“Nice meeting you, Miss Blaire.”
“Oh, God, I’m no miss,” I say, winking at him saucily. “Just call me Blaire, please.”
The corner of his lip twitches. “Sure, Blaire.”
We’re just getting out of the Midtown Tunnel when I ask, “So how long have you been working for Lawrence?”
“I’ve worked for the Rothschild family for the last thirty years, but the years are beginning to take a toll on me, so I now only drive Laurie—I mean, Mr. Rothschild a couple of days a week.”
“Laurie?” It’s hard to imagine that the virile man I met at the museum could be called Laurie. It makes me want to giggle.
“He hates to be called by that name. Ever since he was a little imp of six,” he says, laughter and love blended in his voice.
We chat about his family, but the conversation comes to a halt when he asks about mine. The question reminds me of why I’m in this car on my way to meet his boss. It reminds me of who I am and of my past. And amusingly enough, the memory that comes to mind is one of my first days in the big city soon after I turned eighteen and left my hometown. I was able to get a job as a waitress at an Italian restaurant on Wall Street. I suspect I only got the position because of my looks, since I had no prior work experience.
He was one of the regulars, like they always are. A little older than Mr. Callahan and with a cosmopolitan air about him, he impressed me. He kept coming back, sometimes with friends, sometimes alone. But he always came back. He always matched my tip with the bill. He always made sure I knew how wealthy he was. When I gave him my phone number, I got flowers. When I accepted his first invitation to go to dinner, I got spoiled with gifts. When I finally accepted his overtures …
As my high heels glide across the glossy floor, I spot him sitting by the bar. A man in his mid-forties wearing jeans, a crisp white button down and a navy sports jacket with leather loafers, glances my way and immediately stands up. His smile vacant, his eyes starved.
Time to act the part. Time to play Blaire. Time to play myself.
Slowly, I make eye contact, letting the blue of my eyes hypnotize him while I smile seductively. It’s a smile that will let him imagine how my mouth will look wrapped around his cock. And it’s working. The way his eyes devour me makes my pulse race. There’s nothing more deliciously intoxicating than adulation.
When I’m standing in front of him, I extend my hand toward him. “Hi, Luke,” I say breathlessly.
“Blaire … you look exquisite tonight,” he murmurs.
The smell of his expensive cologne tickles my nose and the back of my throat. Did the man shower in it? It makes me want to throw up.
“Would you like a drink before we go upstairs?”
I want to pat him on the knee and coo, “Calm down, doggie, calm down,” but I can’t, so I smile.
“Sure. A glass of champagne, please.”
Maybe if I get drunk enough, I won’t have to feel his hands and mouth on me. I won’t have to feel him moving inside of me.
Could I be so lucky?
For a fraction of a second, I wonder if he realizes I’m only eighteen, but I guess it doesn’t matter. He probably likes me because I look so young.
After two rounds of drinks, scotch on the rocks for him and champagne for me, he leans closer to me, grabs my ass, and murmurs in my ear, “No more alcohol for you. I’ve waited for a long time to do this, and I want you lucid.”
“Let’s get out of here then,” I say as I fight the part of me that wants to run away from this place, never turning back. But this is what I came for. I have to learn how to play this game. My survival depends on it.
He wraps a muscular arm around my waist and leads the way to the elevator. Once the doors close behind us, Luke pins me against the wall and begins kissing my neck and the top curve of my breasts. His lips are soft and smooth as they leave wet traces along the grooves of my exposed body. Closing my eyes—and mind—numbing myself to feeling and emotion, I tip my head back and allow him to get his money’s worth.
Inside his hotel room, I ask, “Now what?”
“Now I get to do what I’ve wanted to do all night,” he says as he kisses me on the mouth. Lying me on the bed, he pushes my hair to the side and lets his fingers linger on my face, his touch scalding my skin.
“You’re so beautiful … the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen,” he whispers, his hands groping me everywhere.
I can see myself reflected in his eyes and my reflection scares me. As he speaks words that Mr. Callahan muttered before, I keep looking at my reflection. How cold and empty do I look … but beautiful, always beautiful.
He doesn’t bother taking my dress off before he lifts the skirt to my waist, unzips his pants, rolls a condom on his already hard cock, and pushes inside me. I’m not wet so it hurts a little, but the more he pushes and plays with my clit, the more my body fights my disgust. The more it wants it.
As he continues to thrust, I picture everything I want: the easy life, the best of everything, security. I tell myself that as long as I let him fuck me and not think about it, I can have it all.
I’m about to close my eyes and turn my cheek to the side, when I hear him say, “Don't. I want to see your face.”
So I don’t. I watch his red and sweaty face as he fucks me. I memorize every sound, every smell, every grunt, and every soiled kiss. I repeat over and over again that this is what I want until the words don’t sound so hollow in my ears.
When he pulls out, I hate to see that he’s covered in my body's response to him. And when he goes down on me, I can’t help but moan when I feel the wet softness of his tongue licking my clit, sucking it and biting it between his teeth. I don't want to like it. I want to be disgusted, and I am, but my body can’t lie to me. It won’t lie to me. My body likes the way this man is fucking me. On the outside, I moan and pant because it’s me, but on the inside ... on the inside I’m dying a slow death with each thrust.
But I don’t care.
This is me taking control of my life. This is me becoming whatever I need to be in order to achieve my goals. And, most importantly, I don’t care because when this is over, all my sins will be paid for.
Very well.
Besides, he promised to take me apartment hunting tomorrow morning, because his lovely Blaire needs a place of her own.
“We’re here, Miss,” I hear him say, bringing me back to the present.
I shake the memories and forget about Luke. That man turned out to be a pig. He gave me all the money I needed to live more than comfortably, but he had a thing for forgetting the meaning of the word no after one too many drinks.
We leave the tall iron gates behind and drive for a while, past opulent green lawns and majestic trees until a large house comes into view. I’m surprised by how beautiful it is. It’s not as big as I expected but still very impressive.
“Oh my God. It’s perfect,” I say as I stare at the Victorian home with its picturesque windows and thick columns made out of marble. The house must have at least twenty rooms.
I hear Tony chuckle.
“What’s so funny?” I’m afraid to have sounded naïve or green. Oh, the horror.
“That’s only the guesthouse, Miss Blaire.”
“O-Only?” I ask, my voice breaking.
“Yes. Just one moment … The Hall is coming up.”
I stare ahead as he drives for another couple of minutes, truly nervous for the first time since we’ve left my apartment.
“And that, Miss Blaire, is Rothschild Hall,” he says, beaming with pride when a house (more like a damn castle) that would put Oprah’s to shame comes into view. It’s splendid.
“Whoa.”
What the fuck did I get myself into?
I might just be out of my league this time.
THE GRAND OAK DOORS OPEN.
The Rolls Royce parks next to the steps leading to the main entrance and the welcoming lights coming from inside illuminate the darkness around us. Once Tony lets me out of the car, I’m
engulfed in the warmth and mugginess of the night.
“Have a lovely evening,” Tony says as I watch an older man dressed in a striking black suit step outside and wait for me, observing me closely.
“Thank you, Tony.” I smile. I’m about to ask him if he’ll be the one to drive me back to the city when I’m ready to leave, but I don’t. I’m not exactly sure what will happen tonight; if I’ll leave after a couple of hours or if I’m supposed to spend the night. Maybe Lawrence expects a trial fuck—or a couple—before sealing the deal? I shrug. It doesn’t matter one way or another.
As I climb up the steps, a cool breeze blows past me, kissing my bare arms and legs. It provokes a delicious feeling within me. I’ve almost reached the landing when a prickle of awareness makes me lift my gaze to the second floor right above the open doors. I expect to find someone standing there, but the window is empty; nothing but a warm glow coming from the inside is visible. I rub the back of my neck, dismissing the feeling of being watched, but the small hairs on my arms stand on end.
“Good evening, Miss White. I’m William, Mr. Rothschild’s Butler. If you would be so kind as to follow me, Mr. Rothschild is waiting for you in the library,” the older gentleman says gravely.
“Hello there,” I say cheekily. Something about his serious expression compels me to try and make him smile. Sadly, it doesn’t work. Sighing, I let my eyes survey my surroundings. I don’t want to be impressed. I don’t want to feel awestruck by the grandeur of this house. I really wish I could rub it off as something I’ve seen hundreds of times before, and maybe in a way I have, but nothing on this scale. Staring ahead as I wait for William to close the doors behind me, I take in the black marble staircase that splits in two at the bottom. My gaze follows its length until my eyes land on the crystal chandelier hanging from the cathedral ceiling. If that thing were to fall on someone, it would crush him to death. It’s enormous, and absolutely radiant. The paintings lining the entrance hall alone must be worth a queen’s ransom. With a quick glance, I’m able to recognize a Picasso, a Frida Kahlo, and a Dali. Except for the Frida, who’s Mexican, you can say that Lawrence has a thing for Spanish artists.
Doing a 360-degree turn, I absorb the red roses and orchids in enormous crystal vases and the gleaming white and black marble floor. I hear someone cough, making me realize that I’m gawking. I shake my head.
I’ve got this. This is nothing new. Just another man, just another day.
Yet the beating of my heart only gets louder, and the butterflies creating chaos within me only get rowdier with every step that I make, with every step that brings me closer to him. My body never lies—I’m nervous. Crazy enough, I’ve forgotten what he looks like except for the color of his eyes. His calm and vacant eyes that remind me of money. The eyes I forgot all about while dreaming a little dream with a brown-eyed boy.
Curling my hands into fists, I’m angry with myself because Ronan isn’t supposed to usurp my thoughts. He’s supposed to be a thing of the past. And he will be. Even if it’s the last thing I do.
When we stand in front of the double doors, I watch William rap on the door twice. Not a minute goes by before I hear him order loud and clear, “Come in.” An unforgettable voice with the power to make the bravest of men quake in their shoes fills my ears.
“Hello, Blaire.”
I watch William quietly close the door behind us.
All alone now, I turn to face Lawrence, who’s watching me closely, an indecipherable expression on his face.
“Please, sit down,” he says.
“Thank you.” I walk toward a chocolate brown leather sofa.
Once I sit down, I stare at him, expecting him to start a conversation, but he doesn’t. As a matter of fact, he just stands there looking at me. I get the feeling that he wants to get under my skin, but I sure as hell won’t let that happen, so I just return his stare. But as the uncomfortable silence in the room stretches for thirty seconds, a minute, two minutes …
I laugh.
A deep chuckle escapes my lips, and it feels so fucking good. The sound cuts through the tension in the room.
A cool Lawrence places his hands behind his back and continues to stare at me. “May I ask what you find so amusing?”
“I feel like I’m stuck in the most bizarre dream. Some parts are Pretty Woman and others Pride and Prejudice, which is pretty funny if you think about it. It’s like having Julia’s character going to Pemberley Hall for a quick fuck.”
He raises an eyebrow, his lips twitching. “Poor Darcy. I think the fellow could do better than a quick fuck.” He moves to sit in the love seat across from me.
“You know who Darcy is?” I ask surprised.
“Many years around women have rubbed off on me,” he says sardonically.
I laugh. “I feel bad for Jane. She must be rolling in her grave for my comparison.”
“You don’t say.”
I shrug. “But it’s true. Ever since Tony came to pick me up in a Rolls Royce early in the evening … your house, I mean Rothschild Hall … the gardens … William … the Picasso and Kahlo”—I look him in the eye—“you.”
Lawrence nods, amusement making his eyes twinkle in the dimly lit room. “So besides knowing art and light-hearted Hollywood films, you know Jane Austen—”
“Faithfully. I mean, there wouldn’t be a Clueless without an Emma.”
“How interesting. Attractive and smart—a deadly combination.”
Without breaking eye contact, I tilt my head to the side and grin impertinently. “And you’re handsome and loaded. An even deadlier one.”
That earns me a smile. An achingly beautiful smile that changes his features from handsome to devastating. As we continue to stare at each other, amusement slowly fading from our faces, the friendly atmosphere dissolves like smoke in the air and an erotic tension fills the space between us. I lick my lips and notice the way his suddenly very dark eyes follow the motion of my tongue. Is he picturing it wrapped around his cock? Is he picturing me on my knees as he sits on that leather loveseat, my head in his lap while I fuck him with my mouth?
The moment is broken when someone knocks on the door before opening it and letting themself in.
“Dinner is ready, Mr. Rothschild,” we hear William say.
“Thank you. You may leave us now, William,” he says, looking toward the door.
He felt it too. I let out a shaky breath and watch him run a hand through his hair. Lawrence turns, composed and detached once again, and addresses me. “Would you like to continue our conversation in the dining room instead?”
“Sure.” I stand up. The slow burn between my legs is yet to be extinguished. As I collect myself, I take a moment to look around for the first time since I walked in the library. Everywhere I look there are rows upon rows of mahogany bookshelves filled with leather-bound tomes, shiny hardcovers, or used paperbacks—a treasure within one’s reach.
“Wow … now this is what I call a library. I think this room rivals my love of Barneys New York shoe floor.”
I turn in his direction and watch an amused Lawrence rise from his sitting position. A half smile graces his manly face as he makes his way toward me, his step sure and firm. I raise an eyebrow and cross my arms on my chest.
“What’s so funny?”
He doesn’t answer my question. Instead, he keeps walking until he’s standing in front of me. He’s so close I can smell the spicy undertones of his cologne and I can see the dark stubble contouring the strong lines of his jaw. If I wanted to, I could place my hands on his chest and feel his heartbeat. I wonder if it’s as fast as mine?
The temperature in the room feels as though it has spiked a couple of degrees. “Aren’t you going to say something?” I ask.
Pinning me with his gaze, he takes another step until the space between us is completely nonexistent. I take a deep breath and let it out shakily. “Okay, I guess no—”
He places a finger on my mouth, silencing me. We eye one other as he untangles
my hands and guides them behind my back, holding them prisoner there. Captivated under his gaze, I can feel the ends of my hair grazing our skin. My head spins the instant the tip of his nose begins to trace the curve of my jaw ever so gently … the length of my neck. His touch is everywhere, engulfing me.
“How beautiful you are,” he murmurs against my skin.
I swallow hard. “Thank you.”
“No, don’t thank me. I wasn’t giving you a compliment. I was stating a fact.”
“Well, in that case … I guess, I already knew that.”
When he pulls slightly back, his eyes hooded with desire, I think he’s going to kiss me. Instinctively, I close my eyes, stand on my tiptoes, and wait, expecting his lips to touch mine, but nothing happens. Instead, I feel the tickling sensation of his breath behind my ear, before he whispers, “Tell me, Blaire … what happened to that special someone?”
Again, I find myself unable to lie to him. “He made me feel too much.”
“So why aren’t you with him if he made you feel that way?”
“That’s exactly why. He made me feel things. Made me yearn for things that I don’t want. Things that I don’t need.”
“And me, Blaire? What do I make you feel?” He runs the back of his fingers along my collarbone.
“You make me feel nothing, which is everything.”
“Do you love him?”
“Would it make a difference if I did?”
He’s quiet, seemingly waging his answer. “No. Not at all.”
After a quick tour of the place, we arrive at the grand dining room, and the first thing I notice is the lemony smell that permeates the air from the perfectly polished parquet floor. As we make our way to the head of a rectangular dining table, I don’t bother to admire the wood covered walls with their intricate carvings, or the Chinese landscape paintings. Instead, I direct all of my attention to the man walking next to me.
He is wearing a pair of dark denim jeans that sit perfectly on his hips and a light blue button down with the top two buttons unfastened. The hue of the shirt accentuates the color of his skin and the rich dark brown of his hair. It’s easy to see why he’s considered a ruthless man, in and out of bed. After spending no more than thirty minutes in his presence, I can sense that there is an animal, a very dangerous predator hiding underneath the expensive and civilized clothes he wears. There is an untamed wildness about him. He is mystery and darkness, and I have an inkling that many a woman before me has fallen for the illusion that she could be the one to tame him, only to be disappointed when she fails miserably.