by Kendra Leigh
“The gallery,” I answered decisively.
He frowned as he rinsed, then reached for the hand towel to dab his mouth. “Is Jia still absent?”
We hadn’t discussed anything about what had happened last night—the drinking, Paddy’s, Dylan, the missed calls, or the “hopeful” with the near broken jaw, and Ethan still had no clue about Jia and Charley’s breakup. Despite the passionate encounter in the elevator, he’d still been too mad to talk, and frankly, I’d been too drunk.
“No. But we have a new client. A serious collector who’s looking to spend a large sum of money. She needs my help.”
“Good.” He nodded. “I’m glad the gallery is doing well. Will you have time for lunch?”
Immediately I cheered and nodded eagerly. Just then, I heard my cell vibrate against the surface of the bedside table, and I hooked a thumb in the direction of the bedroom, an indication that I was off to answer it.
The screen displayed a number I didn’t recognize. Frowning, I answered. “Hello, Angelica Lawson.”
“Good morning, Miss Lawson,” said a voice I was vaguely acquainted with. “Dominic Sloane here.” Oh crap, how in the hell had he got my personal cell number? “I hope you don’t mind the early call, but my schedule is crammed full today, and I wanted to make sure I spoke with you.”
Swiftly, I headed out of the room toward the lounge and out of earshot. At best, I’d been frugal with the truth about my client’s proposition, and after last night’s misdeeds, I was in no hurry to impart information I knew would only rile Ethan further. At least, not until I’d had time to consider the proposition further.
For that reason, I spoke quietly when I responded. “No, it’s fine Mr. Sloane. What can I do for you?” I was eager for him to get to the point of his call.
“I wanted to let you know I’ve sent over an email for you to peruse. It will give you a clearer indication of what I’m attempting to accomplish. The mood and emotions I’m envisaging your work will conjure throughout my home. I was hoping we could have dinner one evening to discuss your suggestions—Saturday perhaps.”
“Dinner?” What the hell? I paced up and down in front of the sheet of glass separating me from the Manhattan skyline, wondering how to respond to the invitation. “I’m afraid I’m out of town all weekend. But maybe you could come to the gallery on Tuesday? It will give me chance to get an overview of your ideas, and I can take you through some of my work. There’s a mountain of data. I’m not sure a restaurant would be appropriate.”
There was a long silence, long enough for me to prompt him. “Hello?”
“Yes, I heard. Very well, I’ll schedule you for a 9:00 a.m. meeting on Tuesday. I trust that suits?”
Oh Christ, not really. The gallery didn’t open until midday and a private meeting wasn’t what I’d had in mind. “Perfect.” I mentally kicked myself for acceding so easily.
“Good. Oh and while you’re considering my ideas, perhaps you could also consider that a quarter million dollars is a sizeable deposit? Large enough to expect a dedicated personal service, wouldn’t you say?”
What the hell? That would depend on what kind of personal service he was looking for. There was something quite intimidating about Mr. Sloane’s approach, but I wasn’t certain putting him in his place was the right thing to do. Yet. So I decided to play along. “Yes, of course.”
“Fantastic. We’ll have dinner Wednesday, then. In the meantime, I’ll look forward to Tuesday. Have a good weekend, Miss Lawson.”
He hung up before I could even reply, leaving me staring blankly at the “call ended” display on my cell phone. How impudently presumptuous could one guy be? And exactly what level of commitment was he expecting for his money?
Suddenly, I caught a movement in my peripheral vision and looked up to find Ethan leaning casually against the breakfast island, head to one side, arms folded, one inquiring eyebrow arched painfully high.
“Your new client?”
“Um, yes.”
“Calling you on your private cell?” Ethan was aware that only a handful of the gallery’s avid collectors had access to my personal number.
“Yes… I guess. He wanted to let me know he’d sent an email.”
The other brow leapt up to join the first, both of them now framing wide, dubious eyes. “He?”
“Yes.”
“You said the client was a she.”
“No I didn’t.” I frowned.
“Yes you did. You said, ‘she needs my help.’”
My frowned deepened, and then suddenly I realized where the misunderstanding had occurred. “I meant Jia. Jia needs my help.”
With jaw muscles bunching and eyes narrowing, he raised his wrist and glanced at his watch. “We’ll discuss this later.” He stalked toward me and grasping the back of my head, planted a hard kiss on my lips.
His intense ardor sparked an immediate reaction from me and my lips parted willingly to allow him access. But just as swiftly, his lips were gone, his hand reaching under the hem of the shirt and between my legs to run his finger deftly through the folds of dampened flesh. I gasped at the unexpected contact, my eyes widening as I observed him blink slowly while inhaling my scent from his finger. Then, to my surprise, he reached out and smeared my sticky arousal across my lower lip before pushing it inside my mouth. His own lips parted as he observed me close my lips and draw on his finger. “You’re mine. Remember that.” He turned and headed for the foyer. “I’ll see you at twelve-thirty, usual place. Oh and, Angel? Just so you know—dinner with your client is out of the question.”
Mouth open, words failing me hopelessly, I shook my head in disbelief and watched him disappear out of sight. He’d left me breathless and panting and painfully aware of the steady thrumming sensation in my sex. But it wasn’t just his shamefully salacious touch that had turned me on, it was his incessant possessiveness. To my astonishment, his desire to own me, to dominate me—both just now and last night—was having a bizarrely arousing effect. And now I’d have to wait all day for him to deal with it.
It wasn’t until I heard the sound of the elevator closing that I realized he’d left the document on the table, the one he’d been examining earlier. It gave me an idea. Maybe I’d meet him at the office instead of the restaurant. I could deliver the document to him, and maybe, just maybe, we could carry on where we left off in the boardroom the other day.
My morning was spent pondering the implausibility of a mutually working agreement with Mr. Sloane while at the same time keeping my man happy. If insisting on unnecessary private dinners was going to be part of Sloane’s agenda, I might as well tear his check up now. Ethan had already made his position perfectly clear on that score.
Sloane’s email had been direct and to the point. In some detail, he’d explained that his fascination lay in images which evoked strong emotions. Emotions which would manifest themselves to the onlooker if they were profound thinkers and able to see beyond what was superficial or instantly recognizable. The images, he said, would help him to determine if he was personably compatible with the people he invited into his home. How his guests interpreted and responded to the images—if indeed they provoked a reaction at all—would reveal to him their emotional and intellectual capacity. He went on to give me a list of emotions he wished to encompass: benevolence, indignation, anticipation, amusement, hope—the list went on. He finished the email with a short list of emotions to disregard, explaining simply that these were already taken care of. The list read: despair, sadness, desolation, fear, and grief.
Wow, intense. It was strange, but his email left me wondering if I ever really considered what the observer saw when I took my photographs. I guess I captured an image if it spoke to me in some way, shape or form. If it summoned a memory or a feeling to the observer, fine. If it didn’t—well, equally fine. They either liked the picture or they didn’t. I didn’t expect the viewer to see what I had seen—my memory, my feelings. If I wanted that, I could paint a picture of a bleeding heart o
r something else befitting to the emotion I felt at the time.
The thing I found most unnerving was that Sloane appeared to see exactly what incited me to take a picture in the first place. Almost as if I’d written an account of my inner feelings under each and every image. The idea made me profoundly uncomfortable.
By the time midday arrived, I’d talked myself into and out of reasons why I should honor the agreement several times, and still not arrived at any definite conclusion. Deciding I should park it in the back of my mind for now, I exited the elevator on the thirtieth floor and walked through the glass fronted entrance of Wilde Industries.
Waving at Emily on reception, I headed through the foyer and down the corridor toward Ethan’s office. I was feeling oddly nervous, maybe even excited, as I plucked the document he’d left behind from my purse and tucked it under my arm. He wasn’t expecting me for another half hour, and of course we’d arranged to meet in the restaurant.
Unusually, Laura, Ethan’s secretary, wasn’t at her desk, but the door to his office was open. I faltered as I approached, slowed by the distinct, low sound of feminine laughter drifting toward me from inside. The sound had my hackles rising possessively. Something about the tinkling tones of merriment had a noticeable flirtatious quality.
Halting at the door, I peered in to find Ethan helping a petite blonde into her immaculate suit jacket. The gesture seemed courteous enough, until he gathered her long blond tresses in his hands to free them from her collar and suddenly it was way too intimate. The way he continued to chuckle at their shared joke and then sank back to rest lightly on the edge of his desk, hands thrust deep into his pockets was too casual, too familiar. My skin prickled with jealousy as she laid her hand on his shoulder and leaned in to kiss him on the cheek.
“Forever the gentleman, Ethan. They should make more like you,” she giggled, her hand still resting firmly in place.
Yes, well this one happens to be mine, so take your fucking hands off him, bitch.
As if I’d screamed the thought aloud, Ethan turned in my direction, pushing instantly to his feet. I scanned his face, trying to decide whether the surprise in his expression was combined with pleasure or embarrassment.
“Angel.” He moved across the room toward me, grasping my shoulders and kissing me chastely on the lips. “This is a surprise.”
The blonde’s smile faded immediately, her mood clearly piqued by my unexpected arrival and Ethan’s diverted attention. She was very pretty, in a fresh, pleasing to the eye, wholesome kind of way. But I didn’t miss the unmistakable flash of spite in her sparkly blue eyes as she narrowed them suspiciously in my direction.
“Christ, I’m not late am I?” Ethan checked his wrist watch, his tone filled with sudden concern.
“No, darling, you’re not late. I thought I’d come by early in case you needed this.” I handed him the file. “You left it at home this morning.” I gave careful consideration to the word home, emphasizing it sufficiently to ensure the blonde didn’t miss its significance, my focus aimed directly at her to observe the effect.
As I expected, her face hardened with a momentary blaze of indignation. She masked it well, plastering a sudden smile to her face, and walked toward me, hand outstretched.
“Natasha Stephens.” Her eyes examined me as she spoke, flittering over my face, my hair, my clothes. I accepted her proffered hand, responding with a firm hand shake.
“God, I’m so sorry.” Ethan suddenly remembered she was there. “Natasha, this is my girlfriend, Angelica Lawson.” He turned to me, missing the way her facial muscles flinched with irritation. “Natasha’s our company lawyer.”
“Pleased to meet you.” She curled her lips into some semblance of a smile.
“Likewise.” I chose not to bother with the falsity.
Natasha ignored it, turning instead to beam a smile at Ethan. “Well, aren’t you a dark horse, Ethan Wilde. You didn’t mention you were dating.”
A brief moment of confusion seemed to ghost his face, as if he were somewhat bewildered by the statement. And so he should be, I thought. Why the hell would you tell your company lawyer anything about your love life? He checked his wristwatch again. “Well, I think we’re done here, anyway. Natasha, I’ll see you bright and early in the morning. Let’s see if we can finally put this damn deal to bed.”
Natasha gave an exaggerated sigh. “I’ll drink to that. I’ll see you first thing. It was good to meet you, Angelica.” Her tone dripped with insincerity.
Choosing not to reciprocate, I offered her a vague nod as Ethan began to guide her toward the door. They exchanged a short conversation I couldn’t hear as I made my way over to Ethan’s desk to perch on the edge as he had done before.
Ethan returned making his way slowly across the room toward me, one brow raised in a punitive fashion. “What was all that about?”
I folded my arms and tilted my chin. “All what about?”
“Oh, come on, an alley cat would have marked her territory with more decorum.”
The fucking cheek! I gaped at him in disbelief, the image of him fiddling with her damn hair taunting me. “Oh? You mean like that of a bar room brawler, who attempts to break some guy’s jaw for no other reason than the fact that he’s an asshole?”
A flash of annoyance widened his eyes. “Lower your fucking voice, Angel,” he hissed. “And that asshole put his hands on you.”
“Yeah! And you put your hands on her.” I snatched up my purse from the desk. “Shall we go?” I stormed past him and out the door.
My eyes skimmed unseeing over the menu. It didn’t matter; I already knew what I was having. I was just being obstinate really, waiting until the bubble of anger and jealousy began to subside before I trusted myself to look up and meet Ethan’s steady gaze. We hadn’t spoken a word since we left his office, riding the elevator and walking the couple of blocks to the restaurant in silence. I hadn’t even glanced at him. He, on the other hand, hadn’t taken his eyes off me; they bore into my skin like red-hot needles.
The waiter appeared to take our order, and without asking what I wanted, Ethan ordered for us both. Grilled tuna for him, Caesar salad for me—he knew me well. The waiter left, taking my menu with him and effectively removing my shield which left me no alternative but to meet Ethan’s stony glare.
“You ready to talk about what’s eating you?” he asked immediately.
“Are you ready to talk about what was eating you last night?”
“I’d have thought that was pretty obvious. I asked you to answer your phone—you ignored me. I asked you not to go to Paddy’s—you ignored me. I worry myself half to death, and then I find you being manhandled into a corner by some dribbling asshole because you’re too drunk to avoid trouble. And then, just for good measure, I find Dylan defending you as though you were his. I think I had every fucking right to be pissed at you.”
Oh! Didn’t sound too good when you put it like that. I waited while the waiter delivered our wine, mentally preparing my defense.
“E, I didn’t ignore my cell. I didn’t hear it, because it was in my purse. When I finally got the message about not going to Paddy’s, I was already there. Jia had called me from the bar, she was already half cut, and she sounded upset, so I just went to her. Dylan was doing what any decent guy would have done. You should be grateful he was watching out for me. And as for the dribbling asshole, well, he was just metaphorically waving his dick around because he thought Jia and I were a couple, and that he was the man to turn me.”
“Fucking asshole!” he spat, and then as a secondary thought, added, “Why would he think you and Jia were a couple?”
I rolled my eyes. “Because he’s… an… asshole.”
Ethan paused, tapping his fingers on the table, like a juror considering his verdict. “What was wrong with Jia?”
“She and Charley have split.”
He laughed once, more with derision than with mirth. “What and you didn’t see that coming? More like Charley left her because she
was tired of waiting for her to get over you.”
“Oh, whatever,” I snapped. I didn’t want to get into that again. If I even acknowledged the possibility that he was right, it would change everything about my relationship with Jia, and I couldn’t bear that. “For your information, it’s more likely because she’s swapped to the other team again. Fancied a slice of some red-blooded male, apparently.”
“What? I didn’t know she was into guys as well.”
I shrugged. “Jia changes her mind on which sex she prefers as often as she changes her shoes.”
“Poor Charley.”
“Charley will be fine and so will Jia. And we were talking about you and the asshole.”
He reached out and tentatively covered my hand with his. “If it’s worth anything, I apologized to Dylan. I also thanked him for looking out for you—although it makes my blood boil to think of anyone else being your knight in shining armor.”
“No one else is. He was just being a friend, until you charged up on your steely stallion, threatening to dismember any living, breathing thing within a worldwide radius.”
“I’m not that bad.” He paused, waiting for me to validate his claim, but instead I offered a dubious frown.
“Asking me not to go to Paddy’s without you is unreasonable, E. I have to be able to do things on my own, and I can’t be checking a list of dos and don’ts every time I want to go somewhere.”
For a second he seemed irritated, like he’d failed to control something he felt he should have total power over. The waiter arrived with our food, thankfully seeming to dislodge his anger a little. He thanked the waiter and picked up his fork, choosing to eat one-handed rather than let go of my hand.
“Dylan wants you, Angel,” he continued. “Of that, I have no doubt. But… I think he realizes that you’re mine, and that he can never have you. Thankfully, he seems contented to be your friend. And I’m aware that good friends are hard to come by. So… providing Dylan continues to realize his limits, and you promise to stay clear of dick-wielding assholes, I will allow you to go to Paddy’s without me. I would prefer, however, if you inform me prior to going.”