by J. R. Ward
Which made all his attention to detail seem not like that of a nitpicking asswipe owner, but a fellow workman with high standards.
Yup, he’d definitely been a rough palm, at one point.
“…so that’s going to be an issue,” Vin was saying. “The weight on the load-bearing walls in that four-story cathedral foyer is going to be over code. The architect is worried about it.”
Devina spoke up for once. “Well, couldn’t you just make it shorter? Like, closer to the ground?”
“Ceiling height’s not the issue—it’s the steep angle and the weight of the roof. I think we can solve the problem by upgrading to steel beams, though.”
“Oh.” Devina wiped her mouth as if she were embarrassed. “That sounds like a good idea.”
As Vin went off on another tangent about the house, Devina took a special interest in folding the napkin in her lap.
Shit, the guy might know from construction, but you had to wonder: If you’d asked him what his woman’s favorite color was, would he have said the right one?
“So this was a great meal,” Vin said eventually. “To the chef.”
As he lifted his wineglass and gave Devina a nod, she ate up the attention, positively glowing with happiness. Then again, he’d just spent the balance of the meal talking about something she wasn’t familiar with, relegating her to a shut-out observer seemingly without a care.
“I’ll clear and bring in dessert,” she said, getting to her feet. “No, please, sit. It won’t take a moment.”
Jim lowered himself back into his chair and focused on Vin. In the quiet that bloomed while Devina went in and out of the butler’s door with the dishes, you could practically smell the wood burning between the guy’s ears.
“What’s on your mind,” Jim asked.
“Nothing.” A quick shrug was followed by a sip of wine. “Nothing whatsoever.”
Dessert was homemade cherry-and-chocolate-chip ice cream and coffee so strong it could put hair on your chest. The combination was sublime, and yet it wasn’t sweet or savory enough to clear the frown from Vin’s eyebrows.
When the dessert plates were empty, Devina got to her feet again.
“Why don’t you two go back to the study while I clean up in the kitchen?” She shook her head before Jim could offer to help. “It won’t take a minute. No…honestly, let me do it. You two go back and talk.”
“Thank you for dinner,” Jim said as he got out of his chair. “Best meal I’ve had in ages.”
“I second that,” Vin murmured while tossing his napkin onto the table.
When they were in the study once again, Vin went to the wet bar in the corner. “Hell of a cook, isn’t she.”
“Yeah.”
“Brandy?”
“Nah, thanks.” Jim paced around, looking at the leather-bound books on the shelves, and the paintings and drawings and framed U.S. stamps. “So you build things up in Canada, too?”
“I’m all over the country, actually.”
Vin picked up a fat glass and poured himself a couple of inches, then sat down behind the desk. While he swirled the brandy sniffer, he swept a wireless mouse around and the planes of his face lit up as the screen saver on his computer flickered off.
Jim stopped in front of the drawing Vin had fixated on when he’d been thinking of Devina. The depiction was of a horse…sort of. “This artist do a lot of acid?”
“It’s a Chagall.”
“No offense, but it’s weird.”
Vin laughed and regarded the piece of art…or shit, depending on your taste…with grave appreciation. “It’s relatively new. I got it the night I met Devina. God, I haven’t looked at it for a while. Reminds me of a dreamscape.”
Jim thought about the life the guy must live. Work, work, work…come home…not see all the expensive stuff he owned.
“Do you see your girlfriend?” Jim said abruptly.
Vin frowned and took a sip of his brandy.
Well, wasn’t that the answer.
“It’s none of my business,” Jim murmured. “But she really sees you. You’re a lucky man.”
Vin’s brows drew together, and as the silence expanded, Jim knew he was running out of time for tonight. Chances were good he was going to be shown the door in another fifteen or twenty minutes, and although he had a feeling he’d ID’d Vin’s problem, he wasn’t even close to the goal line, so to speak.
He thought of the little television hanging from the ceiling in that hospital room and of the two chefs who had gotten him into this dinner-from-Hell situation.
“So…you got a TV around here?” he asked.
Vin blinked and seemed to come back into focus. “Yeah, check this out.”
Getting to his feet, he picked up a remote and came around the desk while punching buttons. All at once, the shelving split across the way and a flat-screen the size of a twin bed came forward.
“Man, you love your toys, huh,” Jim said with a laugh.
“I so do—I’m not going to lie.”
The two of them parked it in the chairs in front of the desk as Vin played with more buttons. While the channels switched, Jim felt like a schizoid as he prayed for a clue from what was shown—looking for guidance from the television? Next thing he knew he was going to think satellites were tracking his every move.
Oh, wait…been there, done that.
As the screen flashed, he took note of the various shows: Who Wants to Be a Millionaire? Vin had and he now was. Lost? Well, duh, that made two of them—though Jim was the only one who knew it. Home Improvement? Plenty of that to go around on both sides—but it was hardly a newsflash.
The channel changing stopped on Leonardo DiCaprio in some kind of movie.
“There’s actually a better model coming out this year,” Vin said, putting the remote to the side. “It’s going in the new house.”
Jim tried to read into what was going on in the movie, but it was just Leo dressed like something out of a renaissance fair emoting to a chick in a similar wardrobe.
Shit, no help.
“Jim, I got to be honest.” Vin’s cool gray eyes were clear. “I don’t know what the hell you’re playing at here, but I like you, for some reason.”
“Ditto.”
“So where does this leave us?”
Just what Jim was wondering.
Up on the screen, things were abruptly not going well for Leo. Medieval-esque “bad guys” were doing a snatch-and-drag of the poor bastard. “What the hell movie is this?”
Vin fired up the remote and an info strip popped up at the bottom of the screen:
The Man in the Iron Mask. Leonardo DiCaprio, Jeremy Irons (1998).
Only got two stars, evidently—
Oh, fuck him. The Iron Mask? Damn it, the last place he wanted to be was back in that club. Especially with—
Devina appeared in the doorway of the study. “I don’t suppose you two would like to go out?”
Well, if that wasn’t an opening.
Jim cursed to himself as he tried to imagine being there with her again—only this time under the watchful, suspicious eyes of her boyfriend. And he’d thought this whole dinner thing had been awkward?
Except the movie had to be a sign, right? The four lads said he’d have help.
“Yeah, let’s head downtown,” he muttered. “To the…How about the Iron Mask.”
Devina’s eyes flared as if she were shocked by his choice of club.
Schmega dittos there.
There was some conversation at that point and Vin got to his feet. “Okay, if that’s what you two want, I’m game.” He went over to his woman, and like he was trying to make an effort, leaned in and kissed her. “I’ll get your coat.”
Devina turned away with him and followed her man down the hall. Jim, left behind in the study, dragged a hand through his hair while wishing he could rip the stuff out of his head.
Maybe he had to stop thinking TVs were sending him messages. Because this was a dumb fucking idea.
>
CHAPTER
11
Marie-Terese saw the man first.
As she stood by the bar closest to the Iron Mask’s front door, she was inspecting the crowd when he walked into the club. It was, as they say, right out of the movies: Everyone else disappeared the instant he came in, the other people fading into dim, blurry shadows while she focused on him and him alone.
Six-three-ish in height. Dark hair and pale eyes. Suit like something out of a Fifth Avenue window display.
On his arm was a woman in a red dress and a white fur coat, and beside him was a taller guy with a brush cut and a military manner. None of them fit in among the crowd of leathered and laced and chained, but that wasn’t why she stared.
No, the staring thing was all about the man himself. He was eye-catching in the same sharp, hard way her ex had been: a wealthy man with a shot of gangster in him, a guy who was used to being in charge of whatever was going on around him…and someone who was probably about as warm and caring as a meat locker.
Fortunately, shutting down her instant attraction was easy: She’d already made the mistake of assuming wealth and power made guys like that some kind of modern-day dragon slayer.
Very bad assumption. Sometimes dragon slayers…were just slayers.
Gina, another one of the working girls, came up to the bar. “Who is that by the door?”
“A customer.”
“Of mine, I hope.”
Marie-Terese wasn’t so sure of that. Going by the looks of that brunette with him, he had no reason to buy sexual companionship—wait…that woman…she’d been here the night before, hadn’t she, and so had the other guy. Marie-Terese remembered them for the same reason they stood out tonight—they didn’t belong here.
As the trio sat down in a dark corner, Gina adjusted her wing-and-a-prayer bustier and pushed at her now-red hair. Last month it had been white and pink. Month before that jet-black. She kept this up and she was going to be sporting a Telly Savalas, thanks to all the chemical warfare on her roots.
“I think I’ll just go over and introduce myself. Laters.”
Gina sauntered off, her black latex skirt and stiletto boots the kind of thing she wore with pride. Unlike Marie-Terese, she got off on what she did for a living and even had ambitions to become what she referred to as a “major multimedia erotica star” along the lines of Janine Lindemulder or Jenna Jameson. Whoever they were. Marie-Terese knew their names only because Gina talked about them like they were the Bill Gates of porn.
Marie-Terese hung back and watched the drive-by. As Gina sauntered up, the woman in the white fur took one look at what was so obviously for sale and her stare went blade sharp. Which was unnecessary. Her businessman boyfriend didn’t give Gina a glance—he was too busy talking to his buddy. And all the back-off-that’s-my-man did was encourage the come-on: Gina positively preened in front of that territorial hatred, lingering until the man finally looked up.
He didn’t focus on what was in front of him, though. He gaze shifted past Gina’s latex buffet and trained on Marie-Terese.
Instant. Cosmic. Attraction. The kind you couldn’t hide from other people and you couldn’t bottle up and you couldn’t turn off if you ever got the chance to act on it. With their stares locked, they were both naked and in each other’s arms, not for hours, but for days.
Which meant she wasn’t going anywhere near him and not because he had a possessive girlfriend. If what she’d felt at first around her ex had been trouble, this moment between her and that stranger had the potential for catastrophe.
Marie-Terese turned away and wound through the crowd, seeing nothing in front of her or around her. Those steel gray eyes of that man consumed her, and though she knew he couldn’t see her anymore, she could have sworn she felt him staring at her still.
“Hey, honey.”
Marie-Terese glanced over her shoulder. A pair of college boys dressed in hip-riding jeans, Affliction T-shirts, and skulled-out accessories—i.e., the bell-bottoms of the twenty-first century—had come up behind her and were once-overing her body. Given the sly way they looked at her, it was pretty clear they had pockets full of their daddies’ money and heads vacant of everything but the confidence typical of big, dumb football players.
She also got the impression they were on something: Their eyelids twitched rather than blinked, and both had lines of sweat over their upper lips.
Great. Just what she needed.
“How much for me and my friend?” the one who’d spoken up said.
“I think you’d better go see someone else.” Gina had no problems with threesomes, for instance. Or video cameras. Or camera phones. Or other women. Hopefully she drew the line at the Catherine the Great equine stuff, but you couldn’t be sure—it was entirely possible that a lusty whinny meant “suck harder” to her.
Mr. Talker got in close. “We don’t want anyone else. We want you.”
Taking a step back, she looked them both right in the eye. “Find someone else.”
“We have money.”
“I’m a dancer. That’s all I get paid to do.”
“Then why haven’t you been up in any of the cages?” He leaned in again and she got a whiff of his cologne: eau de beer. “We’ve been watching you.”
“I’m not for sale.”
“Bullshit, baby doll.”
“If you continue to harass me, you’re going to get banned from this club. All it takes is one word from me to management. Now back the hell off.”
Marie-Terese walked away, knowing damn well they were pissed and not caring in the slightest—thank you very much, Trez. As much as she hated asking for help from the man, she would in a heartbeat if it meant keeping herself safe.
Over at the bar in the back, she ordered a Coke with extra ice and regrouped. It was still early, only about ten thirty, which meant she had another four or so hours.
“Those two steakheads giving you trouble?”
She looked up at Trez and smiled. “Nothing I couldn’t handle.” She eyed the leather coat in his hand. “You off?”
“Just over to my brother’s for a meeting. Listen, the bouncers are all tight and I should be back in about an hour, two at the most. But you call me if you and the girls need anything, ’kay? Phone’s going to be on the whole time. I can be back in the blink of an eye.”
“Will do. Drive carefully.”
He gave her hand a squeeze and strode through the crowd, his height dwarfing everyone in the club.
“That your pimp? Maybe we should just talk to him.”
Marie-Terese glared over her shoulder at the college guys. “He’s my boss, and his name’s Trez. Why don’t you go and introduce yourselves to him?”
“You think you’re too good for us?”
She turned and faced them. “Do yourself a favor and leave me alone. Unless you want to be taken out of here in an ambulance.”
The one who had been doing all the talking smiled, revealing sharp white teeth. “Do us a favor and stop thinking that whores like you have the right to an opinion.”
Marie-Terese recoiled—but only on the inside. “Does your mother know you talk to women like this?”
“You are not a woman.”
Marie-Terese’s throat closed up hard. “Leave me alone,” she said hoarsely.
“Make us.”
Vin scanned the crowd for the dark-haired woman and got frustrated when he couldn’t find her. They’d made eye contact for one electric moment and then she’d disappeared into the sea of bodies like a ghost.
He’d seen her before. He couldn’t place where…but he’d definitely seen her before.
“Who are you looking for?” Devina said in a low voice.
“No one.” Vin nodded at a waitress, who came over quickly.
After drinks had been ordered, Devina edged closer and eased in, her breasts pushing against Vin’s biceps. “Let’s go back.”
“Back where?”
“To the private bathrooms.”
V
in frowned as a dark-haired woman in the far corner turned…. No, it wasn’t the one. Maybe…no, not her either.
Black hair, blue eyes, heart-shaped face that he wanted to take into his hands. Who was she?
“Vin?” Devina pressed her lips behind his ear. “Let’s go…I’m hungry.”
Unlike the night before, this do-me-now stuff annoyed more than tempted him. He knew damn well that the seduction routine was less about sex between the two of them, and more about that prostitute coming over and pulling a whole lot of how-about-some-of-this. The thing was, Devina didn’t mind including other women as long as it was on her terms—and evidently those didn’t include half-dressed ladies of the night making like they wanted to mount him and ride him off to an orgasm in public.
Nope, the women had to be more attracted to Devina than him for her to be cool with it.
“I want some privacy,” she purred.
“We have a guest.”
“It won’t take long.” Her tongue licked up the side of his neck, making him feel like he was a fence post getting pissed on. “I promise you that. I’m hungry, Vin.”
“Sorry.” His eyes searched the crowd. “I’m full at the moment.”
Devina dropped the act and sat back in the seat. “Then I want to go home.”
At just that moment, the waitress came over with a beer for Jim, a shot of Patrón for Vin, and a Cosmo for Devina.
“We can’t leave now,” Vin murmured as he gave the woman a hundred and told her to keep the change.
“But I want to go home.” Devina crossed her arms over her chest and pegged him right in the eye with the demand. “Now.”
“Come on, Devina. Enjoy your drink—”
Before he could tell her there’d be plenty of privacy as soon as they got back to the duplex, Devina cut him off with, “Maybe I’ll just go buy that red head for myself then, since you’re not going to take care of me.”