The Note

by Natalie Wrye

  It’s my fault really.

  I turned down my ex-roommate Kayla’s offer of assistance when she left to live with her boyfriend-turned-fiancé because my pride was too big to say yes. Too big to admit that I needed help.

  In more than ways than one.

  I mean, here I was on a beautiful night in this beautiful dress in fantastic company…

  Nothing more than a pauper. Pretending.

  Expensive Manhattanites in their Monday-best were drinking and dining at standing tables set with plates at five hundred dollars a pop, with my art on the walls, watching over it all.

  There’s a subdued amber warmth from the lights now hitting the wide, white walls of the smaller room, and the insides of my tummy ties into knots as I realize I’m inside alone, accompanied with nothing but the thoughts that my work might not be good.

  That I might not be good enough.

  Lord knows I’d never been.

  Hell, the last time I’d felt home in my skin was when I was with a complete stranger. One I’d freaking stolen from!

  I shudder, even now in the gallery bathroom, staring over the solitary mirror with cloudy eyes as the memory rocks me where I stand. Touching the edge of my bottom lip, I resist the urge to imagine his kiss when I suddenly hear the loudspeaker announcing the start of the auction.

  I exit the bathroom, now amidst the thickening crowd that has grown exponentially since I left, looking for Drew or Nancy’s face. The auction for my portrait starts at five hundred dollars and the flutter that hits the pit of my stomach turns into frantic flapping the moment I see my painting, no longer on the wall, but displayed at the very front of the dully lit room.

  Shit. My painting is being auctioned off first.

  My hands clutch at my stomach to calm the nerves when I hear the auction amount rise to one thousand dollars.

  I glance over just in time to see Drew bid on my portrait, an obvious show of support to drive the number skyward, and I secretly wish he could see my smile. But then the number rises.

  Two thousand. Three thousand.

  Four.

  An art lover in the crowd pitches a final bid of five thousand dollars on my portrait, and the bare skin at my nape starts to sweat, perspiration slowly sliding down my skin as I wait, listening to the auctioneer at the top of the room, calling out over the crowd.

  “Going once…” He hesitates, his hand held high, his neck stiff beneath his glossy black bow tie. “Going twice…”

  I inhale a sharp breath, ready for his final announcement when suddenly a voice shouts out from the thick of the crowd.

  “Ten thousand dollars.”

  The packed gallery breaks out into a hushed murmur, a rumble of voices careening like a slow wave through the crowd. My heart seizes, my breath shallow as the announcer looks over at the anonymous bidder whose face I can’t see.

  The auctioneer blinks twice. “We have a new bid,” he exhales excitedly. “Anyone else?” He lets the silence linger for a few tense seconds. “No? Then, it’s going once.” A beat. “Going twice.” Another. “Sold!”

  The word rings out, and so does applause, the appreciative clamoring of the gallery starting slow and building.

  I can barely feel my body. Excitement has me tingling all over.

  Especially when the auctioneer motions towards the man in the center of the crowd.

  “Would you like to claim your beautiful prize now, sir? Or would you prefer to wait?”

  I don’t see the motion of the man in the crowd, but his answer must be “yes” as the auctioneer steps aside. As the winning bidder makes his way to the elevated platform at the apex of the room, all I can see is his navy suit, dark shoulders, staunch demeanor.

  Tall and sophisticated in a suit that looks nearly painted on, I find myself breathing heavily, practically panting as he strolls casually—almost painstakingly towards my painting.

  He reaches the platform. And then he turns.

  And it is as if someone has shut off every synapse in my swirling mind.

  My blood runs cold. Or hot.

  And I can’t think. Or feel or breathe or make the damned distinction of up from down.

  Not when his eyes clash with mine.

  The Big Bad Wolf. In the flesh. No longer a dream.

  But there’s nothing “fairytale” about the frosty gaze he’s giving me right now, nothing mythical in his stare.

  Mr. Big Bad Wolf reaches the front of the room and fixes me with a stare that says everything I can’t. A stare that calls me the criminal I was with him just two days ago.

  Holy. Shit.

  I was wrong.

  I did show up to the exhibit on time. Just in enough time to fall into the karma that was waiting for me.

  Chapter 10

  NOAH

  Seeing the look on Sophia’s face when the announcer shouts her name gives me more goddamned satisfaction than I can remember feeling in a long time.

  After discovering her self-portrait in the gallery this afternoon before our tux fittings, I was only too shocked, dismayed and rather pleased to discover that the portrait, according to the gallery owner, would be up for auction this very night.

  And the utter shock on the sultry waitress’s face, the absolute confusion written on her features, is enough to thrill me more than even sex.

  A shame, considering all the women I’ve been with, despite what Jase thinks.

  In the five years since I’ve been away from New York, and hell, the two days since I’ve seen Sophia, I have tried.

  I’ve tried to think about other women. Spend time with other women. Sleep with other women.

  Or woman, rather—Becky Callahan, being the only, after she prematurely forgave my hotel abandonment.

  But my encounter with one twisted thief has tainted every interaction with the opposite sex in these past few days, and I’ve struggled in some ways to get that piece of myself back.

  Not that the piece was really whole to being with.

  Jase wasn’t all the way wrong.

  My way with women hasn’t always been the best. Especially after Ainsley.

  But I can’t think about her—or any other woman—right now.

  Because right now, all my attention is on the woman who just stepped onto the small stage, in a fire-red dress.

  “Congratulations on your beautiful prize,” the gallery owner gushes, escorting me to the side, the elder man shaking my outstretched hand. He pumps it once.

  “Thanks.” I grin. “It took a long time to find her.”

  And just as the words leave my lips, here she comes.

  The real “beautiful prize” up for bid.

  Sophia Somerset looks just how I remember her. Even better.

  The shock in her pretty hazel eyes makes them go wide, and it is all I can do not to smile in her face, not to gloat at the thought that she can no longer hide from me.

  Not anymore.

  The urge to take vengeance—to make her kneel and beg and grovel—takes hold of me, but I push it down deep in my gut. There will be time for all of that once I get her finally alone.

  I’ll make sure of it.

  But first things first.

  I extend my hand. “Nice to see you again, Sophia.” I know she will ignore it. “Charmed, I’m sure.”

  A photographer passes us, begging for a pose, and Sophia still does nothing but stare at me, her red painted lips just as rosy as her blushing cheeks. She finally glances at the photog.

  “A picture for the paper?” He asks.

  I answer instead. “We’d love to.”

  I grab her close before she can say no. Before she can turn away from me the way she wants to. The way she turned and took off two days ago from beneath my sheets.

  But my move, like so many others, is a mistake. I know it the moment our bodies meet.

  The second my skin touches hers, it’s like a match is lit. Heat flares under my collar and into my fingers. Sinking my hand against her side, the smell of her lilac perfume
hits the tip of my nose, slamming me square in the gut, and like a tidal wave, the memories of the two of us are back…and in vivid color.

  The memories of our night—brief and unforgettable—are jagged pieces of my mind that I wish would disappear.

  Pieces I’d pay not to have. Pieces that dance in front of my mind’s eye to remind me of how broken I’d been the night I met her, that remind me of how dangerous this woman was, how unknowingly seductive.

  The flash from the photo’s camera goes off, and I get my hand off her quick enough. Releasing the beautiful brunette under my arm, the dull heat practically wafting off my flushed skin as I stare at her once again. Still silent, she only blinks, and I cross my arms as I wait for her to speak, hearing nothing.

  “Cat got your tongue, Miss Somerset? You weren’t so quiet the first time we, uh, ‘met’.”

  At last she opens her mouth. “That was a rare night for me. And a different set of circumstances.”

  “And I’m assuming you were a different Sophia?” I take a step closer. “Because this one? The one standing in front of me? She looks just the same.” I inch even nearer, letting her feel my presence. I lower my voice. “She looks just like a little liar I once met. Same dark hair. Same skin.” I watch as she closes her eyes. “Only this Sophia? She doesn’t have the other plan. Doesn’t feel good being caught unaware? Doesn’t feel nice, being surprised now, does it?”

  I almost touch her. We’re standing so close that I could.

  I’m enjoying playing with her a bit. Playing a little cloak-and-dagger.

  Truth is… I just want the watch.

  Because the sooner I can make a claim on my father’s fortune, the sooner I can hand the proper reins back to my brothers and get out of this goddamned cesspool they call New York.

  Most likely, for good.

  But hell, that’s easier said than done when it comes to the “one-night nothing” who made the mistake of stealing my watch.

  I can’t help needling her. Can’t help toying.

  Can’t help watching Little Miss Stolen Goods squirm in a fitted red dress thin enough for me to notice every curve, her shoulders small beneath the slender red straps, her tiny nipples at attention beneath the silk at her breast as I murmur near her reddened ear, nearly forgetting where I am.

  Until another woman steps close, and I instantly stop.

  A redhead huffs, stomping forward, her lavender dress pale against her lightly freckled skin. She looks directly at Sophia with a sigh.

  “Soph, have you seen Andrew?”

  My little thief finally opens her eyes. “Drew?” Her gaze goes wide. “Why?” She moves closer to our sudden intruder. “Haven’t you guys verbally mauled each other enough for one night?”

  “Guess I’m a glutton for punishment. I thought Mr. Mouthy Mike Tyson might give me a ride. My car won’t start. It’s started raining.” She motions outside to the now wet window. “And there are so many ride-shares out there tonight the area is swamped.” She heaves a deep breath, exhaling hard. “I’ve got a red-eye to catch tonight to head to the Chicago Alchemist.” She hesitates. “The hell am I going to do now? I’m royally screwed.”

  “I’d give you a lift,” Sophia interjects, “but I don’t have a car. I took a cab. Maybe we could work something out. Share a taxi or…?”

  My opportunity to be alone with Sophia is slipping through my fingers. And just when I found her.

  That “root rat” I’d been, the beast version of myself I’m trying to leave back in Australia, would rather throw her over my shoulder and be done with it. Haul her notoriously taut ass in my arms and lock her in my office until she confesses everything, gives everything, tells everything.

  But I’m trying to leave that version alone. “Trying to,” being the operative phrase.

  Unfortunately, remnants of that monster are still around.

  Before I can stop myself, I wind up saying five words that may seal my fate, may prove to be my biggest mistake. Lord knows I’ve made a lot of those in the past two days, even amongst all the whoring, battling and boozing I’d barely escaped.

  And there’d been a hell of a lot of all three.

  I swallow, watching the two women go back and forth. I step forward before my conscience can kick in.

  “I’ll give you a ride.”

  The woman beside her nods, her green eyes expectant and excited. But the other pair of hazel eyes stop and stare, something indiscernible passing through their wooded depths.

  And suddenly I know I’ve made another mistake. Keeping control of the wolf—or ‘Cujo’ as Cynthia called it—inside me is proving harder than I ever imagined with this girl. And yet I can’t imagine myself saying anything else.

  SOPHIA

  I’m clearly missing brain cells, accepting Noah Quinn’s ride. And I wish I could blame it on all that gallery champagne, but I didn’t drink any.

  The weather has taken a turn for the worse, turned torrential. A downpour drenches the Manhattan streets on this balmy early winter night, and luckily, Noah’s driver steps out a town car, black umbrella in hand. Escorted to the back of this luxury ride, I almost forget who I’m sitting next to.

  Noah, Nancy and I squeeze in the back of the town car and the elder driver dressed in black at the wheel takes off. Sliding her address to the chauffeur, Nancy leans back and we sit in silence, me in the middle, a million different thoughts running through my mind as to how the hell I got here.

  After ten minutes like this, Nancy breaks the silence.

  She clears her throat. “Uh, so,” she starts out, “I saw… Noah, is it?”

  Beside me, the man who’s radiating heat in the dark navy three-piece suit pipes up, his low voice a rumble in the quiet car. “Yes. Noah Quinn. And you’re Nancy, right?”

  My boss smiles. “Yes, that’s right.” She waits a beat, looking over. “I saw you buy our Sophia here’s painting.”

  “Yes, I did. It will be delivered in the morning, the gallery assured.”

  Nancy’s gaze goes to his. “I’m assuming you two know each other?”

  Noah shrugs. “Only by robbery.”

  Nancy’s eyes dart to me, and I shake my head, swiping a hand at my neck. “He’s just…joking.”

  Noah’s voice is deceptively smooth and dark when he responds. “Yes, because I always joke about losing half a million dollar watches.”

  “Wow.” Nancy glances down at her slender watch. “Well, would you look at that? Time sure does fly.” She glances out of the window. “Thanks for the ride.”

  I set my hand on her knee. “Wait… We’re not at your apartment yet.”

  She quirks her eyebrows, glancing out at the sheet of rain falling. “Oh, it’s close enough. I’m only ten blocks or so away.” She lowers her voice, his words hissing between clenched teeth. “I’ll leave you and Mr. Perfect to it.”

  “But Nancy…” I hiss back. But she’s no longer listening. She calls out to the driver to stop and soon he slides in towards a curb, slowing down completely.

  My boss—or former now—turns towards me, a ghost of a grin on her face. “Well, this was sufficiently awkward.” Her green eyes flicker up at Noah. “Thanks for the ride, anyhow.”

  He nods, ever the smug bastard. “My pleasure.”

  Nancy hops out of the town car before I can say another word, and Noah’s driver heads back on the boulevard we just came from as I watch her hurry up the soaked sidewalk.

  I flounce back in my seat, frustrated from my toes to hair. I shift to look at Noah.

  “You didn’t have to do that?”

  He doesn’t look at me. “Do what?”

  “Scare her off.”

  “With the truth?”

  “What is the truth, Noah?”

  That gets his attention. He pivots his broad shoulders, giving me the full view of his face that I didn’t get to see in the dark gallery.

  He’s even more handsome than I remember, his dark blue eyes serious beneath deep brown brows. His earthy brow
n hair is perfectly tousled, and I imagine how I must look to him, how must I appear.

  We couldn’t be more different.

  But that didn’t mean I had to take this shit.

  I don’t wait for him to reply. “Let me tell you what the truth is: You picked up a strange woman in a bar. Something, I’m sure, you’ve done a million times before. But this time? We made a mistake.”

  He glares back at me, words finally leaving his lips. “You got that damned right.”

  “But I want you to know I’m not the type you must think I am. The stealing type.” I try to argue my case. “This was a one-time thing. I needed rent money.” I take a deep breath. “And I found the watch. It was just coincidence. I didn’t go looking for it. And I didn’t snoop.” I lower my eyes to the leather seat, suddenly unable to meet his. “It actually was like the watch found me and not the other way around.”

  “And I’m guessing the other items you stole found you as well?” I hear from the other side of the backseat. “Because I found your record, and I don’t think the car you stole that landed you in juvie just walked into your lap. Or maybe I’m not so familiar with Ferraris and the way they function anymore.” I glance up and he’s looking at me. “What do you think?”

  I can’t breathe as I face him, my skin turning hot beneath the fabric of my silky dress. My jaw goes slack. “How do you know about that?”

  “I have my sources, Miss Somerset. I guess you could say because I fit your former definition of rich. At least rich enough to buy the right information on you. To know that you’re a thief. And likely always have been. Looks like you were always more Goldilocks than the Little Bear.” He scoffs. “See, she couldn’t keep her hands to herself either. Sounds just like you.”

  Noah goes silent, his searing gaze never letting up, and I close my eyes briefly, desperately gathering my scattering thoughts to form a sentence against the rising panic that is settling inside my overactive system. I lick my lips.

  “If it helps, I had no idea how much the watch was.” My voice sinks to a whisper. “And neither did the pawnshop I sold it to.”