Remember Me

by L'Amour, Nelle

  “Yo, Kayla!”

  He and the attractive woman exchange kisses, the European way on each cheek.

  “Darling, so good to see you,” gushes the woman.

  “So, sweetheart,” he drawls in a thick New York accent, his eyes on her chest, “is anything a steal?”

  She runs a manicured hand through her glossy hair. “Check out the Warhol. Don’t tell anyone I’ve told you, but there’s no reserve.”

  I get the sense the stunning woman works for the auction house. Grrr! She’s got a job!

  The sleazebag winks at her. “Thanks for the tip, sweetheart.” He chugs his champagne and stuffs an hors d’oeuvre into his mouth, chewing it noisily. “Your parents here?”

  “No. They’re at their house in Aruba.”

  Uncouthly, Sheldon wipes his mouth with the sleeve of his jacket. Slob. “Tell your father to call me when he gets back in town. I have a hot TV project cooking.”

  “I will. Where are you staying?”

  “At the Mercer downtown. Come by later. I’m having an after-party.”

  She smiles flirtatiously. “I’ll be there.” Her crystal-green eyes roam the crowd of art collectors. “Listen, I’ve got to schmooze. I’ll see you later, darling.” I watch as she pecks a kiss on his cheek, and they part, each working themselves into the crowd.

  I move on, plucking a glass of champagne from one of the white-gloved waiters along with an hors d’oeuvre. A cheese puff. Hungry, I snag another and move into a corner, intimidated by these glamorous people. Stuffing the crusty pastry into my mouth, I catch sight of him, standing across the room in front of a colorful abstract painting. The most beautiful man I’ve ever set eyes on.

  A tad older than me, he’s tall, dark and handsome, but not in the traditional, fairy-tale way. Unlike all the clean-shaven middle-aged suits here, his chiseled face is laced with a sexy layer of scruff that hints at a riot of dark hair beneath his adorable beanie. Dressed in all black, his lean, athletic body sports faded ripped jeans, beat-up Doc Martens, and this ridiculously sexy leather bomber jacket over a Springsteen T-shirt. He’s hot as sin. Downtown cool. A bad boy.

  Our eyes lock. Holy shit. He’s staring at me. I behold him like a work of art. Despite the distance between us, I can feel his magnetism. An attraction like none I’ve ever felt. My body reacts in a way I’ve never experienced—heart palps, shortness of breath, and tingles all over. It’s so heated I contemplate taking off my coat.

  He loosens his wool scarf and a cocky smile curls his lush lips. It’s almost a teasing smirk. Telling me it’s suddenly hot in here.

  It is!

  I nervously sip my champagne. What’s my next move? Flipping around, I face a painting so I don’t have to deal with Mr. Swoonworthy.

  My breathing shallow, I absent-mindedly stare at the canvas. A Jackson Pollock. Estimated Sale Price: 1-1.5 million dollars. Nothing compares with the masterpiece I just beheld. I can still feel his eyes on me. My temperature is rising; my pulse is in overdrive.

  Moments later, a warm breath licks the nape of my neck. A pair of strong arms circles my waist, trapping me. My heart skips a beat; goosebumps pop beneath my coat. Oh God! Is it possibly him?

  “Sweetheart, you’re more amazing than any painting here.”

  It’s not him! The voice is gruff with a thick New York accent. I recognize it immediately. Sheldon Greenberg. The scent of his putrid cologne drifts up my nose and nauseates me. To my horror, he thrusts a hand under my coat and gropes my breasts.

  “Mmm,” he hums as he squeezes them.

  “Please stop!” I squirm, but he holds me prisoner, gripping my waist and pinching my nipples.

  “Please . . . you’re hurting me!”

  “Relax, sweetheart. We’re just getting started.”

  On my next desperate breath, he corners me against the wall, pressing me so hard against it that the plastic tumbler I’m holding crushes in my hand. A sharp pain slices through the base of my thumb as it slips out of my fingers. The pain is fleeting, overpowered by my need to get away from this monster. No matter how much I writhe, trying to fight him off, I can’t break free of him.

  Caging me with his weighty body, he shuffles his hand down my torso, until it reaches the waistband of my skirt. Digging his stubby fingers beneath my pantyhose, he travels further south.

  “I bet you have a pussy that belongs in a catalogue,” he growls, so close to my mound. His erection presses against me. Frightening me. Sickening me. Bringing me to tears.

  My face smooched against the wall, I cry out as loud as I can, “Please stop!”

  “Let go of her, you motherfucker!”

  A new voice! On my next harsh breath, I’m freed. I whirl around and find Sheldon sprawled on the floor, face down. My hero glares at my assailant with frightening intensity. His piercing blue eyes as razor-sharp as shark teeth. A don’t-fuck-with-me snarl curled on his lips.

  “She’s mine.”

  His husky voice is intense. Forceful. Commanding. Possessive.

  “If you ever touch her again, I’ll fucking kill you.” Greenberg staggers to his feet and stumbles away, not looking back at the ravishing man with the badass jeans and leather jacket, who just rescued me.

  Ignoring him, my hero cups his hands on my trembling shoulders. “Are you okay?” His voice is now soft with a touch of gravel. His eyes, two exquisite sapphires, glittering with concern.

  “I’m fine,” I reply, still shaken. “Thank you.”

  His jeweled eyes travel down my body and then darken with fury. “Shit! The bastard hurt you.”

  Suddenly, I’m aware of a twinge of pain and the sensation of warm liquid trickling down my palm.

  As I glance down at my bloody hand, he yanks off his scarf.

  “Hold up your hand.”

  My heart hammering, I do as he asks and watch as he wraps the scarf around it, forming a makeshift bandage.

  “I’m going to ruin your scarf.” Tingling all over, I can barely get the words out.

  He smiles a sexy, dimpled smile that turns my bones to liquid. “Don’t worry. They’re a dime a dozen. You can buy me a new one on the street tomorrow.”

  Tomorrow?

  “There . . . all done.” He knots the scarf. “How does your hand feel?”

  “Good. Thanks.” The truth is I can barely feel it, so numb from the tingles that shoot through my body, my senses dulled by my overpowering attraction to him.

  He cups my shoulders again. As I grow weak in my knees from his touch, another heart-melting smile fixes on his lips.

  “Do you know you’re beautiful?”

  Me, beautiful? I stay speechless as he leans into me, his warm breath dusting my cheeks. He smells divine of leather and pine.

  “What’s your name?” I stammer.

  “Finn.”

  “As in Phineas?”

  “As in Huckleberry.”

  He whispers in my ear.

  “Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

  One hour later, we’re in Brooklyn, at his painting-filled loft, butt-naked on his one piece of furniture—a micro-suede futon that’s sprawled out on the butcher-block floor next to his worn guitar. Our bodies are entwined, a mad tangle of arms, legs, and tongues that can’t get enough of one another. Touching, sucking, licking, tasting. Exploring each other as if we’re two conquerors discovering new lands. Springsteen’s “She’s the One” plays on his sound system.

  So in the moment, my very skilled, generous, rough around the edges lover brings me to places I’ve never known before. In positions I’ve only read about. Giving me one outrageous orgasm after another. Each one more mind-blowing than the one before. Making me forget about what happened at Christie’s. And my now expired V-Card.

  We spend the entire night fucking our brains out. In between, smoking a joint. Getting high. Opening our hearts. Bearing our souls. We’re bathed in each other’s scents, twined in each other’s limbs, wrapped in each other’s dreams. I tell him about my nomadic, magical child
hood, traveling across the globe while my parents filmed award-winning documentaries. And then about their untimely, tragic death. The Cliff Notes version of my education. Followed by my dreams and aspirations.

  My past seems happily-ever-after as he shares his. I learn he’s a product of the system. The son of a crack whore mother who abandoned him at birth, leaving him alone to drift from one foster family to another. A talented artist from an early age, he turned to painting as a means to both escape his hardships and express himself. It was the only constant in his ever changing, challenging life. His passion when love was nowhere to be had. Two years older than me—twenty-five—he tells me he won a full scholarship to the prestigious Pratt Institute, from which he graduated.

  “What were you doing at Christie’s?” I ask, during a reprieve from our reckless sex, my head resting on his chiseled chest, his arm wrapped around me.

  “Networking with collectors and dealers, hoping to jumpstart my painting career. What about you?”

  “After my depressing job interview at NBC, I went inside on a whim to warm up and get a drink.”

  A chance encounter.

  He affectionately flicks my nose. “They should have hired you.”

  “One of your paintings should have been hanging at Christie’s.”

  We exchange a laugh before . . .

  We fuck again and again. Everywhere. Every which way. In his bed . . . on the kitchen counter . . . against the walls . . . in the shower. No part of his loft is left unmarked.

  Last night, it was lust.

  By morning, it’s love.

  One day later, I get a life-changing phone call. A job offer from Conquest Broadcasting in Los Angeles to become an associate producer in their news department.

  That night after a celebratory session of delicious lovemaking, my naked, beautiful Finn rolls off the futon and stands up.

  “Now, I’m gonna make you an offer you can’t refuse.”

  I laugh at him, appreciating his valiant attempt to sound like Marlon Brando in The Godfather. “What?”

  “It’s a surprise. Close your eyes.”

  I do as he asks. A few moments later, a ticklish, wet sensation brushes across my abdomen.

  I squirm. “What are you doing, Finn?” It lasts less than thirty seconds.

  “Baby, sit up and open your eyes. I hoist myself to an upright position. Finn’s sitting cross-legged next to me, holding a paintbrush, the bristles coated in a shimmer of red. He flashes a cocky smile.

  I look down. My eyes grow wide as I silently read the two words he’s painted on my body.

  MARRY ME!

  Two weeks later, we exchange our forever vows at a chapel in Las Vegas en route to Los Angeles.

  The city of angels.

  The city of dreams.

  CHAPTER 16

  “Please have a seat, Scarlet.”

  Finn’s sexy rasp catapults me back to the present. He’s led me to a sprawling art-filled great room. Bathed in natural light, it’s sparsely decorated with contemporary furnishings, a tasteful combination of creamy leather, polished metal, and gleaming dark wood that showcases the large abstract canvases on the soaring white walls.

  Still shaking inside and not the least bit recovered, I do as he asks, sinking into one of the oversized sofas. He lowers himself onto an armchair across from me. Leaning back, he crosses an ankle over his knee as I fold my hands in my lap. Trying not to gaze down at his manhood.

  “Help yourself to some water.”

  My eyes flit to the two bottles of Evian on the coffee table between us. “Thanks, but I’m good,” I lie, my emotions in a jumble and my mouth desert-dry.

  His eyes meet mine. “Scarlet, I was very impressed by your credentials and well-traveled background as well as by your glowing recommendations.”

  I nervously thank him. “Why did you decide to homeschool your daughter?” Our little girl! I can’t wait to meet her!

  He looks at me earnestly. “Numerous reasons. For one, I’ll be traveling a lot this year, which would mean pulling her out of school for long periods of time to be with me.”

  “I see.” He’s obviously devoted to her. “Where exactly are you going?”

  “I’m an artist and have several exhibitions set up at galleries around the world. After Los Angeles, I go to London, Paris, and Hong Kong.”

  Wow! He’s come so far. He must be mega-successful. “That’s amazing.”

  He humbly shrugs. “Personally, I’d rather stay put and paint in my studio. You, of course, will accompany us because I don’t want my daughter to miss a day of her studies. I assume you have a passport.”

  Nodding, I tell him I do. My mind flashes back to my own childhood, globe-trotting with my parents. “The knowledge she’ll get from traveling the world will be immeasurable.”

  “I agree. One of the reasons I hired you is that you’re multi-lingual. I would like you to incorporate some basic foreign language skills into her curriculum. By the way, she has a knack for languages.”

  Just like her mother.

  “She already speaks fluent Spanish.”

  “That’s wonderful. She should be able to pick up French easily.”

  “Yes, she’s extremely smart. In fact, she’s been tested and shown to be gifted though she’s rather small for her age. The administrator of the private school I thought about sending her to felt she would be very bored in kindergarten or even the first grade. She already reads at the third-grade level, but putting her in the third grade with kids much bigger than her felt wrong to me. I thought it better she learn at home.”

  “You made a good decision,” I comment, knowing from a story I did on bullying that smaller kids are easy prey.

  “Another reason I’ve chosen to homeschool her is for her safety. I’m quite renowned, and I didn’t want the paparazzi to hound her.” He pauses. “Or have to worry she might be taken from me.”

  Kidnapped. Inwardly, I shudder. The investigative reporter in me wonders: Has their life been threatened? The unsettling thought circles my mind as he grabs one of the bottles of water.

  “You’re very protective.”

  “I’ve had to be. I lost my wife. I can’t lose her. She’s everything to me.”

  My stomach clenches at his first mention of me. I debate whether or not to ask him about his wife as he twists open the bottle cap. My heart hammering, I go for it.

  “How did your wife die?”

  His eyes darken. “A car crash.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay. It’s been a while.”

  My curiosity is piqued. I’m bursting to hear what circumstantial details he knows. Signaling that he doesn’t want to talk about it, he takes a long swig of his water.

  Holding the bottle in his left hand. I notice for the first time he’s no longer wearing his wedding band. Or a different one. A glimmer of hope flickers inside me. Maybe he’s never remarried.

  After another sip, he sets the bottle down on the table. “There’s one more reason why I’m overprotective and have decided to homeschool my daughter.” He pauses. “She’s rather sickly.”

  My chest constricts. My stomach dips. The C-word? Oh God, no!

  “What do you mean?” I spit out the words, unable to mask the alarm in my voice.

  “She has asthma and is prone to attacks.”

  Though I silently sigh with relief, a wave of sadness sweeps over me. I try to imagine my skinny, pale little girl when a bright raspy voice lights up the room.

  “Hi, Daddy! Is this my new teacher, Ms. Callahan?”

  I look up. An adorable, wide-eyed little girl hippity-hops toward us, her two cinnamon braids flying. I force myself to stay glued to the couch when I long to run up to her, lift her into my arms, and smother her with kisses. I can’t help but gasp.

  She’s the spitting image of me!

  The me I used to be.

  The miracle of all miracles.

  My daughter!

  CHAPTER 17

  Six
Years Earlier

  “Mmm,” purrs my husband against neck, licking the ticklish area just beneath my chin. This hypersensitive spot always gets to me, sending a tingly rush of need and desire to my core. My head lolled back, I close my eyes and moan.

  “We’re going to make a baby tonight,” he whispers in my ear.

  A baby. How long have we have been trying? I’ve lost track. Finally, this past month we gave up on fertility treatments. Not that I couldn’t afford them. I had enough. The days of recording my cycle; counting the days to ovulation; running home from the office to fuck; those countless shots of Clomid, something my husband had to do for me because I couldn’t bear injecting the long needle into my thigh; the clinic visits; the egg retrievals; the IVF procedures. Then, the wait. The hope. The disappointment. The tears. Not to mention the stress it put on our marriage.

  “I’m sorry. We don’t understand why you can’t get pregnant. Your husband’s sperm are healthy, strong swimmers and your eggs are top-notch A-quality.”

  The same story over and over again.

  I’ve given up on having children. Convinced myself that not everyone needs to have them. That for us, it’s not meant to be. Maybe in light of my all-consuming career, it’s better this way. I don’t need the added stress of a child. It’s a sign. My defenses go only so far to mask my grief.

  “Where are you on your cycle?” my husband asks, moving a hand to my throbbing pussy.

  “I-I don’t know,” I stammer, so aroused by his caresses. Actually, that’s the truth. Since the fertility treatments, my periods have been irregular. They come and go, and I’ve stopped counting the days in between.

  “It doesn’t matter. Tonight’s the night.”

  “How do you know?” I murmur, my arousal making it increasingly difficult to talk in full sentences, let alone talk at all.

  As I circle my hips, he toys with my clit with his gifted fingers. The deft fingers of an artist. A master. “Relax, I just feel it. Fuck, baby, you’re so hot and wet for me.”

  I shove the word baby to the back of my mind. For once I just want to fuck my brains out with my husband and not worry about the consequences. Fuck him senseless. Me senseless. Not feel the pressure.