by Davis, Kyra
“No, you’re repeating old lines,” he says quietly, studying my face. He leans in so his mouth is near my ear. “Tell me.”
He’s only touching my hair but every part of my body reacts. I feel myself warming, feel my breath catch in my throat. I feel the throb.
“Tell me,” he says and I close my eyes. “Are you afraid?”
I reach for him, take his shirt in my fist, feel the comfort of these waters, the quiet power of him. His lips move away from my ear and I feel the tip of his tongue sliding down my neck, tasting me with gentle precision and purpose. Instinctually I move into him as his hand rises to my breast.
I want him. I want to get lost in him. My fist opens and my fingers slowly, almost unwillingly, wander to the buttons of his dress shirt.
His tongue has moved back to my ear and I gasp as he pulls me closer again. His fingers in my hair, holding me in place as another hand moves lower, past my breasts, to my stomach . . . lower . . . I feel his hand slip between my thighs and press up into me.
“Let me in,” he whispers. “Not just here,” and with that he adds more pressure, sending a jolt of pleasure through my body. “That’s good,” he says as I begin to tremble, “but I want in here, too.” And he kisses the top of my head. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”
The buttons of his shirt finally give way and I place my hand over his bare skin. His heart is beating a little too fast, as if urging me forward. I turn to him and look into his eyes. There’s something there that I haven’t noticed before. Something inside the desire. Is it concern? Need?
Love?
His hand is still between my legs and I lean forward and let my lips brush against his; my eyes stay open and he becomes a blur of lightly tanned skin and black lashes. His fingers start moving and with each stroke I feel things fall away—fear, thought, confusion—until all I’m aware of is the feeling of him.
Without a word he pulls away his hand and moves it to the waistband of my pants. I feel it loosen as he unfastens the buttons, slips his fingers inside the cloth of my panties, already wet for him. When he finds that little spot, I dig my fingernails into the skin of his chest.
“We’re not over,” he says and I respond with a moan. “Did you think we were? Do you think I can’t see the invitation in your smile, in the way you shiver just slightly when I get near? You think I can’t hear it in the quiet that comes when you can’t quite get yourself to deliver the scripted denial or well-wrought protest? I can read your body like a blind man reads brail.”
He lifts one hand and slips it under my shirt, over my bra, lets his fingers slide over my erect nipples. “Did these get hard the moment you saw me?” He asks.
I bite down on my lip, afraid that if I speak I’ll admit to the truth.
“How long did it take you to get wet?” He asks. “Did it happen when I first spoke? Was it before I finished my first sentence?”
I shift just slightly so I can look into his eyes yet again. Yes, there it is, that unidentified emotion that doesn’t match his words. Maybe need, maybe love.
I want to tell him the real reason I left the marina but I don’t dare. I know he can sense that there are unspoken words, feel that something is being held back.
With our eyes locked his index finger plunges inside of me. My fingernails dig in deeper.
“What do you want?” Robert asks. “Do you really want Dave?”
I rest my head on his shoulder as his finger continues to thrust its way inside my walls, again and again. I shudder as he kisses my neck.
“Or do you want me inside of you, Kasie?”
I nod my head still against his shoulder.
“Then I’m going to need you to come now.” His fingers become more insistent; his free hand pulls me to him tightly, roughly. Something like a whimper escapes my lips.
“Come for me now, Kasie. Right now, I want to see you.”
I can hear people passing the office outside in the hall. I don’t dare make another sound. My nipples pressed against him, I reach up and pull his hair, frantic for release but so afraid of giving myself away.
“Oh God,” I whisper.
“Not good enough,” he says insistently; the intensity of his touch increases; he steps forward, moving me with him until I’m pressed against the wall with nowhere to go.
“Someone will hear,” I whisper.
“I don’t care.”
I look away. I should be angry the way I’m angry with Dave but I can’t think. All I can do is react, and what I’m reacting to is . . . exceptional.
One hand slides into that small space between the wall and the curve of my back. He forces it lower, down to my ass, and he manages to press me to him in an even tighter hold than before. Another finger slips in. I let out a small cry of excitement. I see his eyes move down my body, demanding, but where Dave’s eyes scrape, Robert’s penetrate. They reach in and pull at the internal flames that are consuming me. They make the fire brighter, stronger.
“Oh God,” I say again and then quickly cover my mouth.
But Robert takes away my hand, holds my arm captive as he brings his eyes to mine once again. “Try to lie to me now, Kasie. Try to tell me it’s him who you want and not me.”
I try to look away but I can’t quite make myself do it. I feel his erection against my stomach, rigid and strong. I bite my lip so hard I can taste blood but even that isn’t enough to silence me as his thumb moves up to caress my clit.
It brings me over the edge. Another cry, a little louder this time. I don’t care who hears. I can’t care. I have no awareness of anything that isn’t Robert or me.
I grab him by his open shirt. “I want you. Make love to me, Robert.”
“Yes.” His voice is a growl of pure desire. “But you have to leave him. I want to make love to you knowing you’re mine.”
I close my eyes, my erratic breathing makes speech difficult. “Just make love to me. Please.”
“Promise you’ll leave him.”
His hands are still stroking me, gently now, keeping me in the folds of passion but holding me back from another complete release.
“I . . . can’t.”
And with that he lets go of me. In an instant he’s across the room as I remain pressed against the wall, gasping for air. Instinctually I extend my arm toward him, as if for balance but he’s out of my reach.
He’s out of reach in every way.
“I thought you were through with betrayal,” he says quietly.
My pants are loose around my hips, my hair disheveled and around my shoulders. I try to gather my thoughts but the suddenness of the mood shift has the room spinning. “Robert, you don’t understand—”
“I understand enough,” he says curtly. “I understand what I have and what I don’t.”
“It’s not that simple!”
“It’s always been exactly that simple.”
I’m still trying to catch my breath as he buttons his shirt.
The earth is off its axis. Nothing’s going the way it’s supposed to. Slowly, over the span of silent minutes, my breathing becomes more measured. I straighten my clothes, turn my gaze to the windows, and stare at the graying skies. “You’re both bullies,” I say quietly.
Robert turns. “Excuse me?”
“You think you know what’s best for everyone, always. You tell me I should be more independent, and then you bristle when I don’t make the choices you want me to make.”
“I have never bullied you,” he points out. “I would never raise a hand to you, or even consider it.”
I shrug, a sudden melancholy making me tired. “Some bullies use fists, some blackmail or verbal intimidation. Others use pleasure. You know how to make me . . . feel things and you use it to control me . . . except you can’t, can you? You can make me call out your name but you can’t make me jump when you call out min
e.”
Robert’s face hardens. “You think so little of me?”
“I think so little of men.”
He studies me. “Yesterday, after you left the yacht, you fantasized about me.”
I don’t answer but I feel myself flush.
“I know you, Kasie,” he says with a sigh. “I know that even when I’m nowhere near you I’m inside of you. I can touch you with a thought.”
“So touch me,” I say quietly. “Touch me with your thoughts, with your eyes, your hands, your mouth and let me touch you.” I walk over to him; I want to stay strong but there’s a need in me that I can’t harness. “I can’t be yours, not right now, not in the way you want me to be. Everything’s complicated. But I do want you, Robert.” I look down, see that he’s still hard. I reach for his hand, let my tongue flicker over his thumb. “You see? With us it can be simple.”
He smiles, almost wryly, and takes a step closer. “God knows I want you. I want to make you call out my name so loudly they’ll be able to hear you in Orange County. But,” and with this last word he pulls his hand from mine and uses his fingers to lift my chin, keeping my gaze, “it will be on our terms. Not just yours and certainly not his.”
“Is this revenge?” I ask. “I walked away from you, and now you’re walking away from me?”
He shakes his head; I can see that he feels my fatigue, that he’s unwillingly making it his own. “You know damn well I’ll never walk away from you. You’re the one pushing me out the door.”
He runs his hands over his own shirt, smoothing out a few remaining creases. And then he walks away. “I have some new product development in the hands of my engineers. More user-friendly security systems. Marketing thinks it has significant potential. I’ll send over the data.”
I grit my teeth. Only Robert can switch from passion to business so easily. They occupy the same space in his heart. It’s the foreplay and the cuddling. Usually it is for me, too, but not this time. Not when every statistic and every kiss is a challenge.
“You’re team will need to reevaluate some things based on the new developments. Take one more week,” he says. “That should be enough time for you to figure out how you want to handle things. Shall I email your managing partner to inform him of the change?”
“No,” I mutter, “I’ll tell Mr. Love.”
“Very well.” He smooths his lapel one more time. “And then after that our business will either be through or not, depending on your determinations.”
I don’t miss the double meaning although he keeps his voice professional, his posture relaxed. “Oh, and Kasie? Just so you know”—he reaches for the door but doesn’t open it as he makes direct eye contact one more time—“I fantasized about you last night, too.”
CHAPTER 4
AS I STAND there in my empty office, frustrated and unsatisfied. I wonder, should I have told him? What if I had? Would he have rescued me?
I break out into a bitter laugh. This isn’t a fairy tale. Robert can’t get on his white horse and permanently seal Dave’s lips. I walk around my desk and fall into my seat. The quiet of the room is taunting me, reminding me that I can’t even risk a scream.
I reach for my appointment calendar and flip through the pages. I’ve always been a good planner. I still believe that if given time, I can outsmart Dave. I can get out. But I can’t risk Robert confronting him, thereby giving Dave more ammunition for his plot. I’ll figure out why Dave wants to hold on to me and how he discovered my secrets. . . .
. . . And then I’ll discover his.
I’ll discover his secrets and I’ll gag him with them. I’ll find his lies and weave them into a rope to bind his hands and feet. I’ll make him every bit as helpless as he thinks I am now.
You betrayed him first.
It’s the voice of the little angel on my shoulder. She’s feeling neglected lately. And why should I start listening to her again? She wants me to stay where I am and ponder things back into stasis. My devil is more proactive.
For instance, right now my devil reminds me to find out how Dave got to the marina.
He didn’t drive there and there was simply no way Dave would use public transportation. Yesterday had started with him saying he had an early-morning meeting. But what if he didn’t? What if he had waited in someone else’s car, parked discreetly on the street, just waiting to follow me?
A cab? No, probably not. Los Angeles is not New York, where the yellow cabs stream through the city streets like so many migrating salmon. In LA cabs of any color stand out, and if one had been parked on my street as I pulled out of my driveway, I would have noticed.
So someone had driven him. One of his coworkers or friends? But Dave would not have allowed himself to be humiliated in front of someone whose opinion he cared about. A private detective? Could Dave have had a professional follow me?
I look down at my appointment calendar again. I have a meeting with my team in forty-five minutes. I idly read the names of those who are reporting to me for this project: Taci, Dameon, Nin, Asha. . . .
Asha.
The buzzer for my intercom goes off and Barbara’s voice breathes through the speakers, letting me know that the long list of menial tasks I heaped upon her this morning have been attended to.
“Come into my office, please,” I say and then sit back as the door opens and she tentatively approaches my desk.
Barbara has been my assistant for as long as I’ve been here. Before that she was the assistant to a man who worked here as a consultant for ten years. She claims to be content with her quiet place in the corporate world, saving her energy for her husband and children at home. I’ve overheard her waxing poetic about the joys of having free time and a rich family life. I don’t understand her enthusiasm. It’s within the unstructured mess that qualifies as my free time that I stumble and thoughtlessly submit to whims that will later come back to haunt me. I love my parents, but my family life has been rich only in tragedy and denial. Barbara’s view of the world is as foreign to me as that of a tribesman in the Brazilian rain forest. But while I may not be able to relate to her, I certainly respect her strengths, one of them being her keen powers of observation.
“Did Asha come to work yesterday?”
“Yes,” Barbara says with a definitive nod.
Ah, she did. So she couldn’t have been the one to ferry Dave about. I sigh and place my chin in my hand. “All right, my team will be meeting in here at the end of the hour. Just hold my calls until it’s over.”
Barbara nods again and starts to turn before stopping. “Does it matter that Asha showed up late?”
I lift my head. “Excuse me?”
“She wasn’t here in the morning. Apparently she had some kind of appointment. But she was here by noon, and I think she stayed late.”
“Noon,” I repeat.
“Is that important?”
As important as the timing of Judas’s departure from the Last Supper.
I sit back, measure the likelihood of the duplicity. “Two days ago, Dave called the office . . . he was planning a surprise party—”
“Oh, did that go well?” Barbara asks hopefully. “He called me but I couldn’t think of which of our colleagues to recommend as guests, since you really tend to keep your personal and professional lives separate.”
I wince at that. “Why did you tell him to invite Asha?” I ask.
Barbara gives me a funny look. “I told him no such thing. Asha came up to my desk just as I was hanging up. She had sent me some report that she wanted me to print out and have on your desk for the next morning. She asked me who had been on the phone and I told her. That’s all.”
“That’s all? She didn’t talk to him? He didn’t invite her to the party?”
“Not that I know of . . .” Barbara’s voice trails off. The rapid blinking of her eyes gives away her nervousness. “I did tell her ab
out the party . . . and I mentioned that it was a surprise party. She didn’t spill the secret ahead of time, did she? I guess I shouldn’t have told her about it at all but it was such a grand romantic gesture . . . and Ma Poulette is supposed to be a fabulous restaurant. I just had to talk to someone about it. Did I make a mistake? If so I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean—”
I hold up my hand to stop her. “Barbara, you didn’t do anything that merits an apology.” And I’m beginning to suspect that what Asha has done is so extreme that all the apologies in the world won’t make a damn bit of difference.
“Let Asha know that I need to see her.”
“Before the meeting?”
“Now.”
A few minutes later Asha walks in, all grace and conceit. She’s been expecting my summons and it’s her anticipation that gives her away.
I stand at my desk and gesture to a chair. Carefully she takes it, her eyes scanning the room, looking for something she apparently isn’t finding.
“Did you hear I was leaving?” I ask.
Her mouth twitches, the slightest giveaway of the smile she’s suppressing. “I’ve heard nothing. Are you?”
I reclaim my seat, lace my fingers together. “So Dave didn’t tell you?”
Ah, there it is, a flash of worry. “Dave . . . your fiancé? Why would Dave tell me anything? I barely know him.”
“But you knew him enough to get him to invite you to our engagement party.”
She shrugs, suddenly bored. “Only because he called the office to see if there was anyone from here he should be inviting. I told him he should invite me. That was the first time I’ve ever spoken to him.” She leans forward; her dark eyes are pools of mystery and cynicism. “Are you leaving, Kasie?”
“He called the office,” I say, refusing to allow her to drive the conversation. “Did he call you specifically?”
“No, he called your assistant,” she says, now clearly exasperated. “Why does any of this matter? Have you been asked to leave or not?”