Black Lies

by Alessandra Torre

  “There’s been hundreds,” she confided at last year’s board meeting, wedging an entire powdered donut into her mouth as I watched closely, as interested at the prospect of her choking as I was in the discussion of Sharp’s sex life. “My driver’s brother is a doorman at his downtown condo and said the girls show up all hours. Beautiful girls, but clearly prostitutes. He never leaves with them, and they only stay for a few hours.” I nod, half-believing the words. It would explain why he’d never been photographed with a woman. The man appeared to not date, a fact that drove the women of San Francisco mad and had sparked occasional rumors of homosexuality. The rumors never went too far… too many women who had met the man, worked for the man, dissuaded them. I liked the idea of prostitutes, of the man unleashing holy hell on a woman of the night in the privacy of his home.

  The funds mean a great deal. He didn’t respond to the comment, and it hung between us. I took a sip of champagne. “I’m surprised to see you here.”

  “Why is that?” The laser focus of this man was unnerving. When he stared at you, there was no wavering, no doubt that he would listen to your words and process them accordingly. I tried to relax, the pressure of an intelligent response high, the knowledge that I was in the presence of brilliance a heavy concept. I’d never been a woman to find intelligence sexy, four years in the nerd-fest that was Stanford curing any woman of that misconception. But this man… maybe it wasn’t his intelligence. Maybe it was the combination of that intelligence with confidence and intrigue, mixed in a martini glass of striking looks.

  I shrugged. Took another sip of liquid courage. Wished for something stronger than champagne. Noticing that he had moved closer, I had the unnatural urge to lean into him and sniff. Test the waters by placing my hands on his tux’s lapels and tugging. Would he hold the eye contact? Would he step back? Or would he drag me somewhere private and fuck me senseless? My reckless confidence of earlier wavered in the presence of this man.

  I swallowed. Tried to bring my mind back to the conversation. “You’ve never come by the campus. Or attended a board meeting. I just assumed that the spring fundraiser would also be skipped.”

  “Thomas Yand is on the guest list. I’m hoping to speak with him. He’s been avoiding my calls.”

  “Ahhh…” I stepped closer. Lowered my voice. “So this is an ambush.”

  “That was the plan. A conspirator would help.” He playfully raised his eyebrows at me, and every feminine bone in my body came to attention.

  Yeah, definitely not gay. I could understand why his female employees rushed to this man’s defense. I’d spent two minutes in his presence and my body had had about nine spikes of arousal. I swallowed. Painted an offhand expression on my face. “What do you have in mind?”

  He didn’t need a conspirator. He was one of the wealthiest men in the world. As powerful as Bill Gates in terms of the tech community. But we played our roles well. Flirted over cheese trays and whispered over champagne. Celebrated with conspiratorial smiles when Yand was cornered—me on one side, Brant on the other. I let their conversation take off, then stepped away. Retreated to the other side of the room, where Anne Waters, a bleach-blonde with double D’s, accosted me, licking crab cake off her fingers and diving into a long tale of her spring shopping in the city. I nodded politely while my mind wandered, my resolution to live a different life strengthened with every unladylike lick of her fingers. I snuck a glance at Brant, saw deep focus as he nodded at Yand.

  Inside me, there was a flicker of want, a pull that surprised me. I had certainly expected to respect the man—it’d be impossible not to respect a man whose intelligence doubled mine, whose annual donations were the blood that kept half of the city’s charities’ hearts beating—but my expectations, had I ever envisioned meeting the reclusive man, were that I would dislike him.

  Reason #1: He was impossibly wealthy, had lived that lifestyle since he was a teen, been waited on and fawned over every day of his adult life. It was a tried-and-tested recipe for an asshole.

  Reason #2: He was impossibly intelligent. I would have expected the ego to match the brains, creating a pompous, arrogant nerd. One who expected submittal in the form of worship. One who’d spout off uninteresting facts while staring at my breasts.

  He was everything I didn’t expect. Quietly confident. Unassuming. Gorgeous. Intense interest that didn’t play games.

  He glanced away from Yand for a moment, his eyes pulling to mine, and everything stopped as our gazes held. His eyes broke contact, and I watched him extend a hand, perform a perfunctory shake and then move, dismissing Yand with a polite smile, his legs carrying him in my direction. Again, our eyes locked, and I wanted to look away but couldn’t. Could only watch as he stalked across the room in smooth strides until he was before me, a smile entering his eyes as I tried my best not to swoon.

  His presence halted the conversation. Realizing the silence, I glanced at Anne. “Excuse me, please,” I murmured, taking advantage of the opportunity to flee. Brant pulled out my chair, nodding politely to my tablemates, whose watchful eyes followed every movement, a circle of vultures ready for their next meal. Together, his hand leading the way, we escaped toward the rear doors.

  “Thank you for your help with Yand,” he said softly, his head lowered slightly to me.

  “Thank you for saving me from those women,” I whispered back, smiling politely as I passed Nora Bishop, a woman I was fairly certain had spent most of the nineties on her back beneath my father.

  It took twelve steps to reach the doors. Twelve steps during which I realized how much I wanted this man. I thought of the stories—the prostitutes—then the heat of his hand moved, from my back to my elbow, gentle but pressing. He controlled with courtesy. And I wanted more. Needed more. Then our bodies were outside and alone on the balcony, the warm summer night bringing a balmy breeze that smelled of ocean and summer. There, his hand left my elbow, and I was able to have a moment of clear thought.

  I rested my elbows on the rough balcony ledge, the cut of concrete comforting against the finery of ridiculous wealth. All of this a show. We spent all year fundraising for children who would cry over the prospect of new sneakers, then shelled out a hundred thousand dollars on a party. I turned and looked back at the full-length windows that rose three stories and showcased the entire production in all of its false glory. Then I glanced at Brant, handsome elegance cased in tuxedo black, a picture that belonged to this world combined with a man I felt was above it. “Was it worth it?” I nodded at the party and glanced over at him, his profile strong, his eyes on the horizon, the flickering glow of exterior torches lighting the dramatic shadows of his face. “Dealing with these vultures for a chance at Yand?”

  “It was worth it as soon as I saw you.” Soft words. Dramatic impact.

  I smiled, stepped up on the thin ledge, one that allowed me to lean over the balcony and put my face fully into the wind. “You don’t know me Brant.” I don’t even know myself.

  “No, I don’t.” He said the words mildly, as if the concept was unimportant.

  I turned and watched him. Saw the calm set of his features. He was poised, undeterred. As if my attraction to him was unimportant, either due to confidence or because he didn’t care if we ever saw each other again. The path of confidence was the option I preferred; the other was a problem. I was unaccustomed to denial, to losing, the thought of being discarded difficult to comprehend. I didn’t know who I was, what I wanted, but I knew I was want-able. Had nothing if not self-assurance. I swallowed a foreign seed of insecurity. “Let’s get out of here.”

  That turned his head. Hands in his pockets, he moved closer, enough for me to smell his cologne, an expensive scent that made me think of yachts and cigars. “Where do you want to go?”

  I faced forward, closed my eyes against the ocean breeze, and exhaled. “Out of here.”

  Chapter 3

  We hopped the balcony fence on the far end, where there was a staircase that was closed off for the party, t
he tiny act of rebellion perfect in its ridiculousness. I removed my heels, our dash down the stairs almost Cinderella-like in its execution, his strong hand pulling mine, our fingers interlocking when we reached the bottom. I tried to gather the bulk of my dress, the expensive fabric ruined at the bottom, Versace making an ironclad appointment with my dry cleaner. Giving up, I looked for my driver, the sea of black cars in the lot signifying the upper classes’ lack of ability to diversify in any way. The silver Rolls moved, seeing me first, a bellman’s white glove appearing and opening the door for me. “Ms. Fairmont,” the young man said stiffly, extending a hand to help me into the car.

  I half-expected Brant to touch me in the car, his hand to steal onto my leg, his prostitute-loving self to put those beautiful lips on my body in some way. He did nothing, just settled into the seat beside me, his fingers drumming a pattern on the armrest as he stared out the window.

  “My house, Mark.” My family’s driver, a man who had been in my life for over a decade, nodded, his eyes never flicking to the rear view mirror. My use of him was rare, reserved for situations like this, events where I expected to imbibe. Despite my mother’s scrawl on his paychecks, I had his loyalty. Who knew what secrets he kept for my parents, but he kept a file cabinet’s worth of mine. I turned my attention off him and to the mystery beside me.

  I’d known plenty of geniuses. Stanford was stocked full, so I had experienced every make and model. And, for the most part, there were known types. The ones who genetics had blessed with intelligence but no social skills. Then there were the pompous, insecure men who feigned confidence by vomiting knowledge tidbits at every opportunity. Then the kind who made me the most nervous: the quiet types who watched you while notating every nuance of your character for analysis at a later moment. The type I shared a car with at that moment in time.

  He took his eyes off the view and turned to me. Studied me with open intensity, his eyes scraping open every damaged pore on my psyche.

  “Stop.” The words came out before I could stop them.

  His mouth twitched. “Why?”

  “Don’t think. Your brain could probably use a rest.” I smiled.

  “Worried about what I will come up with?”

  “No.” Yes.

  “Why’d you leave with me?” Open curiosity in his eyes. Like any woman needed to explain running off with a billionaire.

  “I figured you should have one night you didn’t have to pay for.”

  His eyes smiled. “I like paying.”

  “Why?” Now I was the curious one. About every piece of this man. He was fascinating, the most interesting piece being his utter lack of concern about my opinion of his actions.

  “It’s less messy. I can dictate the night. No emotions involved.”

  “Emotions can make it hotter.”

  “And more painful.”

  “You been hurt?”

  “Not yet.” He stared at me so steadily, an odd emphasis placed on the words, as if he was giving his heart to me with both hands, certain that it would lead to his demise.

  I suddenly didn’t want it. Didn’t want the weight and pressure of expectation. Didn’t want to do anything but bring the light back into this man’s eyes.

  The car slowed, and I saw the gates before us, moving slowly as we waited for entrance. I reached over, unclicked his belt, his eyes following my hand, his brows raising slightly.

  “We’re here.”

  Mark dropped us before the front doors, my hand pushing on the knob, my hand stealing behind and pulling Brant into the dark house, his quiet steps following me straight through to the back. There, the silent slide of glass against rubber opened the back wall of my bedroom, the ocean stretching before us. It was an act I’d done before, the view impressive, the ocean air clearing the room of stiffness, the view suddenly embarrassing in front of a man who probably owned islands. I turned away from him, hid the sudden blush of my cheeks, and held up my hair. “Unzip me.”

  There was a moment of pause, a moment where I tilted my head, waited for the pressure on my zipper. Then it came, the slow drag, the fingers of his other hand following, four points dragging down my bare back as he took it the entire way, past the curve of my back, until he stopped, half of my backside bared, his breath changing in tempo, a few stuttering inhalations bringing a smile to my face. So, he is human. His hands slid up, hot points of contact, and skimmed the tops of my shoulders, shedding me of the dress as the material fell down my arms and off my body. I turned, naked, save my underwear, and cast a mischievous smile toward his clothes.

  “Strip ‘em.”

  “You do it.” A challenge and order in the tone.

  I shook my head. “I’ve got to break you of the habit of ordering women around.”

  He scowled, pulled at his bowtie, yanking it loose and working the buttons on the front of his shirt. “When’s the last time you did what you were told?”

  I shrugged. “Hard to think back that far.” Then, as much as I wanted to stand there and watch him strip, I turned and stepped out of my dress, heard the thud of his dress shoe as it loosely hit the floor. I stepped toward the bed, reaching forward to pull at the duvet, and jumped a bit when I felt the heat of his hand turn me back into the hard surface of his chest. A full body press of skin against skin, hard planes meeting soft curves. Nothing between him and my…

  “No underwear?” I murmured, our faces inches away, his lit by the glow of night.

  “Seemed like a waste of time.” He didn’t kiss me, even though I lifted my chin, invited the touch. His hand stole under the line of my panties and cupped my ass.

  “So what does that make mine?”

  “A pretty distraction.” He slid his hand higher and wrapped tighter around my waist, and I think I saw a peek of a smile before he pitched us both onto the bed.

  A roll of naked skin, legs tangled. The crawl of me along him, our mouths met, first kiss formed. His mouth was hesitant, his hands confident, and I had the moment of wonder if he kissed the escorts before he fucked them. Then, the kiss deepened, our connection solidified, and I put the thought of prostitutes out of my head.

  When he pulled back, sat away from me, his hand dragging over the curves of my skin, there was a pause. A pause filled with the soft sound of breath, a pause filled with a moment of decision when he looked into my eyes and his gaze held a question.

  I didn’t answer with my mouth. I rolled over ‘til my legs left the bed and feet hit carpet. I stepped over to my dresser, opened a drawer and fished through panties and thongs until my hand hit foil. I pulled out a condom and walked back, my eyes taking an appreciative tour of his body as he lay on his back, exposed. His eyes smiled at me, his mouth only curving enough to highlight what might be a dimple, no move made to cover the impressive organ that lay against his thigh.

  I didn’t expect the confidence he carried—thought a computer nerd would be more bashful of his body, more arrogant of his mind. But he hadn’t quoted a single fact, hadn’t brought up his company or money in any way. He treated this the same way I did, as two adults looking for a good time. He held out a hand, took the condom, then set it behind him on the bedside table, his hand returning to grab mine. “Not yet. Come here.” He pulled me alongside him, pressed forward until parts of us touched, and he was close enough to press a kiss against my lips, his fingers starting at my shoulders, softly working the muscles of my neck, gently probing as his touch ran down the lines of my frame. I closed my eyes, letting out a sigh as I relaxed against the pillow and he slid his hands lower, palms flat on the swell of my breasts, his touch gentle as he spread his hands and took me into them. “You are beautiful,” he said, a whispered scratch in the tones. His body moved closer. “I’m sorry if I’m… I’m not used to romance, Layana.”

  My eyes opened, my wandering hands stopping in their delicate exploration that was about to reach his cock. “I don’t think I’m looking for it.”

  “I thought every woman was looking for it.” He pulled me on
my side, ran his hands around, until they cupped my ass and pulled me against him—hot air between us.

  I looked up into his eyes, and finally found the moment when he lowered his mouth to mine. No. This. This was what every woman was looking for. A mouth that responded hungrily yet tenderly when kissed.

  This. A firm drag of my body toward the end of the bed, eyes dominant, hands strong, the push of my inquisition down to the mattress.

  This. My hands in his hair, clawing at his shoulders, my body bucking underneath his talented tongue between my legs.

  This. Our bodies entwined in my sheets, his weight on my wrists, the moment of primal connection when he spread my legs and thrust himself inside, his cock moving with sure strokes, my cries of pleasure silenced by his kiss.

  This. His body arced into mine, his hands pulling me hard against him, the bury of his cock when he finished, gasping my name, the shudder of his breath against my mouth as he rolled me over and gave one final thrust.

  This. This was what I wanted, what my new self desired. The romance, it could wait.

  Chapter 4

  Brant

  “You did what?” the shrill voice echoed in the large office, bouncing off antique desks and framed honors.

  “I’m an adult, Jillian. I have every right to entertain whomever I wish.”

  “She’s not a trailer park hussy, Brant. She’s a respected member of society. Extremely intelligent, though you wouldn’t know it from the life of leisure she lives.”

  “I would consider those marks in her favor. You’re speaking as if you’d rather me date an uneducated redneck. I left her house last night and went home electrified. I worked all through the night and solved our issues with data recovery. The woman lit a fire in me.”