Provocative Read online

  I’d gotten pretty warm then, too, which had stunned me. I’d really started to believe no one else but my former Master, could make me anything but cold. It had kind of scared me. It made me feel like I was losing the man I love. But then, I’d suddenly remembered a saying my grandmother used to tell, when she was alive: If you have a bird and it flies away, if it comes back, it was yours. If it does not, it never was.

  “Thank you,” I’d told him, in response to the compliment. “Is there a problem with the painting?”

  “Yes,” he’d said. “There is. It made you uncomfortable.”

  I was blown away that he was in tune enough with me to know this. “It didn’t make me uncomfortable,” I’d said, daring to say exactly what I’d felt. “You asking me out after buying it did.”

  He’d arched a dark brown. “Because you don’t want to go out with me?”

  “Because if felt like you bought the painting to buy me.”

  “It’s my second Chris Merit painting,” he’d said. “The first I picked up in Paris. And at the risk of sounding arrogant, I don’t buy women. I don’t have to.”

  “Oh. No. I mean–your–of course you don’t. I’m sorry. It’s just…I’m coming off a strange relationship.”

  “And you felt like property?”

  “Something like that. And at the risk of sounding like a jerk, you do flash your money around. How do you even know if you’re buying a woman or not?”

  “You can tell a lot about a person when you flash your money around. It certainly has told me a lot about you.”

  “What has it told you about me?”

  “That you don’t care about my money. Go to dinner with me.”

  “No.”

  “Go to dinner with me,” he’d repeated.

  “I don’t even know you. I know nothing about you.”

  “That’s what you learn over dinner. But if it makes you feel better, let’s make it coffee. Now. Next door.”

  I’d found myself wanting to say yes, but still I said, “No.”

  He’d given me one of his warm brown stares, seconds ticking by before he’d said, “I’ll walk you to your car. Where are you parked?”

  “At a meter around the corner but you don’t have to do that.”

  “If I had to do it, I wouldn’t want to do it.”

  I have no idea why but that comment charmed me. Really. He’d charmed me from the moment I met him. “All right. Thank you.”

  We’d started walking and I remember thinking that he was so very big and powerful, beside me. By big, I mean, his presence. I felt him there. I think everyone and anyone would. And really, it’s perhaps because he has that force about him, that he could even get my attention right now. I mean, my Master–ugh–no, no, no–former Master–consumed me.

  “How long have you been interested in art?” he’d asked.

  “Since I was a teenager,” I confess. “I wanted to be an artist, but I wasn’t gifted enough.”

  “Perhaps you’re hard on yourself. Do you have any of your own work?”

  “Oh no. I’m not hard on myself, just realistic, but that’s okay. I appreciate art. I love it. I get to work around it every single day.” We round the corner. “When did you decide you loved art?”

  “My father’s an art collector and has been since I was a small child. Museums and art exhibits have been a part of my life for as long as I can remember.”

  I’d stopped walking and pointed to my car. “This is me,” and then feeling curious about him and his family, I don’t know what really happened then but I’d blurted out, “How do you, and your father, make all this money you make?”

  He’d laughed, this low, sexy laugh. “My family is in real estate, and I write novels, for a living.”

  Enthralled, at this creative side of him, that is in itself, a form of art, I’d quickly asked, “Novels? What kind of novels?”

  “Thrillers.”

  “Do you have pen name?”

  “I do and you’ll have to go to dinner with me to find out what it is.”

  “No,” I’d said again, when I really wanted to say “yes,” but a date with this would-be, could-be, dream man, means deciding the man I love is not my dream man. And I just couldn’t do that.

  He hadn’t looked surprised. Instead, he’d reached in his pocket, then taken my hand, to press a card into my palm, and his touch–it had been surprisingly electric. “Change your mind and call me.” It had been an order, but then, he’d shocked me with this low, raspy. “Please.”

  It’s the “please” that had gotten to me. The way he’d managed to command me but still ask me. It was sexy and right, in ways that I needed it to be right. But he hadn’t pushed. He’d turned and walked away. And now I sit here, staring at the card, that simply reads, “Alex Marque” and wondering if I should call. Of course, I googled him, and there is no writer, that has this name. There is a mega real estate empire though. I find myself wanting to know his pen name. I find myself wanting to call. But even more so, I want my former Master to call.

  I’m very confused.

  Maybe I should go to dinner. Maybe that will help me know if the past is the past or the present. I’m going to do, it. I’m going to call Alex, and just say “yes.”

  Friday, ten pm

  I know I said I was going to call Alex and accept that date, but I didn’t. I felt guilty, like I was betraying the Master, who is no longer my Master. But the thing is, I feel like I’m betraying my heart, too. I love him and I know the pain he’s hiding from. I’ve seen it in his eyes over and over and over again. I feel like I am hurting him by leaving him even though he’s hurting me by keeping me at a distance. And it’s not about being his submissive. Being a submissive, though not natural to me, is not a bad thing. In fact, I found it to be an incredible bond, shared with someone you trust completely. It can be freedom and a connection shared with someone else, that I don’t think I could explain if asked. It’s something you just have to experience. But my master used the role of submissive as his way of keeping me at a distance. It was a tool to protect himself from the emotional bond growing between us. The problem for him though, was it became a way that we grew closer, and each time I felt that happening, he’d push me to do something he knew I wouldn’t like. He’d bring in the second master, to share me. He’d bring in her. God. I can’t believe I let myself be shared. I can’t believe I don’t hate him for doing it. But I have no one to blame but myself. The power is always with the submissive. The submissive says “yes” or “no.” Until recently, I never wanted to say no to him.

  So, I didn’t call Alex last night when I’d planned to do so. I told myself it was too late since it was nearly midnight when I put my journals aside. I went to work this morning trying to convince myself to call him today, but I just kept finding work to do and yet, I managed to find time to call down to the bakery and find out if they had my favorite chocolate cookies. That tells you, I didn’t want to call. And yet…I did. I’m very confused about why I felt that way. How could I have wanted to call Alex, and still be in love with another man? And almost as if Alex knew my conflict, he showed up. Not literally, but he might as well have.

  I’d just sat down at my desk for a late lunch which included a bag of those chocolate cookies and a cup of coffee, because my diet couldn’t afford for me to eat a sandwich and the bag of cookies. And considering my tormented mood, I knew I was going to eat the cookies no matter what. I was three delicious cookies in when Amanda had appeared at my door.

  “Flowers for you!” she’d exclaimed.

  I’d nearly choked on crumbs, and had to wash them down with a hot swig of coffee, and not because of the flowers, but rather, the certainty they were not from the man I love. How did I know this? They did not match the ring on the chain at my neck. They weren’t roses but rather some sort of orange blossom flowers.

  I’d recovered from the attack of the cookie crumbs by the time Amanda set the flowers on my desk. “Are they from the same man who sent
you the gift last week?”

  I’d felt that question like a punch in the chest because, no. They were not from the master I love. “Let’s hope,” I’d said, with the hope she’d leave, because as much as I love Amanda, she’s young and she pushes and pushes and in that moment, I just didn’t have it in me to deal with that part of her.

  I’d grabbed the card though, and read it:

  Marigold’s represent a desire for riches, but I find all I desire is you. I can’t stop thinking about you. – Alex

  “Well?” Amanda had pressed.

  “Ricco Alvarez,” I’d lied. Despite hating lies. “Marigold’s mean desire for riches, and he’s thanking me for selling so many of his paintings the past few weeks.”

  “Oh.” She’d looked disappointed. “Well that’s nice. And he is a good looking, rich and famous artist. I think he likes you.”

  “I think he likes the money I’m making him,” I’d told her and motioned for her to leave. “Scram, you. I have to eat my lunch before my next appointment.”

  She’d pursed her lips and headed away, and suddenly, Bossman, Mark Compton himself, had been standing in my doorway, looking better than any chocolate cookie could ever taste, in a blue suit and silver tie. And being that he’s blonde, he makes tall, blond, and hot mean way more than tall, dark, and good looking. “Ricco sent you flowers?”

  Lying to Amanda had been one thing. Lying to him, well, you don’t lie to Mark Compton. Those gray eyes of his just see right to the soul. “No. He did not.”

  I’d just admitted lying to Amanda, and he’d stood there, staring at me, assessing me in that way he assesses me, and really everyone. And then, he’s just pushed off the door and left. And this is the thing. When Mark Compton comes in the room, he charges the air, and consumes it. When he leaves, it’s like a bubble being deflated. He takes all that energy with him. My shoulders had slumped and I’d sucked in air. That’s when the sweet, and almost spicy scent of the marigolds had teased my nostrils. I’d sat up and stared at them and it had hit me that while Bossman has been assessing me, maybe judging me, I’d been judging me, too. I’ve been doing a lot of judging myself, and maybe, just maybe I need to be with someone who isn’t judging me.

  I’d opened my drawer and pulled out Alex’s card, before punching his number in. I’d then stood up, and walked to the door where I’d shut it, and then before I could stop myself, I’d hit the call button. He’d answered on the first ring. “Rebecca.”

  “How did you know it was me?”

  “I just knew. You got the flowers?”

  “Yes,” I’d said, my gaze landing on the orange blossoms where they’d sat on my desk. “They’re lovely.”

  “You’re lovely,” he’d said. “Listen. Rebecca. I’m in Aspen on business.”

  “Oh I’m sorry,” I’d said. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

  “You didn’t. Have you ever been here?”

  “No. I hear it’s beautiful.”

  “It is. I want you to come here. I’ll fly you here to me. I’ll get you your own room. No pressure at all for more than just dinner and a chance to get to know you.”

  I was stunned. I stumbled over my words when I never stumble over my words. “I…This is… I have to work.”

  “It’s Friday. Aren’t you off for the weekend?

  “I work Saturday.”

  “Then I’ll have a private jet waiting on you when you get off.”

  “I have to work Monday.”

  “And I’ll have you back there. I’ll send you a list of character references. I need to be here. And I need you to be here, too.”

  Need. He needs me. “This is crazy.”

  “Life is short, sweetheart. You have to live it. Live this part of it with me.”

  Life is short. Those words had resonated with me. They have even before he spoke them. They’d become my motto after my mother had died. They are why I dared a job in the competitive, often low paying art world, and I’d made it work.

  “Say yes, Rebecca,” he’d pressed.

  I’d dared the art world. I’d dared to be submissive. And I’d decided right then, to dare do take an adventure. “Yes,” I’d said, and I could almost hear Alex smiling through the phone.

  “Excellent,” he’d replied. “What time do you want the plane to be ready?”

  “Five.”

  “Five it is. I’ll text you the arrangements when I’ve made them. See you soon.”

  “See you soon.”

  We’d ended that call, and I’d had butterflies in my belly. I still do. I’m going to Aspen.

  With Alex.

  Saturday, six pm

  I’m on a private jet on my way to Aspen. I’m excited and nervous, in good ways, which I didn’t think was possible earlier today, but I attribute that to the encounter I just had with him right before I left for the airport. Yes. Him. My ex-master. I’d just finished work, and my taxi had no showed. There’s a convention in town, and it was nearly impossible to get a cab apparently. While a plane waited for me on a runway. I had to cancel so Alex could stop paying whatever fee that must be costing him. Aspen, I’d decided, just wasn’t meant to be.

  Decision made, I’d walked, with my bag, to the coffee shop to grab a coffee, only because I’d been by for the gallery staff earlier and knew the owner of the shop wasn’t in today. Which mattered, because I really hadn’t been in the mood to have her look me up and down and judge me, but then is anyone ever in the mood to be judged? I really don’t understand why Ava behaves that way. She’s stunningly gorgeous. Owns a coffee shop so clearly has courage to take risks and be her own person. I’d admire her if she treated people kindly, but it’s not just me that she’s nasty to. But that is another story.

  Bottom line. Ava was gone so I went in to the coffee shop for a White Mocha. Once I’d had it in hand, I’d settled down at a table in a corner and dialed Alex, who’d answered right away. “Rebecca,” he’d said in this warm, smoky kind of voice. And he’d said my name like it brought him pleasure and it made me think about the ways he might bring me pleasure. Romantic ways. Sexy ways. Not handcuffs, blindfolds, and spankings. It just feels like it will be different with him.

  “Where are you now?” he’d asked. “The plane is waiting on you.”

  “I can’t get a taxi,” I’d said. “There’s a convention in town. I should just-”

  “I’ll send a car. Where are you?”

  “Maybe I shouldn’t go,” I say. “It’s so late and-”

  “I really want to see you,” he’d said. “Come see me, Rebecca.”

  I’d had this warm feeling in my chest when he’d said my name again. “Okay,” I’d said and I’d given him my location.

  “The car will be there in fifteen minutes. I’ll call you when it pulls up.”

  He’d hung up and I’d started, finally, to let myself look forward to seeing him, but my hand had gone to the ring dangling on the chain at my neck, but not intentionally. Almost like my subconscious knew it was there, and knew it was a problem. It ties me to another man, after all. It took me a full five minutes to convince myself to do it, but I’d take then necklace, the ring, off. Once I’d tucked it into my purse pocket and zipped it up, I’d gotten anxious to get to the airport, and headed to the door watch for the car.

  That’s when he had walked in. He was wearing my favorite suit he owns. A blue suit with a blue tie, that softens those hard, calculating eyes of his. But it’s also the suit he’d been wearing the day I’d met him.

  “Rebecca,” he’d said, and when he’d said my name, his tone had been impossible to read. There wasn’t seduction there. There wasn’t even torment or loss. Because you see, that’s his way. He doesn’t show emotion. That’s why, in intimate moments, when he’d allowed me to see the pain and torment in his eyes I’d felt he trusted me.

  “Hi,” I’d said, because nothing more brilliant came to me.

  “Let me buy you a coffee,” he’d said.

  “I have a coffee,” I’d said
, showing him the cup in my hand, and now, looking back, since I’d been exiting the coffee shop, he had to have known that, even without seeing my drink.

  “Stay with me while I order mine.”

  It wasn’t a question but a command. And one I decline to follow. “I can’t,” I’d said.

  “Can’t?” His eyes had sharpened. Why?”

  My phone had rang then and I’d scooped it out of my pocket and answered. “Hi,” I’d said, because why wouldn’t I greet two men the same way in five minutes?

  “The car is there,” Alex had said.

  “I’m about to walk outside now,” I’d replied.

  “See you soon, beautiful,” he’d said, the charming endearment, warming my cheeks.

  I’d ended the call and found my former master staring at me. “You have a date.”

  “Yes. I have a date.”

  He glances at my neck. “And you took off the ring.”

  “Yes,” I’d confirmed. “I took it off.”

  He stared at me several beats and then to my disappointment, said simply, “Have a good night, Rebecca.”

  It had hurt. It does hurt. He essentially was letting me go. I’d stepped around him and exited to the then quiet San Francisco street, and the driver was holding the rear door of a limo open for me. I’d reached the door, and hesitated before I got into the car. I’d thought about being fair to Alex. If I got into that car, I needed to really be present with him this weekend. I needed to forget the man who’d just let me go, and really, enjoy a man, who called me beautiful and said my name like it was sex and seduction. I had to choose between the Master and the Dream Man.

  I’d handed my bag to the man and gotten in the limo, obviously, since I’m writing this from a plane, but I’d felt my ex-master watching as I did. And when the door had shut, it had felt like me letting him go. And so, here I am and the truth is, I’m ready for this. I didn’t think I was, but it’s amazing how one encounter actually did what I didn’t think was possible. Set me free.