Anew: Awakened Part 20

"What match?" I ask, trying to look interested.

"The polo game this weekend," Marianne explains. "Ian and Edward--" Her voice softens as she says my brother's name. "--have a long-term rivalry going back to their polo-playing days when they were at school together. This year they're on opposing teams. As you might imagine, there's a great deal of interest in the outcome."

Ian plays polo. Another aspect of his life I know nothing about. But it does recall to my mind the powerful muscles of his thighs that I remember all too vividly thrusting between mine. They are certainly strong enough to make him a superb horseman.

"Amelia?"

I look up hastily at my grandmother, praying that nothing in my expression reveals my lascivious thoughts.

"You have a ballet cla.s.s this afternoon," Adele reminds me. "We should be going."

I take a breath and smile at our companions. "It's been a pleasure. I hope we can do this again."

"I'll give you a call," Marianne says. "I have some friends I think you would enjoy meeting."

"I'll look forward to that, thank you." I mean it, I really would like to be friends with Marianne but the fact that she is Ian's sister makes me cautious. Seeing her could become unbearable.

We all walk out together. A vintage Rolls Royce from the previous century is parked at the curb. The long sleek car with its raised chrome grill, curved wheel bases, and burgundy body is nothing short of stunning. Even the blase crowd strolling past the restaurant can't help but gape at it. A uniformed driver jumps out to open the door for Helene and Marianne.

Seeing my fascination with the car, Marianne says, "Ian found it in a garage in Connecticut. It had been sitting there neglected for decades. The first time I saw it, I thought he was crazy to think it could be anything other than a pile of junk. But my brother has a real gift for seeing what's possible. Plus when he wants something, he just doesn't give up. The restoration took him three years and he did most of the work himself."

Staring at the car, perfect even down to the hood ornament of a woman in flight, I nod. "It really is magnificent."

"He's had extraordinary offers for it," Marianne says. "But when Ian values something, really values it, he never lets it go."

I don't know what to make of that. Ian let me go, seemingly without a qualm, yet he continues to pursue me after a fashion, if only for s.e.x. Or at least he was doing so. I can't help but wonder if he's decided that he's had enough. Or is deliberately seeing how frustrated he can make me. Or has some other purpose that I can't fathom.

I'm still pondering that several hours later as I complete a series of deboule half-turns down the length of the dance studio, Sergei arches a brow.

"You are thinking about him again," he says. "Whoever he is."

I open my mouth to deny it and realize that I can't. Ian in my mind and my heart is even more powerful and inescapable than when he is in my body.

Softly, I acknowledge the truth that I've fought so hard to resist.

"I don't seem to have a choice."

Nor can I find it in myself to want one.

Chapter Twenty-one.

Ian "Easy, girl, you'll get what you want."

The gray mare lowers her head and b.u.mps my side, sniffing at the apple in the pocket of my jacket. I dig it out and palm it, letting her velvety mouth scoop up the treat.

I had her brought down from the stables at the palazzo with the thought that Amelia might like to ride but I'm also considering breeding the mare. If I do, I'll have my stallion, Samson, cover her. He's big compared to her daintiness, but he's a gentleman.

My c.o.c.k stirs. Great, thinking about horses doing it is getting me hard. But then why should that be a surprise? I've been that way more or less--usually more--for days now.

Ever since Amelia's receptacle remark, I've been stuck in hard-on purgatory, my libido running at maximum with nowhere to go. I can't believe that as much as I've worked to hold old demons at bay, I still made her feel so objectified. But I also know d.a.m.n well that I did.

Way to go, buddy. Then follow that up by sending her c.l.i.t flowers.

The only bright spot in my otherwise sorry life is that we've established beyond any doubt that Amelia can say 'no' to me. Not once at any of the events I've attended since the soiree has she approached me or in any way hinted that she wants my company.

d.a.m.n her.

A bunch of hackneyed phrases keep swirling through my mind--I'm caught on the horns of a dilemma, hoisted on my own petard whatever the h.e.l.l that is, stuck between a rock and a hard place. Speaking of hard-- On the one hand, she can say 'no', which comes as an immense relief. On the other, she can say 'no', which brings me back to hard-on purgatory. But why stop there? On the other other hand--can a guy really have too many hands?--she can say 'yes'. Except she doesn't.

I'm worried about being near her again and at the same time I can't stay away. My grand strategy to set her aside for her own good was blown to smithereens at the Opera House. Ever since, I've been busy rationalizing.

Since she can say 'no' to me, and she's safely ensconced in the bosom of her family, and I know for a fact that however unaffected by me she wants to seem, I can make her come like the proverbial freight train...

Then really, what's the harm if we go at it like h.o.r.n.y bunnies?

I'm full of c.r.a.p but I can't manage to care. Something got out that night in the golden room and it's d.a.m.ned determined to play.

So determined that it's going all out to convince me that it's not so bad after all. It's just another side of myself, and it's controllable.

She's told me 'no', she's keeping her distance, and look what a gentleman I'm being. I want like h.e.l.l to believe that's true but-- If I'd ever been this frigging tied up in knots before, I'd be long since dead in some h.e.l.l hole or just crossing the street. Considering that I'm about to hurl an eight hundred pound horse into a grudge match in front of spectators so avid for blood that they make the crowd at the Roman Coliseum look like vegans, I'd better get it together.

Half-an-hour later, I come out of the locker room suited up with my helmet tucked under my arm and my game face on only to find Edward lounging against the nearby wall.

He grins when he sees me, looking a lot more chipper than he did the previous evening when we met privately to discuss what to do about Davos.

"You didn't forget your hankie, did you?" he asks. "You're going to need it when you're crying like a little girl."

For all that he's still p.i.s.sed at me about Amelia, Teddy--as I like to think of him on such occasions--is also suited up and ready for a little trash talking.

The thought occurs to me that I see a totally different side of him than Marianne does. Which is how it had d.a.m.n well better stay until I'm sure that any intentions he may have are one hundred percent honorable.

Yes, I'm a hypocrite and proud of it.

"That's sweet," I say. "But I did my crying last year. This time's different. You're going down, McClellan."

He falls into step beside me and throws an arm over my shoulders. "In your dreams, Slade. Betting's two to one against you."

"Bull s.h.i.t. Three to two tops and that's only because the sc.u.mbags in the stands think Hayden's come back too soon."

"He's ready though, right?"

"So he says."

Edward nods. "Good."

Never mind that Hayden is on my team, the three of us have been friends since before we figured out what our d.i.c.ks were for.

A year ago, Hayden almost died taking a not-quite-street-legal jet bike for a joyride in St. Moritz. For his parents, whose only child he is and who had never gotten used to the miracle of his existence, the accident was a nightmare come true. But contrary to their and everyone else's worse fears, he pulled through.

Watching the guy who objectively looks like a cross between a Norse G.o.d and a surfer dude jog down the hallway to join us, I can't help marveling at his recovery. And hope like h.e.l.l that he isn't pushing himself too hard too soon.

Because we're there for charity, we join the meet-and-greet on the lawn in front of the clubhouse. The stables are off to one side, the fields and stands to the other. We're at the northern end of the park that bisects the center of Manhattan.

It's a Goldilocks day, not too cool, not too warm, perfect for polo. The sun, bouncing off the white roof of the club house, may be a problem for the teams in the first match but by the time the star attractions--that would be my team and Edward's--take the field, we shouldn't have an issue.

Hayden, who had half the women on the social register sobbing in their pillows when he was lying at death's door, comes in for the bulk of attention. He's grinning, fielding yet another easy lay-up from the paparazzi, when suddenly he does a cla.s.sic double-take and frowns.

I follow the direction of his gaze and who do I see? Amelia has just come out of the club house and is standing at the edge of the lawn watching the media scrum. She's wearing a short pink dress with a frothy skirt and she looks like sin in heels. At least to me she does but I'm far from alone.

In the days I've been trailing after her to every coma-inducing social event dreamed up by the vapid minds of society's most ambitious hosts and hostesses, I've gotten used to the fact that she attracts way too much attention, both male and in some cases female. Used to as in gotten marginally better about wanting to smash their faces in.

But Hayden's reaction is different...sort of. He looks like the world has just stopped for him.

What the h.e.l.l?

It gets worse. Amelia turns her head slightly and their gazes meet. I see her lips part in a little gasp of surprise. An instant later, she frowns like she's trying to decide what to do.

I'll spare her the trouble.

I don't remember crossing the lawn to where she's standing. I'm just there. My fingers close around her wrist and I tug. Knocked off balance, she falls into my arms.

I'm holding her hard against me, breathing in the uniquely Amelia scent of her hair and skin, when she says, "Oh, Ian. I didn't see you."

f.u.c.king h.e.l.l, she sounds distracted. And not in the good all-I-can-think-of-is-having-your-c.o.c.k-inside-me way. Really distracted.

Hayden is fielding another question but he's still staring at her. Amelia is still frowning. I...I don't know what I am except-- Scared? That can't be right. She's mine, has been from the very beginning. I've got the paperwork to prove it.

"Come on," I say.

She gives her head a little shake and refocuses. On me. Finally.

"Where are we going?" she asks.

I hear the wariness in her voice but that's progress from her outright refusal at the soiree. Maybe she's still too busy thinking about Hayden.

That settles it. I've been dancing around her too long. Time to right the balance between us.

"Some place we can talk." To start with and then we'll see. There's only one way that I really know how to get through to her that she's mine and it doesn't involve a lot of chit-chat.

"I want to introduce you to the love of my life," I say. "She's gotten more of my time and attention than any other. I can't tell you how many nights I've spent in her --"

"I've already seen the Rolls," Amelia says. "It--she--is gorgeous."

d.a.m.n, I forgot about that lunch.

"You're sweet to let your mother and sister use a car you put so much effort into restoring," she adds. "I'm sure there are some who wouldn't."

I'm sweet? Is that one step up or down from being a nice guy? And we all know what happens to them.

In an unplanned burst of honesty, I say, "What I am is desperate. I miss you, Amelia. More than I ever thought it was possible to miss anyone. I can't sleep, I can't think, I don't even want to tell you what it's like at work. If I didn't have such good people backing me up, I'd be screwed."

She's staring at me wide-eyed and--please don't let me be imagining this--I could swear a tremor of excitement runs through her. We've reached the Rolls. I touch a thumb to the biometric scanner and hear the locks click open.

Right about then it hits me that most of my relationship with Amelia has involved either dragging her off somewhere because I need to f.u.c.k her, or trying to control everything she does and thinks, or both.

True, I had a moment of clarity when I realized that I had to let her go but given how I've been backtracking on that ever since, I'm not sure it counts.

Generally speaking, I'm a fairly bright guy. Give me a problem involving a battle s.p.a.ce, a new piece of tech, or anything to do with business and I'll find a solution. But when it comes to communicating with this woman who I need as vitally as my next breath, I'm at a loss. Still, I am d.a.m.n well going to try.

Slowly, I say, "I'm serious about talking. There are things that need to be said between us."

She looks up at me with those incredible aquamarine eyes and slowly, hesitantly, she nods.

Thank. You. G.o.d. All that c.r.a.p you dish out--earthquakes, tsunamis, plagues, and so on? Forgiven and forgotten.

She still looks wary but she steps into the Rolls.

I love that car for too many reasons to go into but one of them is her ample backseat. This model dates from the pre-DYI age when people who could afford to own a Rolls also had a chauffeur. Somewhere along the way, the rich figured out that the cars were fun to drive, got rid of the guy in front and slipped behind the wheel themselves.

The whole design of the vehicle shifted as a result. But back in the day, the backseat of a Rolls was practically a micro-apartment, which means plenty of room to maneuver.

I follow Amelia in, slam the door, take a quick second to make sure it's locked and the tinted windows are up, and turn to her. She scoots over to make room for me on the backseat that's like a small sofa and looks at me expectantly.

I've got enough sense to know that anything to do with Hayden and why the h.e.l.l she is so interested in him is not the best way to start. But once in the confines of the car, I'm having a hard time figuring out a sensitive, non-threatening way to tell her that (a) she belongs to me, (b) she totally misinterpreted what happened in the Opera House, and (c) she belongs to me.

I chalk that up to the fact that the blood supply to the language centers of my brain has been redirected to my c.o.c.k.

After a few moments, Amelia picks up on the fact that if any talking is going to happen, she'll have to start. Softly, she asks, "Why did you say what you did at the Opera House after we...you know?"

I can feel myself flushing. Much as I'd like to forget all about what a jerk I was, I can't. She's right to be calling me out on it.

"I shouldn't have called you an incredible piece of a.s.s," I offer. Never mind that she really does have an amazing a.s.s, at the very least I should have phrased it differently. "That was crude and I'm sorry."

She lowers her head a little and shoots me a chiding glance. "And...?"

I grimace but I'm a man and I can do this.

Softly, because I know this is the part that really matters, I say, "I shouldn't have said what I did about you being made for f.u.c.king. Given the issue you have with free will, that was very insensitive. Just for the record, I don't believe it's true. There's a lot more to you and besides, you've been charting your own course from the moment you woke up."

She nods but she's still not letting me off the hook. "Crude and insensitive. That's a start. Why were you so angry?"