Roxy Harte (7 page)

We’d come to an understanding.

Suddenly, she is falling forward, pulling me out of my memory. She is not slumping slowly, but doing a full-fledged nose-dive into the carpeted floor.

As fast as it registers that she’s collapsed, my hard-on shrinks, and I am by her side, lifting her and carrying her to the bedroom. Gently, I tuck her into my bed, then make a phone call I’d rather not make to George Kirkpatrick, otherwise known as Dr. Psycho at the club. Although he is a retired psychiatrist, I call him instead of one of the community-friendly MDs or DOs, perhaps because I feel like she’s healthier now than when she came to me. Granted she collapsed, but prior to the collapse, she looked pretty damn healthy, even for a woman who had been caged for a week. I overreact, calling for help…but prefer to think it was a smart decision, wanting to be safe.

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I leave her to sleep while I pace my foyer, waiting for George, the soft click of my leather sandals annoying against the terracotta tile. Normally, I would go barefoot, today because of this particular house-call, I break out the Roberto Botticelli designer footwear. Dark brown leather stands up well to the all-white outfit I’ve chosen, linen pants and an Indian-inspired dress shirt. Of course, the two gold necklaces and dress watch by Forzieri speak even louder of my nervousness. It’s my grandfather’s fault.

Calling me by my childhood name, he’d admonished me. “Clothing makes the man, Aristotle. You will dress for success every day, and you will become the man you wish to be.” The worn blue jeans and ancient tank top I wore earlier would have been an embarrassment to him, especially knowing a doctor was willing to make a house call.

As I answer George’s knock, Garrett slams into me, hands on my shoulders, shoving me back into the two-story stucco wall that defines the foyer. I do not defend myself. George succeeds in pulling him back, an arm looped around his neck in a choker hold. “You promised you’d be calm, damn it!” George growls.

“I am being calm!” Garrett bellows, struggling to be free of George’s hold. “What the fuck did you do to her?”

In the Attic, I’ve seen George take down men twice Garrett’s size with his expert holds, so I exhibit little concern, arrogantly brushing down my mussed dress shirt. Crossing my arms and leaning against the wall, I wait, posing, drawing up to my full height, exhibiting my Greek lineage in haughtiness.

For now, she is mine. I’m not giving her back.

I hope my posturing makes that clear enough. I really don’t want to do this, and I don’t want to fight Garrett.

“She’s resting. She’s in bed, she’s conscious, I just want her looked over.” I try to figure out how to explain what happened, saying, “She fainted.” I can’t think of a better way to explain it, saying she collapsed after a week of being caged sounds a little too ugly for Garrett’s ears, at least until he is fully Ice once more.

“Where?” George asks me, still holding Garrett. “Relax already! Let me check her out.”

Garrett sloughs out of George’s hold and assumes a tense position against the opposite wall.

“Second door on the right.” I point him down the hall, holding my position directly across from Garrett.

No way is he getting past me.

George disappears and Garrett and I are silent, both hearing the bedroom door open, his greeting, the note of surprise in her voice, and the door clicking shut again.

“I haven’t hurt her,” I promise Garrett.

“I’ll get George’s professional opinion if you don’t mind.”

I sigh. This is what I didn’t want to happen when I accepted her proposal, putting my friendship with Garrett at risk. “I can’t believe you brought her here,” he accuses, disapproval laced heavy in his tone.

“To your home?”

“It’s our vacation house, Garrett, not my home,” I answer tiredly, squaring my shoulders, feeling defiant.
I
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do not have to explain this.

“And are your wife and children aware that you are keeping a slave at the beach house?”

“Not that it’s any of your concern, but they’re inCairo for the summer, visiting her father.” I shrug, hoping to make light of the announcement.

Garrett shakes his head and I feel his judgment.

“I did not send them there so that I could keep Celia here,” I revert to her professional name, not wanting to ignite his anger any more than it already is by calling her Kitten. Defending myself, I explain, even though I don’t want to. “Lattie wants to have her baby inAfrica . I couldn’t give her a strong enough reason to prevent her from going, and as her time grows nearer, I’ll join her there.”

“That’s longer than just the summer.”

“I know, Garrett. You don’t have to tell me something I already know.” My voice comes out heated. I am better at controlling emotion than this.
Stop it!

“Did she leave because of Kitten?” Garrett asks softly, understanding immediately that there is more happening in my life than he was aware, and not all of it fun and games. It’s what I liked about Garrett the moment I met him, his deductive aptitude and an innate ability to read people and empathize.

“No, not because of Celia, or me…” I shrug, looking at the ceiling for answers and seeing cobwebs in the chandelier. “…once she thought she wanted all the United States had to offer and would have done anything to come here. Now, she still isn’t happy, if happiness was what she was seeking. She still doesn’t know what she wants. She only knows that she doesn’t want her children raised in theUS .”

“I’m sorry, Thomas,” he says. “I’m pissed as hell at you, but I’m sorry. I hope you two can come up with a solution.”

I sigh, making excuses for her, even though I don’t need to. “She’s more French than she’d like to believe.” The foyer becomes quiet, neither of us moving, the plaster walls too thick to hear anything happening behind the solid wood door. Funny thing how time seems so very agonizingly slow in moments like this, a second seeming like an hour.

“There’s no fixing this, is there?”

My mouth twitches, “Which fix? There’s a lot that needs fixed.”

His answer is stopped by George’s return. “She’s fine now.”

“What happened?” Garrett demands. “Why did she collapse?”

“I need to talk to Thomas, Garrett, could you step outside?”

* * * *

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I frown, worry knotting in my belly, and I am not one who worries.

“It seems that Celia has limited experience with men.”

My frown deepens.

“Aside from Lion and Garrett, there haven’t been any other lovers.”

My jaw drops, quickly corrected, but my brain is still rolling on the floor waiting for the further explanation I know is coming.

“She said you were leading her to the bedroom when she fainted?”

“To put her to bed, not to have sex with her,” I defend.

“You haven’t had sex with her?”

George sounds annoyingly surprised that I haven’t had sex with her yet. It makes me angry. “No!”

“And you had no intention of having sex with her tonight?”

My mouth opens and shuts twice before I decide to remain silent, my silence a larger betrayal of the truth than if I’d lied.

“She’s terrified of having sex with you. She thinks that if she has sex with you, Garrett won’t take her back, and she thought that sex was imminent when she collapsed. She didn’t know how to refuse you without losing
this
.”

“What?”

My exclamation echoes Garrett’s, both of us saying the same thing, though our inflection making our difference in meaning clear. George and I turn to find him loitering in the doorway of the living room, he must have re-entered the house through the kitchen, coming in behind us.

“I told you to wait outside!” George demands.

“And miss this?” Garrett asks, amusement making his voice a higher pitch. “No way!”

For some reason it bothers me immensely for Garrett to know I’m not having sex with her. I pace away, retreating to the kitchen for an iced tea, not surprised at all when they follow me. Ridiculously, we sit at the kitchen island, silent, sipping, thinking. The kitchen window is open, emitting a soft ocean breeze. The sound of crashing waves and bleating seagulls arrive with a quickening wind. A glance outside reveals darkening clouds on the horizon. A storm is coming, though I’d estimate it still hours away. Tonight we’ll be in for it.

George breaks the silence. “Is sex necessary to make this arrangement work?”

“Yes!” collides with “No!”

Garrett glares at me. “The agreement was for you to top her for three months. You can top her without sex.”

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“I don’t want to top her without sex.” I stop myself, irritated that I sound so adolescent, “I mean to say—I never planned, I want…” I start and stop myself so many times, I’m confused. “I am going to continue this relationship in the manner I see fit and there’s no room for discussion.”

“I feel we should discuss this.” Garrett slams his empty glass onto the granite countertop, ice cubes clinking against each other as they resettle, and I am surprised when the glass doesn’t shatter.

I stand my ground in silence. I am not debating how I plan to top her.

Calmly, George pours more iced tea all around and we are quiet again, drinking our tea, each of us lost in our thoughts. I find it slightly odd that George has offered no opinion since breaking the news of what the underlying problem was and I can only imagine Garrett’s thoughts. His body language is self-evident, sitting back in his bar stool, arms crossed, his silence screaming loud and clear that he is furious. I can’t understand his obvious resentment. He had to assume that I would have sex with her. Is it because he learned that I hadn’t yet, giving him reason to think I might not?

I’ve never known Garrett to be jealous. He loved once, his business partner, Tony Giovanni. They’d shared a committed relationship that made room for others even though they loved each other completely, passionately. He’d never exhibited this kind of jealousy. Maybe because it’s been so long since he’s been in a relationship, five years, almost six, since Tony was murdered, and Celia is Garrett’s first interest of any kind since Tony. It may be a reasonable explanation. I could probably think of dozens more, but my job is not to psychoanalyze Garrett. Right now, my duty is to Celia, and I am not meeting her best interests by sitting in my kitchen, arguing with my friends about how to top her.

I stand, coughing faintly to get their attention before announcing, “Thank you for coming George, Garrett, sorry for the scare. I’d like you to leave now.”

Garrett stands. “I want to see her.”

“You agreed to accept my professional advice, correct?” George asks.

Great, now the psychiatrist wants to speak.

“Yes.” Garrett answers, leveling his gaze.

George faces him squarely and reaches a hand out to grip his shoulder. “It’s not in either of your best interests for you to see her right now, she’s too conflicted, and you’re too emotional. If she is to stay here, she needs her dominant link to be Thomas, not you, and part of the struggle within her right now is her connection to you, knowing you are waiting for her.”

Garrett jerks away, not liking the answer.

Turning to me, George doesn’t offer a touch, folding his arms across his chest instead. His stern look is what keeps me from making a comment. “I want to caution you, Thomas, she is very vulnerable emotionally. The men in her past have been manipulative and abusive, which is one of the reasons she is here. She needs a safe place to fight her inner demons and, from what she’s told me, I think you’ve exceeded my expectations. You used good judgment today calling me, and I assume you will continue to use your best judgment after we leave.”

My level of respect for George ups a notch. Nodding, I open the front door for them. The sun is bright
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but dark clouds are gathering over the ocean, lightning strikes visible far out to sea. It’s beautiful, too beautiful not to share, so I point for George and Garrett to take notice. We stand for a while watching, the storm moving closer. George comments unnecessarily, “Still a few hours away.”

“Did I mention Kitten is afraid of storms?” Garrett asks.

“Yes, you told me. I’ll keep her safe, stop worrying.”

His jaw tightens and it is his tension that makes me react, pulling him into me, hugging him, holding him, even when he would struggle away. “Stop worrying. You love her. I get that. It’s going to be okay, just trust me.” A second later he relaxes, hugging me back.

“I trust you, Thomas. If I didn’t, she wouldn’t be here.”

* * * *

After a week in a cage, she deserves time alone, but that is a chicken answer and I am no coward. The truth is that, after a week caged, she especially needs the mental and emotional support of her Master—of me.

I press my forehead against the door. Two hours ago, I was ready to jump her bones, now I’m afraid to be in the same room with her and I am not sure what’s happened to cause the change in how I feel. It wasn’t seeing Garrett, though seeing him reminded me of their bond. Learning of her inexperience made a definite difference, but it’s still not completely responsible for what I’m feeling. Sighing, it is a now or never moment, and mastering myself, I push open the door.