Dirty Filthy Rich Love Page 6

  Donovan on the other hand, had noticed me before I’d ever really noticed him. He’d stayed involved with me for over ten years. He’d been there. Watching. Interfering. Manipulating. But he hadn’t even tried to take advantage of me when I’d been most vulnerable—when he’d rescued me from being raped by Theo Sheridan.

  Donovan was right. I was the one who appeared to be only interested in him physically. It was a blow to the gut to realize that so much I’d perceived about us was a misconception.

  And it made me feel terrible.

  It wasn’t quite that simple, though. “To be fair,” I said, trying to make myself feel better, “since I’ve been in New York, you haven’t made anything else seem like an option.”

  “That is fair,” he agreed. His breath came so clearly through the phone. I wished it were his thoughts, that I could hear what was in his head.

  Then he told me. “I thought that somehow if I just fucked you it would be enough.”

  “Me too.” That was exactly it. It wasn’t that sex had been all I’d wanted from Donovan—it was that I’d thought that if I at least had that, I could live without the rest. “I thought that it would be enough if I, uh, did that too.”

  “Say it.”

  “Say what?” But I knew what he wanted to hear.

  “No games, Sabrina,” he said, impatiently.

  “If I fucked you. Are you happy?”

  “I’m hard.” And so fucking smug.

  “God, you’re so…” I trailed off, too infuriated to find the words I wanted.

  But as always, he wouldn’t let that stand. “I’m so…what? You act like you’re mad, but you also act like you like it, so tell me what it is that I am?”

  “I don’t know what you are!” That was the problem. I had no fucking idea.

  I took a deep breath, and then more calmly repeated, “I don’t know. Whatever it is, I can’t stop coming back to look. I can’t stop coming back, wanting you to tell me what it is that I am too.”

  I didn’t know why I said it. Maybe because it was dark and we were on the phone, or because I was lonely, or because I really wanted him to know everything inside me.

  Whatever the reason, I’d said it. It was out there. I couldn’t take it back.

  He was quiet a minute, and I imagined him stretched out in that leather armchair, I’d decided—his legs propped up on an ottoman in an office I’d never seen. He had to have a place like that in his apartment. A place where he was completely comfortable. Just one of many Donovan rooms I’d never seen.

  He let a beat pass, and it didn’t feel awkward because it was so full.

  Then he asked, “Remember when you applied for that internship at BellCorp the final year of your graduate program?”

  Of course I remembered, but how did he know about it?

  Oh, yeah. He knew everything about me.

  It was irksome, mostly because I didn’t know what he knew and what he didn’t, not because I minded that he knew things. I didn’t really have anything to hide. It was also irritating because sometimes he’d made my only options seem silly and insignificant.

  “You mean the graduate program at the little school that I attended after leaving Harvard? That internship?” I asked, bluntly.

  “Yes, Sabrina, I’ve been a dick. Let’s make sure we don’t forget that.”

  “I won’t.” It was a small victory, but it was my turn to feel smug.

  “Now can we talk about the internship?”

  “I didn’t get it.” I’d been fairly disgruntled about it at the time. BellCorp was a financial industry giant and their internship always went to the top student in the master’s program, which was me. Somehow, though, I’d been overlooked, and given a position at Citi Health while BellCorp’s internship had gone to Abraham Decker, the cocky know-it-all who actually didn’t know shit, but you definitely couldn’t tell him that after he scored BellCorp. His ego had barely fit into a room before that.

  The animosity hadn’t lasted too long however, because two months into the year-long position, it came out that several BellCorp executives had been involved in insider trading. Abraham Decker spent the rest of his internship trying to help the marketing team put the best spin on the situation rather than learning how to run a successful firm.

  My internship, on the other hand, had gone amazingly well. The company was in a growth phase and I’d been part of several campaigns. Citi Health had even earned a statewide community award that my boss had credited in major part to me.

  “Actually, you did get it,” Donovan said.

  “Uh. What?” Because I heard him. Just…what?

  “You did get it. But I called in a favor and asked them not to give it to you and they listened.”

  “Uh, what?” I asked again. And this was a favor to him?

  “I know BellCorp’s vice-president—they do a lot of business with King-Kincaid. I also knew they were about to go down for that insider trading scandal. When they did, I didn’t think it would be good for your budding career to be caught up in it. Plus, Jeremy Shotts, the guy at the Colorado office, is a major blowhard who likes to fuck the pretty interns.”

  “I can take care of myself around execs with grabby hands,” I snapped defensively, though I was pretty sure my track record didn’t speak in my favor.

  “Jeremy Shotts wasn’t the reason I made the call, Sabrina,” he said, annoyance underlining his tone. “Denying him was a bonus. Did you hear any of the rest of the story?”

  “Yes. I heard you.” I chewed the inside of my lip, trying to decide how I felt about this new information.

  No, that was a lie. I knew how I felt. I felt good. I felt really good. Protected and looked out for and…loved. Things I hadn’t felt in a long time. Sure, Audrey loved me, and she’d go to the ends of the earth for me. But not like that. Not fiercely. Not violently. Not to extremes. Not because she didn’t care enough, but because that wasn’t how she cared for people in general.

  But Donovan did.

  It was dazzling.

  His love dazzled me.

  It was rich and fierce and dazzling.

  I could also name at least ten women right off the bat without thinking too hard who would tell me this was sick. That I was a victim of this or that misogynistic/patriarchal agenda. That I was weak. That I was malleable. Blah, blah, blah bad feminist.

  “Stop thinking too hard, Sabrina,” he said when a whole minute had gone by in silence.

  I shook my head. “I’m sorry.”

  I didn’t know what else to say. There was so much I wanted to say, but like the reasons he shouldn’t call me ‘girlfriend,’ there were reasons I shouldn’t talk about being dazzled. They weren’t words for right now.

  So I gave him what I could. “I guess I owe you a thank you.”

  He let out a frustrated sigh. “That’s not why I told you about that.”

  “Then why did you?” I asked, just as frustrated.

  “You wanted to know what you are.”

  “Okay.”

  “What you are is mine.”

  If there were such a thing as floating and sinking all at once, that was what I felt when I heard those words. Like I was one of the beloved giant cartoon characters that would be filled with helium and floated through the city in today’s Macy’s parade, and at the same time like someone who had just been thrown in a cold ocean with an anchor tied to her feet.

  Mine.

  His.

  It was an answer to everything and nothing all at once. Something that seemed so unsure. Something that seemed so, so certain.

  Could it be this easy?

  I didn’t know. I just didn’t know.

  “Finish your scotch and go to bed, Sabrina,” he said breaking the silence. “You’re not going to get any more of this figured out tonight. We’ll talk more later.”

  “Okay,” I said, still dazed. “Goodnight.”

  “Goodnight.”

  I put down my phone and picked up my tumbler, and wondered for a
solid five minutes if I should text him back and ask him if he’d actually known I was drinking scotch too, or if he’d just guessed.

  But I didn’t because I wasn’t sure yet if I cared what the answer was.

  Seven

  The things Donovan had said to me in the early hours of that morning stayed with me through the next day. So much of it was meaningless banter, but some of it was so poignant, so significant, that I played those words on repeat in my head.

  What you are is mine.

  I pulled that phrase out like a little pet. Stroked it and fed it. Listened to it purr. Mine. Mine. Mine.

  I wondered how much he’d done behind my back. The story about BellCorp was a good one. It made me feel better about knowing him. But how many other stories like that were there? Would I feel the same about all of them?

  I still didn’t know if he was someone I could truly love.

  But I was surer than ever that I wanted to find out.

  We needed to talk. Really talk. And we would as soon as Audrey was gone. But a real relationship between the two of us wasn’t just going to depend on what he had to say about the file he had on me. I couldn’t pretend that was the only issue between us. I still didn’t know him at all.

  And then there was the idea that I only wanted him for sex. If I wanted that to not be true, I needed to show it. To Donovan, but also to myself.

  Friday morning, before leaving the apartment for another day in the city with my sister, I gathered the courage to call him once again.

  “There’s this thing we do every year,” I said, pacing the living room with nervous energy. “This lasagna dinner tradition on the Saturday after Thanksgiving. Do you already know about this?”

  “I can honestly tell you that I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Oh. Okay.” It made me relax a little to realize there were still things about me that he had yet to learn. “Well, like I said, it’s this Lind family tradition. I’m going to cook lasagna and there will be garlic bread and tiramisu—”

  He interrupted me. “You’re going to cook?”

  This I expected him to know. Lind women were exceptional, bright, ambitious women. But neither of us could cook. We’d gone out for Thanksgiving because of our lack of skills in the kitchen. Also what was the point of making a big meal for two people?

  But while our Thanksgiving was less conventional, we’d been sure to keep our lasagna dinner tradition intact. The custom had been passed down from our mother, always set for the Saturday of the last week of November. And while neither Audrey nor I were good behind a stove, this was the one dish we could both cook without burning the house down.

  “It’s not a big thing,” I said defensively. “It’s really just one main dish. Don’t expect it to be amazing or anything. And we won’t be alone. Audrey will be there, of course.”

  “Sabrina. Is this your version of introducing me to the parents?”

  There he was again, one step ahead of me. I hadn’t thought of it like that, but now that he’d put it in those terms, yes. That’s exactly what this was.

  I suddenly had to sit down.

  “This is just something we do every year,” I lied, unable to admit the truth out loud. “And since you’re under the impression that I’m only interested in you for your—” I stopped.

  He’d said something while I was talking, and I’d missed it.

  “What was that?” I asked.

  “I said I’ll be there. Just tell me the time.” He even sounded like he was looking forward to it.

  “Awesome.” My stomach had flutters and I couldn’t stop grinning. Or shaking. “Seven o’clock.”

  “It’s a date.”

  “How did you spend your Thanksgiving, Donovan?” Audrey asked, as she filled the water goblets on the table.

  I listened to the conversation from the kitchen as I pulled the food out of the oven. The evening had gone well so far, despite my anxiety about it. Donovan had shown up on time with an expensive bottle of red wine, looking more than amazing in his gray slacks and maroon sweater. I’d been an awkward hostess, too nervous to know how to handle small talk with a man who knew everything about me, who’d been inside me, who’d said I belonged to him.

  So instead of trying to talk about the weather or rehash the Macy’s Day Parade, I’d hidden in the kitchen, pretending that the salad needed more tossing and the vinaigrette needed whisking. I’d only come out once to grab a glass of wine after Donovan had popped the cork. He and Audrey had moved to sit around the dining room table, and from what I could see and what I’d overheard, my sister seemed to have the conversation more than handled.

  But dinner was done now. I’d have to sit at the same table with him and hope I could contain the torrent of emotions that kept me flustered and prevented me from having coherent thoughts.

  “I had dinner at my parents’ apartment on the Upper East Side,” Donovan answered casually.

  “Is that a good time?” A question I probably wouldn’t have been brave enough to ask.

  “No. It’s not. It’s thirty or so of the richest, snobbiest, cattiest people that my mother feels socially obliged to impress, crowded into a Central Park mansion to celebrate what they own, who they own, and who they fucked over to own it. It was my first Thanksgiving in the U.S. in a long time. I’d forgotten how awful it was.”

  Steam rushed up to glisten my face as I opened the foil around the garlic bread. Despite it’s delicious smell, it suddenly seemed like such a simple side. Embarrassingly simple.

  How different this dinner must be to Donovan, who was used to servant-prepared meals and glamorous surroundings. And here we were in a two-bedroom in Hell’s Kitchen that he owned and rented to people in much lower tax brackets, furnished almost exclusively from a Pottery Barn catalog, serving him a dinner that was heavy and rich with refined carbs.

  I didn’t even think I could pronounce the wine he’d brought.

  This whole idea had been ridiculous. What had I been thinking?

  If he hadn’t realized by now how totally beneath him I was, he would after tonight. I might be making good money now with an executive job in his firm, but I was still the poor girl he’d met back at Harvard on scholarship.

  Hell, I hadn’t even managed to keep the scholarship in the end.

  But I couldn’t hide in the kitchen all night feeling sorry for myself. I quickly downed the rest of my wine then carried my empty glass and the garlic bread to the table.

  “Can you grab the salad?” I asked Audrey. “We’re ready to eat.”

  “Yep!”

  She ran off to attend to her assigned task as I set my glass at my place and the bread in the center of the table. I avoided looking at Donovan, but when I turned to go back to the kitchen, he grabbed my wrist. Electricity shot up my arm. My skin burned under his fingers.

  I looked back at him, my pulse speeding up when my eyes met his.

  “Hey,” he said.

  “Yeah?” My voice cracked on the simple word.

  He stroked his thumb along the inside of my wrist. “I want to be here. Okay?”

  A storm of butterflies took off in my stomach. He never missed anything. Even behind a wall and a stove, he saw me.

  “I mean it,” he said when I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t say anything. “Okay?”

  I took a deep breath in and let it out. It didn’t completely relax me, but it helped. Expecting to be any more at ease was ridiculous with Donovan so close, touching me. Looking at me. Looking at me like he wished I were the main course instead of what I’d prepared.

  “Okay,” I said softly.

  He didn’t let go of me, though. He held on until my sister came bustling around the corner, her arms full with the salad bowl tucked precariously under one arm and the bowl with the vinaigrette I’d made in the other hand.

  “Have you heard of making trips?” I hissed as I passed her on my way back to the kitchen.

  “I think I’m doing just fine,” she called back
to me. “So if you weren’t in the U.S. before, Donovan, where were you?”

  “Tokyo,” he answered. “Do you want to know the best thing about Japan?”

  “Sure.”

  “No one gives you a hard time when you decide to work through the holiday.”

  Smiling, I shook my head and stuck a serving utensil on top of the lasagna dish.

  Audrey giggled. “No wonder you and my sister get along. Workaholics.”

  “I heard that,” I yelled, using hot pads to pick up the lasagna and carry it around the corner to the dining room. He wants to be here, I told myself. He wants to be here.

  “Did she tell you that?” he asked, meeting my eyes when I returned to the room. “That we get along?”

  Oh yeah, he wanted to be here. The way he looked at me sent sparks through my body. Every cell inside me was charged. Every molecule.

  Jesus, how was I going to make it through this night?

  Audrey pursed her lips. “Hmm. I don’t remember.”

  “We don’t,” I said, teasing. “We bicker like crazy. He’s a pompous asshole, and he never acknowledges that I’m right.” Maybe it was only half teasing.

  “That’s not true. You’re just so rarely right,” he taunted right on back.

  I set the dish down on the table and stared at Audrey. “See? Pompous. Asshole.”

  My sister thought it was funny. Donovan only shrugged as if to say, ‘you get what you get.’

  It made my chest pinch. I wanted to get him, pompous asshole parts notwithstanding. For the first time, I started to believe it might actually be possible. That we might be able to work out everything between us, and we’d just get to get each other.

  But that was for tomorrow.

  Tonight I had to hope that my food didn’t give anyone food poisoning.

  After surveying the table for anything missing, I took my seat at the round table between Donovan and my sister. The next few minutes were spent refilling wine glasses. Audrey made a toast, and we all clinked. Then we began dishing up and digging in.