But what attracts me most to her is the way she looks at Zander. It's the way all mothers look at their children. A heavy feeling settles on my chest as I stare at his mother's face.
It takes me a moment to realize that I’ve met Zander’s father, but not his mother. I find it odd that he’s never mentioned her before at all. The idea hits me that I should Google Zander’s family. I bet there’s at least some dirt on his father… maybe some on Zander, too.
I’m so dumb. I should’ve done this the moment I found out about Zander.
I'm quick to go back to the bedroom and take out my cell. I bring up the web browser, tapping in Zander Payne. The first few results yield nothing. I go several pages without seeing anything actually related to Zander or his family. It's all business news. I let out a sigh of relief when I don’t really find anything. At least Zander doesn’t have a sinister past.
I’m about to search for something more specific when one headline grabs my attention
Rich Socialite takes her own life after husband’s affair.
Marie Payne, forty-eight-year-old wife of wealthy hedge fund investor Thomas Payne jumped to her death after learning of her husband’s years-long affair with his mistress. Sources say in the week leading up to her death, Marie was so distraught she locked herself away in her room for days at a time, refusing to come out for food or drink.
Marie leaves behind a young son, Zander Payne…
“Oh,” I breathe, tearing my eyes away from the article, tears filling my eyes. My body seems to go cold all at once, the large bed feeling like an abyss as I bring the comforter up and around me. I check the date on the article and think back to how old Zander was.
He was just a boy. I wipe under my eyes as the sting of the tears hits me out of nowhere.
No wonder why he keeps secrets, I say to myself, shaking my head and holding my tears at bay. No wonder why Zander doesn’t trust people.
I thought I had a painful life, but at least I’m still alive. A lot of my issues, I caused myself. Being a problem child, being wild and partying. But his mother’s death? Zander had no control over that. No control over the betrayal that led to such an earth-shattering loss.
Letting out a deep, trembling sigh, I turn my phone off and settle into the comforter, imagining how hard that had to be on him. I’m no longer in the mood to go snooping around. After finding that out, a part of me is content in letting Zander keep whatever secrets he has close to his chest. It probably gives him comfort, more control over his life. And who am I to say that he owes me complete access?
I look toward the door to his bedroom, feeling a swell of emotion. I need a release. I need to do something that’ll make me feel better.
There’s only one thing that I know will do that.
I throw the covers off of me and go back through his house looking for his office. After finding pen and paper, I make my way to the piano room, sprawling out on the floor.
And I begin to draw.
Chapter 23
Zander
My hand tightens on the leather shifter as I park my Mercedes in the garage. I lean back in my seat after turning the keys and pulling them out. My forehead is pinched as I stare at the garage door to my home.
She’s still inside.
I didn’t expect it. There are monitors and cameras set up throughout my home. I’d be a fucking idiot not to have them with the sheer number of people who come in and out. From the housekeeping service, to caterers and business associates.
I wasn’t surprised when she started looking through my things. I rest my head back against the leather, staring at the door and remembering how I watched her on the computer screen rather than actually working today. I’d already decided phone conferences would have to substitute for my normal meetings, considering the faint darkness under my left eye. I canceled three of them though so I could focus on watching her. During the fourth and fifth she stayed on my screen, lying on the floor, sprawled out and tempting me to come back to her. To pull her tempting body into mine, but also to see her drawing.
My sweetheart is a beautiful distraction.
And she’s still here.
Or at least she was when I left the office nearly fifteen minutes ago. The realization that she could be done with her art makes me exit the car in haste. Shoving the keys into my pocket, I open the door and kick it shut behind me. The garage is at the side of the house, and I’m well aware that my pace is much faster than it usually is. I’m curious to see if she’s still sprawled there on the floor of the piano room, waiting for me.
My dick hardens in my pants as the mental images of me lying on the ground next to her and slowly teasing her shoulder with my fingertips until she shivers plays in my mind. But when I get to the foyer and see her spot empty, my steps slow and my heart pauses in my chest. She’s been here for hours. Taunting me to come home.
I stare at the gleaming hardwood floor. How the fuck have I missed her? How cruel would it be for her to leave just as I’ve come home when I’ve been wanting her all day? The seconds split and time moves slower as anger seeps in. She’s mine. She should be here. Waiting for me.
I know it’s unreasonable. Even as my jaw clenches, I know I shouldn’t think that way. This is pretend. It’s fake and merely a result of my poor judgment, but nonetheless, I want her. And she was fucking here all this time.
“Oh!” the small sound of her gasp from behind me grips my attention. I school my expression, turning slowly to see her standing in the kitchen. I haven’t missed her. The adrenaline stops pumping in my blood. My heartbeat settles, and my body instantly relaxes at the sight of her in the middle of the kitchen. My sweetheart didn’t slip through my fingers. She’s right where she belongs.
Her dark green eyes are wide and she shuffles her feet as she stares back at me. She pulls her hair around her shoulder, her fingers nervously twirling the ends. “I wasn’t sure-” she starts to say something, but stops as I walk toward her in the open kitchen, my strides slow and deliberate.
“I’m surprised you’re still here,” I say and the lie comes out with an unnatural tone in my voice that I don’t recognize.
Arianna doesn’t notice as she clasps her hands and shakes her head. “I’m sorry. I didn’t have work today, and I got caught up.” Her hands fly outward as she blurts out an excuse, and the paper she’s been working on waves in the air as she moves her hands.
“What’s that?” I ask her, nodding to the sketch. I resist the urge to take the few remaining steps forward and snatch it from her. I want her to want to show me.
“Oh,” she says and looks at the paper as if it’s the first time she’s seen it. As if it didn’t encompass the last few hours of her time.
“May I see?” I ask, but the words come out as a hard command instead of a question and I wish I could stop them. I wish I could soften for her. But that’s not who I am. “Please,” I add and clear my throat.
She doesn’t react to the harsh tone, instead she obediently hands me the paper and the thrill of her listening to me makes my blood heat with desire. Such a small thing. So insignificant really. But she makes me feel powerful in a way I haven’t felt before. She makes me want to command her; it’s a dangerous thing for her to play with me like this. To tempt me, but she doesn’t realize she’s doing it.