“Only someone who felt very strongly about him could have painted him in this way.” Christopher put the painting to one side and tugged me up into a hug. “What are you waiting for, girl? Go get him!” He turned me loose with that enthusiastic suggestion, but I just sank back down onto the couch.
“I can’t do that. He’s—he was—my father’s friend. He’s old enough to be my father himself. It’s wrong, and we both know it.”
If Christopher rolled his eyes any harder, they would have fallen out and onto the floor. “Puh-leeze! This is not the fifteenth century or puritan society. Marry him, quick, before some wench snatches him out from under you!”
I had to laugh at Christopher’s sheer enthusiasm. He was all for grabbing as much love and fun in this life as you could—mostly love, although he didn’t necessarily follow his own advice. “I don’t think so. He’s off limits.”
“He is not. Stop restricting yourself so much. If he’s the one you love”—Christopher looked pointedly back at the portrait—“and he obviously is, then you go get him.”
On a giggle, I replied, “You are such a cheerleader. If you want him so much, you go get him.”
“I don’t want him. But you do. Don’t let another minute go by.”
I sighed. “That’s kind of why I ended up going to Luciano’s with him. I thought of what happened to Father, how life is short, and decided what the heck. So now he’s got me going out once a week with him. But I can’t afford it.”
Christopher wasn’t going to let me use that as an excuse. “I will lend you the mo—”
“No, you won’t. That’s why I’m working double shifts.” That and trying to get a coat and save my butt from getting an even more painful tanning, but I wasn’t about to tell him about that.
He sighed loudly and exaggeratedly. “You shouldn’t be working double shifts. You’re barely eating, I know”—he glared at me as I automatically reached for my bowl of soup—“and you’re not taking care of yourself…” He sighed extremely loud for dramatic effect. “I can see that I’m not going to get anywhere with you, as usual.”
Just then, the phone rang, and I scooped it up. “Hello?”
“How’s your ass?”
No preamble, no “how you doing,” just “how’s your ass.”
“Uh, fine. Hold on a second.” I pressed the phone closer into my ear, just in case any sort of untoward sound might leak out and into Christopher’s avid ears.
He was already getting up, though, having deduced who was on the other end of the line. He put our dishes to soak in the sink, and put the remainder of the soup into a big Tupperware bowl, then he scooted out to kiss me on the top of my head.
I whipped around and saw him backing away from me, waving goodbye and blowing kisses at me, then making grabbing motions toward the phone.
I got the message as he backed out of my place. I heaved a huge sigh of relief. I had not wanted to talk to Anthony while Christopher was still in the same room. There was no telling what he’d do. And at least I had kept one secret—he didn’t know that I got spanked. I was sure that if he’d stayed, I’d end up saying something that would make him curious, and then the cat would be out of the bag. I couldn’t imagine how Christopher might react to the idea that I got spanked by anyone… especially Anthony LaSalla. I couldn’t imagine that he’d be any too happy about it. Most people peering in from the outside would assume that I was being abused, but it was hardly that. And the fact that Anthony already had a scary alpha reputation due to what he did for a living… Christopher may actually fear for me in a real and serious fashion.
“I’m back,” I said, even though I never actually left the phone.
“Just fine?” he asked, putting a fine point on the question.
“Yeah, it’s not hurting anymore.” I didn’t mention that it had hurt like hell to sit down when I got home, and I could still feel the ‘warmth’ the following day.
Anthony paused for a moment before responding in a deep growl, “Then I must not have spanked you hard enough. Have you gotten your coat yet?”
I harrumphed into the phone, trying to sound indignant at being asked, but I answered truthfully, “No, I haven’t.” I hadn’t quite gotten the money saved yet, and I was trying not to rob Peter to pay Paul.
“You’d better get on the ball there, Miss Raychel, if you don’t want a second—and worse—dose of what you got once already. You had better bring that coat to the bowling alley, and if it’s cold out, you’d better be wearing it. I have a vintage hairbrush in the bathroom that would work perfectly on you, though, if you don’t.”