Bared to You

Cary hadn't been quite so perfect when I met him. He'd been strung out and gaunt, his emerald eyes cloudy and lost. But I'd been drawn to him, going out of my way to sit next to him in group therapy. He'd finally propositioned me crudely, having come to believe the only reason people associated with him was because they wanted to f**k him. It was when I declined, firmly and irrevocably, that we finally connected and became best friends. He was the brother I'd never had.

The intercom buzzed and I jumped, making me realize how nervous I was. I looked at Cary. "I forgot to tell the front desk he was coming back."

"I'll get him."

"Are you going to be okay riding over with Stanton and my mom?"

"Are you kidding? They love me." His smile dimmed. "Having second thoughts about going with Cross?"

I took a deep breath, remembering where I'd been earlier - on my back in a multi-orgasmic daze. "Not really, no. It's just that everything's happening so fast and going better than I expected or realized I wanted..."

"You're wondering what the catch is." Reaching out, he tapped my nose with his fingertip. "He's the catch, Eva. And you landed him. Enjoy yourself."

"I'm trying." I was grateful that Cary understood me and the way my mind worked. It was just so easy being with him, knowing he could fill in the blanks when I couldn't explain something.

"I researched the hell out of him this morning and printed out the interesting recent stuff. It's on your desk, if you decide you want to check it out."

I remembered him printing something before we got ready for the spa. Pushing onto my tiptoes, I kissed his cheek. "You're the best. I love you."

"Back atcha, baby girl." He headed out. "I'll head down to the front desk and bring him up. Take your time. He's ten minutes early."

Smiling, I watched him saunter into the hallway. The door had closed behind him when I moved into the small sitting room attached to my bedroom. On the very impractical escritoire my mother had picked out, I found a folder filled with articles and printed images. I settled into the chair and got lost in Gideon Cross's history.

It was like watching a train wreck to read that he was the son of Geoffrey Cross, former chairman of an investment securities firm later found to be a front for a massive Ponzi scheme. Gideon was just five years old when his dad committed suicide with a gunshot to the head rather than face prison time.

Oh, Gideon. I tried to picture him that young and imagined a handsome dark-haired boy with beautiful blue eyes filled with terrible confusion and sadness. The image broke my heart. How devastating his father's suicide - and the circumstances around it - must have been, for both him and his mother. The stress and strain at such a difficult time would've been enormous, especially for a child of that age.

His mother went on to marry Christopher Vidal, a music executive, and had two more children, Christopher Vidal Jr. and Ireland Vidal, but it seemed a larger family and financial security had come too late to help Gideon stabilize after such a huge shakeup. He was too closed off not to bear some painful emotional scars.

With a critical and curious eye, I studied the women who'd been photographed with Gideon and thought about his approach to dating, socializing, and sex. I saw that my mom had been right - they were all brunettes. The woman who appeared with him most often bore the hallmarks of a Hispanic heritage. She was taller than me, willowy rather than curvy.

"Magdalene Perez," I murmured, grudgingly admitting that she was a stunner. Her posture had the kind of flamboyant confidence that I admired.

"Okay, it's been long enough," Cary interrupted with a soft note of amusement. He filled the doorway to my sitting room, leaning insolently into the doorjamb.

"Really?" I'd been so absorbed; I hadn't realized how much time had passed.

"I would guess you're about a minute away from him coming to find you. He's barely restraining himself."

I shut the folder and stood.

"Interesting reading, isn't it?"

"Very." How had Gideon's father - or more specifically, his father's suicide - influenced his life?

I knew all the answers I wanted were waiting for me in the next room.

Leaving my bedroom, I took the hallway to the living room. I paused on the threshold, my gaze riveted to Gideon's back as he stood in front of the windows and looked out at the city. My heart rate kicked up. His reflection revealed a contemplative mood. His gaze was unfocused and his mouth grim. His crossed arms betrayed an inherent unease, as if he was out of his element. He looked remote and removed, a man who was inherently alone.

He sensed my presence or maybe he felt my yearning. He pivoted; then went very still. I took the opportunity to drink him in, my gaze sliding all over him. He looked every inch the powerful magnate. So sensually handsome my eyes burned just from looking at him. The rakish fall of black hair around his face made my fingers flex with the urge to touch it. And the way he looked at me...my pulse leaped.

"Eva." He came toward me, his stride graceful and strong. He caught up my hand and lifted it to his mouth. His gaze was intense - intensely hot, intensely focused.

The feel of his lips against my skin sent goose bumps racing up my arm and stirred memories of that sinful mouth on other parts of my body. I was instantly aroused. "Hi."

Amusement warmed his eyes. "Hi, yourself. You look amazing. I can't wait to show you off."

I breathed through the delight I felt at the compliment. "Let's hope I can do you justice."