CHAPTER EIGHT
STELLA
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Writing is the last thing on my mind right now, but it’s my job. Just because I have a trust fund doesn’t mean I want to live my life doing nothing purposeful with it.
I’ve always loved telling stories.
I started, as a little girl, using my dolls to play out ideas, then progressed to writing on my computer. Now, here I am now, a published author.
I wanted to be taken seriously as a writer, which is why I chose woman’s fiction. I’d be happier writing romance or creating a fantasy world.
For now, I need to finish this manuscript.
My story is about a woman who has found herself a widow in her mid-thirties and is busy learning who she is now. She once dreamed of being an artist, a painter, and is immersing herself in the New York scene.
Of which I know very little about. So, after staring at the wall for hours, I’ve decided to walk the streets of the Chelsea Arts District for inspiration. People watching can give you all sorts of ideas.
My driver meets Declan and I downstairs and drives us to Twenty-Fifth Street near the Hudson River.
“Stop here. This is fine.” I shuffle in my seat, eager to move away from Declan, whose large body is taking up far too much space.
Are you going to kiss me?
No.
You look like you want to.
I can’t believe I said that. It was either ask him or tiptoe up and help myself to his sexy mouth. I’m not that bold, but my body was buzzing with desire as he placed a hand above me and glowered down at me.
Of all the things to happen when I’m being forced to marry a creep, my bodyguard is the most handsome man I’ve ever seen in my life. What terrible timing.
Like that’s the biggest issue here.
There is an insane amount of chemistry between Declan and me. I’m almost certain he was lying. He did want to kiss me...and a whole lot of other things.
I almost wish he would.
It would take my mind off all of this. Tony Marino, the book, my life crumbling around me. Imagine a night in Declan Sloan’s bed. Without a doubt, I’d never forget it.
Even one kiss.
He’s my bodyguard, so that’s completely inappropriate, and thank God he had the wherewithal to not let my moment of weakness go further.
I’m sure he has a lot of women throwing themselves at him.
Which is not what I did.
Still, the image of him lifting me up and carrying me inside where he’d fuck me senseless is still in my mind as his thigh shifts beside me and I do a little jump.
“You okay?” he rasps.
“Yes,” I say, too pitchy, then clear my throat. “Fine. Very fine.” Oh my God, stop talking. “We should get out here and walk around the block along Eleventh Avenue.”
Declan gives the driver instructions to meet us a few blocks away while I climb out and gather myself.
Focus on the book.
Declan joins me on the sidewalk, and we stand next to one another as the black town car disappears. I glance around me, trying like hell to ignore the delicious heat emitting from his huge frame.
Tucking my coat around me, I dig my hands into my pockets and start walking and observing those around me.
Is this what my heroine would do? Have her driver drop her at an art gallery and walk these streets? Yes, she would. Although she wouldn’t have a sexy bodyguard or driver. She’d probably use Uber or a cab.
I don’t know what that feels like. I’ve had security all my life because of my family. That won’t change when I marry Mr. Marino.
Calling him Tony feels too...intimate.
Sadness glides through me, feeling heavy as I go over the meeting with my parents. I’m not a mom, but it’s bewildering to me that they are letting this happen. If I had a daughter, I’d pack her up and drive across the country where we were safe.
Move to Australia or Iceland.
I don’t know, but I wouldn’t stand back and let my husband marry my beautiful daughter to a monster.
I googled him.
He is a monster.
I was raised to fear my father and obey him.
As a child, I was terrified of him and, if I think about it, I don’t really know him.
Not really. We don’t have a relationship filled with loving memories.
He never took me to a daddy-daughter dance or on daddy-daughter dates.
He never came to a ballet recital, nor curled up on my bed and read me a book.
We never had a puppy and went to the park with it.
Sure, we had vacations as a family, but there are no photos of us on a yacht in the Mediterranean or at Disney. Instead, we traveled to Switzerland, where I was sent off with nannies to the beginner slopes and taught to ski while he took business calls and then hit the big slopes.
Or we’d go to our summer home in the Hamptons, where I’d spend day after day in the pool with Charlotte and other friends. Dad was either in his study or playing golf with business associates who vacationed in the area.
In the evenings we always hosted dinners, so there was no family time. I didn’t dare speak to him. Those were the rules.
So how could I know Victor Voss?
Declan steps forward to divert a fast-walking passerby from bumping into me. Then he slips a step behind me. I’m used to this dance with private security, but I want him beside me, and it’s not just because I’m wildly attracted to him. To his scent, his aura, his size and sexuality.
That’s when I realize something so blindingly obvious I missed.
Declan must think I’m a slut.
I asked him if he was going to kiss me while engaged to marry another man.
Except I’m not...well, I am...but not...
Fuck.
I am.
Goddamn it, I am!
I wish he’d signed that damn agreement, then I could speak openly. Sure, kissing him would be nice, but it would be nice to talk to someone about it. Other than my lawyer, who told me I was out of my fucking mind—a direct quote—for doing this.
“And if my father ends up dead?”
“What if you end up dead? Come on, Stella, this is crazy.”
“I know, Simon, but can I really live with myself if my father got returned to us in pieces?”
Simon just shook his head and drew up the document for me.
Which, as it turns out, was a waste of time, because my very sexy bodyguard won’t damn well sign it.
Next minute, I’m lifted off my feet from behind, and I let out a squeal.
“Declan! What are you doin—” Three skateboarders rush past at high speed, laughing, as I grab at the surrounding air unsuccessfully.
Declan places me back down on my feet.
I grip his arm to steady myself.
“You zoned out and were walking straight into the middle of them.” Declan frowns.
My heart beats wildly, and my ovaries do the tango as this alpha man towers over me. I want to run my fingers over his dusting of whiskers and lean into his chest.
There’s just something about this man that makes me wonder if we’d fit together like two jigsaw puzzles, and no matter how wrong it is to want that, I still do.
Damn him.
“Thanks.” I clear my throat and glance around, seeking a distraction. I spot a gallery. “I’m going to look around in there. You can stay outside if you’d rather.”
“I’ll join you.”
Damn it.
He holds the door open, and a small chime announces our arrival.
Large frames adorn the wall with a few sculptures dotted around the large space.
I glide in, taking in the abstract paintings before I’m greeted by a stylish middle-aged woman with big blonde hair, large gold hoop earrings and a stunning apple green A-line dress.
“Good afternoon,” she has an old-school New York accent that tells me she comes from money. “My name is Victoria.”
Well-bred, like your mother, my father would say.
“Hi, Victoria. Stella Voss. I’m not buying today, simply browsing.”
If she’s good at her job, she’ll recognize my surname and be impressed. That’s not my goal, of course, but it does come with a guarantee of respect and good service.
Or at the very least, she won’t think we’re tire kickers. My Chanel sneakers probably told her enough the moment we stepped inside.
“Welcome, Stella. Let me quickly tell you about this artist so you know what you’re looking at. Belinda Cohen began painting a few years ago when she had a monumental life change.”
Oh.
We all walk along the first wall, and I study the emotions in her works. Immediately I think of my character and wonder if there is any similarity in their experiences and information I can use.
“May I ask what her life event was? I’m an author and actually out doing research for my character and story.”
At first glance, the paintings are beautiful, but the longer I gaze upon them, I begin to see things differently. I see struggle and pain and even hope emerging in the one furthest on this section.
“An author. How fabulous.” Victoria’s eyes glisten with excitement. “Have you written anything I would know?”
I cringe.
It’s the one question most authors, except the big-named authors, least want to be asked.
“Unlikely.” I smile, feeling myself shrinking.
It’s unlikely she ever will know my work.
Who knows what life will be like when I’m married and if I’ll find myself happy enough to write. If my nightmares are anything to go on, I’ll be in fight-or-flight mode the entire time.
Five years. Five years. Five years.
It’s become my new affirmation.
Five. Years.
Then I can divorce him. Dad said he had a plan and would ensure I could leave the marriage.
He didn’t say how.
“Well, if you write drama, then you might be inspired. Belinda has openly shared her story, so she won’t mind me telling you. Once an early childhood teacher, she had an abrupt career change when her husband lost his ability to walk.”
How terrible! I can only imagine what that would do to a couple’s life.
Absolutely devastating.
Declan steps up beside me, and I glance at him quickly. He is mesmerized by the art, and I smile. His interest surprises me.
Focus on your book, Stella.
So, what do we have here? Like my main character, this artist has gone through a journey of grief, but a different kind. I can channel that pain and how she’s used art to overcome her new world.
“How did it happen?” Declan asks, and I glance at him again.
His shoulders are almost pressed against mine, his heat seeping inside of me like he’s my very own walking heater.