Tryst

Текст добавлен: 26 сентября 2016, 21:37

Текст книги "Tryst"

Автор книги: S. L. Jennings

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Современные любовные романы

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Текущая страница: 21 (всего у книги 21 страниц)

I go back to enjoying my meal while the rest of the table stares vacantly at the space that once briefly housed Allison’s retreating back. One down, only ten more to go. She isn’t the first, and she won’t be the last.

“Make her stay,” a meek voice barely whispers. Lorinda. The prim and proper housewife who’s more concerned with being dignified than where her husband puts his dick.

“Why should I?”

“Because she needs you. We all need you.” Several heads nod in agreement around the table. “Maybe her more than anyone else.”

More nods. Even a few cosigning murmurs.

I exhale a resigning breath, knowing exactly what I’m about to do, though it goes against every principle I’ve learned to live by for the past six years.

Never get emotionally vested in a client.

Never pressure or persuade them; it has to be their choice.

And never, ever apologize for my unconventional technique, as cruel or brash as it may seem.

The door to Allison’s suite is slightly ajar, but I knock anyway, letting it creak open to reveal her petite frame. “What do you want?” she snaps, refusing to look up from the suitcase she’s furiously stuffing with clothes.

I step inside, not bothering to wait for an invitation, and close the door. “Going somewhere?”

“Home. This was a mistake.”

“That’s funny. I never pegged you for a quitter.”

“Really?” she asks sardonically, casting an angry glare through thick, wet lashes. “Because you know everything about me, right? You know my entire life story. Height, weight, Social Security number . . . hell, do you have my gynecologist on speed dial?”

“Don’t be absurd.” I smirk with a wave of my hand. “You know there’s no way in hell I could ever learn a woman’s true weight.”

Allison raises her gaze from her Louis Vuitton luggage and shakes her head, dismissing me and my dry attempt at humor. But before she can turn away, the tiniest hint of a smile reveals itself at the corner of her mouth.

I move closer, close enough to smell the Chanel dabbed behind her ears. “Mrs. Carr, it is my job to make your business my business. In order to best serve my clients, full disclosure is key. There is no room for dirty little secrets here. We’ve all got them, and trust me, yours pale in comparison to most. And believe it or not, no one in that dining room is here to judge your situation. They’re all too worried about their own reasons for being here.

“With that said, I apologize if you felt my brand of honesty was too potent for you. It was callous of me. Still, that’s no reason to throw in the towel. Not when we’ve hardly scratched the surface.”

She barks out a forced laugh and looks away toward the window. A sea of glittering stars dot the blackened sky, lighting a path toward a full moon. The paleness of night floods the room, bathing her fair complexion in the glow of diamonds and sorrow.

“You said I was exclusive,” she says just above a whisper, her voice distant yet melodic enough to echo in my head.

“Excuse me?”

She turns to me, eyes painted in angst. “You said I was exclusive to him in college. Not we. As if I was faithful while he was not.”

She isn’t angry, or surprised, or even embarrassed. She’s stuck somewhere between jaded and indifferent. In perpetual limbo, writhing in the space between being hurt beyond words and too fed up to give a fuck anymore.

She needs to give a fuck. I need her to give a fuck if I’m going to help her save her marriage.

“I’m aware, Mrs. Carr. And so are you.”

Allison smiles the kind of smile that’s meant to be a grimace. The kind contorted by deep-seated hurt and shame. “You think I’m stupid, don’t you? That since I knew what kind of man he was from the start, yet married him anyway, I deserve this?”

“It’s not my job to think that, Mrs. Carr.”

“Right.” She smirks. “Just your job to point out what we’re doing wrong in the bedroom.” I open my mouth to object but she raises a palm to stop me. “I get it, you know. We all signed up for this. We all knew what we were getting into. That doesn’t make it any less humiliating.”

I look at her—really look at her—and my head swirls with inner turmoil. Of course, she’s beautiful—they all are—but Allison is absolutely flawless. She wears very little makeup, and her face is unmarred by the telltale signs of plastic surgery or injections. Tiny, tan freckles dot her slender nose, giving her an almost innocent, youthful appeal. The fact that she hasn’t tried to hide or surgically remove a little piece of herself that society would deem a blemish, intrigues me. Shit, it makes her kind of badass. Such a small act of rebellion, yet such a monumental fuck you to a world that celebrates narcissism and bullshit images.

Allison’s fiery halo of red hair falls to her shoulders in deep waves. It’s full and healthy, but not overly styled with product and extensions. It’s . . . her. Simple. Classic. Perfection.

“What are you looking at?” she asks, her voice laced with a mixture of annoyance and amusement.

“You.” The word is out of my mouth before a lie can even begin to stifle the truth. Shit.

“Why?” Less annoyance, more amusement.

“You have freckles.”

She twists her mouth to one side and raises a cynical brow. “That I do. Would you like to count my moles? I may be able to scrounge up some scars for you too.”

“No, I don’t mean it like that. It’s just . . . you didn’t get laser surgery or bleach them. You don’t even try to hide them.”

“Look, I know that I’m less than perfect, but you don’t have to be an ass—”

Just as she turns away from me, her face flushed with anger, I clutch her elbow. Our heated gazes collide before sliding down to her arm, where my hand is grasping her soft, ivory skin. I pull away before the act is misconstrued as inappropriate as my traitorous thoughts.

“I like it.”

Can’t. Stop. The. Word. Vomit.

I’m a lot of things—crass, stubborn, brutally honest, egotistical—but one thing I am not, is careless. I know my boundaries, and I never cross them. In a business where lines can be easily blurred, those boundaries are outlined in black Sharpie, traced in gasoline, then set the fuck on fire, ensuring that no one even gets close enough to inhale the fumes of temptation.

Yet here I am, touching, tempting, testing the limits. Begging to get burned by an angel with a halo of fire.

“My apologies, Mrs. Carr.” I straighten, my defiant hands balled into tight fists at my sides. “I assure you—”

“You like it?”

I meet her eyes, which are as big and bright as the moon, casting an ethereal glow across her face. This close, much closer than most people would deem innocent, I see they’re not quite blue, as I’d initially thought. Flecks of green and gold illuminate the irises, and I find myself getting lost in the liquid depths, wondering what secrets lie beneath. What past pain is hidden behind those long, auburn-hued lashes?

Yes, I like it. Much more than a narcissistic asshole like me should.

Liking these women isn’t what made me the man I am today. It isn’t what built my solid reputation. I’m not known for my bleeding heart of gold or sugarcoated tongue. What I am known for is results. And that’s all Allison—or anyone else, for that matter—will get from me, and not a damn thing more.

I’m facing the entrance to her suite by the time I realize I’ve abandoned her, leaving her mouth agape and her question unanswered. I imagine those blue-green eyes narrowed in confusion at my erratic behavior, but force myself not to look. There’s nothing to see there that I haven’t seen already. Just another poor, little, rich girl.

“Class is in session at ten A.M. Don’t be late.” My gaze stays fixed on the dark, cherrywood door. I am dying to break free. The walls are closing in, suffocating me, demanding I turn around and face my cowardice. That I confront my weakness, currently bubbling up like bile as I pass the threshold of her suite—away from those enigmatic eyes and the temptation to play connect the dots with those freckles, in hopes of uncovering more of her beautifully blemished skin.

Day-fucking-One. I’m so screwed.

Also by S.L. Jennings

Sexual Education Novels

Taint

Fear of Falling

Afraid to Fly

Dark Light

The Dark Prince

Light Shadows

Copyright

This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

TRYST. Copyright © 2015 by S.L. Jennings. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

FIRST EDITION

ISBN 978-0-06-238973-2

EPub Edition NOVEMBER 2015 9780062389749

15 16 17 18 19 DIX/RRD 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

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