Some random part of his mind decided to identify all the cars on this garage level and cross reference them. With one swift glance, he identified thirty-eight of his three-hundred-plus employees who had no life and were still at work at nine PM.
Lust was threatening to fry his circuits, but at least it wasn’t killing rage.
He just might be able to navigate this erotic encounter without running them into a wall.
Her sig was so damn beautiful. He forced himself to look down so he wouldn’t gape at the lights painting the walls. Dreamy pastels were splashed over the rough concrete walls of the garage, transforming them into something magical. If he didn’t screw this up for himself, he was going to be inside that with his own body, bathed in colors as he touched and kissed and fucked her.
And when she came . . .
“Would you stop that, please?”
He glanced up. “Stop what?”
“Thinking about me. Just go with it, OK? Don’t think too hard or we’ll derail.”
He laughed. “I’m not supposed to think about you now? Conditions keep getting stricter. You’re heavy into control.”
“Most men would be happy for a no-strings hook-up,” she said. “Why do you want to grill me first?”
Noah shrugged. “Knowledge is power. I like power. The more data you have, the more on top of things you can be.”
“Is that your favorite position? On top?”
He glanced at her, curious. “One of them, yeah. You still OK with this?”
“Of course.”
The tension in her voice made him slow to a stop to take another look at her sig. Her own unique patterns were not in his lexicon yet, but after less than an hour with her, he already had enough for a quick assessment.
She was turned on, but intimidated. Worried about what she’d gotten herself into, but not worried enough to chicken out.
Having a little sister had forced him to understand the risks a woman took when she chose to go off into the night with a man she barely knew. She was already defenseless and threatened.
He’d make the risk she was taking pay off ten times over.
Maybe he’d come on too strong. But it seemed so right at the time. He’d made sure she was into it every step of the way, and he’d never gotten such an incredible payoff. The lights had blasted the room like a spinning mirror ball when she came.
He pushed that overstimulating thought away before it could mess him up. He was going to need his self-control. Rigorous, constant, always-on-top control.
He’d never let the AVP out of its cage during sex before. Tonight, he wasn’t going to have a choice. But for the first time, his AVP might actually be useful for something he totally cared about. Her pleasure. Making her come.
Not that he ever had much trouble with that. But with her, it was different.
He needed it as urgently as he needed his own.
He helped her into his Porsche, got in himself and sat for a moment, keys in hand. She sank into her seat, looking nervous.
“What are you waiting for?” she demanded.
“I’m not sure,” he said. “But you don’t look OK. What’s wrong?”
“Start the car.”
He did, letting the engine rev for a moment so she had time to change her mind.
She shot him a nervous glance. “I just hope you’re not disappointed, that I’m not, you know, a crazy femme fatale. The sexy costume is just a costume.”
Disappointed, his ass. He almost laughed, but she would not appreciate being made fun of in her current mood. “Not at all. I’m flex. And anything but disappointed.”
“Good. Go for it, then. Sweep me away. Be masterful. I know you can. You don’t have to convince me of anything.”
The car sped up. He had to make a conscious effort to ease off the gas.
“I’m glad you think so,” he said. “But don’t try to snow me. You don’t have any intention of letting go. Not for one instant.”
She was silent for a long moment. “What’s that supposed to mean?” she asked.
“You say, be masterful and sweep me away, but don’t ask my name, and no questions or conversation are allowed, and afterwards, never call me again. That’s not letting go.” He glanced over at her. “I’m just trying to figure you out.”
“Don’t overthink this.” Her voice vibrated with tension. “If the conditions bother you, you can let me out. This corner is just fine.”
Right. As if he would let her walk away. “I could use more data.”
“Tough shit,” she said. “Forget it. Or else stop the car.”
He ignored that. They drove on in silence for many minutes while he pondered his next move.
“Tell me just one little thing,” he said.
“What part of ‘no questions’ did you not understand?”
“Your name,” he said. “Just that. I’ll need it, tonight.”
She sighed, wearily. “Courtney.”
He couldn’t keep from laughing. “Please. Don’t insult my intelligence.”
She looked at him, startled. “Why? What’s wrong with Courtney?”
“Nothing specific. It’s just that it’s not your name,” he said. “People grow into their names, or their names grow onto them. Courtney hangs all wrong on you.”
He let the tension build, as the glow in her sig between her throat and heart got hotter. Shades of blue and violet, getting so bright they were almost white.
Truth, rising up at his summons. She couldn’t keep it inside. She had to let it spill out, or she’d explode. She had to give it up to him. He held his breath.
“Caro,” she whispered.
Yes. He was silently delighted. As if he’d made her come with words alone.
“Now we’re getting somewhere,” he said. “Call me Noah.” He reached out and took her hand. Her fingers were slender and cool, vibrating in his grasp. “Caro,” he said softly. “I like it.”
It was happening again. He waited as they drove along the road that circled the lake. That blue-violet glow brightening as a fresh truth welled up, until it had to emerge.
“It’s what my mother called me when I was little,” she said.
They were home. He pushed a dashboard remote that opened up a large gate, and drove down the winding driveway. His house finally appeared, the high foundation built into rocks and the land, the terrace on stilts embedded in the lake. He parked, catching her thoughtful look around without commenting on it as they got out. The car chirped in farewell as he touched his key fob. He led her up the walkway.
“When did your mother stop calling you that?” he asked.
Many moments passed before she responded. “I was nine when she died.”
“I’m sorry.”
She nodded in acknowledgement. He hooked her arm, and drew her onward. “There are security cameras at the front door, and the back patio,” he said. “Couple more around each side.”
“Thanks. I appreciate you telling me.”
He unlocked the door, disarmed the security system that Sisko had programmed for him, and gestured her into the towering foyer.
His fingers flashed over the wall keypad. “Recoding the indoor vidcams,” he told her. “OK. They’re all off. You can relax.”
“Thanks,” she whispered.
He put the duffel bag down, and lifted her coat off her shoulders. “Take off your disguise.” He waited, as she hesitated. “You’re completely safe here.”
She still hesitated. Even with the shield lenses, he could see that she’d frozen.
“This is the safest place you’ve been in a long time,” he said with quiet intensity. “I would never do anything to you that you didn’t want. I would never hurt you. I would never let anyone else hurt you. I would crush anyone who tried into pulp.”
She laughed at him. “Oh, stop. I hate to break it to you, but you’re not going to strike terror into the hearts of the legions of darkness in a business suit. Not that it doesn’t look awesome on you.”
He grinned. If she only knew. “I’m tougher than I look,” he said. “Take off your disguise.”
Caro did as he asked. The mouth thing went into its hinged container, the glasses went into their case, the yanked-off wig was slung into a satin carrying bag.
He unwound out her coiled hair, loving the way her curls twisted around his fingers. “That’s better,” he murmured. “Caro.”
He clasped her waist and pressed her against the wall, lifting her and setting her astride the bulge in front of his pants. Letting her lean against it. Her eyes looked so wary and dilated, her lush mouth slightly open, her breath quick and uneven. So beautiful. He wanted to admire every detail of her pale face. But there was work to do.
She was too pale. Her lips were bluish. He forced his attention away from his groin and charged up his AVP to scan her.
Borderline hypoglycemic. Dizzy. Low blood pressure. Slightly dehydrated.
He couldn’t seduce a woman in that condition. He had to take care of her first.
Food, then. Not a bad idea for him, either. Running AVP burned a lot of glucose. He fueled up with an extra ten thousand calories at one go sometimes. And his AVP had been in high gear all afternoon and evening.
He lifted her and set her down, stepping back. Calling on all of his hard-assed self-control. “Not yet,” he said. “Let me get some food into you.”
She frowned slightly, as if regular meals were a foreign concept to her. “All right.”
He breathed out, to the count of ten. He had to chill. Until her sig looked brighter and steadier.
Ironic, when he thought about it. He had her in his lair, secretly and under cover of darkness. Defenseless. He had every advantage over her that she could imagine, and plenty of others that she probably couldn’t. And all it amounted to in the end was that he had to compensate like a son of a bitch for every single one of those advantages.
He had to treat her like blown glass.
Chapter 10
Caro felt lost, and awkward. He’d been looking at her if he could see inside her, for miles on end. Then he suddenly withdrew. She felt cut adrift, alone.
She wondered if it was something she’d said.
“I’ll order some dinner,” he said. “What do you like?”
“Anything is fine.”
He frowned. “You’ll have to be more specific than that.”
Damn. Choosing had never been much of a problem in her previous life, when she could afford what she wanted and didn’t worry about money, thanks to solid consulting fees from doing GodsEye Inner Vision coaching. She’d been able to afford New York rent, trendy restaurants and clubs, designer clothes at a discount, and had enough money left over to pursue her art in her spare time.
She might have known she’d have to pay the piper eventually. She just never dreamed that the price would be her life.
Noah was waiting for an answer. “Ah . . . let me think,” she said vaguely.
After so long on the run, she’d forgotten what she’d liked. She was grateful if she had milk fresh enough to pour over cereal in the morning. That, and freeze dried soup for dinner were mainstays. Cheap peanut butter was a go-to. A banana was a treat. And to think that she used to get up on her nutritional high horse and scorn simple carbs.
She was coming up blank. She shook her head. “Doesn’t matter. You choose.”
He pulled out his smartphone and tapped the screen. “This is Noah Gallagher. I have an account with . . . yes, thanks. I’d like a meal for two delivered to my home . . . yes, that’s the address. Bring us roasted asparagus, fresh greens, goat cheese and walnut salad, the root vegetable roast, a double serving of oven roasted potatoes with spring onion, fresh thyme and shaved parmesan. Beet and peppercorn salad.”
Quite a list. And he wasn’t even done.
“Some fruit, berries, melon, whaever you’ve got,” he went on. “A double order of the fresh bread with herb butter. I like it hot out of the oven. Both kinds of cheese. Throw in some extra aged pecorino. Entrée? OK. Grilled Florentine steak for two . . .”
He caught her eye. “Medium rare?” She nodded.
“Medium rare,” he repeated. “Apple tart with cream sauce, to finish. Yes, that’s fine. Thanks.”
He hung up the phone. “Does that sound good?”
She was impressed, and a little overwhelmed by the prospect of eating so much. “More than good. And enough for an army.”
“I have a big appetite. And you need a real dinner.”
True enough. She was fine with him being in charge for tonight.
He led her into the main room, which was both luxurious and spare. Vaulted ceilings and arches defined the space, its hardwood floors brightened by huge picture windows opening onto a terrace overlooking the dark lake. A set of dark brown leather couches were arranged around a low, smoked glass table. Art hung on the far wall, she noted, as he used a rheostat to switch on and then dim the track lighting.
The whole house was paneled with richly colored wood. Beautiful planks, each with its own subtle pattern of grains and whorls. She felt like she was inside a tree. It smelled good. A resiny tang of summery sweetness.
“Your wood paneling is beautiful,” she said. “It feels alive.”
He looked pleased. “That’s the effect I was going for. Make yourself comfortable and I’ll get you a glass of wine. White or red?”
“Red, please.” She was drawn by curiosity to wander over to look at the art.
She was mesmerized by what she saw. Millions of dollars worth of original artwork hung on that wall. There was a contemporary painting by surrealist Elisa Keillor, of a strange, deformed male nude crouched on a cliff unfurling clawed wings, paired with centuries-old sketches of demons and monsters by Hieronymus Bosch. A bronze sculpture on a sideboard looked like a tormented swamp thing trying to break free of a tarpit. Painful to look at and, like the other works, faintly bizarre, but beautiful. It struck her as full of hope, straining and yearning. It was by Lara Kirk, a Northwestern sculptor Caro had heard a lot about before her own life exploded.
In the middle of the wall was a Sonia Delaunay. She leaned in closer, studying it. Not one she’d ever seen before. A portrait of an older woman’s face, with deep, intense eyes and a stern mouth, but bathed in a blaze of brilliant intersecting colors.
Her mind instantly went into wordless, no-thought mode, forgetting everything but what she was observing. Something about the Delaunay painting was just . . . not . . . quite . . .
“You like art?”
She jerked. She’d been concentrating so hard, she hadn’t heard his soft approach. He’d taken off his jacket and tie, and undone his top two buttons. Just seeing the hollow of his collarbone made her blush, as if he’d stripped off his shirt. “Ah . . .”
“That’s a general question,” he said. “Here, take this.” He handed her a glass of dark red wine.
“I love art.” She didn’t have to play dumb or lie. “Your Keillor is beautiful. The Bosch sketches are amazing. So is the Kirk. You seem to have a thing about monsters.”
“Yes, I do. And the Delaunay? I saw you looking at it. What do you think?”
She looked back at the painting and took a cautious sip of wine, wondering if she should share her reaction.
Better not. She had no business venturing an opinion on that particular painting.
Just tell him it’s pretty. You love pretty pictures. La la la.
“It’s, ah . . stunning,” she faltered.
His mouth twitched. “It’s OK. You can relax. I know.”
“Excuse me?”
“I know that the Delaunay is a fake. So don’t worry.”
“It is?” Relief flooded her, then a fresh stab of fear followed. Was he trying to catch her in a lie, or worse, the truth?
“Come on. You picked up on that right away.”
“And just how do you know that?”
He shrugged. “Your expression. Couldn’t be clearer.”
His tone did not invite argum
ent. “Oh. Well, it’s a good fake,” she said warily. “But I didn’t want to be the one to tell you if you didn’t know.”
“The original is in the vault,” he said. “You’re the first person who’s ever noticed that it’s a reproduction.”
“It’s not like I was sure,” she assured him. “I’m no expert.”
“Don’t lie,” he said softly.
Her belly tightened. “Then we’ll have a very silent evening.”
He gazed up at the Delaunay. “Silence is fine, if lies are the alternative.”
“I, ah, took art history classes my freshman year in college,” she offered hastily. “I wrote a paper about Delaunay.”
“How about that. I’d like to read it.”
“And then you’d know where I went to college.”
“Hadn’t thought about that.” His lips twitched in a brief smile, and he gestured toward the glass she held. “Drink. Maybe a little buzz will make you a better liar.”
“I’ll get drunk instantly,” she warned him. “I haven’t eaten for a while.”
“That’s why I put out something to munch on while we’re waiting for dinner.”
She turned, and saw food on the table. How the hell had he gotten it out there without her noticing? Wheat crackers, sliced cheeses, a dish of meaty Greek olives and another with just cherry tomatoes. A bowl of gold-tinted muscat grapes. “You keep all this fun finger food around to impress the girls?” she asked.
“No, I just burn a lot of energy. I need a lot of high quality fuel. Come on. Eat.”
She followed his lead, and it tasted so damn good. The cheeses were nutty, savory, each more delicious than the last. The olives were tart, the tomatoes a salt-sweet explosion, the grapes perfectly ripe. She felt more centered after only a few bites.
“So is your art an investment?” she asked. “Or do you just like having it?”
“Both. I figure, if I like it and I’m convinced that it’s genuine, then it’s a good bet. Mostly I enjoy looking at them.”
Right Through Me (The Obsidian Files #1) Page 10