Page 4 of One Wild Ride

TWO

Alexander

Aria hated me.

I had seen that look before on a woman—my mother. The shock. The hurt.

I should have been honest with Aria from the beginning, but Bradley insisted we tell them nothing. He didn’t know the women and, therefore, he didn’t trust them. He believed it a security risk if we let them know who I was.

What Bradley really meant was my mother would be upset if anyone, especially women she hadn’t vetted, came near me. As much as I considered my security guard, Bradley Gibson, a friend who happened to be my cousin, he still worked for my mother.

“Please, Aria, come in and take a seat. I promise these chairs are much more comfortable than the plastic ones in the basement.”

Her eyes still wide, stared at me. An ache radiated through my chest and down my arms. My hand slid over the supple surface of the chair back. I lowered my eyes as thoughts of her caused my cheeks to warm.

Her beauty was addictive and painful.

“You’re A. Hawthorne? But . . . uh, but—” She pointed back down the hall to where Bradley was keeping an eye on her friends.

I walked over to her and placed my hand on her back. A jolt shot up my arm. It wasn’t static, just my heart seizing from fear, from heat, from the wild thoughts my mind threw at it. And it was like nothing I had felt before.

I had become accustomed to hiding my emotions, especially fear. To survive in my family, it was essential. But this was new. This was wonderful and challenging to hide.

“We had to make sure you weren’t with the paparazzi or a weird art groupie,” I said after guiding Aria to a chair and crouching down to face her.

Her deep brown eyes searched my face as she frowned. I wondered if I pushed her too far tonight. Trapping her and her friends in that basement was wrong. I might have to kill Bradley if he helped ruin the one chance I got with the woman I had lusted after for three years.

Her brow wrinkled in the most delectable way. “You have art groupies? I have been in the art world for over ten years and I never had any art groupies.”

“They tend to go after famous artists and collectors or the talented.” Instant regret caused me to frown.

I shook my head and tried to open my mouth to explain my poor choice of words, but it was too late. Aria jerked away and up out of the chair.

“Oh, well, if I’m not talented then why did you buy my paintings, Mr. Hawthorne?” Aria asked as if the words left a dreadful taste in her mouth.

She moved backward toward the door before her eye caught the small Picasso drawing on the wall. With abrupt flare, she stopped.

“I didn’t mean you weren’t talented. Of course you are or I wouldn’t have been fascinated by your work. I just meant artists and collectors who they deem talented,” I said cringing at my even worse explanation.

Usually I could hold my own in just about any conversation. Even philosophical or political debates, while challenging, were enjoyable to me. But everything I said around Aria seemed wrong, felt wrong.

It was as if my penis told my brain to take a vacation. She challenged me in ways that I wasn’t at all prepared for. It propelled me forward. I stood and walked toward her.

Aria turned to face me, her arms folded and eyes narrowed for what I knew would be a verbal attack. “I get that you are a little out of touch with us common folk with all your wealth to pad you from getting near us, but we don’t really like to be insulted.”

She smirked as she took a moment to gaze about the room. “Did you think you could dazzle me with your amazing art and killer body and hypnotic eyes and I would succumb to a giggle fit when you put down my work?”

Killer body? Blood raced through my veins the more she spoke. Her complimentary words, meant to disguise an insult, were all too familiar to me. It was a tactic my mother gave out like lollipops.

“Excuse me?” I said as I folded my arms over my chest.

“I’ll make this real clear for you, Mr. Hawthorne. I don’t like to be lied to or disrespected. Maybe in your fancy pants world, everyone lies all the time. Maybe it’s a favorite game among the wealthy, who can conjure up the biggest fib while putting people down. Do you win a prize? A golden statue with the biggest dick?”

Aria stepped a little closer to me, her hands moved to her hips. I took a deep breath inhaling what I imagined a wild bed of flowers in a summer meadow would smell like.

My nose flared for more and I had to restrain my hand that only wanted to sink deep into her silky hair. I battled my senses to stay present and defend myself.

“You think this is a game? Some out of touch recluse that plays horrible tricks on people? Wow. This from a woman who hid in a delivery truck so she could sneak into someone’s home.”

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