Deceived Read online

  Holy shit! How could I even think? He was not playing fair at all and I chickened out, giving him something stupid.

  “Stick out your tongue…” He grinned, set his glass down, and sat up a little straighter. “…fold it like a taco and then touch it to your nose.”

  “Is this a talented tongue test? Because if you want—” I cut him off before he said things that my naughty mind imagined he would say.

  “Do it!”

  Once he was done, he was quick to ask me, “Truth or dare? Let’s see how brave you are.”

  “Truth.” I said proudly, sticking out my chest.

  “Shit! Don’t do that! You make me lose focus.”

  I smiled, liking that my body caused a reaction from him.

  “Okay…I got it,” he said with a smirk. “Tell me something that you don’t want me to know.”

  “Why would I tell you something that I don’t want you to know?”

  “Because you swore to tell the truth.”

  “I don’t believe we took any sworn oaths…no hands were placed on a Bible…” I had suggested the game, but I had not thought about full disclosures nor deceiving each other with lies. I was scrambling to think of something to tell him that I wouldn’t be mortified of him knowing or making me sound desperate for him. He didn’t mention that I had to reveal anything to do with him, but those were the only things I could think of looking at his handsome face in the romantic glow of the fire and candlelight.

  “I like you,” I said softly, lowering my eyes down to my hand toying with the stem of my wine glass.

  “I like you too…that wasn’t so bad.” I looked up at him and wished that I knew just how much or in what way he liked me.

  “My turn.” It was time to heat things up or cool things down…hopefully he choose correctly. “Truth or dare?”

  “Truth.”

  Oh, good answer!

  “What is your ultimate fantasy?”

  “First, let me say that lately all of my fantasies include you.”

  My body was on high alert waiting for him to continue or show me, either way would be okay with me.

  “The one that keeps playing over and over in my head involves you naked, wrapped around my waist, up against the door—”

  I finished his sentence with my own thoughts, “—with my arms around your neck as you thrust up into me.” Holy shit! I may have gone too far, I realized as I listened to my own voice and immediately bit my lip to stop myself from saying more.

  He smiled, so sexy, as he moved the table back out of the way allowing his body closer to mine. “So you have the same one?”

  I nodded and became braver than I ever had with a man—he brought out things in me that I had never thought…nor said aloud. “Actually, mine is pretty much the same but my ass is resting on a countertop and my arm is over your shoulder with my fingernails scratching your upper back…” My words trailed off as I looked into his darkened eyes.

  “Keep going,” he implored me.

  “Your mouth is on mine…we’re tangling tongues and—”

  I never said another word that made any sense, to my knowledge. Caldwell had stripped me of all logic as he pulled me into his arms and crushed his mouth to mine. Frantic movements, had me reaching my arms up and around his neck. Holding onto him so tightly, I wanted to make sure that I wasn’t in some crazy dream.

  I didn’t want him to get away.

  The only reason I loosened my grip on him was because he dared me in a sexy whisper, “I dare you to take your clothes off, slowly for me.”

  The game had gotten better and better…hotter and hotter with one gorgeously-wow-of-a-man that I hoped would follow me by removing his own clothes. But first, I stood up and did a little swaying of my hips action, before I raised my pale teal top inch by inch, up and over my head. He wanted a show, I would give him one. A glimpse of my breasts encased in a pretty white lace bra, I unbuttoned my very tiny white shorts, lowered the zipper, and then turned around as I lowered them down my long legs to reveal a matching lacy thong. Of course, I wiggled my ass as I unhooked my bra. I admit it was a bit of a teasing move before slowly spinning around as if I were moving to sexy music.

  I guess my antics were more than he could handle because before I could finish my performance, he was up on his feet, and I was in his arms. Our fantasies were quickly becoming a reality and I didn’t even have to dare him to do anything more. I was quickly sitting atop a low built-in cabinet and watching Caldwell performing his own little striptease—only faster than mine. I appreciated his swiftness along with the sight of his lean, muscular body that was cut in all the right places like a man that spent hours in the gym working on it.

  “Oh my God,” slipped from my mouth when Caldwell and his monster appendage neared me and he ripped my thong from my body. “I dare you,” I nearly purred, so excited to feel his sizable girth fill me.

  “No need to dare me,” were the last words that didn’t spill from our lips in the form of groans and moans after he moved me to the edge of the shelf and entered me with perfect precision.

  He felt amazing, filling my tight space, moving in and out just enough to hit every spot inside and outside of me that begged to be caressed by him. Just like my vivid imagination, I clung to him with my arms and legs around him… “Yessss,” I panted, digging my fingernails into his back at just the right moment when he sent my body flying into a blissful feeling like no other. Never had I ever been able to have an orgasm from intercourse alone, but he had the perfect movements…equipment to cause a major buildup of sensations that exploded within me.

  Best game of Truth or Dare ever!

  Chapter Seven

  Caldwell

  I could barely breathe, being inside of Daphne, drilling into her like my life fucking depended on it. I was out of control, not thinking about anything but taking us over the edge. No foreplay, just pure animalistic pleasure that had me growling and nearly howling. She felt so good…oh, so tight as she pulled me in deep, squeezing me. When her body shuddered and she chanted my name along with yes, I lost it and spilled into her—marking my territory…ultimately making her mine.

  It was completely surreal like a Salvador Dali painting—it felt like I was floating in a dreamlike state. I didn’t want to let her go and I didn’t. I dared to take things further, throughout the night and into the early morning hours when I woke in her bed for the first of many mornings to follow.

  Tasting her body with a nibble to her neck, followed by a long lick down her neck to her shoulder, I silently mumbled against her soft skin, “If I’m dreaming, leave me the fuck alone.” I didn’t dare to open my eyes, I just continued my path to her great tits and savored each one before my journey down below the covers. Playfully biting each thigh, I heard moans—a good sign that it was happening, not merely a shower time fantasy—and continued in my pursuit. Licking her plush lips and her little bundle of nerves, I dipped inside to really taste her. “So good,” I groaned and when two sets of fingers wove their way through my hair, holding me in place until her body shook and quaked, I knew it wasn’t a dream.

  It was just fucking fantastic!

  I was living in a fucking dream—my dream house, my dream woman, my dream life…yet it was as real as could be and I was hoping that telling her the truth wouldn’t fuck things up between us. Technically, I wasn’t really doing anything wrong. She wanted work done on her house by Tate & Sons Construction. I was a Tate. I was a son and I was doing the work. Hell, I hadn’t even billed her…I was doing things out of pure love. Love…love as in:

  Love of creating.

  Love of restoring the Streamline house.

  Loving the time spent with her.

  Love…did I actually love her?

  It was true that once I had a taste of everything Daphne, I wanted more of her day and night, only leaving her when absolutely necessary. Staying with her in my dream house was far more exciting, satisfying…and so much better than living with my brother.


  The only tricky part was running off to my other life where I was the boss; in charge of things, where I had to be present at least for a few hours of the evening and some weekends. The weekends were the most difficult but were doable as she was doing research for a book she hoped to publish and reporting on cultural scenes around the greater LA area. It was pure luck that our paths never crossed since she was a journalist that focused on the creative arts.

  I knew my time was running out though, her house was almost complete and I would be free to move on to another project. The thing was, there weren’t any other so-called “construction jobs” to tell her about when she asked what I was working on. So I was vague and I told her I was remodeling, painting, and building a few things. They were true answers. I wasn’t lying, but I may have been deceiving her a bit by the act of omission. I didn’t mention that they were for my gallery.

  If I had told the truth, things would be easier for me as it was a real pain in the ass to go from her house to my brother’s place. He lived in the complete opposite direction of work for me to go clean up and head back in the direction of where I had left. Eventually, I gave up and moved a good portion of my business clothes to my office downtown which had a tiny shower stall with no hot running water—something I should’ve probably fixed.

  Then came a really big problem…actually a major opportunity which I needed to tend to on the opposite side of the country and over the pond—London was calling for me. I couldn’t say no to a very important client being presented to me. It was that long trip and the little white lies that I had to tell that had me thinking about where Daphne and I were headed. If we were going to move forward toward a real relationship—things needed to be out in the open. I couldn’t keep making up stories about finding incredible pieces of art that I needed to see in person for business. It was not a lie, but it was not related to the Tate & Sons Construction business as I had implied.

  I swear I justified my fib…lie…omission of the truth by reminding myself that I was going to meet with a secret artist. I truthfully could not tell anyone, or Daphne, any details. However, I had left out even more than I needed to. But, something told me, if she knew about my real profession, I believed that she would’ve kept my secret. She seemed so trustworthy in so many ways, but for that moment I had no choice but to keep every part of the introduction I was about to experience under the covers.

  Wonderful. Fantastic. Amazing. I couldn’t believe that I was going to meet Renaldo Rossellini or all of the hoops I was having to jump through to make it possible. At least I wasn’t being blindfolded and flown off to the middle of fucking nowhere. That was exactly what happened to my art writer friend, Julia, when she scored a major interview with an eccentric artist named Constance Chiani. The artist had been in the public eye several times, but wanted to keep her studio hidden away. Renaldo Rossellini, on the other hand, had never been seen publicly or, at least, not to anyone’s knowledge.

  No one knew what he looked like or even if he was actually a man. For all I knew and everyone else, Renaldo could’ve been a woman using a man’s name. At least I thought of the name Renaldo as a masculine name—these days no one could be certain. I understood that probably better than most people since my own first name (and my brother’s) sounded more like a last name than a first name. Whatever his or her name represented, I was about to meet the person behind the name and I could tell no one.

  Knowing that my silence was vital, I started thinking about how I had lost my business partner and how I had to sell my house to buy him out so I could keep the gallery. If that had not happened he would’ve been sitting next to me in first class and I would’ve been worrying about him leaking our secret meeting to the press once contracts were signed. I had learned that he wasn’t trustworthy and, suddenly, his departure finally felt like a good thing. Maybe it was truly a blessing in disguise for more reasons than him bailing out in tough times thanks to harsh criticism.

  I had to snicker to myself as I sipped a glass of champagne that was presented to me by a flight attendant. It took every ounce of restraint to not shout out as if I were giving a toast or victory speech. “Wait until he finds out who I am representing and realizes that he made a big mistake…a major one.” I heard that in my head and smiled while giving myself a private fist bump or high five—whichever held more weight.

  “Someone’s happy,” I heard a male voice say in the seat across from me and I wondered if any of my words had slipped out. Not that I really gave a fuck if they had.

  The funniest or strangest part about the comment from my fellow passenger was that once I arrived at the ODE Gallery in the heart of London’s art district, that man showed up moments after I did. Who knew that I had spent eleven hours on a plane with none other than the reclusive artist known as Renaldo Rossellini or that he knew exactly who I was? Imagine traveling to a foreign country to meet someone that actually lived in the same general area that you did. It wasn’t really surprising, it contributed to the craziness that surrounded the infamous RR—his initials were how he signed his paintings. How his name was discovered or reported was a big marketing campaign: Who is RR? However, that led to other artists (male and female) copying or attempting to copy his artwork and claiming to be him which in return had an article popping up with his full name.

  The latest Renaldo Rossellini news had involved rumors that the artist was looking for a gallery to represent him and that led to every gallery owner of significance being watched. The media was frantic to capture him. I knew that to be true because I felt like a few critics were breathing down my neck. They called or stopped in asking questions about what new installations were coming my way—anything out of the ordinary or overly exciting. I guess that warranted the artist to be extra careful.

  “Sorry, I didn’t speak to you. You must know what it’s like to have to keep a secret to ensure that you get what you want?” Renaldo stated as he shook my hand and I nodded knowing full well what that was like and my thoughts ran to Daphne.

  Fortunately, I was able to focus enough to make it through our introduction and meeting with the two owners, Olivia and Dmitri, of the ODE gallery. But once I knew everything was set, I couldn’t wait to get back on the plane and get home to Daphne. I just wasn’t sure if I was ready to stop being the construction worker. Meeting Renaldo Rossellini and listening to him speak about his anonymity had me wanting more time to nurture the relationship between Daphne and me as it was and how it had been for months. Once I was able to tell the world about my new client then I would be ready to come clean about the life I lived outside of our dream one.

  Chapter Eight

  Daphne

  Every morning that I woke alone, it was obvious that the house was missing a key element. It may have been nearly put back together, but without Caldwell it lacked appeal. The atmosphere was as I had expected; once all of the construction projects were complete, the man would disappear leaving me feeling a major loss. My only hope was that he would not want to be without me.

  Maybe I was crazy to even worry about those things since he had not left my bed since the storm a few weeks ago. He obviously lived somewhere else before…during construction, but he never said more than I was a much better roommate than his brother. I wasn’t sure about being referred to as being a roommate…maybe it was a term of endearment…maybe he was uncertain of what we were to each other. I dropped it because, truthfully, I had no idea where we were going either—I just liked that he didn’t leave or if he did to tend to other jobs, he returned every night to my bed.

  That was until he sprung a business trip on me that could not be postponed. Some big opportunity of a lifetime to see some major exhibit in London that was beneficial to his business. Seeing him so excited, I secretly hoped that he would ask me to join him. He knew that I was into art and architecture—California style mainly—but he never offered to take me along. We were so new in the intimate area that I didn’t think it appropriate to invite myself or even suggest that he let me
tag along. Instead, I missed him like crazy and couldn’t wait for him to come back home to me.

  With him gone for a week, I was thankful that I had things to do and art to see. Scouring museums and galleries, I loaded up my brain with article ideas for Fashionista Forward and I even met with Chanel Devlin, its editor-in-chief. She wanted to make sure that I wasn’t going anywhere with all of the new changes being made to the site. Of course I wouldn’t desert her, she had gotten me an amazing deal where my articles were compensated along with any advertisers I brought. That monthly percentage payout was very lucrative. Another bonus was that art events had wine and fed me—not big meals, but enough to satisfy my appetite and thirst.

  I loved my life of being a freelance writer—making a nice living and making some great contacts that could come in handy when I finished my book. I was very close to completing the written part, close to handing it over to an editor I trusted to give me an honest opinion. Once that part was underway, photos needed to be taken to give the reader some great visuals.

  Funny that Harrison, once again, came through for me with another person who had connections. My project wasn’t right for her since she was what she called “a friendly paparazzi” but I loved how she suggested that I should use a photography student. I had envisioned my book being used by art schools when I started compiling information for it.

  California is filled with amazing architecture—a little bit of everything can be found throughout the state. The LA area alone was bursting with a variety of styles from ornate European to Ultra-Modern. Some of the homes have been created by some well-known artists/architects. Another element I planned to touch on in my book was decor and artwork as they were both quite instrumental to what I liked to call “California Style.” Everything blended together in a casual way that was eclectic—hence my title California Eclectic Style. Nothing fancy or catchy, just three simple words that I hoped would capture attention with the right PR.