Slay complete series, p.5
Slay Complete Series, page 5
I just wanted her to go.
“Oh, I know him! That’s Edward Fasbender. My, he’s such a looker, and even more attractive in person. Those pictures just don’t do him justice.”
I followed Blanche’s gaze to my laptop sitting at the edge of my desk, the screen still displaying the image search from earlier.
My thoughts slid easily away from the uncomfortable place her paintings had taken me to what she’d just said. “Yes, that’s him. He’s a potential client. You’ve met him before?”
“I worked for him, actually. I lived in London for a while and had a job in the graphic design department of Accelecom. He was very hands-on with his staff. And quite particular. Hard to please. I hope he’s easier to work with as a client than a boss.”
My head swirled with intrigue. “Well, I don’t know yet, since I haven’t agreed to take him on. Your comment definitely gives me pause.”
She blushed. “I shouldn’t have said anything. It’s been a few years now since I worked with him. He may have changed. Or it might have been me! I’m not a graphic designer anymore for a reason.”
“Oh, please. You’re very talented.” It wasn’t even that big of a lie. She’d gotten better since I’d seen her in the spring.
I glanced again at her paintings and felt that same stirring of unease. I still didn’t want to look at them, but now I was interested in talking with her more about Edward.
I stacked the canvases on top of each other and held them out to her. “How about we do this...I need to speak to my client and see where his current thoughts are on this project. Then maybe we can meet again sometime this weekend and discuss this further.”
Blanche’s brows momentarily drew close together. She’d had yet to take the paintings from me. “Sure. Sure. I’m free Sunday, if that works for you. Do you want to just keep these to show him?”
I definitely did not. I wanted them as far away from me as possible. “That won’t be necessary. I’ve seen enough to attest to the quality. Could you email me with digital photos of them and any other paintings you propose for this collection? I’ll forward them on. And Sunday is perfect! How about a late lunch around two? I’ll reply to your email with a restaurant.”
Her earlier zeal returned and she finally took the paintings from me. “That sounds great! To be honest, I’m going to be sweating until then, but I can wait. It’s only a couple of days.”
“I totally understand. But as you said, it’s just a couple of days. I have an appointment soon, anyway, and I’d rather not be rushed when we talk.” I was already escorting her to the door.
“Of course. Makes total sense.”
“I’d love to quiz you some more about Edward Fasbender, too, if you don’t mind.” I could have kept her longer and drilled her right there, but I’d learned from experience that patience was a good friend. This way she’d have time to think of things she might not have thought of on the spot. Especially if she was as eager to please me as I believed she was.
“Whatever I can do to help! Thank you for all of this. You’ve really made my day!”
She walked out of my office with hope. The same kind of hope I’d once had about living a life like the one Hudson led with Alayna, a life filled with love and vows and swollen bellies. The kind of hope that was devastating when destroyed. It was the kind of hope I loved seeing in the people I played, and normally, I’d cling onto it, fantasizing about how satisfying it would be to eventually deflate their aspirations.
But an hour later when she sent over an email with her art attached—images I didn’t open—I wasn’t thinking about the game I’d set up with Blanche Martin. As I replied with the address to a restaurant in Lenox Hill, I was thinking about what kind of game I’d play with Edward.
SEVEN
I didn’t often dream, or, at least, I didn’t remember if I did. Those had disappeared along with my emotions. Apparently there was no way to spin imaginings of the soul when a person no longer had a soul.
But I did have one recurring dream that visited me as regularly as the seasons. It was always vague, always a bit hazy, as though I were viewing it through a fog.
No, as though I were in the fog, because it was a dream about me, I was pretty sure. I could never actually see myself there, but I felt myself there. Felt myself there in that misty nowhere, a faceless man at my side and a baby in my arms. Every time, the infant was bundled so tightly that I couldn’t see its face, couldn’t tell if it was a boy or a girl, or how old it was, but I could feel the weight of it, could smell the very distinct baby scent when I lowered my nose toward its head. Could hear its gentle baby sounds as I tried to move the blanket to reveal the form underneath.
But I could never move the blanket. I couldn’t move anything at all. My arms were missing, my body invisible, like I wasn’t really there. Like I was nothing. Like the man and the baby were real, and I was a ghost clinging to their existence.
I dreamt it that night, and as always when I dreamt it, I woke up sobbing.
Dumb, I thought, as my body shook with grief I couldn’t actually feel.
I didn’t even like babies.
EIGHT
I arrived early to the restaurant on Sunday. I hadn’t planned to; it was just the way traffic worked out.
I’d made reservations, thankfully, but Orsay wasn’t the type of establishment that seated guests without all members of their party present.
Usually, anyway. I had ways of making people change their minds about such stifling rules.
After a bit of flirting with the hostess—yes, my charms work as well on women as men—I found myself escorted to a table for two. I asked her not to send a waiter until my guest arrived, then I took the bench side of the arrangement, which allowed me to face the door. I liked having the advantage in these situations.
Unfortunately that meant I couldn’t see anyone approaching from behind until they were well on me. Which was why I wasn’t prepared when I glanced up at the two men passing by on their way out of the restaurant and locked eyes on none other than Edward Fasbender.
Startled, I felt my mouth fall open. What was he doing here? Lenox Hill wasn’t exactly near St. Regis. Most importantly, what was he doing here now? Minutes before I was supposed to meet with someone to discuss him, no less.
His reaction was decidedly less severe than mine felt. His eyes widened in surprise then a smug smile uncurled across his lips.
“Vincent,” he said to the man he was with. “I’ve just spotted someone I know. Thank you for meeting with me. I’ll follow up with you sometime this coming week.” He didn’t wait for his companion’s response before pulling out the chair across from me and taking the liberty of sitting in it.
Vincent nodded in acknowledgment and went on his way while I blinked in astonishment.
“Oh, hell no,” I said, when I managed to get my wits about me, a difficult task in the shadow of Edward’s presence. It was overpowering. He was overpowering. It was hard to think around someone so incredibly assured. So completely captivating. “That seat is not for you. I did not invite you to sit.”
He gave me a bored sigh. “Come on, now. You don’t want to make a scene.”
I hadn’t realized how loud my voice had been, but his comment didn’t help to calm me down. Who was he to tell me what I did and didn’t want to do? I had half a mind to very much make a scene. Whatever it took to get him out of that chair and away from me.
Except, I really didn’t want to make a scene. It would please him too much to see me riled. There was no way I was giving him that satisfaction.
I straightened my back and made a deliberate effort to lower my voice. “Five minutes. You get five minutes to say what you need to say and then be gone.”
“Fine.” He didn’t look at his watch to check the time, but I did. It was a nice piece, actually. A Piaget with a steel band and a sapphire face that had to cost a fortune. Worth it for how well he wore it.
Oh, please. It’s a luxury watch. It would look good on anyone.
I forced my gaze up to his face. Which wasn’t any less stunning. His eyes were so blue, so translucent. Hypnotizing.
Jesus, what was wrong with me? I had to pull myself together.
The waiter chose that moment to come take our drink orders, giving me a thankful distraction. “Not yet, please. This isn’t who I’m expecting to—”
Edward bulldozed over me. “She’ll take a Juliet. Nothing for me. And put this ticket on the credit card I just used.”
The waiter looked more closely at Edward and, apparently realizing he’d served him once before that afternoon, nodded. “Yes, Mr. Fasbender. I’ll be right back with that Juliet.” He disappeared into the kitchen.
I was fuming. “I do not need you to order my drinks for me, and I most certainly do not need you to pay for my meal.”
“Of course you don’t. But I have extremely good taste. It’s vodka and lemoncello and something floral. You’ll see. You’ll like it.” His English dialect was so enchanting, even with the added air of haughtiness. It was almost a form of delicious torture. Like being tickled—an ear tickle. “As for paying for your meal...what sort of potential husband would I be if I didn’t prove I meant to take care of my wife.”
I’d been dead inside for nearly a decade, and yet his use of the word wife in relation to me set something blooming deep and hidden inside me.
No, no, no. Close it off. Let it die. Stay numb.
“I hope you don’t plan to use your entire five minutes to discuss that ridiculous scheme of yours.” The irritation in my tone was directed at myself, but I was fine with him thinking it was all for him.
“Not all my five minutes, no. I have other things to say.”
“Well? Get on with it.”
Casually, as though he had all the time in the world, he brought his elbows to the table and clasped his hands together, his eyes never leaving mine. “You’re stalking me,” he said finally.
“No, I’m not!” I was flabbergasted. “How would I even... Why would I ever think you’d be at this restaurant? When there’s a million other restaurants in Manhattan.”
“That’s what I find remarkable about your skills. You found me here, of all places.”
Fury rose in me like smoke from a wildfire. What an egotistical, self-centered shithead. I’d done more than my fair share of stalking in my life, but to assume that I’d bother to chase after him…!
Never mind that I’d spent several hours researching him on the internet the night before. Or that I’d ordered a deeper background check, and maybe took a route that went by his hotel on my run that morning.
“I am not stalking you,” I said definitively.
He chuckled as he leaned back into his chair. “I understand. It’s all right. You’re embarrassed. Honestly. I’m flattered.”
“You’re so...so…” I couldn’t find a word to describe how exasperated he made me.
“So...what?” He tilted his head in that conceited way he did in all his online pictures. “Assertive? Potent? Charming? Probably not that. Undeniable?”
“Vexing. I was going to say vexing.” I dug my fingernails into my pant legs under the table, afraid I’d reach across the table and claw his beautiful bastard face if I didn’t.
He gave a sidewise nod that had the same effect as a shrug. “Could be worse. I believe you called me an asshole the other day.”
“I still mean it, too.” I lifted my chin as though I’d somehow won, but of course I hadn’t. I was nowhere close to winning.
Which meant I was losing, and I hated losing.
I gave him a bristling frown. “What do you want? Why are you bothering me?”
“I’d like to know what you’ve decided.”
“...what I’ve decided?” I found that I was constantly repeating his words back to him in question form because so much of what he said was outright incredible.
“About my proposal. We were just discussing it. You obviously have a faulty memory. Perhaps you should get that checked out.”
That pompous little... “You’re obviously not a very good listener. I already told you no.”
His expression grew serious, and before he even spoke, I had the distinct feeling this was a look he used a lot in the boardroom. When he was about to make a killer move. When he was about to crush his opponent with new terms.
It would have been hot if I weren’t currently his opponent.
“Would it make a difference if sex were on the table?” he asked solemnly.
“No?” It sounded like I wasn’t certain so I repeated it again, more emphatically. “No.”
His brow rose skeptically. “Are you sure?”
“Positive.” I was positive. Nothing would change my answer, even as his allure tugged on my libido, making the space between my legs ache in a way they hadn’t in a long time. In years. In a lifetime.
Still, even with my mind made up, I couldn’t help being curious. “But, why isn’t it?”
“Why isn’t it on the table?” He appeared surprised by the question.
That was a point in my favor. It seemed that very little threw him. What a nice change of pace to be on the other side of the teeter-totter.
“Yes, why wouldn’t you expect sex in a marriage?” More specifically, why wouldn’t he expect sex with me? I was attractive. More than a few men had done really stupid things to get me in their bed. Throw away marriages and change long-term goals sort of stupid things.
Why wouldn’t Edward want me as well? Why wouldn’t he demand it?
The damn waiter came back then, setting my drink—correction, the drink Edward had ordered—in front of me. Miffed at his timing, I shooed him away, telling him I’d flag him down when I was ready to order rather than explaining that the man sitting with me wasn’t even the person I planned to eat with.
With the server dealt with, I pushed the drink aside dismissively, and reminded Edward where we were in the conversation. “I asked you a question.”
He narrowed his eyes as though thinking it over.
My breath stuttered as I waited for his answer. I was nervous, for some insane reason. His lingering hesitation to respond wasn’t helping matters. Each second that passed drew the tension between us tauter and tauter.
He knew exactly what he was doing. He had nothing to think over. He was the kind of man who knew every one of his motives before he said or did anything. It was almost impressive.
God, I hated him.
Just when I thought I couldn’t stand it anymore, he spoke. “It’s rather simple, actually. I have kids already. I don’t need an heir. I don’t want a baby with you.”
I ignored the sting of his last comment. “Children are hardly the reason most men want sex.”
“Yes. I’m well aware, my dear.” So patronizing. So impossible.
“I am not your dear,” I seethed.
“Not yet.”
“Not ever!”
He grinned slowly. That self-satisfied smile of his was a nuclear weapon.
It was going to be my undoing, if I wasn’t careful.
I refused to look at him any longer. I couldn’t if I wanted to leave this encounter still a whole person, as whole of a person as I was these days, anyway. “You’re avoiding the question. If you don’t want to answer, then you can just go ahead and leave now. Besides, your time is up, and I have no interest—”
He leaned toward me and cut me off with a low rumble. “If you must know, Celia,” he used my name pointedly, making sure I was aware he hadn’t called me dear again. “I’m not an easy man to please in the bedroom.”
“And that’s different than any other room...how?”
He laughed, his eyes brightening with sincere amusement. “You learn quickly. I like that in a woman.”
How could such a condescending comment make me feel so...warm? Heat spread through me like the early sun’s rays spread across a new day. With extreme alarm, I realized I liked the thought of trying to please this intolerable man.
Because I liked challenges. That had to be why. No other reason.
Suddenly, it dawned on me what he’d really been saying. “Then you’d be going for sex elsewhere.” I hadn’t meant to sound disappointed.
“Would it matter?” he challenged.
“It wouldn’t.” I shook my head and amended. “It doesn’t. Because I’m not considering any of this.” Here I was again saying no, and still I was sure I was the one who’d been rejected.
I hated it. I hated him. I hated everything about him.
I especially hated the way he regarded me now, his gaze piercing and penetrating, as though he could see beyond the carefully coiffed woman in front of him to my very core, to the ice fields and dark caverns that lay at the heart of me.
Long silent seconds passed, seconds that stretched as tight as the pressure between us. Seconds where I formed a million things to say, and just as quickly dismissed each comment as immature or quaint or lame or just plain desperate.
Eventually, he took the burden off me. “This buttoned-up working girl look is a bit much.” He gestured to the pearl buttons that ran below the collar of the peach-colored shell I wore. “It’s the weekend. You should wear something more casual. Let your hair down.”
“How dare you!” The harsh reaction came out before I could stop myself. “And who are you to talk? You’re wearing a suit on Sunday. I’m guessing you didn’t just come from church.”
“I had a business meeting.”
As if there couldn’t be any other reasonable answer. As if I couldn’t possibly work on the weekend.
It had the same tone of superiority that my father frequently used. I’d never been good at talking to him, either.
This conversation exhausted me. I was bored with it. Which was a gentler way of saying I was defeated by it.
I scanned over his shoulder, hoping to see my lunch date, and responded to him halfheartedly. “I doubt your meeting had anything to do with your choice of attire. All you ever wear is suits. I’ve never seen you in any sort of casual wear. If I hadn’t seen proof otherwise, you could have told me you worked out in an Armani three-piece, and I would have believed it.”
