Pure Abandon Read online

  The room goes silent. I realize I’ve been too quiet, probably because I’ve been busy assessing him, admiring him. Mega-mogul, philanthropist, and musician… The list goes on.

  “May I ask you a personal question?” he says, taking a step closer, invading my personal space. I nod and wonder how personal he plans to get. “Why do you go by your maiden name?”

  The deadly question that has plagued my marriage. The answer is because it’s my name, my given name, and I never understood why women have to give up their name for their husbands. Why can’t it be the other way around? My son has Gabriel’s last name.

  I am a Grayson. That’s who I am.

  “That is a personal question. But to answer it, I would have to say it’s because I don’t believe in conformity.”

  His cheekbones rise to meet his eyes. It’s as if I said the exact thing he wanted to hear. “Do you hear that?” he asks.

  “Hear what?” I strain to find the sound.

  “Music. Dance with me. “

  “But I don’t hear any—” And before I can finish, he pulls me up against him and moves me across the stage.

  My hand rests on his shoulder; I can feel the muscles beneath his shirt. My other hand is in his palm, his soft skin holding mine. We glide across the stage to imaginary music and before long, I can hear it pulsating through my ears. My body against his, I feel safe and secure. It feels like home.

  “Will you accompany me somewhere?” he asks, his voice like smooth caramel.

  “Today? My boss might be upset I’m not at work.” I tease.

  Asher cocks his head to the side and gives me a wink. “I think I can persuade him not to be too upset.”

  As we exit the building, he leads me to an alleyway on the side of the building. Expecting to hail a cab or hop into a black SUV, I’m surprised when he stops in front of a motorcycle.

  “Here, put this on.” He hands me a helmet.

  “Do you always carry a spare?” I say, hesitation in my voice.

  “I was hoping I might have company today,” he says with a glimmer of mischief.

  Reluctantly, I take the helmet and place it on my head. He walks toward me to straighten it out and fixes the chinstrap. I feel like a child being protected, and for some reason I enjoy it. He places his helmet on and climbs onto the bike. With his dark jeans and leather jacket, he looks like a guy I could have a beer with, not the in-control CEO who has been dominating my thoughts for the past month.

  He takes my hand and leads me over the seat of the motorcycle until I’m straddling it.

  “Put your arms around me and hold on tight.”

  I reach around him and place my hands on his stomach. Asher grabs my hands and pulls them tighter and higher. A charge stirs inside me. He kicks the bike into action and we take off. I’m surprised to hear music, beautiful orchestra music, ringing in my ears. These helmets have speakers! I can hear the sounds of the New York Philharmonic gracefully dancing through my head. I feel like I’m floating.

  We drive up Columbus Avenue and head straight toward Harlem. The hot July morning is cooled by the breeze we create. We drive trough the cultural center of the city, passing bars, restaurants, and stores, all new to the revitalization of this once depressed area. We pass through some blocks Gwen would never be caught dead in and pull up to a school made of brick and mortar.

  Asher dismounts from the bike and grabs my hand, helping me off. I would tell him I can do it myself, but I’ve never been on a motorcycle and my legs are still vibrating from the short ride.

  I hand him my helmet and he rests it on the motorcycle, not caring if someone will try to steal it. Come to think of it, I don’t think we’re even allowed to park where we are. Asher doesn’t seem to have a care about that either.

  I shrug my shoulders and follow him inside the building. He has this way of walking in front of me without looking back to make sure I’m following him. It’s like he knows I’m going to just go wherever he tells me to.

  The building is fairly empty, as school has been let out for the summer. A few students are in the building occupying classrooms. I try to peer into the rooms to see what they’re doing, but Asher’s long strides are difficult to keep up with. We continue through the halls until we approach a classroom filled with twenty or so children and their parents. The children are talking on one side of the room while the parents are on the other.

  Everyone stops their conversations and focus on the door as soon as he enters. Pleased expressions cross the parents’ faces while the children run up to him.

  An older woman, who appears to be in charge, ushers the children away from Asher and tells them to take their places by their instruments. They all take a stand by a cello. Their backs are to the audience and they’re facing a wall.

  In front of the children, in the front of the room, facing us is the same instrument, double in size. Asher motions for me to take a spot standing next to one of the parents while he moves to the front of the room.

  Asher takes his place, seated behind the cello, and looks on to the kids.

  “Mr. Asher… Mr. Asher!” A young girl about seven raises her hand to gather Asher’s attention. “I have a special song for you.”

  His jaw widens. “I’d love to hear it, Jaelyn.” He answers the girl with familiarity.

  We’re at a music class and I’m trying to figure out if Asher is the teacher or a volunteer or just doing this as a one-time sort of thing.

  The young girl leans downs on her cello and starts to play a beautiful melody far beyond her nine years. She makes a few mistakes, but Asher doesn’t correct her. When she concludes her musical interlude, she looks up at Asher with a big grin on her face. She has clearly been anxious to play that for him.

  “Thank you, Jaelyn. I can tell you’ve been practicing.” He leans forward and touches the little girl’s cheek causing her to blush. I want to assure Jaelyn he has that effect on women of all ages.

  Asher removes his leather jacket and begins a cello lesson. He’s amazing. The way he talks to the children, his patience and manner with them is surprising. I didn’t see him as being a teacher.

  With the twenty children surrounding him, Asher teaches them how to play their giant violins, and while the sounds from the children in unison leave much to be desired, you can tell he has made a lot of progress with them and they’re desperate to please him. Equally impressive is the amount of parents surrounding the lesson. I wonder if they’re here for their children or to steal glances of the beautiful mogul.

  “Isn’t he amazing?” A tall African-American woman leans over to me.

  “Yes, these parents must spend a lot of money to have Alexander Asher teach their children to play the cello.”

  “Oh no.” She corrects me. “Mr. Asher volunteers his time every week. These are underprivileged children. This is his way of keeping them off the street.”

  I’m confused. “But the cello is an expensive instrument.”

  “All donated by Mr. Asher. He teaches a class here but funds the program in seven schools across the city.”

  So this is where he is every Friday. He said he had a standing appointment until the concerts. These must be the kids he’s having perform at the gala.

  Perhaps he is for real. But why would this man who spends his days and nights carefree spend so much time helping children? I’ve seen his bio. He donates millions to children’s charities. I assumed it was a publicity stunt, but seeing him with these kids, knowing he’s here with them every week… You can’t fake that kind of generosity.

  The class ends and the students each hug or high-five Asher. He pays attention to each child and asks them questions about their school week and if they’ve been good to their parents. It is genuine to watch.

  “I’m impressed.”

  “I’m glad. Come,” he says, placing his hand on my elbow, escorting me back to the bike. “I have one more place I’d like to show you.”

  This man can ask me to go anywhere right now and
I’d follow.

  We drive up the west side highway as I listen to Snow Patrol sing about love and forgiveness. I don’t know where we’re going, and for the first time in a long time, I don’t care. I don’t care about having a plan or list to follow. I feel like I’m a teenager again. Carefree and wild.

  The lesson lasted an hour and he stayed almost as long afterward talking to the families. He invited everyone to the concert on Labor Day weekend and is even giving them prime seating. With a theater of over two thousand seats, you’d think he’d only leave the house seats for the high rollers, but I guess, to Asher, those kids are the high rollers. They are why he’s hosting this event.

  It never dawned on me why we’re doing this concert. I know Gabriel said the company is making money, but there had to be more to it than that. Erik said this was an Asher Family event. What he really meant was this is an Alexander Asher event.

  The afternoon sun gazes down on us and the wind from the Hudson River cools my skin. As we drive north, I feel removed from the city, but we’re very much in it. We’ve been driving around on the motorcycle for quite some time, yet we haven’t gone far at all. We drove through Central Park and stopped to survey the area where the other concert will be held. Asher wanted to get a feel for where everything would be and look at the layout. I stayed back and gave him some time as he made a few calls. One was to Erik to let him know of a few concerns. I tried not to eavesdrop. Instead, I just hung back and enjoyed the sun on my back. After the park, we took a drive across town and onto the highway.

  Asher exits and drives up to a place I haven’t been since I was kid on a school field trip, Grants Tomb. Devon, his driver, is waiting for us with a large plastic bag from the gourmet market, Citarella. Asher takes the bag and we walk side by side down the corridor of trees that lead to the glorious stone monument. It’s amazing how a mausoleum can be so ethereal.

  Taking my seat at the top of the grand staircase leading up to the museum, American flags hang over me. I place my hands around my knees, looking out at the harbor. It is beautiful in the afternoon light. The day has been stolen away from us, yet with the promise of a summer sunset, there’s still plenty of time left before we have to go back.

  Asher places the bag down and takes a seat beside me and leans back on his elbows. His long, lean legs stretch down the stairs as he looks up into the trees. My eyes trace his frame from his toes to his fingers that were recently playing the most soothing melodic chant I’ve ever heard.

  “You play beautifully,” I say. It’s the first thing I’ve said in over two hours.

  His eyes meet mine as he tilts his head to the side and grins. “Thank you.”

  “Who taught you?” I ask, running my fingers through the front of my hair and tucking it behind my ear to gather it back in place. There’s a slight breeze and wisps of my hair are lightly blowing in front of my face.

  “My mother.” He pauses as if drawing back a sweet memory. “She was a concert cellist. Studied at Julliard.”

  “Did she play professionally?”

  Asher tilts his head down and lets out a sad smile. Shaking his head slightly, he replies, “No.” He raises his head and looks back out to the river. “No. She gave up on her dream, but she never stopped loving to play. She made me practice every day. She instilled the love of music and culture into everything she did.”

  “Then I take it she would approve of your choice of meal locations.” I chide.

  Asher lets out a light laugh. “Yes, yes, she would. My mother was somewhat of a historian. She loved history, the arts, museums, and fine food.” Asher lowers his head away from the sunlight and trees. “Not a bad role model to have I suppose.”

  “It sounds like she’s a wonderful woman. Does she get to see you play often?” The question was innocent, but as soon as I asked, I knew the answer.

  “No. She passed.”

  Spasms of remorse cross my face. Do I know anything about this man? I have the deepest desire to grab my phone and start Googling, but I know it’s impossible. Is it inappropriate if I ask him about her? He’s the one who wanted to be friends. Friends can ask questions about their friend’s past. Even if their friend is their boss.

  “How old were you when she died?”

  Asher looks at me as if debating to answer. I can see he doesn’t talk about this often. Bending his right leg, Asher places his elbow on his knee. His hand travels to the back of his neck and plays with his collar. “Ten.” He sighs. “My mother died on my tenth birthday.”

  My eyes widen as I try to bite back the tears building behind my eyes. My mind immediately goes to Jackson. Picturing my sweet blue-eyed baby all alone. It’s hard to imagine a golden child left broken from the loss of his mother. I push the thought into the back of my mind. I cannot get emotional.

  “And your father?” I pry.

  With his eyes fixed on the scenery below, Asher nods his head in affirmation that he too passed on. I feel like the air has been wiped from my chest.

  “Don’t look at me like that.” He’s not looking at me, yet seems to know exactly what I’m thinking. “I’d hardly call myself an orphan. My grandfather wouldn’t stand for it. His motto is never look back, only forward. Take no prisoners. Run the empire. That’s what I’ve done.”

  When Malory told me about Alexander Asher weeks ago, I pictured a disingenuous, spoiled kid who didn’t know what it was like to live in the real world. While Asher may not have wanted for anything material in his life, he has certainly known pain.

  “It sounds kind of lonely, being your own empire.”

  His eyes dart back at me, and I know I’ve hit a nerve. Both his and my own. His eyes do something to me whenever they look at me. While I know nothing about him, he acts as if he can see right through me. My emotions are transparent and he’s breathing them in.

  “You are an enigma, Mrs. Monroe. You are the only person who doesn’t seem to know a thing about me. How is that?”

  “I suppose I’ve been preoccupied.”

  “I suppose you have… With your husband?”

  I blink at him. “Asher, my husband is not the punch line or your defense for everything I say to you. You have to stop doing that,” my voice says in a scolding manner.

  He winces. “My apologies. I didn’t know it bothered you so much.”

  “And I see I’m back to Mrs. Monroe.” I lean in to him. “How many defense mechanisms do you have?”

  He looks dumbfounded, and I know I’ve just hit the bull’s eye. For a man so powerful, he has enough tells to ruin a game of poker.

  Steeling away from my glances, Asher opens the Citarella bag and starts to unpack a simple lunch. Simple as far as what I would expect from someone of his wealth and position.

  From the bag he produces two prosciutto, eggplant, and mozzarella sandwiches on baguettes, an apple, an orange, and two small bottles of Pellegrino, each with its own cup.

  Holding the apple and orange in each hand, Asher gestures for me to pick one. I choose the apple and take a bite out of it immediately. The fruit is crisp and the juices run down my chin. I raise the back of my wrist to my face to quickly retrieve the mess. Someone thinks this is amusing.

  Seeing the mood is lighter, I try to broach the subject again.

  “How do you ever get to know someone, then? If every one knows everything about you, then there’s no reason to have a conversation.”

  “When I get to know someone, particularly women, there is no conversation involved.” Asher winks as he pours sparkling water into one of the cups.

  “Calm down there, Casanova.” I take a cup from his hand, “What do you do when you’re not entertaining the women of New York?”

  Bringing his legs up a step closer, Asher turns away and places the bottle on his other side. With his cup still in his hand, he turns his body back toward me and rests his elbow on his knee. “Well, you already saw my true passion, the cello. I also play the piano, but that is for very private audiences.” His smile is enigmatic, an
d I’m pretty sure I just saw that diamond glisten in his teeth. Man, this guy has a great smile.

  “I’m sure.” Rolling my eyes, I take a sip. “What else do you do? Do you play any sports?”

  “Ahh. No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Group sports are not my thing.”

  “So you won’t be playing on the company softball team?”

  “That’s a definite no.”

  “Snob.”

  “Nosey.”

  “Narcissist.”

  “Nar…?” Asher takes the rest of his wine and finishes it in one gulp. “Do you want me to tell you about myself or shall you continue to berate me with foolish names all day?”

  I can’t help but show my grin. “Fine. What do you do in your free time?”

  “Well, I work… a lot.” He lifts the orange and begins to peel away the skin. “My grandfather, as I’m sure you do know about…” he says with a wink.

  I cringe at the notion that I’m the worst investigator in the world.

  He continues. “My grandfather believes in hard work and only hard work. He takes these large companies, buys them for cheap, rips them a apart, and sells the pieces to the highest bidder.”

  “Sounds like Pretty Woman.”

  “Yes… like Pretty Woman but without the call girls,” he says with annoyance.

  “No call girls?”

  He looks up from the orange peel and gives me a hard stare. “I don’t pay for sex.”

  I don’t doubt the man.

  Tilting his head to the side, he leans his body toward me. “Shall I add ADD to your file when I get back to the office? I don’t talk about my personal life often, and you are making it very difficult.”

  Fine, I’ll behave. “I’m sorry. Continue. So all work, no play.”

  Asher pops an orange slice into his mouth. His lips glisten with the juices in the sun. “Yes, all work, no play has been the way since I was ten years old. Aside from the office, I work toward funding music programs and helping kids.”