Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
Anton
T he sun had almost set, painting the sky a kaleidoscope of colors as I navigated the crowd and hurried down the museum stairs toward the street. Several people still lingered on the red carpet, all vying to get photos taken in their ostentatious clothing. I suppressed an eye roll as I breezed past a woman wearing a dress made of peacock feathers and leafy vines. Three men followed in her wake, each one balancing a section of ivy embellishments that made up her long train. The entire scene was ridiculous.
To help manage security at the gala, the surrounding area had been cordoned off for blocks. Disappearing into a crowd of pedestrians wasn’t an immediate option, and it wasn’t long before I was recognized. Camera flashes went off and reporters shouted questions at me, but I ignored them until they eventually fell back out of earshot. Their attention was precisely why I’d used a back entrance when I first arrived. I hadn’t wanted the hassle, but I wasn’t thinking about that in my haste to leave. I just had to get the hell out of there. Discovering who Serena was had left me disoriented and agitated.
Martinelli—Dr. Serena Martinelli.
I’d anticipated a meeting with an older gentleman, a seasoned archeologist as the article had implied, who I needed to convince to sell me the Brutus Denarius. Instead, I found myself face-to-face with a woman of mesmerizing beauty. With her flawless skin, deep blue eyes, and slender yet shapely figure wrapped in crimson, she didn’t look like an archeologist. As hard as I tried, I couldn’t picture her spending her days covered in dirt and searching for old bones. Yet, at the same time, she also didn’t seem like the rest of the polished guests in attendance at the gala.
I thought back to the moment I’d first laid eyes on her. I had been unexpectedly stupefied, rendered speechless by a strange woman in red. I recalled the way the bodice of her gown clung to her slim body, the sparkling corset seeming more like a second skin. It cinched tight at the waist to accentuate her breasts and outline her every curve. Layers upon layers of fabric spilled from her hips, coming to a pool around her feet. I’d noted the toned muscular lines of her tanned shoulders and arms, and envisioned strong, lithe legs to match—legs that I wanted wrapped around me before we’d exchanged a word. I began to fantasize about sliding my hands under the layers of her ruby dress, roaming up her leg, pulling the fabric of her panties aside, and exposing her to my mercy.
Much to my annoyance, my cock twitched. There was something about her that affected me in the most inexplicable ways. She was both authentic and vulnerable—and I wanted her far more than I should considering I barely knew her.
I was a man who needed to have control of all things around me. Perhaps it was my background that made me that way. I supposed years of having no control over anything would do that to a person, but I never philosophized about it.
From the way I ran my business to the women I took to my bed, control was all I craved. I needed it like the air I breathed. It was that instinct that drove me to succeed in everything I touched. I researched and spotted trends, and I could anticipate things before they happened. That foresight was how I’d made my fortune.
For all the hype the media gave it, the Met Gala wasn’t all that different from so many other events I’d been to. There were the handshakes, the top-shelf liquor, and the fake smiles. Everyone was sizing up the competition around them purely as a means to a selfish end. Everyone—and I mean everyone—wanted something. Including me. These events were as predictable as they were pretentious.
But I hadn’t anticipated Serena Martinelli.
Despite her outward reservations, she managed to command the space around her. She had an elegance only seen in seasoned royalty yet maintained the innocence of a princess. She sounded American but there was a hint of an untraceable accent that signaled worldliness. She had mentioned Italy and years of moving around a lot, but her appearance was a true testament to the Mediterranean. Smooth shoulders that were made for kissing had been left temptingly bare, exposing tanned olive skin. Her nearly black hair had been fashioned up, leaving only a few ringlets to fall onto her back and cascade around her face.
Then there was her mouth—red and full. When I’d held her in my arms after her near fall, all I could think about was leaning in and biting her lower lip.
While she looked and dressed the part of a great Italian beauty, the callouses on her hands told a different story. I wanted to know how and why they’d gotten there. I wanted the story behind that just as much as I wanted to know why she needed investors. She was a mystery—a riddle that I was suddenly obsessed with solving.
She had unknowingly disarmed me, her every movement arousing deep, carnal desires. She’d upended every expectation I’d had for the evening. And the second I’d discovered her full name and title, my sole purpose for being at the gala had become uncertain. All I could think to do was make a quiet exit until I could clear my head and get my thoughts in order.
It shouldn’t have mattered who I’d expected the archeologist to be. Man or woman, pivoting should have been easy. But I’d been caught off guard, and that wasn’t something I was used to. She wasn’t who I’d anticipated, and it bothered me more than I cared to admit.
I knew that once she found out I wanted something from her, the fragile trust we’d established could vanish in an instant if I didn’t play my cards right. I needed a new plan that separated my physical attraction to the woman from the object of my desire—the Brutus Denarius.
I continued walking with no destination in mind, happy to be away from the buzz surrounding the Met. I gazed across the bustling street, not focused on anything in particular, and replayed the unexpected encounter with Serena over again in my mind. Her voice echoed through my thoughts as I tried to get a grip on why she had affected me so much. Taking a deep breath, I shook off the lingering unease.
In the fading light, I found myself at the edge of Central Park. The soft rustle of the trees provided a rhythmic counterpoint to the chaos of my thoughts. Perhaps the city had a way of revealing the unexpected, much like the woman who had left an unforgettable mark on my evening. My frustration grew, not at her, but at my own uncertainty. It was out of character for me.
Glancing at my Rolex, I frowned. I’d been gone from the gala for close to an hour. I was wasting time. If Serena was the Dr. Martinelli who I’d been hoping to meet, and if she did, in fact, have the Brutus Denarius, meandering without purpose wasn’t going to get me any closer to obtaining it.
“Fuck this. I’m going back,” I muttered.
Turning around, I began to head for the museum. A few people who passed by slowed and pointed in my direction. Ever since my name had been listed in Forbes , that had been happening more and more. Add in the stupid gossip rag that had listed me amongst their sexiest men, and it was risky for me to wander the streets without Zeke nearby. He’d surely school me for it if or when he ever found out.
As I crossed East 84 th Street, I noticed a familiar red dress slightly down the block. Serena’s tight body wrapped in crimson wasn’t an image I’d soon forget. She was a vision of beauty, sitting on the stone bench at the very spot we’d first met. My brow furrowed with concern, wondering why she wasn’t inside. When she hunched over to rest her head on crossed forearms, my concern grew.
Was she…crying?
I never doubted my instincts. They’d served me well over the years, and right now, they told me something was wrong. Without thinking, I hurried my pace. The sound of my footsteps across the concrete sidewalk increased with the rhythm of my heart. An odd sense of worry gripped me as I approached her.
“Serena,” I said once I reached her.
She looked up, her eyes reflecting a mixture of helplessness and surprise.
“Anton,” she said warily.
“What’s wrong?” I asked, crouching down to her level.
“Nothing. I just think…I think I’m coming down with something.”
Her voice sounded strained, a stark contrast to the woman I’d left inside at the gala. Absent was the natural blush in her cheeks, now replaced with an ashen pallor.
“You look pale.”
“Probably the flu combined with jetlag. I just need to get back to my room so I can sleep. I’ll be fine,” she insisted. She attempted to wave me off, but her arm fell limp to her side.
Christ. She’s so weak.
I didn’t know how illness had struck her so quickly, but there wasn’t time to debate it. She belonged in a bed—not on a dirty stone city bench.
“Where are you staying?”
“I’m at…” Her brow pushed together to form a V as if it hurt just to talk. Reaching down into her red satin purse, she pulled out a keycard. “That’s it. Midtown Motel. I couldn’t remember the name. It’s about twenty or so blocks that way.”
She angled her head to signal the direction.
“The Midtown?” I stated, although it came out sounding more like a question born from disbelief. I was familiar with the building. The motel wasn’t known for cleanliness or hospitality. In fact, it was just the opposite. I tried to imagine her inside the seedy urban motel wearing a formal gown and the sparkling ruby at her neck, and it was at complete odds. Not to mention, the contrast was nothing short of dangerous. She belonged in a palace fit for royalty. “Why in God’s name are you staying at a place like that?”
“The presidential suite at the Four Seasons was sold out,” she remarked, managing a weak, yet sarcastic smile. It was another reminder of how frail she looked.
I cringed at the idea of her having to walk or ride twenty or more blocks. She’d never make it five in her state.
“Let me help you.”
“I’m fine. I just sat down to rest for a minute. I can call a cab?—”
“You seem to think this is up for debate, princess,” I stated and pulled my phone from my pocket. Going to the recent contact list, I located Zeke’s number and pressed send. He picked up on the second ring. “Zeke, I need you to bring a car as close as you can to East 84 th and 5 th . Roads are blocked and I’m not sure how close they’ll let you get to The Met.”
“I can get to you. Right now?”
“Yes. I’ve got a…” I glanced down at Serena, trying to think of a way to phrase my relationship with her. “I have a sick friend here who needs a ride.”
I gave him a quick rundown, explaining where Serena’s motel was. Luckily, he’d still been at Club O going through applications. Assuming traffic wouldn’t be a huge issue, he estimated he could be here in less than fifteen minutes.
After ending the call, I looked down at Serena. She was leaning to one side, her head resting on the arm stretched across the back of the bench. Whatever argument she may have wanted to make moments earlier seemed to have died. Her eyes were closed, and her once radiant face bore the flush of fever.
I pressed my hand to her forehead.
Dammit.
She was burning up. I’d just been with her a short while ago, and she hadn’t shown any sign of sickness. Whatever she had seemed to be sucking the life out of her.
I began to pace, assessing the situation. She lived in Italy. Other than the gala, I had no idea what other business she had in New York—if any. If she had friends or family in the city, she’d most likely be staying with them over that sordid motel.
That led me to believe she was here alone. And sick.
New York would eat her alive if given the opportunity. Hell, that ruby necklace may as well have been a bullseye for street urchins and panhandlers. I wasn’t entirely comfortable with the idea of leaving her alone right now—especially when I thought about where she was staying.
I cringed again at the mere thought of her being there. I didn’t know how she could attend the Met Gala, an event that cost over fifty grand a ticket, yet could only afford one of the cheapest hotels in Manhattan. Something didn’t add up.
Less than fifteen minutes later, Zeke pulled up in my newly acquired Volvo XC90. It was a recent purchase, made only at Zeke’s insistence for its ballistic protection. I looked down at Serena. She appeared to be sleeping.
“Princess,” I said, nudging her awake. “Let’s get you to a bed.”
I held out my hand. She hesitated before accepting, but resignation came fast, and she allowed me to help her to her feet.
“Thanks,” she murmured as I snaked an arm around her lower back.
Guiding her inside, the soft leather seats in the SUV offered a stark contrast to the hard bench she’d just been sitting on. As we settled into the comfort of the vehicle, her fatigue became even more evident. She rested her head against the door and closed her eyes again.
Zeke muscled the car through the clogged streets as I relayed orders on where to take Serena. Once we exited the secure perimeter around the Met, the roads filled with stop and go traffic, and people rushed in every direction. Bags of trash were piled several feet high in some places, waiting for the city waste management to haul them away. Some found it off-putting. To me, it was just another part of Manhattan.
When we reached the Midtown, I glanced out the window. A homeless woman lay huddled against the front of the building to the left of the hotel’s main entrance. To the right, two men stood close to one another. One man was casually smoking a cigarette, discreetly holding out his free hand to accept whatever the second man was offering.
A drug deal.
I glanced down at Serena once more, and a nagging sense of responsibility needled at me .
Fuck.
I couldn’t leave her here. I knew I was going to regret the choice I was about to make, but I went with it anyway.
“Zeke, change of plan. To the penthouse instead.”