Текст книги "The Singles"

Автор книги: Emily Snow

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Текущая страница: 13 (всего у книги 45 страниц)

What can we find out about Finley Scott?

*

“I didn’t realize you were here. Figured you’d be working from home today with Mrs. Emerson being gone,” Carl told me the following day as I breezed past his security station a few minutes after noon. Although I was running late, I turned around to face him, the spiked heel of my secondhand Manolo Blahnik shoes squeaking loudly on the black granite floor.

“Lunch with Stella.” Switching my purse to my other arm, I pointed to him. “Do you want me to bring you something back?”

Stunned, he blinked a few times. Then he motioned me to his desk. Although I tried to keep my gaze focused solely on him, as usual, I couldn’t resist flicking my eyes to the massive photo of my mother to the left.

God, I wished she were here.

It would make this all so much easier, so much more bearable.

Leaning his forearm on his desk, Carl lifted his eyebrow. “Where are you two going?”

“That little Italian place a few blocks away,” I replied, and he closed his eyes together in anticipation. When he dug around in his back pocket for his wallet, I touched his wrist and shook my head.

“Don’t worry about it. Just tell me what you want, and I’ll bring it back with me.” I still remembered what Stella had told me about helpfulness being dead around here, and after the week I’d had, I wanted to at least make someone else’s day a little better—especially Carl, who’d been at this company forever.

He gave me his order, which I texted to myself. As I walked toward the main entrance, allowing myself one more peek at Mom’s picture, Carl’s words warmed my chest. “You’re a good one, Lizzie.”

When I reached the restaurant ten minutes later, I spotted Stella in a booth near the back. She waved at me, and her Tiffany charm bracelet jingled prettily against her caramel skin.

“Sorry I’m late,” I breathed, sliding into the booth, slightly exerted from the walk here.

“Don’t worry. I ordered us garlic knots.” She gestured to the basket of bread between our seats, her elegant ponytail swishing around the Peter Pan collar of her beaded black blouse as she moved closer. “I’ve been doing carb-cycling to tighten up a bit before I head to Trinidad for Christmas, and it’s my cheat day.”

“You’re beautiful. But I’m jealous of your vacation,” I admitted. I grabbed a piece of bread, tore off a small chunk, and popped it into my mouth. “Take me with you. Please.”

“I will. Or are you going back home to—”

For the first time since my charade started, the first city that wiggled into my mind was Las Vegas—the city I had built my life in for the last several years. So where the hell was Lizzie from?

I’d been so immersed in being myself all week—being the name written over and over again on my father’s will—I felt like I was slowly losing my mind.

“Oregon,” I finally informed Stella, although I prayed that by Christmas next month my façade would be over. “Yes, I’ll be going home to see my mother and father.”

Stella ate another piece of bread, giving me a dark look when I grinned and lifted my brow. “Cheat. Day,” she said slowly.

After our waitress stopped by, and I ordered a drink and both my lunch and Carl’s food, Stella’s phone vibrated on the table. Nibbling on yet another piece of garlic bread, she turned it to face her and rolled her dark eyes dramatically.

“I’ve got to figure out how to stop these damn things,” she complained.

“Don’t tell me you’re doing one of those sexting subscriptions,” I joked, quickly realizing how close that hit to home. The reason I became a phone sex operator was because I’d looked into texting jobs first. When I found a forum dedicated to both, I’d decided to go the phone route.

And phone sex, of course, led to escort work and the creation of my girl-next-door alter ego—Alice.

Chuckling, she shook her head. “No, I opted in for these text alerts for Lavish.”

“Ugh,” I groaned. “Don’t tell me you saw that club picture of me.”

Opening the new alert, she nodded. “Don’t worry, I scrolled right past it. Anyone seen with Oliver Manning is bound to—” She paused mid-sentence, her face knitting into a frown as she looked down at her screen. Glancing up at me, she hunched her shoulders. “Well, you get seen with him once, and you’re all over the damn place.”

I knew when someone was purposely hiding something from me, and my stomach twisted. I crossed, and then uncrossed, my legs under the booth. “Stella ... is he all over the place on your phone right now?”

“I’m sure it’s not a big deal, but—”

“May I see?”

Curling her glossy lips in disapproval, she sighed and rotated her phone so that the screen faced me. Something painful coiled in my chest when I leaned over to see a picture of Oliver and Finley.

Together.

I recognized the backdrop as a popular, and exclusive, sushi destination in Beverly Hills, but I was more interested by the couple themselves as they stood near the curb, their bodies so close I fisted my hands until my nails cut into my palms.

I couldn’t see the look on his face, but the ecstatic grin on hers was undeniable.

“Oliver Manning and socialite girlfriend Finley Scott in Beverly Hills yesterday,” I read the caption aloud, keeping my voice stable in spite of the ragged emotions storming through me. “Looks like they’re back together.”

When she answered, I didn’t miss the sympathy in her tone. “If they are, it won’t last long.”

“Why is that?”

She waited until after our waitress had brought my lemon water to say, “I can trust you, yes?” When I nodded, she continued, “From what Dora told me over drinks one night, Finley’s got a history of just picking up and disappearing on Oliver. Even in their teens.”

I remembered what his ex-girlfriend had said to me the morning in my father’s house about loving Oliver since she was fifteen, and I clenched my teeth, hoping it looked like a smile to Stella.

Fucking Oliver.

She gave the photo on her phone one final glance before taking a sip of her soda. “There’s—there’s nothing going on with you and him, is there?”

I shook my head almost too rapidly. “Absolutely nothing.”

Stella was smart enough to see through the bullshit, but she responded with a slight tilt of her head.

I’m fine, I convinced myself. I’m fine, and he told me all along we’d only have one night together. So why am I irritated?

There was nothing between Oliver Manning and myself, and my focus needed to laser in on figuring out his mother’s motives for ripping my life apart—not ripping his impeccable clothing off his body.

But by the time I returned to the office and dropped Carl’s food by his desk, I was furious. I spent the rest of the day barricaded in my tiny, black-and-white office, transcribing like a mad woman. A few minutes before it was time to leave, I received a new text message, and when I checked it, my heart stopped as I looked down at Oliver’s name at the top of my screen.

Can I see you tonight?

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I snapped. Rolling my chair away from my desk, I glowered at the five words on the iPhone screen, the intense pain in my chest spiking a notch with every second that passed. Starting a text, my fingers flew over the tiny letters.

Why would I want to fuck you again when there’s a picture of you with your ex plastered up online? Thanks, but no thanks.

Hovering my finger over the send key, I reconsidered what I wrote. Then, releasing a sigh that made everything from my stomach to my throat sting, I erased every word, but two.

Fuck you.

Chapter 17

Driving my Mini Cooper into the parking garage of my Marina del Rey apartment, I was thinking more rationally. With over an hour and a half away from Emerson & Taylor to clear my mind, I’d taken a step back to revaluate the situation. My response to Oliver and Finley—whatever might be going on between them—was uncharacteristic and admittedly ridiculous.

In my twenty-four years on earth, I had never reacted jealously over a man. For starters, I’d always been so busy with work that dealing with men in my personal life was a headache—like the guy who’d broken up with me after finding out I was an escort or the man I’d dated briefly before him. That hadn’t worked out because of distance.

Meeting Oliver Manning, though, had twisted everything I thought I knew about myself.

In a matter of weeks, he’d worked his way under my skin and tonight—tonight I planned on shoving all that out of my system for a while.

Toting the bottle of wine I’d picked up on the way home and my Prada bag, I took the stairs up to my floor, grateful for the exercise after spending most of the day trapped behind my desk. Although I wasn’t a wino, my best friend adored the stuff, and I was determined to order some takeout and coax her into catching up on one of the many TV shows waiting on the DVR.

But the second I opened the stairwell door and turned onto my hall I knew that Pen was definitely not at home. Otherwise, why would a six-foot-two, gorgeously tan man be leaning against my front door?

His golden-brown hair was damp, giving me the impression he’d showered and immediately come to my place, this was the second time I’d seen him without his customary suit. He wore a casual plaid button down, dark-wash jeans, and cap toe boots. When I slowed my approach toward him, his brows arched over blue eyes that drank in the sight of me.

I averted my own eyes down to the oak floor.

Be strong. Do not look at that man’s shoulders, crotch—anything. Get the hell in the apartment, I warned myself.

“Lizzie.” He spoke my fake name in a growly voice that danced through my pores, shooting fireworks into every vein. “You look beautiful tonight.”

“Oliver.” I held the bottle of wine between my elbow and side. “What are you doing here? Fuck you usually means you don’t show up an hour later.”

Although he moved aside to give me room to unlock my door, I felt the hard muscles of his abs against the side of my body, and I clamped the doorknob tightly. “I took your text as an invitation,” he drawled.

I twisted my head to the side, my blond hair falling over one shoulder, and he smirked down at me like he was the damn King of Los Angeles. Cocky smiles like those were meant for one thing, and he’d already gotten that from me.

Rotating the knob, I straightened my back and flung the door open where it banged loudly against the wall. “It wasn’t an invitation.”

Molding his body to my backside, his fingers spread over my chest, and he breathed against my neck. “It sure as hell sounded like one, Lizzie.”

Screaming at myself to put on my big girl panties—the ones that also warded off men like Oliver—I darted out of his grip, my shoulders burning from the trail of heat his fingertips left.

“Goodnight, Mr. Manning.” I started to close the door, but the boot lodged in the opening halted my plans. When he shoved his face so close to mine my small nose brushed the tip of his, I sucked in a harsh breath.

“You get pissed at me for doing something wrong, fine. But you’re not going to close doors in my face without giving me a chance to fix whatever it is that’s ticked you off.”

“You don't have to fix anything.” But I stupidly held the door open to let him in. Placing my bag and the bottle of wine on the foyer table, I faced him with my arms crossed over my chest. “What do you want, Oliver?”

“I wanted to take the beautifully frustrating woman I spent the night with to dinner. I wanted to take her back to my place again for ... dessert. And then, since it’s the weekend, I had no plan of seeing that beautiful body covered by anything other than my cock and our sweat for the next twenty-four hours.”

If I weren’t so irritated, my underwear would probably already be on the laminate wood floor.

“You couldn’t say all that via text?” The breathlessness in my voice earned me a gleaming white smile I wanted to smack right off his face.

“You told me to fuck off,” he pointed out.

Twisting away from him, I swiped the bottle and stalked through the foyer toward the kitchen with him hot on my trail.

“I saw a picture of you with Finley Scott online today,” I said hotly over my shoulder, ditching the bottle of wine on the counter. “Since it was taken just yesterday, I assumed you were no longer interested in any of that with me.”

His expression amused, he accepted the fall ale I pulled out of the refrigerator. Opening the bottle cap easily with the corner of my counter, he turned it to his full lips and took a drink. Then, he made a soft noise of admonishment.

“I would have thought that after what happened the other night, you would have learned from my mistakes and not jumped to conclusions.” He reached for my own beer bottle, and I passed it to him. Using the counter as a bottle opener once again, his longing gaze traveled over all five-foot-four-inches of my body.

“Although I have to say, the end result has left me starving for seconds all week. To answer your question about Finley, we are not together again, and there’s no possibility of that happening.”

“Alright.” I downed at least a quarter of my beer before I nodded briskly. “Alright.”

“You still sound unconvinced.” He exhaled. “I'd be happy to take you to my mother’s house right now and have Finley explain the nature of our relationship to you herself.”

My mouth fell open in horror. “Abso-fucking-lutely not.”

“I met with her yesterday to answer questions about this damn birthday party my mother is insisting on. Trust me, there are many other ways I’d love to spend my thirtieth birthday—being trapped in a house with Finley and Margaret is not one of them.”

His birthday party.

The same event Margaret had asked me to help Finley with if she happened to call on me for assistance.

I felt like a fool. A blubbering, jealous fool, but when I glanced at the floor, Oliver left his beer on the counter and held my chin in his hand. I swallowed down my embarrassment, not wanting to look up at him.

What the hell was happening to me? I sounded like the heroine of that Carrie Underwood song about taking a bat to headlights and keying cars, and I was definitely not that person.

“Dammit,” I groaned, and a soft grin touched his features. “I don’t even know what to say except you’ll have to excuse my ... temporary lapse of judgment.”

“Bring that lapse of judgment to my bed,” he advised, stroking the corners of my lips. “I've already told you your jealousy makes my cock react.” With his free hand, he spread my fingers on the hard bulge in the front of his pants. “Now that we’ve established I’m not fucking my ex, I’m not leaving here without you. We both want each other—we’ve admitted it already—so there’s no use in denying it.”

I hated that he’d worded it like that because it was the truth.

Because I couldn’t shake what Pen had told me about not falling in love with Oliver. Any man who could provoke such a volatile reaction from me all over a photo of him with another woman—well, that made him dangerous.

“I—”

He drowned my protests with his lips and tongue, drawing quiet moans from my throat as his mouth worked furiously over mine. It was possessive, almost punishing me for assuming the worst in him because I knew he wouldn’t finish what he’d started until he was good and ready.

Breathing raggedly, he broke our mouths apart, gliding his tongue over his lips. “Don’t fight me on this, Lizzie. I’ve been thinking about you since I brought you home the other morning, and I’m determined to be with you, inside of you, tonight.”

Damn Oliver with his pretty words and gifted body.

And damn myself for wanting to go with him badly enough to throw caution to the wind. Even though I was nodding, agreeing to leave with him, I heard myself whisper, “Then I’ll be the one whose picture is online.”

“Nobody will take photos of you.” At my skeptical sigh, he pulled away from me. “Contrary to what you might think, they don’t follow me around. We’ll go someplace private.”

“Do I need to change?”

He removed my hand from his zipper but not before squeezing my fingers lightly around the thick flesh. “Not if you want to stay dressed,” he warned.

*

Oliver’s private place turned out to be an incredibly busy international restaurant on Rodeo Drive. It was near the hotel where one of my top ten favorite movies—the ironically fitting Pretty Woman—was filmed. When I told him while we waited for our hostess to seat us, he looked down at me sheepishly.

“Never seen it.”

“Who are you?” I demanded. “First The Tudors and now this? You have to watch it—it’s a classic just like The Princess Bride.”

He bent his head, grazing my ear with his mouth. “You better bring bring a hell of a good negotiation to the table to get me on board with watching either of those.” I looked over my shoulder to see his blue eyes gleaming with desire, and my sex tightened eagerly. “I’m talking about—”

“Mr. Manning,” the hostess spoke up, snagging both our attention. Smiling, she held two large menus to her chest. “Your table is available.”

With his hand resting on the small of my back and his fingers drumming on the curve of my ass, I felt nearly every female eye in the building following us enviously as we were seated at an intimate table near the back of the restaurant.

After our hostess departed, he leaned back in the scroll print Parsons chair and stared at me. Though I couldn’t read his expression, it was impossible not to wilt slightly under his intense perusal.

“You like unnerving me,” I said to break the silence. “Don’t you?”

“If I wanted to unnerve you—” I felt his hand between my legs and before I could push it away, he flicked his thumb over the center of my panties, sending desire melting through me. “—I’d start with that.”

Keeping my face void of any emotion, I cocked my head. “What happened to what you said about not whipping your dick out at restaurants?”

Pumping my thigh, he laughed. “I never said I wouldn’t touch your pussy,” he murmured. Reluctantly, he released me and placed both his hands on the table almost dramatically, like he was trying to prove he knew how to behave. “How are things going with Margaret?”

“She left for Paris today.” I held off my next question until after our waitress stopped by for our drink order, and then I asked, “Why do you call her Margaret?”

“I’ve called her my mother before.”

“Yes, but it’s usually said derisively.” I knew I was searching in places I shouldn’t go—and especially during dinner—but I was curious for both the cause I was committed to and for myself. “I don’t—”

“You don’t what?”

Twisting my lips, I fidgeted with the corner of my linen napkin, clanging the silverware around inside it. “I guess what I’m trying to say is that when I talk about my mother, it’s a bit softer.”

“Margaret is complicated. I’m not her biggest fan, but she’s still my mother. We’ve never been particularly close because she meddles in my life. We both have very strong personalities that tend to clash.”

“And that’s why you were closer to your stepfather?” I blurted out.

“Yes, but I wouldn’t tell Margaret that. My stepfather had—” He paused, as if considering what to say next, then ran his palm from side to side across his somewhat scruffy chin. “—commitment issues that only made my mother colder after his death.”

This wasn’t the first time I’d heard of my father’s infidelities. I’d found that picture of him with Margaret that was dated during his marriage to my mom. And then, the stepmonster herself had exposed she and my dad were an item before Mom had sauntered into the picture and married him.

Still, it stung because I wanted to believe the absolute best about both my parents.

Observing my silence, Oliver asked, “You think I sound like a spoiled rich boy for feeling that way about Margaret, don’t you?”

Maybe if his mother were anyone else other than the woman I’d recently discovered had bent me over and screwed me with no lube, I might, but I shook my head. “You know your story better than anyone else.”

“What about your mother?”

I thought of the beautiful model I’d shared fifteen years with, and my shoulders touched my ears. “She was—is—wonderful.” I glared at the candle in the center of the table until the flame blurred my vision. I was hardly aware of our drinks reaching the table, but then Oliver’s hand rubbed against mine.

“Do you know what you want to order?”

Ignoring his concerned expression, I looked down at the menu and back at him. “What are you having?”

“The barramundi.”

Tilting my chin up to the waitress, I nodded. “Can I get that too, please?”

“Yes ma’am. Please let me know if you need anything else,” she said with a genuine version of the accommodating smile I offered my boss everyday.

As soon as she left, Oliver resumed his focus on me. “I want to know you,” he said. “Not just every inch of your body—I want to know you. And the longer it takes me to learn, the better.”

I tried not to hold my breath, to keep my tone even, but I failed miserably when I asked, “Are you asking to see me on a regular basis?”

“I’m already seeing you.” He drank from the craft beer he’d ordered, swallowing hard, licking his lips to draw my attention to them. “Give me something, Lizzie.”

“What do you want to know?” I touched my chest, shocked at how quickly my heart was beating. “My favorite movie is The Princess Bride, I’m obsessed with TV series, and I want to work in fashion.”

He shook his head. “I already know all that, beautiful. Something new.” Before I was able to attempt to feed him some of Lizzie’s past, his phone rang. Sliding away from the table, he looked at me apologetically. “I’ve got to take this, but I’ll be right back.”

While I awaited his return, I fished my own phone from my purse to send Pen a message. Spotting a text from her already sitting in my inbox, I grinned.

Where are you, woman?!? I’m home and you’re nowhere to be found. Are you with Mr. Sex-In-A-Business-Suit? If you are, don’t forget what I said!

As if I could. I was about to respond, but then a hand covered mine. Dropping my phone into my lap, I lifted my eyes to take in the sight of Oliver, but my gaze connected with the short, good-looking man standing beside the table. He was older than me by at least twenty years—maybe mid-forties—with dark hair and eyes and a disbelieving expression.

Anxiously, I slid a strand of hair behind my ear. “I’m sorry, can I—”

“God, if I’d known you were living in Los Angeles now,” he murmured with a suggestive smile that drained the blood from my face even before he put a name to me. “It’s so good to see you again, Alice.”

Alice.

Not Lizzie or Gemma, but Alice.

Hearing that name instantly brought to mind the day three years ago when I’d picked a pseudonym for my job—because no escort used her real name. Pen and I were having dinner with friends at the Hard Rock, and when I quietly told her about my plan to make the transition from PSO to half-naked concierge, she’d joked about me going down the rabbit hole. Up until five months ago, the name had stuck.

Staring back at one of my former clients, I fought to maintain my composure. I couldn’t remember him, which was probably a good thing and meant he wasn’t a raging lunatic.

“It’s ... nice to see you again, too.” I peeked around him, keeping an eye out for Oliver. As much as I wanted this man to go away, I also knew going about it the wrong way could put an end to my date if I somehow offended him. “How’ve you been?”

“Same as before. I’ve relocated to L.A. for the next few months while we finish a new development.”

I bobbed my head, hoping I resembled the good-listener the agencies always advertised me as. “Hopefully there won’t be any hiccups.” I looked past him once again.

When I returned my focus on him, he’d wrinkled his forehead. “I promise I’m not being rude! It’s just that ... I’m here with someone tonight.”

His dark eyes widening in comprehension, he reached into the back pocket of his slacks. “I completely understand. You’re a gorgeous girl, so I know you must be busy.” Mortified, I watched as he dug a business card from his wallet. My hand shook as I accepted it, and I wished to God the restaurant floor would open up and swallow me under Rodeo Drive.

“Give me a call when you’re available.”

While I had no intention of ever contacting him, I knew that it was better to let him believe I was still in the industry. I folded the card and clutched it in my fist. “I’ll let you know.”

“See you soon, Alice,” he said, turning on his heel. He nearly bumped into my date on the way back to the table he was sharing with a few other men who were most likely business partners. When he gestured to me, and they all looked over, the flush creeping up my face flamed higher.

I hoped Oliver hadn’t heard a word of what was said.

Hesitantly taking his seat across from me, Oliver turned a scowled to my former client’s table, looking like he was seconds away from storming over there. “Did I miss something?” he asked irritably.

“No.”

“He wasn’t harassing you, was he? I saw him giving you a card and I know the owner of this—”

“No!” I practically shouted. “He’s a ... modeling scout. He wanted to know if I was interested in some commercial work.” That explanation sounded incredibly cocky, but after thinking of my mom several minutes ago, it was the first thing that came to mind that made any sense.

“I told him how awkward I was behind the camera, but he insisted I take his card,” I added calmly, fidgeting with my fork’s prongs.

It was just one more lie to keep up with on top of all the others, and my head spun when I realized just how fragile the house of cards I’d built had become.

Oliver stayed hushed for a few moments, tracing his index finger around his half-full beer glass. Eventually, he lifted his light blue eyes and offered me a slight smile. “Everyone wants you, beautiful, but you’re mine.”

“Yours?” I laughed because it was the only thing I could do not to choke. “A little possessive, are we?”

“A little.”

Through the rest of dinner, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was being stared at from across the restaurant. And every few minutes, Oliver threw a curious glare of his own in the direction of my former client.

Opting to skip dessert, Oliver seemed like he was in a rush to leave. As soon as the valet brought his black Viper to the front of the building and we were safely hidden behind the protection of several tinted windows, he bumped my knees apart.

“Scratch what I said earlier,” he growled, and I started to frown, but that expression quickly changed to one of unconcealed pleasure when the backs of his fingers caressed my center through my panties. “When it comes to you, I’m slowly discovering I’m more than just a little possessive.”