Until I'm Yours (4 page)

H
arold and I have endured ceremonies in developing nations, on other continents, that lasted days. Interminable rites of passage. Festivals we thought would never end, but none as intolerable as my time at this table with Ernest Baston and Kyle Manchester. Maybe I’m hasty in saying this, but I don’t think so. They
might
quite possibly be two of the biggest assholes I’ve ever encountered, and considering the corrupt leaders in the nations where we do business, that’s saying something.

I stopped following Kyle’s diatribe on redistricting about ten minutes ago. I’m considering fake choking, thinking the Heimlich maneuver would break this shit up nicely, when Walsh and Kerris return to the table. No Sofie in sight. I look over Walsh’s shoulder to make sure. A woman who stands nearly six feet tall barefoot would be hard to overlook, especially one who looks like Sofie, but I check anyway.

“We need to go. The girls have a fever.” Walsh frowns while Kerris grabs her bag from the table. “Where’s Rip?”

“He saw an old college teammate,” I answer, grateful my vocal chords didn’t atrophy during Kyle’s filibuster. “Said he’d be back in a few. Everything okay?”

Walsh’s frown deepens, his eyes narrowing when they connect with Kyle Manchester’s. Gotta give it to him, Kyle gives him glare for glare. What’s up with these two? Seems to be more than the typical alpha male, my-dick-is-bigger vibe, but I can’t figure out what.

“When he gets back, tell him Sofie’s ready to go.” He directs the response to Sofie’s mother. “She’s not feeling well, Aunt Billi. Rip can find her outside the restrooms.”

“She’s not coming back?” Billi Baston crinkles her blond brows. “I’ll go check on her.”

“I don’t think there’s any need for that.” Kerris offers a kind smile. “Seems she just needed some air and time to recover, and is really tired. Maybe just send Rip back and it should be fine.”

Something’s not right. The unease on Walsh Bennett’s face is about more than just his twin girls’ fevers.

“I’ll see you two tomorrow, right?” Walsh splits a look between Harold and me. “Bright and early at Bennett?”

“Yes.” Harold’s smile is a little too eager for my liking. “Nine o’clock. We’re looking forward to it.”

Harold’s ready to move on. Do something different. Something that doesn’t keep him in third world countries half the year, with limited access to ESPN. We’ve made a helluva lot of money since we left Princeton, and he’s ready to enjoy it. I get that, but we didn’t start Deutimus primarily to make money, and that won’t be the deciding factor in why or to whom we’ll sell it. So Bennett Enterprises and any other takers can flash vulgar amounts of cash in our faces, should they choose. I’m not moved by it.

“Did I miss the memo about the meeting, Walsh?” Ernest scowls.

“Our assistants spoke, I believe. Celeste should have it on your calendar.” Walsh takes Kerris’s elbow. “Karma confirmed with her. We need to get home. Good night.”

Ernest’s frown only deepens as he watches Walsh and Kerris walk away. It can’t be easy for him to see Walsh, a man half his age, taking over the company he built right alongside Walsh’s father. While I feel for the older man, I don’t much like him, and probably wouldn’t consider Bennett Enterprises at all if Walsh wasn’t at the table. For one thing, the way the man treats his daughter rubs me the wrong way.

Speaking of…

“I’ll be right back.” I scoot my seat back and stand.

“Where are you going?” Harold looks at me over his spectacles like a librarian.

“I know we’ve been friends a long time, Smith,” I say with a grin. “But I’m still not ready to go to the bathroom in pairs like girls.”

Harold’s face reddens and he rolls his eyes.

“I’ll be ready to leave when you get back, I think.” He spoons up some of his crème brûlée. “Henri wants to meet at seven tomorrow morning.”

Henrietta runs a tight ship. Even now she’s back at my sister’s place in Brooklyn, prepping for tomorrow’s meetings and our trip to Cambodia. I’ve been looking forward to getting off this continent, but meeting Sofie tonight makes me wish we didn’t have this three-week interruption in our New York trip.

“I’ll be right back.”

Why am I seeking out Sofie? What is this about? So she’s the most gorgeous woman I’ve ever seen in real life. Looks count for something with me like most men, but not for everything, and from what I’ve heard, she probably doesn’t have much else to offer. But there’s this gulf between what I’ve heard and the woman I met tonight. Maybe the gulf is filled with my preconceived notions.

I see her slumped against the wall as soon as I round the corner, shoes kicked off and wiggling her bare toes. Even witnessing her posture less than perfectly straight, perfectly erect feels like a violation of her privacy. She looks up, squinting into the semi-dark passageway. I can see her much better than she can see me.

“Rip?” She straightens from the wall, her expression becoming annoyed when she realizes it’s not the quarterback. “You’ve got to be kidding me. How many more people have to come through here? What is this? A parade?”

“Oh, I’m sorry for stumbling into your private boudoir.” I lean one shoulder against the wall beside her, stepping close enough to smell the fresh scent she’s been tantalizing me with all night. “I thought these were public bathrooms.”

She holds my gaze in the dim light for a few seconds, not even blinking. Then her lips twitch and spread over the smile people pay to see. From a billboard, that smile hits you like a gut punch. This close, the impact is practically atomic.

“Boudoir?” A husky chuckle suffuses the space separating us. “Did you seriously just break out ‘boudoir’?”

She props her butt against the wall and bends at the waist, slipping on one shoe and then the other. Even the high arch of this woman’s foot is sexy. Every detail I uncover makes me want to go deeper until I’ve discovered them all.

“I like a woman who can laugh at herself.”

My eyes follow the impossibly long line of her legs over the subtle curve of her hips and the surprising lushness of her breasts until I finally reach her waiting gaze, which asks if I’ve looked my fill.

“I wasn’t laughing at myself.” She grins again and inclines her head toward me. “I was laughing at you.”

“I’ll settle for that. Long as you’re laughing.”

She’s not anymore, the humor falling away as quickly as it came. She looks back down the passageway, sleek brows knitting together.

“Did Walsh tell Rip to come?”

“Rip saw a college buddy and stepped away. I’m sure he’ll be down as soon as he gets back to the table and they tell him you’re ready to leave.”

She moves over to a padded leather bench against the opposite wall, seating herself and crossing one leg over the other. She shifts her eyes from me to the men’s room and back again.

“I thought you needed that public restroom.” She gives a regal nod of her head toward the bathroom. “It’s right there.”

“I don’t actually have to use the bathroom.”

I leave it there, waiting for her to ask the obvious question, but I get the feeling Sofie Baston never does the obvious. She leans her back into the wall and narrows her eyes, waiting for me to go on.

“I came to find you.”

She tilts her head and raises both brows, conducting a wordless conversation using only her patrician features.

“Can I ask you a question?”

She nods, confirming that I still haven’t earned words yet.

“Why are you with Rip?”

She sinks deeper into the wall, sliding a few inches down and stretching her legs in front of her to cross them at the ankles

“Why wouldn’t I be?” she finally asks. “Haven’t you read the papers? We’re the perfect couple.”

“He bores you out of your mind.”

“No, he fucks me out of my mind.”

If she was going for shock value, that did it. Only our eyes lock and I realize she’s not trying to shock me. She’s just telling the truth. Her gaze is frank and honest.

“That’s all you want in a relationship?” I hazard a step closer before dropping to the other end of her bench and leaning my back against her wall.

That husky laugh permeates the air in the passageway again.

“Look, Dr. Phil, I’m not one of those sweet girls looking for some man to sweep me off my feet and put a ring on it.” She crosses both arms over her flat stomach, a cynical twist corrupting the beautiful curve of her mouth. “At least not anymore.”

“Kissed too many frogs?”

“Make no mistake about it. Those frogs and I did more than kiss.” Her smile exudes a sexual confidence I’m unused to from the women in my circles, but that I find by the second I more than like. “It’s not so much that I can’t find my prince, as that I’m no princess.”

I take in the symmetry of her face, the elegant arch of her brows, the vibrant green eyes, the high slant of her cheekbones, and that lush curve of lips like a splash of passion on an otherwise pristine plane. The graceful bearing, even relaxed against the wall, commands attention and respect. She looks like nothing if not a young queen.

I’m just about to tell her so when approaching footsteps cut our conversation short. I turn, disappointed to see Rip striding quickly up the hall. Sofie stands immediately, grabbing her clutch from the bench and looking down at me. Our eyes connect, and I wonder if she wishes we had a few more minutes alone. Probably not, but there’s something hiding behind those eyes, green as leaves. Curiosity? Interest? Whatever it is, it would take longer than two minutes for her to trust me with it.

“Sorry, baby.” Rip’s huge quarterback hands almost meet around Sofie’s slim waist when he pulls her close. “I saw Don Siemer from college. Can you believe that? Small world, right?”

She smiles and gives a quick nod.

“Can we just go?” She gives a practiced pout of that lush mouth. “I’m exhausted and have to be up really early.”

“Of course,” Rip says. “The car’s waiting. We can stay at your place.”

Rip looks at me down on the bench. That last comment was for my benefit. He’s marking his territory. I should tell him Sofie was much less subtle about his virility, but I don’t bother. There isn’t much more to Rip than what you see. All-American good looks. Athletic and not too bright. But Sofie? She reminds me of one of the African mines we’ve visited, diamonds so deeply embedded in the earth children risk life and limb to retrieve them. That’s Sofie. Somehow even after just tonight, I know her diamonds are buried deep, and retrieving them would prove dangerous and rewarding.

You don’t meet someone like Sofie Baston every day, and I wonder if this will be the only time we encounter each other. If it will be a story I tell my grandchildren. I met that famous model once. She wasn’t a bitch at all. She was beautiful and funny and honest, and I wanted to punch her boyfriend in the face every time he touched her. I just met her the one time, but I’ll never forget.

Rip guides Sofie down the hall toward a rear exit, and she looks back over her shoulder, our eyes connecting for an extra few seconds before she looks straight ahead and is swallowed up by the dark. I could be wrong, but I think she would have liked five more minutes with me. As eager as she was to leave, I might intrigue her as much as she increasingly intrigues me, and like I do with everything else in my life that counts, I make up my mind quickly, decisively.

No, that won’t be the story I tell my grandchildren.

D
amn, Sof. For someone so skinny, you’ve got great tits.”

He paws my breasts and pinches my nipples so hard it feels like needles piercing the flesh, sharp and painful. He shackles my wrist, but I jerk against his strength. My heart slams into my breastbone. I’m a live wire soaked in water. I’m—

“Sof, wake up!”

The voice, insistent at my ear, jerks me out of the nightmare I was buried alive in. My eyes snap open, immediately colliding with Rip’s blue gaze above me, his toned bare chest hovering over me, his arms caging me on either side. My nightgown is pulled back to bare my breast.

“I’m sorry.” Rip frowns, easing away and off me a little at a time. “I know you like to fuck first thing in the morning and I was just—”

I shove him harder than I meant to in my haste to get out of the bed. I flip back the quilted comforter and scramble across my bedroom and into the light-filled bathroom. Nausea churns everything left in in my stomach from last night before propelling all four courses into the toilet. I curl my legs beneath me on the cold tiles of the bathroom floor, resting my temple against the porcelain seat.

Rip didn’t mean to. He’s right. I do like sex in the morning, first thing. I like to wake up in the middle of an orgasm, if I can. Rip was just doing what he always does, not realizing he played into the nightmare I haven’t had in years. I can’t even remember the last time that demon visited my bed, but seeing Kyle last night stirred it all up again. Brought all the things I thought dead and dormant back to horrible life.

“You okay, Sof?” Rip asks from the bathroom door, his voice uncertain.

We aren’t that couple who discusses real shit. We don’t share real things. We’re that couple who smile for cameras and pose together and screw each other’s brains out, but don’t know each other’s birthdays or middle names. And I like it that way. Correction, I
liked
it that way. After seeing Kyle last night, I wasn’t in the frame of mind to deal with breaking things off with Rip. Frankly, I’m still not, but it’s coming soon.

“I’m fine, Rip.” My eyes drift over his well-conditioned body in just briefs. Maybe I’m not all right if that package doesn’t even stir me. “Sorry about that. I guess I was having a bad dream or something.”

He saunters over, stopping beside me, dick right at my mouth. His morning wood doesn’t care that I had a bad dream. He’s ready for a good blow. Typically, I’d accommodate. I give good head. I’m sure all my former lovers would write glowing letters of recommendation for me based on that skill alone, but I’m not in the mood this morning.

I don’t even acknowledge his erection, but stand up and cross over to my closet with its shelves of shoes, rows and rows of dresses and jeans, drawers and bins of accessories. I toss my nightgown into the hamper and start the shower, Rip’s eyes on my naked body doing nothing to change my mind. I’m soaping up when I feel him hard at my back, not just his muscles, but his dick.

“Sof, we could do it real quick.” His husky voice almost gets lost in the shower spray and steam. He nudges between my butt cheeks. “Come on, baby.”

I can’t. I still feel that dream like hot breath on my neck. My nipples still ache from the phantom pain. And though it’s empty, my belly twists with nausea again at the thought of anyone inside me.

“I’m late, Rip.” I turn toward him, careful to insert space between our bodies. “Maybe later.”

I start shampooing my hair without waiting for his response.

“Something wrong, Sof?” A frustrated breath huffs across his lips. “You didn’t want to last night either.”

Now he’s getting on my nerves. No one is entitled to my body. I choose who I share it with, on my terms. We just had sex yesterday morning. He can’t go twenty-four hours without making himself and his dick a nuisance?

“I said I’m running late, Rip.” Still lathering my hair, I face the shower wall and sprinkle steel shavings into my voice, warning him in the subtlest way I can to back off. “Now are you planning to shower, or are you just in here taking up my steam?”

“Sorry, Sof, I—”

“Could you close the door behind you?” I give him a semi-sweet smile over one bare, soapy shoulder, ignoring his eyes roving my naked back and over my ass. “Thanks.”

I have to end this. Anytime you’re kicking out a man who looks and fucks like Rip, it has gone too far or you have gone insane. And I know I’m not crazy.

Once I’m dressed, in slim black pants, stiletto ankle boots, and a silky mist-colored camisole under my black lambskin blazer, I feel a little more like myself. Clothes always add an expensive, protective layer to cover up whatever I need the world to overlook.

Rip’s stayed over enough that he has a few things here now, so he’s at the kitchen bar dressed in jeans and a Jets T-shirt, eating a slice of cantaloupe. I pack my iPad and essentials for today’s meetings, mentally running the schedule as much to clear my head as to make sure I don’t forget anything.

“So should I pick you up tonight?” Rip asks between juicy bites.

“Sorry.” I tuck a few stray hairs into my high-swept ponytail. “What?”

“The rooftop party Bennett’s throwing.” Rip looks like he will whine if I say I’ve changed my mind about attending. “We are still going, right?”

“Of course.” I pick up my bag and check my phone. “Baker’s downstairs waiting.”

“Should I pick you up here tonight?” Rip frowns, maybe starting to sense me pulling away. About damn time. I’ve been about as subtle as a hooker in heels.

“No, I’m not sure how my day’s going. I’ll probably dress at the office.” I curve my lips just so. “Let’s meet at the party.”

I’m out the door and at the elevator before he can protest anymore. The black Infiniti QX80 idles in front of my apartment building, Baker, my father’s driver, waiting to open the back door for me. I peck his cheek just to see his face redden and his stern mouth yield a tiny smile.

Baker’s been driving my father all over this city for twenty years. If Walsh were ever unable to run Bennett, Baker probably knows just as much as my father and could step in without a hitch. He’s overheard and forgotten more about Bennett Enterprises than most of its executives will ever know.

“Thanks for the ride, Baker.” I meet his eyes in the rearview mirror. “I suppose Daddy’s been at the office for hours already.”

“He went in rather late this morning, Miss B. Not until eight.”

Over the years, Martin Bennett and my father set a high bar for everyone else, always at their desks and decimating other companies by six most mornings, seven on slack days. I know for a fact Walsh arrives even earlier than that many mornings.

We fall into a comfortable silence, and I look over my notes for the meeting ahead. Soon we’re in front of the Bennett building, and Baker is opening the back door for me to exit.

“Will you need a ride to the party tonight?” Baker takes my hand to help me down to the sidewalk. “Or will Mr. Ripley be taking you?”

“Neither, actually. I’ll make my own way.”

“You often do, Miss B.” His face and tone relax. “May I ask if you and Mr. Ripley are still…together?”

He’s earned these personal questions. When I was growing up, my father had time only for Bennett Enterprises, and my mother thrived at the epicenter of New York City’s social scene. Sometimes Baker ended up being the closest thing to an actual parent I had, answering awkward adolescent questions and making sure I made it home from rowing practice each afternoon.

“We’re still together for now.” I glance up the bustling block before looking back to Baker’s deliberately stoic features. “You don’t like him very much, do you? Rip, I mean.”

“He’s not for me to like or not like, Miss B.” He crinkles only the corners of his eyes. “He does have a great arm.”

I tease him with a wicked smile.

“It’s not exactly his arm I’m interested in, Baker.”

Nothing like seeing a grown man blush, and Baker makes it fun to be outrageous.

“Why, I think you’re blushing, Baker.”

“One day I’ll figure out how to make
you
blush again, Miss B.”

“Me blushing would be my face’s idea of sarcasm.” I straighten my blazer and glance at my watch. “I need to get on in. Thanks again for the ride.”

The elevators at this time of morning take forever, so when I see a set of doors open, I rush across the lobby, stilettos and all, my runway experience coming in handy.

“Hold the elevator!” I call out with little hope that someone actually will.

A hand presses the door back, and I slip in, grateful words already spilling out of my mouth.

“Thank you so m—”

A set of dark chocolate eyes smile at me from under a spill of ginger-colored hair.

“You were saying?” Trevor Bishop stands there, smelling delicious and looking mouth-watering in a gray three-piece suit. I love men in pink, and his bold choice of a pink silk shirt beneath his vest, no tie, exposing the tanned strength of his neck gets my vote.

“Thank you,” I finish, noticing for the first time that the elevator is crowded with other people, including Harold Smith and Karma Sutton, Walsh’s assistant. “Good morning, Mr. Smith, Karma.”

“Good morning, Miss Baston,” Karma says, British accent crisp. “I meant to tell you I saw you walk Chanel in London. You were flawless.”

At her words, I sense interest pique around me as people realize it’s not their imagination, but they do actually know me from a billboard or grocery store magazine. I’ll be glad when the elevator car empties. I’m going to the top, so it should soon.

“Thanks, Karma.” I fix my eyes on the climbing numbers illuminated above our heads.

“When is your next show?”

“Um, I don’t have a show booked.” I give her a smile, starting to care less if anyone else is listening. “I’ve been walking runways since I was eighteen years old. I think I’ll leave it to the youngsters from now on. Maybe it’s time to retire.”

“But you’re the Goddess.” Karma sounds so dismayed I have to laugh a little.

“Fifteen years is a long time.” I study my boots, determined not to look at Trevor Bishop, even though I feel those dark eyes pressing on me. “I’m ready for something else.”

As much as I’ve enjoyed my run modeling, it’s not a game you stay on top of indefinitely. A wrinkle here. Fine lines there. The bar is perfection, and no one can clear it forever. I want to exit gracefully and on my terms, not be chased out by some idiots who only want to photograph nineteen-year-olds.

We’ve stopped several times, emptying along the way until it’s just the four of us now, headed toward the thirty-fifth floor, which houses Bennett’s most senior level executives. And me for now.

“Is the office to your liking?” Karma asks.

“Yes.” I give Karma a warm smile. “I appreciate your help. It’s lovely, and exactly what my team needs.”

“You have an office here?” Trevor asks, forcing me to at least give him a glance. Still mouth-watering, towering over us all, the breadth of his shoulders swelling in the perfectly tailored jacket. And what does he do to get those muscles in his thighs? No businessman should have all that body. His suit is like a silk cage barely containing a lion.

“Yes.” No more. No less.

“I didn’t think models needed offices.”

“You pay him to think?” I direct the question to his partner, Harold, who swallows a laugh, his eyes twinkling back at me from behind his glasses.

“He doesn’t pay me at all.” Trevor’s wide smile sketches dimples in the lean cheeks covered with a thin layer of cinnamon stubble.

Death by dimples. Just drive a stake through my vagina. It would be a quicker, less painful way to go.

“So what’s your office for?” Trevor is persistent. I’ll give him that.

“It’s a temporary office while my permanent spot is being renovated.” I wonder if he’ll notice that I didn’t actually answer his question.

“And what business do you conduct in this temporary office?”

I turn my head, giving him the full benefit of the face he’s been staring at in profile ever since I boarded this elevator.

“It’s a business I like to call mind your own business.” My voice is saccharine, artificially sweet and might over time kill you.

Trevor’s chocolate brown eyes narrow on me, but his smile remains even when Harold and Karma snicker. I know because my heart keeps tripping over itself every time he flashes those damn dimples at me.

Before he can poke his nose any further into my business, the elevator dings for the top floor. I divide a smile equally between the three of them, maybe giving Trevor a slightly smaller portion than Harold and Karma.

“Enjoy your day, gentlemen.” I step off the elevator and turn right, knowing they’re probably headed left toward Daddy’s or Walsh’s suite of offices. “Thanks again, Karma, for your help.”

Every confident, long-legged step puts much-needed distance between Trevor Bishop and me. For some reason, I glance back over my shoulder. I’m startled to find him standing at the other end of the hall, hands shoved into his pockets, jacket pushed back to show that taut waist widening up to the long, broad torso. He’s watching me walk away while Harold and Karma continue in the other direction. I don’t stop, but aim a discouraging frown at him, hoping he gets the message to leave me alone. Maybe he misreads the message, because he merely grins and salutes me before he turns to follow his partner and Walsh’s assistant.

He has a bad case of social blindness. I can’t get much ruder without jeopardizing his business with Bennett. What does he want? Why is he acting this way? He was one of Daddy’s fish. I was bait. I was just supposed to draw him out, convince him that Bennett was the best option. Let my breasts do the talking, except something went terribly wrong, and now I think I might like him.

I didn’t expect to see him again. I didn’t expect him to disturb me the way he does; to disrupt my equilibrium. And between the business venture I’m getting off the ground, a monster named Manchester reentering my life, and a past-due quarterback in my bed, my equilibrium has enough to manage without a lumberjack in a three-piece suit making my heart skip beats every time he’s within dry-humping distance.