If I Were You (11 page)

A waiter walks by with a tray of wine on a direct path to a
line of servers who are waiting by the door in preparation for opening, and
Ralph grabs two glasses from him. “Since you,” he replies and thrusts a drink
into my hand. “Gulp that down. You’re wound too tight tonight. You need to ease
up.”

My skin prickles with awareness and my gaze shoots to Mark,
and I am instantly far more deer-in-headlights than daring butterfly. He eyes
the glass I’m holding with an arched brow, before his mouth quirks at the
corners, and he nods his approval.
His approval
. I have pleased him. I
will not be punished. I am appalled this is the direction my thoughts have
gone, and at the certainty I feel that he knows my reaction, and enjoys this
control over me.

Ralph whistles low. “You have that man by the balls like
very few do, honey.”

I blanch. “That’s crazy. I do not have him by his…no. I-“

“Doors are opening!” Amanda calls out to the room from the
hostess desk. I down my wine and shove my empty glass at Ralph.

An hour later, I am standing with a sixty-something
gentlemen whose resume includes being the ex-CEO of a rather large bank,
chatting with him about the Ricardo Alvarez show, which he’d also attended. The
room is swimming with at least fifty people, among them waiters who are wading
through the pool of fancy dresses, expensive suits, and big pocketbooks, with
selections of wine. I’ve sold two pricy paintings, neither of which were
Chris’s, most likely because I’m avoiding his display for reasons I’m trying
not to think about.

I’m also buzzing from several wine samples I’ve consumed,
which has made me form a new respect for Mark’s insistence everyone leave their
keys in the desk up front.

“So dear,” Mr. Rider, the ex-CEO continues, “I’m interested
in an Alvarez painting, but I’m not certain I see the exact piece I want here
on the showroom floor. Is there a way to arrange a private viewing of his more
precious pieces?”

“I most certainly will see what I can arrange,” I assure
him, thought I have no clue what I can, or cannot, do. “I’m sure you know the
gallery’s resources are many.”

“And you, Ms. McMillan, certainly are their newest asset.”
He retrieves a business card from his pocket. “Call me Monday, my dear.”

I beam at his departing form, and with the prospect of
viewing Alvarez’s private collection, along with him.

“I take it your smile means that went well?”

The familiar male voice radiates through me, and I can
almost feel my body quiver from inside out. I whirl around to find Chris
standing behind me, a rebel in denim and leather amongst black ties, and his
surprise appearance does far more to impact me than Mark’s had. Every muscle I
own tightens deliciously at the sight of him, and I’m not the only one to react
to his ruggedly handsome good looks. Two women walk by, their eyes raking over
Chris with admiration, their heads tilting together to exchange comments. 

“What are you doing here?” I ask, and yes, there is
accusation in my voice. I am illogically angry with Chris and I cannot seem to
figure out why. Oh wait. He told me I didn’t belong here and yet he still
manages to make me hope he’d show up all week long.

His eyes meet mine and hold, and if he notices my temper, he
doesn’t show it. “I came to lend you moral support.”

“Why would you want to support me?” I challenge, fighting
the thrill inside me at the idea he came here for me. “You said-“

“I know what I said.” He steps closer to me, his fingers
curling on my elbow, his touch unexpected, electric. My body hums in reply, and
I fight the seductive lethargy threatening to consume both my anger, and my
capacity for logic.
He told me to leave. He told me I don’t belong.

My anger sparks all over again. “You said-“

“Believe me, I know what I said and I was trying to protect
you.” His voice soft and rough at the same time, sandpaper with a silk caress I
feel from head to toe.

My stomach knots and I shove aside a blast of uncomfortable
emotions his words evoke within me. I am too aware of his touch to fully
process what I feel. My voice softens to a whisper. “You don’t even know me.”

His eyes darken, the dim light catching on the gold specks
in their depths. “What if I said I want to change that?”

His words are everything I don’t expect, and deep down,
everything I had hoped for. I am shocked, and pleased, and in disbelief. More
so, I am confused. The crowd, the swell of voices, and clinking glasses fall
away with that question. I am staring up at him and his eyes hold me captive.
No,
he
holds me captive, this man, this artist, this stranger, who says
he wants to know me. And I want to know him. I just plain
want
where he
is concerned.

“You do know this is a black tie event, correct?”

Mark’s voice is a splash of ice water. I jerk around to find
the sharp glint in his silvery gaze fixed on Chris and Chris alone. Power and
supreme agitation radiate off of my boss while Chris appears completely unaffected,
or perhaps, pleased at Mark’s disdain? 

Chris faces Mark, his hands out to his sides. “Artistic
expression. Isn’t that what you like about me?”

Mark’s lips press into a thin line. “I prefer your
expression
to be contained on the canvas.”

“Or in your bank account,” Chris muses, and while his tone
speaks of jest, there is a sharp undercurrent to his words that match Mark’s
steely stare.

“Excuse me.” A forty-something female and her husband that I
recognize from an earlier, rather unfriendly chat, interrupts us and their
intense interest in Chris is evident. The woman is practically giddy with
excitement. “Are you Chris Merit?” she asks, and good lord, she sounds
breathless, when only fifteen minutes before she’d been pretentious and
borderline rude to me.

Chris’s eyes hold Mark’s for several crackling seconds that
the couple seems to be oblivious to, before Chris turns his attention to his
admirers.

“I’ve been known to answer to that name,” he replies,
offering them one of the charming smiles that I’ve learned pack a real punch.

“Oh my God,” the woman gushes, whisking a lock of red hair
from her eyes, and shoving her hand at Chris. “I love your work.”

Avoiding Mark’s gaze, feeling somehow as if I will be
blamed, for well, something, I watch how Chris interacts with the couple.
Eventually the husband wrangles Chris’s hand from his wife’s, to shake it
himself, before he turns to do the same with Mark. “You really do know how to
surprise your guests in all the right ways, don’t you, Mr. Compton? You certainly
have earned our business tonight.”

Chris’s eyes meet Mark’s and even in profile, I can tell
Chris is barely containing a smile. “I was more than happy to attend,” Chris
comments, “but I did have one condition to being here.” The couple hang
anxiously on Chris’s words, and though Mark shows no reaction, I’m pretty sure
he is too. “I’m supposed to have a Corona beer waiting on me.” He shrugs out of
his leather jacket, a statement to Mark he is staying I believe, and a waiter
quickly takes it.

The couple erupts into laughter I don’t dare indulge in, and
turn expectant gazes on Mark. I wonder which is worse for Mark—the use of his
first name, or the request for a beer. “Oh please,” the woman pleads,” bring us
a Corona, too. What fun to tell our friends we had a beer at a wine tasting
with Chris Merit.”

“Unfortunately,” Mark replies, proving he can roll with the
proverbial punches, “the beer didn’t arrive as expected.” He waves at a waiter
who rushes over. “But I can certainly supply wine.”

Chris doesn’t push for the beer I doubt he really wanted,
and soon we all lift our glasses in a toast. “To the painting I’m going to
leave with by Chris Merit,” the wife declares.

“I can’t believe you asked for beer,” I whisper when he
takes my glass.

His eyes twinkle with mischief. “Believe it, baby. I’m a
rebel with a cause.” He hands off our glasses to a waiter.

“And what’s the cause?” I ask, while Mark and the couple
continue to chat.

“Right now,” he replies. “You.”

My lips part in surprise but there is no time for a real
reaction. The fuss has garnered attention, and suddenly we are surrounded by
people who want to meet Chris. Graciously, he chats with the various customers,
and I am both surprised and pleased as he introduces me to each.

A good hour passes, and Chris is as attentive to me as he is
the visitors. At this point, he’s doing all the selling, but the wine tastings
have continued. The longer the event continues the more I think I need to learn
how to avoid drinking at events like this one. I am unsteady, and in need of
food.

Mark joins the small group we are talking with and Chris
hones in on him. “You got a minute?”

Mark inclines his head. “Anything for the artist of the
night.” And while the statement is true-- Chris is the ‘artist of the
night’--his tone drips saccharine.

Mark turns and walks away, and I expect Chris to follow.
Instead, he slides his fingers through mine, and pulls me with him.

Chapter Thirteen

I am all too aware of Chris’s hand intimately twined with
mine as we pursue Mark, or rather, as he drags me along for the ride. There is
a possessiveness to his touch and I have the sense I am a token in these two
men’s ‘who’s dick is bigger’ contest, and now
I
am the one who is not
pleased. In fact, I’m freaking out, and my heart is about to explode from my
chest.

“What are you doing?” I demand, gently tugging on Chris’s
hand.

Still walking, he cuts me a sideways look. “What I came here
to do. Protecting you.”

I gape at this ridiculous notion. What is it with him and
this ‘protection’ hangup? I contain the urge to jerk hard against him and
demand he stop and explain himself, simply because we are in public. My mind
races in search of a more discreet plan of escape before I end up trapped in
one of the offices in the middle of their obvious war.

Mark surprises me and halts in the center of the gallery,
away from the fifteen or so guests still mingling amongst themselves, where low
voices mean discretion. Chris stops with him, and I don’t have an option but to
do the same since my fingers remain tightly tucked inside of his.

“I came here tonight to support Sara,” Chris announces
without preamble. “I expect her to get the commission off my sales.”

What?
I scream in my head. Oh my God. This can’t be
happening.

“Ms. McMillan and I will discuss her compensation amongst
ourselves,” Mark replies, and his tone is icy, his refusal to look at me
damning. My heart sinks to my feet. I am as good as fired.

“That’s fine,” Chris states, “as long
as the outcome
of your conversation includes her getting twenty-five percent of my sales for
tonight.”

My stomach knots at both the ridiculously high figure, and
the demand Chris has made. Dread fills me as I realize what this must be about.
Chris wanted me out of here. He told me to leave. I didn’t listen so he’s forcing
me out. Why? Why does this matter to him?

Mark’s eyes flash with ice and settle on my face, and I am
certain he is either going to fire me here and now, or he’s planning my
dismissal for the near future.  Instead, he shocks me with a curt, “Twenty-five
percent, Ms. McMillan but be clear. Future rewards will be negotiated between
you and I or not at all. Understood?”

I blink at him, speechless, but still manage to calculate
twenty-five percent of the roughly three hundred grand Chris has sold tonight. Surely
Mark has not just agreed to pay me fifty thousand dollars.

“Ms. McMillan,” he snaps. “Are we clear?”

“Yes,” I rasp. “Yes. I…of course. Understood.”

Mark’s gaze shifts back to Chris. “If there’s nothing else,
I have customers to attend and so does Ms. McMillan.” He doesn’t wait to find
out if there is anything else. He turns on his heel and departs, leaving me
reeling with the impact of what has happened. My adrenaline surges through me,
anger curling in my stomach and chest.

Whirling on Chris, I barely muster the will to keep my voice
low, and it’s all I can do to remember the customers who might be watching.
“What have you done?” The question comes out a hiss and I jerk my hand back
with as much discretion as I can muster considering I’m shaking, but he holds
it still.

“Made sure you’re no one’s captive.”

“By getting me fired?” I tug on my hand again. “Let go,
Chris.”

“You aren’t going to get fired, Sara.”

“Let go of my hand,” I ground out between my teeth.

He clamps his lips together, and with obvious reluctance, he
releases me. “You aren’t going to get--”

I walk away, cutting to my left, and toward the hallway
opposite the office leading to the fancy guest bathrooms, afraid I’m going to
do the completely unacceptable, and cry in public. I’m not a crier. I’ve never
been a crier, but this is my dream Chris has destroyed. I thought I could be
here, belong here. That a famous, gorgeous artist wanted me, when he was trying
to destroy me. I am embarrassed and hurt. I hurt. This hurts. Chris hurt me.

Rounding the corner, I enter the hallway, and Chris is
suddenly there in the narrow passage with me, pressing me against the wall, his
powerful thighs framing mine.

My hand goes instinctively to his t-shirt-clad chest. I am
immediately aware of the intimacy of the touch, of my body’s reaction to the
man who has betrayed me. “Don’t shove me against another wall and try to
intimidate me, Chris.”  

“I’m not trying to intimidate you. I was protecting you,
Sara.” His hands move to my waist, scorching me, and my reaction to the
sizzling touch is instant. I cover his hands with mine, trying to control what
he does next, but it doesn’t help. Now, my hands are on his hands and his hands
are on my body.

“Call it what you want,” I ground out, “but you had no right
to do what you did.”

“He had to know he couldn’t manipulate your dream. Money,
and my many resources at your disposal, does that.”

His words knock my anger and my breath away, and confusion
consumes me. His actions and his words conflict at every turn. “Why would you
help me? You said I don’t belong in this world.”

“Because I won’t watch him gobble you up and destroy you.”

I remember his words, and understand now that he wanted me
out of this gallery, not this profession. “Because he’s a dark, messed up, arrogant
asshole who will play with my mind and use me until there is nothing else left
of me I recognize.”

“That’s right.”

“And yet you say you’re worse.”

He stiffens and cuts his gaze, seeming to struggle before
fixing me in a turbulent stare. “I am, Sara, which is why you should run as far
away from me as you can. And I should step back and let you.”

“Then why aren’t you?” I whisper.

His eyes hold mine, and what I see there, the depth of his
desire, overwhelms me. He flattens his palm on my belly and I tremble beneath
the touch, and he has to feel it too. “Because,” his voice low, seductive, his
hand traveling up the center of my body, “I can’t stop thinking about you, and
everything I want to do to you, everywhere I want to touch you.”

His hand presses to the swell between my breasts, and my
nipples ache with a wish he would touch them. His boldness ignites something
sultry and dark inside me, a side of me that defies the good-girl school
teacher who is appalled I haven’t stopped this. I want him. I want him here and
now, and any way I can have him.

And when his gaze lowers to my mouth and lingers, I know he
is thinking about kissing me and I have never wanted to be kissed so badly in
my life.

“Do you taste as good as I think you do?” he asks, but he
doesn’t wait for my reply.

Suddenly, his fingers have tunneled into my hair and he’s
dragging my mouth to his. I am all soft submission, yielding to the moment, to
the man. I melt into him, welcome the hardness of his body pressed to mine. And
when his tongue presses past my lips, a long, wicked caress, I taste his
hunger, his need. There is possessiveness to his kiss, to his hand on my back,
molding me closer. I am lost in the ache that has become my need for this man,
this stranger I cannot resist. He says he’s protecting me; he says he’s
dangerous. I am conflicted, and sure I should be angry with him, but I am
completely incapable and unable of processing why.

Remotely, I register voices sounding somewhere nearby, and
some tiny part of my mind is aware we could be caught, but I am too lost to
care. I do not want to stop kissing him and I am panting when Chris tears his
mouth from mine and presses his lips to my ear. He gently strokes my hair, his
breath warm on my neck. “Go the bathroom baby, before someone sees us.”

The endearment does funny things to my chest.

He turns me to the door, his hands on my waist, his body
framing me from behind, and I can feel him hot and hard against my backside. It
is all I can do not to lean into him. He kisses my neck. “I don’t mind who
knows what we are doing but I don’t want you embarrassed.”

The voices grow louder, high heels clicking on the tiled
floor. Reality blasts through me and I dart for the bathroom door without
looking back at Chris.

***

I rush into a bathroom stall, forced to hide until the
ladies who have followed me inside the bathroom depart. Sitting on top of the
toilet seat, I know I should be reprimanding myself over my wanton behavior,
and worrying about my job. Instead, I squeeze my thighs together, all too aware
of the dampness clinging to my panties, and replay every stroke of Chris’s
tongue against mine. It is a testament to how affected I am by Chris.
I am
protecting you,
he’d said
.
What he’d done was more like claiming.
His hand on mine with Mark, his demand I be taken care of. His following me to
the bathroom and pushing me against the wall. His mouth on my mouth.

A full five minutes passes, and the woman chatter amongst
themselves and finally leave. I exit the stall and stare into the mirror, barely
recognizing the woman in the reflection. My hair is a wild, dark brown mass and
my lips are swollen. My eyes are dark with unfulfilled desire.

High heels sounds outside the door and my heart leaps with
the inevitable newcomer.  I haven’t had time to process what to do about Chris,
how to act when I exit the bathroom, but I don’t want unwanted scrutiny either.
I smooth my hair and dart for the door and I am shocked at who stands on the
other side.

“Ava,” I blink.

“Sara!” She exclaims and I join her in the hallway, only to
be pulled into a hug and she announces, “I was hoping I’d get here in time to
see you.”

I scan over her shoulder, seeking out Chris, but he is
nowhere visible. His absence gnaws at my gut, but I tell myself he’s still
here. He’s being discreet.

Ava releases me and I step back, noting how her long, silky
black hair is styled with ringlets around her face and she is wearing a red
siren dress. “You look terrific.”

“Thank you. I love the excuse the gallery gives me to dress
up, but I barely made it. I flew in today.”

“Oh? Where’d you go?”

Her lips curve with mischief. “A little last minute romantic
getaway. It was fabulous. Listen, I don’t want to get Mark mad at you. I know
you have to work the floor, but how about lunch on Monday?”

Mark. She’d called him Mark when no one else did. “I’d love
that,” I say, and remind myself she isn’t an employee of the gallery, so why
would she use his formal name?

A few minutes later, we’ve arranged a meeting spot, and I
head to the gallery floor. Nervously, I look for Chris and don’t see him. Mary
is helping a customer and Amanda and the rest of the crew seem to be hanging
out at the front door, bidding customers goodnight. I quickly check in with the
few lingering guests, and try not to let my mind go wild over Chris. But it is.
He’s gone. He used me to piss Mark off, kissed me, and then left. I am hurt and
yes, I am angry all over again. My final customer is all about sampling wine,
and this time, I dive right in. I’m going to be fired. I’ve been used and abused
and turned on in a hallway I shouldn’t have been doing naughty things in. I
have a free ride home. I’m going to drink some damn wine.

By the time the final guests are gone, and I’ve gathered my
jacket and purse, the staff is gathering for a cab line at the door. At this
point, my head is buzzing and I feel a little queasy. I don’t want to talk to
anyone, and I sure as heck don’t want to see Chris or Mark. Not that seeing
Chris appears to be an option, but Mark is unavoidable since he’s standing by the
door, having what looks like a tense conversation with Ava—or the wine is
distorting my impressions, which is quite possible--and the two of them are
having a happy chat. Nah. Mark isn’t the happy chat kind of guy. More the whips
and chains, and pleasure me baby, kind of guy. Oh boy, the wine has worked me
over good and my mind is running a marathon of ridiculousness. Empowered by
wine, and feeling quite the daring butterfly, I decide it’s time to go home,
and to do so with answers.

Unsteady, but with nothing to lose that I haven’t already
lost, I walk right up to Mark. He glances at Ava, a silent command in his look,
and even she obeys him, waving to me as she departs. The world does what this
man wants. Well, the world minus Chris.

“Am I fired?” I demand, fairly certain no one else is
around, which on a non-wine night wouldn’t be good enough. It works just fine
for me now though. 

He crosses his arms over his broad chest, and studies me
with—what?—Interest? Irritation? The man is impossible to read. “Why would you
be fired, Ms. McMillan?”

“Because of Chris.”

“Chris made us both a lot of money tonight. Making money is
not a terminating offense. Now, using Chris to manipulate me for money would
be, but you wouldn’t do that, now would you?”