If I Were You (23 page)

Disappointment fills me. Katie is the only person I may ever
know who can share Chris’s secrets, besides Mike, and I don’t see that
happening. Suddenly, I’m alone with a tray of cheese and fruit and several
glasses of wine. Fifteen minutes later, I’ve emptied the glasses and I know it
was a mistake. My head is spinning and I quickly nibble cheeses because,
apparently drinking makes me want to eat and calories are of no consequence. In
fact, I’m pretty sure wine cancels out calories right about now.

I feel Chris’s return before I see him, a tingling awareness
the hum of too much wine in my blood cannot diminish. My gaze lifts to the
doorway as he enters, followed by Mike, who looks confused. “Where’s Katie?”

“She had an emergency with a guest I think.”

Mike scowls. “How long has she been gone?”

“Right after you two left.”

“Oh crap,” he grumbles. “I better go check on her.”

Chris hasn’t spoken and I really can’t read him. My head is
too fuzzy. He saunters over to me and squats down in front of me, moving my
chair to face him.

His hand settles on my leg. “You need to get some air?”

“Air would be good,” I confirm and he helps me to my feet
and I study his face, cursing the wine I’ve drank. His happy mood has faded,
and there is an edge to him I haven’t seen tonight. Whatever he and Mike talked
about, it’s stolen my light-hearted artist.

I touch his cheek. “What’s wrong?”

He pulls me close, and his hand slides behind my neck, and
sets off alarms. His dark side is back in full force. “You see too much, Sara.”

“And you, Chris, don’t let me see enough.” 

He doesn’t reply, doesn’t move. We are frozen in place, and
I am lost in his stormy stare, his turbulent mood radiating off of me. When he
takes my hand to lead me toward the room’s back door, my footing is unsteady.
Wine and Chris do not mix well, I think, and it is the one thought I cling to
as we exit into a garden. Wine and Chris do not mix. Why? I intend to find out.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Even with too much wine in my system, and his hand still
firmly wrapped around mine, I feel Chris closing off, erecting walls around him
as we exit through a side door of the Chateau. We cross a small brick walkway
to a wooden bridge that arches over a large pond. The night is upon us, and
glowing orange lanterns dangle from poles mounted in the wooden rails, the
stars above us dotting the black, cloudless canvas. I inhale the hot air; the
cool breeze I’d hoped for to clear my head is nowhere to be found. The stuffy
night is suffocating, as is the tension humming off of Chris.

He leads me down the wooden bridge toward a gazebo, and my
nostrils flare with the sweet scent of roses. These flowers are haunting me
everywhere I go. I can see the greenery entwining the wooden overhang, delicate
buds clinging to the leaves.
I do feel ready to bloom, ready to go wherever
he leads me.
That is what Rebecca felt for the man she’d been writing
about. That is how Chris makes me feel.

Halfway down the walkway, I stumble and Chris reaches around
and catches me, his strong arms circling my waist, my hand resting on his
chest.

“You okay?”

“Yes. Fine.” I don’t look at him. This is the second time in
a week he’s had to right my drunken footing and it’s embarrassing. I haven’t
drunk too much since the day of my mother’s funeral.

Once we’re under the gazebo, he leans on the railing and I
almost expect him to set me away from him. Relief washes over me when he pulls
me into his arms and folds me against him. I settle my hand on his chest, over
his heart, the soft thrum beating against my palm. The buzz in my head
irritates me, clouding my ability to gauge Chris’s mood accurately.  

“What’s upset you?”

“Who says I’m upset?”

“Me.”

“Like I said. You see too much.”

I ignore the comment. “Mike seemed eager to give you
whatever he wanted to give you. I expected you to return pleased, not cranky
like a bear.”

“Cranky like a bear?”

My lips quirk. “Yes. Cranky like a bear.”

He studies me with a hooded look, his lashes thick veils
hiding his eyes from my prying gaze. He is beautiful in the starlight--and the
wine, or perhaps Chris himself, has washed away my inhibitions.

I reach up and trace his full, sensual mouth that I know can
both punish and please, studying him. My fingers travel his face, tracing his
high, defined cheekbones, and down to the light stubble on his square jaw. I
imagine how the stubble could scrape my bare skin. I am infatuated with his
beauty, his talent, his wit…his
body.
But I want to know the man.

“Talk to me, Chris,” I plead when the silence stretches
eternally. 

He draws my hand into his and kisses the back. “Not an easy
thing to do when you’re touching me.” He slides my hair behind my ear.
“Especially when you’ve been drinking and I can’t do any of the many things I
planned to do to you while you’re pantyless.”

A slow smile slides onto my lips. “And braless.”

“Thanks for reminding me because I’m not going to push you
when you’ve had too much to drink.”

Push me?
Please.
I yearn to know what that means.
“What happened to Mr. I’m-No-Saint?”

“Apparently he comes with limits, namely yours.”

I’m pretty sure he’s not talking about the wine I’ve
consumed any longer and the hard lines of his expression tell me I’m right. “My
limits aren’t as narrow as you think.”

“I guess that’s yet to be decided.”

My brows furrow. While he’s playful as usual, there is an
undercurrent of tension in him that isn’t going away. “What happened with
Mike?”

“You’re giving me whiplash, baby. That’s a sudden change of
subject.”

“And
you’re
avoiding an answer.”

“For someone so tipsy, you’re pretty damn pushy.”

“I used the word ‘cock-fight’ the last time I was drinking,”
I remind him. “So yeah. I am.”

His lips quirk. “Ah yes. How could I forget?”

“What happened with Mike?” I repeat.

“He gave me something that used to be my father’s. He
thought I’d like to have it.”

I’m shocked he’s really answered. Tentatively, I push for
more, “But you didn’t want it?”

“No. I didn’t.”

“Did you tell him that?”

“No.”

“What was it?”

He reaches in his pocket and pulls out a small laminated
card and hands it to me. I study what appears to be a wine judge’s certificate
with his father’s name on it.

I glance up at Chris, at the hard set of his jaw, and I feel
the ache in him, the turbulence and pain. “Why didn’t you want this?”

“Because Mike and Katie don’t know that wine was my father’s
drug of choice. It’s how he tried to forget the day he was behind the wheel of
the car when my mother died.”

Air rushes from my lunges. “He was driving?”

“Yes. He was driving and he never forgave himself for
letting her die. He hid behind the tasting events and the judging tables, and
slowly drank himself to death.”

I feel like I’ve been punched in the chest. Chris not only
lost his mother that tragic day, he’d also lost his father. “Oh God. Chris. I’m
sorry.”

Anger crackles off of him. “Come on, Sara, you of all people
know sorry is not what the hell I want to hear.”

“I do. You’re right.” Damn the buzz in my head that won’t
let me communicate properly. His sharing this with me is a huge breakthrough.
Desperately, I fight the buzz; I try to let Chris know I’m here for him. “If
this is the deep, dark secret you think is going to make me run away, it’s not.
I’m not going anywhere.”

He barks out in bitter laughter, and turns me so that I am
against the rail, his hands framing my shoulders, his body no longer touching
mine. Dark Chris is back, and he is harder and edgier than I have ever seen
him. His voice lowers and bites like a whip. “If you think this is my darkest
secret, then it tells me you have no idea just how dark life can get.”

“How do you know if you don’t try me?”

“You can’t handle it,” he grinds out. “End of story. And
you’re not going to get a chance to prove me right. I’ve broken rules with you,
important rules I’ve lived by, and you’re the one who’ll pay the price. I’m not
going to let that happen.” He pushes off the railing. “We’re leaving.” He grabs
my hand and when he sees the card in my palm, he tosses it into the water. My
stomach knots as I double-step to keep up and watch the small piece of his
father flutter toward the water. My heel catches on a board and I stumble
again.

Chris rounds on me and catches me. “And stop drinking too
much damn wine.”

I’m appalled at his reprimand, my defensiveness rising to
the challenge. “You gave me the wine, you…jerk!”

His hand tightens on my arm and he pulls me close. “Finally
you get what I’ve been telling you. Yes. I’m a jerk. The kind of jerk you don’t
deserve.” He takes my hand and starts walking, and like the jerk he proclaims
to be, his steps are fast and my footing is painfully unsteady.

We round the building without ever going inside, and head to
the limo parked off by to the side of the drive. He yanks open the door. “Get
in.”

“What about Katie and Mike?”

“Get in, Sara.”

My throat thickens with emotion and I consider refusing, but
the world is spinning around me, and not entirely because of the wine. I slide
into the car and over to the far window. I watch Eric scramble upright from an
apparent nap and straighten.

“Is everything okay, sir?” he asks as Chris climbs into the
vehicle.

“We’re ready to return to the hotel,” is Chris’s only
answer. He slams the door beside him and this time he does not move to sit
beside me.

We are worlds apart.

***

The ride back is short and tense, but it is long enough for
the anger to build to a near-explosive level inside me. I have let Chris turn
my life upside down in a matter of a week. It’s insane. It’s everything I said
I would never let a man do again.

When the car stops I open my side and get out. Eric quickly
does the same. “Thank you, Eric, for the tour.” I turn on my heel and let him
shut the door I’ve exited.

Chris is waiting on me as I round the trunk, a predatory
gleam in his gaze, hot and filled with desire. It pisses me off. I am not prey.
I am not a token to be used and played with. I tug the shawl around me and
cross my arms, giving him no chance to take my hand, and head inside the hotel.

He falls into step beside me, softly announcing the obvious.
“People are watching us. They can tell you’re pissed.” 

“How very observant of them.” I keep walking toward the
elevator and I know I’m swaying. I’m flipping drunk and that just ticks me off
more. It means I trusted Chris to take care of me. I don’t need to be taken
care of. I don’t want to be taken care of.

We step into the elevator and he leans on the far wall,
watching me. I turn and stare right back at him. His eyes slide over me, a hot
caress, and damn it, I hate how much I crave his touch. I hate this power he
has over me.

He says nothing. I say nothing. The air crackles with sexual
tension but I cling to anger.
You can’t handle it.
I’m so tired of men
telling me what I can and can’t handle.

The doors open and I head for the hallway, and I sway.
Chris’s hand slides to my waist and heat darts through my body. “Don’t,” I hiss
without looking at him. “Just don’t help me and don’t touch me.”

His hand falls away and I start walking. The hall is long
and it feels like an eternity before Chris swipes the keycard to the door.

All the anger I’ve bottled for the past half-hour explodes
from me when I enter the room. I kick off my shoes for stability and toss my
purse, which I don’t even remember holding, to the ground.

I whirl on Chris before the door even shuts behind him and
unleash on him. “You’re making me crazy, Chris. No picket fences, no talking
about the past, yet you ask about my past and then you take me to meet your
godparents, who you know will tell me about your past. I had no expectations
from you besides you whisking into my life and thoroughly fucking me before
going back to Paris. I was okay with that. It’d been five years. I needed sex,
not this…this making me crazy thing you’re doing.”

Before I can blink, I’m against him, his hand sliding into
my hair, pulling my face to his, his other hand caressing my breast, my nipple.
“You want to be fucked? Is that what you want from me, Sara?”

“Yes,” I whisper but I know it’s not enough anymore, not
with Chris. “I want…” A wave of nausea blasts through me and my hand presses
against his chest. “Oh God.” I push away from him and he lets me, as I
desperately seek the bathroom, and have no idea where it is. Chris guides me
beyond the bed and I remotely register entering a smaller room and a light
being flipped on but all I see is the toilet.

I drop to my knees in front of it without a second to spare
and what follows isn’t pretty. Chris approaches and I wave him off. “Go away,”
I choke out. “I don’t want you to see me like this.”

“Forget it.” He goes down on a knee beside me. “I got you
like this, I’m going to take care of you while you’re going through it.” He
hands me a towel which I clutch eagerly and I can’t argue anymore. I fall into
eternal heaves, and he is holding my hair, stroking my back, until I collapse
on some shiny white surface I think is the side of the tub.

Chris eases me off of the tub, cradling me against his body.
“We need to get you out of this dress. It’s a mess.” He tugs it upward. I am a
limp noodle and barely raise my arms to help him pull it over my head.

I am naked on the bathroom floor, and Chris slides his arms
under my thighs and behind my back as he picks me up. Clarity begins to come
back to me. I put my trust in Chris to take care of me and he is but I am sick
all over again thinking of the irony of what has happened.

He pulls back the sheets and settles me in the bed, pulling
the covers up, before kneeling in front of me. “Let me get you some water.”

I grab his hand before he can leave. “Chris…me getting drunk
on wine after what you told me--”

“You did nothing wrong tonight. I did.”

“No,” I argue, certain, for reasons I’m not clear-headed
enough to analyze, that him taking the blame is a problem. “Chris.” I don’t
know what else to say. I’m too sick and to weak. “I…we…”

“Rest, Sara. I’ll be right here if you need me.”

The question is, will he be here tomorrow? And should I want
him to be? But it doesn’t seem to matter what I should want. I just want to be
with Chris.