by Paige North
“For what?”
“Any other man in the future.”
I don’t know why I said that. Maybe it’s because of the way he’s holding me, so intimately, as if I matter beyond what our arrangement says. Honesty seems so natural with him right now in this raw afterglow, but I have no idea what happens after having sex. Do I keep on talking about how incredible he is and no one will ever compare?
Or is this where we start to talk about exes and all the other things I don’t want to reveal?
God, I can’t think about those secrets. Not while I’m here with Cage.
He hasn’t said anything else, but his fingers are still busy, slowly trailing down the front of my thigh. Goose bumps make me shiver.
“If you just want me to be quiet,” I say, “I can do that.”
He laughs a little, seemingly relaxed. “Generally, this is the point where I get asked about my crazy dating life and my casual affairs and why I’m not the serious type.”
“Because your other women want to know if they’re different from everyone else? They want to see if you’ll let them, out of everyone else, stick around?”
“I think that’s what some of them are up to. That’s why I’m not much for pillow talk.”
“Don’t worry. I won’t grill you.” And I hope he won’t do the same to me, asking about my past, because I’m not about to tell him. It’s enough for him to know that he took my virginity. Nothing else is relevant.
His fingers go still until he smooths his hand up and over my thigh, cupping the back of it so casually that I almost believe we’re a couple who’s done this before.
“I won’t bore you with the details of my social life anyway,” he murmurs. “I don’t want you to think I’m a complete bastard.”
“You’re not?”
He presses his lips against the top of my head then talks against me. “I grew up on my own, and I’ve never had anyone who was…close. My mother died and my father is no longer in the picture. I’ve never exactly been a…warm…individual.”
I wait for him to continue, to tell me how his mother passed away or why his father isn’t around, but he never does. I only imagine that he’s got that darkness in his gaze again as he continues to hold me.
As I keep pressing my hand to his chest, feeling the thudding of his heart, I realize that Cage and I have crossed yet another line. I’m pretty sure he doesn’t reveal anything to anyone about himself, doesn’t like to feel vulnerable at all, and the fact that he just let me in a little bit more…
I sigh again, running my hand from his muscled chest to his cut waist. I pull myself closer to him until my breasts are crushed against him and my leg nestles between the two of his.
Heaven.
“I understand what you’re saying,” I whisper against him. “Sometimes it’s not easy to get close to people. It’s always been hard for me, too.”
“You?”
He laughs, and that makes me smile against him.
“What’s so funny?” I ask.
“You don’t come off as someone who has a problem with getting close to people.”
For a terrible second, I remember what’s waiting for me back home, and I tense up. Cage must feel it, because he rises to his elbow so he’s propped up, looking down at me. He’s frowning, trying to read me in the dimness of the room.
I pull the sheet up to my shoulders, almost as if that will hide every secret I’ve been keeping.
Cage tucks a strand of my hair behind my ear. “Do you have any idea how you really come off to others, Karini?”
Great. Is he about to tell me in his cutting way that I’m average, but I have a great personality. Or maybe I’m just a good girl who’s a challenge until you break her in.
“You don’t have to say anything,” I tell him. “I know I’m not like those other women you see. The elegant, stunning, exciting ones you run around town with.”
His eyebrows draw together even tighter. “Jesus. You really don’t know.”
“Know what?”
His gaze runs hot again as he brushes it over my face. Then he lazily begins to pull the sheet away from my body.
I tug it back over me, but he wins, yanking the sheet off, leaving me exposed.
He already had his way with me tonight, so there’s no reason I should be shy as his eyes take a long stroll over my body. But I am bashful, and I bring an arm over my breasts and cover my sex with my other hand.
“Don’t,” he says quietly.
The desire in his voice changes everything, and I take my hands from myself, curling further onto my side like a kitten, watching him, waiting for what he’ll say next. As he keeps devouring my body with his gaze, a flush eases over me, and just like that, I’m ready for him again.
Ready for anything.
“What I see,” he says as he touches my hair, “is a woman with big gray eyes and a smile that turns me on every time I see it. Don’t you know that? You’re fucking gorgeous, Karini.”
Maybe, during college, I did see some changes both physically and mentally whenever I looked at myself in the mirror, but I never quite believed I would be anything other than what I’d always been.
I think Cage sees someone totally different than I usually do.
I look into his eyes to determine if he’s really putting me on, trying to get me to screw him again without him having to work very hard for it. But all I find in his gaze is truth, and it sends a rush of warmth through me.
Then real life returns, because, once again, if I’d seen myself as Cage sees me before now, I wouldn’t be in such trouble.
There wouldn’t have ever been a Liam who’s way overdue to send another text…
But it’s as if there’s a new connection between Cage and me, something pulling us toward each other as he draws me back to him, holding me tighter than ever as he embraces me, our bodies intertwined.
He doesn’t have to say anything else as he strokes my back. Soon his breathing evens out, and in his arms, feeling more loved and safe than I’ve ever felt, I fall asleep, too.
The next morning is cold as I wake up in bed alone, the soreness between my thighs the only reminder that he was even there.
He’s gone into work without letting me know. Sure, he’s made arrangements for Daphne, the personal chef and grand dame of his kitchen, to treat me to a delicious breakfast and lunch. He’s also texted me that I should make myself at home until he returns. But I sense that his distance has returned, and I suspect the reason.
He regrets letting me into his room.
He hates that he told me even a little bit about his past.
I know instinctively that Cage Bryant just doesn’t make himself this available to anyone, so I tell myself to be patient as I take a swim in his small, private pool, then summon the on-call massage therapist and manicurist who come over to pamper me with a spa day. I chat on the phone with my family and friends, lying to them about this “end-of-the-summer wingding with some college buddies.”
I wait for the next text from Liam, and thank god there isn’t one.
By the time Cage returns, he’s all business, appearing in the library where I’m kicking back on a stuffed sofa, reading some Jane Austen.
At the sight of him in his pressed suit with his brown hair slicked and tamed, I go full horny for him—so powerful, so intimidating. I’ve been daydreaming about him, walking an emotional tightrope as I wonder what mood he’ll be in this time.
“I’ve made a decision,” he says, sliding behind his desk like an inaccessible boss and taking his seat.
Okay, we’ve got a read on the mood, and it’s Arctic.
I don’t let that bother me. After all, I’m here to serve. I sit up and put the book down on the glass table in front of me.
He continues. “We’ll be dining with Igor Vasiliev the night after tomorrow.”
So we’re definitely going there. But there must be something else he’s leading up to.
“Great,” I say. “Just let me kn
ow how you want me to dress and what I should and shouldn’t discuss during the meal. I already learned my lesson about saying too much.”
He seems pleased by my answer, but he’s still cool. “Since I can’t put anything to chance with Igor, we’ll be having rehearsals, so to speak.”
Ah. This was what he was building up to.
Sudden thoughts of an old musical I saw with my parents, My Fair Lady, clutter the front of my mind. “Am I going to be schooled in the art of being a lady?”
“A girlfriend. My girlfriend. But, more to the point, we need to seem as if we’re a real couple. If we can carry that off, I’m certain I can cement the deal with Igor to do business with him in Russia.”
My heart falls a little. Cementing the deal means having my “relationship” with Cage come to an end. But it’s not all bad, right? That means I’ll have my money—plus some extra—and I’ll get Liam off my back for good. No more texts, no more worries about keeping my secret.
“I’m game,” I say. “What does ‘rehearsing’ entail?”
“Not much more than it did when Igor saw us going out for ice cream.” Cage is so confident, as if he’s thought all of this through. “For the next couple of nights, we appear in town, dine together, smile in each other’s company, then have that dinner with him. It’s just a matter of sticking to an act.”
“Basically, we pretend to be significant others for the next couple of days and I don’t say anything to mess it up.”
“Precisely.”
I should be ecstatic at the thought of being wined and dined by an incredibly handsome billionaire who’ll pull out all the stops for me, but it seems so…empty.
Even so, I smile at him. “I’m all in. Just tell me which lesson comes first, Professor Higgins.”
From the slight, professional smile on Cage’s face, I know he gets my vintage reference to My Fair Lady.
But the darkness I see in his eyes is as ruthless as I’ve ever seen.
Chapter 12
We’re only pretending to be a couple, but when Cage tells me he’s taking me out that night to dinner and then the opening of an art gallery, it all seems too real.
For this dress rehearsal for the dinner with Igor Vasiliev, I show Cage a black-lace, tea-length cocktail dress and high-heeled sandals from my closet. He approves. He tells me that he’d like to see what I select for the actual dinner and that I’ll be having a hair and makeup specialist come here to shine me up that evening.
But tonight I’m on my own, so I get dressed with great care, styling my hair so it trails over one shoulder, doing my best with my makeup.
It’s as if I’m going on a first date with a guy, breathless and eager, even though this is only business.
I stuff a little handbag with my necessaries and wait for Cage in the ornate entry. When he emerges from the hallway, he slows his steps.
We look at each other—I, taking in every detail of him in his dark suit; he, lavishing me with a gaze so approving and famished that my pulse trembles.
“Did I ace lesson one?” I ask.
“Straight As.”
“So I look like I could actually be your girlfriend.”
“You look…”
As he trails off with that sensual fire in his gaze, I remember what he said last night about how gorgeous I am. The fact that he doesn’t say it now feels even more powerful, as if there’s no word for me.
Maybe he is right, and I need to start looking at myself in a different way.
He opens the door and escorts me into the elevator. We’re joined by other people on the way down, and every time one of them glances at me and smiles, I feel Cage’s approval as well as a possessive hum that never stops filling the space between us.
After a ride in his limo, where he has champagne waiting for us, we’re dropped off at what Cage calls a neo-bistro on the Lower East Side. The moment we enter the restaurant, the exclusivity of the blushing lights and high-backed booths strikes me as being very intimate. I see a pair of big box-office movie stars in one corner, and they acknowledge Cage. Everyone else merely stares—and not only at him.
I already had a glass of champagne to settle my nerves, so I’m rather giddy at this new feeling of empowerment. I feel people staring at me…at us, and I have to keep telling myself that this is just an act.
The maître d’ leaves us with menus, and as soon as our waiter reports to us, Cage orders a fine wine. As he interacts with the waiter, I inspect everything around us, wanting to be observant. It’s just that I’m so happy to be here, so stoked about the possibility of getting Cage this huge deal with Igor Vasiliev. I’m going to do everything I can to see that it happens.
I’m in the process of picking up the cool salt- and peppershakers that look like fancy wooden chess pieces when the waiter leaves.
Cage is staring at me.
“What?” I ask, showing him the shakers. “Aren’t these great?”
“Lesson two,” he says evenly, “is not to act as if you’ve never been out to dinner before when we dine with Mr. Vasiliev.”
I put the shakers down. It was a tiny faux pas, but I understand. Mr. Vasiliev might think I just found my way out of a barn if I don’t act more sophisticated.
“I’ve got it,” I say.
With a stoic expression, Cage studies the menu. I know how much this upcoming dinner means to him, how stressed he is about it, so I let his mood slide. I’ll just have to pay more attention to what I’m doing.
I am sophisticated, classy, and experienced, I tell myself as I look over the small plates on the menu—gourmet oysters, exotic cheeses, succulent clams, different versions of beef tartare, then tarts and custards for dessert…
I concentrate on lesson three: Cage’s girlfriend would let him do the ordering.
When the waiter returns with our wine, I lay down my menu. Our server pours a splash of red in Cage’s glass, then at his signal, mine, too. I focus on swirling the liquid in my glass to assess the quality—it’s something I learned online before I got dressed for tonight—and Cage smiles slightly at me.
Nailed that lesson, thank you.
I sip the wine and swirl it in my mouth, then give Cage a brief nod. He allows the waiter to fill our glasses, and then the server takes our order from Cage and disappears again.
“I passed,” I say.
“Absolutely.”
He leans back in his chair and plays with the stem of his glass. “I was hard on you about the shakers.”
I don’t think Cage does apologies, so I take this for what it’s worth. “I’ll learn. It’s just that I’ve never been to a place where movie stars eat and billionaires order bottles of wine that…” I glance at the Cabernet Sauvignon. “I’ll bet this costs more than an entire month of what I earn shelving books at my school’s library for extra dough.”
“Then enjoy it, Karini. But not too much of it, if you know what I mean.”
“Aye, captain.”
For the next two hours, Cage coaches me on what to talk about and not talk about with Mr. Vasiliev. What it boils down to is this: If the man asks about how we met and other personal details, I’ll let Cage handle it.
By that point, I’ve got a wonderful buzz going from the second glass of wine the waiter poured for me while Cage took a quick phone call outside—the Cabernet Sauvignon is doing wonders to relax me during this trial run, and I won’t blow it for Cage. I want so badly to do well that I need to be relaxed. He’ll never know I’ve nipped a little more. And he’ll be extra happy that I’m in such a good mood when we finally get home.
And when we get there, will we be going to Cage’s room again?
What carnal adventures does he have in mind for me tonight?
After we finish dinner and Cage takes me back into the limo, I lean my head against his shoulder in the backseat. Soft, mellow music—something more suited to Florida than New York—plays over the speakers.
“You should limit your drinking at the Vasiliev dinner,” he says. “No cha
mpagne on the limo ride there either.”
“Okay.” I just won’t tell him how much I’ve had tonight and things will be cool.
“How much wine did you have?”
I hold up my hand and indicate a smidge with my fingers.
He tenses up next to me. I believe he senses a wee fib from the “girlfriend.”
“We still have the art gallery to go to,” he says tightly. “A friend of a friend is opening it with a photography showing.”
I slip my hand into his. “Can’t we end the lessons here tonight and just go home? I crushed it in the restaurant. After the shaker incident, I mean.”
I don’t know if it’s the handholding or the word home that spooks him, but he tenses up even more. I realize too late that I misspoke—his home isn’t my home, and I shouldn’t get too comfortable in it. Also, I suspect that to Cage, holding hands is far too intimate.
How weird is that after we’ve done way more personal things with each other?
He takes his hand out of mine, and as I flush, I sit up straight.
“Indulge me,” he says. “You need more practice as my ‘girlfriend,’ and this is one more opportunity to hone your act.”
Boy. Demanding much?
But I don’t argue. He’s paying me for my time, so I tell myself to suck it up, and when we arrive at the small, trendy little gallery in Chinatown, I put on my girlfriend game face.
After we leave the limo, Cage slips my arm through his. There’re actually a few photographers outside to snap our pictures, and I relax and smile for the cameras. Not too big, not too small, but just right.
Cage doesn’t correct my behavior, so I’m going to take that as a win. It’s our first photo together. Mr. Vasiliev will probably be seeing it in the society columns.
I’m just buzzed enough to not care about that fact either. If my family and friends see me with Cage Bryant in the media, I’ll just tell them my end-of-summer adventure was really an adventure, and it was sadly short-lived. Hey, if the royals in England can hang with commoners, why can’t I hang with a playboy billionaire?
Also, I’ve had worse things happen in life than a society picture. Just ask Liam.
