The Cruelest Stranger Page 9

  “Thank you. I appreciate the hospitality and the apology, but I’ve got to go.”

  “Hot date tonight?” I drink her in, from the top of her shiny, freshly-pressed waves to her tight black sweater and even tighter jeans, to the warmed scent of flowers wafting off her soft skin.

  There’s a chance she dressed like this because she’s going out later.

  There’s a bigger chance she dressed like this for me.

  She doesn’t answer.

  “Please tell me you’re not meeting up with Mushroom Dick again.” I laugh through my nose. “Because you can do a hell of a lot better than that.”

  “What are you doing, Bennett? What is this?” She studies me, jaw clenched, baby blue gaze cutting through the space between us. “Are you trying to be charming? Are you trying to make amends? What do you want from me?”

  “Don’t worry about what I want. This isn’t about me,” I lie.

  Kind of.

  This is about both of us.

  I have something she wants. She has something I want.

  It’s a zero-sum game we’re playing, even if she doesn’t realize it yet.

  A win for me … is a win for her.

  Astaire gathers a hard breath before letting it go. “I don’t have time for this, Bennett. Tell me what you really want or I’m leaving.”

  “I want you to be angry with me,” I say without pause. “I want you to tell me how you really feel. I’ve said some terrible things to you. Treated you unkindly. I want you to feel all the things you never let yourself feel because you’re too busy being high on life. So go ahead, Astaire. Hate me. Tell me exactly what you think of me.”

  “What? No.” Her arms fold across her chest.

  “I was cruel to you. Beyond cruel. You shared personal things with me and in turn, I insulted you. You have every reason to detest me. And you should.”

  “It was a misunderstanding. I’m not going to hate you for that.” There’s misplaced gentleness in her eyes; gentleness I don’t deserve.

  “You see, that’s your problem, Astaire.” I take a sip. “You’re much too soft in a world full of jagged edges.”

  The innocence in her eyes reminds me of a much younger Larissa.

  So full of hope and unshakable optimism.

  This life eats people like them for breakfast.

  “I disagree. I think the world is soft and people like you are the jagged edges. You go around cutting and destroying all the good.” She’s pointing at me. This is good. It’s a start.

  “Clearly you’re annoyed with me. Why not take it a step further?” I move closer, helping myself to one of her angelic blonde waves before letting it fall to her shoulder. Inhaling her sweet scent, I add, “Life has dealt you a shitty hand, Astaire.”

  “And your point?”

  “It isn’t healthy to bottle all that rage.”

  “It is when there’s no rage to be bottled.” She doesn’t miss a beat. Could be it’s a line she practices out loud to herself in front of the mirror at home until she believes it.

  “It doesn’t make you angry that your parents loved drugs more than you? That no one wanted to adopt you until you were fourteen? That the woman who finally adopted you had a handful of good years with you before she was taken from this earth? That you met the man of your dreams, only to lose him in a freak car accident mere months before your wedding? None of that makes you angry?”

  Her bottom lip quakes. I’m getting through. Making progress.

  Pushing her exactly where I want her to go.

  “I didn’t come here to rehash my past.” She won’t look at me. Her chest rises and falls with staccato breaths.

  “Get mad, Astaire.” I move closer.

  “Why are you doing this?”

  “Take it out on me.” Closer yet. Nothing separates our mouths but a few inches of thick, ripe tension.

  “I’m done here.” She moves, slinking past me.

  I manage to catch her by the wrist and guide her back, gentle enough so she knows I’m not forcing her to stay.

  She’s free to go, but I want her to hear me out.

  She needs to hear me out.

  “When life kicks you when you’re down, fight back. Don’t lie there and take it,” I say. “Don’t feed yourself some bumper sticker mantra that makes you feel better for all of ten seconds.”

  “So I should just be heartless and miserable all the time?”

  “Not all the time—sometimes.”

  “I’m happy, Bennett.” Her attempt at a convincing tone is a joke, an insult to both of us. “I don’t want to be like you.”

  “Sometimes we don’t have a choice. Sometimes we do what we have to do.”

  Her chest lifts and falls as our eyes hold, and I narrow the distance between us, my fingertips grazing her delicate jawline.

  I know what happens when you keep the darkness in. One day it forces its way out, darker, angrier than ever before. And there’s no telling what it makes you do.

  I crush her pomegranate mouth with a kiss and pull her against me.

  Flames lick the interior of the fireplace beside us and behind us, city nights twinkle.

  Astaire kisses me back, gasping for air but refusing to come up for it as we stumble backwards and sink into the leather sofa cushions. I pull her into my lap, her thighs straddling me as she grinds against me, kisses so hard and determined they hurt—the best kind.

  I all but tear her sweater off of her and she lowers her mouth to mine again, her hands working my waistband, slipping beneath my boxers, palming my cock as it grows harder for her by the second.

  The magnetism between us is potent, dangerous.

  A strange, inner excitement floods my veins before charging into explosive currents.

  She grinds against me, and I slip my fingers beneath the waistband of her jeans before flicking the button and tugging the zipper.

  Her mouth collides with mine again, this time more tongue than teeth, but when she reaches for my shirt, I capture her hands.

  “Shirt stays on.” I move for her bra, unclasping the hook and tugging it down her goose-flesh-covered arms.

  I’m not ashamed of my scar, but it tends to detract from the heat of the moment—especially with the sympathetic, heart-of-gold types. I don’t want Astaire to ask questions, to pity me—I want her to ride my cock and not worry if I’m going to have a massive coronary at thirty years old.

  Her fiery lips skim mine and she makes a subtle move for my shirt again, and again, I redirect her attentions … elsewhere … in the form of my fingers slipping beneath the soaked gusset of her lace panties. I slide them between her warm, wet pussy lips before plunging two of them inside her.

  Tossing her head back, she exhales, body quivering and mouth curling up at the sides—pure bliss with a hint of throttled madness.

  Sliding my fingers from her, I bring them to her mouth, inviting her to taste what I’m doing to her … the sweet torture, the conflicted arousal of wanting the very person who makes your blood boil.

  “I want you there,” I point to the end of the sofa. “Bent over.”

  Her eyes soften, confusion perhaps.

  My body aches for her.

  Overthinking and second-guessing have no part in this.

  “I’m going to fuck you from behind, Astaire,” I spell it out for her. “I want you to feel all of me. Every last fucking inch, all the way to the deepest parts of you.”

  She hesitates.

  “What? You thought I was going to fuck you missionary-style? Look into your eyes and tell you how beautiful you are while we both pretend this isn’t just sex?” I exhale.

  She says nothing.

  “You know that’s not what this is about.” I turn her in my lap so she’s facing away, my hand soft around her neck as I lean close and breathe against her ear before taking a nibble. “You and I both know why I invited you here tonight. And we both know why you came. I want you, Astaire. And you want me. We both have our reasons, and there’s n
othing wrong with any of them.”

  Silence settles between us, nothing but shallow breaths and the gentle glow of the fireplace. Just when I’m positive she’s about to melt against me, cave in to her inmost desires, she climbs off me and begins to gather her clothes off the floor like she’s got a plane to catch—or someplace better to be.

  “I’m sorry.” She brushes a strand of hair from her face, swooping, grabbing her panties and bra and collecting everything in her arm. “I can’t do this. I don’t do casual hook ups. And even if I did … I couldn’t do them with you.”

  Breathless, she shimmies into her panties and tight jeans and doesn’t bother with her bra, shoving it into her purse before tugging her sweater over her head. The soft fabric hugs her swollen tits and tents around her nipples. She scans the room, gaze settling toward the foyer—her escape.

  Jesus Christ, the woman can’t get out of here fast enough.

  She won’t look at me, but she isn’t crying. In fact, she isn’t showing a shred of emotion. If I had to guess, she wants to get the hell out of here and pretend like none of this happened.

  Good luck with that, sweetheart …

  She’s going to be thinking about this night, about me, about how hot the sex could’ve been, about all the strange yet exhilarating ways I could’ve made her feel … for the rest of her life.

  Rising, I slip into my boxer briefs and escort her to the door, fetching her coat from the closet. It’s best that I don’t speak. It’s best that I let her have her moment. I’m not going to talk her into sleeping with me, and I’m sure as hell not going to beg her to stay.

  “I’m so sorry.” Her hand rests on the knob, her gaze trained on the door. Still, the woman won’t meet my gaze.

  “Stop apologizing, Astaire.”

  And with that, I let her go.

  19

  Astaire

  If it weren’t for the fact that I can still feel the heat of his mouth on mine, still feel the aching tension between my thighs when I close my eyes, I’d be certain the events of last night were a dream.

  I jam my key into the back entrance lock at the Elmhurst Theatre Saturday morning, dressed to clean. The owners hosted a Great Gatsby-themed gala last night, complete with live music and catering, and since I’m on the volunteer committee, I offered to show up first thing to help with clean-up.

  “Morning, Astaire! There’s donuts and coffee in the staff room,” Conrad, a fellow volunteer, tells me when I make my way across the lobby. “Help yourself.”

  “Thanks, Con.” I acknowledge him a smile and nod, grab a few supplies from the cleaning closet, and head to the balcony to get started. My stomach is so tied in knots, I couldn’t eat if I tried.

  I never should have gone to his place.

  It was clearly a trap, a setup.

  He knew exactly what he was doing luring me there under mysterious pretenses, apologizing like a perfect gentleman, then making his move when he was sure he had me where he needed me—open, vulnerable, confused by our mutual hypnotic attraction.

  I’m not sure what came over me last night when I let him kiss me and then proceeded to jump his bones like some sex-famished lunatic, but when he told me he wanted to bend me over the couch, I suddenly felt more like an object than a human being.

  His words catapulted me back into reality.

  For some women, being objectified is a turn-on, but it’s never been my thing.

  As a person who spent the first decade and a half of her life craving connections of any kind, I can’t do the casual sex thing.

  And I sure as hell can’t do it with Bennett.

  With his wolf-like glint and his mile-wide cruel streak, getting mixed up with him is the last thing I need. But I still can’t get over the fact that he had someone check into me.

  The thought of Bennett Schoenbach taking the time from his busy schedule to solicit someone to look into my background …

  He thinks about me. When we’re not together wonders about me. He wanted so badly to know more about me that he hired someone to do his leg work.

  But why?

  The man could have easily deleted our string of emails and left it at that.

  After all, he made it clear that he had better things to do with his time. But he took it a step further. He went beyond what most people would do.

  I must have intrigued him.

  I’d be lying if I said he didn’t intrigue me.

  There are layers upon layers beneath his galvanized façade.

  More depth than he lets on.

  He has more demons than a man should.

  And for that reason, I need to let him go … because no good can come from this.

  20

  Bennett

  “Bennett, aren’t you going to tell your brother and his wife ‘congratulations’?” My mother bats her mink lashes, hands cupped beneath her pointed chin as the four of us are seated beneath a crystal chandelier at Peridot Saturday morning.

  Normally I’d have declined the invitation, but she lured me here under false pretenses, claiming she needed me to sign off on a corporate tax document—which she did.

  Once I was finished, she asked me to join her for a “quick brunch.”

  No sooner did I reluctantly oblige (due to the rumbling in my stomach and the convenience factor) did my brother and his wife mosey into the dining hall and sidle up to the table.

  I’d been set up.

  And for good reason.

  The Schoenbach family is expanding.

  Beth offers a warm smile. Errol clears his throat, gaze darting from the green hydrangea centerpiece to me and back.

  “I’m sure it’s a bit of a shock,” Beth speaks to me but looks to her husband. “We weren’t expecting it to happen this quickly. The adoption agency said it could take years to get a healthy domestic infant.”

  Her fuchsia lips teeter.

  I don’t buy her excitement.

  From the beginning of their marriage, she’s done everything she can to avoid starting a family with Errol.

  First, there was the whole “we’re too young” excuse. Then it was “we have plenty of time.” When they hit thirty and apparently were in full-fledged “trying to conceive” mode, it was month after month of mysterious negative pregnancy tests. She claimed her doctor said they should wait two years before seeking the help of a fertility specialist.

  Beth waited two years to the day. I imagine Errol was hounding her and she knew she was running out of excuses.

  Errol, for reasons I’ve yet to comprehend, is dead set on having a family.

  Beth (for reasons of her own, I presume) has never stopped taking her birth control pills.

  I know this because in the middle of last year, they happened to be in town and there just so happened to be a mix up at the pharmacy. We share the same initials. The clerk at the counter grabbed her paper bag by mistake. I was halfway around the block when I realized the mistake and returned to swap out her Yasmin compact for my antirejection pills.

  Not that she’s aware of any of this, but her secret is safe with me because I couldn’t give a shit less.

  “It’s a boy,” Errol says. “Due the second week in May.”

  I reach for my ice water.

  Sip. Nod. Glance away.

  In my mother’s warped mind, I suppose she thinks this is going to unite our family, bring us closer together at long last.

  Beth slips her arm into Errol’s. “We’ve got a couple of names picked out, but I think we want to wait until we meet the little guy first.”

  “You’re going to be an uncle, Bennett. Isn’t that lovely?” Mother asks. “Blessings abound. Too early for champagne?”

  She chuckles. Beth chuckles. Their hands meet across the table.

  I place my glass down, my gaze flicking across the table to my mother’s. “Yes, blessings abound. Who’d have thought you’d become a grandmother twice in one year?”

  Her face twists and her mouth moves, soundless. I’ve officially rendere
d Victoria Tuppance-Schoenbach speechless—no easy feat.

  “What’s he talking about?” Errol asks.

  Beth’s gaze travels around the table as she waits for one of us to explain.

  “You haven’t heard?” I sit taller. “Our dear sweet sister had a daughter, and it was her dying wish that I adopt her.”

  My mother squeezes her eyes tight, readjusting the napkin in her lap, gathering her composure.

  “Mother, is this true?” Errol turns to her.

  “She’s five, almost six,” I answer for her, seeing how the cat’s got her tongue. “Dark hair. Big blue Schoenbach eyes.”

  Beth’s brows furrow. I imagine she’s putting something together—likely the wrong something.

  “Probably a coincidence,” Mother finally pipes up, reaching for her water. “Plenty of people have blue eyes, Bennett.”

  I hide my satisfied smirk with a sip of water just in time to glance outside and spot none other than Astaire Carraro crossing the street. From the looks of it, she’s leaving the Elmhurst Theatre. I check my watch. What the hell would she be doing there this early on a Saturday morning?

  Her pale hair is piled into a messy bun on top of her head. A Styrofoam coffee cup is cozied in one hand, a plaid scarf is wrapped around her neck, and a slouchy suede bag hangs across her body.

  She crosses the street with a group of pedestrians, heading this way.

  An errant heartbeat trills in my chest.

  “Apologies.” I stand, secure the button on my jacket, and push my chair in. “But something just came up.”

  My mother’s brows knit. If she’s about to protest, she stops herself. I’m sure she knows it’s best that I leave now before I dredge up any more of the muck and mire she’s spent the past five years burying.

  “Beth and Errol … best of luck.” I head to the lobby, grab my coat from the coat check, and dash outside, barely catching her before she makes it to the next crosswalk. “Astaire.”

  She doesn’t look up or over or around. She stares straight ahead. When I get closer, I spot her white ear pods.

  “Excuse me,” I squeeze between a woman walking a poodle and a man aimlessly scrolling the Wall Street Journal on his phone, and then I tap her shoulder.