Sultry Pleasure

by Lindsay Evans

  “Aren’t you just the handsome metrosexual,” she said as she floated to him on a cloud of expensive perfume.

  Aliza kissed him on each cheek. She was dressed for a cocktail party. A clinging black dress with a plunging neckline and a fortune in diamonds draped around her neck.

  In direct contrast to his wife, Quentin Stanfield wore black slacks and a white button-down shirt. No cuff links. No tie. At fifty-seven, he was still a vigorous man. Neatly barbered hair frosted white at the temples with age. Clear ochre skin. Barrel-chested and tall, he looked more like a retired wrestler than a businessman. He exuded confidence and a good amount of bullishness. And that was just wearing his casual clothes.

  “Thank you,” he said in response to Aliza’s earlier comment. “I think. To hear you two talk, it’s like you haven’t seen me in years. This is how I always dress.”

  “Except when you’re at the office,” his father said.

  Which suddenly made Marcus realize that he usually saw his father in business settings. Either at the office or meeting up for a drink or dinner after work. Even Aliza, whom he had no reason to engage with on a business level, had often met with him and his father for after-work cocktails.

  His stepmother smiled. “Whatever the case, it’s good to have you here.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Yes, absolutely,” his father said. “It’s been much too long.”

  He slapped Marcus on the shoulder and steered him toward the bar, where he immediately started making scotch and soda with his fifteen-year-old single malt.

  “Aliza has been talking about you coming over for days. She’s been harassing the staff about making sure they had your favorites prepared for dinner.” His father looked over Marcus’s shoulder, and Marcus turned to see Aliza talking quietly with one of the maids, a young girl in a black-and-white uniform, complete with ruffled apron and pinned back hair. Something made Marcus think it had been Aliza’s idea for the maids to dress like extras from the movie Django.

  He cleared his throat. “That’s nice of her,” he said.

  Marcus had never known what to think about his father’s second wife. She seemed to alternate between ignoring him completely and fawning over him, treating him like the son she never had. That confusion made him not want to spend any time alone with her. Whenever she’d suggested dinner with just the two of them, he always declined. She blew too hot and cold for him to stand being in her company without a buffer.

  He took the drink his father made for him and sipped. It was strong. He put it to his lips again.

  “It’s good to have you here, son.” His father tasted his own drink. “I talked to my architect about the property in Baltree Heights. He has some really good ideas. The low-rise condo development is just the tip of the iceberg.” He looked at Marcus over his glass. “Everything is still on schedule, right?”

  “Of course. It’s just another deal, Dad.” They both knew Marcus’s history. Whatever deal he wanted and went after, he got. He was the ultimate closer, always with his eyes on the prize. “It’ll be done in a couple of weeks, at the latest.”

  “That’s what I like to hear.” His father slapped his shoulder again, looking very pleased with himself and with Marcus.

  They both turned from the bar at the sound of Aliza’s carrying voice, telling them that dinner was about to be served. His father shoved a hand in his pants pocket.

  “I’m very proud of you, son.” Quentin didn’t look at Marcus as he spoke, only glanced out into the room at his beautiful wife and the pair of maids emerging from the hidden door with covered platters of food. “If I had had a closer like you working for me, half the deals that fell through over the last few years would still be in my hand.” He slowly curled his fingers into a tight fist. “And if you weren’t such a success on your own, I’d convince you to come work for me.”

  Marcus smiled. “If my business wasn’t a success, you wouldn’t want me to work for you.”

  “Very true.”

  They both watched as Aliza made her way toward them. “What do I need to do to get you handsome men at this dinner table?” She put her hands on narrow hips.

  “All you have to do is ask one more time.” His father kissed his wife lightly on her bare shoulder. He looked back at Marcus. “Ready, son?”

  “Of course.” Marcus paused for only a moment before following his father and stepmother into the dining room.

  For the dinner, he anticipated a delicious gourmet meal, courtesy of the Michelin-star chef Aliza insisted on hiring for every dinner party. Marcus also expected a few roundabout attempts by his father to lure him over to his company, as well as banal, slightly stilted conversation with his stepmother.

  He wasn’t disappointed.

  Chapter 9

  As Marcus walked to his car from his high-rise office building, the wind whipped at his jacket and tie, flinging the silk tie so hard against his face that it stung. He’d only had to run in for a few minutes, so he’d parked on the street instead of the garage, where he would’ve been sheltered from the growing storm. Too late for regrets now.

  As he jogged to his car, he looked up at the overcast sky, dark in the aftermath of a midsummer rain, the clouds low and heavy with the promise of much more. He got into the Mercedes, started the engine and turned on the radio to check the weather. As if someone turned on a spigot, it began to rain bucketfuls, dropping onto the roof of his car in a relentless drumbeat.

  For the past four days, as it had rained on and off, the meteorologists and everyone who looked at the sky had been predicting a hurricane. He hoped they were wrong. But the air smelled like a fierce storm, the skies that particular shade of dark with an eerie light pouring through. And the rain. The rain was as unrelenting as it was sudden.

  The radio confirmed his worry. Expected wind speeds of nearly fifty miles per hour and the possibility of up to eight inches of rain. A tropical storm. Driving along the water, he noticed a few boats bobbing in Biscayne Bay, looking seriously in danger of being unmoored and swept away by the approaching storm. Days before, when he’d heard about the possibility of a hurricane, he’d secured his own boat. At the thought of the Dirty Diana, his mind wandered to the other Diana. The most definitely not Dirty Diana who had refused him almost a week before.

  He wanted to give her space. But he also wanted to be sure space was what she really wanted. The meteorologist interrupted the music again to warn people to stay off the roads and to stay home if possible, at least until daylight. He wondered if Diana would heed that warning.

  From what the receptionist at Building Bridges told him a few days ago, she was probably still at work. Marcus looked ahead to the on-ramp that would take him back home, then glanced further up toward 95 and Diana’s office. He made a sudden decision and kept going north.

  Maybe he was being stupid. Maybe he was chasing a woman who did not want to be caught. At least not by him. But he wanted to know for sure. Besides, a storm was coming. It would make him feel better to know she was safe.

  The rain was coming down even harder. A fierce wind howled through trees and alleyways, rain pounding down onto the roof of his car, his wipers batting furiously against the heavy downpour. Damn. He really hoped she was already home instead of working at the office or trying to drive in this.

  When he got there, he observed that her building was completely dark except for a single light shining through one of the downstairs windows. He parked close, then ran through the gate that had already been flung open by the wind and slammed in a frenetic rhythm against the fence. The rain soaked him in moments. His jacket and tie, shirt, slacks, skin. His Italian loafers were drenched.

  On the porch, he paused, taking a deep breath of air after his sprint from the car. The streets outside the building were completely deserted. Not even an intrepid teenager ran through the streets for a last-minute candy fix.

  Wiping the water from his face, he turned from the rain-battered streets and rang the bell. Waited. Rang it agai
n. No one came. On a whim, he pulled at the screen door. It opened silently without protest. So did the solid door leading inside the offices. He closed the door behind him, calling out Diana’s name.

  A single light from an inner office illuminated the otherwise darkened space. The building was a ghost town, the complete opposite of the last time he’d been there. The phones were silent. No footsteps hurried across the tiles. The receptionist’s desk was deserted, perfectly neat and tidy with only a set of business-card displays with the name and information of the staff of Building Bridges. Marcus picked up a card with Diana’s information and tucked it into his relatively dry inner jacket pocket. From the hallway he could hear the howling wind outside the house, heard the tap-tap-tap of a tree limb against the building, the squeak of the gate outside as the wind knocked it to and fro.

  He opened his mouth to call out Diana’s name again when a slender shape emerged from an open office door. Diana. She was looking down at a set of papers in her hands as she crossed the tile floor on bare feet. She worried her lower lip between her teeth as she read, not looking up until she almost bumped into him. When she saw him, she squeaked in surprise.

  “Oh, God!” She abruptly jerked back, eyes going wide as she recognized him. “Marcus! You scared the mess out of me!”

  “There’s a storm,” he said. “I came to check on you.”

  “You shouldn’t have bothered.” She pressed the papers she carried to her chest. “As you can see, I’m fine.”

  Yes, she was. Even with the storm raging outside and the possible danger of the building falling in on their heads, Marcus couldn’t help but notice how absolutely fine she looked. A plain white blouse draped over her elegant shoulders and the subtle rise of her breasts. The neatly tucked-in waist and flare of the pink and white floral skirt that ended barely half an inch above her knees. She looked like an ice-cream cone—cool and tempting. He wondered how she tasted. Marcus licked his lips at the thought, unable to stop himself from moving closer to her.

  “There’s a severe-weather advisory,” he said, finding himself talking in the language of the meteorologist he’d just listened to on the radio. “That means you should be home, not here.”

  “I’m as safe here as I would be at home. My house is not very far from here.” She raised an eyebrow, still holding the papers pressed to her chest. “As you very well know.”

  He didn’t bother apologizing for coming to her house that afternoon. He wasn’t sorry he had done it.

  Marcus shoved his hands in his pants pockets. “Why are you being so stubborn about staying here? You could be hurt.”

  “Nothing is wrong with this building. I’m perfectly safe.”

  A flash of lightning illuminated the north-facing windows for a moment. Then a boom of thunder sounded. Diana flinched and gripped the papers even tighter against her chest.

  “Come on.” Marcus made an executive decision. “Finish what you’re doing and get your things. I’ll take you home. I’ll follow you to your house in my car if you’re worried about being alone with me.”

  “I don’t have my car.” She said the words like a confession. “My brother has it.”

  The sound of a loud crash drowned out Marcus’s curse. A shrieking noise. The roof above them shook. Then the whole building shuddered as plaster showered down around them. Diana jumped and another squeak of surprise left her lips as her eyes flickered around the room.

  “Dang!” she muttered. “What was that?”

  “It sounded like lightning hitting a tree.” Marcus was quite familiar with the sound from when one of the giant banyan trees in his backyard had been struck a few years before. “Get your things. We’re leaving right now.”

  This time she didn’t argue. She ran in the direction she’d just come from and returned moments later with a large purse draped over her shoulder. Her feet were still bare.

  “Come!” He grabbed her hand and pulled her toward the door, then yanked it open. Rain whipped wildly around them, flinging horizontal sheets of warm water in their faces and all over their clothes. Another shrieking noise ripped through the air. Marcus looked up in time to see a tree falling across the porch, slamming down, long branches flailing, dirt flying up.

  “Diana!” He leaped back and pulled her with him toward the doorway and into the house.

  They barely avoided the tree’s crush. It sounded like a heavy groan, nature in agony as the tree crashed down into the porch, blocking their way to the gate and the car.

  “There’s another way out of the house!” Diana shouted. She tugged him away from the wreckage at the front door.

  He allowed her to pull him through the house and toward the back. Thunder slammed through the air again, a startling clap that propelled Diana straight into his arms. He held her for a moment while she trembled, unable to move. Then she took a breath and pulled away from him.

  “Sorry,” she said, trembling. “I’m not usually like this.”

  “I think you’re allowed at least one meltdown during times like these.” He kept his arm around her, scanning the rear of the house for the exit she mentioned. “You ready?”

  “Yes.”

  The storm lashed the windows. The winds howled and shrieked through the house. Diana trembled against him again as they moved quickly. She shivered as much from her wet clothes as her fear. Her clothes were plastered to her skin, her hair wet and curling up around her face. At the back door, they stopped. She pulled the door to open it, but nothing happened.

  “Dang it! Nora locked the door before she left and took the keys with her. The keys open this door and the bars on the other side.”

  Marcus stared at her in disbelief as the storm raged around them. “I bet she won’t do that again.”

  “No one likes a smart-ass,” she muttered, frantically rattling the knob of the locked door.

  Marcus looked back toward the front door and the impassible tree blocking their way. They had to get out of the house.

  “I’ll kick it open,” he said, getting ready to do just that.

  She put a hand on his shoulder. “No, you can’t. It’s one of those burglar-proof doors that you can’t kick through. And even if you got through that, there’s still the bars on the other side that won’t let the door fall open.”

  He looked at her, his pulse thundering in fear for them both. “Why do you work in a death trap?”

  Instead of waiting for her answer, he pulled her away from the door, fearing another tree or something else that might come flying into the building from one of the wide windows.

  “I think we’re stuck here for the night.” Diana turned and looked over her shoulder to the other side of the house, a faint tremor in her voice.

  Her words settled a hot awareness in the base of Marcus’s spine. The two of them alone. All night. He spoke past a suddenly dry throat. “Is there someplace we can wait out the storm?”

  “My office should be safe.”

  Lightning flared again. Thunder. Then the building went dark. Marcus couldn’t see two feet in front of his face.

  He cursed. “Just when I thought this couldn’t get any worse.”

  “Stop tempting fate then,” she said with bite. “Come on.”

  She stepped away from him, forcing him to drop his hands from her waist. But she took his hand and guided him toward the office at the south side of the building, tucked away under the stairs. He was forcefully aware of her hot palm against his. The rich, feminine scent of her close to him. His thumping heart.

  The rainstorm and his sudden awareness of their isolation acted on him like an aphrodisiac, sharpening his senses, making him even more aware of her as a woman, of himself as a man. He drew a steadying breath.

  As they stepped through her office door, Marcus’s eyes began to adjust. Diana released his hand and walked away. Immediately, he felt bereft, wanting to pull her back to him, kiss her. His pulse drummed in his throat. In his groin. Drowning in his ill-timed desire, he could just make out the vague outline
of her feminine shape in front of a closet door. Then a creaking groan broke the eerie silence of the room as she opened the door and stepped inside. She bumped into something.

  “Sugar!” she shouted.

  Marcus smiled in the dark, imagining her sweet mouth framing the improbable curse. “Why did you shout ‘sugar’ like a curse word?”

  “Because it’s better than the other thing I’m not going to say.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with cursing, you know,” Marcus said, glad for the distraction from his rising lust.

  “I’m sure there isn’t, but I just don’t do it. I got out of the habit when I was helping my mom raise my sister and brother.”

  He heard rustling and more bumps from the closet. After another curse on sugar, she emerged with a mound of bedding and pillows in her hands. Or at least that’s what he assumed she carried as she dumped them unceremoniously on the couch against the back wall. Slowly, his eyes were getting used to the dark, seeing details of the room instead of complete darkness.

  “Do you have any matches in there?” he asked. “Any candles?”

  Wordlessly, she moved in shades of dusk and dark toward the closet again, a slim wraith that captured his imagination and made his body want to move toward her. Watching her, the heat and hardness rose in him, a scorching and forceful tide. He tightened his jaw. A droplet of water slid down his nose. He shivered at that reminder of his other discomfort. With a low curse, he shrugged off his jacket and shirt. After a moment’s hesitation, he pulled off his pants, keeping on his underwear. Already, he felt more comfortable without the wet clothes pressing against his skin.

  “While you’re in there, can you check for towels, too? It’s cold as a priest’s balls out here.”

  Her muffled laughter floated toward him. “I won’t even ask how you know what temperature a priest’s…testicles are.” In moments, she emerged from the closet, holding a towel in one hand and a flashlight in the other. The light in her hand flickered on.