by Lara Adrian
As we eat and drink our wine, he tells me about the deals he’s working on this week, including the mobile app launch that’s coming up in London early next month.
“Lily sent me home with your passport application,” he says, setting down his wineglass. “I’ll have you sign it in the morning and then we can go and get your photo taken to complete the submission.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Do you have other plans?”
“No. Nothing special.” I take a sip of my wine and try not to think about Rodney or the money, and the fact that I need to contact him tomorrow and put this whole mess out of my life. “I don’t have firm plans for anything, but I just . . . I had hoped to spend the day in the studio.”
Nick nods. “That’s no problem. I’ll drive, and when we’re finished I’ll take you to East Harlem.”
My smile feels thin. “All right.”
“You never told me how it went the other day.” He polishes off the last bite of lasagna on his plate, then glances up at me. “Lita’s exhibition. How did she do?”
“Oh. She did great.” Even though the exhibition happened only yesterday, it feels like a week after everything that’s happened since. “It was an amazing event, and aside from some pre-show jitters, Lita really shined. She’s even got an invitation from the head of some hot new technology firm to propose a piece for their building in Brooklyn Heights. I’m not sure what she was more excited about—trying to win the spot, or getting to spend time with the former rockstar who owns the company.”
Nick grunts. “Derek Kingston’s a decent guy. Unfortunately, he’s still carrying around a lot of his rockstar ego. But who could blame him? That kind of lifestyle leaves a mark.”
“You know him?”
Nick gives me a look. “At our net worth and both of us being under thirty-five, he and I belong to a relatively small club in this city. I also happen to own a fair amount of Dektech stock. I invested before it went public and the company really exploded.”
I tilt my head, astonished, and yet not surprised at all. “Is there anything you touch that doesn’t turn to gold?”
He reaches across the table to rest his fingers atop mine, then shrugs. “Huh. Guess so. Still flesh and blood, warm and sexy woman. Thank God.”
“I’m being serious,” I say, unable to curb my smile.
“So am I. Tell your friend to refuse Kingston’s first offer, no matter what it is.”
“What if his first offer doesn’t have anything to do with her art?”
Nick smirks. “Then she should definitely refuse whatever he proposes right out of the gate. I’ve seen him in action—at the bargaining table and away from it. Derek doesn’t respect anyone who folds too soon.”
Even though he’s offering this insight with a sense of humor, I know him well enough to understand that he doesn’t dole out idle advice. “Thanks. I’ll let Lita know you said so.”
“This lasagna is incredible, by the way.” He takes a second helping, offering to serve me some, too, but I decline. Instead of digging in, he picks up his wine and leans back in his seat to look at me. “What about you, Avery?”
“What do you mean?”
“How’s the studio working out for you?”
“Good. Matt and Lita are great.”
He nods. “They seem great. I’m talking about your art, though.”
“Oh.” I shrug. “It’s going well, I suppose.”
“I’d say so,” he agrees, watching me intently. “I saw that last week, when I came to the studio to take you to lunch. I’m sure you saw me looking at your paintings, Avery. You still haven’t asked what I thought of them.”
I swallow. “No.”
“Why not? Don’t you want to know?”
“Of course, I do.” Even as I say it, I wonder if I sound as unconvincing to him as I do to myself.
There was a time, months ago, when Nick’s less than glowing opinion of my work had made me question everything about my ability and my passion. That was before I knew he was an artist. Before I knew about the extraordinary gift he lost.
Now, I’m terrified to hear him tell me that I still don’t measure up in his view.
Not even Kathryn’s praise or the generous price she paid for my three pieces will be enough to combat Nick’s rejection of my art now.
I reach for my wineglass, not realizing it’s empty until I bring it to my lips. Nick is right there in an instant, gently taking it from my grasp. Instead of refilling it, he sets the glass aside, giving me no choice but to meet his searching, solemn gaze.
“I haven’t been fair to you, Avery. Especially when it comes to your art.” He scowls, his sensual lips flattening for a moment as if he’s uncertain of the impact his words will have on me. “I’ve made you question yourself. I’ve made you doubt. That was never my intention.”
“Nick, you don’t have to—”
“You have a gift, Avery. I saw it in you from the beginning.” He reaches out to me, stroking the back of his scarred hand along my bare arm. “You remember I told you that it wasn’t a matter of you lacking talent, only that it needed to be let free?”
I nod. There’s not a thing he’s said in the time we’ve been together that isn’t still emblazoned in my mind. “You said I was the one throttling my art, holding it back before the truth reached the canvas.”
“That’s not what I saw in the studio last week.”
“It isn’t?”
“No. What I saw in those three paintings was you. Maybe for the first time.” His touch trails down onto my wrist, then into the center of my open palm. “When I looked at the passionate lines and the raw, unrestrained images on your canvases, I saw things that move you and make you feel alive, things that scare you, even appall you. I saw things that make you weep, and the things that make you wet.”
I blink rapidly, feeling a sudden rush of emotion building behind my eyes. I didn’t realize how much I craved his acceptance until this moment. I didn’t realize how much I needed it.
That he sees so much good in my art is enough to break me open. Especially tonight, knowing the paintings no longer belong to me, and why.
But it’s the affection I see in his eyes that lays me low and leaves me trembling under the weight of my feelings for him.
“Nick,” I whisper, my voice ragged. I get up from my chair and go to him, seating myself on his lap. I wrap my arms around him, holding him close, my face nestled into the warm strength of his shoulder. “Nick, I love you so much.”
He envelops me in his embrace, his hands moving slowly on my back, stroking me. Gentling me.
“Hey,” he says, his deep voice vibrating against me. “Baby, what is this? Are you . . . Jesus, are you crying?”
Drawing me away from him slightly, he searches my tear-streaked face and welled-up eyes.
“Talk to me, sweetheart. What’s wrong?” Concern etches his handsome face, furrowing his brows. “Have I done this? Have I . . . have I hurt you somehow, Avery?”
“No.”
“Then what—”
“I don’t want to talk,” I tell him abruptly, my tears already starting to subside. “Not tonight, okay? I just want you to hold me.”
He doesn’t look happy at my dodge, but he doesn’t argue. He understands me too well, knows me almost better than I know myself sometimes. And right now, he can see that the only thing I need is him.
Us.
Taking my chin on the edge of his fingertips, he leads my mouth to his. We kiss, slow and deep and tenderly. When our lips part a long while later, I reach down to lift the string of pearls.
“Tonight, I just want to be with you, Nick.” I loop the other end over his head, linking us together by the delicate rope of precious gems. “The only way we separate is if you pull away from me.”
“Baby,” he murmurs, reaching up to stroke his thumb over my lips. “I’m exactly where I want to be.”
He stands up, lifting me with him. Our long pearl shackle slides against my skin a
s he holds me aloft in his arms. Then he takes my mouth in another kiss, this one hot and commanding, filled with desire.
“Make love to me,” I beg him.
“All night if you want me to,” he promises.
Then he carries me away from the table and past the twisting flames in the fireplace, not pausing until he lays me down on his bed—our bed—and proceeds to make good on that vow.
Chapter 20
We shower together in the morning, taking our time because neither of us seems eager to let go of the perfect night we shared. Nick makes love to me again, a slow mating beneath the spray of warm water, our hands and bodies slick with soap and sliding together deliciously in pleasure.
I’d love to stay cocooned with him all day in the penthouse. In truth, I’d love to stay here with him forever, shutting out the world and the unpleasant business that I have to finish today with my stepbrother.
God, I hope it will all be finished once Rodney gets the money he’s demanded.
Nick startles me out of troubling thoughts and horrid memories with a kiss to the top of my head as I sit in front of the vanity mirror in the large bathroom robotically applying a little makeup while my mind is a thousand miles away.
“I put the passport application on the dresser for you to sign,” he tells me, his gaze holding mine in our shared reflection in the glass.
He is shirtless and barefoot, wearing just a pair of black suit pants. Half-dressed like this, he looks the part of both the corporate conqueror and the sensual master. I can’t help admiring what I see, no more than I can help the current of arousal that licks through my senses every time I look at my man.
“Lily’s already got a copy of your birth certificate on order,” he tells me, grinning with unabashed awareness of my desire for him. “We’ll need to send her a scan of your driver’s license before we leave to get your photo taken.”
“Okay. It’s in my purse in the bedroom.”
He nods. “I can get it for—”
“No. I’ll do it.” My reply is too sharp, and so is my abrupt rise from the vanity chair. I realize that as soon as I pivot to face him and see his questioning look.
I try to cover my blunder with a smile and a quick peck at his mouth, but Nick is watching me too closely now. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” I smile again, but it feels tight. “I’ll go get that for you.”
He follows me out to the bedroom. My purse is sitting on the dresser beside the form he’s left for me. I unzip my bag, feeling his eyes on me the whole time. My fingers are shaking, despite my best effort to calm my nerves. I hate lying to Nick, and as desperate as I am to pretend nothing is wrong, my body seems determined to betray me.
I fumble to retrieve my wallet. It catches on the coiled shoulder strap, and before I can prevent the disaster from happening, my purse tumbles to the floor. I drop down to retrieve it, but there’s no correcting the mistake.
Some of the contents spill out onto the rug, including the fat bundle of cash.
Nick pins me with a stunned look when I swivel my head to glance up at him. “Where did all of that come from?”
“I . . . I sold my paintings.”
He frowns. “When?”
“Yesterday.” I start to stuff the money back into my purse, but there’s really no point in it now. I stand up and face him, guilt and dread raking me.
“You sold them.” He sounds confused, almost disbelieving. He’s still staring at the stack of hundred-dollar bills, and I know he doesn’t need me to tell him how much I’m holding in my trembling hands. “Avery. What the hell are you talking about? Sold them to whom?”
“Kathryn.”
His head snaps back as if I’ve slapped him. His tone is deceptively level. “What?”
I swallow, unable to tear my attention away from the thunderhead of fury that’s beginning to gather in his narrowing gaze. “I bumped into her at Lita’s exhibition. I had no idea she’d be there, Nick. We ended up talking for a little while. She gave me her card and said she wanted to see my work.”
“Kathryn Tremont.” A curse boils off his tongue. His eyes are flashing with outrage as he rakes his hand over the top of his head. “You talked to her two days ago and this is the first I’m hearing about it? Jesus Christ, Avery. Are you telling me you took money from her?”
“I didn’t take anything,” I point out. “Kathryn liked my paintings and she bought them.”
“It’s the same fucking thing!” His sudden explosion of anger makes me flinch. I’ve never seen him this upset. His powerful chest is heaving with every breath. His handsome face is flushed and ruddy with furious color. “I can’t believe you would do this. You know how I feel about her and yet—”
“No, Nick. I didn’t know how you felt about her.” As terrified as I am that this breach of his trust could be irreparable, I cannot cower. “I didn’t know anything about what happened between you and Kathryn, because you refused to tell me.”
“I told you to stay away from her. God damn it, that should’ve been enough!” Sharp, controlling words.
There was a time when I would have bristled at such an arrogant assumption of authority, even bucked against it with vitriol of my own. But right now I hear Nick’s harsh outburst for what I know it truly is.
Shock.
Pain.
Even fear.
For all of the secrets and shames I’m still protecting, Nick had tried to bury his with Kathryn. The grief over the gift he had lost. The anguish of having that special part of him ripped away by his own father’s careless actions. Worse than careless, if what Kathryn said is true—that Nick’s father had nearly killed him that day.
Nick had wanted to shut all of that out of his life when he destroyed his art then turned his back on Kathryn and her desire to help him, to heal him.
He thought he had shut it all out.
Until this very moment, when he stares at me and his gaze lights with dawning understanding.
“She’s not well, Nick.” I swallow and shake my head. “Her cancer is back. I think she may be dying.”
A tendon pulses in his jaw. “Kathryn’s health isn’t my concern. You are.”
His right hand flexes at his side, unclenching the fist he’d been holding almost subconsciously. He glances down at the scars that twine around his forearm and down onto his fingers. A rueful smile twists his mouth.
“She told you.”
“I wish you had.” My voice is quiet, uncertainty making every fiber in my body ache with the dread of losing him, here and now. “I didn’t go there to dig into your past, Nick. I wasn’t trying to hurt you, or make things harder for you in any way.”
“Then why?” He takes a step toward me finally, instead of continuing to pull away. His hands clamp around my biceps and I can feel the tension in him. He’s still vibrating with anger and struggling to keep it under control. “Why her, of all people? Why now?”
“Because I didn’t see any other choice.” I press my lips together, stifling the raw sob that’s lodged in my throat. “I went to her because I needed the money.”
Emotion flashes in his taut face—outrage, confusion, insult. “If you needed money all you had to do was ask me for it. You know that. Have I ever denied you anything?”
“No, you haven’t. You’ve given me so much, Nick. More than I deserve.”
“Then why?” He shakes me slightly, as if I’ve pushed him to the very edge of his reason. “Why go behind my back when all I ever asked from you was honesty? God damn it, Avery. I trusted you. I—” He bites off the thought with a low, muttered curse. “Just tell me why.”
The tears I’ve been fighting spill over now, streaming down my cheeks. “I did something terrible, Nick. Something I haven’t told you.”
I feel him go still as he holds me in that penetrating, inescapable gaze of his. “Something recently?”
“No. A long time ago. Nine years ago.”
His grip remains firm on my arms, but some of his combu
stibility fades as he searches my face. “Nine years ago. You’re talking about your stepfather . . . “
He doesn’t finish the statement. We both know the reference well enough. The day of my rape at sixteen. The day my mother shot and killed her abusive husband in retaliation for what he’d done to both of us over the years, but specifically, finally, for what he’d done to me that day.
“I haven’t been honest with you, Nick.” My voice falters over the words. “I haven’t told you everything. I haven’t told you what I did that day.”
His reply is flat. Remote. “Tell me now.”
His deep blue eyes take on a guardedness, impenetrable steel replacing the fathomless oceans that have always drawn me in like the tide. It hurts to see his walls going up in front of me, ready to seal me out. I won’t be able to bear it if I’ve ruined everything with this stupid mistake, with my secrets and lies.
Even if he turns away from me in disgust after hearing how selfish and cowardly I’ve been all this time, I owe him the truth.
All of it.
“The day Martin Coyle raped me was a Monday, August twenty-first. I had a math test in the morning, but I accidentally slept past my alarm. Martin was on disability leave from his job at the school in the neighboring town, so to make some extra money, my mom had just started working the third shift at the big factory in Scranton. Usually she got home around seven—about an hour before I left for school—but on that day she called home to let us know she had a flat tire and would be home late because she was waiting for a tow to the shop.”
I swallow, pushing past the bile that rises up my throat as I recall the events of that awful morning.
I can still see my stepfather sitting in his recliner in front of the television, wearing a T-shirt and sweatpants, drinking a can of beer at seven in the morning. Watching me with too much interest as I wolfed down a piece of toast over the sink, then cleaned up the mess of dirty breakfast dishes and the ashtray full of cigarette butts he’d left for my mom on the kitchen counter.
“I hated being alone in the house with him. For a while before that day, he’d been making me uncomfortable with his staring and his persistent attempts to cozy up to me. He’d offer me liquor and cigarettes, neither of which I accepted. He’d volunteer to take me out for fast food or runs to the mall. I never said yes. He’d try to touch my hair or put his arm around me, even though I asked him not to. I made a point of avoiding him whenever I could, and that worked for a while. But that morning everything seemed different. I felt it instinctively. Something had changed, turned dangerous. I was too stupid to act on it before it was too late.”