Derailed II

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SEDUCED BY THE PARK AVENUE BILLIONAIRE

Part 2: Derailed

Copyright © 2012 by Nelle L’Amour. All rights reserved.

First Kindle Edition: December 2012

Cover and Formatting: Streetlight Graphics

All rights reserved. This eBook is licensed for the personal enjoyment of the original purchaser only. This eBook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this eBook and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Amazon.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

The characters and events portrayed in this book are a work of fiction or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

Dedicated to those who dream…

Sometimes a single encounter can stay with you forever…

1

I
’D NEVER BEEN IN A convertible before, let alone a Bentley. I was loving every minute of it. As Ari zoomed uptown, my ponytail whipped across my face. My eyes darted between the city streets, the car’s rich tan leather and veneer interior, and Ari’s gorgeous, but unreadable profile.

“So, come on, tell me where we’re going,” I begged him. We were getting close to his apartment.

“If I tell you, will you play with my Pac-Man?”

I glanced down at the bulge between his legs and felt myself flushing. Tingles rushed to my core. “Sure,” I stammered. “But not in front of your son.”

Ari’s lush lips curved into a smile. “Southampton. I have a house there.”

Southampton was the summer playground of New York’s elite. It figured that Trainman would have a second residence there. My stomach bunched up with nerves. Two questions pummeled my head: 1. What was I going to wear? (I didn’t exactly come packed for a weekend at the beach), and 2. Where was I going to sleep?

I put my mental ramblings on hold when Ari’s stately Park Avenue apartment building came into view. His adorable six-year-old son Ben was already standing under the awning, holding a canvas overnight bag in one hand and the toy train I’d given him in the other. Dressed in khaki shorts, an oversized Spiderman t-shirt, and a New York Yankees baseball cap, he waved to us as we pulled up.

“Isn’t Luisa coming?” I asked Ari.

“No, I’ve given her the rest of the weekend off. Olga and her husband Vadim will be waiting for us at The Hamptons house.”

More of Ari’s staff.

The doorman helped Ben put his bag into the trunk, and then the little boy climbed over the rear door into the backseat.

“Sarah, that’s so cool you’re coming with us.”

Ari chimed in before I had a chance to utter a word. “Yes, it is so cool she can come.”

I jerked my head in his direction, raising an eyebrow. What did he mean by that? While his vision remained focused straight ahead, he was well aware my eyes were on him. The corner of his mouth again curled into a wicked grin that sent a pang of desire to my core.

We spent the next two and a half hours cruising down the Long Island Freeway and later Sunrise Highway at eighty miles an hour, listening to lots of music that Ari had programmed for the trip from Frank Sinatra to Bob Marley to We Are Giants, Ben’s favorite group. There wasn’t much traffic as most New Yorkers had left yesterday to get an early start on the three-day Memorial Day weekend. The sound of the wind whipping against the car and the loud music made conversation virtually impossible. Fortunately for me, the combination had a calming effect, allowing me the bliss of mindlessness instead of my normal stream of worries. Ben quietly played games on an iPad while Ari stayed focused on the road. I glanced over to him occasionally, admiring his tanned biceps and the way the wind ruffled his golden hair. I had to resist the urge to run my fingers through it. God, he was gorgeous.

We finally exited the highway and began coursing down a more rustic road. After twenty or so minutes and several turns, the unmistakable smell of the salty ocean mingled with the fresh, fragrant country air. We passed a sign that read “Welcome to Southampton,” and several turns later we were cruising down an oceanfront road lined with mansion after mansion. We soon pulled up to electronic gates that opened like butterfly wings after Ari hit a button on his elaborate dashboard. Ben shouted out, “Yay! We’re here!”

Upon entering the property, the car traversed a long pebbled driveway that wound past pastures of grass, beds of roses, and other wild flowers. Finally we pulled up to a rambling two-story gray shingled house with lots of wraparound white terraces. Despite its grand size, it didn’t reek of pretentiousness.

A big-boned woman with high Slavic cheekbones and a man who resembled Charles Bronson in his heyday instantly came out the front door to greet us. They both looked as if they were straight out of central casting for Russian secret service agents. The woman was clad in a black maid’s uniform that was identical to Luisa’s and the man in tight black jeans and a tee that exposed his body-builder physique. Ben jumped out of the car to hug the woman and high-five the menacing looking man. They must be Olga and Vadim. The Southampton help.

Ari got out of the car, and opened my door before I had the chance. My god was always the gentleman. He unlatched the trunk of the Bentley where Olga and Vadim promptly joined him. Ari handed Vadim the luggage, which included a pale pink canvas case with tan leather trimmings.
Mine?

Inside, the house was quite the opposite of Ari’s intimidating, formal Park Avenue apartment. It was the kind of place that after a long day of sun you could curl up with a good book and relax in. White slipcovered seating arrangements were scattered on distressed wood floors, and nautical-themed paintings lined the white walls. Everything was connected by accents of blue. The color of the ocean. The color of Ari’s eyes.

“Saarah, Olga will show you to the guesthouse.”

So, that’s where I would be sleeping. In my own room. In my own bed. In my own house. Detached from him.

“Please put on a bathing suit,” he ordered. “That’s all you’ll need. We’ll be going to the beach following lunch.”

So, he had packed a bathing suit for me. A bikini or one-piece? And what other things I would find in my satchel?

As I followed the staunch housekeeper through French doors out to the back of the property, my eyes took in my surroundings. The grassy lawn was anchored by a large rectangular swimming pool that shimmered soft and blue in the sunshine, and to the right was a tennis court. I had seen pictures of houses like this but had never in my life thought I’d actually step foot in one. Let alone be staying in one.

Ahead, to the left, was a shingled house, similar in spirit to the architecture of the main house. I assumed this was the guesthouse as Olga led me down a pebbled path to it. As we got closer, my eyes popped. It was bigger than the house I grew up in. Way bigger!

She opened the front door, and I took the bag from her. “Thank you, Olga. I can handle it from here.”

Olga smiled at me, her first sign of warmth. In her heavy Russian accent, she said, “It
eez
very nice to meet a girlfriend of Mr. Golden.”

Well, I wasn’t exactly his girlfriend, but I took her words to mean that Ari had never brought a woman here before. Well, at least since his ex. It took away the chill of having to stay in the guesthouse alone.

The interior of the guesthouse mirrored that of the main house. A cozy array of slip covered furniture, complemented by flea market finds and quirky paintings. Outsider art, I was sure. I was beginning to discover there was another side to Ari Golden. One that was warm, unpretentious, and creative.

The best part of the guesthouse was its breathtaking view of the ocean. From the living room, I could see waves crashing up to the white sand. The sound was exhilarating and soothing at the same time.

I found the bedroom easily. It was simple and charming, consisting of a bleached wood sleigh bed and white wicker furnishings that included a rocking chair. I plopped myself and the overnight bag on the bed’s plump white cotton duvet. It felt delicious, and for a split-second, I wondered what it would be like to make love to Ari here.

Before unpacking the bag, I tried calling my mother on my cell phone. No answer. I anxiously assured myself that she was just taking a stroll down the hospital corridor, something she enjoyed doing; I’d try again later. Putting my cell phone back into my messenger bag, I unzipped the satchel. Inside was an assortment of clothing, all brand new and high-end designer, once again from Barneys. Two string bikinis, shorts, several fine cotton tees, skinny white jeans, a couple of floral sundresses, strappy platform sandals and a single pair of sparkly flip flops. Nothing too formal. And not a stitch of underwear.

I shed my boho peasant skirt and combat boots—and said farewell to my panties—and slipped on one of the bikinis. Having worn athletic, one-piece bathing suits my whole life, I was not used to having so much skin exposed. I might as well have been wearing nothing. Maybe that’s what Ari was aiming for. I fought back the urge to cover myself with a t-shirt, but knew that wouldn’t sit well with him. Sliding my feet into the flip-flops, I headed back to the main house.

To my surprise, Ari had another guest. His gorgeous redheaded twin sister, Gwen. Her face was buried in the
Business Section
of the
Sunday New York Times,
but she looked up when I took my seat at the kitchen island where lunch was spread out. The temperature in the room suddenly dropped ten degrees, and I could feel goose bumps popping out along my arms. I suddenly wish I’d put on a t-shirt. Make that a ski jacket.

“Well, hello, Sarah.” Her voice was icy, and the way she said my name was hurried and harsh, so unlike the sultry, breathy way Ari said it.

“Hi,” I squeaked, already intimidated by her.

She ran her eyes up and down my body. “You have very fair skin. You know, you can get
burnt
. I know of lots of women who have.”

Her words got under my skin. I knew what she was implying. That her brother Ari went through women like toilet paper. Using them and flushing them away. Her new tactic. Well two could play at this game.

“I’ll use
protection.”

She smirked. “I’ll be watching you.”