Part 7 (1/2)

”Mrs. Carson has been picked up. We've arrived at The Cove rooftop's landing platform,” Asher's pilot said into his phone. ”I escorted her onto the elevator. She is now heading your way and will arrive within one minute.”

”Thank you.” Asher placed his cell into his back pocket, stood on the restaurant's balcony, and stared at the breathtaking view in front of him.

The Cove was a restaurant that sat inside a small bay, sheltered from regular people. Only the affluent dined there, and one could only get to it by yacht or helicopter due to the narrow, restricted water entrance that lay miles outside of Miami.

Time to have fun.

From the balcony, he gazed at Ovid Island far off in the distance.

The poet Ovid, himself, would have been inspired by the view and written even more poems about abandoned heroines and absent lovers.

Moonlight painted the ocean's rippling surface in sharp, white lines that seemed to cut into its watery flesh. Stars b.u.t.toned to the sky and sparkled. A romantic perfume filled the air, something haunting like Diana's scent-roses and ocean.

He inhaled and considered the smell.

I'm being crazy. Her scent can't already be here. She hasn't appeared yet.

After meeting her, face-to-face, those lips and that scent had pa.s.sed in his mind a few times. It did odd things to his body, made him want to shut his eyes for a few seconds and relish in the daydream.

But it was just for fun, something wicked to do in-between business meetings and his mother's angry rants that afternoon. Nothing more would come with Mrs. Carson. And he believed the little daydreaming about her was completely normal.

Everything is under control. Diana will be nothing more than my avatar in the months to come.

It didn't matter that she'd intrigued him--her skin smoothed like warm chocolate, her beautiful eyes had welcomed Asher into her office and made him want to stand in front of her longer than he'd planned, and that voice. . .it had rocked his core. Those words left her full lips and had rapidly beat inside of him like a damaged heart, pleading for someone to heal it.

I won't be the man to heal you, sweet one. I'm not your hero.

There were things in the brain that separated normal people from the insane. The amygdalae was one of them-two almond-shaped groups of nuclei that were located deep within the temporal lobes of a human's brain.

Researches had discovered that those two almonds processed memory, decision-making, and emotional reactions. In one study, monkey mothers with damaged amygdala displayed less maternal behaviors, at times beating and neglecting their kids. In another, men and women with borderline personality disorder had greater left amygdala activity than the sane patients. Even in alternative medicine, Buddhist monks that engaged in continuous meditation were able to strengthen that section of the brain.

That was why Asher mediated daily. He tried to fix himself.

Something had destroyed his amygdala. He had no proof nor confirmation from a head doctor, he just knew that something inside of his head had been damaged long ago.

Or do we really all love to kill? Am I one of the few humans on this earth that isn't denying their primal craving for death? Maybe, I'm really part of the normal group.

Death littered his past, blood too, as well as the corpses and the cutting of flesh right in front of him.

His mother patted the dirt with her shovel, slumped to the ground in an exhausted sitting position, and wiped her forehead. ”Next time, we'll have to kill in a less gruesome way.”

Shocked, a young Asher looked up from his tear-stained hands. ”Next time? Mommy, we're going to kill again?”

”The best thing about. . .” His mother could not finish the sentence. She just gestured to the location of where her dead husband lay. ”The best thing about your father's. . .accident is that I had put an insurance policy on him several years ago.”

She shook her head and realized that her eight-year old son probably hadn't gotten the point. ”It means that because your father is dead, we have the money to pay for the mortgage.”

She gave him a weak smile. ”We won't be kicked out of our apartment. We won't have to worry about where the bill money is going, whether to your father's gambling, liquor, or. . . even his filthy women.” The last words she spat out with disgust.

Asher rubbed his eyes with both hands, as if it would transport him back to a normal day. ”And Daddy won't hurt you anymore?”

”Exactly,” she said. ”So like I said, the next time we do this, it will be less messy.”

She returned to burying his father's corpse, while Asher decided to not ask his mother again about what ”next time” meant. Besides, four years later, he learned what she'd been trying to say that night.

Sometimes taking a person's life, solved the lives of many.

Asher shook the memory out of his head and returned to the balcony, turning around right as Diana stepped outside.

Interesting.

He found her eyes first. They snared him. He had no idea what she wore or how her hair was done. The eyes kept his attention. He wouldn't be able to look away until he solved their mystery.

What is it about them that make me want to stare?

”What color are your eyes?” he asked.

She strolled over to him. ”Most men would say 'h.e.l.lo,' 'how are you doing,' or even 'you look lovely tonight.'”

He smiled, captured her hand, kissed that soft skin, and gazed into those beautiful eyes. ”h.e.l.lo. How are you doing? You look lovely tonight.”

”You're just dripping with suave this evening.”

”Yes, I am.” He drank in the rest of her.

Diana wore a red dress that brought out the rich color of her brown skin. He'd been around his mother long enough to know the gown's fabric, an expensive chiffon lace that fell to the floor, yet provided two delicious splits that showed off both of her legs to mid-thigh. The top was an empire halter with sheer beaded material swooping up, over her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, and around her neck.

His body did the expected things-heart beats picked up, his mouth salivated at the thought of yanking down the top of the halter and feasting on what lay underneath, his hands flexed in and out with hunger, and inside of his pants, heat warmed the area.

Maybe, she'll be more than an avatar. A play thing on lonely nights. Nothing more. Regardless, it's show time.

”That is an amazing dress.” He walked around her curvy frame and tried his best to study every detail of the material as it hugged her body. ”This reminds me of the designer h.e.l.len. That's h.e.l.len with two l's.”

She raised her eyebrows and said nothing.

”Yes.” He studied the beading around her neck. ”This reminds me of h.e.l.len's Metamorphoses collection for this spring. Lots of daring gowns with artistic bead work. Hand-sewn genius.”

She stared at him for a few seconds, not grinning or frowning.

Why hasn't she said anything yet? Is she not impressed? Why?

Asher had read that each person had automatic triggered responses for most things. If the person could incite a reaction by saying a particular thing, then one could figure out the ways to make that particular individual a puppet on his or her string.

In that situation, Asher had done the appropriate action to trigger the automatic response. He'd not only complimented her, he'd broken down the exact design of her dress and even the collection it came from. Most women would gasp or giggle as they stood in front of him stunned and impressed.