Xquisite (12 page)

Two people stared at her: a very confused looking Leonore, and a handsome older man in a tuxedo who Chelsea recognized as the driver from last time. When she gave them a regal nod, Leonore’s jaw dropped while the man’s reaction was limited to a slight pulse in his jaw and a smile.

“This man—I mean—you’ve got a, he says he’s here for you.” The normally composed Leonore tripped over her words, her face flushed an unappealing pink.

“I
did
say I had an event,” Chelsea said coldly because, honestly, was it
so
unbelievable that such an elegant man might call for her?

The man’s smile broadened and he offered her his arm. As Chelsea slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow, he winked—not in a lascivious way, but almost conspiratorially. It was almost as if he saw right through Leonore’s snobby exterior and didn’t mind putting one over on her. “You look magnificent,” he said, and his voice was cultured and rich and slightly accented, an effect she was pretty sure he was exaggerating for her benefit.

This was a very
unusual
driver. Chelsea handed Leonore the box containing her clothes and said, “Put that on my desk if you will. I’ll pick it up later.”

And then she allowed herself to be escorted to the sleek black sedan idling at the curb, right there in front of the shop where Leonore couldn’t help noticing it, without looking back.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The driver dropped the ruse once they reached the car. He opened the door to the backseat, and as he navigated the evening traffic, they did not speak.

They didn’t travel far, but Chelsea’s gritty, up-and-coming neighborhood and the downtown address he took her to were worlds apart. The car glided to a stop in front of an art deco era hotel, a beautiful restored gem that Chelsea had only admired from the outside.

The driver came around to open her door, polite but distant. “The party is on the twentieth floor,” he said. “You’ll be met there. I trust you’ll have a nice evening.”

“I don’t even know your name,” Chelsea blurted, suddenly wishing he’d escort her past the bellboys who were already gawking at her dress. Her bag was all wrong—the black leather coarse and bulky in contrast with the dress—and she wasn’t sure she could make it across the lobby in those shoes.

A ghost of his earlier smile flashed across the driver’s mouth. “You may call me Mr. Smith.”

Really? Chelsea sighed. “Well, Mr. Smith, I’m very grateful.”

“It has been my pleasure.”

With that, he walked back around the car, and Chelsea was left standing in two ounces of fabric and five-inch heels, more intimidated than she’d ever been.

But she wasn’t going to show it. Bravado was something she had been forced to develop early on, and she’d faked her way through situations where her very survival was on the line. So she squared her shoulders and raised her chin and did her best to sashay into the hotel, barely nodding at the two bellboys who rushed to open the doors, and when she reached the elevator—of course it was manned; a place like this employed people to do even unnecessary tasks—she said only “Twentieth floor, please.”

The elevator creaked and groaned and rattled, and the operator—a young man who couldn’t have been more than twenty-two or –three—tried hard to hide the fact that he was staring at her.

Chelsea felt both pleased and mortified. She hoped she looked the way Ricardo wanted her to look, but in the next second she thought she looked very unlike her true self. Except that she’d never felt at home in
any
of her clothes, so how did she even know who her true self was? The jeans, the too-large shirts, the heavy motorcycle boots—they were camouflage, a uniform, something familiar to hide in. This dress—these shoes—she loved how they felt on her, the way she moved in them. Was it possible that this was who she was really meant to be?

When the doors finally parted, she was so lost in her thoughts that the appearance of Ricardo standing there came as a shock. If Mr. Smith had looked good in a tuxedo, Ricardo looked spectacular in his. It was simple but perfectly cut, his tie precisely knotted, the crisp white shirt understated. He was holding a tumbler of a
deep amber liquid, and when he saw her, he smiled—a beautiful, welcoming smile that didn’t quite hide a predatory hunger.

Behind him, a party milled: men in formal dress; women in stunning gowns. Diamonds and gemstones sparkled everywhere, and Chelsea touched her bare throat self-consciously. She didn’t wear much jewelry, and she’d worn none today—the clunky silver pieces she favored would have been out of place. Was the omission obvious? Could everyone tell? And her horrible purse dangling from her arm, would everyone notice and know that she was just playing dress-up?

Ricardo took her hand, his fingers holding hers so lightly and tenderly that she felt instantly better. He kissed her on the cheek, and though his lips only barely brushed hers, their warmth telegraphed need straight to all the sensitive nerve endings in her body.

“The dress suits you. You look beautiful.”

She swallowed and tried to appear at ease, normal. “How did you know my size?”

He arched an eyebrow. “The dress is custom-made. I assisted my father for many years, so I am able to make an educated guess where measurements are concerned. And the tailor I use in Los Angeles is very gifted.” A cloud passed over his eyes. “Not as gifted as my father. But talented.”

The momentary sadness was gone as quickly as it appeared. A clue as to who Ricardo really was…and Chelsea was seized with a desire to know more, to dig deeper. But the moment was lost.

Ricardo slid the handbag from her shoulder and signaled across the room and, instantly, a uniformed waiter appeared at his side.

“Please hold this for the lady,” he said.

The man bowed as though the request was not an unusual one.

“It’s—I didn’t have time to shop for an evening bag,” Chelsea said, mortified, the words tumbling out. She wouldn’t have the first idea where to look, but she could have borrowed something from Meredith if only it had occurred to her.

“It is of no importance,” Ricardo said, and somehow, his saying so made it true. She laced her fingers through his and followed him into the party.

#

“I promised Chelsea that I would show her the terrace,” Ricardo said when there was a break in the conversation.

As impressive as it had been to be introduced to the CEO of one of the largest media companies in North America and an actress who starred in the most binge-watched series on television, Chelsea had had trouble focusing on the conversation, only too aware of Ricardo’s presence inches away. He touched her intermittently, tiny circles on her lower back, a fingertip grazing the skin exposed by the cutouts at her waist. Even when he merely brushed her wrist to ask if he could get her another glass of champagne, his touch was driving her to distraction.

“The view is spectacular,” the actress said breathlessly. When she spoke to Ricardo, Chelsea had noticed, she was exceptionally animated. For everyone else, she had little to say.

“Yes—and of course it’s historically significant, as Woodrow Wilson’s lover threw herself off of it on the eve of the signing of the Versailles Treaty. Tragic, really.”

With that, he led her through the chattering throng and out the wide French doors, onto the stone terrace that ran the length of the building. Lit candles flickered along the stone balustrade, and an abandoned pair of empty glasses showed that others had been enjoying the view, but the only other people outside were two middle-aged couples talking companionably at the other end. They nodded to Ricardo, who smiled back.

“I didn’t know about Wilson’s lover,” Chelsea said. “Did you make that up?”

“Of course. The treaty was signed three years before this building was even built. But I find that woman insufferable.”

“I suppose it’s a victimless crime…
oh
.” Chelsea couldn’t help gasping as he put a hand to her waist and steered her to the corner of the balcony. She stood looking outward, her bare torso touching the rough, cold stone, and then had to pull away. Every sensation—rough, smooth, hot, cold—seemed to be a direct route to wanting. Lusting.

But Ricardo had trapped her there, his broad back protecting her from the view of the other partygoers. When she tried to turn and face him, he held her gently but firmly in place with his hands at her hips. His fingers neither stroked nor kneaded, so there was no reason for her to respond as she did.

“You—you have to stop,” she mumbled, feeling her face flame.

“You know how to make me stop,” he responded, his voice suddenly tight and hard. The safe word—that had to be what he meant, Chelsea thought, as one of his hands began to travel up her dress, his fingers sliding over the silk and the skin that it exposed, and then flicked—not gently—against her nipple. In response, the juices teasing the lips of her newly bared pussy gushed forth, the hot wetness unfamiliar against her bared skin, and dampened the inside of her thighs.

“No, it’s just—” This didn’t seem to be what a safe word was designed for since he wasn’t hurting her and she wasn’t afraid. Well, her nipple—she supposed that had been a kind of pain, but so wrapped and shrouded in pleasure that—but the fact remained that she had to do something, and fast. “I’m not wearing underwear,” she confessed in a whisper. “And I’m afraid that…I mean…there might be, um, people might be able to see, it’s just that when you touch me like that—and I can’t even help it, really, it’s—”

Another flick, harder this time, on the other nipple. She hadn’t even noticed his other hand moving. She groaned, the aftereffect of the sharp pain a thrill that radiated out, and a hunger for his touch, his mouth, his hot tongue, his teeth—everything she remembered of the other night and more. But the trickle down her leg reminded her where she was.

“You respond to me,” Ricardo said, his voice practically a threat. “I respond to you.”

“But they’ll see…” she said helplessly.

“Chelsea. If I walk through that room, and your dress bears the evidence of your desire for me, do you not think that every man in the room will be seized with envy? Will not every woman wish to feel what you feel?”

“I—I don’t know.”

Instead of answering, his hand moved back down, along the outer edge of her rib cage, the dip of her waist, the swell of her hip, igniting need along the way. She moved closer to the wall, grinding her pubis against the stone. She needed touch; she needed something to quell the desperate hunger.

He jerked her back, hands on her hips, jamming her ass against his very obvious arousal. “Be careful,” he whispered. “The gown is not made to endure rough treatment.” Then his hand moved lightning fast, reaching for the hem, pushing the silk up, moving over her hip, her ass. “Unlike you,” he added, his voice a carnal growl.

Unlike her. Rough treatment
. The words excited her, provoked her, opened the door to her forbidden desires, and she ground her ass against his cock, the layers of fabric between them frustrating her. The sounds of conversation and laughter from the other end of the balcony reached her as though from another planet, another time.

His hand moved to the cleft of her legs, sliding over her slick, bare folds. “Ah,” he murmured, his lips pressed to her hair. “Good girl. You followed instructions.”

Then he plunged his fingers inside her. This time he didn’t start with just one, teasing and exploring and making way; it felt like his entire hand at once demanding passage, the pain shooting through her at the same time she bucked against him, trying to drive him farther.

“I have three fingers inside you,
querida
,” he said, moving them with maddening slowness, drawing them out only to plunge them back in, ignoring her clit, which throbbed in need. “Someday, if you continue to be my very good girl, perhaps I’ll fuck you with my cock.”

“Oh God oh God yes please, please,” Chelsea muttered, only dimly aware of her surroundings as she rode his hand. If they didn’t stop, she was going to come, and she faintly remembered that it wasn’t a good idea, not here, not now, but how could she stop?—oh
God
please don’t let him stop…

He pulled his fingers out of her, suddenly and without warning, and slid his index finger into her mouth, wiping the other fingers on her face. She felt her hot, slick juices coating her chin, her neck.

“Do you want to come for all these nice people,
putita
? Do you want to put on a show?”

She trembled in his arms, suckling his fingers, unable to speak with him in her mouth, unable to pull away. But yes: yes, there was a part of her that very much wanted them to see. Wanted them to watch him using her, forcing her. An image flashed through her mind of herself on her knees, the beautiful dress pushed roughly up over her hips, his hands in her hair, fucking her mouth the way he had the other night.

With all the beautiful people from the party gathered around to watch.

She grabbed frantically at his forearm and jerked his hand from her mouth, horrified at the thought. It was the champagne, the elevation, the intoxicating effect of all the glamorous company…she was not herself.

Instantly, Ricardo loosened his grip on her, backing up to give her space to turn around. She pulled at her skirt, trying desperately to compose herself, afraid to
look over at the others, to see if they were watching, laughing, judging, maybe even feeling pity for her. The nobody out here on the patio, who couldn’t even wait to be taken to a room before she offered herself. The cheapest kind of fuck.

His hands covered hers, stilling them. Her hammering heart slowed.

“Look at me.” That same taut, almost angry voice. Slowly, reluctantly, she moved her gaze up his shirt—unmussed, unwrinkled, the tie still perfectly tied—over his smoothly shaven jaw and firm set of his mouth, to his eyes.

His beautiful, depthless, ebony eyes. Eyes that held secrets and an invitation.

He glared at her, and his anger—she had no idea how she’d provoked it, but some dark emotion was undeniably there—seemed to ebb only with a tremendous show of self-control. “You are a beautiful woman, Chelsea. What we do together…it is nothing to be ashamed of. It is…”