The Closer

by Rhonda Nelson

  The same couple who’d ridden up with them earlier walked in, laughing and holding hands, oblivious to what they’d just interrupted.

  “Listen to that,” the guy said, his smile significant and wide. “It’s Marvin,” he told his girlfriend, wrapping his hands around her waist, dragging her in for another especially loud kiss.

  “Baby-making music,” the girl responded with a low giggle. “This elevator definitely has the best tunes. We should wait for this one every time, eh, Marcus?” She laughed again. “I wonder if it takes requests?” she asked, looking up, presumably for a speaker or hidden camera. “How about a little Barry White next time?”

  “How about staying in their room?” Jess leaned over and whispered low into his ear. “Honestly,” she added with an eye roll.

  Griff grinned. “I’m bringing a water bottle with me next time,” he said. “We’ll spray ’em. Like a cat.”

  She shook with laughter, bit her lip, and something about that grin punched him right in the gut, leaving him oddly shaken and breathless. He swallowed. “I’m sorry about this,” he said, gesturing to the case in his hand. “I wish there was another way.”

  Regardless of how misguided or unfounded—how mystifying—her insecurities were real in her own head and it took an admirable amount of courage to set them aside for someone else. He inwardly smiled. Of course, only an idiot would take Jess Rossi for a coward and Griff was many things, but an idiot wasn’t one of them.

  “It’s not your fault,” she told him, her gaze warm, her lids sweeping to half-mast. “And despite my...reaction, I know that you’re right and—” she lifted her shoulders in a helpless little shrug “—I trust you.”

  I trust you. Three simple words. A wealth of meaning. And with that sentiment resounding in his head, they exited the elevator and made their way to the private room where the others were waiting. After showing them the piece and the subsequent oohing and aahing subsided, Griff quickly brought the group up to speed, efficiently laying out the facts, and presented the new plan.

  Shocked silence thundered through the room.

  “It’s out of the question,” the CEO of Clandestine announced after a long moment. His gaze swung to Jess’s. “No offense to Ms. Rossi,” he quickly added. “But this is our biggest show of the year. We’ve invested a lot of time and money into this event, and we have an image to protect. Our models are selected based on that image and...” He hesitated, shifted uncomfortably.

  “And Ms. Rossi doesn’t fit that image,” his second-in-command, a reed-thin, tight-faced fortysomething woman whose eyebrows didn’t move finished.

  Jess shot him an arch look, smiled knowingly.

  “Evidently, I didn’t make myself clear, Ms....?” Griff looked at the frozen woman and arched a deliberate brow.

  “Angelique Blaylock,” she finished haughtily, her nostrils thinning as though conversation with him was a tedious waste of her time.

  “Blaylock,” he repeated. “This issue is not up for debate. My company was hired to protect Montwheeler’s investment. And, per the contract you signed with Montwheeler, and each of you, in turn, signed with Ranger Security, I am the final authority on the matter. In light of the imminent threat against the piece, this is the only way I’m willing to proceed. Ms. Rossi will model, I will escort her. The alternative is to cancel the show.”

  She gasped. “But that’s not possible! It’s too late! You have no idea what you’re suggesting!”

  “Yes, I do, Ms. Blaylock and, like Ms. Rossi here,” he said, nodding at her, “I suggest you adjust and make the best of it.”

  “I agree,” the Montwheeler representative, Harold Pershing, said with a decisive nod. He looked a bit different from the picture Griff had been given—thinner maybe?—but photographs weren’t always completely accurate. “No one here has as much to lose as we do and, considering the significant threat against our investment, I believe it’s the wisest course of action with the least amount of liability for all parties.”

  Ms. Blaylock turned and sneered at him, her eyes burning with condescension. “You don’t know what you’re talking about! You know nothing of fashion!”

  He merely smiled. “Probably not, but I have a keen grasp on value and I know what my gems are worth.” He glanced at Jess. “And Ms. Rossi knows how much work went into making the piece, which is no doubt why she’s agreed to do this.” He shot a look at Mr. Nolan and Ms. Blaylock, and lifted a brow. “If I were you, I’d be thanking Ms. Rossi for her willingness to save the day, and complimenting Mr. Wicklow on his ingenuity and resourcefulness. I, for one, am very grateful.”

  Griff watched Jess nod her thanks, her tense expression wilting with a bit of relief.

  “It’s not that we’re ungrateful,” Mr. Nolan remarked. “We are,” he insisted. “But we’ve got a contract with the model, as well.” His expression went slack. “Sahara is not going to be pleased.”

  “With all due respect, Mr. Nolan, that’s not my problem,” Griff told him.

  Ms. Blaylock had been eyeing Jess with a speculative gleam, her waxy, unnaturally puffy lips pursed. “The hair is workable, bone structure is nice. Smile,” she commanded, to which Jess obliged more out of surprise than obedience, Griff imagined. “She’ll need bleaching.” Her gaze slid down the rest Jess’s body, as if she was a horse the representative was considering purchasing, and then she grimaced and shook her head. “There aren’t enough laxatives and diuretics in the world to get you down to size by tomorrow, but a detox wrap will shave a few inches off and every little bit will help. We’ve never used a plus-size model before,” she said to Nolan. “It could be good for PR.” She glanced at Jess once more. “Have you eaten already?”

  Seemingly distracted, it took her a second to respond. “I’ve had breakfast, but not lunch.”

  Another wince. “No more food. Juice only. Until after the show. Beyond that, you can gorge all you want to,” she said, her nose wrinkling with distaste.

  Having reached the end of her patience, Jess’s eyes rounded. “I don’t gorge. I eat. Because it’s healthy.”

  “Whatever.” The woman picked up her cell phone and looked at Mr. Nolan. “I’ve got to warn Andre,” she said. “Let him know he’s got his work cut out for him.”

  Griff frowned. “Who is Andre?”

  “Our stylist,” she answered without looking at him. “Or in this case, our magician,” she added snidely, casting a significant look in Jess’s direction.

  Though he’d always prided himself on being levelheaded, on making decisions based on data and logic, not on emotion, Griff suddenly saw red. A haze of anger so intense it made his fingers shake descended over him and, while his voice was low, it still cracked like lightning through the room when he spoke.

  “Enough,” he said, gratifyingly making Ms. Blaylock jump. He stared a hole through her, so furious he could barely breathe. “Ms. Rossi will not be modeling the bra after all, because it isn’t going to make its much anticipated appearance.” He straightened. “We’re leaving.”

  Jess’s mouth dropped open. “Griff, no,” she said, shaking her head.

  “What?” Ms. Blaylock gasped. “But you can’t be serious— You can’t mean—”

  Griff bared his teeth at her. “Oh, but I do,” he snarled. “Because Ms. Rossi is under my protection, as well,” he said in a clipped tone. “And do you know what that means, Ms. Blaylock? That means that I’m not going to permit her to be insulted and abused, especially from an employee of the very company she’s so graciously offered to help.”

  “Griff, really, you don’t have to—”

  He whirled on her. “Yes, I do,” he insisted. “I’m not going to let her talk to you like that. You’re amazing,” he said. “You’re clever and interesting and fearless and good, dammit, which makes you so much more attractive than anyone else they could ask to do this
.” He smiled at her. “The icing on the cake is that you’re heart-stoppingly gorgeous,” he continued. “Stunning, perfect and so damn sexy I’ve been—” He stopped, then frowned and shook his head. “Never mind what I’ve been, that’s not the point. The point is that there isn’t a single heterosexual man alive who could look at you and find you wanting.” He released a long breath. “You’re smokin’ hot and I’m not going to let her or anyone else,” he added darkly, “tell you otherwise. Understood?”

  She stared at him, her misty-gray eyes lighting with pleasure and something else, something he couldn’t quite identify, then she smiled, almost shyly, and nodded. “Understood.”

  He helped her with her chair, then propelled her to the door.

  “Wait! Please!” Mr. Nolan and Mr. Pershing both objected simultaneously.

  Griff paused, his pulse still thundering in his ears, and shot a look over his shoulder. “I’m sorry, gentlemen.”

  “But there has to be something we can do,” Mr. Nolan implored. “Please reconsider. Ms. Rossi, I am so sorry for my colleague’s behavior. Mr. Wicklow is quite right. You’re a lovely woman and very—” Mopping his sweating brow, he struggled to find the right word. And he certainly wasn’t going to find the right one written on her breasts, Griff thought darkly, which was precisely where he was looking.

  “Desirable,” Mr. Pershing finished.

  “Yes!” Mr. Nolan agreed with obvious relief. “Desirable. What will it take to make you stay?” he asked. “Name it and it’s yours. Anything.”

  Griff’s hard gaze slid to Ms. Blaylock. “She leaves now and doesn’t come back until we’re gone.”

  “What? No!” she said scoffingly. “Don’t be ridiculous. It’s my show.”

  Mr. Nolan turned to look at her, his face grim. “Not anymore, Angelique. Clarice will take over from here.”

  She growled, enraged, and threw her water glass against the wall.

  “All right, then,” Griff said, pleased. “Have Clarice send me a schedule.” And with that parting comment, he smiled and opened the door, leaving them to deal with an outraged but thoroughly demoted Ms. Blaylock.

  Booyah.

  9

  HEART HAMMERING IN her ears, hands shaking, Jess walked quietly beside Griff back to the elevator. She’d never imagined that a person could be stunned senseless from happiness, but she was living, shallowly breathing proof of it.

  No one had ever—ever—stood up for her like that.

  Having been a bit of an oddity growing up, there’d been plenty of sarcasm and teasing sent her way—most of it from boys she’d bested at something—and even the guys who she’d ultimately counted as friends had never fully had her back, the supposition being that she didn’t need anyone to be her champion, that she could slay her own dragons.

  And she could. In fact, she had so often that it was second nature now. She’d never expected anyone to do it for her.

  The only thing that had kept her from diving across the table and slapping the hell out of that sanctimonious bitch’s surgically altered, condescending face was the image of her father, his weary head bent over the bra as he painstakingly set the jewels. Though admittedly it was making her miserable, she’d been willing to bear the insults and ridicule for him.

  Then that Blaylock woman had uttered that “magician” comment and Jess had watched a thundercloud of anger descend over Griff’s achingly handsome face. His eyes had flashed, then narrowed, his mouth virtually vanished into a thin hard line and his face had set so quickly it had almost appeared frozen.

  He’d been willing to abort his first mission—to call everything off and put his reputation on the line—for her.

  And if that hadn’t been enough to merit a float-worthy moment—when joy had practically lifted her feet off the ground—then his impassioned declaration of all her finer points, which had begun with character traits and ended with physical attributes, certainly had been.

  You’re amazing, clever, interesting, fearless—which, strictly speaking, wasn’t true because she’d told him about the clowns—and good.

  Then gorgeous and sexy.

  Not only were his impassioned compliments the nicest things anyone had ever said about her, he’d gotten them in the right order, by the characteristics that were the most important to her.

  Evidently her silence had stretched too long because Griff sent her a cautious look as the elevator doors opened. He held it for her, allowing her to precede him into the small space, then depressed the floor number. Impossibly, Barry White’s smooth, low voice echoed around them.

  “Listen,” he said, turning to face her. “Before you clobber me for not letting you handle that yourself, I just want you—”

  “Would it be all right if I kissed you?” She didn’t know what made her stop and ask first, when they’d been so close to doing that very thing in this same elevator less than half an hour ago, but for reasons that escaped her, it seemed important. Necessary, even.

  Evidently shocked, a flare of heat so intense it nearly sucked the air out of her lungs sparked in his gaze, deepened the blue, electrified the green.

  He swallowed. “You want to kiss me?” he asked, his voice low and hoarse.

  Jess nodded, took a step toward him, close enough to see how his lashes tangled at the ends, to smell his cologne, something warm and spicy with an understated musky finish. She deliberately let her gaze drop to his mouth, could feel her heart thundering in her chest as longing hammered steadily through her.

  “Desperately,” she admitted baldly.

  The very corners of his purely carnal lips curled into the faintest, sexiest, most satisfied grin she’d ever seen. It was all the answer Jess needed and, anticipation making her belly quiver, she fisted his shirt in her hands, rose on tiptoe and pressed her lips against his.

  Fiery gooseflesh raced from the tips of her toes to the top of her head, making every hair on her body rise to attention, then backtracked and settled at the base of her spine. Warmth mushroomed from her shivery womb, blanketing her sex in an achy, needy heat that almost made her whimper in response.

  His lips were soft but firm, and they moved over hers slowly at first, as though he wanted to savor the taste of her, absorb the sensation of her mouth beneath his. She could feel the tension vibrating through him, knew that the dam of his desire was creaking and groaning, ready to give way, and yet he held firm, seemingly determined not to rush the first meeting of their mouths—their very first kiss—and Jess found herself equally touched and irritated.

  She didn’t want him to hold back.

  She wanted him to lose that tightfisted control, to deviate from his damn schedule, to forget the rules and protocol and think only of her. Selfish? Yes. Stupid? Possibly. Did she care?

  Hell, no.

  Releasing his shirt, she slipped her hands up over his broad shoulders and around his neck into his hair, pressing herself more firmly against him. As though she’d tripped some sort of secret trigger, he released a low, thrilling growl, lashed his arm around her waist, drawing her closer, and slid his tongue into her mouth. Though she would have thought it impossible to freeze and melt simultaneously, that’s exactly what happened to her. Every muscle in her body responded, quaking with anticipation, melting with need.

  She rubbed her thumb along the soft skin behind his ear, cupped his cheek with her hand and fed at his mouth, the kiss deep and drugging, the expert stroke of his tongue as it tangled around hers the perfect complement to the delicious drag and pull of his lips against her own.

  And, man, could he kiss.

  He knew when to be soft, when to be firm, when to slide and when to suckle, used his tongue as a tool of pleasure, not a dagger to stab into her mouth, and he’d mastered the moisture ratio, having hit the mystical sweet spot between too dry and too sloppy.

  Mo
re significant, her panties were damp and he hadn’t even gotten to second base yet.

  Jess dimly noted the tinkling of a bell, but the small cough and chuckle that followed it, much to her mortification, registered. She and Griff abruptly sprang apart as a new passenger entered the elevator, but he held on to her hand, his strong fingers threading through hers, and there was something even more intimate in the seemingly innocuous gesture than the kiss they’d just shared. Inexplicable delight bloomed in her chest, along with the faintest ring of warning, which she purposely ignored.

  “Oh, please don’t stop on my account,” the newcomer drawled, his dark brown eyes crinkling with humor at the corners. “Love makes the world go round, eh?”

  His voice was a little too high and dramatic for a man and a smudge of eyeliner blurred beneath his lower lashes. His dark blond hair had been liberally streaked with platinum and gelled into a sculpture rather than an actual style. He wore black leather pants, a royal-blue shirt with a satin sheen and more jewelry than Johnny Depp. He held a large beat-up attaché in one hand and a cell phone in the other, which he perused with a negligent grin as he lounged against the wall.

  He laughed delightedly at something on the screen, then held it up so that they could see. “Aw, would you look at my baby,” he said. “Isn’t she the cutest thing you’ve ever seen?”

  His “baby” was a tiny Yorkie with an even tinier pink bow between its pert little ears. The adorable animal was in the arms of a smiling, heavily muscled man with extremely groomed eyebrows, his lightly glossed lips puckered into a blow kiss.

  Jess highly suspected the guy in the photo was their fellow passenger’s baby, as well.

  Griff smiled and grunted noncommittally. Jess nodded. “Very sweet.”

  He grinned, seemingly pleased. “We shamelessly spoil the little bitch,” he confided. “Regular walks, organic food, gourmet treats, and she’s got her own pillow on our bed, but that’s usually the way it works, right?” He heaved a small sigh, looked at the picture once more. “We don’t own our pets, they own us.”