Lachlan rescued a bottle of Kingfisher, shut the refrigerator door, and joined me at the island. “What are you so amused about, brat?”
“Your tireless advocacy for root vegetables,” I told him, stifling more giggles.
His mock grumpiness gave way to a bright, boyish smile—the sort of thing that was guaranteed to melt a gal’s heart and her panties. “I hold carrots in the highest esteem,” he assured. “And then there’s my deep respect for daikon.”
There were dozens of daikon dick jokes just waiting to be made. It took an intense amount of effort not to voice them and to stick to the topic at hand. “Why don’t we go respect daikon at one of those new Pan-Asian places that seem to be all the rage?” I suggested.
Lachlan shuddered. I laughed again. For all my teasing, I did get where he was coming from. It was hard to top Sultana when it came to Indian restaurants. My mom was the best chef I knew—and her exec, Dev, came pretty damn close. He’d built on Jyoti’s reputation and recipes, putting his own spin on things without taking away from her brand. I tended to avoid South Asian food when I dined out, simply because I’d been spoiled for most of it.
We continued the good-natured argument for a bit until I finally wore Lock down, getting him to agree to the first hole-in-the-wall kebab place we could find. Anything to keep me from bringing up what had gone down in New York, I suspected. He was still as tight-lipped on those issues as he had been on the jet. The strain showed around his eyes and in the line of his jaw, which was sharp enough to cut glass. It was a miracle he didn’t need a mouth guard for the workout his teeth were getting whenever he didn’t think I was paying attention.
As much as I wanted to pretend we were having the romantic getaway of our dreams, we were only here because Lachlan had needed to escape. And whatever he’d run from was still chasing us. Perhaps it was right outside the door, and that was why he was so loath to leave his penthouse. He wanted a safe haven, a refuge, removed from reality for a little while. I wanted to be his refuge, but in order for that to happen, he needed to let me in. Ugh. “Lock” was the perfect nickname for this man I adored so completely. He refused to give me his key.
Chapter Thirteen
Lachlan allowed himself two days of happiness with her. Two days of feeding each other ripe mangos and laughing and walking around south Mumbai hand-in-hand. Two nights of the most gorgeous games and the hardest orgasms. She took to being cuffed and tied to the bed. He learned to give up an inch or two more of his control...though not enough to penetrate her, no matter how prettily she asked him to. He wanted one wall to stay up, one boundary between them, one terrain unexplored. So, they did everything else. Until he was nearly exhausted from it...but also absurdly content.
“Meatloaf,” she grumbled, wrinkling her nose at him on the morning of the third day as they took breakfast on the balcony.
“What?” It took him a moment, as he had to dismiss the mental picture of the dreadful catsup-covered comfort food and then marvel at her penchant for age-inappropriate musical references. “Are you saying I would do anything for love but I won’t do that?”
“Got it in one.” She speared a piece of cantaloupe with her fork. Something about her bloodthirsty smile let him know it wasn’t fruit she was imagining on the tines. “God bless YouTube.”
He shivered, taking a long, restorative, sip of his coffee. He knew what she was up to. She was trying to wear him down, crack him wide and learn what had happened back in the States. And though his capacity for denial was rather impressive, he couldn’t ignore that situation indefinitely. It hadn’t resolved itself, wouldn’t go away. His phone was full of unheard voicemails and unread text messages he would have to acknowledge eventually.
It wasn’t about Ranulf’s estate or his assets. Lachlan had plenty of his own property and more than enough of his own money. His stepmother had got her share in the divorce. Naya had her own career and a modest trust fund Jyoti had set up for her. Being disinherited if he didn’t follow orders couldn’t destroy any of them. Only one thing could.
Three simple, seemingly innocuous, sentences had shattered his world. His father’s swirling signature had taken up more space on the page than the stark type.
Remember the photographs?
There is video.
If you marry her, you lose everything—and so do they.
The photographs. The fucking photographs.
He remembered them like yesterday. Spilling out of the manila folder on Ranulf’s desk. Candid, intimate shots of him and Naya together. Some of them real, some of them not so real, and impossible to distinguish one from the other: Lock and Naya innocently tickling one another in Central Park...Lock bending a collared Naya over a chair. Only a government lab would be able to spot the fake. The old bastard had paid well for the photo editing...and Lachlan had paid him with silence, with a ten-year separation that carved out a piece of him. How could he expose Naya to that kind of scandal and ridicule? How could he risk Jyoti’s name being dragged through the mud after all she’d done for him? And his career had just started. It would have been over before it truly began.
“What d’you think they’ll call you?” Ran had wondered, his Scottish burr not warm and inviting but instead thick and cloying. “The Pervert Chef? Julia Child Molester? Do you really want to see those headlines, Son?”
Technology had progressed in leaps and bounds since he’d been shown that folder. Video. Fuck. Lachlan didn’t even want to parse what that meant, but the possibilities had haunted him for days. Had Attwood and his father hired look-alike porn stars? Used CGI to change their faces? Naya’s favorite archive for ‘80s and ‘90s pop music could and would be the tool of her destruction.
Celebrity Chef’s Underage Kinky Love Affair Revealed!
You Won’t Believe Lachlan Christie’s Disgusting Recipe!
Incest is a Dish Best Served Underage!
Naya was the writer, she could probably dream up a dozen more hideous bits of click bait. Revolted by the direction of his thoughts, Lachlan pushed away his coffee and his barely touched plate. She was watching him, of course. Those big dark eyes missed nothing. And though her brows furrowed in concern, she didn’t give any of it voice. She only leaned back in her seat, taking her cup of tea with her as she tilted her head in contemplation. What was running through that gorgeous, devious mind? He wanted to know all of her. He wished he had the time.
He wasn’t naive enough to think Kyle Attwood, Esquire would actually wait for the possibility of marriage to release the doctored footage. More likely it was a matter of weeks before it was sent to the press, the food blogs, the soap opera message boards. Perhaps even days. What would the lawyer care about a father’s manipulation of a son and stepdaughter’s life together? It was the potential for blackmail that mattered most now.
Lachlan would pay any sum to keep Naya protected. He would do anything to keep her safe. Even if it meant sending her away for another ten years.
Her teacup clinked against the tabletop. “I don’t like that look on your face. What does it mean?” For all the bravado in her voice and the accusatory fire in her gaze, she looked terribly young. Scrubbed of makeup, sitting across from him wearing nothing but one of his many blue t-shirts, she could’ve been sixteen again. Even if she didn’t think so, she was still that vulnerable. “Lock?” she prodded when he didn’t answer. “Talk to me.”
“This was a mistake.” He abruptly rose from his seat, at first not even sure what he was referring to: breakfast, last night, the night before, or all of it. But the wounded look she gave him crystallized what he had to do. “This was a mistake,” he repeated, in his coldest television tone. “Bringing you here. To Mumbai.”
“What?” She didn’t stammer or even blink. She just pushed her chair back and tossed down her napkin. “I can’t be hearing you right.”
“You heard me correctly.” He turned away from her, striding toward the French doors that led inside. He used the precious, painful seconds to school his featu
res, to steel himself, to commit to the role of arrogant executive chef like he had so many times before. She couldn’t be near him as it all played out. He dared not be near her. There was only one choice. One brutal choice.
Naya followed him into the front room. He only heard half of what she was saying over the buzzing in his ears. “...no idea where this is coming from. How do you go from coffee to you shouldn’t have brought me here? And don’t tell me it’s because you hate power ballads.”
The more time she spent with him, the more American she sounded. The continental polish flaked away like paint hastily applied over the girl she’d once been. “Harsh light of day,” he said, setting his jaw. “It lets reality sink in. And that reality is that I swept you out of the States on impulse, on a very difficult day. I wasn’t thinking. It was irresponsible.”
She scoffed, and he could sense her pacing in his periphery. “And the last two days? That’s been an impulse, too?” God, she was sharp. No longer the starry-eyed teenager willing to take his every word as law. “What’s your excuse for spending hours in bed with me?”
“Who wouldn’t spend hours in bed with you, darling?” He affected a bored tone, forcing himself to look anywhere but at her. The bookshelves. The furniture. The modern art on the walls. “The last few days have been fun. A mutual pleasure. Something we’ve both wanted for a very long time and finally made happen. But we can’t possibly sustain it.”
“So that’s it? You scratched your itch, satisfied your curiosity, and you’re done? Bull. Shit.” She enunciated the word with disbelief and no shortage of anger. “Don’t you think I know what this is? I worked on a soap. I know when the hero is trying to push the heroine away for her own good. It sounds the same no matter what language the lines are in.”
Damn her imagination. Damn her insight. He gripped the back of a chair. “This isn’t a soap opera, Naya. This is real life,” he pointed out. “No one wrote a script for me.”
“I can tell,” she snapped. “You’re making it up as you go along.” He felt her hand on him. Her deceptively soft fingers bit sharply into his shoulder. But still he kept his back to her. “Be straight with me,” she demanded. “Tell me what this is really about.”
No. He couldn’t. How could Lachlan expose her to such ugliness? He stood firm, took a deep breath and then hissed it out through gritted teeth. “It’s not about anything,” he told her. “We’ve had a good time. It was a pleasant diversion. A way for us both to grieve. It’s for the best if we just put this behind us and go our separate ways.”
“No, it isn’t.” She moved to his side, testing his resolve not to look at her. She was so warm and open. Just the press of her breasts against his upper arm shook him to the core. “Being apart isn’t best for us, Lock. You know that. I know that. We tried it already. Whatever this is...we can figure it out.”
He wanted to believe her, but he knew all too well how Ranulf’s mind worked and how his bitter legacy would take shape. There would be nothing left of Naya when it was over. Nothing left of him. So he couldn’t bend. He couldn’t break. Not in this.
“Y-you are so full of shit.” Now her voice trembled. Now her eyes filled with tears. “You told me that kink is about trust, but you don’t trust me. I let you tie me up. I let you flog me. But you can’t even tell me what was in that stupid letter Kyle Attwood gave you. Hell, you can’t acknowledge that this whole scene is about your father’s will. Instead you’re pretending you’re done with me. That’s not taking care of your submissive, Sir. That’s lying to her.”
He winced. And the cruel words that came out of his mouth belied just how right he thought she was: “Yes, well, you’re not a very good submissive, are you? So I guess we’re square in that.”
She rocked back as if he’d struck her, and the high color on her cheeks made it seem as though he had. She blinked a few times and swallowed. Watching her throat move was easier than watching her face. When she spoke, it was quietly. “Okay,” she whispered, slowly stepping away from him. “Okay, so that’s how you want to play it. Message received.” Her hands curled into fists at her sides, and she nodded tightly. “You do you, Lachlan. I’ll be on the next flight out.”
He waited until she left the room. Until the last of her footsteps had died away. And then he let go of the chair. Funny, he hadn’t noticed that he’d gouged holes in the upholstery. Or that his fingertips were bleeding. He studied the jagged lines of his cracked nails and the beads of red. Beads and then streaks, as he ran his thumbs across them.
Fuck.
He couldn’t feel the pain.
He couldn’t feel anything at all.
Perhaps he would never feel anything again.
* * *
I just had a breakup fight without pants on. It was the most ludicrous thing to be thinking as I hastily threw my things into my carry-on and scrubbed away traitorous tears, but there it was. Lachlan Christie had left me pants-less and defenseless, all so he wouldn’t have to be honest about what was going on with him. His t-shirt still smelled like him, and that thought alone was enough for me to immediately strip it off and finish the rest of my packing without any clothes on at all. He’d stripped me bare emotionally, so why not physically, too?
“This was a mistake.”
A mistake was forgetting to lock a door or skipping a birth control pill. Not everything we’d done together, not everything we’d enjoyed.
“It was a pleasant diversion.”
A pleasant diversion was playing Frisbee on a beach or cuddling in the back row of a movie theater. It wasn’t being caned until you used your safe word, or being finger-fucked into gorgeous oblivion.
My hands shook as I looked up flights on my smartphone. My knees, too. I sat down on the edge of the bed in a graceless thump. What was Lock doing? Why had he said such terrible things? I’d accused him of pushing me away, of lying to me, but it didn’t make any sense. What could be so bad that he would rather be without me than tell me about it? That it was blackmail was obvious, but what exactly did Kyle Attwood have on him? Lachlan didn’t have vices. No drug habit. No alcohol problems or gambling debts. I couldn’t wrap my brain around any of it.
The flat was climate-controlled, but I was freezing. Ice cold. I could step outside and not feel one bit of the searing Mumbai heat. He’d done this to me, chilled me to the bone, and all for what? So I’d leave? Well, he’d get his wish. But that didn’t mean I was done fighting for him, or for us. Watch out, Lachlan. You haven’t beaten me yet. I energized myself with the anger and the resolve and got dressed for commercial travel: yoga pants, flip-flops and a vintage Michael Bolton tour t-shirt. It had been a gift from my friend Wil before I left Cologne, and the faded, soft, material was as comforting as one of his hugs.
Part of me knew I could easily fly back to Germany and pick up my life where I’d left off. I hadn’t been gone long at all. The team at Ich Liebe, Du Liebst would welcome me back—I’d taken an extended leave, not officially quit the job. As far as I knew, Paulie hadn’t replaced me yet. She was still interviewing candidates to sublet my bedroom in our cute little walk-up apartment. My bike still hung in the closet rack. I had time stored up on my Eurail pass. It was all waiting for me if I wanted it.
Everything except Lock. And he was what mattered to me most. So, no, the flight I booked wasn’t to Cologne but to New York. The place we’d met. The place we’d bonded. The place we both called home. Whatever the will and estate issues were, he’d have to go back to the city eventually to deal with them...and I’d be waiting.
The Christies had sent me away once before, and all it had done was strengthen my determination to get out of school, stand on my two feet, and then use those two feet to run back to Lachlan. This would be the same, except that I was older and wiser, and I had weapons at my disposal that sixteen-year-old me wouldn’t have been able to fathom.
I knew how Lock looked when he came. I knew how his cock felt in my mouth. I knew how far into my body he could push his hand and wrist. I kne
w that he would beg my safe word out of me long before I was ready to say it, just because he hated my pain as much as he craved it.
“Say it, Naya.”
“Wh-what?”
“You know what.”
“Panna...cotta.”
“That’s. Not. It.”
“Blancmange?”
“Why won’t you safe out of this?”
“Because...I want everything from you.”
It was as true now as it had been last night when I was cuffed and writhing beneath him. I wanted everything from him, and I was going to have it. He belonged to me. We’d sworn forever and always. That didn’t stop just because he’d tried to break my heart. It wasn’t over just because he was having some sort of epic Man Moment and shutting me out. He could bully his way around a kitchen, but he wasn’t the boss of me.
I gathered up the last of my things and left the bedroom in which we’d shared so much. I didn’t spare a look for the cabinet that held so many lovely toys, or the chair from which he’d directed I do a strip tease. I just walked away. The hallway should’ve felt endless, the front room cavernous, but Lachlan was nowhere to be found and all of the space felt claustrophobic without his huge presence.
Of course he’d left rather than watch me go...and that spoke as eloquently as the silence of the room where we’d traded so many harsh barbs. He was running scared. Unable to face me. Worried he’d take it all back and ask me to stay. I knew his patterns as well as I knew my own.
I punched the elevator button for the ride that would whisk me down to the lobby and back out into the world. The getaway was over, the fantasy concluded...but what Lachlan Christie didn’t realize was that there was so much more to come. I am not done with you. Not by a long shot. When the lift doors slide open and I stepped over the threshold, I was almost smiling. So buoyed was I by my plans for Lock domination that I didn’t notice the elevator was occupied until I smacked into someone.
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