“One can’t paint New York as it is, but rather as it is felt.”
—Georgia O’Keeffe
THE CLOSEST THING I HAD to nightclub attire was a pair of skinny jeans and a loose, strappy top. It was white and shimmery, and the sleeves were cut on the sides, leaving thin strings connecting them to my wrist. Paired with my white heels that still lay near the back door, it would be passable.
As I stood in front of the bathroom mirror, I frowned at the curling iron in the second drawer. When I’d bathed this morning, I found cherry blossom shampoo and soap already in the shower. Some woman visited enough she stockpiled toiletries. What would I do if he brought her home while I was here? Something bitter twisted in my stomach.
I tried to figure out why it bothered me so much. If it were Oscar Perez who brought another woman home, I would feel lucky for the reprieve. Though, with this man . . . the idea made my throat tighten with an unexplainable feeling.
I used the curling iron. And then I freshened my makeup but kept it light.
I was near the back door, slipping into my heels, when Nico came downstairs. I wished my uncertainty about that stupid woman’s shampoo would have dulled the sensation of how my body reacted to him. It thrummed at seeing him in a black suit with a sober expression that burned through my skin. His handsomeness was so classic it made me believe he could fit seamlessly into any time period.
I couldn’t hold on to resentment or anxiety of what he may do in the future. I wouldn’t live my life like that. I would just have to take it one day at a time and let the inevitable work its way out when it did.
“How did I get ready before you?” I teased, leaning against the back door.
His lips tipped up as he grabbed his keys off the counter and then typed something into a security system keypad near his office door.
Hesitation settled in me when he didn’t respond. He’d seemed more distant since our conversation this morning. What did I expect? I was sure he thought I was involved with some man, and I had never made it clear that I wasn’t. I’d told him I didn’t want to marry him, and I wasn’t a virgin, which I was sure he wanted since he picked Adriana. Or maybe he just preferred her?
Why did he even want me?
He could have anyone he wanted. Any virgin from here to the west coast would be delighted if they could get past his reputation.
I realized then that I wanted him to want me.
Where a deep attraction had hummed for him since I’d met him, there was something else coming to life, pulsing like a weak beat on a heart rate monitor. I could almost hear the beep echo in my ears. Almost feel the thrum in my chest. But it wasn’t of me.
It felt like man, clean sweat and whiskey.
Twinkling urban lights. High heels and short dresses. Too many drinks and meaningless sex hanging like an inevitable in the air. Nightlife was in full swing as we made our way into a side door of the club.
I’d never been to a nightclub before. Had never been one of these girls who waited to get into my fiancé’s club. Who might’ve even had sex with him for all I knew. Some unease curled in my stomach. How could I ever please him when I was sure he’d been with much more experienced women? It was a hit to my womanhood imagining I would bore him in bed. He hadn’t even tried to get me there—had just given me an orgasm like it was an engagement present and left.
I chewed the inside of my cheek in thought. The idea that he might not want to sleep with me only made me want it more. Just his hand on my arm and his presence by my side warmed me from the inside out.
Nico guided me down a red-carpeted hall. The lighting was low, and the air carried a hint of fresh cigarette smoke. Wasn’t it illegal to allow smoking in one’s establishment in New York? A smile pulled on my lips. His most heinous crime, I bet.
An electric beat pulsed through the walls as purple and blue strobe lights flickered into the hall like they’d escaped the dance floor. We went down a set of stairs and then stopped at a heavy metal door. Nico stood so close behind me his jacket touched my back. Over my head, he knocked five times in a heavy rap with a short pause in between each.
A moment later, the door swung open and a dark-haired hostess in a tight black dress stood on the other side. “Signor Russo.” She smiled brightly at him, but then her smile fell as her eyes came down and regarded me. Her gaze narrowed, fake eyelashes and all. She did a great job with her makeup, I had to admit, but the way her lips curled in disgust like I was a cheap prostitute was blatantly rude.
Ugh. My first day out with Nico and I was the most unpopular woman in the city.
I would have brushed it off before, not having the guts to confront it in any way. Nonetheless, I was now marrying a don. I couldn’t let myself be run over by waitresses. It felt a little ridiculous, like I was playing immature games, but I reached back and slipped my fingers in between Nico’s.
He stilled as if I surprised him, but after a second, his fingers tightened around my own. And then I felt a light smack on my ass to get me moving. The gesture made me warm everywhere, but thankfully it didn’t reach my face.
I didn’t look at the waitress again, though I believed she got the picture. He could do whatever or whoever he wanted, but not in my presence. There was a certain amount of respect I was due, and I didn’t think even Nico would deny me that.
I dropped his hand and stepped onto a short steel staircase. I blinked, taking it all in.
A thick atmosphere hung in the air that I wouldn’t have expected in a place like this. For starters, it looked like there were maybe two women in the room, including the one at the door. The gross majority were men, from suits to board shorts and polos.
Poker tables were distributed around the large area, with players occupying seats in front of them, all in different stages of betting their life savings away.
I followed Nico down the stairs, observing the obvious illegal gaming hall. A card game ended, and as the players stood, all five lit a cigarette and headed to the corner of the room.
“Are they not allowed to smoke at the tables?” I asked Nico.
“They can. Most times it’s a tell so they wait until the game’s over.”
Interesting.
I liked to know weird stuff like this.
I fired questions at him all the way to his office, from how much the House made in one night (roughly twenty grand) to why there were only two women (they were distracting).
The gambling was serious enough that distractions weren’t wanted in any way. Nobody paid me an ounce of attention as we walked toward the back of the room. The men at the tables were statues of concentration, and the ones smoking were sweating from their losses or too busy texting about their winnings.
His office was a perfect square with a blue, stylish couch, a mahogany desk with a couple chairs in front of it, a flat-screen TV, and a minibar. I set my clutch on the glass coffee table, while he pushed a button on his keyboard to get the computer started.
The walls were concrete, but with the gold and blue oriental rug and nothing but one piece of artwork on the wall, the room was somehow warm and comfortable.
I studied the painting that sat behind a shiny piece of glass. Pastel colors and bold yet refined sweeps of a brush. I wasn’t an artistic person like my sister, but I recognized the work. I’d watched a documentary about the downfall of modern art. That what we consider art today is a poor example of the talent and heart of art in the past.
“I didn’t take you to have a soft spot for Monet,” I said, glancing at him.
His attention was on his computer, but a small smile pulled on his lips. He stood with one hand braced on the desk while hitting keys with the other. Either he had this place under his command much like a mad scientist with their destructive red buttons, or he was a very unproductive typist.
“My mamma was a fan.”
My stomach warmed at the deep way mamma rolled off his lips. “She had good taste.”
He laughed quietly. A bitter note showed through, and he wiped his amusement away with a palm like he’d just realized what he’d done. It felt like I was about to wade into deep waters, but I couldn’t stop myself from going deeper.
I raised a brow. “You don’t like Monet?”
“I have it in my office, don’t I?”
“That’s not why you have it in here.”
His shoulders tensed, and he pushed his keys a little harder. “You analyzing me?”
I gazed at the soft, pastel strokes in the painting. “There’s a saying amongst us women: Don’t trust a man who isn’t good to his mamma.”
His gaze burned into my cheek. “You think I was bad to my mother?”
I wasn’t sure how I recognized I wouldn’t get to know him easily, that I might have to get him worked up to do so. He wasn’t someone to sit around and share his past with others, his fiancée included. I needed to know the man I would marry. There was a part of me that just wanted to know, so I lifted a shoulder. My heart danced at the unfamiliar game I was playing.
“Am I supposed to think differently?”
He let out an unamused breath, but he didn’t say another word. He didn’t try to defend himself, and my stomach tightened with the need to assure him that wasn’t what I thought. Was it?
An itch began in my throat to apologize for what I’d insinuated as he walked across the office to leave, and I turned to see him open the door.
“James will be right outside if you need something. Stay here. I shouldn’t be gone long.”
“Nico, wait. I shouldn’t have said—”
Nicolas called into the hallway for a Lucky. Glancing back at me, he said, “No, you’re right. You shouldn’t trust me. I’ve already lied to you since we’ve been in this room.”
I swallowed. “About what?”
He paused with a hand on the doorknob. “I always just say she was a fan. It’s much easier to say than to explain that she was always so high she couldn’t tell a Monet from a fucking caricature painted on the street.”
