by July Hall
“I’m your weakness,” she mumbled. “You just said it yourself. That’s what this is. It’s something that could fuck us both up.”
Charles couldn’t think how to respond. He couldn’t really think at all. He felt as if he was turning to ice from the inside out. Was she…she couldn’t be talking about…
“Maybe we—” she said.
She couldn’t be talking about leaving him?
She curled her fingers into his shirt. She’d started to tremble. “M-maybe we shouldn’t—”
Next thing he knew, she was beneath him on the bed, on her back. He pinned her down. She stared up at him, her cheeks flushed and her eyes huge. He wanted to kiss her, hold her, screw her, and if she struggled or tried to get away, or told him she didn’t want him, or said—
What the fuck was he doing? Charles’s brain just about split in two as he tried to process it. He’d thrown a woman to the bed and was trying to restrain her, and it wasn’t part of a sex game.
And if he rolled off Sandra right now and apologized, she’d know what had happened. She’d know exactly what was going through his mind. Right now, she was lying still beneath him, looking confused but not afraid.
So Charles relaxed his hands, forced himself to be less tense against her, and stroked his fingers through her hair. He turned his grip into a caress, as if he’d meant to do that all along, and made sure that his voice would be calm and soothing when he spoke.
Whatever she says, he told himself, you are going to stay very still, and you are going to be rational, and you are going to talk her out of it. You are not a caveman.
You are not Richard Zhou.
“Maybe we should what?” he said gently, and rubbed his thumb against her cheek. Her eyelashes fluttered in instinctive response. Good. That was good. “Sandra, calm down and tell me what you’re thinking.”
She began to relax as well. He could feel her softening beneath his weight. He continued stroking her face. She swallowed. “Nothing. I guess I overreacted.” She gave him a wry smile, but her eyes still appeared troubled. “Sorry for the drama.”
“That’s all right.” Charles didn’t dare let down his guard. Not yet. She could still yank the rug out from under him, and he mustn’t lose control again. “What are you thinking?” he repeated. “Tell me.”
She looked up at him and put her hand over his while he stroked her. She rubbed her thumb against the back of his hand and took a deep breath. “I wish it was just us, and I never had to worry about anybody else.”
“You don’t have to worry about anything.” He kissed her forehead. Her hair tickled his nose. “I mean it, Sandra. I’ll protect you from it. I won’t—” He swallowed harshly. “Well, my apologies for the elevator. That was my fault.”
He could tell her, again, that the Meiling Yus of the world didn’t matter. But they did. She wanted to achieve her dreams, just as he had at her age. When you were starting out, what other people thought of you mattered. Charles had risen to the top at a young age because he’d already made everyone afraid of him. Even his own father.
He suspected, for Sandra, that there was even more to it than that. She’d said something once about being bullied as a child. Charles could not imagine a more alien experience, but it was hers.
“It’s not your fault,” she said. “You were distracted. I know you didn’t really mean it.”
“No,” he corrected. “I didn’t mean to. I most certainly meant it.” She blinked encouragingly at him. “That nobody could snatch you away from me.”
“And you hit him,” she said. She gave him a keen look. “Like with Stephen, when you were a kid.”
Of course she understood. “One punch,” he said. “To put him in his place. That suffices.”
Now she appeared unconvinced. “You looked like you were ready for more.”
“Well, if he’d escalated the situation, of course I was prepared.” Maybe he was hedging a little. Maybe his rage had overcome him more than he wanted to admit. A part of him had longed for Zhou to give him a reason. Perhaps he would have, if Sandra herself hadn’t interrupted and reminded Charles of where he was and what was at stake.
Good thing she’d stopped him, then. There were better alternatives to violence—patience being one of them. Charles would wait until Zhou stopped looking over his shoulder. A year should be enough time to let him relax and then show him that Magisters neither forgot nor forgave.
“Charles.” Sandra swallowed. “Have you ever hit a woman?”
Charles’s jaw dropped. “Never,” he told her. “Never in my life.”
Now Sandra smiled at him, but her mouth trembled a little. “Sorry,” she said again. “I meant for this to be a good thing. I really wanted to do something nice for you. I’m sorry it didn’t work out that way.”
Did he dare get off her now? Maybe it was safe. Charles rolled to the side, but kept her in his arms, so that they were lying next to each other on the bed. Thankfully, she cuddled up next to him. She wouldn’t do that if she’d guessed what had been running through his mind only moments ago.
“I know,” he said. “And I wanted to show you a little bit of the world.”
“Well, you did,” she said, with a bitter laugh. “Just an ugly part of it you didn’t mean to. I guess it’s good to know.” She tucked her face into his shoulder. “I guess it’s good to know what people can really be like.”
Anger surged through him again, the same kind as when he’d learned what Bradley had done to her. He wanted to keep Sandra safe, not only from danger and gossip but from ugliness and cruelty. She was generous, she’d wanted to do something kind, and her reward was learning that men like Richard Zhou would treat her like a piece of meat.
Charles’s world could be fucked up; she was right about that. Dirty and savage. Hadn’t he thought the same thing himself, not so long ago?
“I’m naïve,” she continued, sounding a little tired. “I guess I’ve always been…I don’t know. Lucky, or sheltered, or both. So it’s good to know. It could have been a lot worse.”
Yes, it could have. Time to change the subject. The longer she dwelled on that, the worse it would grow in her mind. “Where else have you been in the world?” Charles asked.
He tucked a strand of red hair behind her ear, and thumbed her earlobe. There couldn’t come a day when he would not be able to touch her again. He couldn’t let that happen.
“Oh, well.” She gave him an embarrassed smile. “Nowhere that would seem all that amazing to you. I got to go to Cancun for spring break during my junior year at Pratt. And I won a fellowship my senior year to study interior design for three months at the Paris College of Art. It’s one of the reasons Arnaud hired me.”
He wanted to hear more about that sometime. For now, he stuck to asking, “Do you speak French?”
“I can get around. I used to be a lot better.” She exhaled another deep breath and touched his chin, stroking the bristles of his beard. “Do you speak any languages?”
“Not fluently,” he admitted. “For work, I have translators. For leisure—well, wherever I go, everyone around me usually speaks English.”
She blinked at him again and said, “I think you’re kind of sheltered too. Just in a different way.” Charles frowned. She shook her head. “It’s not your fault. And you do big things.” She combed her fingers through his hair, making his scalp tingle. “I’m, um, proud of you. Oh, God, that sounded stupid.” She squeezed her eyes shut. “It’s not like I ever had anything to do with—I just meant—oh, shoot.”
Charles kissed her, far more lightly than he wanted to. “I know what you meant,” he said. He knew perfectly well. He was proud of Sandra too, and he ached to share that with the world.
She doesn’t fucking want it, he reminded himself angrily. She’d said not five minutes ago that she wished they could only be alone together, without intruders or scrutiny. She wanted less from him than he did from her.
How could she not? Charles wanted everything. It was in his
nature.
“Well,” he said, attempting to tease, “if you want some alone time, then don’t let this put you off Tuscany.”
To his utter relief, she laughed. “No way,” she said. “You promised me Prosecco and a backrub.”
“Yes, and…” Wait. “I don’t remember the backrub.” She gave him an innocent smile. “You wouldn’t try and put one over on me, would you, fox?”
“You know, if I’m a fox, I really ought to be able to call you a dog,” she said. “That was your thing, right? You told me…” She blushed again. “You told me you wouldn’t give up, once you started chasing me.”
The weight was lifting from his shoulders, ounce by ounce. “What can I say?” he asked. “I caught your scent.” She turned even redder. “What? I didn’t mean anything by that. Are you thinking dirty thoughts, Miss Dane?”
Sandra blinked at him. He watched her come to a decision: she relaxed, smiled, and kissed his chin. The last of the distress vanished from her eyes. “Who, me?” she asked. “Little old me?”
“Yes, you.” He nearly sighed in relief. Thank God that was over. Of course, she might not really want sex. That would be all right. If he just kept her talking, eased her fears, then by the time they got back to New York, they could put this behind…
Sandra reached beneath her skirt. He couldn’t see what she did next, but he heard the stretch and rustle of fabric. Then she withdrew her hand and pressed her fingertips to his mouth and nose.
“That scent?” she asked.
Her perfume flooded his senses. His eyes fell shut. “Yes,” he breathed. “That’s the one.” He took hold of her hand, kissed her palm.
“You were so selfish on the flight over,” she murmured. “I didn’t even get to come. You left me high and dry.”
He stared at her in disbelief. She looked back as if butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth.
And beneath his indignation, he felt warmth spread through him. He was growing to love this game. It was past time to put all the rest away, let it drift off like a bad dream.
“And—” Sandra began.
Charles pushed her skirt up around her hips, bent down, and nuzzled her through the fabric of her panties. Simple cotton this time, no silk or satin, and he could smell her better. Taste her better, too. Eat her up, he thought, make love night and day, and then do it all over again.
“Charles!” Sandra squealed. She batted uselessly against his head. “I—I wasn’t finished—”
“Yes, you were.” People worked best when given precise instructions. Charles kissed her thigh and said helpfully, “Now you’re going to rest your head on that pillow, put your legs over my shoulders, and try not to scream all the way to California.”
“Oh?” She tried and failed to look imperious. “And w-what are you going to do?”
“I,” said Charles, “am going to practice my French.”
And he did. For quite some time. Sandra stuck to English: oh my God and don’t stop and don’t you dare stop and eventually…
“Ohh,” she moaned, raking her nails through his hair. “I can’t…I can’t…not again…” But the way she undulated her hips suggested otherwise. So did the delighted whimper when he crooked his fingers in just the right spot, coaxing one more out of her. It was like she’d been storing them all up since the flight over. “Oh, yeah! Yes! Yes!”
Then she went weak again. This time, when she pushed him away, she meant it. She wriggled her hips back from his mouth. While she recovered, Charles licked his fingers, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and waited. She liked it when he waited.
Suddenly, in his mind, he heard Richard Zhou’s voice: She’s very beautiful, that girl of yours.
Even as he remembered the words, he felt Sandra’s hands working at his belt buckle. The following moments were a blur, but when he was next aware of himself, he was fucking her so hard the headboard was hitting the wall. She didn’t seem to mind. She had her legs wrapped around his waist, her hands clutched at his back, and she was panting, “Do it, do it, more, please…”
This girl of mine.
“More—yes—oh Charles—”
I have taken her, and she is mine. The thought reverberated through his head and his heart with every thrust. I will look after her, because she is mine. Again and again. Its percussive truth gave him strength. I will give her anything she asks. It gives me such pleasure, because she is mine.
“Oh God, Charles, yes!”
His climax took him by surprise. He was fucking her, there was a sudden surge of ecstasy, and he melted against her while he gasped her name. He spent in her, gave her everything he had. Beneath him, she quivered and groaned.
Yes, he thought when it was over and she lay half-conscious in his arms. If she needed it, he would continue to keep their secret. He would swallow his pride. He’d give her what she asked.
Unless, of course, she asked him to let her go.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
“Well,” Arnaud said, “just as long as word gets around.”
“It should.” Sandra looked down into her glass. Her raspberry cosmo was nearly finished.
She, Arnaud, and Indira were all at the Monkey Bar. Every once in a while, Arnaud liked to take Sandra and Indira out for drinks as a way of thanking them for their hard work. Midtown bars were always packed during happy hour as everyone poured out of their office buildings, but when you didn’t make it out of your office until seven thirty, it wasn’t so bad.
It was Monday. She and Charles had returned from Hong Kong yesterday at about one in the morning, and she still felt jet lagged.
“I can’t believe he didn’t want it, after all that work,” Indira said. “He really wouldn’t tell you why?”
“He doesn’t have to tell us why,” Arnaud said firmly before Sandra had to lie again. She’d told him that Mr. Magister hadn’t wanted to explain his reasons for declining the trade. “We found the piece for him, he decided he didn’t want it, end of story.”
“You found the piece,” Sandra muttered. That stung a little. She’d made the promise to Charles, but Arnaud had delivered. She guessed it wasn’t all that shameful, since Arnaud had the experience and connections she lacked. Still, though, he was the one who’d pulled it off.
“And we’re getting paid for it and publicizing it,” Arnaud reminded her. “Believe me, I dropped it into the conversation at Rosie Aussolin on Saturday night. You do the same wherever you go.”
Sandra nodded and tried not to cringe. Arnaud had the gift of getting people—especially women—to hang on his every word, of sharing his talents without seeming to brag. She didn’t know how to pull that off yet. But she’d learn. She’d been trying to tell herself that forever: not just to work hard but to own her achievements. In a competitive business like theirs, you couldn’t just lurk humbly in the background and hope somebody noticed your talent.
She was more than a rich man’s mistress. She would prove that to herself, now that she’d decided to stay with him.
She nearly hadn’t. She’d been shaken more than she could ever have imagined by the fact—not the fear, the fact—that people would treat her like Charles’s toy. It was like Bradley, when she’d realized he didn’t see her as a person, just a means to an end. She’d had no idea how dehumanizing it would be until it actually happened. And Sandra had already been thinking, hadn’t she, about how vulnerable her own feelings made her?
Charles wouldn’t be immune either if they were caught. Their secret could hurt him too, no matter what he said. On the plane, Sandra had actually caught herself thinking: Maybe we shouldn’t do this…maybe this should end…
But then he’d covered her with his body, touched her, and kissed her, and all those ideas had blown away like feathers on the wind. Looking back, she knew she hadn’t really meant it. Give Charles up? Walk away? She couldn’t do that. Every day, the notion grew more unthinkable.
That probably wasn’t good.
“I have a party on Saturday night,” Indira sa
id. Sandra dragged herself back into the present. “I hear some PAs from Vogue might show. Maybe even a junior editor or two. You guys wanna come? I can totally get you in.”
“Sandra, I deputize you,” Arnaud said at once.
Good thing she’d finished her drink, because she knocked her glass over. “What? Oh. I don’t know if I…I mean, I might have plans.” She and Charles hadn’t firmed anything up, but weekends were prime time, their time. Some weeks it was the only time they had.
“Ooh.” Indira leaned forward over the table. “We’ve finally moved past Mr. Cliffe?”
“Uh, well—”
“Does this mean we get to find out what went down?” Indira persisted.
“Nothing went down,” Sandra said. She almost crossed her fingers. “It just wasn’t working out. I told you.”
Arnaud waved his hand before Indira could push more. “You could bring Mr. Plans with you to the party,” he said. “If he’s at all presentable.”
Sandra attempted to imagine Charles shaking hands with one of Anna Wintour’s junior editors and trying to make a good impression. “I’ll ask,” she lied. Then she added more truthfully, “It’s still kind of, um, early. I don’t know if I’m ready to step out with somebody else.”
Indira and Arnaud exchanged a look. It lasted only a second, but Sandra realized how they must have interpreted that: if Sandra wasn’t interested in bringing a guy to a party, then she had a fuck buddy, not a boyfriend.
The thought nearly made her laugh. Maybe Charles was her side piece and not the other way around. What were the classic signs? Always meeting at his place, going on trips out of town, not introducing him to her friends…
She hid her smile by looking back toward the bar and wondering if Arnaud was good for another cosmo.
“Charles Magister’s secretary called with a glowing testimonial, anyway,” Arnaud said. “She said he was pleased by what he’d heard of your conduct in Hong Kong, even if the trade fell through, and would of course recompense us for all our efforts.” He raised his glass to her. “Cheers for making the best of a bad situation.”