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

by Jillian Stone

  “I needed this badly. Thank you.”

  I wondered if I could wait for the herbal-scented shower to jump his bones.

  TWENTY-TWO

  “TEMPERATURE?” NEITHER BRADLEY nor I had a clue, so Alex guessed.

  “Let’s try one hundred and four degrees.”

  He adjusted the shower thermostat while Laurel hung terrycloth robes on hooks. We thanked our talented massage therapists and entered a pale, aqua-blue world of glass shower tiles.

  “Your shower will begin as soon as the water reaches the correct temperature.” Alex closed the frosted glass door.

  I leaned against the cool glass tiles. We were both covered in salt scrub. Playfully, Bradley nuzzled me, belly to belly.

  “Scratchy,” I murmured.

  Multiple wall jets burst forth at the perfect temperature, rinsing away salt granules and dead skin. The hair on Bradley’s chest, including the thin trail above his belly button and pubic region had been neatly trimmed.

  “Love the grooming.” Weaving my hands through his new, shorter curls, I ran a sudsy hand up and down his cock, taking long slow pulls. At the top of each stroke, I ran my thumb up and over the head.

  He pressed both palms to the sides of the tiled stall. “On your knees, Gracie.”

  I dropped down and sucked the tip first, licking my way up and down the shaft.

  “I want to fuck your mouth.” He leaned over and held my head, thrusting deeper. “Relax your throat, so you can take more of me—that’s it.”

  I listened to his growls of pleasure and followed his instructions.

  “Use your nails.”

  I dug my fingers into the hard muscle of his buttocks, and he growled.

  “Suck me, hard—” and quickly thereafter, “Christ, you’re good at this.” He slowed down and pumped methodically. His deep blue gaze followed every lick of my tongue, how my lips moved over the head of his throbbing cock.

  I grabbed his buttocks and sent his cock to the back of my throat.

  “Fuck—I’m coming,” he growled and I drained him of every drop.

  His eyes closed and his head rolled back on his shoulders. I sat back on my heels. His chest heaved, as he gulped in steam-filled air.

  I smiled up at him, kissing the tip of his cock, which remained impressive in length, breadth and hardness. Bradley reached down and pulled me up against him. “The more I have you, the more I want you.”

  I rose up on tiptoe and kissed him. “I feel the same way.”

  Someone tapped at the shower door.

  “Yes—what is it?” Bradley called out.

  “Sorry to rush you—but we’d like to get Gracie into hair and makeup.”

  He planted a quick kiss on my lips. “I owe you one.”

  We toweled off, taking turns covering each other in aloe lotion.

  “Even if I’m too sensitive to fuck, will you sleep with me tonight—so I can feel your skin against mine?” I asked.

  “Of course.” He rubbed a towel over his head. “What’s up with your period?”

  “Nearly over. I have a three day period on the pill.” I squinted at him and he chuckled softly. He was acting like a steady boyfriend. I had no doubt he would start keeping track of my monthly cycle.

  Bradley took a seat in an empty styling chair while I got beautified. Martin used earthy, warm tones to create smoldering eyes and added a hint of Honey Lust shimmer under newly arched eyebrows. He finished the look with neutral lips and apricot cheekbones.

  Martin eyeballed my boyfriend over the top of his Wall Street Journal. “Mind if I…?

  Bradley lowered the newspaper and Martin plucked a few eyebrow hairs.

  “You have great bone structure, let’s just enhance that a little.” He brushed a bronzer under Bradley’s cheekbones and over the bridge of his nose. Stepping back, Martin admired his artistry. “Now you’re sun-kissed.”

  Bradley winked at me and returned to his paper.

  Tyler managed to tame my curls, pulling them into a sleek bun. “I’m going to add a few clip-in extensions—which I’ll run through the crimping iron.” He expertly looped the extensions around the bun, leaving a few pieces sticking out.

  The effect was insanely hot and very glam. Bradley said it best.

  “Straight out of Elle magazine.”

  In the cab on the way to his mother’s house, he kept looking at me.

  “Don’t take this the wrong way. I love your curls, but…” His arm went around me. “It’s like you’re a whole new Gracie.”

  “And you’re sun-kissed.” I brushed his nose with mine.

  We sneaked into the townhouse via the servant stairs. Bradley’s room reminded me of a luxury hotel suite only with much better art on the walls.

  “Spectacularly neutral,” he called it.

  I unzipped the clothing bag and held up two dresses. “Which one?”

  His gaze moved from one to the other. “Sorry, you’re going to have to try them on.” He picked up mail from a highboy dresser.

  I pulled on the black Tibi. The sleeveless, silk halter dress featured a leather and Ponte knit skirt with an asymmetrical hemline. Bradley looked up from his mail.

  “Nice.”

  Not exactly the reaction I was looking for. I slithered into the white sheath. “And…?”

  “The black is striking, but I must confess, this one hugs your curves, nicely.” He grinned. “Your skin color looks amazing. Reminds me of our first date. You in that little nothing of a raspberry-red frock.”

  “You remember that far back?” I teased. “How long ago was that, a week maybe?” I turned around and swept a provocative look at him. “Do me up?”

  Bradley struggled with the zipper. “I’m so much better at undoing these…”

  A soft snort sounded behind us. “I agree with Bradley, the white Jackie-O over the Tibi. Although you must wear that delightful little black dress to the opera with me—how about you and Bradley and I attend the new production of Eugene Onegin next month? Russian maestro Valery Gergiev conducts.”

  Bradley leaned close and spoke in a theatrical whisper. “Mother does so love her Russian opera. Anna Karenina throwing herself onto the train tracks—nicely tragic and grisly.”

  She raised her chin and shot him a look along with a tight smile. “You’ll have to blame Tolstoy for that, not Tchaikovsky or the Met.”

  Bradley continued to wrestle with my zipper. “I’m afraid I’ve made a bollocks out of this.”

  “Here, let me try.”

  I straightened my shoulders as his mother ran the zipper back down, loosened the caught lining, and then zipped me up again.

  “There.” His mother sighed, with satisfaction. “What a lovely figure you have, my dear.” She turned me around for a frontal inspection. “And such a sweet face. No wonder you are taken with her, Bradley.” She glanced back at her son.

  “Quite taken,” Bradley murmured, opening a piece of correspondence.

  “No doubt you are bright, career oriented. Bradley has never bothered with frivolous women—I taught him that.” She reached out. “Ann Getty Craig.”

  I took her hand. “Grace Taylor-Scott.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Grace.”

  “Most everyone calls me Gracie.”

  “Not me. I love the name Grace, I hope you don’t mind if I use it?”

  Startled, I laughed a little. “No, of course not.”

  Ann Getty Craig turned out to be a slightly more sophisticated version of all the moms I’d grown up around in the Palisades. Ash blonde, shoulder-length hair, athletic, trim figure—and those striking blue eyes. Bradley’s eyes. She turned back at the door.

  “Join me upstairs as soon as you can. Uncle Arthur is here, early as usual and asking after you.” Her gaze traveled back to me. “You are lovely, Grace. I see why my son is enthralled.”

  Bradley changed his shirt while I pulled on sheer, thigh-high hose and Jimmy Choo pumps. He watched me through the mirror as he looped his tie.

&
nbsp; “I like that you wear hose. Very Princess Kate of you.”

  I adjusted garters. “Most men prefer naked legs, but not you. Why is that?”

  “Something fetishy about garter belts and hose.” He pulled on his jacket. “I like taking them off even more.”

  I straightened his tie and smoothed his collar. “And you’re so much better at off, than on.”

  Bradley took my hand in his and guided me downstairs to the living area, where the ceilings were higher and the art more spectacular. We crossed a checkerboard of sparkling marble floor tiles on our way to the parlor. Double doors opened onto a spacious room filled with richly upholstered furniture and Persian carpets. Sumptuous, yet comfortable.

  We were about to do a modern twist on Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner. I had been through it several times before when I was younger, with younger men. Meeting the parents always made me nervous, although, not so much this time.

  This time, I had Bradley with me.

  “Bradley, dear.” Ann waved us over. “Arthur, I’d love for you to meet Bradley’s friend, Grace Taylor-Scott.” She nodded to me. “Grace, my brother, Arthur Getty.”

  Attractive, gray-haired, and sixty-something, Arthur shook my hand. “Lovely to meet you, Grace.” He pivoted. “And Bradley, my word you move fast.“ He slapped his nephew on the back. “Back less than a month and look at this lovely creature.” Uncle Arthur’s eyes roved over me.

  “I’m a lucky man. The fate’s brought us together.” Bradley’s arm went around my waist, pulling me close. “What would you like to drink, Gracie?”

  “Gin and tonic, with two limes.”

  “So Grace, I understand you and Bradley work together.”

  I nodded. “I write copy, he’s in research. Left brain, right brain—it works for us.”

  With Bradley gone, Uncle Arthur thought himself free to ogle. And it wasn’t a harmless old uncle sort of flirtation. He was the type of man, given the opportunity, who wouldn’t hesitate to make a move on his own nephew’s date.

  Bradley returned with three drinks, handing one off to Arthur. “Vodka Martini—correct?”

  “Grace has been telling me about the agency. She’s sharp, witty—no doubt keeps you on your toes.” Arthur took a long sip of his drink and sighed. “God, I love smart women, but it’s an expensive sport.”

  Bradley sipped his single malt, neat. “Uncle Arthur is between marriages at the moment. How many ex’s now, three?”

  His uncle flashed four fingers. “Notice, I can’t bring myself to talk about it.”

  “Holy Christ, Arthur, it’s been years.” A mature woman approached us trailing what appeared to be a husband behind her.

  Soon after introductions, Bradley backed away, pulling me with him. “I’m going to show Gracie off as well as show her around.” Apparently this was our chance to circulate.

  I nodded to Arthur and friends. “Very nice to meet you.”

  Bradley and I circled the room and made polite small talk. We also chatted up a number of his mother’s investment advisors, nearly all of them young men, accompanied by attractive wives or girlfriends. All of them offered their business cards, which Bradley collected and stuffed in his jacket pocket.

  He leaned close. “Perhaps a quick tour before dinner?”

  “Yes, please.” I answered, happy to slip away with this handsome man whose fingers lightly brushed my back.

  He guided me into an adjoining room. A long table set for twenty-something guests took up most of the space. “Take a guess—dining room.” Bradley hastened me into a smaller space stuffed with caterers and cooks. “Kitchen.” He moved through yet another door. “Breakfast room.” Very likely a bright, cheerful spot in the morning.

  “Now for the fun part.” He guided me down a narrow flight of stairs. “Hello, Laurent—you remember Gracie?” I had met the chauffeur briefly when he delivered a suit of clothes to my apartment.

  “Hello again.” I smiled at the man as we squeezed by.

  “Mr. Craig.” He dipped his head. “Miss Taylor-Scott.”

  I figured Laurent to be in his mid-forties. Obviously foreign by the accent. Salt-and-pepper hair, even featured and fit—really very attractive in an exotic, Eastern European way. We landed in a room lined floor to ceiling with bookcases. A large desk dominated the space flanked by two wing chairs and a fireplace. Bradley opened a humidifier on the desk and took out a cigar.

  “Do you mind, Moneypenny?”

  “Have your cigar, Mr. Craig.” I sipped my drink and read the spines of a few leather-bound volumes. Beyond the intense physical attraction I felt for him, there were times like these that hinted at a more comfortable relationship. I leaned against the desk and watched him snip the end of the expensive stogie.

  “When I was in prep school, I used to sneak in here and steal a cigar now and then.”

  “You mean like now?” Another look at the surroundings made me wonder. “How is it your mother keeps the den so masculine?”

  “I think these cigars are for Laurent.” Bradley held the lighter below the cigar and rotated the shaft until the tip glowed. He set down the lighter and blew on the embers. “I’m not even sure if Laurent is his given name or his surname.”

  “Perhaps you should ask.” I stared at Bradley. “You think maybe Laurent has another job description?”

  He winked as he took his first puff. “Let’s just say Mother has never seemed happier. It’s nice.”

  “Right this way. Bradley, Grace—are you two hiding down here?”

  Apparently Ann Craig was also giving a house tour.

  She descended the stairs followed by a number of guests. “Here you two are. We’re just about ready for dinner. I wanted you to meet my new team of estate advisors, or are you all attorneys?”

  Three men and a young woman assembled before us. I suppose they smiled, I couldn’t be sure, I was so distracted by the specter of a man I’d not seen in years. My stomach lurched in the same way it used to. At first because he was so hot, then after his colossal betrayal because it hurt to be near him.

  I suppose I just stared, wide-eyed.

  The man in question also appeared riveted. Gobsmacked might be a better description, but not in the funny, cute Bradley way.

  Ann turned to the good-looking group and rattled off names. The only one I heard was Troy Lambert.

  Troy Lambert. Smart, beautiful and dangerous to know. The kind of man who made you think, damn girl, you’re in trouble now.

  “Troy, I’d like you to meet my son Bradley and his friend—”

  “Hello, Gracie.”

  The heat drained from my cheeks and my fingers turned into icicles as the man who had almost ruined my life spoke.

  “You’re looking more beautiful than ever.”

  TWENTY-THREE

  BRADLEY’S MOTHER DID a pretty amusing double take. “You two know each other?”

  I tried to say something. I would have settled for any sort of utterance, but the words got stuck in my throat. And the freeze went beyond tongue-tied, I was nearly in shock.

  “Gracie and I went to school together. Pacific Palisades High.” His gaze darted to Bradley and back to me. “Go Dolphins.” His smile was stiff, measured.

  I managed a nod, even as my head reeled. I had forgotten how handsome he was. His unruly sandy brown hair had been combed into submission, darker now that he spent his days in an office and not on a surfboard off Point Reyes. And those striking, gray-green eyes flecked with copper and framed by long eyelashes were every bit as dazzling as they were ten years ago.

  Bradley stroked my back, softly. He had easily picked up on the awkward vibe. “So, you two dated in high school?”

  I managed to shake off some of the stun and meet Troy’s gaze. “We flirted in high school. We didn’t actually date until UCLA.”

  The color drained from his face and his eyes darted away.

  My attempt at small talk sounded edgy and forced. I felt wobbly, almost faint, and my heart raced—signs of
an imminent panic attack.

  “College sweethearts?” Bradley’s mother teased Troy in a cute, age-appropriate way.

  “One date,” I said coolly. “My freshman year.”

  “So what was Gracie like in high school?” Bradley asked.

  I knew Bradley well enough to know he was fishing for information. He couldn’t possibly imagine the algae infested, slime-ridden pond he treaded water in.

  Bradley knew almost nothing about my past. I had purposely kept it from him, from everyone. Part of me wanted to break the whole, sordid story wide open—the abuse, betrayal, and humiliation. I took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. I reminded myself that Troy was inviolate, he could never be damaged in the way he had damaged me. I had given up on my revenge fantasies years ago.

  The interloper from my past grinned. “Let’s see…she was on the homecoming court, of course.”

  Jeezus, his smile was so cute.

  “She was head songleader our senior year.” He finally met my gaze. “I remember you choreographed some wicked dance routines. Very well-liked, popular with her classmates…”

  His gaze moved to Bradley. “I understand you transferred to Darcy Wexler Dean before the merger tanked. I follow large independents as well as publicly held media companies. Anytime you guys wanna go public, we’d be glad to help.”

  I half expected him to hand us each a business card.

  Bradley puffed on his cigar. “Darcy Wexler Dean is still interested in acquiring a European partner, hopefully, a better fit this time.”

  Troy’s words buzzed around in my brain. Hard to concentrate when you’re struggling with a fight or flight response. I wanted to run from the den—this house—this island called Manhattan. My throat constricted as the room shrank around me. Vaguely, I was aware that Bradley was speaking.

  “Axel Wexler is the man you want to speak with. He’s open to anything but Scacchi for obvious reasons.”

  “So…you’re not in strategic management?” Troy raised his glass and sipped his drink. Two fingers of Tequila, neat. Seemed pretty obvious the two alpha males were sizing each other up.

  “I was transferred here to head up Insight, a new research arm. We’re being paired with the über creatives—an experimental approach.”