by Claire Adams
"I hardly ever come here," Penn said. "Normally, I live at my own place down in Monterey. I'm more of a free-agent these days."
His phone rang, and Penn swore. I sauntered over to the sparkling view and let him take it.
"Yes, I got your message. Yes, I'm here. Of course you're going to be late," Penn's answers were curt. "Yes, boss."
I didn't want Penn to think I was listening in on his conversation, so I pulled out my phone. Tom had charged it as promised, and I was able to check my messages. The first one was a quick message asking if I had seen all of Penn's tattoos yet. Attached to it was a raunchy cartoon of a girl swooning over a tattooed strong man whose chest muscles danced. I laughed out loud.
"Yes, someone is with me. So, don't worry, I am staying here tonight after all," Penn said.
"Sorry," I said after he hung up his phone. "I hope I didn't get you in trouble with your boss."
"Not at all," he smiled. "How about I show you the apartment now? We can call it a night."
My heart dropped and all the heat left my body. Penn had used me to play out some kind of spat with his employer. Now his boss, obviously a well-to-do billionaire, thought I was letting Penn do unspeakable things to me all over his expensive, custom furniture.
The thought that I would have let Penn do those things left me cold. Now that I knew I had just been a pawn in his little scheme to get back at his boss, I lost my nervousness.
Penn slid open a glass door and led the way out onto a stone terrace. "We can walk back up through the gardens," he said.
I shivered, but followed him out into the brisk, bay air. Fog curled around Alcatraz below us and obscured the far side of the bay. The lights of Berkeley were barely visible, and I wrapped my arms around myself to stay warm. It was annoying how comfortable Penn looked. Inside, he seemed tense, but in the fresh air, his tense shoulders released.
He took a deep breath and sighed. "I love the smell of fog, don't you?"
I shrugged. "I'm not really the outdoors type."
"No kidding," he chuckled.
I felt my spine stiffen. "What does that mean?"
Penn crossed his arms. "I'm the outdoors type, so I guess you could say I can spot my kind of people."
"And, I'm not it?" My sharp tone rose from the hurt I felt.
"I'm not saying I don't like you," he said. "I just don't see you hiking and camping for weeks on end. Have you ever gone more than fifteen minutes without checking your phone?"
I jammed my phone back in my purse and pointed a finger at his chest. "You don't know anything about me," I snapped. "I used to go hunting with my father and cousins. I've done the camping thing and the canoeing thing, and I've been to almost every national park between here and the Mississippi."
Penn held up both hands and laughed. "All right, I get it. Maybe I pre-judged you a little based on your looks. Wait, why the Mississippi? Are you from the Midwest?"
"What do you care?" I marched past him and up some curving stone steps. "Is this the way to the garage? I'm pretty tired, and I'd like to see where I'm supposed to stay."
I was out of breath by the time I ascended the steep stone steps, but I wasn't going to let Penn catch me panting. I marched straight across the driveway and pointed to another set of stairs.
"That's it, up there," Penn said. He followed me without another word.
I stopped suddenly on the steps to the apartment and glanced down at him. Penn jolted, and I flushed with heat. He'd been staring at my backside the whole time. The realization that he might want me as much as I wanted him had a dizzying effect. Along with the fast pace I had chosen and then forced myself to keep up, I almost fainted there on the steps.
Instead, I took a long breath and noticed the view. "Wow. I guess living above the garage can't be so bad when you're sharing that view," I said.
Penn continued up until he was only one step away and we were again eye to eye. "Yeah, it's not a bad spot if you're content with just a view."
I laughed. "How can you sound so nonchalant? Are you telling me that, great outdoorsman that you are, you can't appreciate a good view?"
His dark eyes trailed out over the San Francisco Bay and kept going until he seemed very far away. "My boss is happy seeing all of this through glass, but I prefer to be out in it," he said.
I studied him for a moment as he watched the far, fog-covered edges of the bay. "Oh, wait, now it makes sense."
Penn's dark brown eyes swung back to me. "What makes sense?"
I chuckled that he seemed so worried. "Oh, come on, now I get why you have open access to all of this. I even get why you talk about your boss the way you do."
Penn's hand flexed on the railing. "Please, tell me all about myself," he challenged.
"You're the groundskeeper," I declared.
"I'm the, wait, what am I?"
I pushed his shoulder. "Just admit it. You're the groundskeeper."
"And, what if I was?" Penn asked. He watched my face with careful attention. "Would that bother you? Are you disappointed that you wasted the night with a lowly groundskeeper?"
"The night's not over yet." The quip was so unexpected and full of such innuendo that I turned around and practically ran the rest of the way up the stairs.
A smile played around Penn's wide lips as he caught up to me and unlocked the apartment above the garage. "I'll leave the lights off for a moment if you want to check out the view again," he said.
The apartment was a surprisingly large and airy loft. The tall ceilings stretched to a steep peak and framed the view in a high A-frame. I didn't bother to muffle my envious sigh. "I think I could be happy living somewhere like this."
"Over a garage? You?"
"What's that supposed to mean?" I crossed my arms and turned to face him, the view forgotten.
Penn flipped on a lamp next to a comfortably worn couch. "I just got the sense that you are determined to make it to a big house like that one. I didn't think you'd settle for the apartment above the garage."
"I don't know. Maybe I haven't decided yet," I gulped.
"Well, let me give you a little advice," Penn said. He moved closer and caught my hand. "Don't think about practicalities or settling. Just do what you love."
I shied away from him and feigned interest in an old oil painting. It was a tumultuous depiction of a sailboat in open water, and somehow the bright white of the hull comforted me in the midst of all the foaming, dark-blue waters. Steady and bright and able to sail through the storm.
That's how I felt every time I sang.
"What'd you study in college?" Penn asked, flipping on more lights. "Musical performance?"
I scoffed. "No. I wanted to make sure I was spending my money on a career that would pay off my student loans."
Penn tipped his head and considered me. "Did you pay your own way through school?"
I shrugged off the second question and only answered his first. "I studied hospitality. I'm applying to work at the Ritz-Carlton tomorrow."
"But you really want to sing," he said.
My laugh sounded hollow. "Singing's just for fun. And since I'm planning to live in a house like that someday, I'm going to stay focused on work."
He followed my gaze out the window to the mansion. "Did I mention there's a music room?" he asked. "It's one of my favorite rooms here. There's a whole wall of records. In fact, I bet we could find that song you sang tonight."
He headed towards the door, but I hesitated. I felt like a trespasser in that house, sure that each step would cause some catastrophe that would keep me in debt for the rest of my life. One careless elbow and I would owe his boss a priceless statue or antique vase.
"Unless you're tired," Penn said, but opened the door and held out his hand.
I took his challenge and let him lead me back into the luxurious glow of the mansion. He didn't stop on the first floor until the staircase. There, he glanced down at my high heels and said, "You can take those off and go barefoot if you'd rather."
&nb
sp; I battled between being comfortable and being appropriately dressed in such elegant surroundings. My aching feet finally won out, and I slipped my shoes off. Penn plucked them from my hands and tossed them by the newel post. I cringed as their non-designer label was revealed, but he didn't notice. Instead, he held out his hand.
Our fingers laced together somewhere on the next flight of steps. I was stunned by how perfectly my hand fit in his, though I was terrified he could feel my jumping pulse.
Penn led me through the house, punching light switches and opening doors with a casual ease that I envied. He was never once stunned into silence by the priceless artwork or wide-eyed by the million-dollar furnishings.
Part of me wanted to play the part, pretend for a night that I was the rich person who owned such a lavish palace. I wanted to float through the rooms as if I owned them and take each expensive detail for granted.
Instead, I padded through the rooms barefoot and was barely able to keep my mouth from gaping open. The more I saw, the more a sure feeling took root in me. I didn't really belong in such a mansion and the opulent surroundings weren't really what I wanted.
"And this is the music room," Penn announced. He tossed open the door and slapped on the lights.
A small dais stage complete with a microphone lit up like a beacon. "Does that ever get used?" I asked and pointed with a shaky hand.
"My boss loves to entertain, and he's usually got a little jazz combo or some fancy soloist performing here," Penn said. He caught my other hand and the gold flecks warmed in his eyes. "Please tell me you want to try it out."
"Me? No. There's no music. I couldn't," I stammered.
Penn squeezed my fingers and pulled me across the room. He found a hidden switch and an entire bookshelf moved to reveal a state-of-the-art sound system. "Any song you want. Just name it and I can cue it up on this," he said.
I freed my fingers from his grasp before he felt the cold sweat that broke out on my palms. "Didn't you say there was a wall of…oh, there."
Penn grinned. "See the tablet on the wall? It's a catalog. Type in any album you can think of and it will give you the precise location."
I smiled, relieved. "I always loved Billie Holiday."
He typed on the tablet then pulled over a wooden ladder. Penn scaled the ladder with the ease of a practiced climber and pulled out the album. When he jumped back down next to me, he grinned again. "Did I mention that we can adjust the levels so you can sing along or sing by yourself with her band?"
I didn't want to admit that I was tempted. It would be too easy to lose myself in the joy of it. The glittering lights of the bridges and the dark, swirling glow of the waves in the bay were too stunning a backdrop. The acoustically perfect and lavishly comfortable room was too close to a dream come true. And the thought of singing for just Penn, just the two of us and the music, threatened to incinerate me where I stood.
"I know," he said with a snap of his fingers. "How about a little champagne, maybe a little snack from the kitchen? Maybe once you relax, I can plead for a song with better results."
"Your plan is to soften me up with champagne and snacks?" I resisted the urge to pinch myself and instead laughed out loud. "It's worth a shot."
Penn put the Billie Holiday album on and adjusted the levels so her voice was just barely audible. Then, he winked and took the stairs up two at a time. I circled the room and forced myself to take in every detail, but the small dais and microphone called me.
I had finally curved a hand around the microphone stand and joined in the chorus when Penn returned. He wasn't alone and my shocked squeak reverberated through the room. "Your boss is Xavier Templeton!"
The multi-billionaire tech giant tugged at the crisp cuffs of his impeccable suit. I had seen his image on a dozen magazine covers and countless times online. Xavier Templeton owned Silicon Valley, and he was the one that made the future with the nod of his head. I gripped the microphone stand and prayed I didn't faint in front of the richest man I had ever met.
His handsome smile was just as perfect and shining as his dark, sculpted hair. He stepped into his music room and said, "Please, don't let me interrupt you. This is one of my favorite songs."
CHAPTER FOUR
Penn - 4
I hesitated over the intercom switch. My father's house was a marvel of engineering and a showcase for modern interior design, but the open floor plan allowed noise to filter up from every room. Especially when Corsica and I were the only ones home.
Just thinking her name took my mind on a bumpy detour full of deep ruts. Mostly how extremely attractive I found her. Corsica was neither too firm nor too voluptuous, but there was something about her that I found entirely irresistible. Sure, the envious gleam in her eyes as we toured the house was turn-off, but I decided to withhold judgment. I'd withhold it until the image of her in that curve-clinging black dress, singing out the sultry lyrics of an old song lost its tight grip on my system.
Thinking about the effect Corsica's voice had on me, I punched the intercom button and only felt partially bad for eavesdropping.
She was already humming as she looked through the vast wall of album choices. For most people, humming was a nervous habit, but there was nothing anxious in her breathy sounds. There was the occasional gasp as she ran across rare and mint condition albums that rarely saw the light of day. I even caught a long, awe-filled whistle when she found the section of autographed album covers.
As she muttered the famous names under her breath, I kept myself busying putting together a tray of tempting snacks. If I was going to ask Corsica to spend the night and ensure my father was not able to strong arm me into whatever scheme he had, then I was going to need to show her a good time.
I bit my cheek and debated over caviar or salmon pate. Corsica had shown herself to be the kind of woman that longed for expensive and exclusive things. I had overheard that it was her dream to work at the Ritz-Carlton just so she could brush arms with the wealthy, but I wasn't sure how thick I could lay it on. I chose the fresh salmon pate my father's personal chef had whipped up that afternoon.
As I searched for normal crackers instead of the hand-baked flatbread on the counter, I felt the disgust creeping back into my thoughts. This was the world I had grown up in and it was hard to realize just how easily I slipped back into it. I gritted my teeth and looked out over the panoramic view. There was plenty of world out there that did not rotate around money, and I needed to get back to as soon as possible.
It didn't matter what my father had to say. His worried and stern voicemails, plus the few and vague answers my mother had given me, had drawn me in, but I could not stay. I was becoming surer and surer this was just another trick of my father's to try to hook me back into his empire.
I needed to get back to the open air as soon as possible and Corsica was my way out. My father would never discuss anything serious in front of her, so all I had to do was ask her to stay with me.
I open and shut a half dozen cupboards with no thought to the noise. In minutes, the tray was full of reasonably decadent food plus a bottle of champagne and two crystal flutes. I picked up the tray, turned towards the door, and almost dropped everything.
Her voice touched me like a live wire, and I felt her singing through my body as if I were electrified. Corsica's velvet voice immediately conjured the memory of her on the small stage, silver microphone in hand. At the nightclub, I had noticed how the hem of her skirt rode higher with each cadence of her lovely voice. It was as if Corsica's voice allowed her to finally enjoy her sexy body. Her long, lean calves flashed as she danced to the music, the neckline of her dress dipping as she rocked low over the chorus.
I wanted to abandon the tray and run downstairs just to get a glimpse of her.
The beep of the security monitor killed my mouth-watering anticipation. Someone was driving through the gates of the mansion and that meant only a short list of possibilities. The only people to know the gate code were my father's driver, Tom, myself, a
nd my father's small personal staff. I glanced at the monitor and swore out loud. My father's impossibly tall driver unfolded himself from the driver's seat and loped around the car to open the passenger door.
"Can't even open the car door at his own house in the middle of the night," I muttered through gritted teeth.
I set the tray down in a prominent position on the kitchen island and waited for my father to find me. I saw his polished shoes descending the stairs first, then his tailored suit, his perfect, double-Windsor knotted tie, and his clean-shaven jaw. There was a flurry of silver hair over his temples that I had never seen before, but other than that, my father was still the same, imposing figure he had always been.
Even drunk and raving, my father had looked impeccable. It was one of the things I hated most about the man.
Xavier Templeton's eyes flickered up from his phone just long enough to catch the impression that I was in the kitchen. "Penn, I'm so glad you came. Here, let me look at you."
I frowned as my father tucked away his phone and locked his eyes on mine. I didn't trust this new approach of his and figured sensitivity had to be the newest business tactic. Xavier Templeton was all about tactics: inspiration, intimidation, and stonewalling were his normal M.O. and the change made me uncomfortable.
"I thought you said you weren't going to make it tonight."
"This is important," Xavier said. He strode into the kitchen as if preparing to address a board of directors, but it was just me, the silver tray, and the bottle of champagne. "I see you had no trouble adjusting your plans. Or is this a spur of the moment thing? She, whomever she may be, might like the Beluga more."
I bristled as he eyed the two champagne flutes. My father, of all people, had no right to advise me on romance. "Not spur of the moment, just private. We weren't expecting you."
My father pounced. "You're in a relationship?"
"Why is that so shocking?" I snapped.
"Only because it doesn't happen that often, and I've never been so lucky as to meet one of your women."
I picked up the silver tray just to stop both hands from curling into fists. "Well, tonight's not your lucky night. We were just finishing our little tour of how the rich and despotic live. We'll be in the garage apartment. Maybe we can talk in the morning. Maybe."