Find Me in Darkness: Mal and Christina's Story, Part 1 Read online

  I blink, and am mortified when a tear trickles down my cheek. “My name is Jaynie.”

  He shakes his head, his mouth quirking up in an ironic smile. “No. With me, you will always be Christina.”

  I close my eyes and take a deep breath, trying to gather myself. “I don’t understand any of this.” It is probably the most honest thing I’ve said since we arrived.

  “What? Tell me specifically what you don’t understand.”

  I open my mouth, though I have no idea what I intend to say. Somehow, “everything” seems far too broad.

  I am saved from having to find words by the arrival of our cheese plate. “Thanks for ordering this.”

  “You said you were feeling light-headed. I thought it might be hunger.”

  This time when I smile, it is entirely genuine. “You were right, actually. Bray and I were going to grab something to eat when we went out shopping, but we got so caught up there wasn’t time. He grabbed a sandwich at the apartment, but I only grabbed a shower.”

  “I’m sorry you went hungry, but if you made the sacrifice to buy the outfit you’re wearing, then I have to say it was worth it. You look stunning.”

  “I’m glad you like it.” My words are soft, but they are heartfelt. I’d fallen in love with the dress the moment I tried it on. It’s black and the material is so light and soft it feels as though I’m wearing a cloud. The bodice is fitted, and cut low enough that it puts my rather average cleavage to good advantage. It has short, flirty sleeves, and a skirt that hits just above my knees and has a sassy little swing when I walk.

  I’ve never felt particularly sexy, but in this dress I think I could go sit at a bar and attract the attention of every male in the room. And though I’d bought it with no particular man in mind, I cannot deny that the way Malcolm looks at me now is making the torment I put my credit card through very, very worth it.

  “Malcolm …” His name tastes delicious on my tongue.

  He reaches across the table and takes my hand, and it feels like the most natural thing in the world. “You can call me Mal,” he says. “Though I do love the way you say my full name.”

  “Mal,” I repeat, and then realize that I’ve been calling him that in my head on and off the whole evening. “That suits you, too.”

  “What did you want to ask?”

  I blink at him. “What do you mean?”

  “You said my name. I assumed a question was going to follow.”

  “Oh.” Once again, I blush. Frankly, I think I’ve broken some sort of blushing record this evening. “No. I—I just wanted to say it.”

  “Did you?”

  I can hear the heat in his voice. More than that, I can feel it. It winds through me, warming my blood and settling in all sorts of interesting places. My lips. My breasts. Between my thighs.

  I realize that I am about to moan and gently tug my hand away.

  “Now you’re being cruel,” he says.

  “Just careful.”

  “I didn’t realize hands were so dangerous.”

  “With you, I think that words are equally so.”

  His wide, sensual mouth curves into a grin. “Well, look at us. We’ve moved from small talk to witty banter after all. Shall I alert the media?”

  I can’t help it—I laugh. “Can I ask you a question?”

  “Anything.”

  “Have we met before?”

  He hesitates, then lifts his hand. And though I realize that he is only signaling the waiter for more drinks, it seems to me that he is stalling. “What makes you think that?” he finally asks.

  “I don’t know. Nothing specific. You just seem familiar.”

  “Maybe I just have one of those faces.”

  I roll my eyes. “Hardly.”

  “Perhaps you know me from the theater.”

  “The theater?”

  “Story Street. I invested recently.”

  I sit up straighter. This is starting to make sense. “Where you there on Friday? Watching rehearsal?”

  He nods, and the pieces fall into place. I must have heard his name whispered among the staff. And as for the sensation that he seemed familiar—well, maybe that was just my subconscious pointing out an attractive guy.

  Voila. Mystery solved.

  “Is that why you say the invitation was because of me?”

  Mal doesn’t answer, but I see the small smile and feel even more vindicated.

  Across the room, I see Bray signal for me to come over. He’s alone, and since that seems odd under the circumstances, I tell Mal not to go away and head over to him.

  “I’m gonna book,” he says.

  “You’re leaving? What about Dagny?”

  He grins. “She’s pretty great, right? She made me swear I’d come back tomorrow. Apparently this trial membership thing is good for two weeks.”

  “Okay, I give up. Why are you leaving if she likes you?”

  “Call me crazy, but I actually want to be a doctor someday. And while I’m pretty sure that I could convince Dagny to play doctor with me—”

  “Fine, fine, I get it. Study group. I forgot.” I swallow my disappointment at cutting the evening short. “Let me just say goodbye and I’ll be right back.”

  “Oh, please. Why should you leave when all I’d do is dump you at home and then head to the lab? Especially when you seem to be getting on so well.”

  “I like him.”

  His brows lift. “This is an interesting development. So maybe I don’t need to remind you that you have to jiggle the button on the coffee grinder to get it to work. You might be getting your coffee here in the morning.”

  “No way,” I say.

  “Bullshit.”

  “I’m not looking for a relationship.” Since I’ve never looked for a relationship, my statement is absolutely accurate.

  “Doesn’t mean you can’t fuck him.”

  I shrug. “Maybe. We’ll see.”

  He studies my face. “You don’t want to get involved with him, and yet you don’t want to just roll around with him. My darling Jay, I think this qualifies as an honest-to-goodness conundrum.”

  I give him a shove. “Go,” I say. “Go now.”

  He catches me by the wrists and pulls me in for a hug. “Whatever you do, be smart. And if you come home, take a taxi or have Malcolm walk you. Okay?”

  “Promise,” I say, because I’ve watched enough episodes of Law & Order to know that walking around Manhattan by yourself after dark is a recipe for disaster.

  I head back to Mal, and have to force myself to walk slowly so that I don’t look too eager. Or, worse, so that I don’t trip in my heels.

  His smile when I take my seat is as potent as if I’d returned from a long journey across the sea.

  “I’m glad you’re back,” he says guilelessly. “I don’t like it when you’re away from me.”

  “Are you always this direct?” I ask, though I cannot deny the warm surge of pleasure that flows through me.

  “Only about things that are important to me.” His words are like a caress, stroking and teasing me, making my skin prickle and my heart flutter in my chest.

  “Oh.” I swallow, then bite the bullet. “Am I important to you?”

  “Very.”

  I meet his eyes. “Why?”

  He reaches across the table and takes my hands in his. His are warm and large, and I cannot help but gasp from the force of the connection that seems to surge between us, as if this slight contact has completed a circuit, and we are both now lit up. “Why are you fighting me?”

  His words are gentle, but they strike me with all the force of a slap. I tug my hands away and put them in my lap. “I didn’t know that I was.” I stand up. Then I feel foolish and sit down again. But I’m edgy, and I can’t help but shift in my chair.

  The truth is that I was fighting him. I know that I’m important to him. I know that he likes my company. And yet I cannot simply succumb and see where it leads. I have to analyze. I have to weigh and balance and
try to control every little thing, because if I don’t, something might sneak in through a crack and hurt me when I least expect it.

  I stand again, my thoughts too wild and jarring to let me stay still.

  “Do you want to walk?” There is no frustration in his voice. If there had been, I think I would have just told him good night.

  Instead, I nod. “Thanks. Yes.” I draw a breath as common sense returns. “Actually, it’s getting late. Maybe you could walk me home?”

  I see the disappointment in his eyes, but to his credit, he only nods. “It would be my pleasure.”

  We leave through a different door, this one in the back past the humidors. As we walk, he puts his hand at the base of my spine the same way that Bray led Dagny. The connection is undeniably intimate, and I sigh with pleasure at the surge of warmth that spreads down my back and between my thighs. Maybe I’m not going to fuck him, but I can’t deny that I like the way he makes me feel.

  As we’re exiting, we pass a tall man with copper hair and piercing blue eyes that are focused very intently on my face. Once the door into the lounge has closed behind him, I turn back, as if I will see some lingering evidence of why he seemed so interested in me. Of course there is none.

  Beside me, Mal has come to a stop. We are in a large room that appears to have once been part of a ballroom before this brownstone was redesigned. “Tell me something,” he says. “Why did you suddenly want to leave?”

  I shrug. “It’s getting late, that’s all.” Once again I turn toward the door from which we’ve just exited, only this time I’m trying to change the subject. “Who was that? The man we passed?”

  “Asher,” he says, as if that explains everything.

  “Why was he looking at me like that?”

  “Like what?”

  “As if he knew me. As if he didn’t trust me.”

  Mal brushes my cheek. “I doubt that. More likely, he was admiring you.”

  It’s not the truth, but I don’t call him on the lie because I’m enjoying this time with him, and I don’t want to spoil it because of an enigmatic look from a man I don’t even know.

  As we step further into the room, I see a small, old-fashioned elevator. “Are there apartments above the club? Do you live here?”

  “There are a few apartments,” he says. “But no, I don’t live on site, though a few of the brotherhood do.”

  “The brotherhood?” He’s leading me across the tile floor away from the elevator and toward a side door.

  “Think of it as a partnership. We own the building and run the club.”

  “Oh. I’m impressed,” I say, and I mean it. What I have seen of both the building and the club are exceptional. Both well-kept, well-run, and overflowing with taste.

  “Are you going to answer me?” he asks as he holds the door open.

  I step past him into the humid night air. “Was there a question?” We’re in a small courtyard that connects this building with the one next to it. And though I can see little of it other than than its brick facade, I have the impression that it is at least as old and elegant as number 36.

  He takes my elbow. “Yes, there was a question. But I’ll rephrase it. Why are you running from me?”

  I look at him. “I’m not. I swear. Just the opposite, really. With anybody else, I would have been long gone by now.”

  He seems to study my face, and I have to force myself not to look away, because I am certain that he sees more than I want to reveal. “Why?”

  I shrug. “I don’t usually talk like this with other people. I hold things in. About the only time I don’t hold back is on stage, but then I’m someone else.”

  “I thought you didn’t like small talk.”

  “I don’t. Usually I just don’t talk at all.”

  He chuckles. “And yet here you are with me, having a lovely conversation. Why do you think that is?”

  “It’s not me,” I say, unable to control the breathy quality of my voice. “So it must be you.”

  “Fair enough. Why?”

  “Something about you.”

  “What?” He takes a step closer.

  I take a step back and shake my head. “I don’t know.”

  “I do.” He takes another step, and though I try to maintain the distance between us, I no longer can. Somehow he has eased us up against the side of the second building. We’re beside the service door, and I feel the bite of rough brick against my shoulders.

  I want to speak, but I seem to have forgotten how. And so I can only look at him, my heart pounding in my chest, my nerves on fire. And yet at the same time, this feels so perfect. So right. And I do not know if I want to fling myself into his arms or run away as far and as fast as I can manage.

  “Do you know how the world works, Christina?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Not the earth, but the entire of the universe. Time is a relative thing, and matter can be manipulated. But a person’s essence—their energy, their soul—that is the only real truth in the universe.”

  I shake my head and tell myself I don’t know what he’s talking about. And that’s true. I don’t. But I can’t deny that his words make me uncomfortable. As if I were to hold them close and polish them to a mirror-shine, I’d see myself reflected back in them.

  “Don’t deny it,” he continues. “You understand me. Hell, you know me. Maybe not this flesh, but your essence. The core of you. You’ve known me from the first moment you saw me.”

  I lick my lips as a vague panic rises in me. “I think you’re confusing me with my mother. She was the one who was in to all that woo-woo past life bullshit.”

  “And you’re not?”

  “My mom was a nutcase.” I speak firmly and emphasize every word. “I’m nothing like her.”

  “There’s nothing crazy about the truth, Christina.” He brushes my cheek with the pad of his thumb, the contact so soothing I want to close my eyes and get lost in it. “And whatever the source, you’re attracted to me. Don’t fight it. Why would you want to? This spark, this connection. It’s not something to run from. It’s something to foster. To build. To grow.

  “Christina,” he continues, and I can hear the tension in his voice, as if he’s fighting for control. He moves his thumb, now brushing my lower lip. “Please. Don’t fight me. Hell, don’t fight us.”

  I draw in a stuttering breath. “You’re—you’re very direct.”

  “I am. Would you like me to be more direct?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “I want you, Christina. In my mind, I already have you.”

  “Oh.” I shiver as wave of pleasure crests over me. “What exactly does that mean?”

  His mouth curves into the kind of smile that suggests long nights in a warm bed. “So many things. Mostly it means that you’re mine to touch. To tease. To pleasure.” His palm cups my breast and I gasp as his thumb flicks over my nipple. “Do you know how many ways there are to please a woman? Do you know how much delight can be wrought with nothing more than a fingertip?”

  I make a small whimpering sound, my body quivering with longing.

  “I will show you, Christina. That, and so much more.”

  His voice drops to a low, raw whisper that seems to brush my skin with the same sensuality as his touch. “I want to take you to heights you haven’t imagined, go with you to places we could never go before. I want to bind you so that you have no defense against the onslaught of passion, so that you have no choice but to trust me and submit to me. And I want to take you to the edge and back.”

  He trails his fingertip over my jawline, and I am already so aroused by his words, that I almost come from that seemingly innocent touch.

  “I’m going to fuck you, Christina. But more than that, lover, I’m going to enjoy you. I’m going to please you. And I’m going to make love to you until we have made up for all the lost years and all the missing moments.”

  Heat builds in his eyes as he leans toward me. I tense, expecting his touch and wan
ting his kiss, then exhale in surprise and disappointment when I realize that he is using a key card to open the door next to us.

  I swallow. “I thought you were walking me home.”

  “I was. My home.”

  I start to protest, but he presses his finger over my lips.

  “I told you, Christina. I want you.”

  “Do you always get what you want?”

  He hesitates only briefly, then shakes his head. “No, not always. But I couldn’t bear not to get you.” He gestures to the now-open door. “Will you come in with me?”

  “I want to,” I admit. “And that’s not something I would expect to hear myself say.”

  “In that case, I’m honored.”

  “You have a very strange effect on me.”

  “Do I?” His mouth curves with amusement. “I think I like the sound of that.”

  “I’m not so sure that I do,” I say honestly.

  “Don’t do that.” He cups my chin, his voice earnest. “Don’t fear what’s between us.”

  I drag my teeth over my lower lip, even as I dig deep for courage. “I don’t understand it,” I admit. “But I like it.”

  And then, before I can stop myself, I raise myself up on my toes, hold on to his shoulders, and capture his mouth in a kiss.

  He responds immediately, turning my already wild kiss even more passionate. He captures me with his mouth even while taking my hands in his and stretching them up so that I am flat against the wall, and he is pressed flat against me. Long and hard, and I can feel the press of his erection against my stomach and—oh, dear god—I want more. Everything. Him.

  “Christina.” My name on his lips is as sensual as a caress, as wild as a seduction, and I feel my body opening to him. My breasts hot and heavy, my thighs tingling in anticipation of his touch. And my sex—oh, yes, please. I want to feel him touch me. Stroke me.

  I want to get lost to the power of his touch. I want to feel him moving inside me.

  And, yes, I want to explode in his arms.

  He shifts my wrists so that he can hold my arms up with only one hand. With his right hand now free, he trails his fingers down my body even as his mouth explores my ear, my neck, all sorts of new and enticing erogenous zones that make me tremble with longing. And then his fingers are at my waist. My hip. My thigh.