Chapter 11
“Eden, you have a package.”
Liz’s chipper voice snaps me out of my daydream, the constantly-looping image of Lucas, plucked from my most private fantasies and dropped into my bedroom last night, as though he’s always belonged there. The scent of him lingers on my sheets, my skin. My heart still pulses from our evening of incredible sex.
An intense shiver runs along my spine. I had no idea it could be so exhilarating, so utterly—
“Eden?”
I lift my gaze and stare blankly at the thick envelope in Liz’s hand, a stark reminder that I’m at the office and not in Lucas’s arms. Liz waits for me to open it, hands steepled on her hips. She’s smiling, but it’s the kind that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. My skin prickles with unease.
Stop being ridiculous. No way she could know what’s going on with me and Lucas. How could she? I’ve been very discrete.
“Come on, the suspense is killing me,” Liz says.
“Nope, just something to do with a story I’m working on,” I say, hopeful my quivering voice doesn’t betray the lie. “I think it’s some old court documents relating to the housing crash in ’08.”
Liz’s shoulders drop. “Damn. Thought maybe you had a secret admirer.”
I duck my head to hide the blush. “Nothing so exotic.”
“Too bad,” she says, and strolls across the office, her heels click, click, clicking on the concrete floor. “We could all use a little special attention after the past few weeks.”
My guilt is all consuming. When I should be thinking about strategy, creative ways to keep the business afloat, my mind drifts to Lucas, the feel of his tongue deep inside my pussy, his cock thrusting between my legs. I shift in my seat to tamper the uncomfortable thrum of desire that always seems to come up at the most inopportune times these days, and reach into the envelope.
My eyebrows lift.
Two tickets to a Metallica concert in Boston? For tonight.
I’ll pick you up at 6. Be home by 4:30 or your clothes will be delivered to the office. I doubt you want your business partners to critique your new lingerie. Not that you need it.
I glance over my shoulder, relieved to see both Marnie and Liz engaged in other things. Tucking the tickets back in the envelope, I crumple the letter and toss it through the paper shredder, destroying the evidence. Tonight’s first order of business will be to warn Lucas to never—ever—send anything to my office again.
* * *
Correction, the first thing I’m going to talk to Lucas about is his taste in lingerie. I slip into the cleavage-plunging bodice, and pull the garter halfway up my thigh. It’s all black, and lacy—slightly cliché. Still, I hardly recognize my reflection in the mirror.
The designer jeans slide easily over the fishnet stockings, peeking through the strategically placed rips on the knees and upper legs. A faded Metallica T-shirt stretches tight across my chest, giving my breasts an impressive lift. My eyes are drawn to the sharp “V” of cleavage where the edges of the thin bodice peek through.
Whoa.
My nipples go taut.
Tall boots and an expensive leather jacket complete the ensemble, somehow giving me a sophistication that doesn’t scream “groupie”—which is good, because the truth is, I’ve never listened to a single Metallica track in my life.
What if they suck?
I consider downloading a few songs, but there’s no time. My cell phone pings, alerting me that Lucas is waiting downstairs. With one last glance in the mirror, I gather my purse, spritz on some perfume, and jog down the stairs, my stomach fluttering with fresh anticipation.
Lucas stands outside the door of my apartment building. He gives my attire the full appraisal, before taking my hand and leading me to the silver sports car parked illegally at the curb. When he opens the door, I slide into the leather seat, savoring the delicious new car scent.
I gave up my old Pontiac Sunfire when I moved to New York, knowing I’d never comfortably navigate the city’s busy streets—but it wasn’t exactly new when I bought it, the “fresh scent” long ago giving way to the previous owner’s junk food habits.
Still, it was my first vehicle, and I racked up the miles before passing it like a baton to another high school student, who didn’t care about the strawberry milkshake stain on the backseat. I can’t help but wonder if she changed her mind in the summer, when the sun’s heat would curdle the milk and I’d have to roll down the window to mask the stench.
At the memory, a shudder rocks through my body.
“What the hell is this vehicle?” I say, admiring the sleek curve of the hood, the streamlined body, the shiny details on the blue-tinted dash. “A Lamborghini?”
Lucas’s hand drafts between the gearshift and my knee as he navigates through downtown traffic. He’s smooth, knowing the exact pressure points of both the clutch and the gas. “Porsche Carrera GT, brand new off the lot. Yesterday.”
He speeds up to weave in between two taxis, and my stomach does a flip. I grip the edges of my seat and hold my breath.
He looks over at me and grins. “Nervous?”
“Terrified.”
“You should be,” he admits. “This thing tops out at 230 miles per hour, and can go from zero to sixty in three point nine seconds. It’s a fucking rocket.”
I can feel the color drain from my face. “If you’d hoped to make me feel more comfortable, you’re doing a lousy job of it.”
“Would you have preferred we take the chopper?”
My throat tightens. “As in a helicopter?”
His lips twitch with amusement. “Afraid of heights, too?”
“Deathly.”
“We’ll have to work on that,” he says.
“Sure thing, but first we need to survive this trip to Boston.”
“Nothing to worry about,” he says, executing a perfect lane change. “You just have to go with the flow.”
Sounds simple, but when a Jeep rips by and cuts him off, Lucas lays on the horn. A string of curses erupt from his mouth, followed by hand gestures that make me want to shrink under the seat with embarrassment. His face is flush, and the vein at his temple throbs with visible anger.
The first pin pricks of unease tap on my shoulder, reminding me that despite his sometimes-boyish antics, Lucas has a temper. I’ve seen that rage uncoil with alarming speed once before, and I was scared. Terrified, actually. Some of that fear lingers now, especially as he guns the gas and shoots by the offending vehicle, flipping the driver off as we pass.
My chest tightens. “You probably came up so fast behind him and he didn’t have time to get away.”
Lucas remains tense. “Guys like that need to learn how to drive it or lose it. He could have put you in danger.”
“Not everyone has a couple hundred grand to toss at a new car.”
“A couple?” Lucas chuckles. “I paid almost five hundred thousand for this baby.”
Clearly he’s missed my point, but it doesn’t feel right to keep hammering at him. I’m grateful when we merge off the overpass and onto the I-95, heading out of the cramped city on route to TD Gardens. Lucas cranks up the stereo, thrumming his thumbs on the steering wheel to the obnoxious beat.
“Metallica?”
He grins. “Thought you’d like a refresher on some of the songs before they hit the stage.”
I don’t have the heart to tell him I’m a heavy metal virgin, not when he’s obviously geeking out over attending this concert. And if I’m being honest, I’m kind of excited too. I’ve only ever seen Britney Spears, and that was before my parents died. Even though it seems like a lifetime ago, the memories of them prior to the accident are still clouded with grief.
It’s more than the thought of seeing such a big arena that excites me tonight—it’s that Lucas invited me to something so clearly important to him. I get to experience his excitement first hand, and for some reason, that feels special.
I focus in on the lyrics, but I can’t make out much more than the throaty growl of the lead singer’s voice competing with heavy drums, an angry guitar, and the roar of the Porsche’s engine as the wind whips through my hair.
I run my hand through it, trying to tame the curls that are now a matted mess.
“You’re perfect,” Lucas says, as though reading my mind. “It’s a metal concert, not the symphony.”
I lick my lips. “Do you ever go to the symphony?”
He lifts an eyebrow. “It’s not really my thing, but sometimes, I have to for work.”
I’m beginning to sense that Lucas’s personal interests don’t quite align with those expected of him when it comes to his business. And I can’t help but wonder how his partners feel about being linked to a billionaire hedge fund executive who prefers dive bars and grunge-style entertainment instead of the sophisticated luxuries a man of his wealth and stature can certainly afford. Perhaps it’s this paradox that attracts me to him, a man, who by his very definition is the exact opposite of “my type.”
It’s not just his unorthodox hobbies and tattoos that make him stand out to me. He behaves nothing like I expect a man of his business acumen should. And when I think I’ve figured him out, he shifts gears, surprising me with an indecent proposal, concert tickets, perfectly-fitted clothes, or a heart-stopping smile that forgets he isn’t supposed to be someone I would like.
Logic tells me I ought to run, get out while I still can.
And then my heart reminds me that it’s already too late.
I study Lucas’s side profile. Strong jaw, prominent Adam’s apple that bobs when he swallows. And oh yes, that scorpion tattoo glowing under the setting sun. Sexy as fuck.
My stomach summersaults. He turns, catches me staring, and winks. My heartbeat stutters and I suck in a sharp gasp as the realization becomes clear: No doubt about it, I’m already in too deep.