If I Were You (10 page)

“Yes. Have you ever seen it?”

“I’ve never been out of the States, let alone a famous Paris
museum. Actually, aside from my childhood home in Nevada, this is it for me.”

“That’s unacceptable. Life is too short and the world is too
large and too full of the art you love, not to see everything you can.”

“Well, the nice thing about the art I love is its ability to
allow the viewer to experience a piece of the world, or a story that can never
be theirs, through someone else’s eyes. I’ve certainly seen Paris through
yours.” I briefly think of the mural behind Mark’s desk, but shove aside the
thought. I don’t want to change the tone of the light conversation.

“Sounds like you’re convincing yourself you don’t need to
travel when you want to travel.”

Ouch. I almost flinch. Talk about hitting a nerve. First,
about teaching instead of working in the art world, and now this. “Some of us
are not rich and famous, and able to soar around the world at will.”

“Ouch,” he says, repeating the word I’d only dared in my
mind. “That hurt.”

“Good, because pointing out that you can see the world and I
cannot, was insensitive, Mr. Rich and Famous Artist.”

He wiggles a brow. “Who looks cool in leather.”

“And that helps your case right now, how?”

“I can offer to show you around Paris.”

I blink. Did he just suggest I go to Paris to see him? No.
No. I’m reading too much into it. “Paris is a big order. I’ve decided to start
my travel goals with New York City in the number one spot.”

“For any specific reason?”

“Opportunity. Mark seems to think I’m Riptide material.
That’s why he’s forcing me to learn wine, opera, and classical music.”

His expression doesn’t change but the charge in the air
does, snapping tight with tension. “Mark told you that he’s going to get you a
job at Riptide?”

“Well, I guess he more alluded to it.”

“Alluded how?”

“The general gist was that he sees bigger things for me than
a summer on the gallery floor, but to achieve those things I need to be ready
to interact with the type of clientele Riptide events attract.” I frown to
realize his finger is tapping on the table. “What? What is it?” My cell rings
with horrible timing and without taking my eyes off of Chris, I dig it from my
purse. I glance down and cringe at the sight of Mark’s number before I look at
Chris again. “It’s…” My voice trails off. I don’t think Mark’s name will go
over well right now. “I have to take it.” I punch the ‘answer’ button and
immediately hear Mark’s voice.

“Have you quit your job without notice, Ms. McMillan?”

I cut my eyes to my plate, trying to hide my stress over the
agitation crackling in my boss’s question from showing to Chris, and willing my
heart to stop racing. “I’m grabbing a late lunch. It was after two and I hadn’t
eaten all day.”

“It’s after three.”

I bite my lips. Crap. How did I let time get away from me?
“I’m headed back now.”

“Now would be good, Ms. McMillan. Amanda needs to review
details with you for Friday night’s event. Call me when you get to the
gallery.”

“Yes. Of course, I-“ The line goes dead. I glance up at
Chris.

“That was Mark,” he supplies.

I give an awkward nod. “I’m late back to work.”

He grabs his wallet from his pocket and tosses a hundred
dollar bill on the table for what I estimate to be a forty dollar ticket. He’s
sliding on his jacket, clearly ready to go, and I quickly reach for my purse to
pay my half of the tab.

“Don’t even think about it,” he says and his easy-going
manner is nowhere in sight. My hand freezes on my wallet and I open my mouth to
argue but decide against it. He is edgy and…mad? Surely not. Why on earth would
he be mad?

“Thank you.” I slip my purse over my shoulder.

He pushes to his feet and motions to the door. I stand up
and fit my briefcase strap over my shoulder with my purse. “You don’t have to
walk me back.”

His eyes glint with a hardness that matches the set of his
jaw. “I’m walking you back, Sara.”

His tone is steely and almost as sharp as Mark’s had been.
Uncomfortably, I head to the exit, unsteady on my heels as he holds the door
and I step outside. What’s wrong with him? Why has he gone from fire to ice?

We begin our walk, faster this time, and the cold wind has
nothing on the chill between us. Conversation is non-existent, and I have no
clue how to break the silence, or if I should even try. I dare a peek at his
profile several times, fighting the wind blowing hair over my eyes, but he
doesn’t acknowledge me. Why won’t he look at me? Several times, I open my mouth
to speak but words simply won’t leave my lips.

We are almost to the gallery, and a knot has formed in my
stomach at the prospect of an awkward goodbye, when he suddenly grabs me and
pulls me into a small enclave of a deserted office rental. Before I can fully
grasp what is happening, I am against the wall, hidden from the street and he
is in front of me, enclosing me in the tiny space. I blink up into his burning
stare and I think I might combust. His scent, his warmth, his hard body, is all
around me, but he is not touching me. I
want
him to touch me.

He presses his hand to the concrete wall above my head when
I want it on my body. “You don’t belong here, Sara.”

The words are unexpected, a hard punch in the chest. “What?
I don’t understand.”

“This job is wrong for you.”

I shake my head. I don’t belong? Coming from Chris, an
established artist, I feel inferior, rejected. “You asked me why I wasn’t
following my heart. Why I wasn’t pursuing what I love. I am. That’s what I’m
doing.”

“I didn’t think you’d do it in this place.”

This place. I don’t know what he’s telling me. Does he mean
this gallery? This city? Has he judged me not worthy of his inner circle?

“Look, Sara.” He hesitates, and lifts his head to the sky,
seeming to struggle for words before fixing me with a turbulent look. “I’m
trying to protect you here. This world you’ve strayed into is filled with dark,
messed up, arrogant assholes who will play with your mind and use you until
there is nothing else left for you to recognize in yourself.”

“Are you one of those dark, messed up, arrogant assholes?”

He stares down at me, and I barely recognize the hard lines
of his face, the glint in his eyes, as belonging to the man I’ve just had lunch
with. His gaze sweeps my lips, lingers, and the swell of response and longing
in me is instant, overwhelming. He reaches up and strokes his thumb over my
bottom lip. Every nerve ending in my body responds and it’s all I can do not to
touch him, to grab his hand, but something holds me back. I am lost in this
man, in his stare, in some spellbinding, dark whirlwind of…what? Lust, desire,
torment? Seconds tick eternally and so does the silence. I want to hold him, to
stop whatever I sense is coming but I cannot.

“I’m worse.” He pushes off the wall, and is gone. He is
gone. I am alone against the wall, aching with a fire that has nothing to do
with the meal we shared. My lashes flutter, my fingers touch my lip where he
touched me. He has warned me away from Mark, from the gallery, from him, and he
has failed. I cannot turn away. I am here and I am going nowhere.

Chapter Twelve

January 12, 2012

There are roses everywhere in my room, and I feel like a
princess who’s found her Prince Charming. Okay, so maybe he’s not exactly my
childhood version of Prince Charming, but life changes how you look at things.
I just finished counting the vases again because I can’t help myself. There are
twelve of them, each holding a dozen beautiful, sweet-smelling buds. New buds
soon to blossom. And the card. Imagine me sighing right now. The card is so
perfect. I can’t stop staring at the words ‘they are delicate and ready to
bloom like you are, little one’.
Like me
. I do feel the roses are like
me. I do feel ready to bloom, ready to go wherever he leads me. He’s hard
sometimes, demanding, but he makes me feel protected. He makes me feel special.
I think I’m ready to put aside my fear of the things he wants me to do with
him, and to take the next step. The idea of him being my ‘Master’ is incredibly
arousing. He is so…powerful.

I know I’ve let fear hold me back. I’m not really sure
what I’m afraid of. Unfamiliar feelings? What he will do to me if I grant him
full control? He has kinky desires and it’s scary to think about taking part in
those things. What if he binds me and does something to me I don’t like? And
why does the idea of being that submissive to him turn me on? That I could want
that is a part of me I don’t understand, but I know I can no longer run from
me, any more than I can run from him. I need him. I need him so badly that the
pain of potentially losing him is far worse than the pain he might inflict
during our games. I can-

“I take it you’re ready for our event tonight, Ms.
McMillan?”

My heart lurches and my gaze jerks from one of the first
journal entries Rebecca ever penned — at least, that I have in my possession,
to the doorway where Mark stands. Dressed in a pinstriped black suit, his
sculpted body and broad shoulders consume the archway, just as he consumes the
air around me. It is Friday evening and the first time I’ve seen him since he’d
left town. I suspect my reaction to seeing him is vastly more potent for a
variety of reasons. Chris’s silence.  Ella’s continued lack of communication.
Even Ava from the coffee shop, who teased me with gallery gossip, has been MIA.
I’m swimming with sharks alone, which brings me back to my reaction to Mark’s
sudden appearance, the ultimate shark.

I’m more certain than ever that Mark is the man in the
journals. The evidence is overwhelming. The roses, and their connection to
Mark’s art collection. His dominant personality, and the money Rebecca infers
her lover possesses in many of her writings. ‘Master’ has to be Mark and it is
all I can do not to blush as I remember the intimate acts I’ve read with him as
her Master.

No. It’s not knowing this man is ‘Master’ that rattles me.
It’s how well I relate to what Rebecca responded to in him. Her need to hand
over everything to someone else, including her pleasure, and yes, her pain. To
trust that much.

“Your silence is making me nervous, Ms. McMillan,” Mark
chides and his voice deepens with demand. “
Are
you ready for tonight?”

Heat floods my cheeks as I realize I’ve simply been gaping
at him, “Yes, is the right answer, correct?” I inquire, unable to keep the
apprehension from my voice, so no doubt, it shows on my face. I am beyond
nervous about the tasting, and fearful I will look foolish to the experts I
will be interacting with.  

“Yes
is
the right answer, Ms. McMillan, especially
since the tasting begins in one hour.”

I wet my lips and his gaze follows the action, and unlike
when Chris had done so, when I’d felt warm all over, Mark’s attention is
unsettling. “Yes then.”

“You aren’t convincing me.”

Flattening my hands on my desk, I will myself to stand up
for what I believe in, to claim control of me, and not give it to him. I am not
Rebecca. “Mark,” I begin, and his brow quirks with irritation, and forces me to
quickly amended my choice of address. “Sorry. Mr. Compton. I have to be honest
with you. I don’t like to pretend to be an expert when I’m not. And I’m not.”
He
has
to recognize this. The man has haunted me with emails, phone
calls, and computer testing for days on end, but he says nothing in reply. “I
worry I could lose credibility when it comes to what I do know, which is art.”

He studies me with an inscrutable mask on his too-handsome
face, his jaw set in a hard line. I cannot read him and time stretches eternally
until finally he speaks. “Do you want me to let you in on a little secret,
Ms
.
McMillan?”

The word ‘secret’ conjures many things where Mark is
concerned, but at this particular moment I cannot escape the thought of him
spanking Rebecca in the storage room and clamping her nipples. Of him punishing
her, of him wanting to punish me. I see myself in Rebecca’s role, pressed
against the wall, him against me, and it’s not the first time. It’s illogical
because I don’t want Mark, but I am spinning out of control, spiraling into
some deep, dark cavern of something I don’t understand.

“What secret?” I finally manage.

The sharpening of his gaze tells me he hasn’t missed the far
too drawn out pause before my question, or the telling rasp to my voice. He is
pleased with my reaction and realization slaps me in the face. The journal is
lying open on the desk. How did I not think of the possibility he might
recognize it as Rebecca’s, that he might know I’m reading about her, with him?
I think…I think he does know. I think he wants me to know.

“Ready for the secret,
Sara?
”

Sara. He called me Sara. Instinctively, I know this
indicates no shift in our relationship. This is his way of telling me he can
call me whatever he likes, while I must call him by his formal surname. He is
reminding me he is the boss, and I am subservient to him.

I swallow against the dryness in my throat, and nod. “Yes,”
I manage and despite the one word reply, I feel empowered with my voice. At
least, he has not rendered me mute. I am not this man’s to control.
But your
dreams of working in this industry are
, my subconscious reminds me, and
resentment burns in me at the truth inside the unwelcome thought.

“I never expected you to be ready to talk to experts tonight
like you are one yourself,” Mark announces.

I blink in confusion. “I don’t understand. You said I had to
study and be ready for tonight.”

“I challenged you to see what you are made of. If you hadn’t
given me a valiant effort to rise to said challenge, why should I consider you
for more than a mere sales rep?”

Chris’s reaction to Mark’s dangling carrot, aka opportunity
at Riptide, slides into my mind. Is Mark really planning to help me do more
than local sales, or is he simply manipulating me? Is he...playing with my
dreams? Or has Chris simply planted the idea in my head and I’m making myself
crazy because of him?

“You’ve done well this week,” he continues. “Tonight you
have my permission to confess your lack of knowledge to my customers. Simply
allow them to teach you. They’ll be eating out of your pretty little palm, and
you’ll, without question, please me with your stellar sales.”

I can barely believe he’s telling me to do exactly what
Chris suggested days before. My emotions twist in knots. I’m not sure how to
react and I respond on auto-pilot, a soldier trying to please her new captain.
“I’ll…do my very best.”

Satisfaction slides over his features. “I cannot wait, Ms.
McMillan, to see what you are truly capable of.” His lips twitch. “I have a
feeling we’ll be discussing your reward for a night well done, tomorrow.”

“And if I fail?” I ask. “Will I be punished?” I have no idea
where my boldness has come from, but the question is out without me thinking.

His eyes narrow on me. “Do you want to be punished?” His
tone is low, gravely, and rather than him being angry at the question, I read a
sexual undercurrent in his reply. Or maybe I’m suffering delusions born of a
combination of Chris’s warnings and my obsession with the journals.

“No,” I answer, and this time there is no hesitation in my
response. “I do not wish to be punished.”

“Then continue to please me, Sara,” he comments softly, and
there is a hint of both satisfaction and reprimand in his tone. I can see this
moment foreshadowing another, where he will say ‘you were warned’.
You know
I have to punish you.

He shoves off the doorjamb he’s been leaning against. “In
case you’ve not been informed, as a precaution, limo and cab service will be
provided for my staff and guests this evening. You’ll need to leave your car
key in the front desk.”

“But how will I get my car tomorrow?”

“You can expense a cab.” His silver eyes darken to a deep
gray. “It’s a small price to pay for safety. I take care of those under my
protection, Ms. McMillan.”

He leaves without another word.

***

Forty-five minutes later I am on the main floor of the
gallery worrying over the exact alignment of napkins and forks on one of
several tables set up in front of a large oval window overlooking the
courtyard. The lighting above my head is dim, the music non-existent until the
doors open, when a violinist will perform.

Nearby, Mary, the main salesperson for the gallery, and the
one person who hasn’t been overly friendly to me from the staff, as well as
several of the interns, are chatting amongst themselves. They don’t appear
nervous, or to possess the same desire as I do to stay busy. My nerves are
jangling louder than one of the San Francisco trolley bells. Even without the
pressure of being a wine expert, at least tonight, I’ve read between the lines
with Mark. I’m living one big test I can’t afford to fail. I glance at the
girls again, all in sparkly cocktail numbers that make my basic black skirt and
light blue silk blouse look out of place.

“You look like you’re about to jump off the Golden Gate
Bridge.”

Ralph appears by my side and I finish placing a final fork,
and turn to find his black bow tie from earlier in the day has been replaced
with a red one.

“Compliments always help soothe my nerves,” I say
sardonically, but then I love the man’s wit and honesty. “I thought you stayed
behind your desk?”

“If the bossman wants to fill me with expensive drink and
pay for my ride home, who am I to argue? You’ll learn to love these events. A
little alcohol and people open their wallets and it puts the ’Beast’ in a good
mood.” He studies me intently. “Now. Talk to me. What’s got you so worked up?”

I straighten his bow tie purposely. “It appears I didn’t get
the memo on the spiffy evening dress code.”

His gaze flicks several feet away to where Mary is in
animated conversation with Mark, before returning his attention to me. “She’s
in charge of preparing the staff since Rebecca disappeared.”

“Disappeared?” I ask, alarmed.

“Mary thought Rebecca leaving was her chance to grab the
bossman’s attention and it’s been a big fail for her.” He shrugs. “She’s bitter
and doesn’t want competition.” He points at me. “That’s you, honey.”

“Are you saying she has a crush on Mark or she wants the top
spot at the gallery?”

“She has a crush on him, his money, and the job. Mark barely
gives her the time of day while Rebecca was a star who helped him with
Riptide.”

Disappointment tightens my chest. No matter how I frame my
duties, I am simply a fill-in for the summer. “Why Rebecca and not Mary for
Riptide?” Why me and not Mary? “I get the impression Mary does well on the
sales floor.”

“Sales people are a dime-a-dozen, easily replaced by a herd
of interns dying to be in this business, and willing to work for pennies. Mary
fits that bill in Mark’s eyes.” He presses a finger to his chin and considers
me. “You though, are different. Mark sees something in you.” His lips twist.
“Mary knows it, too. I do believe she’s ready to stomp on you like a
cigarette.”

My eyes go wide. “Stomp on me like a cigarette?” I ask,
concerned for myself, but more so for Rebecca.   

He rolls his eyes. “Has anyone ever told you you’re
melodramatic today?”

“No,” I say, but then I’ve never been living someone else’s
life. “Has anyone ever told you you’re melodramatic?”

He winks. “All the time and to put your mind at ease. The
harshest thing Mary has in her is messing with your understanding of the
evening’s dress code. At heart, she’s nothing more than a submissive little
pet.”

“And what am I?” I ask, thinking a pet seems right up Mark’s
alley. A submissive pet, at that.

“A daring, gorgeous butterfly,” he comments, fluttering his
fingers in the air.

“I’m no butterfly,” I say, laughing at his silly imitation.
“And since when are butterflies daring?”