The last time I told her not to proposition a man she went on a hunger strike for two days. Meatloaf Monday had broken her of her ‘ideals,’ but I can’t be making meatloaf every day.
When I get to her room it’s empty, and I turn in a circle with a sinking sensation. Great, let’s hope I find her before someone catches her in a tricky situation.
Alas, my luck is not that great.
A feminine yell of outrage echoes in the air, and I race toward the sound, stopping dead in my tracks in the doorway of another room, my eyes watering, probably trying to climb out of their sockets as I see the most mortifying thing I have ever witnessed, next to the famous Sixth Avenue subway streaker.
I’d walked right by him once and gotten an eyeful of things that should not be seen. True story.
This beats that unholy sight by a mile.
“Oh Nana, no!”
There are some things you cannot un-see. Ever.
Nana is sitting buck ass naked on the edge of a twin bed with an equally naked geezer doing a good helicopter imitation in front of her. To her delight. And the horror of my bleeding eyeballs.
“Jesus,” I groan, and I swear I can feel Mrs Ludwig as she walks up behind me.
I close my eyes in defeat and take a deep breath, trying and failing to scrub the sight from my screaming brain.
“Strike three. Hundred,” Mrs Ludwig says dourly, and I just nod, opening my eyes to see a grinning Nana reaching for her…
I book it out of the room before I get another graphic view of my nana and her proclivities, and a chuckle escapes when I see the nurse and Mrs Ludwig shut the door quickly with twin groans.
I have to find amusement where I can right now, and seeing these women turn green is about as good as it’s going to get. You’d think they’d be used to this by now, the way they’ve been villainizing my poor defenceless nana.
“I guess there’s nothing I can say?” I ask hopefully. “Maybe a donation to the Christmas fund?”
Mrs Ludwig shakes her head, and I see the nurse grin widely. Apparently Nana has made no friends on the nursing front. Big shock.
“Sorry, kid.”
***
Three hours later, and a cab ride that will live with me forever, thanks to Nana’s descriptive talents, we make it to my apartment, and I slump against the door as she inspects my tiny apartment with a sniff.
“Is this it?”
“On my salary? You’re lucky we don’t have to bunk together,” I growl, lugging her suitcase to the spare room.
I do not know what I’m going to do about a babysitter, but that’s another worry that I just can’t deal with right now.
“Hannah, darling, where is the sitting room?”
In the penthouse on the Upper West Side, I think smarmily, dropping her luggage with a thump.
“No sitting room. There’s a bathroom, two rooms, the kitchen, and the couch.” Think shoebox. For a three-year-old’s pair of shoes. “Make yourself at home while I go Lysol my eyes.”
As I wash my hands and splash water on my still burning cheeks, the solution comes to me, and I practically dive for the phone. One hand washes the other, right? I mean, if I can do favors for other people, it stands to reason I can expect a little help with this situation.
“No,” Amber says ten minutes later after I’ve laid it all out for her.
She’s saying no? After I bailed her ass out of the fire? Well, hell, no! I have a job and a life of strict rules to follow. I cannot live with the constant chaos that has suddenly beset my life. I’ve worked too hard to get things exactly the way I want them, and I cannot go back to the way I was before.
That way lays danger and a shotgun wedding followed by an equally messy divorce. No, I’m done taking risks.
“You want to come over and repay the thousand dollars you borrowed?” I ask, listening to her groan and enjoying it with a sadistic delight I didn’t know I was capable of.
“Shit. Bring her over tomorrow,” Amber finally snarls, and I end the call with a grin.
This day has been an absolute nightmare, but I have finally won. Tomorrow my life will be back to its orderly regimen, with nothing to show for the chaos except one slightly embarrassing encounter with the oh-so- heavenly Gregory Lucas.
Chapter Four
The next day I take Nana to Amber’s place and get to my desk with a minute to spare. I’m feeling in control again, and as I make coffee, go through emails, and start putting together the research I’ve done on Lucas ships for Jordan, I feel a lightness that has been lacking.
You probably think I’m a heartless bitch for the way I’ve been acting, so I’ll explain. After years of studying I graduated college with a degree in Philosophy.
Great to be interested in something enough to spend four years of my life studying it. Too bad it hasn’t landed me my dream job or cut the mustard when it comes to paying the bills.
Another useless something I picked up in college was my husband. He who shall not be named (Tom). I spent two miserable years of my life supporting him on a lousy tour director’s salary before I got fed up and gave him an ultimatum. Find a job or leave.
Needless to say, it hadn’t worked, and he’d moved back to his mother’s place, and by the time the divorce was through I’d been paying him to stay out of my life.
I decided the day the judge ordered me to fork over alimony that I was done making decisions with my heart instead of my head, and that from that point on I would always maintain a strict standard.
It’s been working well for the last three years. Sure, I am a little bored, and sometimes I’m lonely, but it’s a small price to pay not to repeat my mistakes. So yeah, Nana living with me and turning my life upside down is not an option. Anyway, Amber owns her own business and can take Nana to work with her. I do not have that option, unless I want her to blind Jordan on Naked Thursdays.
“Good morning, Hannah Newman.”
My heart stops and starts beating double time as that gravelly voice washes over me like a soft caress. I spent a good portion of last night dreaming about him, his body, his tongue, and what he can do with them. To me. So when I look up and meet his eyes, I know I’m blushing guiltily.
“G-good morning,” I squeak, taking in his gray, tailored suit and ruffled blonde hair.
Lord have mercy, the man is nice to look at.
He smiles, a predatory show of white teeth and sparkling eyes, and lowers himself to the corner of my desk. I am ruffled and nervous and so conscious of him on a sexual level I feel everything under my skirt come to screaming life. My thighs clench as I remember last night’s dream, and I find myself watching his mouth raptly.
“So, that dinner?”
What? No, no dinner, I scream silently when my inner slut stretches to lazy life.
“I told you,” I say on a sigh. “I don’t—”
“Fraternize. Yes, I know,” he murmurs, looking at me from below his lashes. “But I find myself unwilling to let you suffer that way any longer.”
The gall.
“Look, Mr Lucas—”
“Greg, please,” he insists, chuckling at me as I do a great fish imitation.
“Mr Lucas. This is not appropriate.”
“So? Nothing interesting ever came of appropriate.”
No, nothing interesting ever does, but that’s not the point. I cannot do this and work with him in any reasonable capacity if I ever find out what he is capable of in bed.
“That’s not the point.”
“But it is, Hannah,” he drawls, using my name as if he’s savoring the feel of it on his lips. “I think you know I want you. I think you want me too.”
“So? Wanting doesn’t make it the right thing to do,” I insist, trying and failing to sound resolute.
“Perhaps not, but it’s better than dancing circles around each other for weeks while the sexual tension builds. I’ll make this easy for you. You come to dinner with me, and we continue to play this game where you resist me before eventually
falling into my bed.”
I wait for the ‘or’ and frown when he just smiles.
“Or?” I prompt, breathing in shallow pants at the thought of falling into bed with him, on him, under him.
“No or. This will happen, darlin’, make no mistake. It’s up to you how long you think you can torture us both.”
“I don’t—”
“I dreamed of you last night,” he cuts in, silencing me. “I had you under me, your lithe body bared and spread open.”
Oh, God have mercy.
“You were writhing into me, your hands pulling at my hair as I buried my head between your legs—”
“Stop,” I whimper, squeezing my thighs together as a deep ache sets in.
I’ve always loved sex, always craved the rush of pleasure and adrenalin that comes from sharing intimacy. That’s what drove me to marry. My ex is a douche, but he is no slouch in the bedroom.
But sex does not rule my life anymore.
“Think about it, darlin’,” he whispers as he leans close and sighs against my lips.
I taste his breath, wanting to lean closer and taste so much more.
“I’ll give you till tonight, and then I will be at your apartment to take you to dinner. And dessert.”
I watch in a daze of desire as he straightens and gives me a smile before turning on his heel and heading for the elevator.
“Tonight, Hannah. Wear something sexy.”
And then he’s gone, the sound of his jaunty whistling cut off by the closing doors.
I slump back in my chair and let out a shaky breath, wanting nothing more than a cold shower and a glass of wine as the desire that has pooled low in my belly lets off a disappointed cry.
Gregory Lucas is right. I do want him.
I just don’t want to want him.
Chapter Five
At five that afternoon I am done for the day, having outlined a decent first draft for the campaign, put it on Jordan’s desk, and swept through the countless other tasks he’s sent my way. I’m surprised to have done so much, considering how tied up and on edge I’ve been the entire time.
When Jordan popped his head out the door and asked me to run to the deli and get us both a sandwich and a water, his treat, I just about fled outside and onto the packed sidewalk, I was so restless.
Now, as I step off the elevator and exit the building, I am tempted to run back inside just to hide from what I know is coming. At one point I convinced myself I have nothing to worry about because Gregory Lucas doesn’t have my address. Of course, then I realized the man is a billionaire and has so many resources at his disposal that getting the address of one measly woman is child’s play to him.
The sidewalk is bustling, and I welcome the intense concentration necessary to navigate my way to the subway and procure a seat before one of the thugs can grab the seat I usually sit in.
I don’t see the streaker anywhere as I make my way to my apartment, and I’m almost disappointed. Maybe a good flesh show will put me off to the point that the desire that’s been slowly fizzling in my blood all day will die an ignominious death.
My apartment is as spick and span as usual, thanks to my OCD cleaning skills, so distracting myself with a good scrub up is off the cards. Instead I change into sweats and flop onto the sofa with a frustrated huff.
A minute later I am up and in the shower, scrubbing myself with a peach scented exfoliator and strawberry scented shampoo. That done, I dry my hair, adding a slight curl to the chestnut brown locks, and then I’m perusing my closet for something, yup, you got it, sexy.
I want to cry when I see what’s on offer and curse myself for tossing anything even close to nice or revealing in the trash the day my divorce was through.
All I’m left with now are drab office skirts and shirts that would make Nana shudder, they’re so schoolmarm-ish. Shit. What to do, I wonder while steadfastly counseling myself against the foolishness I am practising.
You don’t want this, Han, remember that. You’re in a good place now. Don’t ruin what you’ve built for a quick, emotionless roll in the sack.
But he is so… I sigh as I picture those golden locks and the dimples I want to lick like a favorite treat.
I can’t say with any certainty how I make this decision, but before I know it I am standing at my neighbor Chrissie’s door in my robe, praying she’ll help me out.
“Hannah?” she asks when the door opens, and I pull a face in apology.
“I have a date.” There, I’ve said it. “I need something besides office grandma to wear, and I don’t have anything even close to it in my closet.”
Chrissie is the cutest woman I have laid eyes on, ever. Her deep red hair hangs all the way to her butt in a straight sheen that I envy, her periwinkle eyes glow, and her freckled face reminds me of Meg Ryan, if she ever dyed her hair that shocking shade.
I like her because she understands me, most days, anyway, and doesn’t give me crap for being so full of vinegar most of the time.
“Come on in, Han. I’ve got exactly the dress for you. I bought it at this vintage store because I couldn’t resist it even though it’s way too big for my small boobs. Now I know why,” she says, grinning as she pulls me into the apartment and her bedroom.
Where my place is perfectly ordered and decorated in creams and beiges, Chrissie’s is a profusion of color and clutter. The dress she pulls from the closet is a deep blue that is almost black, so tight it fits me like a second skin until it hits my knees, and the neckline is low, held up by thin straps that cross at my back.
It’s beautiful and classy and definitely the sexiest dress I’ve ever worn. I know once Gregory Lucas sees me all bets are off. He’ll only intensify his pursuit, and…I like the idea more than I should.
“Well damn, Han. You’re lucky I’m as straight as an arrow, or you’d be in some serious trouble, girl,” she says, letting out a loud wolf whistle.
I giggle and turn in a circle, striking a sexy pose to blow her a kiss.
When I’m leaving I realize this person wearing the dress and matching heels is the exact person I’ve spent the last three years trying to get rid of.
Now’s the time for second thoughts. If I’m honest, and I try always to be honest with myself, I’m not as averse to the idea of being the old, carefree me as I would have been even a week ago.
In the past I was happy and carefree and spontaneous. I was the girl who’d dance in the rain just because she could and win a tequila shooter contest because she loves winning, and having a good time even more.
What I’ve done to survive my messy divorce and bitterness is turn myself into someone I never imagined I could be.
It’s not bad, it’s just unsatisfying.
You say that now because your hormones have you dancing on clouds. What happens when Mr Billionaire has his fill of you and kicks you to the curb just like Tom did?
I don’t get the chance to answer my question because there’s a knock at the door, and a second later, as I open it, I am staring at Gregory Lucas, looking particularly yummy in dark trousers and a light blue shirt. He’s a little more casual than I am used to, but I cannot deny his appeal.
“Hello, Hannah. You look…” He leaves the sentence hanging, but I am gratified at the deeply appreciative look that lights his eyes as he gives me a slow, thorough inspection.
“Thank you.”
“Shall we go?” he asks, taking my elbow and pulling the door closed behind me.
We ride the elevator in silence because I am nervous and because he’s so busy undressing me with his eyes it’s a wonder my clothes don’t evaporate from my burning skin.
“Stop that,” I hiss, pulling at the skirt of my dress in discomfort.
I feel great, but the dress fits my butt so snugly I feel exposed and slightly vulnerable.
“I can’t help it. You look like a pin-up, with the nicest ass I’ve had the pleasure of seeing,” he says heatedly, and it takes every ounce of willpower I have not to throw myself a
t him.
When we exit my building it’s to the sight of a gleaming sliver Mercedes.
“Nice car.”
“Why thank you, Hannah, I try to please.”
My nerves jump at the passionate suggestion in that statement, but I ignore what my body wants and decide not to take his bait so readily.
“I’ll bet. Does that line usually work?”
He laughs as he hands me into the car and jogs around to his side.
“I wouldn’t know, as I’ve never used it before. You tell me.”
The smirk that pulls at my lips is all wry humor.
“I don’t know yet. Ask me at the end of the night.”
“Oh, I will, darlin’, you can bet on it.”
“Where are we going?”
I need to change the subject before his hot glances make me combust like a pathetic, sex-starved fool, even though I know, and from his smirk he knows too, that I am retreating before the round has begun. He allows it without a blink and turns the car into traffic.
“There’s a gem of an Italian place I found a few months back I’d like you to experience. Their spaghetti is to die for.”
“I love Italian food, although I admit I haven’t eaten anything but pizza on the odd occasion I allow myself takeout.”
While I’d been married and busy working my ass off to support myself and my lazy husband, I’d eaten so much junk I’d picked up thirty pounds. Now I keep a strict eye on anything I eat. I am toned and lean, and thanks to my new anal retentiveness I really do have a fantastic ass.
I may enjoy whatever Gregory Lucas has in store for tonight, but I will never let myself go enough to go back to the fat, unhappy loser I was before.
“That sounds like you only eat what you’ll allow yourself. Can’t be too enjoyable, being food conscious,” he says with a frown.
“I eat a lot of things I don’t consider healthy, I just don’t enjoy the thirty pounds takeout adds to my ass. Plus, I like cooking, even if it’s only for one,” I aver, not wanting to get into a heavy discussion about my dietary restrictions.
“Yeah? Maybe you could cook for me sometime. I love home-cooked meals.”
JARED (Lane Brothers Book 4) Page 35