“Based on what?”

“He seems to be a good friend of Mark’s, and”—I hesitate, certain Chris isn’t going to approve of my observations—“he isn’t as dominant. I don’t think Mark could share with someone too like himself.” Like you, I add silently.

Chris stares at me, unmoving, stone that can’t be chipped away, and I hear a murmur on the other end of the line that Chris responds to. “Yeah. I’m here. There’s a guy named Ryan Kilmer. He’s a member of the club Mark owns. They’re friends. Sara thinks it’s him.” He listens a minute and then ends the call. He sets his phone on the nightstand beside me and pulls me to my feet, his hand sliding around my back. “I do not like how well you know Mark Compton.”

The possessiveness of his touch, and in his expression, shouldn’t please me. It doesn’t, and yet it does. “What I know is from the journals.”

“Then stop reading the damn things.”

“I brought them for you to read.”

“I don’t want to read them, Sara. It just makes me think about what Mark wants to do to you, and I’m trying to be understanding about your job. The journals won’t help me do that. We lock them back up when we get back to San Francisco unless Blake needs us to read something specific.”

“Yes, Master,” I tease, trying to bring his tension down a notch.

His scowl is instant. “Don’t call me that. I’m not your master. You aren’t my submissive. And you damn sure won’t ever be Mark’s.”

Okay, so that joke went over much better the last time I told it. I push to my toes and press my lips to his. “No. I won’t, because I love you, Chris.”

His hand closes down on my neck and he kisses me, and it’s not gentle. It’s a hot, possessive, turbulent claiming that sends a swell of desire through me so intense I tremble. “What are you doing to me, woman?” he growls against my mouth. “Besides making me crazy. Do you know how badly I want to take you to Paris and away from that man? But I know right now you won’t go. You want this job and I’m trying to understand.” He sets me away from him and runs a hand through his hair, walking in a circle and facing me again. “I don’t like Ryan suddenly hiring the gallery. It’s just a little too reminiscent of the journals.”

Unbidden, a shiver runs down my spine and I hug myself. There is a lot in my life a little too reminiscent of the journals but I’m trying to fix that. “You said Mark wasn’t capable of hurting Rebecca.”

“I don’t think he could or would, but he brought her into his world where she didn’t belong, and he’s responsible for where that might have led her. I know nothing about Ryan or anyone else he might have put her in contact with. I don’t like this, Sara. I don’t like that he’s trying to pull you into his world. And he is. He absolutely fucking is.”

His torment over this is palpable, a ball of fire burning away at him. I go to him and hug him, settling my chin on his chest. “He can’t. As long as you’re in my life, sharing it with me, there’s nothing but us, Chris.”

* * *

The tension fades away as we finish breakfast and then head to the hospital, where we find Dylan and Brandy in contagious good spirits. By the time we’re on the plane back to San Francisco we are relaxed and laughing, and I am more comfortable with Chris than I have ever been.

We settle into our seats and Chris pulls out his iPad. “I have a cure for your nervous flying—a movie. We can start it here and finish it at home.”

“Home,” I repeat softly.

He cups my face. “Yes. Our home. You belong with me now.”

Mark’s words come back to me: Don’t let Chris convince you there’s an in between. If I want it all with Chris, I can’t stand on the line; there can’t be an in between. The details will work out. “Yes. I do.”

He rewards me with one of his breathtaking smiles and kisses me. “Yes. You do.”

* * *

It is nearly seven by the time we land in San Francisco and finish the drive home. The doorman greets us and offers to bring our bags up for us. “I’ll let you tonight,” Chris says, and glances at me. “Finishing our movie over pizza okay with you?”

“Perfect,” I agree eagerly.

Chris slips the doorman some cash. “How about ordering us a couple of pizzas while you’re at it?”

“You got it, Mr. Merit.”

Chris draws my hand into his and we are laughing over a scene in Bridesmaids, which had been my choice of movie, as payment for watching Halloween, when we find Jacob in our path.

“Good evening, Mr. Merit, Ms. McMillan.” Jacob greets us with a little bow of his head.

Chris wraps his arm over my shoulder. “Did Blake stop by?”

The reminder that Rebecca is missing and that it looks like foul play takes me for a hard, quick ride.

“He did,” Jacob confirms. “We beefed up security here at the building. Anything else you need, I’m available.”

My nerves are officially frazzled and when we step into the elevator, I say, “Blake was worried enough to stop by and help with security?”

Chris frames my face with his hands. “We’re just being cautious.”

“Because you think Rebecca’s dead?”

“Because I want you safe. Just be careful and tell us where you’re going for a few days, while we get more information.”

Fighting my unease, I nod. “Okay.”

The elevator opens and he motions me inside. “Let’s finish that movie. The rest will be waiting on us in the morning. Tonight, let’s just enjoy being home together.”

Home together. I like how this sounds. I give him a small smile and nod. “I’d like that.”

We step off the elevator and Chris catches my hand and embraces me. “I’m not giving you time to change your mind. I’m arranging movers for your apartment.”

I have a fleeting moment of uncertainty but shove aside the millions of things that could go wrong. I’ve spent a lifetime sinking into the quicksand of life, and Chris is the only person who has ever set me on solid ground. I wrap my arms around his neck and take a leap of faith. “All right.”

He kisses me and leads me to the living room. Our living room.

Half an hour later, Chris and I have kicked off our shoes, and we’re watching the rest of the movie on the big screen over the fireplace, trying to eat pizza through our laughter. When the movie is over and our stomachs are stuffed, Chris replays a particular scene and we laugh all over again. I wipe tears from my eyes and he pulls me down to the couch beneath him.

As I stare up at him, I feel the low burn in my belly he creates so easily. And I realize that though I’ve had a hellish weekend, I’m laughing. I’m happy. Happiness is unfamiliar to me, but I feel it now.

Because of Chris.

Twenty-three

I walk into the gallery on Monday morning in a pale peach dress and black heels and with a smile on my face. How can I not be smiling? I woke up to a sexy, brilliant artist in my bed and now I’m going to work at my dream job. So what if said sexy, brilliant artist was worried enough about my safety to drive me to work? I choose not to dwell on that part or I’ll make myself sick with nerves.

“Morning, Amanda,” I say, and Amanda studies me with a keen eye.

“Morning. You look amazing today.”

“Well, thank you.”

I enter the back office and stop dead in my tracks when I come face-to-face with Mark. The man is so damn disarming. Like fire scorching ice, he melts a girl right in her high heels. “Morning,” I manage, and I wonder if he ever has a hair out of place, or a suit that isn’t as perfectly fitted as his choice today of a pale gray that makes his eyes all the more compelling.

His gaze sweeps my body and lifts. “Amanda was right. You look quite amazing today, Ms. McMillan.”

“Thank you.”

He steps aside and lets me pass. I have this moment of frozen, deer-in-the-headlights helplessness when I realize he’s going to watch me walk to my office. Damn this man and his power trips. I don’t like this or how he has suddenly made my mind go to Michael and my father, and my fears that they still might cause Chris trouble. What does it say, that Mark reminds me of Michael?

I draw a small breath and take a step, trying not to wobble on my heels and blow the whole looking-good thing I’ve just been praised for. Not that I need Mark’s praise. I don’t.

But as I settle at my desk and put my things away, I bitterly acknowledge that I do need his praise. Why is this still who I am? I don’t want Mark; he’s too dominant. “No in between, all right,” I murmur.

“Something wrong, Ms. McMillan?”

Mark leans against my door frame, and my gaze flickers to the delicate roses of the O’Nay painting on the wall—the one he put here for Rebecca. What is wrong is that Rebecca is missing. He is the Master in the journal, and he has to know more about where she has gone.

I open my mouth to say that, then close it, remembering the warning to be cautious. I don’t want evidence being tucked away, any more than I want to be in danger myself.

“I’m nervous,” I tell him. “I’m going to resign from the school today.”

One blond brow lifts. “Are you, now?”

“Yes.”

Approval gleams in his eyes and it pleases me to think he values my presence here enough to be pleased. “Well, then. Let me leave you to it.”

He disappears and I slump in my chair. I swear that man winds me up and leaves me exhausted from every encounter. My gaze goes back to the picture on the wall, my thoughts to Rebecca. I’m not taking your job. Come back. Be okay. And that goes for you, too, Ella. Just thinking of Ella sets me into motion. I sit up and dial the school. I have to leave a message. Great. More fretting.