Being Me (Inside Out Trilogy)

by Lisa Renee Jones

  “Fine,” I concede, and I grab my purse and close up Ella’s apartment.

  After we get into his car and pull onto the road, I ask, “Where do we stand on Rebecca?”

  He fills me in, and when we pull up to Chris’s building, I am comforted and disturbed by how thorough Blake is in his work and how absent Rebecca remains.

  The doorman opens the passenger door for me. “Sara,” Blake calls, halting my exit.

  “Yes?”

  “My wife is coming in for the weekend. She works with Walker Security. You could do whatever women do together and talk through things. Maybe you’ll remember something helpful.”

  In other words, I’ll have a bodyguard I don’t want. “I’m working. You enjoy being with your wife.” I step out of the car and walk past the night security guard, glad Jacob is gone. I don’t want to see the concern in his expression that might send me back over the edge.

  I take the elevator to Chris’s floor and when the doors open to his apartment, I don’t move. Only when the doors start to close do I catch them and enter the apartment. The familiar earthy scent of Chris is everywhere, yet he is nowhere.

  • • •

  I sleep on the couch and wake up to walk through my morning routine like a zombie. I wear a solid black dress with black hose and heels. The safe in the bottom of the closet catches my eye and I sink to my knees and tug on the door. It’s still locked, of course, and I don’t have the combination.

  A few minutes later, I stand in the kitchen, unsure what to do with myself, and dare to try to call Chris. Each ring is like a blade stabbing me in the heart until his voice mail sounds. I don’t leave a message this time, either. I dial Brandy and get her husband. The funeral won’t be until next week, because of some kind of research testing. It’s in North Carolina. He’ll have Chris get me the details.

  In the lobby, I find Jacob. “I want my car.”

  “Ms. Mc—”

  “I want my car, Jacob.”

  His eyes narrow sharply. “Mr. Merit—”

  “Isn’t here.”

  “You do know you have to remain cautious.”

  “Yes. I’m aware, but I still want my car.”

  He gets my car and I settle into the seat, wishing I’d never left the safety of what I knew behind. Everything is broken. I am broken.

  I don’t even remember the drive.

  The first thing I find when I arrive at work is a white envelope with my name scribbled on it in what I think is Mark’s handwriting. I sit down and tear it open to find my commission due of fifty thousand dollars, signed by Mark. There’s a note attached.

  Ms. McMillan:

  Under the circumstances, I cut the check early. There is peace of mind and freedom of choice to having money in the bank. After last night, I thought you might need some. If you need to take time off for the funeral, it’s yours.

  Bossman

  While I appreciate the money, I can’t help but think of the irony of his words considering how I’d earned the payment. I hold the check to my forehead and relive the wine tasting and the moment Chris had confronted Mark and demanded this commission for me. “I came here tonight to support Sara. I expect her to get the commission off my sales.” When I’d asked him why he’d done it, he’d said it was so Mark wouldn’t gobble me up and destroy me. Then he’d kissed me for the first time, and I was his from that point on. “And I still am,” I whisper, folding it and sticking it in my wallet. The problem is, I don’t think he’s mine. I don’t think he ever truly was.

  It’s a daunting, gut-churning thought that has me sitting at my desk, unable to think of what to do with myself. No. Sitting at Rebecca’s desk. Who am I kidding? This is her life, her world. I am an intruder who owes her more than stealing her job. It is this thought that sets me on fire. I shut the door and start digging through everything in her office. Opening books, folders, magazines, and I hit a jackpot. Flat against the shelf, hidden behind other books, is another journal. I pull it out and start to read. A few pages into it, I realize she’s used it to detail an investigation into the fraudulent art she believes Mary has delivered to Riptide. There are notes about Ricco Alvarez evaluating the pieces. I do a quick specific Google search of Ricco Alvarez and discover he’s considered an authentication expert in certain types of art. There are no indications in Rebecca’s notes of him looking at the art in question.

  I dial Ricco. He answers immediately. “Bella—”

  “Meet me at the coffee shop.”

  “Fifteen minutes.”

  Adrenaline rushes through me like wildfire and I flip through the records Mark gave me for Riptide to find the pieces Rebecca has listed in her notes. They sold right after she left, or rather, disappeared. I shift from the paper reports to my computer and print details on those pieces and the new ones Mary has listed for the next auction. I slip them into my briefcase, snatch my purse and coat, and, already standing, I dial Mark’s office. He doesn’t answer.

  Heading to the hallway, I pause by Amanda’s desk. “I’m meeting a client next door. Is Mark in the gallery?”

  “No. He won’t be in until after lunch but he told me to tell you he canceled your meeting with Ryan for tonight. He thought you might want to choose the date to reschedule.”

  I hate how appreciative I am of this news. I have dreamed of this job, this life that has now become a little piece of hell.

  Mary appears at the opposite side of Amanda’s desk. My cheeks heat with the certainty she is somehow involved in Rebecca’s disappearance. “Call me if Mark gets in before I get back, please,” I say to Amanda, and rush to the door, eager to talk to Ricco.

  Entering Ava’s shop, I inhale the scent of coffee and sweets and manage an awkward wave in her direction. Ricco is already here, and I settle at the table across from him, trying not to look at the table Chris always sits at. But I do. I look as if he will magically appear, and I swallow the emotions his absence stirs.

  “Did you locate a number for Rebecca?” Ricco inquires urgently.

  “No. Sorry. But I am following up on something she was working on. Did she ask you about a couple of counterfeit paintings?” I pull out my folder and show them to Ricco. “Did you look at these for her?”

  “Oh yes. I remember Rebecca mentioning her concern but nothing beyond a verbal inquiry. She never got me what I needed to evaluate the work.”

  “What exactly would you need?”

  “I can begin with digital photos but ideally I’ll want to examine the actual work.”

  “How much per item?”

  “I don’t charge. I feel it decreases my credibility.”

  I slide the folder over to him. “I have details for each work and digital photos. Two of the four pieces are in the Allure Gallery. Two are not. Please. Will you look into them for me?”

  “This is related to Rebecca’s worries?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you think it has something to do with why she disappeared?”

  Disappeared. The word hangs in the air and I remind myself to be cautious. Have I just made a mistake? Could he be involved with Mary? “Doubtful,” I reply. “I don’t think she went very far with this.”

  His eyes narrow and his answer comes slowly. “Very well, Bella. I’ll look into it.” He scoops up the folder. “Shall I walk you to the gallery?”

  “No. Thank you. I’ll stay a bit.”

  I watch him leave and consider calling Mark, but hesitate. Not for the first time, I wonder if Mark could be involved. The first two pieces Rebecca questioned sold for large sums of money. I dial Blake instead.

  I tell him what I have discovered and hear only silence on the other end before he says, “You do know I am a former ATF, and art theft and counterfeiting operations is one of our specialties, correct?”

  “I didn’t really put that together in a two-and-two kind of way.”

  “Well, now I’ve done it for you and yes, I believe there is something going on and I am dealing with it. You, however, are not suppo
sed to be asking questions. I repeat, we are aware of the situation and PS: I’m handling Ricco Alvarez.”

  “Is Mark involved?”

  “Mark Compton is a lot of things, but as far as I can tell a thief isn’t one of them. I’m not prepared to rule out all possibilities quite yet, though.”

  “Do you . . . do you think Rebecca got close to this and someone . . .”

  “I have nothing to connect her disappearance to the art scam but it’s a logical link. In other words, stay out of this. If I had my way I’d put you on a plane to L.A. to be with Chris.”

  If I had my way, I’d be on a plane to be with Chris, too. I end the call and dial Chris again. He doesn’t answer. I clutch my phone and wonder what kind of clubs they have in Los Angeles. I wonder what he will do to hide from his pain and I wonder who he will do it with. I dial Brandy and get her husband, only to learn that she’s highly sedated and a mess. I hang up and certainty fills me. Unless Chris invites me he will be upset that I show up and Brandy will be upset because he’s upset. It’s clear that the life I’d convinced myself was mine never was. I can’t even properly grieve a brave young boy without feeling like an intruder.

  Defeated, I gather my things and start for the door but draw up short when Ryan and Mark walk in. The two of them together are pure testosterone in their perfectly fitted suits, and complete contrasts with their dark and light hair. The masculine beauty they ooze is almost a crime, and downright blinding to us normal humans.

  “Hey, sweetheart,” Ryan says to me, and gives me a once-over that is thorough and somehow manages not to be obnoxious. “You look gorgeous.”

  His natural charm pulls a small smile from me. I think it’s the warmth in his brown eyes, so unlike the hard glint permanently etched in Mark’s. “Thanks, Ryan, but I know I’m far from it today.”

  “Is the black dress an indicator you are flying out to L.A.?” Mark inquires.

  “No. As of now, I’m not going.” It hits me that Ava will tell Mark I was with Ricco. “I came over here to meet with Ricco again, but it’s still a no-go for his business. I guess I’m a glutton for punishment.”

  “Yes,” Mark agrees wryly. “I do believe you are.”

  Inwardly, I bristle at his reference to Chris, and I’m fighting a snippy “he’s my kind of punishment” when the door chimes behind us. Avoiding incoming bodies, Ryan steps closer to me at the same time Mark does. I end up smashed against Mark, staring up into his piercing gray eyes. My pulse skyrockets and I step backward. “I should get back to the gallery.”

  Mark’s lips quirk. “I don’t bite, Ms. McMillan.”

  “Somehow, I doubt that’s true.” It’s out before I can stop it.

  Mark arches an arrogant brow and Ryan laughs good-naturedly. “Oh yes. I do love a woman with some bite of her own. But before you run off to the gallery, Sara, the art you ordered for the demo unit came in. If you come back to the property with me, you can help direct the maintenance team to place it where you want it.”

  I cast Mark a questioning look. He motions me onward. “Go. See the art you loved enough to buy and make us all money by completing the deal. It’ll make you feel better. I know it will make me feel better.”

  The only thing that is going to make me feel better is hearing from Chris. “Then I guess I’m going to the property. Should I follow you, Ryan?”

  “Sure.” His hand settles casually on my shoulder, a bold touch when he barely knows me, but he’s a friendly guy. “Let me just get some coffee for the road. You want some?”

  “More caffeine is always on my to-do list,” I joke, then turn to head to the counter only to find that Ava is no longer here. It strikes me as odd, albeit for no identifiable reason. Even odder, it’s an impression that I don’t shake until I’m at Ryan’s property, directly over the ocean, inside the elegant apartment with a wall of windows much like those at Chris’s apartment. I walk over to the white marble fireplace, which contrasts with the deep mahogany floors, and stare at the blank wall above it. I intended the wall to hold a Chris Merit original. It’s as empty as I am.

  Twenty-eight

  Six days after Chris’s departure, and only a few days until the October 1 start of school for Ella, I am climbing my office walls, willing both of them to call me. It’s Thursday and nearly noon, and for the first time all week, I try to truly prepare myself for this breakup with Chris. I even dress in my old clothes, a simple black skirt and red silk blouse. Arranging to have my things moved back to my apartment is inevitable. I’d rather do it now than have Chris return and do it for me.

  Feeling more like the kept woman my mother was to an absent man, I am eager to escape the confines of the gallery. Out of worry for Chris’s peace of mind, I do as I have been for days, and report to Jacob before heading to the deli three blocks down the road. Once there, I order an egg salad sandwich and find a back corner table and shove my food aside. I can’t eat. I haven’t been able to eat since Chris left.

  The bell on the door chimes and I look up to find Mark and Ava walking into the deli. The way she’s looking at him scorches me from clear across the restaurant. I feel sorry for her husband, trying to compete with Mark. He doesn’t have a chance.

  Mark’s gaze lifts and collides with mine. He whispers something to Ava and steps away from her, and for a moment I see a spark of something that looks downright evil on Ava’s face. Whoa—that’s new. I think I’ve sensed this in her, but seeing it is a jolt of reality. She hates me.

  Mark joins me without asking, sitting directly across from me at a table more for one than two. “You plan to eat that sandwich or watch it like TV?”

  “Ah, now there’s that sense of humor I thought you reserved only for e-mails and text messages.”

  He doesn’t laugh. “You look thin.” He shoves the sandwich toward me. “Eat.”

  Surprisingly, he’s been quite the doting daddy for a Master who wields a wicked whip, but he’s right in this case. I’ve dropped five pounds I didn’t have to lose, but regardless of his good intentions, I truly am not in the mood to be pushed. “I don’t want to eat and don’t order me around like I’m your submissive. I’m not.”

  “Ms. McMillan—”

  “Sara,” I snap, on edge, and irritated that I feel like we’ve created a friendship this past week and he still can’t use my name. “Why can’t you call me Sara like you call Amanda, Amanda?”

  He gives me one of those unreadable, impossible intense gray stares. “All right then, Sara. I’m worried about you.”

  “Don’t be.”

  He leans in closer. “What can I do?”

  “Nothing. Nothing that you haven’t already. I know you convinced Ryan to let me decorate the lobby of the property. It helped. It kept me busy and I do appreciate that.”

  “Ryan’s fond of you. We have to milk it for all the business we can.”

  “Right.” I give a laugh. “It’s always about money for you, isn’t it?”

  “Money is power.”

  So Chris once told me. “And we both know how much you like power.”

  His brows lift. “Do we?”

  “We do,” I assure him.

  He leans back in his seat and his lips twitch. “Well, as long as we have that settled.” He pauses, his mouth tightening, and I sense the subject change before it comes. “Have you heard from him?”

  “No.” I try to laugh without humor but it comes out as more of a strangled sound. “I guess I didn’t do a very good job of getting through to him like you thought I would.” I rub at the tension in my shoulder. A burning question constantly on my mind presses me to take advantage of having Mark’s rare casual mood and full attention. “Why, Mark?”

  “Why what, Sara?”

  “Why do you both need that place?”

  He appears undaunted by the question. “I told you. It’s different for everyone, and Chris and I are as night and day as it comes. He wants to punish himself. The pain is who he is. It controls him.”

  “And you?”r />
  That steely glint I know well appears in his eyes, and I watch the man transform into the Master who is intensely, impossibly provocative, able to seduce a room just by existing. “Nothing controls me but me. I am who I am and I enjoy every moment of it, and so do those who enter my domain. I make sure of it.” I am captivated by his stare, lost in this man who is all power and sexuality, but even more so by the idea of having such confidence and control myself. He seems to sense this or perhaps he can easily read my expression, and he leans in closer, softening his voice to a seductive purr. “I would never put my pleasure, or my pain, for that matter, ahead of your needs, Sara.”

  I am sure that his vow is meant to lure me deeper under his spell, but it doesn’t work. It smacks me in the face with possibilities I don’t want to consider and jerks me into defensive mode. I sit back sharply. “He doesn’t do that. Chris doesn’t put himself ahead of me.”

  “What do you call what he’s done, Sara?”

  “He’s trying to protect me.”

  “And how does that protection feel? Because you aren’t eating and you aren’t sleeping. If that is how he protects you, he’s failed.”

  “Like you failed Rebecca.”

  He shocks me by visibly flinching, proving again that he is not without a weakness where Rebecca is concerned. “She wanted what I don’t have to give, what I never promised.”

  “Which is what?”

  “The façade of love. The same poison that leaves your sandwich sitting here uneaten. Think about what this fairy tale of love you’ve created is doing to you. When you’re ready to get rid of that spiteful emotion, I’ll show you how.” He pushes to his feet. “We have the open house tonight at the property. We leave at six forty-five. I’m driving.”

  It’s me who flinches as he walks away.

  • • •

  I’m pleased to score a large late afternoon sale, but it delays Mark and me from departing the gallery at the time planned, and we arrive at the open house with only forty-five minutes left before it ends. At the front door of the thirty-floor high-rise on the oceanfront, Mark maneuvers the Jag under the front door overhang and two valets open our doors. When Mark rounds the vehicle to join me, his hand settles a bit too possessively on my back.