Page 51 of The Lies of Bryn van Doren

“I’m going to go grab a coffee. There’s a place on Greenwich,” he says, motioning to the next block over. “Meet me there or call me if you need me.”

Jessica, suddenly aware she’s about to be on her own, pulls in a deep breath and gives him a nod. She has no words to offer. They’re trapped in the nerves which seem to be twisting her stomach and clawing their way up her throat. Stefano presses a kiss to her forehead and then crosses the street. She watches him go and then cranes her neck to look at the old, brick-faced building that stretches the length of street between Warren and Murray. Walking slowly, she notes the street level of the building is made up of a couple shops and a small bodega. On the corner is Wally’s Market next to a dry cleaner and a souvenir place on the far end. When she looks up, it’s not hard to ascertain what’s above these places. Apartments. Five stories of them. Having memorized the address, Jessica knows she’s heading for the sixth floor.

Sandwiched between the bodega and the dry cleaner is the front entrance to the lobby of the housing space. The stonework framing the door and the windows, well above it, is classic architecture—or, at least, as classic as one of the oldest cities in the United States can manage. When Jessica pushes through the revolving door, she’s greeted by a doorman. He doesn’t so much speak as he looks up from his newspaper, rakes his eyes up and down the length of her, then dips his chin in some sort of silent hello as she proceeds to make her way toward the elevator bay.

Jessica presses the call button, then catches her reflection in the worn gold covering of one of the closed elevators. Immediately, and anxiously, she reaches up and runs her fingers through her hair. Just as fast, it falls where it was, around her face and down her chest and back. Rather than curl it, like she’s done all the other times she’s met Godrik, she opted to leave it natural. Her maple tresses hang in loose, thick waves she hopes are acceptable. Also, given the time of day, she has kept her makeup fairly light. She took the time to apply a soft layer of shimmery, pale pink eyeshadow, a thin line of eyeliner, and a generous application of mascara. She had on lip gloss when she left her apartment, but she’s nervously smeared her lips together enough it’s all but gone now. She doesn’t give it a thought as she takes in the rest of her outfit.

It’s August, which means it’s hot and sticky outside. She’s dressed herself in a pale blue romper—the shorts cut high on her thigh, the material cinched at her waist, and the spaghetti strap top cut into a deep V neckline, edged with small diamond cut outs exposing a hint of cleavage. She’s paired the outfit with a set of suede, nude, peep-toe, sling back, ankle booties with a thick heel. In short, she’s comfortable yet leaning on the side of sexy. Even still, she’s completely aware she’s wearing double the amount of clothes she usually wears when in this man’s presence. Even though she’ll be entering the room asBryn van Doren, who he’ll see is more ofJessicathan he’s ever seen.

Well, sort of, she admits to herself as a small chime announces the arrival of an elevator.Guess I can’t be more me than me completely naked.

Shoving that thought aside, she boards the lift car and presses the button to the top floor. She tries not to fidget during her ride but pulls out her phone to double check the apartment number and the time. It’s 12:57. She’s right on schedule. When she’s reached the sixth floor, her heart beats faster and she wills herself to be brave. Stepping into the hallway, it takes her no longer than a moment to notice there are only four doors running the length of the hallway. Her breaths grow shallow. It doesn’t take a genius to discern, onlyfourdoors mean the apartments arehuge.

What am I doing here?Jessica wonders as she makes her way toward unit 601.

Khalohn leans againstone of the six, wooden support beams in the middle of the vast, empty space of the loft. His eyes trained on the beam about ten feet away from him, he imagines Bryn’s legs wrapped around him, her back against the sleek maple, her arms above her head clinging to the edges for leverage as she arches into him and takes him—hard and fast.

He clears his throat, averting his gaze, willing his mind into submission, all the while hoping his half-mast dick will settle before the woman arrives. Shoving aside his fantasies, he shifts his focus around the room. He wonders what she’ll do with the place.

He wonders if she’ll accept his proposition.

When Khalohn stepped foot into the recently remodeled loft space in the old Tribeca building, he knew he’d found precisely what he was in the market for. The kitchen, located to the left of the front entryway, is bordered with walls made of exposed brick. The bedroom, on a raised platform across from the living space, and the living space itself—both to the right—also have the added charm of exposed brick walls. It’s a smart, striking contrast to the off-white dry wall, the old, polished wood floors, and the uncovered, wood-beamed ceilings. The space is one, decent sized, open floorplan. The only rooms where privacy can be gained are the bathroom and utility room, to the right of the front entry. They share a rustic, sliding, steel farmhouse door. There’s also the pantry, just off the kitchen, and a small walk-in closet in the bedroom corner—with another steel farmhouse door.

In the middle of the day, there’s plenty of sunshine pouring into the flat. The six windows, stretching the length of the living space wall, plus the three in the bedroom corner, are enough to make overhead lights unnecessary, so long as the sun is shining. Not that it matters to him much. Khalohn knows with certainty, the majority of the time he intends to spend in the loft will not be during the hours in which the sun shines.

Other than the built-in shelves—spanning the length of the kitchen wall—along with the island—complete with a stove-top built into the butcherblock counter—the open space is empty. This is why, when a knock sounds at the front door, even Bryn’s hesitant taps echo all around him. His eyes shift toward the entryway, then he pushes himself off the beam on which he’s leaning and crosses the room. The heels of his dress shoes echo even louder than the knock. On his next visit, he expects there will be no echoes. When he opens the door and finds Bryn standing in the hallway, his expectation melts intohope.

As he takes her in from top to toe, he’s reminded why he’s here. Not that he needs the reminder. She’s unforgettable. It’s impossible to forget the ways in whichsheishis—his to ruin. Then again, given the contract he signed that morning, he understands his objective toruinher for any other man at Clandestine’s is all but forgotten.

“Hi,” she whispers, pulling him from his thoughts.

“Come in,” he replies, stepping aside to grant her entrance.

She does so, slowly, her heels against the wood floors filling the space with moreechoes.

“What, um…” Bryn’s voice trails off as he shuts the door, and he turns to see her peeking beyond the entryway, looking around in confusion. “What is this place?”

“It’s yours, should you accept,” Khalohn answers simply, following her into the empty room.

Bryn whirls around, her big, brown eyes growing wide as she breathes, “What?”

Slipping his hands into his pant pockets, he feels the second set of keys he dropped there as he closes the distance between them. He stops when they are almost toe-to-toe. He can smell her perfume, and it makes him want to taste her, but he refrains.

“As I informed you yesterday, I’ve invited you here to offer you a business proposition. I’ll be straight with you. Your price at Clandestine’s is not an investment I can continue to make wisely. However, I’m not through with you. I want you. Here. Exclusively.”

Bryn opens her mouth to speak, but when no words come out, she clamps her lips closed and continues to stare at him with her doe eyes. Wishing to touch her, yet resigned to wait, Khalohn takes a step closer, causing her to crane her neck back when he continues to speak.

“If you agree, our arrangement will be as follows. When I want you, I’ll make it known. I’ll never give you less than an hour’s notice; though, with the schedule I keep, I’m sure I can offer you much more than that. We’ll meet here. Always here. When I come to you, I’m prepared to offer you a payment of two-thousand dollars.

“I don’t have to know your arrangement with Beatrice to know my offer is likely well below your usual payment. To compensate for that, the loft is yours for as long as our arrangement holds. Should you agree, I’ll have an interior designer meet you here tomorrow at nine a.m. Fill the space however you would like. It’ll be on my tab. She’ll know to make sure your selections are here no later than Friday. I’ll be out of town until then. If you agree, I’ll expect you here that evening.”

Bryn continues to stare at him for a minute longer. Having made his proposal, Khalohn waits patiently for her response. Finally, with a shake of her head and after a long blink, she murmurs, “I don’t—I don’t know what to say.”

This time, it’s Khalohn who studies Bryn. Wanting to touch her, he doesn’t deny himself. He lifts a hand from his pocket and slowly glides his fingers along the side of her neck, to her nape, and into her silky mane. He can feel it when she leans toward him, and he doesn’t miss the way her lips part with her breath at his touch. Heat rushes to his groin as his fingers flinch in her hair, and he holds himself back a moment longer.

He doesn’t know her story. He doesn’t know why she walked into Clandestine’s, or why she needed or wanted to offer her body in such a way. All he knows is that a decade ago, if anyone told him he’d be making such an offer, he would have laughed in their face. Now he’s practically holding his breath for her reply. He’s tasted hervalue, and he’s not even close to being through with this treasure.

“This—what you’re offering—it’s—it’s too much,” she breathes.

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