Chapter 6

SIX

Canyon

I've been with a lot of beautiful women but never one quite this flawless. Her skin is pale and blemish-free, and her breasts sit firm and high on her chest. They're on the small side, but I've always been of the mind that anything more than a handful is a waste.

It's a little mind-boggling to be standing here with one of the top models in the world and having her undress for me in her kitchen. Part of me wants to throw her up on the counter and have my way with her right here and now, but another part thinks it more prudent to take my time and savor every moment we have together.

If this is going to be our only night together, I want it to be perfect.

For both of us.

I reach out to put my hands on either side of her waist, pulling her toward me, but she puts a hand on my chest.

"No fair that I'm practically naked and you're still wearing everything," she says softly, her eyes glittering with excitement.

I tug my shirt over my head and toss it aside. "Better?"

She strokes a finger down my stomach. "Much."

I lower my mouth to hers when a phone rings that's loud enough to make us both jump, and I look around in annoyance.

"Is that a landline?" I ask curiously.

"Fuck. The only person who has this number is my security company— " She hurries over to a cordless phone I didn't notice before and answers it brusquely, as if prepared for bad news. "Hello, Rage? Is that you?" She's quiet for a moment and then her eyes widen. "My gallery… oh no… what happened… are you sure? Fuck…Yes, yes, of course. I'm on my way. Thank you."

She puts the phone down and immediately runs out of the room.

"Saylor? What happened?" I chase after her and find her in her bedroom, yanking clothes out of the closet.

"Someone broke into my gallery," she says, pulling on jeans and a hoodie. "The police were called—I'm so sorry, but I have to go."

"You don't have your car," I remind her gently, "but I can drive you."

"Oh." She momentarily falters. "Shit. I forgot about my car, so I appreciate you driving me. I'm so sorry to have to involve you." She pulls on socks and slides her feet into sneakers before we go back to the kitchen.

I pick my shirt up from where I'd tossed it and pull it back on.

"Tell me what they said," I ask as she picks up her purse and locks the door behind us.

"Rage didn't give me many details. Basically, the alarm at the gallery went off and alerted them of a problem, and they immediately called the police, which is protocol. But whoever it was had a few minutes to cause some damage before they ran. Someone from my security firm is on their way to meet the police there. Right now, that's all we know."

"Jesus." I open the passenger side door and make sure she's in before jogging around to the other side. I fire up the engine, pull out of the driveway, probably going a little faster than I should, but I can see how stressed she is. Frankly, my heart rate has kicked up a notch as well. I hate that we'd been interrupted, but I hate this for her even more. Her gallery is important, and I can only hope the damage or theft isn't too bad.

"I'm sorry I ruined our evening," she says, resting the back of her head against the seat.

"Don't worry about that," I say quickly, reaching across the center console for her hand. "Let's just focus on getting to the gallery and finding out what happened before we panic."

"Thank you." She takes a deep but shaky breath. "It seems like I've had a lot of bad luck lately. Food poisoning last week. Flat tire the other day. Now my gallery… It's like the universe is trying to tell me something, but I don't know what it is."

"The universe isn't telling you shit," I mutter, squeezing her hand. "Sometimes bad things happen. That's all. There are shitty people in the world, people who do shitty things, and sometimes food poisoning is just food poisoning. It happens. It happened to me on a road trip last season."

"I know. But it feels like?—"

I cut her off, hoping to distract her. "Bad things happen in three's, right? And this is number three. So, you're good now."

I can't be sure, since I have to focus on the road in front of me, but she may have smiled.

* * *

There are several police cars out front when we arrive, and Saylor practically flies out of the car. It takes me a minute to park, lock up, and follow after her, but from what I can see, there doesn't appear to be much damage.

"...it looks like someone hit the back door with some kind of axe," one of the cops is saying.

"What about the cameras? Can we see who it was?" Saylor is asking a guy who isn't wearing a uniform and is built like the side of a mountain. It has to be the guy from her security company, the one she'd called Rage.

"Whoever it was knew where the cameras were. He wore a hoodie and kept his head down. No way to see his face. It looks like a man, but I can't be a hundred percent sure."

"Did they take anything?"

"Not that we could see," the cop interjects. "Obviously, you'll need to do an inventory but…" His voice trails, and he looks to Rage.

"But?" Saylor asks, frowning. "But what? What aren't you telling me?"

"I guess you need to see it," Rage says in a no-nonsense voice. "Let's go to the back."

For some reason, I feel protective of her and reach for her hand as we walk through the gallery.

"Canyon, this is Elliott Rageis. He works for my security company."

"Nice to meet you. My friends call me Rage." The guy is truly built like a house, well over six feet tall with tree trunks for arms.

We walk to the back of the gallery, and I can't be sure which of us sees the graffiti first, but Saylor stumbles, and I manage to hold on to her arm so she doesn't fall.

"Fuck." I stare at the spray-painted word in horror.

WHORE .

Big red block letters across the back wall of the gallery.

I'm not the most empathetic or intuitive guy when it comes to women, but my chest tightens, and my stomach clenches angrily.

What in the actual fuck?

I don't know a lot about Saylor, but she's sweet, elegant, and classy.

"Was this Russell?" I demand before I can stop myself.

She lifts startled eyes to me. "No. I mean, I don't think?—"

"Who's Russell?" Rage's eyes narrow dangerously.

"A guy I went out on a terrible date with," she whispers. "But I mean, nothing happened. He wasn't mad. If anything, he seemed sad when I told him I didn't want to see him again…"

"I want his details." Rage starts scribbling in a little notebook.

The cop is taking notes too.

Saylor suddenly seems small and fragile, something I haven't seen in her before, and it infuriates me all over again.

I slide my arm around her waist and pull her to my side. "It's going to be okay. I'll stay with you tonight, and the police will figure this out."

The words seem to be pouring out of me unchecked, but I can't help it.

This feels like the worst kind of violation. It isn't physical, but the assault on her emotions has to be almost as painful. Saylor is visibly shaken and pale, and even surrounded by police officers, Rage, and me, there's no doubt she's distressed. The worst part is that there is very little I can do to help, beyond giving her someone to lean on.

It takes two hours to give her statement and take a general inventory to verify that nothing had been stolen. This kind of vandalism has to be personal, and I'm getting more and more annoyed. If that Russell schmuck is responsible, I'm going to pummel his fat, smug face.

What kind of prick does this kind of shit?

"I'm sorry this is taking so long," Saylor says to me at one point. "It's okay if you need to go. I know you have practice tomorrow. I have my car here so I can?—"

"Don't be ridiculous," I interrupt. "I'm going to make sure you get home safely. And if you want me to stay, I'm happy to sleep on the couch."

Her mouth parts slightly but then one of the cops needs her to sign something and she turns away.

"I'm ready to go," she says a few minutes later. "Are you sure you want to drive me home? You'll need to bring me back in the morning."

I nod. "It's fine. Let's get out of here."

I wait while she locks up for the second time tonight, this time with Rage joining us.

"Let me drive your car home," Rage tells her. "I can get a ride from there."

"Are you sure?" She turns in surprise.

"Absolutely." He smiles. "Give me your keys. It's better you don't leave it here overnight anyway."

"Oh. Okay, thank you." She still seems a little shellshocked and there's a part of me that just wants to wrap my arms around her and tell her everything is going to be okay.

We drive back to her place in silence. I keep an eye on Rage in my rearview mirror, wondering if he offers this kind of personal service to all his clients or if he's being extra helpful because it's Saylor.

She's semi-retired from modeling, but any red-blooded male who follows sports had seen her in multiple issues of Sports Illustrated. And she's still breathtakingly beautiful. I can't really blame Rage if he has a hard-on for her.

God knows, I do.

I should have been balls-deep inside of her right now, making her scream my name and giving us both a night to remember.

Instead, I'm holding her hand and being jealous of one of the members of her security team.

It makes no sense.

I should have gotten out of there the moment things went south, and yet, I have no plans to leave her tonight.

Even though I'm almost definitely not getting laid, I'd been serious with my offer to sleep on her couch if she needs me to. I'll be miserable at practice tomorrow, but this feels more important than getting enough sleep.

"I'm going to make some chamomile tea," she says once we've settled at the house and Rage has doublechecked all the locks before taking his leave. "Do you want a cup?"

I'm not a tea drinker, but it seems like the right kind of night to try.

"Sure. Thanks."

I watch as she putters around the kitchen with nervous energy.

"Keep an eye on the kettle, please," she says, her eyes somewhat shrouded. "I'm going to go change into something comfortable."

"All right." I watch the sway of her ass as she walks down the hall and for what might be the first time in life, I'm not thinking about sex. Or all the ways I'd planned to make her come tonight.

Instead, I just want her to be okay.

I want to do something—anything—to make her smile.

To make the haunted look in her eyes go away.

Either something is wrong with me, or Saylor has put some kind of spell on me.

There's no other way to describe it.