Chapter Twelve
Nathaniel
I stand in my office, frozen, for a good ten minutes after Poppy storms out. There’s a dead weight in my gut and tightness in my chest. I feel like I can barely breathe.
Part of it is anger. I’m pissed at Poppy for blowing this so far out of proportion. I understand that she’s hurt, but assuming the absolute worst of me after we’ve spent so much time trusting each other in other ways just… I can’t deal with this shit right now. The woman trusts me to spank her, to punish her, to tie her up and have my way with her body, but she won’t give me five goddamn minutes to explain myself before assuming the worst? Fuck this.
And fuck Vanessa too. Though not the way she wants.
Shit.
I’d meant to tell Poppy about Micah. I wanted to. I needed to be sure, though. I didn’t want to introduce her into Micah’s life and then find myself bored with her, tossing her aside the way I did so many other women. If she was going to be part of Micah’s life, I had to be sure how I felt about her. And I was there. I was just about ready to tell her and ask her to meet him.
To tell her everything.
Get your dirty, disgusting old hands off me!
Remembering her words is like a knife straight to my heart. Hearing her tell me that she’d only fucked me so she could have my money… I mean, it wouldn’t be the first time my money meant more than anything else, but I’d expected better from her. She hadn’t seemed like the using type.
And old? What the fuck? I’m forty, and I’m in damn good shape. Or had she forgotten how, time after time in my bed, my body had served her just fine? I’d made her feel things I knew damn well no one else ever had. I’d made her fantasies come true, made her feel comfortable with the darker parts of herself.
Old, disgusting man.
I’d never intended to open myself up that way again. I didn’t think it would happen with her. I thought we’d have a fun few weeks and then part with some good memories, maybe run across each other here and there if she made it in the New York art world. But this… this need to have her, to keep her… this pain she’d caused with nothing more than a few words and a disgusted glare… this is the last thing I fucking need.
I finally move, running my hands over my face as I walk toward the windows. I look out without really seeing anything.
I need to talk to her. Tonight. Once this opening is over, she needs to go. She can have her money, since it’s clear it’s all she’s ever really wanted from me, anyway. And then I need her out of my life.
***
The gallery is full. I usually love times like this, when people who don’t ordinarily come here show up to support an artist they know. There’s always the chance, during opportunities like this, to turn someone from a person who doesn’t “get” art into someone who truly appreciates it. A lot of these people are here to support Vanessa, but they aren’t all necessarily art people. I do my best to chat those people up, to try to help them see the more exciting aspects of her work.
I give it my all, but I’m just not feeling it tonight. I spent most of the afternoon alternately brooding and raging over Poppy, and then trying to appear as if I don’t care at all, knowing I’d probably see her here tonight.
And I have to give it to Poppy—she’s a professional. She’ll do well in this business, which is two parts art knowledge to one part schmoozing. She’s standing near the entrance to the gallery with a tray of champagne flutes in her hand, and she welcomes each person who comes in with an offer of a glass and a few words about the artist and her work. Considering what she walked in on earlier, she’s doing a magnificent job of sounding like a genuine fan of Vanessa’s work.
It’s hard for me to keep my eyes off her, no matter how pissed and hurt I am. She’s wearing a long, emerald-green evening gown. It’s not an expensive dress, but it’s one that plays up every one of her assets—from her smooth curves and round breasts to the smooth milkiness of her skin. Even though I know things are different between us now, and they have to be, I can’t help thinking about how rewarding it would be to slide that dress down her body, freeing her perky breasts, then kissing my way all the way down her body…
I jerk my eyes away, and toward the guests I’m talking to. That won’t be happening. Even if I hadn’t decided that this had to end, she’s apparently already decided it for me.
When Micah and I returned to the penthouse after our dinner, I’d found that the few articles of clothing she’d had in my room, as well as her toiletry bag, were gone. My key was on the nightstand. She hadn’t bothered with a note. There wasn’t much point, was there?
I move from one attendee to the next. Vanessa is standing by what she considers to be her best piece, her husband at her side, talking animatedly to the group of tuxedoed men standing there. I suppress an eye roll and look around more. Roberto is doing his thing, answering questions about the art as best he can and being charming. He is good at that. Not too far from him, Bruce, Poppy’s father, is chatting with an older couple. The man cleans up quite well, and I’m glad I’d invited him, even though this feels awkward as hell—being around him after everything that’s happened behind his back between Poppy and me. Still, like the rest of us, Bruce has worked his ass off getting this show ready, and he deserves to enjoy it.
I spend a lot of time deliberately trying not to look at Poppy, but I can’t help it. The only thing I notice, aside from how gorgeous she is, is that not even once do I catch her looking at me. This bothers me probably more than it should, but less than twelve hours ago we were fucking like hormonal bunnies, and now she won’t even look at me?
I turn away as I feel my temper rising. No woman has ever messed me up this badly—made me feel like such an emotional fucking mess. I enjoy them and walk away, eventually. It’s what I’ve done since Danneel passed. I never even once considered opening my heart to anyone else, and I didn’t expect to do that with Poppy, either. Yet, it happened.
I guess it makes sense. She doesn’t look a thing like Danneel, but in personality… apparently, I have a type, and it’s sassy and a little bit cocky and curious and creative. My wife had been a quieter woman, though she had every bit of Poppy’s addictive confidence.
I turn back to look at Poppy without really thinking, and I do so just in time to see a dark-haired man sidle up to her. I pretend to be looking at the brochure in my hand, but I can’t help watching. He’s talking, and she’s laughing, and then she’s talking animatedly to him, and I can see that the fucker is absolutely enthralled.
Before I know what I’m doing, I set the brochure down and stride over to where they’re standing. Poppy gives me a disapproving glare, which the guy doesn’t see because he’s looking at me. I give them what I hope is a benign smile.
“Ms. McAdams. May I have your assistance with something, please?”
She gives me another glare but quietly excuses herself. I head toward the stairs up to my office, and she follows, then I wave her past. It’s the gentlemanly thing to do; to let her go first.
Of course, I should have thought of the fact that now I have her walking up the stairs ahead of me, her round ass and shapely legs are in front of my face. And Poppy’s ass is one of my favorite parts of her body. I love that she likes it when I spank her and that she’s been adventurous enough to let me have my way with her in that way, as well as every other way—no. Thinking this way isn’t a good idea. I need to get my shit together.
She walks into my office. I follow, closing the door behind us.