If I Were You (26 page)

“We’re okay,” Mark says and there is a gentleness to his
voice I’ve never heard. “We have a bright future together.”

“We do?”

“Yes. I believe in you, or you wouldn’t be here, but it’s
also my job to protect you and this gallery. You need to understand these
artists can be manipulative. They can use the prospect of a special showing,
like you want from Ricardo, against you. I need to make sure right now that you
know that you need to do nothing to get work for this gallery but be the
professional you are. We do not beg, and you do not let yourself get
manipulated. Period. The end. These artists know I don’t tolerate that crap and
as long as they believe I own you, they won’t believe you will either. So when
I say I own you, Sara, I mean I own you.”

He owns me.
I am not comfortable with his choice of
words, but I doubt my ability to be my own judge at the moment. My gaze lifts
to the mural behind Mark that I am certain Chris painted. I’ve trusted Chris.
Has he been manipulating me? Using me against Mark? It’s not the first time
I’ve had this thought.

“Are we clear, Sara?” Mark prods.

My attention returns to Mark, to the steely strong eyes
offering me protection, a good job, a future. “Yes. We’re clear.”

I barely remember the rest of the conversation. The minute I
am back at my desk I grab my phone and text Chris.
Have to cancel dinner.
I
turn off my phone.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

The rest of the day crawls by and I am in knots over
Chris—-hurt, angry, confused--I feel all of these things and more. Nearing the
end of the day, I am in my office, trying to focus on work and failing. Worse,
I expect Chris to call through the switchboard to try to reach me and he
doesn’t. Clearly, he’s not that broken up over my cancellation of dinner, and I
can’t help but believe he knew my humiliation was coming and has been received.
I wouldn’t discount Mark confronting him.

How could Chris intentionally set me up like he did? And he
did. Chris is too smart to not know what he was doing and the tension between
him and Mark is too damn obvious. I am a token in a game and I hate how badly
it hurt. I hate that I let my little adventure turn into heartache.

When eight o’clock finally arrives, the knots in my stomach
multiply, and I stay at my desk. What if Chris is outside waiting on me?
What
if he’s not?
another voice dares to whisper in my head. I am
second-guessing my decision to turn off my phone, to actually talk to Chris and
make it clear we are over. Right. A simple blow-off. It should be easy.
Instead, I am a coward who cannot talk to him, certain I will agree to whatever
he asks of me. I am too far into the infatuation I have for him. And that’s
what it is.
Infatuation.
After being humiliated by that video, I refuse
it to be anything else.

At a quarter after eight, Mark appears in my doorway, his
suit jacket gone, his top two buttons undone. Still, he manages to look every
bit the corporate seduction king, the guy every lady wants and every man wants
to be. Every lady but me, that is.

He leans on the jamb. “Isn’t it time to go home, Ms.
McMillan?”

“For reasons I’d rather not discuss, I’m feeling extremely
dedicated tonight.”

He ignores my reference to our earlier incident. “I don’t
like leaving you here alone.”

“You have cameras.”

He laughs, a rare happening, and oddly considering my
behavior, he seems more relaxed around me. “Good point,” he concedes and pushes
away from the wall. “You are the witty one, Ms. McMillan, and I can see
customers responding well to you. I’ll leave you to work, but why don’t you
pull your car around front so you don’t have to walk to the parking lot alone?”

Cab rides for staff after tastings, worries over my safety,
my being manipulated. Mark’s tough and demanding, but I begin to see him as a
good boss, someone trying to help me get ahead in this world. “I moved my car
out front before Amanda left an hour ago.” And because I knew that was where
Chris would look for it.

“Well then, I guess I’ll depart. Remember though that once
you exit the gallery, the security locks are automatic. You can’t get back in.”

“Yes. I know. I’ll be sure I’m ready to leave when I exit.”

“Good. Then you’re all set. You had excellent marks on your
wine exams, by the way. I’m impressed.”

“I spent the weekend studying.” And falling hard for an
artist who has my insides in knots.

“It shows.” He motions to the flowers, the only smirk I’ve
ever seen on his face present. “At least he has good taste in flowers.” He
doesn’t give me time to respond. “Good night, Ms. McMillan.”

“Good night, Mr. Compton.”

Unmoving, I listen to his footsteps fade, staring at the
flowers that have teased my senses and reminded me of Chris all day. I reach
for the card and pull my hand back. Romantic scribble on a plain white card
doesn’t erase what he’s done. In fact, the weekend and the flowers seem more a
mask for him to hide his motives. The voice of logic and the one of my heart
begin battling it out in true gladiator style.
But he let you into his
world. He told you things he doesn’t tell other people.
I grind my teeth
and remind myself his disclosure was created by Mike taking him off guard. I
was simply there at the right--or I suspect in Chris’s mind--the wrong time.
But
he took you to meet his godparents.

How long I sit there fighting with myself, I’m not sure, but
I feel bloody and beaten, with ever nerve ending raw and exposed. Somehow, I
shake myself and reach for the phone, trying to be productive. I dial Ricardo
for about the tenth time, hoping the evening hour plays in my favor. I receive
his machine
again
. Hmm. I wonder if he has caller ID. I reach for my
cell phone and stare at the blank screen. I’ve burned to turn it on, to see if
Chris has replied. Why do I care if he’s replied? He is playing with my life
and my career. Logic raises her ugly, practical head again, and tells me I’ve
been down this path. I can’t go down it again. I
won’t
go down it again.

Returning my phone to my purse, I gather several pieces of
paper with notes I’ve made about Rebecca that I stuffed in a drawer earlier in
the day. On one of them is a phone number for the manager of her apartment
building. Or what I assume is her old apartment building.

I glance at the office phone and consider calling, but
decide better. I’ve learned my camera lesson.
Don’t forget Mark is the man
in the journal. Don’t forget Rebecca is missing and turn him into a hero because
Chris has hurt you.
My Rebecca research really has to be done off site. The
building in question isn’t far away and I’ll go by at lunch tomorrow.

Still not ready to head home to my empty apartment and
tormented thoughts, I review a stack of files I was given earlier in the day,
containing information on people who have bought from the gallery in the past
year. Thirty minutes later, I’ve filed them in order of the best prospects and
made notes on each.

When nine o’clock arrives I can no longer put off the
inevitable walk to my car and entry to my empty apartment filled with memories
of Chris. With my purse and briefcase on my shoulder, and wearing the leather
jacket Chris gave me, I pause inside at the front door of the gallery.
Squeezing my eyes shut, I am uncertain if I am more worried about Chris being
outside, or not being outside.
Maybe he didn’t do this to me on purpose
.
Maybe I’ve jumped to conclusions.
I roll my eyes at myself, disgusted at
my thoughts. I am so weak where that man is concerned.

Stiffening my spine, I exit into the chilly evening breeze,
and make sure the door clicks behind me. Nervously, I scan the street, taking
in the cars at meters, and the random pedestrians milling about, searching for
Chris to no avail. Disappointment fills me, and I laugh bitterly into the wind
at my misplaced hope he would be here, fighting for me, proving me wrong about
him. I cut to my left and hike up the hill toward the discreet spot I’d cozied
my car into, berating myself the entire time.
You are so messed up, Sara.
You want him after he made you a nearly X-rated video star.

Two blocks down, I round the corner of what was a busy
street now turned eerily sleepy, which was not the plan. Quickening my pace, I
dig out my keys. Halfway down the block, I spot my car and stop dead in my
tracks, my heart racing wildly in my chest. Next to my car is a sleek Porsche
911. A wild flutter of every emotion possible goes through me. To say I’m
conflicted is an understatement. The flutter in my chest becomes thunder, hard
and intense, echoing in my ears. 

Somehow, I force my feet to move, mentally steeling myself
to be strong, to hold my ground with Chris. No weakness allowed. Chris rounds
the hood of his car and heads toward me, a predatory edge to his steps. He is
gorgeous, his longish hair a bit wild like the man. His jeans and biker books
are so damn sexy, hugging the lithe lines of his body. I hate how much I want
him.

Wicked hot anger forms inside me at my reaction to him. I
don’t give him a chance to confront me, charging toward him and unleashing on
him. “You knew there were cameras in the gallery and still you shoved me
against that wall and kissed me. He made me watch the security feed, Chris. How
could you do that to me?”

He curses and scrubs his jaw. “He fucking played the tape
for you?”

I don’t have the denial I’d hoped for and my chest burns and
aches. “
Yes
. He made me watch it. Am I right? Did you know there were
cameras in the gallery?”

He runs a hand through his hair, the overhead light playing
on the handsome, tormented lines of his face.
Too
tormented. He knew. I
see it in his eyes.

“I wasn’t thinking about the camera when I was kissing you
if that’s where you’re going with this, Sara.”

It’s not enough. “But you knew.” It’s not a question. It’s
fact.

“I thought about it later, yes.”

“And you didn’t tell me?”

“You were worried enough over your job.”

“That’s not an answer. Tell me you didn’t do this on
purpose.
Tell me
, Chris. I need to hear it.”

“I
didn’t do it on purpose,
Sara.” His voice is low,
taut, filled with the conviction I so desperately had hoped for. “At that
moment,” he continues, “I couldn’t think of anything but how badly I wanted
you. That’s what you do to me.” His lips tighten and thin. “But I won’t lie to
you and tell you I was sorry he might see it either. In fact, I was hoping like
hell he did.”

He might as well have stabbed me in the chest. “Because I’m
some sort of power play with Mark?” My throat is thick, my tone choked. “Is
that what this is, Chris? Or did you want me to get fired?”

“Why would I take you to Napa and help you meet his
ridiculous requirements if I intended that?”

“Money to kill? A game to play with Mark?” I sound flippant
and bitter. I am.

“I don’t deserve that, Sara, and you know it.” His voice is
a hiss laced with anger at my accusations.

Deep down, I want his anger to mean something, I want to
believe in him, but I don’t even believe in me anymore. I don’t trust my
judgment. “Well, if you did want to get me fired, it didn’t work. Mark has
vowed to protect me and teach me the business.”

“Protect you.” The words are hard and flat, his body
rippling with sudden edginess. “You want Mark to protect you when you tell me
you don’t need protection?”

“I just want to do my job.”

“It isn’t about the job with Mark. Not with you.”

“You can’t know that.”

“You’ve read the journals, Sara. Who the hell do you think
Rebecca was playing bondage games with? It sure as hell wasn’t Ralph.”

“It was the man she’s vacationing with.”

“Now she’s vacationing when last night you were worried she
was dead?”

“I never said that.”

“You inferred it.” He inhales and lets it out a sharp
breath. “You know what? It’s time you get a reality check, baby.” He grabs my
hand. “Come with me.”

I dig in my heels. He clicks the locks on his car.  “Get in
the fucking car, Sara, or I swear to you I’ll pick you up and put you there
myself. You are going to see for yourself who and what Mark is, and stop
pretending you don’t know already.”

“And since you’ve proclaimed yourself as worse than Mark, I
suppose now is when I get to see your deep, dark secrets too?”

His jaw flexes. “Yes.”

Emotion shifts and moves inside me, and my anger slides
away. Dread tightens my tummy. This is the big reveal he believes will make me
run.

I walk to the car and get in.

Chapter Thirty

Five minutes later, the shadowy darkness of the 911 isn’t as
suffocating as is the silence within. We haven’t spoken a word, and it’s
killing me. Guilt is eating away at me over my harsh judgment of Chris. He’d
been honest enough to tell me he didn’t regret Mark seeing the security
footage. Surely he was honest in telling me he hadn’t manipulated me to create
the footage.

Staring out of the window without really seeing anything, I
can feel Chris next to me, far from me, but close enough to touch. My skin
tingles with awareness. My mind replays the touch of his mouth on mine, and on
more intimate parts of my body. The caress of his hand on my breast, the play
of his fingers between my thighs.   

Still the silence stretches onward and it becomes clear that
we are heading toward the Golden Gate Bridge, into an elite neighborhood where
trees, greenery, and mansions with insane price tags and views dominate, rather
than trolleys and rooftops. Our destination is in the elite Cow Hollow
neighborhood I’ve heard about but never visited, where Chris stops at an
expansive gated property and keys in a code. Is this his home too?  I glance at
his profile, opening my mouth to ask, but his posture is rigid, his demeanor
unapproachable, so I snap my mouth shut. The gate opens and we drive down a
long road to what is obviously a property spanning miles.

“What is this place?” I ask, bringing the stucco house into
view, unable to bite back curiosity any longer.

“A private club,” he answers without looking at me,
maneuvering around a circular drive and pulling to the door.

A man in a black suit with an earpiece opens my door. Chris
rounds the 911 and tosses the man his keys. “Nice to see you, Mr. Merit,” the
man comments. “It’s been a while.”

Chris doesn’t appear to be feeling overly cordial. “Keep the
car upfront. This will be a short visit.” Chris stops beside me and slides my
purse from my shoulder. “Leave it in the car.” He hands it to the security man,
and I start to object but lose my train of thought when the man rakes me with a
hot stare filled with disapproval. A smirk settles on his lips, as if he knows
something I do not. Of course he does, and it’s unsettling on all kinds of
levels.

“And the coat,” Chris adds, already pulling the leather
jacket from my shoulders. I’m beyond argument at this point and let him hand it
off to the same man who has my purse.

Chris folds my hand into his and the touch sizzles up my
arm. I feel him tense and I think he feels what I do, but he doesn’t look at
me, and I am quaking inside with nervous anticipation. 

We head up a dozen steps toward a set of red double doors.
Halfway up Chris says, “You’re not a member, which means you talk to no one and
stay by my side.” He cuts me a hard stare, looking at me for the first time
since we arrived. “And I mean no one, Sara.”

“O…kay.” Good grief, what is this place?

We hit the top of the last step and the door opens. Another
man in a black suit with an earpiece on appears in the entry and Chris doesn’t
bother with a greeting. “Private room.”

“The Lion’s Den is open.”

Lion’s Den?
Why does that not sound good?

Chris nods and we enter the house, and I absorb the tall
ceilings, the expensive art on the walls, and a winding stairwell covered in an
oriental rug with some relief. This place is elegant, a place for the elite, as
one would expect from this neighborhood; it’s nothing scary at all.

We cut down a long hallway to our right and unease forms
again as I get the feeling I am in a hotel; the fancy carpet stretching out
beneath my feet as we pass door after door.

Chris stops at a doorway at the end of the hall and punches
in a code on a wall panel. He knows this place and it knows him. That sense of
foreboding returns with a hard jolt.

He pushes open the door, and waves me forward, but grabs my
arm before I enter. His eyes are hard, his jaw harder. “Two things you need to
know, Sara. We leave when you want to leave, and Mark owns this place.”

This is the source of their bad blood. It has to be. I
swallow hard. “I understand.”

“You aren’t going to like what you find out.”

I’ve heard these words before from him, and hearing them now
is my confirmation. This is the secret he’s been keeping and that knowledge
fills me with courage. “I guess we’ll see soon.”

He stares at me, unmoving, his grip on my arm tight,
unyielding. “You have to let me go if I’m going to go inside, Chris.” Slowly,
he loosens his grip and I step inside.

Cool air washes over me as I enter a room where dimly lit
spotlights color the interior in a seductive amber haze. Taking in what is
before me, I’m in instant sensory overload and my hand goes to my throat.

To my right is a pedestal with a massive wooden bed sitting
on top of it, and large silver cuffs attached to the headboard. On the wall
beside it is a panel displaying whips, chains, and various items I’ve never
seen in my life. To my left is another podium with some sort of arch and more
cuffs.

Chris comes up behind me, his breath warm on my neck, but he
doesn’t touch me. He motions to a couch in front of what looks like a full-sized
movie screen.

“We’re observing today. Why don’t you take a seat?”

I walk to the back of the leather couch but I don’t round to
the front. My fingers curl into the soft material, and I lean in to support my
weak knees. ”I’ll stand.”

Chris steps to my side. “Have it your way. You’re about to
witness a group playroom feeding live from another area of the mansion.” He
lifts a remote he’s picked up somewhere and the screen comes to life.

I gasp at what I see. There is a masked, naked woman tied to
a pedestal in the middle of a stage, while an audience—all masked as well--sits
in observation.

A man in leather pants is circling her, and I think he is
holding a riding crop. It fits a description I remember from one of Rebecca’s
journal entries, but I can’t be sure. He’s teasing her, flipping her nipples
with the leather end of the crop, back and forth. She is moaning and passion is
etched on her face. Pleasure. She feels pleasure, and to my dismay I can feel
my body responding, the warm heat spreading in my belly.

The crop moves lower, and I see that it is flat with some
sort of leather strings. It caresses her belly and between her legs. He steps
closer to her, rubbing the leather in the V of her thighs and tugging on one of
her nipples. I am suddenly wet and achy and embarrassed. The woman moans and
the man stiffens and does not seem pleased. He steps back from her, no longer
touching her with his hand or the crop. 

He walks around her and stops behind her. And then to my
dismay, he smacks her hard with the crop. I jump and gasp. He keeps hitting
her, fast, and oh God, it seems so hard.

I turn to Chris. “He’s hurting her.”

“This is what she craves and he’s trained to know her
limits. If it’s too much, she says her safe word and he stops.”

A chill goes down my spine at his intimate knowledge of what
is happening.

“Watch, Sara.” It’s a command, low and tight, and
unforgiving. “You need to understand that this is where Mark wants you.”

But this isn’t about Mark. It’s about Chris and it’s that
knowledge that makes me turn back to the screen.

Another man is on stage now, and he’s holding some sort of
cane. I suck in a breath as he hits the woman and her body bows forward.
“Stop!” I yell and I whirl around and Chris’s arms close around me. “Enough.
I’ve seen enough.” This was so much more, too much more, than the journals. “I
want to leave. I want to leave now.”

Chris stares down at me, but he doesn’t turn off the feed. I
can still hear the woman screaming. His expression is hard, his eyes cold in a
way I’ve never seen them. “Now do you see why I wanted Mark to know you’re off
limits? Why I said I was protecting you?”

I stare at him, tracing the lines of his handsome face,
looking for the tender, laughing man I know, but I cannot find him. “It’s
Mark’s club, but you’re a member.”

“That’s right.”

“Do you…beat women?”

“It’s not beating, Sara. It’s a form of pleasure. It’s
helping someone get the high they need to be satisfied.”

My stomach knots. “And you know how to do that?”

“Yes.”

“And you like to do it?”

“I understand the need.”

“What need? How can you need to feel pain?”

“It’s a drug. A way to feel nothing else.”

“Are you saying that you like to feel pain?”

“
Need
Sara, not like, and not like in the past.”

“What does that mean?”

“There was a time when it was all that got me to the next
day.”

“And now?”

“Not as often.”

“You let a woman tie you up and do that to you in public.”

“No. I stick to private rooms.” The calm I have managed to
keep fades away. I push against him. “I want to leave.”

He holds me steadily. “You mean run away?”

“Damn it, Chris, you said I could go when I wanted to.”

He slides his hand around my neck, pulling my mouth to his.
“And you said you wouldn’t run.”

“I just…I need out of this place, Chris. I need out of here
now.”

He steps back from me abruptly, and pain radiates off of him
and some part of me burns to go to him, to hug him. To tell him I think I might
love him, but I can’t compute the man I’ve come to know and the man who is a
part of this place. 

“Please take me to my car.”

I watch him, his expression steel, his eyes still icy, and I
feel him closing off from me. Or maybe this time, it’s me withdrawing. I am a
mess, shaking inside and out. He hits the remote and turns off the screen,
tossing it to the ground, then motions to the door. He doesn’t touch me and the
walk down the hall is eternal. I don’t look at the men in their suits,
unwilling to see the mockery surely in their eyes.   Soon, we are in the dark
car again, and the silence stretches thick and heavy between us. I am numb, unable
to form coherent thoughts. I’m in a haze when Chris pulls his car behind mine.

“Come home with me,” he surprises me by saying. “Come home
with me and give me a chance to explain, Sara.”

My chest has never hurt like it hurts now. “I can’t be what
you need.”

He turns to me, and he starts to touch me, but he hesitates
and lets his hands drop. “
You
are what I need. You make me feel
alive,
Sara.”

The use of my own words tightens my throat and a burn starts
in the back of my eyes. I study him, search his face. “Can you truthfully tell
me you will never need pain again?”

“This is new to me, Sara. That lifestyle has been my drug of
choice. My way of feeling nothing. But I do feel now. I feel with you and for
you. What it did for me it can’t do for me anymore.”

It is everything I want to hear and yet not enough. “But you
can’t know you will never need that…place again.”

“Whatever I need you can give me.”

I shake my head. “No. No, I can’t.” I reach for the door and
he grabs my arm. Heat races through me and I feel a sudden need to touch him,
to feel him close. It overwhelms me, confuses me. 

“Please don’t run, Sara.”

We stare at each other and something snaps between us. I
don’t know who moves first but we come together in a hot, searing kiss, and the
feel of his hands lacing into my hair touching me is everything I need and not
enough.

I am panting when he presses his forehead to mine. “Come
home with me.”

It would be so easy to say ‘yes’ but I am confused and
uncertain. “I can’t think when I’m with you, Chris. I can’t think and I need to
think.”

“I leave in the morning.”

“I know.” And I don’t want him to leave, which is a
testament to how messed up my head is right now. I want space and time, but I
want him with me, too. “I…think that gives me some time to process. I
need…time.”

He pulls back, searching my face through the shadows of the
dark car. “Okay.” His hands drop from me, and I am cold and lost without his
touch.

Okay. He’s letting me go, and I know it’s what I’ve asked
for, but it still hurts. I fumble for my purse and briefcase, and they are
tangled in my feet. Chris helps me and I manage to slip both straps over my
shoulder.

He reaches for the coat but I don’t want it. I need out of
the car before I change my mind. I shove open the door and stand on wobbly
knees, closing Chris inside behind me. All but running, I rush toward my car,
clicking the lock and climbing in.

Once I’m inside, I turn on the engine and tear out of the
parking space. The minute I’m on the road, driving away from Chris, the tears
start to fall. I swipe at them, trying to see the road.

By the time I walk into my apartment, I am a mess. I lock
the door and slide down the wooden surface and explode into tears. My phone
beeps with a text message and I don’t look at it. Blindly, I push to my feet
and find my way to a hot shower.