Chapter 5

Blair

We pulled up outside Francesca’s Cucina restaurant and Samson hit the brakes. “This is it,” he said and smiled at me.

That smile, god, it brought back flashes of last night. It’d seemed a dream at the time, him between my legs, and my palms pressed to my lips to keep from screaming his name. Screaming through my first orgasm.

I couldn’t accept this. I’d pretty much resisted sex for the last twenty-one years, including during my relationship with the man we were about to meet, but experienced my first earth-shattering orgasm with a man who was… well, an escort.

Was it any wonder he knew what he was doing in that department?

“Ah, and here’s your mother,” Samson said and pointed over the wheel.

Mom had, of course, chosen to have her chauffer drive her over. She emerged from the back of a Porsche dressed in cocktail dress, her hair piled atop her head in a makeshift beehive. Makeshift, ha, she’d probably piled on product worth more than the dress I’d chosen.

A simple red shift that dipped low at the front to reveal a little cleavage.

Samson leaned in, kissed my cheek. “You smell amazing,” he said.

“Thanks,” I replied. “Let’s get this over with.” I made to open my door but he stopped me – placed his hand over mine and dwarfed it.

“I’ll get that.” Samson slipped out of the car and came around to my side. He opened the door and held out his arm. Unlike Mom, he’d gone for a simple coat and a pair of jeans. It probably suited the aesthetic of the restaurant better.

I got out with his help, and he grabbed my coat from the backseat and slipped it on for me. I settled into the faux fur, embracing the warmth.

“So, tell me about these people,” he said and shut the door. He tugged me to his side and we slow-walked to the front of the restaurant, a quaint glass front door, with a green striped overhang to frame it. “If I’m going to fake being your fiancé, I need the deets.”

“Carl Gagarin,” I said, “is my ex-boyfriend. He’s successful. A stock broker. He’s dating Lillian Barker. I don’t know her that well, but she’s a little older than me. So is Carl. And Lillian’s father.” I cut off and grimaced.

“What?”

“Nothing, it’s just, he’s just another dude my mom is going to date and drop, no doubt. Joseph Barker. Also rich – he owns a funeral home. A series of them.”

“Jesus, that’s fucking morbid,” Samson said.

A waitress opened the front door for us, and we entered the warm interior.

No laughter greeted us, this time. Instead, we were embraced by quiet and the gentle flood of candlelight from the empty tables.

At the centermost conglomeration, sat Mom, Joseph, Carl, and Lillian, each holding wine glasses or checking their cellphones.

“Speaking of morgues,” Samson muttered.

I snorted a laugh, a little too loudly, and all four of them looked up.

“There you are, darling! Come on, come on, let me introduce your gorgeous fiancé to these lovely people,” Mom said and rose to her feet.

Carl and Joseph hopped up with her.

“Hello,” I said, and Samson walked me over to the table. He placed the small of his hand at my back, then drew out a chair and guided me into it.

My faux fiancé took the seat next to mine, and I turned to smile at him but his gaze was fixed on Carl instead. His lips had turned down at the corners, and his nostrils flared. Uh oh. What’s that about? Is he – no, he can’t be jealous. Last night was just part of the deal for him. He probably didn’t even want to do it. He can’t be –

“Blair,” Carl said, and I switched focus to him instead. He hadn’t changed a whit since last we’d spoken, more than a year ago. His blond hair still curled beside his ears, and his blue eyes shone with the same fervor he’d had back then. The fervor that’d seen him rise through the ranks at his firm.

“Carl.” I nodded. “It’s nice to see you again. This is my fiancé, Samson Barnes.”

“Samson Barnes,” Lillian commented and placed her hand on Carl’s forearm – he’d chosen a suit for tonight, and she’d draped a string of pearls around her neck. “That’s a powerful name. Are you a powerful man, Mr. Barnes?”

Regina threw her a look and rolled her eyes beneath those fake lashes. “Really, Lillian, is that necessary? Poor Samson has just joined our group. My apologies, dear, Lillian can be a little forward at times.”

“She gets that from me,” Joseph said and grinned about it.

“It’s not a problem.” Samson’s voice was a deep counterpoint to Joseph’s, which squeaked ever so slightly. He wasn’t an unattractive man, albeit silver at the wings, but his attitude made my ovaries shrivel right up inside my body.

“I’m a businessman,” Samson said. “A millionaire.”

Carl sniffed. “What do you do?”

“I’m in hospitality,” he replied, evenly. “It’s quite lucrative if you have the nuts for it.”

Regina lifted her fingers to her mouth. “Good heavens.”

“Excuse my fucking French,” Samson said.

That elicited a burst of wheezy laughter from Joseph.

“Hospitality,” Carl said and opened his mouth to continue; no doubt he’d lodge a couple follow up questions.

I tensed and prepared for them. This is way more nerve-wracking than I’d anticipated. If Mom figures out everything’s not on the level, she’ll flip her shit.

The waiter saved the moment by appearing with two glasses and another bottle of wine for the table. He placed a menu in front of me, then handed one to Samson.

I buried myself behind it and caught my breath. So many damn questions. We’d prepared for them, sure, but this had my anxiety all over the place.

Samson’s hand settled on my thigh and squeezed.

The warmth from that touch seeped into my skin and heated me from the inside out. My shoulders relaxed, and I took a minute to drop the menu and look around at the interior of the restaurant.

The inside was as quaint as the outside had been. Christmas music tinkled between the wooden tables, lit by candles. More candles swayed in their holders, attached to the wooden slatted ceiling overhead, casting a lovely yellow glow through the empty interior. Apparently, Mom had bought out the entire restaurant for the night. I wouldn’t have put it past her. She was serious about her so-called privacy, though it involved boinking loads of guys and spending money at will.

“Breathe, Blair,” Samson said, and his nose tickled my earlobe. “No one knows a thing.”

I tensed immediately – did he have to bring that up right now?

Samson slid his hand up my thigh to the hem of my dress. “You’re so warm,” he said. “Are you wet, too?”

My core tightened up instantly. “Samson,” I whispered, through gritted teeth. “Probably not the best time.”

“Fuck the best time,” he replied softly, and lifted the hem of my dress. His fingers spider-walked up my inner thigh to the hem of my panties. He slipped two fingers down the front of it and felt for my clit.

I gasped and jerked upright, slamming both knees into the underside of the table. Glasses rattled, wine splashed over rims, and everyone turned and stared at me.

Samson rumbled a laugh and sat back, removing his hand from my thigh. “You’re lucky that dress is tight,” he whispered, under his breath – for my ears only.

“What’s wrong?” Carl asked.

“Nothing, sorry,” I said. “Someone must’ve walked over my grave.”

Regina tittered behind her hand, tipped in magenta fingernails – more like claws – but whatever flow of conversation had existed before I’d basically de-capped my knees had ceased.

Carl homed in on me. “What about you, Blair? How’s school going?”

“Fine,” I said, stiffly. I didn’t want to let my mother know that I’d decided to drop out just yet, and certainly not in front of everyone here.

“Actually,” Samson said, stealing the gazes from me, “Blair’s been thinking about pursuing another career.”

I placed my heel on the toe of his boot and applied pressure. It achieved nothing. Curse his tough boots and my dainty stilettos!

“That’s news to me,” Regina said, coldly.

Great. Just fucking great.

I tried to crush his toes again, to no avail.

Samson lifted his wine glass and took a sip of the golden liquid within. “Mmm, delicious. Good year.” He swilled it, in a perfect imitation of a sommelier, then laughed. “Blair is a fantastic artist, as I’m sure you know. She’s planning on taking her talent to the next level.”

“Artist, pah,” Mom said.

And the gazes swiveled toward her, mine included. We were bobbled-headed fools, watching a tennis match – if tennis matches could end the best-laid plans of college students and escorts.

“Pah?” Samson asked and set down the wineglass. His eyes tightened at the corners. “I’m unfamiliar with the term.”

“Blair’s art hobby is cute,” Mom said, “but it’s nothing to write home about. And it certainly wouldn’t write any checks either. No offense, darling.”

I stared her down, pressure building in the center of my forehead.

The stares turned on me again. I was expected to lob the ball back, apparently.

Another waiter pulled up next to our table, his notepad out. “Are you ready to order?” he asked, with a jaunty waggle of his ballpoint pen.

“Nothing to write home about?” I asked. “Are you kidding me?”

“Sweetheart, I didn’t mean to upset you, I just don’t think you’re going to make a living painting pictures of, I don’t know, landscapes or fruit or whatever it is you do.”

The pressure had reached critical fucking mass now.

Silence dripped along with the wax from the candles. Samson was stock solid in his chair, his hand on my thigh again, grip tightening.

“I paint what I feel,” I said.

“I’ve seen your work,” Carl put in. “You’re really talented.”

“Not the time, kid,” Samson grunted, and Carl actually jolted back in his chair, then leaned right onto the table as if to make up for the reaction.

“What you feel. That’s lovely, sweetie, but it’s not going to pay your rent,” Mom continued. She was a dog with a bone, now, and she looked over at Carl and then Samson, as if to judge whether she’d garnered their attention yet.

“It’s very easy for you to lay judgement when you have no idea what it’s like to work for your money, Mother,” I replied, standing up and knocking my chair back. “Not everyone can be a trust fund baby. Not everyone wants to sit home all day doing nothing.”

“Precisely. That’s the reason you’re in law school. So you can make something of yourself.”

The waiter, still hovering beside the table, clicked his ballpoint several times then did a slow walk backward. One step, two steps, three. Move away from the ticking time bomb, ladies and gents!

“You know what?” I asked. “I’m not feeling in the Christmas mood tonight. I hope you all enjoy your evening.” I walked for the door.

“Blair!” Mom called after me.

I pushed out into the icy Syracuse night, burning up with rage. I had to get out and away before I snapped and spilled it all in front of her.

A hand slipped around my waist, that black amber, cardamom scent filled my nostrils. “Come,” Samson said.

That was all he had to say.