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"Thank you for your help with Yand," he said softly, his head lowered toward me.
"Thank you for saving me from those women," I whispered, smiling politely as I passed Nora Bishop, a woman I was fairly certain had spent most of the last decade on her back, beneath my father.
As we approached the exit, I realized how much I wanted this man. I thought briefly of the rumors—the prostitutes—and then the heat of his hand moved from the small of my back to my elbow. He controlled with courtesy, and I wanted more. Needed more. Then, we were outside and alone on the balcony, the warm summer night bringing a balmy breeze that smelled of ocean and summer. There, his hand left my arm, and I was able to have a moment of clear thought.
I rested my elbows on the rough balcony ledge, the cut of concrete comforting against the finery of ridiculous wealth. Every bit of this was such a show. We spent the entire year fundraising for children who would cry over the prospect of new sneakers, then shelled out a hundred thousand dollars on a party. I turned and looked back at the full-length windows that rose three stories and showcased the entire production in all of its false glory. Then I glanced at Brant, handsome elegance cased in tuxedo black, a picture that belonged to this world combined with a man I felt was above it. "Was it worth it?" I nodded at the party and glanced over at him, his profile strong, his eyes on the horizon, the glow of exterior torches flickering across the handsome shadows of his face. "Dealing with this crowd for a chance at Yand?"
"It was worth it as soon as I saw you." Soft words but with a dramatic impact.
I smiled and stepped up on the thin ledge, one that allowed me to lean over the balcony and put my face fully into the wind. "You don't know me."I don't even know myself.
"No, I don't." He said the words mildly, as if the concept was unimportant.
I turned and watched him. His features were calm, and he was so poised and undeterred. It was as if my attraction to him was unimportant, either due to confidence or because he didn't care if we ever saw each other again. The path of confidence was the option I preferred; the other was a problem. I was unaccustomed to denial, to losing; the thought of being discarded was difficult to comprehend. I didn't know who I was, what I wanted, but I knew I was desired by men. I had nothing, if not that self-assurance. I swallowed a foreign seed of insecurity. "Let's get out of here."
That turned his head. Hands in his pockets, he moved closer, enough for me to smell his cologne, an expensive scent that made me think of yachts and cigars. "Where do you want to go?"
I faced forward, closed my eyes against the ocean breeze, and exhaled. "Out of here."
Chapter 3
We hopped the balcony fence on the far end, where there was a staircase that was closed off for the party, the tiny act of rebellion perfect in its ridiculousness. I removed my heels, our dash down the stairs almost Cinderella-like in its execution, his strong hand pulling mine, our fingers interlocking when we reached the bottom. I tried to gather the bulk of my dress; the expensive fabric now ruined at the bottom. Giving up, I looked for my driver, the sea of mostly black cars in the lot signifying our lack of ability to diversify in any way. My Rolls rolled forward out of the pack as a bellman stepped forward and opened the door with a white glove. "Ms. Fairmont," the young man said stiffly.
I half-expected Brant to touch me in the car, his hand to steal onto my leg, his prostitute-loving self to put those beautiful lips on my body in some way. He did nothing, just settled into the seat beside me, his fingers drumming a pattern on the armrest as he stared out the window.
"My house, Mark." My family's driver, a man who has been in my life for over a decade, nodded, his eyes never flicking to the rearview mirror. My use of him and this car was rare, reserved for situations like this where I expected to imbibe. Despite my mother's neat signature on his paychecks, I had his loyalty. Who knew what secrets he kept for my parents, he kept a file cabinet's worth of mine. I turned my attention back to the mystery beside me.
I'd known plenty of geniuses. Stanford was stock full, so I had experienced every make and model. And, for the most part, they fell into a few standard types. There were the ones whose genetics had blessed them with intelligence but no social skills. There were the pompous, insecure men who feigned confidence by vomiting data and facts. And then there had been the kind who made me the most nervous: the quiet types who watched me while notating every nuance of my character for analysis at a later moment—Brant’s type.
He glanced away from the window and studied me with open intensity, his eyes scraping open every damaged pore on my psyche.
“Stop,” I ordered.
His mouth twitched. "Why?"
"Don't think so much. Your brain could probably use a rest." I smiled.
"Worried about what I will come up with?"
"No."Yes.
"Why'd you leave with me?” he asked, as if any woman needed to explain running off with a billionaire.
"I figured you should have one night with a woman that you didn’t have to pay for."
His eyes crinkled at the edges. "I like paying."
"Why?" Now I was the curious one, and about every piece of this man. He was fascinating, the most interesting piece being his utter lack of concern about my opinion of his actions.
"It's less messy. I can dictate the night with no emotions involved."
"Emotions can make it hotter."
"And more painful."
“Have you been hurt?"
"Not yet." He stared at me so steadily, an odd emphasis placed on the words, as if he was giving his heart to me with both hands, certain it would lead to his demise.
