She says nothing.
“You know that’s not what this is about.” I turn her in my lap so she’s facing away, my hand soft around her neck as I lean close and breathe against her ear before taking a nibble. “You and I both know why I invited you here tonight. And we both know why you came. I want you, Astaire. And you want me. We both have our reasons, and there’s nothing wrong with any of them.”
Silence settles between us, nothing but shallow breaths and the gentle glow of the fireplace. Just when I’m positive she’s about to melt against me, cave in to her inmost desires, she climbs off me and begins to gather her clothes off the floor like she’s got a plane to catch—or someplace better to be.
“I’m sorry.” She brushes a strand of hair from her face, swooping, grabbing her panties and bra and collecting everything in her arm. “I can’t do this. I don’t do casual hook ups. And even if I did … I couldn’t do them with you.”
Breathless, she shimmies into her panties and tight jeans and doesn’t bother with her bra, shoving it into her purse before tugging her sweater over her head. The soft fabric hugs her swollen tits and tents around her nipples. She scans the room, gaze settling toward the foyer—her escape.
Jesus Christ, the woman can’t get out of here fast enough.
She won’t look at me, but she isn’t crying. In fact, she isn’t showing a shred of emotion. If I had to guess, she wants to get the hell out of here and pretend like none of this happened.
Good luck with that, sweetheart …
She’s going to be thinking about this night, about me, about how hot the sex could’ve been, about all the strange yet exhilarating ways I could’ve made her feel … for the rest of her life.
Rising, I slip into my boxer briefs and escort her to the door, fetching her coat from the closet. It’s best that I don’t speak. It’s best that I let her have her moment. I’m not going to talk her into sleeping with me, and I’m sure as hell not going to beg her to stay.
“I’m so sorry.” Her hand rests on the knob, her gaze trained on the door. Still, the woman won’t meet my gaze.
“Stop apologizing, Astaire.”
And with that, I let her go.
19
Astaire
If it weren’t for the fact that I can still feel the heat of his mouth on mine, still feel the aching tension between my thighs when I close my eyes, I’d be certain the events of last night were a dream.
I jam my key into the back entrance lock at the Elmhurst Theatre Saturday morning, dressed to clean. The owners hosted a Great Gatsby-themed gala last night, complete with live music and catering, and since I’m on the volunteer committee, I offered to show up first thing to help with clean-up.
“Morning, Astaire! There’s donuts and coffee in the staff room,” Conrad, a fellow volunteer, tells me when I make my way across the lobby. “Help yourself.”
“Thanks, Con.” I acknowledge him a smile and nod, grab a few supplies from the cleaning closet, and head to the balcony to get started. My stomach is so tied in knots, I couldn’t eat if I tried.
I never should have gone to his place.
It was clearly a trap, a setup.
He knew exactly what he was doing luring me there under mysterious pretenses, apologizing like a perfect gentleman, then making his move when he was sure he had me where he needed me—open, vulnerable, confused by our mutual hypnotic attraction.
I’m not sure what came over me last night when I let him kiss me and then proceeded to jump his bones like some sex-famished lunatic, but when he told me he wanted to bend me over the couch, I suddenly felt more like an object than a human being.
His words catapulted me back into reality.
For some women, being objectified is a turn-on, but it’s never been my thing.
As a person who spent the first decade and a half of her life craving connections of any kind, I can’t do the casual sex thing.
And I sure as hell can’t do it with Bennett.
With his wolf-like glint and his mile-wide cruel streak, getting mixed up with him is the last thing I need. But I still can’t get over the fact that he had someone check into me.
The thought of Bennett Schoenbach taking the time from his busy schedule to solicit someone to look into my background …
He thinks about me. When we’re not together wonders about me. He wanted so badly to know more about me that he hired someone to do his leg work.
But why?
The man could have easily deleted our string of emails and left it at that.
After all, he made it clear that he had better things to do with his time. But he took it a step further. He went beyond what most people would do.
I must have intrigued him.
I’d be lying if I said he didn’t intrigue me.
There are layers upon layers beneath his galvanized façade.
More depth than he lets on.
He has more demons than a man should.
And for that reason, I need to let him go … because no good can come from this.
20
Bennett
“Bennett, aren’t you going to tell your brother and his wife ‘congratulations’?” My mother bats her mink lashes, hands cupped beneath her pointed chin as the four of us are seated beneath a crystal chandelier at Peridot Saturday morning.
Normally I’d have declined the invitation, but she lured me here under false pretenses, claiming she needed me to sign off on a corporate tax document—which she did.
Once I was finished, she asked me to join her for a “quick brunch.”
No sooner did I reluctantly oblige (due to the rumbling in my stomach and the convenience factor) did my brother and his wife mosey into the dining hall and sidle up to the table.
I’d been set up.
And for good reason.
The Schoenbach family is expanding.
Beth offers a warm smile. Errol clears his throat, gaze darting from the green hydrangea centerpiece to me and back.
“I’m sure it’s a bit of a shock,” Beth speaks to me but looks to her husband. “We weren’t expecting it to happen this quickly. The adoption agency said it could take years to get a healthy domestic infant.”
Her fuchsia lips teeter.
I don’t buy her excitement.
From the beginning of their marriage, she’s done everything she can to avoid starting a family with Errol.
First, there was the whole “we’re too young” excuse. Then it was “we have plenty of time.” When they hit thirty and apparently were in full-fledged “trying to conceive” mode, it was month after month of mysterious negative pregnancy tests. She claimed her doctor said they should wait two years before seeking the help of a fertility specialist.
Beth waited two years to the day. I imagine Errol was hounding her and she knew she was running out of excuses.
Errol, for reasons I’ve yet to comprehend, is dead set on having a family.
Beth (for reasons of her own, I presume) has never stopped taking her birth control pills.
I know this because in the middle of last year, they happened to be in town and there just so happened to be a mix up at the pharmacy. We share the same initials. The clerk at the counter grabbed her paper bag by mistake. I was halfway around the block when I realized the mistake and returned to swap out her Yasmin compact for my antirejection pills.