Chapter Thirteen
Ryder
“ N ow, Ryder, language,” my mother says with the kind of breeze people use to hide all kinds of things behind.
“I asked a question.”
I shift my gaze from my mother to Elliot, whose red hair is cascading from the glittering comb holding it up. This isn’t a deliberate effect; her hair’s escaping and it gives her a soft freshness I appreciate. I also appreciate the dark burnt orangey-black velvet dress that has a very thirties style about it. But that and her luscious, fascinating mouth aside, I’m not appreciating the lack of answers.
From either of them.
My mother isn’t about to talk, not unless she wants to, and I’m beginning to think there’s an ulterior motive why they were discussing money.
“Elliot?”
She has an air of caught red-handed, but that fades and steel and composure move in and damned if the two of them haven’t been infused with the same sort of sneaky stubbornness I don’t like. Mainly because I get my stubborn streak from the well preserved woman calling herself my mother.
“I heard something about money.” I take a swallow of the new glass of champagne I grabbed. “And a suspicious man might think that’s to do with him. I’m a very suspicious man.”
“I tried to steal her away to work for me, but she wasn’t having it.” My mother air kisses me and slides a glance at Elliot and then she’s gone, disappearing into the boring and too-moneyed—an irony not lost on me—crowd.
“Well?”
Elliot just sighs and takes the champagne from me. She doesn’t drink it, simply holds it, like she needed a lifeline or something similar. “It was nothing.”
“Really?” I lean in and say against her ear, “sure looked like something.”
“Don’t crowd me.” She gives me a little shove with the glass flute of golden liquid. “She knows you hired me.”
“Of course she does.” I take a tiny step back. “She’s not an idiot.”
“If she didn’t buy me as your girlfriend, then I don’t know about everyone else.”
I grin. “She’s a smart woman. She gets it from me.”
“That’s not how things work, Ryder.”
“Of course she knows we wouldn’t be dating.” Because she is a smart woman. My mother knows a woman like Elliot would turn me down flat. I only know this because Elliot’s the only woman like Elliot I know, and something tells me that’s exactly what would happen. If I was interested, of course. “And—”
“You don’t need to rub it in.” Elliot starts to stalk away, but I grab her arm and pull her back to me.
She looks up at me.
I want to say a whole lot of shit to her, but it all is so absurd I don’t. Elliot always misconstrues me, anyway. She thinks she’s got me pigeonholed. She’s probably got some kind of thesis, too.
“Rub what in? And why are you so huffy?”
Her eyes narrow. “I’m not huffy.”
“Yeah, you are. You have little sparks about you. Not actual ones, but I can feel them.”
“Look—”
“No, you listen.” If I let her speak, if I let her go, she’ll stomp out and our time’s limited. I don’t know what my mother said to get Elliot so riled, but it doesn’t matter. I need to smooth things, and I do that well. Usually. With people who aren’t named Elliot Perry. “My mother might have worked it out, but no one else would.”
“No one would believe it.”
“People believe all sorts of things.”
“No, that you’d want someone as unflashy as me.”
“I don’t just go for flashy, Perry. I’m not crass.”
Her face says otherwise, so I ignore it.
“I’m a man of many talents,” I add. “Of many tastes and types. People believe whatever you give them if it’s sold well enough.”
She shakes her head and suddenly I don’t want this conversation to happen here. I want the night off. I want to capture a little of that laid back fun from the night before.
“Maybe you’re right,” she says.
“Of course I am. Let’s get out of here, Perry.”
For a moment I think she’s going to say no, but wheels turn in that head of hers. I can almost hear them. Then she smiles, and it’s the sort of smile that could undo a man. “Okay. Dancing.”
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me. Let’s sell this. Let’s go dancing.”
I’m staring at her. Of all the things I figured she’d come up with…dancing—of any kind—is the last.
“What?” There’s an innocent air I don’t trust.
I point a finger at her. “Like a club? Or salsa? Are you a secret waltzer?”
“You’re an idiot, no. Just out, music, dancing, you know.”
“Enlighten me.”
“You’re changing, Ryder. Let’s show change.”
“By boogying?”
“Do people boogy still?”
“I don’t know. This is your lame idea.”
“It’s not lame, Sinclair.” She tilts her head to the side. “Unless, of course, you’re afraid of dancing.”
“Me? Never. Let’s go.”
I want to say the place is jumping, but while it might not be doing that, it’s got life, and it’s totally down to the ground in all the unexpected ways that should be expected.
The place is so low-key I didn’t even catch the name. There was a sign on the door, but as she led me here, right into the heart of the Village where on the street we’re completely overdressed, but in here, not at all, I just followed along.
We’re led to a table in the back by a sexily but tastefully clad waitress, reminiscent of the old world cigarette girls. There in the back under golden lights, a band plays and people dance.
Yep, there’s actual dancing.
Others sit around and chat and laugh and drink. And it’s got a low-key yet glam vibe I like.
Never in a million years would I think such a place exists, or if I did, of coming here.
It’s a date, not sex.
I take that back as we place an order for drinks, and Elliot pulls the combs from her hair and shakes it free.
This place is date and sex with someone special. This is long, sensuous sex. This is smolder. This can be none of the above. This can be fun or serious conversation. It’s a blank canvas with the paints set out.
I lean forward and take the combs from her as Elliot goes to put her hair back up. Call me an old-fashioned asshole, but I like her hair free.
“Give me those.”
“No. It looks good like that.”
She snatches them from me but doesn’t twist her hair up and shove them in place. “Is this free advice from the Ryder Sinclair fashion hour?”
“Yes.”
Elliot laughs and tucks the combs in her purse as the waitress returns with the side cars—I followed her lead this evening.
The music flows around us and I smooth a wayward strand of hair from her face, trying not to notice how soft and smooth and warm her skin is beneath my fingers. “I feel like I’m in one of those movies from the Fifties. If Dean Martin comes out to sing with the big band, I’m not going to be surprised.”
“I will be, considering he’s been dead for a long time.”
“You know what I mean,” I say, smiling.
“Yeah.” Elliot toys with her glass. “I don’t get to come here often, but this part of the Village, where tiny gems of arts and music and theater exist for themselves, is special. And I love it.”
I sip my drink. “You’re an interesting one, Perry.”
“I’m really not.”
“You really are. This…this is perfect.”
Her cheeks blush and I want to slide the coolness of my glass over them. Maybe let some of the condensation drip down, fall on her decolletage and—I stop the down and dirty direction of my thoughts.
“Or,” I say, “didn’t you expect me to appreciate a place like this?”
Her mouth twists in a tiny smile. “To be fair, you’re not exactly Mr. Deep and Meaningful to the world.”
The words poke at me, and I’m not sure why. She’s got a point. “I’m more man whore, huh?”
“I didn’t…” She sucks in a breath. “I don’t take people here much, Ryder. You like beautiful things and this… I think this is beautiful.”
“It’s a nod to the past but modern,” I say, looking about and clapping as the band finishes a song. “It’s also not kitsch. At least, not in the cringe-kitsch way so many places have. I really like it.”
“I believe this actually used to be one of those supper clubs,” she says. “The owner bought it years ago and revamped it from a beer soaked dive to this. I guess tonight is big band, but sometimes it’s salsa, or jazz or whatever pops up. Anyway, I’m glad you like it.”
I try and ignore the tone that holds surprise. She doesn’t think I’d like a place like this, but she’s wrong. I want to say one reason I like it is because it seems so utterly her. And it’s got depth. But that all sounds so…I don’t know…pathetic, that I keep it to myself. Instead, as the band starts a slow number, I get up and hold out my hand.
“You want to dance?”
“Of course I do. You were the one who suggested it and taunted.”
She doesn’t move and I frown.
“What’s the matter?”
Elliot looks at me, the people slow dancing behind me, then picks up her glass and drains it and I’m honestly not sure whether to be insulted or laugh. “Dutch courage?”
“Something like that.”
She places her hand in mine and it’s cool, a small zing to the senses. Just the reaction to the temperature change from the glass, I tell myself, but as I close my fingers around hers, I wonder.
Because she’s a bundle of sparks and barbs and depths and mountains. She’s secrets and wide fields. Storms and sunny skies.
The song is slow and smoky and winds around us as I settle her in against me. And we sway to the music.
Elliot’s warm and soft and the curves perfect to hold. And the gardenias are there, twined with that something belonging to her alone. A something which slides in low against the senses. It’s something I can get behind.
“Loosen up, Perry.”
“Not every woman falls at your feet,” she snaps.
I laugh. “I’m aware. God forbid if they did. But I’m not that repulsive that you can’t put your arms around me.”
Those sweet eyes meet mine. “And if I don’t want to?”
“Pretend, that’s what the evening’s about, remember.”
Elliot makes a small sound of huffy suffering and I laugh against her ear as she slides her arms up and around my neck.
It’s not much of a dance, but it’s the kind that any man worth his salt loves. A woman to hold, her body against his. The possibilities are endless. And I know I have to stop thinking like that. First off, it’s Elliot. She’d probably punch me if she thought my mind kept going there with her. Second…I need to prove to myself I can actually do this. Just be with a woman like her, one with so many possibilities, and not twist it into anything. I need to just be.
Because if I’m like this around her, thinking of that mouth, the taste of her, and what else would be good with her, then I’m a hopeless case.
I don’t want to change.
I shouldn’t have to change.
But if I can’t, even for a while, then I’m just as pathetic as she seems to think I am.
Jesus. Did they put self-pity juice in the side car?
“Happy?”
“Yeah,” I say, easing her a little closer. “I am.”
And apart from that self-pity juice, it’s true. She feels right. If she feels right, then…
“You know, Perry, I think this is going to work.”
Something in her gaze darkens. “The scam?”
“It’s not a scam. Not really. It’s me fitting into what I have to for four weeks. With you with me? Easy?”
“Sinclair,” she says, her fingers a flirt against the skin of my nape, tangling with some of my hair as we dance, “life and things aren’t that easy. Even for you.”
“C’mon, I got you, babe.”
She rolls her eyes. “Look what happened to Sonny and Cher.”
“You’re like a walnut.”
“If that’s your flirting game, then it’s a good thing you’re a pretty man, otherwise…” And Elliot steps on my toes. Deliberately. I know this because of the satisfied curl to her mouth. “You have problems.”
“I meant, hard on the outside and it takes effort to crack you, but I’m thinking once someone does, then it’s sweet and luscious right there, on the inside. Delicious.”
She shivers and breathes in deep. “Stop that.”
“Stop what?”
“You know what.”
This time I smile. “Make me. I also think we look good together.”
She looks at me with suspicion. “You and me? I don’t think so.”
I want to taste her lips again, I realize. I want to close that gap and kiss her. And I don’t have an excuse for it. At all. I just want it.
“I don’t think we should do this.” She starts to pull away, but I tighten my hold.
“We need to. What if people are watching?”
“That’s an occupational hazard for you, being you. Rich or poor, people are definitely going to be watching you.”
Elliot pulls away again and this time, I let her, catching her hand as she does so and twining our fingers as we head back to our table.
I get another round of drinks, watching Elliot like she’s the most fascinating thing in the room. And that’s probably because to me, right now, she is.
“Why the hell do you think it’s what people do to me?”
“Watch you?” Our drinks arrive and she picks hers up. “That’s what they do. That waitress couldn’t take her eyes off you. You’re a beautiful man.”
“You say that like it’s a crime.”
She frowns. “I’m just stating that’s what happens, Ryder.”
“People look at you, too.”
I don’t do this. I don’t push and scratch at surfaces, I don’t dissect the pretty girl I’m with. I don’t do any of what I’m doing with Elliot to anyone else.
But maybe that’s because I don’t usually like them, not in that way. The ones I’m friends with I’ve known forever. Or they’re family. And women hand me whatever I want.
Except for Elliot.
Maybe it’s the challenge, but I don’t think so. It’s something more, deeper.
I like her.
And I’ve never had a female friend.
I take a deep swallow of my drink. “See, right now, you look for all the world like no one looks at you.”
“They don’t. And that makes my job easy.”
“That’s a big fat lie, Perry.” I point my glass at her. “I’m looking at you. I look at you a lot.”
“You wouldn’t if I didn’t work for you.”
“I don’t know if that’s true,” I say.
But I take another sip of my drink, because I’ve a horrible feeling it might be true. But then again, would it? She commands attention. She draws the eye. She’s smart, fun, and has a hot mouth, hotter body and a personality I could dive into for weeks on end. The better question would be if I’d ever be in the same place as her and I’m pretty sure the answer would be no.
“You’re Ryder Sinclair and you know it. You use it. So stop trying to find an angle.”
I place my hand on my heart. “Me?”
“You.” She downs her drink and it’s impressive. See? Layers. “Want to get out of here?”
“Hell yes,” I say.
And that little invitation is all I need.
I get to my feet and take her hand and pull her up and against me.
And then I lean in to steal that kiss.