If I Were You (18 page)

My fingers uncurl on his chest, slowly splaying over the
hard muscle. ”Does that mean you’re offering me an invitation to find that out
for myself?”

He squeezes his eyes shut and seems to struggle for an
answer before he looks me in the eye. “Against my better judgment, and because
I’m seemingly powerless to stay away from you.”

Chris Merit is powerless to stay away
from me?

“What happens between us stays with us, Sara,” he states,
before I can formulate a reply. “I need to know you understand that. I’m an
inherently private person and I have my reasons for that and they aren’t going
to change. Don’t let my casual friendships around the neighborhood, and the
high rise building with room service, give you an impression otherwise. I
choose who knows what about me and the staff here helps me keep it that way.”

I wonder if he’s been burned as I have by letting the wrong
people into his life or is he smarter than I have been. Does he just never give
them a chance? “I like that you’re private. In fact, if you weren’t, I wouldn’t
be here, Chris.”

We stare at each other and his scrutiny is so intense that I
feel as if he’s crawling inside me and searching my soul for confirmation I’ve
spoken the truth. Who or what made him this distrustful? Who or what damaged
him? And does it really matter? I relate to him far more than I thought I
could. I understand him beyond events and names and places.

I reach up and stroke his cheek. “Whatever happens between
us stays with us.” My voice is soft, hoarse. I am affected by this man on so
many levels I can’t begin to understand. 

His eyes narrow and soften, and I watch the tension slide
from his face, the flecks of orange fire flicker to life in his eyes. The air
around us shifts and I feel the now familiar swell of desire in my stomach,
expanding and threatening to consume me. I feel an unexpected, intense rise of
panic. I don’t want breakfast, these few minutes of normalcy; I realize in
their potential loss, I crave for some unnamed, unrecognized reason.

His hands settle on my waist, branding me through the thin
cotton, and his expression reflects he too is thinking of how close to naked I
am.

His attention lowers to the opening of the robe and my
nipples tighten and ache instantly. “Do you know how badly I want you right
now?” he asks, his fingers sliding to the V of the robe and starting to tug it
lower.

I want him — I want him as much as I want my next breath but
a voice in my head screams,
not yet
. Not until after breakfast. I grab
the robe and pull it closed before pressing my hand on his chest to hold him
back. “Oh no. None of this or that or whatever we might do. Not until you
caffeinate me, feed me, and let me brush my teeth.” I grab the phone on the
wall. “And aren’t the eggs burning?”

“I turned the stove off,” he says, laughing, a low and
sultry sound that blends with the ringing of the phone line. He leans in and
kisses my ear, his breath hot on my neck. “Because I was hoping to turn
you
on.
I guess I’ll have to try harder after we eat.” He pushes away from me as a
female attendant speaks into the receiver. “Can I help you, Mr. Merit?”

I stare at Chris’s broad shoulders as he attends the food.
He’s left me breathless and aching and I wonder why the heck I thought
breakfast was important.

“Mr. Merit?” the woman on the line queries, jolting me out
of my reverie.

“Yes, hi. Mr. Merit would like a toothbrush and toothpaste,
please.”

“Of course,” the woman replies. “I’ll send them right up.”

I replace the receiver and head for the coffee pot, removing
two cups from the cabinet above it. I glance at Chris as he fills two plates
with his creations and he smiles at me, his eyes brimming with mischief and
fun. He’s all too aware he’s left me fanning myself and he loves it. 

“I like you in my robe.” He wiggles an eyebrow. ”I like you
even better out of my robe.”

Heat rushes over me and it’s not from the stove. He’s so
charming and sexy. “I’d look better showered and dressed like you.”

“I guess that’s a matter of opinion.”

I am glowing from his attention. How any woman could not
glow from a compliment from Chris Merit? ”How do you like your coffee?”

“Lots of cream. It’s in the fridge.”

I laugh at this announcement.

His brows dip. “What’s funny about creamer in the fridge.”

“I expected you to say you like it straight up. You know.
The whole biker, cool artist persona. I thought you’d want your coffee so
strong and black it grows extra hair on your chest.”

“I have plenty of hair on my chest, as I’m sure you’ve
noticed, and I like sugar with my poison.”

It’s an odd comment and like so many others with Chris, I
suspect it comes with a hidden meaning. I wonder if he will be around long
enough for me to understand him and I find I’m hoping he will be. Already, my
vow to live in the moment with Chris is becoming a desire to live in the next
one.

He was right. He’s dangerous. Or maybe he didn’t say
dangerous. I’m not sure why he’s warned me away so much, but I’ll say it for
him. He’s dangerous and I’ve never wanted to live on the edge more in my life.

Chapter Twenty

A few minutes later, my toothbrush and toothpaste have been
sent to us via a chute in the wall by the fridge that resembles the drive-thru
bank machines. I rushed off to brush my teeth before eating, which Chris had
found amusing, and returned.

I am now sitting with Chris at his kitchen table, each of us
with coffee sweetened with hazelnut creamer, which is apparently not easy to
find in Paris and is a favorite of his.

“I’ve never tried hazelnut,” I confess. “I’m kind of a
straight vanilla girl.” The silly statement is out before I can pull it back.

Chris’s lips quirk. “Well then, I aspire to break your
vanilla habit.” He lifts his chin to my cup. “Try it.”

Oh good grief, he had to go there, but then I invited it. I
wonder what he defines as vanilla. Me against that window? Was that vanilla?
Not to me, but I’ve been so very vanilla for so very long. And I’m finally
allowing myself to crave more from life.

“Or you can tell me what you’re thinking instead,” Chris
suggests.

“Oh.” I blink and realize I’m thinking a little too hard and
obviously about the ‘vanilla’ comment. “No. I don’t think I’ll share those
thoughts.”

He looks intrigued but I ignore him and sip the coffee and
the warm, nutty beverage as my reply. “It’s good. Really good.”

Approval etches his face, and his tone is all suggestion and
sex. “I knew there was more than vanilla in your future.”

My cheeks heat with the flirty remark.

“And she blushes like the good little school teacher,” he
comments. “You are one big contradiction, aren’t you, Sara?”

He’s right, of course. I feel like I’m swimming between two
shorelines - one the bland simple life, the other dark and erotic - and I can’t
quite reach either. I shrug in reply. “I guess I am.”

“I guess you are.”

There is a sexy awareness between us as we dig into our food
and I’m hungrier than I realized because the first bite awakens my stomach and
taste buds. “I say you earn Top Chef markings. My omelet is terrific.”

“Omelets are pretty easy to make and hard to screw up.”

“You haven’t tried my omelets,” I assure him and when he
laughs I sigh and stare out the window. The city is an early morning canvas
painted with a brilliant, clear blue sky, water for miles, and the jagged edges
of hills and buildings speckled here and there for a complete and perfect
picture. “It’s like being on top of the world here, and untouchable.” I settle
an elbow on the table and rest my chin on my hand, adding longingly, “Sure beats
my apartment and the view of the parking lot.” I glance at Chris. “Does your
studio have this kind of view?”

“Yes. I’ll show you later if you’d like.”

A thrill goes through me at the idea of seeing where he
works. “I’d like that very much.”

“The studio view is why I bought the place. Plenty of
inspiration for my work since I love this city. It’s home to me and always will
be.”

“When did you move to Paris?”

“My father moved us when I was thirteen.”

My brow furrows as I try to recall anything I’ve read about
his family outside of his father and remember nothing. “And your mother is-“

“Dead.”

“Oh.” I let my elbow drop and straighten. His one word reply
has said far more to me than many entire stories have. “I’m sorry.”

“As I am about yours.” His voice has softened and taken on a
somber quality.

I study him, trying to read his impassive expression, and I
am so hungry to understand this man, I dare to go where I probably should not.
“How old were you when she died?” I hold my breath; waiting on an answer I’m not
sure he will give me. He has, after all, confessed an unwillingness to share
personal details with the women he…dates? Fucks? I’m not sure. Actually, there
is a whole heck of a lot I’m not sure about at this juncture of my life.

“Car accident when I was five.”

He spits out the information without hesitation, almost as
if he’s reciting someone else’s story, but I see it for what it is - a coping
mechanism. I know that mechanism all too well. You find a place to put things,
to deal with them or you crash and burn. 

“I was twenty-two when I lost my mother,” I say, offering
him no words of sympathy. I’ve heard them myself. I know they don’t help. “She
had a massive heart attack the day of my college graduation.”

He stares at me and we share a moment of understanding, of
loss, of knowing there is nothing more to say. We both had something sucky
happen to us. We both dread the rambling sympathetic purrs of those who
discover our losses. We both get it and each other. We just…understand.

Seconds tick by and I think I’ve shared more in these
moments with this man I’ve known only days than I have anyone except maybe my
mother. We understand each other in a way few can.

It’s Chris who breaks the silence, reaching for his fork and
motioning to my plate. “Eat before my masterpiece gets cold.”

I nod and in silent unison, we pick up our forks and begin
to eat again in silence, both thoughtful. There are so many questions I could
ask but I don’t. Personal questions about his family I know I can’t ask now, if
ever. He’s already shared more with me than I expected, as I have with him.
Still, with this new revelation about his mother, I want to know this man now
more than ever.

“Why painting?” I ask. “Why not a sport or the piano, like
your father?”

His jaw tenses, barely perceivable, but I notice, and I
wonder why. What nerve have I hit?

“My father dated a rather famous artist who decided I needed
an outlet outside the schoolyard brawls I was getting into for my anger.”

“Wait.
You
were fighting? You don’t seem like a fighter.”
Then again, he’d all but flattened Mark, who had seemed untouchable, with
nothing more than words.

“I was a teenager. I was in a new place and I didn’t speak
the language, and I was an outsider to the other kids. It was fight or get beat
up. I don’t like being beat up. The problem was that once I started fighting, I
looked for reasons to keep doing it. I was pissed off about being in Paris and
wanted to come back here. The result was I got kicked out of school.”

“Ouch. What did your father do?”

“He didn’t even know. The woman he was dating at the time —
the artist I mentioned - stepped in and got me back into school. Then she sat
me down and told me I had anger issues and had to find an outlet. She shoved a
paintbrush in my hand and told me to create something worth looking at.”

“And what did you draw?”

He laughs. “Freddy Krueger from Nightmare On Elm Street. One
of my best works to date, I might add. I was trying to be a smart ass.”

I laugh. “You? A smart ass? Never.”

“You think I’m a smart ass?”

“You ordered a beer at a wine tasting.”

“You have to admit Mark’s obvious discomfort was priceless.”

As much as I want to take this opening to talk about the
prior night’s events, I’d rather him keep talking about himself. “I’m not
feeding this battle between you and Mark. What happened when you revealed your
Freddy drawing?”

“She said I still had anger issues but I was also talented
as hell and if I didn’t put it to use
she’d
go Freddy Kruger on me.”

“And so it began,” I say softly. Warmth fills me with this
story, and I wonder who the artist was who’d helped him, but I’ve already
surmised Chris does everything with specific intent, including avoiding the use
of her name. 

“And so it began.”

He gives me a keen inspection and I can see his mind
working, and my skin prickles in a prelude to whatever probing questions I’ve
earned with all of mine.

“So, Sara,” he beings slowly. “Tell me. Just how rich is
your father?”

I inhale and shove aside my plate. He’s told me more than I
expected him to tell me, more than he claims he tells anyone. I can’t shut him
down and I know he isn’t interested in the money, as much as me walking away
from it.

I pull my feet to the chair and hug my knees, the big robe a
cloak, a shelter of sorts. “He’s the CEO of Neptune Technologies.”

He arches a brow. “As in the cable network?”

“Yes.”

He leans back in his chair to study me. “And you live in a
modest apartment on a teacher’s salary?”

“Yes.”

“You hate him that much.”

It’s not a question so I don’t answer. I get up and walk to
the coffee pot and come back to the table. I hold the pot up to him. He offers
me his cup and I fill it. He glances up at me, his eyes probing. “Thank you.”

I nod and fill my own cup before replacing the pot and
sitting down. I pour creamer into my coffee and stir, avoiding Chris’s
scrutiny.

“Do you talk to him?” he prods, apparently not worried about
pushing me as I was him.

I sip my coffee, in no rush to deliver my reply but finally
confess, “Never and I don’t talk about him, Chris.” I add his word choice for
emphasis. “Ever.”

He ignores my obvious plea to change the subject. “When was
the last time you actually saw or talked to him?”

“I said my goodbyes to them both at the funeral.” I sip my
coffee and I wish it were liquid chocolate comfort, not ground brewed beans.
Chris is still staring at me when I set it down.

He looks puzzled. “She died of a heart attack, right?”

I nod.

“So why do I get the feeling you blame your father for her
death?”

My lips thin. ”I blame him for her miserable life.”

Understanding washes over him. “You didn’t take a dime. You
just walked away.”

“Yes.” A lump forms in my throat. “Which brings me to last
night. I don’t know what is up with you and Mark, but-”

“It’s not a cock-fight,” he teases and I can tell he’s
trying to lighten the mood. 

I cringe at the memory I cannot escape. “I still can’t
believe I said that.”

“We aren’t enemies,” he adds, answering what I have not
asked but planned to. “I just know him and I know how he works. I wasn’t — I
won’t - let him manipulate you.”

“I’m an employee trying to earn my way into a permanent job,
and one that pays more than an intern on the floor.”

“And your desperateness to make that happen showed. He can’t
manipulate you. If he thinks you have something to offer, he’ll give you the
opportunity at Riptide, minus the head games he was working on you.”

“My father is the king of users and I handle him just fine.
I can handle Mark, Chris.”

“You ended up with nothing from your father, Sara. You
didn’t handle him just fine. Any father worth a grain of salt takes care of his
fucking daughter, no matter how hard-headed she might be about letting him. You
deserve to be taken care of.”

Anger surges in me and I stand up. “You have no right-”

He’s on his feet towering over me. “What if I want to have a
right?”

“You aren’t a relationship kind of guy, Chris and that’s why
I’m here. I’m not a relationship kind of girl. No white picket fences,
remember? We both agreed on that. You all but insisted on it. Therefore, you
get to fuck me but you don’t get to fuck with my life. This is my opportunity
to prove I can have my dream just like you have yours. I appreciate the
commission. I do. More than you know but it changes nothing. I still need more
than money or I’d be my father’s whipping dog right now, lapping up his money.”
My heart is about to explode from my chest. “I need to get dressed and go
home.” I start to walk away.

“Already running away? Can I scare you that easily?”

I stop dead in my tracks and my chest burns. “I’m not
running,” I hiss, facing off with him.

“You look like you’re running to me. The first time I push a
button you don’t like you bolt.”

“A few orgasms does not give you control of my life.”

“You know, sweetheart, I know I’m fucked up. But if you
think the guy trying to protect you instead of walk all over you is the one
trying to run your life, you’re just as fucked up as I am. Walking away from
your father is not managing him. It’s running.”

He’s hit every nerve I own like a lightning rod.  “But you
want me to walk away from the gallery and Mark and you don’t call that
running?”

His expression clouds and he reaches for me, pulls me hard
against his body, his hand snaking into my hair. “Because Mark wants to fuck
you, Sara, and I don’t share. You’re with me or you’re not. Decide now.” 

I can barely breathe. He’s jealous. Chris is jealous. It’s
hardly conceivable and I want him all the more because of it, which probably
means he’s right. I’m fucked up. But then, I know that already. He’s wrong
about me being a doormat, though. I’ve been there, done that, and I’m not going
there again. “You want me, Chris, you accept my job and you support me.”

“What do you think I was trying to do by taking away Mark’s
control over you last night? But damn it, Sara, say what I want to hear. Tell
me you don’t want him.”