Dirty Scandal

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by Amelia Wilde

I couldn’t go through with it.

  The phone call with my mother had been hard enough. She had worked herself up into an uncontrollable agitation, and the nursing home staff’s last resort is to get me on the phone.

  I hate it.

  I hate hearing her voice, so confused, filled with so much pain. I hate having to explain to her that my piece of shit father can’t come pick her up, won’t be visiting, can’t come to the phone. I’ve long since given up trying to explain that he’s in prison, for god’s sake, for stealing other people’s money like a common thief. My mother doesn’t remember.

  Alzheimer’s has ravaged her brain, chewed it up and spit it out.

  It’s terrible to say it, but things are better when she’s not aware enough to know that she’s not at home, that my father isn’t with her, that I grew up and left home a decade ago.

  For me, anyway. I’m not sure that things will ever be better for her.

  So when I looked at Cate kneeling on the floor, all I could think was that this is wrong.

  No woman who wanted sex, wanted my money, would do what she was doing. Not with that look in her eyes. Not after the pictures she had to have seen. Cate is nothing like Vivian. If she was, she would have thrown herself at me the moment she found out who I was.

  There’s something wild and sexual between us, and neither of us can deny it…but underneath it all there’s a current of something deeper than that, and it pisses me off that I can’t explain it. Can’t control it.

  What the hell is it? The way she looks? The way she’s so confident in the office, but has moments of such breathtaking vulnerability? The way she never flinches when Sarzó hands down another list of things for her to do?

  The way she’s breaking from the pressure, but doesn’t realize it?

  The way she folds so gracefully?

  I don’t know.

  All I know is that I’ve been kidding myself. I need so much more from her than a few thirty-minute sessions. If I have to spend the rest of my life without her, I…

  My mind recoils from the thought of being pinned down, trapped under the influence of a woman who might turn on me. Can I afford to be blinded by love?

  What are you thinking, Hunter?

  If I could scream out loud without attracting attention, I would.

  Going to the window, I run my fingers through my hair and force myself to take five long, deep breaths.

  Control yourself.

  Think through this logically, carefully.

  Set the emotions aside.

  The only problem is that I can’t set my emotions aside. They’ve embedded themselves so deep that I can’t get away from them.

  All I can do is hold them at arm’s length.

  When I do, all I can see is how real they are.

  How the hold Cate has on me will never break.

  I know it’s true. I know it is. I know this a kind of raw aching love that already has its claws fixed so deep into my life that I will never get free. I’m the same as my mother, who loved my father so completely that even though her mind has deserted her, she still wants him. For her, he is still the charming, handsome devil she married all those years ago.

  I’m out by the street before I realize I’ve called Peter to bring the car around. I open the door and fall heavily into the seat as soon as he pulls to a stop.

  “Where to, sir?” he says over his shoulder.

  I stare straight ahead.

  “Drive, Peter.” There are no other words. “Drive.”

  While he circles the city streets, making careful turns and doubling back, again and again, my mind turns over and over. What do I do? What do I do?

  Find her. Take her. Have her.

  It’s the only answer that makes sense.

  Energy surges through me and I snap forward, Cate’s address on my lips.

  “As fast as you can, Peter. As fast as you can.”

  The heat hangs thickly over the city while Peter does his best to navigate the Friday night traffic. Now that I’ve made up my mind, it seems unbearable to wait for other cars to stop and go, to make ill-advised turns, to be in my way.

  Finally, finally Peter pulls up into an illegal spot in front of Cate’s building. I scramble out of the car, stopping only to straighten my shirt, which is wrinkled from sitting slumped in the car.

  The doorman behind the desk sits up when I come in, rushing for the elevators.

  “Sir? Sir.”

  I don’t have time for this shit.

  The heels of my shoes drag on the ground as I abruptly change course. His eyes widen and he reaches for something near his waistband, but I pull my hand out of my pocket and hold it out to him.

  “I need to see my girlfriend. Catherine Schaffer. I’m not going to do anything crazy,” I say in my calmest voice, smiling broadly at him.

  He takes the $500 I press into his hand.

  “If you’re not down in ten minutes, you have her call me,” he says in a deadly serious tone, looking me straight in the eye.

  “I will.”

  Another long moment passes, and then he gives me a sharp nod.

  The elevator deposits me on Cate’s floor. There are four apartments, and it’s only when I’m standing in the hallway that I realize I don’t have her apartment number. I can’t call down to the desk and ask, because that guy already thinks I’m a psycho. It would be highly inconvenient to waste time right now dealing with the police.

  So I choose a door.

  Knock gently but firmly.

  A guy about my size answers, a beer in his hand, his work shirt untucked. This is a nice building and he looks like he has some money, but he’s obviously not happy to see me.

  “Sorry to bother you,” I say, keeping my face neutral. “I’m here to see Catherine Schaffer. Do you know which apartment is hers?”

  He raises the beer and points down the hall—last one on the right.

  “Thanks.”

  He closes the door without a word.

  Outside Cate’s door, I take a deep breath and force myself to hold it for a moment before I let it out. Energy zings all the way from my spine to my fingertips.

  It’s now or never.

  I raise my hand and knock three times on the door.

  True to form, Cate opens it only a moment after I finish knocking.

  She’s wearing a loose pair of linen pants and a white tank that hugs the curves of her breasts, and her eyes are red and puffy. When she sees me, she presses her lips into a thin line—but she can’t stop the flicker of hope from showing on her face.

  All the words I’d practiced fly out of my mind.

  “Cate,” I say, and even to me it sounds agonized, begging, pleading.

  She looks into my eyes for one crystal second and then launches herself forward, fisting my shirt and yanking me inside. It’s a glorious, violent movement and we crash into each other, our lips fitting together so hard and fast that I know this was meant to be.

  Cate’s the one pulling and I let her, tasting her deeply as she moves us back into her apartment, back to her simple, classy living room setup, an armchair and a sofa, and then, when we reach the coffee table, she does something that takes my breath away.

  She pulls her face away from mine, her grip still locked on my collar, and looks at me, her hazel eyes burning into my soul. Through gritted teeth, she gives me a simple command: “Punish me.”

  My cock throbs painfully at her words and as soon as they’re out of her mouth I’m in action, tearing her clothes from her body, manhandling her breasts, her waist, covering her mouth with kisses that have only one message: she is mine.

  When she’s naked before me, I take one greedy look at her flawless skin, the curves of her ass, the waves of her dark hair falling over her collarbone, and then I turn her over and press her down so she’s kneeling on the coffee table.

  “Hands and knees,” I bark, and she instantly snaps into the perfect position, her back arched, ass in the air, begging for it.

  I
bring my hand down on one ass cheek, not holding back, and she gasps, cries out, relief in her voice, and when I slip my fingers between her legs she’s already wet.

  I bring my hand down five more times on her ass, the pink handprints blooming under my palm, wetness running down between her legs, before I can’t wait any longer.

  Belt undone, pants falling, I free my cock from the prison of my briefs and turn her, shift her so she’s facing away from me, and drive all my thickness into her in one hard thrust, reaching around and clasping my hand over her mouth in time to catch her scream of pleasure.

  Here is the edge, here she is trembling before it, and I fuck her until she goes over, her body spent, quaking, gripping me, loving me, mine.

  24

  Cate

  He spends Saturday and Sunday at my apartment. We spend every hour fucking on every surface available in my apartment. We don’t speak much. I don’t want to.

  I don’t want to hear that this is it, that this weekend is the peak of our agreement, that it’s still over.

  The way he sounded when he said my name didn’t give me that impression, but I’ve learned one thing about Jax Hunter: you never know.

  So on Sunday evening, when he shrugs his shirt over his shoulders, kisses me once, deeply, stroking my cheek, and then slips out the front door, I don’t say anything.

  Silent still, I climb into the shower and let the hot water run over every inch of me. I don’t want the scent of him to disappear from my skin but even the air conditioning couldn’t compete with the heat that exists between us, and I need to get clean.

  My body is relaxed in a way I thought it might never be again, and while I stand in the warmth of the shower, my eyelids start getting heavier and heavier.

  By the time I step out from the shower and towel off, I’m practically sleepwalking and fall naked into my bed, tumbling into a dark, dreamless sleep.

  In the morning I pay the price.

  I’m so exhausted, so spent, that I don’t hear any of my alarms and wake from a dream about sirens at 7:50, my mind instantly screaming at me to get up, get going, this could ruin everything. I’ve completely missed my session with Carl, but as soon as I step out of bed I know I wouldn’t have been able to handle it anyway.

  It feels like I’m trying to run underwater.

  Forcing my eyes open is a torture I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy, and my hands won’t follow my instructions as I struggle into the first outfit I pull out of my closet and wrestle my hair into an acceptable shape. This is what I get for going to sleep without drying it.

  Mark is waiting outside, the car idling by the curb, and when I get there he has his phone in his hand. I probably have several missed calls from him, wondering if I’m all right. He’s a good man, and when he sees me, his face fills with concern.

  “Cate? Are you—?”

  “I’m fine,” I snap. “I overslept. We have to hurry.” My tongue feels thick in my mouth, the words difficult to form. I need time to wake up. If I could get some coffee, I’d be fine.

  After I apologize for being so rude, I call ahead and have Manuel get the coffee order ready in advance. I’ll need to take it up myself this morning. If I get there in time. If this is the one morning Sandra shows up early, I’m screwed.

  I spend the entire ride fantasizing about what it would be like to be my own boss. To set my own hours. To make the decisions about what stays and go. Books—I could work with books. I never have time to read anymore. I got into the magazine business because I loved writing and reading, not fashion, but now fashion has taken me over.

  Things haven’t improved much by the time I collect the drink carrier from Manuel, but being in the Basiqué building at least forces me to get into some semblance of work mode. I hold myself upright as best as I can, but people keep giving me looks, their foreheads wrinkled, corners of their mouths turned down.

  Once in the office I breathe a sigh of relief. Sandra is not here yet, but I only have a few minutes at best.

  Coffee on desk. Carrier in recycling bin. Dusting is out of the question—how will I raise my arms, it would be so tiring. I get myself to the door to meet Sandra on her way in. Barely.

  She’s already talking as she hands me her purse and a gauzy shawl that matches her outfit, and it’s an incredible effort to get it into the closet, hung up, her purse on the hanger. My hands shake as I grab for the notebook and follow her into her office.

  I’m standing right next to her desk but her voice sounds like it’s coming from a million miles away.

  Rodarte, I write on the notepad.

  Reschedule approvals on menswear feature, I scribble, but the last two words blur, run into each other, seem to slide off the page.

  “Catherine,” she says sharply, and I look up into her narrowed eyes. “Is there a problem?”

  “No.” I shake my head emphatically, which is a mistake. It makes my vision go hazy.

  “Good.” When I look up again, Sandra is looking back down at something on her desk.

  I can get through this.

  I will get through this.

  Another stream of instructions from Sandra and I pull my shoulders back, trying to remind myself that I’m at work, that I need to be on top of this, I need to perform, but now the words are coming too fast, my hands can’t keep up, I have a splitting headache, it’s blinding, blinding…

  There is a sound at the door and I lift my head, it weighs a hundred pounds, a thousand pounds, and Jax is framed in the door, he’s saying something to me, his eyes serious and wide, he’s reaching for me, but I’m falling, falling…

  I don’t know how long I’m out.

  The gentle sound of beeping is what brings me out of it, little by little.

  At first I hear the sound, and then I feel the cool blankets over me, the rougher fabric of a hospital gown against my skin.

  And the pressure of a hand in mine.

  It’s hard to open my eyes, so hard, so I take my time, but when I get them open, blinking in the light of the hospital room, there’s Jax, sitting by the bed, holding tightly to my hand, looking into my face.

  He gives my hand the gentlest squeeze, and swallows.

  “You should know,” he says softly, “that I love you, Cate. I love you.”

  I lick my lips, run my tongue over my teeth, before I answer him, and when I do it’s an exhausted whisper. “I love you, too. Please stay?”

  “Of course,” he says. “Sleep. Don’t worry. I’ll be here.”

  25

  Jax

  After two days in the hospital getting treated for what the doctors say is a case of exhaustion that needs to be carefully managed, I bring Cate back to the penthouse.

  “This is where you live?” she breathes as we step off the elevator.

  “Here, and the floor beneath.” Cate isn’t nearly as small town as she thinks she is. Her time in the fashion industry has given her an acute sense of the value of the things money can buy, and living in New York City will give anyone an appreciation for how expensive space can be, when people climbing the career ladder live six to an apartment.

  I was one of those people once.

  Never again.

  She looks up at me, somehow glamorous in black yoga pants and a matching tank, and her smile is skeptical and delighted at the same time. “You need two floors? For you?”

  “And you.”

  Cate shakes her head. “Be serious. Two floors?”

  “It’s not just me. My gym takes up about a third of the space. There’s a separate guest suite, and then space for my staff.”

  Her expression turns incredulous. “How many people work here?”

  “I have a full-time chef, a personal assistant who’s here about four hours most days, a driver, a personal shopper, a housekeeper, and a bodyguard.”

  “I’ve never seen your bodyguard.”

  “You wouldn’t have. My driver, Peter, doubles as security during times that aren’t particularly threatening, like my trips to
the Basiqué office. Lance is on retainer in case of unforeseen circumstances. Right now—” I check the time on my phone. “—Laurence is here, Gloria has already made her rounds, I don’t need anything purchased today, and there’s no reason for me to think a threat is imminent. Would you like to meet Laurence?”

  “Laurence is…?”

  “The chef. He’s here almost all the time and will make you anything you want to eat.”

  She nods, her eyes bright but her skin still pale. One introduction is enough for now.

  I guide her to the massive kitchen, which divides itself between pristine luxury appliances in stainless steel and polished wood paneling that hides the refrigerator, the espresso machine, and a microwave with more features than some people’s smartphones. Laurence is fiddling around at the Italian marble counters, his curly hair barely contained by his chef’s cap. When we step into the kitchen he turns with a massive grin on his face, showing off his dimples.

  “Miss Catherine,” he says, rushing around the island to take her hand in his. “My name is Laurence, and I’m the personal chef for Mr. Hunter. If there’s anything I can make or find for you—anything at all—come to me at once, or call.”

  “Please, call me Cate. And—call?”

  Laurence hurries to the wall where an intercom unit has been installed, its recessed edges making it easy to miss. “I’m button number two. Anything at all—don’t forget.”

  “I won’t. Thank you.” Pink rises to Cate’s cheeks and it makes my chest swell with warmth to see her enjoying the luxuries I have.

  Now that we’re past the ugliness of trying to force ourselves apart, I feel like a new man.

  No telling how long that will last, says the asshole in the back of my mind. I internally roll my eyes. It’s a miracle that I’ve made it this far in my life.

  Cate yawns dramatically, interrupting my train of thought, and everything in me snaps back to giving her my full attention. The doctor’s words ring in my ears. She needs to rest, or she runs the risk of ending up in a worse situation than before. I have no interest in watching her collapse to the floor again.

 

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