Chapter One
You ask me if I remember the first day my life changed. I say it's a silly question. Of course I remember that day.
It is etched into my brain, burned into the soft tissue as if I was held against my will as she stood above me, laughing, the hot iron rod in her hands. My teeth clench and I hiss as the fire-hot metal goes into my head.
Of course I remember. How could I forget?
If I had ever been asked how I thought my life would turn out, I'd have given the expected answer: I'd go to school, work hard, graduate, get a good job, eventually find that perfect woman and settle down. Perhaps we'd have children, and we'd raise them and watch as they grew and experienced all the things I did growing up. Then, when it was time, my wife and I would both retire and live comfortably the rest of our days.
But nothing ever goes as planned, now, does it?
Little did I know when this journalist walked into my life that the ball was set rolling and that plan I had for myself would be taken on a different course, down a road I never could imagine, even in my wildest dreams. I was not aware that in a little over a year, since meeting her, I would be looking at a life I could neither comprehend nor embrace.
She was a golden-haired angel, and she was waiting for me for nearly an hour. The meeting ran late, and it was up to me to ask her if we could reschedule. When I called her into the office she was timid and shy at first, stumbling upon her words, looking around the room like she was a tiny fish that found herself in a shark's nest.
She was so incredibly innocent.
And, oh, how I miscalculated.
The naïve way she had about her was what attracted me to her. I found it ironic that this girl, a journalist, no less, could be at a loss for words. I mentioned as much and I watched as the blood rushed to her face and colored her complexion rose. In an involuntary action to the beauty of her, my left hand clenched around the pen it held, threatening to snap the contraption in half.
Then the idea sprang to me: I would take her out for a drink.
I offered my apologies first, explaining to her that the meeting (and here I motioned to the five other men in the room, all staring at her, minds filled with fantasies in which she was the main star) was going longer than expected and how sorry I was to have wasted her time. A smile crossed my face when her eyes dropped and she fumbled with the thick strap of her bag. Like I knew she would, she forgave me. Then she held out her hand and raised her head, holding her chin high.
"I'll call you at another time, Mr. Hurst, so we can reschedule. Have a nice evening."
When her eyes widened I knew that the look on my face was exactly the one I had hoped for. Now she was a tiny fish in the shark's nest, and I was reeling her in.
"I'll walk you out, Miss…"
"Griffin," she reminded me. "It's Natalie Griffin."
I hadn't forgotten her name. My mother's name was Natalie.
Acting the gracious host, I flashed her a brilliant smile. "I'll walk you out, Miss Griffin."
Her mouth hung open a little and she was temporarily dazed. My palm found the sharp edge of her elbow and I pulled her along, making sure to close the doors to my office completely before I spoke with her again. And I would have to speak silently. My secretary, Grace, was feet away.
"Miss Griffin." I ducked my head as I said her name, making sure it was my back that faced Grace. This gave us a physical wall. Natalie looked up at me again, her green eyes flashing bright and then dimming again. So aware of everything about her, I watched again as the blood rushed to and then drained from her cheeks.
"I hope you won't think me rude for asking, but would you like to accompany me for a drink later? About 8:00. Perhaps we can have our interview there? Only if you're available, that is."
As if I could read her mind I saw her considering the offer. She wouldn't say no.
I've dated my share of women. This is not to insinuate that I am what the younger generation refers to nowadays as a "man whore," but rather to provide proof of my abilities when it comes to women. They are easy for me to read, easy for me to understand. I learned quickly and at a young age that all a woman wants is a man who is confident. I was unable to unlock a charm that is innate with all men, one that, with this knowledge, can be used with full force.
Now I was exuding nothing but power and confidence, and this, I knew, was what snagged Natalie.
She wasn't sure if meeting me at a bar was a good idea, that much was evident by the hesitation that flitted across her pretty features. Then I saw what I was waiting for, something which had told me without even the utterance of a syllable that I had won: her mouth set and determination washed over her.
Natalie raised her head to look me in the eyes. She nodded. "Yes. Yes, I'm available." She lifted her wrist and pushed back the tight sleeve of her black shirt to reveal a dainty gold watch. "It's 7:00 now. I suppose I can wait at the bar for an hour."
I grinned. "Miss Griffin, you're speaking nonsense. Grace here can show you to the room we keep downstairs. There are refreshments in a small refrigerator and a television you can pass the time with. We can take the limousine to the bar together. That is," I furrowed my brow, "if you don't mind."
Again Natalie contemplated the offer, pursing her lips during the half second it took her to decide. "You know," she breathed, her breath curling around me like a sweet mist, "your plan sounds like a much better alternative. But I guess you're used to hearing that."
When she smiled I thought I had gone blind for a second. I was momentarily dazzled. An electric current ran down to my groin.
I swallowed twice before I was sure my voice wouldn't be rough. "Quite," I responded. This time it was me who held his hand out. "I promise to end this meeting in no later than 45 minutes. There is no way a room full of workaholic men could persuade me to keep a lovely young journalist waiting."
Natalie's face fell and her pouty, round mouth dropped again. I had the urge to reach out and press my fingertips to her lips, to feel their silkiness against my skin. I wondered if she hadn't been created from all the finest fabric one could buy. We were smiling at each other when I called Grace over and told her where to place Natalie.
I was hoping the writer would turn back and look at me one last time just before she was escorted from the lobby but to my disappointment I didn't get the pleasure.
It was harder than I imagined it would be, trying to persuade her to have a drink. I knew she probably expected that I was trying to get her drunk, but the truth was she was making me a little nervous. Not that I let this show, mind you. As I was sipping my martini I couldn't help but notice the way she was fidgeting with the hem of her skirt, how her eyes seemed to perpetually roam about the room, as if she were just waiting to be caught in a crime of some sort. Her nervousness was almost tangible, and it had me on edge.
We both decided to call the interview off and meet Monday instead. This was not my idea, though I enjoyed the thought of having some alone time with her. Perhaps, I thought to myself, if I could make her comfortable, I would have the pleasure of learning about her life. For as long as I could remember, people fascinated me, and right now there was no one in this room who fascinated me more than this girl with that shiny blonde head of hair and a megawatt smile.
Luckily for me, a business meeting had, apparently, turned into a non-specified date.
When she hinted- or joked, as I came to find out later- that she was working me for information without my knowledge, a part of me retreated into a black abyss, a part of myself that was mine and mine alone. Somewhere safe. Never had I been a big fan of the press, and yet the irony of my life was that I should be in constant contact with some sort of reporter. I put so much value on my privacy that I eventually, out of fear and necessity, figured out how to keep the biggest parts of my life a secret. I learned that reporters were people to be wary of. I'd seen enough exposes to know that important information must be kept locked away inside a deep place, that it should never be dished out openly or without a relationship built on complete trust. And while I had never been given a direct reason not to trust journalists, I was careful to never, ever give away too much. My words were always vigilantly chosen and I was always on high alert, calculating every word spoken to me by the person who would be writing about me. I knew very well that a life could be destroyed with just one simple word.
Natalie scoffed at herself and then asked me if I trusted her.
The question took me off guard but I didn't let her know that. Instead I smiled at her, picked her apart piece-by-piece, wondering what type of person was below the surface. She looked away, embarrassed, playing with her hands. The conversation, for both our sakes, needed to be changed. So I changed it.
"Do you write novels?" I asked, realizing that as I spoke the words I was genuinely interested in her answer.
Speaking to her hands, she admitted to attempting to write one. "But it's not going well," she said in a voice so quiet I had to inch closer to her to hear the words.
"I'm sure that's not true," I said, sliding nearer to her again once more.
We spoke for a while about her novel-in-progress, something she assured me was too horrid to be seen by anyone's eyes but her own. The conversation eventually lead back to her line of work, to my annoyance. I may have liked her but I still didn't want her prying around. Yet something told me she was sincere when she promised me she was neither that type of reporter nor that type of person. Again, I found it difficult to resist her innocence or the way her big green eyes looked up at me when she gave me her word.
I watched as her eyes moved over my face, settling onto my lips for a split second longer than necessary. The smile that spread across my face was accompanied by a myriad of feelings flowing inside me.
"You want to kiss me," I said. I watched as her face flushed and as she tried to hide it. She stammered something about me having a bit of food on my bottom lip and I knew that this was the perfect time to take my flirting skills into expert-level territory. Deciding to play with her a bit, I let my tongue roam the expanse of my bottom lip, watching as her eyes grew large and her own tongue snaked across her lip.
Laughing out loud at the triumph, I called the bartender over and ordered us a couple drinks. I felt rude, sitting here, drinking on my own. And I wanted Natalie to feel comfortable. I wanted her to forget about work for a moment and have fun, something I didn't think she ever allowed herself to have too much of. I wanted her to unwind with me, to get her to see that I could be a different person when I was away from the office and work-related responsibilities.
With every passing second, Natalie began to become comfortable. As the night progressed I was awarded with glimpses of who the real Natalie Griffin was. Sometimes she had a way of presenting herself as if she were Queen Of The World- a habit I which I wondered at. Was her body language the result of her career? Or had she always been that way? Then, at times, when she was embarrassed or flattered, she had this way of compacting herself so that she reminded me of a shy school girl, an image no man ever has a complaint about.
But then her chin would lift and the blush would fade and she would no longer be that shy girl, but instead become again that beautiful, successful, enigmatic woman.
Suddenly I felt an inexplicable pull toward her, something I could not ignore. The week before when she scheduled an interview with me she was just another reporter. This evening in my office she became a beautiful reporter. But now, now she was a woman I wanted to know. What were her likes and dislikes? Where did she grow up? I wanted to learn her habits, to be able to laugh off the moments when she would be snarky because I knew she was only hungry. I realized what I hadn't admitted to myself when we arrived at this bar: for the first time in a very long time, I was interested in getting to know another human being on a personal and, perhaps even intimate, level. Ben Hurst, after putting so much effort into his business, was ready to open up to someone, a journalist, no less.
When it was time to go home I contemplated offering to take her home in my limo. Deciding it was too much all at once, I settled for calling her a cab. Holding out my hand for her to take I saw her hesitate, her face dropping again with that unsure, shy look.
"I don't bite," I admitted, leaning in closer to her. Some emotion I couldn't quite gauge played on her features. She pushed a strand of hair behind her ears and placed her hand in mine. Natalie's touch was warm and delicate. The sensation of her was delicious.
She began to step down, but her foot got caught and she fell. Moving quickly I caught her, making sure she didn't hit the floor. It took us both a few seconds to realize how tightly she was gripping me. I reveled in the feeling of our bodies pressed against each other, of her head against my chest and her arms around me, using me for support. God, she felt so good.
She was still too stunned, from the fall or me, I couldn't be exactly sure, to move so I untangled her foot. Throat dry, I decided to joke with her, knowing she must feel as awkward as I did.
I carried her outside and hailed her a cab, smiling at myself. It was a good feeling, not having her pull away from me, the way I thought she might. Maybe she was as interested as I was, and not because I was the CEO of a company. Perhaps, and I was crazy enough to think it, she liked me for who I was.
Before I put her in the cab I thought I saw something akin to lust in her eyes. I wondered if she was going to ask me back to her place and honestly, at that moment I had no idea what my answer would be. If she did, and I said yes, this relationship, though I couldn't even call it that at this moment, would be ruined before it could start. And any professional relationship we were supposed to have would be ruined altogether. But, if she did ask and I declined, how would that answer effect us, I wondered.
Natalie didn't ask the question she was going to ask, whatever it was.
Using my best smile, I flashed her a grin. "I'll see you on Monday," I heard myself say, though I can't remember feeling my mouth move as I spoke the words. "Enjoy your weekend, Miss Griffin."
The memory of her touch still stung my hands and everywhere else on my body she made contact with. The awareness was difficult to shake off and I felt it the entire way home.
(Cross Reference: Ambushed! Chapter 1.)