CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Daisy
I’m not sure when I became a woman to Tristan, rather than a mere girl. It happened sometime during the car ride, although it’s not clear exactly when. We were making conversation and it was so easy, so light, like we’d been friends forever, dating forever even, laughing, trading barbs, the talk free and easy. And I’d learned so much about him.
“Where are your parents?” I said curiously. “How come I’ve never heard anything about them?”
And Tristan glanced at me, smiling, even as he smoothly shifted gears, driving the Maserati, handling her curves like an elegant, purring woman.
“Why do you ask?” he asked lightly. “They’re around.”
I paused momentarily. I guess I didn’t know that much about my guardian. I’d always figured that he valued his privacy, that he was tight-lipped for a reason, that there were some shadowy secrets hidden away. So it was surprising that he opened up pretty easily, that Tristan was receptive to the natural questions that would crop up during a developing relationship.
“But where are you from?” I pressed. “Where are your parents now? How come they never come to visit?”
“Well,” he drawled, pausing for a moment. “It’s not that they don’t come to visit, it’s that I visit them,” he said.
I sat back. Oh right, Tristan traveled a lot, he was often gone on non-stop business trips. I guess it wouldn’t be hard for him to stop off somewhere to drop in on his folks now and then.
“And so?” I asked, cocking my head. I was interested in everything about this man, unveiling his dark, mysterious secrets.
But he just threw his head back, laughing, revealing even white teeth. Teeth that had felt so good against my skin last night, his breath hot and heavy against my private parts.
“They’re in Kansas,” he said with a twinkle in his eye. “Just like Superman, I’m actually from Kansas.”
And I laughed with him. “So you’re Clark Kent, reporter extraordinaire, with Aunt Martha and Uncle Ben on the farm waiting for you back home?”
And he cocked an eyebrow at me again.
“Well, I actually was a reporter once,” he said. “Before I started Marks Holdings, I began at the bottom of the totem pole, just like anybody else, a cub reporter at … get this, Gotham News.”
And I almost laughed then. The thought of Tristan Marks as an entry-level employee, getting people coffee, running errands, pounding the pavement trying to get a scoop tickled me. He just didn’t seem like that type of guy, wearing nondescript khakis with a notebook and pen, hustling to get an interview, persuading people to talk.
But he nodded, as if sensing my disbelief.
“It’s true,” he confirmed. “I didn’t always wear thousand dollar suits, didn’t always wear wing-tips and drive Maseratis,” he said wryly. “Once upon a time, I was a farm boy from Kansas with an opportunity to attend school on a scholarship and I made the best of it. I went to KSU with every intention of coming out with flying colors, I’d worked so hard to get there.”
And I gasped. This was completely different from what I’d envisioned. I’d thought Tristan was born into money somehow, that things had just fallen into his lap from the very beginning, like he was some kind of golden boy.
But he chuckled, seeing my disbelief.
“Nah, I started out with nothing, working to put myself through school. The scholarship was generous but Hudson cost a pretty penny even back then,” he said reflectively. “So I was a bank teller during the days and studied at night, doing my best to keep up. I wasn’t great at it, didn’t get excellent grades, but I was interested in reporting, in becoming an anchor, so I did stints at the Hudson Daily, the local radio station, and my scrappiness was enough to land me an internship after graduation. I guess you can tell I didn’t sleep much back then,” he added wryly.
I nodded slowly. I had no idea that Tristan was from humble beginnings, scraping to get by, eating beans by candlelight as a student.
And he nodded, confirming it.
“You wouldn’t recognize me if you saw me back then,” he said lightly, shooting me another glance as he handled the car. “Jeans washed so many times they were white, eating meals whenever I could, sometimes just a sandwich and an apple, I didn’t have much.”
And I positively gaped then. Tristan hadn’t had enough for food? That was deprivation going beyond what I possibly could have imagined.
He chuckled low in his throat.
“No honey, I got enough calories, I was fine. “Maybe I wasn’t dining at Le Cirque or Aquavit, but I was doing fine,” he rumbled. “Still, I have a soft spot for McDonald’s for that reason,” he said, more to himself than anyone else. “You can fill up on their stuff for less than five bucks, can you believe it? And if you stick to the salads and breakfast, it’s actually pretty healthy.”
I nodded slowly. No wonder he’d been appreciative of my obvious enjoyment of the Big Mac at the rest stop. We had more similarities than I’d anticipated, our love of the occasional fast food joint, the obvious joy it brought us, cholesterol and fat be damned. And this was totally eye-opening because this was all stuff I never would have guessed.
“But I was never a pushover,” he added slowly, “Even when I had nothing, I didn’t let people walk over me. I was always fucking determined and I can say that I wasn’t the most popular guy on campus from the way I drove the newspaper staff, the way I demanded everything from everyone.”
I nodded.
“But it got you to where you are today, right?” I said slowly, “the means justify the ends and all that?”
“Since when do you do Machiavellian?” he asked, cocking an eyebrow at me. “But yes, that was my motto back then. I was so determined to get out of there, to seek my fortune, that I stepped on a lot of toes, walked on the backs of others,” he ground out. “It wasn’t pretty but you can’t say no to a young man with ambition.”
And this set me back a little.
“Do you still think others are the little people?” I asked slowly. “Is that how you view the world?”
And he looked at me pointedly then.
“No of course not,” he said smoothly. “Nothing’s so black and white, there are shades of grey for everything out there. But back then, when I was starting out, I was pretty ruthless, you couldn’t stop me with a tractor. It got me to where I am, but once you’re at the top, tactics change.”
“So you’re kinder, nicer, wiser now?” I asked hesitantly.
He gave out a short bark of a laugh.
“I wouldn’t say any of those thing, not necessarily,” he ground out. “Let’s just say, baby girl, that I’m tested. I’ve seen the choppy waters, I’ve swum with sharks and won,” he shrugged. “It happens if you stick around long enough.”
And I sat back then, pensive, thinking. Because it was true. Sure, I was smart, I was well-read, but I was eighteen. I’d lived in luxury for practically my entire life, hadn’t had to fight for anything, things had pretty much been delivered on a silver platter. By contrast, Tristan was an older man with loads of experience under his belt, battle-tested, hardened even, with the capacity to wring a man’s neck literally and figuratively with those big hands if he had to. I gazed at him as he guided the car along the windy road in the afternoon light, those massive hands gentle yet so masterful. Could I handle him or was this a serious mistake?
And as if sensing my unease, Tristan turned to look at me slightly, gazing at my curvy form in the passenger seat.
“Scared little girl?” he said softly, his eyes deep blue and a little shuttered. “
I bit my lip for a moment.
“No,” I said firmly, meeting his eyes. “Not at all.”
And he laughed then, throwing his head back, letting out a deep rumble.
“Then you’re the only one,” he said lightly, and I shot a sharp glance at him, confused. What was he saying? That he was afraid of me? I was nothing, an eighteen year-old virgin, and he already knew about my lack of experience with the physical, the emotional, the world in general. Tristan knew. So why was he implying that he was frightened of me?
But we were already pulling up to a huge log mountain house as my thoughts whirred. Before my mouth could even open, a bellhop popped open the Maserati door, nattily attired in a brown and grey uniform, matching the rustic luxury the place projected.
“Miss,” he said courteously, extending a hand as I got out of the vehicle.
And I took it gratefully, the car was so low-slung that I would have had trouble even if I hadn’t been wearing a short skirt. As it was, I was able to maneuver myself out without giving anything away, pulling my hem down discreetly as I turned to face Tristan.
And that’s when I knew I had him in the palm of my hand, physically at least. Because the big man was gazing at me, looking over every inch of my skin as if he’d devour me, as if I belonged to him, that every piece of my real estate was for him and his eyes only. I stood stock still, letting him look, acknowledging that I was there for him, thrusting my breasts out unconsciously, my breathing still, lips trembling as he looked his fill.
We were interrupted by the valet.
“Sir, your keys?” a teenage boy piped up, breaking the spell. Tristan dropped the keys to the sports car in the boy’s hands and we made our way up the steps into the lodge.
I’d figured we were going to a bed and breakfast, one of the cute cottages that dot the Hudson upstate, mom and pop shops that have gingham table cloths and homey curtains in their windows. But evidently Tristan was having none of that. The place he’d booked was an amped up version of a log cabin, one that had soaring ceilings in the reception, huge, crackling fires in the lounge area and a bear skin rug on the floor.
“Is that … ?” I said, looking at the bear askance. I couldn’t tell if it was real or not, the eyes still unnervingly alive, jaws open in a grimace which may or may not have once held live prey.
But Tristan merely chuckled.
“Let it go, little girl, he won’t come for you at night,” he rumbled.
And I turned away, shaking my head. Maybe a mom and pop guesthouse would have been better, I’d be more comfortable without the thought of once-live animals roaming around the hotel. But I took a deep breath as the receptionist checked her files on the computer.
“Mr. Marks, it’s a pleasure to see you again,” she smiled at my guardian.
What? Tristan had been here before? When? He couldn’t possibly have business in this isolated corner of the State. But Tristan merely grinned smoothly.
“It’s been a long time since reunion,” he said enigmatically. “Last fall was my twentieth.”
“Oh that’s right,” chattered the receptionist. “It was so kind of you to rent out the bar for your classmates, we here at the Algonquin appreciate that kind of gesture. Let us know if we can be of service again.”
And I breathed a sigh. So Tristan had been here before but it wasn’t with another woman, he’d merely come back for reunion weekend and hosted his buddies for a night of drinking. I sighed. Don’t get ahead of yourself, I scolded. It’s too early to be jealous of anything, don’t jump at everything you see.
But the receptionist interrupted my thoughts again.
“Mr. Marks, we’d be happy to put you and your wife in the Grand Stag Room, it’s available for a few days.”
And before I could interrupt to say that I wasn’t his wife, Tristan’s low voice growled.
“Thank you, that’s perfect,” he rumbled, scooping the key cards in one big hand. “Daisy?” he said, taking my arm and gently turning me towards the elevators.
And I was astounded. What could have made them think I was his wife? Was it my outfit? Had I aged overnight? It was true, I was wearing nicer stuff than usual, a cashmere skirt paired with a tight turtleneck that hugged my curves, topped off with knee-high leather boots. Did I look that old? But something told me it wasn’t the clothes, it was the electricity in the air between us, the sense of man and woman, Adam and Eve that was palpable to anyone with a pulse. And so I took Tristan’s arm, trying not to wobble as he walked me to the elevators.
Fortunately, the lift was already there and we stepped in, the doors dinging shut behind us. Even the elevator was magnificent, paneled wood and gleaming gold, the chime melodic and soft. I turned to Tristan.
“Your wife?” I asked under my breath. “Isn’t that going a little far?”
But Tristan looked completely relaxed.
“I can’t dictate what they think,” he shrugged. “People are people,” he said unhelpfully. I just shook my head, exasperated. And when the doors to the Grand Stag suite swung open, I gasped again because no expense had been spared. The place was beyond my wildest dreams, outfitted with luxury flat-screen TVs, an indoor fountain behind a glass pane, a wine bar and all sorts of niceties. My gaze swung to two doors on the side and Tristan chuckled as he followed my gaze.
“You have your own bedroom,” he rumbled, looking at me mirthfully. “No need to fear the big bad bear.” And I wasn’t sure if he was referring to himself or the bear skin rug I’d seen in the lobby.
“I wasn’t worried,” I said awkwardly even as I tried to pretend that I was totally at ease, completely in control. “I know what I’m doing.”
But Tristan’s hand grabbed my wrist then, locking it into a hard vise. I yelped at more surprise than anything, startled, whirling to look at him. Despite the iron grasp, his expression was calmly neutral, eyes giving nothing away.
“I’m glad then, baby girl, because no door is going to keep me away,” he said before pulling me into him for a kiss. And I gasped at first, trying to pull away. “The bellhop,” I stuttered, “he’s coming with our luggage.”
“So what?” rasped the big man into my mouth. “They already think you’re my wife,” and with that, his lips took mine, showing no mercy, no pity for the weak. He stormed my lips, running his tongue against the seam of my mouth, tracing, questing, demanding that I open for him. And I sighed, leaning into him, suddenly hungry, suddenly ravenous for the alpha, desperate with all the pent-up feelings I’d been holding back for the last couple days.
I needed him, literally throwing myself at my guardian, hurtling into his strong arms as we stumbled, his back crashing against the wall as we kissed, our hands desperate, wrenching his shirt off, his hands pulling my turtleneck up, already squeezing and pulling at my breasts, tweaking a nipple as I let out a surprised pant.
“You love it don’t you Daisy?” he ground out into my mouth, tongue thrusting forcefully deep into my throat, bending me over backwards so far that I thought my spine would crack.
And I couldn’t answer with words, I could only show how much I needed, how much I wanted this. I sucked on his tongue, pulling him into me, devouring him as ravenously as he devoured me, pushing my hips into his, crashing against him, all the while my hands scrabbled at his shirt, tearing at it, buttons flying on the floor.
But it was the fucking bellhop again, it was always the help around the Algonquin that interrupted us. A weak, “Sir? Madame?” sounded in the periphery of my consciousness and Tristan ripped his mouth away to glare at the teenage boy, his hand still on my breast, his fingers moving, massaging, even as he pinned the adolescent with a stare.
“Get the fuck out.”
And the bellhop shook, quivering like a rabbit.
“Management just wants me to let you know these are your free breakfast vouchers,” he said, placing two tickets onto the bar counter before scurrying away. “Thank you sir, have a good night!” his voice echoed in the hallway, the door slamming shut behind him.
Tristan looked pissed, nonplussed and angry at once, his clothes disheveled, black hair mussed, blue eyes spitting fire. But I could only laugh, giggling against his throat, still pressed against the big frame, letting my tongue reach out and touch that hot skin.
“Tristan,” I said softly, “let it go. Besides, I’m hungry, maybe now’s a good time to grab a snack.”
And the big man was still then, his arms still like iron bars around my body, hard-on pressed tantalizingly against my hip before he shifted backwards, eyes still hot. But slowly a grin crept over his face and he ran a hand through his hair, making the black strands stand up, rakishly attractive. My breath caught. I’d never seen this side of Tristan before, relaxed, even slightly scruffy.
“A snack huh?” he growled, shooting me a grin even as his hands trailed down my back, finishing with a firm spank on my behind. “Let’s see what there is for you, Ms. Smith.”
And I squealed, rubbing my rump. The slap was going to leave a mark but the burn felt so good, especially as his big hand massaged the spot next, taking out the sting, caressing, making me moan and pant slightly as he chuckled low in his chest. With a final firm whack on my rump, he strode out the door.
“Snack,” his voice called behind him, never even turning to look at me. “You wanted it.”
And I caught my breath, a hopeless mix of turned-on, scandalized, confused, and aroused, my nerves tingling, excitement heady in the air. What was going on? Everything was happening so fast and I realized fleetingly that Tristan had turned the tables on me. And yet I only wanted more.