Xquisite (6 page)

“I understand that some things are not yet clear,” Ricardo said calmly. “I ask for your trust. You are familiar with the concept of a safe word?”

“Yes, but—”

“You shall have one. According to the terms of our arrangement, you are mine for tonight, to do with as I like. But at any point, if you utter the safe word, I will stop whatever I am doing and you will be free to go. The deal will be off, of course, and I will not be able to provide you with the information about your father’s work. The choice will be up to you.”

As unnerving as it was to find herself immobilized with pain only moments into the date, Chelsea resented the idea that Ricardo expected her to give in. Did she appear weak to him? Helpless? Her intuition told her he wasn’t going to harm her, and she trusted her intuition, above all. Whatever else he planned to inflict—well, she’d endured more than most people could imagine. “I don’t need a safe word.”

“Yes. You do.”

Rather than frighten her, those words stirred the sensations inside her. She felt her pussy swell with anticipation, her nipples hardening. “Fine. I choose—”

“You choose nothing.” His voice was steel. “Your safe word is ‘Magnolia.’”

Chelsea’s eyes widened with shock. How could he know—but then again, it was a common word; there could be a dozen reasons why he chose it. He couldn’t possibly have known that until she was fourteen years old, she lived in a tiny, neglected bungalow less than a mile from the current location of her gallery…on Magnolia Street. The house had been torn down a decade ago, the code violations and vermin and rodents too much for the people who acquired the property, and a liquor store now stood there instead.

Still, Chelsea’s happiest memories were from when she lived in that place with her parents before everything fell apart. “Magnolia,” she whispered.

“Be careful,
niña hermosa
,” Ricardo said. “The next time you say that word, our time together will be over. So make sure that if you say it, you mean it.

“And now,” he said, turning on his heel and heading for the kitchen, “please take a seat outdoors. There is a good Malbec on the table. Pour us each a glass.”

Chelsea stood rooted to the spot for a moment. She wasn’t accustomed to being ordered around, but as Ricardo had so brutally reminded her, he was in control of this night. She went out on the patio, taking a moment to enjoy the view. The treetops and manicured gardens in the hills gave way to the buildings of downtown in the distance, the lights sparkling like a carpet of stars.

She took a seat in one of the chairs and picked up a crystal decanter filled with ruby wine. She poured some in each of the balloon glasses, then put hers to her nose and inhaled: magnificent. Chelsea could rarely afford good wine, but Rufus was a bit of a connoisseur and had often served her his favorite vintages over the years, teaching her everything he knew. Donny teased Rufus that he was trying to be Professor Higgins in
My Fair Lady
, but thanks to his efforts, Chelsea had developed a refined palate.

Ricardo soon emerged from the kitchen, holding two steaming dishes, which he set on the linen tablecloth. On each was a beautifully composed presentation of grilled salmon with a silky sauce, julienned vegetables, and seeded wafers artistically stacked on top.

“Salmon with serrano aioli,” Ricardo said. “Also saffron pickled shallots and charred lemongrass vinaigrette. I do hope it isn’t overcooked. Unlike you, my chef is punctual, so it has been under the warmer since 7:55.”

“It—looks fine,” Chelsea said stiffly, irritated by the rebuke. Who planned a meal for the moment a guest arrived? For all his urbane sophistication, Ricardo had some odd habits.

“Perhaps I should have explained in advance that we would eat immediately upon your arrival,” Ricardo conceded as if reading her mind. “We must make the most of our time together, after all.”

“I could have just picked up a cheeseburger on the way over,” Chelsea snapped. “Then you wouldn’t have had to feed me at all.”

Ricardo looked up from draping his napkin precisely on his lap, one eyebrow raised. “If you mean to provoke me,” he said, his voice deadly serious, “you are succeeding.”

Chelsea dropped her gaze and focused on cutting a bite of fish to hide her discomfiture. But as she lifted the morsel to her lips, the complex mélange of flavors stirred her senses. It was delicious: the firm, flaky flesh of the fish topped with savory slivered vegetables and tart, creamy sauce. She closed her eyes as she chewed, concentrating on what was surely the best meal she’d had in months.

When she opened her eyes again, Ricardo had not touched his food. He was watching her, idly twisting the stem of his wine glass the way he had his champagne glass that night weeks ago.

“You’re not eating?” she asked.

Ricardo pointed at her plate. “Please. Enjoy.”

So she did. She hadn’t eaten a thing since a protein bar for breakfast—she’d been too nervous. Now, however, she was suddenly ravenous. She was aware of Ricardo’s eyes on her as she made short work of the meal. Ricardo poured more wine for both of them; he was at least drinking along with her.

When she was finished, he picked up both plates and took them to the kitchen, his meal untouched.

“So are you anorexic or something?” Chelsea asked when he returned, aiming for levity.

“Hardly. My mother was an extraordinary cook…but I find that I am distracted this evening.”

He set down a single plate containing a poached pear in a pool of silky straw-colored sauce.

“This, however, was one of her specialties and a favorite of mine. I never miss a chance to enjoy it.”

He cut a piece of the pear, twirling it in the sauce. Then he held the fork out to her.

“What, now you’re going to feed me?”

“Yes.”

There was a challenge in his gaze. Chelsea maintained eye contact for as long as she could, but it was…difficult. Like lifting a heavy weight over her head, her strength sapped the longer she tried to hold out. Eventually her lashes fluttered downward, and she parted her lips, acquiescing.

He gently placed the fork between her lips, and the pear slid off the silver tines. Chelsea chewed; the tender fruit was coated with smooth rum-laced caramel, spiced with cardamom and cloves and other things she couldn’t identify. It was truly extraordinary.

Ricardo alternated bites between them, cutting each with a disciplined precision, never allowing the sauce to drip on the linen cloth. Soon, the pear was gone.

Chelsea dabbed at her lips with her napkin and sighed with pleasure. “I’ve never tasted anything like that.”

“It will be a night of firsts.”

Chelsea stared at him. His audacity was irrepressible, it seemed. She ought to be irritated. “How do you know?” she asked, but the question lacked the outrage she tried to inject.

One corner of his mouth quirked up in amusement. “That question doesn’t even deserve an answer. Come,
mi bella
.”

He stood, holding out a hand. Chelsea took it, giving in to the warmth of his touch. Now, finally, they would make love…or fuck…or whatever he had in mind. She was ready. Her panties were damp with anticipation; she had imagined her mouth on his burnished, smooth skin with each bite of dessert.

Hand in hand, they walked back into the main room of the apartment.

CHAPTER SIX

“Stand here,” Ricardo said, pausing in the living room. Not,
take a seat
. Not
make yourself comfortable
.

There was definitely an edge to Ricardo’s voice when he gave her directions, Chelsea thought as he went to a cupboard in the kitchen and withdrew more candles and matches. He took his time, his movements deliberate. He was certainly a pleasure to watch, the muscles in his broad shoulders moving under the fine fabric of his perfectly tailored shirt, his fine posture showcasing his narrow hips and an ass that—despite being covered by fine gabardine—looked like it might have been carved from marble centuries ago by a sculptor whose intention was to capture the perfect male form.

But Ricardo was in no hurry, and he’d left her standing there with nothing to do, and Chelsea’s irritation was piqued. She was accustomed to choreographing the evenings she spent with her lovers. Yes, her need for control might be a little extreme, but it was also understandable, wasn’t it? She had to make sure that none of her encounters ever slid into territory that would remind her of those terrible afternoons in the basement of the house she lived in after her dad was gone, after there was no one left to protect her. And the way that she learned to protect herself was to call all the shots.

Standing in the living room while a man rooted around for candles was
not
calling all the shots.

“You have any beer?” she called and plopped onto the white sofa that probably cost more than rent on her apartment for a year, and was considering taking off her boots and putting her feet up on the ottoman, when Ricardo appeared suddenly at her side. He glared down at her, a box of wooden matches in one hand.

“Did I, or did I not, tell you to
stand
here?” he muttered through a clenched jaw, pointing to the spot on the carpet where he had left her.

“Well, yes, but—”

“And again, please correct me if I am mistaken, but do you not have a considerable investment in the outcome of this evening?”

He was throwing it in her face—the chance to obtain one of her father’s works, the thing that mattered more to her than anything in her life. But the resentment that Chelsea felt was overshadowed by emotions much more complex, impossible to tease apart in the heady atmosphere, after the wine and the delicious food, the music playing softly in the background, the faint but heady scent of the man glaring down at her.

The attraction that was growing stronger by the second. Yes, she was horny, more so as every moment passed. Well, if she had to play along with his little games in order to get laid, as well as pursue the far greater reward that would come after she fulfilled her side of the bargain, then what did she care?

“I know what you’re doing, you know,” she said, standing up and smoothing her blouse down over her hips, moving to stand on the precise spot on the carpet that he had indicated. “This is some sort of domination fantasy you want to play out, right? I mean, whatever floats—”

She stopped abruptly when he reached out to caress her face, his fingertip tracing over her lips in a “hush” gesture. He grazed her skin so lightly, it was almost as though she was being touched by his thoughts, his intentions, rather than his flesh. She found herself holding her breath and remaining utterly still as his caresses moved along her jawline, butterfly soft, and down, trailing along the vulnerable front of her throat, to the hollow below, which he traced with the pad of his thumb.

Need pooled hot and wet inside Chelsea. Okay, he could take her now—right here if he wanted. She didn’t need a bed. Or even a chair. This richly patterned Oriental rug, though it was probably worth tens of thousands of dollars, would suit her just fine, and he could—

While his thumb stayed nestled in the hollow of her throat, the rest of his hand suddenly circled her neck, his long, strong fingers extending halfway around. Then he squeezed. Not hard enough to hurt her, but certainly enough to get her attention. The pressure lasted only a few seconds, but it was long enough for her to see the change in his eyes, to watch the emotion contained in their depths catch fire and burn.

Just as abruptly Ricardo released the pressure, and the touch returned to being a caress. It was over so quickly Chelsea almost thought she’d imagined it. As with the twist of his wrist earlier that had nearly driven her to her knees, Ricardo seemed to be a master at manipulating her, at parceling out pain—and force—in precisely controlled doses. Exactly enough to get her attention and no more.

Oh
. Now he was running his fingers slowly, luxuriantly, through her hair, those strong fingers rubbing circles on her scalp. His hand moved through her tangled locks and she wished, briefly, that she had let Donny do something—anything—to her untamed hair. But before her thoughts could completely gel into a note-to-self about scheduling a trim, Ricardo suddenly twisted his hand—deftly, quickly—and her head was savagely yanked back, forcing her to look directly up at his face.

His deadly serious gaze.

“I think there is a misunderstanding that we should clear up before this evening moves forward.”

He waited, and tears began to form at the corners of her eyes—tiny tears of pain at the excruciating pressure on the hairs along her tender nape. She nodded, gulping hard. Whatever the misunderstanding was, she was ready to correct it.

“This is not a
fantasy
of mine.” He spat the word out as though it were a curse. “I am not a man given to
fantasies
.”

She nodded again, just as the hot wet excitement inside her spilled over, too much to contain in her swollen cunt. She felt the hot trickle along the inside of her thigh.
Got it. Not a fantasy
. She’d agree to whatever he declared because God she needed his hands on her now…

He released her.

“I can’t trust you,” he murmured softly. “We don’t know each other well enough yet. Don’t worry, we shall. But for now, I’m afraid I must take measures to ensure you are not defeated by your own headstrong impulses.”

“
Defeated
—”

“I take your pleasure seriously.”

“But I want, I need—”

“You,” he said, taking her hand and leading her to one of the dining chairs, which had been pulled away from the beautiful glass and stone table. It was a simple enough chair, its seat and back upholstered in a deep gray damask. “Do not know what you need,
querida
. I regret the years you have wasted thinking that you did.”

The words cut close, somehow, edging toward the protected part of her, even though he was way off the mark. It was true that she had wasted some years, but the time she had lost to the Fiend was all in the past. Her rage, her longing for revenge—she had buried them well and deep. And what she had
needed
was to learn to live with everything that had happened to her, to put it all behind her. Which she had.