Chapter Ten
Elliot
I ’m so furious, I could commit murder.
Instead, I lean over and shove the door open, giving Ryder barely any time to pay the driver the ridiculous amount he offered him.
On the street, I wave his phone at him. “You’re an asshole.”
“Give that back.” He snatches it from me.
I try to grab it back, but he holds it up high. “This isn’t the witch trials, you know. Innocent until proven guilty.”
“You were born guilty.”
“I didn’t do anything. Do you want to see if I texted her first?”
I glare at him. “Yes.”
“Too bad. You’ll have to trust me.” He sucks in a breath and shakes his head and for the first time since I’ve met him, he’s mad. Really mad.
I don’t know why. I’m not the one continuously fucking up.
“You have four weeks and—what the hell is the Taylor?”
He doesn’t even have the grace to blush. Some woman named Mona—Mona, which has to be some sleazy codename considering the text about his cock and her mouth, just texted an innocent man? I don’t think so.
He’s a billionaire. He’s not going to just hand out his number like he’s Joe Biggs from the local pizza joint. So he must have liked the fucking Taylor.
“You don’t want to know.”
“Maybe I do.” Actually, I don’t.
“I’ve half a mind to tell you, but you’d probably combust in a fit of self-righteousness and then I’d have to find someone else to save me.”
“Your nobleness and caring knows no bounds.”
“I didn’t text her. She texted me. And when did I have a chance to text her?”
“Plenty of times this evening.”
“The text just came through. You really think women wait?”
I narrow my eyes and think about dumping his ass as a client. But damn, it’s a lot of money. And there’s a jealous little mean streak in me that likes the idea of him going without for four weeks. It must be agony for the over ego-endowed, beautiful asshat.
“Do you listen to yourself?”
“All the time.”
“You are what they call a sleazy asshat. God.”
“God is correct.” He stops, shoves a hand through his hair and unlocks the phone and thrusts it at me. “There. Check. See? No texts. Just one that came in from someone called Mona.”
He’s right, and I feel like a horrible person looking, but what am I meant to do? Trust needs to be earned by clients. Especially this one, because my judgment with him is completely in a different country and sambaing to a fantasy of him and me. I make myself breathe slowly and steadily until I’m mostly back under iron control. Or control.
Ryder snatches the phone away and holds it down so I can see as he deletes the text and the number. “Gone. See?”
There’s something that looks like hurt in his expression, which is crazy. A man like that doesn’t get hurt, not by me, or my accusations that we both know come from the truth of who and what he is. And he likes being that person.
But…he deleted everything from the woman. That must mean something.
A tiny voice inside whispers it’s only one incident out of a billion that make up who and what he is. While I can get him to change enough to pull all this off—I hope—I don’t know if a man like him can change.
I don’t know if a man like him wants to.
And it’s not my place.
Only the here and now is.
That’s where I have to remain focused.
“Ryder,” I say, “you can’t delete your past. Your life. It doesn’t work that way. I’m…I’m sorry I didn’t trust you, but I don’t trust clients until they earn it because it’s the only way to make things happen. And for you?”
“I’m a lost cause?”
Is he? “No, I mean, our problem is this won’t be the last one. It’s like I said in the car, these women will keep coming for you, keep tempting you. And over these four weeks that’s dangerous. One day, one night, there’ll be some babe you want. You’ll be tempted and you’ll give in.”
He pinches the bridge of his nose. “I’m made of stronger stuff than that.”
“Or that’s why you have me.”
Ryder drops his hand and those dark melting chocolate eyes are on me again. He shakes his head a little, like I’ve hurt him again. But I don’t know how. It’s all true. And what’s more, we both know exactly what he’d rather be doing right now.
“Y’know, Elliot,” he says, voice low. It wraps about me, the heat in it belying the cool expression on his face. “Contrary to whatever’s in your damn head, I’m not a fucking machine. I don’t think about sex every second of the day. I don’t have sex the moment I can.”
“I didn’t—”
“Bullshit.” He stalks up to me, closing the small gap and he meets my gaze. “You were thinking that. You were thinking—what’s more, your fucking words are saying—I can’t control my base urges. I like sex, yes. A lot. I like new experiences. I like to submerge myself in pleasure. But there are times I don’t. Times when I’m not interested in the offer, or it’s one I know I can’t take up. Or you know, life happens. I’m more than a cock.”
“Ryder, I’m not saying that.” Even though it’s in my head. I clench my hands. “But we both know you’re easily tempted.”
“I have control. When I choose to use it.”
We stare at each other. I swallow as a gaggle of people come down the street and I pull Ryder over to the side of the building, near the door. The yellowy light of the streetlamp hits him and he looks for all the world like a fallen angel and it twists hard in my chest.
“You hired me, Ryder. You hired me because you couldn’t do this by yourself.”
“Yeah, but I didn’t think you’d also be judge and jury.”
I sigh. “I have to think of every angle. All the time. And you…it’s not just reputation, it’s who you are. Or,” I say, amending slightly, “that reputation is so embedded in you that it comes across as who you are.”
His sensuous mouth thins and he nods. “So. What do we do? You’re the one with all the damn plans and answers here. You don’t trust me. You think I’m barely keeping my dick in my pants—”
“No. I don’t think that.” I veer away from the trust part. That’s way too complicated and I’ve had too much to drink and I’m punch drunk on the touch of him from that kiss, and from the time spent with him, one on one earlier. “But I need to know you stay away from temptation.”
“So you, what? Want me to hand in my phone? So you can check it to make sure I’m not lying or got a piece on the side? That it?”
A horrible idea comes to me. It’s the only one I can think of to keep him in line. As one of the few females with power over him as well as one he isn’t into, it’s the only idea I have in this regard.
“It’s worse,” I say, digging in my bag for my keys.
His gaze falls to them and then he looks at me. “You have handcuffs?”
“I need you not to engage.” I ignore his words. “Not with texts, or emails, or women you meet out. Tell them you’re with someone.”
“You took care of that.”
“One night, that’s all, and one night has a way of disappearing if something else pops up. This has to seem real, but up a notch from what we discussed. It’s going to be worse than you thought.”
“You gonna write me a script? I can handle this.”
“You can’t.” I take hold of his arm, ignoring the heat and zing that slides up through the layers of material to spread out in me. This man is potent. “Is there a cut off time for you?”
“With the four weeks? Or with women?”
I’m tempted to say both. “Your four weeks.”
“Four weeks is pretty explanatory, but yeah, things keep shifting, so maybe this needs to be set up for longer, for when all the ink is dried.”
We’ve talked about this, but I need it to really sink in and it has.
At least that part.
“These things have a way of ricocheting. Your scandal, your past, all these women.”
“I know.”
Does he? I really hope so.
“Worse,” Ryder says. “You said worse. How? What way?”
“You’re going to spend all your free time with me. Starting tonight. At my place.”
“We’re already going to be spending our time together.” He stops. “Your place?”
There’s a beguiling tone in his voice now and I let go of him. “Not like that.”
“You’re saying spend the night.”
“A lot of nights, Ryder.”
He smooths his fingers through my hair and I shiver, my body melting inside out. “I think I’d like that.”
For a moment, a vision comes to me, of him looking at me the way I know he looks at women. Of that mouth, those kisses being mine, of exploring his body, him wanting me. And I want to kick myself for such stupid fantasies. He doesn’t want me. Not like that.
I sigh. “Come on Romeo, we’re going to my place.”
“So forward.”
He’s in his comfort zone, and the light flirt I can deal with. Light flirt is a simple conversation to him.
“No time like the present to do this.”
I step forward and punch in the key code, then unlock the door.
“You live in your office?”
“The top floor is mine.” I don’t look at him as I go in and head for the elevator. “Come on.”
I come out of the bathroom, in my pajamas—he’s already seen me in them and who the hell am I going to impress if I whip out lingerie I don’t have and pretend I sleep in make-up? Let’s face it, this is Ryder Sinclair who has his pick of the world’s most beautiful women—and he’s poking about the living room.
“You have plants.”
“I know,” I say.
His jacket and coat are off, his vest that fits slim against him is still on and damn, in the narrow dress pants and vest that are such a deep chocolate they could be black cut, he is a breathtaking figure of manhood.
I take another moment to admire the deep, dark wine of the shirt, which is rolled up at the sleeves to the elbows. The color shouldn’t work, but it does. It somehow manages to be him and subdued, but now, unfettered by the jacket, it’s all him, understated flamboyance. That fashionista edge.
The intricate line work of his tattoo disappears up under his sleeve and from here I can see a dancing skeleton with touches of color here and there along the winding vine of thorn and flowers and leaves.
What am I doing?
Good question, and whatever it is, I need to stop. I drag in a breath and raise my eyes. He’s studying the velvet lines of the philodendron gloriosum. The large heart-shaped leaves have striking white veins on it. And they’re not complete divas or drama queens like some plants I’ve had.
Then Ryder turns to me, a soft smile turning his mouth up as he runs his gaze over me. “And there she is.”
“I’ve been here the entire night.”
“Not that quirky heart of you. That was hidden beneath the hot dress and face.”
“Are you saying I’m Eleanor Rigby?”
“Maybe you are.” He hums a few bars of the old Beatles song. “You also like to hide. But there’s no hiding when old school Godzilla comes out to play.”
My hand clenches. “I wasn’t expecting company.”
“And I’m not complaining.”
“You’re just…what?”
He shrugs and the air crackles and sings. “Figuring you out.”
“Nothing to figure out.” I stomp off and grab some bedding from the closet in my tiny study. There really isn’t a hall, it’s more rooms leading from the central nerve system of the living room. I dump the pillow, quilt, and sheets on the floor next to the burnt sienna velvet art deco sofa with its curved back and plush cushions.
“I beg to differ.”
“You would.”
His smile burns brighter and makes me hot inside. “I’m just saying you’re complex, a puzzle, and I’m putting together the pieces.”
Ryder starts to make up the sofa without me. I’m so shocked I watch him.
He raises a brow as he finishes tucking in a corner of the sheet. “What? You think I have a man servant who does everything including brush my teeth?”
“No. You’d have a woman.”
“Hey, I take offense at that.” He throws the pillow into place and unbuttons the vest and I find it suddenly hard to swallow. “I’d have more…interesting roles for her to play.”
“You’re incorrigible.”
“Guilty.”
I need to get out of here. Go to my room and pretend to sleep. And not think he’s out here. The upside of Ryder-induced insomnia is time to work.
“The kitchen is through there—” I point to the left and then the right “and the bathroom’s there.”
“You know, it’s not too late.”
My heart starts to thump wildly. “Too late for what?”
“Getting the fuck out of here and going to my place. You can babysit me just as easily there.”
“I’m not babysitting you.”
“Whatever you want to call it. I’m just saying my place is bigger.”
“And I don’t care. Goodnight, Ryder.”
I hurry to my room and try to sleep. When that doesn’t work, I try some work. But it’s hard to concentrate, knowing Ryder Sinclair is outside my door. On my sofa.
In the end, I turn the TV on that I rarely use that’s in my room, mounted to the wall. I turn the sound on low. There’s a Golden Girls rerun on and I let Rose, Blanche, Dorothy and Sophia’s antics wash over me, the darkness only broken by the images on the screen.
I’m almost asleep when the bed shifts and someone slides in next to me.
Ryder.
“What the hell,” I say as I turn, suddenly wide awake, “do you think you’re doing?”