“Thank you, Ms. McMillan,” he says dryly. “Compliments will get you everywhere.”

It’s impossible to contain a smile at the reference to a comment I’d once made to him. “Good to know something works with you.”

His lips twist wryly. “You make it sound as if I’m impossible to please.”

I set Ralph’s coffee mug on the small table in the center of the room. “You do come across as a bit . . . challenging.”

His lips twitch. “I can think of worse things to be called.”

“Like rich and arrogant?” I tease, because I’d called him those things a few days earlier.

“I told you, I am—”

“Rich and arrogant,” I finish for him. “Believe me, I know.” I’m remarkably comfortable in this little exchange and I feel daring enough to question him. “You really don’t look like yourself. Are you sick?”

“Sometimes morning simply comes a little too early,” he says dryly, before turning away from me to fill his coffee cup, clearly not willing to supply more details.

My brow furrows. I’m certain he’s turned away from me to avoid me seeing his expression, and I don’t miss the subtle but evident discomfort in him that I’ve never seen before. I have an irrational need to pull down whatever wall he’s just erected and I joke, “Especially after the nights I stayed up studying wine, opera, and classical music so that my boss will believe I can interact with the clientele of the elite auction house his family owns.”

He turns and leans on the counter, sipping his coffee. Any sign of discomfort is gone, and his eyes blaze with power. “I’m simply looking out for your best interests.”

A sense of unease overcomes me and I know our easy conversation is over. We’re heading into quicksand territory and I already feel myself sinking. “And yours,” I point out.

He inclines his head. “Your interests are mine. We’ve had this conversation.”

He’s referring to our talk two nights before, when he’d showed me a video of Chris kissing me in the gallery and convinced me that Chris had used it to stake his claim on me. I’d felt like a token in a game that night. The same night Chris had taken me to the club. Mark’s club. A sudden rush of claustrophobia overtakes me and I reach for the coffee mug and step toward the coffeepot. Somehow, I catch my heel on what seems to be empty air and still I manage to trip. Mark reaches forward and catches my arm. The touch makes me gasp and my eyes shoot to his keen, silvery stare, more primal than concerned, and I feel as if the air has been sucked out of my lungs. I want to pull away but my hands are full.

“You okay, Ms. McMillan?” he asks, his voice etched with a deep, suggestive quality that burns through me with warning. I have the distinct impression that how I handle this moment in time will define our relationship, and perhaps the future of a job I’ve decided I want to keep.

“I do high heels better post-caffeine,” I reply.

His lips twitch and he surprises me by offering me a rare smile. “You are quite witty, aren’t you?”

His hand slips away from my arm and I remember all too well Rebecca talking about Mark’s games. I wonder if this shift in moods, which feels far more menacing than Chris’s, aren’t a part of how he plays with people. I set the mug down and reach for the pot.

“We should talk before you fill that,” Mark comments, and my hand stills mid-action.

I squeeze my eyes shut a moment and steel myself for what I know is coming, before rotating to face him. He’s set his mug down and both of us have our hips aligned with the counter.

“Talk?” I asked. “I thought that’s what we were doing already?”

“My world is invitation-only, Sara.”

Sara. He’s used my first name and I know it’s meant to intimidate me. “You hired me. That’s an invitation.”

“Coy doesn’t suit you.”

He’s right. We both know he means to the club. “I was invited.”

“By the wrong person.”

“No. Not the wrong person.”

“Quite the change of heart from our chat two nights ago, when you were quite displeased with him.”

I decide to bypass defending my reasons for being with Chris. It isn’t like Mark will approve. He won’t even say Chris’s name. “I’m good at my job. I’m going to make you lots of money, but my private life is my private life. I don’t belong to you, Mark.” I use his name intentionally.

“Then who do you belong to, Ms. McMillan?”

Chris. That’s the answer he is looking for, the answer Chris would want me to give, but the ghosts of the past roar inside me. My survival instinct refuses to let go of what I’ve fought hard to achieve these past few years in my independence. “I belong to myself.”

Mark’s eyes gleam with satisfaction and I know I’ve made a critical misstep. “A good answer and one I can live with.” His lips twist and he turns away, sauntering toward the exit, only to stop at the door and glance back at me. “There’s no in between. Don’t let him convince you there is.”

He’s gone before I can reply and I feel my knees quake with the aftermath of his words. Chris had said the same thing to me back in his apartment the morning we’d headed out to Napa Valley. No in between, I repeat in my mind. It is a reality I’ve had lurking in the back of my mind all morning. A reality that says “all” means not only that I have to embrace Chris’s dark side fully, no matter where that takes me, and us, but also that I have to show him mine, and I don’t know if I’m ready. I don’t know if I’ll ever be ready and I doubt very seriously he will be, either. Not for this. Not for his own reasons as well.

I fill the two coffee cups and I’m relieved to find Ralph on the phone, and so make my escape back to my office without conversation, quickly and painlessly. Settling behind my desk, I set my mug down and dial David’s office, only to get an answering service. The office is “indefinitely” closed. The choice of words the operator uses sends a chill down my spine. I set the receiver down and stare at the desktop without seeing it.

I’m starting to feel like I’m losing my mind. I can’t see danger everywhere. Ella is in Paris on her honeymoon. She’s fine. I’m letting this Rebecca mystery make my mind run wild. Actually, my whole life feels like it’s running wild whereas only weeks before it was calm and uneventful. I’m standing on a high-rise ledge and walking the edge, and while there is fear and apprehension, there is also a high I can only call an adrenaline rush that I crave more and more each day.

My cell phone rings and I dig it from my purse to see Chris’s number on caller ID. “You made it okay?” I ask when I answer.

“I just landed, and you know how I spent the entire flight?”

He sounds a bit on edge, or maybe I’m on edge. Maybe we both are. “Sleeping, I hope.”

“Thinking about you and not even about fucking you, Sara. About lying in my bed, with you asleep in my arms.”

His confession thrills and worries me. “Why do I feel like I should apologize?”

“Because you chose to stay there and you won’t be sleeping with me tonight.”

“Oh,” I say, and the tension that had curled inside me begins to unwind. Chris is upset that we can’t sleep together tonight?

“I’m not used to anyone having this kind of hold on me,” he continues, his voice dark and troubled. “I feel like I’m crawling out of my own skin.”

I’ve rattled his deep-rooted need for control and I am still struggling with the idea that I have this power over him that he does over me. It pleases me but I am fairly certain it truly has him unsettled. “Just hearing your voice now affects me,” I say, trying to give him the reassurance I would need if I’d just said to him what he’d said to me. “That’s how much of a hold you have on me.”

“Good.” He breathes out and I feel the relief wash over him even through the phone line. “Because it would suck to feel like this alone.”

“Yes,” I say, smiling. “It would suck.” I hear someone shout in the background, and I think Chris is outside the airport, trying to get a cab.

“That would be my cab,” Chris confirms. “Or rather someone getting me a cab. I’ll call you later. And order in lunch today. I’m worried about you going out.” I hear someone, the cab driver, I assume, ask Chris about his bag, and Chris replies before he returns his attention to me. “I’m serious about lunch, Sara. Order in.”

“I’ll be careful, I promise. Catch your cab and call me when you can.”

“Careful isn’t the answer I’m looking for and you know it.” More voices in the background and I hear Chris issue a muffled curse. “I have to go but this conversation is not over. Did you talk with Jacob?”

“He wasn’t around—”

“Sara—”

“I’m fine.”

“The point is keeping you fine.” He makes a frustrated sound. “I’ll call you when I get a break and we will talk about your definition of ‘careful’ and mine.” He hangs up before I can answer, another one of his “control” things.

I drop the phone back into my desk drawer and I am warm all over thinking about Chris’s confessions, and even his concerns when it comes to my safety. I do not know why it feels wicked and wonderful when Chris pretty much bosses me around, but it does. Chris Merit is my adrenaline rush.

The intercom buzzes and Amanda announces, “There’s someone named Jacob on the line for you.”

Seven

I’ve barely hung up with Jacob when I receive an e-mail from Mark titled “Riptide.” Tension slides through me at the timing of a message related to the famous auction house his family owns. He knows how much I want to earn the opportunity to work with Riptide and he’s too smart not to know how uneasy I am about where I stand. Anxiously, I click on the message.

Ms. McMillan:

Riptide has an auction planned for two months from now and I’m attaching a list of the items to be offered to the public, along with estimated sale prices. This should give you an idea of exactly how including a piece of art in a Riptide auction can impact its value. This should clearly show why you would want a customer, or artists wishing to sell unique pieces of their collections, to use Riptide as an avenue to do so. Furthermore, to have our gallery listed as the sale’s agent amplifies our reputation as a prestigious gallery, thus drawing high-end clientele to shop and artists to show their work here.

Consider this an invitation to seek out items that would fit this upcoming auction, and should you succeed, you will be invited to attend the event when it takes place. You will also receive a substantial commission of the sale.

Sincerely,

Bossman

The humor Mark shows in the e-mail by signing it “Bossman” does nothing to lessen my instant unease at the timing of the message. Mark stirs conflicting feelings inside me. I respect his success, and I’ve seen him act in protective ways toward me and his other employees that conflict with the man in the journal Chris insists is Mark. My gaze lifts to the oil painting on the wall in front of me, red and white roses by the brilliant Georgia O’Nay, a part of Mark’s personal collection that he’d placed in Rebecca’s office.

I am reminded of the roses Rebecca’s Master had sent her, of her words after receiving them. I do feel ready to bloom, ready to go wherever he leads me. I have the sense that Mark is trying to lead me, and my spine stiffens. I do not know if he is the man from the journal, but I do know that I am not his slave or submissive, nor do I intend to be. I do, however, fear that is where he intends to take me. I feel like this Riptide offer is about Chris, about me not saying he owns me. Mark is trying to own me. I’ve finally dared to chase my dream of a career in this industry, and he’s using it against me. He knows I know that while I could get a job elsewhere, the pay would be too low for me to consider it a viable way to leave teaching behind. I cannot just sit back and ignore what this could mean for me.

My mind is racing as I round my desk and head to the hallway. If I let fear of losing this dream control me, Mark controls me. I’ve worked too hard to make my life my own to let that happen. And damn it, if this dream isn’t going to happen for me, I need to stop teasing myself. The longer I do, the more painful my return to teaching will be. I can’t make a living on the pay I’ll get without the Riptide commissions. If I could, I’d have been working at this a long time ago.

My worries consume the short walk to Mark’s door and I am not surprised to find it shut. It’s not like the man invites a warm and fuzzy environment. Lifting my hand to knock, I pause as adrenaline slams into me and this time it’s not such a high. Nerves assail me and I hate it. They are a weakness and I am so damn tired of weakness. Grinding my teeth through the very real fear of this meeting ending my dream job and mocking my bravado, I knock and hear Mark’s deep voice resonate a command to come in. Everything is a command with Mark.