by Various
A boom of thunder rattles the house, and I jump. The overhead light flickers off and on. A warning of sorts, courtesy of Mother Nature, to keep my eyes on the prize. My job, my career, my future. That’s what’s important, not this insane craving for him.
I dive under his outstretched arm and scramble up the stairs to the haven of my room. When I arrive, I lock the door firmly behind me. Safe for now. But for how long?
Chapter 5
MY THOUGHTS SCATTERED, I kick off my heels, slip off my Donna Karan and, hoping it can be saved, hang it in the bathroom to dry along with my clammy bra. When I catch sight of my reflection in the mirror, I cringe. Just like I suspected, my hair’s a frizzed out mess. I shower in record time and slather on the gardenia-scented lotion Casey gave me for my birthday, before blow drying and pinning my curly hair into a sleek knot.
From my clothes wardrobe, I pick out my favorite slouch top, a spaghetti-strap cami, and a pair of skinny jeans. As opposed to my room which at times resembles a hurricane strike zone, my stand-alone wardrobe is a model of order. Blacks with blacks, blues with blues, dresses on one side, suits on the other, blouses and jeans in the lower rack. I have a perfectly good walk-in closet, but I don’t go in there. Too afraid of what happens in the dark.
When I descend the stairs, I find him, jacketless, hands in pockets, staring at an etching of a nude, a study in charcoal and pencil Casey picked up at a friend’s art gallery opening. Next to it hangs Casey’s most treasured possession, a baseball bat signed by one of his idols. I dig my nails into my palm to keep from tugging the golden hairs peeking out from the top of Storm’s shirt.
“That is quite good.” He points to the drawing before pivoting to me. His polite regard turns molten, as he slowly, languorously takes me in.
My traitorous nipples perk up, just for him. Maybe I should have worn a bra rather than a cami under my blouse. “Would you like another lager?” I ask in a strained voice.
“Yes, thank you.”
I head for the refrigerator, hoping its cold temperature will cool my flushed cheeks. After I hand him a fresh bottle, he sips his beer, while keeping his hot gaze on me.
I pour a glass of Chardonnay, desperately searching for something, anything to break the spell he so easily weaves over me. And I find one. An apology for the way I behaved. I turn around and face him. “I’m sorry for ... the way I left things.”
“No need to apologize.” His smoldering gaze lights on me, and I go up in flames.
Whew, boy! I’m in big, big trouble. You see, I love men. But I tend to get obsessed with them. So the only way to manage my fascination with the male species is to go cold turkey. For the last three years, I haven’t dated a guy, much less screwed one. No going out for drinks, lunch or even a walk in the park. The frozen avian method worked just fine. Until now. Until him. With every look, every touch, he’s dismantling every one of my defenses. And I can’t afford to succumb to him. Deep into my musing, my stomach rumbles, reminding me it needs to be fed.
“Hungry?” he asks, not unkindly.
“I skipped lunch. Excuse me.” I make for the refrigerator where I spotted an aluminum foiled dish. A peek underneath the foil reveals one of my favorites—a spicy mixture of ham, Andouille sausage, chicken, shrimp and rice. “Umm, jambalaya.”
“From your flatmate’s restaurant?”
“Yes.” I stare at the mountain of food Casey brought home last night. Way too much for one person to eat. An invitation to dinner trembles on my lips, but I hesitate. His driver could be here any second. “Have you heard from Samuel?”
“He texted while you were upstairs. Got caught in the jam and holed up in a parking lot to wait until it clears up.”
No surprise. Between the rain and the multi-car pileup, it will be a while before traffic flows again.
“I told him to grab something to eat. By now he’s probably tucking into a nice, juicy steak.”
Either Storm has been incredibly kind to his driver or he’s manipulated the situation so he’ll remain longer. My bet is on the latter. But I can’t kick him out. Not with the storm raging outside, and I do owe him something for bringing the duffel. “Would you like to join me for dinner?”
“Love to. I’m famished.” His devastating smile brushes aside my misgivings about asking him to stay. Maybe he’ll behave. And if he doesn’t, I’ll find the strength to resist.
Yeah, Elizabeth, and maybe pigs will fly.
I retrieve the covered dish from the fridge, ladle out portions into two plates and stick one in the microwave. While dinner is heating up, I make small conversation. “Must be tough being a chauffeur. All that sitting around waiting for the phone to ring. I couldn’t do it.”
“He’s not just my driver. He’s part of my security team.”
My gaze darts to him. “Security team?” From the dossier my firm compiled on him, I know Storm Industries acquires energy projects not only in the more developed parts of the world, but in places where bloodshed is a way of life. “Did you arrange for protection as a general precaution or against a specific threat?”
“Both, although I don’t expect our negotiations here to turn violent as they did in Honduras five years ago.”
“What happened?”
“Our hotel location leaked out. Guerillas opened fire on us as we arrived.” He recounts the event while calmly peeling the label from the bottle. Like it’s no big thing. Or like it’s so huge, he can’t bear to think about it.
Horrified, I stare at him. “Was any one hurt?”
“A couple.” He bunches up a shoulder. “We withdrew from the project, of course. Unfortunate because it would have brought much needed income into the area. We’d already agreed to build a school and provide decent housing to the workers and their families. But the guerillas were not interested in such things.” When he glances up, shadows lurk in the depths of his eyes. Something bad happened in Honduras, something he doesn’t wish to discuss.
My heart twinges in sympathy. I want to ease his pain. But knowing the danger of going down that slippery road, I busy myself laying out placemats, arranging silverware, organizing bottles on the spice rack. Anything to stop thinking about the gorgeous man sitting in my kitchen, boring holes into me.
While we eat, we discuss art, music, theater. He prefers Monet to Picasso. Loves classical music. Hip hop leaves him cold. And he’s a Shakespeare buff.
“What about you? Do you like the theatre?” he asks.
My gaze searches out the duffel. Reassured it’s right where I left it, I answer him. “I do, but I’m too busy with work and school to attend.” And the D.C. theater prices are way beyond my price range. I tip back my goblet and drink the last of the Chardonnay.
“School?” He pours more wine into my glass. If he’s trying to get me drunk, it won’t work. I know my limit—two glasses.
“Law school.”
His eyes widen slightly. “You’re studying to become a lawyer?”
I take offense at his surprised look. “Yes. Is that so hard to understand?”
His gaze turns serious. “No. Not hard at all. You have a sharp and agile mind. I’m impressed.”
Maybe he’s blowing smoke up my chimney or maybe he really believes it. Either way, my credentials are nothing to his. “This comes from a man who graduated at the top of his class at Oxford and Wharton.”
“Unlike you, I wasn’t working at the time, and I could dedicate all my time to my studies.”
I snort. “Something tells me you did not spend all your time hitting the books.”
“Well, maybe not all.” When he waggles his brows, I can’t help but smile. I bet he made the rounds with the co-eds while he attended those schools.
“So how did you end up working for Carrey?”
“During my senior year in college, he taught a corporate law seminar. After seeing my work, he not only encouraged me to apply to law school but recommended me to a top tier program. I wouldn’t have gotten in without his endorsement.”
“Why do
you say that?”
“I had top grades and law school admission test scores, but with an after school job, I didn’t have time to participate in the extracurricular activities law schools love to see. Anyway, when I received my law school admission letter, I phoned to let him know, and he talked me into working as his AA, promising he would delegate as much responsibility as I could handle. And he has. I’ve never regretted coming to work for him.” Even if he never says please or thank you.
Entertaining as this conversation is, I must break it off. It’s growing late, and I need to start on that report. Once more, I search out the duffel.
Without missing a beat, he asks, “What’s so important about the gym bag?”
“What do you mean?”
“You keep staring at it, like it’s going to grow legs and walk away.”
“Before he left the office, Mr. Carrey handed me Storm Industries’ proposal. He expects my analysis on his desk first thing tomorrow morning.”
“And you threw it in the bag?”
I duck my head. “Yes.”
“No wonder you looked so relieved when I showed up.”
Wow, he caught that in the middle of my rant? Smart, observant, and perceptive. Add that to his killer looks, and dangerous does not begin to describe him.
“The report is over a hundred pages long,” he says.
“Yeah, I know.” It will take me half the night to read and analyze. But I need to do it to score points with Carrey. “I’m a fast reader.”
“I can help. If you want my help, that is.” Keeping his focus on me, he tips back the lager and sips.
“That’s nice of you to offer, but I don’t think so. It would be a conflict of interest at the very least.”
“But—” Whatever he’s about to say gets interrupted by a buzzing coming from the living room.
“My mobile. Excuse me.” When he wanders to the couch to retrieve his jacket, I sigh. The man’s got one of the finest rear ends I’ve ever seen.
While he talks on the phone, I busy myself clearing the plates, loading the dishwasher, tidying up.
He clicks off and turns back to me. “Samuel. He found a way around that mess. He’ll be here in five minutes.” Going by the downturn of his lips, he’s not happy.
To tell the truth, neither am I. The stupid side of me wants to pick up where we left off in the limo. Thank God that’s a no go.
After he slides on his jacket, I hand him his umbrella and walk him to the foyer.
“Thank you for a lovely evening.” Just like this morning on the elevator, he kisses my hand.
I wish. Oh, never mind what I wish. I can’t go to bed with him. I just can’t. “Thank you for bringing the duffel.” I bend down and dig out the proposal to cover up my state of unrest.
When I straighten out, he points to the report. “Are you sure you don’t want me to stay and help you?”
No. I’m not positive at all. But, of course, I can’t say that. It’s best if he left. “Yes.”
As I open the door, the limo pulls up. The storm’s a distant rumble, but a drizzle remains. And so does the oppressive Washington D.C. heat and humidity.
“Elizabeth.”
I cut him off. “Good night.”
“Good night.” That devil-may-care light he’s sported all night dims in his eyes. He pops open the umbrella and walks toward the car, not once looking back.
I shut the door, wishing I’d asked him to stay, wishing I didn’t want him so much. The silence, after our easy chatter, overwhelms me, so I search out a baseball game on the big screen TV and click on the channel for background noise. Resigned to my task, I pour another glass of wine and climb the stairs to my home office. While the rumble of the announcers and occasional roar of the crowd drift into my study, I type the salient points of the proposal into my laptop. A discussion of how the acquisition might be financed—debt, equity and a combination of both. Sometime later, I have a thorough analysis in my hands. I glance at my watch. Midnight. Not bad. Thought I’d be up half the night.
After one final read through, I save it to my laptop and a flash drive. I also print out two copies and tuck them into my briefcase. Bit of an overkill, but I’d rather be safe than sorry. If I have multiple copies, both in digital and paper form, less chance something will go wrong.
When I stand and stretch, my spine cracks from sitting so long. I stroll down the stairs to put the wine glass in the dishwasher, and my cell phone rings. Who on earth’s calling this late? I dig it out from my jeans pocket and look at caller ID. No name but the number’s familiar. And then it hits me. The same number that called my office.
Gabriel Storm.
Chapter 6
“ARE YOU OKAY? Is something wrong?” My voice crackles with concern.
“I’m fine. Are you done with the analysis?” In his background glasses clink, men and women speak. With their voices jumbled, I don’t quite catch what they say.
“Yes. Where are you?”
Somebody laughs, a woman. “A bar.” The clinks and the voices dim, but other noises emerge. The whoosh of a car, a distant horn. Street noises. “May I come over?”
At this time of night? I’m hoping it’s not what I’m thinking, but knowing him. Yeah. It’s a booty call. “What do you want, Storm?”
“I need to talk to you.”
Talk? Sure, tell me another one. “It’s late. Can’t it wait until morning?”
“No, it can’t.”
I’ve worked practically round the clock for the last two weeks and spent the last three hours performing a high-level analysis of complex material. My brain’s fried. My body’s exhausted. All I can think of is sleep. “Sorry, no can do. I’m going to bed.”
“Look out your window, Elizabeth.” A direct order. What is it with this man and his commands?
“Why?”
“Just do it.”
I live on a very busy street. My side is residential but the other is all businesses—restaurants, bars, stores. Not sure what I’m supposed to see, I peek through the blinds. Cars, both parked and on the road, late night revelers on the sidewalks. The spotlight across the street gilds the head of a solitary figure with a cell phone to his ear. Storm, standing outside the sports bar across the way.
What the hell? “Have you been there all night?” I’m starting to get a bad feeling about this.
“Yes. Inside the pub.” Behind him, three women emerge from the bar, one short, one tall, one none too sure on her feet.
“Why?”
“Waiting for your lights to go out.”
Fuck! The implication slams into me like a sledgehammer. “That’s some serious stalker behavior, Storm.”
“I’m not a damn stalker.” He yells.
The trio of women glares at him. Not a good thing.
“He looks familiar,” the drunken one says her voice loud enough for me to hear.
“Yeah, I saw him on that show the other day. He’s somebody famous, I think.” The tall one pipes up.
Storm glances back at them. I can’t tell if he’s ticked off.
“What show?” The short one asks.
“Shoot. Can’t remember, but it will come to me.”
Shit! Storm appeared on CNN Business News last week. If that chick caught that show, she must be wondering what the hell he’s doing standing outside a sports bar cursing into his phone. Better get him away from them.
I sling open my front door. “Get over here.”
He waits for a car to pass, arrives a bit disheveled. His hair’s mussed. His jacket hangs crooked on his body. No wonder. He’s buttoned it up wrong.
“What’s wrong with you? Do you know how weird your behavior is?” I ask.
“I don’t give a damn. Invite me in, Elizabeth.”
“Have you been drinking?” He doesn’t smell like it, but I have to ask.
The look he sends me should slay me on the spot. “If you’re implying I’m pissed drunk, I’m not.” Again, with the loud voice.
Th
e trio of twenty somethings whispers back and forth. “That’s who it is!” one of them says. She digs out her phone and points it at him.
Fuck! If they take his picture and post it on the internet, it won’t take long for someone from work to figure out he was outside my door. I pull him into my house and slam shut the door.
Head down, he takes a deep breath, exhales. Like he’s been holding it in half the night. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me. I dragged you in here because those three women were about to take your picture.”
“Really?” He arches a tawny brow.
“Yes, really. I think they recognized you.”
Gazing at me through those luscious lashes of his, he smiles slowly, like his lips know a secret I don’t. “Maybe they thought I was hot.”
The ego in him. “Yeah, right.”
“Jealous?” His eyes light up.
“Of three chippies who want a picture of you? I don’t think so.” I toss back my hair.
“You are.” His smile turns triumphant. “You have nothing to worry about, you know. They’re too young for me.”
“Too young for you? You’re what? Thirty two and they’re like in their mid-twenties.”
“Yes.”
“And just how old do you think I am?” I prop a hand on my hip.
“Umm, loaded question if I’ve ever heard one.”
“I’m twenty two.”
“You don’t look a day over twenty one, love.” One side of his mouth hitches up.
“How can they be too young for you and I’m not?”
His gaze turns serious. “They’re out trolling for men on a Monday night. You’re at home working. You’re a hell of a lot more mature than they are.”
Something warm and fuzzy blossoms inside, and I can’t help but grin.
Storm being Storm’s not slow to take advantage of it. “And ten times more beautiful.”
Oh, hell, he had to go and ruin it by saying the ‘B’ word. Beautiful’s not in my vocabulary. I’ve known since I was little that word does not apply to me. My hair’s a frizzy mess, my mouth’s too wide and I’m twenty pounds overweight.