Chapter 18

CHAPTER 18

Skye

Twelve Years Earlier

New York City

I slog out the revolving glass doors of 30 Rock onto the plaza, totally dejected. Adieu NBC.

My sixteenth interview in the city that never sleeps. And apparently doesn't hire. Just like at all the other networks and news organizations I've met with, there's a job freeze. The damn recession. Everyone tells me my credentials are impeccable... Barnard magna cum laude, followed by two years at the prestigious Columbia School of Journalism, where I graduated first in my class and received many awards. My exposé on date rape was even published in the Huffington Post .

The same lame excuses. And insipid advice. We'll keep your résumé in the active file. Try some local affiliates. Do some freelance work. Check back with us in a few months.

Adjusting my shoulder bag, I huff out a frustrated breath. I need a job. I want a job. A steady, full-time, meaningful one. I'll take any entry-level position in any major news department, but in these tough economic times, they don't exist. Everyone's scaling back. They're eliminating existing jobs and not creating new ones.

As I step outside, a blast of the cold December air assaults me like a slap on the face. I tighten the plaid scarf around my neck and then hug myself, thankful I wore my heavy wool coat, a thrift-store find. Shivering nonetheless, I walk aimlessly around the plaza. The electricity in the air does little to lift my spirits. Rockefeller Center is bustling, with rush hour commuters charging out of office buildings, and myriad shoppers carrying colorful Christmas bags despite the economy. I behold the massive Christmas tree that lights up the plaza and sadness sweeps over me. This is the first year I won't be spending the holidays with my parents, my only family. Six months ago while filming a documentary in Laos, they drove over a live land mine. Instant death. Not one of their Jeep crew survived the horrific explosion. Friends from school have invited me to spend Christmas with them, but I've declined all their kind offers. I just want to spend it alone in the city in my small Upper Westside apartment and attend midnight mass, remembering my parents. There's a church right across from Barnard where I've gone to services before.

Picking up my pace, I glance down at the skaters circling the iconic ice rink below. There are skaters of all ages, some newbies with wobbling legs and holding on to the hand railing, and others like the elegant woman in the middle doing intricate jumps and spins, obviously experienced. My parents used to take me skating here when I was a kid whenever we spent Christmas in New York, then for a hot chocolate at the café. Another pang of sadness stabs me. I need to go home. Pour myself a glass of wine. Obliterate the deep funk I'm in. Yup, it sucks to be me.

With my weighty heart sinking to my stomach, I skulk across the touristy plaza, passing the many stylish shops as well as the venerable auction house, Christie's. I peek inside the latter. There's a cocktail party going on. In need of some warmth and a drink, I impulsively decide to check it out.

"Can I take your coat?" asks an attendant as soon as I enter.

"Thanks, but I'll just keep it," I stammer, not sure how long I will stay.

Tugging off my gloves and stuffing them into my coat pockets, I make my way further inside and soak in both my surroundings and the crowd.

The place is packed with chi-chi people who are sipping champagne and chatting about the contemporary artwork on display. The elite of New York. The women are dressed in chic black cocktail attire and dripping with jewels, the men tan and clad in expensive dark suits. From what I hear and see, you'd never know we're in the middle of a major recession. Vivaldi's Four Seasons plays in the background, adding to the festive mood.

"Darling," says one rail-thin woman to another. "What do you think of the Rothko?"

"It's divine. And such a steal."

"Totally!"

I glance at the auction estimate posted under the abstract painting. $500,000-$1,000,000.

Yikes! That's a small fortune. I guess not everyone is affected by the recession.

Meandering through the crowd, another conversation captures my attention between a stunning, statuesque blonde and an older, paunchy man in a navy blazer and open-collar white shirt. She's dressed in a winter-white pencil skirt, cream cashmere pullover, and black alligator stilettos. About my age, she exudes wealth, class, and confidence. A modern-day Grace Kelly, who could easily be a supermodel. Maybe she is.

If she is the epitome of elegance, he is the epitome of sleaze. Sporting slicked back dyed hair, a thick gold chain around his neck, a pinky ring, and shoes that are too shiny. On closer inspection, I recognize him. Sheldon Greenberg, one of Hollywood's biggest TV producers. I wanted to interview him for the thesis I was writing on the future of women in television, but he basically told me to get lost. What a jerk!

"Yo, Kayla!"

He and the attractive woman exchange kisses, the European way on each cheek.

"Darling, so good to see you," gushes the woman.

"So, sweetheart," he drawls in a thick New York accent, his eyes on her chest, "is anything a steal?"

She runs a manicured hand through her glossy hair. "Check out the Warhol. Don't tell anyone I've told you, but there's no reserve."

I get the sense the stunning woman works for the auction house. Grrr! She's got a job!

The sleazebag winks at her. "Thanks for the tip, sweetheart." He chugs his champagne and stuffs an hors d'oeuvre into his mouth, chewing it noisily. "Your parents here?"

"No. They're at their house in Aruba."

Sheldon wipes his mouth with the sleeve of his jacket. Slob. "Tell your father to call me when he gets back in town. I have a hot TV project cooking."

"I will. Where are you staying?"

"At the Mercer downtown. Come by later. I'm having an after-party."

She smiles flirtatiously. "I'll be there." Her crystal-green eyes roam the crowd of art collectors. "Listen, I've got to schmooze. I'll see you later, darling." I watch as she pecks a kiss on his cheek, and they part, each working themselves into the crowd.

I move on, plucking a glass of champagne from one of the white-gloved waiters along with an hors d'oeuvre. A cheese puff. Hungry, I snag another and move into a corner, intimidated by these glamorous people. Stuffing the crusty pastry into my mouth, I catch sight of him, standing across the room in front of a colorful abstract painting. The most beautiful man I've ever set eyes on.

A tad older than me, he's tall, dark and handsome, but not in the traditional, fairy-tale way. Unlike all the clean-shaven middle-aged suits here, his chiseled face is laced with a sexy layer of scruff that hints at a riot of dark hair beneath his adorable beanie. Dressed in all black, his lean, athletic body sports faded ripped jeans, beat-up Doc Martens, and this ridiculously sexy leather bomber jacket over a Springsteen T-shirt. He's downtown cool. A bad boy.

Our eyes lock. Holy cow. He's staring at me. I behold him like a work of art. Despite the distance between us, I can feel his magnetism. An attraction like none I've ever felt. My body reacts in a way I've never experienced—heart palps, shortness of breath, and tingles all over. It's so heated I contemplate taking off my coat.

He loosens his wool scarf and a cocky, crooked smile curls his lips. It's almost a teasing smirk. Telling me it's suddenly hot in here.

It is!

I nervously sip my champagne. What's my next move? Flipping around, I face a painting so I don't have to deal with Mr. Swoonworthy.

My breathing shallow, I absent-mindedly stare at the canvas. A Jackson Pollock. Estimated Sale Price: 1-1.5 million dollars. Nothing compares with the masterpiece I just beheld. I can still feel his eyes on me. My temperature is rising; my pulse is in overdrive.

Moments later, a warm breath licks the nape of my neck. A pair of strong arms circles my waist, trapping me. My heart skips a beat; goosebumps pop beneath my coat. Oh God! Is it possibly him?

"Sweetheart, you're more amazing than any painting here."

It's not him! The voice is gruff with a thick New York accent. I recognize it immediately. Sheldon Greenberg. The scent of his putrid cologne drifts up my nose and nauseates me. To my horror, he thrusts a hand under my coat and gropes my breasts.

"Mmm," he hums as he squeezes them.

"Please stop!" I squirm, but he holds me prisoner, gripping my waist with one arm.

"Please . . . you're hurting me!"

"Relax, sweetheart. We're just getting started."

On my next desperate breath, he corners me against the wall, pressing me so hard against it that the plastic tumbler I'm holding crushes in my hand. A sharp pain slices through the base of my thumb as it slips out of my fingers. The pain is fleeting, overpowered by my need to get away from this monster. No matter how much I writhe, trying to fight him off, I can't break free of him.

Caging me with his weighty body, he shuffles his hand down my torso, until it reaches the waistband of my skirt. Digging his stubby fingers beneath my pantyhose, he travels further south.

"I bet you have a pussy that belongs in a catalogue," he growls. His erection presses against me. Frightening me. Sickening me. Bringing me to tears.

My face smooshed against the wall, I cry out as loud as I can, "Please stop!"

"Let go of her, asswipe!"

A new voice! On my next harsh breath, I'm freed. I whirl around and find Sheldon sprawled on the floor, face down. My hero glares at my assailant with frightening intensity. His piercing blue eyes as razor-sharp as shark teeth. An unnerving snarl curled on his lips.

"She's mine."

His husky voice is intense. Forceful. Commanding. Possessive.

"If you ever touch her again, I'll kill you." Greenberg staggers to his feet and stumbles away, not looking back at the ravishing man with the badass jeans and leather jacket, who just rescued me.

Ignoring him, my hero cups his hands on my trembling shoulders. "Are you okay?" His voice is now soft with a touch of gravel. His eyes, two exquisite sapphires, glittering with concern.

"I'm fine," I reply, still shaken. "Thank you."

His jeweled eyes travel down my body and then darken with fury. "Shit! The bastard hurt you."

Suddenly, I'm aware of a twinge of pain and the sensation of warm liquid trickling down my palm.

As I glance down at my bloody hand, he yanks off his scarf.

"Hold up your hand."

My heart hammering, I do as he asks and watch as he wraps the scarf around it, forming a makeshift bandage.

"I'm going to ruin your scarf." Tingling all over, I can barely get the words out.

He smiles a sexy, dimpled smile that turns my bones to liquid. "Don't worry. They're a dime a dozen. You can buy me a new one on the street tomorrow."

Tomorrow?

"There... all done." He knots the scarf. "How does your hand feel?"

"Good. Thanks." The truth is I can barely feel it, so numb from the tingles that shoot through my body, my senses dulled by my overpowering attraction to him.

He cups my shoulders again. As I grow weak in my knees from his touch, another heart-melting smile fixes on his lips.

"Do you know you're beautiful?"

Me, beautiful ? I stay speechless as he leans into me, his warm breath dusting my cheeks. He smells divine of leather and pine.

"What's your name?" I stammer.

"Finn."

"As in Phineas?"

"As in Huckleberry."

He whispers in my ear.

"Let's get out of here."

***

One hour later, we're in Brooklyn, at his painting-filled loft, butt-naked on his one piece of furniture—a micro-suede futon that's sprawled out on the butcher-block floor next to his worn guitar. Our bodies are entwined, a mad tangle of arms, legs, and tongues. Exploring each other as if we're two conquerors discovering new lands. Springsteen's "She's the One" plays on his sound system.

So in the moment, my very skilled, generous, rough around the edges lover brings me to places I've never known before. Making me forget about what happened at Christie's. And my now expired V-Card.

We spend the rest of the night opening our hearts. Bearing our souls. We're bathed in each other's scents, twined in each other's limbs, wrapped in each other's dreams. I tell him about my nomadic, magical childhood, traveling across the globe while my parents filmed award-winning documentaries. And then about their untimely, tragic death. The CliffsNotes version of my education. Followed by my dreams and aspirations.

My past seems happily-ever-after as he shares his. I learn he's a product of the system. The son of a crack whore mother who abandoned him at birth, leaving him alone to drift from one foster family to another. A talented artist from an early age, he turned to painting as a means to both escape his hardships and express himself. It was the only constant in his ever changing, challenging life. His passion when love was nowhere to be had. Two years older than me—twenty-five—he tells me he won a full scholarship to the prestigious Pratt Institute, from which he graduated.

"What were you doing at Christie's?" I ask, my head resting on his chest, his arm wrapped around me.

"Networking with collectors and dealers, hoping to jumpstart my painting career. What about you?"

"After my depressing job interview at NBC, I went inside on a whim to warm up and get a drink."

A chance encounter.

He affectionately flicks my nose. "They should have hired you."

"One of your paintings should have been hanging at Christie's."

We exchange a laugh . . .

And he takes me again.

***

Last night, it was lust.

By morning, it's love.

One day later, I get a life-changing phone call. A job offer from Conquest Broadcasting in Los Angeles to become an associate producer in their news department.

That night after a celebratory session of delicious lovemaking, my naked, beautiful Finn rolls off the futon and stands up.

"Now, I'm gonna make you an offer you can't refuse."

I laugh at him, appreciating his valiant attempt to sound like Marlon Brando in The Godfather . "What?"

"It's a surprise. Close your eyes."

I do as he asks. A few moments later, a ticklish, wet sensation brushes across my abdomen.

I squirm. "What are you doing, Finn?" It lasts less than thirty seconds.

"Baby, sit up and open your eyes. I hoist myself to an upright position. Finn's sitting cross-legged next to me, holding a paintbrush, the bristles coated in a shimmer of red. He flashes a cocky smile.

I look down. My jaw drops as I silently read the two words he's painted on my body.

MARRY ME!

Two weeks later, we exchange our forever vows at a chapel in Las Vegas en route to Los Angeles.

The city of angels.

The city of dreams.