The Fidelity World_Decoy Page 2

  “Portia,” he said then, with a wry twist to his lip, tacked on, “no last name.”

  “None that I’m comfortable giving,” she admitted, holding her head high. She was tall, but he still towered over her so lifting her chin hadn’t instilled the edge of defiance she’d intended. Rather, it caused a grin to spread across his handsome face.

  “May I offer you a cocktail?”

  She had never needed a drink more in her life than she did in this moment, but for some reason it felt like a weakness, needing alcohol to smooth out the jagged nerves that had been churning in her stomach like shards of glass. She felt weak enough already. Deep down, knowing that she’d found the prospect of receiving a virtual king’s ransom—the payment she was due for her year with Nathan—both exciting and erotic still wasn’t sitting right with her. Poverty was the ultimate weakness in this cruel, materialistic world, wasn’t it? In that regard, she’d already been brought to her knees. Her entire family had. She didn’t like how even receiving five-thousand dollars for simply attending the initial interview with Karen Flores had spiked her adrenaline and moistened her panties.

  She was determined not to look pliable. If she could appear strong and unaffected, whether or not she felt that way, she would retain some sliver of dignity throughout this process…

  …which was why she found it incredibly puzzling to hear herself reply, “Vodka martini, dry with olives, thank you.”

  Her sudden interest in pleasing him had just waged war against the intrinsic need to remain sovereign in her own right.

  She might have worked hard to convince Ms. Flores of The Infidelity Corporation that she was a chameleon of sorts—she would’ve said anything to be paired with this man, who she both feared and wanted—but the cold, hard truth was that Portia was neck-deep in serious reservations and they were barely past awkward formal introductions in a very public setting.

  When the martini arrived, Nathan having leaned in over the counter to shout her order into the bartender’s ear, he handed it to her and their fingers brushed in the exchange.

  She took a sip, placing her red, painted lips against the cool glass and thanked god for the purple mask she was wearing. There was something about having those dark eyes of his on her… She could feel her cheeks flush and the last thing she wanted was for him to witness, firsthand, his power over her. She couldn’t be a woman so easily affected by him, not if she wanted this to play out how she needed it to.

  The lull in conversation between them had been growing increasingly awkward, but she couldn’t seem to break the wall of tension that was rising between them.

  Or maybe it felt tense only to her. Awkward only to her because this ‘arrangement’ between them was unlike anything she’d ever entered into. A romantic relationship with a stranger. There was nothing romantic about feeling terrified that the stranger you’d signed your life away to was perhaps the most dangerous man you’d ever meet.

  So, why then did she feel drawn to him? Why then was she stealing glances at him as Nathan turned towards the ballroom to watch the fantastic setting they were both trapped in together? The setting was fantastic. The sea of slow-dancing guests, ladies and gentlemen donning masquerade masks and gliding under glimmering chandeliers.

  It almost felt like a fairytale.

  Almost.

  “Not big on conversation?” he asked, turning to her.

  Looking up into his dark eyes and feeling the physical closeness between them—close enough to smell the woodsy scent of his aftershave commingling with his natural musk—she admitted, “I have so many questions, but I’m afraid there are far too many prying eyes and ears among us to ask.”

  “I’m afraid you’re right,” he agreed as he plucked the martini glass out of her hand and set it on the bar counter next to his empty scotch glass.

  Without another word, he offered her his arm and led her out onto the dancefloor where an unseen orchestra was playing another slow song.

  He searched her eyes before he placed his large hand on the small of her back—skin on skin thanks to the dramatic scooping design of her dress. Had he been searching for permission? Was he still? As he took her hand in his and they began to move across the marble floor, their bodies came close and closer still until they were pressing.

  It felt so good. Being in his arms. Being whisked across the dancefloor, turning and gliding by his skilled hand to the music. All tension slipped from her muscles, her spine, shoulders. She could feel herself melting into him—because of him.

  A dangerous feeling, perhaps. But the only real danger Portia was in was enjoying it.

  The internal war swelled in her chest again. She was a woman in conflict, but she had asked for this.

  As the orchestral song wound down and another waltz kicked up, Nathan slowed with her in his arms and in a deep, almost breathy voice, whispered in her ear, “I didn’t invite you here to dance.”

  “Of course not,” she said nervously, as her gaze darted absently from the face of one masked guest to the next.

  “Come with me and you can ask all the questions you like,” he proposed, staring down into her eyes now that he’d released her from his close grasp.

  Whether she agreed or objected would clearly be of no consequence to him, she realized, as he led her through the sea of waltzing couples towards the sidelines where more guests were mingling over cocktails. When the path tightened, Nathan squeezed her hand and kept her close behind him, and soon they were walking briskly, side by side, into the cavernous corridor beyond the ballroom, its walls stacked to the brim with rare artwork, its vaulted ceiling so high that the high-heeled click of Portia’s every step echoed in all directions.

  “I run a company in Manhattan,” he explained as they continued down the corridor, the sounds of the Winter Ball muffled and echoing behind them. “I have one penthouse condo at the top of the Cromwell building in mid-town,” he went on, “but unless I have to work very late, I prefer to stay here on Long Island.”

  “I see,” she said as nervously as ever. She hoped he hadn’t detected the waver in her flighty voice.

  The deep, rumbling laugh that billowed out of him told her that he was well aware of her nerves. “We’re going to my wing, if that’s alright with you.”

  Wing?

  “Of course,” she breathed through a shy smile as he held a golden door open for her.

  Were those the only phrases she knew? ‘Of course’ and ‘I see’? Kicking herself was far from productive, but she couldn’t help it. She needed to pull herself together, throw up a wall of confidence, and navigate the uncharted waters of this burgeoning relationship with the fearlessness of a naval marine.

  Again, he let out a laugh—one that this time sounded mocking to her self-conscious ears—but he refrained from comment. Instead, he led her into what the excessively wealthy would probably call a ‘sitting room’. The room was expansive and handsome. Leather furnishings were artfully laid out. There was a row of bay windows along the far wall, their curtains drawn open revealed a view of the darkened Atlantic, its hardy waves crashing upon a rocky shore, that was even more stunning than the one in the ballroom.

  “Please,” he said, inviting her to sit on a leather settee adjacent to a long, matching couch.

  As she obliged, assuming he would settle onto the couch, she let out an unsteady breath and watched him cross to a modest bar cabinet where he selected a bottle of both scotch and vodka and proceeded to recreate the cocktails they’d shared before their dance.

  “Shaken or stirred?” he asked over his shoulder.

  It brought a little smile to her face. Such a ‘James Bond’ question. “Shaken is fine,” she told him.

  She watched him prepare her drink, watched the lines of his strong body beneath his crisp tuxedo as he vigorously shook her cocktail and poured it into a martini glass. Making his own was a simple endeavor, a quick splash of scotch in a stout tumbler and he joined her.

  “Your first question, I presume,” he b
egan as he handed her drink to her and lowered onto the near side of the leather couch, “is where might you live?”

  “It had crossed my mind,” she said, then mentally added, along with a million other questions.

  “I’d like you with me at all times,” he told her, “but I realize that at the onset of this thing that might not be realistic.” When she didn’t comment, he studied her masked face for a long moment then doubled down on his assumption. “You might enjoy being with me at all times. I certainly would. If I knew you were up in my penthouse while I tackled business at Cromwell Corp a few stories below, well…” As he trailed off, a hint of a grin cracked the corner of his mouth and sent Portia’s heart racing. “It would help take the stress out of many stressful situations, I imagine.”

  He paused to gauge her reaction, but she was too scared to indulge in one. Though her breathing quickened along with her heartrate, she remained bottled-up. Unwavering. Stoic. Like a poker player who’d been dealt a bad hand but refused to fold. She could bluff her way through this, bluff her way all the way to the jackpot.

  “As I mentioned,” he went on, “I favor this place over the Manhattan penthouse, so if you’d prefer to only stay here, or, conversely, only stay at the penthouse, that can be arranged.”

  She brought the martini to her lips, but though she meant to take a shallow sip, she ended up taking big, nervous gulps.

  “I know what I intend to get out of this, Portia,” he said in a sobering tone. “My question to you is, what do you really want?”

  She knew the answer he expected to hear—the one he wanted or needed to get out of her—that all she really wanted out of this relationship was to be dominated, to surrender to a man so emotionally guarded that she would have no chance at cracking through his walls without laying down her life and being willing to let him turn her into someone equally broken as him; that she was ready, willing, and able to be anyone he needed her to be…

  But she couldn’t tell him what he wanted to hear. She just couldn’t. Call it terror or strength—it felt like both in that moment—Portia held her head high and stripped the purple, satin mask from her face. She placed it, along with her nearly empty martini, on the mahogany coffee table in front of her and, locking eyes with Nathan, she rose to her high-heeled feet and helped her white, satin dress to spill off her shoulders, flutter down over her curves, and land in a soft pool at her high-heeled feet.

  The groan of approval that seeped through Nathan’s lips at the sight of her nudity—she’d forgone a bra and her panties were a mere thread of white lace—made her instantly wet.

  Her breasts heaved with every shaky inhale and exhale as she watched him studying her body from where he sat. She could feel his dark eyes on her as distinctly as if he were caressing his large hands over her body. Her nipples hardened when his gaze lingered there. She felt a surge of hot and deliciously achy moisture swell between her legs the moment his eyes rested on that private place.

  When he met her gaze, he took a sip of scotch then said, “Turn for me. Slowly.”

  She did and as she presented the length of her smooth back, her round ass, and the shape of her long legs, he let out another sensual groan.

  Glancing down at him over her shoulder, her cornflower-blonde hair spilling down her nude back, she boldly told him, “If you knew what I really wanted, you’d kill me.”

  Chapter Three

  NATHAN

  “You beckoned?” Nathan asked from the arched doorway of his mother’s breakfast parlor as morning light poured in through the large, partially curtained windows to the east. He wasn’t entirely prepared to deal with Guinevere’s nonsense but, like duct tape being ripped from a hostage’s mouth, it would give him a chance to speak his mind, whatever that entailed. He would know when he understood precisely how damning her years-prior military investment had become, legally speaking.

  Guinevere lifted her eyes from her poached eggs and biscuits, set down her utensils, and drank espresso from a tiny, porcelain cup as if in no rush to respect her son’s tight timetable. He was due at the Cromwell Corp. in the city in less than an hour for a conference meeting that he now regretted having scheduled for the day after the Winter Ball—the day after he’d set his lustful eyes on the lines and dangerous curves of Portia’s nude physique…

  The image of her came to mind so easily and he imagined that if he were ever tortured in a warehouse it would be that woman’s flawless shape that he would mentally escape into.

  Speaking of torture, his mother had adjusted her canary-yellow hat and with a gloved hand invited him to sit adjacent to her at the breakfast table, as she said, “This won’t be a quick or easy conversation, Nathan dear, so do make yourself comfortable.”

  He chose the far side of the elegant table so that the brilliant morning sunlight wouldn’t blind him and immediately held tight to that delicious image of his woman that he’d burned into the forefront of his mind.

  His woman…

  He liked the sound of that. He liked his restraint last night, as well. Nathan might be an exceptionally wealthy man, having been born into a global empire his parents had built, but he’d never had a damn thing handed to him. When he’d been of-age to inherit Cromwell Corp, his father had long since driven the company into the ground and passed away, leaving the two surviving members of his family penniless. Nathan had exerted willfulness, determination, business savvy that even his mother hadn’t recognized—where did that come from? she’d often asked behind closed doors once Nathan had successfully muscled another real estate or oil tycoon into parting with a precious million or two to invest with Cromwell—and most importantly… patience. With those attributes he’d rebuilt the empire, making it stronger and more prosperous than ever before. It had taken the greater part of his adulthood and it had been worth every tumultuous minute of his efforts. He had restrained himself last night with Portia—from touching her, from moving so much as a muscle to near her, from giving her any indication of her effect on him, of which she had many—because savoring the journey held all the glory.

  He had every intention of savoring every step in the ground he planned to conquer with her. She wouldn’t merely be a nights-long conquest. She was the wild terrain of his newly acquired native land and he planned to venture into her alone and fearlessly, like a pioneer discovering and charting each luscious acre. A yearlong expedition. By the time he was done with her, their bond would be such that he would be able to bring her to sweetly-stinging climax by the mere brush of his finger across her chin…

  But that statement she had made…

  It intrigued him—greatly—and refused to stop bouncing around his brain.

  ‘If you knew what I really wanted, you’d kill me.’

  Even more than studying her nude form, the statement she’d made had caused him to stiffen, hard, in his slacks. Talk about not moving a muscle… he’d been disarmed in that moment and, without permission, his favorite muscle had moved of its own accord.

  Pondering its meaning was making him hot and hard all over again, admittedly not a state he wished to be in while his mother blathered on about keeping Cromwell—both the family name and business reputation—out of the proverbial ‘mud’. But he couldn’t help it. He was that intrigued by the statement Portia hadn’t elaborated on, he truly was…

  Had it been an indication of her own desire to be dominated—so completely and thoroughly overpowered, and in a spell of trusting him—that she was willing to be thrust into the ultimate form of sexual surrender… to give herself over to him so completely, taking the pain with the pleasure, that she wanted her climax to peak with the swell of her own death?

  It was a radical notion.

  One that made her absolutely perfect for him, not that he was interested in murder or killing women, quite the opposite, in fact. But the willingness that type of mentality implied—that type of need implied—encompassed everything he’d been looking for in a woman all these years and had failed to find.

&n
bsp; “Nathan, are you listening to me?” his mother snapped, her frail, gloved hand smacking the marble tabletop, which caused the glassware to rattle.

  He wasn’t fond of pop quizzes, but managed, “In the late 80s, Father agreed to let you venture into an investment with a private military contract company called, Maxum. The aim was to fund legitimate government contracts—that is, fund Maxum for any operation the government hired them to do when those government funds were too little, too late, i.e. ‘due on delivery’. Have I got it right so far, Mother?”

  “Humph,” she grumbled, perhaps annoyed that she hadn’t caught him with a wandering mind after all. She had, but Nathan was expert at dividing his attention. “At first the government contracts centered on missions that Maxum believed were sanctioned by Congress. Bear in mind that we only supplied funds. We rarely questioned the missions and soon we weren’t even provided with that information. We didn’t care, truth be told, because within a year our profits with Maxum were thirty-fold. We were no longer ‘investing’. We sat back and watched the profits show up in an offshore account every quarter like miraculous clockwork—”

  “When did it all go south?” he asked with masterful control over the patience he was quickly losing. He always had had a short fuse when it came to Guinevere, unlike any and every other individual on earth. He checked his Rolex for the time and considered the likelihood that he wouldn’t be able to drive with Portia into the city. He’d have to take the jet, such a production. He groaned to himself. “So far, it sounds like yours weren’t the hands that got dirty.”

  “Oh, they’re filthy, my son, and I’m afraid yours are too by association.”

  “Wonderful,” he said dryly.

  “I’m still unclear as to whether Maxum got… let’s just say, ‘creative’ on their own or if someone high ranking in perhaps Congress or the government office that hired Maxum for their services did—the CIA maybe—”