Instead of arguing with me, Bentley texted me the address to his penthouse and left it up to me to decide whether I wanted to come over or not. I was hesitant. Because being alone with a man I barely knew was a big no-no. But when it came to Bentley, so many things had me conflicted.
I realized I had forgotten my pocket knife when I got to the elevator. By then, the doors had closed me in, and I was already on my way up. I was sure there was a camera somewhere watching me, so I kept my composure and waited for my stop.
The door chimed and slid open, revealing Bentley standing at his personal bar with no shirt. His body was rippled with muscles and so many tattoos that he looked like a completely different person.
"She came." He glanced at me while pouring himself a drink. "If I had known you were coming, I would've put on a shirt."
My mouth watered at the sight of him. I had no complaints about him being shirtless. I enjoyed the view.
"This is your home," I said, walking in nonchalantly. "Quite peculiar, I must say. In a normal penthouse, the elevator leads to a living room, maybe a kitchen. Why an office?"
He downed his shot of brown alcohol on his way over to me. His face contorted a bit at the taste, but even that had no affect on how good looking of a man he was.
"It's where I spend most of my time," he said. "No point in getting too comfortable if all you do is work."
He stood in front of me, flaunting his large pecs, solid arms, and rock hard abs. It was hard to look away from such a gorgeous man. But I was sure he didn't mind at all. The daring look in his eyes said so.
"Come with me. I'll show you around."
I followed him from his luxury home office into a large living room, covered in earthy toned decor. The adjacent kitchen was homey and filled with all the latest gadgets. There was a beautiful staircase that led to a luxurious loft style bedroom, illuminated by soft lights and different shades of green plants.
His home was beautiful. There were large paintings on the concrete walls that looked as though they were hand painted by someone famous. I was surprised to learn that he was the artist. Then again, Bentley was a man of many mysteries, and the rugged style of his penthouse complimented it.
"This is a beautiful home," I said. "Larger than it needs to be for one person, but very beautiful."
"Yeah," he chuckled. "Maybe someday, if I get lucky, I'll have a family to share it with."
He walked past me with the bottle of alcohol pressed to his lips. He seemed different behind closed doors. Like he was in a state of reflection or wanted something more out of life. I would have never imagined a billionaire to suffer from depression. But the old saying goes: money can't buy happiness.
"I would have never taken you for an artist," I said, getting closer to one of the large paintings propped against the wall. "This is really good. What is it?"
After another swig from the bottle, Bentley made his way over to the corner where I stood with the painting. The area was dim and warm and smelled like his cologne. I could tell the last strokes on the painting were fresh because his scent still lingered strong. I silently wished I could bottle up that portion of the air and take it with me.
"It's my idea of passion." He pointed out the curvy body of a woman with a man's strong hands caressing her. "You see how his veins bulge as he touches her? That's the fire inside him that makes him ready to do whatever it takes to save her. When you love someone, your passion for them is fierce and unwavering. As a man, it burns deep and makes you want to explode if that love is ever threatened."
His explanation was so poetic. The sound of his voice when he told his tale made me believe every word that fell from his lips. It was even easier to believe because he was an artist. I have an insane obsession for men of the arts. Especially if he looked like Bentley.
"Wow, I never met a poetic gangster," I teased. "I'm really impressed. You could be the next Tupac. Are you sure you're not really Tupac and just wearing someone else's skin?"
Bentley laughed and laughed at my joke. I had to laugh too because his was infectious. The way his eyes lit up and his cheeks rose to show his fulfillment made me feel accomplished. It was another genuine moment shared between us. One I didn't expect to walk into, but I'm glad I did.
"Do you want a glass of champagne?" he asked. "I should have asked a long time ago."
I was hesitant to take a drink that night, but after finding that note, I needed something to take the edge off.
"Sure. I'll have one. As long as you don't put anything in it."
"Ahh," he slowly nodded. "I'll do you one better."
He disappeared into the kitchen while I removed my jacket and sat down on the couch. I loved the openness of his living area. It was intimate because of all the paintings, but still spacious enough to make me want to get closer. When he came back from the kitchen, he had an unopened bottle of champagne and a glass in his hand. Then handed it to me.
"I'll let you do the honors and pour it yourself."
I couldn't help but laugh. I didn't actually expect him to make me open the bottle on my own, but he insisted that I stay safe. After that, he handed me his iPad with his latest security footage to show me that he was home all night. Never left. Not once.
But there was something else.