For 100 Nights (100 2)

I pick at my delicious meal of grilled sea bass, trying not to stare when I spy more than a few celebrities seated among the tables and banquettes occupied by assorted suits, titans of business and media, and ladies who lunch. For all my effort, I notice I’m not the only one trying not to gape. Nick and I have not gone unnoticed either, and the surreptitious glances from several directions across the room make me fidget a bit on the plush velvet chair beneath me.

My self-consciousness isn’t helped any by the fact that beneath my blousy white silk tank, I’m wearing the new bra Nick bought for me. At his insistence, after we made love in the shower in his office’s private bathroom, I gave him the lingerie show I promised. I hadn’t intended to wear the sexy underthings to lunch, but once he saw them on me, he refused to let me take them off. Now, I can’t help feeling conspicuous for the way the tiny burgundy roses ghost beneath my top. To my mortification, I can also see my nipples, which are barely covered by the shallow balconette cups.

When I glance at Nick, he’s staring at me as he brings his glass of Lagavulin twelve-year to his lips. “Stop worrying about what anyone thinks of you, Avery.”

“That’s easy for you to say,” I tell him, my voice as quiet as his—not that anyone can hear us above the hubbub of lively conversation filling the dining room. “I guess I was picturing sandwiches at a tavern or deli somewhere, not . . . this.”

He studies me over the rim of the wide-bowled glass of amber liquid. “You don’t feel comfortable here?”

I scoff softly. “Not really, no.” My gaze drops, unable to look at him as I whisper my chagrin. “If you knew we were coming here, why did you make me dress like this?”

“Because it pleases me.” He sets his drink down soundlessly on the cloth-covered table and reaches for my restless hand. His palm settles over my fingers, warm and firm. “Because I want every man in this place to look at you with the same lust that I feel for you. I want you to understand the kind of power you have.”

“Power?” My head comes up in confusion.

I try to pull my hand away from him, but he holds me in place. Oddly, his touch grounds me, centers me, even while I feel panic and outrage building in my chest. Nick knows my history. I’ve confided in him about my stepfather’s repeated abuse, about my rape the night my mother killed the son of a bitch. The very last thing I want is to draw the attention of men I don’t know.

Or that of people who might look at me in this rarefied place and see that I don’t belong here. That I’m not like them.

That I’m less than them.

That I’m damaged . . . dirty.

“Nick, don’t—”

“No hiding, Avery. Not with me, remember?” His gaze is intense in the muted light of the restaurant. His grasp on me doesn’t lessen, but his strength is coaxing, not coercive. “You promised to trust me.” He strokes the top of my hand, slow brushes of his thumb over my skin. “You agreed that for these hundred nights, you are mine. Whatever I ask, whatever pleases me. Not merely because I demand it of you, but because you trust me enough to let me lead you into places you’ve never gone.”

I swallow, darting a glance anxiously around us. We’re beginning to draw attention from the tables nearest to ours. I feel heat flood my cheeks.

Yet as self-conscious as I am, my panic is receding. I feel the coldness of it melting away as Nick holds my hand, caressing my skin while his smoldering, yet coolly in-control gaze draws me in until he is all I see . . . all I feel. All I know.

“Do you trust me, Avery?”

“Yes.” The word rushes over my tongue without hesitation. “Yes, Nick. I trust you.”

His lips curve almost imperceptibly, satisfaction gleaming in his eyes. “You see? Power.”

Gently pulling my hand to his mouth, he kisses the tips of my fingers, then releases me. Casually, he picks up his silverware and slices off a piece of his grilled lamb chop. “How’s the sea bass, Ms. Ross?”

I stare at him, astonished that he can go from full-throttle intensity to relaxed nonchalance in the blink of an eye. His abrupt change tells me our conversation is over. He’s made his point and I have to admit I do feel a certain defiance as I straighten my spine and take a sip of my Sauvignon blanc. I’m still not totally comfortable with the furtive glances—and, now, the flurry of whispers—circulating the room, but I am comfortable with Nick.

And, yes, I trust him.

“The sea bass is amazing, Mr. Baine.”

“Good,” he says, his tone heavy with sexual heat. “I promise I will never steer you wrong.”

The look he gives me is pure sin. I squirm on my chair, eager with the anticipation of finding out just how far he intends to take that vow.

We fall into a comfortable silence, both of us enjoying our food and drinks. I hadn’t realized how absolutely starved I was, but then again, Nick and I definitely know how to work up an appetite. I’m so engrossed in the joy of my five-star meal, I hardly register the muffled chime of my phone’s ringtone.

“Sorry.” Appalled to be that rude diner whose call disrupts the entire room, I hurry to reach into my purse and silence the damn thing. Nick watches me as I glance at the display, then send Tasha’s aunt to voice mail.

“Nothing you need to handle?”

I shake my head. “I’ll check my messages later.”

“Because if it’s something to do with your mother—”