Enticed (Dark Passions) (3 page)

    
Sarah let out a raucous laugh. “ ‘Couging?’ Nice. We should use that in the
Sliver Vodka ad.”

    
I smirked at her. “Yeah, nice and subtle. The 40 something single women it’s
targeted at will be sure to love that approach.”

    
Running a hand through her thick brown curls, Sarah fluttered her eyelashes at
me and whispered in a husky voice, “And by the way, it’s ‘baby cougar.’ I’m
only 30,” then hissed at me and made a little clawing motion with her hand.

    
“Oh my god, you kill me,” I said, shaking my head. Just then I heard the phone
ringing in my office, and my shoulders tensed.

    
Sarah shook her head and said, “You better get that. It’s been ringing off the
hook all morning.”

    
I sighed deeply, smoothed down my skirt, and strode towards the phone. I looked
at the caller id, but it said private. “Ms. Winters speaking, how can I help
you?”

    
“Mel.” At the sound of his voice, I got a queasy feeling in my gut, followed by
a surge of anger.

    
“Steven, you have to stop calling me. It’s over.” I heard him sighing on the
other end.

    
“I still don’t understand why,” he said. “We’re perfect for each other. We both
want the same things.”

    
I shook my head and started furiously rubbing my forehead. “Like what, Steven?”

    
“You need stability, Mel. I can give that to you. I know deep down, you still
have that wild streak in you, but I can help you tame that.”

    
I let out a long, hysterical laugh, so long and loud that Sarah actually peeked
her head inside my office to see if I was alright. I gave her a pained look;
she nodded in understanding, and pulled close my door.

    
“So excitement.

    
I heard a long, frustrated sigh on the other end of the line. “I’ve invested
two years into our relationship, Mel, and I’m not will to just give up on
that.”

    
I let out another short laugh. “
Invested
? Right, you see me as a form of
investment. Kind of like a business transaction. We’ll let me put it in terms
you might understand. You invested in the wrong stock, sweetheart. And your
capital gains rate just plummeted hard core. Pull. Out. Now. Before you lose
your dignity and self-respect along with the rest of it.”

    
I swear I could hear him gritting his teeth on the other end of the line.
Finally he said, every syllable laced with anger, “You’re not the woman I
thought you were, Mel. I’ve given you several chances to see some sense, but
you’re obviously too thick to see what’s good for you. Good bye, Mel. Take good
care.”

    
I felt all of the tension suddenly release from my shoulders. “You take good
care too, Steven,” I said. After I hung up the phone, I sagged into my chair
and breathed a sigh of relief. Then, almost instantly, I felt light and giddy,
and I was tempted to get up and do a little happy dance right there in my
office.

     
The rest of the morning was business as usual. I started working on slogans for
a luxury car ad campaign, and Jen came up with several alternative ad copies
for the Sliver Vodka account. Just before lunch, I was looking over her work
when my cell phone rang. I looked at the caller id, and once again the number
was private. I felt a moment of dread, thinking Steven might have gotten hold
of my new cell phone number, but then I got over it and answered the phone.

    
“Hello, Ms. Winters,” said the husky voice on the other end of the line. My
stomach did a flip of joy, and I felt that same slow, sultry thrill rush up my
spine. Just his voice alone made me melt and my whole body quiver with
pleasure.

    
“Well, if it isn’t the eagle-eyed real estate mogul,” I said, pleased with
myself for maintaining such a smooth voice when my insides had turned to jelly.
“To what do I owe the pleasure?”

    
I heard him chuckle softly on the other end of the line. “Well don’t you sound
confident and authoritative today. I must have the wrong number. I was looking
for the woman who nearly bolted out of the bar the moment I made eye contact
with her.”

    
I felt myself bristle slightly at his teasing tone. So he was poking fun at me.
Well, two could play that game. “I only tried to bolt because you’re hideous to
look at. A veritable eyesore, really. Your voice, on the other hand, is much
more bearable.”

    
I heard him chuckle again, this time loudly. “I thought you mistook me for a
male supermodel. Must have been the Old Cubans talking.” There was a short
pause. “In any event, I’m calling ‘cause I want to see you again.”

    
For a moment my breath caught in my throat, and I couldn’t speak. Then I
regained my composure and said, softly, “I want to see you too.”

    
I could hear him smiling over the line. “I’m glad. My gallery, Gibson’s Fine
Art, is on Mercer Street. In Soho. I’d like to take you there. I think I have
exactly the kind of photograph you’re looking for. Are you free tonight?”

  
  Once again my pulse quickened and heat flushed through my body. “Absolutely,”
I said, suddenly feeling giddy again. I couldn’t believe the affect this man
had on me. Just his voice alone made me so aroused. Just imagining what he
could do with those sensuous lips and strong hands was enough to drive me
completely cra excitement.

    
I quickly checked my schedule and measured the pile of work on my desk. “I
should be able to get out of here early today. Say, by 6pm”

    
“Great. See you at the gallery at 7pm. And please do wear those stilettos.
Those shoes and your fabulous legs have been invading my dreams all weekend.”

    
And with that, he hung up, leaving me literally panting on the other end of the
line.

***

    
Coming up the stairs from the subway onto Canal street, I was hit with an
invigorating blast of crisp fall air. Only 6:45pm, and it was already dusk. This
was my favorite ritual: after finishing the day’s work, strolling along the
vibrant streets of Manhattan, and falling in love all over again with the magic
of this incredible city.  I pulled up the collar of my black trench coat and trudged
west toward Mercer Street. Street hawkers were still selling their wares, and
my eye caught on a knock off of a gold Chanel handbag. As I passed a vendor, I
heard the sizzle of grease and smelled the pungent odor of sauerkraut and
Italian sausage. All around me was the clicking of heels on the sidewalk, the
honks of cars, flashing break lights, endless exuberant chatter, and the clank
and rattle of metal as the cheap aluminum doors of the store fronts came down,
signaling the end of the business day.

     
Mercer Street itself was quieter, a narrow one way street with the old-world
charm of cobblestone and a mix of cast-iron buildings and classical French architecture.
As I neared Gibson’s Fine Art gallery, my stomach clenched in nervous
anticipation, and my heart started slamming against my ribcage. I wasn’t going
to lie to myself. I couldn’t wait to see this man again. He had a potency and
magnetism like no other, and he practically oozed a dark sensuality that
stirred to life a part of me I’d been keeping caged for far too long. I slowed
my steps as I recognized from the website two imposing glass doors, flanked by
floor to ceiling windows. The interior was airy, with high ceilings, pale wood
floors, and bright lighting. Peering in, I noticed that the gallery was empty.

    
I looked at my watch. Five to seven. I was early. I took a deep breath, and
tightened my mauve silk scarf as a brisk breeze ruffled my hair. At the sound
of approaching footsteps, I turned around. And there he was. Dressed in a teak
Armani suit that emphasized his broad strong shoulders and was tailored to show
off the perfect V of his chest and abs. I watched, transfixed, holding my breath,
as his perfect, powerful frame moved gracefully toward me, his pale gold silk
tie gleaming in the last rays of the sun. I felt my lip start to tremble, and
my knees weaken. I had to place a hand on the door of the gallery to steady
myself. As he neared, I took a deep breath and tried to steel myself against the
impact he had on me. I beamed at him and looked directly into those glorious
green eyes. He grinned in response, and his eyes flashed with pleasure.

    
“Where’s the motorcycle jacket?” I asked, placing one hand on my hip and
smirking at him.  

    
He shrugged and said “Monday is formal day,” and let his eyes trail down to my
feet. “Where are the stilettos?” He frowned slightly, and shook his head. “I
was so looking forward to seeing you in those fire-engine red stilettos,” he
added softly.

    
I looked at him in mock horror and said “Stilettos on cobblestones? Are you
trying to kill me?”

    
He smiled and said “Parisian women do it every day.” Then, moving his face so
his lips were just inches from mine and I could feel his hot breath against my
skin, he added “And you should get lots of practice. I plan on taking you to
Paris very soon.” Then he brushed his lips gently across mine, and gave me a
scorching hot look. I felt my sex tighten and ache for him; I was ready to
surrender to him right then and there, outside of the gallery, but he pulled
back and grabbed my hand. “Come on,” he said. “I want to show you something.”

***

    
The moment we entered the gallery, my eyes fixed on a Dan Colen that I’d been
dying to get my hands on for years. “That collage,” I said, my voice full of
excitement, “It’s from Colen’s ‘Blowing in the Wind’ series.”

    
Bradley peered down at me with a curious look. “You know Dan Colen’s work?”

    
Taking off my trench coat and slipping it onto a chair, I said, “I not only
know it, I love it! And that piece is incredible. I love its vibrancy. It’s
just dripping with energy and color. With life, you know? It just puts me in
such a good mood.” I started peering excitedly at everything around me, my eyes
wanting to be everywhere at once. “And that Chuck Close self-portrait is also
awesome. I love how he represented his head as a beehive, a place of wild
activity.”

    
Bradley chuckled. “You seem to know a lot about art,” he said, his expression
full of curiosity and interest.

    
I tore my eyes away from the canvases to look up at him, and smiled brightly.
“I have my master’s in art history,” I said.

    
His eyes twinkling, he studied me for a moment. “I would have taken you for
corporate,” he said.

    
I made a face at him, then smiled sheepishly. “Actually, I’m a senior
copywriter now.”

    
His eyes flashed, and he nodded his head slowly. “So you gave up your passion
for stability.”

    
My gut twisted uncomfortably. I looked down at my Jimmy Choo pumps for a
moment, and then met his eye. “We all have to grown up sometime.”

    
His eyes darkened and his face clouded over. “Growing up and giving up your
dreams are two different things, Melanie.”

 
   I could feel my cheeks flush with humiliation, and I looked away. He gently
grabbed me by the chin and tilted my face up toward him. “It was a man, wasn’t
it,” he said, a trace of anger in his tone.

    
Frowning, I bit my lip, and then shook my head. “No, it wasn’t. I mean, yes, I
picked someone who wanted a conventional life, but it’s not like he forced me
to do anything. I just…well, my mom, Stella Winters….she’s such a talented
artist…and so full of life, just pulsing with this wild energy. But she hurt
me. She hurt my dad.”

    
I felt myself stiffen, and my eyes well up with tears. Bradley pulled out a
monogrammed handkerchief, handed it to me, and used his thumb to gently wipe
away a tear from the corner of my eye. My chest heaved in a sob, and the rest
just came spilling out. “She left when I was seven. For a year. She just took
off. She told my dad she felt too tied down. She needed her freedom. My dad
tried to tell me there was some emergency, she would never leave otherwise, but
I knew he was lying. I overheard their fights.”