Shelter Me: A Shelter Novel

by Stephanie Tyler

  Lucas's expression registered amusement, and reluctantly, I pulled my focus from him back to Brayden, who was literally tugging me in the direction of willing buyers and giving me murmured updates about how many paintings sold. I'd noticed that the painting Lucas had liked was already tagged.

  "Who bought that?" I asked Bray, and he frowned. Checked his list.

  "Phone sale," he said slowly. "Says the buyer will pick up tomorrow. Grant Loughlin."

  Grant. Not Lucas.

  "There's Ann Maslow," Brayden noted as he steered me clear, as we'd discussed. I'd planned on avoiding her like the plague. She was pretty—tall, with dark hair and serious-looking glasses that I bet had non-prescription lenses.

  I didn't know how much longer I could do this. A lot of people here were happy for me. Some weren't, and I felt their thinly veiled intentions as surely as if they'd stabbed me with them.

  Head up, Ryn. You earned this. You deserve it.

  Because after what hell I'd most likely survived, to give a critic, or a jealous competitor, that much power, seemed too foolish. But still, this mingling wasn't my domain, my forte. I'd given them my art, and now I wanted to revoke their access to me.

  I took a long drink of water and popped a peppermint into my mouth, contemplating my exit strategy. If anyone noticed I'd disappeared, it would only look better in their articles.

  And then I was making small talk, participating in my own success, as Brayden insisted, when someone tapped me on the shoulder. I fully expected it to be Ann, but it wasn't. It was an auburn-haired, alabaster-skinned woman, maybe a few years older than me. She looked like she belonged in a painting herself, managing to be vulnerable and haughty at once.

  "You're the artist?" She looked me up and down in a most obvious way that made me happy I didn't remember ever going to high school.

  I smiled tightly. "Yes. Ryn Taylor."

  "Ah." She crossed one arm across her chest—the other lifted the champagne flute to her mouth. "First show, right? Must be nice to have a bestie who owns a gallery."

  Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of Ann Maslow deep in conversation with Lucas. "It doesn't hurt," I said honestly. "But he's not the one buying all the paintings."

  "No, Lucas is," Brayden muttered behind me when the woman rolled her eyes and walked away.

  "He's buying me. Trying to, anyway," I said and Brayden didn't deny it.

  "Does it matter? Because he's only getting the paintings, Ryn. He can't take what's not freely given."

  That didn't mean Lucas Caine wouldn't try. I stared into the crowded gallery space. This was everything I'd dreamed about over the past eight years and figured I could never do. With the help of the doctor, conditioning exercises and rescue medication in case of an actual panic attack—and my best friend in the world—I was doing it.

  "Hello, Miss Taylor."

  I turned to find Ann Maslow standing there, staring at me with a hard look. "Please, it's Ryn. Thanks for coming."

  She raised her glass and motioned around. "Couldn't miss it—I'd been hoping to get an early viewing for the article but…" She trailed off and shrugged. "Your work here is definitely…different."

  Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of the auburn-haired woman talking to Lucas, looking between him and me, with a possessive hand on his arm.

  Great.

  I excused myself from Ann and her insulting comment that had been delivered with a smile. She was vacillating between ignoring me and staring at me, like she was writing a second, more unflattering article in her mind anyway, and I knew spending more time with her wasn't in my best interest, on any level.

  I pushed into the back room, went toward the rear door where it was more private and out of the way of the bathroom traffic.

  Within moments, I wasn't alone. I don't know how, as I'd locked the door behind me and there wasn't a window big enough for him to fit through that wasn't barred. But Lucas was here and he smelled gorgeous, like fresh air and sunshine, despite the rain. I couldn't help but feel a wash of satisfaction rush over me because he'd come after me, leaving Miss Alabaster behind.

  That wasn't the only reason I'd come into the back room, but I couldn't deny that, somewhere in the recesses of my mind, I'd been hoping he would.

  As I looked at him, a slow burn charged the atmosphere and I knew I was in real trouble.

  I'd had experiences, had my heart broken by a man I'd admitted everything to. He was another creative type—an author, and I thought he got me. That was until he told me that my emotions would drain his creativity. That happened after a weekend together that I thought went really well. But I got over him and in the meantime he'd hit some bestseller lists and had some pretty good success with his books. It was my turn now, and I had no problem taking it.

  This man… I wasn't sure I could handle him. But I wanted to try. I was more than willing to try. There was a barely concealed wildness inside him, just riding the surface, pulling me to him.

  His eyes raked over me. It took everything not to look down and check that I was actually wearing clothes. He was the Big Bad Wolf and I didn't know my way through the woods.

  It'd been too long for me—that was all, I reasoned, knowing full well I was lying to myself. Brayden had shown me a few of the college bars around the Catskills area, but none of those guys did much for me. They were fun, easy to walk away from.

  Then again, I wasn't looking for anyone hard to walk away from. Lucas was outwardly calm but predatory. I was being hunted—I had no doubt about that. His walk was more like stalking in nature. He could take on anyone—anything—and there wasn’t a man or woman in the gallery tonight who didn't sense it.

  "What are you doing back here?" I asked in an attempt to hide all my feelings.

  "Want me to leave?" he asked, even as his long legs ate the distance between us. Even if there'd been an unlimited supply of oxygen in the room, I still wouldn't have been able to breathe. And when I didn't—couldn't—answer, he continued, "Are you having fun yet?"

  "No."

  "I can change that," Lucas said roughly before his weight shifted onto me, pressing me against the wall. His sleeve had been pushed up, exposing a heavy, expensive-looking watch and a sleeve of tattoos that began below his wrist. I touched the ink, expecting to feel something akin to an electric shock.

  I wasn't disappointed, not by that or by Lucas's next words.

  "Jesus Christ. I'm in so much trouble." He muttered it angrily, almost more to himself than to me.

  "I didn't ask you to come here."

  "Want me to leave, Ryn?" His thumb brushed my nipple through the thin fabric of my dress, and I moaned softly. To have his hands on me, the way they'd roamed my body in my dreams last night. This was so much better than I'd imagined.

  Not having a memory gave me excuses to be a bit of a wild thing. To indulge in all my impulses. To go out and sleep around (when my art let me out of its vise-like grip). I don't know who I am…I'm allowed to lose control…they're lucky I'm as normal as I am.

  Of course, I'm not sure who the ever-present 'they' was. Society? Susan? Whoever threw me away?

  Brayden understood my impulsiveness. His matched mine in its ferocity, but he didn't have a vicious master to rein him in. He had to do it all by himself and I was in awe of his self-control. I seemed to lack any, and conversely, I didn't want any.

  All of that lack of control flooded me now. I wanted to go back to my days of no responsibility, and so I did. But that couldn't compete with my raging hormones, the wet between my legs, the anger at Ann Maslow and the whole roomful of fucking critics who were trying to fuck with the thing that gave me the most pleasure in life. I was, in that moment, a petulant child, rebellious teen, presumptuous ego-laden artist, and first and foremost a woman who wanted a man.

  Nothing in life was simpler than that. Maybe that's why it always felt so right…at least until things went so very wrong.

  "Christ, turn your brain off," he muttered roughly.
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  "Distract me."

  He cursed, then ran his thumbs over my nipples before rolling them between his fingers. I arched into his touch, wanting more immediately.

  He gave it. He kissed me. Really kissed me. I exhaled a soft moan in his mouth and grabbed for his shoulders. He was so big and broad, his body hot, pressing mine. His mouth took mine hungrily. I made no move to stop him. I let myself feel helpless, pinned, out of control, because if this was going to be my own experience with Lucas, I was going to make sure I enjoyed every second of it.

  Forget zero to sixty—this was over a hundred MPH downhill, an out of control roller coaster I didn't want to stop.

  His palm slid up my dress, cupped my sex around my underwear. I swallowed hard as his fingers brushed the thin slip of fabric covering my wet sex…and then I whimpered.

  "Christ, I want to take you out of here and get you into a bed. I want to take my time. But you can't leave and I can't wait. And I can always wait." He was definitely frustrated by that. A man like him, so used to control and I was making him lose it. "You're so goddamned bad for me."

  "My first show ever and I'm in the back room with your hand up my dress, so ditto."

  He kissed me again, the heel of his palm pressing me. I ground against it in the tight space, against the walls between what might one day be priceless paintings. I heard the sounds of the party beyond the door, which meant they could hear us.

  Thankfully, my groans were muffled in his mouth, swallowed by him as he encouraged more. Like he couldn't get enough.

  When his fingers slid inside to stroke my bare sex, I lost it. One touch of my clit and I shattered against him.

  When I blinked and surfaced, he was still touching me. And I was greedy. I wanted more.

  I heard the door open and I froze. Lucas remained relaxed. His body totally covered mine, but what was happening was unmistakable.

  We were quiet and I don't think whoever it was saw us at first. The bathroom door closed and Lucas shook his head. If we moved now, it would definitely be obvious. And then she walked out. Stopped. Turned and stared. And then she laughed, an I can't believe this shit kind of laugh. And then she left.

  "I have to get back out there."

  He stroked my cheek. "Fine. But this? This isn't over."

  My cheeks burned. I locked myself in the bathroom in a futile attempt to make it look like I hadn't just had an orgasm.

  Even if I didn't look it, I didn't doubt that the woman who saw us told as many people as she could. She'd definitely told Bray, because he took me by the shoulder, handed me a glass of champagne and said, "Worst possible choice of man at the worst possible time."

  "I can't believe she told you."

  "She didn't, directly. But I saw her face when she came out of the back room. And I saw yours. And then I saw him."

  "Sorry," I said in a voice that was distinctly un-sorry.

  "Important night," he hissed. "You are not a gay man."

  "Then I need to find other role models besides you," I snapped back.

  "Mingle. Not with Lucas," he ordered.

  And I tried, I really did…but then I started hearing…

  "She's fucking Lucas Caine."

  "She's fucking every major art critic."

  "Panic attacks are a lie."

  The words swirled around me as the invisible noose around my head and neck. I'd be paralyzed soon, unable to breathe.

  I had pills in my pocket, small, easy to swallow, but I hated the way they made me feel.

  I was ruining Brayden's night—and I cared about that more than I cared about myself. I figured he could smooth things over, and no doubt find a way to make all of this into a positive, so I went into the back room and slid outside the heavy door into the back alley. I planned to walk home in the light rain, but I was surprised by the auburn-haired woman who'd followed me outside.

  I planned to keep walking but she blocked me with her body.

  Threat. It was all my mind registered. It flashed white hot in front of my eyes.

  Fight.

  Get away.

  Pure instinct raced through me but I forced myself to stand still. "Get out of my way."

  "My name's Meghan. And you need to get away from Lucas Caine."

  "Move." I tried to push past her, but she shoved me by the shoulder, catching me off guard. She was taller than me, and it didn't help that I'd kicked off my heels already while she still wore her spiked ones.

  Her eyes flashed. "Leave Lucas Caine alone."

  "He doesn't need a bodyguard."

  She leaned in. "He's got one. He doesn't need some shut-in posing as an artist to come in and use him."

  "Use him?" I couldn't help it—I laughed. If anything, the most honest assessment of the night was that we'd used each other. And he certainly hadn't seemed upset.

  "Your interviews make you sound like you're some kind of feral Nell," she hissed fiercely, her voice low. "No one rises up out of nowhere. I'm not going to stop digging until I find out what you're hiding." And if that wasn't enough, she also reached out, pinning me to the brick wall behind me, scratching the bare skin on my shoulder. "I will end you, Ryn. That's not an idle threat."

  Someone already tried, and I was still here. I'd be damned if I let myself ever be a victim again.

  I swung, the side of my closed fist connecting with her temple, stunning her momentarily. She let go of me and I took my advantage, grabbing her by the throat. My emotions had been too close to the surface over the past weeks anyway and I'd reached critical mass. I don't remember much after that but the burning anger that overtook me. I heard gasps, talking, but I was in a vacuum where nothing else existed, my mind full of my own demons.

  This time, they came with the flash of a brief memory, of me fighting and clawing and screaming even as I heard murmurs in the background.

  "Unstable bitch."

  "Crazy."

  "I'm definitely buying a painting now."

  "Front page news."

  …and then I was being held in strong arms I didn't bother fighting, with Lucas's voice in my ear. "People are watching—more reporters are coming—let's go." And just like that, the threat was diffused. My heart still pounded, adrenaline racing through me, soon to retreat and leave me weak and shaky.

  I heard him talking to someone else and then I was in a car with him and we were speeding away before I'd fully surfaced.

  Chapter Three

  I hated leaving Brayden to deal with this situation but my behavior and Lucas's hold didn't leave me much choice. Besides, having me stay would definitely make things worse. I didn't want to know what the fallout would be right now. Twenty-four hours at a time—that was all I could handle on a good day. Otherwise, it was the moment in front of me, and that included Lucas speeding along the city streets.

  A light rain had started to fall. I heard the wipers swish, the patter against the expensive sports car I was in, but beyond that, there was only silence. Before the recriminations in my brain could begin, we pulled into a private garage attached to a brownstone. Lucas turned off the car and came around to my side and began to gather me, despite my protests. He carried me inside and put me down on a couch inside a calm, masculine-looking room. I sank into the buttery leather and he put a blanket over me and poured me a good stiff drink.

  "Did I ruin everything?" I asked after a few moments, and a few sips of the whiskey.

  His answer was indirect. "She came at you first, Ryn." He stared at me, swirling the liquid in his glass as he stood by the window.

  "I saw her talking to you." I followed his lead, refusing to use Meghan's name out loud.

  "I talked to a lot of people tonight." He was evading. I let it pass because I didn't really care—I was here with him and Meghan wasn't. "Where'd you learn to fight like that?"

  "Like what?"

  "Like a street kid."

  I shrugged, took another sip and rolled it around before letting the burn slide down my throat.

  A street kid.r />
  This wasn't the first time I'd fought. Meghan had gotten off easy. There was a time when I'd been walking home from a shift at the coffeehouse, in broad daylight on a sunny Saturday afternoon. A couple of college guys who'd no doubt been drinking all day, based on the way they walked, talked and smelled, approached me. My gut had tightened.

  "We only want a kiss, baby," one of them had said as they surrounded me. They'd gotten a lot more. I'd left them bloodied and dazed on the ground and I'd gone home and iced my hands as I tried to recreate the moves I'd used on them.

  I'd also been brandishing a weapon and thankfully, Brayden talked me out of carrying that same knife tonight, because I typically kept it on me at all times. If I'd pulled that out in front of Ann Maslow…

  I didn't even want to think about that.

  I'd never used it. It had become, over the years, my crutch. My link to the past. It had been found by my body, unused. No fingerprints. It was the single link to my past that wasn't a physical part of me.

  But I didn't tell Lucas any of that, and he didn't push. Instead, I reached for my bag. "I should call Brayden."

  "He knows you came with me," Lucas said, but he did walk out of the room to give me some privacy anyway.

  Brayden answered on the fifth ring. It sounded noisy in the background when he said, "Show's still going on, babe."

  "Seriously?"

  "Yeah, seriously."

  "I can't believe it."

  "I told you, scandal's a good thing. There's no putting Ryn back in the box now."

  I rubbed my neck, which ached with tension. "I went home with Lucas."

  "I know—he called me." Brayden sounded almost angry at that, but when he spoke again, his voice was gentler. "Are you okay?"

  I gave myself a quick once-over. My head hurt, my pride was wounded but otherwise… "Getting there."

  "I can pick you up when I'm done here, or send a car now," he offered.

  "I'm okay."

  "Just be careful," he said.

  I'd already failed at that in so many ways tonight and it was a pattern he knew I planned on continuing. "Thanks, Bray."