by EM BROWN
Shit. This was a bigger mess than she had ever thought possible.
He knew. Somehow, he knew there was more to the story behind Dawson and Carlos. She couldn’t persuade him to believe otherwise. She didn’t understand why he was so convinced she was keeping the truth from him.
And the bastard had tried to torture the truth out of her. He was back to being an asshole in her book. A big fucking asshole.
The anger that had been missing the past few hours finally rose. She had been so focused on surviving all that he was doing to her body, craving and hoping to escape through the orgasm that had lain just beyond her reach.
And he had given it to her. Coming had never felt so glorious, so deserved. The tension had built up so much within her that she’d worried her body would be blown to smithereens by the climax.
So maybe the torment had been worth it. All that apprehension, all that pain had gotten the adrenaline going within her, and maybe that was what had the high so high.
He had allowed her to go there without giving up the information he sought. Is that why she wasn’t as angry with him as she ought to be? Was she suffering from some twisted case of Stockholm Syndrome?
She would never have done what he did. But what had he done? To try to get what he wanted, he had used BDSM and sex—which she supposedly consented to when she’d signed up for the Scarlet Auction.
Once again, a small voice told her that she should get the hell out. Give up on the scoop. Get away from him. She couldn’t trust what he might do next, could she?
She looked over at the door. It would be so easy. All she had to do was walk out. He wouldn’t try to track her down. She felt pretty sure of it.
And somehow that belief saddened her.
Which was crazy stupid. She remembered how it had felt to give in to his seduction back at the cabin. Like falling off a cliff. And he had just shown that doing so was much more dangerous than she had ever imagined. It shouldn’t matter that he could give her the most incredible orgasms. They were just orgasms.
Her anger made her want to rebel. Screw his clothes, his fancy restaurant, and anything else he wanted.
But some other part of her—sappier, stupider, more primitive—didn’t want to leave him just yet. She could make herself feel better by telling herself it was her concern for Claire, the scoop, her career, determination, and persistence that made her stick around instead of bolting through the door to freedom. But that didn’t explain it all.
Turning back to the offerings of haute couture, she picked out a white cocktail dress with a halter top. The dress molded her curves, but not in skin-tight fashion, and came down to mid-thigh. She opted for seamless red satin boyshort underpants. Her first choice in shoes didn’t quite fit her, so she had to opt for the strappy gold sandals with five-inch heels. She debated whether to put on any makeup. Part of her didn’t want to look her best for him. Part of her did.
Splitting the baby, she decided to go into the powder room to put on a little lip gloss and a touch of mascara. Nothing else. This wasn’t a date.
Just dinner at the newest, most exclusive restaurant in the city.
But for someone like Ben, it probably wasn’t anything special. No different than going out to a nice restaurant she and her friends might choose for a special birthday but that was well within everyone’s price range.
Why was he taking her out to dinner anyway?
Because he doesn’t feel like cooking. Or making her cook. Maybe she hadn’t impressed him with her cooking skills at the cabin. No need to read anything into the fact that they were going out to dinner.
Back in the living room, she found a matching clutch even though she didn’t have anything to put in it. Even if she had her wallet, she’d let him pick up the bill for dinner. She wasn’t going to expense it and have Sam pay for what would be a very pricey meal.
Feeling nervous, she took in several deep breaths. She couldn’t remember feeling this agitated about a date, and this wasn’t even a date. She didn’t have to impress or seduce anyone. At the end of the week, they were parting ways. No ifs, ands or buts.
Hearing his footsteps, she turned around.
She had to pick her mouth up off the ground. With his hair still slightly wet and his simple white shirt partially unbuttoned, he looked so hot.
And you were thinking of walking out that door, you crazy woman.
He stopped as if struck. And her ego took a leap to see that she’d had the same effect on him. She half expected to see that hungry, wolfish look. Instead, he looked awed.
“Nice dress,” he said with a slight hitch in his voice.
She felt herself blushing.
But don’t forget this is the guy who ripped clothespins off your body.
Trying not to care what he thought of her, she replied, “Nice, um, shoes.”
“Thanks.”
Setting aside his blazer, he reached for a garment bag and pulled out a woman’s trench coat. “You’ll need it. It’s San Francisco.”
She nodded and let him put the leopard-print coat on her. He swept her braids out of the collar, his knuckles grazing the back of her neck. She felt his gaze but couldn’t meet it, worried that she would lose all her resolve if she did. But he grasped her chin, making her look at him.
He scanned her, his pupils dilated so that his eyes were almost completely black. “I’m tempted to cancel the reservations.”
Her breath was too uneven for words. As she stared into the brightness of his eyes, she reminded herself that she should hate this guy. He’s an asshole, remember? Don’t let him get away with it just because he’s hot and can afford nice clothes and fancy dinners.
But don’t resent him for it either. It’s not his fault he’s gorgeous. And you like his wicked ways. You like BDSM with him.
Deciding that having dinner would be safer, she said, “That, um, wouldn’t be nice.”
“What wouldn’t?”
“Canceling dinner, especially if they went out of their way to, you know, fit us in.”
After a beat, he released her chin. “Okay, pet.”
The name’s Kimani!
But she kept silent.
He guided her to the door, holding it open for her. They took the elevator down to the garage and got into his Porsche.
“No Wong or Bataar tonight?” she asked, half wishing to have the relative safety of a third person.
“I’m sure Bataar is around somewhere,” he said.
As they pulled out of the garage and onto the street, she noticed a car pull up behind them.
“There he is,” Ben said, looking into the rearview mirror.
“So he’s like your bodyguard.”
“Yeah. My dad hired him. I offered Bataar double to go on my payroll, but I’m pretty sure he’s still working for my dad.”
“You don’t sound pleased.”
“My dad’s paranoid. But it’s not like I’m a celebrity or star athlete. No one’s going to mob me.”
“You mean you’re not Hong Kong’s most sought-after bachelor?” she couldn’t resist teasing.
“I keep a low profile.”
“What about kidnapping?”
“I can take care of myself.”
“No one’s invincible.”
“You worried about me, pet?”
She scrunched up her face, wanting to blurt out “hell no” as if she were a child being asked if they liked to eat Brussels sprouts.
“I’d be more worried for the people you’re with,” she retorted.
“Why is that?”
“Because you have a sadistic streak.”
“And you’re masochistic. It works out, so what’s the problem?”
“I’m not—well, there’s probably a bit of masochism in everyone. Even you.”
“Sure.”
His answer surprised her. She hadn’t expected a guy like him to admit it.
“So, does that mean I get to use the flogger on you?” she asked.
“Nice try. I
’m not a switch anymore.”
“But you were?”
“When I first started out with BDSM. I trained with a Mistress.”
She tried to imagine Ben as the submissive. It didn’t feel right. But it was hot picturing his strong, masculine body straining beneath the flogger.
“When did you get into BDSM?”
“After I was done with the gang, I looked for other outlets, other ways to piss off my dad. Passive-aggressive shit that took years to grow out of.”
“So you’ve resolved your daddy issues?”
“I don’t know if resolved is the right word, but I’ve learned to live with it. When did you get into BDSM?”
She didn’t know what to say. She couldn’t remember if she had lied about it already.
“Fairly recently,” she answered.
“How recent?”
Like today.
“I’m actually new to it.”
“What do you mean you’re new to it?”
“I exaggerated all my answers on the Scarlet Auction questionnaire because I didn’t want to give anyone a reason not to bid on me.”
“So you lied.”
Her mouth went dry. Maybe she shouldn’t have been honest.
The streetlight had turned red, allowing him to stop the car and pin her with a stare. “There anything else you want to tell me, pet?”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
She looked so damn pretty, Ben almost didn’t know what to do with himself. He wanted to think that she had added the makeup for him, a sign that maybe she didn’t hate his guts after what he had done to her.
The light turned green, so he turned his attention to shifting gears. He wasn’t going to push it with Kimani, not until he had a better handle on how she felt about what had happened.
“Nice move,” she commented when he changed lanes, slipping around two slow-moving cars.
“I used to want to be a race car driver,” he said.
“To piss your dad off?”
“Partly, but I like driving. Don’t get to do much of it anymore.” With a rare expanse of open road, he kicked the car into higher gear. “What did you want to be?”
“When I was a kid, I wanted to be a police officer. There aren’t many female cops, let alone cops of color. Then I got into basketball and wanted to play in the WNBA.”
“You said you did a journalism internship after graduating Stanford. You still interested in that field of work?”
“Yes and no. The work is interesting.”
“What about it appeals to you?”
“Knowledge is power, and journalism is about giving people the power through knowledge and the dissemination of information. Making the world a smaller place so that people can connect and relate with what is happening, whether it’s next door or halfway around the globe.”
“That sounds very worthwhile. So why not pursue a career in journalism?”
“Oh, um, there’s not a lot of jobs anymore, especially in print media. I like to write. You can fit more information into one minute of reading than you can one minute of talking in front of a camera.”
“So your dream job would be working for a newspaper?”
“...Yes.”
“Any paper in particular?”
She smiled, and her eyes brightened. It was devastating.
“Washington Post. New York Times.”
“So if the jobs are few and far between, how does someone like you land a job?”
“Try to get an internship that turns into something. It didn’t for me.
“Anything else you can do?”
“Work for free. Freelance.”
“You doing any of that?”
“This is talk that people on a date would have,” she deflected.
“You got a problem with that?”
“Yes. I don’t want it to feel like a date.”
He couldn’t help himself. “Why not?”
“Because we’re not on a date. We’re just doing dinner in between sex.”
That’s how he saw it as well. Only he rarely bothered taking women to dinner. It was too much of a dog-and-pony show when both parties knew the end goal was sex. But for some reason, he wanted to take Kimani to dinner. Even though he was seriously considering giving her back to Jake. She wasn’t good for him, and he didn’t like her poking around his family affairs. He didn’t care if he ended up in the paper in connection with the Scarlet Auction. Jason probably wouldn’t care either, but Jason’s dad would be livid. He would scold Jason for bringing shame upon the family honor, and Jason didn’t need more pressure.
He could try to pay her off, ut he doubted money would motivate her. The way she talked, journalism was about serving a greater good. He would have to figure out another way to do a “catch and kill.”
“Sex and extortion,” she amended.
“Why didn’t you just tell me that what you know was confidential?”
“Would that have stopped you earlier?”
He hesitated. “Maybe. Because Uncle Gordon is running for mayor, this development is the most important project for us. The numbers have to work—we’re not the only ones financing this—but it’s got to be good for Uncle Gordon, too.”
“And the City of Oakland.”
“Of course.”
“Well, not all developers, maybe not even a majority, care about the community. They’re in it to make a buck and then they’re on to the next project.”
“That’s not how we work.”
“There’s a reason developers don’t have a good rep.”
“I won’t say there aren’t a lot of bad eggs: developers that skimp on building materials and aesthetics, developers that try to squeeze every last concession out of the city, developers that play dirty and purchase politicians. But don’t paint us as all bad. That would be stereotyping.”
“How many good developers versus bad developers can you name?”
“How many Smart Cars did we drive by?”
“What does that have to do with developers?”
“Humor me.”
“None, I think.”
“Now, when we get to the restaurant, tell me how many Smart Cars we’ve driven by.”
“Okay. Oh, there’s one.”
By the time they got to the restaurant, she had seen three.
“What you look for, you’ll usually find,” he told her as he handed the car keys to the valet. “When the media reports a story about a bad developer, the public is primed to seek corroboration, further proof of what they know.”
“That’s a good thing. Are you suggesting we shouldn’t report the bad stuff?”
Seeing one of the valet’s gaze linger upon her, he wrapped an arm about her waist and pulled her closer. “Not at all. But there’s not enough good stuff reported.”
“Okay, it’s not ideal that fear, greed and the darker side of humanity sells more papers. We’re just giving readers what they want.”
“Then how are you truly empowering them? How can you change the world for the better if they’re only getting part of the picture?”
“It would be better if the media didn’t have to worry about making ends meet. Then they would be more free to report what they believe is more valuable instead of what will sell more papers.”
“And how would you accomplish that?”
“My first thought was that media outlets could be government sponsored, but then it would be at the whim of politics, whoever was in office or in control of Congress and funding.”
She knit her brows in further thought, looking very cute that way.
“Mr. Lee, how do you do?” greeted the hostess before taking their coats and leading them up the stairs to the private patio set up with a table for two.
He pulled a chair out for Kimani.
“Wow,” she exhaled as she took in the view of the ocean to one side and the red gleam of the Golden Gate Bridge to the other.
It would have been nice to have an outdoor patio but the ocean breeze could oft
en be chilly.
“You dine here often?” she asked.
Usually only on special occasions, he realized. Tonight was an exception.
Or was it?
“I don’t dine out often,” he replied as a server brought them sake and poured the wine into small porcelain cups.
“Really?”
“You sound surprised.”
“I guess...if you can afford to, why not?”
“It takes too much time out of one’s day. And I like to keep my diet simple.”
“I like the noodle place in Chinatown. And I’ll never pass up good soul food. Do they have soul food in Hong Kong or Beijing?”
“Unless you consider KFC soul food, I haven’t come across any.”
She laughed. “I remember driving through central California with friends, and we all had a craving for soul food. We ended up at a KFC.”
“This dinner will be different from fried chicken.”
The first appetizer was clam with monkfish and a soft-boiled egg. Kimani picked up the chopsticks, but the way she held them made it difficult to pick up the clam. He pulled his chair around.
“You’ll get more leverage if you hold one of the sticks at an angle,” he said, demonstrating by picking up a single piece of diced green onion.
She gave it a try. It was better but not sufficient. He took the chopsticks out of her hands and repositioned them in her fingers.
“You really only need to move the top stick,” he explained. “The bottom one acts as a base, an anchor.”
He could smell the fragrance of the bath bomb on her. Her skin felt incredibly smooth. After releasing her hand, he caressed the length of her forearm. Her sharp inhale and reaction to his closeness instantly roused his blood.
What had he been thinking, taking her here? The next few hours were going to be torture if all he wanted to do was run his hands over her body.
She successfully picked up the clam and smiled. “No one ever taught me the right way to use chopsticks.”
A second later, she dropped the clam.
“Guess it takes practice,” she muttered, making another attempt.
He had fun watching her work the chopsticks. By the time the second appetizer came, she was starting to get the hang of the utensils. When she picked up a single garden pea after many studious attempts and looked up at him with a wide smile, her eyes shining with triumph, he shared in her delight.