His Pawn
Page 5
“This is my personal number, so relax, you’re safe. Besides, there are thousands of other women named Elle in this city. It’s a popular name. But, if it makes you feel better, I won’t use your name … dove.”
He’s using that nickname again. To point out what he started to tell me at the piano bar—that compared to him, I really am pure and sweet. And it irks me.
“Elle works just fine, thank you.” Waving at the driver of the sedan who slows down enough for me to pull into traffic, I snort at his words. “And I’m sure you would know just how popular ladies’ names are, but thanks for making me feel so very special. Do you always carry around cards with your personal number?”
“Would you rather I wrote my number on your breasts? I have to admit, I greatly prefer them over a boring piece of cardstock. They’re very—”
“I’m in the middle of a restaurant,” I blurt out, interrupting him because I’m afraid of my body’s response to whatever he was preparing to say next. It’s bound to be dirty because that’s Graham. Dirty. And it’s scary I know that much about him after just one evening in his presence.
“Did you know your voice deepens when you lie? And you lick your lips, too. And that you narrow those blue eyes just slightly?” When I gulp, he chuckles. “What time are you available tonight?”
“What makes you think I’m available? I mean, I haven’t given you a single thought until today when I found your card in my coat pocket.”
“The lies, beautiful. You wouldn’t have called if you weren’t available and hadn’t thought of me, so let’s not waste time with ridiculous back-and-forth. You want to see me, and I definitely want to see you. What time should I pick you up?”
“You’re over-confident.”
“Yes, I bathe in it every morning right after I piss excellence. Now, Elle, the time?”
After I stupidly tell him I’ll be home all night—because what’s more interesting than a twenty-two-year-old woman who sits around during holiday break flipping back and forth through travel channels—and give him the address to my apartment, he says, “I’ll see you at nine.”
My head spins because this entire exchange has gone so fast. I went from calling to hear his voice, so I wouldn’t think about him, to jumping at his dinner invitation. “Wait! Where are you taking me?”
“Does it matter as long as I promise to keep you safe?”
“That’s the dumbest question I’ve ever heard.” Braking at a red traffic light, I catch a glimpse of my face in the rearview mirror. I’m flushed, go figure. “Of course it matters.”
He laughs again. It reverberates through my body, tightening every muscle down to my core. Damn, why does he have to have such an effect on me? “I’ll see you at nine, Elle.”
SIX
GRAHAM
Just like Elle, I did my research on her after we parted ways last Friday night. No surprise, Eleanor Sutton Courtney is squeaky clean. Untarnished, in fact.
Straight A student at the best private school Daddy’s money could buy, former equestrian at said high school in addition to one shitty season of lacrosse, 3.9 GPA at George Washington University—Elle is exactly what I expected her to be on paper. Dull. It had taken me a few calls, and thirty minutes or so of string pulling, but I finally figured out exactly what it is she was so desperate to keep from me:
Her father has yet to pay her spring tuition.
He had gone as far as to contact the billing office personally to request that his address be removed from her file. My source, a cousin of my old college roommate, was reluctant to give me more information, but I’d managed to coax out of her that Elle’s already set up arrangements but has yet to remit payment.
For whatever reasons her shit stain of a dad came up with—because she looks pristine from where I’m standing—she’s been cut off. She needs money so badly that she’s waitressing at sports bars. And that means she’s handed herself to me on a silver platter.
“She has no fucking clue.”
From the front seat of the car, Veronica, my Chief of Staff’s assistant and one of my oldest friends, narrows her gray eyes at the rearview mirror. “I’m sorry, did you say something to me?”
“Watch the road. The last thing we need is for your bad driving to kill someone. Christ, with the way you handle traffic, you’d think you grew up driving in Iowa instead of Brooklyn.”
“You could always drive yourself.” Her sarcastic tone almost makes me grit my teeth. Almost. But not even V’s attitude can bring me down today, not when I’ll have everything I desire in a matter of hours.
“No, but thanks for the suggestion. Something’s come up for tonight.” I can’t help but grin like the king of the fucking east coast. I throw my phone into my briefcase, where it lands somewhere between paperwork and the other phone I reserve for business. “When we get back to my office, cancel my dinner plans.”
She keeps her sight on the road, but I catch her reflection when I glance up at the windshield. Vero frowns about everything, and my newest instructions are no exception. “But, Graham, you have a meeting scheduled with Thomas Neill.”
“But, Vero, I don’t give a fuck. Just do your job.” She makes a noise, so I sigh and rub the bridge of my nose. “Cancel whatever it is, V, please? Neill can wait.”
“I know what my job is, so you don’t have to talk to me like I’m a child.” She taps her short nails anxiously on the steering wheel. “In case you forgot, I’m several months older than you.”
She’s never let me forget that over the last twenty-seven years. My parents were shit, too wealthy for their own good and too selfish to put much effort into any endeavor that didn’t heighten their own satisfaction. They left me and my brothers to be raised by nannies and whoever else they could throw hundreds at. It wouldn’t have been a surprise if they pawned us off on a stripper, just as long as she signed a confidentiality agreement and didn’t blab all over the place how Mom loved pill-popping and sleeping her way through Dad’s friends—and eventually my older brothers’ friends—just as much as my father enjoyed high-class hookers.
Luckily for me, my parents struck gold when they hired Vero’s mother shortly after my sixth birthday. Housekeeper and nanny-extraordinaire, the woman managed her own household while raising me. At least, until my biological parents deemed me old enough to swat off to another state for boarding school.
So, yes, I’m well aware that the judgmental blonde glowering at me from the front seat is nearly a year my senior. I’ve also known her long enough to predict that, without a doubt, she’s seconds from questioning my every move and calling her nosiness caring.
Five...
Four...
Three...
Two...
She huffs and puffs and wrinkles her nose like she smells shit. Here it comes. The deluge of morality. “All right, Graham, now I’m curious. Who doesn’t have a clue this time? What have you gotten yourself into?”
“A woman.” It seems too bland a word to describe the stunning, dark-haired creature that’d crawled her way into my thoughts over and over since I let her drive away on Friday night, so I correct myself. “A very exquisite woman.”
“Surprise, surprise,” she drawls mockingly. “You’re one lucky son-of-a-bitch. How your ... habits haven’t ended up blasted all over the place is beyond me. Someday you’re going to screw with the wrong one, and she’s going to sing like a canary.”
“My habits are mine and mine alone because I’m usually careful about those I practice them with.” Or because I usually have the upper hand, like with Incredi-Ass from 202. I’ll be even more cautious with Elle until the time is right. “Now, keep your thoughts on the road and off my cock.”
She makes a face like she’s vomiting all over the front of her black blazer. “Thanks, Graham. I think I just gagged.” Cursing at a taxi that cuts in front of us, she slams on the brakes. I clear my throat to remind her that I’d like to ring in the New Year in one piece, but she rambles on. “I’m just looking out for
you. You helped me get this job. You’re like my brother. I don’t want you to ruin your career because you can’t keep it in your pants.”
“Professionalism. Learn it. Fast.” Because, fuck, I don’t need advice from her about where I dip my dick when her love life is so messy it gives me a migraine. My phone rings again. I grab it from my briefcase, and my irritation fades to satisfied anticipation.
It’s Elle.
Shooting Vero a dark look in the mirror that makes her shake with suppressed fury, I accept the call. “It’s hard to believe you managed to stay away as long as you did, what with you calling me every five minutes now,” I say, and she laughs. Softhearted and gullible. A reminder that women like Eleanor Courtney want commitment and L-O-Fucking-V-E in exchange for cuddles and a million excuses not to give sloppy head.
What I’ll offer her tonight will be better. And when everything between us is said and done, what she’ll give me is priceless.
“I had no problem not calling you over the last four days.” Bullshit, but I won’t say that. Won’t point out that just speaking to me makes her blush and squeeze her thighs together. “At least tell me what I should wear,” she says, lowering her voice to a husky plea.
I close my eyes, cutting out the bleak winter day and Vero’s sour ass expression, and picture her. Not in that silly 202-waitress uniform but the gray dress she wore the day I first noticed her, even if it did look like a sack. Clear blue eyes. That nervous lip-licking that taunts my cock every time she does it. That long black hair knotted between the fingers of one hand, and her pearls gripped in the other, as I finally fuck those Cupid’s bow lips.
“Graham?” she murmurs my name. I want to hear her say it a dozen more times, each louder and more desperate than the last. “Did you hear what I said? Will you at least give me a clue about what I should wear? I don’t want to overdress or underdress.”
Oh, I heard her. And the answer is simple: It. Doesn’t. Matter. Not when the only thing she’ll be wearing by the end of the night are my fingerprints on her bare ass and my tie around her wrists. I don’t attempt to mask my grin when I answer, “Surprise me, Ms. Courtney.”
Vero chokes on her own saliva and almost takes down a fire hydrant.
“Pay attention to what you’re doing, V!” I warn her sharply.
“V?” Elle asks softly. “Is this a bad time?”
“She’s my assistant.” Returning my undivided focus to her, I repeat, “Surprise me. I’m always adventurous enough to appreciate a good surprise.”
“Well, I’m not,” she informs me, and I can just imagine those pink lips of hers worked into a pout. I swallow a frustrated groan.
“Every woman likes surprises. I’ll see you tonight.” This time when she’s gone, I power off my phone. Lifting my gaze to gauge how close we are to our destination, I lock on to Vero’s horrified gray eyes in the mirror. “Professionalism,” I remind her.
“Ms. Courtney?” Her nostrils flare. I don’t say anything, and she takes it as an invitation to keep talking. “Please tell me you’re not sleeping with his wife to get back at him for what happened? I mean, what would be the point? It’s not like it will change anything. What the hell is wrong with you, Graham?”
“I’m not fucking Robert Courtney’s wife.” I clench my teeth. “And before you ask, I never have, nor is it in my plans for the future. I’ve never been a big fan of cougars, even if they are rather attractive and married to sleazy bastards.”
“Oh, thank God. For a second...” she trails off, and I almost think she’s about to let it go, but then I see her eyes dart around in the mirror like she’s mentally piecing together an intricate puzzle. I roll mine toward the ceiling of the car. “Dear God ... he has a daughter, doesn’t he?”
She sounds shocked. Vero’s known me long enough not to be surprised by anything or anyone I do.
“Mind your own goddamn business. There are plenty of women with that last name in this city.”
She pulls the car into the closest convenience store lot, slams it into park in the space reserved for checking tire pressure, and whirls on me. “Then tell me it’s another Courtney—any other Courtney.” She jabs a finger a couple inches from my face. “And don’t you lie to me, Delaney, or I’ll kick your ass.”
“Really, V?” She sucks in her cheeks. I blink. “Besides, why do you care?”
“I care because you’re my family, and my mother would roll over in her grave if I let you out of this car without giving you a piece of my mind.”
I look at her, long and hard. Leave it to her to aim for my heart by bringing up one of the only women I’ve ever wanted to make proud. “The dramatics are killing me.”
“Good, because do you know what else I care about? Hurting people. So, please, tell me you’re not screwing with Courtney’s daughter just because of what you think he did?”
“I know,” I growl. “You do, too. I wouldn’t waste my time if all I went on was thoughts and maybes.”
“Jesus Christ, Graham. What the hell happened to you? What happened to that sweet boy who used to bug me to help him with his homework after school?”
“He wised up and got a fucking clue years ago.” I check my watch. It’s almost one. She’s wasting my time with her spiel on honor and heart. “I don’t have the time or the patience to listen to your ‘God, Grahams’ or your lectures, Veronica. You have a job, so do it before you find yourself back in Brooklyn.”
Pinching her lips into an angry line, she pulls back into traffic and drives me to my meeting in silence. She doesn’t speak again until just before I get out of the car, and when she does, I consider firing her on the spot.
“I’m so disappointed in you. Your issue is with Robert Courtney, not his children. Please tell me you’re not going to manipulate that poor girl into thinking you care about her?”
I stare her down for a long time, regretting that she knows so much about me, and feeling triumphant she doesn’t know nearly as much as she thinks. I could tell her the truth. That I won’t need to promise Elle the sun and moon and whatever the fuck else to get her into bed with me.
I’ll give her independence from her father.
Eventually, I straighten the yellow tie Veronica had picked out for my meeting, open the door, and free myself from the confines of the car. She’s still turned around, looking at me like I’m a monster. “Go back to the office. And make sure you cancel my plans for tonight. I’ll find my own way back.”
She says something else, but I fail to hear it over the slam of the car door.
I check the Tag Heuer on my wrist again.
Eight hours until show time.
SEVEN
ELLE
Agreeing to meet Graham just might be the most impulsive thing I’ve ever done. And, honestly, I’m not too sure what that says about me. The second we disconnected from our second call, I launched into full panic mode. I sat in traffic, biting furiously at my bottom lip, trying to figure out what the hell had come over me. It’s not like Graham has good intentions. He doesn’t even attempt to hide his bad intentions, and that’s alarming. My ex had perfected the act of pretending to be a perfect gentleman, a boy my father approved of. With Alex, an invitation to dinner translated to sex. An offer to catch a movie meant a hand job in the theater—and on the way home. And a late night text to check in on me was an opening for a quickie before class.
But Graham Delaney is not a boy. He’s had no issue telling me every thought on his filthy mind so far, so as I drive into the garage of my building, I tell myself that maybe he genuinely wants just dinner. Nothing more.
I’m laughing by the time I park.
“Nothing more, my ass,” I mutter. I grab my phone, prepared to call him back with an excuse, but my fingers tingle when I notice he’s already anticipated that. He had texted while I was driving.
Graham Delaney: Stop second-guessing your decision because I’m not going to buy any bullshit about suddenly coming down with the flu. I’ll see you at nine.
“Do you plan to continue this outrageous game, Eleanor, or are you ready to settle this situation like adults?”
I wince, almost dropping the phone from its spot between my ear and the crook of my neck. Stupid. I am absolutely stupid for not looking at the screen before answering. In my defense, it’s a quarter before nine. Although I’ll never, ever admit this to him, I’ve thought of Graham entirely too much since I responded to his last text this afternoon. When my cell rang in the middle of pulling my dress over my head, I immediately assumed it was him and had accepted the call. Instead, as I sit down on the end of my bed, I hear the controlled breathing of the last person I want to talk to.
My father.
“Eleanor?”
“Yes, I’m here.” I grab one of my strappy, black pumps from the floor by its four-inch heel and slip it onto my foot. I squint down at the peep toe, relieved I didn’t smudge the nude polish I brushed on last minute. “Look, I really don’t have time for this tonight. I can call you tomorrow or Thursday, though, if that works for you.”
“Hmm.” Lord, I hate when he does that because it means some asshole comment will follow. Sure enough, a second later, he says, “If you want your life back, you’ll make time.”
I shouldn’t let that get to me—after all, I’m speaking to someone who’s spent the majority of my existence making me feel inadequate. Still, it’s hard to think of anything else other than hanging up on him and blocking his calls for assuming that, now that he’s cut me off, I no longer have a life.
Jabbing the speakerphone button, I toss the phone on my bed, where it lands on the ivory sweater dress I decided against wearing. “I thought I was settling things like an adult when I told you that Zach’s happiness means more to me than your image. My opinion isn’t changing. I’m not going to distance myself from my brother or beg him not to love someone, just because it doesn’t fit your agenda. Sorry, Dad, it’s never going to happen.”