Deceptive Innocence Page 2

  “You have to go,” I say as gently as I can. “There’s a shelter a few miles from here. Perhaps they can—”

  But before I can finish my sentence, Lander slams his hand on the bar, and when he lifts it there’s two hundred dollars there. “For a Best Western,” he says, his voice cool and steady, as if he’s ordering a drink, not a bed. “Find one with a free breakfast.”

  The man gapes at the bills before snatching them up and weaving his way out of the bar.

  I stare at Lander, who is now occupying himself with his phone. “He won’t get a hotel room,” I finally say.

  “He might,” Lander counters. “Not a Best Western, not a hotel that will buy him a moment of human dignity. But he might find a bed, a room, someplace where he can drink the liquor he’s about to buy in private.”

  I shake my head, still not getting it.

  “I feel sorry for him,” Lander clarifies.

  “Because he doesn’t have a family?”

  “Because he’s chosen despair over anger,” he says distractedly as he checks his emails. “It’s a bad choice. Despair will kill you. Anger’s more useful.”

  I drop my gaze, toy with my garnet ring. Lander’s singing my song . . . my anthem. Again I feel my pulse quicken, just like it did right before our meeting, before I began my game.

  I lean into the counter, my hands spread out to either side as if I’m balancing myself. “Are you angry, Lander?”

  He looks up from his phone, his expression almost seductive, almost menacing. “Not as angry as you, Bell.”

  Immediately I step back. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m—”

  “I can hear anger scraping at the underside of every cheery word that comes out of your mouth,” he interrupts. “You’re absolutely draped in anger. And you know what?” He puts a few bills down, more than enough to cover the drink he consumed. “You wear it well.”

  My heart pounds in my ears as once again he leaves.

  What if he knows?

  Dear God, what if he knows I want to destroy him?

  chapter two

  When Lander arrives on the third night he doesn’t bother with the name game.

  I pour the whiskey without his having to ask for it. My black minidress is detailed with what the saleswoman euphemistically called “vegan leather paneling” in the front and back and is considerably more brazen than I’m feeling. In fact I’m actually feeling uncertain now; he’s not as easy to read as I imagined.

  Have I given myself away? How?

  The questions and worries kept me up all last night, so I was forced to substitute memories for dreams: memories of my mother, laughing while holding me in her arms, memories of her delighting in my love of fairy tales and storybook princesses.

  As the clock pushed past midnight the hue and tone of the memories changed. Images of my mother gasping as that man, Nick Foley, pulled her into a surprise embrace when he didn’t know I was nearby. Memories of the first time I spied Nick kissing the back of my mother’s neck while she tried to make the bed he shared with his wife. I was so young, I barely understood what I was witnessing.

  And when the clock struck three, that’s when the memories were at their darkest. My mother hysterical, blood soaking her shirt—then later, memories of my mother screaming as they led her away.

  The memories made me sick. At four in the morning I was on my knees wanting to pray but unable to come up with the name of a God who would listen.

  If Lander knows my game, I’ve failed my mother again, this time in only the space of a week.

  So now I stand before him as he drinks his whiskey, waiting for him to show his hand.

  Lander’s gaze casually sweeps the room. There are more women in the bar than usual tonight. Some of them are actually cute. But he doesn’t show any of them special interest. He simply sips his drink and returns his eyes to me, studying me the way I’ve been studying him.

  When he puts the drink down he breaks the silence.

  “Why do you work here?” he asks.

  “I need a job.”

  “There are other jobs.”

  “No doubt,” I agree as I take out a rag and wipe some drops of liquor off the bar. “But this is the one I got.”

  The spill is gone, but I keep moving the rag back and forth with slow, deliberate movements, making it more of a meditative exercise than anything else. Somewhere on the other side of the room a girl breaks out in hysterical laughter.

  “I could get you out of here,” Lander says quietly, “help you find something better.”

  The relief hits me with the force of a bullet.

  He knows nothing.

  And he wants me. I’m sure of that now.

  “Are you offering to save me, Lander?” I ask as I drop the rag behind the bar.

  He chuckles. It’s a softer sound than the last time he laughed in my presence, a little more loaded. “I’m not the savior type.”

  “No, I don’t suppose you are.”

  He continues to study me, the drink in front of him seemingly forgotten. “Would you like to come home with me, Bell?”

  Now it’s my turn to grin. I look to the left and right, making sure that there’s no one close enough to overhear. Then I gently put my hand over his and lean in so my lips are right against his ear and whisper . . .

  “No.”

  • • •

  The night moves on at an odd pace. People fade in and out of the bar like phantoms, barely noticeable, never leaving an impression, with the possible exception of the stoned girl with rainbow-colored hair who asks me to turn up the volume on the TV so she can dance to the commercial jingles.

  When Benny, the bartender who covers the last shift of the night, wanders in at eight thirty, less than ten people are there.

  One of them is Lander.

  He’s never stayed till the end of my shift before.

  I go to greet Benny, tell him which tabs are open and who’s paid up. The rainbow girl spins to the sound of Stevie Nicks’s “Landslide” as it plays over a Budweiser ad. The drunk from the night before stumbles in, already too wasted to be served. He seems disoriented for a moment as he weaves his way to the bar. He loses his footing and bumps into a biker, jostling him, spilling a bit of the big guy’s drink on his lap. As the biker swears, the drunk mumbles his apologies and falls to his knees . . . and tries to use his shirtsleeve to wipe up the alcohol from the biker’s pants, which causes his hands to brush up against parts of the other man’s anatomy that he should clearly stay away from.

  It would be funny . . . except the biker reacts too quickly, yanking the drunk to his feet by his collar, practically holding him in the air as spittle flies from his mouth.

  “What the fuck are you trying to do?”

  “I’m sorry,” the drunk slurs. “I didn’t mean—”

  But the biker throws him against the wall with enough force to cause a concussion. The drunk is disoriented, unable to stand up straight. He shields his face with his arms as the bigger man advances. Everyone in the bar is frozen, as if the speed of the violence has forced the rest of us into immobility.

  All of us but Lander, who gets up and places himself in between the two men. He meets the biker’s eyes directly and says in a very quiet but very firm voice, “Don’t do that.”

  The enraged man looks at Lander with his mouth hanging open. It takes him about ten seconds to gather his wits. “What’s your problem?” he sneers. “You a faggot too?”

  “It’s not really relevant if I’m gay or not . . . although your extreme reaction to what just happened is curious. Are you upset that he accidentally touched you or that you sort of liked it?”

  There’s a startled laughter through the bar as I whirl around to grab the phone. This is going to end badly and I can’t afford to let this man hurt Lander. But I’ve only dialed nine, one—when I hear the crushing impact of the first punch. Lander’s name bursts from my lips as I turn back to the fight . . .

  But it’s not
Lander who’s been hit. In fact, I turned just in time to see the biker hit the floor. He tries to get up, still snarling his aggression and holding what looks like a switchblade in his hand, but Lander is having none of it. Another punch and the knife goes flying. Blood is coming from the biker’s nose, but he doesn’t have time to tend to it because Lander quickly lands another blow to his ribs and then yet another to his jaw. And the entire time, Lander’s expression is almost . . . bored. This man is bleeding at his feet as he continues to pummel him, but looking at Lander’s face you’d think he was doing nothing more significant than killing a spider.

  The biker turns onto his stomach as if trying to protect his face from the blows. But Lander grabs the man’s arm, bends it back until it’s about to break.

  “Are we done?” Lander asks.

  The man whimpers and wheezes. “Yes.”

  And just like that, Lander releases him. The fight’s over. The biker, humiliated and teary-eyed, manages to get to his knees and looks up at Lander. And Lander looks down at him, and smiles. With his head low the biker tries to get to his feet, attempts to retrieve his knife from where it lies uselessly under a table, but Lander just looks at him and shakes his head.

  The biker nods, leaves the knife where it is, and makes his way to the door. The drunk who started it all with his clumsiness finds a dark corner to huddle up in as he rubs his hand back and forth across the back of his head.

  One of the other patrons swears his disappointment as the biker exits.

  “That guy’s a fucking pussy!” yells out another.

  And, of course, they’re not talking about Lander.

  The dissatisfied audience turns back to their drinks and conversations while Lander turns to me, looks me in the eyes, and then walks out.

  In seconds I’ve gathered my things and I’m following him out the door.

  I find him standing just outside the bar, watching as the vanquished man retreats down the block.

  I stand only a few feet behind him. He doesn’t turn . . . and yet somehow I know he’s aware of me.

  “Where did you learn to fight like that?” I ask.

  “Does it matter?”

  I hesitate. The loser has reached the end of the block, where he parked his bike, and the roar of the Harley punctuates what would otherwise be a weak exit.

  “Do you think he’s steady enough to ride right now?”

  Lander finally moves to face me, his expression now impassive. “On that thing he’ll end up running into a lamppost before he runs into anything he can hurt.”

  “He could hurt himself.”

  “Yes, he could.”

  We both fall quiet. The streetlights make our shadows long across the sidewalk. “Are you dangerous, Lander?”

  “Look who’s talking.”

  I feel a chill run up my spine, I can sense the challenge and the threat he poses . . .

  . . . and it makes me smile.

  “Would you like to come home with me, Bell?”

  I raise my chin and look into his light, stormy eyes.

  “Yes.”

  chapter three

  Lander was wise enough not to take his limo into Harlem, so we’ve caught a cab. We’re sitting only a few feet away from each other, not talking, not touching, just . . . thinking.

  I’m fiddling with my garnet ring, trying to lay out a plan for the evening. I’ve never had sex with a man for any reason other than the satisfaction of my own desire, but I’m ready to make the sacrifice for the sake of my cause. I’ve prepared myself for that.

  So sleeping with the enemy isn’t a problem . . . but wanting to sleep with the enemy is.

  That’s something I’m not prepared for at all. Over the last few days his self-possession, quiet intelligence, and savagery have been wearing on my defenses. Like the effect of waves against a cliff, the erosion isn’t immediately devastating but it’s noticeable.

  He reaches over and touches my leg, his eyes still on the window. His fingers move up and down, his caress almost casual . . . almost. But there’s a soft rhythm to his movement as his fingers rise a little higher, pushing my hem up ever so slightly, then sliding down again to my knee. It’s not demanding or insistent. Just confident. Confident in what he’s allowed and what boundaries he’s able to push.

  Being touched by this man, this man who represents so many things that I hate . . . it should be awful.

  It isn’t.

  His hand goes a little higher. He’s touching my inner thigh now, just barely, but still, I shudder. The involuntary reaction makes me blush and I quickly look away.

  No, this isn’t supposed to be happening at all.

  When the cab drops us off at his Upper East Side building, he greets the doorman with a word and leads me to the rear of the lobby, his hand on the small of my back.

  “Cool digs,” I say as he pulls me onto the elevator. When I turn, I more fully take in the lush entry area, its crown molding, its expensive furniture, its little touches of decadence.

  “It could be worse,” he admits, sticking his key into the slot that will allow us to get to his penthouse. The doors close and he turns to me. “Do you like elevators, Bell?” He steps forward, into my space. Instinctively I step back, but that only serves to bring me up against the wall. His lips touch mine so gently it’s practically a caress, nearly innocent.

  And yet.

  I feel his hands move up to my waist as his mouth quietly, softly moves down to my chin, my neck . . .

  “The doors could open at any moment,” I say. I try to add a little laugh, but the sound comes out as a staccato breath.

  “Yes,” he says, “they could.”

  He leans into me, and his body is different than I thought it would be—harder, stronger.

  He doesn’t know who I really am; he can’t.

  His hands are on my hips, and the hem of my dress inches up as his grip becomes firmer, more demanding.

  I’m going to destroy him. I’ll bring down his entire family.

  His lips rise to my ear, his tongue finding my most sensitive spots there.

  This is a sacrifice—it’s supposed to be a sacrifice . . .

  . . . but that’s not what it feels like.

  I close my eyes just as the elevator slows to a stop. He pulls away, but only a little. “Welcome to my home.”

  Slowly I open my eyes again and step into his penthouse. The art pieces on the wall are originals, mostly by artists I don’t know . . . except for the charcoal nude rendered by Degas.

  This man owns a Degas.

  I don’t comment on it. Instead I just continue down the hall past the kitchen, the home office, into what serves as a living room.

  One wall is lined with books, the other with windows. In the corner is a small bar, stocked with expensive bottles that look as decorative as they do sinful.

  “You have a view of Central Park.” I step up to the wall of glass and stare down at the dimly lit landscape. I can feel his eyes on me . . . It’s almost like he’s touching me.

  This man is my enemy.

  “If I lived your life I would go to all the fancy parties,” I say lightly. “I bet you get invited to all sorts of red-carpet affairs. I bet you could be in a tux every night of the week if you wanted to be.”

  “No man wants to be in a tux every night.” He pauses, leans back on his heels. “I’d like to guess your name now.”

  “Oh?” I flash him a bright, playful smile. “You think you can?”

  “Yes,” he says quietly. “I think I can, Bellona.”

  My breath catches. I feel a knot in my stomach. Of course, it’s not my birth name—he doesn’t know that. But it isn’t information I’ve given him either. “How did you know?”

  “I’ll tell you tomorrow . . . in the morning.” He comes to my side, reaches up, pushes my hair behind my shoulders. “Tonight I want to know if you’re like your namesake. Are you a goddess of war?”

  “I’m not a goddess,” I say quietly.

  “A
nd yet I bet you’d hold your own on a battlefield.” His fingers slide down my neck. I expect him to lean in for a kiss again, but he doesn’t. Instead he just lets his fingers go to the scooped neckline of my dress, tracing it lightly, watching me. When his fingers move lower, over my dress, over the curve of my breast, I look away.

  “No, no, warrior,” he whispers, taking his other hand and turning my face back to him. “Keep your eyes on me. I want you to see me seeing you. I want you to look into my eyes when I touch you.”

  Part of me wants to say no. I hadn’t planned for this level of intimacy. I don’t know how to handle it.

  But this is the path I’ve chosen. It’s a path that can lead me to my revenge. And without revenge I have nothing. My whole life will be nothing.

  His fingers continue to caress, running up and down my breasts. I feel my nipples harden. The fabric of my dress is thick enough to conceal them and yet as he looks down at me I’m sure he knows. It’s in his smile, in the mischievous glint in his eyes.

  His hands move lower, over my stomach, lower to the hem of my dress, then just below it, forcing his hand between my legs as I lean my back against the window, suddenly needing support. The glass is so clean it looks like I’m leaning against air itself, as if I’m on the verge of falling.

  Maybe I am.

  Slowly he raises his hand, raising my dress again as he does. The feeling of his palm against the inside of my leg makes me squirm, but as instructed I keep my eyes on his, watching him watching me.

  “Do you know what I’m going to do next, Bellona?”

  I nod.

  “Tell me.”

  “You’re going to move your hand up . . . to my thong.”

  “And when I touch your thong, will it be wet?”

  My heart is beating at an uncomfortable pace. “Yes,” I whisper.