Being Me (7 page)

Chris hangs up the phone and turns to me and I don’t get the chance to ask why he’s taking a cab. “Come with me,” he says. “I didn’t cancel your reservation.”

Knowing more about the charity only makes my reply harder. “Not this time.”

He does not look appeased by my inference that I would accept a future invitation. “That’s not the right answer.”

“It’s the only one I have.”

He scrubs his jaw and turns to the counter directly beside me and presses his hands to it. His head falls forward and he just hangs there for several seconds, tension rolling off him in waves.

I reach over and run my hand through the spiky blond of his hair. He lifts his head, and the concern in his pale green eyes glistens in sunlight beaming from the bay window behind us. “I’m going to be out of my mind with worry. Do you have any idea how hard it is for me to leave you like this?”

“It’s hard for me to let you leave.”

He registers my words, and I know I’ve pleased him, but his mood shifts, his jaw tenses. “I need you to do something for me, Sara. I need you to lock those journals in the safe in my closet and leave them there. I’ll give you the combination.”

My heart begins to race and I lean against the counter to see him more fully. “You’re worried someone will try and take them? I thought you said the apartment was safe?”

He rotates around to face me. “It is safe. That’s not what I’m worried about or else I wouldn’t be trying to talk you into going with me. I’d be insisting instead. What I’m worried about is you reading the damn things and then reading into them. I’m asking you to put them away while I’m gone. Save your curiosity until I’m present and have the chance to explain whatever you read if you somehow relate it to you and me like you did last night.”

“It’s not about curiosity, Chris. It’s about finding Rebecca.”

“Let the private detective do his job. I’m going to put a call into him this morning to talk about what happened last night and see if he can get anything from the storage facility about the incident that we couldn’t.” His hands slide down my hair. “Please, Sara. Lock up the journals.”

I swallow hard against the refusal that wants to spurt from my lips. This is important to him, and there is nothing in the journals I haven’t read at least once before. Reluctantly, I nod. “Yes. Okay. I’ll lock them up.”

Approval crosses his face. “Thank you.”

My lips curve at his thank-you.

He arches a brow. “Why are you smiling?”

“Because most macho control freaks don’t say ‘thank you.’ I like it.”

“Enough to agree to fly up to Los Angeles Saturday after work and help me survive being stuffed in a tuxedo at a gala that evening?”

I wiggle an eyebrow. “I get to see you in a tuxedo?”

“Better. You can help me take it off.”

“Deal,” I say with a laugh. “Though I want a picture before the undressing begins.”

“I’ll give you the picture if I can talk you into bringing the painting I did last night with you. It’s not dry enough for me to carry with me.”

“Of course. I don’t mind at all.”

“Great. There’s a small room in the back of the studio with a high-tech dryer. It’s sitting back there. I’ll call you when I get settled and work out the travel arrangements.”

The phone buzzes on the wall and he grabs it. “Be right
down,” he murmurs and replaces the receiver before reluctantly announcing, “My cab is here.”

“Why aren’t you driving?”

“I want you to take the Porsche.”

“I have my car.”

“The Porsche has top-notch security. It knows where you are at all times.”

A flash of a past I prefer to forget slips between us, sharpening my tone. “In other words, you want to know where I am at all times?”

He appears unfazed by my reaction. “If I had to find you I could, but that’s not the point. If you were in trouble, you’d be found and found quickly. If you need help, you just tell the computer and it will get you help. It’s peace of mind for us both.”

His reasoning isn’t horrible and the past begins to slip away, replaced by another, rather obvious potential motive. “And as a bonus me driving your car makes a statement to Mark.”

He crosses his arms over his chest. “As a bonus, yes.”

My hands go to my hips. “I don’t want to be in the middle of the war between the two of you. I’m not a game token, Chris.”

He backs me against the counter, his legs framing mine, and in my bare feet and only his T-shirt, I feel tiny and he is larger-than-life. “It says you’re mine,” he informs me, his voice low, intense, “and I want him to know you’re mine.”

I’m thrilled when I should be objecting. “And you, Chris?” I challenge instead. “Are you mine?”

“Every bit of me, baby, good and bad.”

I am shocked at how easily this declaration has rolled from his lips. My own lips part and no words come out.

“Take the Porsche.” His voice is softer now, rough and seductive.

He was right earlier, I conclude instantly. I melt like honey for this man when he wants me to. “I’ll take the Porsche.”

Chris’s hand slides to the side of my face. “That’s the right answer, baby,” he murmurs, then slants his mouth over mine, his tongue pressing past my lips. The ripe taste of his approval mixed with the sweet nuttiness of hazelnut coffee floods my taste buds, and consumes me. I am happy for the first time in a very long time.

Watching the elevator doors close on Chris leaves me hollow inside. I’m alone in his apartment and the happiness of the last few minutes has waned with the sensation of being lost. I know that distance does not have to create separation between us but our newfound closeness is fragile.

For several seconds I face those steel doors, willing them to open again, but they do not, and with good reason. Chris has a flight to catch and a good reason to leave. I on the other hand have several hours until I have to be at work and way too much time to think. I tell myself to sleep, since I’ve done little of it, but I know that isn’t going to happen. There is simply too much weighing on my mind. Besides, I need to unpack and shower.

I quickly head to the bedroom and find my nearly dead phone and dig the charger out of my suitcase. Once I’ve plugged it in and set it on the nightstand by the unmade bed, I glance at the closet. I’ve never actually shared a closet with a man before
and I fight a wave of discomfort. I fight off the feeling. I am crazy about Chris. I am thrilled with the evolution of our relationship. So why am I fighting a sensation not so unlike what I felt in the storage unit, a sort of claustrophobia?

“This is ridiculous,” I scold myself, then zip my case back up and snatch up the handle. “You want this man. You want to be close to him.” I roll it to the closet and flip on the light and my eyes go wide at what I find. The closet is amazing, a girl’s dream, the size of a small bedroom with racks for clothes that line each of the three sides that don’t have a door, only two of which are being used for Chris’s clothes.

Once I’ve settled the case on the floor, I squat down and unzip it. My eyes catch on the safe embedded on the right wall and I find the door open. Chris hasn’t given me the combination yet and it’s unnerving to lock Rebecca’s things away without a way to get back inside.

My teeth scrape my bottom lip and I stare down at my open case, at the small keepsake box and the journals lying on top of my things. I made a promise to Chris to lock the journals up. I gather the three journals and the box and carry them to the safe, and shove them inside, but I do not lock the door. The fourth journal is by the bed somewhere, where I’ve left it the night before, and I push to my feet and head to the other room to find it. I spot it on the floor by the bed and reach down to grab it but my hand slips and it falls open. I grab it and sit on the bed, staring at the open page. I know this entry. My knowledge of the contents makes the urge to read almost unbearable. I draw a breath and promise myself this is the last time I’ll touch any of the journals before Chris returns. I’ll call him before he’s in
the air, get the combination to the safe, and lock them away. Air trickles from my lips and my gaze drops to the book.

I woke this morning to the dull ache of my raw backside, proof of his punishment. I did not wear panties when I dressed for work. I cannot bear the touch of anything on my skin. The dull ache eased as the day went on but the memory of my punishment did not
.

I did, however, have several large sales today and my evening ended with a private showing of a famous artist’s collection. My clients were thrilled to meet the actual artist and I understand why. He has a gentle strength about him that carries through to his brush. He is passion personified and I wonder what it would be like to have a man like that feel passionate about me. I wonder what it would feel like to wake up my passion for life again, instead of just wondering what the new game will be. The games are no longer fun. They are not the escape they once were. He is not the Master he once was. I feel as if I am spiraling into darkness and I hunger for the kind of passion this artist has for life again. I hunger for more . . . but isn’t that what brought me to the gallery in the first place? A hunger for more? Maybe it’s the “more” that is the danger . . . because more just never seems to be enough
.

I slam the journal shut and my mind is on one thing. The artist Rebecca has written about. It’s not Chris, I tell myself. Chris would never invite strangers into his home and studio for a showing. It has to be Ricco Alvarez, who is meeting with me about some private showings; he apparently used to do them with
Rebecca. So why am I still thinking of Chris? It’s insane. “Inherently private” is how he described himself. And even if Rebecca was talking about Chris, there is nothing in this entry, or any other, that suggests Rebecca’s lover had been an artist. My gut tightens and I shove to my feet and rush back to the closet. I drop down on the floor in front of the safe, before setting the journal I’m still holding inside. I pull out the velvet box and lift the lid and stare down at the paintbrush and picture of Rebecca that is torn in two so that I can’t see who was in the photo with her.

“It’s not Chris,” I whisper. “It’s not.”

My cell phone begins to ring and I shove the lid down and stick the box back inside the safe. I give the journal a glare and shove it inside the safe as well, and then I shut the safe and twirl the combination dial into place. I’m making myself crazy and I have to stop.

Afraid I’m going to miss my call, I push to my feet and run toward the bedroom, certain it’s Chris, and reach it just as it stops ringing. A glance at the caller ID tells me it was Chris. I’m about to punch
REDIAL
when it rings again.

“Chris,” I answer urgently, sitting on the edge of the bed, hoping to hear something in this call to erase the journal entry and how it’s made me feel.

“If this was any other trip for any other reason, I wouldn’t be leaving.”

“I know.” As insecure as I can be, in this moment, I feel the connection between myself and this man. “I also know that what you’re doing at the hospital is important. Where are you now?”

“We just started to cross the bridge. I had to push my flight back an hour but I should still make all my scheduled events.”

“I knew you were pushing it to make the flight.” Guilt over the journal entry twists inside me and I can’t hold it in. “I’m weak, Chris,” I blurt out. “I read another journal entry after you left, but I’m done now. No more. I locked all four of the journals in the safe and I don’t want the combination. Just tell me when you get back.”

He’s silent for several seconds, which feel like an eternity. “Do I want to know what you read and what it’s making you think about us or me?”

“No,” I say firmly, trying to convince him, and maybe myself, too. “What matters is they’re locked up now.” My grip tightens around the phone. “I promised you I wouldn’t read anything else until you got back, and I did. I’m sorry. I don’t want you to feel my word means nothing.”

“You told me when you didn’t have to,” he says softly. “That matters, Sara.”

“You matter. You coming back to see me last night and worrying about me and so many other things, Chris. I’m not sure I really told you how much it all means but it does. It really does.”

“If you’re trying to make me want to turn the cab around and come back, it’s working.” His voice softens. “Saturday is going to take forever to get here.”

“Yes,” I agree. “Forever.”

“More so because I’m worried about you. I talked to Jacob before I left. He’s going to give you his cell phone number and if you need anything you call him. He’ll even take you to and from work if you want, though I know you well enough to know you aren’t going to agree to that.”

“No, but after what happened at the storage unit, I’m not
complaining about having someone to call if I need to.” Had Chris not shown up last night, I’d have had no one to lean on, and it wasn’t a good feeling. “Thank you, Chris.”

“Thank me by staying safe and make sure you stop and talk to Jacob before you leave. If he’s not around have the front desk call for him.”

“Yes, okay. I will.”