From the start, she’d said she was seeing someone, but he’d chosen not to believe her. He’d ignored her furtive texting when she’d thought he wasn’t watching. And he was always watching.
The thing was, he hadn’t been seeing anyone since the day they’d met. It wasn’t something he’d decided on. At first, he’d made excuses. He was busy. Working. He had no time. Really, he had no interest. He’d been living the life of a monk, tending to a Zen garden of emotions. He didn’t recognize himself, so careful and cautious. Part of it was he liked what they had going. He liked working with her and didn’t want to mess with that. She made his daily routines special and her enthusiasm was contagious. The other part was more personal. His life wasn’t structured to take on any long-term relationship. And she was young, fragile and trying to sort herself out. He didn’t want to hurt her. He had to be sure.
He drove up US-1, gradually picking up speed as his anger flared. Leila could put on a show of jealousy from time to time, but his possessiveness could crush hers. She had to know how he felt. It was in all the things he didn’t do. Like touch her. He’d never touched her, not even casually. His touch would reveal too much. Like he’d memorized the grain of her skin and knew it by heart.
Nick screeched to a stop at a red light. He thought he could take his time with her. It was a nice change of pace, and he was enjoying it. He thought he had time. He didn’t.
Chapter 8
Weeks passed and Nick’s absences increased in frequency and length. When he was away, work turned dreary. Leila answered calls, updated monthly reports, surfed the web and watched the clock. She turned down offers to go out to lunch and stayed close to the phone, hoping he’d call with a question, a riddle that only she could solve.
One afternoon she killed time browsing the agency’s website. The home page featured a Meet Our Team link that led to the pages of the various office branches. Each page listed the associates by alphabetical order. With a few clicks, she found Nick.
A short bio listed his degrees and area of expertise—luxury residential homes and condominiums—and a few words on his personal background.
Nicolas Adrian, originally from Toronto, now calls Miami home. He comes to us from the New York office where he exceeded all sales goals. When he is not working, he enjoys water sports and outdoor activities.
Leila wondered if driving a sports car counted as an outdoor activity.
There was a gallery page with pictures taken at company events. She searched for Nick, and each time she spotted him, a tall, slim redhead was nearby. They were never touching, exchanging coy glances or cuddling. But wherever Nick was, there she was, too, looking amazing in silk blouses and pencil skirts, fiery hair long and loose on her back.
I thought Monica was your true love.
Leila left her desk and wandered to the water cooler. She poured herself a paper cone full of tepid water. She hadn’t expected Monica to be Jessica Rabbit in office attire. After Nick had mentioned that his former assistant had kids, twin boys, Leila had subconsciously put her in a nonthreatening box. Which was, she now realized, the most naïve thought she’d ever had. Sure, the woman in the pictures appeared to be a good ten years Nick’s senior, but that didn’t make a difference. She had legs for days.
Leila crushed the paper cone in her hand. Stop this! The man was her boss, not her boyfriend. For all she knew, he had a girlfriend in New York. Why else would he take every opportunity to fly there?
* * *
That night Nick called. She was running the shower when her phone, which was always at arm’s length, rang.
“Do you have a minute?” he asked. “It’s about the expense report.”
He never said hello and that was starting to annoy her.
“It’s late,” she said. “Why are you still thinking about work?”
“I’m always thinking about work. What are you up to?”
She wrapped a towel around her naked body. “Shower. TV.”
“You’re too young to spend your nights that way.”
“You’re too young to patronize me.”
“Where’s your boyfriend tonight?”
“I never said he was my boyfriend.”
“What is he then?”
If she closed her eyes, she could touch Nick’s face. “He’s just a friend.”
“Does that friendship come with a benefits package?”
“That’s none of your business,” she said. “Why aren’t you out running New York City?”
“There’s still time.”
“So, about the expense report?”
“The photographer’s invoice is on my desk. I forgot to turn it in. Monica used to remind me.”
“I’m not Monica!” she snapped.
He didn’t respond right away. During the stretch of silence that followed her outburst, she was in agony.
“I know that.” His voice was low.
“I’m sorry. I don’t know why I said that.”
“I think I do.”
She heard him laugh, a soft, rumbling laugh, and wished a sinkhole would open up and swallow her live. “Go and have fun. I’ll turn in the invoice in the morning.”
She tossed the phone onto the bath mat, stepped into the shower and stood, unflinching, in the cold stream. I’m so screwed.
* * *
Wednesday ended without word from Nick, as did Thursday. He finally returned late Friday, when the office was half empty.
She was at her desk, refreshing her makeup for a last-minute date with Carl that she’d scheduled out of desperation, when the elevator doors noisily parted. She heard the now familiar grinding of suitcase wheels on marble and instinctively lowered the lip-gloss wand, her hands unsteady.
His blue eyes flashed with surprise. “Why are you still here?”
“I’m heading out now. Did you come here straight from the airport?”
He was dressed for travel in dark jeans and a soft blue hooded jacket worn over a white T-shirt.
“I couldn’t wait to get back.”
“Even with everything New York has going on?”
“I prefer Miami.”
He was looking at her appraisingly and a knot formed in her belly. The sleeves of her dress were long, but the hemline was quite high.
“Honestly, I was hoping you’d be here. Are you free tonight?”
The knot tightened. “I had plans. Nothing definitive. Why?”
“I’m meeting clients for dinner at The Forge. Want to come?”
She nodded silently because, yes, of course, she wanted it more than anything.
“Good. I’m going to change.”
He wheeled his suitcase into his office and she quickly sent a text message to Carl. She wasn’t proud of it; canceling a date via text wasn’t cool. But if she called him, Nick would overhear her at her worst, lying to a guy who didn’t deserve it.
Bad news. I have to work late.
Carl responded within seconds.
Again? It’s Friday.
She used a line often tossed about in the office.
Real estate is 24-7.
Just when she was about to propose an alternate night, Nick appeared at the door in a midnight-blue shirt with onyx buttons.
“Need more time?” He casually rolled up his sleeves.
She hid her phone, as if caught texting in class. “Just a second.”
He started to walk away then stopped. “Leila?”
“Hmm?”
“Tell him you’re not interested.”
Stunned, she went quiet for a minute. “How do you know that I’m not?”
“I see the way you look at me.”
* * *
Nick had returned to his office as if nothing had happened, as if he hadn’t just drawn blood.
Leila got up, walked down t
he hall and locked herself in a bathroom stall. Her breath was trapped in her lungs.
What did she expect? She swam with the shark. She got bit.
Chapter 9
They took his car to the restaurant, driving along Arthur Godfrey Road in stiff silence. I see the way you look at me. Now she wished she’d never laid eyes on him. So maybe she’d been foolish enough to toss a longing glance his way, it didn’t give him the right to call her out so bluntly, arrogantly. Dinner promised to be painful. She didn’t know if she could sit through it. She couldn’t even look at him.
But Nick broke through the awkwardness in his characteristic way. After pulling up to The Forge and leaving the car with the valet, he turned to her—all business. He was once again her mentor. “I like to meet with new or prospective clients for dinner to get to know them, get a feel for what they’re looking for. Always pick a restaurant you think they’ll like. If they drink, keep their glasses full. And let them do the talking. Tonight we’re meeting a creative couple, interior designers. They should love this place.”
“Who pays for dinner?” she asked.
“You do, love. Always.”
She flinched at the endearment. The doorman held open the heavy wood door. Leila grabbed Nick by the sleeve and tugged him to the side.
“Listen. I’m sorry if I led you to think—”
He silenced her with one hard look. “Don’t do that.”
“You don’t get it. I’m dying inside.”
In a move she hadn’t anticipated, he grabbed her hand, squeezed it. A current of electricity ran up her arm. It occurred to her right then he’d never touched her, not even casually.
“We’ll talk after dinner,” he said. “Now, let’s work.”
She could tell that, for him, the matter was resolved. It wasn’t. Yes, she’d skirted the edge and gotten dangerously close to tipping over. Even so, she had enough common sense left over to find her way back to safety.
* * *
Belgian designers Edouard Bonneville and Christophe Le Grand—Eddy and Chris—were in high spirits when they were escorted to their table, cheeks rosy with a champagne flush.
Nick’s restaurant choice was perfect. From the moment they’d stepped through the doors, Leila was enthralled. The pairing of traditional stained-glass windows and whimsical lilac chandeliers blew her away. And she couldn’t get over her grand, upholstered wing chair. She felt like she was hosting a tea party in Wonderland. With plates piled with steak, shrimp and the most exotic salads, the three men discussed travel, traffic, nightlife—anything but real estate. They were halfway through Limoncello cheesecake when Eddy brought up the house hunt. Or rather, the hunt for the perfect South Beach—“Sobe”—condo.
“It has to be a showstopper,” Eddy said. “How else will our clients know they can trust us?”
Chris wasn’t worried about clients. “Easy access to the beach is a must. We want the full Sobe experience.”
“We want the full Sobe experience in a condo we can later sell for a profit,” Eddy specified.
“I understand,” Nick said. “And I know just what you’re looking for.”
“Eddy and I have been together for seven years,” Chris said. “We’ve lived all over the world, but we’re most at home in Miami. It’s a crazy city, an infuriating city, but we love it.”
Nick said he felt the same way. He explained that as a child of typical Canadian snowbirds, he’d spent many winter breaks in South Florida. “The first time around we spent a couple weeks right here on the beach. My folks hated it. It was pricey, touristy, and they couldn’t get away fast enough. After that, they rented trailers in Hollywood. But I moved to South Beach the minute I could.”
Chris and Eddy stared at Nick in shock at the mention of trailers. Leila was equally moved but for a different reason. This was the first time he’d spontaneously shared a personal anecdote.
“How long have you two been together?” Eddy asked.
Nick pointed to Leila with his fork loaded with the last bite of cheesecake, and Eddy nodded.
“We’re not together.” Leila spoke up for the first time that evening. “Tell them, Nick.”
“Tell them what?” His eyes challenged her.
Leila felt outnumbered. “That we only work together.”
“I don’t know, Eddy,” Chris said. “Sounds complicated.”
“Let’s check back on these two in a few weeks,” Eddy said, “and see if the story changes.”
Chris was delighted. “We’re designers, but we’re also matchmakers. All we need is a reality show.”
Nick wrangled the stray horses. “How about we focus on getting you two into a kickass condo in a few weeks?”
The couple was holding hands. Eddy said, “You came highly recommended. We expect magic.”
“I’ll give you magic,” Nick said. “But first let’s talk money.”
* * *
The two “couples” parted ways at the door. Chris and Eddy walked out into the crisp late-October night and Leila was only steps behind them when Nick took hold of her arm and led her to the bar. It was decidedly less crowded now that the happy hour was officially over. He ordered two glasses of champagne. The bartender held up a bottle of Veuve Clicquot and he approved.
Leila slipped onto a bar stool, taking care to avoid a wardrobe malfunction by strategically crossing her legs. Her maneuvering appeared to amuse Nick. He watched her with a smile, the silver shimmer of the domed ceiling reflected in his eyes. All evening, she’d noticed the way women—gorgeous women, rich women—eyed him. Secretly she’d wished they really were together.
“We have to talk,” he said matter-of-factly.
No kidding. She took the lead. “We work together. We can’t mess that up.”
“We won’t be working together for long.”
That was fair. She’d told him about her plans for the future. The thing was, she liked working with him. This was the first job she’d ever enjoyed and was in no hurry to quit. “We don’t know that.”
“Yes, we do. I’m moving back to New York to help set up a new sales team.”
Leila felt suddenly dizzy. She rested her champagne flute on the bar, afraid that she might drop it.
“Connie Madison is asking me to do it as a personal favor. Her lead associate quit to join the competition.”
Connie Madison—as in Kane & Madison Realty. This was the woman who wanted him back.
“It’s the offer of a lifetime, Leila. And a chance to rake it in.”
“Money,” she said flatly.
He nodded.
She turned away. Now something else was clear—all the hints that Tony and Greg had dropped. Everyone had been clued in about this. She stared at Nick, knowing that he’d purposely hid it from her. “You’ve known this for a while.”
“Nothing concrete.”
“You lied to me.”
“I withheld information, Leila,” he said firmly. “Until I was sure.”
Leila used her last reserves of courage to offer a smile and encouragement. She couldn’t let him see how much it hurt. “Nobody ever complained about having to move to Manhattan for a great job. Congratulations.”
“That’s true, but the timing is off.” He pushed aside his champagne glass and ordered a whiskey straight. “I don’t want you to worry. I spoke to Jo-Ann and made sure she’ll keep you on. We had it out, but that’s okay.”
“You told Jo-Ann before me?”
Her outburst was ridiculous. Jo-Ann was the office manager, after all. But Leila was swimming in deep panic now. In the short time that she’d known him, only three months, really, she’d invested everything in him. She couldn’t remember how she’d spent her days before him.
“I called her from the plane. I had to know what to tell you.”
“When do you leave?”
&n
bsp; “In eight weeks.”
He had to be settled and ready to work straight after the new year.
“Why is the timing off? Is there something else at play?”
“You are,” he said. “And don’t pretend you don’t know it.”
What did it matter now? What had once seemed vital, crucial, was crushed to nothing. “Forget me. The last thing I want to be is dead weight.”
“Dead weight?” Nick laid a hand on her bare knee. “Leila, you’re the prize.”
She closed her eyes. Everything she felt for him, a fluid mix of admiration and lust, rushed to the forefront. She was certain that everyone, including the bartender, could see her drown.
He leaned closer and spoke into her ear. “Sorry if I’m not playing fair. I don’t care if there are rules against this. I want you. I know you want me. How long do we have to dance around this?”
Not long. Leila, having made up her mind, finished her champagne and slid off the bar stool. It was time to jump down the rabbit hole.
“Come.” She took his hand. “You have me for eight weeks.”
Chapter 10
Nick tipped the valet and, hardtop down, tore through the carnival streets of South Beach at night. With Leila beside him, hair flapping in the wind, he doubted any man was happier tonight. He took the causeway toward the Venetian Islands. He lived in a gated community on the waterfront. Rather than waste time driving to the residents’ garage, he parked in an open lot. He took Leila by the hand and they raced into the building, feet pounding on the cobblestone walkway.
Nick greeted the security guard in the brightly lit lobby. The elevator was empty. He pressed the button marked seven. She joked, “Lucky seven.” He didn’t laugh. He backed her into a corner wanting to steal that first kiss. But she pointed to the glass eye of a camera.
“Careful,” she said. “We’re being watched.”
“I don’t care.” He gripped the hem of her dress, inching it higher. “You didn’t wear this dress for me.”
Exclusively Yours Page 6