I barely remember the rest of the conversation. The minute I am back at my desk I grab my phone and text Chris. Have to cancel dinner. I turn off my phone.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
The rest of the day crawls by and I am in knots over Chris—-hurt, angry, confused--I feel all of these things and more. Nearing the end of the day, I am in my office, trying to focus on work and failing. Worse, I expect Chris to call through the switchboard to try to reach me and he doesn’t. Clearly, he’s not that broken up over my cancellation of dinner, and I can’t help but believe he knew my humiliation was coming and has been received. I wouldn’t discount Mark confronting him.
How could Chris intentionally set me up like he did? And he did. Chris is too smart to not know what he was doing and the tension between him and Mark is too damn obvious. I am a token in a game and I hate how badly it hurt. I hate that I let my little adventure turn into heartache.
When eight o’clock finally arrives, the knots in my stomach multiply, and I stay at my desk. What if Chris is outside waiting on me? What if he’s not? another voice dares to whisper in my head. I am second-guessing my decision to turn off my phone, to actually talk to Chris and make it clear we are over. Right. A simple blow-off. It should be easy. Instead, I am a coward who cannot talk to him, certain I will agree to whatever he asks of me. I am too far into the infatuation I have for him. And that’s what it is. Infatuation. After being humiliated by that video, I refuse it to be anything else.
At a quarter after eight, Mark appears in my doorway, his suit jacket gone, his top two buttons undone. Still, he manages to look every bit the corporate seduction king, the guy every lady wants and every man wants to be. Every lady but me, that is.
He leans on the jamb. “Isn’t it time to go home, Ms. McMillan?”
“For reasons I’d rather not discuss, I’m feeling extremely dedicated tonight.”
He ignores my reference to our earlier incident. “I don’t like leaving you here alone.”
“You have cameras.”
He laughs, a rare happening, and oddly considering my behavior, he seems more relaxed around me. “Good point,” he concedes and pushes away from the wall. “You are the witty one, Ms. McMillan, and I can see customers responding well to you. I’ll leave you to work, but why don’t you pull your car around front so you don’t have to walk to the parking lot alone?”
Cab rides for staff after tastings, worries over my safety, my being manipulated. Mark’s tough and demanding, but I begin to see him as a good boss, someone trying to help me get ahead in this world. “I moved my car out front before Amanda left an hour ago.” And because I knew that was where Chris would look for it.
“Well then, I guess I’ll depart. Remember though that once you exit the gallery, the security locks are automatic. You can’t get back in.”
“Yes. I know. I’ll be sure I’m ready to leave when I exit.”
“Good. Then you’re all set. You had excellent marks on your wine exams, by the way. I’m impressed.”
“I spent the weekend studying.” And falling hard for an artist who has my insides in knots.
“It shows.” He motions to the flowers, the only smirk I’ve ever seen on his face present. “At least he has good taste in flowers.” He doesn’t give me time to respond. “Good night, Ms. McMillan.”
“Good night, Mr. Compton.”
Unmoving, I listen to his footsteps fade, staring at the flowers that have teased my senses and reminded me of Chris all day. I reach for the card and pull my hand back. Romantic scribble on a plain white card doesn’t erase what he’s done. In fact, the weekend and the flowers seem more a mask for him to hide his motives. The voice of logic and the one of my heart begin battling it out in true gladiator style. But he let you into his world. He told you things he doesn’t tell other people. I grind my teeth and remind myself his disclosure was created by Mike taking him off guard. I was simply there at the right--or I suspect in Chris’s mind--the wrong time. But he took you to meet his godparents.
How long I sit there fighting with myself, I’m not sure, but I feel bloody and beaten, with ever nerve ending raw and exposed. Somehow, I shake myself and reach for the phone, trying to be productive. I dial Ricardo for about the tenth time, hoping the evening hour plays in my favor. I receive his machine again. Hmm. I wonder if he has caller ID. I reach for my cell phone and stare at the blank screen. I’ve burned to turn it on, to see if Chris has replied. Why do I care if he’s replied? He is playing with my life and my career. Logic raises her ugly, practical head again, and tells me I’ve been down this path. I can’t go down it again. I won’t go down it again.
Returning my phone to my purse, I gather several pieces of paper with notes I’ve made about Rebecca that I stuffed in a drawer earlier in the day. On one of them is a phone number for the manager of her apartment building. Or what I assume is her old apartment building.
I glance at the office phone and consider calling, but decide better. I’ve learned my camera lesson. Don’t forget Mark is the man in the journal. Don’t forget Rebecca is missing and turn him into a hero because Chris has hurt you. My Rebecca research really has to be done off site. The building in question isn’t far away and I’ll go by at lunch tomorrow.
Still not ready to head home to my empty apartment and tormented thoughts, I review a stack of files I was given earlier in the day, containing information on people who have bought from the gallery in the past year. Thirty minutes later, I’ve filed them in order of the best prospects and made notes on each.
When nine o’clock arrives I can no longer put off the inevitable walk to my car and entry to my empty apartment filled with memories of Chris. With my purse and briefcase on my shoulder, and wearing the leather jacket Chris gave me, I pause inside at the front door of the gallery. Squeezing my eyes shut, I am uncertain if I am more worried about Chris being outside, or not being outside. Maybe he didn’t do this to me on purpose. Maybe I’ve jumped to conclusions. I roll my eyes at myself, disgusted at my thoughts. I am so weak where that man is concerned.
Stiffening my spine, I exit into the chilly evening breeze, and make sure the door clicks behind me. Nervously, I scan the street, taking in the cars at meters, and the random pedestrians milling about, searching for Chris to no avail. Disappointment fills me, and I laugh bitterly into the wind at my misplaced hope he would be here, fighting for me, proving me wrong about him. I cut to my left and hike up the hill toward the discreet spot I’d cozied my car into, berating myself the entire time. You are so messed up, Sara. You want him after he made you a nearly X-rated video star.
Two blocks down, I round the corner of what was a busy street now turned eerily sleepy, which was not the plan. Quickening my pace, I dig out my keys. Halfway down the block, I spot my car and stop dead in my tracks, my heart racing wildly in my chest. Next to my car is a sleek Porsche 911. A wild flutter of every emotion possible goes through me. To say I’m conflicted is an understatement. The flutter in my chest becomes thunder, hard and intense, echoing in my ears.
Somehow, I force my feet to move, mentally steeling myself to be strong, to hold my ground with Chris. No weakness allowed. Chris rounds the hood of his car and heads toward me, a predatory edge to his steps. He is gorgeous, his longish hair a bit wild like the man. His jeans and biker books are so damn sexy, hugging the lithe lines of his body. I hate how much I want him.
Wicked hot anger forms inside me at my reaction to him. I don’t give him a chance to confront me, charging toward him and unleashing on him. “You knew there were cameras in the gallery and still you shoved me against that wall and kissed me. He made me watch the security feed, Chris. How could you do that to me?”
He curses and scrubs his jaw. “He fucking played the tape for you?”
I don’t have the denial I’d hoped for and my chest burns and aches. “Yes. He made me watch it. Am I right? Did you know there were cameras in the gallery?”
He runs a hand through his hair, the overhead l
ight playing on the handsome, tormented lines of his face. Too tormented. He knew. I see it in his eyes.
“I wasn’t thinking about the camera when I was kissing you if that’s where you’re going with this, Sara.”
It’s not enough. “But you knew.” It’s not a question. It’s fact.
“I thought about it later, yes.”
“And you didn’t tell me?”
“You were worried enough over your job.”
“That’s not an answer. Tell me you didn’t do this on purpose. Tell me, Chris. I need to hear it.”
“I didn’t do it on purpose, Sara.” His voice is low, taut, filled with the conviction I so desperately had hoped for. “At that moment,” he continues, “I couldn’t think of anything but how badly I wanted you. That’s what you do to me.” His lips tighten and thin. “But I won’t lie to you and tell you I was sorry he might see it either. In fact, I was hoping like hell he did.”
He might as well have stabbed me in the chest. “Because I’m some sort of power play with Mark?” My throat is thick, my tone choked. “Is that what this is, Chris? Or did you want me to get fired?”
“Why would I take you to Napa and help you meet his ridiculous requirements if I intended that?”
“Money to kill? A game to play with Mark?” I sound flippant and bitter. I am.
“I don’t deserve that, Sara, and you know it.” His voice is a hiss laced with anger at my accusations.
Deep down, I want his anger to mean something, I want to believe in him, but I don’t even believe in me anymore. I don’t trust my judgment. “Well, if you did want to get me fired, it didn’t work. Mark has vowed to protect me and teach me the business.”
“Protect you.” The words are hard and flat, his body rippling with sudden edginess. “You want Mark to protect you when you tell me you don’t need protection?”
“I just want to do my job.”
“It isn’t about the job with Mark. Not with you.”
“You can’t know that.”
“You’ve read the journals, Sara. Who the hell do you think Rebecca was playing bondage games with? It sure as hell wasn’t Ralph.”
“It was the man she’s vacationing with.”
“Now she’s vacationing when last night you were worried she was dead?”
“I never said that.”
“You inferred it.” He inhales and lets it out a sharp breath. “You know what? It’s time you get a reality check, baby.” He grabs my hand. “Come with me.”
I dig in my heels. He clicks the locks on his car. “Get in the fucking car, Sara, or I swear to you I’ll pick you up and put you there myself. You are going to see for yourself who and what Mark is, and stop pretending you don’t know already.”
“And since you’ve proclaimed yourself as worse than Mark, I suppose now is when I get to see your deep, dark secrets too?”
His jaw flexes. “Yes.”
Emotion shifts and moves inside me, and my anger slides away. Dread tightens my tummy. This is the big reveal he believes will make me run.
I walk to the car and get in.
Chapter Thirty
Five minutes later, the shadowy darkness of the 911 isn’t as suffocating as is the silence within. We haven’t spoken a word, and it’s killing me. Guilt is eating away at me over my harsh judgment of Chris. He’d been honest enough to tell me he didn’t regret Mark seeing the security footage. Surely he was honest in telling me he hadn’t manipulated me to create the footage.
Staring out of the window without really seeing anything, I can feel Chris next to me, far from me, but close enough to touch. My skin tingles with awareness. My mind replays the touch of his mouth on mine, and on more intimate parts of my body. The caress of his hand on my breast, the play of his fingers between my thighs.
Still the silence stretches onward and it becomes clear that we are heading toward the Golden Gate Bridge, into an elite neighborhood where trees, greenery, and mansions with insane price tags and views dominate, rather than trolleys and rooftops. Our destination is in the elite Cow Hollow neighborhood I’ve heard about but never visited, where Chris stops at an expansive gated property and keys in a code. Is this his home too? I glance at his profile, opening my mouth to ask, but his posture is rigid, his demeanor unapproachable, so I snap my mouth shut. The gate opens and we drive down a long road to what is obviously a property spanning miles.
“What is this place?” I ask, bringing the stucco house into view, unable to bite back curiosity any longer.
“A private club,” he answers without looking at me, maneuvering around a circular drive and pulling to the door.
A man in a black suit with an earpiece opens my door. Chris rounds the 911 and tosses the man his keys. “Nice to see you, Mr. Merit,” the man comments. “It’s been a while.”
Chris doesn’t appear to be feeling overly cordial. “Keep the car upfront. This will be a short visit.” Chris stops beside me and slides my purse from my shoulder. “Leave it in the car.” He hands it to the security man, and I start to object but lose my train of thought when the man rakes me with a hot stare filled with disapproval. A smirk settles on his lips, as if he knows something I do not. Of course he does, and it’s unsettling on all kinds of levels.
“And the coat,” Chris adds, already pulling the leather jacket from my shoulders. I’m beyond argument at this point and let him hand it off to the same man who has my purse.
Chris folds my hand into his and the touch sizzles up my arm. I feel him tense and I think he feels what I do, but he doesn’t look at me, and I am quaking inside with nervous anticipation.
We head up a dozen steps toward a set of red double doors. Halfway up Chris says, “You’re not a member, which means you talk to no one and stay by my side.” He cuts me a hard stare, looking at me for the first time since we arrived. “And I mean no one, Sara.”
“O…kay.” Good grief, what is this place?
We hit the top of the last step and the door opens. Another man in a black suit with an earpiece on appears in the entry and Chris doesn’t bother with a greeting. “Private room.”
“The Lion’s Den is open.”
Lion’s Den? Why does that not sound good?
Chris nods and we enter the house, and I absorb the tall ceilings, the expensive art on the walls, and a winding stairwell covered in an oriental rug with some relief. This place is elegant, a place for the elite, as one would expect from this neighborhood; it’s nothing scary at all.
We cut down a long hallway to our right and unease forms again as I get the feeling I am in a hotel; the fancy carpet stretching out beneath my feet as we pass door after door.
Chris stops at a doorway at the end of the hall and punches in a code on a wall panel. He knows this place and it knows him. That sense of foreboding returns with a hard jolt.
He pushes open the door, and waves me forward, but grabs my arm before I enter. His eyes are hard, his jaw harder. “Two things you need to know, Sara. We leave when you want to leave, and Mark owns this place.”
This is the source of their bad blood. It has to be. I swallow hard. “I understand.”
“You aren’t going to like what you find out.”
I’ve heard these words before from him, and hearing them now is my confirmation. This is the secret he’s been keeping and that knowledge fills me with courage. “I guess we’ll see soon.”
He stares at me, unmoving, his grip on my arm tight, unyielding. “You have to let me go if I’m going to go inside, Chris.” Slowly, he loosens his grip and I step inside.
Cool air washes over me as I enter a room where dimly lit spotlights color the interior in a seductive amber haze. Taking in what is before me, I’m in instant sensory overload and my hand goes to my throat.
To my right is a pedestal with a massive wooden bed sitting on top of it, and large silver cuffs attached to the headboard. On the wall beside it is a panel displaying whips, chains, and various items I’ve never seen in my life. To my lef
t is another podium with some sort of arch and more cuffs.
Chris comes up behind me, his breath warm on my neck, but he doesn’t touch me. He motions to a couch in front of what looks like a full-sized movie screen.
“We’re observing today. Why don’t you take a seat?”
I walk to the back of the leather couch but I don’t round to the front. My fingers curl into the soft material, and I lean in to support my weak knees. ”I’ll stand.”
Chris steps to my side. “Have it your way. You’re about to witness a group playroom feeding live from another area of the mansion.” He lifts a remote he’s picked up somewhere and the screen comes to life.
I gasp at what I see. There is a masked, naked woman tied to a pedestal in the middle of a stage, while an audience—all masked as well--sits in observation.
A man in leather pants is circling her, and I think he is holding a riding crop. It fits a description I remember from one of Rebecca’s journal entries, but I can’t be sure. He’s teasing her, flipping her nipples with the leather end of the crop, back and forth. She is moaning and passion is etched on her face. Pleasure. She feels pleasure, and to my dismay I can feel my body responding, the warm heat spreading in my belly.
The crop moves lower, and I see that it is flat with some sort of leather strings. It caresses her belly and between her legs. He steps closer to her, rubbing the leather in the V of her thighs and tugging on one of her nipples. I am suddenly wet and achy and embarrassed. The woman moans and the man stiffens and does not seem pleased. He steps back from her, no longer touching her with his hand or the crop.
He walks around her and stops behind her. And then to my dismay, he smacks her hard with the crop. I jump and gasp. He keeps hitting her, fast, and oh God, it seems so hard.
I turn to Chris. “He’s hurting her.”
“This is what she craves and he’s trained to know her limits. If it’s too much, she says her safe word and he stops.”
A chill goes down my spine at his intimate knowledge of what is happening.
If I Were You Page 25