Play My Game: A 100 Series Standalone Romance Page 5

  A ruthless smile pulls at the edge of my mouth as I bring the glass of single-malt to my lips.

  “You look awfully happy for a man who just ate a seventy-five-grand overdraft for someone.”

  I glance over at my friend Nathan Whitmore as he joins me at the bar. Dressed in his bespoke dark suit and silk tie, few would guess that the polished, Ivy League-educated attorney spent the first fourteen years of his life scrapping around the city as a homeless runaway.

  Our backgrounds couldn’t have been more different, but eventually we both ended up in the same place. Both of us narrowly surviving dark nights filled with predators of every stripe. Both of us spared from that life by the grace of God, sheer tenacity, and the generous favors of a wealthy socialite with an unapologetic fondness for the companionship of younger men.

  Nate and I weren’t the only boys and young men Kathryn Tremont scooped out of oblivion or ruin and helped make into something better. There are others, including one of Manhattan’s most celebrated titans of business, billionaire Dominic Baine. As some of Kathryn’s “boys” we’ll always share a bond, but over the years Nate and I have remained as tight as brothers.

  I shrug at him, my grin lingering. “I’m not worried about the money. I’ll get it back—and then some.”

  “I have no doubt.” When Adam comes over to ask for his order, Nate waves the bartender away. “What the fuck happened in here tonight?”

  His expression is concerned, sober. Too much of both when I’m feeling my whisky and still coasting on a sense of cold satisfaction that the night went even better than I’d hoped.

  “What do you mean, what happened?” Chuckling, I clap the solid muscle of his bicep. “It shouldn’t be a mystery to you, Nate. You drew up the contract.”

  “Yes, I did. I also drew up the contract with Crowne and Merritt, the firm we hired to do the Gramercy Park hotel and gallery project. Daniel Hathaway is the lead architect on that deal.”

  I nod and take another drink. “So he is.”

  Nate stares at me for a second, then exhales a low curse. “As your lawyer, I feel it my duty to point out there’s about a hundred reasons why it’s a bad idea to gamble with current business colleagues.”

  “I never gamble.”

  It’s a fact, and he knows it. He’s one of the few people who also knows why. But not even Nate knows everything.

  He frowns at me. “Until tonight, I wouldn’t have questioned you on that. But what do you call it when you invite someone like Hathaway to a seat at your poker table without first making damn sure he’s liquid enough to be there?”

  I did look into Hathaway, months ago. I’ve been watching him for a lot longer than that, but Nate isn’t aware of how far my interest in Daniel Hathaway goes. If he were, he’d only try to talk me out of it. I’ve known Nate long enough to have seen his unmatched prosecutorial skills and his uncanny ability to apply logic and reason to untangle or defuse any situation.

  I don’t want to be talked out of anything.

  I’m not an impulsive man, but in this, I have no use for logic or reason. My mind is made up. It has been for years.

  It’s too late now, anyway.

  What was done before cannot be undone, and tonight the wheels have been set in motion on a long-overdue reckoning.

  Nate’s shrewd gaze narrows on me like a laserbeam. “I can’t believe you didn’t run background on him, Jared. That Las Vegas debt should’ve disqualified Hathaway from playing, right out of the gate. Hell, it ought to disqualify him from the hotel project, too. If you want him off the deal, say so, and I’ll make it happen.”

  I shake my head, contemplating the last few drops of liquor in my glass. “I’m not concerned about the project. I’ll deal with that when the time is right. As for tonight’s game, Hathaway’s a big boy. He knew what he was doing. He shouldn’t have accepted my invitation if he wasn’t willing—or able—to pay for his potential losses.”

  “We agree on that much,” Nate says. “But what about the woman?”

  “What about her?”

  “Unusual collateral, don’t you think? Not that I completely object. She’s stunning, although with her girl-next-door face and figure, she seems better suited for teaching Sunday school than posing for one of your paintings.”

  I can’t say he’s wrong. Despite her fire, there is an innocence about Melanie, an obvious goodness, something I haven’t seen in a long time. Certainly not in my chosen circles. And never once in my studio.

  I grunt. “Maybe that’s why I want her.”

  Part of the reason, anyway.

  I would have made my offer regardless of what she looked like, however, carrying through with the rest of my plan to thoroughly corrupt and seduce her wouldn’t be nearly as enjoyable. Now that I’ve met her, I can hardly wait to get started.

  I’m reminded of the way she laid out her terms, pushing back on things—including the delay in our start date—as if she were the one in control of our negotiations. I didn’t see any harm in letting her believe that, at least for the time being.

  Two more days and she’s mine.

  Then I’m going to take great pleasure in peeling away all of her resistance. She’s right; I do want to expose her on my canvas, body and soul. I want her to surrender everything to me, to my painting.

  Before I consider this debt with Hathaway settled, I want to leave no doubt in his mind, Melanie’s, or anyone else’s that she belongs fully and completely to me.

  I will be satisfied with nothing less.

  Knowing the resulting piece of art will make headlines in Manhattan and the rest world is just icing on a cake I’ve been waiting years to taste.

  “I guess I shouldn’t argue with inspiration,” Nate says after a moment, shaking his head. “Whatever gets you behind your canvas again can’t be a bad thing. No offense, my friend, but you’re a real prick when you’re not painting.”

  “None taken.”

  I know damn well what I’m like when I’m unable to create. Boredom isn’t a good look for me. Then again, neither is festering contempt.

  Ever since I learned who Daniel Hathaway is, I’ve been consumed with little else.

  In two more days, I will begin showing him who I am.

  In the end, I want him to know I’ve taken everything that matters to him.

  I want him to feel the justified totality of my revenge.

  And I want him to understand with cold certainty that every debt—no matter how old or how deeply buried—eventually demands payback.

  8

  MELANIE

  I report to Jared Rush’s Lenox Hill mansion on Thursday at precisely eight A.M.

  I’ve actually been in the city for about an hour already, trying to kill time, but I’ll be damned if I want him to think I’m anxious. I am anxious, though. I’m nervous as hell.

  My palms are damp, my heart racing, as I wait alone in the luxurious sitting room just off the foyer while one of Jared Rush’s house staff alerts him that I’ve arrived.

  For the past thirty-six hours, I’ve been trying to get accustomed to the idea that I’ve agreed to take my clothes off for a man I know nothing about.

  The internet helped fill in some of the blanks. Not that I feel any better about my arrangement with Rush after reading dozens of photo articles about his most acclaimed and controversial paintings, or scouring countless online rags for paparazzi photos of him. And I found plenty of those. Image after image of him at events all over the world—complete with an accumulation of enough gorgeous female companions to circle the globe.

  The knowledge of his staggering net worth came as a shock, too.

  While his art incites multi-million-dollar bidding wars at the most prestigious auction houses, Jared Rush’s savvy investments in real estate and entertainment ventures in recent years are estimated to have earned him close to half a billion dollars.

  I’d assumed he was rich, but holy shit.

  “Ms. Laurent?”

  I lift my head at
the familiar sound of Gibson’s voice. “Good morning,” I say, greeting the polite older gentleman as if I’m here on a social call.

  His answering smile is kind, perhaps even a little sympathetic. He must know the reason I’ve come has nothing to do with a casual visit.

  Right. Of course, he knows. He was there in the corridor when I practically broke down outside Rush’s study the other night.

  I’m sure by now the entire household staff knows about Daniel’s humiliating loss in the game room and my contractual obligation to help him fix it.

  Gibson gently clears his throat. “If you’re ready, Ms. Laurent, Mr. Rush has asked me to show you upstairs now.”

  Am I ready? I’m not sure I ever will be.

  I get up from the silk-upholstered settee, my long hair swishing against my back as I smooth my hands over the skirt of my sleeveless, pale blue cotton wrap dress. I haven’t worn the summery frock since last year at Katie’s kindergarten class graduation party at the school.

  This morning as I was digging through my closet, searching for something appropriate to wear, the unfussy dress seemed the best of my limited options. Especially considering I was only going to be required to take it off, anyway.

  God, I still can’t believe I’ve agreed to this.

  I should turn on the soles of my ballerina flats and run all the way back to Queens before it’s too late.

  I should tear up my agreement with Jared Rush, apologize to Daniel for abandoning him to the consequences of his own recklessness, then go back to living my life. Back to working my two extra jobs to keep a roof over Mom and Katie’s heads while I’m barely nibbling at the edges of my mounting student loans.

  That’s what I should do.

  Instead, I dutifully follow Gibson through the foyer to whatever awaits me upstairs.

  He leads me into the same elevator Daniel and I rode in with him two nights ago. Instead of stopping on the second floor as we did then, today we ride all the way to the top of the five-story residence.

  There is no long, broad corridor on this floor as we step out of the elevator car. This floor is even more private; a vast, beautifully appointed living space. Gleaming white marble floors. Soaring walls embellished with carved millwork and crown moldings. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking some of the most costly, historic real estate in Manhattan.

  Gibson leads me through the heart of the stunning residence, pausing outside a pair of French doors that are opened into a spacious living room and solar. Turning to me, he gives me a nod of permission to enter.

  I glance inside, hesitant. I don’t see Rush, but I can feel him. That dark, electrical charge that traveled through me when I stood before him in his study two nights ago is back now, waking every nerve ending in my body.

  Sumptuous furnishings in butter-soft brown leather and creamy fabrics accented in masculine earthtones are arranged in a conversation-friendly cluster in front of an entire wall of bookcases lined with what I guess to be hundreds upon hundreds of hard-bound volumes. A large, elegant fireplace completes the inviting interior, unused at the moment, but flanked by a tidy basket of logs and gleaming tools.

  From somewhere deeper inside the enormous room and out of my line of sight, I hear the quiet clink of silverware and china dishes, accompanied by the aromas of bread and bacon and freshly brewed coffee.

  “Ms. Laurent,” Gibson says, whether to prompt me into motion or to announce my presence to his employer, I’m not certain.

  I step inside the room. Behind me, Gibson discreetly closes the French doors and departs the hallway in silence.

  “Come in,” Jared Rush tells me, his deep voice calm and relaxed as it rumbles from somewhere off to my right.

  I follow the vibration and the heavenly smells of his breakfast. He is seated at a dining table in front of another set of French doors, this pair looking out onto a private terrace green space and patio off the back of the mansion.

  Last time I saw him, he looked like a decadent lord of the manor, smoking his cigar and drinking whisky in his expensive, dark suit and partially unbuttoned, crisp white shirt. His thick tawny hair had been loose around his shoulders that night, the wild mane of a beast on a man surrounded by luxury and fine things.

  This morning he is dressed casually in an ecru-colored linen button-down with the sleeves rolled up over his tanned forearms. Beneath the pressed white tablecloth, his long legs are encased in relaxed, faded denim. His large feet are bare inside soft leather loafers, and spread wide on the beautiful Persian rug that runs from one end of the expansive room to the other. It must have cost a fortune. Everything in this room, in this mansion, must have come with a staggering price tag.

  Including me, I realize with no small amount of chagrin.

  He’s taking a sip of coffee as I approach. Today, his long hair is swept back into a loosely fastened queue at his nape. The hint of brown whiskers shadowing his lean cheeks and squared jaw the other night have been scraped away, but even clean-shaven there is still an untamed quality to his handsomeness. A wild, savage edge that no woman with warm blood in her veins could possibly ignore.

  I wish I could say I was the exception, but even as I take the last few steps toward him at the table, my senses prickle with uninvited awareness.

  He watches me over the rim of the china cup that looks like a doll’s toy in his big, elegant hands. “Eight o’clock sharp. You’re prompt.”

  “Isn’t that what you told me to be?”

  Amusement plays at the edge of his sculpted lips as he sets the delicate cup back onto its saucer. “Prompt, and you follow instructions. We’re already off to a promising start, Ms. Laurent.”

  That brief smirk and the refined hint of the South in his rumbling voice almost disguises the danger in him.

  Almost, but not quite.

  He may be trying to project an air of casual disregard, but he hasn’t taken his eyes off me since I arrived.

  “Join me.”

  Another command, this time disguised with a smile and a dip of his beard-shadowed chin to indicate the breakfast feast of eggs, meats, breads, and fruit laid out before him on the elegant round table that’s been set for two. My mouth waters at the mingled aromas, but even if I were starving, I’ll be damned if I’ll accept so much as a crumb from Jared Rush’s table.

  “I’ve already eaten,” I murmur, trying to ignore the way the stale plain bagel and bitter cup of coffee from the shop down the street is currently rolling in my stomach.

  He shrugs. “I hope you don’t mind if I finish my breakfast in front of you, then.”

  “Feel free.” Anything to delay the purpose of my being here today.

  I can’t help but notice there is no easel or art apparatus of any kind in this room. He doesn’t paint in here. A degree of relief washes over me at that realization.

  When my gaze comes back to Rush, I find him studying me. “If you’re wondering where my studio is, it’s not in the city. It’s in Sagaponack. I have a house on the beach there where I work.”

  “The Hamptons,” I acknowledge. Sagaponack being one of the most expensive enclaves in that playground for the rich, which is roughly two hours away from Manhattan. Thank God.

  “I thought it would be best if we start here today,” he says. “Take some time to get comfortable with each other first.”

  “Nothing about this—or you—makes me comfortable.” I practically wince as the words leap off my tongue. Why would I admit that to him? Why give a man like him any inkling he’s got the upper hand over me?

  But it’s too late to take it back.

  I’ve allowed the slightest crack in my armor and I can’t expect this man to let it go unchallenged.

  He leans forward, placing his elbows on the edge of the table. “I’d be disappointed if you were comfortable with our arrangement, Ms. Laurent. Or with me.”

  Is he saying that because he understands how out of my depth I am in his world, or because he wants me to be on edge? Maybe this is how he begins decon
structing everyone he exposes on his canvases. Or is he taking some kind of personal, extra enjoyment out of seeing me squirm?

  I don’t have the nerve to ask, especially not when his dark stare makes me feel as though he can already see through my cool replies and through the breezy cotton of my dress. All the way down to everything I’m desperate to keep hidden from him for as long as our arrangement lasts.

  He indicates the lone chair across the table from him. “Please, have a seat.”

  “No, thank you. I prefer to stand.”

  “The whole time?” He leans back in his chair, one of his tawny brown brows arching. “I should warn you, I haven’t even gotten started.”

  I want to assume he’s talking about his breakfast, but I’d have to be either blind or stupid to believe that. As much as I want to indulge my stubborn side and stand for the duration of his meal and anything else he has in store for me this morning, all I’ve done is make myself the focus of his full attention.

  And I realize now that he is stubborn, too. He doesn’t touch any of the silverware at his place setting, nor glance at any of the mouth-watering food in front of him. With another nod toward the empty chair, he waits until I finally lower myself into it.

  Evidently satisfied, he reaches for a braided silver basket containing half a dozen fresh, flaky croissants nestled on a bright white linen cloth. I can smell the butter and airy dough from across the table, and it’s all I can do to control the small growl of my stomach as he offers the fresh-baked goodness to me.

  I shake my head.

  “You’re sure? My chef trained in Paris. I’ve got friends who’d kill just for one of her croissants, never mind the rest of this feast.”

  When I decline to take one, he shrugs and puts one on his plate next to the fluffy omelet that’s bursting with cheese, spinach and other vegetables, and chunks of smoky ham. I’m not sure if I interrupted his breakfast, or if he was waiting for me to arrive before he began.

  I glance down at the formal place setting in front of me and can’t help wondering what kind of game he thinks he’s playing now. Did he actually expect me to sit across from him and share a meal with him as if any of this is normal?