by Claire Kent
“Let’s go somewhere else,” she said again, her voice gentle and her hands clinging to Ander’s sides as if she could somehow hold him together.
Ander swallowed and his face cleared, all of the leashed angst falling smoothly behind the polished surface she now knew he used to hide himself from the world. “I don’t want to go somewhere else. We’re going to eat here.”
Leaving would be a defeat. Would be a surrender. And that was something Ander would never do when confronted with his father.
Lori was awed by the strength of his will that had allowed him to overcome his shock so quickly, but she also wanted to cry for him. And she knew the longer Ander was in his father’s presence, the more painful it would be for him.
She had no choice, though. Ander wasn’t about to back down. So she walked with him over to their table, keeping her hand on his arm.
Just before they sat down, something finally must have processed in Ander’s brain. With a sharp breath, he turned on his heel and grabbed her shoulders with strong, unyielding hands.
Lori was slammed with a wave of terror as she stared up into his angry face.
Ander tightened his fingers on her shoulders and gritted out in a voice she’d never heard from him before, “You know.”
Lori gulped. Ander’s hands on her shoulders were painful and her breath came out in frantic, little pants. But she managed to pull herself together enough to respond. “Yes. I know who you are. I’m sorry.”
Something raw twisted on his face. She’d never seen him angry before, but he clearly was now. “You’ve known all along?”
“No!” Her voice was shriller than she’d expected, so she tempered it as she continued in an earnest rush, “I only just found out. I had no idea before. I promise. A couple of weeks ago, I got curious and wanted to know more about you. So I dug back through some old newspapers and figured it out. I wasn’t sure how to tell you. I know you didn’t want me to pry into your personal life. I can understand why you're mad. I’m sorry. I really am.”
She didn’t want Ander to be mad at her. But that wasn’t the reason for her sudden surge of desperation. For a moment, he looked almost betrayed. Like she’d betrayed him. And she couldn’t bear for that to be true.
Some of the tension eased on Ander’s face, although his eyes were hard and wary. “And what were you going to do with this information?”
“Nothing!” Instinctively, Lori reached out to grab onto Ander’s shirt and cling. “I would never do anything to hurt you. How can you even think that?”
Ander let out a breath, the anger fading on his face and leaving nothing but bitter exhaustion. Then, as if he were suddenly aware of how fiercely he was gripping her, he released her shoulders abruptly and dropped his hands. “It’s not a big deal.”
She’d almost started to relax but then her breath caught sharply at his resigned words. “It is a big deal. I mean, you deserve an apology from me. And we can talk about it more. But I don’t think this is the best time or place for the discussion.” She darted a look over at Peter Milton, whose eyes had glanced idly past where Lori and Ander were standing in front of their table, having a private conversation in public.
“You’re right,” Ander murmured, pulling out Lori’s seat for her. “Let’s sit down and move on.”
Neither one of them would really move on. Lori was relieved that Ander had, at least for the moment, let go of his anger and resentment toward her. But she was afraid about how this turn of events would affect their relationship in the future.
It might change everything.
Everything might already have changed.
And Ander’s father—a man who, by all accounts, lacked the sense of humanity that tempered most other people’s behavior—was still seated on the other side of the restaurant, chatting smoothly with his red-haired companion.
Ander, of course, had taken the seat where he would be in direct view of his father. He wouldn’t even retreat a small step for self-preservation and sit with his back to his father’s table. His features were composed now, and his hands and shoulders relaxed as he dropped his napkin on his lap and sipped his scotch.
But Lori wasn’t fooled for an instant. Ander was practically shuddering with an angst that was brutally leashed. She could see it in the slight sheen on his forehead. In the tightening of his lips. In the stony blankness of his eyes.
They faked their way through casual conversation, gave their orders, and accepted a second drink from their obviously concerned host. And Lori grew more and more stressed as dinner progressed. Ander’s hidden tension grew increasingly urgent—she sensed it even without visible signs—and soon she was afraid he would simply implode as he sat across from her at the table.
Peter and his companion ordered and then finished dessert. But they still wouldn’t get up and leave. Lori didn’t have to look behind her to be aware of Peter’s continued, silently taunting presence in the room. All she had to do was look at Ander’s empty face.
Their food arrived, which was a relief to Lori. She planned to gobble down her pasta and get them out of there as soon as she could. The food was delicious but she wasn’t very hungry, so swallowing each bite was a challenge.
When she saw Ander’s shoulders stiffen, she knew something was going to happen. A slight turn of her head revealed what.
Peter’s companion must have gone to the restroom as they got up to leave. And Peter himself, elegant and sophisticated in a pale gray suit, was even now approaching their table.
Lori’s mouth fell open in pained shock. Her pulse pounded frantically in her chest, her head and her fingertips. Peter Milton had disowned his own son. Surely he wasn't now going to make a scene by twisting the knife in the wound.
Ander stood up, clearly so that his father couldn’t look down on him.
Peter’s lips curled up in an arrogant, satisfied smiled. “Ander,” he said, “Working, I see.” His cold hazel eyes cut over to Lori, dismissed her with no more than a flicker of his eyelashes. “I’ll admit to being surprised by the altered nature of your clientele. I’d understood you drew clients from the highest ranks of taste, intelligence, and social standing.”
Lori blinked in surprise. She would have assumed that Peter’s first verbal thrust would be a deep one, an attempt to strike Ander where he was most vulnerable. Instead, he’d insulted her, which—while annoying—wouldn't result in lasting damage.
She couldn’t believe a man as practiced in business and political strategy as Peter would have misfired. But she didn’t at all understand his aim.
Evidently, the blow hit home. Ander’s spine stiffened and his lips went momentarily white. “Did you have a purpose for coming to speak to me?”
“You aren’t going to introduce me to your companion?” Peter emphasized the last word, making it sound somehow dirty and demeaning.
“No,” Ander said, his voice as smoothly venomous as his father’s. “And I'm sure you'll understand, since obviously you felt compelled to hide yours. Not surprising, considering.”
It must have been a shot in the dark—unless Ander knew something about Peter’s date that evening—but it worked. For the first time, a flash of cold anger flashed across Peter’s craggy face.
Lori should have known to expect Peter to parry unmercifully, without hesitation or a sense of fair play. He turned away from Ander with cruel indifference and held out a hand to Lori. “Peter Milton,” he murmured, “Have you been Ander’s client for long? He was always the kind of boy who liked to play make-believe. I always hoped he’d grow up to be a man. But alas...”
His superficially mild tone cracked through Lori like a whip. His words physically hurt her—mostly because she knew they deeply they would pierce the tender, sensitive core of Ander’s nature.
Responding automatically, without any thought to wisdom or strategy, she reached up and took Peter’s hand. It was cool and dry. Not anything like Ander’s always warm clasp.
She used the leverage his hand offered her to p
ull herself up to her feet. With a bright smile and intentional innocence, she said, “I’ve never heard anyone use ‘alas’ in casual conversation before.”
Lori had held onto her wine as she stood. As she stepped forward, she tilted the glass.
Slopped a nearly full glass full of red wine all over the front of Peter’s cool, pale suit.
* * *
Lori knew the wine thing was petty and a little childish, but she greatly enjoyed it, and it accomplished what she needed.
Peter was clearly startled and perturbed by the deluge of dark red wine. He didn’t linger among the amused onlookers, and he made no more verbal assaults on his son.
Once Peter left the restaurant, Ander and Lori could return to their meals. Ander was still tense, still pulsing with leashed angst, but he no longer appeared on the verge of implosion.
They left the restaurant twenty minutes later. Lori felt shaky and emotional, and she silently fell in step with Ander. She had no idea where they were going, but Ander started walking, clearly absorbed in his own thoughts.
They walked several blocks until he came to a stop in front of a historic stone building with clean lines and large windows.
He blinked as his stared at an unmarked door that clearly led upstairs. “What am I doing here?” he muttered, as if he had just become aware of his surroundings.
“I don’t know,” Lori said, feeling nervous and confused. “You were just walking so I walked with you. Is this your place?”
“Yeah.” Ander cleared his throat and gave his head a little shake. “Sorry. I was out of it. We were going back to the hotel, weren’t we?”
Lori reached out to take his arm in concern. He looked shaken, exhausted, and more battered than she’d ever seen him. She had no idea the kind of emotional turmoil he’d suffered this evening, but the feeling she sensed from him was wrenching.
Ander was hiding it well, but he looked traumatized. And Lori would be damned if she made it any worse.
“Ander, why don’t you just go home? We don’t need to go back to the hotel tonight.”
Rubbing his eyes, Ander made another obvious effort to pull himself together. He glanced at his watch. “It’s just ten.”
“I don’t care. Really. I know that wasn’t any fun for you.” She used understatement on purpose, intuitively knowing he would be uncomfortable if she made a big deal about what had happened. “You look tired. Go on up. I’ll get a cab home.”
Ander shook his head. “No. I’m fine.”
“I mean it,” Lori insisted. “I’d feel like a heartless monster if I made you fuck me tonight.”
“You don’t make me—”
“You know what I mean. I want...I want to help you.”
He stared at an empty spot in the air, his breathing fast and uneven. He looked like he was shuddering again, just under the surface of his composure, and the tension was so brutal she feared he would shatter.
“Ander?” she asked softly, stroking her hand up to cup his face. “Are you all right?”
For a moment, he seemed to lean into her palm. Then he jerked his head away. He still hadn’t met her eyes. “I’m fine.”
Lori’s growing concern intensified until a lump formed in her throat. Ander was on the verge of breaking, and she had no idea what she could do to help. A wave of aching tenderness overwhelmed her. She wished she could cradle him. Hold him in her arms.
“I don’t think you are.” Her voice cracked on the last word. “Ander, what can I do? What do you need?”
“I’m fine.” She noticed his hands had started to shake. But then he clenched them into fists at his sides.
“You’re not,” she choked, “You’re not! Tell me the truth. Tell me what you want. Do you want to be alone? Do you want me to hang out with you for a while? We can go to the hotel. Or somewhere else. Anything, Ander. Just tell me what you want.”
Her hoarse, impassioned entreaties must have finally gotten through to him. At last, he looked up at her slowly, as if his eyes were too heavy to lift. A muscle flickered in his temple and his lips were dead white. “I want ...” He cleared his throat, but his words were still thick and reluctant. “Stay with me tonight.”
***
They went up to Ander’s loft apartment.
Lori had never expected him to take her home with him. Obviously, his apartment was his private sanctum with boundaries clients were never allowed to cross.
But he wanted her company tonight. Without speaking, he just unlocked the street-front door and ascended the stairs to his loft. So Lori went with him.
His apartment wasn’t anything like she imagined. It wasn’t sleek and cool, with minimalist contemporary furnishings, abstract modern art, and hard edges. The loft was wide-open and well-lit, with high ceilings, huge windows, exposed ductwork, and aged wood floors. He’d furnished it with fine old pieces that looked to be antique. But they weren’t delicate, curlicued and ornate. The lines of the tables, chairs, and chests were strong and solid, with stark silhouettes and history embedded in every detail. He had Asian rugs on the floor, oil paintings on the walls, and books piled everywhere.
Lori loved it immediately. She realized the place looked more like Ander—the real Ander and not the slick image he maintained—than her original expectations.
She was too upset and worried about him to indulge her natural curiosity and peer into every corner. She stood in the middle of the floor and waited as he pulled a bottle of Merlot from his full wine rack, opened it, and poured out two glasses.
He carried the wine over the low sofa and he gestured for her to sit down. Then he set the glasses and bottle on the coffee table and went over to turn on some classical music.
They both sat and sipped their wine in silence. Lori had no idea what to say, no idea what to do. She wanted so much to help and comfort Ander, but she felt powerless, incapable, so young.
He sat and brooded, finishing two glasses of wine and starting on the third before he shifted his eyes to rest on her face.
Lori swallowed. “Is there anything I can do?” she asked, a little threadily.
He shook his head slightly and just stared. “I’m sorry you had to see that. With my father.”
The lump that had been lodged in her throat since down on the sidewalk threatened to strangle her at the sight of his pained acquiescence, at his bone-deep belief that he wasn't worth caring about. “I don’t care about me,” she said, leaning toward him in her urgency. Her face twisted as she tried to control her emotions. “Ander, are you all right? Do you want to talk about it?”
“No.” Then he softened the curt word and shuttered expression with a hoarse, “Thank you.”
“Okay.”
She had no idea what to do. She wanted to pull him into her arms, comfort him with her body, but she feared he would jerk away from her touch. His defenses were high, and she was just his client. Nothing in their relationship gave her the privilege of consoling him in that way.
So she just sat in silence and let the rich wine slide down her throat, the piano concerto waft over them.
After several long minutes, Ander bit out, “I hate him.” He was staring at the floor now, obviously seeing his father’s face.
“I know. You have every reason to. I hate him too.” Lori only knew Peter Milton by reputation. It didn’t matter. She hated the man more than she could remember hating anyone. “For you.”
This caused Ander to flick his eyes back over to her. Their gazes held for far too long—his was anguished, absolutely heart-breaking. Then he whispered, “I can never seem to hate him enough.”
A little sob lodged in Lori’s throat as she processed the implications of his words. He couldn’t hate his father completely. Despite everything. Part of him still wanted his father's love.
With a strangled sound, Lori put down her wine and scooted over toward him on the couch. She couldn’t hold back anymore. She wrapped her arms around him. Held him. Wished her touch had the power to heal.
Ander
made a muffled grunt—like he'd unintentionally let something go—and then adjusted on the sofa to pull Lori into his lap, holding her as tightly as she was him.
That sat that way for a long time, their arms gripping tightly and Lori draped across his lap with her face buried against his shoulder. Her emotions built too high, spilled out involuntarily from her eyes. She wept silently for a minute, aching for him and aching for her inability to change things.
Ander’s body was as hot and hard as ever. He smelled of effort and intensity—a familiar scent that spoke to Lori deeply. His arms tightened around her with a naked strength that threatened to crack her ribs. She didn’t care. She loved it. And she hugged him back just as desperately.
After a long time, he finally started to shift beneath her. His face had been pressed against her neck and her hair, but he lifted it and loosened his arms.
Reluctantly, Lori pulled back, peering up at him with trembling lips and stinging eyes.
Something about the haunted emptiness of his gaze changed as he saw her face. He lifted a hand and brushed his fingertips along one of her cheeks. Then stared down at the moisture from her tears on his skin.
“Are these for me?” he breathed, sounding either astonished or awed.
She choked back another little sob at his inability to believe that she would care enough for him to cry. “Ander,” she pleaded, taking his face in both of her shaky hands. “Please let me help.”
With a guttural sound, he tightened his arms around her again, but this time he found her lips in a desperate, hungry kiss.
Lori felt just as desperate, just as hungry, and she returned the kiss with equal ardor. She kept his face in her hands as she opened to the urgent advance of his tongue, and she moaned into his mouth as his hands started to trace over her body.
His mouth and his touch weren't skillful and considered, as they had always been before. His caresses were fumbling, almost clumsy, and his kiss was openly needy. But, if possible, Lori’s body responded even more quickly. His greedy hands on her breasts, her hips, her thighs teased her into an aching arousal. And she was afraid she would drown in the kiss. Finally she had to free her lips so she could gasp desperately against his neck.