Crash Into Me (4 page)

"Oh,
that's so tragic and romantic! It's like that Julie Roberts movie where she's
like Cinderella. What's that movie?"

"Holy
shit, Jordan! Pretty Woman? I'm not some poor prostitute in fuck-me
boots!"

She
waved my protests off and walked toward the kitchen with her glass to refill
her drink. "You know what I mean. Two people from two different worlds.
It's so romantic."

"Like
Romeo and Juliet," I yelled toward her.

She
peeked her head out of the kitchen doorway. "Now who's being scary? Romeo
and Juliet? You do remember from high school that they both die at the end,
right?"

Nodding,
I chuckled. "Yeah. This is no more like Pretty Woman than Romeo and
Juliet. Whatever it was, it isn't anymore."

I
ran my fingers over Page Six in the seat next to me. Before Jordan returned, I quickly pulled the newspaper out and stuffed the folded page into my shorts.
"I need to get going. Can't spend all Sunday lying around."

Jordan smiled another sympathetic smile as I walked past her. "Okay. Hey, Justin and I
are going to be hanging out at The Last Drop Tuesday night. Want to come?"

My
spidey senses told me this was a setup. A dating setup in the making. "You
and Justin and your third wheel? Or will there be a fourth?"

Her
look turned sheepish. "I think you might like him, Nina. Alex is pretty
good looking, has a good job, and he doesn't seem like a loser."

"A
ringing endorsement if I ever heard one," I joked and continued walking.
"I'll think about it."

"At
least it'll be a night out. We'll have a few drinks, shoot some pool, and maybe
have a few laughs," she yelled as I closed my bedroom door behind me.

I
sat down on my bed and opened my laptop, content to spend my afternoon looking
up information on Tristan. While my computer turned on, I examined the picture
of him with his girl du jour at some gala. His face was expressionless and he
seemed more like a statue of himself than the real thing. The woman, however,
looked like she was thrilled to be there with him, clinging to his arm and
smiling a huge, toothy grin for the camera.

Raising
the picture to look at it more closely, I studied it for any sign of the person
who'd smiled and laughed as he'd driven to the middle of nowhere the night
before. He didn't seem to exist in this person.

Setting
the paper aside, I typed my first words into the search bar. "Tristan
Stone." I figured I might as well start with the obvious and go from
there. It didn't take long to see that Jordan had been right. The pictures I
saw showed him with a different woman every time, but he was the same cold
figure in each one. The soulful brown eyes that had looked at me were nowhere
to be found. Neither was the genuine smile that he'd so freely given, even if
it had seemed like he was laughing at me more times than not.

Once
I'd looked at enough pictures of him to truly make me feel like a stalker, I
began reading and found out the real details on him. He'd inherited his
father's luxury hotels along with other businesses that included an internet
startup company and some company that had to do with real estate.

I
sat transfixed on the words as they stared back at me from the screen. Tristan,
the man who'd come to find me just for company, was a millionaire many times
over. Maybe even a billionaire. The car was his. The Rolex was his. He was the
kind of man women dreamed of, and he'd wanted to spend time with me.

And
now I would never see him again.

Closing
my laptop, I flopped back on the bed and groaned. I needed to stop thinking
about Tristan right now. He was something unattainable, and I needed to accept
that. It didn't matter that he had looked happier in the short time with me
than he ever looked with all those women at all those fancy parties. None of
that meant anything because of the simple fact that even if he'd been happy,
he'd made no effort to get my number, kiss me goodnight, or even find out much
about me.

I
covered my eyes with my arm and tried to push all thoughts of him out of my
mind. If I kept this up, I'd end up becoming obsessed over a situation that was
doomed never to be. He was where he belonged and I was where I belonged.

Life
was as it should be, no matter how disappointing that fact was.

Chapter Three

Tuesday
night came, and I chose to accept Jordan's offer to hang out with her, Justin,
and Alex at the bar. Monday's work at the gallery had made it difficult to stop
thinking about Tristan, but I had done my best to talk myself out of my
infatuation. In truth, I probably hadn't really succeeded, but the human mind
is an interesting mechanism and very susceptible to delusion. Regardless of
whether I was lying to myself or not, I headed out to The Last Drop and
promised myself I'd keep an open mind about Alex.

The
Last Drop was the one place in Sunset Park that could be picked up and dropped
back in my home town in Pennsylvania. It was just a bar, what was traditionally
called a "hole-in-the-wall" back home, with a couple pool tables,
some dart boards, and a back room with booths and another pool table. Jordan
and I had found it soon after moving into our place, and Tuesday night had
become our night out each week. It wasn't much, but it was fun.

She'd
told me everything she knew about Alex as we waited for him and Justin, and
when I say everything, I mean everything. She must have compiled some kind of
dossier on him because she knew his height, weight, where he went to school,
what he did for a living, how much money he earned, in addition to dozens of
other details I probably could have done without. I mean, should a woman really
know about a potential boyfriend's favorite sexual position—cowgirl—before she
even meets the guy?

As
I hadn't heard anything to necessarily turn me off, I figured staying wouldn't
do any harm. Worst came to worst, at least I'd occupy my mind with some
friends, a few beers, and a few games of pool while I crossed another male off
my list of potential boyfriends.

"Nina,
I hope you like him," Jordan said as she leaned across the table to talk
over the blaring of the music from the jukebox. "We could all go out if
you do."

I
nodded and smiled my agreement. By the time the song had ended, Justin and Alex
had arrived and I got my first good look at the man Jordan had chosen for me.
Tall, with dirty blond hair and blue eyes, he was certainly attractive. My suspicious
mind immediately went to the question of why he'd be single, but I told myself
to give this a chance. I was single and there wasn't anything profoundly wrong
with me.

"Hi,
Nina. I'm Alex. Nice to meet you."

Good
masculine voice, nice looks, seemed intelligent. Maybe Jordan hadn't been wrong.

A
few beers and two games of pool later, I had impressed him with the few things
that made me stand out amongst the millions of women in New York—my
down-to-earth way and ability to shoot a mean game of pool. Why this was so
intriguing to men had always baffled me, but I'd learned over the years to make
it an asset. I wasn't supermodel gorgeous and I wasn't heiress rich, but I
could wield a stick like nobody's business and oddly enough, it was one of the
few games men didn't seem to mind losing at.

Crouching
down to collect the balls for another game, I looked up to see Jordan's eyes grow as wide as saucers as she looked my way. I hadn't had too much to drink
yet, so I figured she wasn't giving me the "Holy Fuck!" look because
of something I'd said. Standing up, I gathered all the balls into the wooden
rack and positioned the top ball on the break spot. I looked up to see if Alex
was ready and saw Jordan still with the wide eyes and pointing slyly in my
direction, urging me to look.

I
turned around and there was Tristan standing behind me near the entrance of the
bar and sticking out like a sore thumb in a suit and tie. Tristan looked around
as if he'd never seen the inside of a bar, his expression a mix of curiosity
and focus. I watched as he scanned the bar area and then turned his attention
toward the back room where I stood stunned to see him.

His
gaze met my surprised stare and he smiled that same smile he'd given me nights
before as I'd tried to get him to give me a straight answer. Jordan said something behind me about pool or something, but the sound of my heartbeat pounding in
my ears drowned much of it out. I stood as if my feet were nailed to the ground
and unable to move as I watched him walk toward me in a way that made him look
like he was gliding across the floor.  

By
the time he reached me, I had forgotten there were even other people in the
room. He was that mesmerizing.

"Nina."

True
to form, he said little but his eyes spoke volumes. As I struggled to form a
coherent sentence in my mind, I looked into those gorgeous brown eyes of his
and saw a flicker of apprehension. Everything else about him appeared calm and
confident, but his eyes hinted at some kind of fear.

Was
he afraid I wouldn't talk to him? Why?

"Tristan.
What are you doing here?"

"I'm
here to see you."

I
couldn't help but chuckle. "I figured that. I can't imagine you're
acquainted with anyone else in this bar."

His
gaze never wavered from me, and he asked quietly, "Can we talk somewhere?"

He
wanted to talk more. Okay. Smiling, I found the ability to move my legs again
and guided him toward one of the wooden booths on the far side of the room. We
sat down across from one another, and I realized I hadn't even said anything to
Jordan or Alex. No matter. She'd understand, and I'd apologize to her later.

"How
did you know I'd be here?"

He
settled his gaze on me. "Do you come here a lot?"

"Every
Tuesday. But that doesn't answer the question of how you knew I'd be
here."

"There's
a billiards tournament in Las Vegas every year that I sometimes play in. You
should come with me next time. It's late summer. We could make a week of
it."

With
every word he spoke, I grew more confused. Why was he talking like we were a
couple? Now we were taking trips together? Shouldn't we at least have dinner
first? Or maybe sex? God, just the thought of it made me squeeze my thighs
together in sweet agony.

"Tristan,
what do you want?"

"You."

My
stomach dropped and a rush of excitement hit me between my legs. He wanted me.

"You
want me for...?"

"You
were an art major in college. You'd know a lot about what pieces I should buy,
wouldn't you?"

My
excitement fizzled back to confusion. "Yes, I majored in art history. I
minored in painting. What do you want me for that has to do with that?"

"Why
don't you come for a walk with me?" he asked, more as a command than a
question as he stood from the booth.

My
curiosity was piqued, even if my ego was dinged. I would have likely said yes
to anything he asked, so I walked over to where Jordan was standing and quickly
whispered, "I'll be back. He wants to go for a walk."

Pulling
me aside, she leaned in and asked, "Is everything okay? What does he
want?"

"I
don't know. I'm thinking maybe he wants someone to help him pick out paintings,
maybe for his office or something. Maybe for that house he's buying. I don't
know. I have my phone on me, so if anything goes wrong, I'll call."

Jordan hugged me and in my ear whispered, "Be careful. Remember, wealthy people hire
people to do their work. I doubt he's here for a decorator."

"I
will. And don't worry. I'll tell you all the details when I get home," I
teased.

Squeezing
my arm as I moved away from her, she said, "You better!"

Jordan
and I were breaking the best friend code's first rule: Never let your friend
leave with a strange man. He wasn't a strange man, per se, but she couldn't
have stopped me even if she thought he was. With each step I took toward
Tristan, an excitement began building in me. I hoped he wanted me like I wanted
him, but if all he wanted was someone to help him pick out art, maybe he'd pay
me enough so I could begin to build up my savings. Whatever it was, at least
I'd be spending time doing something with art.

The
night air was unseasonably chilly for May, so my little sundress and sweater
weren't going to do much to keep me warm. I hadn't planned on walking very far
that night, so my shoes weren't really right for what he wanted to do either.

Tristan
remained his quiet self as we made our way one block and then two away from the
bar. Unable to contain my curiosity, I asked, "What did you want to talk
about?"

Glancing
at me, he said, "You."

"That's
the second time tonight you've answered that way. What about me?"

"What
made you decide to live in this section of Brooklyn after college?"

I
stopped dead and stared at the back of him as he continued walking. After a few
steps more, he noticed I wasn't next to him any longer and stopped to turn
around. "Nina?"

"How
do you know so much about me, Tristan?"

"I
asked."

"Asked
who?"

He
closed the space between us and stood no more than six inches from me. That
gentle smile spread across his lips again. "People who'd know. I like to
know about the people I surround myself with."

"What
are you talking about? Do I have to ask you to do the straight answer thing
again?"

He
cocked one eyebrow and then finally said, "You make me smile, Nina. I
can't say that about most people."

"That's
nice. It's not a straight answer, though."

His
hand clasped mine, sending a jolt of electricity straight up my arm.
"Let's keep walking so you don't get cold. Your place is near here, isn't
it?"

I
felt like I was dealing with a madman. It was like we were having two different
conversations, neither of which was very satisfying. And now he was holding my
hand and appeared to be directing me back to my apartment—a place he'd only
been once. I didn't know whether to be flattered he had made the effort to find
out about me and remembered where I lived or concerned that he was some kind of
scary stalker.

The
fact that I had done a little of my own stalking of him didn't escape me
either. We made one interesting couple.

"Tristan,
please just tell me what you want. I know you're probably used to women who
love this mysterious Bruce Wayne-Batman behavior, but I'm just an ordinary soul
who likes straight answers."

"Why
do you always think you're so ordinary?"

I
yanked my hand from his and shook my head. "No more! You show up out of
nowhere in the alley behind the gallery, force me to go for a ride, and now you
show up at a bar I hang out at. Are you some kind of scary stalker guy or do I
owe your company for some kind of bill and you're here to collect? Either way,
you're driving me crazy!"

I
hadn't meant to sound so emotional, but there it was. The truth. I barely knew
this person and already he drove me nuts.

Instead
of looking surprised like I thought he would, he just smiled. Not that it
wasn't a gorgeous smile, but something about it just sent me over the edge. I
stalked away toward home, frustrated enough not to care whether he liked it or
not.

I
heard his footsteps behind me as he walked quickly to catch up with me. It felt
good knowing he wanted to talk to me, even if all he said sounded like damn
riddles!

"Nina,
I'm sorry. Stop and let me talk for a minute."

Spinning
around, I was nearly knocked over as he took a step right into me. His much
larger and muscular body crashed into mine, and I went tumbling backwards.
Thankfully, he caught me before I landed on my ass.

There
I was, in his strong arms, staring up into those dark eyes as he gazed down at
me. "You want to talk? All you say are one syllable words and sentences
that make no sense. I'd love it if you'd talk, but you don't."

"I'm
not usually much of a talker, but you seem to want to hear what I have to say,
so let's talk."

He
released me and I stood up, smoothing my dress over my thighs. "About
what?" I didn't mean to sound so exasperated, but the man had a way of
bringing that out in me.

"Art."

More
one syllable words. If it wasn't no or yes, it was art with this guy.
"Art? What about it?"

"Why
do you work at that gallery if you went to school for art history?"

Talking
about work wasn't talking about art. Deflated, my shoulders sagged under the
disappointment that he seemed once again interested in hearing about my job as
personal gopher to Sheila Anderson.

"Because
even though I possess more knowledge about the art world in my little pinky
finger than my boss does in her entire body, I also only possess a bachelor's
degree in art history. To be a curator or someone who deals with exhibitions,
you have to have experience in the gallery world, which is what my slave labor
job is."

"It's
too bad you don't know anyone who owns their own art gallery."

Blowing
the hair off my face, I said in frustration, "Yes, it is."

We
stood there at that odd point in the conversation looking at each other like
neither one of us had understood the other one's language. To be honest, I was
beginning to think he was from some other planet by the way he behaved, but
since he hadn't grown tentacles or extra heads and was getting more gorgeous by
the minute, I still liked him, as bizarre as that seemed to someone like me who
prided herself on good judgment.

"You
could work at one of mine."

And
with those seven words my spirits were buoyed once again.

"You
have more than one art gallery?" I asked in stunned amazement, jumping
over the obvious first question about him having even one art gallery.

"In
some of my hotels. The one here in the city might work, wouldn't it?"

He
was sounding decidedly clear, which made me think I must have slipped into some
dream dimension or lost my mind. "You have an art gallery in one of your
hotels in New York and you want me to work at it? As what?"