If I Were You (25 page)

I have to go by my apartment.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

The sun is setting by the time we pull up to my apartment
building and Chris parks his 911 in the midst of much humbler vehicles I
imagine he can’t help but notice.

“I’ll just be a few minutes,” I say, and quickly exit the
911. Chris is already rounding the trunk when I stand up. So much for my escape
strategy. “You don’t have to come in.”

“But I want to.” There is no give to his voice and he slides
his fingers between mine and motions me forward. “Lead the way.” 

Resigned to a battle I can’t win, I head toward my red brick
building with Chris by my side and quickly find my door. I tug the keys from my
purse, and hesitate. The journals are laying out on the coffee table. I can’t
hide them from Chris. There’s no possible way.

Chris reaches around me, his big body framing mine, and
takes the keys. He turns the key and shoves open the door.

Adrenaline pours through me and I rush inside, darting for
the coffee table. I start to stack the journals, and the only bright side to
their location, and my present state of panic, is I have something to worry
about other than my simple brown couch and my $500 dining room set. 

The door shuts behind me and the jolt somehow rakes my raw
nerves to the point that two of the journals tumble to the ground. Chris is
there, as he always is when I drop things, picking them up.

I sink to the couch and set the three in my hands on the
coffee table before accepting the ones in his hands. He sits beside me,
studying me, ignoring the journals that are all I can think about. “What’s
wrong, baby? Why is bringing me in making you this frazzled. I don’t care about
your apartment. I care about you.”

My eyes go wide. He cares about me. It’s the closest thing
to truly admitting this ‘thing’, for lack of a better term, between us is more
than sex. “It’s a lot of things but no, I didn’t want you to see my little
bitty apartment.”

He continues to study me with far too much scrutiny. “What
else? And don’t say nothing. You already said it was more than the apartment.”

My gaze falls to the journals on the table, and suddenly I
desperately want to tell Chris about them. “If I tell you, I’m not sure how
you’ll react.” I glance up at him. “Call this reveal my dark secret that might
send you running.”

“I won’t run, Sara.” He pulls my legs over his, holding me
captive, and I wonder if he knows this. I suspect he does. Chris has a way of
controlling things, controlling me. “Talk to me.”

“The journals on the table are Rebecca’s.” The words tumble
out of me, and it is a relief to say them. “Her personal journals, with her
most intimate thoughts inside.”

“Rebecca’s journals,” he repeats flatly, his expression as
unreadable as his tone. “Did you get them from the gallery?”

“My neighbor bought a storage unit at an auction—people buy
the ones that aren’t paid for and then sell the items for profit. She planned
to do that but her rich doctor fiancé, who she barely knew, whisked her off to
Paris. She left the storage unit for me to take care of.”

“You have a storage unit filled with Rebecca’s things?”

“Right. I couldn’t bear getting rid of her things. I wanted
to find her and return the items to her. That’s how I started reading her
journals and there were so many similarities in our lives that I knew I had to
find her.”

“So you went to the gallery.”

His tone isn’t flat anymore. It’s sharp as steel, and his
expression stony, his jaw tight, and nerves explode in my stomach in response.
He doesn’t like what I’m telling him. I’ve made a mistake sharing this. “I was
worried about her,” I say defensively. “I still am and...and my good intentions
have snowballed out of control.”

He sets my legs down and straightens, staring at the
journals. Seconds tick by, the tension in the room is volatile, stretching
tighter, and I have a sense of a rubber band about to pop.

My gut clenches when he picks up one of the journals and I
can’t breathe when he flips to a random page. I watch as he begins to read and
his body is stiff, the muscle in his jaw flexing and re-flexing. I can’t move,
can’t think of what to do to stop the explosion about to erupt.

Seconds tick by so slowly until he looks up at me. “This is
what you’ve been reading?”

 “I’m not sure which passage you’re referring to, but I’ve
read most of the entries. I was worried about her, and I’ve been looking for
clues to find her.”

He shoves the journal at me. “Read it out loud.”

“What?”

“Read the fucking entry, Sara, because I want to know you
understand what’s on these pages.”

“I do,” I whisper. My hands are shaking.

His voice is low, lethal. “Read.”

I open my mouth to argue but his look, the glint in his
eyes, freezes the words on my tongue. I don’t understand his reaction or why
I’m compelled to follow his order, but I do. Slowly, I lower my attention to
the entry, and begin to read.

Tonight he punished me. It was inevitable. I knew this.
Looking back, I wonder if I didn’t taunt him intentionally by flirting with
another man. I just…I don’t understand how he shares me, and yet he possesses
me. When I was on my knees, my hands tied to the posts of the podium, waiting
for the first smack of leather on my bare skin, I knew right then, if no other
time, I was his world. There was nothing outside the room, nothing but what he
wanted to do to me. What I wanted him to do to me. I craved the pain I knew he
would inflict, as I never believed I could. Pain. It is an escape. When I feel
the leather on my skin, I feel nothing else. There is none of the hurt of the
past.
There is--

Chris takes the journal from me and tosses it on the table,
yanking me to him, his fingers curling around my neck in the way they do when
he is in control. “Is this what you’re fantasizing about, Sara?”

“No, I--”

“Don’t lie to me.”

“It’s…I don’t know what you want me to say.”

“You have no idea what you’re getting yourself into.” 

But he does. I know it instinctively. “I’m not--”

His mouth closes down on mine, brutal and punishing, hot and
seductive, long strokes of his tongue caressing mine, until I can barely
breathe. When he finally relents, his hand moves roughly over my breast, and
his lips linger above mine, his breath hot, and his voice a near growl.

“You have no idea how tempting it is to give you a lesson
you’ll never forget.”

Yes. Yes please. Give me a lesson. Every part of me cries
out for him, for what he threatens me with. There is no fear. Only a white hot
burn and desperation. “Do it,” I challenge. “Do it, Chris.”

He pushes me down on the couch, framing my body with his.
“You don’t know what you are getting into, Sara.”

“Show me,” I pant. “Make me understand.”

He shoves my hands over my head. “Damn it, Sara. I should. I
should scare the shit out of you and throw those damn journals away.” He buries
his head in my neck and then he is gone, leaving me panting and empty inside.

I sit up, my sex aching and wet, my body screaming for some
unknown pleasure it’s been denied. Chris is standing with his back to me,
raking a hand through his long hair. “Fuck,” he curses, turning to me. “What
are you doing to me, woman?”

He’s at the edge and I’m hungry for what is on the other
side of his control. Starving in a way I never believed possible. Pushing to my
feet, I go to him and I don’t give him time to react. I drop to my knees and
caress the thick ridge of his erection. He wants me. He is aroused by the idea
of teaching me whatever lesson he spoke of. I am aroused by the idea as well.

“What are you doing, Sara?”

“Pleasing you like you do me.” I shove up his shirt and
press my lips to his stomach, popping his button at the same time.

“Sara,” he whispers, and I love the rough timbre of his
voice. I love knowing I am affecting him as he does me. I unzip his jeans and
reach beneath his boxers, wrapping my hand around the hard, warm flesh of his
shaft, carefully freeing him from his clothes.

He’s staring down at me, his gaze nothing short of carnal,
and I like it. Oh yes, I do. He is hot and hard in my hand and liquid pools at
the tip of his erection, further proof of how on edge he is. I blink up at him
and hold his stare, before snaking my tongue out and licking it off.

His lashes lower, his body tenses, but his hands are by his
sides. He is in control, I’m not. I swirl my tongue around him, and a soft,
hard breath escapes his lips. Encouraged, I suckle him, taking only the head of
his shaft into my mouth, knowing he will want more.

My tongue thrusts down the underside of him and success
follows. His hand slides to my head. “Stop teasing me,” he orders roughly.
“Take me deeper.”

My sex tightens. I like being ordered by this man. I am
craving control myself but yet when he takes it, I am hot and ready for
anything. I slide down his length, drawing him deeper into the wet recess of my
mouth, craving the moment he will be buried inside me.

“That’s right, baby. Take it all.”

My mouth slides all the way down to where my hand grips him,
and I begin to suckle and glide back and forth. The muscles in his legs are
locked, and he’s arching into me, the grip on my hair tightening as he does.

I’ve given blow jobs, Lord only knows Michael wanted me on
my knees, but I have never been aroused by doing it. I am dripping wet, my
nipples are tight and aching, my breasts so heavy and sensitive that I caress
one of them myself, trying to find relief.

“Harder,” he commands. “Deeper.”

I increase the pressure and he pumps into my mouth, the
salty taste of his arousal pouring into my mouth moments before a low growl
escapes his throat and his body jerks. It’s that growl that ripples through me,
and unbelievably takes me so close to orgasm. Knowing that I affect him
downright turns me on. I taste his release and for the first time ever I
swallow willingly, drinking in his release, as I am his pleasure. I want…I want
so badly it hurts.

His body stills, the tension in his legs easing, and before
I completely process what is happening, I am being pulled to my feet and my
shirt and bra are tugged up over my head. The next thing I know I’m against the
couch, facing it and he’s pulling my jeans down, but my boots are still on.

He pulls me back against his chest, one hand molded to my
breast, the other sliding into the wet heat between my legs. “You liked doing
that to me.”

“Yes.” The word hisses from my lips.

“Were you thinking about me inside you, Sara?” His fingers
are all over me, teasing my clit, and Oh God, I’m embarrassed by how close I am
to orgasm.

”Yes,” I mouth, unable to form words. I am…my body clenches
and then spasms overtake me. My knees buckle and Chris’s hand on my breast
holds me up. Everything goes black and spots dot the inky space. Lost in the
sweet burn of my body, without concept of time, I relax against Chris, and
slowly become excruciatingly aware of my pants at my ankles.

His hands caress a path down my arms and he leans me toward
the couch, pulling my pants up. My cheeks burn as he steps away from me but he
is right back, pulling my shirt down over my head.

He leads me to the couch, and sits down, pulling me onto his
lap, and resting his head against mine. How long we sit there I don’t know, but
I could sit there with him forever.

“You do know Rebecca was tormented and lost in that entry,
don’t you?”

Like me, I think, but I don’t say that. I lean back to look
at him. “Yes. That’s exactly what bothers me, Chris. The journals are more than
sex. There is this eerie feeling to them. And they tell me at the gallery that
she’s on vacation when her whole life is in a storage unit. That makes no
sense. Something happened to her and no one seems to miss her.”

“You’re really worried about her.” It’s not a question.

“Yes. I am. If something happened to me, I’d like to know
someone would care.”

He tightens his grip around my waist. “Then we’ll find out
what happened to her.”

“We?”

“We, baby. I’ll hire a private detective.”

I’m blown away. “You will?”

“If you really think something happened to her, then we need
to find out.”

I press my lips to his. “Thank you.”

“Thank me by letting me stay here tonight. We’ll order
Chinese or whatever you like and watch a movie.”

“I thought we were going to your place.”

“I think it would do you good to remember this is your world
tonight. And me, too.”

“My apartment doesn’t have the luxury you’re used to.”

“It has you, Sara, and that’s all that matters.”

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Monday morning I rush into the gallery a second before I’m
due to work, and I barely contain a smile as I make a note to myself. No
showering with Chris before work.

“Morning, Sara,” Amanda says, and she gives me a quick
inspection from behind the desk. “You look fabulous. Open your jacket and let
me see the outfit.”

I pull back the expensive leather jacket Chris had given me
in Napa Valley to show off my simple Chanel sheath in pale pink. One of the
many items in my gift bags from Chris, it is elegantly simple, and I love it. I
pause outside the offices, in front of her desk.

“I love that dress. The color is beautiful.”

“Thank you,” I beam. “A compliment is always a nice way to
start the morning.”

“You look lovely, Ms. McMillan.”

I glance up to see Mark standing behind Amanda, wearing a
dark pinstriped suit and looking as gorgeous and powerful as ever.

“Thank you,” I manage, wondering why I feel defensive. I’ve
been feeling that way too much lately.

Mark’s eyes glint with a hint of what I believe is amusement
meant to be at my expense. “Now you have two compliments to start your day.”

“I hope that means it’s a lucky sales day on the floor for
me,” I dare.

His lips quirk. “I’m fairly certain it will be. There was a
certain client at the party Friday night who says you promised to get him a
private viewing of Ricardo’s collection. Big promises, Ms. McMillan, make you,
and me, look bad if they are not delivered upon.”

Oh crap. “I thought since you know Ricardo and he displays
his art here, we could convince him to allow a visit.”

“Good luck with that one, Ms. McMillan.” He glances at
Amanda. “Get her Ricardo’s number, and Ms. McMillan, you’re approved for the
sales floor, but it does not dismiss you from the testing you’ll find in your
email.” He starts to turn and stops. “If you do pull off this Ricardo
meeting—I’ll be impressed.”

I watch him depart, and Amanda peeks over her shoulder.
“Ricardo, Sara? Have you met him?”

I feel the blood drain from my face. “No.”

She whistles. “Think Mark on acid. He’s arrogant and
intense, and--“

“I get the picture.” I head for the office door and enter.

Amanda rolls her chair around. “Here’s Ricardo’s card.”

I accept it and she lowers her voice, “Ricardo had a soft
spot for Rebecca. She’s the one who set up the charity event but he hasn’t
given Mark another piece to show since she left. If you can win him over, you
really will impress Mark.”

Rebecca. She’s everywhere I turn but I feel a bit of hope in
this otherwise grim situation. “Thank you, Amanda. I am going to give it my
best.”

She smiles. “Go, Sara. Go, Sara.”

I’ve barely settled into my desk when Ralph appears in my
doorway and holds up a sign reading ‘Go Sara’ with a smiley face and then
disappears.

I laugh and decide I should dive right in and call Ricardo
before I talk myself out of it. I’m about to dial the office phone when my cell
phone goes off. I dig it from my purse, and smile when I see the text message
from Chris, remembering him adding his number in my phone himself the night
before.

I set down the office phone and open the message.
Taking
a hot shower has new meaning today. 

I laugh and type.
So does a cold shower.

True. Very true. Can you do lunch?

I start to say yes, but remember Ava.
I have a lunch
meeting.

Cancel.

It’s tempting but my gaze catches on the rose candle and I
think of Rebecca. I’m hoping Ava can tell me more about her.
I can’t.

I’ll be starving by dinner.

I roll my eyes in good humor.
I like it when you’re
starving.

Then I’ll try not to disappoint. I’ll pick you up at
eight.

I shove my phone back inside my purse, and dial the office
phone, and promptly receive Ricardo’s voice mail. I hang up knowing a message
means I have to wait a respectable amount of time to call again.

The buzzer on my desk goes off and I answer. “You have your
first customer on the floor, Ms. McMillan,” Mark says. “Make me proud.”

I’m thrilled at the challenge. “I will.”

He is silent a beat. “I look forward to being right about
you.” The line goes dead and I rise to my feet. So far, this is a good day.

***

By lunchtime, I have one sale, and another potential sale
and I’m feeling good. Ironically, Ava has called and chosen ‘Diego Maria’s’ to
meet me.

I entered the restaurant to find her at the same table Chris
and I had occupied the prior week.

“Sara!” She pushes to her feet, looking petite and lovely in
a cream-colored pantsuit, her long dark hair cascading over her shoulders. I am
wrapped in a hug, and I surmise she’s a hugger like I am. I feel a friendship
despite barely knowing her.

We settle into our seats and Maria appears at our table.
“Welcome back, Señora Sara. I see we didn’t scare you off with the hot
peppers?”

“No. That was Chris’s fault, not yours.”

“Ah well, I assume you make him pay for burning your mouth.”

I laugh. “You bet I did.”

She claps. “Excellent. In that case, you lovely ladies get
tacos on the house, with sauce on the side.”

Ava arches a brow. “I sense a good story.”

I quickly recount the events of my prior visit and we fall
into easy conversation. She tells me all the neighborhood gossip, and I listen
for tidbits about Rebecca, trying to find the best way to turn the conversation
that way.

Ava lowers her voice. “And Diego. He’s going to Paris, you
know.”

“Yes. He told Chris about it the day I was here.”

“He’s going after a woman, this exchange student he met who
used to come into the restaurant. But she was just having fun, Sara. I met her.
I talked to her. He plans to propose. It’s really quite heartbreaking. Paris
makes people get so romantic and silly.“

I think of Ella, who I tried to call the night before, with
no success. “You have to tell him, Ava.”

“He’ll kick me out of the restaurant and I love this place.”

I blink. She’s serious. She’s going to let the man get his
heart broken over a few tacos. I have to talk to Chris, and see if he can
influences Diego.

“And besides,” Ava adds. “Who am I to judge? I thought that
hottie rich guy Rebecca was seeing was a player and would dump her in a
heartbeat. I warned her off of him and she got angry. The next thing I know
she’s off living the good life, while you’re doing her job. You can’t win when
you warn people off the person their dating. You just can’t.”

I’m dumbfounded. I’ve never really thought this rich guy
existed. I mean, the man in the journal is Mark, right? “You met the guy she’s
vacationing with?”

“Once and it was enough to see him as the hot rock he is. A
player and for a reason. I’d have killed to have a night with that man. I’m not
sure there is a woman on the planet who wouldn’t.”

“Is he an artist?”

She shakes her head. “Some investment analyst in New York
she met when she was doing work for Mark. He’s Mark’s friend. That in itself is
a red flag. Mark’s as cold as ice and as hot as my coffee. Those who play
together, stay together, and single. Or in this case, those who make money
together, are...” She laughs. “I don’t know. No smart saying comes to mind, but
both those men are all about money. Two peas in a pod.”

Play together? Was it a slip? A reference to sex? Does that
mean this man is the man in the journal and he shared Rebecca with Mark?  

The ticket arrives and our tab amounts to the generous tip
we leave, while the topic of Rebecca is lost. I kick myself for not finding out
the boyfriend’s name. We chat on our walk back to the gallery, but it’s
chatter, and nothing more. I agree to stop in for coffee the next day and head
back to my office. 

“There’s a surprise for you in your office,” Amanda beams.

“What is it?”

“Surprise,” she repeats. “Go see.”

I arrive at my office door and stop dead in my tracks when I
see the bouquet of red roses.
There are roses everywhere in my room, and I
feel like a Princess who’s found her Prince Charming.
My stomach churns at
the sweet scent of the flowers and I walk to my desk on wobbling legs. I can’t
bring myself to reach for the card and I settle into my chair and stare at the
twelve, unopened buds.
Ready to bloom.
Suddenly, I have to know who they
are from. I grab the card and with a shaking hand I pull out the card.

Because under the rose trees I was a jerk, but a lucky
one to have you there with me. - Chris

I cannot breathe. The card, and what’s on it is perfect. My
gaze lifts to the painting of the roses and I am haunted by the connection to
her. I reach for my cell phone to text Chris but unbidden I think of another
journal passage.

He’s hard sometimes, demanding, but he makes me feel
protected. He makes me feel special. I think I’m ready to put my fear aside of
the things he wants me to do with him, and to take the next step.

I am haunted by more than the roses. I am haunted by the
similarities of what she felt for the man in the journal and what I feel for
Chris. But we aren’t the same. He’s not the man in the journal. Nothing points
to Chris.
The paintbrush.
No. No. It’s not Chris. Ava said she met the
man. She knows who he is.

My office phone buzzes and I jump. “Your morning customer is
back to make a purchase,” Amanda announces.

I shove my cell phone into my drawer and push to my feet,
welcoming an escape from what I’m thinking and feeling. 

I have barely finished with my sale when Amanda tells me
Mark wants to see me in his office. With my second sale of the day under my
belt, I am feeling less intimidated by the summons.

“Shut the door,” he commands when I enter, from behind his
massive desk. “And sit, Ms. McMillan.”

Okay, being comfortable with Mark isn’t an easy thing to do.
I figure I’ve used up my good luck with my new boss back somewhere around the
‘cock-fight’ and my last refusal to sit, so I do as ordered and sit down in
front of him. Oh yeah, and when my lover-non-boyfriend-whatever Chris is,
negotiated me a fifty-thousand dollar paycheck. I think today is a good day to
do as told.  

Steely eyes assess me too long and I’m about to begin
talking too much, when Mark says, “I see you received flowers today.”

Ohhkay. Where in the heck is this going? “Yes.” I tell
myself to stop there, but I can’t. “It’s a nice way to start the week and the
roses match the gorgeous painting you’ve placed on my wall.” Oh shut up and
don’t go there!

“I assume that means you’re continuing your relationship
with Chris.”

My defenses rise despite my vow to behave. “I’m not sure why
this is relevant to my job?”

“No?”

“No.”

“The man negotiated a commission on your behalf and you
don’t know why he’s relevant?”

So much for thinking I’d dodged a bullet. “If this is about
money--“

“Everything is about money, Ms. McMillan, and while I have
no issues paying you well, I expect to have you all to myself while you are on
my territory.”

“What?” My pulse hammers in my chest. “I don’t understand
what that means.”

He turns his computer screen around and pushes play and my
heart almost explodes from my chest when I see the security feed. It’s me and
Chris by the bathroom. Chris touching me. Chris kissing me.

“Enough!” I say, pushing to the edge of my seat. 

He punches a key. “Enough indeed.”

“That was inappropriate and it will never happen again,” I
quickly vow. 

“You’re right. It won’t. Be clear, Sara. This is my gallery
and when you are here, or attending to my business, I own you, not Chris
Merit.”

“Own me?” I repeat.

“
Own you.
You bet on it and me, not Chris. And if you
think that he didn’t know there was a camera, that he wasn’t trying to
power-play me, think again.”

Chris knew there were cameras? My heart shatters with the
implications behind this discovery. Of course Chris knew. This is his life, his
world. I
should
have known. I did know. “I’m sorry.” I want to tell him
the wine got the best of me, but I’m afraid he’ll only think it’s another
problem I represent. “I won’t let you down again.”

He studies me with those hard, calculating eyes for what
seems like an eternity. “Ms. McMillan. Relax. I’m on your side. You’re not
getting fired.”

Not getting fired. This is good. This is what I want. I nod,
but I am still ramrod stiff.

“
Relax,
Sara.” It’s an order.

I want to do as he says. I want to show him I’m a good risk,
a good employee, but adrenaline is lighting me on fire. I inhale and let it
out, and slowly, I force the tension from my body and lean back into my chair.