Breaking All the Rules (12 page)

“I realize that.” He chuckles. “I heard your singing this morning.” The elevator doors open, and Nate leads me into the underground parking lot. The stagnant air smells of exhaust fumes and Mother Earth’s tears. “I enjoyed the dancing also. I’d pay money to see that.” He opens his car’s passenger door.

“There’s no need to pay more money.” I sit down. “The singing and dancing and telling off are free, part of the many services I offer.”

He shuts the door between us, moves to the driver’s side, fills the sedan with his big body and crisp clean scent. “Don’t ever change, Camille.”

“I don’t plan to change.” I gaze at him, his casual comment tugging at my heart, making me want to believe in him, in us, in tomorrow.

I can’t believe. Our contract only lasts a month. I can’t ever forget that.

Nate drives with a grim determination, as though he’s trekking into battle, his shoulders stiff and his back straight. The houses become bigger, the streets cleaner and better maintained, the colors brighter.

“Don’t worry. Your mom will love me,” I declare.

Nate’s gaze slides to my face and then returns to the road. “You’ve set unreasonable expectations for this appointment.”

“I’m not saying she’ll declare her undying devotion during the entree.” I laugh. “I’d settle for her simply agreeing to contact me.”

“She’ll disappoint you.”

“You’re underestimating me, Nate.” I place my hand on his thigh and rub my fingertips into his muscles, massaging him, excited by this new challenge. “I’ve accomplished the impossible before.”

“If anyone can do it you can,” Nate murmurs, his faith in me buoying my spirits even more. He turns the car into a small street. Baskets of flowers line the sidewalk. Fine metalwork decorates the always-lit streetlights. Women with big hats, bigger sunglasses, and tiny dogs sit on restaurant patios, drinking coffee and talking on cell phones.

Nate parks in front of one of these hoity-toity restaurants. A doorman opens the door for me, holds out a gloved hand, helps me out of the vehicle. The neatly dressed young man lifts his gaze to my green hair. His smile doesn’t flicker.

The restaurant patrons aren’t as professional as the doorman. They stare at me, hiding their moving red lips behind finely manicured fingers, the sun’s rays reflecting off their perfect nail polish.

I press my fingertips into my palms, concealing my blunt unpolished fingernails, not wishing to give the women anything else to mock. Nate hands his car keys and a folded bill to the valet and joins me on the sidewalk, taking one of my hands, linking our fingers together.

A beaming doorman holds the door open for us and we enter the restaurant. The tables are spaced far apart, every seat filled by men in dark suits or women in sleek fitted dresses. The tablecloths are white, the silverware gleams, and the crystal dazzles. Delicate white orchids sprout from round black pots. A tantalizing hint of spice lingers in the air, teasing my nostrils.

The restaurant is tasteful, stylish, and clearly a regular haunt of Nate’s. As he guides me through the space patrons and employees greet him by name and gaze speculatively at me.

“They think you’re a rock star,” he murmurs, leaning closer to me as we walk. “They’re expecting a show.” He puts his arm around me, publicly claiming me as his lunch date.

“I never do what anyone expects.” I thrust back my shoulders, pride fusing my spine. With Nate I’m not a freak, a target of scorn. I’m a rock star, a woman to be envied.

Nate splays his fingers over my hip, his hand warming the leather, warming me, and leads me to a secluded corner of the restaurant. The table is beautifully set for three, the lighting low and the atmosphere romantic.

“This is very cozy,” I comment. Nate holds my chair and I grin as I sit down. “I thought we were having lunch with your mom.”

His eyes gleam. “This is the best table.” Nate claims the seat beside me, pressing his leg against mine, reestablishing our physical connection. “And my mother
will
be joining us.” He reaches inside his suit jacket as if to seek reassurance that the envelope hasn’t escaped. “I have something she wants.”

His mom wants money, her payment for spending time with him. “You have something I want also.” I slowly lower my gaze, openly admiring his broad shoulders, firm chest, big hands. “Lover.” I linger over the endearment, relishing each syllable.

“I’ll give that to you later,” Nate promises. “If you’re good.” He pours white wine into my glass.

“Oh, I’m never good.” I dip my finger into the liquid and rub the rim of the glass round and round, making the crystal sing. “I’m a naughty, naughty girl.” I lean toward him, speaking softer. “Don’t you know that?”

“I had my suspicions.” Nate drops his gaze to my lips. “You—”

He turns his head, his spine straightening. “She’s here.” Nate’s face hardens and his expression cools. I shiver. He’s the Iceman once more.

A woman’s voice grows louder. Her tone is bored and her greetings are insincere. This must be Nate’s mom. She knows everyone and likes no one. I fidget in my seat, eager to meet her, to face this challenge.

“Viola.” Nate stands, his emotions concealed by a protective layer of ice.

Viola? I scramble to my feet. He calls his mom by her first name?

A tiny woman with Nate’s golden hair and chilly demeanor traipses toward us, her painfully thin body clad in a winter-white skirt suit. My anticipation builds as she approaches. Nate’s subzero super shield is thin and penetrable. His beautiful mother is cold to the bone, her blue eyes hard and brittle.

“Nathan.” There’s no affection in her voice. “Do we have to continue with this dreary lunch business?” She waves her gloved hands, maintaining her distance from her son. She doesn’t kiss him, doesn’t hug him, doesn’t touch him. “I had to cancel a manicure with Frederick and he’s impossible to book.”

“Let me guess.” I force my smile. It’s game time. “He’s the best.”

“Of course. I only deal with the best.” Nate’s mom looks me up and down. Her top lip curls. “You’ve brought a guest with you,” she addresses her son, ignoring me. “How trying.”

“I know
I’m
trying,” I quip, my smile becoming genuine. She’s a worthy opponent. “I’m Camille, Nate’s lover. Should I call you Mom?”

“No, you should not.” She gazes around her. A waiter stands by the wall, his expression blank. No one else is situated near us. “Since you insist upon talking to me, my name is Viola.”

Nate’s eyes glitter as he pulls out her chair. My new buddy, Viola, sits primly, her back straight, her body rigid, her lips pursed with disapproval.

Nate faced this silent condemnation every day for decades. Alone. Today I’ll face it with him. My goal is to eliminate it from his life forever.

I plunk my leather-clad ass down on my chair. “Hmmm . . .” I tap my fingertips against the tabletop. “Are you certain your Frederick is the best?”

Viola gives me a haughty sniff, turning her shoulder slightly toward me. This must be the silent treatment Nate talks about. I struggle to contain my amusement.

“Because my buddy L’ongle claims he’s the best.” I splay my fingers, gazing at my short blunt fingernails. “He’s always bothering me to get my nails done.” Nate bumps his leg against mine, his face blank, his mask firmly in place. “He has high-profile clients. I helped him with some privacy-of-information concerns,” I explain.

“You protected his information?” Nate’s lips lift.

“I do that sometimes.” I grin at him. “It throws folks off balance.”

“And you didn’t charge L’ongle for your services?” Nate pours wine into his mom’s glass, choosing bottled water for himself.

“It’s too much bother.” I shrug. “What would I charge him? How do I cost out a customer’s piece of mind? Some things like trust, beauty, love, are impossible to put a price on. Money merely debases their value.”

“Careful.” He chuckles. “Your hippie is showing.”

Nate’s mom stares at him. “Why are you laughing like a fool? She doesn’t know L’ongle,” she says, her tone icy. “She’s a liar.”

“Viola.” Nate’s eyes flash a warning, his voice even colder than his mom’s.

“It’s okay.” I place my hand on his arm, seeking to calm him. “I suppose I don’t truly know L’ongle. I believed him when he said he was the best, didn’t I?” I glance around the table, looking for inspiration, searching for another reason why Viola might wish to call me. “I’m famished. Should we ask for menus?”

“I ordered in advance for all of us.” Nate motions to the waiter. The neatly-dressed young man nods curtly and disappears through swinging doors.

“I have another appointment,” his mom flatly states. “You can’t expect me to sit here for an entire hour every single month.”

They only spend an hour a month together and he has to bribe her to do that much. I rub Nate’s forearm, finding myself in the unique position of wanting to fix a relationship, not break it.

“It’s nice that Nate knows your order.” I infuse my voice with an artificial perkiness. “My mom claims that boys aren’t attentive to the needs of others.”

Viola doesn’t speak, doesn’t look at me. The silent treatment continues. I grin at Nate. His eyes glint, an unspoken dare I can’t resist.

“My mom doesn’t know this from firsthand experience.” I lean back in my chair. “She only had one child. Me. But as we lived on a commune she had exposure to boys.” I talk and talk and talk. Nate adds very little to the conversation. Viola says even less, continuing her frosty silence.

The waiter returns, places a huge steak in front of Nate and a salad that wouldn’t feed a bird before his mom. Viola pokes at her food, her top lip curled in disapproval, seemingly unaware I haven’t received whatever his son has high-handedly ordered for me.

“Don’t worry about me,” I tell them. “I’ll just sit here and slowly starve to death.”

The doors swing open and the delicious scents of curry, coconut, cinnamon, and garlic waft into the room. My stomach rumbles and my mouth waters.

A man in a chef’s hat and a double-breasted jacket bustles toward me, a plate in his hands. “Specially made for the miss.” He sets it before me with a flourish. “Wattakka Kalu Pol maluwa, a dish from my country.”

“No way.” My eyes widen. “You made me Sri Lankan pumpkin curry?”

“Ahhh . . .” The chef beams. “Miss knows pumpkin curry.” He gestures to the plate. “Try mine, please.”

I lift a forkful of the curry and white rice to my lips. The flavors explode in my mouth, exotic and authentic, combining heat and sweetness. “Mmm . . .” I close my eyes, savoring the experience. “This is Nirvana on Earth.”

Nate shifts beside me, pushing his leg against mine. I open my eyes and meet his gaze, see his open need, his stormy eyes promising sexual delights. I shiver, warming all over, my taste buds tingling and my body humming.

“Whenever you come to my restaurant I will make this for you,” the chef declares. “I must cook more, make more people happy.” He returns to the kitchen, moving quickly.

“That looks disgusting.” Nate’s mom finally speaks, her perfect nose wrinkled.

“It looks disgustingly good and it tastes even better than it appears.” I grin at Nate, touched that he ordered this dish for me, that he wanted to make me happy. “Here.” I offer him a forkful of pumpkin curry and rice. “Try this masterpiece, lover.”

Nate’s eyes glimmer as he closes his straight white teeth around the tongs. My heart races and my pussy moistens. His sinful mouth is within kissing distance, tasting of spices and heat.

Nate chews slowly, holding my gaze. I skim my tongue over my bottom lip and he swallows hard. “It’s good.” His voice is low and deep. “But it doesn’t have your secret ingredient.”

“No, it doesn’t.” Does he know the secret ingredient is love? I drift my fingers over the back of his hand, caressing his knuckles. “I’ll attempt to duplicate this entrée in the future using my secret ingredient.”

“I’d like that.” His lips lift into his small smile and I glow.

We eat. Nate cuts his steak into precise strips, listening as I chatter about the different curries I’ve tried, many nationalities having been represented at the commune. Viola says nothing, picking at her food, acting as though she is seated alone at the table, her indifference driving me bonkers.

“You must have some stories to tell about Nate, Viola.” I try to include her in our conversation. “What was he like as a child?” I glance at the man by my side. “Was Nate naughty?” His lips curve around his fork.

Viola’s gaze flicks to me. She wants to say something. I see the need in her frosty blue eyes. She merely requires a push.

Pushing is my specialty. “He must have gotten into some trouble. Come on, Viola. Share.”

“Why?” His mom sets down her utensils. “Why do you care what he was like as a child? Nathan’s not going to marry you. He’s like his father that way.” Her voice crackles with bitterness. “And don’t try the pregnancy trick. That doesn’t work with the Lawford men either. Naïve girl that I was, I thought I’d be set.” She shakes her head, not one hair on her beautiful head moving, the tendrils frozen in place. “I didn’t know he’d refuse to marry me or that he’d be so tight with his funds.”

I reach for Nate’s hand and grip his fingers. His mom is telling this to me, a stranger. How many times has he heard the mercenary reason he was conceived?

“He’s a real-estate developer. You’d think he’d buy me a house,” Viola continues her tirade. “But, no, I’m living in a penthouse in Pacific Palisades. He—”

“Viola.” I interrupt her, having heard enough. “You won’t ever mention the pregnancy trick again, understand?” She opens her mouth. “It makes you look like a fool.”

Her eyes blaze. “If Nate had been a better son—”

“Nate is the perfect son. He’s handsome, intelligent, successful, nice. Anyone who spends two minutes with him knows that.” Crimson rushes up Nate’s neck, my executive adorably embarrassed. “And they also know who’s responsible. You raised him. On your own. That’s something to be proud of.”

Nate’s mom turns her head and stares at the wall, twin spots of color high on her cheeks, her frail chest rising and falling.

Nate wraps one of his arms around me, pulling me closer to him. He sips his water. I devour the last forkful of pumpkin curry. A scary silence fills our alcove. Did I break their relationship even more?