Tycoon Page 10

  “Why did you bring me here?”

  “You seemed upset. I didn’t want you to be alone tonight.” He drops his hands and plunges them deep into his pockets as he looks at me, his voice becoming lower and deeper. “And I didn’t want to be without you tonight.”

  I glance away, then back at him. “Thank you for believing in me,” I whisper.

  “Thank you for bringing something to the table that’s worth pursuing,” he counters, his gaze direct. “I gave you the check because I want us to do business together. Don’t think for a moment I don’t.”

  “That kiss was business too?”

  He smirks. “No. That was for me.”

  Squirming under my skin from the heat sizzling in the space between our bodies, I run my hands down my dress. “I won’t lie and say I haven’t thought about you and I. But it’s complicated. You’re in a relationship and we’re starting a business partnership. I’m not the kind of girl that goes stealing men from other girls.”

  “I’m not stealable.” He grins.

  “What does that mean?”

  He just looks at me for a long moment. “Sleep with me.”

  “Is that a good idea?” I gasp in disbelief at his suggestion. “I can hardly keep my hands to myself right now.”

  “Spend the night with me,” he says.

  “Aaric.”

  He takes my chin and lifts my face, one eyebrow rising. “We can talk business.”

  I swallow.

  “Or we can actually sleep,” I hedge.

  “I’m up for that.” His lips hike up halfway as he nods in consent.

  “We can’t kiss again,” I breathe.

  His gaze falls to my mouth. Is there regret there? Lust? Both? “I’m trying to take it slow with you, Bryn.”

  “Christos…frankly, I don’t know what to make of this.”

  “Like I said, I’m hoping to take it slow enough for you to feel comfortable.”

  “Comfortable with what?”

  “The idea of you and me being involved, bit. To us taking things to where we want them. Tonight I want you to sleep here—I can sleep in a separate room if you need your space.”

  “I don’t want space. But I don’t want to regret anything…” I trail off.

  Because I already know sometimes the regrets go both ways. Going home won’t guarantee that I won’t wake up without any regrets. With more what ifs, more mind-dream kisses from Christos.

  “I suppose if I’m staying I should change. Do you have something decent I can wear?” I ask.

  We walk into his bedroom—it’s too big and beautifully decorated to be anything but his. He leads me to the closet, motioning to the very end.

  I am surprised to find a whole section of his closet contains women’s things. I would leave if he weren’t standing at the door watching me. “I’m not wearing Miranda’s stuff.”

  “She leaves shit here. Grab anything else.” He pushes off the door frame.

  “I’m not wearing her stuff!” I raise my voice so he can hear me as I stalk to the other side of his closet, undo my dress, then quickly grab a folded gray sweatshirt and slip my arms into the sleeves.

  He stands by the bed and watches me walk into his room while he fiddles with his phone. His head snaps back attentively, and he freezes.

  “What?” I ask.

  He stares another moment longer.

  “Just really like seeing you in my things,” he says. Low. A lovely smirk on his lips.

  I smile, flushing head to toe.

  “1 a.m., right?” he asks, glancing down at his phone.

  I realize what he is doing and discreetly bite down on my lip while more heat bubbles up in my veins. I nod.

  He sets his phone aside and pulls back the sheets in invitation.

  He’s still dressed. I’m wearing nothing but my undergarments and his very large sweatshirt and his eyes on me—eyes that won’t focus on anything else.

  God. He makes me feel sexy and that’s dangerous. I already feel sensitive when it comes to him. And I’ve never done something like this. This is a little too brazen for me, but I still cross the room and settle into his bed. I have no intention of misbehaving, but the truth is…

  I don’t want to sleep alone tonight either.

  He unbuttons his shirt, revealing his tattoo. It runs up over his shoulders and across part of his chest.

  I’m no longer relaxed. Not one bit.

  He climbs the bed with me, I hold my breath.

  I feel his bare chest against me as he draws me toward him. His long legs still in slacks.

  “I’m going to regret this tomorrow, aren’t I?” I cant my head up to his and shift to get closer.

  “No.” His mouth presses to my forehead, and that tiny contact makes me groan. “God, I want to feast on you,” he says, against my temple.

  His eyes gleam as he slips his hand to my hair and squeezes the back of my neck proprietarily as he ducks his head and takes my mouth beneath his, the kiss so hard and brazen it pushes the back of my head into the pillow and my senses into chaos.

  I feel myself claw at his scalp and his fingers fist my hair, the kiss full of tongue and teeth and frustration and lust.

  Six minutes later or a lifetime later, we stop kissing. My mouth hurts like hell, but I still want more. He looks ready to turn to ash from the heat in his gaze as he takes in my expression.

  He looks about as wrecked as I feel, because I’m stealing this moment from him. A moment that should belong to another girl.

  He looks wrecked but hungry, so hungry that when he ducks his head for another kiss, I turn my head and breathe, “We can’t. We can’t do this.” He lets out a soft but frustrated laugh and whispers in the back of my ear, “We can. But I’ll wait for you, Bryn. I’ll wait to get any piece of you I can get.”

  It’s almost enough to break my resolve.

  Bryn

  It felt surreal to wake up at his place at 1 a.m.

  At 3 a.m.

  at 5 a.m.

  and at 7 a.m.

  The first three times, he turned off the alarm and whispered in my ear that I was okay. For some reason, I believed him and went back asleep. At 7 a.m., a different sound began buzzing. The clock on the nightstand.

  I scanned his empty bedroom in a panic.

  Did I really sleep here?

  I breathe, spot a note on his pillow, and get out of bed.

  I consider using the shower, but then rule against it. When I return his sweatshirt to the drawers, I can’t help but peek at the long line of female things in his closet. The clothes Miranda has left here. They are made of high-quality fabrics. I don’t want to do this to myself. In fact, I’m not going to compare. It’s ridiculous to think she’s the better woman because of her clothes, because she wears European designer and I wear my own, and I know it’s not true. But I can’t help but remember what Christos told me. They make sense as a couple—and in the light of day they make more sense. Last night seems more reckless and impulsive than ever.

  This is just not who I am!

  Proof of how much this guy gets to me.

  Once back in my clothes, I pull out his note and read it.

  Coffee in the kitchen. Meet me at 1 p.m. tomorrow at C & Co. I want you in the board of directors meeting to introduce them to HOS.

  Christos.

  I shut my eyes.

  Oh God, how can I face him?

  “Hey. Hankypankier,” Sara says when I get to our flat. It’s a sunny morning, and as I get off the train and walk to the apartment building, the streets are back to its usual Monday hectic pace.

  “Hey.” I drop my bag on the small dining table and head to the bathroom to turn on the shower.

  “No hanky panky?” Sara calls as I join her while I wait for the water to get hot.

  “No, so you can stop calling me hankypankier.”

  “Oh.” She brings me a cup of coffee. “Is it the tycoon?”

  “No. It’s…well, yes. He’s my new business partner now.
So hanky panky isn’t really a good idea. Last night I was just…I just had an emotional breakdown, a little one. I thought he was playing around with me. Then he gave me the check and I felt like a fool…and I felt grateful, and it just…brought his memories back up again. It was a weird night. It’s over. Now I’m all business.” I have to be.

  “He gave you all the money?”

  I meet her startled gaze. I feel just as shocked as she looks. Is my startup really going to happen? Am I really going to be able to dress people, help them choose their outfits with minimal effort, and design my own things? “More than I was asking for. I need to spend it better than ever. Do you want to model?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Do you want to model—”

  “When and where.”

  “Soon. I need to talk to Christos, but I’ll tell you more when he gives me a green light on everything.”

  On Monday, I present my ideas to the board, with Christos—quiet, sexy, dangerous-to-me Christos—at the head of the table.

  My legs tremble as he gazes at me.

  He’s dressed in plain gray slacks and a white shirt, and he looks as untouchable as ever. I can’t believe the things we do in the night when we feel like there will never be daylight again.

  Oh God. Could I have not gone home on my own instead? Please?

  “House of Sass is a brand-new concept,” I tell the group of twelve men seated at the long mahogany oak table. “Embracing the traditional as well as the modern-day woman who shops online more than at physical stores. We aim to meet both needs—with fashion stylists in-store and with our avant-garde software aimed to give women an edge to dress to impress and step into the roles of their dreams more easily…”

  Christos scans his board members’ reactions before he returns his gaze to me.

  My blood feels thick as oil in my veins when I remember the way his mouth moved over mine. I was so undone. So worried that he’s with another woman, that it’s wrong.

  I look at him across the table, quiet, simmering with tightly leashed energy.

  He looks like a man who’s physically enjoyed life, but the hard lines on his features makes me wonder if he’s ever loved anyone. Mentally, emotionally, with his soul. And if he’s ever been loved back. During all these years apart, I don’t think Christos has ever experienced what we could have had together when we were young, and for a moment I feel sorry for us—for him, for me—sorry we didn’t experience it. Then I admire him, envy him. For his freedom, the complete fullness of his being, where no pieces have broken off yet. Even when he’s with a woman, he’s still him—free, unattached in the most essential ways.

  Unattached in a way I’m not sure I’m unattached—from him.

  Once my presentation is over, I thank the board members for their time while Christos steps out with Cole.

  I gather my things and overhear them arguing when I step out into the hall. Cole is passionately speaking while Christos stands with his hands in his pockets, his lips pursed tight, and a look of irritation on his face.

  “What you did is bad business. Why would you possibly do that? She’s very unhappy about that. Plus to get on Santorini’s bad side when he owns half of Brooklyn…”

  Trying not to overhear more, I hurry to leave when I hear Roberta, Aaric’s assistant’s, voice behind me.

  “Miss Kelly?”

  I stop and watch her rush up to my side with a business card in her hand.

  “Mr. Christos wants you to meet him tonight at this restaurant. It’s in Chelsea. 7 p.m. Sharp.”

  “Oh…thank you.” I raise my gaze past her shoulders, and Christos is still standing before Cole, but his eyes are now on me.

  A little trembly, I take the card. I feel a strange tingle in my stomach as I read his handwriting. The top of the card reads FIG & OLIVE. I try to quell the sensation of tumbling down a huge mountain as I send him a smile—the feeling intensifies when he smiles back at me—and I tell myself this is going to be a business dinner. Nothing more. It cannot be more, not for the good of us, our business, or his relationship with the perfect society girl.

  Bryn

  At 7 p.m., I walk into the restaurant. He’s waiting at the entrance, dressed in black jeans and a black shirt, and he watches me as I step through the glass doors.

  My mouth waters at his intense, unapologetic, possessive gaze.

  “Hey,” I say.

  He smiles as he leans forward and embraces me. “Glad you came.” His eyes shine as if he really is glad.

  We’re led to our table, and Christos motions for me to follow the maître d'. He lets me slide inside the booth before he takes his seat next to me. Our shoulders connect.

  “Hungry?” he asks.

  “Yes. But we could have met somewhere less—”

  He’s so close.

  My thoughts scatter.

  “Go on,” he says.

  “Well, it’s just that I don’t want you to misinterpret what we have for anything other than business. It seemed imperative I see you, and I thought it best to personally tell you that I was out of line. I’m not interested in dating you, but I really appreciate what you’ve done for me…”

  He raises his brow, watching me. His mouth. His face. He’s a complete sex god and once, long ago, he was interested in me. I close my eyes as I remember once, when he tried to kiss me. “Got it,” he says. “But you are here. And from now until the night is over, you’re with me. And I plan to enjoy you.”

  “Okay, but don’t think you can change my mind about you.”

  “Don’t worry, I won’t even try. I’m as bad as they say.”

  His features are completely unreadable as he looks at me, giving me a slow, decadent smile.

  Damn him. He looks so gorgeous. I don’t want to feel this compelled to act crazy, but he makes me lose all rationale.

  I laugh and glance down at the menu, trying not to notice how my left side feels warmer than my right because he’s sitting next to me.

  I won’t go there! I can’t help being attracted but I’m not some animal ruled by lust. I can control it. But I’m afraid how the urge to touch him—even if just playfully—keeps coming, how the stares won’t stop happening, how this craving inside me won’t cease.

  “I could tell at the meeting you were upset with me. I didn’t like it,” he says.

  “Not upset. It was just difficult to see you after last night.” I exhale, meeting his gaze. “I didn’t expect you to help me.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. It took me aback after weeks of not knowing. I got overwhelmed. I don’t want you to think I spent the night because you gave me the money, it just…reminded me of you. Years ago. Made feelings come up.”

  “Seeing you on edge made feelings come up for me too.”

  “Which feelings?”

  “The ones I’m pretty sure I was clear about with my tongue.”

  “And the rest?”

  “It’s complicated.”

  He shuts the menu, leaning forward.

  “You’re not making things easy for me. I always know what I want. Unfuckingwavering. But then you come along.”

  “And.”

  “And you change everything.” He drags a hand down his face.

  “Nothing changes, Christos. We’re still going to do business—and you can go on with your life as planned.”

  “Can I? Really? Let me show you some food while you’re starving, but go ahead, keep starving.”

  “Come on,” I laugh.

  “Fourteen years starving to kiss you.”

  My smile fades.

  “Do you feel better now?” I whisper.

  “I do. Hungrier. But a little better.” He eyes me. “There’s always been something about you.”

  “Please. This is complicated enough as it is. I’m trying to focus on House of Sass. I need it to work, and I don’t want to fail you.”

  “You won’t,” he says. “And you’re right. I want you focused.” His eyes trail over
my features for three seconds too long, then he shakes his head and opens up his phone calendar to show me some notes.

  “We need to look at locations for the physical store. Keep an eye out. I’m having my people send you a list of land and buildings I own. Maybe one of those will work.”

  “Thank you, Christos.” I smile shyly. “I found a model in case we require some sort of advertising.”

  I proceed to tell him about Sara as well as my hopes to maybe have a store more similar to a “showroom” than an actual department store. “People shop online more and more these days, so we can have a showroom warehouse, which can serve as an office space and storage space, to also sell the merchandise. We can also have the servers down in the basement much like you have in Christos and Co.”

  He seems to like my suggestions, and although I’m glad to be talking about business, I can’t help but reach out and occasionally touch his shoulder as I talk, craving the contact.

  The rest of the week I scout locations along with some of Christos’s employees, who drive me around town to show me possible sites for the House of Sass offices and headline store. I’m given an invitation from Christos and Co. to the opening of one of his newest real estate developments, a 70-story skyscraper apartment building near Columbus Circle. “Thank you, I’ll try to make it,” I tell her.

  “Oh, you’d better. He personalized yours.” She winks, and I turn the invitation to once again see his handwriting with the message:

  I expect my little bit to come. C

  Whoa, my ovaries just exploded a little, and I’m not even sure he phrased it like that on purpose.

  Naturally, I cannot stop looking at the invitation during the week, and Sara and I spend a whole two hours one evening speculating on whether—or not—the word “come” had a double meaning.

  “I’m telling you he has a girlfriend,” I say.

  Sara says, “Well, they’ve been mysteriously off the social pages for a while, and she appeared alone at an event last weekend.”

  She pulls out an image of Miranda and her father at an event, no Christos.