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Authors: Lisa Renee Jones

Tags: #Fiction, #Romance, #General, #Erotica, #Contemporary, #Suspense

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BOOK: If I Were You
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Chapter Seven

 

 

I sip from the nearly cold beverage, peeking at my new boss
from under my lashes as he reviews my test. He is powerful, this man, controlling,
arrogant, everything I swear each day I do not want in my life, and yet I am
drinking the coffee to please him. This would be acceptable if it were simply
because he is my new boss. But it's not. Deep in my core, I know I am seduced
by this place, and by him. He is
interesting
to me in ways I don't want
him to be, in ways I know spell trouble.

I tip the cup back again and try to savor the bitterness as
a reminder of what this kind of man does to me. It strokes my tongue with acid
and it’s too much to take. I down the rest of the cup.

Immediately, his gaze lifts to mine, and I barely contain a
grimace. His strong mouth hints at a curve, his eyes glint with something I
can't quite identify, and I wish I don’t want to as badly as I do. 
“Congratulations, Ms. McMillan. You passed your first test.”

I have the distinct impression that he isn’t talking about
the one on paper, but rather, something completely different. My compliance
with his 'request' I drink my coffee despite my discomfort, I am almost certain.

“You doubted that I would?” I challenge, telling myself that
I am talking about the questionnaire, not the coffee.

“I hired you without an interview.”

“Yes,” I say and my fear he'd done so because I'd been
asking about Rebecca, that he sees me as the next her--and I'm not sure that is
a good thing, in fact that I’m fairly certain that it is not--twists me in
knots. I press forward with a facade of courage. “Why exactly is that? You
don’t seem like a man who makes rash decisions.”

"Why did you take the job without asking how much you
will be paid or even what time to arrive, Ms. McMillan?"

My heart skips a beat but I refuse to cower to this man, or
any other, again. I've lived that experience too many times in my life.
"Because I love art and I have the summer off. And since I know far more
about the gallery than you do about me, it wasn't an uneducated decision. That
puts the ball back in your court, Mr. Compton. Why hire me without an
interview?"

He does not appear amused by my counter. In fact, I'm not
sure he isn't a bit irritated. He studies me for an eternal moment, those
silvery eyes so intense they are like ice that turns me to ice and fire at the
same time. He is unnerving. I do not want this man to have the ability to
rattle me.

"You want to know why I hired you?"

"It wasn't what I expected."

"Why offer your services if you don't expect them to be
accepted?"

"A moment of passion," I admit. "And a summer
of freedom."

He gives me a tiny incline of his chin, as if accepting of
that answer. “I could feel your passion. It spoke to me."

My throat goes instantly dry as the words drop between us,
heavy with implication, the air thick with a rich, creamy awareness that I tell
myself I am imagining, that I reject. He is not for me. This place is not even
for me.
It's Rebecca's.
   

“You impressed me, Ms. Macmillan," he adds softly,
"and that doesn’t happen easily.”

My breath nearly hitches at his words and I am shocked to
realize, despite my thoughts moments before, just how much I want this man's
approval, how much I need confirmation it's real. I don't want to want it. I
don't want to need it. Yet…I do. I wait three beats to calm my racing heart and
then ask what I must know. "How exactly did I do that in such a short
time?" My voice is not as steady as it was before and he must notice. He
is too keen not to.

“As I'm sure you know, there are cameras in most galleries,
including this one. I was watching when you bewitched the couple that was
shopping the Merit display with an absolute passion for art. If not for your
guidance, they may have gone home to think about the purchase.”

Even the idea of him watching me on camera, as disconcerting
as it is, doesn’t stop the warmth that spreads through me at his compliment. He
is everything Amanda said he was but he is even more. He is successful and he
belongs in a world I have only borrowed, but long to own. Oh yes. I so want his
approval and I hate myself for needing it.
Hate
. It's a strong word, but
I have a history that makes it so damn right for this occasion.

“Knowledge and competence are far easier to find than true
passion," he adds, each word drawing me further into his spell. "I
believe you have it, which is why I can't quite figure you out."

“Figure me out?” I ask, straightening a bit, uneasy that
this might be headed toward my claim of knowing Rebecca. Towards the sister I
don't have and haven't thought of a way around. 

He sinks back into his chair, studying me intently, his
elbows on the arms, his fingers steepled in front of him. “Why is someone so
clearly enthralled with this world teaching school?”

“What’s wrong with teaching school?” I ask, just as I had
when Chris Merit had thrown the same ball at me.

“Absolutely nothing."

I wait for him to continue and he doesn’t. He just stares at
me with keen observation that makes me want to shift in my chair. 

“I love teaching," I state.

He arches a skeptical brow at me in reply.

“I do,” I insist, but quickly, reluctantly add, “But no,
it’s not my true passion.”

His reply isn't instant. He lets me squirm a bit under his
scrutiny. “So I ask you again,” he finally repeats. “Why are you teaching
school?”

For a moment, I consider some fluffy answer designed for
avoidance and decide he won't let that slide. My chest tightens as I admit
something that I keep bottled up where I don't have to deal with it. Something
I have told no one but I am telling him. Maybe it's liberating. Maybe I need to
say it out loud once and for all. I feel so damn guilty that teaching isn't
fulfilling. It should be fulfilling. “Because," I say in a voice that to
my dismay cracks slightly, "a love of art doesn’t pay the bills.”

If he notices my discomfort, he doesn't show it. His
expression is impassive, unreadable. “Which brings my curiosity back to what
we've already covered. Why not ask what wage you will be paid?"

“I have enough of an idea of the going rate to know why this
has to be a summer job that I don’t do this full time.” A pinch of irritation
and defensiveness sneaks up on me. "And you walked away before I could get
the opportunity."

He laughs and it surprises me more than anything else he has
done thus far. "I suppose I did." He turns somber quickly and
considers me for so long and so intently that I feel like I’m going to lose my
mind. What is he thinking? What is he about to say? I am being judged and I
know it. I tell myself that I don't know him well enough for his opinion to
matter, but like his approval, it does. He is of the world where I so yearn to
belong.

"Perhaps," he says, "I didn't want to give
you the chance to decline."

"I can certainly see you as a man who prefers to do the
declining yourself," I say before I can stifle my reply.

He laughs again and sits up, scrubbing his clean-shaven jaw.
"You don't pull any punches, do you?"

I shake my head. "Not today."

His smile widens and it is a gorgeous, handsome smile that
could melt chocolate. "Let's see how true that is. Your top three Italian
artists are whom?"

I sit up straighter, my blood pumping, immediately alert. My
answer is immediate. “Present day — artist and sculptor Marco Perego. Pino
Daeni for his soft romantic characters. Contemporary Italian Master artist,
Francesco Clemente who is one of the most illustrious European trans-avantgarde
artists today.”

He arches a brow. “No Da Vinci?”

“He’s in a class by himself and is the expected answer that
tells you nothing about my personal tastes."

His eyes light and I think he might be pleased with my
answer.

“Damien Hirst," he says, throwing out the name of a
famous painter. 

I am in my element, and I reply easily. “He’s in his forties
and already one of the most acclaimed contemporary artists alive. He’s worth an
estimated one billion dollars. In 2008 he sold, through Riptide which your
family owns, the full exhibition
Beautiful Inside My Head Forever
, with
223 works for $198 million, breaking the record of the most expensive auction
by a single artist.”

A smile lingers on his mouth, the same mouth that I keep
looking at with ridiculous obsession, and this time, I know I see the glow of
approval in his eyes. I am warm again, energized anew. Comfortable in a way I
hadn’t been before this moment with this man.

“Impressive, Ms. McMillan."

I smile, not even trying to suppress my pride at his words.
“I aim to please.”

"I must say, I'm getting that idea, and I like
it." His voice is low, laden with silk. "I like it immensely."

Without warning, the air crackles with a charge that steals
my breath. His eyes have darkened with something akin to a predatory gleam. My
body responds without my permission, tingling with awareness that I don't want
to feel, but yet I do. I am frustrated with myself for being affected by a man
I will not dare cross a line with. A man who is dangerous to me, who might well
have been dangerous to Rebecca. 

“Excuse me, Mr. Compton,” Amanda says from the doorway. “But
you have a call.”

“Take a message,” he replies, never taking his eyes off of
me. And despite my vow, I am transfixed by their color, by the intensity of his
stare.

Amanda delicately clears her throat. “It’s Mrs. Compton
about the auction that begins in an hour at Riptide.”

Mrs. Compton?
The spell is broken and I gape. I know
I do. I can’t stop myself.

He sighs and flicks Amanda a look. ”I’ll call her back in
five minutes.”

“She’s pretty clear she wants to talk now.”

His tone grows sharper. “I’ll call her back.”

“Yes,” Amanda says, looking flustered. “I’ll tell her.”

My new boss returns his attention to me as Amanda
disappears. “Mrs. Compton would be my mother,” he explains, definite amusement
in his eyes now. “And just to be clear, the
only
woman I let boss me
around. Unfortunately, as the manager of Riptide, she excels at it."

“Oh,” I say, surprised, and suddenly he is not nearly as
intimidating as before. “Your mother.” I smile yet again. He’s a control freak.
I know this already, but I think he might not be as bad as I'd feared. I didn't
miss the hint of affection to his tone that tells me he loves his mother. I’ve
always thought that says something about a man. "Her skill at bossing you
around has nothing to do with that maternal bond, then?" I am teasing him,
and it just happens. I can't stop myself.

"Perhaps it just might," he admits, and I am
pleasantly surprised at the very human admission, the tiny bit of vulnerability
he allows me to see with it.

He taps the folder. “There's plenty of reading for you to do
in the folder. Amanda will get you set up on the computer and then there will
be online testing. Pass them and we’ll talk about just what your role will be
here. If you can play with the big dogs, and interact with Riptide quality
transactions, I can assure you that money won’t be an issue.”

My heart races with this news. Could this really be
happening? Could I really have the chance to make art my life? “I’ll get right
on the tests.”

He leans in closer. “I see something special in you, Ms.
McMillan. I’m hoping you’re going to prove me right.” Without another word, he
pushes to his feet and leaves the room. I stare after him, my teeth worrying my
bottom lip, my heart in my throat. I didn’t manage to get an answer about my
salary, but I tell myself he’s alluded to a sizable package. Most importantly
though, I am frustrated at myself because I haven’t asked about Rebecca.
You
will
, I promise myself. When the time is right,
you will.

 

 

 

Chapter Eight

 

 

Thirty minutes later, I have managed to claim my new office,
on loan from Rebecca of course, which I refuse to let myself forget. Amanda has
already logged me into the computer and headed back to her desk. I am now
alone, with the door shut, ready to start to work.

I pull up my new email and I have a message waiting from
Mark, or rather, Mr. Compton. I wonder if he intends to stay that formal with
me, but then, it appears he has with Amanda, so I would assume that to be the
case. I click on the email.

 

Welcome Ms. McMillan:

You will find a link to a number of tests below. Each is
a timed evaluation to ensure you cannot use the internet for help, though I'm
sure you would never consider doing such a thing.

 

May the odds be ever in your favor, and mine as well.

Mark Compton

 

I laugh at the reference to Hunger Games, and I am shocked
but pleased that my new boss has a sense of humor. I feel silly now to have
been so intimidated and affected as I was by him during our meeting. Logically,
I know I was responding to this fascination I have with this world, this deep
desire to belong here, that wasn’t about him at all. It was, and is, about me,
about my past, about ghosts and skeletons I'm being forced to face just by
sitting at this desk. And the
journals,
I remind myself as the soft
scent of roses I now associate with Rebecca teases my nostrils.

I pull open the drawer to my right and find a lighter and
set the flame burning on the candle. The flame flickers with life and my gaze
falls on the brilliant rose colors on the wall. I picture Rebecca sitting here
and somehow I feel as if she is over my shoulder, but it is not frightening. In
fact, I feel almost comforted, as if the dancing fire from the wick is a sign
she is alive and well. I feel hope that she will return, and perhaps I will have
a place in this world as well. Do I dare believe I can chase this dream and
really make a living at it? Excitement and hope expands within me. I want this
so badly it hurts and it frightens me. I know why I have never tried and one of
those reasons, money, seems to be resolved with the inference I will be paid
commission on my sales. The other reason though, is dauntingly big. If I fail,
if I must go back to my old life, it will destroy me.

“You have to try,” I whisper to the empty room. “You
have
to.”

New resolve forms and I shake off my fears. If I am to stay
here, if I can prove I’m worth keeping around, then I need to get busy. I
quickly dig into my testing and though the questions are challenging, I am
pleased at the ease at which I complete the first few exams. I’m just finishing
up a fourth, and stretching, considering seeking out a caffeine escape--this
time one that is
supposed
to be cold--when I hear a knock on my door.

“Come in,” I call, not sure why my stomach flutters in
anticipation of my visitor, but the feeling isn’t completely unwelcome. It’s
been a long time since every piece of my day has felt like an adventure.

An Asian man in his late twenties appears in my entryway.
"I'm Ralph, the accounting dude.”

"Ralph," I say, with a nod, and I barely contain a
smile at both his ‘dude’ reference and his red bow tie and crisp white shirt.
There is something friendly about this man that I like instantly.

"Yeah, yeah, I know," he says, clearly reading the
meaning in my smile. "I don't look like a Ralph. My folks wanted me to fit
into the American mold but they weren’t American enough to know ‘Ralph’ isn’t
exactly a cool name. But I like that it’s unexpected. It disarms people right
off the bat, and like you, it makes them smile."

"I like that,” I say, smiling even bigger now. “I think
you should be in sales. You could make that work for you."

He snorts. "And deal with all the arrogant rich people
that come in this place? No thanks." He softens his voice. "Mark is
all I can handle."

Laughter bubbles from my lips. "You'll have to share
your secrets to that little trick."

"I'll buy you coffee sometime soon and tell you
all
his secrets."

"I'll take you up on that."

He waves and departs, pulling the door shut behind him, and
I return to my testing. An hour later, the material has turned daunting and my
mood has shifted from energized to frazzled. I can see why I might be tested on
random collectible items, if I am to work with Riptide, but wine, opera, and
classical music? I know absolutely nothing about these non-art subjects and I
decide now might be a good time to find out how lunch works around this place.

I head to the lobby and find Amanda behind her desk with a
tall, pretty young African American girl about her age standing with her.
"Hello Sara,” this newcomer greets. “I'm Lynn, and I'm interning here this
summer."

Lynn is dressed in a cream colored suit, and her hair and
makeup is impeccable, but her personality is casual and warm. I chat with her,
and Tesse, also an intern, and girl who been at the hostess stand the night of
the gallery event I’d attended, joins us. I'm pleased that I like everyone I’ve
met. I feel good with these people. Unfortunately, Mary, a pretty, and rather
robust blonde salesperson closer to my age, is so busy she can only wave and
give me a quick greeting.  

“So, Amanda,” I say when I am finally alone with her again.
“Is it common to be given testing on wines and music to work here?”

She nods. “We have so many events that Mark uses the testing
to determine where we can best service the clientele. In fact, we have a wine
testing Wednesday night.”

My stomach knots. Could wine really be my undoing?

“Excuse me,” a woman in dark-rimmed glasses says, appearing
at the desk. “Can someone help me with a Chris Merit piece, please?”

An image of Chris standing in front of me, holding his
jacket around me, makes my belly do a flutter. “I would be happy to help you,”
I offer, suddenly very eager to visit his display again.

Amanda looks shocked, and I assume that means I’m not
allowed to be on the floor yet. I pretend not to notice and head to the sales
floor.

An hour later, the woman has left with a six-figure purchase
that has me glowing with excitement, and I am glowing with the rush of having
made a sale.

Ralph winks at me as I pass his office, which I’ve now
discovered is next to mine, ah, Rebecca’s. My stomach growls and I realize I
haven’t eaten anything and a glance at the ridiculously expensive, absolutely
fabulous antique clock in the hallway says it’s two o’clock. Jeez, how did that
happen?

I turn back to the reception area to ask Amanda if I can run
out, and find myself toe-to-toe with Mark. He is taller than I remembered and I
crane my neck to meet his stare. “Ms. McMillan,” he says tightly, and I am
immediately aware of his displeasure. Why is he displeased? I just brought in
six figures to the gallery.

“Mr. Compton,” I say.

“Why have you not completed your testing?”

“I was, ah, helping customers.”

“Did I tell you to help customers?”

I wet my lips nervously, and his gaze flicks over my mouth.
It’s unnerving. He’s unnerving me again. “I just thought-”

“Don’t think, Ms. McMillan,” he says tightly. “Do as I say.”

Old, familiar feelings spiral down my spine, feelings of
inadequacy, of needing to please--a moth to flame that is sure to burn me
alive--surface. I reject them and straighten. “I took every test I’m capable of
taking. I don’t know wine or opera or classical music. I’m sure you’ll find the
job-related ones to be exemplary.” 

“All the test are job related,” he corrects, “if you wish to
operate at a higher level, which I understood you to say, you did. Did I get
that wrong, Ms. McMillan?”

There is a crispness to my name that was not there before,
and I am remotely aware that I am in front of an open office that is Ralph’s, that
he can hear and see everything.

“No,” I reply softly, firmly. “You are not wrong, Mr.
Compton,” and I am shocked to realize I have emphasized his name as he did
mine. There is a rebel inside me that refuses to sink into my old habits, and I
am suddenly proud of myself. “But I cannot test on what I do not know.”

“Testing allows me to decide where to start teaching you,”
he says in rebuttal.

“At the beginning,” I reply. “Since the only thing I know
about wine, for instance, is what color it is when it’s in my glass.”

He arches a light blond brow. “Really? That much?”

“That much,” I confirm.

He considers me a moment. He’s good at doing that,
considering me, putting me on edge, no doubt on purpose. “Do you have a
laptop?” he asks finally.

I frown, not sure where this is going. “Yes.”

“Do you have it with you?”

“Yes.”

“So you know how to use it?”

I am so not pleased with the snarky question. I lower my
voice, unable to stop my reply. “That’s a little like asking a rich, arrogant,
gallery owner, if he knows he’s a rich, arrogant, gallery owner.”

His eyes light up with amusement. “I
am
rich and
arrogant, Ms. McMillan. I like being rich and arrogant. I thought you too,
wanted to be rich yourself. Or was I mistaken?”

My throat goes dry.
Rich?
Is he joking? “I don’t
recall any such opportunity.”

“And you won’t until you learn what I need you to learn.
Since I can’t trust you to stay off the floor, take your laptop to the coffee
shop next door. Amanda will give you a study manual so you can remedy
your...deficiencies.”

I narrow my gaze at him, aware he is trying to bait me. I’m
not going to bite. I give a nod. “Of course, Mr. Compton. I’ll get right on
that.”

His lips twitch. “Check in before you leave for the night.
I’ll want to quiz you.”

 

***

 

Fifteen minutes later I walk into Cup’ A Cafe next door to
the gallery, and the rich scent of brewing coffee, and something distinctly
chocolate, touches my nostrils. If the coffee tastes as good as this place
smells, I am going to love it here. Not to mention the decor, all warm browns
and leather, with a hardwood floor, is soothing in a way that contrasts the
caffeinated high people come here for. I can use soothing right now.

I gaze around me and see any number of cute round wooden
tables available, and I can tell the seating wraps around to the other side of
the encased pastry display. I like to watch people so I choose a seat in the
middle of the cafe so I can see what’s going on around me. Not that I should be
watching people. It seems I have studying to do. How very ironic for the school
teacher, I think with a tiny snort, that has me reprimanding myself for poor
manners I can no longer afford. 

It’s not long before the college age boy behind the counter 
rings up my White Chocolate Mocha, and since it’s two o’clock and I haven’t
eaten, I justify a chocolate muffin the size of Texas, and lamely promise to
eat low fat popcorn --my ‘go to’ diet solution--for dinner. Finally, I’m
sitting at my table, waiting for my coffee to be made and nibbling on my
chocolate delight. Regretfully, I break out my netbook, wishing it was the
other, not to be named, brand computer, but feeling hopeful I can afford one
soon.

Once I’ve powered up I set a wine taster’s guidebook on my
table. Flipping through the book, I find it is written with an assumption I
know something about wine. I find Amazon on my search bar and type in ‘Wine for
Dummies’ and get several choices. By the time I’ve picked one and I’m ready to
read, my coffee has arrived and I sip the piping hot sweet concoction. It’s heavenly
and I mentally roll back my sleeves and start reading.

I have no idea how long I have been reading, but I’m halfway
through the ‘dummies’ book, I still feel like a dummy, when I hear, “You must
be Sara.”

I look up to find a beautiful Hispanic woman in her
mid-thirties with big striking brown eyes. She is wearing an apron, so I
assume, she works here. 

“Yes,” I respond. “I’m Sara.”

“I’m Ava, the owner here.” She sets a cup in front of me.
“White Mocha. My guy Corey at the register told me what you ordered. Mark
called over here and said to get you whatever you’ve been having on the house
as a reward for perfect scores.” She laughs and rolls her tongue making a sexy
sound. “Sounds sexy.”

I roll my eyes rather than my tongue. “If being tested on
everything from art to opera is sexy, please shoot me now.”

She laughs. “I should have guessed. I know the crew next
door well enough to know he’s put them all through the wringer.”

“How long have you known them?” I ask, thinking of Rebecca.

“I’ve been open five years and I’ve known Mark that entire
time.” She wiggles a brow. “Why? You want gossip?”

I perk up at that. “You have gossip?”

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