Losing Control (27 page)

“Did you shave without me?” I ask, reaching up a hand to stroke his cheek. It’s smooth as butter. He rubs his face lightly against my hand and then reaches down to lift my neck up slowly. He slides two pills into my mouth. Holding me semi-upright with one hand, he presses a glass of what I presume is water against my lips. I take a big gulp and wash down the pills. As soon as he sees me swallow, my head is lowered to the pillows and the covers are pulled up to my chin.

“Yes, but I’m sure I didn’t do as good of a job lathering up.” He bends close enough for me to smell his aftershave. “You can do me tomorrow.”

I crack my eyes open to see him waggling his eyebrows at me with exaggerated lascivious intent. “I have plans for that shaving brush. I thought I’d see how your more sensitive parts respond to it,” I say and am pleased when I see his eyes darken and his jaw clench.

“No more of that, or I’ll be late and I’ll have to whip myself again for taking advantage of you.” He presses his lips to my temple and then, for good measure I guess, traces a path over my ear and down the side of my jaw.

“Please,” I moan, half in pain and half in arousal, “take advantage of me.”

“We’ll see how you are after lunch” is his implacable response. Deciding that a retreat is in order so I can enjoy being ravished later, I burrow under the covers.

A ringing brings me out several hours later. It’s my phone, and I can see by the display that it’s nearing noon. I’m not able to unwrap myself in time to answer, but the missed call message reveals that it’s Ian and it’s followed thirty seconds later by a voicemail message.

Text me a smiley face if we’re still on for the meeting with Tanner. There’s an outfit for you in the bathroom.

Sending Ian an emoji isn’t too difficult for me. He sends me a return image, one of a smiley face and one of a sandwich. I guess he wants me to eat. The idea of Ian hunting through dozens of little tiny pictures to find a way to remind me to have lunch puts a smile on my face and a warmth in my belly. The way he’s so easily adapted to my issues with reading and writing is pretty darn incredible. In the past, I’d always avoided telling guys I’d dated I had any problem. It was easy to see that they’d texted, so I’d pick up the phone and call them back, preferring to talk instead of respond with a written message.

The text messages remind me of the one that Rich had sent. I pull up his contact and see several messages, one with a picture attached of him lounging on a rooftop patio and making the call me sign with his fingers. I send him back a smiley face for lack of a better response and resolve to speak to Ian about it later.

In the bathroom there are a pair of wide-legged navy blue slacks and a white linen top with tiny white raised dots. Next to the clothes are white lace boy shorts and a lovely strapless white lace bra that is banded on the bottom with a one-inch strip of white silk that ends in a bow between my breasts. When I pull it on, I see the bow covers two hooks that hold the bra closed at the front. Again, I’m struck by Ian’s thoughtfulness. My left shoulder is still sore and not having a bra strap riding on it all day will make it a lot easier on me.

The shirt has a lovely Peter Pan collar edged in navy and the small puff sleeves end in a cuff with the same trim. I can see my mother’s impeccable taste in these clothes. The shoes are nude and have a fairly low heel, which is good for me today. Ian’s even provided me with a small clutch. Or his personal shopper has. Either way, it’s a nice touch. It’s not the most professional outfit but I’ve never been to an interview with security consultant before.

On the counter, there is also an assortment of makeup, all unopened. I’m not as good at this as my mom would be, but I do my best to cover up the bruise around my eye. Inside the refrigerator, I find a tightly-wrapped sandwich filled with roasted vegetables and a big portobello mushroom.

When Steve arrives, I’m washing down the last of the sandwich with a glass of water.

“Ready?” His tone is a little gentler today but not by much.

“You have a girlfriend, Steve?” I ask, picking up my clutch and phone and follow him down the stairs to the alley.

“Yeah.” He sounds wary, as if I’m trying to trick him.

“Do you ever say more than two-word sentences to her?”

I pull open the front passenger door and slip in before Steve can even respond. Besides he’s busy engaging the lock and a dozen alarms.

He gives me a sour look when he sees where I’m situated. “Passengers ride in the back,” he grunts, but I ignore him because I know that he’s not going to forcibly remove me. I don’t think Ian would like that very much.

“Not this passenger,” I respond. Today, we’re driving in the Bentley. “Why’d Ian buy this car?”

“Couldn’t say,” Steve says.

I tap a few of the dials to drive him crazy, but since I’m in no shape for a real fight, I retreat to my seat and let him deal with the Manhattan traffic in peace.

“Where’s Tanner’s office?”

“West side.”

Again with the near monosyllabic responses. “What’s Tanner’s business?”

“Security.”

I give up. We ride the rest of the trip in complete silence. Steve doesn’t even turn the music on.

Jake Tanner’s office is the bottom floor of a twenty-foot-wide townhome three blocks off the Hudson River on the west side near the Museum of Natural History. Steve illegally parks in front of a fire hydrant and tells me to stay put. Despite the fun I had earlier poking Steve, I decide to do what he says because Ian might be watching, and I don’t want Steve to get in trouble with his boss. When he helps me out of the car, I thank him nicely but he gives me an impassive stare in return. I wonder briefly who his girlfriend is and whether he ever smiles at her. Poor girl.

There’s a low wrought iron gate that Steve opens, and I follow him down a short flight of stairs. The plaque reading “Tanner Security” is so discreet that I almost miss it. Ian opens the door as we approach. Steve brushes by him, but instead of allowing me through, Ian halts me in the little stone alcove outside the door.

“How are you feeling?” He tilts my head upward and examines my face, taking in my makeup job and my overall appearance.

“Not bad,” I admit. “Thanks for the sandwich. And the clothes. My mom has excellent taste.”

He smiles at this. “She does indeed.”

Then he leans down and takes my mouth with his. I’m surprised by this but find the public affection endearing. There’s no tongue involved, simply a firm and sensuous press of his lips against mine for a long minute. It’s as pleasurable as when I was at the beach and enjoying the summer sun’s rays as they heated my entire body.

“Mmm,” he says, finally lifting his head. “We’ll have more of that later.”

Thoughtful, generous, but oh so autocratic.

“Is this really acceptable pre-interview behavior?” I ask, opening the door and entering the office. If I stay outside, I’ll fall into his arms again.

“I don’t really care,” he responds. Taking my arm, he leads me past the front office and down a long, narrow hallway. Despite the length, there are only a few doors and no windows. I wonder if they’re holding prisoners or something inside those closed-up rooms. Behind a door on the left at the end of the hallway, I can hear the murmurs of Steve and another man. I assume it’s Jake Tanner.

Ian knocks and enters when a deep voice says, “It’s open.”

Jake Tanner is about as big as Steve. He’s got dark brown hair and deep-set brown eyes. Even though it’s early afternoon, stubble is darkening his jawline and upper lip. The set of his shoulders is wide, and I have no doubt that people feel safer when he’s standing near them.

“Jake Tanner, this is Victoria Corielli.” Jake steps forward and offers me his right hand, which I shake firmly. He grips me a bit too tightly, but maybe he can’t tell given that it’s a prosthetic.

“Nice to meet you,” he says.

“Same,” I grin and let go of his hand. At his direction, I settle into a chair in front of the desk. Ian sits down beside me while Jake circles around behind the desk to his chair. Steve leans against the wall, arms folded across his chest. I’m not sure who he’s guarding in this scenario.

“Do you always conduct interviews with Batman and Robin here?”

Jake looks like he’s choking on something but manages to get out, “Does that make me Superman?”

“I don’t know. Can you fly?”

“I’ve got the bionic hand and leg,” he says, lifting up his foot and pulling back his pant leg to reveal another prosthetic.

“Then I think you’re the Six Million Dollar Man,” I answer.

At this he gives a shout of laughter, and Ian squeezes my hand. When I look at him, he’s got a huge smile on his face. Even Steve looks a little less grim.

After he’s done chuckling, Jake leans across the desk. His fingers entwine, making him look a little like Robocop or some futuristic bad ass. “Ian’s explained you have a disability, and I’m fine with that.” He raises his metal fingers and waves them at me. “All I’m looking for is someone who can, using her own methods or systems, keep track of all my guys in the field and what projects they’re working on, along with making sure that the calls we get are properly screened. Ian says that you’re quick and have a great memory.”

“That’s right.” I nod. “Your reception desk has a black phone with a shoulder rest attached to the back of the handle. There are two modules attached to it with digital screens. I might have trouble reading those. There are two chairs in front of the desk, one is purple and one is blue. You must have bought them thinking that they were the same color. I’d call and have one of them hauled away and replaced with a true match. Behind the desk, there are three art prints depicting a highly-stylized U-boat split into three parts—”

He holds up his hand to stop my recitation. “Okay, that’s good enough for me. Ian vouches for you. Says that you were doing some stuff in the past that might not pass muster for security clearance but otherwise you’re clean. That right?”

“Yes,” I nod. I’ll have to ask Ian later exactly what he divulged to Jake, but now is not the time.

“Then I’m ready to hire you—but given your face, you can’t come back until the you’re fully healed or the customers are going to think I suck at security services.”

With that, the interview is over. Jake stands up, and Steve pushes away from the wall and heads out.

“Thank you for seeing me, Mr. Tanner,” I say shaking his hand again.

“Jake, please.” And he smiles at me, revealing perfect white teeth.

Ian cups my elbow and leads me back down the hall. Steve is nowhere to be seen.

“You’ve got a good one there,” Jake says as we reach the front door.

“I know,” Ian replies and then places an arm around me, subtly drawing me away from Jake. “And I intend to keep her.”

“Don’t blame you.”

Embarrassed by the talk, I chirp, “Nice to meet you again,” and then hastily exit. Combined male laughter follows me out. Outside, I can see that Steve is already in the car, ready to take me back home.

A touch on my elbow has me turning, and Ian smiles down at me. “I thought you two would be a perfect fit.” There’s smugness in his voice, but I guess he’s entitled.

“Because we both have disabilities?” I ask.

“Because you both understand that others place limitations on you that don’t exist.” He leads me to the car and opens the back door. I crawl in and Ian climbs in behind me. “Do you wish I would have said something prior?”

Shaking my head, I say, “No, why would it matter?”

“Why, indeed.” He leans forward. “Central Towers.”

“Not back to the fuckpad?” I joke lightly, but I’m worried that means he doesn’t intend to stay with me.

“No, I figured you would want to be with your mother. Besides, so long as you scream into the pillow, we should be fine.”

His careless words are arousing, and I cross my legs to assuage the sudden ache. When I see Ian’s dark gaze pinned to my chest, I think that those words weren’t so careless after all. But I’m glad, too, that his first thought was to how we’ll be managing to have scream-worthy sex again. I want that. Oh how I want it.

“R
ICH
TEXTED
ME
,” I
SHARE
that evening. “I meant to tell you but I had the accident.”

“Someone beating you up is no accident.” Ian’s face is grim. “An accident is when your bike wheel gets caught in a pothole and you fall down. Getting beat up is an assault and battery.”

“Oookay.” I can see that he isn’t ever going to let this go. “Anyway, I can’t read all the messages, but he did send a picture of himself. It’s not really incriminating. Just a picture of him drinking. Does he really have a wife? He doesn’t ever mention her.”

Ian gives me a disbelieving look. “If you were trying to pick up a new girl, would you tell her about the one you have at home?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never had two guys on a string before. Seems complicated.” I hand him the phone. He proceeds to read the texts out loud.

Sorry for running off at the mouth about your friend Ian.

No doubt he’s a good guy but if you ever need to talk let me know.

Oh dear. If possible, Ian’s grim face has gotten even darker. “What did he say? Is he responsible for your doubts?”

I rub my hand down his arm, a gesture meant to soothe his mood. He captures my hand and brings it to his mouth. But he doesn’t kiss it softly. He opens his mouth and bites down on the fleshy bit right under my palm, which sends shock waves right to my core. I gasp and then moan when he licks the bite. “He’s poison. Don’t forget it.”

There’s nothing for me to do but nod. Ian presses another kiss to my palm and then returns to reading the rest of the messages.

Thought of you today when I got some flowers delivered to my mom. Realized how convenient bike couriers are. Bet your legs are super strong.

Checking out the rooftop bar at the Kimberly. Hit me up if you’re interested in visiting.

After I sent the smiley face, he’d sent another reply.

Only a smiley face? You can do better than that.