Translucent (7 page)

On the traffic-laden drive to Burbank, my cell phone rings, lighting up the dashboard inside my black S63. Pressing a button on the left side of the steering wheel, the call connects, and I hope to hear good news.

“Talk to me, Caroline,” I answer. Rarely do I actually say
hello
to anyone.

“Reservations are set at Arnie Morton’s for six-thirty, and they guaranteed me you’d have a table with privacy,” she reports. “Also, Easton called looking for you. I told him you could be reached on your cell.”

“Perfect. Thank you, as always,” I reply gratefully, “and I’m sure he’ll wait to call tomorrow to give me time to cool down. He thinks I’m pissed because he was two hours late for his own damn meeting today.”

Without Caroline and Sarah, I’d be completely lost in the day-to-day management of my life. My friends and brother like to give me shit about having older women as my housekeeper and secretary, but there’s a reason I keep women old enough to be my mother in these vital positions—so they can act like my mother. Only trouble can come out of getting sexually involved with the women who clean up your messes, both at home and the office.

“My pleasure, Madden. Is there anything else I can do before I leave for the day?”

“Nope, just wish me luck tonight,” I tease, knowing damn well attracting women isn’t a problem for me. Typically, evading their unwanted advances is the issue.

“No luck is needed. I’m sure the young lady will quickly realize what a catch you are.”

“You deserve a raise, Caroline. Have a good evening.”

“Goodnight,” she says before hanging up.

Chuckling to myself over her comment about me being a ‘catch’, I know she hopes I’ll find someone to settle down with soon. Caroline’s been with me for nearly a decade, so she’s well aware of my dating tendencies, or lack thereof. It’s not that I’m opposed to monogamous, loving relationships; I’m just not a fan of getting my heart broken. One time was enough for me. I know I need to tread lightly with this new one though. I can’t allow this yearning for her to engulf me. I can offer everything but my heart.

Nearly an hour after leaving my office, I pull up in front of hers. Grabbing my phone, I type out a text to the number Caroline had written on a piece of paper for me.

I’m waiting downstairs. Black Mercedes.

She doesn’t send a message back, but a few minutes later, I see her blonde hair and long, lean legs pushing through the glass revolving door. Throughout the afternoon, I’d wondered several times if I’d over-exaggerated her beauty in my head—maybe a week without sex has started fucking with my mind or something—but the moment she steps out into the early evening sunlight and I get a good look at her, my hands itch with desire to feel her skin again, and my dick gets rock-hard thinking of the various wicked things I want to do to that body. Nothing about my memory of her had been overstated; she is fucking gorgeous.

As she hesitantly approaches, I get out of the car, flash her one of my most charming smiles, and walk around to the passenger side. “Good evening, Blake,” I greet her, enjoying the way the sound of her name rolls off of my tongue. “Seeing you twice in one day—I didn’t know I’d be so lucky when I woke up this morning. Thank you so much for agreeing to meet with me.”

“Good evening, Mr. Decker,” she replies politely.

Wanting terribly to touch her once she’s within arm’s reach, I refrain for now, and open the car door for her instead. She looks up at me nervously before sliding onto the tan leather seat and offering a small smile. At first, my eyes lock on hers—an exquisite shade of blue—but when the corners of her mouth curl up, my focus is brought down to her full lips and that fucking bruise I noticed earlier. My chest tightens as I run through all of the possible ways that would happen, and I’ve got a bad feeling I don’t want to know.

I slam the door harder than I mean to once she’s securely inside, and then make my way back to the driver’s side. Once I’m comfortably settled with my seatbelt on, I turn to study her. She’s obviously tense as she fidgets with the purse-strap and visibly clenches her jaw, her focus glued to her lap, even though I know she feels my gaze on her.

“Are you in the mood for a good steak?” I ask, praying she doesn’t say she’s a vegetarian, vegan, or some other crazy shit.

She nods agreeably. “That sounds good.”

“Perfect,” I answer as I pull out onto the street in front of her office. “Is there any kind of food you don’t like, for future reference?”

“Italian,” she blurts out without a second thought. Then, turning to face me, she tilts her head inquiringly. “Are you afraid we won’t finish our discussion about the project during tonight’s dinner?” A small grin tugs at the corners of her mouth as she asks the question.

Laughing softly, I glance over at her and play her little game. “I think it may take many meals to get through all of the details on this one. I hope your boyfriend won’t mind all the late work nights.”

“You should simply ask questions you want answers to,” she retorts sassily.

“As should you.”

The remainder of the drive is spent in comfortable silence, and I can’t help but notice how she quietly sings along to damn near every song that comes on the radio. I usually get annoyed with people who sing in the car, but her voice is pitch-perfect and pleases me greatly. Of course, what I really want to know is how it will sound screaming my name, but I’m sure I’ll find out soon enough.

I
N
THE
HEART
OF
B
URBANK
’
S
Media District, we pull into a circular drive on the side of a moderately-sized brown and white brick office building, and Madden shifts the transmission into park. Within seconds, the valet is opening my door and helping me out of the car before scurrying over to the driver’s side. As the attendant drives away to park the sleek sedan, Madden approaches me, confidently takes my hand in his, and leads us to a rather unassuming entrance at the corner of the building.

As I did earlier in the day, I attempt to withdraw my hand from his, but he holds onto it tightly. Honestly, I kind of like the way my hand feels in his—protected and secure—but I don’t want to give him the wrong idea. Regardless of Jae’s advice, the last thing I need is a good fucking, especially not with the CEO of a firm I have a business relationship with, no matter how good looking he is, or how my insides melt a little when he looks at me. I’m pretty proud of myself for the progress I’ve made in my new life over the last week—despite the never-ending nightmares and busted lip—and I don’t want to ruin it all for a one-night romp in the sheets.

We pass under a modest burgundy sign that reads
Arnie Morton’s The Steakhouse
, and he opens the dark-stained wooden door, ushering me inside. He releases the grip on my hand as he gives his name to the hostess, while I scan the area to inspect my surroundings—standard operating procedure. The lighting inside is dim though, and I can barely see the people in the dining area. No one seems to take notice of our entrance, so my fear of someone from back home waiting for me here diminishes, only to be replaced with apprehension and nerves about spending an entire evening with this intimidating man.

A middle-aged man in a tie walks up and greets us with a smile, and then motions for us to follow him to our table in the back of the restaurant. Several people peer up from their meals to look at us as we walk by—mostly women checking out Madden—and I find myself wishing he was still holding my hand. As if he can hear my thoughts, he brings his hand up to the small of my back; the pressure is light, but the warmth it sends throughout my body is dense and filling. We pass through a doorway in the back, to a private area apparently used for banquets or small parties, but there’s a single candlelit table for two set up in the center of the room.

“Your table, as requested, Mr. Decker,” the gentleman states as he pulls the chair out for me.

“Thank you,” I say politely, hoping he’ll leave quickly so I can ask Madden what the hell this is all about.

Thankfully, he does, and as soon as he’s out of earshot, I narrow my eyes and purse my lips at the man sitting across the table from me. “What is this?” I demand.

“What is what?” he replies acting innocent, as if he has no idea what I’m talking about.

“
This,”
I hiss, waving my hands around the room and over the table. “A candlelit table for two in a private room. This is supposed to be a business meeting, not a date.”

Smirking, he brings the glass of water from the table to his lips and takes a long drink. My gaze naturally moves to his mouth, and the fleeting thought of how those lips would feel on mine crosses my mind before I push it away and remember to be irritated with him. I bring my eyes back to his, and the mischievous gleam tells me he knows exactly what I was thinking.

“It is a meeting, Blake. I simply requested we have some privacy so we could concentrate on our pending business,” he explains coolly. Leaning forward, his voice drops into a near growl. “Believe me—you’ll
know
when we’re on a date.”

His words instigate a chain reaction of tingles whizzing through me, and I suddenly need a drink of water as well. Thankfully, our server appears to get our drink order, saving me from asking something stupid like
How exactly will I know?.

Madden glances over the wine list and then over at me. “Do you trust me?” I know he’s referring to the wine selection, but something in his tone makes it feel like it’s a loaded question.

Assuming it wouldn’t be very respectful or courteous if I scream
no
, I respond, “I have faith you’ll make a good selection.”

“I always do,” he murmurs under his breath with a sly grin. He reads something off of the list to the server, who smiles and commends his choice. The young man leaves the room, and we both sit there staring at each other.

“Other than my ability to select a good wine, you don’t trust me?” he probes.

“I don’t know you
to
trust you.”

“So if you got to know me better, you could trust me?”

Damn, I really wish I wouldn’t’ve made that comment about asking questions he wants answers to in the car. I think for a minute before carefully answering him. “I don’t trust people easily. I’ve learned the hard way in my short life the image most people portray is just what they want you to think of them, not who they really are.”

“Do you trust the person who did that to your lip?” he asks outright.

Instinctively, I suck in the battered corner of my lip, senselessly hoping to hide it even though he’s already seen it, and stare at him blankly. His question completely catches me off-guard.

“Don’t do that to it. It’ll only make it worse,” he scolds as he reaches across the table and tugs gently to free my bottom lip with his thumb. “Now answer my question.”

Wincing at the pain when he touches the wounded area, I shake my head and whisper, “No.”

“
No
, you won’t answer my question, or
no,
you don’t trust the person who did it?”

Inhaling a deep breath, I recite the story I told Jae this morning. “I did it to myself this weekend when I was hanging a picture in my living room. I dropped the frame and it hit me in the mouth.”

“I don’t like to be lied to, Blake,” he grumbles, his eyes fierce. “Tell me you won’t answer the question before you lie to me. I’m far from perfect, but if there’s one thing that pisses me off, it’s dishonesty. You might as well spit in my face as far I’m concerned.”

His fiery passion alerts me—not that he’s going to hurt me, but that someone close to him broke his trust before, and it affected him greatly. Unsure of how to respond, I simply nod and whisper, “Yes, sir.”

“Fuuuccckkk,” he growls lowly and closes his eyes, obviously trying to calm himself down. Then I remember his warning not to call him
Sir
again from the meeting, and I want to kick myself. I’m not trying to offend him; manners have been instilled in me since childhood, and I said it without thinking.

“I’m sorry…I-I forgot what you said earlier…” I stumble over my excuse.

Opening his eyes, his expression is softer, but I can tell he’s still a bit distraught. “Tell me what happened to your lip.”

I swallow hard, fearful he’s going to think I’m a mental freak if I tell him the truth, but I do it anyway. For some inexplicable reason, I really don’t want him upset with me, and it’s more than just for business purposes.

“I bit through my lip while I was having a bad dream,” I admit quietly, staring at my glass of water.

“Look at me, Blake,” he instructs sternly. Obligingly, I lift my gaze to his, and he smiles sincerely at me. “Thank you for telling me the truth. No more lies, okay?”

“You’re welcome, and okay.”

The server comes to the rescue once again, bringing the bottle of wine. He goes through some long, drawn out process of uncorking the bottle and allowing Madden to sample it before pouring us each a glass.

“Would you like to hear about our specials, or are you both ready to order?” he inquires.

Looking around the table, I realize we don’t even have menus; I have no idea what I want to eat. Madden chuckles lightly as he watches me search for the list of options.