Free Being Me by Lisa Renée Jones Page A

certain he’s turned away from me to avoid me seeing his expression, and I don’t miss the subtle but evident discomfort in him that I’ve never seen before. I have an irrational need to pull down whatever wall he’s just erected and I joke, “Especially after the nights I stayed up studying wine, opera, and classical music so that my boss will believe I can interact with the clientele of the elite auction house his family owns.”
    He turns and leans on the counter, sipping his coffee. Any sign of discomfort is gone, and his eyes blaze with power. “I’m simply looking out for your best interests.”
    A sense of unease overcomes me and I know our easy conversation is over. We’re heading into quicksand territory and I already feel myself sinking. “And yours,” I point out.
    He inclines his head. “Your interests are mine. We’ve had this conversation.”
    He’s referring to our talk two nights before, when he’d showed me a video of Chris kissing me in the gallery and convinced me that Chris had used it to stake his claim on me. I’d felt like a token in a game that night. The same night Chris had taken me to the club. Mark’s club. A sudden rush of claustrophobia overtakes me and I reach for the coffee mug and step toward the coffeepot. Somehow, I catch my heel on what seems to be empty air and still I manage to trip. Mark reaches forward and catches my arm. The touch makes me gasp and my eyes shoot to his keen, silvery stare, more primal than concerned, and I feel as if the air has been sucked out of my lungs. I want to pull away but my hands are full.
    “You okay, Ms. McMillan?” he asks, his voice etched with a deep, suggestive quality that burns through me with warning. I have the distinct impression that how I handle this moment in time will define our relationship, and perhaps the future of a job I’ve decided I want to keep.
    “I do high heels better post-caffeine,” I reply.
    His lips twitch and he surprises me by offering me a rare smile. “You are quite witty, aren’t you?”
    His hand slips away from my arm and I remember all too well Rebecca talking about Mark’s games. I wonder if this shift in moods, which feels far more menacing than Chris’s, aren’t a part of how he plays with people. I set the mug down and reach for the pot.
    “We should talk before you fill that,” Mark comments, and my hand stills mid-action.
    I squeeze my eyes shut a moment and steel myself for what I know is coming, before rotating to face him. He’s set his mug down and both of us have our hips aligned with the counter.
    “Talk?” I asked. “I thought that’s what we were doing already?”
    “My world is invitation-only, Sara.”
    Sara. He’s used my first name and I know it’s meant to intimidate me. “You hired me. That’s an invitation.”
    “Coy doesn’t suit you.”
    He’s right. We both know he means to the club. “I was invited.”
    “By the wrong person.”
    “No. Not the wrong person.”
    “Quite the change of heart from our chat two nights ago, when you were quite displeased with him.”
    I decide to bypass defending my reasons for being with Chris. It isn’t like Mark will approve. He won’t even say Chris’s name. “I’m good at my job. I’m going to make you lots of money, but my private life is my private life. I don’t belong to you, Mark.” I use his name intentionally.
    “Then who do you belong to, Ms. McMillan?”
    Chris. That’s the answer he is looking for, the answer Chris would want me to give, but the ghosts of the past roar inside me. My survival instinct refuses to let go of what I’ve fought hard to achieve these past few years in my independence. “I belong to myself.”
    Mark’s eyes gleam with satisfaction and I know I’ve made a critical misstep. “A good answer and one I can live with.” His lips twist and he turns away, sauntering toward the exit, only tostop at the door and glance back at me. “There’s no in between. Don’t let him