Broken Beast

"Don't be."

She moves closer. Curls her hand around my neck. Then my chin. Jaw. My left cheek. My unscarred side. "You're tall." She runs her thumb over my temple. "Too tall for the back seat of a car. Or do you have a mini-van?"

"A Tesla."

"Of course."

"Of course?"

"Spoiled rich tech CEO bought a Tesla."

"CTO."

She laughs. "Oh, yeah, big difference."

"It is."

"Are you going to explain it to me?"

"Does it interest you?"

"No." She runs her fingers over the scar on my right cheek. "Is this okay?"

No. But I want it to be. "Yes."

"You're shy." She traces the one below the first. Then the next. "I don't want to make light of what you went through, but I… I think they're beautiful."

My limbs go light.

"I shouldn't say that, I know, but I do."

"Beautiful?"

"You've always have been handsome. Before the accident, you were more… conventional. Like Prince Charming."

"And not the monster he destroys?"

"No." Her voice softens. "Like Prince Charming back from saving the princess." She slips her hand under my suit jacket. "Prince Charming after slaying the monster."

Not yet, no.

"I… I'm fucking this up, aren't I?"

"No."

"I just…" She brings her hand to my neck. "I've never had to work so hard to touch a guy."

A laugh spills from my lips.

She smiles. "I don't mind. It feels good to want something." Her fingers glide over my tie. "Vibrant." She rises to her tiptoes and presses her lips to mine.

It's soft, slow, intoxicating.

I want her to touch me too.

I want every inch of her skin against every inch of mine.

But I can't lose her.

Not yet.

Not now.

Not when I'm so fucking close to stitching myself together.

She pulls back with a sigh. "Adam."

My cock stirs.

"You want to leave after dinner?"

"Yes."

"It's still early." Her fingers curl into my skin. "And the light is perfect here. This place is modern and beautiful. I want to photograph it. I want to photograph us."

Fuck. "You don't mean—"

"Not pornographic. Unless you want to." Her cheeks flush. "I, uh, I wouldn't share that. Of course. But I know there are privacy concerns. Even from a guy who owns a security company."

"Especially." I know how easy it is to find information. I know the images she posts for public consumption.

Never pornographic.

But erotic. Explicit even.

If she shares something of us, strangers will see.

Fuck themselves to it.

Curse me for claiming her.

Strangers including Fitzgerald.

It will kill him.

How can I say no?

How can I agree?

"I, uh, I've never done that before." She releases me. "But I would try. With you. You wouldn't have to show your face. Or your uh… it could just be your hand."

Fuck me.

"But I was actually thinking something I could share. You'd be anonymous." She moves to the table. Opens her computer. Pulls up a photograph.

A man in a suit holding a naked woman. Her back is to the camera. His head is buried in her neck.

There's no doubt where the scene is leading, but the photo is sensual without being explicit.

"I want to pitch it," she says. "For the gallery. If Mr. Davey isn't interested, someone will be. Remy was right. Your family is famous. I'm famous by association. If Adam Pierce's girlfriend… Adam Pierce's fiancée is selling a set of nudes with an anonymous man, a man who might be Adam Pierce… people will want to see that."

"They won't be there for you."

"No. But they'll be there. And I'll make a name in the art world. And not just the Instagram world." Her eyes meet mine. "But I… only with your blessing. It would put you in the spotlight."

And destroy the asshole I'm trying to destroy.

Maybe this is kismet.

I have ulterior motives, but we want the same thing.

"Yes," I say. "Of course."

"Are you sure?"

No. Not even a little.

"Maybe we should take one to start. To see if you're okay with it."

This is terrifying, yes, but I can handle it. I will.

Her fingers curl into her thighs. "One of us has to bring it up." She swallows hard and pulls up her website.

Broken Beauty.

The homepage photo.

Danielle, draped in soft sheets.

I've seen it a hundred times. A thousand, even.

"How long have you known?" she asks.

"Always."

"How?"

"You have half a million Instagram followers."

"And you happened to be one of them?"

No. My PI brought her to my attention. I can't tell her that. Maybe one day, when I'm ready for her to see me as the monster I am, but not yet. "A friend sent me your site."

"Before we met?"

"Yes."

"Is that why you hired me?"

"Part of it." I take a step toward her. "Are you offended?"

"I don't know. What's the other part?"

"I like you."

"And that's it? You like me?"

"If I was the type to marry, I'd marry someone like you. My brothers will believe I married you for love." That's over the line. A deception. But it's as close as I can get to the truth. "Everyone will believe it."