Taken By Him (The Billionaire Black Sheep Book 2) Page 4

  Our car moves off, making room for the black limo that pulls up behind it, and another uniformed doorman moves toward it, helping a woman step out. She’s tall and whip-thin, with a sleek waterfall of long red hair and enormous round sunglasses that hide most of her face. Probably famous, I think, as our doorman leads us to the doors and pulls them open. If I didn’t want to be bothered by the unwashed masses, this is where I would go.

  Inside, more lights, more crystal. Everything sparkles and dazzles. It’s an ostentatious display of wealth that has me, for the first time, just a bit uncomfortable with the Garretts’ net worth.

  A fancy dinner is one thing. I’ve had plenty of fancy dinners—paid for many of them myself, in fact. But a hotel decorated entirely in expensive French crystal, on the other hand, is part of a world that I’ve never been in, and have no business in.

  Upstairs, things are no less sumptuous. Miles’s suite is huge and ridiculously well appointed. Glossy dark furniture with white upholstery is reflected in giant mirrors, strategically placed to make the already big living room area seem even bigger. The light fixtures all drip crystal, of course. A reproduction of a Greek or Roman bust—I honestly wouldn’t know how to tell the difference—surveys the space regally.

  “I won’t be long,” Miles says.

  He goes into the bedroom and I take a seat on one of the sofas. Perfectly soft but perfectly firm, of course. Just right, like Baby Bear’s bed. A coffee table book of New York architecture catches my eye, and I leaf through it as the shower turns on, then immediately turns off again. A moment later, Miles comes back out of the bedroom, shirtless, pants unbuttoned.

  “Come here,” he says. “I want to show you something.”

  I get up and move past him into the bedroom, with its enormous four-poster bed and more mirrors everywhere. The bathroom door is partially open, revealing expensive tile, plush white towels, and a marble double sink.

  “What do you want to show me?”

  His arms snake around me from behind; one hand roams up to cup a breast, the other roams down over my belly, presses me firmly against him.

  Oh. I can’t believe I fell for that.

  I squirm out of his arms and turn to poke him in the chest. “I’ve already seen that, buddy. About four times last night, in lieu of sleep. Do you see these bags under my eyes?”

  “They’re sexy.”

  “My eye bags are sexy?”

  “Yeah, they make me think about all the things we did instead of sleeping.” He moves in on me, leans down to flick his tongue over the outer edge of my ear.

  I make an involuntary sound, something between a moan and a sigh, and tilt my head to the side so his mouth can roam around. He brushes kisses along my neck, then my collarbone, then back up, where his mouth finds mine in a series of kisses that sends a flash of heat through me, head to toe.

  “Night before last,” he says between kisses, “I was in that bed, thinking about you.”

  “Oh, really?” I ask, breathless. “And did you mess up their expensive sheets?”

  “You bet your exceptional ass I did.” He backs me up until the backs of my legs touch the mattress. His hands come up to frame my face, and he kisses me again, softer this time. “And now here you are.”

  “Here I am,” I agree. “Are you looking to mess them up again?”

  “I most definitely am,” he says.

  “Let’s do it, then.”

  And I wrap my arms around his neck and pull him down onto the bed.

  “What’s this one about?” I ask, quite some time later.

  Miles is lying on his back in the big bed, stark naked on top of the covers. I’m curled up against his side, picking out interesting tattoos and asking him where they came from, what they mean. So far we’ve covered the dragon, which he got on a dare; the small owl on his back, which he saw in a particularly vivid dream he had; and the red-and-blue domino-sized one on the inside of his left wrist—a plus sign on the red side, a minus sign on the blue—which has something to do with a band he likes.

  I run my fingers over a trio of timepieces side-by-side on his right shoulder. The one on the left is an old-style pocket watch with the clock face cracked in half; the one on the right is a stopwatch with no numbers. In the middle, an hourglass, with all but a few grains of sand fallen into the lower chamber.

  “Man, I was drunk as hell when I got that,” he says, looking down at it ruefully. “It seemed really meaningful at the time.”

  “At the time, haha. I see what you did there.”

  He points to each in turn as he explains. “You can’t go back to what’s past. The future is full of limitless possibility, but you’d better move your ass. Because time is running out.”

  “That’s actually kind of profound for a drunk tattoo.” I tap on the Marilyn Monroe tattoo he showed me earlier. “What about this? Were you drunk?”

  “I was not drunk. I was dead sober.” He grins. “18th birthday gift to myself. My first tattoo, in fact. My parents were horrified when Rafe told them.”

  “You got a Marilyn Monroe tattoo for your 18th birthday?”

  “I’d been obsessed with her since puberty, so yeah.”

  “You know that’s a really weird kind of crush to have, right? I mean, as a teenager in, what, the 90s?”

  “1995,” he says. “I would have been … thirteen. And my mom brought home a book. There was this photographer, George Barris, who took some of the last pictures of Marilyn, not long before she died. I’d never seen her before, or if I had I didn’t really pay attention.”

  “I mean, she’s everywhere.”

  “Yeah. But I was away at school most of the time. Rafe and I went away to boarding school—well, him first—after fifth grade. We didn’t have a lot of exposure to what you’d call the real world.”

  “That seems so sad, being away from your family so young.”

  “It was.” His voice is flat, and I decide that I’ll just leave that topic alone from now on. “So on the book cover, she’s in this big, shapeless sweater. Hardly any makeup, her hair looks like it dried in the sun. That’s how I saw her first—totally natural, unposed, laughing on the beach. Unspeakably beautiful. The most beautiful woman I’d ever seen.” He cuts his gaze sideways at me. “Until recently.”

  “Oh, shut your pie hole.” I poke his side, just above the tattoo. “Flattery is one thing, flat-out objective lies are a whole other thing altogether.”

  He shrugs. “If you say so. But anyway, she was beautiful. And, well, it wasn’t the stereotypical Marilyn-as-sex-symbol look.” He peers down at the tattoo. “Not that there’s anything wrong with that. But in my head, she’s always laughing on the beach.”

  “So why this tattoo?” My fingers touch the fluttering edge of her skirt, the delicate lines of her shoes. It’s a very well-done tattoo. “If you’re avoiding stereotypes, you could hardly pick a worse picture.”

  “Joe DiMaggio smacked her around because of that photo. Well, that film, I should say—it was a movie shoot. He didn’t like everyone ogling her legs, apparently.” He scowls a little. “They got divorced a few weeks later.”

  “That’s … awful.”

  “He knew who she was when he married her, and then he broke her heart for being who she was. So maybe the tattoo is just a little bit of a fuck-you to everyone who thinks this is all there is to her. I don’t know. I don’t think I even gave it a lot of thought. It just seemed like the right picture.”

  The idea comes to me in a flash. I sit up, push him toward the side of the bed. “Go get your shower. I know exactly what we’re going to do next.”

  “Now that sounds intriguing.” He pulls me in for a kiss, then stands up. “Come with me. Conserve water.”

  “If you think I’m going to fall for that, you’re crazy.”

  “Fall for what?” His face is a perfect study in innocence.

  “Oh, no. Not twice in a row. I’ll go after you, thanks.” I point at the bathroom door. “Now move your fine ass. I
think you’re gonna like this.”

  He bends to kiss me again, but then he does as he’s told.

  I lean down to pull my phone out of my pants pocket, and start searching.

  9

  Brigitte

  “Just a hint?” Miles asks.

  “Nope.”

  We’re walking east on 51st Street, and he’s been badgering me for three blocks now.

  “What’s the first letter?”

  I stop and stare at him for a moment. “Were you one of those kids who snuck down and opened up your Christmas presents while your parents were sleeping?”

  “No. Okay, yes. I don’t have a lot of patience.”

  “I can see that.” I check my phone. “Just around this corner.”

  We get to Lex, and a pleasant female voice announces: You have reached your destination.

  I look around, then look again, checking all four corners to be sure I haven’t missed anything. We have definitely not reached our destination.

  “This isn’t right,” I say.

  “I certainly hope not.” Miles looks around as well, squinting in the bright sunlight and somehow managing to make jeans and a plain white tee look better than they have any business looking. He did insist on his vest, but maybe it’s growing on me, because I’d still jump his bones in a hot second. “I like Duane Reade as much as anyone—which is to say, only when strictly necessary, and for as short a time as possible—but I didn’t expect you to drag me off to visit one for fun.”

  “Be quiet a second.” I zoom in on the map, then swipe back to my browser. “I saw a photo. I know what it looks like.”

  “Okay, now I’m really intrigued. A photo of what?”

  I scan the article again. “Fucking app. We’re a whole block off.” I tug at his hand, get us moving again, up Lex. Ahead of us, near the end of the block. I can see a row of big potted plants and the red awning I’m looking for.

  “Are you sure you—”

  “It’s right here.” I stop at the curb in front of L'Entrecôte and spread my arms with a flourish, like a magician pulling off an excellent magic trick. “Ta-da!”

  There’s a long pause, then: “How lovely. Traffic cones.” He looks down at me, clearly puzzled. “Are you feeling okay?”

  “Not the traffic cones, you dingus.” I gesture again. “What else do you see?”

  “A trash can. A restaurant.” He points at each in turn, then looks back the way we came. “Some pretty big plants that I’m frankly surprised haven’t been stolen.”

  “What do you see on the ground?”

  “Pigeon shit.”

  I punch him in the arm. “Honestly, I shouldn’t even tell you.”

  “You should definitely tell me.”

  “Just stay right here and wait a minute.”

  It’s not even a minute. A cab pulls up on the opposite corner and discharges its occupants. A limo pulls up to the swanky entrance one building over. I hold both of Miles’s hand in mine, watching his face and waiting.

  Beneath us, the sidewalk begins to tremble. It wouldn’t even be all that noticeable if someone were just hurrying past, as most New Yorkers are. But we’re standing still, not talking, waiting for something. And here it is.

  There’s no updraft to speak of—that’s something that was greatly exaggerated for the movie—but Miles gets it. His eyes widen just a bit. His lips start to curve into a smile.

  “Are you fucking kidding me?”

  “Do I look like I’m kidding you?”

  “Is this really—”

  “It is.” I’m laughing now, because he’s a big sexy tattooed guy standing on the spot where a movie star once got her dress blown up, grinning like an absolute idiot. “I sort of vaguely remembered that it was around here somewhere, in midtown, so I figured why not? Sorry I didn’t have time for a dress and wig.”

  He reaches out to touch my hair. “You would make an absolutely stunning blonde.”

  I swat his hand away. “Keep your perverted fantasies to yourself, mister.”

  “Didn’t you tell me last night that you need a haircut?”

  “Probably.” I’m sure I said any number of things last night. “I don’t know if you know this, but when you cut hair, it stays the same color.”

  “I’m just saying.” He turns in a circle, takes everything in. “This is so great. How did you find it?”

  “Well, Miles, it was the craziest thing. I just thought to myself, if only I were connected to a worldwide network of information.” I brandish my phone at him. “I Googled it, dummy.”

  He grabs me around the waist, brushes his lips over mine, feather-light. “I love it when you call me names.”

  “I love it when you kiss me like that.”

  “Well, then.” He does it again. “Are you hungry?”

  I raise my eyebrows. “Is that some kind of proposition?”

  “Definitely. I propose that we go into that restaurant over there and eat some food.”

  “We just ate.”

  “Like two hours ago. It’s almost one o’clock, and I need to keep my strength up. You know, for all those orgasms I keep giving you.”

  “Oh my God.” I look around. No one seems to have heard. “We’re on a public street.”

  “So? I’m not planning on giving you one here.” He pulls me toward L'Entrecôte. “Let’s see if this place is any good.”

  “No, that’s literally nothing but steak frites.”

  “I’m not sure this relationship is going anywhere if you don’t like steak frites, but okay.”

  He says it casually, scanning the block for another restaurant. Inside me, something cracks. This relationship is already not going anywhere, regardless of whether I like steak frites. It’s not even a relationship, not when he’ll be going home soon.

  And I’m honestly not sure how to deal with the one-two punch of sorrow and fear that follows.

  “I like them fine, just not at one o’clock.” To me my voice sounds artificially bright, but he doesn’t seem to notice.

  He points across the street. “What about the Mayson Kayser?”

  “Done.”

  Over croque-madame and eggs Benedict, we chat about nothing much. How long I’ve lived in the city; Hamilton, which I’ve seen and he hasn’t; the latest Cloverfield movie, which he’s seen and I never will, because the first one gave me motion sickness.

  “This one’s not found footage,” he tells me. “And John Goodman is perfect in it.”

  “I guess I will never know,” I state emphatically. “I’ll stick with something a little tamer.”

  He smiles at me across the table. “I know some great old movies from the ’50s.”

  “I should have known you would say that.”

  “Seriously, though. That”—he points across the street with his fork—“was really nice.”

  “It wasn’t much.”

  “It was thoughtful.” He reaches across the table and takes my hand. “That kind of small but meaningful thing, I’d rather have that than some expensive present.”

  “Well, that makes one of us.” I smile and bat my eyelashes at him. “How does that saying go? Diamonds are a girl’s best friend?”

  “You want diamonds?”

  “If I do—and why wouldn’t I?—they’re widely available. I can certainly buy my own diamonds.” I pat his hand. “I was teasing. I’d prefer something thoughtful to something expensive, too. I’m not after your fortune.”

  His gaze is really intense, enough that I kind of want to hunch my shoulders. “I know,” he says. “I’ve actually not doubted that for one second. Do you know how rare it is?”

  “Uh, not really.” Uncomfortable with the whole topic, I take another bite of my sandwich. It is, to my great sadness, the last bite.

  “I want to get you something.” He wraps his fingers around mine again. “As a thank you for the surprise. You name it.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Yeah. I am. And you know why? Because you wouldn
’t ask.”

  “You’re a weird one, Miles Garrett. But you can put your wallet away, because not only would I not ask, I wouldn’t let you. It wasn’t a big deal.”

  “It was a big deal to me.” He puts his napkin on the table. “How about a trade?”

  “Is this gonna be a weird sex thing? Because I’ll do that stuff with you for free, you know.”

  He flashes that grin at me, the disarming, panty-melting one. “Yeah, I feel like we’re already pretty much even there. In fact, if we’re talking strictly about numbers—”

  “What, then?”

  “Let’s go get your hair cut. My treat.”

  “That’s … a really strange gift. And possibly more expensive than you think, with your twenty-dollar dude haircuts.”

  “Not a gift. A trade.”

  “And what am I trading for this largesse?”

  He stands and pulls me up. “I’ll tell you on the way.”

  10

  Brigitte

  “Uh-uh. No way.”

  “What are you, some kind of chicken?”

  “What’s next, are you gonna double-dog dare me?”

  “It’ll be great.” Miles stops, points at the nearest storefront. The word Studio is emblazoned across the window, and under it, Est 2010.

  I pull my hand out of his. “Who brags about being a business for 6 lousy years?”

  “Don’t change the subject.” He opens the door, gestures me inside.

  The thing is, as ridiculous as his idea is, it’s also sort of … intriguing. I keep saying no, but if I’m totally honest, there’s a part of me that really wants to say yes.

  And I think he knows it, too.

  Inside, two women sit under hair dryers, chatting. A woman behind the counter turns to us, her violently purple hair swinging forward as she does. It’s a sleek, perfect A-line crop, so at least someone here can cut hair. I won’t look like a complete idiot.

  Wait a minute. I haven’t even agreed to this.