Ultra-modern and decorated in shades of gray and white, the place is huge—at least for New York City. Maybe in the South or Midwest, where land is cheap, an apartment this size would be nothing special, but in the heart of Manhattan, it’s the equivalent of a fifty-karat diamond. As Marcus guides me around, I see an enormous living room with a sleek spiral staircase in the middle, a movie-theater-like media room, a fully equipped home gym, a dining area with a table big enough for twenty people, and a spacious kitchen with gleaming appliances that wouldn’t look out of place on a spaceship.
And a pool.
A forty-foot-long, rectangular swimming pool separated from the rest of the apartment by a thick glass wall and partially shielded from view by eight-foot-tall potted plants with leaves the size of my head.
“Are they real?” I ask in a hushed tone, reaching out to touch one glossy leaf, and Marcus nods, smiling.
“Yes, of course. There’s an indoor landscaping company that comes in to take care of them once a week, watering them and so on.”
Right, of course. Because that’s what wealthy people do: hire professional landscapers to take care of their houseplants.
“Do you have a chef and a housekeeper as well?” I ask, but to my surprise, Marcus shakes his head.
“My butler handles everything, including the cooking and the cleaning. Well, he oversees the cleaning; there’s a company that actually does it.”
“I see.” I sound slightly choked, but I can’t help it.
A freaking butler? Am I in Downton Abbey?
“Come, let me show you upstairs,” Marcus says, and I follow him to the spiral staircase, trying not to look as overwhelmed as I feel. I knew he was rich, of course, but it didn’t sink in fully before this.
Everywhere I look are objects that cost more than all of my family’s possessions combined. From the abstract paintings on the walls to the sleek sculptures that could’ve been in a modern-art museum, this penthouse reeks of money. Insane money. The kind of money that makes a joke of my attempts to pretend that because I pay for my meals, we’re somehow on equal footing.
God, what am I doing here?
I don’t belong in this place any more than a subway rat would.
“This is the library,” Marcus says, leading me into the first room off the stairs on the second floor, and I see two lounge chairs in a front of a fireplace and walls lined with books. Some of the bookshelves are covered with what appears to be hermetically sealed glass—they must hold more valuable books, like the signed first editions that he sent me.
Feeling like Belle in Beauty and the Beast, I walk over to one of the glass cases and peer inside.
Yep. Hemingway’s The Old Man and the Sea, the pages yellowed and slightly frayed. I have no doubt that if I opened the cloth-bound cover, I’d see the author’s bold scrawl on the title page.
“Have you read all of these?” I ask, looking up when Marcus comes to stand next to me.
“Most, but not all,” he says. “Some of the first editions—like the one you’re looking at—are just part of my collection. As I started to tell you on our first date, I like books too, both reading and collecting them.”
Huh. Maybe we have more in common than I thought. It’s always been my dream to have a shelf full of my favorite authors’ signed copies. “Is that where you got the first editions you sent me? From your collection?”
He smiles. “Indeed. I’m glad I happened to have your favorites.”
I take in a deep breath. “Right. Thank you for that. Unfortunately, I can’t—”
“Here, let me show you the rest of the place.” Deftly, he shepherds me out of the library and into a guest room bigger than my entire studio. His home office, with five computer monitors and three TVs mounted on the walls, follows, and then we finally step into the master bedroom.
Instantly, my heartbeat picks up speed, my skin prickling with increased awareness of the man beside me. During the tour, I was so overwhelmed by the opulence around me that I almost forgot why I’m here. But now it’s all I can think about, my mind flashing to the heated look in Marcus’s eyes when he held my hands and asked me to come home with him.
His thoughts must be traveling along the same pathways because his steely fingers loop around my wrist, and when I look up, I find his gaze filled with dark, primal intent. “Emma…” His voice is low and rough as he pulls me to him. “Kitten, I want you.”
And as my insides clench on an answering surge of need, his lips crash against mine in a deep, voracious kiss.
35
Emma
I wake up slowly and with great reluctance, not wanting to leave the luxuriant warmth of the blanket and the silky softness of the sheets. My limbs feel heavy as I stretch, and my inner thighs are oddly sore, as if I’d done some hardcore yoga. Even my skin is strangely tender, especially in the more intimate—