Losing Control (28 page)

Ian tosses the phone aside, looking agitated. He puts his hands on his hips. “I don’t like this, Tiny.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t like that he’s texting you, flirting with you. That he even knows your name.”

“Isn’t it a little late for that?”

He shakes his head. “I need to figure something else out.”

“Why is it so important to you?” I’ve never pressed him before. It hasn’t been important, but if we’re going to build something together . . . there can’t be secrets. Not of this magnitude.

He rubs the back of his neck and looks away. At least he’s not going to lie to my face. “It’s something I’m doing for someone else. Not for me. I don’t want to say more.”

Underneath his terseness, I sense a darker emotion. Anger, tinged with fear. It’s the latter that makes me soften and give in. “Not tonight, then,” I say.

He places his hand on my shoulder. “Not tonight.” It’s not quite a promise that he’ll be divulging all his secrets another day, but it’s not a closed door either. He releases a small, humorless laugh. “It’s something that I haven’t shared with another for so long, I’m not sure how to tell the story. Or that you’ll still want me when you hear it.”

Turning my head, I press my face against the top of his hand, feeling the knuckles against the softness of my cheek. “You can trust me.”

“I do.”

We allow the silence to absorb the words that we are too afraid to voice to each other—
I love you
and
I need you
and
I can’t live without you
—but we feel them. The connection between us is real and we are bound by it even if we don’t want to be. It started that day on the street, so long ago. A hook in my heart is attached to a string that winds tighter with each passing minute. I couldn’t wriggle loose if I wanted to.

These moments of shared vulnerability are what make me believe that we are equals. That what Ian said before is true—underneath money, fame, class differences, we all bleed the same color. We all hurt the same. We all need, hate, love, cry,
want
.

He gives my shoulder a squeeze, a rueful smile on his face. “Let’s go out to eat. I want to look at a restaurant. The owner wants to open another one and is looking for an investor. Come and evaluate it with me?”

My bruises are still visible, but I like that he doesn’t want me to hide out inside his loft or the Central Towers apartments. I knock on the bedroom door where Mom is hiding to ask if she wants to accompany us but she demurs. Despite her recent energy spike, she feels very lethargic and would rather stay inside and watch television. Ian helps her into the living room and settles her on the sofa, fetching a blanket and a cup of tea for her.

I give her a kiss and, to my surprise, so does he. Mom grips his arm to prevent him from straightening up. “Take care of my girl.”

“Always.”

Their affection and exchange make my throat tight, so I take myself off to get changed before I start weeping happy tears.

After taking a quick shower, I wrestle my hair into a slick ponytail and rub on foundation. I long for the crew at the Red Door Spa but manage to draw on eyeliner and slick on mascara and lipstick.

In the closet, I pull out a pair of wide-legged black silk pants with a lace inset up the outer seam. I pair it with a top that ties at the neck and leaves my entire back bare. Another day without a bra. Ian will either be thrilled or painfully turned on. I hope both.

I slip on a pair of black pumps with red soles, like the ones the saleswoman was wearing. The narrow points of the front pinch my toes, but they look so fantastic I decide a little pain isn’t going to kill me. Besides, if my feet were to really hurt, I have an inkling Ian would carry me home.

When I step into the living room, my mother’s eyes light up.

“You look gorgeous, doesn’t she, Ian?”

I roll my eyes at Mom’s obvious attempt to garner compliments. Ian, looking like a sexy beast stepping from the cover of a men’s magazine in slim-fitting pants, a cream matching suit coat, and a black shirt unbuttoned so that I can see a tiny smattering of his chest hair, rises from the sofa. “Lovely.”

In two strides, he’s at my side. “Lickable,” he whispers in my ear. His hand spreads on the bare skin of my back, nearly spanning the entire space. Turning me ever so slightly so that my back is out of my mother’s view, Ian slides his fingers inside my shirt and presses the tips of his fingers into the plump curve of my breast. “Fuckable.”

I stiffen my legs to keep from collapsing. “Night, Mom,” I call and walk toward the door and away from Ian’s tempting fingers.

“Goodnight, Mom,” Ian echoes.

She laughs and it’s to that joyful sound that we begin our evening.

When we get to the lobby, the gray car is at the curb.

“Hey, Steve,” I call out in greeting as I climb in.

He grunts, apparently having used up all his words when he saved me from the crazy drug client. We drive to Catch, a restaurant not far from Ian’s loft. Situated on the second floor of a three-story brick building, the only way I know that there is even a restaurant is the doorman standing outside. The entrance so unobtrusive it might as well have a secret door. An elevator takes us to the second floor, and the place is packed. I can barely see the bar because of the number of people, and I’m insanely grateful for the height the painful shoes are giving me because everyone in here is super tall or wearing six-inch heels.

Ian places his hand around my waist as we wait for the maître d’ to seat us. His arm provides a protective cage, keeping other people out but stoking a slow fire within me. He’s having a hard time of it as well. I can feel it in the tenseness of his body and the way his fingers play with the edge of my shirt.

“Did I forget to give you the bras that we bought together?” he mouths against my ear.

“No, you forgot to buy shirts with fabric in the back. Apparently your money isn’t enough to buy a complete top—only half of one.”

He chuckles and because he’s so close to me I feel the puffs of air against my hair, and it’s as warm as a caress.

“We’ll have to get a new personal shopper who will buy you shirts that have both fronts and backs, because these backless shirts are adversely affecting my ability to be in public with you.” He steps even closer, and I feel the hard line of his erection against my hip. I am tempted to drop my hand and grasp him over the wool trousers, but the maître d’ approaches.

“Kerr for two,” Ian instructs.

The maître d’s hair is a mass of curls, and I can’t stop staring at them as they bounce atop his head when he bends down to check his reservation book. “It’ll be thirty minutes.” He gestures us toward the crush at the bar. Ian doesn’t move and stares at the Harry Styles impersonator with a raised eyebrow. The look is one that clearly says, “We aren’t waiting thirty minutes,” and it flusters the host. He brings up his hands but before another word or gesture is delivered, a loud voice from Ian’s right interrupts.

“Ian Kerr, so thrilled to have you with us tonight.” The voice belongs to a slender, bald man whose pants are so tight I wonder if he can actually sit. He’s sockless and the shoes he’s wearing are bright blue and pointy. “Travis, what do we have?”

He looks down at the screen and suggests, “Private room?”

Ian shakes his head. “No, I want to see how it runs.”

The newcomer nods his head multiples times, so many that he looks like a bobblehead. “Of course, right this way.”

He leads us to a corner booth that is big enough to seat several people. I slide in, stopping at the center, and Ian follows, settling right next to me. His arm stretches across the back of the banquette. “I’m Donatello, and I’m the assistant manager. We were so excited when we received your reservation. The chef has prepared a special degustation for you tonight, and we have an assortment of wines to serve so that you can see the extensive cellar we keep. Our sommelier will be here shortly to describe the sensory journey we will take you on—”

Ian holds up his hand and Donatello stops talking immediately. “The degustation is fine but, please, no other special treatment tonight. As I said, I want to see how this place runs.”

Donatello squeezes his hands together, and his cheeriness seems a little forced. “Of course. Of course.”

I want to lean forward and reassure Donatello that Ian’s always this high-handed, but all I can do is offer the manager a sincere smile and thank you.

“He’s afraid. Be nice,” I warn when the manager wanders off.

Ian looks taken aback. “I didn’t realize you wanted a thirty minute dissertation on the bouquets of wines and their interplay with each little course we’ll be served.” He raises his hand to bring Donatello back, but I drag it down.

“No, just be nicer. He’s trying to impress you.”

He sighs but the next time the manager returns, Ian smiles and says he’s doing a nice job. Donatello floats away. “Not so hard, is it?” I tease.

Ian tugs at my ponytail and runs a hand down the ridges of my spine. “I’m already impressed. Let’s go home now.”

“No way, I put on makeup. Besides, this place is amazing.”

I have lived in the city my whole life and I have seen every street and alley, but tonight the whole of fashionable New York is on display. And I can’t stop looking. Everyone looks amazing. Perhaps it is the dim light or the reflections of the copper plating on the wall, but there are people looking fabulous in tight suits and even tighter pants and that was just the men. A thin, tall brunette with hair down to her butt is wearing a ball gown and a tube top. Two tables down, a man is wearing a leather vest and a collar.

“I wish you could see yourself right now. Your eyes are so big,” he whispers into my ear, and the sound travels all the way to my belly.

“Tiny,” he says, and I can sense that he wants me to look at him. His hand reaches out, strokes my jaw, and then turns my face so that we’re looking at each other. We’re so close on this banquette that I could lean forward and be kissing him. The thought makes me lick my lips, and Ian’s gaze drops from my eyes to my lips. When he flicks his gaze back upward, it’s filled with lust and tenderness. If it wasn’t for the waiter, who coughs to get our attention, I would have grabbed Ian’s head and dragged him under the table with me.

Discomfited, I try to interject some distance between us and gather some decorum. The waiter, in a white-buttoned coat and gray pants, sets down two porcelain soup spoons filled with tuna carpaccio, a sliver of potato, and a shitake mushroom.

“I don’t even know your middle name,” I blurt out.

“Ian Kincaid Kerr.” A hand curls around the back of my neck while his other hand raises the spoon to my mouth. I swallow it down and try to hold back the moan of delight. “That good, eh?” He swallows his own bite and winks at me.

“Sounds really Scottish,” I say faintly. Another dish comes by and Ian feeds that to me as well.

“Ach, dinnae ken, my wee lassie, by my accent?”

I giggle. “That's pretty terrible.”

“Well, now you know I'm bad at accents. How about you?”

“I’ve never tried speaking in an accent, so let’s assume I’m terrible, too.” His hand is so warm that I want to rub my face against his wrist. The way that his body is canted protectively around me makes me feel like we are in a private room, all alone. The whole of my body is liquefied by the way that he’s feeding me each bite of food, his hand never moving from behind my neck. Despite the crowded restaurant and the incessant chatter of the patrons, we are in a bubble of leather, delicious food, and heady wine. It’s intoxicating.

“So I should have invited you to dinner rather than drinks.”

We both look up to see Richard Howe standing there with a woman on his arm—an older woman. Her age is indeterminate. She's in that New York socialite age range between mid-30s and late 50s. Plastic surgery can create a façade of youth that masks one's true age for many years. However old she is, the woman is beautiful. She has a delicate, fragile air.

Her body is thin, and she wears a delicate lace sheath that emphasizes her fine bone structure. Around her face, expertly coiffed golden hair falls in soft waves. But the translucency of her hands reminds me of my mother and, ultimately, it is those that give her away. There are age spots which she's tried to cover with a multitude of rings and the backs of her hands show prominent veins, thin skin, and dots of pigmentation.

Under my awkward gaze, her hands curl and she ducks them underneath the table. I give her a tentative smile, but my untoward attention to her hands has immediately marked me as the enemy.

“Wife.” Ian mutters in my ear. Tossing his cloth napkin on the table, he half rises to shake Richard’s hand and then his companion’s.

I hide my disgruntlement at the interruption behind a big—but fake—smile for Richard and his wife.

Richard leans over the table. “It's hell getting a table here, isn't it? You don't mind if we join you?”

It's not a question because he's already sitting down, drawing his wife with him.

“Cecilia Montgomery Howe of the shipping Montgomerys.” Rich introduces us, and he sounds very smug when he rattles off her familial business as if he is personally responsible for her family’s success.

“Nice to meet you,” I say and shake the limp hand that she extends toward me in greeting as if I’m supposed to kiss it.

Ian’s body is stiff behind mine, but his response is all ease and smiles. “Hello, Cecilia.” Apparently everyone knows everyone else. Except for me, of course. I’m the new element in the old time social scene. I shift awkwardly. Ian settles back, drawing me with him and putting space between Richard and me. “Did your reservation fall through?”

Richard shakes his head mournfully. “Cecilia and I were going to have dinner at Prospero, but I heard the executive chef has been ill for a month so we thought we’d head down here and try something new.”

“No reservation,” Cecilia gripes spitefully.

At this complaint, Richard hangs his head. “I know. Stupid of me.”

“My god, how can I even eat with
that
looking at me.” Cecilia’s whine of protest cause all of us to swivel toward a gorgeous woman whose ass is so fine in her spandex bandage dress that I’m envious. “It looks like she’s stuffed cotton in her cheeks. Poor girl. Can you imagine sleeping with someone like that? You’d never be able to shut your eyes. It would be like having a horror show under your sheets.”