If I Were You (5 page)

Chapter Five

I blink at the unexpected contents of the box. A paintbrush
and a picture that has been torn into two pieces, so that only a woman is left.
This is
Rebecca
. I don’t know why it didn’t seem odd to me that I hadn’t
seen any pictures of her in the many personal effects I studied in the storage
unit. There hadn’t been a picture of her on the gallery website either. Perhaps
I didn’t notice these things before now because I didn’t want to know what she
looked like.

Reaching for the photo, I hold it between my fingers and
study it, study
her
. She is beautiful and petite with long, sandy brown
hair, and a brilliant smile that tells me that at the moment this picture was
taken, she was immensely happy. Her image mesmerizes me and I wonder why she
tore the picture. I wonder who was in it with her and who took the photo. Even
more so, I wonder why she kept the picture after she tore it up.

My brow furrows as my attention shifts to the paint brush.
It’s such an odd thing to save, but then, so is half of a picture. I pick up
the brush and run my fingers over the bristles that have a hint of a yellow
paint at the tips. The wood bears no marks or logo. It’s clearly a sentimental
item, which isn’t so unexpected really, considering she worked at the gallery.
So was the man in the journal an artist? The prospects of who he might be are
far reaching. My stomach knots as I think of Chris. I
keep
thinking
about Chris and those greener than green eyes.

I seal the picture and the paint brush back inside the box
and set it on my nightstand. My laptop is also on the bed with me and I power
it up before typing ‘Chris Merit’ into the search bar and clicking on images.
Almost immediately I get photos of two different people and realize that one is
an older version of Chris. His father had been a famous classical pianist who’d
lived in Paris. I don’t know how I forgot such a thing, or how I tied the image
of father with son, though the resemblance is uncanny.

I google Chris and he comes up in Wikipedia. He is
thirty-five, not thirty-three, and he’s dated a couple of models and an
actress. Right. Way, way out of my league so I have no idea why I read into
anything tonight with the man. My lips thin as I note that he has never been
married. My mother’s words come back to me.
Any man who isn’t married by
thirty-five is either gay or he’s got skeletons in his closet.
A knot forms
in my throat. God, how I miss her, how I wish she was still here so I could
call her now. Okay, so maybe I wouldn’t call her now and explain my obsession
with another woman’s sex life. I bite my lip. Am I obsessed with another
women’s sex life? No, I tell myself immediately, rejecting the idea. If I’m
obsessed, it’s with her safety.

And if Chris has skeletons, could Rebecca have discovered
them and become a liability? It sounds so much like a fictional novel that
laughter bubbles from my lips. Besides, with further reading, I realize Chris
lives in Paris. Chris must be here for a visit. He is probably gone already.

Unbidden, disappointment fills me. Chris is the first man to
interest me in well over two years, since Michael Knight, the CEO of a large
computer company, whom I’d met at a charity event. I’d soon realized he was the
kind of man I found alluring for all the wrong reasons. The kind that dominates
and controls, and makes you feel all feminine and protected. That is, until he
shreds everything you know of yourself to pieces. I’m still not sure I
understand why he appealed to me, or why men like Mark, who ooze that kind of
power,
still
appeal to me. I only know that dating men who are sensitive
and caring, like I had in the past, doesn’t seem to be working for me. Chris,
well, he doesn’t seem to be one of those power control freaks like Mark, but
then I doubt I’ll ever see him again.

I reach for one of the journals and begin to read.

I told him I wouldn’t see him again. He told me he’d
decide when I see him and when I don’t. I should have known I couldn’t simply
walk away. I should have known he’d come for me, and that I, weak as I am,
would not be able to resist him. Before I knew what was happening, I was in the
storeroom in the middle of the day, with others nearby.

He shoved me against the wall and then tore down my
panties. His lips pressed close to my ear, his breath hot on my neck, as he
said, ’you know the rules, you know I have to punish you.’ I squeezed my eyes
shut because I do know. I know and not only do I know but I want him, too.
That’s what I’ve become, what he’s made me. I was wet and aching and all but
ready to beg for the very thing I craved…punishment. 

The first smack of his hand on my ass was pure pain, no
pleasure like in the past, but I didn’t scream. I couldn’t scream. Not when I
could be heard. Somehow, as it always does, the pain turned to pleasure. The
need for him was intense, complete. He entered me and it was then I barely
contained my cry, my need. He couldn’t fuck me hard enough to suit me. I was,
as always, powerless to the pleasure that is him.

When it was over, he turned me around, tugged my dress
and bra down and clamped my nipples, ordering me to endure the pain for fifteen
minutes. Assuring me he will know if I take them off sooner. And then he was
gone, and I stare after him, my sex spasming from the orgasm he shouldn’t have
been able to give me. Every nerve ending I own is aware of the sting of my
bottom and ache of clamps biting down on my nipples. I am unable to stop the
pain, unable to fight my desire for him. I am helpless. I am frighteningly
aroused.

***

I stand in my bathroom, with my second cup of coffee on the
counter next to me, brushing my long brown hair to a silken mass. It is eight
in the morning and I will soon leave for the gallery. ‘You can start tomorrow’
should have been a lead into me asking ‘what time?’. Since I had not had enough
sense to do so, I’d decided before bed to wake early enough to arrive thirty
minutes before opening.

With a brush of powder, I finish up my makeup and step into
the emerald green sheath dress, a black jacket, and black heels, which is my
‘go-to’ special occasion outfit. The same outfit that I’d worn to my teaching
interview years before when, like today, looking professional was the goal. I
am, after all, attending to adult needs today, rather than that of high school
kids wearing jeans and t-shirts. Not that I ever opted for jeans myself, as
some of the faculty did. My youthful appearance seems to be far more
intimidating in high heels and skirts than in casual wear. With high school
students, respect can go a long way. I inspect my appearance in the full length
mirror behind the door with approval. It’s not Chanel or Dior, like many of the
gallery customers will favor, but on my budget, it will have to do.

After finishing my coffee, I make my way to the car, and I’m
officially as nervous as my students normally are on their first day of school.
I can’t believe I’m really taking this job and I feel both terrified and
excited. “Right,“ I say to myself. “Like there was any doubt you would?”

Guilt twists in my stomach at the idea of Rebecca’s
potential misfortune being my good fortune. I am not sure I can live with that
idea.
No one has met with misfortune
, I promise myself. I’m going to
find out that Rebecca is perfectly fine and happy, and be able to embrace this
world I love, if only for a while.

By the time I arrive at the gallery fifteen minutes later, I
am having doubts about Rebecca’s safety again. I wonder why, if Rebecca is
perfectly fine and happy, and I am to believe she has been whisked off to some
exotic haven in a way permanent enough to let her things go, would the gallery
say she is returning?

I have forever longed to spend my days surrounded by fine
art, and I know that the day I leave this world behind for mine, it will be
painful. But I am on this path now, and in my gut, it feels as if I am doing
what I am meant to do. Even as I park in the back of the gallery and get out of
my car, my heart feels like it might explode from my chest. 

I cross the small employee parking lot, and after testing
the door, finding it, not surprisingly, locked, I knock several times.

 The young girl I’d wanted to hug the night before appears
and smiles a warm welcome, before opening the glass door. “You must be Sara.”

“That’s me,” I say and return her smile. “I guess you heard
I was coming?”

“Yes, and I’m so glad you’re here.” She is wearing a pale
pink dress with a pin clip in her dark hair that makes her look even younger
than when I’d first met her. “We really are short staffed so this is a
blessing.”

I enter and let the door shut behind me. The woman-—or girl,
rather--doesn’t seem worried about re-locking it, which concerns me. This might
be a small gallery but it is considered one of the most prestigious, with
highly sought after art, and plenty of money moving through the place.  

“I’m Amanda,” she declares. “I’m an intern for the next
year, working as the receptionist.”

“Nice to meet you, Amanda,” I say.

“Mark’s having breakfast with Ricco this morning to discuss
last night’s event.” She motions with her head. “I’ll show you your new
office.”

I hesitate before following, and at the risk of offending
Amanda, turn and lock the door. I give her an apologetic smile. “Sorry. I’m an
art fanatic and the idea of someone busting in here and stealing some of the
art is enough to make me downright nauseous.”

She pales visibly. “Thank you. Mark would have been furious
to find it unlocked.”

The discomfort and true fear that rolls off of her is
disconcerting. I know right then that the protectiveness I had felt for her
last night was going to become a common theme.

I fall into step with Amanda and we head down the narrow
hallway, behind the art displays. “Mark’s a tough boss, I take it?”

She gives me a quick glance. “He’s rich, good looking, and
pretty much perfect. That’s what he expects here, too. I’m not always so good
at being perfect.”

“Other people’s perfection is a facade we create when we are
second guessing ourselves,” I tell her, but deep down, even in the short
meeting I had with Mark, I agree with her assessment of him. Well, except the
rich part. I have no idea if he has money, but if he does, it’s not from simply
managing an art gallery.

“Hmmm,” Amanda murmurs skeptically, “I guess I do second
guess myself around him, but only because he’s so intimidating. When the man
looks at me I feel like I’m going to come unglued.”

I picture those intense gray eyes of his, and just the idea
of seeing Mark again has my adrenaline racing and I am not quite in touch with
myself enough right now to know why. Since I have no intention of sharing this
with Amanda, I smile with encouragement instead. “I bet we can make him a
little less intimidating if we stick together.”

She gives me a bright smile. “I like that idea.”

I warm at her response, and the school teacher and nurturer
in me is certain I am so going to be her Mama Bear. 

We enter another hallway that is lined with various works of
art that I barely refrain from inspecting. There will be time for that later.

“I’ll introduce you to the staff when they arrive,” Amanda
informs me. “There are seven of us total aside from you, two of whom are
part-time interns. They’re all coming in late after working last night’s
event.”

“How’d you get so lucky to work early?” I ask as we stop at
a doorway I assume leads to the offices.

She cut me another sideways look. “I spilled a glass of wine
on a very important client last night. It’s my punishment.”

My brows dip and a chill slides down my spine. “Punishment?”

She keys in a password on an entry panel, before turning her
attention back to me. The smile of moments before has disappeared. ”Mark’s big
on punishment.” She starts walking and forces me to follow and I have the
distinct impression she doesn’t want to give me the chance to ask for more
specifics.  

We pass several dark offices before she pauses at a door and
flips on the light. “You’ll be working in Rebecca’s office.”

I don’t move. I stand there, feeling icy cold, as I remember
the journal entry from the night before. Y
ou know the rules, you know I have
to punish you.

Chapter Six

I walk into Rebecca’s office and the scent of roses flares
in my nostrils. Searching the room, I find a small candle on the shiny cherry
wood desk that while not burning, seems the logical source of the sweet floral
perfume. The little personal touch I assume to be Rebecca’s reminds me that I
am here to find her, and punches me in the gut when it should be encouraging, a
sign of her return. Searching for more of that encouragement I should be
feeling, I glance at the two bookshelves to my right, where various art books
are displayed on stands and a dozen or so others are shelved, and find nothing
to cling to. 

“If you hit the red button on your phone, you’ll reach the
intercom to my desk,” Amanda murmurs.

“Great,” I say, stepping behind the desk and stuffing my
purse into a drawer. I can’t seem to get myself to sit down in the red leather
chair. In
her
chair. “What’s my extension?” I ask because I’m trying to
buy time to snap out of the uneasy feeling tingling through my nerve endings.

“Four,” Amanda replies.

My gaze lifts and my breath hitches at the sight of the
painting on the wall directly in front of me. I think Amanda says something
else but I don’t know what. I am riveted by the fine strokes of brilliance done
by none other than the famous American painter Georgia O’Nay. I now know why
there had been a key pad for a password to enter the back offices and the
candle suddenly has more significance because this glorious oil on canvas
features red and white roses. It must be worth a cool thirty thousand and I
can’t imagine it’s not real to be here in the gallery. It is spectacular, and
it is on the wall I will be staring at every day. The same wall that Rebecca
had stared at each day she’d been here.

“From Mark’s personal collection,” Amanda informs me,
clearly noting the way I’m gaping. “He has a piece in every office.”

I jerk my attention in her direction to find her leaning on
the doorframe. “His
personal
collection?”

She gives a nod. “His family owns a number of art galleries
and an auction house in New York called ‘Riptide’,” she explains. “He changes
out the pieces every few months from what I understand. We actually have
customers who schedule appointments to see what he brings next.” Stunned at
this news, I am again in a rare state of speechlessness at the mention of the
most elite auction houses in existence, selling everything from celebrity property
to fine art.

She laughs without humor, a hint of unease in its depths. “
Everyone
wants a piece of that man.”

I tilt my head to study her, noting the emphasis on
everyone
.
“You included, Amanda?”

With a wave of her hand she dismisses that idea. “I am so
beneath him and most of the customers who come in here.”

Her insecurity washes over me, stirring old feelings I don’t
like but I can identify with. “That’s not true. You are not beneath him, or
anyone, for that matter.”

“I appreciate that but after this summer, I’ve decided that
geology and dig sites are where I belong. A little dust and sun will do me
better than champagne and fine art.”

“Don’t make that decision because you feel beneath Mark.”

Her expression turns solemn. “I’m not. I…” She seems to consider
her words, and decides against them, instead motioning over her shoulder. “Why
don’t I show you the break room. I need to get some coffee started and there’s
some paperwork for you to fill out. I can explain while I make it.”

A few minutes later, Amanda has shown me the exact measure
of coffee that Mark wants used if I’m ever the first one to arrive, and I’m
sitting at a small wooden table across from her as she fills two ceramic cups.
No Styrofoam like in the teacher’s lounge for this place.

“How long has Rebecca been gone?” I ask.

Amanda sits down across from me. “Well,” she ponders
thoughtfully, pouring sugar into her coffee, as I opt for straight powder
creamer. “I started two months ago and she was already gone, so at least that
long.”

“She must have something pretty serious going on.”

“No one has ever said, at least not to me, and I’m just glad
Mark looked at the summer schedule and decided to hire.” She slides a piece of
paper my direction. “That’s the summer schedule.”

I glance over a calendar with growing excitement as I note
weekly wine tastings, several exciting artists that will be visiting, and a
number of private parties. This is the world I have longed to live in for,
well, ever.

“It’s a busy schedule, right?” Amanda asked, seeking my agreement. 

“Very, but that’s a good thing.”

“Not when Rebecca was at the helm of most of it and even
knowing this Mark has interviewed at least fifteen people and hired no one
until you. Thank goodness you did whatever you did to win him over because I’ve
been helping and I’m way over my head.”

Whatever I did to win him over
, I repeat in my mind.
I did nothing and he hired me without so much as a question. Why? Because I
asked about Rebecca? Because I pretended to know her.
Oh crap
. I told
Mark that I had a sister. This is why I hate lies. They always come back to
haunt you. My heart begins to thunder in my chest at the idea of being cornered
and busted in this one. I’m still contemplating how to best make this right,
what my story will be, when Amanda slides a folder across the table.

“This is the new hire paperwork and some test Mark said you
need to take.”

“Test?”

“Yes. Test. Do you have a problem with that Ms. McMillan?”

Mark’s voice, dark and commanding, draws my gaze, and I
barely stop myself from sucking in a breath at just how striking my new boss
really is. He is wearing a light gray suit that enhances the unique silvery
quality of his eyes that are more pale blue than gray as I had first thought.
His features are finely carved, his bottom lip full, his jaw strong. He is
tall, and athletic, his blonde hair neatly styled. He is…beautiful.

“I’m a school teacher, Mr. Compton,” I finally manage to
say. “I love a good test. I’m simply curious as to what kind of testing?”

“We’ll start with basics and I’ll decide where we go from
there,” he says, cutting a quick look at Amanda. “I’ll finish up the paperwork
with Ms. McMillan, Amanda.” He is curt, authoritative. Intimidating.
Intimidatingly
sexy.

“Oh yes,” she says, popping to her feet like a
jack-in-the-box who’s just had her handle cranked. She wasn’t kidding about
being intimidated by the man, and with him present, I am not without
understanding of how she feels.

“Coffee is ready, by the way,” she announces to him, and I
can feel her angst, her plea for his approval that she doesn’t get. She grabs
her cup and heads toward him and he steps aside to allow her to exit, but his
eyes are locked on me, impassive, unreadable. That insecure part of me that
Michael played on flares its ugly head inside me, that part of me so like
Amanda. Heat lashes through my veins and I will it away. I could so easily want
to please this man and it terrifies me that I still have that in me.

You are not the same person you were with Michael
, I
tell myself. I’m not naive. I’m not inexperienced. I will not be captivated by
this man’s power, his presence, even if I am not blind to his appeal. I am in
control. Besides, he is my boss, not my lover.

He saunters to the coffee pot and fills a cup, and without
asking, refills my cup. His eyes meet mine before he moves away, and I see the
steel there, I see the dominance in the otherwise polite act. He didn’t ask if
I wanted more coffee. He simply decided I did and thus I do. I need to
establish parameters with this man and do so now. I am
not
going to
touch that cup.

In an instant, he’s claimed the seat across from me, and the
entire room along with it, and I am staring into those silvery grey eyes and I
do not dare look away. I tell myself it’s my show of strength, but deep down, I
know I am captivated, commanded, to hold his stare.

“I wasn’t sure you’d show up today,” he finally says.

“Why wouldn’t I?”

Several seconds tick by before his lips quirk slightly and
he reaches into the folder and passes me a piece of paper and a pencil. “I
hired you without so much as a reference check, on pure instinct. My instincts,
Ms. McMillan, are very good. I’d like you to prove that an accurate statement.”
He reaches for the powdered creamer.

I glance down at the paper and see ten questions, and
quickly determine they are all related to medieval art.

“Begin,” he orders softly.

I glance up at him to find him settling back into his seat,
clearly intending to watch me write the test. He wants to intimidate me and I
do not want to let him. My jaw sets and I reach for the pencil. I can feel him
watching me and I am flustered to realize my hand shakes ever-so-slightly. Men
like him do not miss such details. He knows it’s shaking. He knows he’s
affecting me.

I forcefully clear the haze from my mind and focus on the
questions which are quite advanced, but well within my expertise. I finish them
quickly and flip the paper around for his review.

He’s still leaning back in his chair, deceptively casual,
watching me, his gaze hooded, his expression once again impassive. He doesn’t
reach for the test, but instead, his attention flicks to my cup.

“You aren’t drinking your coffee, Ms. McMillan.”

“I’m over my limit for the day.”

“Limits are meant to be pushed.”

“Too much caffeine makes me shaky.” The words, the lie, is
out before I can stop it. Where are all these lies coming from?

He leans forward and I can smell his clean, spicy male
scent. “Sharing a cup of coffee,” he says, “is a bit like celebrating a new
partnership, don’t you think?”

The challenge he has just issued crackles in the air, along
with some other, unnamed electricity, that had my throat thick, and my heart
racing. It’s just a cup of coffee but yet I sense that this is about so much
more, that this is another test that has nothing to do with skill, but rather,
him. Me. And I don’t know why I want to comply, to please him. Of course I do,
I tell myself. He’s the kind of man who expects those around him to follow his
lead. I cannot fight his will and be here. I tell myself that is why I comply,
why I do as I wish. I tell myself I am not weak, and he is in control of the
job, not me. I reach for the coffee.