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I glanced at the ravaged plates between us. “This was just a friendly dinner, right?”
“Right. So what am I doing?”
I looked down at my lap, as our civilized conversation unraveled and split apart. “I thought you wanted to make a better impression on me.”
“I did. I wanted to, but I shouldn’t. I’m not an asshole like your parade of charismatic whore Doms, but I’m not relationship material either. I can’t emphasize that strongly enough.”
My parade of charismatic whore Doms? I felt insulted. “You’re the one who invited me here,” I pointed out.
“Because there’s something about you that attracts me. There are so many things about you that turn me on.”
“All right. I get it.” Now I was the one looking up into the vines because I couldn’t meet his gaze. Also, because I was getting tearful. “You just hoped to sleep with me. You find me attractive in a sexual way.”
I saw his denial in my blurred peripheral vision. “I find you attractive in a way that your…your hair is braided like that, and your eyes are so blue, and you have this weird intensity of feelings and arty-ness and…” He waved his hands, searching for words the way Goodluck sometimes did. “The problem is, this can’t go anywhere.” His hands moved between us and came to rest on the table with a thump of finality. “We would never work out.”
“Wow.” What was I supposed to say? Our friendly dinner had suddenly turned into, You’re quirky and hot but I don’t want you, and I don’t know why I asked you out. Why had I expected this to go any other way but fucked up and sideways?
“Juliet. God, I didn’t mean to upset you, but I know I have.”
“It’s okay. I wasn’t even going to come tonight,” I said, putting my balled-up napkin on the table. “I almost texted you. More than once. I get it, because I’m obviously…” I narrowed my eyes at him. “Obviously not relationship material either.”
“I know I sound rude, but I didn’t mean it that way. Honestly, I didn’t. Forgive me.”
His gentle apology, his sincerity only made me feel worse. I sat up very straight and spoke quietly but firmly, half to him and half to a sparkling vine located just beyond his shoulder.
“You know, I feel shitty enough about the state of my life. I spend my days in Goodluck’s shadow and my nights wishing I had someone to love, to the point where I’m chasing after guys I shouldn’t, and letting them break my heart. I’m a single, thirty-two-year old woman in New York City, and I agreed to come to dinner because you seemed so polite and elegant—” I swallowed the rest of the words as I stood to push in my chair. He wasn’t getting compliments from me. “Anyway, I don’t want to feel any more bad things, and I don’t like coffee, so I’m leaving.”
“Juliet, wait.” He stood and took my hand. “Wait and I’ll drive you home.”
“I think I’ve let you drive me home one too many times already.”
He leaned down, catching my gaze with fervent sincerity. “I’m trying to protect you from being hurt again. To protect you from me.”
“Oh, that’s very selfless,” I said, extricating my hand from his grasp. “Thanks. Please stay and enjoy the coffee if you’d like. You deserve it for being so protective.”
“Jewels, don’t go.”
Fuck him and his Jewels. His stern orders had no effect on me because I wasn’t doing kink anymore. I wasn’t doing guys anymore. They were all idiots, and this one was easily one of the worst. He was protecting me from him? What did that even mean? Why had he led me on, even flirted with me, if this was his endgame?
And if he was so dangerous, why had I been the one handcuffed to his bed?
I picked up my coat and sailed out the front door. Where was his fucking driver? There weren’t any cabs to jump into, just texts from Fort to PLEASE WAIT.
I started walking, pulling my coat around me. Before I could get very far, Fort took my arm and turned me around, staring at me with a pained expression. He breathed in, his chest rising so violently I processed it as anger, although I knew it was something else.
“Let go of me,” I said.
When I took a step back, he circled me with his arm, preventing escape. His other hand cupped my jaw. His scent enveloped me as he pressed his lips to mine.
My fingers opened in a panic against his chest. I hadn’t consented to this kiss, this forceful possession. I hadn’t asked for it, no, but I’d imagined it feeling just like this. His arm tightened, pulling me against him. Lust and violence. Hardness and heat. Was this what he’d wanted to protect me from? His lips molded to mine like he was trying to breathe me in, and I could feel his thick, hard cock pressed to my front, even through my coat. His fingers crept into my hair, tangling in my braids.
Then, as quickly as he’d attacked me, he let me go. “That’s what I feel,” he said when he pulled away. “And that’s what I need to protect you from.”
Without thinking, I slapped his face, leaving a flushed mark on his cheek. “That’s what I feel. Leave me alone, Fort. I’m going to the subway, and if you follow me, I’m going to call the police.”
I turned and left, barely aware of gawking onlookers. Let one of them mess with me. I was in a bad, bad mood, and fairy lights and ivy would forever be the stuff of nightmares to me.
Again? Seriously, again? I berated myself. You let yourself fall for the hot ones, and pay the price for it every time.
Chapter Seven: Fort
I looked up from my phone as Devin strode into the Paris airport’s private Gibraltar lounge. His steel-gray pilot’s uniform intensified his blue eyes, though they still weren’t as blue as Juliet’s. Stop. Don’t think about her.
“Well, if it isn’t my old friend Forsyth,” Dev said, wheeling his bag to the chair beside mine. “Thanks for the text. Nice to see you while we’re both blowing through town. Headed to Milan?”
I nodded. “My flight’s in a couple of hours.”
He took in my leather weekend bag and pinstriped suit as he eased into one of Gibraltar’s club chairs. I liked to travel rich, which he knew. His father was part owner of Gibraltar Airlines, so Dev and I flew wherever we wanted, whenever we wanted, as our schedules allowed.
“You look dapper,” he said, with a snarky curl to his lip. “I hope you had time to torment some poor French subbie while you were in Paris.” My non-response was enough of a response for him. He threw up his hands. “You have a stable here, surely.”
“I used to, Dev. I don’t keep up with all of them. Anyway, I didn’t have time.”
The old me would have made time. The new me had come to Paris to be sure the Sinclair ads featuring Goodluck’s art were displayed in all the contractually negotiated places, including several large boards at the airport. It had been almost two months since Juliet Pope had slapped me outside the Ivy, and I’d managed to leave her alone, letting Angela handle the necessary business contacts.
But every time I looked at one of the damn billboards, I thought of her.
“Well?” My friend stared at me. “Yo
u know what I’m going to ask. Are you sick? Testicular cancer? Did you finally contract herpes?”
“Jesus, Dev. I just didn’t feel like trolling around Paris this time.”
He stretched his legs and crossed them at the ankles, and regarded me with steepled hands. “Why do I have a bad feeling about this?”
“About what?”
“I know you, man. I know that look on your face. Who is she?”
I considered denial, but Dev was right. He knew me. “She’s no one,” I said. “A bad idea that I’m trying to get over.”
“Someone from The Gallery?”
“No.”
His brows rose when I failed to elaborate. “I’m telling you this as a friend, man. Don’t get messed up in any shit.”
He was as careful as me when it came to relationships. We’d both grown up with everything money could buy, the world at our feet, everything under our control except women and the havoc they created when you let them get too close. I knew Juliet Pope was a storm of havoc waiting to be unleashed.
“I’ll move past her eventually. It’s just that she’s different. She’s unconventional, but sweet…” I tried to explain her lingering appeal. “And kind of effortlessly beautiful, but not in the standard way.”
Devin made a dismissive sound, something between a growl and a laugh. “Let me tell you a story about a messed-up young man named Forsyth and a beautiful graduate assistant with a feminist roommate.”
“I’d rather you didn’t.”
“Then there was the ballroom dance instructor who also had something about her.”
“Enough.”
“They don’t all turn gay, you know. Some of them litigate. Some of them go off the deep end and start to self-harm. Some of them threaten to go to the police—”
“I said enough.”
I needed no reminder that my wealth and status invited fucked-up relationships. Add in the kink, and I was in an excellent position to fail. Sometimes I thought about marriage, romance, the classic family, but it would only end up in another bitter St. Clair divorce. I rubbed my forehead with a groan.
