The Nightingale Trilogy: An Alpha Billionaire Romantic Suspense

by Cynthia Dane

  Waiting for her.

  Nala was not a seductress. She barely knew how to flirt, mostly because she never cared to know. The men – boys, really – she dated approached her first. Sort of like Vincent, who suggested they join hands before Nala even knew what he was about.

  So now here she was, water spraying her clit while her other hand pinched her nipples and clawed at her face. A healthy dose of need swelled within her. Nala’s body was so starved for attention, for release, that for the first time in many, many months she allowed herself to think of nothing but a man and the way he could make love to her.

  Ha! Fuck lovemaking. Yes, yes, that was it. She didn’t want lovemaking. She wanted fucking. No strings attached sex that was all about the release, the thrill, the unknown she had yet to explore. A strong, confident man sucking her nipples, letting his teeth graze against them in a constant warning that he could bite if she stepped out of line.

  Nala thought it was shower water at first. Then she realized all the water was currently between her legs, and the wetness she felt beneath her eyes were tears. Why was she crying? Was it the satisfaction of finally letting go of some of the misery bundled inside her? Was it reuniting with what it meant to be a sexual creature? Was it the reminder that there was a world of experiences outside of what she suffered in her short life? Sometimes it was hard to imagine other people going about their lives while their fellow men and women cried for affection. Nala didn’t want to be swept off her feet and saved. She wanted…

  I want to feel human again. I want to feel good.

  It came now. Those foreign feelings of relief flooding her body as she began to orgasm. Nala’s hand slammed against the wall as her knees buckled and her back threatened to slide down the wall behind her. Her mind was nothing but pleasure. Blinding pleasure that she hadn’t experienced in such a long time, that she had almost forgotten it existed.

  The thing that helped the most was imagining Vincent. He was a convenient stand-in for a partner. That and, well… Nala wouldn’t go there for now.

  What was he doing? Tasting her? Her nipples? Her clit? No, that wasn’t enough. As orgasm spread through her, Nala’s fantasy became brazen to the point she imagined herself impaled against that wall, Vincent’s cock deep inside her and making her the kind of woman who did this sort of thing.

  “Slut,” a voice in her head said. Was it his? Was it hers? Haha, who fucking cared?

  “That’s right, I’m a fucking slut,” Nala muttered, dropping the showerhead and feeling it vibrate against the shower floor. The crash it created coincided with the end of her orgasm, when reason returned and she realized what the fuck she was doing.

  Abashed, she stood there, kicking the showerhead so it no longer sprayed against the plastic liner. That wasn’t a mess she wanted to clean up later. Bad enough she had a mess going on in her head and loins.

  As long as it stayed far away from her heart, she could deal with it. Not that Nala foresaw that being an issue. Her loins may be a lost cause, and her head may waver between logic and la-la-la-I’m-an-idiot, but her heart was most decidedly too cold to care about anything but Tasha.

  To be fair, she surmised as she finished her shower and got the hell out, her heart probably needed the release too. Couldn’t be good for it to be so sad all the damn time.

  Entry #5

  We’ve been invited back to The Aviary. I’m almost afraid to go, because of the old feelings and images swarming my mind as of late. I had forgotten what it’s like to feel this… stirring, let alone for a woman in my presence.

  I must tread carefully. I cannot lose sight of our goals.

  Chapter 9

  The package from Vincent awaited Nala Friday evening when she returned home from work. Finally, some nice clothes. She knew she was a helpless cause when it came to picking out her own outfits. Especially outfits that were meant to impress the elite. Or at least keep them from gossiping about her terrible taste in, well, everything.

  Nala took it into the dining room where Patrick wouldn’t bother her. He was busy in the living room, watching cartoons and pontificating about the merits of non-gendered aliens in the media to no one in particular. Nala wasn’t sure if he was on the phone or recording into a mic on his laptop. She honestly did not want to know. I meet enough people who are talking to absolutely no one on the street. She was pretty sure she worked with one too.

  A pocketknife was all it took to open the box from a downtown boutique that Nala had never heard of. I wonder who picked this out. Did Vincent have an assistant? Did he use a personal shopper? He didn’t seem like the type. He also didn’t seem like the type to go shopping on his lunch break. Not for a dress anyway.

  Nala pulled back the box flaps and hooked her fingers around soft black fabric. What she lifted from the box, however, was anything but what she expected.

  Oh, it was sexy. Too sexy! Halter straps wrapped around the neck before blooming into two strips of wavy fabric meant to not-so-demurely cover the breasts. That wouldn’t be terrible if it weren’t for the giant, gaping hole over the stomach area. Nala could not figure out how the fuck these two straps connected to a miniskirt, but here she was, standing in a dining room with a high-class escort’s dress in her hands.

  “You’ve gotta be kidding,” she said. Nala was so distracted by the dress that she almost missed the strappy stiletto shoes tucked at the bottom of the box.

  So this was the outfit Vincent picked out. Even if he hadn’t picked it out – and even if he hadn’t seen it – he still signed off on it, like the total man he was.

  On one hand, the fantasy enabler inside Nala liked the idea of that man picking out a hot outfit like this. On the other, it did color him in her eyes. Before now, he came across as relatively safe, surprise first kiss aside. Nala never felt threatened around him. She never felt anything but… protected. Granted, it was from a distance, but nevertheless, Vincent was the type of man to shadow her and make sure nothing befell her when she suffered bouts of stupidity. Or at least that’s what she liked to pretend.

  Until now.

  She escaped into the bathroom to try the outfit on. The dress said eight petite, but she was suspicious that it was big enough to fit her at all. And yet, as she stripped down to nothing but her black panties, she quickly discovered that this barely-there dress did slip nicely over her frame and cover what it was supposed to… even if that was just her breasts, crotch, and ass. Because that skirt sure as fuck didn’t go anywhere near her knees. She would be pulling this down more than any other dress she owned.

  The shoes made it worse. They were taller and skinnier than any Nala wore before, making her wobble on the bathroom floor like an inexperienced teen girl. I feel so exposed. Not even her sweater would help her this time. The only way she could feel covered in any way was to wear her hair down that night. It fell, straight as a lonely board, over her shoulders and toward her bare stomach. A prepared woman would have a navel piercing to decorate the getup. As it was, she didn’t even have nice jewelry to go with this. Her straight cut hair would have to do.

  Her cell phone buzzed. “Out front.” Oh, sure, he was going to show up now, ten minutes early? Man probably left early so he could beat the rush hour traffic that Portland was notorious for. Yet here he was, acting like this was the exact time he was supposed to be there. Now Nala had to gather her bearings and walk out to the car – possibly with ice covering the walkway – and not fall on her fucking ass. Or freeze to death.

  Somehow she did a passable job. She shuffled in those spiky heels to the front door, probably scruffing the hardwoods, and eased her way down the three porch steps and onto the concrete. Insufferable cold hit her legs and stomach, the two places her sweater couldn’t protect her. The moment he saw her carefully walking down the front path, Vincent got out of his car and opened her door for her like a perfect gentleman. Everyone in this neighborhood thinks I’m a fucking call-girl. Well, she was being dressed and paid for like one.

  “When I said I nee
ded new shoes, these weren’t what I had in mind.” That was her greeting to Vincent as she lowered herself into the car without breaking an ankle. Miraculous.

  The door closed behind her, leaving her to stew in the warmth of the car. The windows began to fog as Vincent got in on the other side and drove away without a word.

  This was Nala’s first time being in his presence since her Monday foray in the shower. Hey, buddy, it’s almost like we fucked. Trust me, entering a fantasy of mine is a pretty big honor. It doesn’t happen with anyone. Nala stared at him in the dark of the car, his profile firm and chiseled. He was wearing the tie-less three-piece again, only this time instead of a white shirt it was a silky black, decorated with glass buttons. I wonder what he looks like under there. Did the man work out? Was he a runner? Lift weights? All Nala knew about his physique was that he didn’t look overweight and that he had hard biceps. Didn’t exactly say too much.

  “I hope the dress isn’t too terrible,” he mumbled, eyes focused on the road.

  Nala scoffed. “I feel like I’m barely wearing anything. Who picked this out? You?”

  He glanced in her direction. “Yes.”

  “Really?”

  “Who else would have done it? I’m the only one who knows about this arrangement.”

  “That’s…” Weird. “I thought maybe you had an assistant. Don’t most men of your standing use assistants?” She thought of that Andrew guy, who was ready to escort her right out of the building before his boss stepped in to save her neck and maybe break his.

  “I try to avoid using assistants whenever possible. They get in the way and rarely understand directions. I’m a big fan of if you want something done right, you must do it yourself.”

  Nala nodded. “I feel the same way. Although…”

  Vincent eased on the brakes as they approached a light. This is the smoothest car ride in the world. The car didn’t look like much on the outside, but from in here? Nala had to wonder how much a ride like this cost. More than I’ll ever see in my life.

  “What is it?”

  Nala gripped the seat belt touching her exposed stomach. “What made you choose this dress? Is this the kind of stuff you’re into?”

  She expected him to give her that same expressionless demeanor he always had. Thus she was shaken to the core of that naked navel when he laughed. Not hard, and certainly nothing more than an ill-timed guffaw. It was enough to unnerve Nala, however, who stayed on her side of the car with a twist of the mouth.

  “Hey, could be worse,” he said. “I’m sure someone will show up in bondage gear.”

  The thought of this man buying her bondage wear sent a wave of nausea straight to Nala’s empty stomach – which then promptly growled loud enough to compete with the quiet motor of the car.

  Vincent stopped chuckling. “Hungry, huh?”

  Nala kept her face turned toward the window so he couldn’t see the embarrassment pinking her cheeks. “A little. I didn’t eat after getting home.” She did, however, eat a substantial lunch. Something she could get used to if Vincent kept paying her like a high-priced hooker. That reminds me… do I get another payment this Sunday? Check in the mail? Direct bank transfer? How was this going to work, exactly? Something to ask him over dinner.

  “Don’t worry, we’re almost to the restaurant.”

  They had already crossed the bridge into downtown. It’s weird how there’s so little traffic for this time of day. Maybe the waves parted to admit a man of Vincent Lane’s standing. As if the collective commuting consciousness knew to bow to him like a king coming through his court. No, that’s more like a Xavier Crow thing. The man who owned half the town. What did Vincent own? Besides me, apparently. Nala nuked that thought from her brain.

  “Hope you like seafood,” Vincent said, pulling up to a valet and motioning for Nala to get out on her side.

  “Do I have a choice?” The driver side door shut in her face before she had the chance to mumble some more in Vincent’s direction. So much for chivalry.

  “I’ve made reservations.” Vincent extended his arm, waiting for Nala to take it as she stepped onto the quiet sidewalk. “Otherwise we would be waiting a while.”

  Nala looked around. The façade was yet another abandoned warehouse, a common sight along the Willamette River. Once upon a time – even back in Nala’s childhood – this was a busy industrial village keeping the economy churning one day at a time. Now those time-honored businesses were long gone, replaced with empty, decaying buildings that were slowly being converted into lofts and cafes and whatever this was.

  They stepped into a bright, warm foyer full of floral scents and the sounds of live piano. Fancy. Some said this was why they came to Portland – to enjoy the culture hiding within abandoned this and that. Nala never paid them much mind. Now, as she and Vincent were led through winding hallways to a private dining alcove overlooking the river, she wondered what other fancy gems hid within buildings like these.

  You never knew because you never looked. Nala scoffed at herself. You never looked because you know this world isn’t for you. Sometimes one had to tell themselves the hardest truths in order to get by unscathed.

  “Let me get your sweater.” Vincent had his hands on her sleeves before she could ask him what he said. Well, then. Soft fabric passed her arms as she was exposed to the warm air. Her hair kept out the chill, but it wasn’t enough to stop her nipples from suddenly hardening within her dress. Nala felt silly turning around to sit in the nearest chair. “Here.” Then Vincent was there, pulling out her chair like a perfect gentleman. Who is this guy? Was he being nice because he read her thoughts earlier?

  She caught his glance as she smoothed down her skirt to sit down, a healthy helping of cleavage appearing before his widening eyes.

  “You look…” Vincent stopped himself, hurrying to drape her sweater on the back of her chair before sitting down across from her. A small mauve flower arrangement and a burning candle separated them. This is supposed to be romantic, I guess. “You’re beautiful.”

  Nala looked up from the menu she pretended to peruse. “Thanks.”

  Pages of fish names passed. Where’s the salads? She wasn’t used to big meals anymore.

  “I’m serious.” Vincent cleared his throat. “Not trying to imply you don’t look great usually. It’s… I did a good job picking out that dress.”

  Nala shuffled in her seat. “Thanks, I guess.” It would be great if he dropped it there. She didn’t take compliments well – made her feel like she owed the man something in return, and there was almost no feeling worse than that.

  “Anyway.” Vincent picked up his menu and promptly dropped it back down. For the first time since they first met, Nala saw the man more flustered than composed. He blushed in frustration as he fought to get the thing back between his fingers. “This place has a lot of good reviews. I ate here once.” A waiter arrived, pouring them glasses of ice water and asking them if they wanted anything else to drink. Vincent was quick to order a small bottle of wine. Nala would have laughed if this behavior wasn’t because of her body.

  I get it. You realize I’m hot. She didn’t take it as a huge compliment. Most men thought she was hot to some extent – after all, she was female and breathing. Nothing to take personally.

  Vincent deciding she was hot enough to gush over didn’t mean anything.

  It really didn’t.

  “You should try the salmon. It’s wild here. Not farmed.”

  Nala vaguely knew what that meant and why she should care. “It’s okay to look, you know,” she said, focusing on the words in front of her. “I’ve got tits. They’re here. You bought me a dress that shows off the underboob. Go ahead. See what you bought.”

  Vincent peered at her from above his menu. “I do have some self-control.”

  “For that I commend you.” Nala put her menu down, giving him full view of her bare stomach and the breasts barely contained in the dress. One wrong move and they would pop out below the sash, free-range
nipples and all. “You’ve learned since kissing me that first time.”

  The waiter brought the wine. He poured it into two glasses, halfway, before leaving the bottle in the middle of the table next to the floral arrangement. During this time, Nala and Vincent played a coy staring game that would probably end with one of them turning away in a huff. The theme of the night was being twelve-year-olds. Or at least Nala had the patience of one, and Vincent was probably being reminded of the first pair of tits he saw in middle school.

  “Anyway,” he muttered yet again, breaking eye contact. “I’m going to have…” he rattled off some convoluted seafood title, a list of sauces, and a request for his rice to be of a certain variety not listed on the menu. Rich people. Nala wondered how long it took to get acclimated to being so demanding. Or was Vincent naturally like that, and she had yet to see the full extent?

  “For you, madam?” The waiter stood expectantly next to her.

  “That,” she said, pointing to a random salmon entrée. “That’s good.”

  The waiter took away their menus and left them alone in their silent alcove. Vincent sighed, folding his hands on the table and looking anywhere but in Nala’s direction. Typical. She said the man could look, and he did everything in his power to do anything but.

  “Is there a reason you brought me to dinner first?” Nala asked. She ran her fingers along the stem of the wineglass, admiring the deep, flushing red before attempting a sip. “You think I’m too skinny and need some feeding?”

  Vincent remained frozen in his seat, although Nala could tell a battle of wills fought in his addled brain. “I don’t think you’re too skinny. As long as you’re taking care of yourself, well… it’s your business. I shouldn’t have even gone that far.”

  Scoffing, Nala dared a sip of her wine. It was sweet, bitter, a healthy mix of the two as it caressed her tongue. I haven’t had wine in forever. Certainly none as good as this… yet she wouldn’t make a show of it. Didn’t want Vincent thinking she was some uncultured rube this far into their “relationship.” “You act like you don’t have an opinion on the way I look, talk, and act. Of course you do. Don’t be ashamed of it. I’ve been judging you since the moment we met.”