And now. This very-handsome man that I now found myself face to face with in the office elevator had been suckling one of my full, sensitive breasts, biting and licking as Alexander licked me in an even more intimate location – delving deep, so deep with his tongue, playing me with his clever mouth and wicked fingers. Mark Faber’s teeth had scraped my nipple with tender-rough adoration. Now that I stood here not two feet from him, sealed away in this small cage-like elevator, I could recall the vague, shadowed details of his touch. I could also recall that my cravings had been all about only one man. Alexander.
“Hello, Mr. Faber.”
He laughed. “We should consider ourselves on a first-name basis, don’t you think?”
Why? Because you took my breasts in your hands and feasted on me? Because you watched me come and cry and moan with orgasmic ecstasy, splayed out on the poker table like some nymphomaniacal hussy gone wild?
“Please,” he said, detecting my unease. “Call me Mark.”
“Mark.”
“Where’re you headed?”
Even though I’d been thinking about going to the cafeteria on the eighteen floor to grab some lunch, I had the distinct feeling Mark Faber was headed to the exact same place. The last thing I needed was a lunch invitation from the guy who’d become Alexander’s public enemy number one. “Just down to the coffee shop. To get coffee.”
He smiled again. He had very white teeth.
“Obviously,” I said.
“Yes.” His mouth quirked. “That is usually what you get at a coffee shop. But not always. I mean, you could have been getting tea. Or some of those disgusting Danishes I can never understand why people buy. Or a brownie.” He was chivalrous, maybe. Trying to break the ice.
“I don’t like Danishes either,” I said. There was no point being overly cold, really. He was a senior employee of Alexander’s, and he was trying to put me at ease. I could at least meet him halfway. It wasn’t his fault, after all, that I’d laid myself out half-naked on the poker table mid-game and come like a banshee.
“See? I could tell that about you. You’re a kindred spirit.”
A kindred spirit? That might have been overstating things just a tad. He was flirting, sure. Not a particularly wise move considering I was the boss’s fiancée, but no biggie. No one could see us. More to the point, Alexander wasn’t here: a detail Mark Faber was evidently more than a little pleased about.
“You know, I’m glad to hear it,” he said. “I was beginning to wonder if you’re ever allowed out of this building. You live here, right? And work here. I imagine you crave a little fresh air every now and then. It all must get a little … stifling.”
His insinuation was not hard to decipher. He knew Alexander well enough, as an employee and occasional poker buddy if not friend. He would have known that Alexander was controlling by nature. And it was true we’d been inseparable – and still were – when circumstances allowed.
I smiled politely but I didn’t reply. I could hardly say: You know what, Mark? I’m so in love I can barely see straight. But there is the odd, fleeting moment when I do feel like a bird in a gilded cage. Sometimes it can be a little confusing. And there was this time when he actually did lock me up and, well, I totally freaked out. I ran and hid from him and I swore I’d never come back. I just can’t be treated that way, you know what I mean? But we’ve worked through all that. We’re good now. I’ve got his key now and … we’re good.
“It just so happens that I’m also heading to the coffee shop,” he said. “Join me for a coffee?”
“I’m not sure that’s a good idea, Mark,” I said. “I should be getting back soon anyway.”
“Come on,” he persisted. “State law says every employee who works eight hours a day is legally entitled to a thirty-minute lunch break. You still have …” he glanced at his Rolex, “twenty-six minutes. Or more, considering you work more like twenty hours a day.”
I bristled slightly at this implication. Shawna Beale’s accusations flashed. You gold-digging fucking whore. “I don’t know what you mean.”
He held his hands up loosely, like I held him at gun-point. “Hey, all I meant was that you’re working some long hours for Ashley. I wouldn’t work you that hard,” he smiled apologetically. He seemed mildly amused by my touchiness on the subject.
We both knew I wouldn’t be working for him at all, but before we could get into that discussion – to my relief – the doors of the elevator binged open. Since we were both now headed in the same direction, I walked with him. And as we stepped through the automatic doors of the Skyscraper building out to the street, I realized it was nice to get some fresh air. It had now been almost six weeks since I’d simply walked down the streets of New York. Without a limo driver on hand or a billionaire chaperone.
And now, I could acknowledge this: it felt good. To just stroll along and be a regular person for ten minutes. To take a little time out.
Mark Faber smiled down at me as though reading my thoughts. “See? Not so bad.”
“It has been a little while,” I admitted.
We walked in silence for half a block, past some street vendors selling scarves and I ♥ NY t-shirts, past a pretzel cart, a homeless man. Mark threw a dollar bill into the guy’s hat.
“Can I tell you something?”
I looked up at him, not sure I wanted to hear whatever confession he was about to make. I had the distinct feeling it was a confession he wouldn’t want me to share with Alexander. “I do have a Plan B, as it turns out.”
“Plan B?”
“I can see the writing on the wall.” He paused as we reached the coffee shop, and opened the door for me. We walked into the cozy space which was infused, not surprisingly, with the heavy scent of freshly-ground coffee. I’d only been here one other time. Alexander and I had met Jake for a Sunday afternoon coffee, soon after we got back from Paris. We stood in line. “I mean, after that night –” He smiled lightly at the heat that rose to my face. “I started looking around in case Alexander decided to give me my notice, which I have a feeling he will.”
“No, I don’t think he’ll do that,” I said, although it was, we both knew, a distinct possibility. I felt bad, that I was the cause of his uncertainty. It was entirely my fault that Mark Faber’s job was on the line. “I can talk to him.”
We were at the front of the line. “What’ll you have?” he said. “I’m buying.”
I pulled my wallet out of my bag. A new one. Pink leather. A gift, containing a platinum credit card with a $100,000 limit and a debit card linked to a bank account that held exactly $500,000.00. (To start with. We can always top it up when you need to, Alexander had said). “You don’t have to do that –”
“Please. I insist.”
“Okay. Thank you. I’ll have a skim latte, one sugar.”
Once we’d placed our order, we found a small table for two in the window. I almost balked at the seating placement. What if Alexander walked past? It was unlikely, but still. Or someone he knew? He’d go ballistic if he saw me having coffee with Mark Faber. But then, this was it: trust. Trust me, he’d said. Well, trust went both ways. I wasn’t doing anything wrong. I wasn’t sneaking around behind his back. I was having coffee with a work colleague, nothing more.
“I’ll talk to Alexander,” I said. “Or we can talk to him together –”
He laughed. “No. No way. That would be a bad idea.”
“Okay, not together. But it’s wrong, that all this would get you fired.” I was still blushing from the last reference to my crazy, wanton behavior, and the blush only amped up a notch. “It wasn’t your fault. Alexander knows that.”
“Alexander doesn’t give a shit whose fault it was.”
“I think he’d listen to me, if I talked to him.”
“I appreciate that.” Mark Faber smiled and his hand, a few inches from mine, slid closer. He took my fingers between his own. “You really do have the greenest eyes.”
“And yours are very blue,” I said. It w
as true, after all. Strikingly so. There was something about Mark Faber that was refreshingly non-aggressive. I was used to Alexander’s alpha zeal. Mark’s was a different vibe altogether. He was unassuming, and his eyes were friendly. I had to admit to myself that it was a nice – if very temporary – respite from all the intensity that was Alexander. Mark was clearly flirting, which was wildly inappropriate. But it was several seconds before I removed my hand from his. I wasn’t sure why. Reclaiming a sense of my own power, maybe. My own independence. And it was clear that I’d introduced some angst into Mark Faber’s life. It was because of me and my brand new wild side that he was in this predicament. A few minutes of empathy was hardly the end of the world.
But when I gently pulled my hand away, he playfully chased after my fingers and he held my hand, toying casually with the contours of my knuckle.
“Mr. Faber –”
“Mark.”
“Mark. You shouldn’t …” I didn’t want to lecture him, but he was treading some potentially dangerous waters here.
“What – play with fire? So I’ve heard. I might get burned. Which is exactly why I’ve come up with a Plan B. I actually think it’s good timing. I’ve been working for Skyscraper for five years. I have enough experience to start my own publication. So I’ve been looking into it. I found a space and I’ve got my eye on a couple of potential employees.” Mark Faber’s eyes held mine. “I’d appreciate it if you kept this to yourself for the time being, Lila. Just until I know for sure one way or the other.”
He didn’t give me time to answer. “And, I know this is out of line, all things considered, and I know you’ll say no now, but keep it in the back of your mind, in case you ever need to: I’ve seen your résumé and I overheard Ashley singing your praises and, if I do make the break, which I probably will, you could come work for me.”
I stared at him, speechless. It was a preposterous suggestion.
“I know, I know,” he said. “Your answer is this: No, Mark. No way. I don’t need a job. I have a job. I have a company to learn to run and a fiancé to obey and a big fat expense account to work my way through.” He put one of his hands up in that don’t-shoot-me apology again: the one that wasn’t caressing my fingers. “Don’t tell me to leave yet. Please. Because I know you’re about to. Just keep it in mind, that’s all I’m asking. A little ace in the hole, to fall back on.” I felt a fresh heat on my face at his poker reference. “Just in case you ever need to. Okay?” He leaned a little closer, his grasp growing bolder. “You know …” His voice was low, as though he didn’t want to be overheard. And he leaned closer still. “You were – you are – so incredibly beautiful. And so hot. Jesus Christ. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about the way you –”
“Mark – ” I pulled away. But it was too late. Because something in my peripheral vision made me look out the window. The glint of sun on chrome. On a very shiny black stretch limo. A familiar one, with tinted windows.
The very same limo screeching to a very sudden stop.
And an enraged black-haired billionaire practically leaping out of the car.
Walking in my direction, a hell-raiser look on his flawless face.
He’d seen us.
My heart skipped a beat, not only from being caught in an innocent, clandestine rendezvous with Mark Faber, but from the beauty of my fiancé as he stormed towards us, his fists clenched, fury written all over his expression and the set of his broad shoulders in their exquisitely-cut suit. His hair was curling over the collar of his shirt, slightly windswept like he’d just driven in not from a series of legal meetings but from a bear hunt in the mountaintops or a horse trek across a wild, idyllic ranch in Montana where the air was cool but not cold and the rivers so clean you could drink them. That was the thing: he looked clean but sensually gritty, groomed but tantalizingly rugged. I wanted to lick the salty sweat off his skin and feast on his virile perfection. He was so insanely beautiful I literally could not breathe.
Mark Faber saw him too. He stood suddenly, almost knocking his chair over in the process. “Just think about it,” he said. “I’ve made my decision. I’ll be handing in my resignation this afternoon.”
I didn’t reply to him, feeling the full weight of Alexander’s fury and tuning into it, reflecting it. I stood too, and turned to face Alexander as he stormed into the café, all male aggression and blustery bravado. The entire place went quiet, all eyes on the man who looked like a stray GQ cover model who moonlighted as a bad-ass pirate. His wealth and his raw sexuality clung to him, radiating in shimmery, invisible waves. His look screamed Try me: I’ll give you the hottest sex of your life and make all your wildest fantasies come true. I knew this to be true.
But this reaction. This stalking, ferocious assumption of guilt when I’d done nothing to deserve it, it riled me beyond belief. It felt too similar to that locked cage of entrapment that Alexander promised to never, ever impose. We were supposed to be past all this. I’d agreed to marry him because he’d promised not to suffocate me.
He walked up to me, stopping a few feet from where I stood. I could smell him, that spiced, minted flavor that cut through even the thick coffee-scented air. That scent did the same thing it always did to me: seeped into me, lighting little fires of desire in every erogenous zone I possessed. I went wet. I could feel my pulse in the warm, intimate hollow between my legs as a sweet, slippery throb. I felt like I might erupt, from the passion, the desperation and the rage. Keep it breezy. Don’t make a scene.
“Nice seeing you Mark,” I said, glancing once over my shoulder. “Thanks for the coffee. We’ll do it again sometime,” I added, just to jab Alexander. I wanted to enrage him further, for his oppressive control over me. For the pull of resisting urges he incessantly introduced: the juxtaposition of a cocooning sense of control our relationship allowed me and at the same time stripped me of. To Alexander, I smiled and said, “Darling.” I’d never called him ‘darling’ in my life – or anyone else – but it fit. The practically-mocking, almost-subservient ring to it fit the moment perfectly. “We have some things to talk about. Shall we head back to Skyscraper?” I was playing the Mad Men secretary again and it pissed me off even more that the reference – once again – flashed through my mind.
His eyes narrowed at my choice of words. The delicate formality. The arcane inanity.
I knew we were going to have this out and so did he. It would be a gigantic blow-out of emotion and I couldn’t wait to get started.
Alexander turned to Mark Faber. He grabbed the label of his suit jacket with his fist. “Stay. Away. From. Her.” he growled viciously. Some of the people in the café were murmuring and moving away from the conflict, as though worried it was about to erupt. I was worried too. Alexander looked like he was on the verge of losing his cool big time.
It didn’t help matters when Mark Faber replied with this: “She was enjoying a little freedom. A little fresh air. That’s what she said: it’s been while since she’s been out from under the boss’s thumb, among other things. No harm done.”
Alexander was going to hit him, I could see it coming before the words were even out of Mark’s mouth. So I stepped in. I’d had to break up his fight with Jake and didn’t feel like doing that again right here in the middle of a damn coffee shop.
I stood in front of Alexander and I removed his grip from Mark’s lapel. I took both his fists in my hands. He was practically humming with his own wrath. I knew he wouldn’t lunge if I was in his way and I stood my ground. “We’re going. I need you to come with me. Now.”
“You’re fucking fired,” Alexander said to Mark at exactly at the same time Mark growled, “I quit, by the way.”
I managed – somehow – to pull Alexander away, to get him to come with me.
“Think about it, Lila,” Mark called after us. I closed the door before Alexander could react but his simmering vitriol was practically scalding us both.
The limo driver was there, of course, holding the door open for us. I suddenly felt
strange, just being in this position, with servants and drivers and housekeepers. Mostly, I’d enjoyed being pampered. But now, this distance between the new, rich, engaged-to-a-billionaire me and what suddenly felt like the real me felt vast and foreign. It was his fault. He’d stolen parts of me that mattered, muting them and overpowering me. “Thank you,” I said to the driver.
HONEY GIRL: BILLIONAIRE (Book 2) Page 11