Chapter 9
KEELY
I feel too much on edge to settle when I return to my hotel suite.
Fucking Mason Sinclair has imbedded himself in my mind.
I’m not sure why I’m so fascinated with him.
He’s part freak, part genius, part possible sociopath.
The last part I’m not entirely certain of, but something in his eyes scares the crap out of me.
Not enough for me to walk away from this project. Or even think about avoiding him.
On the contrary. I’m drawn to him with a singular morbid allure, which spells nothing but trouble with a capital T.
The only thing that comes fractionally close to describing what I feel for Mason is what I felt for another guy six years ago. And look how that ended.
I shiver in the cool evening air as I stand on my balcony and stare at the exquisite, unmistakable lines of the Indigo Lounge yacht.
Is he on there? Did he say where he was staying?
I barely remember our conversation after that charged exchange about death and killing.
Something in the way he said that still makes every nerve in my body want to recoil.
But at the same time, I’m fascinated beyond belief; the urge to dive beneath Mason Sinclair’s skin and discover all his dark secrets is a living thing between us.
He wants to do the same to me. I can tell.
Just like I can tell he wants to fuck me.
And not just in a quickie-get-our-rocks-off-and-be-done-with-it way either.
That also excites me in ways I can’t explain.
I shouldn’t be excited. I should hate the idea of anyone dominating me.
But all I can think about is the feeling he evoked when he ordered me to recite the constellations on top of his car in Montauk.
The release he gave me then was out of this world.
I want that release again.
Along with insight into what lurks beneath his surface.
“For fuck’s sake, Keely,” I mutter under my breath.
Sometimes I hate my curious mind. It’s gained me a well-paid job and a better-than-average living I’m satisfied with. But at times like these, when I know I should leave well enough alone but my brain keeps urging me to explore, I wonder whether I’ll ever learn my lesson.
Because obviously those three harrowing days six years ago didn’t do a good enough job.
I veer away from the view, clutching my wrap tighter around me, and return to the suite. I order room service, eat and channel surf before settling on a game I have zero interest in on ESPN. I balance my laptop on my thighs and think of working for a few hours.
Instead, I find myself googling Mason again.
This time, I take my time to read his background, and I frown.
Blocks of his life have been missed. Like the ages between his twenty-second and twenty-fourth birthdays, and again his twenty-seventh birthday.
From twenty-seven, the details of his life grow even sketchier.
Pages and pages are dedicated to his philanthropic deeds and innovative inventions.
But it’s easy to donate to charities if you have a company vehicle taking care of it on your behalf.
Of Mason himself, there is next to nothing in the past few years, although his company, S3, continues its staggering growth in the business sector and employs over five thousand people in the US and overseas.
My frown intensifies.
Mason isn’t a recluse, at least not from what I saw of him at Bethany and Zach’s engagement party. So whatever has made him suppress his past has nothing to do with a forced withdrawal from society.
How would you know?
I realize I’m trying to rationalize and humanize the man, and I impatiently shut the laptop.
I know, deep in my bones, that he hides a dark secret.
I have the dark, dominating Neanderthal freak and the sexy genius bit squared away.
But if he’s also a sociopath, I won’t find out until I get to know him better.
The idea that that is exactly what I’m contemplating sends me to my feet and into the bedroom. Rifling through the clothes the butler hung in the walk-in closet, I take out a slinky, black sequined dress and my favorite silver platform shoes, which always lift my mood.
It’s Friday night, and I’m in one of the sexiest, most affluent cities on earth.
I may not be in the market to get laid by the first guy I come across—somehow the idea of ending my months-long dry spell as quickly as possible no longer compels my every thought—but there’s no reason why I shouldn’t have a good time.
I squash the voice mocking me that my need is no longer urgent because now it’s found the true source of alleviation—Mason Sinclair—its search is over.
Whatever.
Until I decide where my comfort compass intends to settle when it comes to the man, I’ll be keeping my thighs firmly closed and my super dirty thoughts firmly in my head.
Hell, I’m even willing to stop dropping f-bombs around him if that’s what it takes to remain remotely sane when we are in the same room together.
I sigh as I realize how much I’m thinking of giving in. How much my actions seem to be swayed by him even when he isn’t around.
Impatient that I can’t stop thinking about him, I drop my robe and slip the black dress on. Immediately, I feel a little more in control of my destiny.
Cut the fanciful crap, Keely. You’ve always been in control of your destiny .
Not always …
I freeze as my mind veers to the email waiting on my laptop. The first email consisted of only eight numbers. Eight simple numbers that form a date.
02. 21. 2009.
It’s one part of three dates that are forever seared in my memory. I convinced myself that the email was spam and deleted it.
The second email convinced me it wasn’t.
02. 22. 2009.
But this time it wasn’t just that date. The second email came with a picture. To the casual reader, the date and picture of a dungeon-like room would mean nothing. Together, I’m in no doubt it’s someone from my past.
That mansion, and its labyrinth of underground rooms, has featured large and menacing in my nightmares for the past six years.
Why the sender wants to torture me about it is something I haven’t yet worked out.
But I know the threat is real. Just as I know I’ll receive another email with the third and final date soon.
My heart thumps wildly, and I force myself to breathe through the terror threatening to seize me.
As much as my mind screams at me to confront the danger, I know I can’t do anything until I have a clear demand.
Only then can I form a plan of action. One that doesn’t involve the police.
Because to involve them will mean divulging the whole sickening truth of what I’ve done.
And there is no way I’m about to do that.
All I can do is wait.
Continue to pretend I’m the girl everyone thinks I am. The one whose life is an endless carnival of high-flying job, partying and the occasional sexcapade. I’ve screwed this mask in place for six long years, not even showing a hint of what’s underneath to my best friend, Bethany.
I don’t doubt for a moment that she will try her best to save me if she knows of the many nights I’ve feared going to sleep alone, or the nightmares I deal with in my darkest moment.
But that’s the reason I haven’t told her.
I don’t think I’m worth saving.
What happened that weekend was horrific enough. What I did next was unforgivable.
Nothing and no one will be able to wash me clean.
* * *
I arrive at Jimmy’z at ten and flash a smile at the bouncer. It’s a smile I’ve practiced for years—the one that says I’m sexy, I can rock your world, so you’d be a fool not to give me what I want .
His answering smile is immediate, his manner deferring, and I don’t need to flash the VIP card languishing in my clutch.
I’m not sure exactly when I decided to use my sexuality as a tool.
It’s a characteristic that crept on me without my knowledge or consent, but one I decided to embrace once I realized the path I’d taken.
And so far, it’s been the most effective tool in combating my demons.
It grants me the control I need to survive.
Strobe lights assault my senses the moment I step into Jimmy’z. I squint and look around. The dance floor is a heaving mass of writhing bodies, and the scent of sweaty pheromones and alcohol fills the air.
I make my way to the bar, very much aware of lingering male interest, but not making eye contact long enough to attract singular attention.
I’m more than a little bewildered as to why my libido seems to have chosen one person for its attention, so I’m beyond irritated by the time I slap my hand on the counter to attract the bartender’s notice.
He looks my way with a quirked eyebrow.
“Stoli Gold. Neat.”
I usually start with a cocktail and work my way to the hard stuff, but tonight I’m on edge, both from the email, whose presence is growing larger by the second, and also because I can’t stop thinking about Mason Sinclair.
Maybe I should just fuck him and be done with it.
Maybe that will decrease this stupid mystique I’m sure I’ve built up around him in my head.
Sure, the fact that he has a huge brain and happens to be good with his hands is a giant-sized turn-on.
I’ve always held a fascination for those two characteristics.
Combined in one guy, along with those rough and rugged good looks, I’m bound to go a little nuts.
I also happen to know firsthand what those hands can do to my body. Which is another huge tick in his favor.
But then there are the danger signs. The ones that scream at me to keep my distance. The ones that warn me not to scratch the surface because I’ll be annihilated by what I find beneath.
Danger signs I can’t seem to stop myself from sliding toward…
The bartender slides the shot across. I down it in one go, and he raises the bottle and says something in French I don’t understand. I nod anyway and indicate the glass. He refills and I drink, letting the sharp taste and burn slide down my throat.
When he raises the bottle again, I shake my head. I plan on getting drunk tonight but not until I’ve done a little recon for my project and taken a few necessary notes.
I start to turn just as someone nudges me.
I glance over my shoulder and see Henri, his charming grin trying a little too hard.
“Mademoiselle Benson, I am glad you made it. I have been watching out for you.” He uses hand signals as he speaks, as if I don’t understand the accented English spilling from his mouth.
“You look amazing!” His gaze conducts an appreciative head-to-toe assessment before he looks back up with eager puppy dog eyes.
I summon a smile I’m far from feeling. “Thank you, and call me Keely.”
He leans forward, and I’m engulfed in Hugo Boss aftershave as he says into my ear, “Can I buy you a drink?”
I shake my head. One of my many rules is to never let a guy I don’t know buy me drinks. “I’m good for now, thanks.” I mentally roll my eyes when he doesn’t move back. “I was about to go check out the VIP cubes upstairs.”
He nods eagerly. “I will come with you.”
I shrug. “Sure, why not?” Bringing him with me will keep other guys from hitting on me.
Plus, he’s still as easy on the eyes as he’d been earlier this afternoon, despite the too-busy leather jacket he’s wearing.
He’s also a perfect candidate for taking my mind off my problems should I decide to go ahead with using him.
He takes my hand and guides me through the throng of people. We ascend black fiberglass stairs to a set of double doors roped off with red hooks and manned by two burly bouncers. They’re built like professional wrestlers, one fair-haired, the other ebony dark.
Henri rattles off a torrent of French, but the black bouncer stares at him with bored, dead eyes. Henri glances at me, a flush of embarrassment creeping up his collar. He rattles off an ever-faster torrent. The bouncer looks at me, then back at him and utters a single word. “ Non .”
I take pity on Henri and fish the VIP card from my clutch. I wave it in front of the fair-haired one and his demeanor alters. “Welcome, Miss Benson, we’ve been expecting you.”
They part the doors and I start walking, only to stop when I hear a scuffle behind me.
The fair-haired bouncer is restraining Henri. Sighing, I retrace my steps. “It’s okay, he’s with me.”
“Sorry, Miss Benson. The man said you were to come in alone.”
My nape tingles as I ask, “What man?”
“He’s in Room 10. He said I was to bring you to him when you came up. And that you were not to be accompanied by anyone else.”
“Did he?” I murmur. “We’ll see about that.” I tell myself it’s annoyance fizzing through me, but my escalating excitement makes a mockery of my feelings. To Henri, I say, “Sorry about this. Maybe I’ll find you when I come back down?” I won’t, but I don’t see a need to be a bitch about it.
He looks crestfallen but nods eagerly as I turn away. The second bouncer points down a left corridor and accompanies me as I start walking.
“I can find it on my own.”
He gives me an apologetic shrug. “Sorry, ma’am, I have my orders.”
I bristle as I march past black mirrored doors, counting off the gold numbering until I reach number 10. I’m seething. And Mason Sinclair is about to be the recipient of my temper.