Mating Theory Page 6

  Christopher stares at me as if testing the words, weighing them the way he must weigh every sentence spoken in his crazy-smart Emerson business classes, the way he must gauge everything around him with that stone-cold confidence. And he must see in me the desperate truth, because he stalks back to the window and curses under his breath.

  He’s not even facing me, but I’m utterly and completely exposed. I could strip naked in this suite and still not be as naked as I feel right now. This is something I don’t talk about with anyone, least of all with a man who’s saved me twice. It’s something of a pattern already, and that should be enough for me to make it stop. I can’t depend on anyone, even him.

  But I can’t let my mother go back to arguing with the landlord for a few extra days. Not when I’m living like a princess at Smith College in the dorm Daddy paid extra to get. I can’t let her whore herself to some asshole with money when I’m the heiress to a freaking fortune.

  If I’ve convinced Christopher, the shame I’m feeling would have been worth it.

  Please let it be enough.

  He faces me, and he’s so fully Christopher, so much the person standing beside me with his forearms on the railing that I breathe a sigh of relief. This man, I know him. He’s the one I can count on to catch me when I’m falling.

  “Harper,” he says. My throat squeezes. He sounds like he’s facing a firing squad. “Maybe it’s wrong to use this against you, but you told me about that husband, the one who owned the job website. The one who climbed into your bed. And that makes me think your dad was right.”

  “No,” I whisper, because this isn’t going to end the way I hoped.

  “He knew, okay? Your father knew that I’m a man of my word. He knew how much that meant to me… and why it means so much to me.”

  “Why?” I whisper, even though I know he isn’t going to tell me. This is a man who hoards secrets the way a dragon keeps gold and jewels in his lair.

  I would rather have no money than have a trust fund I can’t use to support my mother… which Daddy probably knew, too. It was a final fuck you to the woman he could never get over. I accepted that weakness from Daddy a long time ago, but having him use Christopher to do it makes my stomach turn over.

  I would be pissed, my friend had said once. Like he’s trying to control you with money, even though he has so much. And for the first time I do feel pissed.

  “He appointed me as the executor, and not the hundred other men he knows could have done it. Because he knew I would have to do it, if he asked me. And that I would never take a single cent out of the damn trust fund for myself or anyone else.”

  “Isn’t there something more important than keeping your word? Isn’t there doing what’s right?”

  A dark laugh. “Not to me.”

  “Don’t do this.”

  He’s made of stone again, any semblance of vulnerability turned hard. “It’s already done, Harper. It was done before today. Before the art studio. It was done when your father sat down and wrote the will, knowing exactly what would happen.”

  “You’re giving him all the power.” All the power to ruin whatever was between us. That kiss standing beneath Medusa’s wrathful gaze. Maybe we had been doomed from the beginning.

  “It’s not his choice anymore, Harper. Not even yours. It’s mine. And I’m going to do this for you, because he asked me to, and because it’s the only way I can protect you, even from yourself. You’ll give away every cent if you think it will help someone.”

  “Protect me? This isn’t the Massachusetts Bay! I’m not sitting on the damn rail.”

  “You told me to leave you alone then, too. And I’ll never regret staying on deck so that I could dive in after you. I’ll do it again if I have to.”

  What would it take for this man to see me as a woman? As someone that can make her own decisions instead of as a maiden who needs saving. But I don’t think it’s even about me or what I need. He already told me, didn’t he? It’s his choice, and he would rather be a white knight whether it helps me or not.

  “Christopher,” I say, my voice low and desperate. “That kiss.”

  His black eyes sharpen. “What about it?”

  “It means something to me.” Even if I have to slash my skin to pieces. That’s how much Christopher is worth to me. It’s more than a girlish crush, the way I feel about him. The feelings that are wavering like a drop of water on a petal, about to slide away.

  “I told you it was a mistake.”

  I swallow hard. “I think you’re lying. I think it meant something to you, too.”

  His eyes are more opaque than ever, obsidian and shining. He twists his mouth into a look that’s worse than dislike—into pity. “You’re young, but I didn’t think you were stupid. A kiss doesn’t mean anything.”

  My father’s death should have been enough to break me, but somehow I was whole. Until now, when I’m in a million pieces at Christopher Bardot’s feet. “No.”

  “I felt bad for you, to be honest. That’s why I wrote you back.”

  “You’re lying,” I say, hating the tears in my eyes.

  “You weren’t a sister to me.” His words are cold, his eyes unfeeling. There’s no doubt he means those words. “You meant nothing to me. Just a poor little rich girl, all along.”

  Betrayal knots itself in my stomach, so tight and so deep I’m not sure I’ll ever be free of it. “Then why don’t you walk away, if I mean so little? Let me manage the trust fund, and you never have to talk to me again.”

  “Obligation. This is something I have to do out of respect for your father.”

  Not out of respect for me. Never that.

  Both men and money have a way of disappearing when you need them most. It’s something I learned early, but clearly I needed to learn it again. Neither my stepbrother nor the inheritance were anything I could count on.

  Neither of them were anything I could trust.

  The paper in my hand has been crushed in my fist and smoothed out with shaking hands so many times the ink has almost faded. Almost, but I have the words memorized anyway.

  “Where is he?” I ask the pretty receptionist without introducing myself. It must be obvious who I am, unless Christopher Bardot likes to torment women all over the country. He might have given her a heads-up; Like, “by the way, I have a stepsister who hates my guts.” Maybe they laugh about it before she gives him a blow job from beneath his desk.

  That seems like exactly the kind of thing he would do.

  “He’s in a meeting,” she says, clearly planning to block me. But her eyes give her away, her gaze darting to the frosted-glass doors to her right.

  “Don’t bother buzzing me in,” I tell her, already heading in that direction.

  When I push open the door, I’m confronted by a large conference room with dark wood paneling and leather chairs. There’s only one man inside.

  And it’s not him.

  Where Christopher’s hair is dark, this man’s is a deep gold, as if it’s been turned that way from hours spent in the sun. Instead of eyes black like obsidian, this man has blue eyes that look as bright as the sky on a hot summer day.

  In so many ways they’re opposite, but there’s something about him that’s similar. The strength inherent in their bodies. The hunger for more than what he has. I recognize an ambitious man the way a gazelle lifts her head and senses a tiger nearby.

  This man takes his time examining my body. I shiver a little in the cool office air, goose bumps on my skin. It’s only the air-conditioning that makes my nipples turn hard beneath the cotton T-shirt, at least I think so, but it’s embarrassing either way.

  “May I help you?” he says, and in those four words I hear a deep Southern drawl. While his eyes express acute interest, his tone is considerably more reserved.

  “I’m looking for Christopher Bardot.” My voice comes out strong, which is impressive when you consider the carnal appetite in this man’s eyes would make a siren blush. If I weren’t riding high on righte
ous anger I’d probably stammer and stumble like every other female of the species must do when faced with a man as clearly alpha as this one. Some evolutionary instinct grabs hold of my ovaries and says, this man will hunt and protect and fuck.

  “He’s not in the office at the moment, but if you want to sit down a spell, you can tell me what he’s done to piss you off. Maybe there’s something I can do to help.”

  “Do you have a piñata shaped like him and a bat? That would help.”

  He stares at me for a moment, and I think he’s about to throw me out on the street. That would probably be the right thing to do considering he doesn’t know who I am. Instead he throws his head back and laughs. “I like your spirit, even if I can’t condone your methods. My business partner has many annoying qualities, but even so, I would like him intact.”

  “Your business partner?”

  “Sutton Mayfair,” he says, standing as he introduces himself with old-world manners. There are stacks of papers surrounding him on the glossy conference table. Clearly I’ve interrupted him at work, but he doesn’t look impatient in the least. There’s something deceptively casual about him in his slightly rumpled suit and blond hair an inch too long. The kind of deception that would make his enemies underestimate him.

  “So you must know where I can find him.”

  “You can leave a message at the front desk.”

  “And lose the element of surprise? I’d rather not.”

  A small smile. “I know where he’ll be tonight. There’s some party happening, and we’re supposed to go. I wasn’t looking forward to wearing a penguin suit for the rich and powerful in Tanglewood, but the evening will be a whole lot more interesting if you’re there.”

  My eyes narrow in suspicion. “Why would you help me?”

  “Perhaps I want to see you in an evening dress.”

  I’ve been asked out a hundred times before, but never with the blunt self-assurance that this man conveys. It’s a strange combination of courtesy and outright lust. “Are you taking advantage of the situation, Sutton?”

  His blue eyes dance with humor. “I’m an opportunist, and I think you might be one too.”

  “Fine, I’ll take it.”

  “I’d much rather pick you up. Maybe have dinner first.”

  Have a date with Christopher’s business partner? He would probably have a heart attack at the idea that anyone would treat me as a woman instead of a child. “A gentleman would add my name to the guest list.”

  “Did I give you the impression that I was a gentleman? My apologies.”

  “Now I can see why Christopher went into business with you.”

  He places a hand on his heart, and even a few yards away I can see the roughened skin of him, the calluses and the faint white scars. Those are the hands of a working man, for all that he wears a suit and works in a high-rise now. “Ruthless,” he says.

  “If that means I have my own invitation to the party.” There’s something alluring about Sutton Mayfair. If I met him in New York City, if he asked me out in a bar, I would say yes. But I can’t trust him knowing he’s tied to Christopher Bardot. Not even for one night.

  Really, there’s no end to the things Christopher will ruin for me.

  “On one condition,” he says. “Show me what you’re holding.”

  The paper. I’m wearing my power boots and a T-shirt that says, Feminist AF. Of course he would have noticed my one weakness. It’s the reason I’m here in this office. Here in Tanglewood. The reason I need an invitation to the party tonight.

  Swallowing down my shame, I toss the crumpled ball onto the cherrywood. He picks it up and smooths it out, his large fingers unerringly gentle with the worried bill.

  “Looks like someone didn’t pay this,” he says, one square-tipped finger running down the credit card statement. I have a prickling sensation that tells me he would be able to recite its entire contents despite his good-old-boy demeanor.

  “And that someone will have to answer to me. Tonight.”

  He folds the paper carefully in half, and then half again. When he hands it back, it’s almost completely flat. “Do you need money?”

  “I have money.” Not the ability to spend it—one of life’s ironies.

  He takes a step toward me, and suddenly I’m taking a step back. How did this man go from accommodating to dangerous in one second flat? “Christopher mentioned you.”

  My mouth feels dry. I tell myself I don’t care about what Christopher says, that I don’t care what this man thinks of me. “Did he?”

  “He made you sound about this high. A child.”

  There’s acid in my throat. “Of course.”

  “Now that I see you, I think he was holding out on me.” Those blue eyes look at more than just my body; they look inside me, finding the sensitive places—pressing on them, only a little. Enough to make me gasp when his gaze catches mine.

  “I’m not a child,” I say, which only serves to make me sound like a child.

  “No,” he says, his lips forming the word, almost soundless. “Do you think Christopher is really confused about that? Do you think he sees that mouth and doesn’t imagine all the things he could do to it? Do you think he doesn’t think about you when he comes?”

  My cheeks warm. “How dare you.”

  He gives me a smile that can only be described as indecent. “Maybe he is that blind.”

  I follow his stark blue gaze down to my chest, where my nipples have become hard at the E and the A. Even while my mind denies what this man is saying to me, my body already agrees. Christopher has always treated me like a child, but this man… he knows I’m a woman.

  “There can’t be anything between us. I hate your business partner.”

  “You think that’s a requirement for being my lover? Come to the gala tonight. Make him suffer all you want, as long as you don’t go home with him at the end of the night.”

  Surprise steals my breath, along with an unnerving rush of arousal. It’s pure heat between my legs, the opposite of the ice-cold Christopher leaves me with. Who knew I would find the caveman thing so hot? I blame evolution, an ages-old certainty that this man could protect me from saber-tooth tigers. “You have no right to say that.”

  He gives me a half smile that doesn’t quite dispute my words. Not yet, it seems to say instead. A caveman he might be, but he also has a sense of determined patience. Too bad I’ve had my share of men with ambition. Whether they’re brooding and reserved like Christopher or confident and possessive like this one, they have no place in my world.

  “I’ve heard the strangest rumor,” says the familiar voice over the phone, “that my best friend is in the city. I said there’s no way because she didn’t tell me she was visiting.”

  I stare up at the crystal and gold chandelier that hangs above me, set in a thick crown molding. I’m staying at L’Etoile, a boutique hotel in downtown. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, but it’s complicated.”

  “So it’s about your stepbrother.”

  “You didn’t tell me he moved to Tanglewood.”

  She’s quiet a moment, and I know the accusation came out in my voice too strong. “I wasn’t sure he’d stick around, but Harper… he’s going to be in your life. There’s no escaping that, at least until you turn twenty-five.”

  “And not a second too soon.” I’ve mostly managed to avoid the trust fund altogether, besides the payments to Smith College, which were sent automatically.

  It’s obscene the amount of money sitting in a bank account under my name. It’s only gotten bigger under Christopher’s careful stewardship, his investments making me one of the richest women in the country. The man knows how to turn money into more money, that’s for sure. The Midas touch. I could buy a castle on every continent if I wanted one, but I can’t even write a check to charity.

  The biggest upside to graduating this past spring was never having to touch the trust fund again. Until the credit card bill was an exception to the rule. A time when I had ac
tually needed the trust fund and the ridiculous amount of money inside it.

  Naturally, that means I couldn’t have it.

  “I’m at the Emerald,” she says, referring to the gorgeous old hotel that Gabriel Miller bought her near Smith College while she goes to grad school. “But you can still stay at our place. I can call the security firm to let you in.”

  “Nah, I like L’Etoile. The way they’ve bastardized everything beautiful appeals to me.”

  She laughs softly and then sobers. “How’s your mom?”

  “In remission,” I say, my throat tight.

  “If you need help…” The offer hangs in the air, sharp enough to leave scratch marks on my skin. “You were there for me when my father was sick. Don’t think I’ve forgotten that.”

  “And you didn’t take a cent from me.”

  “Harper.”

  “We’re managing,” I tell her softly, which is mostly true. My paintings are just shocking enough to sell for large sums of money through my Etsy shop, usually sold a few minutes after I post them on my Instagram account. That money has supported me and my mother, but the medical bills are a little too intense for even a bloodthirsty Calypso.

  “Have you talked to Christopher?”

  “Tonight. I have an invitation to the Tanglewood Historical Society’s Annual Gala.”

  She groans. “You’re going to run the gauntlet?”

  “It was the only way I could find him. He wasn’t at his office.” I hesitate, a little uncertain whether I want to ask the next question. There’s something intimate about my encounter there, more intimate than it should seem for talking to a stranger with the conference room door open. “Have you met Sutton Mayfair?”