by HELEN HARDT
Dimitri, Ben, and Dimitri’s right-hand woman, Lizzie McCullough—we hope Lizzie’s Irish surname will win us some points—sit in the smallest of our seven conference rooms.
My idea. McCain may come with an assistant, but we have four people at the table. Ben, Dimitri, and I are big guys, and Lizzie’s near six feet herself.
Hence the smallest room.
We want to own it, and the four of us in a smaller room make a more imposing presence than we would in one of the larger spaces.
Plus we’re at the Black, Inc. office. Home-field advantage.
Surprisingly, McCain arrives alone.
We all stand and shake hands, and one of the assistants serves coffee and tea.
Once we sit, Dimitri hands out the prospectus detailing our offer.
McCain pushes it away. “I’m not selling. For any price.”
I stand. “Then I guess you came a long way for nothing, Foster. Greta will see you out.”
Ben and Dimitri stand then.
But McCain doesn’t move.
He’s waiting for us to sweeten the pot. He’ll be waiting a long time.
Finally, he pulls the prospectus back and opens it.
“Does this mean you’ve changed your mind?” Ben asks.
“It means I’ll hear you out.”
Dimitri begins the presentation.
And I sit back, the same satisfied grin on my face that I see on my brother’s.
He’ll sell.
He wouldn’t have come if he didn’t have that intention, especially after putting us off for two years.
Dimitri’s presentation is flawless. He could have handled it without me with his eyes closed.
But there’s only one problem.
He’s not Braden Black.
…
“You have a gift, Brady,” Momma said to me after Benji had fallen asleep.
“A present? Where is it?”
She smiled at me and swept my hair—I always needed a haircut—off my forehead and then kissed it.
“I’m not talking about the kind of gift you unwrap,” she said. “I’m talking about something God gave you. Something you were born with.”
I was born with a gift? Why hadn’t I ever seen it? I didn’t understand.
“It’s confidence,” Momma said.
“What’s con-fee-dance?” I asked.
“It’s something that will take you far,” she said.
“All the way to the other side of the world? Like to China?”
She laughed. “Maybe. Who knows? But I don’t mean far away. I mean far in life. You’ll do great things. I know it.”
“How do you know it?” I asked Momma.
“I see it in you already. You’re only seven years old, but you’re the leader of all your friends. Of your brother. They look up to you because they see your confidence, and they want it, too.”
I still didn’t know what Momma was talking about, but I liked hearing her voice. And since it was bedtime, she wasn’t wearing her scarf, so I could see her pretty face.
“One day, you’re going to be a great man, Brady.”
“Why, Momma? Why will I be a great man?”
She kissed my forehead again. “Because you’re Braden Black.”
Chapter Forty-Six
Ben, Dimitri, Lizzie, and I celebrate with a gourmet lunch at Gabriel LeGrand. Afterward, before the next meeting, I take a walk through the Diamond District between Fifth and Sixth Avenues. I love the old New York feel of the area.
“Hey, boss!” A hawker calls out to me. “You buying?”
I walk by.
As many cops as hawks hang out in the district—probably the last old block in all of New York City. As much as technology has done for my business and for me, I can’t help but wonder if we’re missing out on old-world culture.
Old-world culture is abundant in the Diamond District.
I’m not looking for anything in particular. I don’t wear jewelry myself, other than a watch, and I’ve never purchased a piece for a woman—other than the pieces my Boston jeweler designs for my staff members for the holidays. I ignore the hawks and stop in front of a shop called Gray & Davis. A diamond choker draws my gaze.
It’s beautiful in its simplicity.
I imagine placing it around Skye’s creamy neck—collaring her.
God, collaring her.
I’ve never collared a woman, other than on a scene-by-scene basis. If I take a woman into my club, she’s under my protection, so I collar her. But it’s a temporary collar for the club only, so that others will know not to approach her.
Before I can think better of it, I walk into the store.
A clerk accosts me within a second. “What can I help you find, sir?”
“There’s a diamond choker in the window. I’d like to see it, please.”
“Of course.” The clerk unlocks the bars protecting the pieces in the glass showcase, withdraws the choker, and hands it to me. “The piece is from the nineteen twenties. It’s set in white gold and has just over seven carats of VSS-clarity round-cut diamonds.”
“It’s heavier than I expected,” I say.
“Yes, it is. They don’t make pieces like this anymore.”
“How much is it?”
“Fifty thousand dollars, sir.”
A lot of money for a woman who may very well never consent to being collared.
But already I know this gorgeous choker belongs to Skye. Whether it becomes a collar or not, it’s already hers.
“I’ll take it.”
He lifts his eyebrows. “Just like that?”
“You expect me to haggle?”
“Most people do.”
“Well, I’m in a hurry.” My gaze falls on a black pearl choker in one of the inside display cases.
Skye’s neck was made for a choker, and this one won’t be a collar.
“How much is that one?” I ask. “The black pearl.”
“Those are premium cultured pearls from Japan, hand-knotted with a platinum clasp.”
“Right. How much?”
“Three thousand five hundred.”
“Would it make you feel better if I asked you to throw that in with the diamond purchase?”
“I can take two hundred off the pearls, sir.”
“Sold.” I pull out my wallet.
…
I leave the Diamond District with my purchases, ready to head back to my Manhattan office, when an idea strikes me. I don’t want to wait to give Skye the pearl choker. I want her to have it today. No service will get it to her that quickly, so I click a photo of the piece and place a call to my Boston jeweler.
“Donald,” I say into the phone, “Braden Black.”
“Hello, Mr. Black. What can I do for you?”
“I’m texting you a photo of a black pearl choker. Take a look at it. Do you have something similar in stock?”
I wait a few minutes while he checks the photo.
“I have a lovely one from Akimoto Designs. The pearls are slightly smaller, but it’s a fifteen-inch choker much like your photo.”
“Excellent. Charge it to me, and I want it delivered this afternoon in plain brown paper. Put a handwritten note in an envelope on the package. Got it?”
“Yes, of course. What would you like the note to say?”
I ponder his question for a few seconds. “I’ll text it to you. That way you have it in writing.”
“Good enough. And the address?”
“It’s going to Skye Manning. I’ll text the particulars.”
“Very good, Mr. Black. Thank you for your business.”
“You’re welcome. Thanks, Donald.”
I end the call and quickly text him Skye’s address.
I sigh. For the note.
I start a text. Erase it and start another.
Fuck it. Why not just get straight to the point?
This will go beautifully with your black dress. Wear your hair up and paint your lips red. Bloodred. I’ll pick you up at six.
As I walk out of the district, a tiny masquerade shop catches my eye. In the display case is a striking black mask, satin with black feathers and a large crystal jewel fanning out from one side.
It was made for Skye. I don’t know when she’ll have the chance to wear it, but within two seconds, I’m in the store making the purchase. The salesperson wraps it for me and then nods to a display of plain masks.
“You get one of those for free with your purchase.”
“Oh?” I take a quick look. They’re simple masks in various colors. No embellishments, just a covering for the eyes.
I have no plans to take Skye to a masquerade, but if I do, I’ll need a mask as well. I choose the black one.
An hour later, my phone dings with a text. From Skye.
I love the pearls, Braden. Thank you so much.
You’re welcome, I text back succinctly.
But there’s so much more I want to say.
…
I’m in and out of meetings for the next twenty-four hours. Finally free, and eating takeout at my New York residence, my phone buzzes.
It’s a Boston number, but one I don’t recognize.
“Black,” I say.
“Hi…uh…Braden?”
“Yes? Who’s this.”
“Tessa Logan. Skye’s friend.”
My heart punches my sternum. “Is Skye all right?”
“Oh, yeah. She’s fine.”
I sigh in relief. “Good,” I say, hoping I sound nonchalant. “How did you get this number, Tessa?”
“Well…I kind of kiped Skye’s phone for a minute, found it, and memorized it.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah. I have one of those minds for numbers. You know?”
Not really, but I don’t say so. I’m not sure what to make of Tessa calling me. “Is there something I can do for you?”
“Actually, there is. Skye and I went to the local pet shelter tonight. I adopted a dog. Anyway, Skye saw this little puppy. She was so sweet and lonely, and she adored Skye and Skye adored her. But you know Skye’s place doesn’t allow pets. Skye was just beside herself about the whole thing. She asked me to adopt the puppy, but I had already picked out a dog. That’s why we were there, to pick her up.”
“I see.”
“I told her to call you, but she wouldn’t.”
“Why?”
“Well…I thought…if you could adopt the puppy and keep her until Skye has a better place, maybe…”
“Tessa—”
“She was nearly in tears when we left.”
Crying? Skye was crying? My heart becomes a cannonball in my chest.
I say nothing.
“Are you there?” Tessa finally asks.
“I’m here.”
“I guess it was pretty out of line to call you,” she says. “Skye was just so sad to leave that poor puppy there. She can’t be more than about ten weeks old, probably missing her mother something awful.”
“Give me the information,” I say.
“Are you going to get her? Skye will be so happy!”
“I’ll figure something out. The information, Tessa.”
“Right. She’s puppy number 347. A Heeler mix. Black with white markings.”
“You remember her number?”
“I have a way with numbers,” she says again.
“I’m glad you do,” I tell her. “I’ll call my driver in Boston and have him pick up the pup. Don’t tell Skye, though. I want to surprise her.”
“Braden, thank you!” Tessa gushes. “If there’s anything I can ever do for you, please, I’ll do it.”
I chuckle slightly. “I can’t think of anything at the moment. Thank you for letting me know about the puppy, Tessa.”
“You’re welcome. And thank you. Skye’s the luckiest woman ever. Bye.”
I text the information to Christopher quickly, hoping it’s not too late.
An hour and a half later, I get a text back from him.
Congratulations. It’s a girl.
Chapter Forty-Seven
I return to my Boston penthouse early in the afternoon on Saturday.
I’ve purposefully thrown myself into my work the last two days in Manhattan, purposefully not called or texted Skye. Purposefully stayed off Instagram.
I needed a clear head to finish up the business with Foster McCain, and while I was in Manhattan, I took care of some other loose ends as well.
Try as I might, though, my thoughts never fully strayed from Skye.
She’ll most likely be angry that I haven’t been in contact with her. Why shouldn’t she be?
Normally, when I’m seeing a woman, I don’t mix business with pleasure. I don’t think about her at all while I’m working. Only when we’re together. So naturally, I don’t call and text often when we’re not together. I’m determined not to do things differently with Skye, which is why I haven’t communicated with her since her text about the pearl choker.
The difference, though?
I’ve wanted to.
Every time I look at my phone, I think about giving her a quick call or sending her a quick text. Even just checking Instagram.
Every time I check email—which is a lot—I think about writing to her, just to see how she’s doing.
I stayed strong, though. I did not.
Skye’s puppy is adorable and already a terrific playmate for Sasha. She’ll keep Annika and Christopher on their toes. I spend a few minutes playing with her and letting her lick my face before I head to my bedroom to shower.
My date with Skye for the gala tonight is still on, and I’ll be there at six as promised.
Once I’m clad in one of my tailored tuxes and in the car with Christopher at the wheel and a bouquet of bloodred roses and the plain black eye mask from New York sitting next to me, the nipple clamps securely in my pocket, I finally succumb. I’ll check Instagram. That will tell me what Skye’s been up to. I click on her profile.
She’s been busy. The first post is a selfie of her pretty face sans makeup and shiny with sweat after a yoga class.
Who loves yoga? I do! Check out the relaxing atmosphere at Wildflower Yoga. #yoga #treatyourself #youknowyouwanto
I smile. She looks so fresh and happy. The post shows a real person, not a fake Addison Ames clone in a posed post.
Skye is going to be good at this. Really good. Better than she can even imagine at this point.
The next post is Skye at a bakery in front of a display of baguettes. Her smile is addictive.
Need bread? Check out Le Grand Pain! Best baguettes around! (And if you need a special cake for your bachelor/bachelorette function, LGP can hook you up!) @LeGrandPain #sponsored #bakery #bread #baguettes #getyourglutenon #breadisgoodfood #soiscake
I smile at the hashtags. She’s on fire.
A new post pops up just then.
Damn. Skye, in the dress. The dress I had made. The dress I will most likely destroy again. Her makeup is flawless and her lovely hair is swept up into a messy bun that showcases that gorgeous neck of hers.
She’s not wearing the choker.
I grit my teeth. Did she forget?
Wearing my Cherry Russet lip stain by @susannecosmetics again. My go-to color is perfect for everything from a day at home to a formal evening! #sponsored #lips #kissme #formal #littleblackdress
The color is lovely on her sexy lips, but did she forget I asked for bloodred?
A not-so-subtle reminder of who’s in charge may be warranted.
Christopher pulls the car up to S
kye’s building. I grab the roses, secure the mask over my eyes—to give myself a little mystery—and head up to her place.
I try to eliminate the pounding of my heart as I secure the mask in place and knock on her door.
She opens the door.
Her jaw drops.
Though I’m tempted to drop my own jaw, I lock it firmly in place.
It’s not easy, though.
Skye looks devastatingly beautiful. The dress and the hairstyle I’ve already seen in the post, but she’s one hundred times better in person. Her long, lean legs are bare, and her pretty feet—toes painted red—are strapped into silver sandals.
I’m in a black tux. The plain mask covers my eyes, and in my arms I hold the bouquet of roses.
Bloodred roses.
They match her lips perfectly.
She changed her lip color.
She didn’t forget.
The black pearl choker—even more gorgeous than the one I purchased in the Diamond District—sits perfectly on her neck.
She didn’t forget.
No need for my not-so-subtle reminder of who’s in charge after all. I’m a little disappointed, truth be told, but no matter. Later, I’ll make it abundantly clear who’s in control here.
I walk in swiftly, closing the door behind me.
Already, I own this room.
Already, she feels it. I see it in her eyes, in the quick shudder she tries—but fails—to suppress.
I move closer to her, lean toward her, my lips ready to take hers—
Only a millimeter away, and I stop.
Hardest damned thing I’ve ever done.
“I won’t,” I say gruffly. “I won’t ruin those perfect lips. Not yet.”
She sighs. “Please.”
“Not yet,” I say again.
She trembles before me.
My cock responds.
How easy it would be to grab her, haul her the few steps to her bed, say, “Fuck the gala,” and fuck her instead.
I ache with how much I’ve missed her, how much strength it took for me not to constantly check in with her. Then Tessa’s phone call about the puppy, about how Skye was crying.
Crying. My Skye. And I wasn’t there to comfort her.
