Chapter 11: The Signal
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Amy
Fear ripples through my chest like pebbles in a rain stick. I’m lying on the couch with my head in Sylvia’s lap pretending to watch her favorite Victorian-era mini-series with her, but the events of the last twenty-four hours keep spinning through my mind like a tornado.
Marcus blindfolding me, Marcus holding me down, Marcus making me scream, Marcus taking my pictures, holding me in his arms... stroking my hair... asking me about my dreams... talking about flying.
When we parted this afternoon, he kissed me long and slow, and my knees turned to jelly. We only said a quiet goodbye. We hadn’t made promises about the future, there was no going back on our deal, yet I couldn’t make eye contact.
Walking away, driving home, even lying here on the couch, every muscle in my body is a screaming reminder of how many times and how hard we fucked. When I changed clothes this evening, the red marks on my breasts and inner thighs reminded me of how unrestrained we’d been.
Of course, my mother didn’t ask where I’d slept last night, but I know she’s curious. She’s never questioned my independence or put pressure on me to change, and if she started now, I wouldn’t know what to say. I wouldn’t want to give her false hope, but at the same time...
It’s like he imprinted me or something, and what’s even more disturbing is the warm pleasure spreading through my belly at the thought.
An involuntary shiver crosses my shoulders, and Sylvia’s quick to mother me. “Are you cold?” She reaches for the cashmere blanket behind her and drapes it over my legs.
“Not really. I must’ve felt a chill.” I’m in grey sweats and a cropped, long-sleeved white tee. “I don’t need a blanket.”
Sitting up, I meet her smile before dropping my chin. I fiddle with the ends of my long, blonde hair fallen over my shoulder. “I think I’ll turn in early.”
Her gentle hand touches my cheek. “I’ll probably do the same. I’ve been tired today.”
Blinking up to her, I notice the faintest dark circles under her eyes—very unlike my highly refined mother—and I scoot toward her, leaning forward into a hug.
“I have to work tomorrow, but maybe we can go for lunch later in the week?”
She rubs my back, and I feel her nod. “Thursday would be better. On Friday I’m supposed to help with the flower arrangements for the gala this weekend.”
That fucking gala. Marcus invited me to go with him. “Are you planning to go?”
“I haven’t decided,” she says with a sigh. “I don’t have an escort, and I’m not sure I feel up to it this year.”
Leaning back, I study her face. “Who did you go with last year?”
Something flickers across her face before she answers. It’s gone just as fast. “Bill was in town, so he went with me.”
“Uncle Bill?” I can’t help wondering what on Earth would drag my reclusive uncle from his sprawling horse ranch in Montana, but Sylvia stands and tightens the belt of her cream silk robe.
“As much as I’d love to visit, I’ve felt a mildly ill all day.”
Hopping up, I place my hand against her forehead. “You don’t have fever.”
She gives me a wry smile and catches my wrist to lower my hand. “Sorry, darling, I meant ill the other way.”
My mother and her decorum. “What have you eaten?”
“Nothing unusual. I’ll be fine.” She makes her way to her bedroom door before pausing. “Be sure and turn off the television before you go to bed.”
With that, I’m left alone. I lift the remote and shut off the TV. Soft yellow light filters into the room through the shade of the blue and white Ming Dynasty lamp on the side table. It’s quiet, and without her presence, I can’t stop my brain from resuming the whirlwind of torment.
Standing hard, I go to my room. I’m determined to push forward. Nothing has changed. I’ve been sexually adventurous before with other men—absolutely no reason why this weekend should have me so off-balance.
Except that before when I’ve been adventurous, it was fast and fleeting, quick hook-ups with no further interaction, no exchanging of personal information, no lying in their arms, talking about hopes and dreams.
That’s where I made the critical error. I let him get too close. Even Armand hadn’t been allowed that far inside the walls. How had Marcus managed it? How had I been so careless to let him in, and why didn’t it make me want to run?
It scared me. Hell, yes, it scared me. Yet, it was a different kind of fear. It wasn’t a sense of pushing away like matching ends of a magnet. It was the fear of falling, of losing control. Let me show you I’m different...
In the confines of my bedroom, I strip out of my clothes until I’m standing in front of my mirror in only my beige lace panties. I’d come home and showered and washed my hair earlier. The grey Henley I’d worn had somehow gotten wound up in the sheets with us all night, and it now smells of crisp linen and warm wood.
Lifting it to my nose, I inhale his scent as I trace a fingertip lightly over the top of my breast, just above the dark areola, where a blood-red crescent curls above my nipple. Heat floods my core thinking of how he’d bitten and sucked at the tender flesh. Turning to the side, I trace my finger over my birthmark now slashed by throbbing burgundy. No fucking angel kisses, you’re mine...
My camera sits on the side table, and I lift it, turning it over so I can click through the photos I took for the website. A jolt hits my insides when his face appears on the small screen, smoky hazel filled with lust staring right at me. I’d snapped it the moment he’d looked up at me, and staring at it now, I can see plainly what was on his mind even then.
The next shot is of him standing back, one hand on the rigging while the breeze pushed his jacket open. The line of ink along his hip makes my lip catch in my teeth. Uncertainty is essential.
Oh, god! I toss the Henley aside and flick the camera off. Putting it in my bag, I push through the covers on my bed and curl into a ball. I have to get back in control of this. How will I ever go in to work tomorrow if I don’t? How will I keep true to me if I don’t?
Squeezing my knees against my bare breasts, I push Marcus Merritt out of my mind. I don’t do what he wants. I don’t allow anyone to control me. I don’t let anyone take away my freedom. I stood by and watched that play out once before with someone I trusted to do no wrong, and I vowed then I would never be made a fool that way.
I’m not going back on that promise.
* * *
Marcus
It was hard to leave our little world below the waters of Lake Michigan, especially when I was pretty sure once we returned to work, Amy would return to distant. I kissed her long and slow before she left, savoring the feel of her velvet lips, the sweet taste of her mouth. She fit in my arms perfectly, like she belonged there, but I didn’t say the words. No mention of a future or anything next.
We haven’t spoken since we parted, and now it’s Monday, I’m back in the office. She’s not in yet, and all I can do is wait. Sitting at my desk, I pull up Fieldinghouse, but it’s impossible to express how uninterested I am in the problems of a water treatment plant right now. So sue me.
The swift click of heels in the hall snaps me to attention. I’d recognize the clip-clip of her stride anywhere. So forceful and determined, I can’t help a smile. She’s so fucking stubborn, and fuck if I’m not falling in love with her.
She’s one of the strongest women I’ve ever met—apart from her aversion to relationships—only, I’ve found the exact line down her back where I can trace my finger and she melts into my chest. I know the spot behind her ear that causes goose bumps to appear on her slender, beautiful arms. I know what she likes when she’s blindfolded... hell, I know she likes being blindfolded. I know she likes it hard, and I know her body has several very specific marks on it right now.
Images of our weekend sends tightness across my fly, and I have to distract myself before I call her in here on some pretense. I want her to come to me, or at least I want to wait until it’s necessary to go to her. Crowding her won’t do me any good.
A soft rap on my door surprises me, and glancing up. Amy is standing there in a blue dress that’s a cross between professional and stylish. Her face is hesitant. Take it slow.
“Have something to show me?” I smile casually, as if nothing outstanding happened two nights ago to rock us both to the core.
“Um, yes.” Her voice is quiet, a little high. She’s pulled back, I know. “Your portion of the site is complete. I wanted to show it to you, see if you have any feedback or changes...”
“From what I saw yesterday, the photos were perfect. I’m sure it’s fine.”
“Still...” She steps to the edge of my desk. “Want to pull it up and see what you think?”
“If you say so.” I turn in my chair and move the mouse.
The screen flickers to life, and I quickly type in the URL. Our webpage loads quickly with at brief animation showing the two named partners and me engaged in various professional poses, ending in a casual shot of the Chicago skyline.
“I like it.” I glance back at her and smile. Her brow relaxes. “Anything else I need to see?”
“Go to your tab and see if you’re comfortable with what I’ve done.”
I click on the tab bearing my name. “I didn’t think you did web design.”
“I don’t. I sent the images and the text to the designer and told him what we wanted.”
The page opens to a professional shot of me at my desk poring over a file. It’s taken from a distance, and the office is dim-lit. It has the feel of burning the midnight oil, and a short quote, Fighting for your case is at the top. It would feel ambulance chaser if it weren’t couched in such a classy, leather and brass, background.
“Very nice.” I glance up at her and smile. “You’re the best.”
She smiles and straightens, running her slim hands down the front of her dress. “Thanks.” Green-hazel eyes flicker to mine briefly before moving away again. “Well, that’s it, then. I’ll just take a few shots of the other guys and send them over, and I’m done.”
I stand and slowly walk around the desk so that I’m on the same side as her. I haven’t missed that she’s also taken a few steps backwards, to the door.
“I’ve been turning over the idea of adding a full-time marketing function ever since you joined us.” Stopping, I lean back on the edge of my massive desk facing her. Nothing is between us, but I’m not crowding. I see her ready to run.
“It wouldn’t make sense for a firm this size.”
“Are you trying to say we can’t afford you?” I smile, going for calming humor.
Her chin drops and a little smile crosses her lips. That’s better, beautiful.
“That wasn’t my initial thought.” Her shoulders relax slightly. “More, you just don’t need a nonstop marketing presence. It’s something for larger firms with busier schedules and more outreach.”
“What if I make you an offer you can’t refuse?”
She blinks up at me, and our eyes meet. Yes, I intended a double meaning.
Her jaw drops, but she doesn’t reply. Taking a chance, I straighten and close the space between us. “Amy.” My voice is low, but full of authority. “I want you to stay.”
“No you don’t. You just want...” She doesn’t finish that thought, so I do.
“You’re smart, and you’re top shelf at what you do.” Catching her forearm, I demand her attention. “You’re right to suspect I want more. But I think you do too.”
Pulling her arm back, she shakes her head, breaking our eye contact. “I can’t say that.”
I can’t help it. Her back is against the door, and every single touch we shared pulses between us, drawing me to her. Warm cinnamon floods my senses, and I want to taste her lips. Her beautiful lips that I devoured so many times this weekend.
“I’m thinking of boats and living on an island and flying.”
As I lean in, her entire body stiffens. A hissed inhale, and she jerks her face to the side, chin down.
Frustration burns hot in my chest at her immediate, seemingly involuntary response. Goddammit, Amy. For a half-second I consider taking her, claiming those lips, forcing her to say what she wants. Of course, I don’t.
“Sorry. Didn’t mean to crowd.” I step back, and my eyes flicker over her beautiful body silently fighting me with everything she has.
“No. I’m sorry. I-I don’t mean to...” Her voice wavers, and I turn and go to my desk.
My back is to her, and I gentle my tone. “Nothing we said made an impression. Nothing changed.”
“It’s not that. It’s just...” I know she’s struggling, but now I’m pissed. “I don’t like being out of control.”
“Of course.” I face her, forcing my expression to remain placid. “You don’t do relationships, and I don’t chase.” My voice is flat. “We do fuck, however. Many times and very well. Shockingly well.”
Her eyes blink closed, and I see her struggle. It pleases me. I want her to fucking struggle. I want every bit of this ridiculous fight she’s holding onto to twist her heart painfully. The way it’s twisting mine.
“I just... I need more time.” Her voice is soft. “I’m sorry. It’s the best I can do.”
Slowly, I allow a tight smile. “No need to apologize. Take all the time you need.” Clearing my throat, I pull all the way back. “I’ve got to work on this file. Let me know if you need anything for the site.”
“Thank you.” She’s quiet and just as fast, she’s gone.
With the click of the door, my grip tightens over the brass dog on my desk, and I see myself slamming it against the wall or through the window. I don’t. It would only reinforce her hesitation.
I haven’t broken through her wall. As close as we got this weekend, as much as we shared...
I’m starting to doubt I ever will after that.
I’m pissed she’s still fighting me, and I’m pissed it feels like we’re back at the beginning, and I’m pissed at how much I care.
“Fuck it,” I growl, pushing off the desk. I don’t have time for this shit.
Dropping into my seat, I open the file I’ve been neglecting and get back to work.
* * *
Amy
Early afternoon, pictures taken, I dash out of Merritt, Hampton, and Donnelly as soon as professionally acceptable. I cross the river and head up Michigan, walking fast in the direction of Neiman’s. Fresh air, exercise, all of it is a relief from the adrenaline buzzing under my skin, twisting a pain behind my eyes, since talking to Marcus. I was honest. I had to be honest, but the anger in his eyes...
I need something to anchor me in this flood of emotions devastating my insides. My feelings are different from before. I don’t want to run, but I’m so afraid to stay. I’m afraid to love him, but I’m even more afraid of walking away.
He wants more, but I don’t know how to do more. I don’t understand more. Tell him if I need anything? I need everything. I need guarantees, an ironclad warranty, and that’s what terrifies me. Nobody can give that.
No, what I need is to get my feet back under me. I need to focus on concrete things, things I can control. Stepping into the bright store, I pause to take a deep breath. It smells like fabric and perfumes and cosmetics. Lights shine brightly and huge arrangements of spring flowers adorn the center tables.
Turning on my heel, I head for the evening gowns. The matter of the gala hasn’t come up again, but sifting through designer dresses is transportive.
I stop at Oscar de la Renta and examine a black, embroidered jewel-neck sleeveless gown. Turquoise elephants mix in between a white and turquoise modern design, and the slippery silk of the full skirt glides through my fingers.
A saleswoman immediately appears. “May I start a room for you?” She smiles, and I glance at her wearing a red silk sheath.
I don’t feel like changing clothes. “If you’ll hold this for me. I’m not going to try it on.”
“Of course. Size... two?”
“Yes.”
A strapless, scalloped gown with a high-low hem catches my eye, and I pause to consider it. Sweetheart neckline, dropped waist, sheer fabric...
“That’s one of Ken’s pre-fall picks,” the woman says, smiling.
Nodding, I continue on. “I wasn’t looking for floor-length.”
“Perhaps you’d like this red one? It’s another of Ken’s picks.”
She pulls out a gorgeous red silk faille dress, again with the high-low hem. A strapless, cat-ear bodice leads down to the billowing red silk skirt. Turning, layers of gathered silk in the back create the impression of a train. It’s voluminous. I can’t help smiling, as the tension drains away. Fashion is clean. It’s easy. Concrete like numbers.
“I love it.”
She’s gleeful. “I knew you would. Shall I put it at the register?”
A moment’s pause, and I’ve decided. “Yes. If you would, put it on the Knight account and send it to my mother’s condo.”
“Oh, Miss Knight? Miss Amalie Knight?” Her eyes light as I nod. “Mrs. Knight told us you might be in. Is there anything else I can get for you? We have a wonderful selection of handbags and pumps to complete the look.”
“If you would, send over your suggestions. I’m sure I’ll add them.”
“I’ll make a note of your sizes.”
She disappears toward the customer service bay, and I turn to the entrance. I have one additional stop I’d like to make now.
The light changes to white, and I cross the street in a mix of businessmen and tourists. The wave of bodies disperses north and south along the sidewalks of 800 and 750 North Michigan. I step forward to admire the Tiffany’s window display.
Today it’s a sparkling arrangement of deep-blue sapphire. Gazing into the depths of the stones, I can’t help my mind skipping back to the lake, the sailboat, Marcus’s ink. Uncertainty is essential, the ultimate freedom.
A flash of our bodies drenched in sweat, the sting of his palm against my ass, the bite of his teeth on my skin. Heat floods my panties, and I try to let go. I try to release my inner fight and cede my resistance into him. It almost works. I envision myself lying back, him sliding into me. As within, so without...
My toes are at the edge of the water. All I have to do is let go, let the waves roll over me, succumb to the warm waters. Fuzz is at the edges of my vision. My ears fill with the soft lapping of the breakers, and I want to let go. I want to fall.
But just as the thoughts appear, tickling fear bubbles across my chest. My breath quickens, and I’m alone, drowning. I don’t know him. I can’t trust him, and I know if I slip into that water, I’ll die.
SLAM! A small body knocks me forward, and I reach out to brace myself against the marble exterior of the store. A squeal, and the embarrassed mother apologizes as she grabs her little girl’s arm. Looking down, I watch the child laugh and wave before being dragged away.
“It’s okay.” I give her mother a little smile.
I’m back in the present, far from the crazy, and I remember why I walked over here. Stepping through the doors, I scan the maze of low, glass cases filled with various designs and selections of gemstones.
A light, polished voice greets me. “May I help you, Miss?”
“Yes,” I nod at the older man dressed in a dark suit. “I’m looking for a gift for my mother.”
“Something in jewelry or accessories? We have a lovely Dégradé scarf in a fog silk and cashmere blend—”
“I was thinking jewelry. A sort-of thank-you slash mother’s day gift.”
“Of course. Right this way.” Across the glass cases from me, he moves through the maze, and I follow, stopping when he does. “The new Paloma Picasso collection has an olive branch design that’s very popular.”
My lips curl in a smile. “I’m not sure I need to extend the olive branch just yet.”
“And I’m sure you never will.” He smiles back, and I appreciate his gentle tease. “Elsa Peretti has this sterling Cabochon ring many women find playful.”
I lift the chunky ring featuring a heart-shaped black jade and slide it onto my finger. “Hmm... it’s probably more my style than hers.”
“Of course. She’s more Carolina Herrera.”
“Yes. Exactly.”
“I think I have just the thing.”
He steps away, and as I wait, my mind drifts to the spring runway shows, the sheer floral-inspired prints, bright yellows, flowing corals, and swirling violets. I’m transported to a time before a certain man appeared and upended my neatly ordered life.
I was in control in Paris. Chicago puts me off, makes me feel vulnerable. I need to leave this city. New York crosses my mind, but I brush it away. I’m here for Sylvia. She’s the reason I came back. I need to talk to her, make the past right.
“Is this a possibility?” On the black velvet, he places a stunning Venezia Goldoni heart pearl ring cast in rose gold.
“Oh!” My breath catches. “It’s perfect.”
“Give me a moment to box it for you.”
My work here is done. The tsunami in my chest has eased. I hand over my card, and I slip the pale turquoise box tied in a silky white bow into my bag. Tomorrow, I’ll finish my job with Marcus and move on to my next client. The end.