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  As his thumb strokes my nape, I revisit my euphoria from last night in the ER. Except now we’re in my apartment and mere feet from my bed.

  I open my eyes and meet his seductive stare. There is no way I can continue to hold back my true feelings. “I find this entire situation very surreal. On top of it all, you’re pushy and arrogant. I have to watch out for myself.”

  Mr. Merrick moves his face closer to mine. I hold my breath, thinking he’s going to kiss me. Just before our lips meet, he turns his head and brushes his nose across my cheek. The air rushes out of my lungs.

  “I would never hurt you, Sara. You must trust me.”

  He sounds sincere and I’m compelled to believe him.

  With a sharp hiss, he drops his head to my shoulder and pulls our bodies together. “Tell me you change your mind.”

  “I . . . I . . .” Words fail me as he moves my shirt collar aside and grazes his teeth across my skin.

  “Tell me you’ll see me tonight.”

  As he trails hot kisses down my throat, I throw my head back and melt into his arms, succumbing to the pleasure that radiates throughout my body. I may have let my guard down, but this time I think I know exactly what I’m doing.

  “Yes, I’ll have dinner with you tonight.”

  Mr. Merrick removes his lips from my neck and plants his hands on my waist.

  “You want me, don’t you?” He stares into my eyes, daring me to deny what he already knows.

  I nod.

  His fingers dig into my hips. “Say it.”

  “Yes, I want you.”

  He pulls me in tight. “Then don’t ever lie to me again.”

  Mr. Merrick frames my face in his hands and places a firm kiss to my lips before pulling away, leaving me flushed and unsteady.

  His eyes darken as they land on my taut nipples. “Nice shirt.”

  I arch my back slightly. He’s not the only one allowed to dish out the sexual teasing around here. “I know.”

  “You are not to leave your apartment like this.”

  I drag my hand down his chest to his stomach, retracting just before I reach his belt. “Does that mean I’m for your eyes only, Mr. Merrick?”

  “That’s exactly what I mean, Miss Peters.”

  I look up at him with wide eyes. “Well, then, aren’t you a lucky man?”

  His notorious smirk appears. As he walks to the door, I can’t stop smiling. Although I’m definitely remaining on alert tonight, I’m not as unsure about our date as I was earlier.

  Upon opening the front door, Mr. Merrick inspects the bolt and chain. He jiggles the doorknob and frowns. “I’m having this replaced.”

  My eyebrows knit together. “What do you mean? It’s fine.”

  “It’s not fine. It’s dangerous. You live on your own—this sorry excuse for a lock is unacceptable.”

  “I can take care of myself.”

  “You must always ask who it is before opening the door,” he says, sounding like a parent scolding a disobedient child. “I could’ve been anybody. You need an alarm system installed in here and a proper lock. You don’t even have a peephole.”

  I cross my arms over my chest. “You don’t have to worry about me.”

  “Don’t test me, Miss Peters.”

  I roll my eyes. “I like my apartment the way it is. Don’t touch my lock.”

  Mr. Merrick pulls out his phone instead of responding. I have a feeling we’re not finished with this topic.

  “I have to get back to the office. Lock up after I leave.” He tucks his phone away again. “And next time, ask who it is before answering the door.”

  “Uh huh.”

  I suppress a giggle and follow him out into the hallway. As he walks toward the elevators, I lean against the doorjamb. I don’t care if he knows I’m staring at him. If he doesn’t want to give me a proper good-bye, then I’ll give myself one.

  Mr. Merrick stops walking and looks over his shoulder. His eyes twinkle; his face is wistful and relaxed. I’m taken aback. It’s the same look captured in the South Hampton photograph.

  “Oh, and Miss Peters?” His voice sounds extra charming.

  “Yes, Mr. Merrick?” I reply, matching his tone.

  “I never took you for the New York Financial type.” That smirk of his makes a grand reappearance. “I find this month’s cover story particularly fascinating, don’t you?”

  As his laughter echoes throughout the hallway, my face flames, and I stand there gaping like an idiot, struggling to come up with a witty comeback or some sort of an excuse.

  Before I can muster a reply, he continues on his way and disappears into the elevator. Damn him for getting in the last word!

  I retreat into my apartment and lock the door behind me to wallow in my mortification in private. I’m just glad I turned off my laptop or else he would’ve had something else to laugh about.

  Unable to deny myself one last glimpse of him, I walk toward the only window in the apartment. It’s small, but it provides a decent view of the street below. Parting the blinds, I peer outside and wait.

  The Tin Men stand on the sidewalk. Within a few moments, Mr. Merrick exits my building with his confident strut, his suit jacket fanning around him like a superhero’s cape. His men fall into step with him. He gives an order and they fall back.

  Christopher tosses Mr. Merrick something he catches with ease—car keys from the look of it. While Christopher, Sean, and the other men disperse, heading toward the various luxury black cars that are double and triple parked on the street, Mr. Merrick steps onto the road and ventures around to the driver’s side door of a sleek, silver Porsche. He gets in and slams the door shut. The brake lights illuminate and he tears off down the street with a squeal of the tires. The other cars in his motorcade follow.

  As I walk away from the window, I feel way too giddy for my own good. I remind myself that it’s important not to let my attraction to Mr. Merrick influence me, which of course, is much easier to say now that he’s not around.

  After all, he used some kind of stalker method to obtain my address and then showed up here uninvited, which is so not cool. He’s still as arrogant as he is handsome and I’m not sure what his motives are with me. Then there’s the matter of how he really got that gash on his forehead.

  The biggest thing about Mr. Merrick that perplexes me is during our two encounters, I’ve never seen the man in the Haitian photographs—the kind, selfless humanitarian. Tonight, my goal is to find out if he really exists or if it’s merely a boardroom creation of an expensive PR team.

  There’s no denying that our physical chemistry is off the charts, but I still refuse to be just another unnamed companion in a photograph or another notch on his bedpost. Tonight will give me a better indication of whether he believes I’m worth the effort.

  I lie down on my bed and shove the New York Financial magazine under the mattress. I won’t be able to sleep with Mr. Merrick in plain view next to me, even in photographic form, especially after what we just did several feet from here. I only have a few hours before I have to get ready for dinner and I really need my rest.

  I set my alarm and then crawl under the covers, thinking about Mr. Merrick’s lickable lips and sultry smirk, hoping that dinner tonight will provide me with all of the answers I’m looking for.

  Chapter Five

  They say every woman needs a little black dress in her closet. I bought my first two prior to my graduation from nursing school. The first one was sexier than my usual style and revealed a little more skin than I’m used to showing. I told myself I was a college graduate and needed to start dressing more like a woman, so I purchased it despite my trepidation.

  The morning of my graduation ceremony, I put it on to make sure I made the right choice. After analyzing my appearance for over an hour in the mirror, I ran back to Macy’s and bought something more conservative. The first dress has been sitting in my closet ever since.

  I brought it with me to New York because the dress, like my cross
-country move to a big city where I didn’t know anyone, intimidated me. Tonight, it makes its big debut for my dinner date with Mr. Merrick.

  My major concern at the moment is undergarments. A strapless bra is a must, but I’m not sure if I should go for the plain black one or the sexier lace option. And do I opt for granny panties or a black sheer satin thong?

  If I choose the homely underwear, it gives me additional incentive not to jump into bed with Mr. Merrick. I need all the help I can get not to cave. But there is also the notion that sexy underwear empowers women, whether a man is going to see them or not, and I could use the confidence.

  I hold up both sets in front of the mirror. In keeping with the sexier dress choice, the black thong and racier bra win. A pair of strappy black heels that make my legs look longer completes my outfit.

  After fumbling with the zipper at the back of the dress, I face the mirror. The dress clings to my body in all the right places, and although it’s not haute couture or Audrey Hepburn-esque, it looks classier than its sixty-dollar price tag. I pay good money for my gym membership so it’s nice to see it’s worth it. I owe my physique to good genes, too—five-feet, five-inches tall, and a size four, like my mother.

  As I survey my appearance from every angle, I feel confident and sexy—a drastic change from the way I felt the last time I tried it on—and I know I’ve made the right choice. I may not be sleeping with Mr. Merrick tonight, but I still want him to find me attractive.

  I get a birth control shot every three months because a girl has got to be safe, but that doesn’t mean I’m easy. At the same time, I’m not super picky, either. All I ask is for the guy to be more than a fling. There must be mutual respect and we have to care about each other on some level, which is why I haven’t had sex since my senior year in high school with my first and only boyfriend. I dated sporadically during college, but nothing warranted taking such a big step again.

  I apply more makeup than usual, style my brown hair in loose waves, and dab some perfume on my wrists—the stuff I reserve for special occasions only. I’m hoping to redeem myself since Mr. Merrick has only ever seen me in my work clothes and boring yoga pants.

  By the time I finish getting ready, it’s just after six. Butterflies flutter in my stomach while I sit on my couch and wait to be picked up. At exactly six thirty, the intercom buzzes. At least the driver has enough courtesy to notify me of his arrival instead of showing up at my front door unannounced like Mr. Merrick did.

  I walk toward the intercom and press the button. “Hello?”

  “Miss Peters, my name is Randall.” The voice sounds deep and carries a strong British accent. “I’m here to pick you up for your evening with Mr. Merrick.”

  “I’ll be right down.”

  “My orders, madam, are to pick you up at your door and escort you to the car personally.”

  I hesitate before answering. Not only is it stupid to invite some stranger up to my apartment, it’s also a waste of time for him to make the trek.

  “That’s all right. I can just meet you out front.”

  “Orders, Miss Peters,” he says, as though that’s supposed to mean something to me.

  Randall sounds pretty committed to fulfilling his boss’s instructions and I don’t feel like arguing with him. After living in Brooklyn for the last six months, I should be tougher.

  “Okay, come on up.” I press the release button for the front door.

  Randall knocks twice, firmly, instead of using the buzzer. I open the door and I’m met by a man with sparkling gray eyes and a polite smile. Randall is probably in his early sixties with a full head of salt and pepper hair and a face lined with wrinkles. He’s dressed impeccably in a black suit and tie. My apprehension about inviting him up disappears immediately. A kindness glows in his expression that can’t be forced.

  He extends his hand to me. “A pleasure to meet you, Miss Peters.”

  “Thank you. It’s nice to meet you, too.” I smile and shake his hand. “I feel bad about you coming all the way up here. The elevators are awfully slow. I could’ve met you outside.”

  “It’s my responsibility to escort you to the car, madam. One needn't bother with the elevator when they can take the stairs.”

  The stairs? That fast?

  Randall shows no signs of exertion. He’s a lot older than me and even I couldn’t walk up ten flights in that short amount of time without being at least a little out of breath.

  “Shall we, Miss Peters?” He gestures down the hall.

  I think about telling him to call me by my first name, but perhaps that can wait awhile.

  “Okay, let me grab my things.”

  I pick up my black clutch purse and house keys from the coffee table. After I lock up, Randall escorts me to the lobby. Thankfully, we take the elevator; my feet wouldn’t fare well if I had to walk down all those stairs in heels.

  Randall holds the front door open for me. My jaw drops when I see my ride. A vintage, shiny dark gray Rolls Royce sits in front of my building. I thought my street looked run down before, but it looks ghetto in contrast with this luxury automobile. I’m surprised the car isn’t sitting on cinder blocks already and spray painted with profanities.

  If Randall wonders what he’s doing picking up Mr. Merrick’s date from such a ragged apartment building, he doesn’t show it. Instead, he holds the rear passenger door open for me, smiling politely. I climb inside the vehicle and sit down, crossing my legs and placing my purse in my lap.

  Randall shuts my door. The engine engages automatically and the flashy dashboard lights up like the Manhattan skyline. A wide LCD flat screen television is mounted in front of me. There’s ample legroom and the white leather seats are embroidered with Mr. Merrick’s initials.

  Randall takes his seat behind the wheel and looks over his shoulder at me. “Seatbelt, please, Miss Peters.”

  I stop gaping and clip my seatbelt into place.

  “Thank you, ma’am.”

  Randall faces the front again, punches a code into a keypad positioned next to what could be a stereo or an instrument panel for a rocket launcher for all I know, and then we’re off.

  The center console hums as it moves toward me. The lid lifts and a yellow light glows from within.

  “Mr. Merrick arranged for several items to be available during the drive for your convenience and comfort,” Randall says. “Inside the console you will find a computer tablet with a selection of magazines and books, and if you look to your left, we have a cooler with a lovely selection of vintage wine as well as non-alcoholic beverages such as distilled water and soda.”

  “Uh, thanks.” My response sounds more like a question because I’m not sure what to make of all this yet. Next thing I know, Randall will commence an explanation of where to locate the emergency exits and what to do in case of an unexpected landing over water.

  I lean over the console and retrieve the computer tablet. Underneath is the May issue of New York Financial with Mr. Merrick on the cover. I can’t help but smile even as I silently curse him. And then I get a stupid idea that’s much too enticing to ignore.

  Suppressing a giggle, I search through my purse for the black pen I always carry with me and set the magazine in my lap. I shield what I’m about to do from Randall as best as I can without looking suspicious, and then get to work, drawing a Charlie Chaplin moustache and thick, black-rimmed glasses on Mr. Merrick’s face.

  When I’m finished, I survey my mock-Picasso masterpiece proudly, and then return the magazine to the console. It’s pretty unlikely that Mr. Merrick will ever see it, but my desecration feels oddly satisfying anyway.

  We cruise through the streets, over the Brooklyn Bridge into Manhattan, and merge onto the West Side Highway. Golden rays of the setting sun stream across the dusky sky and blanket the Hudson River. It’s during this peaceful moment of contentment that I analyze how bizarre I’ve acted in the last few hours.

  Making out with a stranger and later accepting an invitation to dinner with
him at an unknown location is as far out of character as I’ve ever ventured. It’s been a habit of mine for as long as I can remember to always stop and think things through from every conceivable angle before making a decision. I did that this morning and declined Mr. Merrick’s offer, and yet somehow, I find myself on the way to see him. Hopefully this new risk-taking me hasn’t made a huge mistake.

  The car feels uncomfortably quiet. I’m not good at small talk so I propose an alternative.

  “Please feel free to put on some music.”

  Randall grins into the rearview mirror. “That’s kind of you, Miss Peters, but I’m afraid my tastes probably won’t be to your liking. You can access a catalog of music from the touch screen on the back of the seat in front of you. I’ll be more than happy to listen to whatever you select.”

  “No, really, please choose whatever music you want.”

  “As you wish, Miss Peters.” Randall pushes a button next to the steering wheel and the monitor on the dashboard lights up. It’s also a touch screen. He selects some options and within a few seconds, Frank Sinatra’s voice fills the car.

  I pick up the computer tablet again and mess around with it, finally settling on reading East of Eden, which has always been a favorite of mine. After a while, my eyes sting and I’m forced to squint at the screen to read anything clearly. A quick glance out the side window reveals why. The sun has set and the inside of the car is much darker than before. Why on earth is this drive taking so long?

  I scan my surroundings properly.

  Oh, shit.

  It’s not just dark outside. It’s pitch black. All I see are the shadows of the tall trees lining the roadside. No streetlights. No houses. No signs of civilization.

  Where the fuck am I?

  I glance out the windshield and then out the back window. There are no other cars in front of us or behind. The darkness stretches on forever, aside from the Rolls’ piercing white headlights, which illuminate the road ahead.

  My adrenaline kicks into high gear, trumping the tranquil effects of Ol’ Blue Eyes. I’m generally not a paranoid person and I tend not to overreact—it’s one of the traits that makes me well-suited for emergency nursing—but in this case, I don’t think my fear is unfounded.