Crash Into Me Read online

  CRASH INTO ME

  K.M. SCOTT

  What would you give up for everything?

  Tristan Stone was powerful, commanding, sex incarnate. And he wore it all so well. From the moment his mesmerizing gaze met mine, I had no choice but surrender to everything he was. His power. His decadence. His passion. He was all I never knew I needed.

  He wanted to possess me, and I wanted to be his everything. All I had to do was accept what he offered. But everything has a price.

  The world he gave me fulfilled my wildest dreams, but would that be enough when the past crashed into the present?

  Crash Into Me is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and events are the products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to events, locations, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  2013 Copper Key Media, LLC

  Copyright © 2013 Copper Key Media, LLC

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the copyright owner.

  Trademarks: This book identifies product names and services known to be trademarks, registered trademarks, or service marks of their respective holders. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of all products referenced in this work of fiction. The publication and use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  Published in the United States

  Cover Design: Bookin It Designs

  eBook ISBN: 978-0-9891081-4-0

  First eBook Edition: August 2013

  Adult Content: Contains graphic sexual content

  Chapter One

  "You're going to be late!" Jordan yelled from the kitchen in her usual bellow.

  She didn't have to remind me. As I stood checking out my look in the mirror that hung on the back of my closet door, I cringed at the idea that people were going to actually see me in my outfit in just minutes. I looked more like a waitress than a junior assistant to an art gallery owner. A short black skirt and white button down blouse? I might as well be serving pasta down the street at Mama Leone's. Or serving drinks at some gentleman's club. Why my boss thought this was appropriate for an art gallery was beyond me.

  Smoothing my light brown hair that fell to just below my shoulders, I leaned in close to the mirror and saw that the tawny eye shadow and the darkest black mascara did their best to make my blue eyes pop. I stroked a final coat of plum lip gloss over my lips and put on my best supermodel face.

  Too bad everything below my neck ruined all my hard work.

  I made my way down the hallway, stopping by the kitchen to give my roommate a look at my getup. She'd seen it before, but some things never got old.

  "And here she is, Miss America," I sang.

  Jordan put her glass down on the counter and brought her hands up to her face to cover her smile. A pretty blonde with knockout green eyes, she was my best friend and the only person who knew just how much I hated the outfit. "Oh, honey. At least you make that look good. Good legs make everything look better, and you have great legs."

  "I think I've heard that," I joked. At least Jordan helped make me hate this outfit a little less. That is until I got the first sneer from some overly made up woman dripping with expensive jewelry looking down her plastic surgery perfect nose at me. Then I'd hate it again.

  "I'm off to work. What are you doing while I'm moving up in the art world?"

  "Justin and I are catching a movie."

  "So you're doing Justin," I teased. She'd begun dating him a while back, but recently they'd gotten much closer, much to her delight. Jordan saw him as a possible "Mr. Right" and loved that he wanted to move toward more commitment.

  "Don't hate," she said with a smile. "You'll be late, and then that nasty boss of yours will be all over you."

  "Enjoy. I'm off to pay my dues again," I joked only slightly as I headed out the door.

  I walked toward the subway with Jordan's words rattling around in my head, oblivious to the throngs of people heading out for the night. "Don't hate." In truth, I didn't hate the idea that she had found someone. I actually liked Justin. He wasn't an ass like a lot of guys, and he was pretty tolerant of having a third wheel when Jordan dragged me along with them to save me from a Friday night in. And he was just her type—tall, dark, and lanky. While I wasn't as convinced as she was that he was "The One," simply because I wasn't sure that even existed, I liked that she was happy.

  It gave me hope that as she was always claiming good things did, in fact, happen to good people.

  The crowd of New York art devotees far less knowledgeable about art than parties milled about the Anderson Gallery, champagne glasses in hand and noses in the air as they feigned appreciation for the work of a new artist that odds were would likely be a has-been by this time next year. The artwork wasn't bad, as far as modern art went, but I didn't have the time to stand around feeling unimpressed. As the lowest rung on the gallery's ladder, I was responsible for ensuring that the patrons were happy, full of alcohol and hors d'oeuvres, and convinced that the artist's work was the "next big thing," as Sheila Anderson, my boss and owner of the gallery that bore her name, had made quite clear in the pre-show meeting just hours before.

  Her hand-picked outfit for me fit oddly, which was exactly the purpose. The black skirt was far too short and felt more like a big belt in the chilly, air conditioned room. God, my ass was almost hanging out! And the white, button-down shirt one size too small? My biggest fear that night was that a button would pop, fly from my chest, and take someone's eye out. But since my job was to be a "hostess," as Sheila liked to term my employment as her personal slave, this was what I had to wear. The only thing that made it even bearable was that she'd hired two other women to work that night, so at least I wasn't alone in my outfit of shame.

  Four years of school and a degree in art history and I was handing out cocktail weenies. But it was a job that paid the bills. Well, barely paid the bills. No matter. I had bigger plans for my life than this, and I knew I needed to pay my dues before the good things showed up.

  On nights like this, though, it just felt like I was paying more than anything else.

  A tall, blonde standing near the floor to ceiling window at the front of the gallery lifted her glass to alert me she needed a refill, and away I went scurrying to provide her with the much needed champagne. Unlike most of the other gallery patrons, she was at least pleasant and gave me a nod of thanks. Hopefully, Sheila saw that.

  In truth, this wasn't such a bad job. I told myself that all the time, and sometimes I even believed it. The best part about it was that I got to be around the art. That made all the awful jobs I was assigned tolerable. When all the people were gone and it was just me, my broom, and the artwork, I could honestly say I was happy. I'd stand in front of a sculpture from some unknown artist and let my eyes drift over the smooth lines and curves of the piece to imagine what may have been in the artist's heart as he or she lovingly molded their masterpiece. The Anderson Gallery didn't have work from the big names like Monet or Rodin, but it had art and that let me convince myself that years of studying hadn't been for nothing.

  A crowd of people gathered near one of the paintings hung on the far wall. It was the best piece in the show, so it wasn't surprising, but from the sound of their voices, it wasn't the painting they were interested in. I moved toward them, curious for a distraction from standing around with trays all night. The group was mostly women, each one more beautiful than the next, and I suddenly felt self-conscious craning my neck to see what they were s
o intrigued by, as if I didn't belong. A few blondes, brunettes, and a redhead who all looked like supermodels and were dressed in names I only knew from magazines circled around someone, laughing and chattering about things I couldn't understand. Then one woman moved aside and I saw him.

  He was stunning, even more gorgeous than the women that surrounded him. Over six feet tall with short dark hair, he wore a dark grey suit and black shirt that hung as if they were made especially for him, accentuating every well-built inch of his body. I edged myself closer, drawn to him, and saw his eyes. Deep chocolate brown, they looked as if they had seen all the things I hadn't in this world. He was wealth, opulence, and excess.

  A beautiful brunette hung on his arm, an appropriate accessory for such a man, like fourteen caret gold cufflinks or a stainless steel Rolex. As I stood there gawking at him, I heard one of the women say his name.

  Tristan.

  In that moment, I wanted more than anything for the whole world to fade away until it was just me and him. I'd heard of love at first sight before and never believed in it, but as I watched him take up all the empty space in the room, I was in love.

  No, not love. Lust.

  He glanced over at me, and my cheeks flushed with heat. His gaze fixed on mine, brown eyes staring at me as if we knew each other intimately. As if he knew the deepest, darkest parts of me. My brain told me to look away, to break the connection, but the rest of my body rebelled. I wanted to feel those eyes on every part of me.

  "Nina, what are you doing? I saw at least three patrons with empty glasses as I crossed the room. Chop, chop!" Sheila barked in my ear, tearing me out of my fantasy.

  My boss marched away, and I watched as Tristan and his women moved on to another painting. Everything was as it should be with everyone in their correct place. Him with a group of gorgeous women and me with my tray of cocktail weenies. A few minutes later, I watched him leave, never even knowing his last name or what his voice sounded like.

  As the show wound down and the sated art lovers made their way to other fashionable locations in SoHo, I began my post-show duties. Sheila had a look of pure happiness on her gaunt face as she said goodbye to her other help for the night, which could mean that she was high or pleased with how the show had gone. As she was coming my way, I'd know in a minute which it was.

  Sheila was a touchy-feely person, so even before she got to me her hand was reaching out for my arm. Raking her long, bony fingers down my shirt sleeve, she purred, "Nina, except for that brief slip with the champagne, I think the show went off wonderfully." Turning to lock the gallery's front door, she waved her hand around the room. "You can leave a lot of this mess for tomorrow, or if you prefer to clean up tonight, you can have Sunday off. Your choice. I know you'll get it done. You're dependable."

  She didn't bother to wait for my response before she grabbed her black cashmere wrap and traipsed out the back door. I was nothing if not reliable, so she didn't have to worry about whether I'd clean or not. By the time she returned on Monday, her gallery would be spotless.

  As I swept up the last cocktail napkin and put the last champagne glass in the holder for the caterer, I thought about how my boss saw me. Dependable. God, that was an awful way to be seen! Garbage bags were dependable. Wrenches were considered dependable. A good car was dependable.

  The only thing worse would be if she'd called me sturdy.

  With that cheery thought in mind, I turned off the lights, tied up the garbage bag that shared my dependable nature, and headed toward the back door to drop it off and go home for the night. One last job and I was Brooklyn bound.

  I threw the trash in the Dumpster behind the building and locked the gallery's back door. Lost in thought, I heard someone behind me say, "Nice show, huh?"

  The sound of his deep voice nearly made me jump out of my skin, and I spun around to see him. The man from earlier. Tristan. He stood leaning against a black sports car, arms folded across his chest, still dressed in that grey suit and looking even more incredible than when I'd first seen him. As I stared at him, drinking in how gorgeous he looked, my brain switched from pure fear back to normal to ask the obvious question.

  Why is he here?

  "Yeah, it was great. The artist is quite talented," I lied.

  "It was shit and you know it. Nice outfit, though."

  Instantly, I was once again acutely aware of how silly I looked in my waitress getup. His remark stung, and I snapped back, "It's called working. Now unless I can help you with something, I have to go. Have a good night."

  I checked the lock on the gallery door and turned to walk away. I hadn't made it two steps before he quietly said, "I didn't mean anything bad by that. You look nice."

  Was that sincerity in his voice? I didn't know. I just knew I didn't want to feel embarrassed by my work anymore that night.

  Turning around, I tried to get a feel for this guy, but he just stood there staring at me like I was the most important person in the world at that moment. "Thanks."

  "What do you say we go for a ride?"

  "A ride?" I was confused, but I probably should have been afraid. I was standing in a back alley with a strange man, no matter how incredibly sexy he was, and there wasn't anyone nearby. How the hell was it possible that in a city of eight million Tristan and I were the only two there at that moment?

  "A ride," he repeated in a slow, silky voice that made my stomach flip. "At least I can give you a ride home."

  "You don't even know my name."

  He stepped away from the car and in two strides was in front of me just inches away. Looking down at me, he smiled. "You're Nina Edwards, you work at this gallery, and unless I'm mistaken, you don't live anywhere near here."

  As much as I wished he wasn't right, he was. Sunset Park, Brooklyn was miles away. However, that didn't mean I should forget everything I'd been taught all my life, even if he was the hottest man I'd ever spoken to. And even if this was one of my fantasies come true.

  "I don't even know your name," I lied again.

  A slow smile spread across his perfect mouth. "My apologies. I'm Tristan Stone and I'd like it if you'd let me take you home."

  He extended his hand and I shook it, noticing how powerful it felt as it enveloped mine. His very expensive suit coat sleeve rode up just enough to show his Rolex, and I smiled at the fact that I'd called it correctly earlier. He probably had gold cufflinks just under those sleeves too. But where was the brunette?

  As my mind raced with these ideas, I realized he knew my name. "How do you know my name? We've never met."

  Placing his hand on my lower back, he guided me to the passenger side of his car. His touch was light, yet it was thrilling, making my head spin. As he opened the door, he stepped aside and let me sit down before he leaned in close and said, "I asked."

  I watched him walk in front of the car while I enjoyed the lingering scent of his delicious cologne, and as he passed through the headlights, I noticed now that he wasn't flirting with me that he seemed to be frowning. He must have sensed I was looking at him because when he stopped and turned to face me, the smile reappeared, almost on cue.

  He sat down behind the wheel and revved the engine. "Ready?"

  I was nowhere near ready, but there was no turning back now. The sharp click of the car's doors locking signaled it was time to go, and with a deep breath, I pressed a nervous smile onto my lips and nodded. I just hoped this wasn't going to end up being the biggest mistake of my life.

  Tristan flew through the streets of SoHo, weaving through traffic at sixty miles an hour as I covered my eyes and silently prayed for my life. Maybe this wasn't a good idea.

  "Are you going to keep your eyes closed the whole time?"

  I opened my fingers and peeked through just in time to see us swerve around a cab and quickly closed them again. "Yes. The whole time, which will probably be about another minute at this speed."

  "C'mon, open them up. You're safe. I won't let anything happen."

  Slowly, I lowered m
y hands to my lap and worked hard not to dig my fingernails into my legs. I wasn't usually this uncool, but then again, I wasn't usually racing through the city at top speeds in a car that likely cost more than Jordan and I combined made in a year.

  Tristan's Jaguar rode like it was gliding on air. The body hugging black leather seat may have been more comfortable than any piece of furniture I'd ever sat in. A soothing blue glow emanated from the dash, which was full of knobs and buttons around a center touchscreen. I may not ever have cared much about cars, but even I knew this was top shelf.

  "Nice car. Do you always drive it like you plan to wreck it?"

  As he swerved to miss a car stopped in front of us, he said, "Drive it like you stole it, right?"

  Looking around the inside of the car, I wondered out loud, "You didn't steal it, did you?"

  Tristan let out a deep laugh that sounded like it came all the way from his toes. "You're funny, Nina. Nothing like you were back there during the show."

  "Back there I was working. My boss pays me to be serious." I stopped and chuckled. "Well, actually, she pays me to be like her personal slave."

  "I knew there was something more to you than the pretty girl who served the drinks and disgusting little hot dogs."

  God, he was sexy! There was something about the way words slid from his mouth when he spoke that made me want to beg him to stop the car so I could press my lips to his.

  I turned to look at him and his strong jaw caught my attention. Even from the side, he was gorgeous. Relaxed for the first time since the car had begun moving, I joked, "I'll have you know those cocktail weenies are a big hit."

  He turned his head and smiled a sexy grin. "I bet they are."

  While my gaze slid down over his torso and I noticed how perfectly his shirt lay on his body, out of the corner of my eye I noticed a road sign as we sped past it. I-95? "Uh, I think you're going the wrong way. The Cross Bronx Expressway doesn't go anywhere near my house."