The difference between love and obsession?
Love is about letting go.
Obsession is holding on tight to the object of your affection, even if it should ruin you both.
A lesson Saya Kogure must learn as she juggles the attentions of an electronics tycoon son with a sadistic streak and her handsome boss with a tortured past…
Read on for a sneak peek at Fionn Jameson's next book:
My Obsession
Coming September 2017
CHAPTER ONE
THE BEGINNING
The leaves were coming back, tiny bursts of green on spindly dark branches that lessened the stark white and gray of winter, when I first met him.
I stood in front of the coffeehouse door, reading the Help Wanted sign, fingers fiddling with a strip I'd ripped off the sign with the store's phone number printed on it.
"Are you going to do it?" asked Irina Sakuraba, staring at me with wide blue eyes.
Fake, of course, but just about everything about my best friend was fake.
Not that I minded.
Perhaps that's the reason I was so drawn to her. While I was so withdrawn and quiet, she was boisterous, unabashed. She didn't give a shit about anything, and I envied that about her so much.
I bit my lower lip, worrying it between my teeth. "I don't have much of a choice. Dad cut me off."
I'm not spending all my hard-earned money putting a silly, unrealistic girl through art school!
My ears still rang from the harsh words funneled through my phone a few days ago.
Yesterday, I got the notice from registration that my semester's tuition was late.
They had been unfailingly polite about it.
Japan usually is, as a nation.
Irina winced, running a manicured hand through her bleached wavy shoulder-length hair. "But working at a coffee shop? That's kind of…lame, isn't it? It's almost too much of a cliché to be true."
I slanted a glance at her, shivering as a sudden gust blew down the quiet street. "Cliché?"
"Well, yeah." Her crimson nails glinted in the early morning sun, startlingly bright and yet not as warm as I wanted it to be. "Starving art student working her way through school as a waitress in a coffee shop? I can't count on both hands how many dramas there are with that same subject. Don't you ever watch TV, Saya?"
"You know I hate TV."
"Yeah, but you love movies."
"Movies and TV are different. I only have to invest two hours of my time for movies. With TV, I have to spend a lot more time than I want. It's no question what I'd rather watch."
"Fine, fine, whatever."
She sighed and inspected her immaculate cuticles. Meanwhile, mine were peeling like mad from the cold, forcing me to keep my hands in my pockets.
"I keep hoping you'll change your mind," she said. "All you ever do is read and paint. That's not normal. One day, I'm going to walk into your apartment and find you dead from huffing fumes."
The coffee shop windows were fogged up, making it hard to see in, but the various blurs made it obvious just how popular the place was. "I don't want to do this, Irina."
We moved aside to let a cashmere-coated patron out, a newspaper tucked under his arm, and a warm puff of air brushed across my face, along with the scent of coffee that inexplicably made my mouth water.
Why?
I hated coffee.
Maybe I was hungry.
In an unexpected show of comfort, she tapped me on the shoulder, an encouraging smile on her pale pink lips. "If you get the job, I'll come by every night and keep you company."
I snorted. "No, you won't. You'll be too busy with your salary man."
She winked. "Okay, almost every night."
I paused, hand hovering over the shiny chrome door handle.
"Saya?" asked Irina quietly. "What are you waiting for?"
What are you waiting for?
I didn't want to work.
I just wanted to focus on my art.
But if I didn't work, I couldn't draw or paint.
And if I couldn't do what I wanted to do most in the world, then what was the point of living?
I took a deep breath, forced a wide smile as artificial as Irina's breasts, and pulled the door open.
Even though I had walked past Cafe Francois almost every day for the past three years, I had never once thought to venture into the small coffee shop, sandwiched between a lingerie store and a bookstore.
Probably because I hated coffee.
Judging from the crowd of people huddled around the main bar and overflowing into the sitting areas filled with mahogany tables and overstuffed armchairs, I was very much the minority.
Irina and I were jostled by a crowd of laughing high-school girls, all with expensive bags, smelling like they were dunked in a vat of perfume. They weren't normal girls; there was an international high school a few blocks away, and most of the students there were from rich households.
Even Irina wrinkled her nose as they brushed past, yipping in their high-pitched voices, throwing their long, dark hair over their slim shoulders.
"Girls these days," she muttered, throwing a dirty look at one with a beige Coach bag.
I recognized the bag as the one Irina proudly showed me a few weeks ago that her married salary man bought for her birthday. "That bag is the same as yours, isn't it?"
She sniffed, her thin nose pointed up in the air. "She doesn't even know anything about the brand she's carrying."
I blinked. "Eh?"
"Young girls shouldn't carry a brand like that. Coach is for older women."
"You mean like middle-aged women?" I teased.
Irina rewarded me with a pinch to my side that was somewhat mitigated by the thick black parka I wore. "You just keep saying things like that and see what I do."
"Sorry," I muttered, trying to find a spot along the bar where I could engage one of the four employees who were working with machines, polishing glasses, pouring drinks from pots, and twisting knobs on a large machine that hissed and spit every few seconds.
Irina squeezed herself next to me, her hair decidedly ruffled. "Maybe…maybe we should come back? Morning, obviously, they're going to be busy."
I shook my head. "No, I can wait."
Because if I left now, I might lose my nerve and never attempt to get a job here.
It almost made me want to do the same thing Irina was doing—spread my legs for an older man who could support me while I painted. for me.
Almost.
I loved her, but I couldn't do what she did.
Besides, I didn't even like sex.
The few interludes with my last boyfriend proved to be fumbling, sweat-drenched affairs that left me empty and cold.
Even now, Kenichi's voice echoed in my head.
I'm sorry, Saya.
I can't do this.
You're too frigid.
I'm bored with you.
We're over.
I had been so relieved. It was all I could to keep from bursting into laughter.
He picked up his clothes, changed in the bathroom and left a few minutes later.
I never saw him again, except for a few classes here and there, but we sat on opposite sides of the room which was fine by me.
Irina tilted her head to one side. "Saya? What's wrong? Don't frown. You'll give yourself wrinkles before your time."
I smiled. "Better?"
Soon, I found myself in front of the cash register, mouth gaping open as I tried to think of what to say.
"What can I get for you?"
I stared.
I couldn't help it.
My fingers twitched on the counter. I couldn't remember the last time I wanted to grab my sketch pad and a charcoal pen more than the instant I first saw him.
His nametag said Takumi, with hearts in green highlighter drawn around it.
The handwriting was extremely girlish, and it made me wince to look at it.
But not him.
Not the man with the luminous dark eyes that seemed fathomless.
Skin as pale and perfect as freshly fallen snow, black hair brushing his wide shoulders, he smiled at me with lips of dusky pink, and I couldn't stop staring.
Irina nudged me. "Saya! Hurry up and say something!"
His features seemed like they were taken straight off a Raphael sculpture, all clean lines with an angular jaw and an elegant nose that would've made a plastic surgeon weep tears of envy.
He should've been on TV and movie screens.
What the hell was he doing behind the counter of a coffee shop taking six-hundred yen for a cup of expensive coffee?
His smile flickered. "Miss, have you decided what you'd like?"
You.
I'd like you.
I want to draw you.
Please, let me draw you.
Thankfully, those thoughts never left my lips.
Not thankfully, I did little but continue to stare at him like an idiot.
Irina let out a heavy huff of exasperation and shoved me to one side, a blinding smile on her lips. "Sorry, my friend's a little slow. We were here about the job posting on your door."
The cashier nodded once. "Ah, understood. Unfortunately, I don't think the owner can speak with you until after the morning rush. Would you be willing to come back in about…" His dark, luminous eyes roved over the cafe. "Hmm, two or three hours, maybe? It's a little busy to conduct a proper job interview."
Irina simpered, her twin dimples digging deep. "Two, three hours? Of course. We'll be back."
"Good, see you then."
Without another glance, his gaze went to the customer behind us, and Irina dragged me out of the cafe, her steps quick and sharp.
The early spring chill was like a slap to my face. I shook my head, trying to regain my bearings.
Irina threw up her hands. "Jesus, what the hell was wrong with you?"
I blinked. "Huh? What?"
"Do you even know you might've ruined any chance of ever working there?"
I blinked again. "I don't—"
"You don't? You don't what?" she echoed, her voice shrill. "Are you serious about getting this job or what?"
"I am. I just—"
"You just what?"
I held up a hand, stifling her protests before we could attract any more curious stares from passersby. "Wait. Stop interrupting me."
"I'm not—"
"Yes," I said decisively. "You are."
She opened her mouth to say something, and closed it again, a mulish tilt to her lips. "Fine. May I finish what I was going to say?"
"No," I replied. "Let me."
She crossed her arms. "Fine. Go ahead."
"I'm an artist."
"I know that," she said, voice peevish. "What's your point?"
This time, it was my turn to snort. "Did you get a good look at the guy at the counter?"
"What? Of course, I—" Her eyes widened. "Oh. Okay. I get it."
"See?" I shoved my hands deep into my coat pockets. "I've got to start thinking about my finals."
"That's not for another three months!" said Irina with shock. "You're probably the only person doing that. The semester started two weeks ago!"
"I know, but it's not too late to think about it. My final project counts for sixty percent of my grade," I said. "I have to get good grades."
She looked at me curiously. "Why? Grades were never a concern for you."
"That's because my dad was paying for me," I replied. "I need to show him I'm serious about this. The only way to do that is if I get perfect grades while working. Then he'll know I'm not doing this because I'm lazy."
"Wouldn't it just be better to flunk all your classes?"
I flinched. "That's a joke, right? If I did that, it would be more ammunition for my dad to use against this degree. He thinks artists starve and are a blight on society. He says it's people like me who place a strain on the economy."
"So you're going to work and put yourself through this semester? To show him you're willing to put everything on the line to become an artist?" Irina's voice was barely audible over the rumble of a delivery truck going past.
I looked away from her knowing gaze. "I don't have a choice. Not anymore."
She shook her head, tousling her already artfully tousled hair. "So, you were staring at the guy at the counter because he was so hot?"
My fingers twitched with the urge to put his face onto paper. "I want to ask him to be my final project."
"Okay, he's good looking, I admit," said Irina. "Even if you get the job, there's no guarantee he'll sit for you. How're you going to pay for him?"
My hands clenched into fists. "Whatever. Anything. Everything."
Her smile turned wicked. "Even giving up your body?"
"What?" I asked, recoiling from her words. "Why would you even say that?"
She gave me a pitying look. "Because, you silly girl. That's all guys ever want, you know. They only want a woman's body."
I wanted to disagree.
It seemed unfair to reinforce a stereotype. I was pretty sure there were men in the world who didn't just want what a woman's body could offer.
Too bad I couldn't think of any.
"I doubt he has any need to search out female companionship," I said primly, lips pursed. "I don't think I have to worry about him forcing himself on me."
"Hmm, I wonder about that," said Irina, a devilish glint to her eyes. "What about that movie star in America who slept with his housekeeper?"
"I have no idea what you're talking about. I don't watch TV, remember?"
She shrugged. "That doesn't matter. What matters is that he slept with her because she was available. Just so you know, I don't think she was very easy on the eyes, but he still slept with her, and they even had a child together. If that's not a sign of just what kind of dogs men are, then I don't know what is."
"How can you be so negative about men when it's a man who's paying everything for you?"
Irina smirked. "I'm not being negative. I'm being realistic. And smart. I even think this is my revenge for the dogs in our world. If I bankrupt my salary man, who cares? There's plenty more where he came from."
I sighed as I followed her back to campus in time for our eight-thirty class, Western Romantic Art of the Nineteenth Century.
"You need to be careful about what you say." I tried not to sound sanctimonious as I was wont to, according to Irina. "Don't you believe in karma? One of these days, your words will come back and haunt you for the rest of your life."
She gave me a delighted grin over one shoulder. "Maybe. But I'll be rich and old by then, so who cares?"
I stared at her, completely at a loss. "I don't know where you get such pluck."
"Because I'm Irina Sakuraba, that's why."
Possibly the best comeback in the world, in my opinion
She continued, "Now, come on. I'll buy you your favorite melon bread before class starts."
On second thought, that was.
Chapter Two
The Interview
Western Romantic Art of the Nineteenth Century passed by even slower than usual, and it seemed at least six hours until I found myself standing in front of Cafe Francois a few minutes before eleven.
Alone.
Not exactly what I had planned, but Irina had gotten a text in the middle of class and split as soon as Professor Higashiyama closed the textbook with a resounding clap, waking up half the class who'd been dozing in the back of the chilly third-floor classroom.
Irina jumped up, stuffing the textbook and her notebook into her black leather bag, giving me an apologetic look. "Sorry, I have to leave you!"
"What? Where are you going?"
I was getting nervous about the impending interview and the fact that my loud-mouthed, confident friend wasn't going to be around to help me made me feel more than a little ill.
She swung her purse over one shoulder, grinning widely. "My boyfriend wants to see me right away. I guess he only has a half-day at work today, and he wants to spend the rest of the day with me."
For a woman who bragged about using men just for their money, she seemed very happy. "Are you going to make him buy you a new pair of shoes?"
She stuck her tongue out at me. "Whatever you say. See you later!"
I lost her in the general mass shuffle for the door; although, I thought I saw the flash of her blond head leaving the room first.
And now here I was.
The windows were still fogged over, although it did seem a little less busy than before.
Hands shaking badly, stuck deep into my coat pocket, I took a deep breath and then walked in.
There were only a few people lounging around in the comfortable, sinkable chairs that looked plush enough to drown in, and no one crowded the bar.
Only one employee stood behind the bar now, cleaning out the machine with a white rag, her long hair caught back in a red plaid handkerchief, and she looked up as the bell over the door rang with my entrance.
"Hi!" she said brightly, her smile practically hooked over her large ears, and I smiled somewhat bashfully.
It was about ten steps from the door to the counter, and I leaned against it, hands clenched into the edge as I mentally girded my loins for battle.
"Hi," I stammered, voice trembling just a bit. "I'm…I'm here to interview."
She tilted her head to one side, industriously polishing a metal canister kind of container without even looking. "Interview?"
She was cute in a small, pixieish way and reminded me of Ai Otsuka with her small chin and round, almost Chinese-style eyes.
"Um. Yes. Interview?" I asked. "There was a sign on the front door and the man, er, Takumi told me to come back later, so I did…"
Her eyes snapped open even larger. "Oh! Yes! One moment, please. Let me get him for you."
Rag stuck in the back pocket of her dark blue baggy jeans, she disappeared through a side door, behind the register, leaving me to tap my fingers on the bar counter, too nervous to stand still and composed.
She emerged a few moments later, still smiling.
And right behind her…
Him.
My knees began to shake, and I was glad he couldn't see them.
He swept a lock of hair behind his right eye. and I saw a glint of an emerald earring shining from his ear lobe.
A man wearing an earring.
A stud, no less.
God, he was beautiful.
And I badly wanted to draw him.
Just whip out my portable easel, prop my sketchbook on it, and just sketch him right then and there.
But I was pretty sure he'd think I was more than a little crazy.
And I very desperately needed this job.
No one gives work to someone they think is insane.
He smiled slightly. My mouth went dry.
"You came back," he said. "What about your friend? I thought she wanted an interview?"
I opened my mouth to speak and my lips cracked.
Oh God.
His dark eyes widened, and I hastily grabbed a handful of tissues from the bar, dabbing them against my bleeding lip and wishing very much that the ground could swallow me up and spit me back at home.
"Um." I hoped blood didn't get on my teeth. "Actually, I was the one who was interested in the job. She…she already has a job."
Being a mistress was technically a job, wasn't it?
"Ah, I see," he said, nodding. "Very well, then. Come on back. Why don't we talk someplace private, then?"
He gestured me to join the pair behind the bar counter, and I followed, still dabbing at the stinging place on my lip, feeling more than a little stupid.
I was pretty sure I wasn't going to get the job.
But at least I tried.
And in any case, surely more time with Takumi couldn't hurt, could it?
The more time I spent looking at him, the more I could commit to my memory and make it easier to recreate his image.
I was going to paint him.
The idea that I was going to create an artwork of him without the subject's awareness made me feel more than a little like a crazy stalker, and by the time he led me down a flight of concrete stairs into the storeroom and into a small room with a computer, a filing cabinet and a stack of papers on a scratched desk littered with pens and pencils, I was completely and utterly miserably.
"Why don't you sit down? What's your name, again?"
He waved me to a small stool sitting in front of the desk, and I took it gratefully, hiding my clenched hands in my lap. "Thank you. Er. Saya. Saya Kogure."
"Nice to meet you, Saya." He sat down across from me at the desk.
"Nice to meet you as well, um…"
"Just Takumi is fine. We don't stand on ceremony here. Everyone calls everyone by their first name here."
"Then…Takumi," I whispered, a hot blush rushing over my face. "Nice to meet you, Takumi."
He leaned back in his seat, sitting just outside the light of a small desk lamp that only seemed to accentuate the shadows in the small room.
"Well, then," he said, long, elegant fingers cradling his strong, angled chin.
I fought to keep his gaze, my heart pounding almost painfully hard against my chest. "Yes."
A corner of his lips kicked up. "I think your lip isn't bleeding anymore."
I had forgotten all about it. "Oh! I'm sorry!"
I stuffed the used tissues into my pocket and faced him again with a tremulous smile that matched none of the magnificence of the one he gave me.
"Um." He pressed his lips together, as if withholding laughter. "Mmm."
Oh no. What was wrong now? "Um…yes? Is something…wrong?"
"Mmm," he said and then looked away.
"Excuse me?"
He tapped his lips. "You've…you've got tissue stuck to your lips."
Oh no!
Face hot enough to fry an egg on, I pulled away the offending piece and flicked it to the ground. "I'm so sorry! I'm not usually so clumsy!"
You're so distracting.
Please let me draw you.
That is my one and only wish in this world.
I just want to paint you.
Please.
His laughter was like honey, low, slow, sweet.
I loved the sound of it.
"No, no," he said, shoulders shaking, hand over his eyes. "Not at all. I'm the one who should be apologizing. I should have told you as soon as it happened, but I just couldn't help myself." He swiped at his eyes, teeth glinting white in the dim light. "I haven't had a lot to laugh about lately. The cafe is so busy and I've been having problems trying to keep an employee long enough to train them."
"May I ask why?"
He shook his head slowly. "I don't know the reason, I'm sorry. The work isn't very hard, but it can be very stressful during the rush times in the morning and after school, around five to seven in the evening."
"I'm very good with stress," I said honestly.
Living with my father who was a retired police officer was proof.
One elegant, winged dark brow rose. "Oh?"
I nodded, trying to smile as unthreateningly as possible. I'm cute, don't hurt me, just hire me, please? "Also, I like being busy. I don't like being bored. At home, I'm always looking for something to do."
"Good, very good," he said quietly, tapping a pen on a piece of paper that I now recognized as an empty resume form. "Are you, perhaps, an art student?"
"Yes, I am," I said, surprised. "How did you know?"
He smiled. "You smell like a painter."
I stared at him. "How does a painter smell?"
He sniffed the air, once, twice. "Just the faintest tinge of turpentine. A bit of linseed oil."
How did he know?
Mortified, I resisted the urge to lift up my arm and sniff. "Oh. I'm…I'm sorry! I usually spend a lot of time in my studio and even though I leave the windows open, the smell is very, very hard to dispel. Is it…is it a problem? If I work here, I can wear some—"
He held up a hand, stalling any more words from me.
"No, don't get me wrong," he said. "I rather like it. It reminds me of someone. She was a painter, as well. Oil. She always thought watercolor was too boring and she didn't like the way acrylics felt on the brush and canvas. How long have you been working with oil paints?"
"Um, maybe five, six years?" I replied, trying desperately to remember when I first became enamored of that medium "I think I began in my third year of junior high."
"You must be quite good."
I shook my head so hard I almost sprained something. "No! I'm still learning. I'm always learning something new every day!"
Wait.
Why were we talking about me?
This was supposed to be a job interview.
Had he already decided I wouldn't be suitable and just wanted to make small talk until I got tired and left?
"Um," I began, desperation tinging my words. "If you hire me, I promise I'll work as hard as I can! I won't let you down, I promise!"
His eyes widened and the pen stopped tapping. "You're very adamant about wanting this job, aren't you?" He paused. "May I ask if there's a particular situation you are dealing with that you need this job so much?"
I looked away, unable to meet his straight-forward gaze anymore. "My father…he doesn't approve of my art study. He cut off my tuition and if I don't get a job, I won't be able to continue to paint."
"Ah," he said after a moment of painful, toe curling, nauseating silence. "That indeed is a serious situation."
I nodded, staring at my clenched hands writhing together in my lap. "I don't ever want to stop. But…"
"It's like a disease, isn't it?" he asked, voice soft, like velvet rubbing along my skin. I shivered. "Not being able to do what you want to do most in the world. She was like that, too. She used to fidget when she couldn't do her art."
I cleared my throat and somehow managed to summon up the courage to look Takumi in the face. "Who are you talking about?"
This time, it was his turn to look away. "Never mind. Sorry, I was just commiserating. My apologies."
"Please, not at all."Judging from his voice, the slight tilt to his crimson lips, she was obviously someone very close to him.
Who was it?
I wanted to know.
But not as badly as I wanted to draw him.
"Anyways." He started tapping the pen tip on the paper again. "You seem to be eager enough."
Dare I be hopeful? "I am very eager, and I'm a very hard worker!"
He smiled. "How soon can you start?"
Oh my. "Today!" I almost shouted. "Right now!"
He laughed softly. "Tomorrow. Tomorrow at noon. Can you come then?"
"Yes! Yes, I can!"
"Good. Then I'll see you tomorrow. Uniform is just dark blue jeans and a white shirt. You don't have to worry about shirt design since I'll give you an apron once you start. How does that sound?"
Without thinking, I reached across the desk and grabbed Takumi's hands, shaking them enthusiastically.
"Thank you! Thank you so much! I won't let you down. I'll work as hard as I can!"
Gently, he extricated his hands from my death grip. "I look forward to working with you, Saya."
And that was how I began working for Takumi Nakagawa.
Soon to be my lover.
My demon.
And my greatest artwork.