you weren’t a natural redhead.”
His blunt reminder of how intimate our situation had been the night before was like cold water on my skin. Pushing my plate to the side, I stood. “I’m finished.”
