Chapter 4
ANDREJ
I don’t think about her hand in mine, how vulnerable it feels, like a kitten.
Trusting.
Fragile.
And so fucking gorgeous I can hardly believe my luck.
Don’t fuck this up, Andrej, I tell myself as I watch her climb into the passenger seat of my car, folding her legs in gracefully like a ballerina.
She’s wearing tight white pants and a jade-green sweater that picks out the green in her hazel eyes, but Cartier Black isn’t like any other woman I’ve ever met.
There’s something special about her. Something that should be treasured, adored, treated with reverence.
I climb into the driver’s seat and start the engine.
She doesn’t look at me. She doesn’t ask where we’re going. She just chews on her plump bottom lip, and it does fucking things to my cock that shouldn’t be happening when we’re both fully clothed.
Cartier Black isn’t like any other woman I’ve ever met because she isn’t slanting her eyes at me and stroking my thigh to let me know that we’re both on the same page.
She isn’t a one-night stand.
If I’m doing this, I’d better buckle up for the ride.
We drive north away from Michigan Avenue and State Street, the lights and buzz and the frenzy of early evening Chicago nightlife diminishing in the rearview mirror.
I park up on a wide leafy avenue in the village and kill the engine.
“Where are we?” Cartier speaks for the first time, a hint of panic creeping into her voice.
“Roscoe Village. I want to show you something that I think you’ll like.”
Her eyes drop, and my cock twitches inside my pants when I realize what she’s thinking. Down, boy. I promised her a guided tour, and that’s what she’s going to get.
For now.
I unbuckle my safety belt, climb out, and open the passenger door for her.
She steps out onto the sidewalk and peers at the building closest to us while I beep the remote. “You brought me to the library?”
“Kinda.”
I take her hand and guide her up the short flight of steps and inside the building where we’re hit by low lights and the gentle tones of Audrey Hepburn singing ‘Moon River’ in the background.
The main desk of what was once the library is a bar, with tinted mirrors lining the wall behind it, and an array of unusual bottles hanging from overhead rafters.
No bar stools. The carrels are for drinking and reading or chatting about books if that’s your preference.
There’s an air of charm inside the library that’s neither sedate nor lively, just groups of like-minded people hanging out where they feel comfortable.
“Drink?”
Cartier faces me in slow-motion, eyes wide like she doesn’t understand the world we just entered. “Did Mika tell you to bring me here?” It’s not an accusation. She’s simply jumping to conclusions.
“Nope. All my own work.”
I take her hand and lead her to the bar where I order two glasses of prosecco while she peers around the carrels. Drinks in hand, we make our way to the rear of the building and find an empty table.
Cartier is still staring at the loaded shelves behind me as if she doesn’t believe that the books are real.
“My favorite section.” I sip my prosecco and sit back in my seat. “The classics.”
“To read or to bring women?” She swallows hard like she might be able to suck the words back in and pretend they never happened.
I shrug. I deserve it. “To read. I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve read Doctor Zhivago.”
Cartier takes a moment to process the revelation as if trying to figure out whether she should believe me or call me out on the blatant lie. Then, “Tess of the D’Urbervilles. Makes me cry every time.”
“Thomas Hardy.” I’m not trying to impress her. But fuck if I couldn’t sit here and listen to her talking about books all night.
She jumps up, kneels on the cushioned bench, and runs a finger across the spines of the books on the shelf behind her, checking out the titles.
I check out the curve of her ass, the way her waist dips in, and the swell of her breasts when she half-turns with a book in her hand and says, “Wuthering Heights. Please tell me that you’ve read this book at least once.”
“Once.”
She drops back into her seat, one knee raised to her chest, and hugs her leg while she flicks through the pages of the book that almost looks like an antique. “And?” She watches me, wide-eyed.
“And Catherine Earnshaw was a spoiled, over-indulged brat.”
“Yes, but what did you think of the love story? Of Heathcliff?”
I sit forward. She’s even more fucking stunning when she’s passionate, and I need to keep my mind off the semi-hardon in my boxers. “It was a toxic relationship. I mean, would you dig up the bones of the man you love because you rejected him while he was alive?”
She laughs, and the sound travels straight down to my bulging pants along with all the blood surging through my veins.
“I don’t know.” She chews her bottom lip again. “I’ve never loved anyone that deeply.”
“Do you want to?”
Our eyes lock, and the world shudders to a grinding halt.
“Of course. Don’t you?”
I never thought about it before. People like me don’t fall in love.
Our hearts are black and twisted, screwed up by the blood spatters and gunshots that haunt our dreams at night.
But what kind of man does that make me? I never thought Leonid would ever fall in love, but when I see him with Gianna, I know that’s what it is.
Love.
My brother is blissfully, hopelessly, and dangerously, in love with his wife.
Do I want to experience the same? The thought scares me more than it should.
Loving someone that deeply changes a person, adds layers to your psyche that are buried for a reason because it allows you to exist inside the world you were born into without question.
The instant I start questioning what I do…
Well, like Lady Macbeth, I’ll see all the blood on my hands for the first time, and I’m quite happy keeping my hands clean.
“Drink up.” I down my prosecco and reach for her hand.
I don’t miss the disappointment in her eyes as she turns around and slides the book back onto the shelf.
If love is what she’s looking for, then it’s better to disappoint her now rather than later.
I promised Gianna that I wouldn’t hurt her.
It’s an easy promise to uphold when I don’t know anything about Cartier Black.
Perhaps this was a mistake.
Perhaps I should’ve held onto the text message that I read over her friend’s shoulder and chalked it up to my irresistible sex appeal and charisma instead of following it through.
She doesn’t take my hand.
Outside, she tilts her face towards the sky, and my resolve to take her home and wish her goodnight before it’s too late crashes down around me.
Because I want to make her smile. I want to make her laugh. I want to hear the passion in her voice.
Fuck smiles and laughter! I want to hear her screaming out my name while my face is buried between her legs and my tongue is so deep inside her beautiful pussy that I can’t even feel it.
My fingers find her hand, and this time I don’t let her pull away.
“We’re walking.”
“What about your car?” She walks half a pace behind me. One of her boot laces has come undone and click-clacks across the sidewalk with every step she takes.
“I’ll get it picked up tomorrow.”
Her eyes narrow briefly, and her confusion is contagious. She knows what we are, right? Gianna must’ve told her friends about the family she married into. Which means that Cartier knows about Gianna’s abduction, and my brother’s plan to use her against the Amory family.
Does having nothing to prove make this evening easier or harder for me? I guess I’ll soon find out.
“Where are we going?” She matches my pace, her eyes fixed on me rather than on the sidewalk.
“What’s your favorite cocktail?” I smile.
It might be my imagination, but she appears to melt a little. My cock imagined it too.
“Espresso martini. Why?”
She’s intrigued now, and any internal debate I might have had about cutting the night short to avoid disappointing her further has been pulverized to death. I’m nowhere near done with Cartier Black. And unless my Spidey senses are seriously malfunctioning, I don’t think she’s done with me either.
“Prepare to have your mind changed.”
Her hand squeezes mine. Reflex? Or excitement? It’s a small win, but I’m running with it.
We turn into a dimly lit alleyway between buildings, and I pull her closer to me. Call it instinct. I’m a man. She works with abused women. I’m not totally fucking oblivious to the dangers a woman faces on the streets at night.
“Almost there.”
I sense her pulse racing, and the desire to scoop her into my arms and tell her that she’s safe with me is overwhelming. But I don’t. Alpha behavior won’t make a woman like Cartier wrap her arms around my neck and beg me to be her hero.
Not that I’m anyone’s hero. Never have been, never wanted to be.
A bouncer clad head to toe in black steps out of the shadows beneath the swinging sign, standing at least four inches taller than me. He recognizes me in the sickly yellow glow of the lamp above the entrance and gestures with a curt nod for us to head inside.
The foyer is small, dark, the tiny flush ceiling and floor lights creating a path from the doorway to the cocktail bar.
Then we step through another door, and the place opens up into a space that is at odds with the narrow alleyway and hidden entrance.
We stop inside the doorway, and I give Cartier a moment to take in her surroundings.
The bar runs the entire length of the opposite wall.
The lights are low for a reason, so that the eye is immediately drawn to the amber glow of the lamps behind the two mixologists.
The booths almost appear to be superfluous.
An afterthought. Because all the magic happens right in front of us.