Lisa Jones - Being Me

Chris reads my expression and says, “He left for Paris to hunt down that exchange student he had the fling with.”

“He’s going to be heartbroken if she turns him away,” I say sadly, having heard from Maria that the woman didn’t feel as passionate about Diego as he did her. “I tried to talk him out of it.”

My cell phone rings and I remove it from my purse and glance at Chris. “Ricco Alvarez,” I tell him before answering.

“Ah, Bella, speak to me,” Ricco says, which is exactly how he started the call he’d made to me two days before. “Tell me you have good news for me.”

“I’m sorry, Ricco. Rebecca hasn’t called into the gallery and no one has heard from her.”

He sighs, and the sadness of the sound reaches through the phone. “Please do what you can.”

“I will.” I’ve barely issued the reply when the line goes dead.

I settle my phone on the table and Chris arches a brow. “That was quick.”

“He only wants one thing. Rebecca. He’s just so damn obsessed with her, Chris.”

“Blake and Kelvin have a man on him, watching him for suspicious activity.”

“I don’t think he hurt her. I think he really loves her. He’s like Diego, chasing the ghost of what will never be.”

“Or chasing a mistake he’s trying to cover up,” Chris warns. “Don’t let your big heart get in the way of being cautious.”

“I know. I’m being careful.”

Maria appears with our regular order. I chat with her a moment about Diego, and I can tell she is worried about her son.

When she leaves, Chris studies me for a moment. “It’s our scars that define us, Sara. Diego has to live life to appreciate life.”

“Yes.” A knot forms in my stomach at the idea that I still don’t know how deeply Chris’s scars define him.

Chris tips back his beer and then reaches for a fork. “Eat, baby. The food is getting cold.”

I nod and shove aside my worries and he tells me about Paris, continuing his diligent effort to convince me to take another leap of faith and go with him.

Our plates are removed and I reach for my portfolio. “I want to show you something.” I flip it open. “These are the art pieces I have picked out for that property Ryan has me working on.”

I spend the next fifteen minutes showing him each one of my prize finds. I glance up to find myself captured by his tender stare. He brushes his knuckles over my cheek. “You really love what you do.”

“Yes. This is a dream for me. But I . . . I know it doesn’t have to be at Allure.” It is the first time I’ve alluded that I might go to Paris with him.

He goes very still. “What are you saying?”

More and more, I think Paris is my way of peeling back the remainder of Chris’s layers. “It means I belong with you.”

We stare at each other and I can almost feel the depths of our bond weave deeper into my soul. “Yes,” he says softly. “You do.”

The waiter interrupts us by bringing the check, but the moment isn’t lost. I cast Chris a coy look. “I was wondering if a certain brilliant artist took special requests.”

“When being called brilliant by a certain sexy-as-hell woman who happens to share my bed, most anything is possible.”

My cheeks heat as I think of what has been possible in our bed, namely the leather straps he’d installed on the headboard to tie me up and torment me with pleasure. “Yes, well. I finally get to go to Ryan’s property tomorrow and see firsthand how my treasures will look. I was hoping you might come with me because”—I flip to a picture of a wall inside the property, and turn it to him—“I dream of this spot displaying a Chris Merit San Francisco skyline. You could donate the money, and I’ll—”

“On one condition.” He isn’t looking at the picture. He’s looking at me. “You sit for me and let me paint you.”

In the past, the idea was intimidating, and I told myself it was because Chris is famously talented, but it was more. It was what his brush captured, and the secrets I worried he’d reveal. I search his face now, and I see that awareness there. This is about trust, about me believing he can see the worst in me and still love me. And maybe, just maybe, if I put that kind of trust in him, he will do the same with me.

“Yes. I’ll sit for you.”

At midafternoon I finish helping a customer and return to my office, where I discover a box sitting on my desk with a card. I recognize Chris’s writing immediately. Peeling open the card I read, For tonight. Open alone with the door shut. Chris.

I trace his signature, the crisp, precise letters created by the same hand that crafts masterpieces that sell for millions.

Amanda pops her head in. “It came a few minutes ago.” She bites her lip. “Can I see what it is?”

“Ah, no. That’s not a good idea.”

Her face lights up. “A naughty gift.” She sighs. “I want a sexy, famous artist to send me naughty gifts. I’ll shut the door for you.”

I break the tape sealing the red box and laugh when I find a pink paddle and a pair of butterfly nipple clamps inside. My lips curve and heat shimmers a path through my body, but this gift makes me feel so much more than desire. He hasn’t let what he learned about Michael affect us. If he had, I don’t know what I would have done. I need the escape Chris gives me, the way I know I can just let go with him and he will never hurt me. And that’s the true gift.

It’s an hour before closing time at the gallery and I’ve spent the afternoon walking on more of those clouds, anticipating my night with Chris, when my cell phone rings. I glance at the number and I don’t know why, but the instant I see it, I go bitterly cold inside. “Dylan?” I answer, holding my breath as I await his young, cheerful voice.

“Sara.”

The pained whisper of my name from Brandy’s lips spirals through me and tears pool in my eyes. I know what she is going to tell me. “No. It can’t be.”

“He’s gone. My baby is gone.”

“I . . .” I say the dreaded words. I can’t help it. “I’m sorry. I’m so very sorry, Brandy.”

“You need to go to Chris. He didn’t take it well. I . . . I just . . . go to him. He needs you.”

“Yes. Yes.” Oh, God. Chris. “I am. I will.”

She sobs and heaves in a trembling breath. “Call us and tell us he is okay.”

“I will.”

I swipe at the tears pouring down my cheeks and dial Chris. He doesn’t answer. I dial again and again. “Amanda!”

She rushes into the office and her eyes go wide. “What’s wrong?”

“Call Diego Maria’s and see if Chris is there,” I tell her and I’m already dialing Jacob.

“Yes. Okay.”

Jacob answers. “Is Chris there?” I ask.

“No, Ms. McMillan. He’s not been in all day. Are you okay?”

“There’s been an emergency. If he shows up there, call me.”

“Are you safe?”

“Yes. It’s not me I’m worried about. It’s Chris. Just call me if you see him.” I hang up as Amanda walks back into the office. “He’s not there.”

“Do you have the number for the coffee shop?”

“Yes. You want me to call?”

“No. Just get me the number.”

She darts away and buzzes my desk. I dial the number and a man answers. “Is Chris Merit there?” The answer is no. “Is Ava there?” The answer is also no. My stomach roils. I hunch over my desk.

Mark appears in my doorway. “Dylan, the cancer patient Chris and I are so fond of”—I suck in a breath of air—“he . . . he . . .” I can’t say it.

“That explains it then.”

“Explains what?”

“Why Chris is at the club.”

My world spins and then crashes into a million pieces and I start to shake, tears spilling like waterfalls from my eyes.

“Ms. McMillan,” Mark snaps sharply, and somehow he is standing over me and I don’t remember him moving. “Pull yourself together, get your purse, and come with me.”

I have no idea why but his command is so compelling that I almost robotically reach for my purse and force myself to my feet, using the desk for stability. I can’t make it any further. I wobble and sob.

Mark wraps an arm around my waist and catches my chin, forcing my gaze to his. “Ms. McMillan.” His thumb swipes away my tears. “I warned you Chris was fucked-up. You accepted that. Did you not?”

“Yes. But—”

“There are no ‘buts’ today. Today you accept how he deals with pain, or you don’t. Choose now.”

“I’m trying. I just . . . I thought . . .”

“Don’t think. It will get you into trouble. You’ve made this choice long before now. Accept his way even if you don’t understand it, or walk away.”

I wet my parched lips. “I accept,” I whisper.

He sets me away from him. “Then let’s go.”

“Where?”

“To my club.”

Mark and I don’t speak during the twenty-minute drive. He seems to understand that the tiniest thing might send me into an eruption of tears again. I rest my head on the soft leather seat of his Jaguar, watching the lights and stars flicker by the window. I dig deep inside myself to reopen the black pit I’d buried my emotions in before finding the journals, before finding Chris. I need that place I’d hoped to never go to again, to survive this, and I wonder now if I should have ever left it behind.

Slowly, I harness a thin veil of composure that is momentarily threatened when I spot the gates of the massive mansion that is Mark’s club deep in the elite Cow Hollow neighborhood. Will I find Chris with another woman? I can handle a lot but these two things, I don’t know if I can.

We park in front of the long stairwell and a suited security guard wearing an earpiece opens my door. I don’t move. I can’t move.