Just One Night: The Stranger Part 8

And in response she smiles.

AT THE OFFICE the stares are only a little less intense than the looks I had gotten in Vegas. Tom Love raises an eyebrow as I pa.s.s him in the hall and flashes me an approving smile.

"Go get 'em," he murmurs.

The directive excites me. Today I feel ready to take on the world.

But when I get to my office, it's not the world that's waiting for me, but a message from Dave's secretary asking me to call him. Dave always calls me directly. He never has his secretary do it unless there's something he needs to tell me that he doesn't think I'll like.

I don't sit, but stand in front of my desk as I dial the number. I don't bother with the middleman, but call his cell directly.

"Kasie, I have a meeting in five minutes-" Dave begins but I cut him off.

"Then tell me what you need to say quickly."

I don't mean for the words to sound so harsh but for once I'm not interested in smoothing things over. I see the red flag being waved in the distance and I'm ready for the fight.

It's almost arousing.

"I spoke with that saleswoman today . . . the one with silver-streaked hair from that jewelry store-"

"The one who showed us the ruby."

"Yes," he says hesitantly. "They're not being very flexible about the price."

I don't say anything. I stare down at my bare ring finger. We can afford the ruby. We can afford to pay for its alluring imperfections.

"And I was thinking," he continues, "I was thinking of you . . . and then I thought of this absolutely beautiful estate ring in the window of a store by my work. . . . I stopped by there right as they opened this morning. It's really perfect, Kasie. So I went ahead and put a deposit down on it so they'll hold it until you can come and see it. It's more us than the other ring anyway."

My bare finger curls into my palm, leading my other fingers to do the same as I slowly make a fist.

"It's a diamond-"

"But I'm not moved by diamonds, Dave," I interrupt. "If we can't get the ruby ring we saw, surely there are others . . ."

"Trust me, Kasie, this diamond ring . . . it's different. I mentioned that it's an estate piece, right? It's cla.s.sic and elegant but it's also original, completely one of a kind. Just like you."

Just like me. I stare down at the suit I'm wearing. Would Dave even recognize me today? He thinks I'm a concealed weapon in an Hermes bag. He thinks I'm a bouquet of white roses.

He thinks I'm diamonds even after I stood before him and flat out told him I'm rubies.

"Look, I gotta get into this meeting. I'll call you tonight, okay? We'll meet up after work tomorrow and I'll show you the ring. You don't really want a ruby for an engagement ring. Trust me, you'll end up regretting it."

I hang up the phone without another word.

He doesn't know me.

But then this morning . . . that woman in the mirror, the sensual powerbroker, the stranger who sleeps with strangers, the woman who scares me and intrigues me . . . how could Dave know her. I don't know her.

I run my fingers over my lapel. It's not a smooth fabric, but it's not unpleasant to the touch either. It's thick and a little stiff, what you might expect from a man's jacket, but its cut is so decidedly feminine. It reminded me of a philosophy course I took in college. The professor had explained the true nature of yin-yang. Yin and yang weren't dualities but simply complementary opposites: the feminine and the masculine, the pa.s.sive and the active, the unseen and the manifest, the moon and the sun. And it all had to tie together within a greater whole to be part of a compelling and vitalizing system.

I giggle at the idea that my suit could be part of something both compelling and vitalizing.

But I stop laughing when I think of myself in those same terms. And those early Taoist philosophers, they didn't think of the dark being bad and the light being good. It had nothing to do with morality at all. They just thought of it as two essential parts of a whole.

I wonder what it feels like to be truly whole. Is that what's happening to me?

Because while I don't feel quite as guilty as I should, I do feel a h.e.l.l of a lot stronger than I ever have before.

Well, all right then.

I CALL MY TEAM into my office and get their updates, tell them what leads to follow and which bits of information can be brushed aside. They take notes, drink my words, accept my instructions without challenge. Only Asha hesitates, her own calculations slowing down her absorption of mine. At least that's my perception. She's studying me too intently; her comments seem to swirl around whatever it is she's really thinking. She is most definitely a threat. I'm sure of that now.

But she's the one who is truly in danger. She doesn't know who I am. I'm sensual, I'm commanding, I've been touched by a stranger.

It's only later in the afternoon that I remember that this isn't the woman I'm supposed to be. This isn't the picture I had in mind when I kissed Dave good night yesterday, pleading exhaustion.

And I haven't spoken to Robert today. We haven't so much as exchanged an e-mail and yet he's with me, luring me in new directions, providing me with a springboard for new temptations.

I haven't spoken to Robert Dade today but it doesn't matter.

My devil is winning.

CHAPTER 11.

I WORK LATE, WHICH is hardly unusual for me. I'm the last one in the office. Even Tom Love left more than an hour ago. But I'm feeling energized. Blame it on the suit . . . or the s.e.x. I laugh to myself. Yes, it's more likely the s.e.x than the suit.

In my hands and covering my desk are statistics, facts, and numbers. I'm using them as building blocks to craft Robert's professional dreams.

And if I succeed, what then? What if I manage to chart a path for Maned Wolf's complete market domination? What if I gift-wrap that particular treasure map and lay it at Robert's feet? Would he be amazed? Would he wors.h.i.+p me?

But that's not what I want. I like the way Robert sees me. There's a gritty realism to his affections. Our attraction to each other is almost brutal . . . and yet our lovemaking never has anything to do with distress or affliction.

What I want is for him to thank me, with his eyes, with his mouth, with his tongue. I want him on his knees, not in wors.h.i.+p, but in service.

These are the thoughts I'm having when my phone rings.

It's him. As usual, his timing is . . . opportune.

"Where are you?" he asks.

"I'm at work, playing with numbers . . . for you."

"Oh, I doubt your motives are completely altruistic." His voice sounds gravelly through our shaky connection. It has so much texture, I feel like I should be able to see it.

"No," I admit, "I do take some pleasure in it."

"There is nothing more spectacular than the vision of you in a state of pleasure."

"Now, now, Mr. Dade, is that an attempt at some kind of s.e.xual innuendo?"

There's a pause on the phone. I know his thoughts. He hadn't expected me to be this playful. I told him I would never let him touch me again.

But I'm rubies. Not diamonds. I'm not sure of what I want anymore and my awareness . . . my acceptance of that uncertainty feels like a triumph.

And triumph makes me playful.

"You're done with work for the day." It's not a question.

"Am I?"

"Meet me out front."

The line goes dead.

Without hesitation I stack the papers filled with numbers into a pile. It's not as organized as it should be but a little carelessness feels appropriate.

I take off my blazer and open my briefcase. Inside is the sheer s.h.i.+rt.

I take off my camisole and then my bra before putting on the top.

My heart is pounding in my ears as I shrug back into the blazer. There is no pretense this time. I know what I'm going to do. I don't know if it's going to be the last time or not. I don't care. My body wants to explore and this time I don't feel the need to deny it.

I make my way down to the street and it's only a matter of minutes before Robert Dade pulls up in a silver Alfa Romero 8C Spider. Its sleek lines and elegant power fit perfectly with my mood. He doesn't say anything as he gets out of the car and opens my door for me. It's not until I'm in the pa.s.senger seat that I hear him say, "I like your suit," before slamming the door.

It's been ages since I've been in a sports car and I've never been in one like this. The seats hug me like a lover while at the same time keeping my posture erect, ready to react to whatever adventures the vehicle might bring me to. Everything is silver or black. No bright colors are necessary for this beautiful beast to be the center of attention.

Robert Dade gets in beside me.

"Where are we going?" I ask.

Robert turns to me, the key is in the ignition, his hand on the leather-cloaked steering wheel, the engine rumbling. "To my place."

I answer with a smile then s.h.i.+ft my eyes to the road as we roar away from the curb.

I've never asked Robert where he lives. I a.s.sumed Hollywood Hills, Santa Monica, perhaps somewhere among the mansions of Beverly Hills. But he lives in West Hollywood, on a hill, above the hustle and bustle of Sunset on a windy little street no one would think of traveling if they didn't know someone who lived there. The homes are impressive yet far short of astounding. But then the dark hides the more subtle elements of their design, so it's hard for me to make judgments.

And the truth is that they could never hold my attention, not even if they were each five stories high with gold-plated awnings. That honor now belongs exclusively to the man by my side. He's been driving the car in sports mode the whole way, gently adding pressure to the paddle s.h.i.+fters occasionally to take fuller control of the ride. I sense his thoughts are racing much faster than the car. He wants me here but he doesn't trust it. I sense it in his refusal to turn his head in my direction, as if I might be scared away with a look. I can tell by the way he holds on to his silence, as if one wrong word might awaken me to my previous declarations.

But I'm not changing my mind and as he opens the automatic gates with the touch of a b.u.t.ton, I reach over and let my hand slide over his thigh and then up, letting him know my intentions, my desires, my willingness to go forward.

He breathes out of clenched teeth as if it's all he can do to keep himself from grabbing me, pulling me out of my seat, and taking me right here in the street, before we even have a chance to get to his intimate little driveway.

But like the car, he restrains his power and pulls us delicately into the driveway, then into the open garage waiting for us.

There is no other car there, though there is a motorcycle. It's not chic or dignified like the Spider. There're no special chrome accessories or add-ons to speak of. The seat has seen better days. Mud clings to its narrow black tires.

I love it. I love that this man with his exquisite car has a motorcycle that emanates nothing but rugged and gritty masculinity. Again I look at Robert's hands: beautiful, rough, strong but at times so very gentle.

Yin-yang. And as he puts his hands on my face, as he holds me still, as our eyes lock and my own hand coaxes out another primitive and powerful reaction, I feel our wholeness.

"I don't often invite people over," he says. "I don't entertain. But ever since Vegas, I've wanted to bring you here."

"Why?" I ask. "You've had me in your hotel room, your office, on the screen of your computer . . . why do you need me here?"

"Because," he says, then pauses as he searches for an answer. "I've been inside your walls," he says slowly, "and this is the only way I can think of to bring you more fully inside of mine."

I'm unsure of how to respond, so I wait for the kiss I know is coming. It starts soft but then quickly becomes more demanding-his tongue sliding against mine. He holds my head still and I press my b.r.e.a.s.t.s forward trying to bring myself closer to him. My hand toys with him. I have no patience. I want him, every part of him, now. His erection is full and complete and I wonder if anyone has ever made love in a Spider.

But Robert pulls away. He removes my hand as he takes a breath to calm himself and bring his body back under his control.

Well, partially under his control. His body, like mine, aches to explore.

He gets out of the car and I wait as he comes around to open my door. Again we fall into silence as we step into the driveway. The house doesn't look like much. I can see only a wall and a door that looks like it leads to . . . maybe a small closed-in front yard? Maybe nothing at all.

But when he opens it, I am greeted with everything. The entire city is beyond this wall. A view that stretches to the beaches of Santa Monica. We stand on top of a hill, feeling a thousand miles away from the lights that decorate the vast city beneath us. But of course we're not so far. Only a two-minute drive to Sunset, where the hot dog restaurants complement a few strategically placed nightclubs.

I feel his fingers dance up and down the back of my neck, sending shocks of heat through my nervous system. The house that goes with this private front yard is to my right. It's built onto the slope of the hill, which is why it's virtually invisible from the street that leads to it. Stilt beams hold it up, fragile-looking things that have the strength of Greek G.o.ds.

I let him lead me through the front door; the home has walls of windows and I imagine what it must look like in the daylight: bright suns.h.i.+ne illuminating dark wood. But for now the only light is the light of the city. He finds a dimmer switch and gives me enough illumination to see the room's design a bit more clearly. The place is hardly immaculate but it feels comfortable. There's bold and abstract artwork on his walls.

One painting in particular draws me in. I can't say for sure if it's of lovers or even if the figures depicted are fully human. But it has the essence of unbridled pa.s.sion. Two beings hold on to each other as a swirling ma.s.s of color and utter confusion appears to try to tear them apart. But they're stronger than the anarchy; their desire is more brilliant than the colors.

Robert steps up behind me, presses against me. I can feel his strength; I can feel his desire pressing into my back.

I stare at the painting as he unb.u.t.tons my blazer. The might of the painting is in the two embracing figures. That's what matters.

The rest is nothing.

My blazer falls to the floor.

Slowly he turns me around and takes me in. My nipples are hard and strain against the sheer, tight fabric of my top. He traces the outline of my b.r.e.a.s.t.s.

"You're magnificent," he says.

I slip out of my heels. I have to crane my neck to meet his eyes but I don't mind. My hand reaches for the b.u.t.ton of my pants and with no effort I pull them off. The only part of my suit that I'm wearing now is this scandalously sheer s.h.i.+rt.

"Look at me," I say quietly.