Chapter 4 4

Tiara

A Vincent hammer. There had to be a Vincent hammer pounding into my temple at this very second. There was no other logical explanation for the horrendous aching in my head or ringing in my ears. I shifted slightly and immediately regretted it. The aching didn't stop at just my head; it was radiating through every inch of my body.

How much wine had I had to drink last night? I didn't remember much after the gallery show where I distinctly remember finishing three glasses of wine. I was only twenty-four for crying out loud. Why was this hangover hitting me so hard? The last thing I remembered was taking an obscenely large check from a very mysterious man for one of my paintings. That, and the paralyzingly handsome smile of his boss. The other thing I remembered was that I had promised to call my parents after the show, which I hadn't done, and I would no doubt be catching quite a bit of heat for that today. Exactly what the hangover Doctor did not order.

Technically, Jason was my stepdad, but I never thought of him that way. I almost couldn't even remember a time he wasn't with us. I was about five when Jason moved to the coast, and six when he asked my mom if he could marry her. He gave her the most beautiful diamond ring I had ever seen, and he had a tiny, matching one made for me. From that day forward, I never went a single day without knowing how much I was loved.

I had seriously lucked out in the step-parent department. Jason treated me like I was his daughter and I had the best relationship with him I could ever imagine. He was at every ballet recital and gymnastics meet I ever had, checked for monsters under my bed each night, never tired of reading me fairytales, and encouraged my artistic expression when I used crayons to color all over the freshly painted white walls. I couldn't have handpicked a better father, and I was so glad he was mine.

My eyes fluttered open slowly. This was definitely like no hangover I had ever experienced before. My vision was shaky and the faintest shine of light sent searing pain along the side of my head. My body felt heavy, and it took all of my energy to focus on what I was looking at. When my eyesight finally came into focus, I stared at the ceiling fan spinning monotonously above me. It took a few seconds for me to realize that I wasn't looking at my ceiling fan.

As I sat up, a pit grew in my stomach as realization washed over me. This wasn't my room, this wasn't my house, and I didn't have the slightest idea who it belonged to. And unfortunately, nothing in the room was volunteering any clues. Was this a hotel? It certainly felt like one. There were no personal pictures on the wall or things cluttering the dresser. Everything was pristine and in its place, and if someone lived here, they had to be one of the cleanest human beings I'd ever met. Floor-to-ceiling blinds were drawn over the windows, and it was still dark enough that I couldn't even figure out what time it was. Luckily, it was keeping the sunlight out because I wasn't sure I could handle much more pain as I tried to sort through my confusion and figure out where the hell I was.

There was a giant, luxurious bed in the middle of the room, but it was still neatly made and untouched. Wherever I was, I had slept on the couch. The room was painted gray and a few pieces of art hung on the walls. Deep mahogany wood covered the floors everywhere except underneath me, where there was a single rectangle of plush white carpet. The rug felt like heaven beneath my toes as I swung my legs over the side and off the couch, but I was immediately punished for moving too quickly by another shooting pain in my head. There was a glass of water on an end table next to me, and I took a large gulp, trying to relieve the soreness in my throat. My entire body felt like I had been hit by a truck, and every inch of me hurt.

What exactly had happened last night?

Having learned my lesson the first time, I stood up slowly, trying to get my bearings. There was a set of double doors at one end of the room, and one of them was jarred open, revealing what looked like a bathroom.

As I walked inside of it, the lights switched on without me even flipping a switch. Even the bathroom was elegant in this place. It was feeling more and more like a hotel room to me, which felt oddly comforting. At least I hadn't been dumb enough to let a guy take me back to his place.

When I caught sight of myself in the mirror, my heart stopped. Were those stitches in my head? I reached up to touch them gently and immediately regretted it. It was so sore and tender that even brushing my fingers against it was excruciating. No wonder I had such a headache.

And what the hell was I wearing? Where was my dress? Had we...

"Oh God, I slept with him." I groaned, smacking my hand over my eyes. This was not one of my finer moments.

"Okay, Titi. Think. What happened after the showing last night?" I groaned, pacing back and forth, trying desperately to jog my memory. How could it just be completely gone? Hours of my life erased? And judging by my current situation, they were an eventful few hours.

Feeling a rush of dizziness coming on, I sat down on the edge of the tub, clutching it tightly. Was it from my hangover? Or the fact that I had slept with a stranger last night? Or oh wait... Maybe it had something to do with the damn stitches in my head.

Vaguely, I remembered talking to Jane as she left. I was locking things up and there had been a crash. "Yes, that's it! I heard a crash, and I walked towards it." I exclaimed, relieved that at least pieces of the night before were coming back.

"Do you usually make a habit of talking to yourself in the bathroom mirror?" A smooth, deep voice came from behind me. One I faintly recognized.

It caught me off guard and I whirled around, coming face to face with the stranger in front of me. Except he wasn't a stranger. He was the man from the gallery last night. Leandro Diaz. The one who had paid an obscene amount for my painting and then disappeared. He was now standing in front of me in a suit coat, with an amused smirk on his face.

Words were failing me as his eyes locked on mine. One look from him sent chills up my spine. If it was possible, he was even more breathtaking in the morning light, but still every bit as intimidating as the night before. This was the guy I had left with?

"By all means, continue." Coming inside the bathroom, Leandro perched himself against the countertop, leaning against it with his arms crossed over his chest. "This is the part of the story I want to hear, anyway."

We stood in silence as I tried to gather myself, which was proving hard to do underneath his scrutinizing gaze. Suddenly, I was very aware of the fact that I was standing in front of him in nothing but a dress shirt. His dress shirt. It seemed my modesty had gone right out the window at this point. I bit my lip nervously and his gaze stopped there, lingering on my lips.

"Is this... yours?" I said, grabbing at the hem of the shirt I was wearing, anxious to break his eye contact.

He rolled his eyes. "Of course, it's mine. Who else's would it be?"

"How did... I mean, where... Did we..." For the love of God, why did this man have this effect on me? For some reason, I forgot the entire English language when he was within twenty feet of me.

The corners of his mouth turned up into a smile. He was amused-at my expense-and started towards me. Each step was painstakingly slow and, when he was in close enough distance, he reached out and put his hand to my cheek. My stomach turned to knots as his thumb brushed my hair back from my forehead so he could get a clear look at my stitches.

"Are you trying to ask me if we fucked last night?" His breath was hot against my neck, and I could smell the deep cedar aroma of his aftershave. As he turned back toward the door, he took his hand away from my cheek, leaving a coldness behind where his touch had been.

"Sorry, but no, we didn't. I have a strict policy about not sleeping with unconscious women. And besides," he looked over his shoulder and locked eyes with me. "You're not my type."

Comforting. My mind couldn't make sense of anything that was happening. In a matter of seconds, Leandro had managed to infuriate me, turn me on, and terrify me.

"How did I get these?" I pointed to my stitches. My mother was going to lose her mind if I didn't have some plausible explanation for how I got them. Even now, I still feared her wrath.

He turned around to face me fully, concern blanketing his face. "You don't remember what happened last night?

"Well, I mean, I remember the opening at the gallery. You were there..." I said.

"I was." His voice was direct.

"And I guess, after that I... I don't seem to recall..."

"Don't seem to recall?" He let out a short laugh. "I'll tell you what, there are some clothes laid out on the bed for you. Why don't you change into them and I'll meet you in the kitchen? You look like you could use a cup of coffee."

"Aren't men like you supposed to have manners?" I glared.

"Men like me?" he chuckled. He was amused with me now, but it was only infuriating me more. He knew what happened to me, what happened to the gallery. All I wanted was a straight answer from him. Why couldn't he give me that?

"Men with money. Don't you guys grow up at country clubs and in cotillion and things like that?"