Never Let Go: Top Shelf Romance Collection 6

by Steiner, Kandi

  The man purses his lips. “There is the issue of the payment for these items. I’m afraid that you won’t be able to leave until they are taken care of.”

  My patience snaps. “I told you that I will pay for them. Just charge them to my room.” I reach forward, putting a hand on the phone and dragging it toward me. I need to call someone to pick me up, but all of my numbers are in my phone. I flip the phone book open to the residential section, thinking through my friends, my mind blanking on half of their last names.

  “Your card has been declined, sir.” I stop somewhere in the Ds, and turn my head to him. “What? It’s an American Express. Run it again—“ Oh. In my haste to stop the bitch from a Trey Marks sponsored shopping spree, I had reported all of my cards stolen. The American Express representative had gone through the pending transactions with me, and I had authorized the hotel’s hold on the room. Their initial authorization had probably not been enough to cover the damn furniture, this new authorization rejected.

  Fuck. “I’m sorry. I just had all of my cards canceled.” I run a hand through my hair and try to think. I hate the look on this asshole’s face right now, that mix of pity and contempt, his thoughts as clear as the smell of shit that I have stepped in. You can’t afford to be here. You don’t belong here. Words I’ve run from for a decade, fought through, moved past with my fucking Tesla and penthouse, my company that I can barely keep afloat. I look down at the phone book and fight the urge to smack it across the man’s knowing face. “I’m calling someone to pick me up. They’ll pay for the items.”

  I turn another page, my options reducing.

  If this night were lingerie, it’d be a leopard print satin set. Trashy and destined for ridicule.

  Chapter 7

  HER

  It’s my car’s first visit to a Ritz Carlton, and I pull up carefully, worried that I might bump into a Rolls Royce or a priceless planter, the deserted drive giving me a little peace. I come to a stop before the valet, who eyes my Kia in the cautious way that someone might avoid a bum. There is a knock on the passenger window and I startle, glancing over to see Trey. I roll down the window, watching his hand steal in and take the leather portfolio off of the passenger seat. “Is this it?”

  I nod. “Yes.”

  He doesn’t explain why he needs the company’s checks at one in the morning, or why he’s wearing a bathrobe. “I’ll be right back.” He walks off with the portfolio, and I notice his bare feet. In the last two months, I’ve seen several sides of Trey Marks. This is, by far, the oddest.

  * * *

  Ten minutes and five bucks to the valet later, I pull away from the hotel, the check folder in Trey’s lap, the top of one muscular thigh visible under the edge of his robe.

  “Where are we going?” The streets are empty, amber streetlights illuminating half moons of asphalt, the bright glare of road construction up ahead.

  “Good question.” He lifts up a hand and rubs at the back of his neck, a scent of soap drifting over. I’ve never been so close to him, his elbow bumping against me, his knee close to the gearshift, my movements careful not to touch him. He shifts in the seat and his robe opens further. I get a glimpse of more thigh and flick my eyes back to the road. I don’t think he’s wearing underwear. The questions mount.

  He turns his head, and I feel his eyes on me. “Does your fiancé live with you?”

  “No.” I think back to our disastrous Mensa meeting, the stilted goodbye. Good thing Craig hadn’t spent the night. I could explain a lot of things, but a call at one in the morning would be difficult. “Why?”

  “I don’t have my keys. Maybe we can find a hotel, one that will accept checks.” He falls silent, and I attempt to put together the pieces of what he is saying.

  “You need a place to stay? Tonight?” I look over. “Is that the roundabout point you are trying to make?”

  “I don’t want to impose.”

  I smile despite myself. “You woke me up in the middle of the night and dragged me downtown. Letting you crash on my couch is minor. Yes, you are welcome to stay at my apartment. Assuming of course, that you behave.”

  He drops his head against the headrest, a low chuckle rolling out. “Trust me, Kate. You have nothing to worry about.”

  “Thanks.” The word comes out tart and offended, as if I want to be pursued, and I struggle to recover.

  “I didn’t mean it like that.” He looks down at his lap and adjusts the white terrycloth. “It’s just been one of those nights that makes you want to swear off sex forever.”

  “I’ve got to admit, you’ve piqued my curiosity.” I get on the on-ramp. “Girlfriend problems?”

  “Something like that.” He reaches over and adjusts his air vent. “Can you turn the heat on? I’m freezing.”

  I glance toward him and turn a dial, increasing the flow of hot air. “Where are your clothes?”

  “Good question.” He leans forward, holding a hand to the vent. “In my car, along with my phone, watch and wallet. And my condo keys.” He frowns. “Can I borrow your phone?”

  “It’s in my purse. Down by your feet.” I tell him the unlock pin and watch as he pulls up the internet, does a quick search, then places a call. I get off on my exit and eavesdrop as he speaks to someone in his building, instructing them to deactivate his key fob.

  He ends the call and returns the phone to my purse. “Thanks. I wouldn’t have bothered you, but you’re the only person I know who is still listed in the phone book.”

  I grin, the precaution one that Craig had insisted on, and I had always deemed a nuisance. “No problem.” As irritated as I had initially been with his middle-of-the-night call, this was turning into one of my most exciting nights in years. “So … is your car back at the Ritz?”

  He rubs the back of his neck. “According to the police, it’s somewhere in San Diego right now. They’re tracking it down.” He glances at me. “I was robbed.”

  “In your bathrobe?”

  He laughs, and it’s a nice one. Deep and strong, the kind you want vibrating against your skin. “I was naked, actually. The bathrobe was a bit of kindness on their part.”

  Their part. A robber duo. Or trio? I try to figure out how Trey Marks was robbed while naked at the Ritz Carlton, and come up completely blank. It’s like those damn Mensa puzzles. I have all the pieces; they just won’t fit together. “I need more information,” I say finally, admitting defeat as I bring the car to a stop at a red light.

  “I was meeting someone for sex. I left a key at the front desk. They came in when I was in the shower and robbed me.” He shrugs off the explanation, as if is a commonplace response, and one that makes perfect sense.

  I was meeting someone for sex. I left a key at the front desk. It takes a few seconds for any possibility to come to mind. “Like a prostitute? You were meeting a prostitute?” I feel a burst of excitement, the term for this popping to mind. Rolled. He was a john and got rolled. I mentally high-five my super cool trendy self.

  He shifts, the vinyl seat squeaking in response. “Sure. If that’s how you want to think about it.”

  “That’s a bullshit answer. Either she was a prostitute or she wasn’t.”

  “She wasn’t a prostitute.” He turns a little in his seat to face me. I successfully resist the urge to check how his new position affects my chance of a penis sighting. He’s not wearing underwear. He all but said that. Meaning that there is only a thin bit of terrycloth between us. If I reach over and nudge the fabric, he’ll be right there, fully exposed. I focus on keeping the car very precisely spaced in the center of the lane. She wasn’t a prostitute. Another maddeningly odd puzzle piece.

  He clears his throat. “Do I seem like I’d need to pay for sex?”

  “No.” I could have shouted it through stadium speakers and it wouldn’t have been more emphatic. Women probably pay him for sex, for the opportunity to sample that mouth and body. I straighten a little in my seat. Maybe that’s the answer. “Are you a prostitute?”

&n
bsp; “God, you’re terrible at this game.” He looks out the window, eyeing the buildings that pass. “I’m not a prostitute, Kate.” He sounds disappointed. “I don’t want to talk about it. I fucked up and got burned.”

  “I can’t believe the hotel wouldn’t give you any clothes.” I also can’t believe he didn’t pack any clothes. I guess whatever he had planned with this non-prostitute visitor—he hadn’t planned to spend the night. I guess he just waltzed in with his condom and dick—nothing else needed.

  “The gift shop was closed. And the employees were unwilling to part with their own.”

  I turn off the street and into my apartment’s garage, driving to my assigned spot. I shift into park, my hand brushing against his knee, and he moves away from the contact. I turn off the engine, and he unlocks his seatbelt, the sound unnaturally loud.

  * * *

  My couch is a sectional, one that doesn’t fold out, and I tuck a sheet under the cushions, moving with quick precision as Trey wanders around the living room, picking up and moving anything that he finds interesting. Craig was the complete opposite the first time he came into my home. He’d hovered by the front door, his eyes darting to me, needing the verbal authorization before he’d felt comfortable enough to fully step inside. Second, he didn’t touch my stuff. He still asks before picking up a frame, or opening a drawer. I like that, that even now, two years into our relationship, he has respect for my space, for my things. When we move in together, he won’t invade, but rather carefully ease in, all the while confirming and diplomatically discussing boundary items like dirty laundry and personal time.

  I hear Trey open my bedroom’s closet door and I pause, mid-fluff, of a pillow. “What are you doing?” I call out, setting down the pillow and moving into the room.

  “Looking for clothes. Where does your fiancé keep his stuff?”

  He crouches, moving aside the bottom of an old prom dress, then stands, turning to me, as if he isn’t being the rudest person on earth. “Huh?”

  “Huh, what?” I cross my arms in front of my chest.

  “Where does your fiancé keep his clothes?” He raises an eyebrow and damn, he is beautiful. His robe is open at the chest, showcasing muscles that hug either side of his neck. His chest is bare and tan, the muscles strong and well-developed. He swallows, and I yank my eyes back to his face.

  “He doesn’t keep clothes here. He packs a bag when he comes.” I suddenly think of something. I snap my fingers in excitement and run for my keys. “I’ll be right back. I’m going to grab something out of the trunk.”

  I am at the front door when his hand wraps around my forearm. “Wait.” I pause, my hand on the door, and look up into his face. “Let me get it. It’s too late for you to go out there alone.”

  I snort. “I just went out there alone when I went to pick you up. You weren’t too concerned about me then.”

  “Selfish necessity. And I didn’t realize the setting. It’s too dark of a garage. Too many places that someone could hide and wait for you. Just tell me what to look for.”

  I yield, glumly handing over my car keys. “In the trunk, on the left side, there are two big ziplock bags. Grab the one labeled ‘Craig’.”

  He nods. “I’ll be right back.”

  When he returns, he hands over the bag, our fingers brushing. I turn away, open the bag above the kitchen counter, and pull out the clothes, an emergency set that Craig had insisted, when we’d first started dating, that we carry in our cars. As he likes to preach, it never hurts to have a spare set of clothes. It’s the same reason why our trunks have bottled water and granola bars, first aid kits and flare guns. Once we marry and move to a house, we will have a generator and a storm cellar, fire evacuation plans and enough canned food to get us through a month-long famine. I hold out the clothes. “Here. I can’t promise they’ll fit.”

  Trey takes the clothes—a new pair of Wrangler jeans, boxer briefs, and a T-shirt. “Do you mind if I take a quick shower?”

  “Sure.” I point to the bathroom. “There are towels underneath the sink. Feel free to use the shampoo and soap that’s in there.”

  He goes. The bathroom door shuts and I try not to think about his robe dropping, and Trey Marks standing, fully naked in the space.

  * * *

  I’ve worked for Trey for two months now. Long enough that I feel comfortable around him, long enough that I no longer flinch when he comes near me. When we bump against each other, when he leans over my desk and examines documents, I no longer hold my breath, or sneak an illicit sniff of his cologne. He treats me with a sort of wary respect, and I’ve grown confident enough to let my opinions fly, sometimes without an appropriate filter or level of respect. It’s not that I don’t respect him, it’s just that I sometimes forget my place, overly empowered by my position. At Lavern & Lilly, I made decisions, and then waited to be admonished or overruled. At Marks Lingerie, he only watches, his eyes following my every move, my freedom eerie in its entirety. He promised me control over the design team, and he has delivered on that promise. It hasn’t stopped his temper from flaring, or arguments erupting between us. In the last two months, there have been plenty of both. I was meeting someone for sex. There is a whine of water pressure, and the shower turns off.

  I clean off the coffee table and move the remote near his pillow. I consider it, then move it back to the coffee table, lining it up this month’s issue of Vogue. I should be tired. The last time I was up this late was before Fashion Week, and I fell asleep mid-sketch. It wasn’t a graceful slump either. I face-planted into the desk, my hand getting caught in between my body and the desk, my ring finger bending the wrong way. I didn’t even wake up from the pain. I woke up an hour later, the imprint of a stapler against my cheek, and when I saw the right angle of my finger, I passed out from the sudden brutality of it. That overreaction gave me a black eye, and caused poor Craig a hundred glares.

  The bathroom door opens, and I turn. “Oh my God.” I lift a hand to my mouth to cover up my grin. “You look…”

  “Sexy.” He fills in, then cocks his head, as if he can tell he guessed wrong. “Irresistible? Rugged?” He steps forward. “Wait, I got this. Drop—”

  “Ridiculous,” I interrupt. “And … big.” Craig would have been appalled at such a kindergarten word, but it fits. He looks like a giant trying to wear a mortal’s clothing, the boxer briefs skin-tight, the T-shirt stretched across his chest and ending halfway down his abs. I swallow.

  His eyes twinkle. “Why, thank you.” He shrugs. “I have been told that, on several occasions.”

  “Not that…” I blush. “You know what I meant.” But he is big. The underwear that fit Craig so easily are tight around his thighs, the waistband riding low enough on his hips to show me those perfect angled cuts. And the bulge they point to … I turn my back to him and grab a few pillows off the couch, moving them to a basket beside my chair.

  “Speaking of size, how big is your fiancé?” I hear a pop of fabric and look back to see him pulling off the T-shirt, his face covered by the white fabric.

  I love Craig, I do. It’s been a great two years. We are consistently compatible. I wear his grandmother’s ring, and get along with his parents. Soon we will get married, and I will have his babies, and we will live out the rest of our lives in orderly, organized, and well-prepared fashion. All that aside, I can’t control myself from stealing one moment, one literal second, and enjoying the beauty that is my boss. It’s criminal that God would pair his face with those notches of abs, a neat row of thick muscles that pop and slide under his tan skin. I imagine what it would feel like to run my hand across them, maybe even down them. Would he step closer if I slid my palm inside of those boxer-briefs? Would his eyes close if I wrapped my hand around his cock?

  The T-shirt lifts higher and I turn my head back to the basket, my breath hissing through my teeth as I fight to keep from looking at him.

  “Well?” He steps closer, and in my peripheral vision, I can see him wad the shirt into a
ball.

  “What?” I straighten, and push hair away from my face. I am fine. He is going to bed. Nothing is going to happen.

  “Your fiancé. Clark? How big of a guy is he?”

  “His name is Craig.” I move past him and check the thermostat, turning it a few degrees cooler. “He’s average.” Average? Craig would be offended by the term. Then again, I am a wee bit offended from his reaction to my Mensa performance.

  “He wears a medium.” He looks up from his examination of the tag, the word said with repulsion.

  “So?”

  “No grown man wears a medium.” He delivers the statement as if it is fact.

  “Some do.” I flip on a scent warmer and move to the kitchen, turning on the water and washing my hands. “Would you like anything to drink?”

  “I’m good. You can head to bed. I’ll be fine.” He pauses at my fridge and pulls at the edge of a photo, held in place by a daisy magnet. “Is this you?”

  I yank the photo from his hand before he gets too good a look at it. It’s one of me and Dad, my freshman year at Parsons, before he got sick. “Go to bed.” I point to the perfectly made up couch, eight feet away. “Now.”

  He smiles, and clicks his tongue at me. CLICKS his tongue. I don’t know whether to be infuriated or lay back on the counter, begging for that tongue across every inch of my skin. “Submission isn’t really my thing, Kate.” The words drawl out, and I have no doubt that this man left submission behind in preschool. He probably orders the sun to rise, the traffic lights to change, and if he ordered every woman in America to buy his lingerie, he’d be ankle-deep in business right now. He—

  I stop, an idea brewing. Trey Marks, a black and white image, in his suit, a devilish smirk in full effect, sitting in a leather club chair, a whisky in hand. Trey Marks, a high contrast video, him slowly rolling back his shirt sleeves, the tie loosened around his neck, his eyes boring into the camera.