Right Moves

by Ava McKnight

  No, he obviously had a very clear vision of what he wanted from life. Maybe he just hadn’t found the right woman yet…

  I found that to be a more appealing notion.

  “Well,” he said, perking up again, “if I can get this campaign headed in the right direction, I might be able to convince women that ProAth is the club for them. It’s about getting and staying fit. I don’t want anyone obsessing over what other members will think about their clothes or their fitness level. If you’re dedicated, you’re welcomed here.”

  “A short and sweet sentiment. You’re giving me a lot to work with, Jack.”

  He grinned at me and I felt a flash of heat deep in my cunt again. My innate reaction to Jack Reed was surprising and a bit alarming. I wasn’t used to such blatant, erotic effects on my body, given my lack of interest in pursuing a relationship myself. I’d battled abandonment issues since my mother had left my father and me when I was just seven years old. She hadn’t been the least bit tactful about it either, or considerate of our feelings. No, she’d declared in a rather harsh tone that marriage and motherhood were not for her, and she’d grown tired of monogamy and pretending to have maternal instincts.

  My response to this had been to stuff my nose in books with dark connotations and endings because those characters suffered more than I did, and that was somehow therapeutic for me. My father, however… Well, he’d only exacerbated the problem by expanding his business interests and spending as little time at home as possible, not wanting the constant reminder of his failed marriage and broken heart. Even a seven-year-old daughter with her own broken heart hadn’t been enough to keep him at the house for long, which only added to my internal strife. Thank God I’d had a very caring live-in nanny and a slew of housekeeping staff to keep me company and raise me, or I probably would’ve ended up with more serious emotional scars. Well, more so than I had, that was.

  “So, I have a female perspective on the club for your article,” Jack said, interrupting my thoughts. Taking my hand again, he led me down the stairs and to the juice bar. We bellied up and he ordered us both a protein shake he swore by. As the “bartender” whipped up our healthy drink, Jack continued. “Do you know who Gwen Rutherford is?”

  My brows shot up. “From the Mercury? She’s only the highest-touted women’s professional basketball player in the country!”

  He grinned again. “She works out here when she’s not with her own trainer. I told her about my mission and the article, and she volunteered to speak with you. Give you her thoughts on the club and also offer some advice or words of wisdom and encouragement to any of your female readers who are interested in a membership here. Particularly those serious about yoga and Pilates. We have renowned instructors who never have full classes.”

  “I think adding her perspective would certainly lend more credibility to the piece—and to your plight.”

  “Great, ’cause she’s headed this way.”

  I tore my gaze from his hypnotic green eyes, difficult though it was, and found Gwen bounding down the three steps that led to the slightly sunken bar area.

  “Hey, Jack,” she said as they high-fived. She slid onto a barstool and turned to me. “You must be Claire Williams. I read your articles in Scottsdale Live.”

  “Thanks,” I told her, flattered.

  “Well, I’ll let you two talk woman to woman,” Jack said as he lifted his shake from the granite counter and stood. “If you have any questions or want to talk more, Claire, give me a call.”

  He stared at me with a meaningful look in his beautiful emerald irises that suggested he hoped I came up with a lengthy list of questions that’d require me to contact him. I hoped so too.

  “Thanks so much for the tour, Jack,” I told him. “And for the shake.” I’d yet to try it, but I was adventurous enough to give it a go.

  Jack left us alone and I got a great interview and some invaluable insight from Gwen, along with her acquiescence to do a separate article on her.

  Pleased as could be, I headed back to the office and dived right into my first draft on ProAth. About an hour into the writing, my phone rang.

  “This is Claire Williams,” I said into the receiver perched on the corner of my desk.

  “Hey, it’s Jack Reed.”

  My pulse jumped off the charts. I bit back a smile—not that he could see how ridiculously happy I was he’d called—as I strove for an even tone, rather than the excited one that bubbled up in my throat. “Think of something else for the article?”

  “No. There was something I wanted to ask you, but I didn’t get a chance to because Gwen showed up.”

  “Oh?” My heart picked up an erratic beat that had me tapping my fingers against my desk in a fidgety way. “What can I do for you?”

  “See me on Friday night.”

  The words he’d blurted out lingered between us as my breath caught in my throat. A jolt of excitement down my spine made me squirm in my seat. I could honestly say I’d never been struck by lightning, proverbially of course, when it came to men. Yet I definitely felt a zap of electricity against all my previously hibernating erogenous zones.

  “Still there?” he asked as I processed all of these new and titillating sensations while fighting for a full breath of air. “Claire?”

  Forcing myself to speak, I said, “Yes, still here. You just…took me by surprise.” Suddenly, it occurred to me I might have misinterpreted his request. He hadn’t actually asked me out on a date, had he? Perhaps that wasn’t the reason for his call at all. Maybe he wanted to get together to review the draft I was working on.

  To clarify, I said, “You did say you hadn’t come up with anything additional for the article, right?”

  His very sexy chuckle sent another tingle along my spine. Actually, that enticing tickle skated over my entire body, making me shiver.

  He said, “That’s right. I’m inviting you to a party. It can be on a professional basis, if you’d prefer. I’m hosting a get-together for club members at my house in Troon North. You can meet some athletes who work with me, get their point of view on the gym if they’re willing to be interviewed. Or…” He was quiet a moment, and I could swear he was working up the nerve to say his next words. Indeed, his voice was a bit more tentative as he added, “You could come as my date.”

  His date.

  Jack Reed, multimillionaire and genius entrepreneur—not to mention sinfully delicious hunk of a man—was asking me out on a date.

  “Claire?” he prompted again because I’d completely stalled out. His tone, this time, held a hint of amusement. Clearly, he knew the effect he had on me.

  “Yes,” I breathed as my excitement escalated. “Friday night would be great.”

  “Would you mind verifying which role you’ll be playing?” he asked, the amusement turning into a gentle teasing. “Just so I don’t make any wrong assumptions.”

  “Date,” I told him. But as the word slipped from my parted lips, my head jerked up and I quickly scanned the newsroom to see if anyone was listening in on my conversation.

  I didn’t go out with men. Everyone I worked with knew that. Hell, I didn’t even go out with my colleagues for happy hour. When I wasn’t writing for the magazine, I was studying photography and wandering the desert landscape surrounding the city, taking shots of Saguaro cactus in full bloom, or other flora and wildlife. I loved the outdoors, but I wasn’t nearly as skilled at capturing its full beauty as was someone like Pete, the photographer typically assigned to me.

  Luckily, no one was paying the least bit of attention to me as they all pounded out their own stories on their laptops. The magazine had been hit hard by the economy and we were all worried it’d fold in the near future. The very reason we were scrambling to come up with different article topics in hopes of reaching a broader audience than Scottsdale socialites. Hence my agreement to do the feature on ProAth.

  With Jack still on the line, I asked, “Where and what time Friday?”

  “I’ll send a car. That wa
y you won’t have to drive. You can have some champagne and enjoy the view.”

  I knew the one of which he spoke. Although, the view I had in mind was of his brilliant smile and ripped body, not the famed vista of the valley sprawled at Troon North’s feet.

  “So you didn’t tell me what time,” I reminded him as a prickle of desire danced along my clit at the reminder of Jack’s cut body and sexy grin.

  “Eight. Email me your address and cell number, and I’ll see you Friday night.”

  I had his business card sitting right in front of me and opened my email program while he was still on the line. Hell, I was already planning my outfit for the evening.

  “Sending it now. I’ll see you Friday.” I disconnected the call before I said anything stupid that would make him change his mind about wanting to see me. About wanting to date me.

  The urge to shout that particular word for all to hear rose within me, but I tamped it down. I didn’t share my personal life with the other three staff writers or the photographers. Not even Pete, who I spent most of my time with when I was on assignment. The other journalists were women and though I liked them and we had congenial relationships, I didn’t quite fit their mold. For one thing, I had more money than them, because of my father’s global success. Although I was only slightly older than all three at thirty, my interests did not run the way of designer shoes and trendy restaurants and “see and be seen” scenes. I didn’t name drop, nor did I speculate over what plastic surgery might do to enhance my chances of snagging a rich husband.

  Taylor, Giselle and Cherish, however, did. They were three attractive, intelligent women caught in the mousetrap, wishing they were socialites like our readers, but not having been born or married into families that held the coveted key to the society door.

  I, on the other hand, had been born into the upper echelon and held my own key, though I very rarely used it. The Richie Rich types had never appealed to me. That, of course, made it ironic that I tripped over my own tongue when it came to Jack Reed. Then again… He didn’t really fit the Richie Rich image any more than I did. Well, he did have a house in Troon North, I’d just learned. That screamed status without saying a word. And yes, his athletic club was like the Taj Mahal of workout facilities. But the man himself was…down to earth. Vibrant. Passionate. Determined. Sweet.

  I grinned as I thought of how he’d invited me to his party. A cocky millionaire would not have been the least bit tentative. Nor would he have needed me to clarify whether I’d attend his soiree in a professional or a personal capacity. He’d have assumed I’d be there only for him. I’d grown up with enough of that kind to know this.

  Without having anyone to share my delight over my impending social engagement, I forced myself to continue working. A giddy smile refused to leave my lips, though, and I stopped typing every ten minutes or so to marvel over the fact that Jack Reed had asked me out…and to pat myself on the back for actually having the guts to accept his invitation.

  Chapter Two

  Four days was not enough time to gain ten pounds. I realized most women would not empathize with me, but as I stood in front of the full-length mirror in my bathroom, I wished a five-thousand-calorie-a-day diet wouldn’t make me hurl, because I could use some help in the bust and butt areas. I wasn’t exactly flat in front or back. But both features were more pebbles in the road than speed bumps. Even at thirty, I was afraid I was too cutesy Taylor Swift when I wanted to be sexy Sofia Vergara.

  Surveying myself from every angle, I decided black pants and a satin blouse in pewter didn’t help my plight any more than a skirt would, so I stripped off the outfit and went straight for the navy-colored dress I’d worn to a fundraiser at the Botanical Gardens last year. The thin straps were made of dazzling crystals and the bodice was fitted, yet modestly cut. The hem of the skirt sat just above my knobby knees, concealing enough of my thighs to keep me from feeling too self-conscious. What made the dress so spectacular was the dip in the back. The material draped along my waist, exposing my shoulder blades and spine.

  I knew it wouldn’t be too excessive for Jack’s party, given the location and guest list, but I suffered a few moments of doubt as I pondered the message a dress like this sent out on such an occasion. As I contemplated this, I realized I wanted the dress to send a message. No… I needed it to send a message, because there was absolutely no way in hell I could do it myself. And the truth was, I wanted Jack to find me alluring. I wanted him to make a move on me.

  The honesty of those sentiments propelled me into a mini panic attack that I had to ride out before I could slip into my shoes, lest I fall right out of the three-inch heels. I rushed into the bathroom and sat at the vanity, wishing I had a paper bag to breathe into as I started to hyperventilate. Even applying my lip gloss was a challenge as my hand shook.

  I had very little experience with dating and even less experience with sex. The most action I’d gotten was when Michael Hadley, the boy my father had hoped I’d eventually marry, had rented Eyes Wide Shut and fingered my pussy during a particularly arousing scene and had then made love to me as the eroticism on screen had escalated. I’d been twenty-one and had responded in a very enthusiastic way. But then the usual doom and gloom of emotional attachments had cast its shadow on me, and I’d not returned his calls the next couple of days. He’d given up and had called Shelby Tyson a month or so later. They were currently expecting their third child, and Michael was hopelessly devoted to his family.

  I’d missed a good one, no doubt about it. A huge part of me didn’t want to miss another one, and Jack Reed felt like my second chance. I still wanted to believe in the notion of the one. Not that I’d had enough time with Jack at this point to think of him in those terms. But I wanted to keep the option open. I wanted to take advantage of this opportunity and see what transpired.

  Unfortunately, I still feared that even finding the one wouldn’t keep him from inevitably leaving me.

  Of course, I hated that thought as it popped into my head. Negativity begets negativity, and I preferred to run in the opposite direction.

  In order to calm my nerves, I resigned myself to accepting I was making way too much out of a first date with Jack. But the thing was…I’d known other men over the years who’d wanted to ask me out, yet who had easily read the silent signals that told them I didn’t want them to. I suspected there’d been no such signal resonating from me when I’d met Jack, and that’s what had encouraged him. I wanted to continue encouraging him—and maybe leave my negativity behind me for good.

  So I didn’t change the dress. With a somewhat steadier hand, I glided the wand of neutral-colored gloss over my lips, pinned my long strawberry-blonde hair at the nape of my neck, leaving a few loosely curled tendrils here and there, and tucked the essentials into my small clutch. Then I dug the silver strappy sandals I hadn’t worn since last year out of the closet and slipped into them. I was ready when the driver arrived and rang the bell, and I let exhilaration over seeing Jack push out insecure thoughts about me not being enough for him.

  The drive to Jack’s wasn’t a lengthy one, since I lived below the elevated Troon North area in Grayhawk Estates. The house the Town Car pulled in front of was a phenomenal one, made primarily of glass with medium-colored wood accents. It was stunning and my nerves kicked into high gear again as I ascended the steps to the wide, open deck. The sudden return of my tension and apprehension confirmed I had more of a thing for Jack than casual interest. This was not the kind of place to intimidate me, breathtaking though it was. But it was Jack’s house and that was what made my knees nearly knock together.

  I fought the natural compulsion to nibble my lower lip as I pressed the buzzer alongside the glass door. Behind the immaculate panes, I saw guests mingling beneath the elaborate chandeliers. The decor was crisp and clean, with white furniture to complement the polished hardwood floors. A wide suspended split staircase led to the second floor. I could see through the living room all the way out to the back deck. The hous
e would have seemed monumentally short on privacy were it not set in such a secluded and prestigious area, and gated with a security code for access.

  A server carrying a tray with three glasses of champagne balanced on it opened the door and greeted me with a crystal flute.

  I accepted the offering as I stepped inside. I spotted Jack immediately, engrossed in conversation with a few notables from the Phoenix Cardinals. I caught his eye and he grinned, lifting his chin in acknowledgement. I gave a quick wave of my fingers as my stomach fluttered and a smile became permanently tattooed on my lips.

  I turned away so he could finish his conversation without feeling obligated to leave his guests and come rushing over to me. There were plenty of hors d’oeuvres being passed around, so I lifted a toothpick speared through duck rumaki from a silver tray and wandered about, taking the place in. I stopped at a media center tucked into one of the far corners and my eyes narrowed on a stack of magazines. Upon closer inspection, I discovered Jack had collected about two years’ worth of Scottsdale Live magazine, which would date right around the time I’d started writing for the monthly publication.

  “Busted.”

  His voice came from behind me and I jumped at the sound of it. Glancing over my shoulder, still wearing that ridiculous smile, I said, “Yes, you are. What are you doing with all these magazines?”

  “I confess, I’m a huge fan. Gwen brought an issue into the gym ten or twelve months ago and I read one of your features. I liked it so much, I ordered back copies of all your work. Well,” he admitted with a coy grin, “your picture at the end of each story was a big draw too.”

  I stared at him a moment, shocked. Through the lust-induced haze immediately created from his close proximity, I managed to latch on to a small nugget.