Authors: Janet Nissenson
Shattered: (16 page)
And even though she’d been cautioned not to discuss the situation with anyone, she’d taken out her cell phone half a dozen times over the last twenty-odd hours, her finger poised on the speed dial button for her best friend Lauren. She’d told herself that Lauren didn’t have to know names or all of the specifics – just the basics, enough to help her make this decision. But she knew that wasn’t a realistic assumption, for Lauren McKinnon was rather like a bulldog at times – or was that a pitbull? – when it came to digging up information. She’d joked with her girlhood friend more than once that Lauren should have pursued a career in investigative journalism instead of photography, for she had the tenacity and boldness needed to succeed in such a demanding profession.
But even if she hadn’t belatedly remembered that Lauren was currently half a world away on one of her very first assignments with National Geographic – somewhere in Malaysia – she knew she’d be too chicken to actually put the call through. For one thing, there was no way Lauren would have been able to remain impartial, would have told her flat out how insane this idea was, and that she’d be a complete idiot to even consider it. And then there was the matter of disobeying his orders. Somehow, she wasn’t at all sure how, but she’d been terrified that he’d find out, that he had ways of discovering such things, and would be very, very angry that she’d so blatantly disregarded his cardinal rule.
So she’d spent a largely sleepless night instead, going over everything she’d been told so many times that her head had ached by the time she’d finally fallen into an exhausted, troubled slumber. Upon waking, she’d forced herself out for a five mile run, hoping that the exercise would clear her mind, but fearing that such a hope was futile. After showering and forcing down a bowl of cereal, she’d made the weekly, perfunctory call home that both she and her mother dreaded, but still put themselves through out of some twisted sense of obligation.
And then she’d been alone with her thoughts for hours, pacing back and forth along the narrow length of her apartment, even going so far as to make a list of the pros and cons, only to tear the stupid list up when she saw just how unbalanced the two sides were.
The arrival of the package – this one from Neiman Marcus – only served to confuse her further. A sheet of paper rested on top of the tissue, and was short and to the point, written in the bold script she was already familiar with. The name and address of a restaurant was included, along with the meeting time of 8:00pm. Nothing else, not one single word that might try and persuade – or dissuade – her one way or the other.
Tonight’s outfit was white, though in her opinion the color was the only thing the least bit virginal about it. The Herve Leger bandage dress was V-necked and sleeveless, and she already knew the fabric would cling tightly to every curve of her body. The shoes were Christian Louboutin – towering white snakeskin stilettos with their signature red sole. A white leather Coach clutch made up the rest of the outfit. No underwear at all, not even a tiny pair of panties this time, and she’d been grateful to note that the dress was fully lined. The Dior lipstick that had been included was of a pale, virginal pink, a world apart from the brazen red from last night.
There had been one other item, wrapped separately in its own box, and her hand had shook while opening the lid. Inside rested a necklace, a simple gold choker that she still knew must have cost a tidy sum, and that, in her mind, greatly resembled a collar. It was his way, no doubt, of asserting his ownership of her, his mastery, even though he’d told her he didn’t expect to be addressed by that particular title. By wearing this necklace tonight, it would be an acknowledgement that she was agreeing to all of his conditions – that she was ready and eager to obey him.
She’d procrastinated until there was just enough time left to dress and catch a cab, and even as she applied her makeup, zipped up the dress, stepped into the shoes, she still didn’t know what her decision would be. She applied the shell pink lipstick, dropped it into her clutch, and picked up the necklace. She couldn’t help flinching as she fastened it, the metal cold against her skin, and then stared at herself in the mirror for an unknown length of time. She looked – expensive, like the pampered, indulged mistress of a very rich, powerful man, and it occurred to her that was exactly what she would be if she went through with this. She’d be showered with clothes and jewelry like these, be taken out to five-star restaurants and fed the very best foods and wines, perhaps be whisked away on indulgent weekend trips to locations she couldn’t even imagine right now. The sex would be frequent and demanding, and oh, so incredible, and she quivered in anticipation at the mere idea.
But what would the price be for all of that? Her body, yes, but that she would give willingly no matter what. She wasn’t the least bit afraid or hesitant to give him that. What terrified her, held her back, was the realization that what she’d really be sacrificing up was her soul. After all, wasn’t a person’s soul what the devil craved most of all?
Like most Italians, she’d been raised a Catholic, and had been forced into attending Sunday mass every week with her family. She’d hated it, not so much because of the service itself, but because of the hypocrisy that surrounded her there – that her mother and sisters could act like such devout Christians while inside the confines of the church only to become cold, bitter, and distant as soon as they left. It was because of her disgust with this blatant two-faced behavior that she’d stopped going to church at the age of sixteen, flatly refusing to participate any longer in what she considered a mockery of values.
But her refusal to attend mass didn’t mean she had stopped praying. She’d always said a little prayer, for example, before each of her collegiate volleyball games, and prior to every final exam she’d ever taken. And right now, even though it might be considered blasphemy under the somewhat sordid circumstances, she prayed for some form of divine guidance to make the decision she now had only about three more minutes to make.
As if on cue, the streetlights switched on at that particular moment, and she took a deep breath before crossing herself briskly and striding inside the restaurant.
If Angela had harbored any chance of sneaking inside the place unobserved and thereby buying herself an extra minute or two, those hopes were quickly dashed as she stood poised at the entrance of the cocktail lounge located at the front of the restaurant. Nick was already there, larger than life, and had very obviously been watching for her. He was sitting at one of the high, raised tables, a half-empty glass in front of him. His sinfully seductive mouth curled up at the corners as he extended a hand to her while remaining seated. He was not going to make this easy for her, was forcing her to come to him of her own free will, and asserting his dominance over her at the same time. This, she knew, was now the point of no return, that with each slow, tentative step she took in his direction she was sealing her fate, agreeing to his proposal, and that once she placed her hand in his there could be no turning back.
“Your hand is shaking, Angel. Are you afraid?”
She nodded, knowing it was pointless to lie to him for he would only need to look into her eyes to see the truth. “I’m terrified.”
He chuckled. “I know. I watched as you got out of that cab and waited out on the sidewalk for over five minutes. A few times I swore you were going to start running down the street, though how in hell you would have pulled that off in those shoes is beyond me.” He tugged her in closer, whispering in her ear, “And I will definitely fuck you with those shoes on tonight.”
Angela trembled, resting a hand on his broad shoulder to steady herself. “Oh, God. Nick – I’m not – I should go – this -”
“
This
is what was meant to be, Angel,” he assured her gently. “Don’t be frightened, okay? And the only place you’re going right now is to our table, where I’ve got a bottle of very expensive champagne waiting for us.”
This
is what was meant to be, Angel,” he assured her gently. “Don’t be frightened, okay? And the only place you’re going right now is to our table, where I’ve got a bottle of very expensive champagne waiting for us.”
She gave a nervous little laugh. “You already ordered? Wasn’t that a little presumptuous?”
“Nope, not a bit.” He shook his head. “I knew you’d show up, knew you wouldn’t be able to stay away.”
Angela lifted her chin defiantly. “You’re that sure of yourself, are you? So sure that I wouldn’t be able to resist the thought of going to bed with you?”
He brought her hand to his lips with a grin. “No, Angel. Because I was positive you couldn’t resist the need to be controlled. Now, let’s go celebrate.”
She wasn’t the least surprised to find that their table was located in another darkened, private corner of the restaurant. She’d heard of this place, an elegant French bistro with a Michelin star and a weeks’ long wait for reservations. Obviously the Nick Manning Effect was in full force once again, given the relative ease with which he’d managed to secure a table here.
The champagne was perfectly chilled and had a fancy French name she didn’t even attempt to pronounce. But it tasted delicious and she bolted half the flute down at once, needing the liquid courage she knew it would provide.
Nick frowned, clamping his hand around her wrist hard enough to leave a bruise. “Easy there, Angel. That’s not apple juice in your glass, after all. You don’t guzzle pricey French champagne, you sip it, savor it.”
“Sorry.” She set her flute down carefully. “I’m pretty nervous, after all.”
He clasped both of her hands in his, and the look on his face was actually kind, something she sensed would be a very rare occurrence. “I know you are. And I get that. This is new for you, and frankly it sort of is for me, too. We’ll take this one step at a time, Angela, okay? And you won’t need to get yourself tipsy or half-drunk to hasten that process along. I’ve noticed you like the booze, Angel, a little too much for my liking. We’ll need to keep an eye on that, make sure you don’t overindulge. Now, let’s try this again, but slowly this time.” He bent his head close to her ear, his breath sending shivers up her spine. “The same way I’ll have you suck me off later tonight,” he purred in a low, suggestive voice.
Her hand was trembling as she picked up her flute, careful this time to only take a small sip. “Um, I – yes, okay.”
Nick chuckled. “You’ll need to start getting used to me saying things like that, Angel. Especially when we’re alone. I’m very direct when it comes to what I want and expect in bed. So stop looking so shell shocked because what I just said is actually pretty tame compared to some of the things I’ll be telling you.”
Angela was saved from thinking up a response by the arrival of their waiter. This time she didn’t even blink when Nick ordered their entire meal, multiple courses, with each one sounding like it contained a thousand calories per serving. And while he ordered himself a glass of Pinot Noir to accompany his braised short ribs, she was presented with plain mineral water instead.
“Three flutes of champagne before dinner was enough,” he told her. “I want you wide awake and sober when I take you to bed tonight. And eat up, Angel. We’re going to be burning a lot of calories later on. Good thing tomorrow is a Sunday, because it’s going to be a very, very late night.”
She couldn’t help giving a little gulp just before picking up a forkful of her chicken coq au vin. She’d just barely recovered from the hours long sexual marathon they’d engaged in on Tuesday, and the thought of another night of equally rough, demanding sex made her body quiver in anticipation and need, and maybe just a bit of fear, too.
Nick took a leisurely sip of his wine, smiling carnally as he observed the way she reacted to his declaration. “It’ll be easier on you this time, Angel,” he assured her. “The other night – it had been a while for you, hadn’t it?”
She shrugged and pushed a tiny potato around with her fork until she stilled the motion, knowing he’d disapprove. “Not since February. My classes during the final semester were incredibly tough. It seemed that all I did was go to class, study, write papers, take tests. There wasn’t time for – er, dating.”
He nodded in acknowledgment. “I get it. That explains why you felt so tight. Was I too rough?”
She kept her eyes downcast, not wanting to confess the truth, until he tipped her chin up to meet his gaze. Angela gulped again, knowing that she’d never, ever, be able to lie to him.
“Maybe a little,” she whispered. “I was, um, pretty sore for a couple of days, had a little trouble walking.”
He reached over and pressed a kiss on her cheek, a tender gesture that startled her. “I’m sorry,” he told her gently. “I knew I should have shown more restraint, left you alone after the first time or two. But I wanted you too damned much, Angel. It’s been a very long time since I’ve felt that way, you know. So forgive me, even though it was really your fault for looking so fucking sexy.”
It was exactly the right thing for him to have said, she thought wildly, just what she’d needed to calm her nerves a bit and make her feel more confident about being with a man as experienced and demanding and overwhelming as Nick.
“If you didn’t want me to look sexy, I could have worn one of my work suits and a pair of flats,” she told him with a smirk.
He grimaced. “You mean like the outfit you had on a couple of days ago? Navy blue pant suit, low-heeled pumps, and your hair all scraped back into a bun?” He shook his head. “Not a good look for you, Angel, trust me.”
She stared. “How did you know -”
“I saw you, of course. You were hurrying out of Starbucks on your way back to the office, while I was across the street heading out to lunch with a client. I made sure you didn’t see me since interacting at work isn’t part of our arrangement. I don’t like you in pants,” he told her abruptly. “New rule – when you’re with me it’s dresses or skirts or nothing at all. Maybe a bikini or a pair of shorts if I decide to take you away someplace warm. And none of those ugly ass flat shoes either.”
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