I Belong to You (10 page)

Ten

Mark . . .

Seeking out Crystal, I pass through her modern art deco–style living area, with white furniture and red and white abstract paintings by a famous artist whose work I’d never have on my walls. While brilliantly talented, he’s an absolute prick. Following the sound of music and singing, I head to an open archway. Stepping inside I find a compact, square kitchen of rich navy blues and grays. Behind the cooktop on one end of the stainless steel island is Crystal, wearing her pink silk robe as expected. She’s holding a spatula, completely focused on whatever’s in the skillet while singing “You Shook Me All Night Long” by AC/DC.

I lean on the door frame, entertained by the adorable expressions she’s making while absolutely rocking out. Seconds tick by and still she doesn’t look up. “You’re cooking at this hour?”

She jumps and looks at me, holding her fist to her chest for a moment. “You scared me.” She laughs, and the smile that follows is genuine and infectious, much like my mother’s. Picking up her phone, she punches a button to turn off the music. “I guess it was a little louder than I realized. I didn’t even hear you come in. And yes, I’m cooking. Apparently threats of spankings make me hungry.”

“Especially if you do it all night long,” I tease, mimicking the lyrics, intrigued by her willingness to be so direct about a topic that makes her uncomfortable.

Her cheeks flush a rosy color. “If the lyrics were ‘you took me in four minutes,’ I’d have been humming even if I was alone.”

“I think I should be the one to hum to that.” I walk to the seat across the counter from her and sit down. “Pancakes?”

“Really good pancakes with chocolate chips. You do like chocolate, right?”

“I do. Some might even say I have a sweet tooth.”

“I’m not asking what that means.”

“Really,” I say. “I have a sweet tooth. Candy, cake, you name it. I force myself to savor it only on the holidays.”

“I have one, too, but I’m not that controlled about it,” she says. “I treat myself once a week, and lately that’s been a box of my favorite cereal on Saturday night about midnight. I don’t have time to cook.”

“Because you’re obviously a workaholic,” I say, wondering if being adopted makes her feel she always has to prove her worth. I’m not adopted and I feel that pressure.

“But I always cook on the holidays for my family. It’s a tradition now. I grew up in a house full of men with busy schedules. If I didn’t cook, no one did, so everyone is used to me making certain things.”

“You were adopted into a family of all men?”

“That’s right.” She fills two plates with two pancakes each and sets one of them in front of me, one in front of the empty seat next to me. “Angela Smith was killed in a car accident the week before my adoption was final.” She turns to the fridge behind her.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

“It seems impossible, doesn’t it?” She sets two cans of Diet Sprite on the counter. “Sorry, that’s all I have in the house. I haven’t been home much.”

“This is fine,” I say, popping the top and getting back on topic. “So Smith was grieving and in shock, and still went ahead with your adoption?”

She rounds the island and sits down next to me. “Yes. Looking back as an adult I know how amazing that is, but Angela had been a foster child like I was—only she was never adopted. They’d been poor when they had my brothers, and now wanted to help someone in need. And to them, that meant rescuing an older child who had limited chances to get adopted.” Her voice tightens. “I think . . . I think going ahead with the adoption was my father’s way of keeping Angela alive. I think he sees her in me.”

“Now I
really
want to meet your father.”

She smiles. “He’s a good man. An arrogant pain in the ass sometimes, who’s overprotective, but still a good man. I think you’d either get along very well with him, or the two of you would want to throttle each other.”

“I’m not sure if that was a compliment or an insult.”

“Simply stating the facts,” she says, handing me a bottle of syrup.

I set the syrup down. “How old were you when he adopted you?”

“I was fourteen. I’d been in foster homes for five years,” she responds, taking the liberty to pour the syrup for me, which for reasons I can’t explain makes me want to pull her close and rip the robe off her. I refrain only because I want to hear the rest of her story, and we have no condom.

“How did you end up in a foster home at nine?”

“My mother died, and my father wasn’t a fit parent,” she says quickly and without looking at me, attending to the syrup lid with a little too much focus. “But it ended well.” She glances up at me. “I was raised by a powerful, controlling father, who bred my older brothers into clones, who now worry about me as much as he does.”

“So your father never remarried?”

“He did, but not until we were all out of the house.” She motions to the pancakes. “Try them. It’s a recipe I love; they taste like chocolate chip cookies.”

I’m still focused on her. “How do you like your stepmother?”

“She’s very loving to my father, and good to all of us.”

“But?”

“There really isn’t a but. She’s a good person and passionate about charity work.”

“But you don’t see her as a mother,” I say, starting to see how she’s bonded with my mother, who always wanted a daughter but couldn’t have more kids.

She jabs a piece of pancake with her fork. “She and I are night and day.”

“Translate that to a real answer.”

“She’s very submissive to my father.”

One side of my mouth quirks up. “I’m suddenly seeing the irony of this conversation.”

“You started it, not me.”

“Yes. Maybe I should shut up and eat.” I take a bite of the pancake. “You’re right. Chocolate chip cookies, and good ones, at that. You can run a company
and
cook. What else is up your sleeve?”

“I can sing.”

“I’m not sure I’d agree with that one,” I tease.

She smirks. “I think you should shut up and eat again.” She pops the lid to her drink and turns somber. “Anything else happen with Dana after I left?”

I inhale at the memory of my mother’s withdrawal during our conversation, then let it out. “No. Like I said, she fell asleep. I went outside into the hallway and paced. My father found me and gave me a pep talk, then proceeded to ask if I was fucking you, and that was it.”

She sets her fork down and gapes. “Your father asked if we were—”

“Fucking. Yes. He’s worried you’ll break my heart.”

She shakes her head. “He did
not
say that.”

“No. I made that part up.”

“What did you tell him about us?”

“That, as of earlier tonight, I wouldn’t dare to stand close to sharp objects when you were around.”

She presses her hand to her forehead. “Oh God. What did he say?”

“He told me to apologize to you.”

“For what?”

“He didn’t care what I did. He just said to apologize. He claims that’s how he’s stayed married all these years. Then he went back inside the apartment.”

“Does your mother know?”

“No. But after I told her I own a BDSM club tonight, she’d probably say I’m not good enough for you.”

“That’s not true. She loves you, Mark. Her reaction to what you shared tonight was about how helpless she feels—not about you. She’s always better when you’re here.”

“Her reaction didn’t say ‘trust.’ ”

“She’s fighting cancer, and she just heard you own a BDSM club. It was overwhelming.”

I grab her knees and turn her to face me. “I handed over management of the club to someone else.”

“You don’t have to tell me this.”

“No, but I want to. I started it seven years ago, but it was never about sex to me, and my sexual partners were few.”

She tilts her head and studies me. “If the club wasn’t about sex to you, then what did it mean?”

“Being the ultimate Master in control. And I know that sounds arrogant, but it wasn’t about ego.”

“Then what was it about?”

I pull back, letting my hands fall away from her. “I don’t know anymore.”

She gives a slow nod. “I understand. I didn’t mean to push for too much.” She starts to turn and I grab her legs.

“You didn’t ask too much. But things that made sense for a lot of years suddenly don’t anymore. That’s why I came here tonight. I don’t know what this thing is between us, but I’ve done so much denying in the past—and this feels like it’s the only thing honest in my life right now.”

She leans forward, her hands settling on my arms, and I can almost feel her touch calming the storm that’s been raging inside me for weeks without end. “Whatever this is or isn’t, you made sure it’s honest when you came here tonight.”

I give in to desire and pull her off her chair and between my legs. “I assume since you’re fucking me, you aren’t seeing anyone else.”

She glowers. “
Now
who doesn’t know how to filter?” she asks, reminding me of what I’d said to her the first day we’d met.

My fingers flex on her back. “I need to know.”

“There’s no one else.” She hesitates, opening her mouth, then closing her lips.

“You want to ask me, too,” I say.

“I don’t want to pressure you.”

“Why not? I’m pressuring you. So you deserve to know: When I needed an escape last week, I didn’t go to the club or call someone I knew from the club. I flew you to San Francisco. I don’t want anyone else.”

“If that changes, just please tell me.”

“I don’t and it won’t,” I say, pushing to my feet. “And if you don’t know that, then I haven’t done a good enough job of showing you.” I scoop her up and start walking toward the bedroom. I might not have a condom, but I have a tongue, and I plan to use it well. I need her to know that I’m a changed man before she’s faced with the full impact of my many sins against Rebecca—sins I fear she’ll never forgive me for. I know I won’t.

*  *  *

I wake to the soft glow of morning light through the bedroom curtains and the vibration of my phone on the nightstand, but with Crystal curled against my side I’m not quick to respond. For several moments I’m unable to move,
unwilling
to move, certain that the few hours of peace we’ve created together are about to end. I grab the phone and glance at the time, 7:00 a.m.
,
then the caller ID, noting Jacob’s number.

Crystal shifts beside me, leaning up on one arm, her long blond hair a tousled, sexy mess. “What is it?”

I hit the Decline button and set the phone down. “Jacob. Probably wanting to know our travel plans this morning. I’ll have to go by my hotel and change on the way to the hospital. And I know my mother will insist I go to Riptide today to help secure the business—so we can plan on riding in together.”

“I should have gone in early today,” Crystal says. “There’s a huge auction next Saturday I’m in the middle of planning.”

“Now there are two of us to bring it all together, so you can ease up on the hours a bit.”

She nods. “I think it would go a long way for you to talk to the staff and assure them everything is okay, too.”

“You’re barely awake and already talking business.”

“It’s inbred. In my house, we talked stock market reports before we brushed our teeth.”

“Mine was sports in one ear and fine art in the other—but at least I learned to multitask.” My cell starts ringing again and I sigh. “He’s not giving up.” I answer the call without looking and say, “I didn’t know you had a wake-up service.”

“At your fucking service.” I sit up at the sound of Blake Walker’s voice as he adds, “Time to get up, because I have news. Corey, the kid who ran off with Ava, was dropped off at a hospital a few hours ago—beaten badly enough to be in the ICU.”

“And? What did he say?”

“They aren’t telling us anything yet.”

“They? Why aren’t
you
talking to him?”

“Because I’m in San Francisco—and he was left at a Long Island hospital.”

My blood runs cold. “That’s just a forty-minute train ride from here.”

“Which means whoever beat him is there, too,” he adds.

My grip tightens on the phone and I stand up, certain that whoever did this wants me to know.

“I’m on my way to Long Island,” Blake adds, “but I’m not coming alone. Detective Grant is coming with me, because it’s a conflict of interest for me to question you about Corey, since I’m on your payroll.”

“Then you shouldn’t have gotten greedy and taken both jobs.”

“Ease up, man. I’m on your side. I didn’t know Rebecca, but I read her journals and feel like I did. And I trust myself to do her justice more than I trust the police, who have a district attorney motivated by the election year pulling their strings.”

I inhale and exhale. “If you think that hearing you and half of San Francisco read her journals is going to console me, you’re not as smart as I thought you were.”

“I’m a lot
smarter
than you think I am. I know you, man. I
was
you. I held my fiancée in my arms while she bled to death with a sliced throat, because I was minutes too late to save her. And it happened because I let her stay in harm’s way for reasons I can never forgive myself for. I know where your head is—and you need to step back, before you don’t have that option anymore. Let me handle this.”

His words chill me to the bone, and I press my fingers to my temples, fighting the fucking burning in my chest and eyes. What the hell is happening to me? Where is the man who could shut everything out? “What does Grant want?”

“You aren’t going to comment on anything I just said?”

“Not now.”

He’s silent a moment. “Fine. We’ll talk when I get there. On Grant, let me be clear before I go on: I’ve said nothing to him about your motivations toward anyone or anything. But the kid was dropped in New York, and you were close to Rebecca—which gives you motivation to act on her behalf, since she can’t.”

I run a rough hand through my hair. “In other words, call my attorney.”

“I would.”

Frustration rolls through me. “Being close to Rebecca made me a murder suspect. Though I was cleared, now I’m a suspect all over again, for the same reason.”