San Francisco: The Complete Trilogy Page 15

  The blonde turned the phone, showing the screen to the woman in boots.

  Boots rolled her eyes. “That’s ridiculous.”

  “Isn’t it?” Blonde shrugged, “but I like to treat her. She’s my sister.”

  “She can’t even drive; she doesn’t need that.”

  The blonde caught Christiana looking at them. Christiana, whose dress was only half on, started to stammer out an apology.

  “What do you think?” She turned the phone screen toward Christiana.

  On it was a picture of a young woman with long dark hair and Blonde’s same cheekbones. She was posing beside a shiny rose-gold sports car. Christiana blinked. “I…didn’t know they came in shiny pink.”

  Boots snorted out a laugh. “Exactly. Who buys a Lamborghini Aventador, and then has it painted some ridiculous high-shine aftermarket color?”

  “Rose-gold is her signature color.” Blonde sounded hurt.

  “But she hasn’t even learned to drive, and you have her chauffeured everywhere. You spoil her.”

  “She’s my sister—I’m allowed to spoil her,” Blonde insisted.

  “The rose-gold Rolex with pink diamonds is spoiling. A half-million-euro car is just a waste.”

  Christiana froze in the act of zipping her dress, one arm behind her in an awkward position.

  “Oh, here, let me help.” Blonde took the zipper of Christiana’s best dress, purchased at Macy’s, and finished zipping it.

  That woman had spent a half a million euros on a shiny car for her little sister…who couldn’t drive.

  Boots stood, turning to the mirror to fluff her kinky-curly hair. She was wearing a short red leather dress. “I’m not saying it isn’t a wonderful car, I’m just saying you should be the one driving it.”

  “Maybe, but she loves that car.” Blonde tucked her phone into a large designer bag, the kind that looked deceptively simple. “And besides, didn’t you just have your jet painted?”

  “It needed to be painted. It looked just like every other Bombardier.”

  “I thought you had it customized.”

  “I did, but then they came out with a new Challenger model that looks almost like mine.”

  Blonde shook her head ruefully, put her bag on her arm, holding it in the crook of her elbow the way rich people did. Together Blonde and Boots left the dressing room.

  There were still a few other people, but Christiana ignored then, sinking down on an ottoman and putting on her shoes.

  Half-million-euro cars and private jets. Those were the sorts of people who were members of the Orchid Club.

  The sort of person James was.

  Oh my god. What had she been thinking? She’d take him to her shitty apartment? Admit to him that she spent her day wearing a hardhat and safety vest, a lowly state employee?

  She pressed her hands over her lips and closed her eyes. She was a fool, a terrible, terrible fool. There was no way James would look at her the same way he did now if he knew who she really was, if he knew how very different their worlds were.

  Part of her wanted to believe the fairytale that things like differences in class and wealth didn’t matter, but she was too much of a realist. She knew things like skin color and gender mattered, that people made assumptions based on them. She was the granddaughter of Mexican immigrants and the only woman in her department. She knew what it meant to be different than the people around her.

  She and James didn’t have anything in common.

  In the fairy tale, the dark prince falls for the civil engineer Cinderella, and they ride off into the sunset.

  She stood, picking up her own bag, which now looked cheap and terrible.

  In reality, there was no future for them, and instead of a night dancing at the ball, she’d had three nights in his arms.

  And that’s all she’d ever have.

  Chapter 11

  There was an odd look on Christiana’s face when she emerged from the dressing room. He approached her, taking her hands in his, searching her expression. He’d put on a spare shirt he’d brought, and she was looking lovely in a floor-length black dress.

  “Are you well, Christiana?”

  She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Yes, thank you.”

  He tucked her arm through his. The candles in the long hall were almost gutted, the light flickering as the wicks were about to burn out. He opened the door at the end, leading her out into the pre-dawn light. The sound of the ocean wasn’t quite loud enough to hide the sound of the early morning traffic on the bridge that passed across the island.

  A driver opened the door for her, and James helped her in to the back seat of the town car, then got in himself. When the driver climbed in, Christiana said, “The Fairmont.”

  James frowned at her. “I thought you were from San Francisco?”

  She licked her lips. She seemed…nervous. “I am. But I’m… I’m not…” Her voice trailed off and she looked out the window, silence stretching. He got the impression she wasn’t sure how to answer. Finally, with a small shake of her head, she said, “I decided to get dropped off and picked up from there. My, um, car is in the hotel garage.”

  Ah, of course. In his enthusiasm and—if he was being blunt—infatuation, he wasn’t considering what she must be thinking. This was her first Orchid Club event, which meant that she had only recently joined the society. Unlike him, she probably took the rules very seriously. One of the most important rules was secrecy, both about the society and with regards to other members. A rather intense NDA all members signed made sure no one said anything. A subset rule was that play between members should be limited to the events, unless they had a non-BDSM relationship. That was meant to make sure that two people who otherwise had no connection were never caught mid-BDSM scene by a witness or paparazzi. A scandalous photo might raise questions that could lead to exposing the secrets of the society.

  And here he was, insisting on escorting her home. She must be worried that would break the rules.

  Or, more concerning, maybe it had nothing to do with the rules. Maybe she didn’t want him to know where she lived because she was afraid he’d seek her out. Afraid he’d come after her.

  He straightened in his seat, making sure he wasn’t touching her. It was rare that he was wrong, but it wasn’t impossible that he’d misread her, and that the intimacy he’d felt between them was, in fact, just part of the scene for her, and now that it was over she wanted to put a safe distance between them.

  Something brushed his fingers. He looked down. Christiana tentatively stroked the back of his hand.

  Despite everything he’d just told himself about how he needed to not overstep, about how she must be worried about breaking the rules and that he was going too fast, he reached out with his right hand, cupping her cheek and lifting her face. She looked so lost that his stomach clenched.

  “Christiana, my sweet, what’s wrong?”

  “I don’t want this to be over,” she whispered.

  Or maybe she wanted more. Maybe she’d hesitated because she was considering inviting him to join her for a continuation.

  The car merged onto the bridge, where traffic was what many cities would consider horrible, but was simply par for the course in San Francisco.

  “It’s not over,” he assured her. “We’re not over.”

  For one wild, reckless moment, he considered telling the driver to take them to his hotel. He’d lead her out of the car and up to his room, the rules be damned.

  No. The wait would be part of the pleasure. He wanted time to plan what he would do to her.

  “I’ll see you in one month,” he assured her. “Let’s agree, right now, that we’ll scene exclusively together in Luxembourg.”

  “Exclusively?”

  “That’s what I want.”

  She reached up, covering his hand with hers, pressing his palm tighter against her cheek. “That’s what I want, too.”

  He grinned, but then the smile faded. He needed to be fair. This was her
first event, and it might be post-scene afterglow talking.

  “I want you to have an out,” he told her. “In case you feel differently when you get there.”

  “I don’t want an out.”

  “You might change your mind. There are many interesting members. Based on the way people were looking at you, I’d say you could have your pick.”

  “I don’t want anyone to touch me but you.”

  He leaned his forehead against hers. “The idea of someone else touching you makes me positively homicidal, so I’m glad to hear that.”

  She laughed, but it was weak. “I wish we could have one more night.”

  He leaned back slowly, considering what he would say next. “I would like nothing more than to have another scene with you.”

  She stiffened.

  “But,” he said, his cock hating what he was about to say, “while I have no problem breaking rules, considering that you’re new to the society and we just finished an intense scene, I couldn’t, in good conscience, do that.”

  They were in stop-and-go traffic on surface streets. He wasn’t terribly familiar with San Francisco, but he knew they couldn’t have long before they reached her hotel.

  “An out,” he said again. “If you wear your hair up, like you did last night, then I’ll know you still want to partner with me. If you wear it down, then I won’t approach you.”

  “You like my hair up?” she asked

  “I like it both ways, but what I really liked was being the one to make it fall down around you.”

  “I like that, too,” she breathed.

  Their gazes met and held. The car pulled up to the curb. The valet approached his door.

  “Kiss me,” she pleaded.

  James frowned at the desperate, sad note in her voice, but he kissed her. He kissed her deeply, passionately. He kissed her in a way he hadn’t kissed a woman in a long time, because there was more than just physical attraction between them—here was something deeper. Something he intended to explore.

  Foggy morning air crept in through the open door. The valet and driver, both witnesses to this remarkable kiss, didn’t speak, either because they were well paid or because they could sense that what was happening here was special, different.

  Christiana pulled back, licking her lips, as if savoring his taste.

  “Next time,” he told her quietly, “I’ll have you in every way.”

  The lingering traces of sadness in her eyes were replaced by the heat of arousal. That’s what he’d wanted. He didn’t trust himself not to break his own word and follow her to her car if he had to leave her looking so sad and lost.

  He climbed out the passenger side rear door, then reached in to help her out. She leaned into him, and he wrapped his arms around her, kissing her hair, before whispering in her ear, “I expect you to think about me when you touch yourself tonight.”

  He felt her shiver.

  “I will.” Her words were so low he could barely hear them. “I’ll never stop thinking about you.”

  She pulled back, touching his face once before she took a backward step away from him. “Will you think about me?”

  “Oh yes, I will, my sweet.”

  The doorman opened the lobby door, and Christiana turned and walked into the hotel.

  James was smiling as he got back into the car and gave the driver the address of the small hotel that was one of a dozen properties his family owned in the city. If someone had told him when he arrived in San Francisco that by the time the event was over he would be enthralled with a woman, he would have laughed at them.

  But he was utterly and completely in lust with Christiana.

  He spent the remainder of the car ride imagining and planning all the delicious, depraved things he would do to her at the next Orchid Club event.

  Christiana stumbled into her apartment, stomach knotted and face wet with tears. She was on the third floor of a small, blocky building in Oakland. It was only five hundred square feet, and the miniscule kitchen table doubled as counter space, since the limited amount of countertop she did have was almost entirely taken up by her microwave and toaster. She made good money—by normal people standards—but opted for a cheaper apartment so she could afford to live alone, and so she could save up to maybe someday buy a condo.

  She shambled into the tiny bedroom and dropped onto the corner of the bed, which was covered with a cheap but pretty white-and-blue comforter with images of watercolor flowers on it.

  There were heavy security bars on the windows and three deadbolts on her door. Her neighborhood wasn’t exactly June Cleaver level, but it wasn’t bad, and it had a gated parking lot where she could safely park her work truck when she needed to bring it home overnight.

  What would James have done if she’d brought him here? Would he have laughed? Would his face have changed from warm, sexy, and caring to cold and angry? Worse, would he have pitied her?

  She felt sick and stupid, sitting on her bed at nine in the morning on a Sunday in her best black dress. She jumped up and struggled out of the dress, ripping the zipper in the process. It didn’t matter; she would never wear it again.

  She kicked off her shoes and closed the bedroom door, revealing the full-length mirror hanging on the back.

  Naked, she looked at herself. A sweet sort of relief filled her when she realized that she bore physical traces of James’s touch—her nipples were sensitive to the touch and pinker than normal. There was a small hickey on the inner curve of her left breast, and another one on her thigh. When she turned, she could see her ass, still a bit pink, and if she was lucky there might be a small bruise on the right cheek in a few hours.

  This was all she’d ever have of him, a few aches and bruises. And her memories.

  “You’re a coward,” she told her reflection.

  There had been a moment in the car when she could have told him the truth. She’d come close, so close, but her courage failed her. He’d been looking at her with a sweet mix of concern and that delicious aura of command. She’d wanted him to keep looking at her like that.

  She wanted to live in the fantasy a little while longer.

  So she’d lied about having a car at the hotel, and he’d accepted that, seeming to think she was nervous about breaking some rules she didn’t even know. Her sweet, sexy, dark prince.

  Not hers. Never again.

  She didn’t deserve him. Not because he was rich and she was poor, but because he’d asked for honesty, and she hadn’t been able to give him that. He deserved someone who was who they said they were, not an imposter.

  Part of her wanted to shower, to wash away the sick feeling inside her, but she wouldn’t—her skin still bore traces of his scent, and she’d hold on to that for as long as possible.

  She crawled between the sheets, pulling them up under her chin. The morning light filtering through her battered mini blinds didn’t match her mood. It should be pouring down rain.

  What would happen when he got to Luxembourg and she wasn’t there? Would he…would he be hurt?

  He didn’t deserve that.

  Would he think that he’d done something wrong, that he’d hurt her?

  No, no, please not that. He was wonderful.

  She pulled the covers over her head and let the tears fall. She cried angry tears of self-recrimination. She cried tears of guilt and sadness for what she’d done to James, who deserved better than to be ghosted.

  She cried until there were no more tears, only dry sobs, and then she slept.

  While she slept, she was back in the club, back in James’s arms, and in her sleep she smiled.

  Chapter 12

  One Month Later – Luxembourg

  “You’re in love with her.” Jun drew out the word love so it sounded more like luuurvve.

  James raised a brow. “Hardly. I am, however, wildly in lust.”

  “That says love.” Jun pointed at the jewelry box James held.

  James held the box up, letting the sunlight hit the gems. It was
a short, choker-style necklace of braided gold, set with yellow diamonds. He’d had it custom-made for Christiana. Maybe it was too much, but he’d had a vision of her, naked except for a jeweled collar, and he hadn’t been able to get it out of his head. He’d paid an exorbitant rush fee to have the necklace made in time, but his family’s preferred jeweler—a master craftsperson in Dubai—had managed it, even sourcing the ten half-carat yellow diamonds he’d wanted.

  “I got her a functional collar, too,” James said. He’d thought about a steel collar, but then opted for something more supple and elegant—a natural-tone deerskin leather collar. The inside of the collar had his initials burned into the leather where they would press against her skin.

  “You’re going to officially officially collar her?” Jun asked.

  “Officially officially? You have such a way with words.”

  “Just for that, I’m not getting you a refill.” Jun rose from the comfortable lounge chair and walked to the bar, empty glass in hand.

  The Luxembourg event started tomorrow night, but rather than stay in a hotel, they were borrowing the estate home of one of Jun’s business colleagues. The four-bed, six-bath place was elegant in an old-world way, and perhaps a bit stiff and formal, but the library was everything a man could ask for—good books on the shelves, a delightful collection of music, and a well-stocked bar. Jun had eschewed the formal living room, and instead opted to spend their time in here.

  James closed the jeweler’s box and set it on the small table beside his chair, then pushed up to follow Jun, since his friend wasn’t going play server.

  James placed his nearly empty glass on the bar beside Jun’s, and despite his words Jun poured a finger of the strong, sweet port.

  “I want to make sure you know what you’re doing,” Jun said, the tone of teasing gone from his voice.