Chapter Twenty

October 17

New York City

M iles lifted the gate of the industrial elevator, unlocked the steel fire door, and entered his loft. On his way to the bedroom, he caught a hint of Clara’s lingering lilac scent. Annoyed by how it soothed him, Miles tugged at the knot in his tie. When he passed the dining table, he saw it—the small T-shirt draped across the kitchen island. Miles was meticulous; he had learned to keep things in their place at a young age. Walking to the open kitchen, he eyed the white fabric. He rubbed the cotton between his fingers and lifted the garment to his nose. His mind echoed her name as he inhaled.

The bedroom was dimly lit by the single lamp on the side table. The gray bamboo curtains were drawn. The expanse of the dark duvet was interrupted by the perfect girl sitting on the end, her bare pink-tipped toes just touching the floor.

Clara’s blonde hair was in a loose braid, and the white demi bra did little to conceal apple breasts with pert nipples. Her jeans had holes in the knees and frayed hems. Miles’s first thought was to tear the denim from her body—punish those pants for hiding her legs.

He was instantly hard and royally pissed. “What do you think you’re doing?”

Clara jutted out her chin and sat up straighter. “I’ve made a decision.”

Miles leaned against the doorway and crossed his arms. “Oh, you have, have you?”

“I have.”

“And what have you decided?”

“You owe me a favor, and I’m here to collect.”

“Collect how?”

“You’re going to take my virginity.”

Miles summoned every ounce of composure to keep his feet from staggering back. How was it possible? He hadn’t kept an eye on her every minute. Clara had traveled the world, attended boarding school and college. She was the most beautiful girl Miles had ever laid eyes on. Men had to have pursued her like hounds after a fox. With seasoned expertise, he covered his shock and arousal with a chuckle.

“And why have you chosen me for the honor?”

She leaned back on her palms. “I didn’t choose you. You chose you. If you’re going to chase off any man I try to date, you’ll have to be the one to do it. Simple as that.”

“Reynard…”

“Please, don’t mention Papa. It’s my business. I’ve decided.”

Damn, the little witch. Miles had seen Clara in nearly every conceivable attire, from ball gowns to bikinis. Her body was the stuff of wet dreams. There had been times in the shower or late at night when he actively had to force the vision of her from his head as he wrapped a hand around his erection. He would run through the saved mental images of models and actresses desperately trying to replace a memory of Clara eating a strawberry or bending down to pick up a book.

She had arrived at the worst possible time. Between his troubles with Chug Ugentti and the career change he was finally considering, everything was coming to a head. The last thing he needed or wanted was for Clara to pay the price of his own emotional turmoil.

One thing he knew, Clara was single-minded. The more he tried to bully her into relenting, the more she would dig in her heels. Dig in her heels. The thought produced a picture of those bare feet around his back. Shaking the idea loose, he came to the inevitable conclusion that there was only one way to get Clara to reconsider.

In three long strides, Miles was towering over her. With a flick of his fingers, he popped the front clasp on Clara’s bra, and the fabric fell away. With a feather-light touch, he ran the back of his index finger over the swell of her breast. Goose bumps rose on her flesh, and her nipple hardened beneath his touch.

“ You’ve decided?” he said.

“Y-yes.”

“Let me make one thing clear, Clara. In this room, you don’t make decisions. I do.”

Those Mediterranean blue eyes widened in shock. Was she surprised he had agreed? Or was she afraid of what was to come? Both, probably.

“This is what you want? An emotionless deflowering?”

“Well, not emotionless. I hate you.”

His response was stoic as he continued his gentle strokes. “I see.”

“And I assume you feel the same,” she whispered.

“Why would you assume that?”

“You’ve never been kind or friendly. When I was a child—” She stopped herself. “You don’t have to worry about romantic entanglements. You owe me a favor, and I’m collecting.”

It was true. He did owe Clara. She had helped him run a con over the summer, bringing down a corrupt pharmaceutical company CEO. This was the last way he had ever imagined repaying.

Slowly, intentionally, Miles removed his suit jacket, folded it, and laid it across the back of the reading chair by the windows. Deep inside him, the demons were growling in their cages.

“Lie back on the bed.”

Clara undid the button on her jeans and reached for the zipper. “Do what I tell you, Clara. Nothing more.”

“Can I… can I ask a question?”

Unbuttoning his dress shirt, he replied, “Yes.”

“Does it take… I know it hurts, but is it quick? Does it last long?”

“The pain or the fucking?”

If she was shocked by his choice of words, she didn’t show it. “The fucking.”

Miles leaned forward on one arm. Hovering over her, he replied, “All night.”

With his free hand, he unzipped her pants tooth by tooth. He stepped back, pulling the jeans with him, leaving Clara in her unclasped bra and matching white thong. Suddenly, Miles wasn’t sure of his plan. Would she relent? Could he hold back? He breathed in her scent, consumed by the primal urge to mate. Still, the evolved man within held back. She didn’t comprehend the magnitude of this gift. She didn’t know how undeserving he was. He had intended to show her what a poor choice she had made, to make her lose her nerve. Now, it all felt out of his control, as if some magnetic field between their bodies was pulling them together. Miles needed to stop this before they both did something they would regret.

“Clara—”

She shot to her knees with fierce agility. “Oh, no, you don’t. I don’t know what’s going on in your head, if I’m not your type, or if you’re having second thoughts, but you can check your brain at the door. We’ve walked to the cliff’s edge, and, Miles Buchanan, we are going to jump.”

In a flash, Miles had Clara on her back, pinned beneath him. He ground his hips between her legs, and she lifted to meet him. He took her earlobe between his teeth and pulled, then he whispered. “Bluebird, you don’t know the first thing about being on the edge of a cliff.”

“That’s not true, and you know it.”

“I’m about to show you how wrong you are. I’m about to make you beg.”

The feel of her body beneath his was too much. He was only a man. Still, Miles drew on the last of his self-control and executed his plan. “Now, who would you like to do the honors?”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m a man of many faces, Clara.” He pushed off of her, stood, and crossed to the closet. Waving her to his side, Miles opened the door, revealing a room-sized space divided into sections. Miles faced her like a salesman displaying his wares. “There’s the fixer, Caleb Cain. He’s a bit cold—all about efficiency. He goes fast and rough.” He stepped to another rack. “Then there’s Jake, the biker. I’ll warn you. Jake has some kinks—into bondage and toys. He throws in some breath play now and then.” Miles wrapped a hand around her throat and whispered, “I don’t think you’re ready for Jake.” Miles moved to the next section of clothes. “Ah, how ‘bout the busker, Paco. He plays guitar in the subway. He might be perfect for a deflowering. Paco is gentle; he makes love.”

“Miles—”

He pressed a finger to Clara’s lips to shush her. “You’d never survive Zander. He’s a dom. No backtalk. Disobedience would earn you a spanking. With your attitude, you wouldn’t be able to sit down for a week.”

Miles was supposed to be freaking her out, sending this misguided virgin fleeing the loft. Nevertheless, he couldn’t stop himself from making a mental inventory of the things he mentioned that had Clara’s pupils dilating, her cheeks pinking, and her pebbled breasts leaning into his body. She was aggravated by his performance, but she was also curious. Leave it to his perfect little witch to get turned on by the thought of a spanking. Undeterred and half-hard, he pressed on.

“There’s Henry, the Duke of Pembroke-on-Trent. Bit of an exhibitionist, that guy. He likes to be watched. Would you like to pop your cherry against the window, Clara? Maybe let the neighbors see the big event?” Without waiting for an answer, Miles pulled a vibrant silk shirt from its hangar. “Oh, wait. Of course. Francois, the French art collector. He’s perfect—gentle but creative and a bit of a dirty talker.” When he turned around, Clara was sitting on the bed, shimmying into her jeans.

“Stop. Just stop.”

“Where are you going?” Miles feigned surprise.

“Fuck you. I know what you’re doing.”

“What’s that?”

“You charm and manipulate every minute of every day. I guess a moment with the real you was too much to ask.”

“You hate me, Clara. I thought I could give you someone you might like.”

“If this is how you see the situation, I think you must hate me, too.”

“I don’t hate you.”

“I’m not sure I believe you.”

“I don’t have any feelings for you at all.”

“What?”

“I stopped having feelings one way or the other years ago. I don’t hate anyone.”

“And you don’t love anyone? Your twin brother?”

“I think it’s time to call it a night.” Miles ducked into the kitchen and grabbed the T-shirt she had left as bait. Returning to the bedroom, he tossed it to her.

She shrugged it on, and with a deep sadness in her voice, she asked, “What happened to you?”

Miles ignored the question. He wasn’t about to bare his soul. “If you change your mind about the fucking, you know where to find me.”

“Only if Miles Buchanan is available. I may hate him, but I trust him. I’m not interested in one of your characters. I only want Miles.”

She turned and left.

Miles watched the industrial elevator disappear and turned to the bar. Grabbing a full bottle of bourbon, he headed up to the roof.

Clara didn’t understand.

There was no Miles Buchanan. That boy had vanished like steam from a tea kettle years ago.