by Lee, Nadia
Audrey goes pale.
Iris puts a hand on my sleeve. “Can we go? I…kind of need to shower and change.”
She does need to be looked after. I pull myself together. “Of course,” I say gently. I put an arm around her shoulders and turn to the maître d’, who has appeared and is hovering nervously. “Our check.”
“I’ll take care of it,” Ryder says.
Asshole. “I’m not taking anything from you.”
“Payment won’t be necessary,” maître d’ says, a small tremor in his voice. “Your meals tonight are on the house, Mr. Blackwood.”
I escort Iris out. Tension is thick inside the Cullinan as it moves through the heavy L.A. traffic. TJ notices Ivy’s appearance, but wisely says nothing.
I can’t believe I didn’t rent out the entire restaurant. That would’ve prevented the travesty. Show Iris what I have to give, huh? And what the hell did she see? A screw-loose ex and a former best friend who had no problem fucking one of my girlfriends.
Welcome to the shit-show that is my life, Iris. If you want to leave…
But I can’t continue the thought. Selfishly enough, I don’t want her to leave.
“It’s ruined,” Iris says, gesturing at her dress and my handkerchief. “Even if you don’t like Ryder, you could’ve at least demanded Audrey replace it,” she says in a feeble attempt at levity.
I don’t deserve her. “Sorry your celebratory dinner got ruined.”
She squeezes my hand. “It wasn’t your fault.”
“Yes, it is. Audrey is my problem.”
“She’s a person, Tony. You couldn’t have known. You can’t control her.”
Iris has no idea how much her words mean right now. I pull her close.
“You’re going to get stains on your clothes.”
“I don’t care. I just want to feel you.” I exert gentle pressure around her shoulder until she’s pressed tightly against me. She rests her head on my chest. The weight is comforting. It tells me she’s here. With me.
The Cullinan pulls up in front of my building. “Where are we?” she asks.
“My place.” I kiss her forehead. “It’s closer, but if you want to go to your place, that’s fine.”
She pulls back and peers at the tall, gleaming structure. I wait, agonizing over which she’ll choose. If the dinner had gone as I’d hoped, I might not have brought her here because it might feel like too much, too fast. But with the botched evening, I want to show her I’m not totally messed up.
She has an odd look in her eyes. “I’ve been to other guys’ homes before, but this feels like more,” she says softly. “Like some new…hierarchy of intimacy.”
“It is. I’ve never brought a woman here before.”
Her gaze turns tender as her hand wraps around mine. Then, tugging at me, she climbs out of the car.
Chapter Fifty-Two
Anthony
Iris steps into my home. Her eyes take in everything, inch by inch, from the gleaming foyer to the living and dining rooms and the huge kitchen. The city glitters on the other side of the gigantic sliding glass doors leading to the deck and an infinity pool.
I want her to love the place, and now I wish I’d spent more time looking around. I had a real estate agent bring a few suitable listings, and Wei made the purchase based on my list of priorities after seeing what was available. Back then, this was a place for me to rest and sleep. Now, it’s more. Iris makes it more.
Her gaze finally lands on the Steinway. It’s a practice piano, a white baby grand from Tempérane. Mother was going to throw it away, but Edgar saved it for me. It was in storage until last week, when I had it brought over, cleaned and tuned.
I watch Iris carefully, looking for signs of recognition. She used to practice on it for hours and hours. Surely she remembers something.
But she doesn’t seem to recall anything. There’s nothing but surprise and admiration as she looks at the piano.
“You play?” she asks.
“Used to.” I quit when Ivy died. It hurt too much. But now… Somehow it’s okay to see the instrument. I run a hand over it and realize with a shock that I’m slightly shaky.
Thankfully, Iris doesn’t seem to notice. “A lot of people give it up when they get a job or something.” She looks around. “Is there a place I can change?”
I lead her to my bedroom. “Take anything you want from the closet. Unfortunately, I don’t have the guest bathrooms ready to use, so you’ll have to make do with mine. The housekeeper should’ve laid out fresh towels. If not, let me know.”
“Thanks.”
I close the door behind her and exhale heavily, as though doing so will expel the bitter self-reproach inside my chest. I’m such a liar. After telling myself I don’t give a shit who she is, my belly flutters every time I see a sign that she’s Ivy.
It hits me all of a sudden that it might be safer for her if she’s Iris, a girl who plays the piano really well and has partial amnesia. The only problems Iris has are an imperfect memory and scummy relatives. But if she’s Ivy…
That’s much scarier. Terrifying, really, because somebody purposely set things up to make it appear as though she died. Killed another girl who was very much like her to accomplish the task. Did unspeakable things to Iris to make her lose her memory. Then somehow Sam ended up with her, whether he was an accomplice to the crime or got forced into it later.
If whoever responsible thinks that I know she’s Ivy, what will they do next? Come after me? I’m a hard target, and in any case would actually enjoy facing those fuckers. But they might just kill her, for real this time. I don’t know who they are, what their motivations might be, no way of predicting their next move. And the idea that I might lose her…again…
If you quit digging… If you quit probing…
I bury my face in my palms, trying to think through the options. I can take her away. Anywhere she wants to go. We can be together in Paris. Rio. Tokyo. The choices are endless.
But she came back to the States because she hated being away, forever on the road and unable to form a lasting friendship or have her own social network of people to count on. She has a job here now and has already made friends. I don’t have the heart to uproot her unless I absolutely have to. And until I know who’s responsible for the hit-and-run accident, I’m never going to be certain of Iris’s safety. Even living abroad, we might have to move around.
I look at the Steinway. I haven’t played in years, but muscle memory doesn’t vanish overnight. I go to the piano and touch the cool key in the center above the keyhole, pressing it softly until the perfectly tuned middle C sounds.
When she’s out of the shower, I’m going to test her.
I have to know who she is, for certain. I need to understand what happened to her. Or I’m going to lose her. Again.
Chapter Fifty-Three
Iris
The door closes, leaving me alone in Tony’s room. It’s overwhelmingly masculine, not even a hint of a feminine touch. Lots of blue and green with pale earth-tone accents. A huge contemporary bed and dark wood furniture dominate the area. The floor is bare except for a thick rug at the foot of the bed.
I go to the enormous walk-in closet. He has rows of crisply ironed dress shirts, suits, belts and cuff links under glass covers. I start to reach for the drawers, then stop. Why am I so curious about what he has in there? I’ve never nosed around in another person’s private space before. But with Tony, I want to know everything about him.
Still. It’s rude to snoop. I drop my hands, feeling like a naughty kid trying to filch a cookie.
I pull a large shirt off its hanger and hold it in front of me, making sure it doesn’t touch my soiled dress. It’s long enough to serve as a micro-dress.
Shirt in hand, I cross over to the bathroom. It’s huge and ultramodern, with clean, minimalist lines. A little too modern for my taste, but it has a towel warmer, where a thick, fresh blue towel is resting, and heated flooring that feels divine on the soles of
my feet. There’s a separate multi-headed shower and sunken tub with Jacuzzi spouts.
As immaculate as it is, there isn’t much of a personal touch. The cabinets only contain aftershave and a bottle of aspirin. There’s one toothbrush and a half-used tube of toothpaste on the vanity. It reminds me of a nice hotel suite—well appointed and clean, but utterly impersonal.
As I turn, my reflection in the mirror catches my eyes, and I gape. Oh no… A drowned rat probably looks better than I do at the moment. My hair’s flat and stringy from the wine, and my face has a reddish tint. My mascara and eyeliner are smeared, and the dress has red stains all over. Basically, I could star in a horror movie.
Suddenly, I feel like screaming. The date was going so well. Tony was charming. The food was great, the wine perfect. Okay, the music was sort of crappy, but whatever. The mood was sweet and romantic. I was relaxed and happy. Tony even laughed, which was thrilling because he so rarely laughs like that. But then that crazy actress had to show up!
I almost didn’t recognize her. I thought Audrey Duff would be more…delicate. I mean, she ostensibly tried to kill herself over love. But the woman in person isn’t as pretty as in her pictures and movies. There’s a taut, rusted-sheet-metal quality to her. And she directed all her misguided anger at me, throwing the wine and making a scene so awful, I felt utterly paralyzed. It was like it wasn’t even happening to me, more like I was watching the whole drama play out.
If she hadn’t interrupted, who knows how the date might’ve ended? Tony and I could be kissing again by now. Maybe even taking it a step further, into the bedroom. Because I really wanted him to kiss me again at the end of the date. And then go from there.
I wish I could have a do-over, but what’s done is done. Happy and relaxed Tony is gone. He was tense the entire ride home. He was tense when he brought me to the bathroom. He’s probably still tense right now.
Frustrated and exasperated, I strip out of my ruined dress. The stains will never come out. I step into the shower, which instantly spews hot water. I wash myself thoroughly, making sure the wine’s completely gone from my hair.
Once done, I dry myself with the warm towel and put on the shirt. After rummaging around, I realize Tony doesn’t have a dryer. Guess it makes sense, since his hair is short, but…
Ah, who cares? It isn’t like we’re going back out. I towel-dry my hair as much as possible, then go down to the living room. Tony’s at his Steinway, a crystal tumbler half-full of amber liquid in his hand. His head swivels in my direction. As he takes me in, his green eyes darken with a need and yearning so stark it leaves an aching hitch in my heart. I feel pulled closer, as though we’re connected with unbreakable chains.
“Are you feeling better?” he asks.
Better isn’t how I’d put it. I want to reach out and brush my fingertips over his cheek, but there’s a touch of bleakness to him that makes me hesitate. So I keep my hands by my sides and say, “Yes. Thank you.”
He finishes his drink in one swallow, his eyes still on me. Thoughts cross them like quick-moving clouds, and finally something that looks suspiciously like grim determination settles over his face.
I start to step forward, reaching for him. I don’t want him feeling guilty over what happened at the restaurant. I’m grateful for everything he’s done for me—saving me from Jamie, helping me look for a job, showing me the beautiful coastline, comforting me when I had a nightmare…basically, treating me like I’m a normal person rather than some damaged girl.
Suddenly, he turns to the piano and starts playing secondo from Schubert’s Fantasie. What the…? I drop my hand, feeling slightly rejected by his abrupt shift in mood and action. And why is he playing this? It isn’t complete without someone to play primo.
He keeps playing. The incompleteness of the piece disturbs me. Although I’ve played a few trio or duet pieces, I don’t remember playing anything that requires partners to share a piano. But my fingers twitch as though they know exactly what keys to strike.
Finally, unable to bear it, I sit next to him on the long bench and let my hands do what they will. At least I’ve listened to the music before, so I’m aware of what it should sound like.
My fingers move on their own, striking the chords and notes perfectly. Tony alters his pace to match mine. We’re in perfect sync, and his body heat warms me until I’m feeling almost too hot.
Da-dum, da-dum, da-dum. My heart beats to the music, and I can sense Tony’s does, too. My mouth dries. Fantasie doesn’t require the technical dexterity of Liszt’s études, but it isn’t a simple composition. Haunting, with a hint of hesitation and reluctance, but delicately graceful and flowing. Just hitting the right notes at tempo will turn the lyrical piece flatter than two-week-old Coke, without the careful building of tension to the climax toward the end. The only reason I can play it so well must be because I’ve practiced it to the point of mastery. My hands are relying on muscle memory, even though I have no recollection of ever performing this.
By the time I hit the last note, my breathing is uneven and shallow. I stare at Tony. He said he didn’t really play the piano, but he was virtually perfect, as though he knew exactly how I needed him to perform his part. Like we’ve played this together many, many times before.
His Adam’s apple moves once. Then he leans forward and presses his mouth to mine.
Chapter Fifty-Four
Iris
The contact makes my soul sigh. I love the way Tony takes charge, the way he leads me into a pleasurable state where nothing matters but us.
He tastes like a man in need, his breathing rough and fast. It’s thrilling, sending a hot pulse of desire that ends between my legs. I wind my arms around his neck, my fingers toying with his hair. I press my body against his, letting him know I don’t have a bra on underneath the shirt I filched from his closet.
A rough growl reverberates deeply in his throat and chest. My nipples grow hard, and I arch into him. One of his hands is against my back and the other is cupping a breast, the thumb moving over my pointed nipple through the shirt. Electric pleasure shoots through me, and I moan against his mouth.
Impatient, I bite his lower lip. “I’m making a mess,” I whisper.
“Are you?” He tugs at the nipple.
I cry out, shuddering with pleasure and a crazy, mounting need for more. “You’re making me wet. And I’m not wearing any underwear.”
He curses. I laugh under my breath. It’s hot I’m making him curse—I’m driving him crazy with lust, the same way he’s doing with me.
Holding me, he stands up. I wrap my legs around him. His hot, large hands cup my bare ass as he carries me to the bedroom, where he deposits me on the bed, his teeth, lips and tongue devouring my mouth like he could never get enough.
We feed off each other’s hunger. He dumps his clothes and shoes, flinging them on the floor. His fingers are slightly shaky by the time he reaches for the shirt I’m wearing. He fumbles with the first few buttons, then growls and rips the starched fabric apart. I thrill at his uncharacteristic impatience, my eyes riveted on his beautifully sculpted body with lean, strong muscles. His cock is rigid, long, thick. The tip brushes his glorious abs, leaving a glistening spot.
I laugh, then pull him down for another kiss, loving the solid weight of his gorgeous, masculine physique on me. Tony’s large, greedy hands move over my bare skin, feeling and learning the texture and the shape of my body as they trace every line and squeeze softness of my curves. Desperate for more, I rock against him.
He toys with my nipples, his lips and tongue wicked and talented, while his hand dips between my thighs, his fingers gliding smoothly along my slick flesh.
I arch my back, a breathless cry caught in my throat. He pulls a nipple into his mouth and sucks hard as his thumb rubs against my clit and a long finger drives into me.
My hands fist the sheet. It’s as though he knows exactly what I want, how I need to be touched.
He pulls the other nipple into his mouth, and I�
�m going crazy with desire. He drives another finger into me, thrusting lazily, bumping the sweet spot in my pussy.
When he moves downward, leaving a hot trail of kisses on my belly, the cool air makes my wet nipples bead. I clench my inner muscles, and he grunts.
“You’re really tight.” He pulls his glistening fingers out and licks them clean, his smile devilish. “Mmm.”
The unabashed way he enjoys himself is too damn hot. “I want you,” I demand in a thick, unsteady voice. “Now.”
He looks into my eyes.
“Don’t tell me you want to make it last. We can do that later,” I say.
“Later, huh?”
“If you don’t take me now, I’m going to die of frustration and there won’t be a next time.”
“Well, we can’t have that.” He grabs a condom from a drawer near the bed. As soon as he’s sheathed, he positions his cock, then slowly pushes forward, stretching and filling me.
I gasp. He feels unbelievably good inside, fitting like a missing piece I’ve been looking for all my life.
He kisses me, tasting like him and me—as though I’m the woman he’s been seeking for all eternity. As he moves in and out, the friction blissful, a small part of me thinks it feels familiar somehow. But the unfurling pleasure pushes everything out of my head except for the toe-curling sensations running through me.
I clutch him to me, my fingers digging into his shoulders, tension winding tighter in my belly. An orgasm finally breaks, as powerful as a hurricane sweeping through. Tony pulls his mouth away, letting me scream, the ragged sound bouncing off the walls. He drives into me twice more and shudders, the tendons in his throat standing starkly.
Wrapping his arms around me, he rolls over until we’re lying on our sides. I lay a hand over his thundering heart and wait until my breathing settles. Amazing, amazing, amazing… Not just the actual orgasm; I’ve never felt so deeply connected to a person before. It wasn’t just our bodies merging—it was like our souls came together, our hearts beating as one. He completed me like no one ever has.