by Anthology
The words that might properly convey the way I feel escape me, and maybe that’s because I’m not sure how I feel. It’s a cocktail of every emotion on the spectrum, high and low, good and bad.
“I love you, Magnolia Grantham.” His jaw tightens. “Two years without speaking couldn’t change that. I’m not going anywhere. I’ll be right here, loving you, fighting for us, and convincing you that every word coming out of my mouth is genuine. It wasn’t enough to be your best friend, and I’m not even sure it’s enough to be your boyfriend.”
My heart sputters before quickening. It pounds so hard I’m sure he can hear it.
“I intend to spend the rest of my life with you,” he says. “But for now, you’re moving in with me because that’s where you belong. With me.”
He isn’t asking.
“You drive a hard bargain, Mr. Fox. But fine. I accept your offer. My lease is up the end of next month. I’ll move in then.”
“A forty-five day close.”
The tension in the room dissipates. Xavier’s the only person in the world I can be silly with and still command respect from during professional situations.
“I’ve got appointments all afternoon.” He kisses my forehead before reaching across the desk for his phone and keys.
“See you tonight then. Your place?”
“Our place.”
THE END
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Winter Renshaw recently celebrated her third 29th birthday. By day, she wrangles kids and dogs, and by night, she wrangles words. She loves peonies, lipstick, and balmy summer days. Chips and salsa are her jam, and so is cruising down the highway with the windows down and the air blasting while 80s rock blares from the speakers of her Mom-UV.
She would describe her writing style as sexy, conflicted, and laced with heart. Her heroes are always alpha and her heroines are always smart and independent. HEA guaranteed.
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Capturing Liberty
D.G. Whiskey
COPYRIGHT © 2015 D.G. WHISKEY
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Chapter One
“Be a good girl and get us another round of scotch, will you doll?”
The man’s voice was superior, patronizing, and he had a smug grin on his face. Either of those I could have put up with, but I drew the line when paired with his hand sliding down my back to squeeze my ass in the tight black dress all waitresses had to wear at Dorgo’s.
I slapped his hand away. “Please don’t touch me.”
The slack-jawed look on his face and low whistles from the other men at the table lit a fierce satisfaction within me. It didn’t last long.
“Did you fucking hit my hand?” He stood up from his chair. He wasn’t a tall man, but I wasn’t a tall woman and the flush in his face signaled that this was a man given to outbursts of anger.
“You’ve been making inappropriate remarks and advances for the past several hours. They aren’t welcome, and I want you to stop.”
His nostrils flared. He might have been handsome, but his actions over the course of my shift and his state of inebriation filled me with disgust and distaste.
“I’m paying over fifty bucks a drink. If I want to put my hand on your ass, then I’ll put my hand on your ass,” he said. He grabbed my arm and yanked me toward him, gripping my ass in his other hand so hard it hurt.
“Get off me!” I struggled against him, but he was too strong. It was hard to look around the bar with my motion restricted, and I saw none of the other servers. The group had snagged one of the more secluded tables in the classy Wall Street cocktail bar. Situations like this didn’t happen at Dorgo’s.
The man pulled me even harder against him. “I’ll do whatever I want. Hell, if I wanted to take you home tonight then you’ll come with me, and like it.”
“Paul, let her go, man.” The other men at the table looked uncomfortable, but weren’t in any hurry to get up from their seats and help me.
“Don’t be such a fucking pussy, Grant. We own this town and we can do what we want.” The aggressor turned back and stared at me. “I want to teach her a lesson for being a frigid bitch.”
Words stuck in my throat. I should have been screaming, or calling for help, or struggling with all my might, but shock paralyzed me and I watched the scene unfold like a big screen movie. Somehow I was detached from it all, unable to believe it was happening.
A hand reached past me to shove hard against Paul’s chest at the same time another wrapped around my waist to wrench me from his arms. Paul stumbled back a few paces and almost fell, catching himself on his chair at the last moment.
For the second time in as many minutes a male body held me tight, but the hand on me was gentle and he smelled nice. When I looked up, I saw a chiseled face and high cheekbones under a set of dark green eyes that stared at the man who’d been assaulting me.
“Who the fuck do you think you are?” Paul shouted, having regained his feet.
The man who shoved him looked down at me, his eyes softening from their deadly glare when our gazes met. “Are you okay?” he asked, ignoring the belligerent man a few paces away.
“I’m not hurt,” I said. “Thank you.”
He withdrew his arm once I’d regained my balance, leaving me to stand on my own. His chin jutted out as he turned back to Paul. “Why the hell would you do that to a woman only talking to you because of her job and clearly wants nothing to do with you?”
Paul took a step forward in what he must have intended to be a threatening gesture. My savior didn’t appear too concerned—he was taller and better built than the drunk asshole, and Paul had to focus to even put his feet forward in the right order.
“I can do whatever I want here,” Paul said. “Do you know who I am? I fucking run this town, you piece of shit. I’m worth four hundred million dollars and run one of the biggest hedge funds on the planet. You’ll pay for laying a hand on me, you and that fucking bitch.”
I shivered. The perk of working at Dorgo’s was all the rich bankers and hedge fund managers who came to talk shop and tipped well. The downside was coming into contact with megalomaniac jackasses who thought they could get away with anything because they were rich.
Problem was, they were right.
Other patrons of the bar had taken notice of the altercation—every table in the exclusive section of the bar featured all eyes toward the spectacle. I couldn’t blame them—I had seen nothing like it in the few months I’d worked there.
“You’ll want to watch who you run your mouth off to. One of these days it’ll get you into trouble. It might even be today.” The self-assured tone of the man at my side forced me to give him another look.
There wasn’t anything in particular that stood out about him other than his aristocratic features. His face could have been carved by a Roman sculptor. A well-tailored suit showed off his athletic form, but every man in the establishment wore similar clothing. His age wasn’t clear, but he couldn’t have been much older than twenty-five to Paul’s early forties.
“Are you threatening me, boy?” Paul asked. “I can ruin you quicker than you could imagine. I have more powerful friends than you even know exist. You better get out of my sight and be happy I’m letting you off that easy.”
I looked back toward the bar and caught John’s eyes. The supervisor also worked the bar during the week, and the flood of customers had died down enough for him to notice the tense atmosphere in our direction. I waved to get his attention and gestured to come over.
“How much did you say you were worth again—four hundred million dollars? I’ll tell
you what, here’s what we’ll do.” The man at my side reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a deck of cards. “How about we each cut the deck, and the person who loses has to pay the other four hundred million dollars.”
Stunned silence met his words. Is he serious?
A tidal wave of whispers ran through the onlookers. John had reached the group just as the man proposed the wager, and his jaw dropped so low it looked like he had dislocated it.
“Cut for four hundred million dollars?” Paul’s face whitened. “There’s no way you have that kind of money. What do you think I am, a fool? If I win you’ll just run away and I’ll never see a dime.”
“If you agree, then we’ll find a third party we both trust to escrow. With the number of wealthy bankers in this bar, it shouldn’t be difficult.”
Paul stared at him. “You can’t be serious.”
The sound of shuffling cards was his only response. His opponent’s face was granite, giving nothing away.
Gears turned in Paul’s head, thoughts flitting behind his eyes. Greed, and fear. The chance to double his fortune, or walk away with nothing. He hadn’t gotten where he was without an appetite for gambling.
“Fuck you,” he finally said. “This is madness. Who the fuck are you?”
“My name is Stephen Devereux. If you aren’t willing to man up, then get the fuck out of here and let us enjoy our night.”
Chapter Two
Paul’s friends had enough. What began as an interesting diversion for them turned into a serious clash. Grant tugged on Paul’s arm, “Let’s go, there’s no point hanging around here any longer.”
With no choice, Paul let himself be ushered out of the bar by his group. His stare never left Stephen—it promised pain for the humiliation he’d suffered in front of so many of his peers and the city’s wealthy elite. Then his eyes locked on me for the last few seconds before he exited the lounge area and I couldn’t help but shiver. I’d never seen such hatred before.
“Are you sure you’re all right? What’s your name?” Stephen asked me, his hand on my elbow.
John raised an eyebrow at me in question, and I nodded. He went back to the bar.
“I’m much better now, thank you so much,” I said. “I’m Liberty. I don’t know where you came from, but that was amazing the way you stared him down like that.”
“Don’t worry about it,” he said, as though he’d done nothing more than hold a door open. “I’m glad I could help.”
“Help? That was incredible! At least let me get you a drink on the house.”
I led Stephen to the bar and told John to treat him to the very best for as long as he wanted to stay.
“Are you here with friends or colleagues?”
He shook his head. “No, I heard this was an interesting gathering place for the wealthy bankers, so I thought I would check it out. I’m new in town, still trying to get my bearings.”
Stephen intrigued me and I felt grateful, but I also had a job I was on the clock for. Losing tips from Paul’s table would hurt, but even worse was them not paying their tab before they left. It would have to come out of my pocket, but I’d rather pay it than have that cancerous tumor sitting in my section for the rest of my shift.
There was another hour left before I could go home, and by the time I’d closed out my tables I’d gotten enough tips to break even on the night after paying for the drinks at Paul’s table. When I checked in with John, he waved off the payment.
“It’s already paid for, Liberty. The same guy who saved you felt responsible for that table and he offered to pay it off, plus tip. I wouldn’t have made you pay for it anyway, considering the circumstances.”
I’d been so grateful for Stephen’s help, but now I was just embarrassed. There was no sign of him at the bar. It would have been nice to thank him again and say goodbye. “He paid for the whole thing? I can’t believe I got him involved in that mess. That Paul character looked like he will do everything in his power to get revenge for the way Stephen showed him up.”
John shrugged. “He wouldn’t take no for an answer, Liberty, I tried. I got the feeling he would leave a few hundred dollar bills lying around if I refused to take his money. I wouldn’t worry about Paul, I’ve seen him around a few times and he’s a big tool when he’s drinking but he’ll come to his senses in the morning. It’s not like he’ll pursue a personal vendetta for an altercation at a bar.”
Based on his vitriolic stare as he left, I disagreed but didn’t bother taking the conversation any further. I wanted to go home and get to sleep.
I’d almost gotten to the door when a familiar hand on my side turned me. Stephen stood there, his height making me feel tiny but not in a threatened way.
“Leaving now?” he asked. His voice was pleasantly low, and smooth as silk. Much different than it had been while confronting Paul.
“Yes, shift’s over,” I said, smiling. “Thanks again for earlier, I should see if I can get a bat light installed in case I ever need you again.”
He laughed. “That would be something. Would you mind if I walk you home tonight? I don’t know if that asshole would try to do anything to you after leaving the bar, but I’d never forgive myself if he did something and I wasn’t there to prevent it.”
Walk me home? Stephen was tall, good looking and well-off. And that voice! Could I refuse the offer? The thought of Paul waiting out there had crossed my mind, and Stephen made me feel safe.
“I’d like that.”
We left the building and strolled along Wall Street, taking the right along William. The sky was dark and a few faint rumbles rolled across the city.
“How far away do you live?” he asked. “Do you walk or should we take an Uber?”
“It’s a little far, but not too bad. We’ll be fine.” I looked at him sideways, trying to get a fix on him. “You said you’re new in town?”
“Oh yes, just got in a week or two ago. I’ve been to New York before, but only for the occasional weekend here and there, not to live.”
“Do you mind if I ask what you do?” It wasn’t often I met someone willing to throw away four hundred million dollars to prove a point.
He took longer to respond than I expected. “I’m trying to figure that part out. I went to school to be a surgeon, and I enjoyed medical school and learning so much about the human body. Surgeons work a ton of hours, though, and once the money is taken out of the equation it’s no longer as appealing a proposition. New York seemed like the perfect place for reflection and finding myself, so here I am.”
A surgeon, too? Stephen was a never-ending surprise. “Why did you go to school for it if you didn’t want to do it after graduating?”
“The money I came into was a surprise,” he said. “To be honest, I never dreamed I’d never have to work for a living.”
“Where did it come from?”
His story enthralled me. How does someone come into what must be billions of dollars and not know it’s coming?
“I can’t share that,” he said. “It’s not that I don’t trust you, but I can’t tell anyone. At least not yet.”
Damn, that’s mysterious.
“What else do you do for fun besides rescuing damsels in distress?” I asked. I wanted him to keep talking so I could listen to that voice more.
He chuckled. “Well, I like taking photos. It was something I wanted to go to school for, but practicality won out. Knowing what I do now, I may have done things differently.”
Interest piqued, I walked a little closer to him. “What kinds of photos?” Our legs brushed against each other every few steps, the fine material of his suit pants against the length of leg left exposed by the short dress I wore.
“Mainly portraits and people, although I dabble in landscapes and anything that interests me. I have a big space in my apartment here I’m planning on turning into a studio.”
“Wow, that’s amazing,” I said. “And there’s no reason you shouldn’t get back into doing something you love.”
He gave me a sidelong look. “Have you ever sat for a shoot before? You are stunning.”
My cheeks flamed from the compliment. “Oh, thank you! Funny you say that, I came to Manhattan hoping to model, but no luck yet.”
“Are you serious?” he asked. “That doesn’t make any sense—with looks like yours all the agencies should fall over themselves to sign you to a contract. Mind if I take a look at your portfolio?”
Now my cheeks colored from embarrassment. “I don’t have much of one, just a couple head shots I got a friend to take back home.” I pulled my phone out and pulled up the pictures before handing it to Stephen.
“Oh,” he said as he flipped through the album. “These… are terrible. No wonder you aren’t getting any attention if this is the first thing agencies are seeing.”
I knew they weren’t the best, but his reaction seemed a little harsh. “They aren’t that bad.”
“Liberty, these are awful. Taken with a crappy cell phone camera, and the lighting is just plain brutal. These agencies are looking for the creme of the crop, they won’t waste time with someone who hasn’t even taken the effort to put their best foot forward.”
He looked at me in silence for a few steps. “What would you say to me taking a few shots of you to use going forward? I’d love to get back into it, and I promise you they’ll look a hell of a lot better than what you’ve been using. I obviously wouldn’t charge you anything, it’s not like I need your money.”
No actual photographer had looked at the head shots before.
If they’re that bad… maybe that’s why I’ve been seeing no success sending my information to agencies.
Could I trust Stephen to do a shoot with him? What did I have to lose? Even if he made a move on me, he was handsome and wealthy and seemed like a genuinely good guy. Maybe I wanted him to make a move.