Escorted (28 page)

Their food
arrived, which was a relief to Lori. She planned to gobble down her pasta and
get them out of there as soon as she could. The food was delicious but she
wasn’t very hungry, so swallowing each bite was a challenge.

When she saw Ander’s
shoulders stiffen, she knew something was going to happen. A slight turn of her
head revealed what.

Peter’s
companion must have gone to the restroom as they got up to leave. And Peter
himself, elegant and sophisticated in a pale gray suit, was even now
approaching their table.

Lori’s mouth
fell open in pained shock. Her pulse pounded frantically in her chest, her head
and her fingertips. Peter Milton had disowned his own son. Surely he wasn't now
going to make a scene by twisting the knife in the wound.

Ander stood up,
clearly so that his father couldn’t look down on him.

Peter’s lips
curled up in an arrogant, satisfied smiled. “Ander,” he said, “Working, I see.”
His cold hazel eyes cut over to Lori, dismissed her with no more than a flicker
of his eyelashes. “I’ll admit to being surprised by the altered nature of your
clientele. I’d understood you drew clients from the highest ranks of taste,
intelligence, and social standing.”

Lori blinked in
surprise. She would have assumed that Peter’s first verbal thrust would be a
deep one, an attempt to strike Ander where he was most vulnerable. Instead,
he’d insulted
her
, which—while annoying—wouldn't result in lasting
damage.

She couldn’t
believe a man as practiced in business and political strategy as Peter would
have misfired. But she didn’t at all understand his aim.

Evidently, the
blow hit home. Ander’s spine stiffened and his lips went momentarily white.
“Did you have a purpose for coming to speak to me?”

“You aren’t going
to introduce me to your
companion
?” Peter emphasized the last word,
making it sound somehow dirty and demeaning.

“No,” Ander
said, his voice as smoothly venomous as his father’s. “And I'm sure you'll
understand, since obviously you felt compelled to hide yours. Not surprising,
considering.”

It must have
been a shot in the dark—unless Ander knew something about Peter’s date that
evening—but it worked. For the first time, a flash of cold anger flashed across
Peter’s craggy face.

Lori should
have known to expect Peter to parry unmercifully, without hesitation or a sense
of fair play. He turned away from Ander with cruel indifference and held out a
hand to Lori. “Peter Milton,” he murmured, “Have you been Ander’s client for
long? He was always the kind of boy who liked to play make-believe. I always
hoped he’d grow up to be a man. But alas...”

His
superficially mild tone cracked through Lori like a whip. His words physically
hurt her—mostly because she knew they deeply they would pierce the tender,
sensitive core of Ander’s nature.

Responding
automatically, without any thought to wisdom or strategy, she reached up and
took Peter’s hand. It was cool and dry. Not anything like Ander’s always warm
clasp.

She used the
leverage his hand offered her to pull herself up to her feet. With a bright
smile and intentional innocence, she said, “I’ve never heard anyone use ‘alas’
in casual conversation before.”

Lori had held
onto her wine as she stood. As she stepped forward, she tilted the glass.

Slopped a
nearly full glass full of red wine all over the front of Peter’s cool, pale
suit.

*
* *

Lori knew the wine thing was petty
and a little childish, but she greatly enjoyed it, and it accomplished what she
needed.

Peter was
clearly startled and perturbed by the deluge of dark red wine. He didn’t linger
among the amused onlookers, and he made no more verbal assaults on his son.

Once Peter left
the restaurant, Ander and Lori could return to their meals. Ander was still
tense, still pulsing with leashed angst, but he no longer appeared on the verge
of implosion.

They left the
restaurant twenty minutes later. Lori felt shaky and emotional, and she
silently fell in step with Ander. She had no idea where they were going, but Ander
started walking, clearly absorbed in his own thoughts.

They walked
several blocks until he came to a stop in front of a historic stone building
with clean lines and large windows.

He blinked as
his stared at an unmarked door that clearly led upstairs. “What am I doing
here?” he muttered, as if he had just become aware of his surroundings.

“I don’t know,”
Lori said, feeling nervous and confused. “You were just walking so I walked
with you. Is this your place?”

“Yeah.” Ander
cleared his throat and gave his head a little shake. “Sorry. I was out of it.
We were going back to the hotel, weren’t we?”

Lori reached
out to take his arm in concern. He looked shaken, exhausted, and more battered
than she’d ever seen him. She had no idea the kind of emotional turmoil he’d
suffered this evening, but the feeling she sensed from him was wrenching.

Ander was
hiding it well, but he looked traumatized. And Lori would be damned if she made
it any worse.

“Ander, why
don’t you just go home? We don’t need to go back to the hotel tonight.”

Rubbing his
eyes, Ander made another obvious effort to pull himself together. He glanced at
his watch. “It’s just ten.”

“I don’t care.
Really. I know that wasn’t any fun for you.” She used understatement on
purpose, intuitively knowing he would be uncomfortable if she made a big deal
about what had happened. “You look tired. Go on up. I’ll get a cab home.”

Ander shook his
head. “No. I’m fine.”

“I mean it,” Lori
insisted. “I’d feel like a heartless monster if I made you fuck me tonight.”

“You don’t make
me—”

“You know what
I mean. I want...I want to
help
you.”

He stared at an
empty spot in the air, his breathing fast and uneven. He looked like he was
shuddering again, just under the surface of his composure, and the tension was
so brutal she feared he would shatter.

“Ander?” she
asked softly, stroking her hand up to cup his face. “Are you all right?”

For a moment,
he seemed to lean into her palm. Then he jerked his head away. He still hadn’t
met her eyes. “I’m fine.”

Lori’s growing
concern intensified until a lump formed in her throat. Ander was on the verge
of breaking, and she had no idea what she could do to help. A wave of aching tenderness
overwhelmed her. She wished she could cradle him. Hold him in her arms.

“I don’t think
you are.” Her voice cracked on the last word. “Ander, what can I do? What do
you need?”

“I’m fine.” She
noticed his hands had started to shake. But then he clenched them into fists at
his sides.

“You’re not,”
she choked, “You’re not! Tell me the truth. Tell me what you want. Do you want
to be alone? Do you want me to hang out with you for a while? We can go to the
hotel. Or somewhere else. Anything, Ander. Just tell me what you want.”

Her hoarse,
impassioned entreaties must have finally gotten through to him. At last, he
looked up at her slowly, as if his eyes were too heavy to lift. A muscle
flickered in his temple and his lips were dead white. “I want ...” He cleared
his throat, but his words were still thick and reluctant. “Stay with me
tonight.”

***

They went up to Ander’s loft
apartment.

Lori had never
expected him to take her home with him. Obviously, his apartment was his
private sanctum with boundaries clients were never allowed to cross.

But he wanted
her company tonight. Without speaking, he just unlocked the street-front door
and ascended the stairs to his loft. So Lori went with him.

His apartment
wasn’t anything like she imagined. It wasn’t sleek and cool, with minimalist
contemporary furnishings, abstract modern art, and hard edges. The loft was
wide-open and well-lit, with high ceilings, huge windows, exposed ductwork, and
aged wood floors. He’d furnished it with fine old pieces that looked to be
antique. But they weren’t delicate, curlicued and ornate. The lines of the
tables, chairs, and chests were strong and solid, with stark silhouettes and
history embedded in every detail. He had Asian rugs on the floor, oil paintings
on the walls, and books piled everywhere.

Lori loved it
immediately. She realized the place looked more like Ander—the real Ander and
not the slick image he maintained—than her original expectations.

She was too
upset and worried about him to indulge her natural curiosity and peer into
every corner. She stood in the middle of the floor and waited as he pulled a
bottle of Merlot from his full wine rack, opened it, and poured out two
glasses.

He carried the
wine over the low sofa and he gestured for her to sit down. Then he set the
glasses and bottle on the coffee table and went over to turn on some classical
music.

They both sat
and sipped their wine in silence.  Lori had no idea what to say, no idea what
to do. She wanted so much to help and comfort Ander, but she felt powerless,
incapable, so young.

He sat and
brooded, finishing two glasses of wine and starting on the third before he
shifted his eyes to rest on her face.

Lori swallowed.
“Is there anything I can do?” she asked, a little threadily.

He shook his
head slightly and just stared. “I’m sorry you had to see that. With my father.”

The lump that
had been lodged in her throat since down on the sidewalk threatened to strangle
her at the sight of his pained acquiescence, at his bone-deep belief that he
wasn't worth caring about. “I don’t care about me,” she said, leaning toward
him in her urgency. Her face twisted as she tried to control her emotions. “Ander,
are
you
all right? Do you want to talk about it?”

“No.” Then he
softened the curt word and shuttered expression with a hoarse, “Thank you.”

“Okay.”

She had no idea
what to do. She wanted to pull him into her arms, comfort him with her body, but
she feared he would jerk away from her touch. His defenses were high, and she
was just his client. Nothing in their relationship gave her the privilege of
consoling him in that way.

So she just sat
in silence and let the rich wine slide down her throat, the piano concerto waft
over them.

After several
long minutes, Ander bit out, “I hate him.” He was staring at the floor now,
obviously seeing his father’s face.

“I know. You
have every reason to. I hate him too.” Lori only knew Peter Milton by reputation.
It didn’t matter. She hated the man more than she could remember hating anyone.
“For you.”

This caused Ander
to flick his eyes back over to her. Their gazes held for far too long—his was
anguished, absolutely heart-breaking. Then he whispered, “I can never seem to
hate him enough.”

A little sob
lodged in Lori’s throat as she processed the implications of his words. He
couldn’t hate his father completely. Despite everything. Part of him still
wanted his father's love.

With a
strangled sound, Lori put down her wine and scooted over toward him on the
couch. She couldn’t hold back anymore. She wrapped her arms around him. Held
him. Wished her touch had the power to heal.

Ander made a
muffled grunt—like he'd unintentionally let something go—and then adjusted on
the sofa to pull Lori into his lap, holding her as tightly as she was him.

That sat that
way for a long time, their arms gripping tightly and Lori draped across his lap
with her face buried against his shoulder. Her emotions built too high, spilled
out involuntarily from her eyes. She wept silently for a minute, aching for him
and aching for her inability to change things.

Ander’s body
was as hot and hard as ever. He smelled of effort and intensity—a familiar
scent that spoke to Lori deeply. His arms tightened around her with a naked
strength that threatened to crack her ribs. She didn’t care. She loved it. And
she hugged him back just as desperately.

After a long
time, he finally started to shift beneath her. His face had been pressed
against her neck and her hair, but he lifted it and loosened his arms.

Reluctantly, Lori
pulled back, peering up at him with trembling lips and stinging eyes.

Something about
the haunted emptiness of his gaze changed as he saw her face. He lifted a hand
and brushed his fingertips along one of her cheeks. Then stared down at the
moisture from her tears on his skin.

“Are these for
me?” he breathed, sounding either astonished or awed.

She choked back
another little sob at his inability to believe that she would care enough for him
to cry. “Ander,” she pleaded, taking his face in both of her shaky hands.
“Please let me help.”

With a guttural
sound, he tightened his arms around her again, but this time he found her lips
in a desperate, hungry kiss.

Lori felt just
as desperate, just as hungry, and she returned the kiss with equal ardor. She
kept his face in her hands as she opened to the urgent advance of his tongue, and
she moaned into his mouth as his hands started to trace over her body.

His mouth and
his touch weren't skillful and considered, as they had always been before. His
caresses were fumbling, almost clumsy, and his kiss was openly needy. But, if
possible, Lori’s body responded even more quickly. His greedy hands on her
breasts, her hips, her thighs teased her into an aching arousal. And she was
afraid she would drown in the kiss. Finally she had to free her lips so she
could gasp desperately against his neck.

She discovered
her own hands were just as clutching as his, gripping at his head and trying to
feel every inch of its smooth surface. The texture beneath her fingertips was
overwhelming, and the coiled tension in Ander’s body was so different than
she’d ever felt before. The tension wasn’t just arousal. Wasn’t lust or
impatience.