Xquisite (5 page)

At a little after three o’clock, the bell affixed to the gallery’s front door chimed, and an elderly man in a beautifully tailored, if ancient, suit shuffled in.
Chelsea’s assistant asked if he could be of help, but the man demurred politely and continued shuffling until he stood before Chelsea’s desk in the back of the gallery with his hands clasped in front of him.

“You are as lovely as my son he tell me,” he said in a thick Russian accent, and Chelsea recognized the resemblance in the man’s wizened face to Alexander, the proprietor of the little café from which she had fled yesterday. Her face flushed at the memory—what else had Alexander told his father? And what was he doing here?

He reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out a card. Even from a distance she could tell it was the same as the one Ricardo had given her the other night—and which was now sitting propped against a bronze vase on a shelf above her tiny dining table. She should have thrown it out. After all, it held no useful information even if she had wanted to get in touch with Ricardo: only his full name, which was indelibly imprinted on her brain despite its length. Ricardo Francisco Eduardo Portilla de Santos, the letters engraved deeply in plain type on the heavy white card stock. Pretentious, ostentatious, and useless.

“Mr. de Santos told me he would be stopping by,” she said, trying to mask her irritation.

The man held out the card, undaunted. “Mr. de Santos, he is call away. He send me for give you to this.”

She sighed and took the card from him. On the back, in bold handwritten block letters, was an address, along with the words
Thursday 8pm
.

“Did Mr. de Santos not explain that he was expecting an answer to a question?” Chelsea asked.

To her surprise and annoyance, the elderly man seemed to find this amusing. He chuckled, his eyes disappearing into a mass of wrinkles, and then had to dab at his brow with a snowy white handkerchief before he said, “No, no, he say only that he happy to make you deal.”

With that, her messenger gave her a final bow and turned to go—and immediately turned around again, his gaze fixed on the four paintings hung on the wall behind her desk. Her father’s paintings, where she could see them whenever she wanted, where they could inspire her even on the hardest days.

The paintings often drew attention, and she’d received dozens of offers to buy them, even before people knew they were the work of the great Marcus Ryder. She declined each offer politely, even those that could have financed a move to a better location, an apartment big enough for a real couch, a car to replace her fifteen-year-old Honda Civic.

“Ah,” the old man said. “Very nice.”

“You know art?” Chelsea said, softening. The man couldn’t help being used as Ricardo’s pawn, after all.

“No, no. But a man knows a thing of beauty when he sees it, yes?”

Chelsea was pretty sure he winked at her as he left.

#

Another woman would call her best friend, her mother, her sister—some female confidante to talk her through the ridiculous situation she’d gotten herself into.

But Chelsea had none of these. Oh, there was Meredith, and a few other women on the art scene who she was friendly with. But Chelsea had trouble getting truly close to people, and her schedule left little time for socializing.

Her very best friends were her Fairy Godfathers, as they’d dubbed themselves—Donny and Rufus, the salon owners who first took her in when she was a teenage runaway. In the years since then, they had moved the salon to a trendy downtown location and upgraded their clientele along with their services and prices. Rufus was a short, bald, stocky sixty-something man with perfectly trimmed silver facial hair and the best skin in Los Angeles, thanks to his fastidious use of his private line of skin care products. Donny was a tall, elegant man whose heritage was as much of a melting pot as Los Angeles itself. People often assumed that the two men were a couple, but the truth was that they had met while serving in Afghanistan and been best friends ever since. Their complicated romantic lives had served as an education in human relationships when Chelsea was just a teen, but now she didn’t bother to keep track of who was seeing whom. At least once a month she went to dinner with them, and the conversation always picked up effortlessly wherever they’d left off. For a woman whose first father figure had died, and whose second had turned out to be a monster, Chelsea counted it her greatest luck in life that she’d received two more chances.

That night she worked late, knowing that the salon was open until seven, and then timed her arrival just as the last customers were leaving.

“Mei Mei!” Donny bellowed, setting down his broom with a flourish. “Come to papa!”

Chelsea allowed herself to be swept into his arms, then passed to Rufus, who clucked over her hair, as always. “Terrible,” he judged, looking like he might cry as he fingered the split ends. “A travesty.”

“I need…” Chelsea began, and then she got stuck. Advice was what she needed. But these two, who’d been desperate for her to find love for so long, would seize upon any man she talked about as
the one
. For guys whose own love affairs tended to be casual, they were surprisingly set upon a fairy tale ending for their “little girl.”

“Money?” Rufus said, already reaching for his wallet.

“A date?” Donny chimed in—Chelsea had taken him to many an art opening or charity event.

“A drink,” Chelsea mumbled.

And then she spent several hours tipping back manhattans in Rufus’s apartment above the shop and avoiding the topic she’d come to discuss. What had she been thinking, that her fairy godfathers would wave their magic wands and make everything clear to her? This was as grown-up a situation as she’d ever found herself in—drawn to a man whose intentions were both murky and possibly dangerous; intrigued to the point of making what might be a terrible mistake.

As she kissed them both goodnight and headed out into the sultry evening, she mouthed a thank you to the fates for sending her these two wonderful friends. But clearly, this was one decision she was going to have to make on her own.

CHAPTER FIVE

At seven minutes after eight o’clock the next night, Chelsea was standing at the base of the steps that led up to the walkway in front of the stately old stone building. At one time, it may have housed a single family—and their servants—but the interior had been converted into several elegant apartments. There were two doors, painted a deep navy that contrasted with the ivy trailing up the walls. On the door on the right, a note was written in the same bold hand as the address on the card in her purse.

Come up

Well. A man who left his front door open was either asking for trouble or…perhaps standing at the top of the stairs with the rope he was going to use to strangle her. Chelsea giggled manically: she wasn’t just nervous, she was losing her mind.

She’d decided at least five times to simply stand Ricardo up, but she couldn’t let this opportunity pass by, even if she had no way of knowing if he was telling the truth about the painting that he claimed to have access to. She would never forgive herself for missing a chance to add a piece of her father’s work to her collection—and the price Ricardo had named was cheap. She could certainly spare a single night with him.

But it wasn’t just the opportunity to secure the painting that tantalized her. She was haunted by memories of the effect he had on her, even at the cost of her mortification. He drew her to him as irresistibly as the moon draws the tides from the sea. The man could inspire craven desire in her with a look, with the slightest touch…with a cookie. She wanted more; she wanted to see how far he could take her.

The truth was that sex had become rather rote for her lately. Her need for it had always been far out of proportion to the satisfaction she received from it, but in the last year or two her sessions with her various lovers had almost come to feel like a dreary chore.

Benedict, Caleb, the others—none of them made her feel what she felt around Ricardo. Was it nothing more than her body’s animalistic response to an exquisitely beautiful man? And wasn’t that hypocritical, since she paid so little attention to her own grooming? Meredith would say that it was about time for that stereotype—a woman spending hours on her appearance while her man gave no thought to his—to be upended, and she would be right, but—

Nine minutes after eight. It was time to pull up her big girl panties (she’d worn a pair of the serviceable beige cotton bikinis that were always stacked in her drawer by the dozen) and get on with it.

She opened the door and found herself in a dim foyer lit by a beautiful chrome and glass fixture. An Oriental carpet lined the stairs; her feet made no noise as she ascended. At the top, the stairs opened out onto a vast space that was a
combination of vintage appointments and modern design. French doors opened onto a patio with a view of the city laid out far below. The open kitchen gleamed with sleek appliances and creamy marble counters. Bookcases that looked like they belonged in an English college lined the walls, and pale leather chairs and a low-slung white couch shared floor space with midcentury tables and curving, dimly lit lamps. Delicious, savory aromas wafted from the kitchen, but the counters were bare and there was no evidence that anyone had recently been cooking.

It took Chelsea a moment to notice Ricardo standing near the open patio doors, his face in shadow. A few candles flickered on the outdoor dining table, which had been elaborately set with linens and crystal. The interior of the apartment was also dim, lit only by a few lamps and more candles. Music—a minor-key Beethoven sonata, if she had to guess—seemed to be emanating from the walls themselves, the beautiful sound quality a far cry from the blocky second-hand speaker Chelsea had found in an alley and dragged up to her apartment.

“You’re late.” Ricardo stepped forward into the light, and Chelsea could see his gorgeous, unsmiling face. “See that it doesn’t happen again.”

“It’s barely ten minutes after eight!” Chelsea protested, trying to ignore the frisson of sensation that ran like wildfire over her body, making her skin tingle. It seemed to be her body’s natural response to his voice, even—especially?—when he was displeased.

“Which is not the same thing as eight o’clock, is it?” He stepped closer until he was standing only inches away, and Chelsea thought that he was about to kiss her. It was too soon, and yet she felt her body yielding to the idea, her lips parting in anticipation.

But instead, Ricardo reached for her collar. Her blouse was another thrift shop find, with rows of tiny pin tucks along the yoke that gave it fullness. Chelsea appreciated the blouse for the way it hid her shape. Ricardo, clearly, had a different opinion. His fingertips brushed against the fabric, and he frowned but said nothing.

“You don’t like my shirt.” She regretted the petulant tone in her voice, but most men would have managed a compliment, even if it was an insincere one. At least, they would if they wanted to get laid.

“My father was a tailor.” Ricardo shrugged. “A very good one. His work was meticulous. He taught me to appreciate properly cut and fitted clothes.”

Chelsea bit back the retort she’d been ready to fling. Well, that explained some things, at least—like why the man was so impeccably dressed. And, possibly, why he was driven to succeed if his father had labored in a humble profession. Chelsea let her gaze travel over Ricardo’s own shirt—a textured, mallard blue silk—to the gray trousers and the fine leather belt and polished shoes. He smelled as he had both other times she’d been with him, and Chelsea had the thought that the scent suited Ricardo perfectly, and no other man.

“I will buy you a dress.”

It was a statement, not a request, and a bold one at that.
I never wear dresses
. The retort welled inside her, but it came from the place where she stored her most painful memories, a grim repository of the past from which nothing escaped. Not even her fairy godfathers knew everything that had happened to her before she ran
away. Not even her would-be savior, Stone Everson, knew
everything
—although he knew the most.

Tonight was not a night to think about that.

It was when those memories threatened to surface that Chelsea turned, almost blindly, to her lovers. Any of them would do, on the worst nights—just someone to flail against, to beat her fists on, to provide the exertion and release to drown the pain, at least for a while.

And standing in front of her was a perfectly serviceable male. Why had she ever resisted getting involved with him? He was just a man…it would be just a fuck. There was nothing magical about it, and she was far from a delicate virgin.

Abruptly, she reached her hand around Ricardo’s neck and pulled him closer for a kiss. She would make it explicit; dinner could wait, no matter how delicious it smelled. She’d fuck him hard and thoroughly and then there would be time for a drink, for dinner, for the patio with its magnificent view. More sex afterward, if he wanted—after all, the terms of the deal were that she was his for the night.

She lifted her lips to his, closing her eyes.

Just as abruptly, he yanked her hand away from his neck and took a step back. He held onto her wrist, however, and twisted it in such a way that pain—shocking, excruciating pain—shot through her arm and she nearly doubled over.

“No.” It was a command, leaving no room for argument. Chelsea gasped, the pain in her arm clouding her brain. It seemed to take no effort at all on his part; he might as well have been turning a page in a book. “You do not touch me without being told to. Say you understand.”

“I understand,” Chelsea gritted out, desperate to escape the torture. Instantly, Ricardo dropped her hand and the pain disappeared—completely, leaving no trace. Chelsea stood up and rubbed her wrist and wondered where he’d learned to do that.

“What is this?” she demanded, once she caught her breath. Pain wasn’t part of the bargain, at least not in her mind. Who knew what else he was capable of if he could deliver such agony with so little effort? Her purse was inches away, where she’d set it on a coffee table. All she had to do was make a grab for it, and then she could be gone before he could react—if she was lucky. And fast.