Raw Ch. 01

"Until then, Becca. Or should I say, Ms. Warner?"

I laughed, and we both hung up. Then I shot to my feet and took the fastest shower I could ever remember having taken. For a moment, I regretting not being able to stand under the multi-faceted super-showerhead. But my stomach growled, and I reminded myself I had the next two days to become a prune as much as I wanted to.

I didn't have time to dry my hair to my usual liking, so I pulled it back into one long braid, the end tickling the middle of my bare back. A quick run of the toothbrush and a light coating of makeup, then I went in search of clothes. I hadn't packed much, mostly jeans and casual tops. I had had no plans except to relax here, maybe go for a swim or workout, but nothing outside the hotel for a full seventy-two hours.

I couldn't put on what I had worn here yesterday—the gray pencil skirt and burgundy blouse. If I'd had more time, I would have swung by home to find something else. And then I remembered I did have 'something else' with me. It had been a last minute just-in-case addition. But maybe it was too dressy? Why hadn't I asked Mr. Hughes—Brian—what I should wear?

My eyes jumped back and forth between the jeans, to the walk-of-shame outfit, to the formal choice. If I'd had his number, I would have cancelled right then and there. Stupid me and my old-fashioned rules. I groaned, closed my eyes, and pointed.

With five minutes to spare, I fidgeted in front of the full-length mirror in the bedroom. There wasn't anything else I could do. I just hoped I was dressed appropriately for wherever he was taking me.

I grabbed my purse, room key, and decided it was now or never.

I think I held my breath the entire ride down the elevator. I kept telling myself I was going to a business lunch. It wasn't anything to be nervous about. Maybe he wanted to do an article on the real me, find out what Ms. Rockland was working on next now that she'd taken a five year sabbatical.

The elevator dinged. I smoothed my hand against my thighs and patted my hair to make sure it was still bound. When the doors slid open silently, I inhaled and let it out slowly, then stepped out into the lobby. Brian was waiting by the front desk, talking to the concierge, his back to me.

At the sound of my heels clicking on the marble floor, both men stopped talking and stood up straighter. The concierge was smiling brightly. Brian turned, and for the briefest moment, I could see his jaw clench before he smiled, too.

My shoulders relaxed when I lowered my gaze and saw his dark gray suit, blue dress shirt, and a silver diamond-patterned tie. "Oh, good, I'm not overdressed."

"Ms. Warren." Brian's voice sounded tight.

I glanced down, smoothing the skirt of my navy sheath dress over my thighs. The satiny material shimmered slightly under the chandelier above us. Then I looked up at Brian. Was something wrong? He was being so formal. "Mr. Hughes, it's good to see you again."

"Likewise. Shall we go?" He held out his elbow, nodded at the concierge and then led me to the main door. He didn't speak again until we were in the back seat of a black sedan that was waiting out front. He rattled off an address to the chauffeur and then said, "You look stunning."

I laughed. I could feel the tension rolling off him in waves. "Really? You're not even looking at me. And by your reaction inside, I thought I was missing some articles."

Suddenly the atmosphere lightened, although he merely glanced at me. "I apologize. I was in awe."

"Oh, that's what that was." I gave him a skeptical look, hoping he could see it out of the corner of his eye. "So where are we going? I should have asked you that when you called. I don't have too many clothes with me at the hotel, so I wasn't sure what to wear."

He glanced out his window and then back at me. "How long are you staying at the hotel?"

"Until Monday. I'm on a little vacation. A gift from the publishers for finishing 'Loaded Questions.' "

His shoulders visibly relaxed, yet he still didn't seem completely comfortable. Maybe it was the suit. "Do you have any plans this weekend?"

I turned sideways in my seat to face him head-on, tugging on the seatbelt as it tightened across my neck. "You do realize I live in town, right?"

His eyes widened fractionally, and I couldn't tell if this truly was news to him. "I knew Ms. Rockland did, but I was not aware that Drake Alexander also lived here. I was thrown off kilter with that surprise last night."

"Well since I am both people, yes, we both live here. And no, I do not suffer from multiple personalities. As I said in our interview, it was an experiment that actually worked."

"A fact that has been noted." He clammed up after that.

I rolled my eyes and stared out my window. Great. I was so looking forward to lunch now.

Several minutes later, we arrived in front of an upscale restaurant I had not known existed, even though I'd lived in the city most of my adult life. He escorted me inside, his hand on my back between my shoulder blades, gently guiding after he opened the door.

We were seated with menus in our hands before he looked up at me and smiled. It was that same tense one I had seen in the lobby. Something really was bothering him, and I had a good notion it was me. But I wasn't going to get all worked up over it. He had insisted on meeting, and until he let me in on whatever was going on in his head, I was going to continue to treat it as a business lunch. Nothing more.

The waiter arrived, took our orders, and then we were back to the silent treatment. Brian stared at the tablecloth, one hand fisted lightly next to his silverware. This was ridiculous, but I couldn't think of a valid topic to broach.

I pulled a breadstick from the glass vase on our table instead, broke off an end, and nibbled on it. The crunching seemed especially loud. I wondered why we were here if we weren't actually going to speak to each other. I could be sitting in my hotel room eating ice cream and cheeseburgers while watching old movies in my PJs. I decided to give him a moment to get his act together.

"I'm going to use the ladies' room." I rose and walked away before he could react. My knees were wobbly again, just like last night.

Safe behind closed doors, I let out a strangled groan. I paced, wringing my hands. What in the world was going on? This was not how I wanted to spend my vacation. Maybe I should sneak out, grab a taxi, and escape to my hotel oasis. I snorted softly. Would he even notice that I was gone?

I was still contemplating what to do when another woman entered the bathroom. She smiled and nodded at me before disappearing into a stall. I sighed. I could not hang out in here all day. Better to just get lunch over, have him drop me off at the hotel, and then he would be out of my life.

When I walked back to the table, Brian seemed a little more relaxed, his coat now on the back of his chair. He was sipping a glass of red wine, a matching one waiting by my place setting.

"Sorry about that," I smiled at him, smoothing my skirt under my legs as I slipped back into my chair.

"No need to apologize." He returned my smile, and this time it seemed genuine.

It was as if someone had replaced him while I was gone. He was talkative now, asking about my first book series with apparent interest. I relaxed and opened up, happy to share about my love of writing.

Our food came, and the conversation shifted toward journalism and what he did as a book critic. After our plates were cleared, he ordered us a refill on the wine.

"Did you enjoy your lunch?" He lifted his glass to his lips and sipped, his blue gaze on mine over the rim of his glass.

"It was delicious. Thank you." I tilted my glass to his, toasting the air, and then took a long swallow. I liked the open and smiling version of this man. Not so sure about Mr. Mute-and-Tense.

My left hand rested on the table, my fingers playing with the edge of my cloth napkin where I had laid it down. His hand covered mine suddenly, stilling my fingers. I flinched but did not pull away.

"I'm glad. I enjoy coming here."

I almost snorted. He could have been a little more convincing.

My heart rate picked up as his hand slid across my skin, lifting my hand to curl his fingers underneath mine. I gasped softly when his thumb stroked across my knuckles. I felt a shock travel all the way down to my core, and I couldn't tear my eyes away from where we were connected in the simplest of ways.

My right hand was shaking, so I set my glass down. Despite the wine—or maybe because of it—my mouth was dry once more. I wanted to lick my lips, but that would require my brain cells to be functioning well enough to send the impulsive desire down the line to my tongue.

He said nothing, just continued touching me ever so lightly. I had sudden visions of that hand stroking other areas of my body in the same way. I shuddered, clamping my mouth down to cut off the moan rising in the my throat. Okay, so my brain was working in some capacity.

Apparently I did not affect him the same way, as he continued to sip his wine, the movement of lifting and lowering his glass in my peripheral vision. I don't know how long we sat like that, but I was glad I had not fled earlier. It had even been worth sitting through his alter ego on the drive over and while we waited for our food.

I could hear the noises of people around us—waiters taking and delivering orders; random bits of conversation; the white noise of silverware on dishes—but it was muffled, as if I was hearing it through a tunnel. His hand moved again, breaking my reverie. I watched it slide up until his fingers circled my wrist just above my watch. His grip tightened, and I gasped, my eyes darting up to stare into his heated gaze. Those blue eyes were dark now, like the ocean at night, and my heart caught in my throat.

"Becca, do you want me to let go?" His voice was so calm, so low. So sexy.

I felt the word on my tongue, but my head responded in the opposite, shaking slightly.

"Say it."

I swallowed and closed my eyes for a moment. "No."

"No, what?"

"No, don't let go."

"Look at me."

My eyes fluttered open, slowly rising from his chest to his face.

He was smiling, his pupils wide. "Are you going to play hard to get?"

Once again, I wanted to answer in the affirmative, but my head just would not cooperate.

"Say it, Becca."

Oh, how hard it was to breath now. "No, I am not going to play hard to get."

"Good girl."

And those two words were my undoing. I had known the man less than a day, spent a total of maybe four hours together. And yet, it seemed as if he knew my deepest, darkest secret without me having to speak a word.

He gently twisted his fingers around my wrist.

I had to close my eyes again, swallowing hard. What was happening to me?

"I think it's time to leave." He helped me up from my chair, linked his arm under mine, and led me outside to his waiting car. Seated in the backseat again, he didn't say another word, but he pulled my left hand into his lap, his fingers circling my wrist again, alternately twisting and gripping gently.

I had no idea where we were going, but I didn't really care. I was too entranced, my blood boiling in my veins. Afraid that if he let go, I would combust with need...his hand the pin to my bodily grenade.

The sidewalks were packed with people rushing to and from wherever. No one seemed to be enjoying the beautiful day. There wasn't a cloud in the sky, and the temperature was that perfect not-too-cold/not-too-hot median that left you wanting to run barefoot through the grass and twirl around, drinking in the sun. Or maybe that was just me again.

I wondered what those people were thinking. Where they were going. What they did for a living. What secrets were they hiding? If they saw me, what would they see or think? Would my private desires be visible in my eyes? On my face? Through my body language? Brian had seen it. Then again, he'd read all of my novels, so maybe he was just really good at reading between the lines.

I gasped softly as I involuntarily pulled my hand to my lap and he tightened his grip, holding my wrist immobile. My head snapped around, my eyes jumping to his face. He was staring straight ahead, his cell phone pressed to his ear as he listened to someone on the other end. Had he called someone, or had I just not heard his phone ring?

"No. Monday. I'm unavailable until then. Yes. Good."

He shut off the phone and looked out his window. His hold on me loosened a little. I couldn't tell if he was mad or nervous or what. He was back to Mr. Mute-and-Tense.

I opened my mouth to say something—anything—but for the life of me, I couldn't imagine what I would say. The longer I sat and thought about the last hour, the more irritated I became. He wanted to be inscrutable? Fine. Whatever. Wherever we stopped, once he got out, I would ask the driver to take me back to my hotel. I wasn't into mind games like this.

I turned to my window again, watching Central Park as it drew up on the left and then slowly disappeared behind us. I wondered where he lived. Were we going to his place?

As the office buildings turned to more residential ones, trees were more prevalent on the sidewalks. There were less people milling around. We drove for a few more minutes, and then the car pulled up to the curb outside a nondescript brownstone.

"Five minutes." That's all Brian said, and then he opened his door and climbed out.

I grunted when I was pulled across the seat. I forgot I was still tethered to him. So much for my plan of escape. I had to follow him. Out of the dark car. Up the stone steps. Through the ornately carved front door.

He still didn't speak to me as he locked the door behind us, tossed his keys, wallet, and phone into a bowl on the entryway table. Then he took my purse, also depositing it on the table.

"Brian, please. Say something. You're scaring me." And yet, something about all of this excited me a little, too. The unknown could be mighty tempting when you're with a hot man.

He remained tight-lipped until we were upstairs, standing in his bedroom. He ushered me in first, and I turned around to see his jaw twitching again. "If I close that door, you will remain silent until directed to speak. You will refer to me as 'Sir.' And you will trust me, no matter what."

I gaped at him, my heart beating so hard I wondered if I could experience a heart attack from the shock. Oh, I knew very well where this was leading now. A small part of me wanted to run, hoping it hadn't been five minutes and the car was still waiting downstairs. But the rest of me—that bigger part that had been patiently waiting for this for years—yielded to his will. Hungered to do it.

"Becca, I need your decision." He finally let go of my wrist and stepped closer to the door. "Do you want me to close it?"

He stood between me and freedom. But that awakened voice inside said that freedom was in this room. My knees trembled. I wanted to lift my chin—to be strong—and give him my answer. But I knew that was wrong. I took a deep breath. And looked at the hardwood floor.

"Yes, Sir."

I heard his loud moan of approval. The quiet click as the door closed. The louder snick as the lock slid into place. The thud as he toed his shoes off and they hit the floor.

"Stay there." His feet crossed my line of vision—he was wearing black socks, the hem of his pants just barely dragging on the floor. A door clicked shut somewhere on my right, and then it was silent.

I counted to thirty, and when he didn't return, I took the chance to scope out the room. I was facing the main door and turned left. The guy definitely had taste.

All four walls were a toffee color, the sole wall decoration an arrangement of framed prints above a squat armoire on tall, spindly legs. The prints consisted of random splashes of color—all in shades of blue—with a single streak of red, the thickness of which varied between the seven images.

The armoire itself had two large doors and a single, narrow drawer below the doors, both with a metal-plated keyhole in the middle. A chest with bronzed hinges and a heavy-looking padlock was tucked between the legs of the armoire. Both pieces were dark wood and looked very old.

On the adjacent wall was a massive, mission-style bed with a slatted headboard and footboard. The solid, dark blue comforter and several oversized pillows in a contrasting tan-and-navy stripe made the bed look comfortable but still masculine. Two tall windows—covered by dark blue curtains that were drawn—and two nightstands flanked the bed, a black lamp and shade on each table.

A wingback chair in a subtle, navy print, and a low, padded bench in the same fabric faced the bed from across the room. I blinked. Something didn't look right. I stared back and forth between the bed and the chair several times. Finally, I noticed there was a platform beneath the seating arrangement, lifting it up to be on the same level as the top of the mattress. The platform was covered in the same hardwood as the floor, making it seem to disappear.

I shivered, my imagination running wild with why someone would want to be able to see the bed at a certain level. I shook off my curiosity and turned to the fourth wall, having made a complete circuit of the room.

The final wall consisted of two doors, both closed. Brian had disappeared through one of them. Surely one had to be a bathroom and the other a closet. But which one had he gone into?

Between the doors was something large and bulky, about waist-high and three feet long. Its true identity was hidden by a red blanket. And despite the peculiar shape and color, it did not look out of place in the room.

I turned back to the main door, my gaze on the floor again just as one of the doorknobs rattled off to my right. The door clicked shut again, and I heard Brian's bare feet slapping on the wood floor. I tried to breathe evenly, especially when I heard a jingle of keys behind me.

He was moving around on my left. Metal scraped metal, and then the keys jingled again. Had he opened the armoire or the chest? What did he keep locked up in them?

"If you want to stop at anytime, Becca, say the word 'blue.' But once you say it, we're done. No more. I will take you back to your hotel, and you will never see me again in this capacity."

My breath caught in my throat. I had a way out! But did I want it?

Soft music suddenly filled the room. I moaned. It was Enigma, one of my favorite artists. Their music was very relaxing...and most songs were very arousing. My heart skipped a beat. I had fantasized many times about making love to their songs, especially "Sadness."

I felt the heat of his body behind me, his breath cool against my neck. His fingers brushed my braid aside, laying it over my shoulder so it hung down over my left breast. His lips tickled my skin where he kissed me ever so lightly, over and over again in a line from behind my right ear down the slope of my neck and over to my spine.

"You look very beautiful, Becca. This dress is stunning." He slowly lowered my zipper a couple of notches. "But I want to see your body."

I whimpered, my knees shaking. I squeezed my eyes closed, willing myself to not collapse.

"Shh." His whispered word brushed against my neck. The zipper moved down another inch. His breath touched my back now. And then his lips were kissing me there as well.

I bit my lip to suppress a moan. But I couldn't prevent myself from shivering when his fingers grazed my lower back as he finished unzipping the dress and pulled the sides of the material open.

"So, so beautiful..." His fingers skated up my spine, my body undulating beneath his touch.

I whimpered again, and he shushed me. I just couldn't help it. Even the lightest touch felt like fire on my skin. It felt so good.