Trophy (4 page)

“Fine with me. Let’s go to my place,” he whispered in her ear.

The look on her face said everything—she was ready and willing when he was. Sometimes he hated he was too damn good at his job but those were the breaks. He would stick it out because he had a plan but he would hate to let her go before he was ready to be rid of her. If that was the case, there was always Plan B.

Any good mastermind always had a secondary plot figured out. There was never any telling when the first one would be blown to hell.

I should have had a sense of fear going to a stranger’s home but all I felt was the adrenaline pumping through my veins creating a sense of wild elation.

Dorian drove his sporty BMW M6 Gran Coupe fast, weaving in and out of the light traffic in the early hours of Sunday morning. I loved the feel of the wind in my hair and the way I watched him work the manual clutch like it was the seductive parts of a woman’s body. His movements were smooth, and fluid. There was absolutely nothing about him that was clumsy or ill timed.

He was too perfect, and perfection secretly frightened me. It always suggested there was something underneath the surface—a part of someone so repugnant and ugly—they had no choice but to hide it under a mirage.

I knew all about that feeling because I’d lived most of my life that way, and now that I was finally from under Richard’s thumb, I had to deal with Cam. Some part of me knew making a deal with the devil was better than dealing with my adopted brother. Dorian might as well be Satan in stylish Dolce and Gabbana but I would rather play this game of cat and mouse with him than Cam any day of the week.

It was the whole thought of being naughty without all the usual guilt attached, and I liked it. 

I had a feeling that for the first time in my life, I would be fucked good and proper by a man who knew what he was doing in bed and out. The thought sent both chills and excitement through my bloodstream.

“So, what kind of car do you drive, Missus Conlon?” The snark in his voice was palpable though I had an innate sense he was actually interested and not merely mocking me.

“A Range Rover—what else? Of course, when I prefer to stay incognito, I choose the understated. I’m also the proud owner of a Smart Coupe.”

Dorian laughed out loud. “You’re joking, right? I can’t imagine someone like
you
having a Smart car.”

I turned toward him though he continued to look straight ahead. “Well, I do. It’s funny because Richard acted the same way when I asked for one but he still had it delivered to our home. I actually drive it more than the Range Rover. With traffic being hell on earth here in L.A., it’s so much more practical than the SUV.”

“True.” He was quiet for a moment as I looked outside at the sparse lighting in an otherwise quiet dark night, and realized we were heading towards the beach. He obviously lived close to the water—probably Malibu or the Pacific Palisades. “I truly hate coming here. No offense but I prefer Las Vegas to all of . . .
this
.”

“Too many people?” I tried to keep my voice casual though I was anxious to hear his answer.

“Yes, and well, I love the mountains. There is a wild, untamed beauty there in Nevada that can’t be found here in this place of too many people, traffic, and pretentiousness.”

“Mmm.” I smoothed imaginary wrinkles from my dress. “Isn’t that a little like the kettle calling the pot black? Since I have lived in both places, I understand the reason why you feel the way you do but . . . there are times I find myself missing Vegas.”

“What’s holding you back from taking off, and leaving all of this behind? Your ball and chain is officially fucking ash floating in the Pacific Ocean. Why don’t you just move back to Vegas or at least buy a vacation home there?”

There was something in his tone that made me look toward the window again.

This has to be a one-night stand.

Dorian was too dangerous.

He makes me feel like I can do anything yet there will be no consequences for my actions, and everything we do in life has a price tag—regardless whether we wanted to admit it or not.

“My brother . . .” I trailed off though that seemed like a very shallow reason to stay anywhere. Especially when I couldn’t stand the motherfucker, and our relationship was so fucked up and beyond merely “dysfunctional,” we’d need a whole
month
on the
Dr. Phil Show
.

“You grew up in all that Mormon bullshit—didn’t you?” It sounded more like a statement than a question. “I know about your real parents. I suppose after being surrounded by all that crap—sister wives or whatever the fuck it is they do—it’s hard to feel normal.”

I laughed out loud. “Actually my parents’ aren’t
that
Mormon. They’re more of the mainstream type. My dad only had one wife but yes, I have quite a few siblings. My brother, Cam, lives here with his wife. He’s a very respected elder in his particular congregation, and I would almost feel like I was abandoning him.”

“That’s your problem, Alyssa.” The guttural tone in his accent made my heart race. “You think you need to please everyone when the only way to live life fully, and without fear is to . . . be selfish. Fuck everyone else, and just seek out your own pleasure. You’ll find yourself to be much more happier that way.”

I allowed his words to sink in as he turned onto a windy steep road and drove up to a gorgeous Malibu home. It was decent but small by the standards set by his nearby neighbors.

“I don’t stay here very often. It seemed like a waste to buy some huge, ostentatious fucking place when most of the time I’m only here for business.”

He pulled into the garage and as it began to close, I undid my seatbelt before opening the door, and stepping out of the BMW. I wasn’t the type to wait for a man to take the lead except when it came to Cam but I had no wish to think about him tonight.

I planned to take Dorian’s advice. Tonight was all about me and I felt very fucking selfish.

Why shouldn’t I?

I hadn’t been properly laid in so long, I’d forgotten what good sex felt like and tonight, I planned to get my just desserts.

I had to hand it to Dorian.

He was sexually forward in the club but when it came right down to it, there was a part of him—despite his detached demeanor, and icy black heart—that had learned the best way to get results was with lots of honey and very little vinegar.

If our whole conversation in his car was a version of a very skewed form of foreplay then by the time I settled myself into his sleek, cold bachelor pad, he’d become friendly, jovial, and dare I say sexy as drop-dead sin.

He didn’t paw me the way I expected him to; instead he romanced me with a glass of expensive cognac as we made small talk on his sofa.

The house was decked out like the owners of Bed, Bath & Beyond and IKEA had personally decorated the place themselves. Everything was cold and lacked any sort of warmth that made a house a home. Stark shiny metals, sharp lines, and uncomfortable yet art-deco furniture was all organized to the point of extreme anal retention. This man had been described with many adjectives however “meticulous” and “perfectionist” were used more often than not. From his furniture down to the blond hardwood floors, everything was spotless—there was a place for everything, and everything was in its place.

I was aware of this type of behavior. Richard had practiced it as well but our home was bigger and I was given pretty much free reign in my own suite though I was required to sleep with my husband every night. My space was neat but not borderline OCD.

“You don’t really seem like a woman who enjoys cognac but since I wasn’t sure of your choice of pre-sex alcohol, I thought I would play it . . . safe.”

“Cognac is perfectly acceptable but you’re right when you say it’s not a favorite of mine. However, it does the trick after copious amounts of Cristal champagne.”

I stared into those glacier blue eyes of his, and felt him sizing me up yet I didn’t sense anything about him that might put my life in danger. Truth be told, we almost felt like kindred spirits. Both damaged and broken beyond repair that all we could do is hurt other people but we were very good at enjoying the carnal variety of the flesh. However, that didn’t mean we wouldn’t go for each other’s jugular in the end.

No matter what happened from this point on in our sexual liaisons, nothing would ever be the same again. We’d both try to wound the other into submission, and the only question really worth pondering was who would win in the end?

I’d fought much more crueler and sinister monsters than Dorian Petersson. In fact, he was a puppy in comparison to the Rottweiler and the Pit Bull—Cam and my deceased husband to be precise. They were dangerous and unpredictable.

Compared to them, at least I knew what to expect from this man with one of the sexiest accents I’d ever come across in my entire life. That paired with an athletic body to match, lightly tanned skin, and golden silky tresses he wore close to the scalp with just enough length to run my fingers through during our act of lovemaking had me waiting with bated breath for him to make the first move.

I finished the smooth cognac in my glass before I set it on the art-deco glass magazine table and turned toward my paramour. I hoped we’d become something more than a one-night stand but one didn’t meet Mr. Right at a trendy club, and drive home with him looking to get fucked properly without seeming a bit promiscuous.

I could accept this night for what it was and would be: very good sex between two practical strangers that could bond on a cellular level without ever mentioning words like “love” or “devotion.” It was quite freeing to be honest. I’d been tied down for so long, there would be no way I would ever risk this feeling of freedom for anyone ever again.

Dorian swallowed his cognac before he stood from the sofa, and turned toward me. He held out his hand and I grabbed it tentatively before he pulled me out of my sitting position with enough strength for me to be crushed against his hard body.

It was a bit startling but it didn’t hurt at all. I continued to stare into those overwhelming pools of blue that hypnotized me, and transported me to another time—another place far beyond my current reality. They reminded me of my innocence before I became this money-grubbing gold digger who knew she’d make the perfect trophy wife for a certain type of powerful gentleman.

Not only had I succeeded beyond my wildest dreams but I’d gotten away with murder. Of course there were others implicated in my complicated situation, and if it was ever exposed, they would go down—not me. I wasn’t a doctor, and didn’t have a medical degree. I wasn’t the one who had prescribed the incorrect doses of drugs for my stressed out deceased husband but I did make sure he took his medicine like clockwork every day.

Hell, I should have been given an award for putting up with Richard Conlon as long as I had. He was old, cranky, addicted to Viagra and thought ten minutes of vigorous pumping inside me was good sex. If that hadn’t been enough to drive me mad then Cam surely would have with his pawing hands, and insatiable sexual appetite. Too bad he didn’t know what he was doing other than how to please himself.