by Sorcha Grace
I raised my camera and took a couple shots of the main dining area below, then stepped back to look at them.
“Do you ever take a break?” a velvet voice I recognized asked.
I looked up, holding my camera in front of me as a shield. There he was, leaning against the railing, his body long and loose, his posture that of a sleek cat ready to pounce. I noticed his eyes were blue rather than grey now—how could I not notice—but they were still the blue of a dangerous, turbulent sea. He smiled, and his smile was predatory, not reassuring.
“Sometimes.” My voice was breathy, seductive. I didn’t mean it to be, but this man’s effect on me was unavoidable. He moved closer, and I thought about moving back, but I didn’t. This close, he was as gorgeous as I remembered. His hair was thick and wavy, and I felt the familiar pull of wanting to run my fingers through it. His brows were an elegant slash over mesmerizing eyes, and he had more than a hint of a five o’clock shadow on his jaw. I wondered how it would feel against my skin. He wore his suit well, looking as comfortable as most men did in jeans and a T-shirt. It was an expensive suit, but he owned it. I didn’t have to think too hard to imagine what his body looked like under that suit—broad shoulders, lean waist, narrow hips, and muscled thighs. I had felt his rock-hard biceps when he helped me move the table.
“Something you said downstairs intrigued me.” His fingers played on the railing beside me, and my skin prickled as I thought of how just a slight movement on his part would have us touching.
Don’t ask. Don’t ask.
“What was that?” I couldn’t resist. There was something about his eyes. I couldn’t look away. They were going grey again.
“You told the chef you’d do whatever it took to please him.”
My cheeks heated when he repeated my words. Stormy Eyes made them sound… erotic—up here, in the semi-darkness, just the two of us, alone. His eyes were locked on mine, and I couldn’t look away.
“Do you have that same philosophy in bed?” He reached out, and his long fingers stroked my hand. They were aristocratic fingers, long and strong and beautifully manicured. I clenched my fingers tightly around my camera. Everything in me wanted to scream, Yes! My body was willing to do anything to keep this man touching me, looking at me, speaking to me, and I could feel myself responding, yet alarm bells went off in my head.
“What’s going on?” I finally sputtered. “What’s this about?”
“I should think that would be obvious.” His direct gaze never wavered. “I want you.”
I was stunned into silence. When I didn’t answer, he moved closer. I swayed because I felt the heat of him, and there was that scent again—smoky and intoxicating.
“I want to fuck you. Hard. Long,” he whispered. “Until you come and come and think you can’t come anymore.”
I felt like I was going to melt into a puddle. I didn’t understand. I hated arrogant come-ons—not that I’d ever had a man come-on to me quite like this—yet my legs were quaking, my breath had been snatched away, and my panties were wet. I’d never been so immediately and so unequivocally aroused by a man. Not even Jace. But where was the basic civility, the: “Hi, I’m so-and-so. Nice to meet you.” I didn’t even know who this guy was and the fact that a part of me didn’t care—and was screaming oh yes! in my head—well, all my alarm bells got even louder.
I shook my head and backed away. I had to put some distance between us, or I’d never say what I needed to. My heart thudded in my chest, racing so fast I felt as if I’d just run three miles, but I was going to say this. “I don’t know who the hell you think you are, but your chances of getting me into bed are exactly zero.”
He raised a dubious brow, and my heart kicked up a notch.
“I don’t know you, and I don’t want to know you. So why don’t you just go back to your girlfriend and leave me alone?” I stomped away, tossing my hair over my shoulder for good measure. I hated girls who did that, but it seemed appropriate in this instance. And besides, I needed every trick in the book to prove, if only to myself, that I could actually walk away. Inside I was so hot for him. My whole body heated up from just one look, so his words had ignited an inferno. When he’d touched me, I went absolutely liquid.
I took the stairs as quickly as I could without tripping over my uncertain feet. I wanted to look up, but I didn’t need to. I could feel his gaze, and he was angry. I had seen the flash of irritation in his eyes. It turned them from that smoky grey to icy blue.
“Did you get what you needed?” Beckett asked when I was back downstairs.
“What do you mean?” I asked breathlessly. Oh no. Had he heard? Had the entire restaurant heard? Did everyone know what just happened?
Beckett gave me an odd look. “Did you get the shots you needed?”
Oh, thank God. “I think so.” I was so flustered, so completely off my game. My head was spinning, and all I could think of was his proposition—I want to fuck you. Hard. Long.
I shuddered from the thought of the pleasure of him inside me.
“How about a few of the kitchen?” Beckett suggested.
“Of course.” At that point I would have done anything to get away from his gaze. I grabbed more batteries and a lamp and braved one last look at the loft. Stormy Eyes was gone. A part of me was devastated, but the part that valued logic and self-preservation cheered.
*****
“Coffee?” Beckett asked after we’d told Ben and Amanda good-bye and stowed my gear in the Volvo. “I know you want to work on the shots, but you look a little drained.”
“Okay,” I said.
“That was easy.” Beckett slung an arm around me and led me to the next block, where we found a Starbucks, ordered, and plopped into large purple armchairs. “I ordered you a scone,” Beckett said immediately. “And don’t argue. You need nourishment.”
“Okay.”
Beckett’s eyes widened. “What’s with you? You’re never this easy.”
I laughed. “Apparently, that’s not the vibe I was giving off all morning.” Over a mocha and a warm scone, I told Beckett about Stormy Eyes. When I got to the part in the loft, Beckett’s eyes widened, and he shook his head.
“Shit, Cat! You turned him down? How could you?”
“How could I?” I almost spit out my mocha, not believing that Beckett would question my response. “He’s a jerk. He didn’t even know my name, and he propositioned me. He said he wanted to fuck me, for God’s sake. Who does that?” I took another sip. I’d only managed to nibble the scone. I was starving, but not for food.
“I’ll tell you who does that. A guy who goes after exactly what he wants does that.”
I couldn’t believe that Beckett was on his side and thought I should have acted differently. He continued. “Do you know who your Stormy Eyes is?”
“An asshole?”
“Well, possibly But he’s also William Lambourne. The third.”
I blinked. “So?”
“So? William Lambourne is Chicago’s most eligible bachelor.”
“He’s Chicago’s most arrogant bachelor,” I retorted.
“He can afford to be arrogant. He’s rich. As in billionaire rich, Cat. Old money. And he owns… everything. Hotels, vineyards, real estate—”
“Restaurants?”
“Of course.”
“Does he own Willowgrass?”
Beckett shrugged. “I don’t think so, but I wouldn’t be surprised if he was one of the investors. That’s why I thought he was there. But now that we know he was who you ran into yesterday, I’m beginning to think maybe he was there to see you.”
Beckett couldn’t possibly be serious. “Me? Oh please, I’m hardly worth going to all that trouble for. No way he was there to see me.”
Beckett rolled his eyes. “Hello! Earth to Cat.” He took my face in his hands. “Have you looked in a mirror lately? You’re gorgeous. All that thick brown hair, those green eyes, and you don’t have an inch of fat on you. What are you? A size two?”
&nbs
p; I rolled my eyes. “Six, sometimes an eight.”
“A curvy, sexy six. Who wouldn’t want you?” This was a familiar conversation. Beckett and I had known each other since we were fourteen. He had always been the skinny boy who loved to cook. I was the artsy, insecure girl who hadn’t been surprised when he came out before our senior year of high school. We’d always supported one another. I’d been there when his father disowned him because he was gay, and he’d been there after everything happened with Jace.
“I think he’s dating Amanda,” I said, thinking of Stormy Eyes.
Beckett shook his head. “First of all, William Lambourne doesn’t date women. Women are seen with him, but never the same woman too many times. And his taste leans toward women who are beautiful, independent, and socially connected. Besides, Amanda’s married.”
“What?” I didn’t see that one coming. Amanda and Stormy Eyes had looked so familiar at the restaurant, and after the presumptions I’d made, it was hard to believe there wasn’t anything between them. “Why would I want to be seen with him? And how do you know all this anyway?”
“I actually read Chicago Now, Cat, usually while I’m on the treadmill at the gym. You should too, by the way. And why wouldn’t you want to be seen with him? You’d look great together. You need some fun.” Beckett put a hand over mine and squeezed. “Let’s talk about it, honey. We never talk about it.”
Oh no. He wanted to talk about Jace. And about why I was here—what I never wanted to talk to about. Red flag, red flag, red flag! No matter how much I avoided talking about this, it didn’t change anything.
I was twenty-five years old and a real anomaly: a widow. I’d been a widow longer than I’d been a wife. Jace and I had been married for only six months before he died. We got married two weeks after I graduated from UC-Santa Cruz, and for a time, I had everything I thought I ever wanted. I was married to my soul mate, I had a great career doing something I loved, and our life together was exciting. And all of it had been taken away in an instant. To say I had been devastated was an understatement. It took forever, but I had finally climbed out of the deep well of misery I’d dwelled in for so long after the accident. I found the balls to leave Santa Cruz and to start the next phase of my life. All good things and Beckett was a huge part of it, and I loved him for it. But that didn’t mean I was ready to have fun with any guy, let alone with a dangerously sexy billionaire bachelor.
I resisted, but I felt tears well up in my eyes and squeezed the familiar sting back. I would not cry again. I’d cried all the tears I had. I offered my standard response. “I don’t want to talk about it.” I was too vulnerable today. All my emotions were on the surface.
“That’s fine,” Beckett replied and let it go, sort of. “But consider having a little fun. You’re entitled to it, Cat. And it’s time. William Lambourne is the perfect guy for you. He’s a player, and obviously, anything long-term isn’t his style. As long as you know what you’re getting into, what’s the problem? I hear he’s fabulous in bed. You should totally tap that, Cat. If the man was bi, I’d be all over him.”
I shook my head. “I don’t care about his money or his looks. I’m not interested.”
“Uh-huh.” Beckett took a sip of his coffee. “That’s your story, huh?”
“How do you know he’s great in bed? Who told you that? Chicago Now?“
Beckett looked sheepish and then laughed. “Okay, well, nobody told me that. Shit, Cat, of course, a guy like that is fabulous in bed. How could he not be? I’m trying to entice you. Letting go can be a good thing, you know.”
Who was I kidding? I wasn’t fooling Beckett, and I sure as hell wasn’t fooling myself. My body still ached for Stormy Eyes. My hand still tingled where he’d touched it. My heart still pounded too quickly. I’d never met a man with that kind of magnetism. Not even Jace had affected me that way. And that’s why the attraction felt like a betrayal. But Beckett was right. I was only twenty-five. Widow or not, I had to start living again. I didn’t want to admit this to Beckett, but when I’d been alone with William Lambourne in the loft, for just a moment, he’d been all I could think about. I’d forgotten about the past, about what I’d done, and that scared the shit out of me.
*****
Beckett tried to talk me into a late lunch, but I told him I needed to get home and edit the pictures. He didn’t argue, but when I got home the shots I took at Willowgrass were the farthest thing on my mind. I couldn’t stop thinking about William Lambourne, Chicago’s most eligible billionaire. I wished I had a few shots of him. I wondered if all his thick hair would look as soft and glossy on film as it did in real life. I wondered if I would have been able to capture his changing eyes or the shadow of his stubble or the easy way he moved.
It was still cold outside, but the sleet hadn’t returned, so I whistled to Laird, got his leash, and we headed out. I didn’t arrow for the lakeshore, and instead, we walked through the neighborhood. I hoped a little window-shopping would keep my mind occupied, but apparently, there weren’t enough boutiques to ward off the allure of William Lambourne.
I couldn’t stop thinking about the intensity of his gaze, the way his eyes darkened from blue to grey, and the sound of his voice as it caressed me in the loft. I want you.
I closed my eyes against the wave of dizzy arousal that hit me just remembering his words. I want to fuck you.
It had been a long time since someone looked at me that way and… I liked it. I liked the feeling of a man wanting me—a man like William Lambourne. It had been a long time since I’d thought of myself as sexy, and he made me feel sexier than I ever had.
For the first time, I thought that maybe, just maybe, I shouldn’t have told him no.
Three
I spent Thursday morning holed up in my condo, processing and editing my photos of Ben Lee’s food. I didn’t mind being inside. I loved my condo, and even if it didn’t feel like home yet, it was cozy and comfortable. The light from the French windows made it bright and cheery, even on winter days. The floors were hardwood, and I’d painted the walls in pretty neutrals to offset the framed photographs I’d hung. The photos were a mix of images I’d captured during my travels—exotic flowers, serene beaches, plumed birds, shadowed trees, and unusual buildings. I had been careful to hang only still photos, nothing with action or motion. Nothing from Santa Cruz. No pictures of Jace. The irony that I was a professional photographer who launched her career taking candid photos of her athlete husband, but didn’t display those images, wasn’t lost on me. But I hadn’t wanted my new home to become a shrine to Jace and to everything I’d lost. I needed the illusion of a clean slate. Maybe I overcompensated by not having any pictures of Jace around, but it seemed like a good idea to leave those memories boxed up.
My bedroom was a little smaller than I would have liked, the queen-size bed taking up half the room, but the living room was large and spacious, more than making up for it. There was a great nook near the window where I’d put my desk and my computer, and this was where I did most of my work. The master bedroom was off the living room, so I could jump out of bed and walk fifteen steps to my “office.” I liked working in my pajamas, cozy and snug, while outside the living room windows, Chicago was blustery and cold.
There was a second bedroom near the front door, which I intended for guests, but I hadn’t had any yet, so I kept my unpacked boxes shoved in the closet, along with my summer wardrobe. The whole place had been renovated, the kitchen most heavily. Minerva told me the former tenants were avid foodies, which explained why they spent so much money on the kitchen. Apparently, they were crushed that they couldn’t take the AGA, but it weighed half a ton and moving it out wasn’t feasible. The behemoth cooker was there to stay. Too bad I didn’t cook. But I did like a bubble bath on occasion, and one day I wanted to enlarge the master bath and make it truly decadent. That I could appreciate.
So Thursday I settled in, throwing a fragrant log in the wood-burning fireplace and enjoying the piney smellwhile my eyes feast
ed on the mouthwatering photos I’d taken. Occasionally, I looked out the large windows to the right of my desk. The day had dawned clear and sunny, and it was still hard for me to comprehend how it could be so bright and still so cold. Of course, we had cold weather in Santa Cruz, but it was damp cold and didn’t usually last for months. The Chicago cold was biting and bone-chilling. I learned about windchill here too. That’s when it feels colder than it actually is because of the wind. And it was windy in the Windy City.
The sky looked the same though. In Santa Cruz, a bright blue sky would have called me to the beach. Now I was happy to be bundled up inside. I had to admit, my condo might not have the views our Santa Cruz place did, but it had its perks. One advantage to having a large, renovated kitchen was that the pantry was the perfect size for a darkroom. I’m sure the former owners would have choked if I’d told them my plans for their spacious pantry, but the darkroom had been finished before I had sheets on my bed.
I took a short break from editing. I couldn’t help myself, so I typed “William Lambourne” into my Google browser. Pages of links to business articles filled my screen and I could feel my eyes glaze over. I read enough to learn that William was the head of WML Capital Management, which managed investments “in a wide range of asset classes, including private equity, hedge funds, real estate, and entertainment ventures.” I wasn’t sure what all that meant, but Beckett was obviously right. William Lambourne really did own everything. I clicked over to images, which were my speed, and the first picture that came up made me catch my breath. There he was, in all his stormy-eyed handsomeness, staring back at me. I could have spent all day looking at him on my screen, but I did have work to finish, so I forced my attention to pictures of honey-dripped figs and delicious desserts.