Deceptive Innocence (2 page)

My heart pounds in my ears as once again he leaves.

What if he knows?

Dear God, what if he knows I want to destroy him?

chapter two

W
hen Lander arrives
on the third night he doesn’t bother with the name game.

I pour the whiskey without his having to ask for it. My black minidress is detailed with what the saleswoman euphemistically called “vegan leather paneling” in the front and back and is considerably more brazen than I’m feeling. In fact I’m actually feeling uncertain now; he’s not as easy to read as I imagined.

Have I given myself away? How?

The questions and worries kept me up all last night, so I was forced to substitute memories for dreams: memories of my mother, laughing while holding me in her arms, memories of her delighting in my love of fairy tales and storybook princesses.

As the clock pushed past midnight the hue and tone of the memories changed. Images of my mother gasping as that man, Nick Foley, pulled her into a surprise embrace when he didn’t know I was nearby. Memories of the first time I spied Nick kissing the back of my mother’s neck while she tried to make the bed he shared with his wife. I was so young, I barely understood what I was witnessing.

And when the clock struck three, that’s when the memories were at their darkest. My mother hysterical, blood soaking her shirt—then later, memories of my mother screaming as they led her away.

The memories made me sick. At four in the morning I was on my knees wanting to pray but unable to come up with the name of a God who would listen.

If Lander knows my game, I’ve failed my mother again, this time in only the space of a week.

So now I stand before him as he drinks his whiskey, waiting for him to show his hand.

Lander’s gaze casually sweeps the room. There are more women in the bar than usual tonight. Some of them are actually cute. But he doesn’t show any of them special interest. He simply sips his drink and returns his eyes to me, studying me the way I’ve been studying him.

When he puts the drink down he breaks the silence.

“Why do you work here?” he asks.

“I need a job.”

“There are other jobs.”

“No doubt,” I agree as I take out a rag and wipe some drops of liquor off the bar. “But this is the one I got.”

The spill is gone, but I keep moving the rag back and forth with slow, deliberate movements, making it more of a meditative exercise than anything else. Somewhere on the other side of the room a girl breaks out in hysterical laughter.

“I could get you out of here,” Lander says quietly, “help you find something better.”

The relief hits me with the force of a bullet.

He knows nothing.

And he wants me. I’m sure of that now.

“Are you offering to
save
me, Lander?” I ask as I drop the rag behind the bar.

He chuckles. It’s a softer sound than the last time he laughed in my presence, a little more loaded. “I’m not the savior type.”

“No, I don’t suppose you are.”

He continues to study me, the drink in front of him seemingly forgotten. “Would you like to come home with me, Bell?”

Now it’s my turn to grin. I look to the left and right, making sure that there’s no one close enough to overhear. Then I gently put my hand over his and lean in so my lips are right against his ear and whisper . . .

“No.”

• • •

The night moves
on at an odd pace. People fade in and out of the bar like phantoms, barely noticeable, never leaving an impression, with the possible exception of the stoned girl with rainbow-colored hair who asks me to turn up the volume on the TV so she can dance to the commercial jingles.

When Benny, the bartender who covers the last shift of the night, wanders in at eight thirty, less than ten people are there.

One of them is Lander.

He’s never stayed till the end of my shift before.

I go to greet Benny, tell him which tabs are open and who’s paid up. The rainbow girl spins to the sound of Stevie Nicks’s “Landslide” as it plays over a Budweiser ad. The drunk from the night before stumbles in, already too wasted to be served. He seems disoriented for a moment as he weaves his way to the bar. He loses his footing and bumps into a biker, jostling him, spilling a bit of the big guy’s drink on his lap. As the biker swears, the drunk mumbles his apologies and falls to his knees . . . and tries to use his shirtsleeve to wipe up the alcohol from the biker’s pants, which causes his hands to brush up against parts of the other man’s anatomy that he should clearly stay away from.

It would be funny . . . except the biker reacts too quickly, yanking the drunk to his feet by his collar, practically holding him in the air as spittle flies from his mouth.

“What the fuck are you trying to do?”

“I’m sorry,” the drunk slurs. “I didn’t mean—”

But the biker throws him against the wall with enough force to cause a concussion. The drunk is disoriented, unable to stand up straight. He shields his face with his arms as the bigger man advances. Everyone in the bar is frozen, as if the speed of the violence has forced the rest of us into immobility.

All of us but Lander, who gets up and places himself in between the two men. He meets the biker’s eyes directly and says in a very quiet but very firm voice, “Don’t do that.”

The enraged man looks at Lander with his mouth hanging open. It takes him about ten seconds to gather his wits. “What’s your problem?” he sneers. “You a faggot too?”

“It’s not really relevant if I’m gay or not . . . although your extreme reaction to what just happened is curious. Are you upset that he accidentally touched you or that you sort of liked it?”

There’s a startled laughter through the bar as I whirl around to grab the phone. This is going to end badly and I can’t afford to let this man hurt Lander. But I’ve only dialed nine, one—when I hear the crushing impact of the first punch. Lander’s name bursts from my lips as I turn back to the fight . . .

But it’s not Lander who’s been hit. In fact, I turned just in time to see the biker hit the floor. He tries to get up, still snarling his aggression and holding what looks like a switchblade in his hand, but Lander is having none of it. Another punch and the knife goes flying. Blood is coming from the biker’s nose, but he doesn’t have time to tend to it because Lander quickly lands another blow to his ribs and then yet another to his jaw. And the entire time, Lander’s expression is almost . . . bored. This man is bleeding at his feet as he continues to pummel him, but looking at Lander’s face you’d think he was doing nothing more significant than killing a spider.

The biker turns onto his stomach as if trying to protect his face from the blows. But Lander grabs the man’s arm, bends it back until it’s about to break.

“Are we done?” Lander asks.

The man whimpers and wheezes. “Yes.”

And just like that, Lander releases him. The fight’s over. The biker, humiliated and teary-eyed, manages to get to his knees and looks up at Lander. And Lander looks down at him, and smiles. With his head low the biker tries to get to his feet, attempts to retrieve his knife from where it lies uselessly under a table, but Lander just looks at him and shakes his head.

The biker nods, leaves the knife where it is, and makes his way to the door. The drunk who started it all with his clumsiness finds a dark corner to huddle up in as he rubs his hand back and forth across the back of his head.

One of the other patrons swears his disappointment as the biker exits.

“That guy’s a fucking pussy!” yells out another.

And, of course, they’re not talking about Lander.

The dissatisfied audience turns back to their drinks and conversations while Lander turns to me, looks me in the eyes, and then walks out.

In seconds I’ve gathered my things and I’m following him out the door.

I find him standing just outside the bar, watching as the vanquished man retreats down the block.

I stand only a few feet behind him. He doesn’t turn . . . and yet somehow I know he’s aware of me.

“Where did you learn to fight like that?” I ask.

“Does it matter?”

I hesitate. The loser has reached the end of the block, where he parked his bike, and the roar of the Harley punctuates what would otherwise be a weak exit.

“Do you think he’s steady enough to ride right now?”

Lander finally moves to face me, his expression now impassive. “On that thing he’ll end up running into a lamppost before he runs into anything he can hurt.”

“He could hurt himself.”

“Yes, he could.”

We both fall quiet. The streetlights make our shadows long across the sidewalk. “Are you dangerous, Lander?”

“Look who’s talking.”

I feel a chill run up my spine, I can sense the challenge and the threat he poses . . .

. . . and it makes me smile.

“Would you like to come home with me, Bell?”

I raise my chin and look into his light, stormy eyes.

“Yes.”

chapter three

L
ander was wise
enough not to take his limo into Harlem, so we’ve caught a cab. We’re sitting only a few feet away from each other, not talking, not touching, just . . . thinking.

I’m fiddling with my garnet ring, trying to lay out a plan for the evening. I’ve never had sex with a man for any reason other than the satisfaction of my own desire, but I’m ready to make the sacrifice for the sake of my cause. I’ve prepared myself for that.

So sleeping with the enemy isn’t a problem . . . but
wanting
to sleep with the enemy is.

That’s
something I’m not prepared for at all. Over the last few days his self-possession, quiet intelligence, and savagery have been wearing on my defenses. Like the effect of waves against a cliff, the erosion isn’t immediately devastating but it’s noticeable.

He reaches over and touches my leg, his eyes still on the window. His fingers move up and down, his caress almost casual . . . almost. But there’s a soft rhythm to his movement as his fingers rise a little higher, pushing my hem up ever so slightly, then sliding down again to my knee. It’s not demanding or insistent. Just confident. Confident in what he’s allowed and what boundaries he’s able to push.

Being touched by this man, this man who represents so many things that I hate . . . it should be awful.

It isn’t.

His hand goes a little higher. He’s touching my inner thigh now, just barely, but still, I shudder. The involuntary reaction makes me blush and I quickly look away.

No, this isn’t supposed to be happening at all.

When the cab drops us off at his Upper East Side building, he greets the doorman with a word and leads me to the rear of the lobby, his hand on the small of my back.

“Cool digs,” I say as he pulls me onto the elevator. When I turn, I more fully take in the lush entry area, its crown molding, its expensive furniture, its little touches of decadence.

“It could be worse,” he admits, sticking his key into the slot that will allow us to get to his penthouse. The doors close and he turns to me. “Do you like elevators, Bell?” He steps forward, into my space. Instinctively I step back, but that only serves to bring me up against the wall. His lips touch mine so gently it’s practically a caress, nearly innocent.

And yet.

I feel his hands move up to my waist as his mouth quietly, softly moves down to my chin, my neck . . .

“The doors could open at any moment,” I say. I try to add a little laugh, but the sound comes out as a staccato breath.

“Yes,” he says, “they could.”

He leans into me, and his body is different than I thought it would be—harder, stronger.

He doesn’t know who I really am; he can’t.

His hands are on my hips, and the hem of my dress inches up as his grip becomes firmer, more demanding.

I’m going to destroy him. I’ll bring down his entire family.

His lips rise to my ear, his tongue finding my most sensitive spots there.

This is a sacrifice—it’s supposed to be a sacrifice . . .

. . . but that’s not what it feels like.

I close my eyes just as the elevator slows to a stop. He pulls away, but only a little. “Welcome to my home.”

Slowly I open my eyes again and step into his penthouse. The art pieces on the wall are originals, mostly by artists I don’t know . . . except for the charcoal nude rendered by Degas.

This man owns a Degas.

I don’t comment on it. Instead I just continue down the hall past the kitchen, the home office, into what serves as a living room.

One wall is lined with books, the other with windows. In the corner is a small bar, stocked with expensive bottles that look as decorative as they do sinful.

“You have a view of Central Park.” I step up to the wall of glass and stare down at the dimly lit landscape. I can feel his eyes on me . . . It’s almost like he’s touching me.

This man is my enemy.

“If I lived your life I would go to all the fancy parties,” I say lightly. “I bet you get invited to all sorts of red-carpet affairs. I bet you could be in a tux every night of the week if you wanted to be.”

“No man wants to be in a tux every night.” He pauses, leans back on his heels. “I’d like to guess your name now.”

“Oh?” I flash him a bright, playful smile. “You think you can?”

“Yes,” he says quietly. “I think I can, Bellona.”

My breath catches. I feel a knot in my stomach. Of course, it’s not my birth name—he doesn’t know that. But it isn’t information I’ve given him either. “How did you know?”

“I’ll tell you tomorrow . . . in the morning.” He comes to my side, reaches up, pushes my hair behind my shoulders. “Tonight I want to know if you’re like your namesake. Are you a goddess of war?”

“I’m not a goddess,” I say quietly.

“And yet I bet you’d hold your own on a battlefield.” His fingers slide down my neck. I expect him to lean in for a kiss again, but he doesn’t. Instead he just lets his fingers go to the scooped neckline of my dress, tracing it lightly, watching me. When his fingers move lower, over my dress, over the curve of my breast, I look away.

“No, no, warrior,” he whispers, taking his other hand and turning my face back to him. “Keep your eyes on me. I want you to see me seeing you. I want you to look into my eyes when I touch you.”

Part of me wants to say no. I hadn’t planned for this level of intimacy. I don’t know how to handle it.

But this is the path I’ve chosen. It’s a path that can lead me to my revenge. And without revenge I have nothing. My whole
life
will be nothing.

His fingers continue to caress, running up and down my breasts. I feel my nipples harden. The fabric of my dress is thick enough to conceal them and yet as he looks down at me I’m sure he knows. It’s in his smile, in the mischievous glint in his eyes.

His hands move lower, over my stomach, lower to the hem of my dress, then just below it, forcing his hand between my legs as I lean my back against the window, suddenly needing support. The glass is so clean it looks like I’m leaning against air itself, as if I’m on the verge of falling.

Maybe I am.

Slowly he raises his hand, raising my dress again as he does. The feeling of his palm against the inside of my leg makes me squirm, but as instructed I keep my eyes on his, watching him watching me.

“Do you know what I’m going to do next, Bellona?”

I nod.

“Tell me.”

“You’re going to move your hand up . . . to my thong.”

“And when I touch your thong, will it be wet?”

My heart is beating at an uncomfortable pace. “Yes,” I whisper.

His hand goes up, touches my panties, moving back and forth. It’s such a thin strip of fabric, no protection at all, really.

“Ah,” he says with a smile, “an honest woman.”

The irony should make me laugh. But that somehow isn’t right here, and he’s made me disinclined anyway.

“What would you like me to do now?”

Step away!
The thought leaps to my mind. I need to catch my breath, I need a moment to remind myself of why I’m doing this and why I’m not. I’m getting too swept up in this; I’m losing control.

But I can’t say that, not without giving everything away.

“What do you want, Bell?” he asks again, his hand still moving, enticing me, making my body react in ways my mind never intended.

“I want . . .” I stammer as his free hand moves to my back, then lower, stroking me, exploring me, discovering the spots that make me shiver. “I want you to touch me,” I say. “I want you inside me.”

He smiles and then slowly, gently, he slips his hand under the satin. His finger finds my clit.

And I shiver.

I close my eyes. I try to focus on the feeling, not the man.

“No, no,” he says, weaving one hand into my hair, pulling just slightly as the other hand continues its ministrations. “Look at me.”

I open my eyes just as one of his fingers pushes inside me. My hips buck reflexively. I reach out and grab his shirt, but my eyes stay on his.

“Does that feel good, Bellona?”

“Yes.”

He smiles, pushes in another finger. I groan, my whole body responding to him. His fingers keep moving, thrusting inside as his thumb finds my clit again. It’s overpowering. If I could just pretend someone else was doing this to me, maybe it would be okay.

But I can’t do that—not while he holds my gaze.

His fingers move deeper and my pulse jumps again. It’s ridiculous that he can make me react like this by simply touching me. It’s humiliating. I try to focus my mind, pull myself back from the brink . . .

. . . and I can’t do it.

“I do believe you’re about to come for me. Is that true?”

I reach out, gather his shirt in my fist, pull on it so hard some of the buttons break away. The gesture is violent, angry, countered only by the softness of my whisper as I say . . .

“Yes.”

His fingers increase their rhythm, and my back arches, pushing my breasts into him. There is no control now. There isn’t even any thought. Just the sensation of his touching me. My eyes are glued to his and I see him smile as the orgasm overwhelms me.

After interminable minutes, he releases me, steps back, watches as I stand there, pressed against the glass, my skirt gathered up around my waist, my panties askew. I struggle to catch my breath, but I know better than to look away.

Without breaking eye contact, he starts to undo the remaining buttons of his shirt. And this time my eyes won’t behave at all. They travel down to his chest and his stomach. I’ve been with strong men before, but not one who looks like this man, with every muscle finely chiseled. It’s as if he was designed by a Greek sculptor. As he drops his shirt on the floor I step forward, my arm extended, letting my hand touch his chest—his skin is so warm, almost hot . . .

. . . and for the first time I realize that his heart is beating as fast as mine.

He takes hold of my wrist, pulls my hand away. “I’d like you to take your dress off.”

The words bring me back, remind me of where I am and who I’m with. There are other beautiful men in the world, but only one is my adversary.

And that’s the one I’m going to undress for.

I was shivering before, but now I’m practically shaking as I unzip my dress, pull it down, and step out of it.

“And now the rest,” he says. His voice is so polite, and yet it’s not a request. Not really. It holds the confidence and authority of a command.

Carefully I unhook my bra.

“Eyes on me,” he says softly. “I want you to remember who it is you’re showing yourself to.”

My heart comes to a sudden stop. Does he know? But as I study his expression I realize he doesn’t. He just doesn’t want me to slip off into fantasy, the way I had planned. But he needn’t worry. I’m finding it impossible to think about anything that isn’t happening in this room.

I let my bra fall to the floor.

“You are beautiful,” he murmurs.

I don’t acknowledge the compliment and instead just hook my fingers into the waistband of my thong and pull it down to my ankles. I force myself to watch his face as he takes me in, force myself to keep my arms by my sides. Resisting the urge to cover myself is difficult.

Resisting the urge to touch
him
is impossible.

Again I step forward, again I put my hand on his chest, and this time he doesn’t stop me as I measure his heartbeat with my palm. This man thinks he can control me. He thinks he can dominate me.
This
man. My hand turns into a claw, and my fingernails dig into the tender skin. I watch him flinch as I run my nails down his pecs, his abs, his obliques, never breaking the flesh but nonetheless leaving my mark, reminding him that all his hard-earned strength can’t protect him from the seduction of a predator.

I smile almost apologetically and then bring my mouth to his chest, meticulously covering my path of aggression with a trail of kisses. I have to bend to do it and eventually I’m on my knees, my fingers on the small silver buckle of his belt.

My eyes are on his, his on mine . . .

I lower my head just slightly and bite my lip suggestively as I unfasten his belt, the top button of his pants, and move the zipper down until his erection is covered by nothing but the soft cotton of his Calvin Kleins.

“Is that for me?” I ask.

“Only if you retract your claws.”

I laugh lightly and begin to pull down his boxers and jeans. I toss the jeans aside, and something in the pocket hits the smooth oak floor with a faint knock, adding an audible exclamation mark to the act.

My eyes are no longer on his. They can’t be. What’s before me is too . . . impressive.

I lean forward, let my tongue dance over its every ridge. This too was not part of the plan, but something about him . . . I just want to taste him, if only a little.

His hands move into my hair as I continue my exploration, teasing him with my tongue, my hand, even with the warmth of my breath . . .

. . . and this time it’s his moan that disturbs the silence.

I take him fully into my mouth, feeling him harden even more. I feel his hands in my hair, hear the way his breathing becomes shallow, taste the salt of his skin, sense the power I have over him.

In an instant he’s pulling me to my feet, and for a moment I expect him to throw me down on the sofa and thrust himself inside me with the violence I would expect from a man like Lander Gable.

But he only smiles and then sweeps me up, cradles me in his arms as he carries me down the hall, past the pretty nudes and abstract art and into his bedroom, where he lowers me onto a low bed covered by a comforter so white and so soft it makes me think of a cloud.

Like a princess.

I can feel my aggression melting away.

It’s terrifying.

He leans over me, kisses the contours of my breasts, lets his tongue flick out against the roughness of my hardened nipple before kissing my stomach, my hip . . .

I close my eyes as I feel his tongue against my sex. My head tosses from side to side as he toys with me, drawing out my passion as if it were as easy as pulling on a string.