Point of Release

by Remy Landon

  Jared grinned. “Yeah, I'm prepared. I found Columbia's booth, by the way.”

  “Was Dall over there?”

  “I figured I'd see him, but no. The word is, Hodgins wouldn't hire him because he spied for Columbia. How's that for irony? Hodgins said if he'd do it with 'em, he'd do it to 'em, and he couldn't trust the bastard.”

  Carlo grinned. “Ah, karma. I don't feel a bit sorry for the prick. Did you see if Columbia had any new products on display?”

  “As a matter of fact, they did. An e-valve. Looks surprisingly familiar.” Jared sighed, reaching into his suit pocket for a brochure. “I brought you this.”

  Carlo unfolded the pamphlet, a frown darkening his face. “Well, I can't say I'm surprised, but it's still bullshit. Thanks for this, though; I'll hand it over to my attorneys. I'm paying them a king's ransom to go after Columbia.”

  “I'll bet. I'm headed over to grab some coffee before things get into full swing here...want some?”

  “Sure, thanks.” Carlo moved to stand behind their table, opening his briefcase to get his business cards.

  “So this is the illustrious Carlo Leone I've been hearing about.”

  He looked up in surprise. A smiling, slender brunette stood in front of his booth, arms crossed under her rather ample breasts, holding a small black clutch. She was wearing a knee-length, snug-fitting, crimson dress with capped sleeves and a daring neckline, looking more like she was ready for a cocktail party rather than standing among a bunch of suits peddling their wares. Her chocolate-brown hair was cut in a stylish, choppy bob, fringed at the ends and giving her a carefree look.

  Her head tilted to the side, one dark, perfectly-plucked eyebrow arched playfully as her brown eyes sparkled. “I suppose I should introduce myself. Olivia Malstrom, Allied Packings Eastern sales manager.”

  Well. Sam Oakes hadn't exaggerated at the cigar dinner when he'd described her. He extended his hand, smiling. “I'm pleased to meet you, Olivia.”

  “People close to me call me Liv. And I expect you'll be one of those people.” She smiled, revealing bright white teeth. Her mocha-colored lipstick accentuated the fullness of her mouth and made her look almost exotic.

  “Do you? We've only just met.”

  “Yes, but I have a feeling we'll be great...friends.”

  His gaze drifted down to her shapely legs. She was wearing black pumps with heels—not exactly conducive to a trade show. “Those are a bit dangerous, don't you think?”

  “My legs?” Olivia's eyes were dancing.

  He grinned. “Your shoes. There's a lot of standing at this event. But you're a rookie—you'll learn.”

  “I assure you, Carlo, I'm no rookie—and I fully intend to spend time off my feet as well.”

  It rarely happened that a woman could catch him off guard, but Olivia—or Liv—had done so. He would need to be careful with this. It was a long time since he had been with a woman, and he knew himself well enough that although his heart belonged to someone else, a gorgeous female coming on to him was always fraught with risks.

  “Sam Oakes spoke quite highly of you. Have you seen him today?”

  She looked at him, amused, as if she knew why he was changing the subject. “Yes, I have. He's a few aisles over. Maybe the three of us could meet for a drink later, and get to know one another better.” Olivia spun the silver bracelets on her arm, her tone light. “I know you haven't used me before, but I hope you're open to the possibility of exploring. Allied Packings could have just what Miller Valves needs.”

  Christ. He felt a stirring in his pelvis. This was not at all what he had expected.

  She reached into her purse. “Let me give you my card. Call me later tonight, and we can have that drink. I'm staying at the Westin.”

  How convenient.

  Carlo watched her walk away. She moved with confidence and style as she stopped to talk to the different vendors. He had no doubt she could charm the pants off anyone here.

  At this point, he wasn't sure if this also included him.

  ~*~*~*~*~*

  When Carlo got back to his suite that night, he planned to take a quick shower, order room service, catch part of the Eagles game and turn in early. The first day of the trade show was always the most exhausting, given the flight the night before. But it had been a fairly productive day: he'd secured a contract with Boeing and had made some new contacts. Including Olivia Malstrom.

  She had been a surprise. Bold and beautiful, but in his current state, he thought it best to steer clear—keep his focus where his heart was.

  He removed his jacket, draped it over the couch and loosened his tie as he sank into the armchair, wondering for the thousandth time what Cassandra was up to. He flicked on the TV, lowered the volume and picked up his phone to send a text. He had learned not to expect a response, but hoping for one—that was another story.

  I'm in Chicago at a trade show, and I've found that even surrounded by hundreds of people, I feel alone because you're not with me.

  He went to the window and pulled open the drapes. The view from the Crown Suite at night was nothing short of stunning. The tall buildings jutting up against the softness of the velvet-blue night sky were dotted with lighted windows, and far below him, cars moved along Michigan Avenue in a steady stream. This weekend would feature the Magnificent Mile Lights Festival, complete with a parade, caroling and fireworks, signaling the start of the holiday season.

  Otherwise known as the Great Depression. Sighing, Carlo ran a hand through his hair. He'd already graciously declined offers to spend Thanksgiving with Gianna and Jordan, and with Estelle and Martin. There had been another offer as well.

  All of them would ask again at Christmas, and he would graciously decline, citing work reasons. But they would know better. He would give Christmas bonuses and attend the office party. He'd exchange presents with Gianna, get something for Estelle, and find a special gift for Cassandra. Then he would pour himself a glass of Scotch, find something on TV and try not to think too much. Unless, by some Christmas miracle, Cassandra allowed him back into her life. Then, and only then, things might be different.

  He picked up his phone again and swiped the screen to unlock it. As expected, there was no response to his earlier text. He sent another.

  I hope you are all right.

  A shower and drink would hopefully help snap him out of his mood. He walked into the marble bathroom, turned on the water and undressed. He didn't want to admit it, but Ms. Malstrom had ignited a spark of arousal in him. Later tonight, he may very well have to take matters into his own hands, so to speak.

  As he was toweling off, his phone rang. Sam Oakes, who was sounding particularly happy.

  “Hey, buddy! I'm in the hotel bar with Liv Malstrom. Come down and have a drink with us.”

  Shit. “Thanks, but I just got out of the shower. I'm actually planning to turn in early.”

  “Early?” Sam snorted. “It's not even 8:00. We're just getting started. And the night life is the best part of this goddamned trade show.”

  “You know the saying...three's a crowd.”

  “Three's also a threesome.”

  Carlo could hear a feminine laugh in the background. From a business standpoint, he did want to get off on the right foot with the new Allied manager, and she had mentioned getting together. He supposed he could go down for a drink or two, although he wouldn't be able to keep up with Oakes. The man liked to imbibe.

  Grinning and red-faced, Sam gave Carlo a fist bump as he sat down at the high-top table. “Welcome to the party, Mr. Leone!” A former Penn State baseball player, he still had his athletic build and looked younger than his thirty years.

  Olivia turned to look at him, her face flushed and eyes sparkling. She had changed into a short black dress with long sleeves and cutaway shoulders, and the effect of her bare skin and toned upper arms was immensely appealing. She sat with her legs crossed, the dress hiked up to several inches above her knee, and she wore hot pink, high-heeled pumps with straps
crisscrossing her ankles. The color of her shoes was completely unexpected—a virtual exclamation point—and Carlo had already decided that this punctuation mark was Olivia Malstrom in living form.

  “Well, look who's here to wet his whistle—so to speak.”

  His mouth opened, then closed, and he felt a slow smile spread across his face. She had caught him off guard. Again.

  “I appreciated the invitation, although I feel like my role is to babysit Sam.”

  “As long as I get to put him to bed.” Olivia winked.

  Sam whistled. “Ooooh, now you're talkin'! I'm gonna get our chaperone a Jager so he can start catching up.”

  As he headed toward the bar, Olivia turned to Carlo. “I didn't think you'd show. You seemed a little hesitant when I mentioned it today.”

  “I like to have time to think over any offers I receive—business, as well as personal.”

  “Not the impulsive type, huh?”

  “No. I've always been a planner.”

  “You miss out on a lot of fun that way.” She raised her margarita glass to her lips and ran her tongue suggestively around the rim, her eyes wide with innocence.

  Carlo felt his cock begin to harden. This was not good. She continued looking at him. Her makeup was flawless. It appeared that each individual eyelash had been brushed with mascara, and a dusting of shimmery powder highlighted her cheekbones. He usually shied away from high-maintenance women, but she was proving hard to elude.

  Thankfully, Sam returned with two shot glasses and set one of them in front of Carlo. “Should we toast to anything?”

  Olivia nodded and raised her margarita as she fixed her gaze on Carlo. “Yes. To impulsiveness.”

  Sam looked from one to the other as the three of them clinked glasses. “Whoa. What did I miss?”

  “I think Liv's trying to tell me something.” Carlo tossed back the Jagermeister and grinned.

  As the evening progressed, Carlo was feeling the effects of the three shots and a beer. He found himself laughing easily at Liv, stealing glances at her mouth, her breasts, her legs. When she caught him doing so, she would flash him a knowing smile.

  He learned that she was twenty-eight, a year older than he, and a Massachusetts native. She'd gotten the job at Allied right after graduating with a business degree from Boston University and worked her way up to her current position of district manager with “seventy percent skill, twenty percent persistence and ten percent cleavage.” She ran her first Boston marathon this past April and owned a pug named Winston. Sam, upon seeing Winston's picture on her phone, proclaimed him the ugliest goddamned dog he had ever seen. Liv exclaimed in protest, smacked him on the arm and told him not to speak of the love of her life in that way.

  Olivia was physically demonstrative, resting her hand lightly on Carlo's arm and once on his upper leg, causing him to draw in his breath. She was also freely affectionate with Oakes, leaning her head on his shoulder as she laughed. Carlo was surprised to feel a twinge of something close to jealousy, wanting her full attention. Don't be ridiculous, he reprimanded himself. She doesn't belong to you. He had a feeling Olivia Malstrom wouldn't belong to anyone.

  Carlo excused himself to use the bathroom. The night had been surprisingly enjoyable, and it felt good to be socializing. He'd had more than enough to drink, though, and Sam's presence had saved him from anything escalating with Liv. He needed to keep his focus on the goal of winning Cassandra back.

  He hadn't felt his phone vibrate but would double-check to make sure she hadn't texted him back. Reaching into his blazer pocket, he took out his phone, expecting to feel the usual jab to the gut when he would receive no response. But this time, there was a text from her.

  I'm doing very well. Moving on, and I suggest you do the same.

  He strongly believed she was putting on a brave front, but her words stung just the same. It was impossible to know what she was feeling. Had she responded through tears, or was she truly in a good frame of mind?

  He felt his spirits begin to slide as he slipped his phone back in his pocket and opened the restroom door, grateful to again be enveloped in the congenial atmosphere of the bar. He'd plan to head up to his room soon.

  Sam and Liv looked like they had just shared a glorious secret. He looked at them curiously. “What's up?”

  Sam burst into laughter. “Nothing...yet.”

  “I'm not following you.”

  “Liv and I were just talking about continuing this party elsewhere.”

  “We were betting you have the nicest room of the three of us, Carlo,” Liv said, her face glowing. “Would your suite happen to have a hot tub?”

  Carlo raised his eyebrows. Opened his mouth, fully prepared to say he was going back to his room—alone—and then remembered Cassandra's text: Moving on, and I suggest you do the same.

  “Yes,” he grinned. “It would.”

  chapter sixteen ~ Cassandra

  When Cassandra searched for her father on line the night before, she never expected that she would find Reuben Larsen so easily. Or that he would be, incredibly, about a half hour away in Harrisburg, working as a machinist at the nuclear power plant there.

  After her father had moved out—physically, as well as from Cassandra's heart and mind—it was easy to imagine him as living very far away, even out of the country (although at times, she preferred thinking of him in an extremely hot place, way, way down south). So discovering that he was in fact very nearby felt unnerving—almost like an intrusion.

  She was driving west on 743, her heart rate climbing with every mile that passed. Jesus, she had even been stressed out just typing his name in the Google search bar—clammy hands, queasy stomach, the whole deal—she could only imagine how she'd feel when she actually saw him in person. But it was one of her personal goals, and since today was one of her rare days off, she figured she might as well get this over with. She would arrive at his house at dinner time. Hopefully he would be home from work, but if he wasn't, she would wait, say what she needed to say, and leave feeling with some sense of closure. Maybe she would even leave feeling empowered.

  She hadn't been feeling very strong lately, both in her waking and sleeping hours. Her slumber was interrupted at best, and when she would sleep, she dreamed of Carlo. One dream involved him performing oral sex on her. She had woken up feeling an intense throbbing between her legs and had to make herself come before she could go back to sleep. She'd felt guilty for imagining him while she masturbated but told herself no one would know, except her. Which was bad enough.

  And when she received his text telling her he felt alone at his trade show, she'd felt heavy with despair—for both of them, because this mess had fucked up what could have been a really good thing. She'd then gotten pissed, which was much safer, so when he sent the second text—I hope you are all right— she felt like hurling her fucking phone across the fucking room.

  No, Carlo, Cassandra had wanted to scream. I'm not all right, and as much as I want you to make it all right, you can't. I'm the only one who can do that, and I hate that I don't know if I can. I hate that I wish we had made love so I could know what it would feel like to be with you.

  And I hate that I miss you.

  No, she was not all right. But she sure as hell wasn't going to let him know that.

  The few men in her life had all ended up hurting her. Had they seen weakness in her? Carlo certainly had. She had felt weak most every time he was near and wondered if a person could give in sexually but still be strong and independent. There were all kinds of stories about women who were assertive bitches in their jobs but subservient in the bedroom. And with Carlo, she had certainly wanted to give in...let him do whatever he wanted to her, please him with her hands, her mouth...

  Okay, stoppp, she berated herself. Thinking about sex with Carlo wasn't going to help her move forward.

  She shivered. The heat in her Chevy Malibu was anemic at best, but taking it in to be serviced wasn't an option at this point, since she was saving to
take a class next semester. It was hard to believe that November was halfway over. She considered it a dull, depressing month for several reasons: the shortened days, chilly temperatures, and how all the fall colors, so vibrant and gorgeous in September and October, were now muted. It was like the world, too, was depressed, gearing up for a long winter ahead.

  When she was a child, she assigned colors to the months: October was a bright, rich orange; November was the color of Dijon mustard; December, pine green and white; while January was sparkling silver. She remembered helping her mother decorate for the holidays, the first year without her father, after he had left them. They had put on Christmas music, the classics her mother loved, and Cassandra had turned it up loud, thinking that somehow, it could blast out the silence and sorrow that draped over the house like a thick, cold fog.

  She had opened the box containing her mother's Santa collection while her mother was stringing together a cranberry and popcorn garland for the tree, when she suddenly heard a sound and looked up to see her mother's tearstained face. “Cass,” she had said, in a small, choked voice. “I hope I'm enough. I so want to be enough for you.”

  It was memories like this that made her want to confront her father, to say the things her mother had never been able to, and to somehow make it right.

  By the time she pulled into his driveway, her heart was pounding against her chest like a jackhammer. For a fleeting moment, she thought of turning around and driving back to the safety of her apartment, but she clenched her fists hard, thought fiercely of her mother, and got out of the car into the chilly night air.

  Her father's house was plain, modest and similar to the others in the development, a white split level with black shutters. Illuminated by the lights on either side of the front door were unimaginative shrubs flanking the foundation and three fat pumpkins staggered on the brick steps. A light at the top of the garage shone down on a portable basketball hoop. Cassandra frowned. Basketball hoop? This didn't seem to fit with her father. Then again, she didn't even know him anymore.