The Exhibition (An Executive Decision Trilogy) (15 page)

‘Hey, are you all right?’ he asked, this time not allowing her to push him away as he helped her to her feet, then guided her back onto the loveseat. ‘I’m sorry. Let me look at that.’ He cupped her calf in his hand where he could already see the knot swelling in the middle of her left shin. ‘I’ll bet Ellis has ice in the fridge. Just hold still.’ He moved to the bar area where the fridge was and found an ice pack. ‘Thought Mr. Thorne would be prepared for the odd bump or bruise,’ he said, returning to his position on the floor between her legs. She caught her breath with a sharp hiss as he gently rested the ice pack against the goose egg. ‘It’s gonna sting a bit until it starts to freeze,’ he warned her, resisting the urge to kiss it better. Instead, he stretched to pick up her bag and handed it back to her.

She took it from him, hoisting it onto her shoulder as though she was preparing for a quick getaway. ‘This is getting to be a habit,’ she said, nodding down at the abrasion on her knee – now nearly healed – from the fall she had taken in the clear-cut.

It was good to hear her sounding more like her old self. He smiled up at her. ‘Not that I wish you pain or anything, but your stumbling about does give me a chance to fondle sexy female legs, something I don’t get to do very often.’ He shrugged. ‘Unless you count the female badger I rescued from a trap last spring. But she nearly bit my finger off.’

She smiled down at him. ‘I promise I won’t bite, Harris. Not unless you ask me to.’

He couldn’t keep from smiling back. ‘Now there’s an intriguing proposition.’

She was instantly serious again. ‘I’m sorry, Harris. I should have never dragged you into that mess at the clear-cut. It’s just that – well, I never dreamed you’d come after me.’

‘I never dreamed you’d go up there alone in such weather. Hell, I wouldn’t have wanted to be in that place alone in any weather.’

‘Don’t worry.’ She spoke softly, avoiding his gaze. ‘We won’t be going back there.’

For a second, they were both silent. The table was still strewn with the remains of their lunch; the sound system still played soft chamber music Harris didn’t recognize. It just slipped out. ‘Why did you leave?’

She smoothed the hem of her skirt unnecessarily and took a deep breath. ‘I got scared, Harris.’ She still wouldn’t look at him. ‘You know when you wake up and wonder what you’ve just done.’

He lifted her chin so she couldn’t avoid his gaze. ‘Are you sorry it happened?’

‘Of course I’m not sorry. I just don’t want you to get hurt. And there are things … Things you don’t know.’

Before he knew what he was doing, before he could control himself, he let the ice pack fall away and slid up onto the couch next to her. He pulled her into his arms and took her mouth. She offered only a whimper of surprise before she slipped her arms around his neck and returned the kiss with a ravenous passion that startled him, that delighted him, that frightened him just a little. And then he couldn’t get close enough. There was too much clothing between them, too much air, too many unspoken words.

‘Are you planning on hurting me?’ he asked, when he pulled away breathless.

‘Of course not, but there are things … things that you don’t –’

‘Things that I don’t know about. Yes, you told me that, but I don’t need to know everything, Stacie. I just need you to stay until we’re finished, and we were nowhere near finished when you left. You know that.’

A single tear slid down her cheek and she wiped it aside angrily. ‘Harris, please don’t make this more difficult.’

He pulled her to him so tightly that he forced the breath from her and he kissed her again, kissed her until she clung to him, kissed her until she yielded. ‘I am going to make it difficult, Stacie. I’m going to make it as difficult as I can for you to walk away next time.’ He held her face in his hands and forced her to look at him. ‘I don’t know what the hell’s going on, but I do know that it’s good when we’re together, and I want more and I’m pretty sure you do too.’

She closed her eyes and swallowed a tight breath. ‘Harris, you don’t know what you’re asking.’

‘Then suppose you tell me – or at least give me a hint.’ She tried to pull away but he held her. ‘Does it have anything to do with that clear-cut, with Terrance Jamison?’

This time, the beautiful blush drained from her face and her features were porcelain pale. ‘Harris, I –’

The door burst open and one of the cleaning staff stepped in. When she saw them, she reddened and apologized profusely in a very strong Polish accent. ‘I didn’t know that anyone was here. I’m so, so sorry. I will come back later.’

‘No, it’s all right.’ Stacie somehow managed to sound like it was business as usual again. ‘It’s all right, we’re finished here, and I was just leaving.’ She forced her way up from the sofa, shouldered her bag, and fled, this time without stumbling.

By the time Harris pushed past the embarrassed cleaning lady and made his way to the elevators, Stacie was nowhere in sight. It didn’t matter, though. He knew that Stacie hadn’t run because she didn’t want to be with him. If she was scared, well, he could deal with that. Right now he’d give her a little space to let her nerves settle a bit before he texted her, or maybe he’d just drop by the gallery unexpected. After all, he really should find out just where this amazing exhibition he’d agreed to would be taking place. An artist needed to know these things. Stacie was about to find out that he was at least as tenacious as she was. In spite of her obvious discomfort, in spite of the fact she was clearly hiding something that distressed her, all at once, his day felt a whole lot brighter. 

Chapter Eighteen

He didn’t kiss her when he opened the hotel room door. He didn’t invite her in. He didn’t even offer her a smile, in spite of the fact that they hadn’t seen each other in two weeks, and in spite of the fact that his regular texts left her hopes soaring. Then there were the gifts – expensive jewelry, clothes, rare art books, something almost every day. She’d been convinced he really did want to be more than just her mentor. She’d been convinced that maybe he really did find her irresistible. The edgy anticipation she’d felt, the elation mixed with a good jangle of nerves that Terrance Jamison had flown her to Oregon to be with him – even flown her first class – dissolved into a knot of dread.

He stood in the doorway just looking her over with that distant look of his, the one that, for some reason, always frightened her a little bit. It somehow made her feel more like an object than a person. But then surely it was just his way. Surely the man didn’t get to where he was in the business world without a good poker face. At last he spoke. ‘Why aren’t you wearing the dress I bought you?’

Instinctively, her hand came to rest against her chest, just above her breasts, and she couldn’t fight back the resulting blush. ‘Mr. Jamison.’ Her voice came out high and thin, not at all the confident purr it had been in her fantasies. ‘I couldn’t wear it in public. I brought it with me, of course. But I thought it was just for … you know … for us.’

For a second, he said nothing, only held her gaze until she looked away, embarrassed, confused. At last he spoke. ‘You have nice breasts, Ingrid.’ Jeez, did he have to say it so loud? Anyone could be passing by. Anyone could hear. He continued as if they were simply talking about the weather. ‘You shouldn’t be ashamed to show them off.’ With her still standing in the hall outside his door, he shoved her hands away from her chest and gave each breast a hard grope followed by a look of distaste. ‘With those dowdy bras you wear, it’s hard to tell what’s real, and I like to know what I’m getting. I like to see your tits under your clothing, not all this padding.’

With that, he ran a hand up the lapel of the summer shirt dress she wore and gave it a hard yank. She yelped as buttons went flying. But before she could fold her arms across her now embarrassingly exposed cleavage, before she could even give a quick glance around to make sure no one was watching, he pinned her arms to her side, shoved the dress off her shoulders, and kissed her savagely.

Just when she feared she’d suffocate, just when every muscle in her body warned her to recoil and run away, he pulled her to him and held her close, and his touch became soothing, like the touch she’d seen her father use on a frightened calf. And her fear dissolved into desire that was even more alarming. How could she desire him after what he’d just done?

When at last he pulled away, they still stood in the open door, and he still hadn’t invited her in. ‘You need to show me what you’ve got, Ingrid. You need to show everyone what you’ve got. That’s what you’ve wanted from the beginning, and I’m happy to see, so don’t play coy, don’t hide it.’

‘But it’s my art I want people to see. My art,’ she managed. She was near in tears now, standing half-naked in the hall of a very exclusive hotel, being reprimanded instead of welcomed.

He reached behind her and unhooked her bra, then ran his hands beneath the waistband to catch her breasts up in his palms and caress them roughly. She was shockingly aroused in spite of the humiliation. ‘You have to learn, as Stacie Emerson had to learn, that you are your art, you are your own emissary, and it’s you people will look at, at least as often as they do your sculpture. That’s an important lesson, Ms. Watson.’ Then he took her hand and led her across the threshold, closing the door behind them. ‘Now, get out of that rag, and your bra, and wait over there on the sofa until the bellboy brings up your clothes, then I can dress you properly.’

The words were barely out of his mouth before there was a soft knock on the door. He nodded to the sofa and went to answer. Ingrid did as she was told.

She sat with her heart racing and her arms folded protectively across her chest, knowing at any second the bellboy could crane his neck just right and see her sitting there on the sofa in nothing but her panties.

‘Ingrid, take your arms away from your breasts.’ She jumped at the sound of Mr. Jamison’s voice as he returned. ‘And sit up straight. Let me see you.’ He studied her just long enough to make her blush hard and long enough to make her squirm against the sofa. Then he sat down next to her, efficiently removed her panties, and pulled her onto his lap as though she was a child. Her balance was awkward until she slipped her arms around his neck, crushing her right breast against the buttons of his jacket, which he opened to better accommodate her.

‘I’m sorry to be so harsh with you, darling. But you have to learn.’ He shifted her forward slightly and lifted her bottom and, with a start, she realized he was undoing his fly. ‘Never mind,’ he was saying. ‘You’ve had a long flight, sweetheart. I know you’re tired and you need to relax a little. Shall I fuck you and help you relax?’ He fingered her open and she quivered at his touch, even as her cheeks burned with shame. ‘Goodness, it feels like that’s exactly what you need, darling; a good fuck to settle your nerves.’ His last word ended in a little grunt and he entered her surprisingly easily this time. She bit her lip and bore down with a little sigh as he began to shift and rock beneath her. ‘That’s my girl,’ he said. ‘You’ll feel better after you’ve come.’

And he was right. She did.

It felt like déjà vu, waking up in the middle of the big bed, naked and alone. Ingrid’s stomach knotted and then relaxed as she heard his voice from the other room, talking business on the phone probably, even though it was still the middle of the night. But for all she knew, he could be talking with someone in China or Europe. That made her feel proud for a second, then her stomach growled. They had eaten smoked chicken salads last night in a very fine restaurant where everyone else was enjoying steak or seafood. But in the dress he’d bought for her, there wasn’t a lot of room for feasting. He said it was tight on purpose. He said someone who expected to be a star needed to constantly be reminded of her weight, needed to constantly be reminded that people were watching her. So she had picked at the salad and only eaten a bit of the passion fruit crème brûlée he had ordered for her.

Back in the room, the lovemaking had been rough and impersonal, though he had made sure she came – even came a lot. But just when she thought it was a sympathy fuck, just when she thought this was the point at which he told her she really wasn’t worthy, that he had lost interest in her, he snuggled her close and caressed her gently. He had told her what a jewel she was, what a find, and how excited he was to be able to help her reach her full potential. And she had slept, reassured. And now he was in the lounge on the phone. She shoved her way out of the bed and peeked out the window. It was dark, and it was raining. But she was wide awake. She found the robe hanging in the closet and pulled it on, recalling how unhappy he had been to have her in his shirt.

In the living room, he was pacing in front of the sofa, fully dressed, as though they had never made love at all. He didn’t even look slightly rumpled. He offered her a quick glance and pointed to the couch. She sat. And waited. He made no effort to hurry the call, a call that had something to do with some tract of land in Valderia. And was she mistaken, or did he say something about the presidency? The presidency of the country? Surely not. She might have actually dozed again before the brush of his cool lips across her ear woke her.

When her eyes fluttered open, he pulled her onto his lap and held her close, and she wrapped her arms round his neck, feeling strangely vulnerable, strangely near tears. At last he spoke. ‘You should be in bed, my darling, sleeping. I have a very busy day planned for you tomorrow. Now come.’ He lifted her into his arms as though she were a child and carried her back to the bed. Carefully, gently, he slipped the knot of the robe and eased it off her body, pausing to admire and caress her breasts until she couldn’t hold back a tetchy little moan. ‘Are you aroused, sweetheart? Is that it?’ He ran a hand down over her belly and in between her legs and, as her breath caught in a little shudder, he tut-tutted. ‘Goodness, you are a horny little slut, aren’t you? Do you want my cock? Is that what you want?’

She was way too embarrassed by his use of such filthy talk to say what she wanted, and even more embarrassed that he had found her so needy, when all she had really hoped for was a little conversation, a little sharing. But he was already opening his fly. He made no effort to take off any of his clothing. She lay there fully exposed as he pushed her legs apart. ‘Goodness, look at you, darling. All wet and begging for it. Who knew that a little girl from down on the farm could be such a dirty thing?’ Before she could protest, before the heat in her face could dissipate, he positioned her and climbed on top of her. Just a single grunt and a shove, and he was in, and the hard stretch with no foreplay took her breath away and burned up inside her, but only for a minute, only until she got used to the thickness of him again, the depth. The raw rub of his thrusting against her clit was startling and almost too much to take, but it gave way to a deep, rhythmic thrumming that made her slippery and tight and hornier than she would have imagined possible under the circumstances.

‘There now, that’s my girl.’ His voice seemed so relaxed in spite of the hard swell of him and the tight thrust. ‘Let me take care of you and then you can rest. Goodness, you’re so tight, you’ve got me about to come too.’ And then he thrust harder, and she was embarrassed to hear her growls and moans, sounds she wouldn’t have believed herself capable of making during sex. She clawed at the back of his crisp white shirt and bucked against his heavy penis. One last hard thrust and she came, gabbling and mewling like a hungry calf led to the teat, and she felt the tensing of his abdominal muscles as he ejaculated.

Long before she was ready, he pulled away and found a towel. ‘There, now, that feels better, doesn’t it? You can sleep now, darling.’ He wiped her clean and gave her breasts a fondling. ‘And in the morning, my PA will pick you up at nine o’clock sharp.’ He brushed a kiss across her lips before she could protest. ‘I have to work tomorrow, sweetheart, but Terri has a wonderful day planned for you, and I’ll see you in the evening.’

Short of fleeing the very expensive hair salon still clad in the black and gold tunic that shielded her clothes, there was nothing Ingrid Watson could do to keep from becoming a blond. He wanted it that way, the stylist explained in his smarmy French accent, and what Monsieur Jamison wanted, Monsieur Jamison got. But of course she would look much more elegant and sophisticated as a blond, he reassured her. She figured the man would lie out his backside for Monsieur Jamison. And yet who would know better than Terrance Jamison what would make her into the successful artist she wanted to become.

Of course he was right. She was the emissary for her art. She absolutely had to look her best. And, really, how could a farm girl from the middle of nowhere know much about being sophisticated? She had her own style, and it had suited her just fine. But Minnesota wasn’t New York City, was it? Her focus had always been on creating her art. She’d spent little time thinking about how to package it, how to sell it, and how to sell herself as a brand. Surely she should listen to Mr. Jamison, and really, it was just the color of her hair. What did it matter? Her father wouldn’t like it, but surely even he’d come around when he realized it was good for her career.

So she let Jean Pierre shampoo her and style her and make her into a blond. Then there was a trip to a local spa where she was plucked and waxed and slathered to within an inch of her life before she was dressed in a teal pencil skirt slit high up one side and a white silk blouse that showed way more cleavage than she was used to. That was after she was shoved into expensive panties that were so silky they felt like they might slide right off her butt and a bra that mounded her breasts up until they looked like they could tumble over the top of the blouse any minute. Though she struggled not to be self-conscious, she couldn’t say she didn’t like it. And Mr. Jamison
had
said she had lovely breasts. So if he wanted her to flaunt her boobs – well, she’d get used to it.

She was told that Mr. Jamison had furnished the clothing for her, but he had requested the spa not do her make-up. And yet, even with no make-up, she felt like a new woman. Standing in front of the mirror with her matching heels and bag, she had to admit her new look was a lot more sophisticated than the old Ingrid Watson. In fact, dressed as she was, with her blond hair and push-up bra, she looked a little like Stacie Emerson.

Now she thought about it, the hairstyle Jean Pierre had given her was almost identical to the one Stacie Emerson wore in some of the photos she’d seen. She could do worse than to emulate a women she admired so much, the women who’d given her the big break. But as the limo arrived to take her to the hotel, she couldn’t help wondering if maybe Mr. Jamison had planned it that way. Maybe he wanted her to look like Stacie. Maybe he and Stacie actually had been lovers, and maybe he still had a thing for her. She pushed the thought out of her head and tried to feel good about her new look. It had certainly worked for Stacie Emerson. With any luck, it would work the same magic for her.

At the hotel, she had the suite all to herself. She took a bottle of sparkling water from the bar and paced through the rooms, wondering what time Mr. Jamison would be back. She didn’t have long to wait before she heard the electronic lock click, and she turned to find him standing inside the door wearing the biggest smile she’d seen on his face since she first met him. ‘My darling Ingrid, you look enchanting! Stunning. Such a transformation. I’m bowled over, completely bowled over.’ Before he could do more than pull her hand to his lips and brush it with a kiss, there was a knock on the door. ‘That’ll be Hilda. She’ll do your make-up for the night, and then we’ll celebrate. We have so much to celebrate, my dear Ingrid. I’ve arranged for you to see a gallery that you might possibly like, and I –’ he offered a deferential smile ‘– well, I’ve just bought myself a president in Valderia. But never mind that. That’s nothing with which you need to trouble your thoughts. A private victory. But even I still have to celebrate these things, you know? Now go with Hilda. When she’s finished your make-up, I’ll dress you myself, and then you’ll be perfect. Just perfect.’