by Alice Ward
Partially as a favor to her and partially because I wanted her exultation to be a scene exclusively for my eyes, I turned the vibration off. She continued to shake. Her nails clamped onto my hand, which was still pancaked over her belly to keep her stable, and she slowly returned to a regulated breathing pattern.
The second Amanda announced the auction over, Tabby turned to face me. Her face was still heated and her eyes were glossy. “I’m ready to go now,” she whispered.
I couldn’t have reacted faster. I’d been ready to get her alone from the time we left the blackjack table, and knowing she was now quivering in such a state that the lightest touch to her pussy would likely send her rocketing into oblivion was making the blood leave my brain and crash to my groin like a tsunami. Not bothering to talk to anyone or say obligatory farewells, I snatched her hand and started weaving through the ballroom.
We’d made it into the reception area and were almost to the door when we were stopped, and it was by the last person I wanted to see at that moment.
“I was wondering if I’d get a chance to talk to you!” Pippa’s voice was higher-pitched than normal, verging on screechy, and the darkness clouding underneath her makeup boded nothing good.
“Hello, Pippa,” I said stonily.
Tabby had stiffened. I could feel it in the way her fingers became tight between mine. She offered Pippa a courteous smile, but the usual warmth she emanated was absent. I waffled between enduring a brief, pointedly polite conversation with Pippa for the sake of propriety or merely striding past her and getting Tabby out into the limo as quickly as possible.
I didn’t have the chance to decide. Pippa stuck a hand out to Tabby in robotic fashion. “I’m Pippa Marquardt.”
“Hi,” Tabby replied. Her voice was as courteous as her appearance, but she took Pippa’s hand gingerly, like she was afraid of contracting something. “I’m Tabby Rickard.”
Pippa made a small noise that sounded suspiciously like a snort of amusement, and I gave her a warning look. Unfortunately, the questionable girl was too focused on Tabby to pay me any mind. Her lips were spread in a thin, ingenuous smile as she said, “I haven’t seen you here before.”
“No? I’ve been here.” I had to give Tabby credit. She had a way of maintaining sophistication while delivering her snappish wit. I also appreciated that she didn’t reveal she’d only been to The Club once before because I knew it would drive Pippa crazy wondering how many times the members had lusted after Tabby when she wasn’t around for them to lust after her.
“Ah.” Pippa tilted her head. “But you weren’t in the auction.”
Again, Tabby proved herself impressive as she sweetly returned, “I’m not an auction type of woman.”
Dense as she might have been, the veiled insult didn’t evade Pippa, who righted her head and darted her eyes to me instead. “I guess you could say it takes a special kind of woman to do it. The auction isn’t really suitable for just anyone,” she said. Though she was making eye contact with me, it was evident she was still engaging Tabby in the conversation by the way she kept her body turned a fraction away from my direction.
Tabby didn’t respond this time. I found myself admiring her for her silence as well. Most women in the upper echelon of our society considered insults about anything personal — their style, their net worth, their husband, their choice of dinnerware, or even their name — a declaration of war. Had Pippa made the exact same jab to someone like Amanda, she would have found herself on the receiving end of an assault that dragged every piece of dirty laundry out of her hamper while soiling those that were clean in the process. For months afterwards, Pippa would’ve been ostracized from any high-profile social gatherings while having her entire history ransacked for any skeletons hiding in her closet until she either had to move to another city and start fresh or pull out her claws, fight back, and hope to reclaim her place. I’d once heard as a child that men fought with fists and women fought with words. In our white-collar world, men fought with lawsuits and acquisitions to bring about financial ruin, and women fought with unsent invitations and well-placed rumors until the victim found herself on the front page for an alcohol-induced assault on a neighbor. Tabby wasn’t of this world, though, and I found myself astoundingly refreshed by how much class she displayed in her implied classlessness.
“Well, Owen,” the grudging woman trilled, “I’m glad I saw you! I got to learn something new about you and everything.”
“What do you mean?”
She motioned to Tabby, palm up. “I didn’t know you liked your women for free.”
Still, Tabby said nothing, but her fingers became so rigid they started painfully squeezing mine. I’d known Pippa was capable of jealousy, but I’d hoped she would find it in herself to rise above her unhappiness and recognize Tabby as the innocent bystander she was. Apparently, I had no such luck, and I didn’t need to look at my lovely companion to know she was upset by the insinuation Pippa had made.
“I prefer them that way,” I icily said. Not wishing to allow her a platform to continue her verbal tirade, I slipped past her with Tabby in tow and added over my shoulder in a tone reminiscent of the Arctic, “Have a good night.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Tabby
I felt raw. Whatever desire Owen had built up inside me at The Club was gone, washed away like a twig on the sand at high tide. There was something to be said about females having their own version of blue balls because my sex was prickling to the point of pain, but I had absolutely no interest in continuing the stimulation to satisfy a physical need because my mental arousal had dissolved entirely.
“I didn’t know you liked your women for free.”
The words kept rolling around in my head, vicious little marbles cracking against each other, making my head ache and my stomach hurt. It was a simple sentence, not to mention one clearly said for the sake of cruelty, but it was heavy and bitter and not in the least forgettable.
I didn’t speak as the limo cruised down the New Orleans streets. Aside from the rustling of fabric when I jostled my leg or the clinking of ice in Owen’s glass, there was silence. I had nothing to say, even though I had a million questions to ask. There were twice as many questions now. The distraction of the vibrating panties he’d continuously plagued me with throughout the auction had made watching and observing impossible, thus leaving the mysteries of The Blackjack Club and its members still intact, and I’d acquired a whole host of new wonderings in the second it took for Pippa Marquardt to make her comment. These wonderings, however, were centralized around one particular Club member rather than the whole entity, and I resented them all the more for it.
But he wasn’t my boyfriend. I didn’t have a right to ask him about what Pippa had said.
Did I?
I mean, I was sleeping with him. We were engaging in intimacies — often. For Christ’s sake, we’d had sex earlier in the same place I was sitting. Some schools of thought would have claimed that gave me an automatic right to know about his life to some extent, especially the extent that now had me bothered.
On the other hand, he wasn’t my boyfriend, and I’d always felt a lack of a proper title meant no disclosure obligations short of those that could affect one’s health and well-being. It was a clause that had served me well in the past, but Owen was nothing like my romances of the past. This relationship had thus far been the exception to every rule.
But we were dating. Weren’t we dating? We’d been on four dates. Then again, were they actually dates? Doing his PR photography wasn’t really a date, but the lunch part had felt datelike. Accompanying me to Grace’s wedding was definitely in the realm of a date. Taking me to The Club… well, I’d considered it a date but that was up for debate. And there was tonight, which included a phenomenal dinner, and that was inarguably a date. So, at the very least, we’d been on two dates and two maybes, which still meant we were seeing each other. Didn’t that entitle me to ask some uncomfortable questions?
The
seesaw in my brain made my temples throb, and I leaned my head back against the seat. The leather felt too familiar against my skin, taking me back to that afternoon when I’d felt that leather on my back and my behind and my chest and my forehead. A large part of me still wanted Owen to dismiss Stephan for the night and come up to my room. Uncertainties or not, his sexual prowess was such that I was starting to crave it as much as I craved my morning tea, and my clit had zero uncertainties of its own.
I couldn’t shake what Pippa said, though, and I knew even if Owen came up to my room with me I wouldn’t be able to continue what he’d started. I hated that. Pippa obviously considered me to be competition for Owen’s affections, and there was no doubt in my mind she would’ve said whatever she could to make me slap him and walk out in a huff just so she’d have a shot at standing at his side. If we’d happened across her on the street and there was no Blackjack Club, I probably would have asked him about it after she walked away and spent the rest of the night teasing him about needing a fat wallet to get a woman. Between the abundance of unknowns about the Club and Owen’s role within it, and now the suggestion that he preferred to keep company with prostitutes, I was shaken rather than amused.
Not a word had been exchanged between us by the time the limo came to a stop outside the Ritz. True to form, however, Owen shimmied out of the limo and waved Stephan back into the car so he could help me out himself.
“Thank you for dinner,” I said. Whatever his secrets, he deserved at least that.
“Of course,” he returned softly.
I wanted to ask what he was thinking or feeling. His face was difficult to read. I thought I saw anger somewhere in his eyes and there was irrefutable wariness as he looked back at me, but beyond that I had no idea. My emotional malaise intensified.
The plane ticket he’d sent me to come to New Orleans had been one-way, and I had no idea when he intended me to go back home. Again, I felt an urge to ask him to come up in case he’d only planned for me to stay one night. I didn’t want to return to Chicago tomorrow with a boatload of questions and feelings for him that were even more tangled and confusing than those I’d experienced after leaving Louisiana the first time. Nevertheless, Pippa’s voice sang out in my head once more, and I knew I couldn’t bring him back to my room, so I decided just to tell him goodnight and beat myself up about it later.
“I was hoping you would join me tomorrow,” he said before I could speak. “My restaurant is having its soft opening, and you liked the food last time.”
I blinked. Evidently, he meant for me to stay at least one more day, but the offer didn’t fill me with the same fluttering anticipation I’d felt at his previous requests. I was torn. Going with him meant I’d have an environment accommodating to conversation in which to approach the topics needling me, but it also meant there was a chance I would discover something else about him that made me experience a mild case of nausea.
He bent at the knees a bit to peer directly into my face. “If it’ll help persuade you, your pictures will be out for everyone to see,” he persisted. A faint smile crossed his lips.
“Yeah,” I agreed. It would’ve been childish for me to turn him down for the simple fact that I was afraid I’d find out more unsavory information. After all, the truth was the truth whether I heard about it or not, and I wasn’t going to be doing myself any favors if I remained in the dark. “I’ll go.”
“Great.” He leaned toward me, but rather than kissing me on the mouth as I expected, he gently laid his lips upon my forehead. It was the same romantic gesture I’d nearly swooned over before, but now it felt compulsory. The entire mood of our interactions had changed from a single sentence spoken by a woman who was a perfect stranger to me.
As I trudged back to my room, I realized my footfalls were heavier than usual. Every step was like a thud, and even the cheerful clacking of my heels on the marble floor did nothing to convince me it was all in my head. It wasn’t. Something had definitely changed, and if I was going to go out with him again tomorrow, I had to address it.
I needed the answers.
The suite looked smaller when I entered. All of the elaborate décor and plush seating and flawless feng shui was like a backdrop to my sullen attitude. I went straight into the bedroom, stared at the comforter that hours ago had displayed the exact outfit I wore now, and started to undress. In a parallel universe, it was Owen’s hands slipping the expensive gown over my curves. It was his fingers unwinding the straps from around my ankles and plucking the shoes from my feet. His touch was brushing the nape of my neck to undo the clasp holding the diamond necklace in place.
Not in this universe. In this universe, I was doing it all myself with a troubled mind and miserable spirit. I never could’ve imagined feeling so badly while standing in a glamorous suite in the Ritz of New Orleans.
By the time I slid under the covers, a new knot had formed in my belly. The knots I’d experienced previously were twisted nerves and seedlings of hope and writhing buds of arousal. This knot was sickening, a numb void that somehow felt worse than being pummeled with a million emotions at once. Dating Owen up to this point had been like a dream, but in one fell swoop it had become my nightmare.
I didn’t fall asleep for a long time.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Owen
The car lurched slightly as the light turned green and I pressed down on the gas. My phone slid off the dashboard, tumbling onto the empty passenger seat and bouncing into the crevice beside the center console. I cursed under my breath, but I wasn’t upset to have the thing out of my sight. I’d been close to throwing it against a wall a handful of times over the past sixteen hours.
In my efforts to resolve my feelings about the horrible turn of events last night, I’d taken to blaming my phone as the catalyst. It all started with that damned call from Pippa. She had told me she was going to be at The Club, and like an idiot I’d disregarded the news and taken Tabby there anyway. I knew what Pippa was like. There had been several occasions over the last couple of years that she’d in no uncertain terms expressed her displeasure when I’d entertained any woman who wasn’t her. Be it due to arrogance or blind faith or a lapse in judgment, though, I’d underestimated the hussy and gone against my gut.
What she’d said pissed me off. I wasn’t going to deny that for the sake of my pride. Even if Tabby hadn’t been present, I still would have found Pippa’s words offensive. I certainly kept my romances confined to The Club, with this one recent exception, but more often than not the women I took home weren’t up for auction at all. In fact, if I really thought about it, I’d only participated in about a dozen auctions over the course of my seven-year membership, and considering auctions ran twice a week — sometimes three times, if there was a special event or an abundance of interest — a dozen was hardly acknowledgeable.
My feelings weren’t the crux of the problem, however. I’d come to that realization sometime around sunrise after pacing my room for hours. I wasn’t fuming because I was insulted but because Pippa’s slander had impacted Tabby exactly as she’d hoped it would. The entire limo ride back to Tabby’s hotel was spent in silence, but I didn’t need to hear she was bothered to know it. When she didn’t answer me right away about coming to the soft opening, I’d actually felt a flicker of panic. I forgot completely about getting her naked and ravaging her beautiful body. The only thing I’d wanted was to know she was okay.
And to know we were okay.
I was hooked. I knew that now. It took the fear of Tabby’s feelings for me souring to realize it was true, and I wasn’t going to waste my time denying it any longer. I cared for the woman, and I was determined to right whatever she felt had gone wrong last night.
The idea came to me when I woke up from a short sleep. I remembered her comment at the restaurant about extravagant spending being unnecessary, and I jumped into action. In an enormous closet filled with enough suits to impress Steve Harvey, I found a pair of jeans with the tags still attached. The shir
t was easier as I still wanted to look nice, so I selected a simple silver button-down from one of the many options. A shower, some man-primping, and a choice of shoes later, I jumped into my limo and had Stephan drive me to get a rental car.
My only chance to save this relationship, whatever it was, would be if she knew me. Really knew me.
So, now, I was driving to the Ritz in a rented Honda without Stephan, champagne, or a tie. It was a first for me, and I didn’t hate it.
Her face contorted when I pulled up beneath the valet canopy and she realized I was behind the wheel of the simple vehicle. I climbed out, rounded to the passenger side, and opened the door for her. “Your chariot,” I said chivalrously by way of greeting.
“Thanks.” I could hear the awe in her voice as I helped her slide onto the cloth seat. I’d taken the car to a gas station before coming to pick her up so I could vacuum the hell out of those seats first.
When I got back in and slammed my door behind me, she admitted, “I never imagined you driving a Honda. Actually, I never imagined you driving at all.”
“I’m full of surprises,” I joked. My brain grimaced, jabbing me with a reminder about Pippa’s remark.
“I’m getting that impression,” Tabby replied, and I was pleased to hear no amount of resentment in her tone. She reached out and plucked at my pantleg. “You’re in jeans too. I figured you came out of the womb in Italian wool.”
“Listen, Miss Wit,” I teased. “You told me last night that I didn’t need to be so over-the-top. So, guess what? You’re getting the Average Joe romancing tonight.”