coldest2

CHAPTERTWO RareBooks I whirl, my eyes still pricked with tears. I’m half expecting to see someone much older than Saul. Someone decrepit. Someone out of nightmares. Instead I’m facing the most handsome man I’ve ever seen. A strong brow shadows luminous, dark-coffee-colored eyes. His nose reminds me of a bust of some ancient Greek philosopher. Sensual lips curve in a secret smile, one we share out of our mutual distaste for whatever this is. He stands far enough back that I don’t feel crowded against the bar, but somehow I still feel the heat emanating from his large body. “How do people drink that?” I manage to say, my voice hoarse. “If you’re going to drink whiskey,” he says, “drink whiskey.” I blink. “Meaning?” “Meaning that stuff’s cheap.” “It was forty-five dollars,” I say, defensive of Saul’s ordering decisions. He doesn’t respond except to lift his hand. The bartender immediately drops what he’s doing and hustles over. “A glass of Macallan 30 Sherry Oak.” It’s poured right in front of me, the bottle fancy and heavy-looking. “Salut,” the bartender says before disappearing. I study the liquid, which is a little darker but otherwise much the same. “Trust me,” the man in the suit says. "I don’t even know you." "Exactly. What reason would I have to lie to you?" A snort escapes me, even though the man has a point. What motive does he have for buying me what must be a ridiculously expensive drink just to show me that whiskey can taste good? I have to at least try it. And I suppose I’m a little curious. Could anything, even a more expensive barrel or different variety of grain, make it not taste like car oil? The man leans forward, giving me a faint whiff of sandalwood and luxurious maleness. He isn’t nearly as old as Saul, but he isn’t as young as me either. Instead of being a turn off, his age makes him seem confident, secure. Alluring. "Take a deep breath," he says. "Hold it while you drink. And then breathe out through your mouth. It’s the oxygen that makes it burn." What the hell. I throw back a gulp, half expecting to cough up a storm onto the pristine bar top. Instead it goes down smooth. My eyes widen. There’s almost a buttery after-taste. A pleasant warmth lines my throat. "What the hell was that?" Sensual lips curve. "Describe it to me. I want to know what your first time feels like." Damn. That’s presumptuous. And oddly attractive. I lick my lips. "It’s smooth.” His lids lower. Those dark eyes focus on my mouth. “Yes.” The final note hums on my tongue. “And a little sweet. I didn’t expect that.” “Whiskey can be sweet,” he says, though it doesn’t sound like he’s talking about alcohol, not with that gravel in his voice, with the flames in his eyes. “There are hints of caramel in this one.” “Caramel.” I run my finger along the thick-cut crystal embracing the whiskey. “There are smoky ones. Floral. Buttery. I like the earthiness of a malt, personally.” “Malt?” “I like to pretend I’m living in a remote cabin on a broad green slope, eating a hearty stew as I watch over my sheep.” I can’t help the laugh. This man in a three-piece suit? “You are the furthest thing from a sheep farmer that I’ve ever seen.” He puts a hand on his chest. “Wounded. Then what am I?” “Something that pays well, since you know that much about expensive whiskey.” “I see.” He’s waiting for more, his eyes challenging. I study him. His handkerchief square is the same red as his tie. “Something… dignified. Something serious.” But he dreams about living in a remote cabin in Ireland. Perhaps there’s a hint of an artist in him. “Let’s say… you’re a rare book dealer. The successfulkind.” Hegrins.“Youcouldsaythat.” Mystomachflutters.Isthiswhatflirtingbetweengrown-upsislike?Imean,I’vedatedbefore.Youdon’tgettobeajunioratTanglewoodUniversitywithoutgettingaskedoutbyfinancefratboysandtheatermajorsalike.Theytakemetoplaypoolatthereccenter.Oroccasionallyanoff-campussportsbarforwingsandwatered-downdrinks.Thenightinevitablyendswiththeguytryingtogetintomydormroom. Daisyismyconvenientexcusetokeepthemout. Alongwithseven-thirtya.m.classtimes. “HowclosewasI?”Iask,wonderingwhatthismanreallydoes.Probablynotanythingasinterestingasrarebooks.That’sjustafantasyofabookwormlikeme.Heprobablydoesinvestmentbankingorfrackingorsomeothercalculating,extractivething. “Myturn,”hesays,notanswering. Iraiseoneeyebrowtoexpressmydoubt.I’mwearingDaisy’sdress,whichistheonlyevenremotelyinterestingthingaboutmyperson.OtherwiseIhavebrownhair—thecolorofamouse,basically—wrappedintoafancy-lookingponytail.Browneyes.Astraightnose.Pinklips.TheonlycomplimentI’veeverbeenpaidisformybrain.She’ssosmart.Somuchpotential. If only, if only. I like my brain, but it would be nice, especially in a world more interested in how women look, to have been called pretty once or twice. "Go ahead," I say, my tone gentle, because there's nothing he can see. His dark eyes narrow as he studies me from the boring crown of my head down to boring toes encased in someone else's shoes. "You don't belong here." I stiffen. "What?" "Oh, you're holding your poise quite well, of course. Admirably, but anyone can see that you're too fine for this place. Too much quality." "Are you high? This place is maximum fancy." A snort. "I'm here for a charity event that costs two thousand dollars a plate. There will be speeches, a silent auction, dancing—the entire thing will probably spend far more than it makes. Everyone smiling and laughing and drunk, and here you are, not belonging for a single second. You aren't shallow or hypocritical. You're refreshingly... you." My nose scrunches. "Somehow you've made not belonging sound like a compliment. Which is impressive, but I've wanted to belong all my life." A half smile. "I know, dear heart. Because you're unbearably earnest." Dear heart? The tender, unlikely sobriquet makes me smile. "I’m… unbearable?" He leans close, his breath warm against my temple. "You make me want to run my tongue along the side of your neck to see if you taste sweet. In public. Without even asking your permission. I find the absence of your taste unbearable." My breath catches. "You’re a flirt." He chuckles. "And you’re stalling." "You doubt me, but I’ve been reading you like a book. Your hair, your ears, and God, your eyes. The absolute novels written in your eyes. Though I think the most telling points are your hands. Your fingers, to be precise." I look at my ordinary hands wrapped around the expensive crystal. "Explain." He nudges my finger away, revealing… nothing. More clear crystal. "You see? Ah, you don’t." He presses his own finger where mine had been and pulls it away, revealing… the faint imprint of his fingerprint—small topographical lines whispered onto the glass. "This bar is full of those fingerprints… except for yours. Which means that you either shaved yours off because you’re in the mob during the Prohibition era or you spent far too long with your hands in harsh chemicals. Most likely cleaning supplies." I stare at him, dumbfounded and more than a littlehorrified. It’s supposed to be my deep dark secret, the way I scrubbed my parents’ house from top to bottom with bleach before I moved into the dorm. How did a stranger figure it out in a matter of minutes? "So I must conclude," he says, his voice lazy with satisfaction, "that you are Cinderella." A borrowed dress from a roommate fairy godmother. An unlikely flirtation with a modern-day rich guy. And a ticking clock running out on our encounter. My voice comes out low through the knot in my throat. "You could say that." "Don’t worry," he says, almost tender. "You’ll be home before midnight." I’m still looking at him with wide eyes, breathing hard. How was this so intimate? "Tell me your name." It’s stated like a request, but his tone is coaxing. It makes me wonder what else he could coax me to do. "Anne," I say, because my name is common enough. It’s also more authentic than giving him some fake stripper name like Bunny or Chastity. This doesn’t feel like a fake stripper situation. I don’t want it to end, this moment of feeling flirty and playful. This moment of feeling like an adult. He leans close to me, close enough that I can see the blue flecks in his eyes. "Listen, Anne. I want you.""I’d really like to take you upstairs." Oh God, he smells good. And he’s handsome. This is how it would feel to have a grown man proposition you. It’s mature and sophisticated and— "But before I do," he murmurs, "I want to make a few things clear." I blink in confusion. "Like what?" "One hour only." My stomach sinks. This wasn’t grown up. This wasn’t flirting. It was the prelude to a transaction, even if it didn’t feel as skeevy as it did with Saul. "That’s my line." "And I like to play games." A shiver runs over my skin. "I’m guessing you don’t mean crossword puzzles." His soft exhale has amusement—but even more than that, leashed desire. "I enjoy the New York Times on Sunday as much as anyone, but that’s not what I had in mind." I’m almost afraid to ask. "Then what kind of games do you mean?" "I want you to beg. To moan. To whimper. I might even make you cry, but I promise not to leave a mark. Name your price… Anne." My cheeks turn scarlet. He’s offering money for sex. Even though that’s why I came here, the reality of sitting in this moment, having a man negotiate for my body sets me aflame. The way he says my name tells me he suspects it’s a fake, an irony that makes me flinch. A dark eyebrow ri—“Did I misread the situation?” I clear my throat. “No. You nailed it, except for one part.” “What’s that?” “You won’t make me cry.” Nothing does. I haven’t cried in years. Eons. His eyes glint with pleasure. “Then tell me what it’s going to take to bring you upstairs.” It’s going to take pretending I’m a different woman, that my dress isn’t so short, and that a man like you might want a girl like me for more than a freaking hourly rate. You can’t do this. Then again, how can I afford not to? That damn economics textbook lands with a thud. “One thousand dollars,” I blurt out. A slow smile spreads. “I have a feeling you’ll be worth it.” Oh shit. I’m actually doing this. My body feels itchy in this dress. It seems to have shrunk two sizes when I stand up, my breasts pushing up, my thighs on display. He’s all gentlemanly manners as he helps me on my wobbly heels. No leering at my tits like Saul. No groping my ass, even though he already paid for the right. We leave the hotel bar as demurely as any regular couple going upstairs to fuck. He pauses at the front desk to get a room. I shiver beneath the glittering chandeliers. You don’t belong here. Then he’s back, putting his coat around me. It’sIntimate, being surrounded by his warmth—everywhere. Catching the spice and masculine scent of him. A hand at the base of my back leads me to the elevator. Aged mirrors set in crown molded wood reflect my voluptuous body and cat eyes back to me. I only have a second to see that stranger before he pushes me back and kisses me. I’m leaned back over the large brass railing, off-center, completely reliant on him for my balance. My hands clench in his shirt. He kisses me as if he’s about to go to war. As if he wants to remember the taste. I push back, panting. “What’s your name?” His hand cups my jaw, turning me, tilting me, kissing me again until I’m exposed to him. Plundered. Used. We’re both breathing hard when he breaks away. I’m lost in a sea of sensual uncertainty, waves splashing like cold froth against heated skin. He rests his forehead against mine. “Will. But you’ll call me sir.” Will. Is that his real name? Or fake? I gave him my real name, but he still could have given me a false one. I didn’t realize how empty it would feel to not know who someone really is when you’re in their arms. In a way, calling him sir could be easier. More anonymous. “Is this part of the game?” “It’s very real. Toni”you’re mine.