Standing up from our seats, I lean in and give him a hug. It felt like the right thing to do. “I’ll think about it, Jackson. Thank you. You’re a good man.”
As soon as we end the embrace and are about to part ways, my spine tingles and my heart races at the sound of footsteps coming down the hall. Footsteps that I know belong to Ian. It’s happening again. Somehow, my ears recognize, as if by instinct or some inexplicable memory, the sound of each step he takes. The worst part is, my body knows it too. Its chemistry has already shifted, quite noticeably. Dear God, how am I going to do this?!
I can’t bring myself to turn around, even though I see Jackson smiling at him. A few seconds later, I hear Ian’s voice deliver a curt, “Jackson,” as his greeting. Now I have no choice but to turn and face him, pretending I’m totally unfazed by his presence.
Ooohhh…by all that is holy, why does he have to look like that? I plaster a pleasant smile on my face and hold out my hand to shake his as if he were an everyday client and not the man that made me orgasm in a parking lot five days ago, before I even knew his name. “Mr. McAlistair, welcome back to The Clara Sea. I think we are all set for your meeting tomorrow.” I thought that sounded pretty good. But from the look on Ian’s face, he did not.
Looking directly at me with a fierce expression, he says, “Jackson, could you please excuse us?” As I hear Jackson walk away, my anxiety level increases. I really don’t want to be alone with him again. He does weird shit to my brain and I can’t think straight. And he smells so freaking good I could cry. Dammit!
“It’s Ian,” he says, sounding slightly annoyed. “I’d like it very much if you would call me Ian and not Mr. McAlistair.” He seems wound up like a tight rubber band today.
“Okay…Ian. I assume you’re here to check on things before your meeting tomorrow. I think you will be pleased.” Although, looking at him, I’m not so sure about that. The heated expression on his face is starting to make me sweat. I really wish one of my employees would walk up right now and say I’m needed elsewhere.
“No, I actually came to see you. I’m not concerned about the meeting tomorrow. It will go well.”
Wow. Why the hell was that so damn sexy? Before I have a chance to respond, he continues. “It was recommended to me by a friend that I arrive here with a bouquet of flowers for you, as a peace offering, so that you know I am capable of being a gentleman and that I’m not always an overbearing prick. His words, not mine.” He’s smiling now. It’s really quite charming, even though I know he’s the devil in disguise.
He must be referring to Jackson, and on a laugh I say, “Well, looks like you didn’t take his advice. I don’t see any flowers.”
Still smiling, he shakes his head, “No. You don’t. For whatever reason, it didn’t feel right. Perhaps it’s because I don’t do cliché very well.” Yeah, I can’t really picture that, either. “But I wasn’t opposed to some sort of peace offering, considering how poorly my apology went on Saturday.” His smirk is sinful as hell, and my body suddenly thinks he is going to offer me something along the lines of what he did last Friday and it’s very excited about it. Good grief! If his nostrils flare, I’m walking away. I will not be able to deal with that again.
Reaching inside the leather-bound folder I didn’t notice he was holding, he pulls out a piece of paper, but it’s heavier, like cardstock or something. He’s definitely piqued my curiosity because I have no idea what that could be. He holds it a bit longer, staring at whatever is facing him. He’s hesitant and suddenly seems a little shy, which is completely throwing me off.
Looking up, he says, “Did you know the word Fay means faerie?” Of all the things I thought he might say, that was not one of them, not even close.
I stare at him for a minute, brows drawn together in confusion, and respond, “I may have heard that somewhere along the way. Why?”
“In Scotland, the word Fay has several meanings, but faerie is the most common. When Jackson first told me your name, Charlotte LeFay, I thought to myself…how perfect, how befitting. Charlotte the Faerie. I had this enchanting image of you in my head.” He looks back at the paper he is holding, one finger following a line that is invisible to my eye. “Your gorgeous hair flowing in the wind; that beautiful face smiling mischievously, taunting me, tempting me; and a magnificent pair of wings protruding proudly from your naked body, so lithe and curved and deliciously feminine.”
My heart is pounding in my chest, I am so caught off guard. The way he is describing me as a faerie has to be one of the most sensual things I’ve ever heard in my life. I’m literally speechless and heating up everywhere. It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters, because once again, he’s not done. The last time he ruined me with his arrogance, making me want to hate him for all eternity. Now he’s going to ruin me with something so indescribable, my heart may never be the same.
He hands me the paper. A gasp escapes as I see what he was looking at. It is a pencil drawing, of me, as a faerie, and it is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. I cannot stop the tears that well up in my eyes, it is that amazing. My fingers touch my lips to hold in the sound. There I am, from behind, walking down a path. I am naked, my hair flowing as if it’s floating in a breeze. My wings are truly magnificent in their size and beauty; I cannot believe how perfect they are. My upper body is turned slightly to the left so that my face is in profile, a faint smile on my mouth. I am holding a single flower up to my nose as if to smell its sweet scent, the barest tip of my breast exposed just beyond my arm. The style, the technique and precision of this drawing are so beautiful I can’t stop staring at it. But it’s the one bit of color that is most poignant. The touch of pink that only brightens the flower I am holding.
For what seems like forever, I keep staring at this work of art he’s given me, completely at a loss for words. Finally looking up, I whisper, “Did you draw this?”
His eyes are dark and glassy, lips held tightly together, he’s tense with his hands held behind his back. His response is almost curt, “Yes. I did.”
I don’t even know what to say. This man that I wanted to hate or pretend didn’t exist has just handed me something I can’t even find words to describe—that he created—as a peace offering after he annihilated my pride and humility only five short days ago. Is the universe out to get me? Am I supposed to be left speechless and in pieces by this man at every turn? For good and for bad?
Running my fingers across the flowing lines, as he did before I knew what he was tracing, I smile. I love this rendering so much, I suddenly wish this were really me. Walking through nature, such graceful posture, shoulders so poised, so relaxed in my nudity, so feminine and sensual. This woman is powerful in a way that is raw and ethereal and maybe even a little dangerous. The expression on her face says she is pleased to have received the pink flower, but there is something else there she’s not giving away, something mysterious.
The more I look at it, the more it reaches in and attaches itself to a place deep inside me, making my chest ache and my stomach feel like I’m falling off a ledge. Ian drew this…of me, for me, and there is so much meaning to be found here I’m suddenly overwhelmed.
In the faintest voice, not quite a whisper, I finally speak, “Ian…I don’t know what to say. It’s so beautiful…so…I’m…at a loss.” I huff out a breath I’d been holding, trying to breathe normally once again. What is the right thing to do and say in this moment? This man standing in front of me is more dangerous to my sanity and emotional wellbeing than I ever imagined. Prior to this, it was easy to see him for what he was—an arrogant jerk that has his way with women whenever and wherever he chooses. Now, he’s showing me a side that is utterly enthralling in its uncommon depth and charm. The man he’s exposing to me now is the kind a woman falls deeply in love with and is never the same again. I am more terrified of this Ian than the cocky bastard that was easy to despise.
His tone is calm if not somewhat hesitant when he asks, “So you like it, then?”
I can
’t help but laugh on another breath as it escapes my tight chest. “I don’t think the word like comes even remotely close to how I feel about it. Ian, it’s stunning… It’s breathtaking!” I shake my head because those words don’t justify it, either. “Do you draw a lot? I mean, do you sell your work? Surely this isn’t just a hobby that no one ever gets to see but you?” He must be featured in galleries around Miami, at least. His talent is so far beyond novice it’s ridiculous.
“No. I rarely draw. I don’t have time.” His matter-of-fact answer surprises me.
Holding the paper up, I question, “This is unpracticed? Ian, you must know how gifted you are. It’s one thing to draw something well, but this is so far beyond that, it’s like she’s alive…like I can sense her energy.” Looking up, I can see in his turquoise eyes that he is pleased I am impressed. My first instinct is to reach up and give him a hug, because I love this gift so much. But I know better than to tempt that kind of contact with him. “What made you decide to do this?” It seems so out of character from what I know of him it’s almost shocking.
“I guess you could say I have a vivid imagination.” A seductive smile forms on his lips. Damn. “I told you what I envisioned when I found out your name. The image was so magnificent, I was inspired. I wanted to see more of her, to play with her, like she called me to do. When I put what I saw on paper, I was mesmerized…enchanted.” He pauses for a minute while his eyes roam around the features of my face. “Then I decided to give her a flower so she would be pleased with me.” His voice got deeper, and another wave of heat came over my body. He’s going to melt me again, right here in the hallway, this time with his words.
“But all she did over the past several days was taunt me and torment me. So I decided to give her to you, hoping maybe you would understand why I haven’t been able to think straight or get you out of my head since you cut me off on the highway last Friday.” He reaches up, placing his hand softly under my chin, slowly tracing the line of my lips with his thumb, his deep, almost menacing voice penetrating my soul. “You’ve cast a spell on me, Charlotte LeFay. Now, you have to deal with the consequences.”
I’m going to pass out. I know I am… The blood is draining from my head and my vision is closing in. In an effort to prevent that embarrassing disaster, I quickly turn and sit in the closest chair, putting my head down as low as possible without fully putting it between my knees. I start to feel the blood leveling out and refilling my brain that has been overloaded by all five of my senses and maybe more that I am unaware of. Within seconds, I can sort of think again, and I realize he must know that I was getting ready to faint and I am mortified. He’s suddenly there, kneeling down in front of me, one hand on my knee, the other cradling my face.
“Charlotte, are you all right? I thought maybe you were going to pass out. I think you should lie down. Please, let me carry you to a sofa nearby.” He sounds panicked yet demanding at the same time. He doesn’t know there is no way in hell I’m letting him pick me up and carry me anywhere. Right now, I wish I were that stunning faerie he drew, because she has wings and could fly away. That’s all I want to do right now, disappear to some place safe and quiet where Ian’s voice and touch and words and beautiful drawings of me are not causing an emotional traffic jam in my head, an ache in my heart, and major blood pressure issues. I need to be away from him, just long enough to regain my composure…and perhaps my sensibility.
“Ian…I’m fine. Could you please ask Jackson to come here?” He starts to speak, but I cut him off. “Ian, please. Just go get Jackson.”
He hesitates, but gets up to do my bidding. A few minutes later, Jackson is there, kneeling down next to the chair where I am now sitting normally, the drawing face down in my lap.
“Charlotte, are you okay? What happened?”
“I’m fine, Jackson. But I need to speak with you privately for a minute.” I can’t bring myself to look at Ian. He’s too much for me right now, and I know he can’t be happy with me asking his best friend to help me. But, in this moment, I don’t have a choice. For whatever reason, Jackson puts me at ease. He has since we first met, and after the conversation we had—before the Rembrandt of Sensual Faerie Portraits came along and took all my senses and emotions on a roller-coaster ride through space and time—I know in my gut I can trust him.
Jackson stands and turns to Ian. No words were exchanged, and thankfully, Ian walked away, heading toward the conference room. That godforsaken cadence ricocheting around my eardrums and making my stomach hurt. Once he was out of earshot, Jackson is seriously concerned, yet confused when he asks, “Charlotte, did he do something to you? He didn’t hurt you, did he?”
A laugh escapes. “No…no, not physically, anyway. But I’m overwhelmed and terribly embarrassed and needed to be away from him. Could you please escort me to my office? I will explain once we have some privacy.” I can tell my voice is strained; it’s like Ian sucks the energy from my body, leaving me deflated.
Jackson walks me to my office, which is not far, and closes the door. Sitting at my desk with the bright sunlight shining through the windows, I take a deep breath and meet Jackson’s concerned eyes. Smiling at him, I apologize. “I’m sorry if I upset you. I don’t know what came over me… Well, actually, I do know. I’m kind of surprised and completely mortified that it happened.” That’s the understatement of the year. Erika is going to flip the hell out when she hears this.
“You don’t have to apologize to me, Charlotte. I know Ian better than anyone. He’s intense and driven, and sometimes his drive can push others over the edge.” The low resonance of his voice and his paternal understanding are having a much-needed calming effect on me.
“Yes, and…did you also know that on top of his many other talents and otherworldly abilities, he’s a gifted artist that should be famous for his unique skills?” There is a little sarcasm in my tone, regardless of the truth inside my question. Ian’s drawing is now sitting in front of me on my desk, taunting me in a different way than it taunted him. I look up at Jackson and see him staring at the drawing with a surprised look on his handsome face.
He points to it, then asks, “Ian drew that for you? May I see it?”
I hand it to him, trying to read his reaction as he studies it. He slowly shakes his head, then smiles as he says, “This is good, Charlotte. I haven’t seen Ian draw anything since high school, I think. And, yes, he is gifted and should have done something with it, but his father wanted him to be a businessman. He didn’t think being an artist suited the family name. Sometimes I wonder if Ian’s intensity comes from not being able to express himself through his art, like he truly wants to. His involvement with the architecture and design departments at McAlistair is certainly an outlet for him, but it’s not enough, and whenever I tell him he should draw or paint, he shuts me down.”
Wow, that’s kind of sad. I can’t imagine telling my child not to pursue a gift like Ian’s.
“That is truly a shame. It explains why he seemed a bit shy when he gave it to me.” With a smirk I tell him, “He told me that a ‘friend’ recommended he show up here today with a bouquet of flowers for me.” I give him a knowing look. “Of course, Ian McAlistair couldn’t do something as traditional as a bouquet of flowers. No, he has to melt my heart and rewire my brain with a portrait of me, as a faerie of all things, holding a flower he ‘gave’ me, that is so beautiful and meaningful, I almost fainted! Ugh…I literally almost swooned like some innocent little debutant.” I drop my forehead to my palm in exaggerated shame.
Jackson laughs at my exacerbated rant. “I am sorry you almost swooned, but I will say I am relieved it was that and not something else that had you out of sorts. I didn’t know what to think when Ian came in to get me. From the look on his face, I can tell you for a fact he wasn’t happy about it.” He’s smiling ear to ear now. “It appears you may have gotten into his head. Ian doesn’t act like this and now”—he holds up the drawing—“you’ve inspired him to start drawing again! He may have final
ly found his muse.”
Smiling, regardless of my unease, I say, “I can see why that makes you happy, I really can. And believe it or not, I’m very flattered. But I’ve made up my mind about Ian. I am not getting involved with him…I can’t. I know how the story ends. I have to protect myself from that.” I can hear the desperation in that last sentence.
Jackson is still concerned, but I can tell he is also confused. “Forgive me if I am overstepping my bounds, but how does the story end?”
Exhaling heavily, my shoulders drop and I respond. “Tragically. That’s how it ends.”
“Oh?” he asks, somewhat surprised. “That certainly wasn’t what I was expecting you to say. I can understand why Ian would overwhelm you and you’ve clearly got a reason not to trust him…but a tragedy?”
Letting out an insecure laugh as I exhale the pressure this topic creates inside me, I shake my head and try to explain. “Listen, I’m not looking for pity when I tell you this, I just need you to know what I’m dealing with personally so you can know why Ian is not for me.” Another deep breath. “You see…my father was a lot like him, very handsome, suave, charming and successful, every woman’s ideal man. He and my mother had what I thought was a happy and loving marriage. They were wonderful parents and seemed to be each other’s best friend. They held hands and kissed and laughed. It was…perfect. And my mother, she was beautiful and sweet and so kind.” A lump forms in my throat as I recall my mother. I miss her so much. “But then, when I was seventeen, our world was shattered when my father was killed in a car accident in Utah.” I stop for a minute, remembering the day that phone call came. I hate that day and the pain that came with it.
The Essence of Fate Page 7
