It was then that I saw Masha, standing by the bar, a bored look on her pretty young face.
I felt my chance arriving. I could fuck her easily, of course, but the way it would affect Morgan would be more fun.
Bad Blaine. Bad.
Masha was absorbed in her cellphone when I approached her. I gently took it out of her hands and put it to sleep.
“It’s impolite to text at social gatherings,” I instructed her. She blushed, a smile spreading on her face. “You should cultivate the habit of socializing with your peers in a charming way. You’ll find it does a whole lot more for your life than Twitter.”
“Okay. You’re right.”
I gave her the phone back.
“I’m heading back to New York. My date for dinner cancelled on me. Tell your boyfriend to go play Settlers of Cataan or whatever tonight.”
Masha’s eyes widened.
“Mr. Stone—“
“Blaine.”
“Blaine… I can’t…”
“Oh, Masha, don’t make me beg. You wouldn’t like me when I beg. I just look so pathetic, rolling around on the ground like a little puppy dog.”
She bit her lip.
“Come on, do something crazy. You’re in graduate school and pretty soon, you’ll have a PhD in English. You’ll be a professor. Do something wild before you end up like—“ I glanced behind me to see Morgan entering the room, her cosmo half-empty already. “Like Morgan.”
I waved at her and she frowned. She mouthed to me: “You’re still here?”
I winked back.
“Okay! Okay, let’s do it. Am I dressed okay?”
“No,” I confessed. “So we’ll be stopping at Bergdorf’s on the way.”
“What?! Really?!”
I shrugged. “I need you dressed to get in. Now, wave bye-bye to Morgan.”
Masha and I both turned and waved to my ex-sister. She was positively fuming: her face trembling, her knuckles stretched tight around her glass. Perfect.
I slid my arm around Masha’s waist as we left the club.
“I’ve got a hell of a night planned for you….” I whispered to her, one eye still on Morgan. I saw her face contort, darken. Yes. That’s right.
Get mad, girl. Get jealous.
9
Morgan
I doubted I’d ever be able to forgive Blaine for what he did.
I should have forced myself to stop thinking about him, stop thinking about him and Masha. I couldn’t help but imagine it, though. The images of them… Together… Flooded my mind’s eye.
He’d take her into town, let her freshen up at his apartment first. Maybe some shopping first. A casual hand finding its way to Masha’s ass, squeezing and groping, but gently, playfully.
Then, a limo would pick them up. A long, black, stretch limo. They’d pile into the back. There, Blaine would ply my student with champagne and strip the dress he’d just bought her off of her young, inexperienced body…
By the time they were at the restaurant, Masha would be pulling her dress back on, wiping her mouth clean. Blaine would be zipping his pants back up. They’d have a decadent dinner, complete with cocktails, wine pairings, and a nice port at the end.
And then, the limo would whisk them back to Blaine’s place. Back to his fantasy world of luxury and pleasure. There, they’d fuck. All night long.
Assholes.
I fumed the entire way home. I should have been happy. This should have been a victory. But Blaine, stupid Blaine, he had ruined it, made me feel like a child, made me feel stupid… God damn him…
When I got home, I found a text on my phone. It was from Blaine.
“Masha’s having a great time with me. Just so you know.”
I texted back immediately.
“Go to hell.”
A few moments passed and then Blaine’s reply, which he must have been already typing in anticipation of my own reply, flooded my phone’s screen.
“Now, now. That’s no way to talk to your newest benefactor. Be good, sis.”
I scowled and all but threw my phone into the pool outside my condo.
Fortunately, I didn’t hear from Blaine for the next few days. I assumed that he had succumbed to Masha’s charms, as she must have to his, and that he didn’t have any reason to bother with me.
That was for the best.
After all, it was dumb… SO DUMB… of me to get hung up over him. Over a man who was out of my league. A man who had way more women throwing themselves at him than I’d ever have men wanting to take me out.
And a man who had been, for a time, my brother.
I did my best not to think about it, but I couldn’t help but feel… Something. Something I didn’t want to admit to.
Damn it, was this jealousy?
No. No, it couldn’t. Certainly, I could have had Blaine… if I wanted. But it was wrong in so many ways. And I needed to focus on my career. And Blaine wasn’t right for me.
And damn it, he was my brother!
But still…
Those eyes. Those shoulders, broad and powerful. His powerful, precise movements, and then the intoxicating smell of his cologne as he pulls me close, his fingers feeling like they’re ready to start kneading dough, to start kneading me, molding me…
And the omnipresent bottles of Dom Perignon didn’t hurt.
Damn it. Damn it all to hell. I spent the next few days after the donation ceremony trying to do work, trying to research and spend my time productively, but instead, all I could think about was Blaine and Masha. Blaine and Masha.
It was a welcome relief when, finally, it was time for me to fly down to Atlanta to see my mother for Thanksgiving.
I wish I could say my mother was proud of me, and probably, she is. But I still can’t help but suspect that there’s part of her that wishes I had become a lawyer like her, that I was working in Atlanta or New York or Washington, making the big bucks and going on mother-daughter vacations to Jamaica to pick up men way too young for either of us.
I know she’s proud of me. It just doesn’t feel like it.
Still, there’s nothing like seeing your mother. As I tumbled into her BMW when she picked me up at the airport, the familiar scent of her perfume greeted me. She wore a more casual suit than she normally wears, which indicated to me that she hadn’t been in court or meeting with a client that day.
“Morgan, babe!” she squealed, leaning over to kiss me. I kissed her back.
“Hi, mommy,” I said, settling in with my duffel bag over my legs, relaxing into the luxurious leather seats of her car. The machine roared to life and in a second, we were out of the airport and on the highway, roaring down the road on our way to my mother’s fancy downtown Atlanta townhome.
I had emailed her about Blaine’s donation but I hadn’t told her anything more about it. I hadn’t told her about what he had said during the ceremony.
And I definitely hadn’t told her about Blaine and Masha. Or myself and Blaine. God, how did I end up in this situation?
“That’s a damned fine thing your brother did,” my mother commented as our conversation drifted from the usual talk of people I had known growing up and what did the dogs do now to a topic which I knew she would touch on.
“It was, but I don’t want to talk about it now.”
My mother eyed me. She’s a keen judge of character—she has to be, being not only a woman, but a woman in a law firm that’s just about all old men. She has an almost supernatural ability to ascertain a person’s feelings and emotions in moments, just from the intonation of a word or a gesture. And now, she had focused her laser sharp powers of detection and deduction on me.
“Why’s that?” she asked coolly.
“Well… Oh, I don’t know. He downplayed my role in the whole thing during the ceremony in front of my entire department where we announced it. It was like I didn’t even exist.”
“Well, honey, maybe’s that for the best. You don’t know what kind of—you know, scandal—it could cause if peo
ple got to thinking about your relationship.”
I froze, my blood running cold. Wait, what did my mom know about me and Blaine? Had he talked to her?
“Our relationship?”
“You know. The fact that you were brother and sister, once upon a time. Step-brother and step-sister, but still.”
I relaxed. No, Blaine hadn’t talked to her. She didn’t know that Blaine was trying to put the moves on me, trying to make me want him, trying to do all sorts of things that he shouldn’t be doing…
Things that I didn’t want him to do but which I couldn’t stop him.
Things which I wasn’t sure I wanted to stop.
“You’re right,” I said with a sigh, leaning back in my seat.
“He sounds so much better than his father, though,” my mother murmured. “He was gorgeous, of course, but couldn’t keep it in his pants. It was a second marriage for both of us, so we were jaded already but still… It got to be where I simply couldn’t trust him.”
I knew why they had broken up. I knew it was because of the cheating. They had remained close, right up until the suicide, but it had been rocky, even as friends.
“I’m pleased to hear that Blaine has grown up into a nice young man.”
I sighed again. Even though my mom was powerful and hard-headed, there were times when she couldn’t help but sound like a mom.
“That’s right, mom. A nice young man,” I said, my eyes all but glazing over as I watched the city zoom by. She had no idea what Blaine was like. He was just like his father—a man who wanted pleasure, who thought he could buy anything, have anything, simply because of who he was.
I hated him. I never wanted to see him again.
But damn if I couldn’t stop thinking about him. This was going to be a long Thanksgiving break, I realized…
10
Blaine
Thanksgiving, for those of us who stay in the city, is always kind of a lonely, depressing affair. I knew Nicholas had gone away with the kids to their house on Cape Cod for the long weekend. Morgan, no doubt, was with her mother in Atlanta. Most of my other colleagues and friends in town had other plans, had families to go see.
I, on the other hand?
I haven’t had a real Thanksgiving since my father killed himself. He had been addicted to painkillers for several years, and that really harshed the Thanksgiving vibe. We would drive up to Westchester to see his family. When I was younger, we would fly to San Francisco for Thanksgiving with my biological mother, but I hadn’t seen her since my father’s funeral, let alone had Thanksgiving with her.
So, I worked. I didn’t mind that. If you’re single and unattached, with no significant family, it’s easy to work your way through Thanksgiving weekend, taking a break for the parade, enjoying how quiet the office is, keeping up with your foreign colleagues and clients who don’t have the luxury of a late November break to ease them into the holiday season.
Of course, Morgan was still angry at me. But that was the idea. I don’t like it if a woman’s feeling nothing at all for me. I’d rather anger over apathy.
Anger over apathy. I should trademark that.
I emailed Morgan the Saturday after Thanksgiving. I imagined her ready my words, her pretty brow furrowed in annoyance as I popped back into her life, invading her inbox in the same way that dreams of her invaded my sleep…
“Hey sis,
Happy Turkey Genocide Day. Masha and I had a lovely time the other night, and an even lovelier brunch the next morning. I’m planning on coming to Silliman next week to see her and I want to meet to discuss how we’ll administer the fund. Monday? Monday it is. All best, your loving big brother.”
That was sure to piss her off.
Still, how to get Morgan? I couldn’t just enrage her. That’d be fun for a little bit, but I wanted more. I wanted…
Her.
There. I admitted it. I was getting a little bit obsessed.
I hate not getting what I want. That tends to only make me want things more.
When I was a kid, I was lonely. Lonely all the time—growing up rich is great in a lot of ways, but it can be isolating. My parents never had time for me, were more likely to send me off to boarding school than hug me, more likely to gift me a new car than read an essay I had written or come to see a lacrosse game.
I don’t mean for this to be a sob story. After all, I turned out all right. I’m not a complete psychopath. I’m a jerk, sure, but not nearly as much of a jerk as the other assholes on Wall Street. Hell, I’m one of the nicest guys I work with.
But damned if it wouldn’t be easier if I could just… Buy Morgan.
Not literally. Not in terms of slavery or the horrible things she studies. But if only I could just take her out to dinner, take her to a show, take her to Bergdorf’s, take her for a drive, a helicopter ride—and then she’d see, she’d KNOW what I could give her…
I wanted to give her those things. And in return, I wanted her to give herself.
To me. All to me.
I sighed. I was in my office, overlooking a mostly empty city. What the hell was wrong with me? It wasn’t like me to get this hung up over a woman. And if I ever did, all it took was giving a call to one of the many girls I’d enjoyed over the past few years—lovely girls, who’d jump at the chance to attach themselves to my arm for a weekend and my cock for the night…
But Morgan was different. There was no doubt about that.
I gave Nicholas a call, ostensibly to talk PR strategy. I could tell he was annoyed that I was bothering him about work while he was off with the kids, but his voice softened when I mentioned Morgan.
“I’ve been making her jealous,” I said with a chuckle. “I took one of her grad students out for dinner and let her spend the night at my place. I’m rubbing it in her face now.”
“Blaine, just what are your intentions here?” Nicholas asked carefully.
“What do you mean?”
“Did you fuck that girl?”
“No! I’m just trying to piss Morgan off and besides, I had a reservation I didn’t want to show up alone for.”
“So, what are your intentions with Morgan? With your step-sister, to whose university you just donated a whole boatload of cash?”
I paused. Did I tell Nicholas?
“I want to bed her. And she’s not my sister anymore.”
“Blaine…”
“What? We’re all adults here. I don’t give a damn what anyone else thinks. If only Morgan got it through her head what a good time we could have…”
“Do you even see how this could blow up in all of our faces? There’s another scandal right here, waiting for us. You’re a couple of nasty tabloid photos away from more trouble.”
I found myself rolling my eyes, even though Nicholas wasn’t there to see.
“I’ll take my chances.”
“As your chief public relations officer, I have to advise you to refrain.”
I paused, letting the words sink in.
“And as my friend?” I asked finally.
Silence on the other end. And then, Nicholas sighed.
“As your friend… Not everyone wants to be bought. Not everyone has a price.”
“Everyone has a price.”
“All right. Then maybe her price isn’t what you think it is.”
“What do you mean?”
“Damn it, Blaine, stop thinking about Michelin-starred restaurants and bottles of Dom. There’s more to life than that for the vast majority of the country. A majority into which Morgan falls.”
“I still don’t follow you.”
“What’s she interested in?”
“Nineteenth-century American literature,” I answered without skipping a beat.
“There. Do something for her involving that.”
“But that’s boring.”
“And now you wonder why she doesn’t want to fuck you?”
He had a point. A damned good point.
We chatted a bit more—about the Macy’
s parade, about whether or not the Chinese stock market was going to implode this years, about what model of Mercedes he was going to buy after the New Year, and so on.
But my heart wasn’t in it. I was planning—planning how I would get Morgan, how I would win her. It wasn’t going to be with luxury and money.
But, of course, that didn’t mean luxury and money wouldn’t help…
11
Morgan
“So, you never slept with him?”
It was Monday. The Monday after Thanksgiving. The undergraduates uniformly trudged through the university, unwilling to be back at school so soon, their Thanksgiving dinners sitting uneasily in their bellies. Masha sat in my office, and while we were supposed to discuss a due date for a draft of her dissertation prospectus, it wasn’t long before we started talking about Blaine.
“Oh, god, no!” she cried. “We had dinner and I slept over—but I skyped with my boyfriend the whole time. Mr. Stone went back to the office. He said he’d been waiting for months to get a reservation at Dorsia and he didn’t want to lose it, since they won’t seat you if you don’t have the exact number of people…”
“But he took you shopping?”
“Well, yes, but just so I’d have something to wear. It’s not really a jeans kind of place.”
I sighed. It checked out. I realized I had fallen into Blaine’s trap.
I had gotten jealous. He had tricked me into being jealous, being jealous of my student, a more or less innocent girl who had no idea what my brother was capable of.
Ex-brother. And was I really even sure what he was capable of?
“Really, we spent a lot of time talking about you. He wanted me to explain your research to him—he said he was too intimidated to ask you himself.”
“Really?”
“Really. Maribeth Wilson, New Orleans—he seemed to want to know all of it. It was a nice conversation. I was definitely a little buzzed by the end, but I don’t think he had more than one glass of wine the entire night. He drove me home and everything. And I only stayed over because it was so late.”
At His Mercy: A Dark Billionaire Romance Page 7