Chapter 4

Chapter Four

Madeline

He barely reacts to the slap and that really pisses me off so I slap him across the face again.

At least, that's what I intend to do. I don't have any real luck doing it. I swing hard but this time he catches my wrist in his hand. He never even takes his eyes off my face before he catches my wrist that way.

"I don't know how someone so intelligent can be so stupid," he says. If not for the fact that his impassive face is terrifying, I might get angry again. "Actually, I do know. You're a spoiled brat and you've never had to deal with the consequences of your actions."

My eyes grow wide and his impassiveness isn't so scary anymore. "That's the second time you've called me a?—"

"Shut your mouth right now!" Lucas snaps and there's no way on Earth I can do anything other than instantly obey him. I stare at him in shock and he says, "You need to prove that you're engaged, and that means an engagement ring."

My stomach drops a little. Damn it. I did it again. I spoke first and thought later. "You aren't going to wear a ring that costs less than twenty-five thousand dollars," he adds. "Not a rich brat like you."

Well, that does it. I'm pissed again. I yank my arm away from him and he lifts up his hand in a maddeningly patient way. "That's what those silly Poindexter lawyers will think. They look at you like you're a self-entitled brat and they aren't going to believe anything cheap. So, why don't you stop behaving like you are the idiot child they think you are and make arrangements to give me the money?"

It's really quite strange not to know whether or not I should be offended.

I say softly, "I don't think I… Lucas, we're not talking about a million dollars or even tens of millions. I don't need to make arrangements for twenty-five thousand dollars. I have it in cash here in my safe."

He seems surprised by that and then he confuses me. He says, "I know that it's very important to you to help people."

"Yeah… um, why do you bring that up?"

I go from surprised to shocked because he's entirely right when he says, "Because that's why you have so much cash on hand. In case you need to buy a car for a family or stop a foreclosure or a thousand other reasons. My guess is if you pull any substantial amount out, the lawyers might know so you deal with more drama. So, you pulled a lot out at once and put it in your safe."

I stare in wonder at him and slowly nod. He says, "But there's a new condition to the deal. I want you to promise me that you'll be careful and never let the people you help know where you keep the funds. Trick them into thinking you go to the bank. Something."

"You think I just help criminals? Is that it? All the lawyers aren't even that crass. You think people who need help are more likely to be criminals, you son of a?—"

"You just don't know how to shut up, do you?" he asks. "You're incapable of not lashing out. I swear somebody should have spanked you a long time ago."

"Who the fuck do you?—"

His voice booms over mine. "I DON'T THINK THE PEOPLE YOU HELP ARE CRIMINALS!" I shut up and stare at him, a little afraid, and he adds, "But I think they talk. They'll tell everyone how generous you are and they'll let it slip where the money is and never think about how someone listening might not be nice. And you're a twenty-two-year-old woman who looks like a fairy princess and lives alone!"

I think it's the fairy princess that does it. I mean, I know he means I look like a very easy person to victimize, to steal from, or to hurt. But I hear it differently.

I guess I come back to the realization that my nipples are hard as hell and my pussy is pulsing like crazy.

And that I'm so desperate for this man that I can't think straight.

But I can think well enough to recognize he's trying to be sensible. "Okay," I say in a tone much softer than before, "let me just go get that money. It's over in my den if you want to go with me."

My den is like the rest of the house, but all the furniture is antique, and worth a hefty amount for those who know how to price such things. I always love the room because it is filled with memories. My dad's favorite chair that he used at his own desk is my most prized possession, and behind it on the wall is a painting that is probably the piece with the lowest market value in the whole house. It's my painting of my cat, Cornelia, from when I was thirteen.

Lucas smiles as I walk over to it. "Wow, I like that one."

I smile with my back turned to him, but my voice is serious. "Yeah, it's done in the style of the old masters, you know, Garfield, Felix the cat, Tom and Jerry."

I pull at the picture and it swings out to reveal a safe. Lucas sighs behind me. "That's a bit obvious."

Why does he have to sound like he's lecturing a dumb little girl every time he talks to me? I fight back a nasty response, though. "Maybe, but not many people are trying to run off with a Madeline, circa 2014."

I put in the code quickly and scanned my fingerprint. "You see, I'm not so dumb as to have a safe that isn't state of the art. My family uses some very skilled people for our asset protection." I wing the door open and reach for a smaller but still substantial lock box. "Here we go."

Lucas watches me set it on my 1932 French style mahogany writing desk. "I don't think all the money in that box of yours would buy that desk."

Is there disdain in his voice? My anger flares up, but I remind myself that this arrangement with him is going to help a lot of other people. "It belonged to my great grandfather. It was my dad's after that." I count out thirty thousand dollars and put it in a big manilla envelope and hand it to him. "And no, this probably would not cover the cost."

He takes the money and then, he grabs a paper from my desk and cuts a strip from it with scissors that are older than me. "To measure your finger size."

"Oh, well, let me get this put away." I hurry and get the box back in the safe and the safe door closed. My heart is pounding. My picture of Cornelia swings back into place and I try to calm down. "Okay, here." I hold out my ring finger.

He moves closer and holds my hand so gently as he wraps the strip around my finger. Are my hands shaking? He's so damn close I can smell his cologne. He wears cologne? It smells like the woods and smoke and...

"All done." He lets my hand go.

"Thank you." l look at him and he holds my gaze.

"You're welcome."

We stand there not moving apart. I feel so awkward as time seems to stop and rush all at once. I try to breathe and calm my heart down, but my body heats up all the same.

And I kiss him.

Just like that.

It starts soft, but in an instant his hands come up and he holds me close, and the kiss becomes hungry. Our bodies press together so every contour matches. He leans me into the desk, but I shift and steer him towards the loveseat in the corner.

Our hands are everywhere on each other. I feel his chest through his shirt and my body aches to feel his skin against mine. I go lower at the same time his hand goes between my legs and I gasp, my mouth opening in a sigh where I'm kissing the curve of his neck.

This is like a dream, beautiful and raw and fanciful. I grab my shirt and start pulling it up, wanting to feel his fingers brush over my skin directly. I'm feeling like a mad woman, out of control, and then I see my painting again. Cornelia in the sunlight. A little girl's breezy artistic dream.

A dream.

A little girl's dream.

Not reality.

I stop and take a step back, almost falling onto the loveseat but miraculously avoiding that humiliation. I lower my shirt and pull in a ragged breath and then, two more. My pulse slows. I stare at Lucas with a mixture of apology and desperation.

"You're right," he says, "this isn't a good idea. We just got worked up." He pulls my shirt down the rest of the way and straightens his clothing.

I hadn't said anything, but he understood. I can only nod.

"I'll call you tomorrow, let you know about progress on the ring."

I nod again. "Okay." I breathe it out, softer than a whisper.

"I'll show myself out."

He leaves and I sit on the loveseat, shaking, as I hear my front door open and close.

He left.

I sit in a daze. He left and, well, nothing.

Holy fuck, he left and didn't take me here on the loveseat like some animal. He respected my boundaries.

Or realize he didn't want the spoiled brat?

No, not high and mighty fire inspector. His hose is too good for my fire, I guess.

Some part of me knows my slowly rekindling anger is not rational, but it only makes me angrier.

And that anger infuses a very passionate masturbation session that night as I imagine we didn't stop, and Lucas fucked me like crazy.

Fucking bastard, just fuck me!

It's my angry mantra before, during and after, and it makes me want to cry.