The Business of Attraction

by M K Lansbury

  “Fake it ’til you make it. Mingle. And I'm only saying this as a business move. I'm sure I can make great contacts here.”

  “How do you fake it in a crowd like this?”

  “I don’t know. Just pretend you’re someone else.”

  “Are you sure you haven’t had too much to drink?”

  “Yep. Absolutely sure. Hello, I'm Laura Cornwell.” She flipped her shoulder-length blonde hair playfully. She quickly switched to a horribly executed, exaggerated British accent. “My father owns a gold bullion business. I've never earned a dime in my life, but I'm a millionaire. And you are . . . Samantha Wilkins, a technology guru based in San Jose, California. You spend your time traveling all over the world consulting for luxury goods companies.”

  Ally obviously was enjoying her drink.

  “I'm so cool already.”

  Their little plan was put on hold as Christy came to join them, sharing gossip about a Calvin Klein model that had just asked her out.

  Excusing herself to grab a drink, Zara left the jubilant Ally with Christy. As she walked to the bar, she spotted the most fantastic view of the beach she had ever seen. She stopped pouring the drink and went to the patio, drawn to the view.

  It was peaceful and vacant, the sound of waves rustling over the sand. Zara stood at the doors that led out, entranced by the sight. It was almost like a painting.

  Zara kicked off her black pumps, walked down the steps, and her toes met damp sand.

  And quickly discovered she wasn’t alone.

  Standing in the distance was a lone figure, a man. Tall and muscular, his feet planted slightly apart, his silhouette illuminated by a small bonfire. The bottom of his grey slacks folded as he stared at the clouds, he was the epitome of mystery and charisma. He cast such a lonely figure.

  Staring out at life, like Zara, no idea what was headed toward him.

  As she walked toward him, the soft sand felt heavenly between her toes. Something stopped her when she was about ten feet behind the enigmatic man. That’s when he looked over his shoulder.

  His face was cast by shadows.

  Goosebumps pricked Zara’s skin. “Oh, I'm sorry for intruding . . .”

  He cut her off. “It’s all right.” There was a sharp, authoritative bite to his voice. Zara was vividly aware of the fact that the small bonfire illuminated her face while leaving him in illusive darkness.

  Zara’s heart pounded.

  Why did I even come here?

  Maybe if I saw his face . . .

  Her chin lifted in angry defiance at his dead stare. “Did you want to be alone?”

  He chuckled shortly. “Not really.”

  Zara bit the inside of her cheek, confused. Walk forward and soak in the bonfire? Or escape?

  Then ingenuity hit. There was nothing to worry about. She was Samantha Wilkins, a luxury goods consultant. From California. Samantha was confident and invincible.

  Her feet sank into the sand as they took her forward of their own accord. Lowering herself onto the sand, she extended her hands toward the comforting heat of the fire.

  “Watch out, though. I don’t want you to ruin that dress.”

  Zara’s gaze snapped to his face, now fully illuminated by the glow of the small fire.

  If she’d known the man looked like this, she would’ve never sat down. An aura of sophistication emanated from his powerful frame. The black linen shirt left nothing to the imagination. Hard bulges of muscle in all the right places. Shoulders so wide the fabric strained against them. The man had that look—the look that said he was born into money and privilege and expected the world to fall at his feet to do his bidding.

  But the usual superiority that seemed ingrained in wealthy people was missing. Odd.

  His eyes were almost golden in the light, but she couldn’t be sure what color they really were. His nose was a sharp blade in the center of his face. His chin square, his jawline hard. A hint of a dent under his chin. A short, white scar ran across his left jawline, illuminated by the light.

  As he parted his lips to speak, she noted with painful clarity that he owned the most chiseled pair of masculine lips she had ever seen.

  Whoa, Zara. Slow down. You’re here to have fun. But not that much fun. You know what happens when you let men in. They wreak havoc!

  But I’m Samantha.

  Her fake identity once again bolstered her courage. Zara smiled at the stranger, pulling her knees up to her chest. “Let me guess: you escaped the party for the same reason I did, right? Bit of a pretentious crowd, isn’t it?”

  His laugh was a burst of surprise. “Yeah. That’s putting it lightly.”

  Zara shrugged, relaxing by the second. “It can be too much, can’t it? I mean . . .” she quickly decided to spin some life into her fantasy identity, “. . . when my brother told me he was throwing this party, I really thought he'd have better taste in friends.”

  His eyes furrowed, and Zara noticed the thick eyelashes that were completely deadly on a man of his height and strength.

  “This is your brother’s place?”

  “His East Coast home, yeah.”

  “And what did you expect your brother’s guests to be like?”

  “I don’t know. More fun? Hip. His party is just a bunch of models paid to attend. Eye candy. It’s a superficial crowd. The amount of silicone and lip filler in there is so Beverly Hills.”

  He laughed out loud, the sound throaty and deep. Zara noticed his long neck, the sturdy Adam’s apple, making her feel jittery all over her arms.

  “Yeah, it’s not my type of crowd either. I’m just here for the free food.”

  He sat down, leaning back on his hands. One leg bent, one stretched out in front of him. His eyes like piercing golden orbs as they settled on Zara’s face. “Someone told me about a party, and I thought . . . food!”

  Zara shook her head. “So you came to have painfully tiny canapés? You’ll probably have to grab a pizza on your way back from this glass palace. Those bird-sized foods aren’t filling at all.”

  “Your brother’s party is a fail. It’s a surprise however he became successful enough to afford a place like this.”

  “Well . . .” Zara flipped her hair, totally consumed by her character and having a ball. The man sitting across the fire was a hunk. Living the fantasy with him was tempting, especially because what awaited her back inside was the blunt, sad reality of her own oddity. “The only reason my brother is successful is because of me.”

  “So, you're also in tech?”

  “Luxury goods, actually. But it’s all the same thing. How can we sell something to someone?”

  He chuckled, revealing straight, perfect white teeth.

  He was an enigmatic man. No doubt. Her ridiculously obsessive mind began to focus on little details, like the shadow on his jaw where his stubble would grow, the swollen veins lining his tanned forearms. She was surely losing her mind because she’d never, in her life, been entranced by a man’s facial hair follicles.

  His voice was deep and hard, an undercurrent of power stamped onto it. It struck a chord somewhere deep in the pit of her stomach.

  Zara forced her gaze off his piercing eyes; she couldn't believe she was attracted to him.

  Let me remind you, Zara; you swore off men mere hours ago!

  I'm not marrying him. It’s just a bit of harmless flirting.

  Don’t do it.

  The two conflicting voices in her head continued the battle.

  Zara glanced toward the glass walls of the house as soft chords of music drifted over to their spot on the beach.

  “I love that song.”

  His smile faltered briefly. “It’s one of my favorite songs. At least your brother got his playlist right.”

  Zara found herself shaking her head gently to the beat, singing along slowly . . .

  You must understand, though the touch of your hand

  makes my pulse react,

&
nbsp; that it’s only the thrill of boy meeting girl.

  Opposites attract.

  It’s physical.

  Only logical.

  You must try to ignore that it means more than that. Ooo . . .

  His smile sent goosebumps prickling over her skin. To Zara’s complete surprise, he joined in, humming softly.

  What's love got to do, got to do with it?

  What's love but a second-hand emotion?

  What's love got to do, got to do with it.

  Who needs a heart when a heart can be broken . . .

  He stole a peek at Zara’s face. Zara bit her lip, connecting to him in a strange, surreal world. She felt like she was watching herself from a distance, seated in this wondrous place with this gorgeous hunk of a man . . . while he sang with her.

  Belatedly realizing she didn’t even know his name, she extended a hand.

  “I'm Samantha Wilkins, by the way.”

  He clutched Zara’s hand in a firm grip, his strong fingers wrapping over her knuckles briefly. “Lance Chase.”

  “Good to meet you, Mister Chase.”

  He chuckled. “Mister Chase? Please. We’ve just been singing a classic together. I think that calls for us to be on a first-name basis, don’t you? Call me Lance.”

  “Okay, Lance. Call me . . . Sam.”

  “It’s great to meet you, Sam.”

  The silence lingered, the water rushing against the sand. The familiar melody of Tina Turner’s song continued, muffled by the distance. Zara tapped her foot to the beat, resting her cheek atop one knee and turning her face away from Lance’s hot gaze.

  It was also a tactic to avoid ogling him any more than she already had. She was already vividly aware of the space between them, electrified by inane energy.

  Her head snapped toward him when his phone rang. He'd been watching her and instantly pulled his gaze away to glance at his phone screen.

  “Well, it was great to meet you, Sam, but I need to head back. Enjoy the fire. And the beach.”

  As he stood up, a knot formed in Zara’s throat. “Where you going?” she said before she could stop herself.

  He grinned that perfect self-confident smile reaching his eyes, which she guessed were hazel. She couldn't really be sure. It was driving her a little mad.

  “I’ve got some work I need to get done.”

  “Mhmm. Okay.” Shit. Why can’t I keep my mouth shut?

  “So I’ll see you around?”

  “Of course.” Zara suddenly wished he’d ask for her number. Or maybe she could be the strong, confident woman that Samantha Wilkins would probably be and just ask for his number instead?

  He pointed to the house and spoke with a sardonic grin. “I’ll be in the ‘glass palace’ if you need me.”

  “You're staying here?”

  He pushed his hand into his pants’ pockets and laughed almost apologetically. “Yeah, kind of. It’s my place.”

  The blood drained from Zara limbs. It was a good thing she was sitting, or else she’d probably fall flat on the beach and pray fervently to disintegrate into tiny particles of sand.

  A heated blush traveled up her neck to her cheeks. “You . . . this is your place?” The words came out a pathetic whisper, and she nervously proceeded to bite her lower lip—and her nude lipstick—completely off.

  He grinned, shrugging so charismatically that Zara wanted to curl up and sob in embarrassment. She’d made a complete and utter fool of herself with this stupid game Ally had conjured up.

  Brilliant. I’m humiliated.

  “Don’t worry about it, Sam,” he said calmly when Zara turned pale.

  “Oh, god.” She stood up quickly, trying to stretch the pretense of faux confidence for just a little while longer. She needed it to fight this soul-crushing burst of mortification. On impulse, she extended her hand again. “I'm Zara Rodriguez.”

  He laughed out loud, and strong fingers seized her palm once again. “I'm still Lance Chase, unfortunately.”

  “Ouch!” Zara chuckled, trying to joke her way out of the mess. What else could she do after digging this ditch for herself?

  But one look into his eyes, and she saw no ridicule. His demeanor might be that of a noble aristocrat, cocky and privileged. His voice might be authoritative and full of command. But those eyes . . .

  His eyes were kind.

  When he walked away, Zara wrapped her arms around her midriff to comfort herself. When that didn’t work, she covered her face with her hands.

  Her embarrassment was bursting into a cold sweat through her pores.

  She kicked some sand into the dying bonfire.

  “Well, that was a nightmare!”

  THREE

  Team of Two

  This is a dream come true.”

  “I know, right?” Ally grinned back at Zara.

  The Soul Mate offices spanned ten thousand square feet of the eleventh floor. The building was located at the hub of tech businesses in Dumbo, New York. Zara leaned against the edge of her desk, staring out the massive glass windows at the Manhattan skyline.

  “I can’t believe we’re here.”

  Ally smoothed her palms down the pleats of her black pencil skirt. “Imagine. Just a month ago, we were miserable. I was second-guessing the time I put into this company, and you were swearing off men and your job. Everything really turned out for the best, didn’t it?”

  “The best-est. But I'm still swearing off men,” Zara exclaimed across the massive office. Over two dozen programmers were hard at work thirty feet away, their headphones on, heads down. All female, all ambitious and hardworking, handpicked from hundreds of applicants.

  Ally shook her head, her eyes full of wonder as she scanned the office.

  A loud crash made Zara and Ally whirl around.

  This certainly was no dream. This moment was real, so was the mess in front of them.

  Ten feet away, Chet stood with a horrified look on his face, holding a curved ceramic handle firmly in his hand. The rest of what was a coffee mug now lay on the floor, in pieces.

  Coffee mixed with shattered glass, stains splashing Chet’s white sneakers and grey trousers.

  Zara grimaced as Ally hurried toward a horrified Chet.

  “Are you okay, Chet?”

  Chet quickly replaced his horror with a grin. “I’ve got it under control, boss. Don’t worry about it.”

  Ally halted halfway. “Are you sure?”

  “Mhmm. Don’t worry about a thing.”

  Ally nodded, backtracking as Chet kneeled on the floor to pick up the bits of white ceramic. “I don’t know what happened. The mug literally snapped off the handle. I don’t get it.”

  Ally’s eyes met Zara’s, and they giggled. Chet had these ridiculous accidents way too often.

  “This time,” Zara whispered to Ally, “he’s not kidding. I saw him holding the handle.”

  Ally readjusted the sleek, modern desk so it would face Zara’s.

  “Zara, I feel like this is our old lemonade stand business that the rain destroyed.”

  Zara’s laugh resounded in the office. “We were going to expand it. Nationally. Remember Mrs. Clarence from next door? She’d bought two glasses, and we thought we were the savviest businesswomen of all time.”

  “We should never have gone inside to take a nap that day.”

  “We had no way of knowing the rain would drown our supply and wreck our cart while we napped.”

  “You know what this means, right? This is technically our second startup.” Ally pulled open her laptop and quickly scanned her emails.

  “Let’s hope Soul Mate has a better fate than Sisters’ Lemonade Shop.”

  Ally tilted her head. “Well, I don’t know about you, but I think Dumbo’s a step up from a porch in Valentine, Nebraska. We hit the jackpot.”

  “No!” Zara laughed as she walked into the middle of the office. “You made this happen. You’ve worked harder on this app
than I’ve seen anyone work on anything. You, my dear, are a rock star.”

  The entire floor was decorated with custom-made furniture, the décor in bright orange and a lot of grey. The overall look was fun, modern, and light.

  Half of the floor was meant for serious work, with a semi-cordoned off area for the programmers and other offices for management. The other half of the floor was an adult playground of sorts. A foosball table, a pool table, basket-swings hanging from the ceiling, and an array of chaise lounges in funky colors.

  The click of heels on the floor preceded the cheery greeting. “Hello, ladies! Are we ready to take over the world?”

  Beata Cho strode in wearing another one of her statement white outfits. She clearly had a partiality to that color, and she carried it off well too.

  She was wearing a see-through collared blouse that was buttoned up to her throat, a white camisole peeking underneath. A white pencil skirt hugged her voluptuous curves. At almost six feet tall, she was an impressive woman. She was fifty years old but effortlessly gave many girls in their twenties a run for their money. Beata Cho had the grace and poise of Nicole Kidman and a body that most women would kill for.

  Her husband, Lawrence Cho, owned the thirty-floor building that housed the Soul Mate offices. An investment banker and entrepreneur, Lawrence had given his wife—a homemaker for the last two decades—the funds to invest in whatever company she chose. Soul Mate was Beata’s first venture, and she was ecstatic to be a part of it.

  “Good afternoon, Beata,” Ally said with a grin.

  Zara folded the sleeves of her green shirt up to her elbows and slid into her chair. “We’re all set to take on the world. Are you?”

  Beata beamed, rubbing her palms together as she sat in a bright orange chair. Her crimson lips full and pouty, she smiled. “I'm so glad my stubborn husband finally caved and gave me my own pool of investment funds. An all-girl powerhouse!”

  Ally grinned. “At the risk of sounding vain, you picked the right company to start with.”

  “Oh, I know,” Beata winked. “You should’ve seen the look on Lawrence’s face when I told him I was only going to put my money into female-driven companies. He had the gall to say to me, ‘Beata, this is tech!’” A hint of a frown appeared on Beata’s unnaturally frigid forehead. “As if women can’t excel in this industry. I should’ve just divorced his chauvinistic ass then and there,” she added with a good-natured chuckle.