by Mary Hughes
Trotters shuffled. Little said, “But Ric, they’re my posse…er, my friends.”
“I’m not impressed with your choice of friends. My word is final. They’re not welcome until they sober up. Why do you think the door is locked?”
Then those azure eyes switched to me.
My breath stopped again. My hand landed on my throat. Beneath my fingertips my pulse was drumming Stars and Stripes, thundering away at 120 beats per minute or more. I scrabbled for something, anything, to say to those eyes. “Did you know the average resting heart rate is between sixty and one hundred and blood pressure is normally 120/80 although mine has skyrocketed to maybe 170/110…um, yeah.”
Who needed the brain surgery now? Focus.
The glare warmed to an amused, appreciative gleam. I braced myself for a snide comment or a drop of drool on hastily and inadequately covered DDs.
But to my surprise, he draped his suit coat over me. For as big as it was, it was feather light, falling around my shoulders like a gentle hug. The fine fabric of the lining slid along my skin like butterfly wings.
“You must be Synnove.” He pronounced my name with a Scandinavian lilt, S’noehh-veh. “I know what you’re here for, and while I’m sorry I can’t help you, that’s no reason you can’t enjoy the party—after we find you something to wear. Come in.”
I opened my mouth to ask how he knew who I was. He waved me inside with the effortless grace of one strong hand. The force of his personality was such that I stepped inside at the gesture, the question dropping from my head. Chicken Little, minus his sidekick bacon, slunk through behind me.
A spacious living room pulsed with colored lights, music and glittering people. Holiday, head and shoulders above the crowd, glided through with the same effortless grace. The man was even sexier walking away.
Arousal is marked by increased heart rate and genital swelling as blood rushes to erectile tissue… I groaned and ground to a halt, pinching his coat closed at my neck. Blood-rushing idiot. I was here to negotiate, which meant getting him to take me seriously. Lust would only get in the way.
Holiday half turned, cocked a smile at me and gestured that I should come along. Again the force of his personality towed me along.
I tripped after him like a happy puppy.
What was going on? I was never instantly attracted to a man’s mere looks. Substance drove me, not image. Although in my defense, I’d never met anyone whose image made as much of an impact as Holiday’s.
As I followed him I stirred air filled with exotic perfumes, intensified by the heat of packed bodies. Tangy notes underlay the perfume, strawberry and chocolate and shrimp sauce. Long buffet tables were visible to my right through gaps in the glittering men and women enjoying champagne in crystal flutes and nibbling exotic canapés from molecule-thin gold-rimmed china in every shape but round. The central buffet table was lit by a bubbling fountain sparkling with both seasonal lights and cheer, and the tables were draped with expensive, brightly colored cloth.
Even the tables were wearing silk. And here I’d thought my cousin had overdressed me.
Only one woman wore anything like my simple skirt and top, a round-faced twenty-something in an unsophisticated A-line, her hair a sleek auburn bob.
But for the rest? Talk about conspicuous consumption. Holiday must have one heck of a credit card bill. I’m not unused to money—I had some very rich classmates. I just didn’t grow up rich nor did I expect to get that way, because a medical degree without three years of residency and a license was only a title.
Holiday led me to the head of a hallway, where he stopped and turned. Beyond him was a knot of people whose smiles and nods for Holiday cooled into stares for me. I pulled his coat tighter.
As if he could see my thoughts, my trepidation, he smiled reassuringly. Those azure eyes said that, despite the stares, I was safe here. “My study is down that hall, first door to the right. Why don’t you wait there while I find you something to wear?”
“Take this first?” I offered him the wrapped present, awkwardly clutching his coat to keep it from slipping off my shoulders.
“Ah, yes. Thank you for the shelter gift. I’ll send someone along with a fresh blouse.” He considered me, his gaze filled with warm appreciation touched with a hint of concern. “And perhaps a glass of champagne. Relax in my study. Then—shall we take a few moments to chat, you and I?” His smile heated.
Chapter Two
A shiver hit me at that hot, promising smile. Testosterone plays a starring role in sexual arousal in males, but in women its purpose is less clear…
Argh. What was wrong with me? No lusting, especially after the opposition. My cousin had charged me with a job, and while I wasn’t against sex overlapping with work per se, I’d seen it cause aggravated stupidity too often. Extended bathroom breaks and three-hour lunches, sneaking around like nobody knows when in fact everybody does and resents the extra work.
Holiday’s smile sharpened, a wicked glint of teeth edging it like a knife. Pure lust shimmered through me. Oh yeah. Lubrication is followed by vasocongestion of the vaginal walls…fuck.
I had to escape that promising smile, stat.
But the path to the study was clogged with people. I was screwed, and not in the good way.
Then Ric “Moses” Holiday extended one elegant hand toward his study. The sea of black, gold and silver miraculously parted. “Off you go now.”
All that, with just the force of his personality. Ooh.
Before I got too girly over it, I paused to wonder if he had any real character to back it up. I heard sizzle. Didn’t mean he had the steak.
His smile broadened. His eyes twinkled with an I have all the steak you need.
I gasped and escaped into Holiday’s study.
It was an upscale man cave—walnut wainscoting, leather couches and recliners, a leather-and-oak wet bar, and a seventy-inch smart TV, the ultimate in flickering fires. Its impressiveness was kicked stratospheric by the 7.1 surround sound, eight speakers’ worth of movie-quality goodness.
But an upscale man cave is still a man cave, and I’m not much into sitting on skinned cow. I crossed the room to a set of French doors cracked open to an evening breeze.
My breasts tightened. Not arousal but simple chill; I’d let go of the suit coat. I pulled it closed. Maybe Holiday made a habit of loaning articles of clothing to women. None of my business, but strangely, the thought bothered me. As if, for some reason, I wanted to be special to him. Had to be hormones making my brain mushier than normal. Stupid norepinephrine. I shook it off.
Nudging the French doors wider, I inhaled. The air, lightly scented with petunias, reminded me of home, back before my mother and father sold the house to travel the world, currently in Turkey or Abu Dhabi or something. Under the floral odor was a darker scent, mellow wood smoke with the tang of something spicy, elusive but mouthwatering. Unconsciously I turned my head to take the scent deeper—and buried my nose in the shoulder of Holiday’s suit jacket.
My cheeks burned. The cooler outside air seemed less a treat and more a necessity now—nothing to do with Mr. Flamingly Handsome Holiday. But of course I was lying to myself.
Didn’t matter. Uncomfortable was uncomfortable. I slipped outside. And stopped when my mandible hit the floor.
The terrace—it was too large and elegant to be a simple porch—was the size of my whole student apartment. Its black basalt surface was swept clean. An artful scattering of potted trees and graceful, discreet statuary merely enhanced the terrace’s stark elegance.
I crossed to the far side.
The edge was safeguarded by a heavily lacquered oak railing supported by worked iron spindles. I ran one hand along the rail’s silky smooth surface. This wasn’t conspicuous consumption supported by a maxed-out credit card. This was a sign of solid wealth. Advertising sizzle apparently paid better than I knew.
The cooler air, combined with the railing’s smooth feel, soothed me. Tensions I’d carried since even befo
re the elevator incident drained out of my muscles. What a mess my life had become, that even that obnoxious incident seemed mostly an annoyance.
Leaning elbows on the railing, I looked out onto the Minneapolis-St. Paul night. Holiday’s penthouse was high enough that the view was rooftops and stars instead of the sides of buildings. Random fireworks burst in the air. Below me, streetlights blazed. The lamps were so distant they might have been stars.
What the heck was I doing here in Rich Man’s Canyon? Despite my runway looks, I was a hometown girl, raised in the small German-immigrant-settled city of Meiers Corners, Illinois. Ric Holiday’s rich penthouse and vast terrace made my tummy shimmy. If I hadn’t heard the desperation in Twyla’s voice, I’d have thought she’d reverted to another of her endless childhood pranks on me.
But she had been desperate, and I loved her like a sister. Besides, she invoked You Owe Me A Favor, calling due everything from when I’d borrowed her best suit for my med school interviews to covering for me the time I’d broken her Grandma Tafel’s reading glasses using them to magnify bugs. Although I put my foot down when Twyla added twenty years of interest. Favor interest, really. Everyone knows you have to call “Bank” or it doesn’t count.
Twyla was actually my second cousin, our grandmothers being sisters, although Meiers Corners was so insular I was related to half the population. If my father had been a native too, that percentage would have been higher.
But Twyla had a problem. Meiers Corners’s local economy was too local; the city was in danger of going bankrupt. The solution? Tourism. The single benefit of straitjacket insularity is that we’re steeped in local flavor. We have Quaint Local Shoppes coming out Ye Olde Sphincter.
So tourism seemed a natural fit, and was indeed working great, except for getting the word out. After all, tourism without tourists was, um…M.
Which was where Ric Holiday came in. Holiday Buzz International was the Número Uno ad shop for innovative campaigns. Holiday thought so outside the box that even circles were too square. Meiers Corners needed that desperately. We’re hard workers but tend to think right angles are the epitome of chic.
So Twyla, wearing her city admin hat, called Holiday. But he said no.
So the mayor called him. Holiday said no. Our chief of police called him. Holiday said no. The mayor’s secretary Heidi called, cracking her whip. Holiday said something unprintable that translated to no. Then our top lawyer and prime negotiator Julian Emerson called.
Holiday wouldn’t even speak to him.
Twyla said enough. Time to meet Holiday face to face, to find out what the sticking point was. Then she could apply either carrot (the mayor) or stick (Heidi) as necessary.
Time, Twyla said, to confront the lion in his den.
If she’d met lithe, tawny, forceful Ric Holiday in person, she couldn’t have gotten that any more right.
I fingered the expensive material of his suit coat. There was something untamed about him, sinewy strength barely civilized by suit and tie.
A bolt of lust sheared through me, so long and hard that I shuddered.
Which was of course when the French doors behind me opened.
“Here you are. Escaping the heat? I knew you were beautiful, but now I see you’re smart too.”
I spun to behold the owner of that deep voice. He’d changed into another suit, this one a charcoal gray that contrasted sharply with his azure eyes. In even those few moments I’d forgotten how handsome he was—so gorgeous he made my eyes hurt, my only excuse for blurting, “Did you know that seeing a good-looking person of the opposite sex makes the brain release dopamine which triggers pupil dilation?”
I slammed my stupid dopamine-dilated eyes shut. This was my opponent. I tugged his coat tighter, thought constricting thoughts, opened my eyes and tried again. “If I were smart, I wouldn’t have gotten my blouse torn.”
He glided closer. “The smartest move of all. Not your fault and yet effective, since you’re here to ask a favor. Visual aids are always useful in negotiations.” His eyes, sparkling with sensual intent, dipped to where his coat covered my cleavage. A smile, full of promise, curved his lips.
That wicked smile was a pilot light to the broiler of my body, igniting every cell, whoosh. I flushed hot, shivered with it.
But my brain wasn’t all that charmed. “Visual aids? Implying I should use sex to negotiate? That was beneath you.”
His smile pursed. “The bra isn’t a Temptress Siren Special? Retail $199. A thirty-six D unless I miss my guess, but a bit too small for you.” His eyebrows rose. “It’s not yours, is it?”
“I find it disturbing that you observed all that in a glance.” I’d thought his gaze had been on my face in the lobby.
“Good peripheral vision.” He quirked a grin. Devastatingly handsome morphed to boyishly attractive, actually even more devastating.
I squashed a groan. “Then what were you suggesting with the ‘visual aids’ crack?”
“My dear Synnove, I wasn’t suggesting anything. Merely observing.” He handed me a champagne flute. “Housekeeping is bringing you another blouse.”
I clamped the coat with one hand to accept the cut crystal with the other.
“And in observing, I find myself curious.” He sipped his champagne. “A beautiful woman from out of state attends my third annual Christmas-in-July house party, bearing a gift no less, but not because she wants something? I’m not sure I quite believe that.”
I sipped champagne too, ended up with my lips in my esophagus. The stuff was dry. “You invited me.” The words rasped like sandpaper. I coughed and tried again. “Do you always invite strangers to your house party?” Better.
“I’m in advertising. Even the people I know are strangers. But in this case, my admin handled the invites.”
Which reminded me that, though we were strangers, he’d named me on sight. I again opened my mouth to ask how the hell he knew, when he hit me with those startlingly blue eyes and drilled both question and oxygen from me.
He wedged his own question into the gap. “Why go to so much trouble to see me?”
It took a few quick breaths to pump up air for an incautious answer. “You’re a hard man to see.” Hard. I clutched my champagne and dredged my brain up from the gutter of my hormones. “You’re something of an enigma, Mr. Holiday. We want to negotiate, so we want to get to know you better.”
“We? I’m disappointed. I was so hoping this was about you.” Lean fingers slid under my chin, raising my face.
Our eyes collided. His sparkled with intelligence and confidence and a sexuality so blistering I couldn’t breathe. My body flooded with begging-for-sex estrogen. “M…me?”
“Yes. Your partners have sent the perfect leverage. The perfect female.” His voice deepened, husky. “You.”
“I’m…I’m not…” I cleared my throat.
He bent closer until his mouth hovered over mine. “You’re not perfect?” His breath heated my lips.
Desire arrowed straight through me, sudden and splashing and hot.
I jerked back, hitting railing. “Not female.”
“No?” Lips quirking, he straightened, giving me some space. “My mistake.”
I covered one hot cheek with a hand. “I mean… Of course I’m female. But I’m not generally this…” I waved the hand at my short skirt and high heels, “…feminine.” I forced myself to meet his eyes. “And I’m definitely not here in that capacity.”
His gaze held an amused twinkle. “The clothes are a bit at odds with your trimmed nails.” He caught my hand and held it in his. His thumb caressed the back of my hand.
The friction of his feather light stroking paralyzed me. But deep within me fires roused, as if I’d been asleep all my life and was waking at his touch. Heavens, was this what Sleeping Beauty felt at the Prince’s kiss? The fairy tales I’d been reading Teddy seemed anything but innocent now.
“You have competent hands. Strong but refined.” His thumb continued to stroke. “Are you a music
ian? Ah, no. A physician.”
He was pretty damned smart. Or he’d lied and his admin had vetted me. Which, come to think, was much more likely than his knowing the truth by touching my hand.
His thumb moved down, caressing my wrist. My paralysis dissolved into trembling.
A discreet knock at the French doors saved me from crumbling into a pile of Synnove-shaped dust.
Bonus, I got to see Holiday walk again. Mmm-hmm.
He spoke briefly with someone at the door and returned with a scrap of red cloth in his hand. “My apologies. This was all that could be found. Apparently the nearby stores are closed. I’ll hold your champagne and the coat.”
He exchanged the cloth for my glass and turned discreetly away. When I shook out the scrap it proved to be a cropped cami too small to cover one breast, much less all of me.
On the plus side it had a darling little teddy bear appliqué.
I snorted mentally in disgust. I was a doctor, wanting desperately to be taken seriously in spite of my looks. Yet here I was, contemplating donning spandex because some primordial feminine mote in me thought it was cute. Life will play its little jokes. “You expect me to wear this?”
Over his shoulder, he gave me yet another version of his smile, a self-deprecating quirk, before turning again. “I don’t expect you to wear anything. Pardon the double-entendre. But remember, you’re here to ask a favor of me. It might be easier for you if you’re clothed.”
“I’m not sure this counts as clothing.” I considered the charming yet far too small camisole. Holiday was right, this sexy little scrap might be our best bet to get him to agree to take us on as a client.
But despite Twyla’s costume high jinks, I don’t like using my looks to get my way. Life is unfair enough. I stuffed the top into a pocket. “The coat works for now. Look, Meiers Corners needs a creative ad firm. We need you.”