The Do It List (The Do It List #1)

by Jillian Stone

  “Do you need me to hold you?”

  TWO

  I AVOIDED HIS question and went for sarcasm. “Blackout compliments of Con Edison.” Damn! I sounded breathless, or worse, frightened.

  “I repeat, do you need—?”

  “No holding.” I bit out, shrinking further into my corner. “At least, not at the moment.” I strained to see him through a suffocating blanket of darkness. To avoid a panic attack, I sucked in a few slow, deep breaths.

  “Just thought I’d offer.”

  A nearly imperceptible grin emerged from the shadows, as enigmatic as a Cheshire cat. Soon after I made out a straight, strong nose, and a glint in his eyes.

  “Polls taken after Hurricane Sandy indicate women prefer to be held rather than receive verbal assurances alone.”

  A tasteless climate change or end-of-the-world joke came to mind, but I found myself just…staring at the shadowed visage across from me. “Since you’re standing next to the call box, Mr. Craig, would you mind picking up the phone?”

  “I would prefer that you call me Brad or Bradley.”

  Cabinet hinges whined as he reached for the phone. “Hello, anyone there?” Brad or Bradley, as he preferred to be called, held up the receiver. A series of steady beeps punctuated the darkness.

  I could just make out simple shapes against a field of black, and a few audio clues. He hung up and tried again. This time, a pre-recorded message replaced the busy signal. A female voice filtered through the small phone speaker.

  I edged over and he caught my arm, guiding me closer. As unlikely as it might seem, something darkly permissive was going on between us.

  Do not attempt to leave the elevator through the roof. Use the call box provided in each elevator car. Remain on the line and building security will contact you. You can also call Otis Emergency Services on your mobile device. The pre-recorded voice calmly droned on, repeating the number.

  He hung up and dialed from his cell phone. “Voice mail.” He grimaced. “Signal’s a bit sketchy—” He broke off to leave a message. “We’re trapped in a lift—I mean elevator…” That piercing gaze made eye contact with me. “What’s the building address?”

  “One eleven Eighth Avenue.”

  He repeated the address and left his number. “Christ, it’s sweltering in here.”

  I sensed more than observed him unbuttoned his coat and loosen his tie.

  The air inside the stainless steel box had become sultry. I blew a strand of corkscrew curl out of my eyes, not that it helped my vision, much.

  “Met this fellow once, an Aussie, who said anyone can open these doors.”

  I gave the man credit he began with the obvious. The faint click of floor buttons preceded his move to the exit doors. “The trick is…”

  “Might have known there’d be a catch.” I settled back against the wall.

  “The trick is to find a spot where you feel a bit of give…” I imagined him running those long agile fingers down the groove between panels.

  Small talk with a stranger, felt oddly comforting. I squinted into the dark. Bradley Craig wasn’t all that handsome, was he? Dapper maybe. I recalled a charcoal-gray suit, dusty plum shirt, and deep plum tie. Urbane. Sophisticated. And yet this man was a little too broad shouldered and rugged for a metro-male. Definitely more of a footballer.

  A static buzz preceded a flicker of light, as an overhead lamp crackled to life. Stunned, it took me a moment to hope for something more, like an elevator in motion, but no such luck.

  He exhaled a soft sexy grunt. “Must be some sort of emergency auxiliary light.”

  He angled himself against the door panels and we connected, glad to see each other. Hungry gazes roamed, soaking in every visual detail.

  Memory had failed me. Bradley Craig was dazzlingly handsome. From the wingtips of his elegant oxfords to that head of thick, close-cropped dark hair, adorable in its unkemptness. A hot mix—rugged yet polished—with a bit of scruff along the jawline.

  “Soccer or Rugby?” I asked as the doors parted an inch or two.

  A cool updraft circulated through the small chamber. He wedged a shoulder between door panels and gained a few more inches of separation.

  He answered in a low, guttural rasp. “Is there any context to your question or am I free to answer with a nonsequitur of my choice?”

  I gave him this, he had a wonky sense of humor. He pushed the doors farther apart, and I observed arm muscles ripple under that perfectly tailored Savile Row suit.

  “What’s your game?”

  “Basketball. Knicks fan, since I was a kid.” The panels opened enough to get a peek into the elevator shaft, which turned out to be a wall of cement blocks. Craning his neck, he checked above, then below. “Christ, we’re exactly between floors.”

  So, no chance for a quick escape. My head moved in an almost imperceptible nod, as he positioned himself between door panels, and shoved harder.

  “By any chance, did you happen to make a note of the last floor, before the blackout?”

  “Twenty…two, maybe?” I did not wish to think about dangling from steel cables twenty-something floors from the ground. Too late. The thought spiraled into something anxious. I checked for signs of a panic attack. Shallow breathing and a rapid pulse.

  “Have you ever done it in an elevator?” I blurted out, desperate for a distraction. I cringed at the suggestive remark, but that didn’t stop me from checking his reaction.

  He cleared his throat softly. “I beg your pardon?”

  I shook my head and backpedaled. “I can’t think what came over me just then. Forget I ever said such a thing. I must be out of my mind. I do not say things like that to strange men.” What began as a murmured apology ended in a freaky, near-hysterical rant.

  In the dead silence that followed, I covered the heat of my cheeks with both hands.

  “You’re frightened. And you have a beautiful blush, don’t hide it.” Braced between the doors, he rested his chin on a curve of upper arm muscle. “I may not have asked the question, but I was thinking something equally—”

  His phone buzzed on vibrate and we both jumped. Instinctively, he reached for his pocket, and the doors shifted.

  “Could you get that?” He locked both arms against the threat of imminent and crushing entrapment.

  I scanned his lower torso. “Where is it?”

  “Right-hand pocket.”

  The thought of rummaging about in his slacks caused a hesitation.

  “It’s either the doors or the phone.” He shifted his stance.

  “No, stay where you are. I’d rather have the air.” I sucked in a deep breath. “Besides…” My pulse raced, as I slipped my hand into his trousers. “It could be the elevator company.”

  I maneuvered around one large, hard device. “Sorry.”

  “Don’t be.”

  The look of raw lust in his eyes quickly sent my hand lower, to the object vibrating below. I grabbed the phone and dragged it out of his pocket. Apparently my cheeks were going to remain permanently inflamed around this man. I slid back the lock and held the phone to his ear.

  “This is Bradley.” The garbled squawk on the other end sounded angry and female. “This is not a good time, Claire. I can’t talk right now—”

  Cut off, he held back and listened. “How is Olivia?” His gaze met mine and lingered. “At the moment? I appear to be stuck in a lift.”

  A few seconds of silence ensued, then a tinny response.

  “Not sure, blackout of some kind.” The high-pitched voice warbled on. “Listen, I’m expecting a call from Con Edison, or the lift company. Apologies—yes, later.” He nodded to me and I pressed end.

  My brow must have remained in an elevated position because he mumbled a few words about an ex and changed the subject.

  “We need something to wedge between the doors.” He glared in defiance at the elevator panels, as if by sheer force of crystal-blue eye magnetism they might remain open. This entertaining new man—my elevator
-tilting Don Quixote—caused an upward slant to the ends of my mouth.

  Searching around, his gaze landed on my bag. “That giant carryall of yours.”

  “And who is Olivia?” I was curious and I had a bargaining chip.

  He stared long enough to be contemplating a lie. “Olivia is my daughter.”

  “How old?”

  His expression softened. “She just turned eight.”

  “Nice age…. I have a nine-year-old niece.” I rocked my head a little, thinking about her. “Hannah is nine going on thirty-five—or five, depending.”

  He had to a bit of convincing, but eventually I gave in and dragged the satchel over. “Distressed black leather, Armani Exchange messenger bag, eight hundred and fifty dollars on sale.”

  And damn, if that oversized bag didn’t jam those doors open.

  He stared at me. “Why do women do that?”

  “Do what?”

  “Use the words on sale to justify any sort of purchase. If I say, lovely frock, darling, before I even get a thank you, it’s ‘five hundred dollars on sale’.”

  The phone in my hand rang. He gave me a nod. “If it’s Claire, tell her I’ve fallen down the shaft.”

  I slid open the lock. “Hello?”

  A weary voice answered. “The world rides on Otis. State the nature of your emergency.”

  My heart raced in a good way as I described the problem. “Sounds like you’ve had a few calls this evening.” I listened to the man’s tale of woe, repeating his words out loud. “All of lower Manhattan, including Battery Park.”

  Bradley checked the door panels again while I reconfirmed our names, phone numbers, and the building address. I tried ending the call on a more positive note.

  “I’d like to say take your time, but don’t.”

  The second I hung up, the elevator car slipped, or at least it felt like it dropped a few inches.

  “What was that?” Now my heart raced in a bad way.

  Adding to the confusion, my lift companion backed straight into me.

  “Whoa.” I retreated too quickly and wobbled.

  Next thing I knew a strong arm swept around my waist, and he braced me against his hip.

  “Sorry, I didn’t realize—”

  He turned toward me wearing that look again. As if I were a luscious pudding tart too tempting to resist. His sensuous hooded gaze promised unholy pleasures and a torrid exchange of bodily fluids. The very thought brought to mind a new cherry-flavored lubricant tucked into a bedside drawer, purchased in anticipation of something rough and hot with Derek after the party tonight. My plans, however, had all been supplanted by a power failure. And this man who hadn’t let go of me…as yet.

  His eyes lowered, and I returned the favor with my own study of his mouth. Nicely wide, firm lips, and a well-defined cupid’s bow. Kissable. I suppose my stare lingered as long as his.

  “Your heart is racing.” He observed, his voice gently gruff.

  “I’m on the verge of a panic attack.”

  His predatory gaze softened. “Pretend for the next few minutes that you know me, and lean into my chest.” Hard-muscled arms, wrapped around me, protectively. “Try to relax.” They were also comforting arms. “Give me more—just surrender. Trust me.”

  Not sure how I managed to do it, but I exhaled a sigh and collapsed into the strength and warmth of his body.

  Instinctively, I put my arms around him.

  “That’s it.” His hushed words brushed the fine wisps of hair at my temple. Gently, he began to rock me, side to side. “Nothing bad is going to happen to us, Gracie.” Stroking my bare arm, he found my hand and curled his fingers through mine.

  “How can you be so sure?” I whispered.

  He didn’t answer right away. Ever so slowly, he turned us in circles. “I’m not sure. But, if these are my last moments on Earth, slow dancing with a warm, gorgeous woman…” He nuzzled my ear, and his stubble grazed my cheek. “I’ll die a happy man.”

  He must have been curious about the muffled laugh I smothered against his shoulder because he tilted my chin up and returned a smile. I exhaled a breath and held on, swaying back and forth with him. His powerful frame brushed against mine. Thighs, groin, every impressive inch of that hardness. Zero doubt he’d be good in bed. Aggressive and yet attuned to my body. I suspected most women would be climbing on top of him right about now.

  I ran my fingers through a few unruly hairs that edged his shirt collar. For the next few minutes, the world faded away as we held each other and circled. A beautiful eternal moment between two strangers.

  He released me an inch at a time. “Better?”

  “Much—the tachycardia—uh, the rapid heartbeat is gone.” Relieved, and maybe a little disappointed, I backed away.

  He tilted his head. “Is it just elevators?”

  “Closed-in spaces can trigger an attack, but it can happen anytime, anywhere.” Looking around, I exhaled a sigh in the direction of the ceiling.

  He nodded. “I was kind of hoping I caused it.”

  Locked in his gaze, my heart skipped a beat. “Shall I blame you for the palpitations—the irregular heartbeats? Would that make you happy?” I leaned back against the handrail. “Thank you for the dance, it helped a lot.”

  “Whenever you are troubled by a racing heart, just ring me up.” He shrugged out of his coat and hung the jacket on the open call box door. Jamming his hands into his pockets, he settled against his side of the elevator car and jangled pocket change.

  My four and a half inch heels were the first to go. “I suppose we might as well get comfortable.”

  In the emergency twilight of the elevator, there appeared to be a good deal of fascination with my dress optics. I caught a glimmer in those piercing eyes as he traced the illusion of bare skin beneath a swirl of midnight-blue sequins. His eyes suddenly shifted and he met my gaze directly.

  “I want to fuck you.”

  He spoke the words in a husky voice as if we were already lying in bed together. A bold, audacious line, delivered in a most unexpected way. And it was wildly, perfectly seductive because he made me want to say yes, and he hadn’t even asked.

  I wasn’t shocked that he said the words, exactly. We were both having brain-to-mouth control issues. I narrowed my gaze. “I’m sure you meant that as a compliment, Brad or Bradley.”

  A broad grin crinkled his eyes. “Sorry. I’ve always wanted to say that to a beautiful woman I just met.”

  “And to think, I was beginning to find you charming.” Damn! How such a sophisticated man could look so boyishly adorable after such a crude remark both annoyed and mystified me.

  “I’m afraid we both look a bit gobsmacked.” Laughing, he translated. “Utterly astonished—gobsmacked. You must know you are amazingly beautiful, as well as funny, and hot. And I’d like to—”

  I squinted another warning at him.

  A shrug lifted his shoulders. “I suppose I’d like to check a few things off the do it list with you.”

  At the end of a long, cold stare, I blinked. “The do it list?”

  “It’s like a bucket list, only for sex.” A lopsided grin lingered.

  “And this is something you’ve been working on since…”

  “I wrote my first list in prep school. Inspired by Madonna or Julia Roberts. I can’t remember which.”

  I admit his confession intrigued me. “A wish list of unattainable conquests or a jerk-off list?”

  “More like a list of encounters with any girl who…” He tilted his head as if to better read me. “…gives me an erection.”

  “So you’re not too picky.”

  His grin flattened, but only slightly. “I was twelve. The school nurse gave me a boner.”

  What was it about this man, with his horn-dog talk and ready cock? Two could play this game. A smile brought on a sigh, and before I knew it, I made my own confession. “When I was twelve, there were posters of 98 Degrees and Johnny Depp pinned all over my closet door.”

&nb
sp; “Tis a good thing taste matures with age.”

  “Johnny Depp will always be hot.” I meant to toss him a dismissive glance, but my gaze traveled down his torso. He had loosened the half-Windsor knot just enough to add to his sexy quotient. “Nice tie.”

  He wagged the pointed end. “Harvey Nicks. Twenty quid on sale.”

  “I have this theory about expensive silk ties—that they mysteriously act as cock rings for the suit set.”

  He snorted a soft chuckle. And I was pleased with myself for making him laugh, even though I cringed at the remark. “Sorry, bad habit. I’ve learned to talk dirty around ad men in self-defense.”

  “No doubt you’ve got them trotting after you drooling, tongues hanging out.”

  Jeezus…it was the way those intense blue eyes perused the goods as if he wanted to eat me alive, with an added touch of sizzling restraint. Like the slow dance, earlier. Don’t worry, baby, you can trust me…

  Frankly, I wondered if I could trust myself. Exhaling a sigh, I dropped my shoes on the floor and angled myself against the brushed-steel handrail. Just one problem, with my hand on my hip, my little slip of a dress rode high up my thighs.

  He stared a second too long.

  Okay, I admit I was also hot for Bradley Craig. What else could explain the wildly inappropriate thoughts, provocative language, and shockingly intimate questions?

  “You wouldn’t happen to have this bucket list for sex on you…by any chance?”

  THREE

  HIS GAZE WAS penetrating, measured. He appeared to be assessing the pros and cons of my request. Finally he extended that impressive physique toward the call box, stretching the European-cut shirt over a muscled chest and trim torso.

  “I want you to know, I don’t share this list with just anyone.” He lifted his billfold out of an inside coat pocket and removed a piece of paper.

  I plucked the folded note from his hand. “Ah, but I’m not just anyone. I’m your lift mate.” I tugged at the hem of my dress which insisted on riding up.

  “You have amazing legs, how tall are you?” He appeared genuinely curious, admiring.