Dare to Surrender (3 page)

Her grandmother’s words slammed into her head; how often had she heard them?
Impulsive, irresponsible, hasty.
She’d been hearing it her whole life, and now, striding through San Francisco with a piece of stolen art in her handbag,
Joy thought maybe her grandmother was right.

But it was too late now. She couldn’t just go up to Ash and say, “Oopsie! Look what happened to fall into my purse!” So she
kept walking.

The neighborhood became more dodgy as she headed west, but Joy barely noticed the panhandlers and wackos as she whipped around
a corner and headed up the hill. A man asked her if she wanted to buy some “good shit,” but she politely said no and went
on her way. She had found that most “bad” parts of cities could be successfully navigated if she walked fast and looked like
she knew where she was going. San Francisco, Paris, Rome, Munich—they all had their bad sides, and Joy had been mugged only
once. And that had been in Barcelona; it was a very unpredictable city.

Now she hugged her purse close to her side. If anyone tried to steal from her, she would have to use her rusty self-defense
moves. No way was she letting this artistic treasure out of her hands.

On the way, she paused briefly to admire a spray-painted mural. The graffiti was beautiful, and she recognized the artist.
Well, she recognized his work, even if the artist himself was a total mystery. His murals just appeared, as if overnight,
and they were special. She recognized the pure, raw talent of the artist, and not for the first time she wished she knew who
had created it. She dug a business card and the tape she carried for just this purpose out of her purse and stuck the card
to the wall. She had no idea if the artist was getting her cards; he certainly had never called her. But she couldn’t help
but hope he would, someday.

Catching some movement out of the corner of her eye, she quickly turned and continued on to her destination. Minutes later
she was in the lobby of a huge, old apartment complex and running up three flights of stairs. As usual, an array of appetizing
scents accosted her as she made her way upstairs. Her mouth began to water, and as she got closer to Erica’s door, Joy’s stomach
was downright grumbling at the spicy scent of curry coming from apartment 305.

Erica was Joy’s oldest and best friend. At thirty-two, Erica had recently ditched her ten-year stint as a waitress to attend
culinary school. Like many of the students, she lived in this building, which was just across the street from the San Francisco
Culinary College. Because it housed mainly culinary academy students, the decrepit building was always permeated with an array
of delicious scents, and, in the heart of a semester when everyone was practicing for midterms, the smells escaping through
apartment doors were downright mouthwatering.

Tonight was no different. Joy rapped on the door, and seconds later Erica was there, smiling and pulling her inside. “You
made it!”

Joy hung her coat on a rack. “Of course. And I’m starving!” Apparently thievery could make a girl hungry, but she kept that
little discovery to herself. “Something smells delish.”

Erica pulled a white kitchen towel from the pocket of a floral apron. Underneath she wore a sleeveless blue sundress that
was probably vintage from the fifties. The old-school dress contrasted nicely with her thin arms, which showcased her colorful
tattoos.

“Come into the kitchen.” Erica wore her pinkish hair in a high ponytail, and she brushed a strand behind her ear. Her alternative
look didn’t negate the fact that Joy’s best friend was gorgeous—tattoos, pink hair, pierced nose, and all.

The apartment was small but cozy. An old, worn table and the mismatched chairs surrounding it took up most of the space. The
kitchen was tiny but perfectly organized, with pots hanging from a rack over the stove and spices lined up and clearly labeled
on a wall rack. Erica’s place was the exact opposite of Joy’s in terms of organization.

Joy took a seat on a well-worn upholstered dining chair, placing her bag gently beside her.

“Taste.” Erica placed a spoon before Joy, and she took a bite of green curry.

Joy’s eyes drifted shut as a wave of curry-induced ecstasy washed over her. “Oh my
God
. You’ve added a bit more lemongrass this time, haven’t you?”

Straightening, Erica looked pleased. “Damn, woman. You’re good.”

“Learned from the best.”

She thought she saw the faintest blush tinge Erica’s cheeks, but that seemed highly unlikely; she’d never seen her friend
blush in all the time she’d known her. Of course, she’d never seen Erica take a chance such as dropping her reliable job as
a waitress to join the competitive, male-dominated chef world, either. But Joy never thought she’d commit an art felony. After
tonight, she was beginning to think anything was possible.

“So! Tell me about the gala. Did you get the exclusive you were looking for? Did you get Ash Hunter?”

Joy shifted in her seat, the thought of Ash—of his hands on her skin—causing her body to heat. “Not exactly.”

Erica glanced over her shoulder. “What do you mean, not exactly?”

Arranging the silverware on the table, Joy avoided Erica’s knowing eyes. The woman knew her all too well. “We still have some
details to work out.”

“But you think he’s willing to work with you?”

Me, Joy. Let me.
His words flooded her head, and she felt the back of her neck heat.

Repressing a shiver, she nodded. “I think so. We’re going to, er, talk more tomorrow night.”

Erica opened a bottle of chardonnay, poured two glasses, and set one before Joy. “You like this guy.”

Joy shook her head. “Not like that. I don’t think.” She couldn’t think. “I don’t know.” Her wrist still tingled where he’d
held her.

Delicate hands.
She laughed and shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. I need him—his art, I mean—or I’m going to get fired.”

Erica placed two huge bowls of curry on the table. “I seriously doubt that, Joy. I mean, not after what went down between
you and Cartwright.”

Joy heard the bitter edge to her friend’s words but ignored it. Sometimes Erica could be a tad overprotective. What had happened
between her and William Cartwright, the man from England who owned all the galleries worldwide, was that she’d had a weeklong
affair with him, had fancied herself in love, and then he’d gone back to London without so much as a thank-you or good-bye,
unless one counted the dismissive e-mail he’d sent when he returned to London.

Joy didn’t.

“Have you even heard from him lately?” Erica spooned a heaping bite of curry into her mouth and chewed with vigor.

“Just work-related stuff,” Joy muttered, not wanting to admit some of those “work-related” e-mails had definitely been flirtatious.
Like when he ended one with a
P.S. What are you wearing?

She’d ignored it.

“So if your boss here wants to fire you, just go over his head.”

“No way. I’m not using sex as a means of keeping my job.” Joy took a bite of curry, closing her eyes and savoring the salty-sweet
flavor.

“You like it?”

Joy opened her eyes to find Erica watching her expectantly. “I love it. Thanks for this; I needed it.” Glancing at her bag,
she took another few gulps of wine and ignored the flutter of nerves when she remembered the stolen item inside her purse.

“Everything okay?” Erica asked, refilling Joy’s glass.

“Yes.” Again she brought her wine to her lips and took a deep swallow. “Definitely. Everything is going to be just fine.”

An hour later, Erica put a slightly tipsy Joy into a cab and sent her home. She waited until the taxi’s lights had faded before
she turned and went back inside her building. Just like every time she said good-bye to Joy, she wondered when the woman was
going to see how beautiful she was, how good she was. In fact, she was so pure of heart she made an easy target for assholes
like the owner of the gallery she worked for, that loser Cartwright, to prey upon.

Fingering the amethyst pendant hanging on a silver chain around her neck, she bounded up the stairs back to her apartment.
Joy didn’t think Erica knew how much he’d hurt her, but she did know. When Joy hurt, Erica practically felt it herself.

When they’d met, Erica had been waitressing at a hip restaurant popular with Stanford students. Serving a bunch of preppies
wasn’t exactly Erica’s dream job, but she made three times the tips that she would have in any other area.

Thanks to a ludicrous zoning regulation, she’d been forced to go to school with the upper class her entire life and, as a
result, had always been the outcast. The poor kid. The girl in the hand-me-downs.

Despite Joy’s privileged upbringing, she was somewhat of an outcast herself, and she came into the restaurant often to study.
Always alone, Joy would pore over her huge art history books as she ate crème brûlée and drank coffee.

One night some frat boys were giving Erica a hard time, trying to get her to leave work and go back to their place. When one
went so far as to put his hand on her arm, Joy had jumped up and thrown hot coffee in his face. Erica could tell Joy had been
surprised by her impulsive action, but ever since that moment, they’d been the best of friends.

In her apartment, Erica cleaned up the dishes and sprayed down the kitchen. Then everything was clean, and there was nothing
left to do. Tapping her foot, she looked around her empty apartment. Something on the floor caught her eye, and she bent to
pick the item up. A ponytail holder. Joy was constantly losing the things. Smiling, Erica went to the dresser, lifted the
lid off a box, and dropped the piece of elastic inside, where it joined about twenty of its friends. Yeah, Joy was a bit of
a mess sometimes, but she was an intelligent, lovable, beautiful mess. And if one more guy hurt her, he’d have Erica to answer
to.

The sculpture was even more beautiful than she remembered.

When Joy arrived home, she placed it on her dresser and tried not to stare at it. She needed a distraction, and she had just
the thing. After she changed into leggings and a half shirt, she pulled out a DVD and slid it into the player. She’d started
belly dancing about four years ago, and it was her secret passion, one only she knew about. Far too insecure to ever dance
in public, she performed her hobby only at home, in her bedroom. It always distracted her from her worries, and the exotic
music seemed to sink into her bones, inspiring her to move. But now, as she danced to her most recent belly-dance DVD, for
some reason she couldn’t totally distract herself from the sculpture on her dresser. It was like the figures were watching
her. Her first audience. Was that why she danced extra hard? She worked up quite a sweat as she moved her hips, undulated
her abdomen, and snaked her arms. And after, as she changed into an old T-shirt, washed her face, and brushed her teeth, she
couldn’t stop her gaze from drifting back to the sculpture’s sensual form.

It was turning her on.

And every time she looked at it, she saw Ash’s intense green eyes, saw his lips tilt up in that cocky smile, felt his warm
hands on her body. Remembered what his lips felt like kissing her, breathing against her skin.

As she climbed into bed, her nipples hardened, recalling the way his thumb had lightly grazed her sensitive flesh. His hands
were… magic hands.

Magic hands?

She pulled up the covers to her chin. He had her thinking like a ninny, thinking with her body and not her brain. She was
too smart for this, too smart to fall for a charmer like him.

Like Cartwright.

Do not go there.

But her gaze drifted back to the sculpture, and she felt her body’s own arousal. The miniature image of a female form, sitting
cross-legged, her arms bound behind her body with rope. It looked so real, the way the woman’s head was tossed back slightly,
as if in ecstasy.

Much like Joy had probably looked earlier that night, when Ash had stepped between her legs and kissed her throat.

The thought sent a throbbing to her sex, made her open her thighs just a bit, but it only made her feel empty, made her crave
something, even if she wasn’t sure what it was. Powerful submission. Every time she looked at that sculpture, that’s what
she thought of, and she realized she was curious to know what it was like. And she was positive she knew a man who could show
her exactly that. Hell, for some reason, he even seemed to want to, which was strange. She wasn’t exactly a model, and she’d
seen his work, knew what he was used to, and it wasn’t Joy. She was the opposite of tall and thin, and the thought of him
seeing her less-than-perfect naked body sent a jolt of fear shooting through her.

But she couldn’t help but wonder.
If
she agreed to let Ash tie her, what would he do? Would he tie her hands behind her back, like the sculpture? Just thinking
about it made her wet, and she slid her hand under the covers to lift the hem of her T-shirt, to reach underneath and pinch
her nipple.

Would he do that? Would he pinch her, taste her, bite her?

Would she let him?

She imagined she was helpless. She imagined it was his hands roaming across her skin, reaching between her legs and sliding
under her panties. She spread her legs and imagined it was his mouth biting on her nipple until it stung and she gasped, until
she moaned aloud. She could almost feel what it would be like to be powerless as he spread her labia open with his hands and
stroked her, using his long, beautiful hands to finger her clit, used those fingers to fuck her, harder and deeper, until
she was screaming for release, and all the while tied, vulnerable to his touch….

She arched against her hand, rubbed harder, used her own wetness to slide her palm around her pussy, to work herself. She
wanted Ash to fuck her. She wanted to feel his long, hard body against hers, touching her, using her.

The thought was shocking, wrong, even. What modern woman wanted to be used by a man? But as her arousal built, as her own
moans of pleasure filled the room, her mind wouldn’t release the idea, and as she pulled her clit tight between her fingers
and pulled, she imagined it was Ash’s teeth sucking her flesh.