by Moriah Jovan
“Pleasure? You don’t even like me.”
He looked at her, confused. “Why would you assume that?”
She stared at him for what seemed like hours, then finally said, “Well.” Her mouth twitched indecisively for a moment. “All right. I suppose I can’t stop you.”
It wasn’t much, but it was a start. Time to try the next step.
“Eilis, may I get you something to eat? Drink?”
She hesitated for a moment, put a hand to her belly, bit her lip, then shook her head. “No, thank you,” she murmured.
Sebastian’s eyebrow rose. He’d seen that gesture too many times in his life not to know what it meant. Too bad, too, because she fulfilled Sebastian’s fantasies to the last detail.
He didn’t dare tell her that.
“All right. Would you like to see the new painting first?”
“No,” she murmured dismissively. “I like to do things in their proper order.”
Well, that was interesting. He filed that away for future reference.
He’d already seen the exhibit, so he watched her—watched her unutterably expressive face express so much awe and reverence that he wondered how she kept her façade intact for twelve hours a day when she was “on.” He wanted to ask her, but figured that he couldn’t get in any more trouble by keeping his mouth shut. Only, he wasn’t good at that.
“Where are you going?” he blurted as they went from one painting to the next.
She shot him an annoyed glance, but didn’t answer. She just went back to her study of Ford’s work. He could tell she wanted to touch. She shied away from the nudes whose body types were similar to hers as if it pained her to see them. She was drawn to the nudes who were smaller and more muscular, less voluptuous than she. He wanted to call her on it just to see what she’d say, but he dared not.
Her reaction didn’t surprise him in the least. He had found that, by and large, straight women who liked Ford’s nudes invariably compared themselves, figuring out what they wanted to look like and attempting to visualize themselves as anything other than what they were. He knew for a fact that Giselle became wistful over the women who didn’t look a thing like her because she knew she’d never attain what she saw as perfection. Giselle’s favorite Ford painting looked like Eilis—
—and every Ford nude Eilis owned had a body type similar to Giselle’s.
Finally they came to the new piece that hung high up from the gallery’s ceiling. Sebastian thought it might be Ford’s finest work ever.
She gasped. “Oh,” she breathed as she stepped back and took it in. The scar that looked like a tear began to sparkle as an actual tear tracked down it faithfully. “That’s shattering,” Eilis murmured.
“How so?” he asked quietly, not wanting to ruin the mood, but oh, so curious.
“He—” She stopped. “She— I’m—” She stopped again. “I’m her.” Giselle looked nothing like Eilis, so of course Eilis wished to be what she couldn’t. Just like the rest of womankind. The breath on which she’d expelled her admission was barely audible. “I want that.”
Of course she did.
Sebastian kept his mouth carefully closed, hoping she wouldn’t have to be reminded that not only could she not buy any more of these, she had to sell the ones she had. Finally, he couldn’t stand it and said the most diplomatic thing he could think of, hoping to distract her enough that he wouldn’t have to be the bad guy.
As usual.
“Eilis, I’ve decided to let you keep Morning in Bed.”
She turned to him then, wide-eyed. “You— You’re going to let me keep it?”
“Yes. I’ll have it verified as original and appraised, have the insurance updated, make sure it’s properly secured, but I’ll let you keep it.”
The tears welled in her eyes then and they spilled over. She threw her arms around him and hugged him, and he could feel her crying. “Thank you, Mr. Taight,” she whispered. “Thank you so much.”
Sebastian’s eyes closed and he was ever so glad for all the crisp fabric in between them or she would have surely felt his arousal. He hesitantly put his arms around her and lightly patted her back once, twice. He certainly didn’t mind this particular flavor of a beautiful woman’s attentions but he had never gotten a random grateful bear hug from a woman not related to him.
She was oblivious to the stares they garnered, but he wasn’t. A beautiful woman. With Sebastian Taight. Who was not Cinderella. Who was not only not afraid of him, but hugging him.
It had been preposterous enough when Kansas City’s moneyed thought King Midas had a lover at all, much less one who had been swept off her feet and out from under his nose by the city’s hideously scarred and notoriously ruthless tort lawyer—until, just tonight, Kenard had most accommodatingly clarified Sebastian’s relationship to Giselle.
Of course Miss Cox wasn’t his lover! Of course Miss Cox was his cousin! With that totally logical explanation, society had gone back to its usual humor about Sebastian’s social toxicity.
Until Eilis hugged him.
She drew back a few seconds later, obviously embarrassed by her outburst. “I’m sorry,” she laughed, sniffled, then wiped her tears with a finger. He actually thought to offer her his handkerchief, and she took it with a watery smile.
“Where are you going?” he blurted yet again.
Her brow wrinkled in confusion. “I’m sorry?”
“Your vacation. Where do you plan to go?”
She looked in his eyes for a long time, as if searching for some ulterior motive for asking. Oh, he had one, but in his opinion, wanting to be around her every day and enforcing her presence there so he could have a chance at seducing her didn’t really tip the evil scale too much.
“I’m going to find Ford,” she finally murmured. “I want him to mak—paint me.”
Well.
He was pretty sure he wasn’t going to be able to find a convenient time for her to go anywhere.
* * * * *
She couldn’t believe she’d told him that—Sebastian Taight of all people. And what had almost escaped her mouth! She could only chalk it up to her shock that he had just known she was the same Miss Logan who dressed in sensible shoes and the classic Coco Chanel suit at work.
Nobody had ever figured that out on first glance before and usually, not even second, third, or fourth. She liked it that way; it allowed her a great deal of freedom she would not otherwise have. Not even Fen Hilliard recognized her out of costume.
Sebastian pursed his lips and looked down at the floor, his hands behind his back. He rocked back on his heels. “How are you going to find Ford?” he asked her. “No one else has ever been able to.”
“I have Morning in Bed,” she replied, her confidence gathering steam as she realized that he might point out all the ways she would fail, but he wouldn’t make fun of her. “I’ve found the clues that are embedded in it.” What clues? She’d never found any clues, but saying she had might make her case stronger.
“Ah.” He didn’t speak for a moment. Then, “Care to share?”
“Certainly not. You’re obviously as much a Ford aficionado as I am and I would never give you that kind of leverage.”
“Is that what you think of me?”
“You have a reputation, Mr. Taight. You play by the rules, but you interpret them liberally. You like having leverage and you don’t cut anybody any slack. I would presume that this would be one of those times that you’d take finding him first as your due.”
He stared at her with that intense, incredibly handsome face and again she felt shivers run up and down her spine. He was taller than she by only a smidge, but a smidge was enough at her height. He was well built and muscular, his body broad and much bigger than hers, a man she wouldn’t smash to pieces if—
She swallowed and turned away from him then, disturbed by the sudden visual of herself naked, straddling Sebastian Taight’s naked hips, his huge hands wrapped around her waist. He was King Midas, her enemy: Related to
both Knox and Fen Hilliard, having complete control of her company, taking away her paintings—she shouldn’t dare think of King Midas that way. Certainly, no one else did, so what was her problem?
Eilis felt his hand on her elbow, guiding her deeper into the rest of the gallery and away from the Ford exhibit. They walked in silence past many modern pieces, most of which she didn’t like.
“I have trouble communicating with women,” he said suddenly, startling her. “I— A while back— Uh, hmm. I’m not good with—” He stopped. Swallowed. “Women are afraid of me.” He stopped again, took a deep breath. “Ah, well, uh— So in trying not to scare anybody, I don’t say the right things and then they’re not only scared, they’re mad, too.”
He hadn’t had any trouble communicating with her Thursday. Was she afraid? Yes, because of what he could do to her company. Was she angry? Yes, because he’d picked her out so easily. Neither had had anything to do with his communication skills.
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Because I want to ask you something and I don’t know if it’ll come out right. I’ll probably upset you and then you’ll—”
Leave. He bit it off, but it hung heavy in the air.
“What do you want to ask me?”
He hesitated. She could sense his discomfort and felt sorry for him. “May I kiss you?”
She blinked. Interesting. He’d asked permission. And oh, how she was tempted! “I don’t think that’s a good idea, Mr. Taight. You’re my trustee and I’m being punished for having made a very bad decision in my personal life. I’m not sure my judgment in men is all that good.”
“I see. You’re right, of course,” he said graciously as they continued their stroll through the gallery.
* * * * *
30: JASMINE IN MY MIND
The air was cool for an August Sunday in the middle of the afternoon and the breeze blew Giselle’s hair all around her. Bryce sat on a picnic table in Cancer Survivor’s Park, his legs hanging off the edge. She sat on the table facing him.
Despite her soreness, she’d draped her left knee over his thigh and stretched her right leg out behind him. The inside of her thigh caressed his tight denim-clad ass and she was about as close to him as she could get without being naked and on top of him.
Neither spoke as they shared a dish of gourmet cheeses until—
“I feel weird because I’m not at church right now,” she murmured, “and why.”
“You go to church often enough that not going is an event?”
She nodded. “Every Sunday. It’s a respite for me, like meditating in front of the bodhisattva.”
He said nothing for a moment. Then, “I’ve only been a few times since the fire. The last time I went was after I met you at Hale’s.” She started. “I wanted to find some answers as to how to deal with you.”
“Because you thought Knox and I were lovers.”
He nodded.
“So how’d that work out for you?”
He grimaced. “It didn’t.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I’m not. I’m here with you.”
She smiled, delight curling through her, but it faltered.
“What?”
She sighed. “It’s— I don’t— We still don’t know each other very well.”
“Yes, we do.” He tapped her sternum with a finger. “We just don’t know details and time provides those.”
“You haven’t talked about your children or your wife much. I know you loved your kids and didn’t like your wife and . . . that’s about it.”
He grunted and pulled away a bit; he picked out another piece of cheese. He stared blankly in front of him, his mouth pursed. “Where to begin? My wife’s name was Michelle. She was the most faithless, evil woman I’ve ever met.”
“How’d you end up married to her then?”
He took a deep breath. “I was trying to avoid women like you,” he murmured without a shred of humor, and Giselle shifted, surprised. “I’ve always loved women like you, dangerous, strong. Educated women with edgy personalities. Women who like to fuck. Hard. Nasty. I thought I was sinful just for wanting that and Michelle was not that. She was sweet and demure, a little light in the IQ department but not enough to be annoying. She talked exactly the right Good-LDS-Girl talk and walked exactly the right Good-LDS-Girl walk. In public. I envisioned our life together as quiet and calm, which didn’t really excite me, but I thought she would cure me of my nastiness.”
Bryce glanced at Giselle slyly and she smiled.
“She fooled me. Fooled my parents, my siblings. Knox was the only person who told me I was making a mistake, but he was the lone voice in the wilderness and his opinion was competing with everyone else’s and my goal of—” He gestured in the air, searching for words.
“Purification.”
He pointed at her and nodded. “That’s it. My father hated Knox, thought he was a bad influence on me. They went head-to-head on doctrine a couple of times and—”
“Knox knows doctrine like the back of his hand.”
“And he’s not shy about shining a bright light on the church’s less-than-stellar history. My dad wouldn’t talk to Knox after the second time he got trounced.”
Giselle said nothing for a bit. Then, “So . . . you got married in the temple.”
“Yes, in San Diego. Michelle lied through her teeth to get her temple recommend. It took maybe a week? two weeks? for her to show her true colors. She . . . ” He took a deep breath. “She hated me.”
Giselle’s mouth dropped open. “Why?” she breathed. “Why did she marry you?”
He shrugged. “Her parents liked me and pressured her into it. She went along with it because I was arm candy with money potential. I was really naïve and she knew she’d be able to keep partying because I wouldn’t suspect anything. Perfect trophy husband, perfect cover, potentially unlimited funds.”
“Was she pretty?”
“She was a model. Blonde. Tall and thin, fragile. Exactly what I wasn’t that attracted to. I figured that between not really being attracted to her and her fragility, I wouldn’t be tempted to indulge my, ah, kinks. Somewhere in the first six months or so she must have figured out I had kinks because that’s when she started to hate me. I was too big for her tastes.”
Giselle smirked. “Which part?”
He burst out laughing, then touched his nose to hers. “Every. Inch. Of. Me,” he purred, but caught Giselle’s grin in a kiss, brief but hot. They were still chuckling when he continued. “Michelle needed physical control and she chose her partners based on their size and willingness to submit and take punishment.”
“So . . . what did you get from her?”
“Very little. I didn’t understand what she wanted, why she didn’t like sex with me—well, hell, why I didn’t like sex with her.”
“You’re lying there trying not to think about your kink, because you thought even thinking about it’s sinful, and she’s out indulging hers.”
He nodded. “I didn’t know any of this. I found her fetish stash right after she got pregnant with my youngest and I’d already started divorce proceedings. I didn’t know what it was, told my divorce lawyer, and he sat me down and gave me the facts of life.”
“Did that shock you?”
He grinned suddenly. “What shocked me was that the things I’d been trying so hard not to fantasize about since I hit puberty had a name and a lifestyle that went with it—and that what I wanted was at the vanilla end of the spectrum.”
Giselle began to laugh. “She didn’t know you had a little taste for that then?”
“I think she did,” Bryce returned. “I think she didn’t want me to get any more of a taste for it than I already had and that’s when my size became an issue for her.”
“Because she was afraid you’d top her.”
“Yes. And I would’ve. So she went elsewhere. Lots of elsewheres.”
“Oh,” Giselle breathed, her eyes wide. “Um— Maybe this is
closing the barn door after the horse gets out, but—”
“No, Giselle,” he said wryly, “I don’t have any diseases. I wouldn’t be here if I did.”
“It never even occurred to me to ask,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Oh, so savvy.”
“By the time I started the divorce, I’d moved out of the bedroom. I couldn’t live with her pathology anymore. Constant manipulation. My oldest daughter didn’t know which end was up most days after Michelle got through with her head. If she’d been a good mother and it was just the adultery, I would have stayed with her for the kids. I wouldn’t have liked that, either, but the sex wasn’t enough to get mad about and I wasn’t missing anything.”
“So you were caught between enduring to the end or saving your kids.”
“Yes. If I’d seen it earlier, I’d have done it a lot sooner, but I was busy working and trying to make sure their basic needs were met.”
“Basic needs?” Giselle asked warily. “What does that mean? You weren’t poor.”
“It means,” he said, his face starting to harden as he looked back off into the distance, “that Michelle wouldn’t take care of them. I had to hire a live-in nanny to make sure they got fed and clothed and to school on time. I gave the nanny a credit card to buy them clothes and school supplies and whatever else they needed. Gas for the car to take them where they needed to go. I didn’t dare give one to my wife. How screwed up is that?”
“I’m not following. This had to have evolved over time.”
“Michelle,” he said slowly, “controlled me by being completely dependent. I had to leave her a to-do list every morning or the kids wouldn’t get fed. That’s when I hired the nanny. Money. I had to go shopping with her because she’d gotten me deep in debt more than once when I trusted her with any—that was her game. When I took money away from her, she wouldn’t do anything autonomously. She’d call me for any decision, no matter how small, sometimes four, five times a day. Before I got the nanny, she would occasionally even refuse to pick up the kids for school because I wasn’t there to drive her. That infuriated me and it was exhausting.”