Crash Into Me

CRASH INTO ME

K.M. SCOTT

What would you give up for
everything?

Tristan
Stone was powerful, commanding, sex incarnate. And he wore it all so well. From
the moment his mesmerizing gaze met mine, I had no choice but surrender to
everything he was. His power. His decadence. His passion. He was all I never
knew I needed.

He
wanted to possess me, and I wanted to be his everything. All I had to do was
accept what he offered. But everything has a price.

The
world he gave me fulfilled my wildest dreams, but would that be enough when the
past crashed into the present?

Crash
Into Me
is a work of fiction.  Names,
characters, places, and events are the products of the author’s imagination. 
Any resemblance to events, locations, or persons, living or dead, is
coincidental. 

2013 Copper Key Media, LLC

Copyright © 2013 Copper Key
Media, LLC

All
rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no
part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a
retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic,
mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written
permission of the copyright owner.

Trademarks:
This book identifies product names and services known to be trademarks,
registered trademarks, or service marks of their respective holders. The author
acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of all products
referenced in this work of fiction. The publication and use of these trademarks
is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

Published in the United States

Cover Design:  Bookin It
Designs

eBook ISBN: 978-0-9891081-4-0

First eBook Edition: August
2013

Adult Content: Contains
graphic sexual content

Chapter One

"You're
going to be late!" Jordan yelled from the kitchen in her usual bellow.

She
didn't have to remind me. As I stood checking out my look in the mirror that
hung on the back of my closet door, I cringed at the idea that people were
going to actually see me in my outfit in just minutes. I looked more like a
waitress than a junior assistant to an art gallery owner. A short black skirt
and white button down blouse? I might as well be serving pasta down the street
at Mama Leone's. Or serving drinks at some gentleman's club. Why my boss
thought this was appropriate for an art gallery was beyond me.

Smoothing
my light brown hair that fell to just below my shoulders, I leaned in close to
the mirror and saw that the tawny eye shadow and the darkest black mascara did
their best to make my blue eyes pop. I stroked a final coat of plum lip gloss
over my lips and put on my best supermodel face.

Too
bad everything below my neck ruined all my hard work.

I
made my way down the hallway, stopping by the kitchen to give my roommate a
look at my getup. She'd seen it before, but some things never got old.

"And
here she is, Miss America," I sang.

Jordan put her glass down on the counter and brought her hands up to her face to cover her
smile. A pretty blonde with knockout green eyes, she was my best friend and the
only person who knew just how much I hated the outfit. "Oh, honey. At
least you make that look good. Good legs make everything look better, and you
have great legs."

"I
think I've heard that," I joked. At least Jordan helped make me hate this
outfit a little less. That is until I got the first sneer from some overly made
up woman dripping with expensive jewelry looking down her plastic surgery
perfect nose at me. Then I'd hate it again.

"I'm
off to work. What are you doing while I'm moving up in the art world?"

"Justin
and I are catching a movie."

"So
you're doing Justin," I teased. She'd begun dating him a while back, but
recently they'd gotten much closer, much to her delight. Jordan saw him as a possible "Mr. Right" and loved that he wanted to move toward more
commitment.

"Don't
hate," she said with a smile. "You'll be late, and then that nasty
boss of yours will be all over you."

"Enjoy.
I'm off to pay my dues again," I joked only slightly as I headed out the
door.

I
walked toward the subway with Jordan's words rattling around in my head,
oblivious to the throngs of people heading out for the night. "Don't
hate." In truth, I didn't hate the idea that she had found someone. I
actually liked Justin. He wasn't an ass like a lot of guys, and he was pretty
tolerant of having a third wheel when Jordan dragged me along with them to save
me from a Friday night in. And he was just her type—tall, dark, and lanky.
While I wasn't as convinced as she was that he was "The One," simply
because I wasn't sure that even existed, I liked that she was happy.

It
gave me hope that as she was always claiming good things did, in fact, happen
to good people.

The
crowd of New York art devotees far less knowledgeable about art than parties
milled about the Anderson Gallery, champagne glasses in hand and noses in the
air as they feigned appreciation for the work of a new artist that odds were
would likely be a has-been by this time next year. The artwork wasn't bad, as
far as modern art went, but I didn't have the time to stand around feeling
unimpressed. As the lowest rung on the gallery's ladder, I was responsible for
ensuring that the patrons were happy, full of alcohol and hors d'oeuvres, and
convinced that the artist's work was the "next big thing," as Sheila
Anderson, my boss and owner of the gallery that bore her name, had made quite
clear in the pre-show meeting just hours before.

Her
hand-picked outfit for me fit oddly, which was exactly the purpose. The black
skirt was far too short and felt more like a big belt in the chilly, air
conditioned room. God, my ass was almost hanging out! And the white,
button-down shirt one size too small? My biggest fear that night was that a
button would pop, fly from my chest, and take someone's eye out. But since my
job was to be a "hostess," as Sheila liked to term my employment as
her personal slave, this was what I had to wear. The only thing that made it
even bearable was that she'd hired two other women to work that night, so at
least I wasn't alone in my outfit of shame.

Four
years of school and a degree in art history and I was handing out cocktail
weenies. But it was a job that paid the bills. Well, barely paid the bills. No
matter. I had bigger plans for my life than this, and I knew I needed to pay my
dues before the good things showed up.

On
nights like this, though, it just felt like I was paying more than anything
else.

A
tall, blonde standing near the floor to ceiling window at the front of the
gallery lifted her glass to alert me she needed a refill, and away I went
scurrying to provide her with the much needed champagne. Unlike most of the
other gallery patrons, she was at least pleasant and gave me a nod of thanks.
Hopefully, Sheila saw that.

In
truth, this wasn't such a bad job. I told myself that all the time, and
sometimes I even believed it. The best part about it was that I got to be
around the art. That made all the awful jobs I was assigned tolerable. When all
the people were gone and it was just me, my broom, and the artwork, I could
honestly say I was happy. I'd stand in front of a sculpture from some unknown
artist and let my eyes drift over the smooth lines and curves of the piece to
imagine what may have been in the artist's heart as he or she lovingly molded
their masterpiece. The Anderson Gallery didn't have work from the big names
like Monet or Rodin, but it had art and that let me convince myself that years
of studying hadn't been for nothing.

A
crowd of people gathered near one of the paintings hung on the far wall. It was
the best piece in the show, so it wasn't surprising, but from the sound of
their voices, it wasn't the painting they were interested in. I moved toward
them, curious for a distraction from standing around with trays all night. The
group was mostly women, each one more beautiful than the next, and I suddenly
felt self-conscious craning my neck to see what they were so intrigued by, as
if I didn't belong. A few blondes, brunettes, and a redhead who all looked like
supermodels and were dressed in names I only knew from magazines circled around
someone, laughing and chattering about things I couldn't understand. Then one
woman moved aside and I saw him.

He
was stunning, even more gorgeous than the women that surrounded him. Over six
feet tall with short dark hair, he wore a dark grey suit and black shirt that
hung as if they were made especially for him, accentuating every well-built
inch of his body. I edged myself closer, drawn to him, and saw his eyes. Deep
chocolate brown, they looked as if they had seen all the things I hadn't in
this world. He was wealth, opulence, and excess.

A
beautiful brunette hung on his arm, an appropriate accessory for such a man,
like fourteen caret gold cufflinks or a stainless steel Rolex. As I stood there
gawking at him, I heard one of the women say his name.

Tristan.

In
that moment, I wanted more than anything for the whole world to fade away until
it was just me and him. I'd heard of love at first sight before and never
believed in it, but as I watched him take up all the empty space in the room, I
was in love.

No,
not love. Lust.

He
glanced over at me, and my cheeks flushed with heat. His gaze fixed on mine,
brown eyes staring at me as if we knew each other intimately. As if he knew the
deepest, darkest parts of me. My brain told me to look away, to break the
connection, but the rest of my body rebelled. I wanted to feel those eyes on
every part of me.

"Nina,
what are you doing? I saw at least three patrons with empty glasses as I
crossed the room. Chop, chop!" Sheila barked in my ear, tearing me out of
my fantasy.

My
boss marched away, and I watched as Tristan and his women moved on to another
painting. Everything was as it should be with everyone in their correct place.
Him with a group of gorgeous women and me with my tray of cocktail weenies. A
few minutes later, I watched him leave, never even knowing his last name or
what his voice sounded like.

As
the show wound down and the sated art lovers made their way to other
fashionable locations in SoHo, I began my post-show duties. Sheila had a look
of pure happiness on her gaunt face as she said goodbye to her other help for
the night, which could mean that she was high or pleased with how the show had
gone. As she was coming my way, I'd know in a minute which it was.

Sheila
was a touchy-feely person, so even before she got to me her hand was reaching
out for my arm. Raking her long, bony fingers down my shirt sleeve, she purred,
"Nina, except for that brief slip with the champagne, I think the show
went off wonderfully." Turning to lock the gallery's front door, she waved
her hand around the room. "You can leave a lot of this mess for tomorrow,
or if you prefer to clean up tonight, you can have Sunday off. Your choice. I
know you'll get it done. You're dependable."

She
didn't bother to wait for my response before she grabbed her black cashmere
wrap and traipsed out the back door. I was nothing if not reliable, so she
didn't have to worry about whether I'd clean or not. By the time she returned
on Monday, her gallery would be spotless.

As
I swept up the last cocktail napkin and put the last champagne glass in the
holder for the caterer, I thought about how my boss saw me. Dependable. God,
that was an awful way to be seen! Garbage bags were dependable. Wrenches were
considered dependable. A good car was dependable.

The
only thing worse would be if she'd called me sturdy.

With
that cheery thought in mind, I turned off the lights, tied up the garbage bag
that shared my dependable nature, and headed toward the back door to drop it
off and go home for the night. One last job and I was Brooklyn bound.

I
threw the trash in the Dumpster behind the building and locked the gallery's
back door. Lost in thought, I heard someone behind me say, "Nice show,
huh?"

The
sound of his deep voice nearly made me jump out of my skin, and I spun around
to see him. The man from earlier. Tristan. He stood leaning against a black
sports car, arms folded across his chest, still dressed in that grey suit and
looking even more incredible than when I'd first seen him. As I stared at him,
drinking in how gorgeous he looked, my brain switched from pure fear back to
normal to ask the obvious question.

Why
is he here?

"Yeah,
it was great. The artist is quite talented," I lied.

"It
was shit and you know it. Nice outfit, though."

Instantly,
I was once again acutely aware of how silly I looked in my waitress getup. His
remark stung, and I snapped back, "It's called working. Now unless I can
help you with something, I have to go. Have a good night."

I
checked the lock on the gallery door and turned to walk away. I hadn't made it
two steps before he quietly said, "I didn't mean anything bad by that. You
look nice."

Was
that sincerity in his voice? I didn't know. I just knew I didn't want to feel
embarrassed by my work anymore that night.

Turning
around, I tried to get a feel for this guy, but he just stood there staring at
me like I was the most important person in the world at that moment.
"Thanks."

"What
do you say we go for a ride?"

"A
ride?" I was confused, but I probably should have been afraid. I was
standing in a back alley with a strange man, no matter how incredibly sexy he
was, and there wasn't anyone nearby. How the hell was it possible that in a
city of eight million Tristan and I were the only two there at that moment?

"A
ride," he repeated in a slow, silky voice that made my stomach flip.
"At least I can give you a ride home."

"You
don't even know my name."

He
stepped away from the car and in two strides was in front of me just inches
away. Looking down at me, he smiled. "You're Nina Edwards, you work at
this gallery, and unless I'm mistaken, you don't live anywhere near here."

As
much as I wished he wasn't right, he was. Sunset Park, Brooklyn was miles away.
However, that didn't mean I should forget everything I'd been taught all my
life, even if he was the hottest man I'd ever spoken to. And even if this was
one of my fantasies come true.

"I
don't even know your name," I lied again.

A
slow smile spread across his perfect mouth. "My apologies. I'm Tristan
Stone and I'd like it if you'd let me take you home."

He
extended his hand and I shook it, noticing how powerful it felt as it enveloped
mine. His very expensive suit coat sleeve rode up just enough to show his
Rolex, and I smiled at the fact that I'd called it correctly earlier. He
probably had gold cufflinks just under those sleeves too. But where was the
brunette?

As
my mind raced with these ideas, I realized he knew my name. "How do you
know my name? We've never met."

Placing
his hand on my lower back, he guided me to the passenger side of his car. His
touch was light, yet it was thrilling, making my head spin. As he opened the
door, he stepped aside and let me sit down before he leaned in close and said,
"I asked."

I
watched him walk in front of the car while I enjoyed the lingering scent of his
delicious cologne, and as he passed through the headlights, I noticed now that
he wasn't flirting with me that he seemed to be frowning. He must have sensed I
was looking at him because when he stopped and turned to face me, the smile
reappeared, almost on cue.