by July Hall
He sighed. Now she could picture the exasperation on his face. “I don’t expect you to be…” He coughed. “Never mind. If I was intrusive, I apologize.”
Sandra’s eyes widened. Holy shit. She said as politely as she could, “Thank you. I accept.”
And that should be it. They’d paid lip service to what she was doing for his house, they’d sort of found closure on what had happened this morning, and now they should hang up and end it. No more personal stuff. She should stop listening to the deep pitch of his voice. There was nothing else to say.
“Do you have a dog?” she blurted.
Mr. Magister sounded truly surprised when he said, “Do I what? A dog?”
Bradley had mentioned killing Mr. Magister’s dog. It had definitely just been a figure of speech. She couldn’t believe that had come out of her mouth. Get off the freaking phone! “Um, never mind. I should…”
“Why are you asking if I have a dog?”
Sooner or later, she was going to die from embarrassment while talking to this man. “I thought I heard…someone mention it once. That’s all. I just wondered. Sorry. Anyway, I should—”
“Not in the city. I do keep a pack of hunting hounds at the North Shore house.”
She’d been about to flee the conversation, but that stopped her in her tracks. “You do?”
“Of course. They have their own kennel, though they sometimes manage to escape. Carry some raw meat around with you, just in case.”
“Raw—” Oh God. She really was an idiot. “I cannot believe I fell for that.”
“Neither can I.” He chuckled.
It stunned her. She couldn’t think how to respond. He’d laughed. Only for a second, but she’d made him laugh.
What did he look like when he smiled? He must be smiling now, right? Even Mr. Magister couldn’t laugh without smiling.
“Silly of me,” she said faintly. “Fox hunting on Long Island.”
“Not that silly. My father—” He paused and cleared his throat again. “My father belonged to the Smithtown Hunt, but I never cared for it.”
Sandra sat bolt upright on her bed. “What?” He hadn’t sounded like he was kidding that time. “You’re serious. There really are Long Island fox hunts? With dogs and horses?”
“Yes, occasionally. Do you ride?”
Okay. Maybe it wasn’t wrong that they were still talking. It could be a good way to move past what happened this morning—make a little friendly conversation and go forward. Friendly, innocent conversation.
Bradley had pulled her into his family circle. It wasn’t like Sandra and Mr. Magister were never going to see each other again, so they had to figure out a way to…be around each other. If Sandra got used to his voice, then it was bound to have less of an effect on her. Right?
“I did a little, when I was in high school,” she faltered. But even if she rode every day, she couldn’t imagine hunting foxes to death with a whole pack of hounds. “Do you?”
“Yes, but as I said, I don’t hunt.”
She tried to picture him on a horse. The image of him in breeches and riding boots was…not awful. “I’m glad,” she said, blushing. “It isn’t right. All those dogs ganging up on a single fox.”
“The clever foxes get away. Survival of the fittest.”
That whole idea was bullshit. “Then why not just one dog?” Sandra persisted. “One dog versus one fox. That seems sort of fair.”
After a pause, Mr. Magister gave a low hmm that thrummed through her blood. She nearly gasped, and put her hand on her own thigh without quite meaning to. She remembered his hand on her thigh too, just hours ago, stroking it before he pushed up her skirt.
She quivered and waited for him to say that life wasn’t fair.
“A single dog running a fox to ground,” he said quietly. “I like that idea.”
Her breath caught. He must have heard it. Sandra closed her eyes and touched her fingertips to her lips, remembering his hungry kisses.
“But what happens,” he continued, “when the dog catches the fox? Do you think it lets the fox go again?”
So much for innocent conversation. It took her a moment to find her voice. Then she replied, proud that she sounded steady, “Like you said, the clever foxes don’t get caught.”
“The dog is bigger, faster, and more powerful. It never gives up. That is its nature.”
Oh Jesus, he didn’t have to tell her that. “Do dogs abuse their power?” she said. “Or is that just men? Because this does not sound like a good scenario for the fox, either way.”
“No, it doesn’t, does it? Best for it to stay out of the field entirely.”
Her skin prickled everywhere. Her heart pounded, and she couldn’t stop herself from saying, “Well, what if it was an accident? What if some stupid fox was just minding its own business, not bothering anyone, and suddenly, boom, there was a dog heading straight for it?”
“Then it better not be stupid. It better be a clever little fox indeed.” Another man might have spoken seductively. Mr. Magister’s tone was hard with warning. “Nothing else can save it.”
Sandra stopped breathing.
“Good night, Miss Dane,” he said, and hung up.
It was another moment before she could get her breath back. She dropped her phone on the bed and propped her elbows on her knees, staring at the floor. The wooden floorboards could really use refinishing, she thought vaguely. The floor, the ceiling—it seemed like everything around her was falling apart. Next thing she knew, the walls would cave in.
She ran a hand through her hair. Then she rose unsteadily to her feet, looking at her empty wine glass. She could definitely use a refill.
When she returned to the living room, Kristen was curled up on the couch beneath a throw blanket. Sandra saw with relief that her sister now nursed a bottle of beer. There was plenty of Chardonnay left.
“Did you work it all out with his lordship?” Kristen asked, not turning her gaze from the TV.
“Yep,” Sandra said, making a beeline for the Chardonnay bottle. “We settled everything.” They had. It was over. She’d told him so.
“You sure? He sounded kinda picky.” Kristen shook her head and took a pull from her beer. “I’m not surprised a guy like that is so uptight.”
“Oh?” Sandra asked, filling her wine glass nearly to the brim.
“Sure.” Kristen shrugged. “You can tell he hasn’t had sex in about five hundred years.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
She was so close. Just around the corner, in fact. Charles could hear the swift patter of her feet. She was trying to flee.
She wouldn’t get far. This was his house. He knew every nook and cranny, and she was a stranger here. He picked up his pace as he rounded the corner, just in time to see Miss Dane darting toward the open door at the end of the hallway. It led outside. Brilliant sunlight framed her as she disappeared through it. No!
He gave chase. Around him, the walls of his house vanished and he found himself racing across a field, surrounded by grassy hillocks and patches of red clover. Miss Dane ran ahead, long copper hair bouncing against her shoulders. She wore a yellow sundress. Her feet were bare.
She was trying to reach a split rail fence. Once she jumped it, she could escape him in the woods on the other side. He wouldn’t be able to find her there. She’d be hidden within the trees.
Charles ran until the grass around him was a blur of green, until he thought his heart and lungs would burst. His vision telescoped. The girl in front of him was all he could see. Faster and faster. He couldn’t give up now. She was nearly at the fence.
But not close enough. Just as she was about to gain the rails, he grabbed her by one fine-boned wrist and dragged her back into his arms. They tumbled to the ground, where he rolled on top of her. This time he didn’t speak to her, didn’t blame her or ask questions or make excuses. None of that mattered anymore.
Only this mattered. She looked up at the sky, panting, her red hair spilling all over the grass
. Charles shoved her skirt up her thighs, moaning as he saw she was bare beneath. Then he tore down the zipper of his fly. So close to his goal.
She threw her arms around his neck. “Now,” she whispered.
Yes. Now. There was no more time for kisses or caresses. Finally, Charles parted her legs and then pushed inside her without a word. He only cried out, because he could not have imagined anything this perfect. She was so slick, so wet, because she’d been waiting for him. She had, hadn’t she? She’d been waiting for him, hadn’t she?
That didn’t matter either. She was his now. He had won her, chased her to ground. And now every exquisite inch of her belonged to him. He was going to screw her so hard she wouldn’t be able to stand up afterward. He’d have to carry her…back to his house, his bed…
He moved faster, pounding his hips as he began to go out of his mind. At last, at last. Nothing in his life had ever felt so good.
“Gently,” she begged. “Charles, please be gentle.”
“No! I can’t,” he gasped, but he found himself slowing his pace anyway, as if her words had cast a spell on him. “Oh Christ, I want you, I want…”
“Be gentle…”
“I want you so fucking much.” So shouldn’t he take her? Wasn’t that fair? One fox for one dog. He looked down into her eyes, as blue as any sky. The sun had brought out tiny freckles on her cheeks. When he was done he would kiss them, one by one.
“Don’t hurt me,” she pleaded.
“I won’t. I couldn’t, I’d never.” He began kissing her throat, still moving, fucking her as he chased down paradise. He was so close. He moaned into her hair. “God, I’d never. Don’t make me stop.”
“Nobody can make you stop.” She wrapped her legs around his waist and pulled him tighter to her, urging him on as she kissed his temple. “Oh, it feels so good…never stop...”
Bliss began to spread through his body, a pleasure more profound than lust. She needed this, too. Suddenly, Charles wanted nothing more than for her to feel the same way he did, for them to find their ecstasy together.
“Come with me,” he panted, and kissed her mouth, feeling it open for him just as it had in his office. “Sandra, come, I want to feel it.”
He watched her tilt her head back. Her eyes closed and her lips parted, and now he wanted to watch, wanted it even more than his own satisfaction. He forced himself to stop moving and groaned, “God, darling, yes, do it!”
She began to clench around him, the most delicious pressure, a little whimper coming from her throat. Then she gasped, her legs tightened around his waist, and he watched breathlessly as she came. Her whimper grew into a full-voiced cry. She was so beautiful. When she opened her eyes, they were glazed with pleasure, and it was because of him.
Charles couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so happy. He couldn’t really remember the last time he’d been happy at all. He touched her face.
But then the pleasure faded from her eyes. “We’re never going to do this again,” she said. “Obviously.”
He froze. “What?”
“You shouldn’t have put me in this position.” She turned her flushed face away. “I tried to get away.”
“But...” This couldn’t be right. “You liked it. You said—”
“I tried to leave,” she said. “Like everyone does.”
His joy vanished in a heartbeat. He grabbed both of her arms and pinned them above her head. “No,” he said. “You’re mine. I caught you. I warned you.”
She refused to meet his gaze. “That’s not how it works.”
“That’s the only way it works!” He began to move his hips again. “Look at me!” Ah, God. His happiness was gone, in its place the familiar, savage need for conquest. He’d take what he could get. “So tight…look at me…” But his own eyes squeezed shut. “Don’t you want—oh—”
The sound of his own voice woke him. This time, when Charles opened his eyes, he was in his bed, feeling a relentless pressure on his cock. It took a few disorienting moments before he realized it was not Sandra Dane but his own hand gripping him through his silk pajama pants.
He was so hard he could feel a spot of fluid leaking through the silk. Only a few more moments of pinning her to the ground, and he would have…
“Oh my God.” He let go of himself, shuddering at the loss, and began tearing off his pajamas. When he was naked, he staggered into his bathroom, turned on the shower, and stood beneath the icy spray.
It brought him back to his senses immediately, though his arousal took a few more moments to flag. He braced himself against the stone tile wall and took his punishment, shivering.
What the living fuck had that been about? Chasing her and pushing her into the dirt. Some twisted rape fantasy?
Nothing else can save her.
No, Charles thought, turning off the spray. He wiped cold water out of his eyes. No, no. It hadn’t been like that. He didn’t want that.
He’d felt such horror last night, when she’d spoken of being cornered in his office. For a few moments, he thought he had somehow misread her entirely—maybe she hadn’t wanted him after all, maybe she had been afraid. Maybe Violet had been right. And what could Charles do with that? He would have to make amends. He would find a way.
Then she’d admitted that she hadn’t been frightened, and he’d felt like he’d stumbled out of an iron maiden: punctured, but alive. He hadn’t hurt her. In fact, apparently it had felt…fine.
Fine. She’d been soaking through her underwear, and he’d been ready to break all the rules of common decency. “Fine” wasn’t exactly how he would have put it.
Of course he’d dreamed about her. And of course it had all gone wrong.
I tried to leave, like everyone does.
Everyone. Mother, Father, Eleanor, all gone. Stephen and Rosalie, loving but—he suspected—resentful. He was utterly alone. Mostly, he managed not to think about it.
He looked up at the skylight, at the iron-gray clouds above the glass, and wondered blearily what time it was. Early morning, he judged. His alarm would go off soon. No reason to go back to bed.
Find a woman, he told himself. It’s been three years and you are obviously going out of your mind. Find a woman, ask Stephen’s help, whatever it takes, just stick your dick somewhere and get it out of your system.
It wouldn’t be what he wanted.
Find a redhead.
It wouldn’t be enough. He’d spend the whole time with his eyes closed, picturing—
Who fucking cares, just get it over with, do it tonight!
He supposed he could do that. There were certain intangible benefits to a net worth of $22 billion. Surely one of them was being able to take a woman to bed at a moment’s notice. He had no goddamned clue how to go about it, but he’d better…
He’d better get ready for work. With a groan, Charles turned the shower back on, moving the knob to hot.
His car dropped him off at the office at seven-thirty sharp. The building was still quiet, populated mainly by the go-getters who’d arrived early in the hopes of impressing somebody, probably him. As he stalked through the lobby, they scattered out of his way like pigeons, murmuring, Good morning, Mr. Magister. In his daily life, it was so easy to believe himself a king; who would dare deny him anything he wanted?
This return to form soothed him, and he felt slightly better all the way to nine o’clock, when Violet told him that Robert Cliffe was on the fucking phone.
* * *
“You know how it is,” Robert said. “You’ve got to take some risks in life to get ahead, right? So maybe you make an investment that doesn’t work out like it should have. Don’t tell me that’s never happened to you.”
“It has,” Charles acknowledged, cradling his cup of coffee in both hands. “But it seems to happen more regularly to some people than it does to others.”
Robert gave a forced-sounding laugh. Charles could just picture the look on his face, the barely concealed anger in his eyes. Good. The bastar
d had humiliated Rosalie for eight years; Charles had spent the last seventeen paying him back. Robert was persona non grata among the social circles he had so desperately hoped to join. Now it appeared he was finally at the end of his rope.
Charles would be delighted to bring out the scissors. It was past time. Although he’d blackballed Robert, he’d also felt compelled to dole out the occasional sum over the years for Bradley’s sake. A boy shouldn’t have to see his father on the street.
But Bradley was theoretically a man now, wasn’t he, with his own resources? Let him take care of it from here.
Charles would make sure to tell him so, after he’d finished shaking Robert by the neck like a dying rabbit. He could play the dog if he had to.
“Come on, Chuck,” Robert said. “For old time’s sake. I haven’t pestered you for years. Everyone falls on hard times.”
The doors to Charles’s office opened, and Stephen poked his head around. “Violet said you wanted me to come over?”
Charles pressed the speakerphone button. “Could you repeat that part, Robert?”
“I said, everybody falls on hard times, right?”
Stephen raised his face to the ceiling as if praying for strength. “Oh God.”
“Hey, who’s that? Is that Steve?”
“It sure is,” Stephen said, coming to Charles’s desk and dropping down in one of the chairs. “How are you, Robert?”
“Poor,” Charles said on his behalf. “Sometimes investments don’t work out, you see.” He wondered how far he could push it before Robert finally cracked.
Some would call this petty. But Rosalie had sobbed in Charles’s arms on the night she finally confessed the unhappiness of her marriage. She’d blamed herself; she’d been so ashamed to come to her eldest brother, as if she’d believed she didn’t deserve his protection. If not for Bradley, Robert would have paid for each and every one of those tears that very day.
What terrible timing he had this morning.
“Listen,” Robert said. “I wouldn’t call you unless I was desperate. Believe me. But I’m barely making rent.”
“Still in Boston?” Charles inquired. He sipped his coffee again. “I hear that’s expensive. Have you considered Pittsburgh?”