She was ready to learn.
And I couldn’t wait to teach her.
CHARLOTTE
I spotted him sitting over in the corner, in a booth, one of those VIP ones that was raised up on a platform so that he could have a good look at everything that was going on beneath him.
I hated the thought of him looking at other women, hating thinking that he might have been up there looking at that girl’s ass and getting turned on. The women in this club were extremely beautiful. I knew as soon as Jared pulled the car up in front that I was out of my element.
I’d been to fancy bars before, of course. The place I’d been the other night for Cora’s bachelorette party was nice. But it was professional nice. Classy. The kind of place lawyers and professionals went.
The men here seemed like professionals. Or at least, they seemed rich. They were all wearing sophisticated, expensive-looking clothing. But the women looked like models. Shiny hair, tiny waists, perfect complexions. I was by far the biggest girl in the room, and I instantly felt self-conscious.
Everyone here was wearing designer dresses, and I was wearing a tight little mini-dress that Julia probably got at TJ Maxx. I’d felt beautiful back at the house when I was getting ready, but now I just felt out of place and bumbling.
I told myself it didn’t matter. I wasn’t here to impress anyone, least of all Noah.
I marched over and slid into the booth next to him.
In an instant, he was next to me, his body against me, his leg pushing into mine. But I moved away so that I was out of his reach.
“That’s how it’s going to be, huh?” he said, smiling devilishly. He reached under the table and stroked my knee. “Fine with me. It’ll make it even sweeter.”
I marveled at his change in tone, how he’d been so vulnerable back in the lobby of my building, how he’d seemed like he really wanted to let me in. I thought we’d be going to a nice restaurant, or a movie, or one of the million of other places you could go on a first date. But now, here we were again, in some fancy loud club, and all he was thinking about was sex.
His touch was sending heat pulsing through my core, and I cursed him for being able to have such an effect on me.
I reached into my messenger bag (I’d had to bring it instead of the tiny little clutch—it didn’t match the outfit, but some things were more important) and pulled out the file folder Professor Worthington had given me, slamming it down on the table.
“What’s this?” Noah asked, looking dismayed.
“Oh, nothing,” I said, flipping open the folder and pulling out the photo, the one of Nora and Dani. “Just an interesting picture of two women you used to date, two women with the same marks on their wrists that I have.”
He picked up the photo and looked at it.
I’d been replaying this moment in my head the whole way over here. At first I’d thought that I wouldn’t even come, that I’d just leave Noah waiting. I’d never talk to him again, I’d resign from the case and build up my reputation with Professor Worthington through hard work in his class.
It was too dangerous.
What were the chances that the two murdered women had both dated Noah and had the same marks on their wrist at the time of their death? The marks looked fresh, like maybe he’d just been with him. Was that what he did? Tied them up and fucked them until he got bored, then killed them and tossed their bodies?
In the end, though, I decided to come because I wanted to confront him. I wanted to put the evidence right down in front of him. I’d pictured us in a restaurant though, the kind of place where he’d tell me to keep my voice down and get a panicked look on his face before begging me not to call the police.
You came because you wanted him to convince you it wasn’t him.
I ignored that thought and waited for Noah’s explanation.
He glanced at the photo as if it were nothing, then placed it back in the folder before sliding it back across the table toward me.
“Is that why you came here tonight, Charlotte?” He took a sip of his drink and regarded me over the table, his gaze piercing.
“What do you mean?” I shifted on the booth, uncomfortable. Somehow he had already turned the tables, and now he was questioning me, instead of the other way around.
“I mean did you come here tonight because you wanted to accuse me of murder?”
I thought about it. “Haven’t you already been accused of murder?” I shot back.
“Have I?”
“You’re talking in circles.”
“Why did you come here tonight, Charlotte?” he pressed.
He was making me nervous. He was looking at me like he wanted to fuck me, his gaze smoldering, his eyes full of want. But he’d taken his hand off my knee and now he was leaning back against the booth. He was wearing a soft-looking black sweater and the sleeves were pushed up, showing muscular forearms.
I didn’t like that he’d moved away from me. Now that I was here, I wanted him close to me. I hated that he had this power over me, hated that I’d come here to confront him about something, and now he was the one in control.
But why had I come here? I wondered. Was it that I wanted an explanation? If I did, then why didn’t I just come out and ask him for it?
Because you’re afraid of the answer.
“I came here because you invited me.” My hands twisted in my lap, and I wished I had a drink to keep me busy. I looked around for a waitress and spotted a beautiful blonde in a gold minidress setting a round of glasses down on a table a few booths down.
“Look at me when I’m talking to you, Charlotte,” Noah demanded.
It was like a reflex. I turned my attention back to him, my eyes snapping back onto his.
“Good girl,” he said, like it pleased him that I could follow directions. He’d said the same thing when I was sucking his cock. That I was pleasing him turned me on—then and now. “Now answer my question. Why did you come here?”
“I came here because you invited me,” I repeated. “And because I wanted to get to know you better, like you said.” It sounded lame and cliché and such a girl thing to say, but I didn’t care. I did come here because I wanted to get to know him better. I wanted to know something about him, anything. If he had brothers and sisters, if he liked his job, what his favorite color was. Right now he was like a completely closed door, and the lock was proving impossible to open.
“And you thought you could get to know me better by accusing me of murder?”
“No.” I shook my head. “I wasn’t accusing you of murder.”
“You came here and showed me a picture of two dead girls, which by the way, I’m pretty sure you shouldn’t be doing in such a public place, and then you compared the marks on their wrists to the marks on yours. Marks that I put there.”
“I wanted an explanation.” I kept my eyes on his, daring him to contradict me. I didn’t care how devastatingly sexy he was, or how successful, or how much he turned me on. I deserved an answer.
“For what?”
“For the fact that two dead women have marks on their wrists identical to the ones you put on mine.”
“So what you’re saying is that you believe I am the only person capable of putting marks on someone’s wrists, is that correct?”