Wounded Birds (The Grayson Series Book 1) (4 page)

“Terrific idea. I’ll be up at your apartment at seven.”

“Perfect. See you anon, Michael.”

“Not soon enough,” he murmurs and disconnects the call.

I jump off the sofa, dancing with merriment across the room with mirth. When was the last time I ever felt this attracted to a man? Never! Not even Danny made my heart flutter the way Michael does, and then I stop spinning as the past decides to creep up on me like a thousand scorpions crawling over my skin, reminding me what marriage was like with my ex-husband. It was dark, grim, and painful. Damn. I’m so tired of living in fear. There were plenty of men wanting a relationship with me, but the thought of being with a man only brought out dreadful memories of Danny.

My grandfather always used to say to me, “Ariana, follow your gut.” Which is what I intend to do. For some unknown reason, I trust Michael. My grandfather never did like Danny. He used to call him a serpent meaning snake in French. I should have followed my instinct back then, but I was too young and naive.

I let out a loud whoop and jump up, pumping my fist in the air. I rush into the bedroom, taking the closet apart, wondering what to wear for this evening.

I sigh with relief. A black garment grabs my attention.
It has a mesh overlay of embroidered lace over a lustrous satin slip-dress.

Instead of working, I turn on my surround sound and danced around my apartment with thoughts of Michael.

Chapter 3

Chocolate Truffles

I walk into the living room in a sexy black dress, with a deep sweetheart neckline. I take note of the pretty package on the table waiting to be relished. I smile and open the little treasure chest filled with sweets. Inside are delicate truffles, each perched in its own gold, foil mini-cups robed in drippings of colorful chocolates—almonds, hazelnuts and coconut. Whoever this YL is, she put all her heart and soul into preparing these.

I lick my lips and reach for another mouthwatering truffle, and moan. One lonely ball of sweetness sits in the box. I can’t believe I ate eleven truffles. They were; without a doubt, the most scrumptious little treats I’ve ever experienced. As much as it pains me, I should save the last one for Michael.

I stare into the box, and something catches my eye. Hmm, what’s this tucked away below the foil, and before I pull it out, the intercom rings. I glance at the time. “My God, seven already.” I place the box down. I hurry over to answer. “Yes, Ryan.”

“Mr. Michael Grayson is here to see you,” he answers.

“Please send him up,” I reply, and I’m jolted with rapid pitter-patters of anxiety. I dart off to the bathroom and check my lipstick. The elevator bell sounds off, alerting me of Michael’s arrival.

I hurry into the foyer, and Michael walks out, dressed to kill in his elegant black tuxedo; his silky hair parted to the side in thick waves. His eyes soft and glowing, leaving me breathless.

“Ariana, you are exquisite,” he says, studying me with entrancing eyes.

I blush. “Thank you, and you look dashing as always,” I reply.

He moves closer, and I inhale his cologne. My eyes grow wide as the scent ignites every private part of my body to life. I look down at my feet and close my eyes for a brief moment visualizing my hands beneath his jacket stroking his warm solid chest as his heat filtrates into my skin.

I start as he brushes his fingers under my chin, pulling it up, causing the goose bumps to rise. He bends down, and our mouths meet, and his soft, smooth lips kiss mine with pristine care. I feel my cheeks flush, and my body turned to Jell-O.
What happened to ‘keep your cool,’ Ariana?
I ask myself.
That went right out the window.

“Thank you. You have a certain glow when you blush,” he compliments with a slight chuckle and takes a gentle hold of my shoulders, which has me weak and quivering in the knees. I don’t think I’m going to survive the night.

“Let’s go in for a drink.” I motion toward the living room, to keep from falling at his feet. I sway, losing balance, and Michael wraps his arm around my waist to steady me, making me gasp for breath from his touch.

“Ariana,” he says, startled, looking nervous. “Are you okay?”

I let out a breath I had no idea I was holding. “I’m fine, Michael, don’t worry. I place the blame on you,” I say, shocking the hell out of him.

“Me?” His head jerks back; eyebrows raised, and mouth open with a stunned look.

“Yes, you. You’re making me light-headed.” I laugh. “Now, let’s go get our drinks.” I gestured towards the room.

His eyes widen. “I don’t know if you’re joking or serious, but you just blew me over the edge,” he says and bursts out laughing, sending erotic music echoing throughout the room.

Michael whistles as we enter the living room. “You have a beautiful home, Ariana.”

“Thank you, a gift from my grandfather. It was overly generous of him.”

“It’s breathtaking. How many rooms do you have? If you don’t mind me asking.”

“Four bedrooms and five bathrooms.” My home is spacious, filled with traditional furnishings. Persian rugs that I purchased when I visited Egypt are scattered throughout the apartment over polished, wood parquet floors. I hired a decorator. I have no sense of taste for interior décor. She did an outstanding job.

The living room has three sets of French doors. The wet bar is a full-blown kitchen situated across the room with six stools. The commercial size kitchen is on the other side of the elevators. A favorite room of mine is the library, which is located between my bedroom and living room.

We reach a set of French doors to the terrace, which bestows a spectacular view of Central Park. The sun begins to set beyond the horizon, treating us to a spectrum of orange, pink, and red hues and casting its luminous reflection over the Manhattan skyline.

The terrace is landscaped with potted flowers and weeping cherry trees displaying an array of colorful leaves. The place is large enough to accommodate close to sixty people, as is the formal dining room.

I’ve already set a bottle of wine and two glasses on a small hand-painted tile table facing the glass doors. “I thought it would be too chilly to sit outside.” I gestured toward the chair. We sit side by side, facing the stunning view of the sunset.

I can’t help but stare at him, bewildered by the beauty of his well-defined features, his eyes so vibrant they penetrate right through you, and his seductive English accent that throws my equilibrium off balance.

“Thank you again for the flowers; they’re exquisite.”

“You’re welcome,” he murmurs. He reaches over and takes me by the hand, brushing his fingers over my knuckles. I’m enveloped by a warm, invigorating sensation, leaving me spellbound and my stomach to bubble over. I’m moved by his tender touch, yet it scares me, and I pull away.

I pour us each a glass of 2010 Terra Di Lavoro and I lift my wineglass to his. “To a beautiful evening,” I toast.

“To us,” he says, and our glasses clink.

I swallow the smooth, soothing liquid. I’m caught off guard by a tingling sensation throughout my body, along with a surge of wooziness. Surely, the drink hasn’t hit me that fast. There is only one explanation for this unusual effect, and he’s sitting right beside me.

“This wine has a rich, smooth taste to it. It’s opulent,” Michael compliments.

“Thank you, it’s produced on this tiny vineyard on the slopes of the Roccamonfina volcano in Italy. It’s from my late grandfather’s collection,” I explain.

“Excellent choice,” Michael praises and lifts his glass to savor another taste of the rich wine.

“Thank you.” I take another small sip, letting the wine swoosh around in my mouth and swallow it.

“Stunning view.” Michael says.

“Yes, I agree. Peaceful, like being on vacation.” I drink the remainder of wine and place the glass down.

“The perfect hideaway to escape from a long stressful day. That’s if you ever have one,” he expresses with a smile that will melt down steel.

“Believe it or not, my work is stressful. There is a lot of stress with filming. Several times we’ve encountered electrical issues, battery runs down on the cameras; the manager is not on time when we need her or him to take us for the first round of the hotel. The list goes on. The weather plays a big part. One hotel we went to go film we were caught in a hurricane.”

“That couldn’t have been any fun,” Michael comments shaking his head.

“No, not at all. Especially since it set us back three days,” I laugh, and suddenly I feel tired and drowsy. Maybe some cool air will shake this awkwardness. “Come, let’s go out onto the terrace, so you can see the park.”

“I would like that.” Michael stands, extending his hand out for mine. I grasp it, and my insides explode from the energy penetrating through my skin. I stand up, and he follows. We walk towards the French doors that lead to the terrace. A sudden uneasiness settles over me. My heart is stuttering, my skin turning cold and clammy. I take a few more steps, unbalanced and weak. Everything begins to blur and spin, and I’m beginning to see double, triple. Before I get a chance to grab onto something, my knees buckle.

***

“Ariana . . . . Ariana.”

“Hmm?” I murmur.

“Ariana . . . . Wake up sweetheart.”

I feel a nudge, like someone is trying to get my attention. My eyes open and Michael is sitting beside me. I gasp, alarmed to find myself lying on the sofa, “What happened?” I ask, all disoriented.

“You fainted, Ariana,” he explains, with a wary expression in his eyes. “How do you feel?”

“A little distraught.” I glance at the time. “Oh, Michael, we need to leave if we want to make it to the opera.” I sit up and sway from the dizziness. I take hold of my head, wondering when the spinning is going to end.

I’m startled by Michael’s firm hold on my shoulders. “We’re not going anywhere. You need to lay back down. You don’t look so well,” he says with a stern tone, his eyebrows drawn together.

“Michael, don’t be silly. I’m okay. I would hate to waste the tickets. I’m sure you paid an exorbitant amount for them.”

“I don’t give a damn about the money, Ariana. My concern is you. Did you drink earlier?” He asks, his voice softer.

“No,” I answer. I take a deep breath to calm the whirling around me. What is wrong with me?

He touches my forehead, examining me. “You have no fever. Have you eaten anything since our lunch? Do you take any medication that you may have forgotten about?” He spews out with a disturbed expression.

“I indulged in homemade chocolate truffles from a fan about an hour ago. Well, I ate pretty much the whole box. I did leave you one. It’s sitting on the counter.” I smile pointing in the direction of the kitchen.

The right corner of his lip curves up along with his eyebrow, making him appear sexier. “You left me one out of how many truffles?” He questions me.

“I ate eleven. I couldn’t help myself. They were
delicious
, coated in hazelnut, almonds, and shredded coconut. What can I say, I’m a chocoholic,” I express with a chuckle, feeling a bit dazed.

Michael stands and walks towards the chocolates. He picks up the box and fumbles through the empty foils but one. “I found a small note in the box. May I read it?” He asks.

“Of course,” I answer. I watch as he skims over the words and his demeanor begins to change. He looks puzzled, anxious, and a horrifying gaze fills his eyes. My heart starts to race. “What’s wrong, Michael?” I ask with apprehension.

He sighs. “Let me read it to you, and you’ll understand.”

This is your number-one fan, my little princess. I was so aroused to hear that beautiful voice when I called you at the restaurant. How is Mr. Grayson?

I imagined my lips kissing yours, my hands over your soft, smooth skin. I look forward to us meeting. I love everything about you. You’re beautiful on the screen, but breathtaking in person. I’m sure you’ve seen me, or maybe not, I’m like a chameleon, I blend into my surroundings. I’m never far from your side.

I hope you enjoyed the homemade chocolate truffles. I added a little something to help you slumber with thoughts of me. Don’t worry, baby doll. It won’t kill you. I want you alive and well when we finally meet. I love you.

Sleep well, baby doll.

Signed,

YL - Your lover

P.S. If you get the police involved, you'll be buried with the flowers I planted.

My eyes grow wide, and a painful tightness wraps around my chest, leaving me breathless. My leg starts to bounce, and my heart is pounding madly in my throat.

Michael is staring at me. No, he’s glaring at me, with his lips pressed in a hard-line. The temperature in the room seems to drop ten degrees, chilling the atmosphere.

“Ariana,” he says with a clenched jaw. He looks ready to snap.

I can tell by his tone of voice he’s on edge, and I know why. I lied to him about the caller.

“Yes,” I say, barely a whisper.

He moves towards me, infuriated, and sits beside me. His leg brushes up against mine, making me jump. He looks into my eyes and then at my lips as if he wants to kiss me and then shakes his head and clears his throat.

“Why did you tell me the phone call you received at the restaurant was a wrong number?” He asks, trying to stay in control, his muscles twitching around his jaw.

“I didn’t want to worry you. This doesn’t concern you anyway,” I ramble on defensively. “Many TV personalities get sick fans harassing them.” I wave a hand in the air, getting hit with another wave of dizziness.

Cold sweats begin to course through me. I wipe the moisture off my forehead with a clammy hand. I’m filled with a million thoughts. What did he mean he added a little something to help me slumber? Oh, shit. What was in those truffles? I thought his e-mails and phone call was just to rattle me, but this isn’t a joke to him; he has a plan for me. I blink several times before turning in Michael’s direction. He stands and stares at me; his features etched with worry.

“I’m taking you to the hospital,” he orders, his posture stiff.

I gasp. “No,” I choke out.

“Ariana, you don’t have a choice. We need to know what were in those chocolates,” he grounds out, his eyes piercing through me. The tension in the air is so thick I can slice it with a knife.

I shake my head again. “Please don’t,” I whisper.

He sits and lets out a frustrated sigh, rolls his eyes, and pulls out his iPhone from his suit jacket and speaks into the phone. “Call Josh.” Michael hits the speaker on his cell phone.