Elle breaks the silence. “About our race, I’ve been thinking… I’m not sure if it’s such a good idea.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m thinking of calling it off.”
“Afraid you’ll lose?”
“No, of course not!”
“I know,” I whisper in her ear, “you find me so irresistible that you’ll give yourself to me anyhow. And you don’t want me to lose my bike.”
Elle punches me in the chest, hard, and I cry out in pain.
“Fine! If you want to get rid of your bike, have it your way. When?”
“How about Saturday?”
“I’m not free this weekend.”
“Why? Do you have a date? Should I be jealous?”
“Only if you’re thinking of becoming homeless.”
I frown until she explains, “I’m volunteering in a soup kitchen.”
“How about next Saturday?”
Elle is quiet for a few seconds, but they feel like hours to me.
“Um…okay.”
I breathe a sigh of relief. “I’ll let you know where.”
When we head back into the city, Elle stares out the window of the taxi. Even if she doesn’t reject my hand-holding, I know I can’t rush it with her. It’s driving me crazy; I am ready to kiss her senseless, to crush her against me, to drag her into bed and explore every inch of her body—to make her mine. With great effort, I suppress my wayward thoughts. Instead, I repeat the mantra in my head: take it slow, take it slow, take it slow.
When we stop outside her apartment building, I ask the taxi driver to wait while I walk her home.
Elle unclasps her hand from mine. “You don’t have to walk up with me.”
“Come on, you know I won’t rest till I know you’re home safe.”
She sighs and opens the door. As I follow her up the stairs, the sight of her alluring legs taunt me every step of the way. I don’t know if I can control myself when we get to her apartment. Maybe I shouldn’t have asked the taxi to wait for me.
I breathe in deeply. Take it slow.
When we reach her door, Elle turns to me, her dark smoky eyes draining all the blood from my brain and directing it southwards.
“Good night, Ryder.”
I tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, my fingers lingering in the warmth of her neck for a moment. “Sweet dreams, beautiful.”
I start walking back towards the stairs, but somehow I can’t bring myself to go downstairs yet. I spin around and taking two steps towards her, I grab her arm and pull her against me. Ignoring the anxious expression in her eyes, I lean down and let my lips brush against hers, softly. She pushes lightly against my chest, but I put my arm around her waist and draw her closer, and the look in her eyes changes as our gazes meet. Encouraged, I do it again, the slow brushing and sliding against her lips. I feel the moist heat of her breath, get a small taste of her sweetness.
I clutch the edge of her jacket, trying to restrain myself. What I want, what I need, is to go deeper, to sweep my tongue into the darkness of her mouth. I expect her not to yield easily, but to my surprise, something shifts. If I hadn’t paid my full attention, I would have missed it—Elle opens her mouth infinitesimally. Without a millisecond to spare, I slide the tip of my tongue in between her slightly parted lips.
Damn, she tastes sweet.
I leisurely stroke the sensitive tissue just inside her lower lip. When she lets out a small moan, I take it as a cue to start my full-on assault. My tongue finds hers, stroking, caressing. She responds in kind, and soon our tongues start tangling in a frenzied dance of desire.
I can’t get enough of her; I want to devour her. My hands slide into her hair, slip down her back, glide around her hips. I want to hold her closer, remove the layers between us, and feel her soft flesh on mine. My hand finds its way under her shirt and is about to explore her soft, warm curves when she freezes for an instant. I immediately withdraw my hand, but continue kissing her deeply until she is completely relaxed again in my arms.
When our kiss comes to an end, we are both out of breath, like we’ve sprinted up the stairs. Reluctantly, I let her go, and she fumbles for her key to open the door. She stands in the door opening facing me, her eyes dark with desire, her cheeks flushed, and her lips pink and kiss-swollen.
I force myself to take a step backwards, but in my mind I resolve there is no way in hell I will take it slow with her ever again.
Next Saturday will be the day that I’ll make her mine.
CHAPTER SIX
Elle
My sisters wouldn’t recognize me if they’d meet me on the street right now.
It’s the day of the protest, and I’ve transformed into an executive businesswoman: a simple white blouse under a gray jacket and matching short skirt, tights and medium-heeled black pumps. It was a challenge to convince Rose to lend me her interview outfit, especially when she found out what I intended to use it for, but I promised her to have it dry cleaned and take her out to her favorite Malaysian restaurant.
It’s still dark outside when I’m walking to the subway. A double beep signaling a text message makes my heart jump, and I secretly hope it’s Ryder. He sent me messages all day yesterday, from early in the morning (Wish I woke up with you this morning, beautiful), then almost every hour while I was having classes till late at night (Dream of me, beautiful).
I texted him back telling him to stop bothering me and calling me beautiful. No one’s ever called me that, and I don’t know why he does. God knows I put in a huge effort to look the exact opposite. But I know there’s no arguing with him; tenacious as he is, he wouldn’t let up anyway. I don’t even know if I want to argue with him any more, not after the way he kissed me last night. I have never, ever been kissed like that, with a burning passion as if he was starved for me. Just thinking about it again produces a fluttery warmth deep inside my stomach.
Balling my fists, I close my eyes. No, I won’t let him get to me. I have to stop those crazy thoughts. I can’t afford to get involved with someone who wants more than just a fast fuck. I can’t afford to open up, expose myself, and reveal the secrets that are locked up inside me.
But when I check my phone, I still feel a pang of disappointment: it’s only Adam.
Ready? I’m almost there.
Earlier this morning he’s sent me the downtown address of the diner where Martin Rosenberg, the banker we’re pursuing, is likely to have his breakfast. Our plan is to wait till he sits down and get a table close to him. Once he starts eating, Adam will approach him and start his interrogation, which I will capture on film, with Mark’s cell phone recording as a backup.
I text him back: On my way, there in 20.
Adam and Mark are waiting next to a brick pillar across from Squires Diner, which is tucked away inside an apartment complex. Even though they’re both wearing suits and carrying briefcases, they don’t quite pull off the high-powered Wall Street look, but it’s good enough to blend into the morning crowd. We only have to wait five minutes until Mark points to the door.
“That’s him.”
A middle-aged businessman steps into the diner: short, pale, balding, and wearing an expensive navy suit that barely conceals his paunch underneath. We wait till he is inside before we enter.
The mouthwatering smell of fried bacon and eggs pervades my nostrils when I spot Rosenberg seated in a corner booth, talking to another businessman who has his back turned to us. Thankfully the table diagonally opposite them is free, which provides us with an unobstructed view of Rosenberg and his gigantic breakfast of pancakes, bacon, and eggs.
Adam sits opposite me, and of course Mark sidles in beside me, a grin on his loathsome face. He tries to move closer, briefly touching my knee, but I anticipate it and glide towards the wall, putting my bag between us.
While Adam is ordering coffee, I almost jump when a text message comes in.
Morning, beautiful. Had breakfast? I’m so hungry…
A second text imme
diately follows: …for you.
Smiling, I can hardly suppress the blush creeping up my cheeks. Mark eyes me suspiciously, but I’m saved by Adam, who leans over the table.
“Let’s wait a few minutes before we attack. Elle, video cam ready?”
I nod.
“Mark?”
“Yep, ready to go.”
After threading his hand through his hair, Adam stands up and with one hand in his pocket, walks over to Rosenberg. I check the video camera one last time and start filming, zooming in on our target.
Adam starts off in a polite tone. “Mr Rosenberg, right? I’m a great admirer of yours. I just read in the Wall Street Journal that the Bank of the USA has posted record profits so far. I wanted to congratulate you.”
“Why, thank you. And you are?”
“Adam Cooper.”
After they shake hands, Adam kicks off his tirade. “I suppose the executive bonuses are going to be great again this year, huh? I bet yours will be more than last year’s twenty million. How lucky you are to be within the one per cent of our population who doesn’t have to worry about anything but buying the latest Jaguar or an opulent mansion in the Hamptons.
“You asked me who I am. I represent the ninety-nine per cent of people in this country who are living day to day; the ninety-nine per cent who struggle to keep a roof over their heads, to put food on the table, to get proper treatment in hospital.”
A deep crimson has overtaken Rosenberg’s pale face as well as his balding head, and angry sparks are radiating from his eyes. I stand up and move closer to get a good close-up. Rosenberg doesn’t notice me, his eyes squarely fixed on Adam, who rattles off fact after fact. I zoom out, planning to get a wider shot of him and his table companion.
A quick glance tells me he’s also a businessman, similarly dressed in a navy suit. From his half-profile, I can tell he is young—in his twenties—and good-looking, with a straight nose, square jawline, long eyelashes, and tanned, cleanly shaven skin. His dark-brown unruly hair is his least businesslike feature. Strangely, he looks familiar, and my heart lurches when he says in a deep voice, “Hey, that’s enough. Leave the man alone, otherwise I’ll call the police.”
I drop the camera to my side and stare at him, my heart pounding. It can’t be him. It can’t.
He must feel my startled gaze, for he turns his head and looks me up and down quizzically, then directs his attention to my face and locks his eyes with mine. His mouth drops open, and I stop breathing. It is him.
We stare at one another while Adam and Rosenberg continue to argue. Scores of memories flash in my mind. Could I have guessed that Ryder is one of them; one of those money-grabbing Wall Street assholes with their multimillion-dollar bonuses? Sure, I knew he was well off; it was obvious from his bike, his clothes, and even his demeanor. But to have breakfast with Rosenberg, the CEO of the Bank of the USA, he is definitely not some lowly business executive. Someone of Rosenberg’s standing wouldn’t waste his precious breakfast time with him if he wasn’t some big shot himself.
Shit, shit, shit. What have I gotten myself into?
Mark nudges me, waking me from my thoughts. I lift the camera back up, catching the last exchange between the two before Adam walks off, hissing, “Let’s get out of here.”
I follow him, feeling numb, unable to speak. I glance over my shoulder once, and Ryder is standing next to the booth, his incredulous dark gaze following me to the exit.
While we’re walking out of the apartment complex into the hustle and bustle of the Financial District, Adam says, “I think that went pretty well. Especially when the SOB went beet-red. So, did you get a good recording?”
“Um…” I look down at the sidewalk.
Mark grabs the opportunity to ingratiate himself. “No problem, Adam, I’ve got it all, from beginning to end. But I’m not sure about Elle. She had a panic attack when that jerk started threatening you. Who was he anyway?”
Adam shrugs. “Haven’t got a clue. But we’ve got his picture, we’ll run face recognition to find out.”
He touches my arm. “Hey Elle, are you okay?”
I nod, still in a daze.
“It’s not like you to panic. You weren’t intimidated by that guy, were you?”
“No, of course not,” I say, too quickly. “I thought I recognized him. But I realized too late I didn’t know him after all. It was someone completely different. Sorry, Adam.”
“That’s okay. We’ll check the footage. Between yours and Mark’s, I’m sure we can put something together.”
We go into a café and find a table on which Adam places the group’s laptop. I give him the video camera’s SD card, and in no time we’re watching my recording. I flush when the camera starts shaking and the view drops to the floor.
The quality of Mark’s recording is not as good as mine, but at least it is complete. Adam pushes the laptop to me, and we discuss what to include. I convince them not to feature Ryder, claiming it would take the focus away from Rosenberg. I wouldn’t be able to handle seeing photos of him splashed in the media and on the net.
After I put the video together, Adam nods. “That’s looking great. Let’s upload it to our site, send it out to our contact list, and put it on all social media platforms. Don’t forget to mention the protest at twelve today.”
Our efforts are worth it. Within fifteen minutes we have dozens of retweets and shares, helped along by our loyal members.
I take my bag and go to the bathroom to change into my usual getup. I wipe the colorful make-up off my face and apply eyeliner and black lipstick. Removing my ponytail, I let down my hair, dyed mahogany especially for this occasion, and mess it up.
When I return to the table, Adam and Mark are deep in discussion, pointing at the screen. Adam motions me to come closer.
“Look at this, Elle. We’ve found the jerk Rosenberg was with.”
He turns the screen towards me, and staring at me are two photos of Ryder in business suit, and his hair and eyes look lighter than I remember. Nevertheless, he looks just as gorgeous; more like a model than a businessman. I feel an unexpected, unwelcome swirl in my stomach.
“Who is he?” I ask.
“Ryder De Luca, the CEO of Crest Capital Management. He’s sort of a publicity-shy recluse. That’s why we could only find these two pictures.”
“So he’s a banker?”
“Not exactly. He manages money for the wealthy. According to a Forbes article, his company has about ten billion in management. I would guess at least ten per cent of it would be his own money.”
I take in a sharp breath. “One billion? What the hell? Why have I never heard of his company?”
“Those exclusive fund management firms are all very hush-hush. What they do is take the million-dollar bonuses of those asshole bankers and CEOs, invest them, and make them grow. They make the rich even richer.”
I peer at the photos again. It doesn’t make any sense to me—Ryder, a billionaire CEO? Is this the same guy who took part in a dangerous motorbike street race? The same guy who went dancing with me in the heart of Harlem, of all places? Who took me out to play video games and have a picnic under the stars, giving me the best night I’ve ever had in my life? Whose kiss I can still feel on my lips; a kiss that made me forget everything else but him?
I feel my throat tighten and my eyes well up—something I haven’t felt for years. I excuse myself and hurry to the bathroom where I splash water on my cheeks. What a cruel twist of fate. Why, oh why, does the only man I’ve ever had an interest in turn out to represent everything I despise? I wonder if I can ever face him again. I don’t think I can; it already hurts too much.
A single tear escapes and rolls down my cheek. When I wipe it off with a shaking thumb, a double beep sounds from my phone.
We need to talk.
Ryder
Damn, damn, damn.
By now, Elle must have figured out who I am. So much for breaking it to her slowly. Looking out my drizzle-streaked office window a
t the high-rise buildings enveloped in gray clouds, I pinch the bridge of my nose. I feel a severe headache coming on.
My breakfast meeting with Rosenberg is all over the Internet. Thankfully I wasn’t featured in the video, and my name wasn’t even mentioned. I wonder why—would it because of Elle? My PR department is scouring the media and the internet to confirm that I’ve been kept out of the public eye. Highly valuing my privacy, I have been extremely careful over the years to keep publicity to a minimum. I don’t do interviews and have no personal social media accounts. My PR people remove as much of my personal information from the net as they can; only a couple of photos stubbornly remain.
I’ve found out that the activists who accosted us this morning are called The 99—a small group of anti-capitalist college students. Judging from their website, this seems to be their first major protest. A further search brought up photos of its members. My pulse took a leap when I found a picture of Elle marching in some kind of protest rally; her hair was in a pink mohawk and her eyeliner was even darker than it is now. It was taken more than a year ago, so she’s been involved with them for a while.
That photo of her posed such a stark contrast to the girl in the diner today. Without her piercings and black eyeliner, and wearing a simple business suit, Elle looked more beautiful than ever with a sweet, fresh innocence about her. I wanted to take her in my arms and kiss her, never letting her go. But when I saw the look in her eyes, I felt my stomach drop. After she recognized me, her facial expression changed from shocked to petrified to devastated.
After I’ve read The 99 group’s website, I understand why. A hateful tone pervades all its writings, which mostly discuss the evils of money and capitalism. No wonder Elle was horrified to see me having breakfast with Rosenberg.
I’m pretty sure that she doesn’t want anything to do with me from now on. So I’m not surprised that she fails to pick up her cell even if I try calling her every five minutes or so and leaving her countless text messages. Late in the afternoon she finally answers, but wastes no time on pleasantries.
Burn Into Me Page 6