Wounded Birds (The Grayson Series Book 1) (3 page)

“Are you okay?” Michael asks softly with a worried expression over his face.

I look at him with wide eyes, like a deer staring into headlights. “I’m fine,” I say, my voice small, I don’t even think he heard me.

“You look as if you’ve heard from the dead. Who was on the phone?” Worry and uneasiness seeps through his beautiful English accent.

“Umm . . . wrong number,” I lie. My heart continues to rumble, threatening me with an aneurysm.

I think back to the disturbing e-mails, especially the most recent one, which read, ‘You’re Mine, signed by your future husband’. I shudder thinking of his words. Could he be some obsessed fan getting a rise out of scaring me or does he have something against me, and how did he know where to find me? He must have followed me here, but how did he know I was with Michael?

My heart won’t stop pounding against my chest. I search throughout the restaurant for anyone suspicious or glancing our way. Nobody, they all seem to be deep into their conversations and meals.

I stare blankly out the window, clasp my hands together feeling the anxiety building up, and I bite my lower lip so hard I break through the skin, tasting the metallic flavor of blood seeping into my mouth.

“Shit! What the hell is going on?” His thunderous voice reverberates through the room. I’m startled by Michael’s reaction. He places his napkin in his glass of water and is at my side. “Something’s wrong. That phone call disturbed you. Look up,” Michael orders and applies the cold, wet napkin over my bottom lip, lightly adding pressure to stop the bleeding with pristine care. After a minute, he pulls it away and gently dries the area, his eyes narrow, examining the cut.

“Talk to me. I’m serious. Who was on the phone?” His voice is low but explosive, staring me straight in the eyes.

“I told you they had the wrong number,” I snap, caught off guard by his behavior.

“So, you expect me to believe that excuse? You turned white as a ghost, and you’re trembling,” he says, his lips pressed in a hard, thin line and eyes wide open. He places the napkin down, waiting for me to answer him.

“I’m fine,” I whisper, but I can tell from his clenching jaw that he doesn’t believe me.

Michael lets out an exasperated breath. “Don’t take me for a fool Ariana. I can find out, I’ll trace the damn call,” he threatens. His eyes stare into mine, growing angrier. “Are you going to tell me?” He scowls, and the tension in the air increases.

“No,” I retort, with a glare. How dare he threaten me, but then the look on his face softens my heart.

He frowns as his lips compress together, a genuine expression of sincerity and concern. “If anybody is upsetting you, I would like to know. I want to help,” he offers.

I attempt to speak, and he holds his hand up to stop me.

“I don’t mean to be bold or interfere, but I have a low tolerance for anyone threatening or harming women in any form of abuse, whether verbal or physical,” he explains in a soothing tone. His eyes doleful, and he reaches for my hand. “Please tell me.”

“Thank you, I appreciate your concern, but there is nothing to disclose, it was a wrong number. The call just rattled me. They were looking for a Crystal, which happens to be my mom’s name.”

“Why would that upset you?” Michael questions as his eyebrows knit together.

“My parents’ and sister passed away when I was twenty-one,” I answer feeling my heart sink deep into the pit of my stomach.

“I’m sorry to hear,” Michael whispers with remorse.

“Thank you, can we just enjoy the rest of our time together? I would like to be back at my apartment by three. I plan to work from home the rest of the afternoon.”

He takes a deep breath and runs his hands through his hair with frustration. “Very well,” he exclaims and drops the subject. He isn’t satisfied with the answer, but he abides by my wishes and changes the subject.

“Ariana, I hear you’re from Texas, but you don’t have an accent,” Michael comments.

“That’s because I’m originally from Annapolis, Maryland. We moved to Texas when I was in high school,” I answer.

“That explains it.”

“You don’t sound like you come from Texas either. I know you studied at the University of Cambridge.”

“True. It’s where I learned everything I know about construction and architecture.” He smiles and takes a drink of his wine.

“Did your family also live in England?” I ask.

“No, just me.”

It’s funny, but I feel comfortable with Michael. He may have a stern and unapproachable look to him, but he’s a pleasure to speak with, easygoing, real down to earth, and genuine.

Chapter 2

Needing Some Space

We finish our meal, and the waiter hands the check over to Michael. Michael places several twenty-dollar bills into the billfold. He stands and offers me his hand. “Are you ready?” He smiles.

I nod, and our palms meet, sizzling several layers of my skin. I stand, and my legs are unsteady. He gives me a gentle squeeze and bends down close to the curve of my neck. I stiffen, wondering what he’s up too.

“We must share the same electricity,” he whispers, and his lips skim over my outer ear, making me shiver. I go weak in the knees and melt like hot caramel sauce over vanilla ice cream. My heart is overjoyed, pounding hard against my chest.

We walk over to the coat check, and he hands the girl our tickets. He turns to me. “Thank you for meeting me for lunch.”

“You’re welcome. It was extraordinary, along with the company. Thank you,” I say, staring into his eyes and find myself drowning.

His fingers brush over my mouth. I pull away, and he shakes his head. “They’re appetizing,” he rasps out, and with a slow swipe of his tongue, he licks his lips, causing me to groan, praying he didn’t hear me.

I could use some air. Hell, screw the air; I need to get out of here before I do something foolish in the middle of a crowded restaurant. Like slamming him up against the wall and having my wicked way with him, kissing him as he’s never been kissed before. I squeeze my eyes shut, scolding myself again for my wicked thoughts. I jump and snap my eyes open when he says something that caught me by surprise.

“I plan to taste those lips,” he says with confidence. “Just not now; it’s too soon. I want us to get better acquainted with each other.”

My eyes grow wide and I’m shocked at his brassiness, but inside; I'm begging for him to take me and do as he pleases. Ugh! This is insane.

“Aren’t you getting ahead of yourself? You seem confident and straightforward. You like this on all your first dates? What if I’m not interested? Or maybe I just don’t want to?” I answer lifting my chin up with a smirk, laughing at myself as if there was any truth to my last two statements.

He chuckles shaking his head, and I gaze into his eyes and their blazing with want. He leans down, and his warm breath caresses against my face making me tingle all over.

“No, to your second question,” he says. “There is something about you. I just can’t place my finger on it.” He slides the pad of his thumb below my lower lip and says, “and Ariana. . . .
You
are interested. I’m an extremely patient and persistent man. I won’t stop until I get what I want.” He gently blows alongside my ear, and I crumple like a dried-up cookie.

I let out a long breath and glance at the time. “It’s getting late. I need to go,” I rush out and quickly brush past him; my tote clutched tight against my chest, eyeing the exit. I burst through the glass doors, welcoming the cool, crisp air, hoping it will settle my raging hormones and racing heart.

A limo is parked out-front. The driver opens the door and glances at Michael. “Mr. Grayson,” he calls out and nods.

“Thank you, Joe, our first stop is Miss DiMarco’s,” he orders.

“Thank you for the offer, but I’ll grab a cab,” I express with gratitude, squinting my eyes against the glaring sun, desperately needing some distance from this man.

“I consider myself a gentleman. I’m taking you home. Please get in,” he says with a firm tone and gestures toward the waiting car.

Double crap, I was so close to getting my equilibrium back. I let out a grunt and do as I’m asked, told, ordered, or however, you want to interpret his commands. I hear him chuckle as if he sensed my frustration, the smart-ass.

After I situate myself on the seat, he glides his long beautiful legs in and slides closer to me. He drapes a garment over his lap, and it’s not his. Damn it, I can’t believe I forgot all about my coat. God, I feel like such a scatterbrain. His arm brushes against mine, making my heart palpitate. Joe closes the door and settles behind the steering wheel.

“Where to, Mr. Grayson?” Joe asks.

“Fifteen Central Park West.”

“How did you know my address?” I whisper.

“Sean.”

“I should have guessed,” I mutter to myself, sinking deeper into the backseat. We pull away from the curb into the traffic. I gaze out the window and sense him watching me. I wish he would stop staring at me. He’s making me self-conscious.

He reaches across the seat, drawing my chin toward him. Our eyes meet, and I’m lost in his emerald eyes. “I’d like to see you again,” he murmurs.

“You would?” I ask, and my heart starts to accelerate. I’m going to have a heart attack before we even reach my apartment.

He grins with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. “Why do you sound surprised? There is a strong chemistry between us. You can’t deny it,” he rasp out, so self-assured, tracing his finger over my bottom lip causing me to jerk back and my stomach to flutter while my heart is doing happy flips.

I swallow hard and clear my throat. “Yes,” I say just above a whisper, and my leg begins to bounce.

He chuckles and gently places his hand over my knee to stop it from moving. My breath hitches from the warm sensation bleeding into my skin.

“I’d like to explore the energy we have. Are you free this evening?” He rests his arm over the seat right above me, expelling a soul-stirring vibration, which seeps beneath my clothing.

This man doesn’t waste any time. “Yes, I am. What did you have in mind?” I ask and stare at his moist, luscious lips. I wish we would get to my apartment building already. I don’t know how long I can hold on to my self-control, and why the hell did I agree to see him again. Have I not learned that being around this man is a health hazard? That he makes my head spin, and adds a tremendous amount of stress on my poor heart. I must be suicidal, what other explanation would there be.

“Does an opera sound appealing?
La Traviata
?” He places a gentle hand over my back. I flinch. He frowns, exhaling with a hint of irritation.

“That would be lovely,” I answer and find myself gazing just below his chin, getting a glimpse of his thick, masculine neck behind the crisp, white collar of his shirt. I grow hungrier as I envision my face nuzzled right at the curve of his shoulder, nipping the tender skin with my teeth. Ahhh! This has to stop? I’m turning into a sexual predator, wanting, craving, and thirsting to feast on this man I hardly know like a wild cougar.

“Wonderful. I’ll pick you up at seven thirty, and after, we’ll go for a late dinner.”

“I’m looking forward to it.”

We reach the apartment building and pull into the circular driveway. The two buildings are constructed of limestone, adjoined to a center breezeway with an attendant at the main entrance and a concierge.

Joe is already out holding the door open for both Michael and me.

“Thank you for the ride,” I blurt out. Needing some space, I race out of the car and, unfortunately, he’s not far behind. God, Why couldn’t he just stay in the car?

“Ariana,” he calls out.

I ignore him, walking faster, but before I get to the doors, his fingers gingerly rest over my right arm, causing me to stop and melt under the palm of his hand. I turn to face him; he hands me my coat, which I forgot about
again
. Ugh! He kisses me softly on the cheek giving me the chills and chuckles. Damn him.

“Until we meet again.” He grins with a twinkle in his eyes.

“Yes,” I murmur, still spellbound by his presence and glued to the sidewalk, holding my breath and pray he doesn’t notice me perspiring. Thank God I’m wearing black.

Right before stepping back into the limo, he turns giving me one last beaming grin and winks as he blows me a kiss through the autumn breeze.

The vehicle pulls away, disappearing as they merge into the heavy traffic of New York City. I’m jolted out of my dreamy haze.

“Good afternoon, Miss DiMarco,” the building’s attendant greets me and tips his hat. He’s such a kind man.

“Good afternoon, Bobby. A lovely day, wouldn’t you say?”

He nods with a brilliant smile and opens the door for me, and I walk into the lobby.

“Good afternoon, Miss DiMarco. This package came in for you.”

I stop and turn to face our security guard. “Good afternoon, Ryan. For me?” I ask, surprised.

“Yes. It was left on the desk this morning.” He hands me the pretty navy blue box, embraced with a pale yellow satin ribbon. An envelope is taped over the wrapping. I pull the card out.
I adore you on your show. Enjoy the homemade chocolate truffles. Regards, YL

“Mmm, yummy.”

“Must be from a fan,” Ryan expresses with a shy smile.

I beam back and place the chocolates in my bag. “Thank you. Have a wonderful day.”

I practically skip with excitement into the elevator and insert the key for the penthouse. I’m still stunned over my inheritance from my grandfather. He left me such a generous gift, along with his real estate in Monte Carlo.

I tap my foot nervously against the floor of the elevator, wondering what came over me, and these unexplained erotic thoughts that ran through my mind, but for the first time in my life, I felt invigorated, adventurous, vivacious and
lust
. Ah! This is so wrong, how do I justify my actions? This has never happened to me before. I just hope I can get through the night without having these lusty visions. I take a deep breath, convincing myself that I can do this, keep my mind focused and from wandering off into an x-rated scene while keeping my cool. I close my eyes and say a silent prayer that I will have full control of my thoughts, but in conclusion, I know damn well that isn’t going to happen. Because I don’t have a prayer in hell when it comes to Mr. Grayson.

I jerk as the elevator stops. The polished cherry doors slide open into my foyer. I remove my heels and pad across the black-and-sand cool marble floor. A surprise has me skidding to a stop as I walk into the living room. Displayed inside is an array of beautiful tropical flowers dancing with radiant colors and expelling an alluring fragrance throughout the apartment. Where did all these come from? A gold shimmering envelope sitting up against one of the vases catches my eye. I rush over and tug the card out with anticipation.

Dear Ariana,

This was premeditated. I already knew from the way Sean spoke of you that our lunch together was going to be a memorable one for me. I hope for you, as well.

I look forward to seeing you this evening.

Should you have any questions, as I’m sure you will, I have enclosed a business card with my cell phone number written on the back.

With warm regards,

Michael J. Grayson

I chuckle at the note and stare bewildered at all the exquisite flowers. I reach into my handbag for my phone and instead pull out the box of chocolates Ryan handed me earlier.

I admire the decorative packaging. Mmm, I’ll need to indulge in these later. I set them down on a small table near the kitchen. I dig deeper into my bag until I find my cell. With eagerness, I dial his number.

“Michael Grayson,” he answers on the first ring. God, even over the phone his voice sounds erotic.

“Mr. Grayson,” I whisper, bubbling with excitement.

“Don’t tell me; let me guess. You hate the flowers,” he teases.

“That’s preposterous. I love them, thank you,” I say breathlessly.

A sweet laugh escapes his lips. I can just imagine his smile lighting up like a Christmas tree. “I assume you approve, Miss DiMarco.”

“Oh, yes.” I beam with delight, twirling around the living room, and fall sinking onto the plush sofa.

His laugh echoes like sweet music to my soul.

“How did you . . . how did you do all of this?” I’m tongue-tied and elated at the kind and generous gift.

“I called Sean at the studio, and he was delighted to assist. He said a colleague, as well as a close friend of yours, has a set of keys to your apartment. Blake was more than happy to let the florist in.”

“What if our lunch hadn’t turned out the way you planned?” I ask, kicking my legs up in the air with glee.

“I’m seldom ever wrong. Sean spoke of you with admiration, and the moment you stepped into the restaurant; his statement was confirmed,” he answers.

“I’m impressed, Mr. Grayson.” I say, feeling light-headed. “I don’t want to cut you short, but I have a date with a distinguished-looking young man this evening. I wouldn’t want to keep him waiting.” I giggle.

“As much as it saddens my heart to end our call, you must not keep the gentleman waiting. I’m sure he shows no mercy for lateness.” He chuckles.

“Well, with that said, I should hang up. Parting is such sweet sorrow,” I recite.

“I’m grateful the separation will be short.”

“Why don’t you come by earlier? Is seven okay? I thought we could indulge in a drink before we leave for the opera.”