But just then another switch clicked off in his head. A warning switch telling him to hit the shut off valve. He deadened his gaze. “No, I’m boring. About as far from interesting as you can get.”
It was then that the sweet lips went flat. She gave a small shrug of her shoulders and then turned for her door. Those sexy as hell, expensive, red bottomed heels pausing before turning back his way.
Oh, just go into your apartment already, woman.
But no, she spoke. “Just so you know, Mr. Thorn, you have my name and that’s all you need to know. I like my privacy. I pretty much keep to myself and I’d appreciate it if you did the same. I don’t mean to be rude, but I’m kind of a solitary person.”
He nodded. “No problem, ma’am. I get that. We can all use our space.”
She gave him a terse nod and a large chunk of her pinned up hair fell forward across her eyes like a shield. His hands ached to reach out and move it, give him his view back. But he resisted, instead going for his keys as she went for hers.
They turned and unlocked their opposite doors at the same time.
“Welcome to the top floor, Mr. Thorn.”
He paused at her words as desire shot through him like a bullet. He turned back around. She had put out her hand for him to shake, plastered on a smile that could sell hand warmers in hell, and all irrational thought told him to reach out for her, take her hard against his body, and wipe all that cool haughtiness right off her perfect little face. Instead, he took her hand in his own, letting the brief moment of warmth wash over him while trying hard to ignore the current of electric energy that charged them both. “Thanks for the warm reception, Miss Leighton.”
• • •
Mark sat in the large leather recliner he had brought up from his old apartment and balanced his laptop on his knees. He gazed around the huge loft, wondering once again how he was going to fill the cavernous space. He’d really lucked out with this place opening up. Though it had all the luxuries, it was still just dirty enough with its concrete flooring and exposed brick, where you felt if you mucked it up, it wasn’t as if you burped in front of the Queen of England or something. But still, he marveled. Jeez, he’d moved up like crazy. Ray would shit himself if he saw him now. Living in downtown Manhattan, in an apartment with windows that curved up to the ceiling and beyond to let in the precious New York skyline, from his Bronx roots, it was almost unimaginable. Almost. But too bad he could and did imagine it and then some. Too bad it took so much pain and sacrifice to get it.
Mark shook his head to clear the cloud of anger that threatened to move in. No use letting it. He was here now and would make the best use if it. It’s what his mom had taught him and what Ray would expect. Use what you got to get what you need. That’s what Ray always said when he was still a hard-headed kid and needed some sense drilled into him. And it’s what had served him well as an adult. He thought for a moment to pick up the phone and call Vegas, just to hear a friendly voice. But then his conscience got the better of him and he let out a grunt as his stomach turned.
How could he talk to Ray and not let it slip who his new neighbor was? Ray, with his keen ears and intuition, would pick up on something in his voice. No, he couldn’t call right now. There was no way. As always, Ray would state the obvious and his words would fill him with doubt and potentially send him packing. “Step back, Thorn,” he’d probably say. “She’s not for you.” The same words that had echoed in his head for most of his life.
He let out a low and long breath. It was abundantly clear in her “What are you doing up here?” comment that she thought he was over stepping the line. Mark laughed to himself. Oh well, it’s not like it was the first time he’d met a line and then crossed it — nor would it be the last.
Turning, Mark now studied his new space. He envisioned a new utility table in the sunniest corner, which also led to the roof deck for his furniture workshop. He looked to the other end of the apartment and decided where he’d block out a little office space for his security business. Man cannot live on a hobby alone and though relaxing, his woodwork wasn’t paying any bills. Strangely enough, what paid the bills is what had almost cost him his life. Getting shot hadn’t been the end for him, but it was a wakeup call to live less recklessly and to have eyes in the front, back, and side of his head. Now with this new team of guys, he was ready to do that in a bigger and better way. His eyes roamed to his door once again. Who knows, maybe the prickly Miss Leighton could help him out there? He shook his head. No, she’d made it clear that she wanted her space. Besides, in no way was he ready to get tangled up in the Leighton web. They’d done his family enough harm as it was.
Mark frowned as his laptop came to life and he clicked over to his bank account. He’d come into a good amount of money from his work after Afghanistan, though it was literal blood money. But honestly, he was happy to pay the price. At least it now afforded him what he needed to cover his mother’s medical costs since her heart attack and have plenty more for his business. The thought had him once again shifting his mind to push back a cloud. Some would think being shot by one of his own men while working private security and coming this close to death would be number one on his dark list, but no, for him it was just one of the numbers. Easily, the darkest moment of his life was the one when he thought he’d lose his mom. Second was the vulnerable feeling of not being able to care for her properly due to the cost of her care. Well, never again. He’d vowed then and there to do whatever it took to care for her. And sure, he got a little reckless with his money making methods, but desperation will do that to you, and yeah, it cost him, but now it was worked out. He pushed the memory aside. Yeah, it had worked out just fine and to him it was well worth every drop of blood he’d lost.
He glanced over at his apartment door once more and swiped at his brow. This time the thoughts that came along with the image of his new neighbor were ones that he couldn’t push aside. They rushed at him, memories flooding back faster than he could sandbag them and take cover.
There he was, the skinny eleven-year-old kid with the oversized curly fro. The kid that was supposed to be hiding out in the janitor’s closet, doing his homework while he waited for his mom to finish emptying the trash and cleaning the rich executives’ toilets. But no, that day she was taking too long and he wanted to get out and get home. His favorite show would be on TV and he didn’t want to miss it. So he thought he would help her out and empty a few cans for her, let her clock out early — and that was when he saw her.
She was young, but not that young. Maybe two years younger than he was. And she was just so beautiful, sleeping on the large leather couch. Like something from the fairy tales they had studied in his class. His breath caught, got stuck in his throat, and that was something he’d never experienced. It made him excited and bubbly and free, like when he was still into Santa and the Tooth Fairy. He stared at her, blinking fast, his breath now shallow. She was still in her school uniform though it was getting on late in the evening and despite himself, his eyes traveled down her sleeping form and he couldn’t help but marvel over how clean the uniform was. Her black shoes so shiny, knee socks so white. He felt guilty so he looked away from her body and up to her face and then, just like that, he suddenly felt worse. Her pretty bowed lips, long wisps of eyelashes fanned out across her perfectly smooth cheeks. In that moment, she seemed to be all he ever wanted and all he’d never have laid right out before him. And even at his young age he knew it. She was unobtainable.
He didn’t mean to touch her, but for the life of him he couldn’t help it. In one moment, she was so peaceful and then, suddenly like a sin, a frown marred her beautiful face and she began to moan, thrashing around. She seemed to be in such distress. Something twisted in his heart and all he wanted to do was ease her pain and take the misery away. “Shhh. It’s alright. I’ve got you. You’re safe.”
His fingers grazed her cool cheek and her eyes popped
open. Sparkling liquid dark pools of forever connected with his eyes, blank at first, but then she smiled. And in that moment for the life of him, he couldn’t breathe. It was as if the world went from black and white to full Technicolor for the first time. All he could do was stupidly smile back.
But it all went dark once again as thunder came crashing down in the form of Howard Leighton. “Don’t you touch her! She’s not for you!”
Mark tried to jump back, but he was too late. Leighton had already lashed out and smacked him across the head. The blow sent him crashing into the desk behind him. He heard her scream and saw both his mother and hers come running from opposite directions, followed by another boy, this one around his age.
“Daddy, stop. He didn’t do anything!” the dream girl yelled.
“It’s fine, Dad. Stop,” the boy said, agreeing with his sister and tugging on his father, struggling to pull him back to keep him from striking Mark once again.
It was then that Mark heard his mother begging as he felt the blood seeping from his eyebrow and the anger begin to swell low in his belly and up to his chest. He didn’t like the sound of his mother begging anyone.
He was just about to lash out but he was pulled back and into his mother’s welcoming arms. He watched as her mouth moved rapidly, scolding as she stared at him with fear and concern in her eyes while dabbing at his eyebrow with a gentle touch. He glanced over her shoulder. The girl was in tears in the other boy’s arms as her father raged on. As he stared, big sobs wracked her thin frame and despite the pain in his head, he wanted to reach for her again, push that other boy away and tell her not to cry. That it was all worth it just for her smile.
Chapter 3
Samara leaned back on her apartment door and closed her eyes. Why him? And why did she have to make such a fool of herself? “I want to paint you?” and “What are you doing up here?” What the hell, was she suddenly her father? And what was with the formal “Mr. Thorn” crap? What now, suddenly they were in Soho by way of an Austen period piece. What the effing fuck?
She banged her head against the steel door then winced as the pins from her up-do pierced her scalp.
Shit. Smart, Sam. Mild contusion on top of losing any semblance of cool. Good to see you’ve got it all together today.
Sam ran frustrated fingertips across her head, checking for any damage before pushing off and stepping away from the door. Raising her arms, she took the pins out of the back of her hair and scratched at her scalp, instantly turning her loose chignon into a mass of brown waves around her shoulders. That was better. She needed all traces of this day gone.
Kicking off her shoes, she shed her blazer, draping it across the big old couch that was the anchor of her loft. She walked toward her partitioned off bedroom, pressing the button on the answering machine as she finally fully unzipped her skirt and let it fall to the floor. Thank goodness. To be free of that blasted garment.
As she stepped back into the living room, she listened to the voices that now filled the air. Most of those who left messages had her shaking her head, writing them off. She wouldn’t be returning their calls. They were not her friends and that was why they didn’t have her cell, only her business number. They were acquaintances at best. She’d gotten a new number and cell last summer and had been very select about who she gave it out to. She’d come to learn over the past few years with the come up of Facebook, the term “friend” had been terribly devalued and bantered around way too loosely.
Sam paused as what was fast becoming an overly familiar tone filled the air through the machine’s speakers. “Sammy!” She groaned. God, she hated how Peter took to calling her Sammy. He’d heard her father say it and thought it the most endearing term, insisting on just running with it. As if he was somehow already family and so familiar. She let out a sigh as he continued. “How come you haven’t returned any of my calls? You know we’re long overdue for that date. Are you playing hard to get? Because you know you don’t have to play with me. Besides, we’ll be seeing each other at your parents’ dinner party. I thought we should get together before that. I’ve spoken to your mother about it. I’ll be calling you again to set something up. Better if you hit me up first.”
Sam frowned. What the hell did that mean, better if she hit him up first? Was that some sort of threat? Peter was way too chummy with her parents and his comment made it seem like if she didn’t call, he’d go reporting back to Mommy and Daddy. Please. Nothing worse than a mama’s boy, especially if that mama’s boy was your Mama’s boy.
It was in that exact moment that her cell rang and Sam froze, narrowing her eyes. It couldn’t be, but Sam already knew it could. She walked over to her cell and saw a number she didn’t recognize, but curiosity won out and still she answered.
“Hello.”
“Sammy, my love.”
Hell. “Peter.”
“Ouch, love. You could freeze a man’s balls off with that chill.”
Sam fought not to let out a sigh. Instead, she just waited to see what he would say next. One beat then another passed before he spoke up.
“Well, I was calling to see about us getting together for sinner.”
She raised a brow. “You mean dinner?”
Peter let out an awkward laugh. “Who said anything about dinner?”
This time she jumped past sigh and went straight to growl. “Listen, I don’t want to be completely rude, so I’m going to warn you of my hanging up so it doesn’t come as a shock or is considered some sort of a mistake. But first I have to ask, how did you get this number?”
“Okay, okay, I’m sorry,” Peter said. “It was a stupid joke, but it’s just that you make me nervous as all get out. And you should consider that a compliment. Nobody makes me nervous.”
This unexpected bit of candor caused Sam to pause and not hit end call immediately.
“I got your number from your father, and before you go getting all upset with him, prying your phone number has taken me three lunches at his club and a round of golf up in Westchester. I don’t even like golf, Sam.”
She closed her eyes briefly before opening them back up. So Daddy was interviewing for a potential son-in-law. Her headache was getting worse by the second. But something came over her and for a moment she actually felt sorry for Peter. Then, just as quickly, her hackles went up. Did he know he didn’t stand a chance or was he just being opportunistic? And could she really fault him for either? Besides, she had to give him credit for walking through the fire of her father for her number. “Okay, Peter, you can at least get a coffee for having to endure golf with my dad. That must have been brutal.”
“You’re not kidding. I think he hustled me. Took me for five hundred bucks. I was a fool for taking the bet. Should have known that when his boys started yucking it up behind my back. The man can play.”
Sam walked over to the entryway of her studio and stared at her current work in progress. Suddenly, her new neighbor came to mind. She turned away and fought to focus on the call at hand. “Poor dear. Feeling a little light in the pockets? In that case, I’ll spring for the coffee.”
“Great!” Peter suddenly sounded like a kid being promised a trip to the toy store. “I’ll pick you up tomorrow morning. Though, when a woman’s with Peter Moss, it’s the Moss treatment all the way. I’ll pay, baby.”
Sam physically fought an eye roll. “Fine, but not too early. I’m usually up working late.”
As she hung up, Sam couldn’t help feeling that she was making a mistake agreeing to this date, but really there was no way out now. Her parents were clearly pushing this and wouldn’t relent. She might as well go with it, at least to bide her time and give herself some breathing room until she had her gallery show. And then, well, then she’d have some hard decisions to make. Dad had put it all on the line. It was time for her to live up to her family obligations, whether she wanted to or not. It w
as the least she could do since Charles could not.
She let out a long breath and willed her stomach to unknot. Enough with the thinking of her father, Peter and even the sexy Mr. Thorn. It was time to escape.
Looking up and out the floor to ceiling and beyond windows, Sam took in her view, gazing past the few building tops that blocked her way, to the cars speeding by on the West Side Highway, and then beyond them to the Hudson River. She let her gaze roam past that to the Palisades of New Jersey. So many lives. So many people moving and hustling for all they were worth. And here she was, years going by and she felt like she was just standing still. She let her eyes wander back over to her canvases as a heat overcame her, she wondered if she wasn’t fooling herself. Maybe her father was right. How was she making any difference to anyone?
Was she really just wasting her time? She felt her lip twist. This was stupid. She didn’t play the poor little rich girl part well. It was below her. Even in this she and her father would agree; it was a waste of time and energy.
Sam’s eyes darted from one muted color on her canvases to the other. So many works and now they suddenly all looked the same to her. Still lifes and still works. Normally she loved capturing one small piece of a little picture, but today they just couldn’t grab her. She wanted something more.
Sam stared at her current work. An alley scene: all dark muted grays, muddy browns, and olive greens. It was a truncated slice of the alley. The deep back fence and the large dark green dumpster filled most of the canvas. Funny, she thought the work was fine yesterday and now for some reason it just seemed off.
Sam heard a thud and turned toward her door, her mind registering the sound of furniture being moved in the apartment across from hers. Thorn. She let out the breath that hitched in her chest and turned back to her work, looking at it more critically. Yes, yesterday it was fine, so what was wrong with it now? Another thud. This one followed by a low screech, as if wood was being pulled across concrete, and she couldn’t help but imagine Thorn straining to move some heavy piece of something. A couch or maybe even a bed? In her mind’s eyes she imagined his muscles rippling, sweat beads forming despite himself. She swallowed. What the hell had gotten into her?
Seduction’s Canvas (Crimson Romance) Page 3
