The bartender zipped back to the bar and presented him with a hand-designed bottle of vodka, decadently lined with green Swarovski crystals.
“The color of money,” Harvey noted. “Perfect.”
The bartender opened the bottle and poured him a shot. Accepting it, he heard the chime of the elevator and swiveled toward it. Announcing her entrance, he thought, noting how his heart pounded through his silk shirt. He had made an effort to dress up tonight. His darkest grey Italian suit paired with his glacial blue business shirt, unbuttoned at its spread collar—no tie.
He’d thought long and hard about his cuff links. He wanted something that made a statement as well as something that could easily be removed—if needed. He had settled on one of his favorites—navy blue lapis gemstones intricately crafted in an octagonal 14K white gold base with a whale flip-back enclosure. The perfect amount of bling for a man who struggled to leave his jeans and cowboy boots at home.
So when she stepped out of the elevator cab, he almost spit out his vodka. At first, he wasn’t certain it was her. It couldn’t be, he thought, as she strutted along the lounge’s illuminated floor in her low-cut pink blouse and tight leather skirt. But her distinct gait in those high-gloss black stiletto heels and back-seamed sheer black stockings made every head in the room turn toward her. The coincidence was too preposterous. Alma Castillo had her date tonight in his building at his bar lounge. He felt the need to mutter the famous Bogart line from Casablanca, but he held his tongue when her eyes fixed on him like she was seeing a ghost.
She quickly glanced away, pretending not to see him—at first. That was his strategy, too. But when she stood in the middle of the lounge, conspicuously waiting for someone to claim her—and he failed to do so—her pride eventually kicked in and she sauntered directly toward him.
“I should have known you’d be here,” she said dryly, taking a seat at the bar, deliberately keeping one vacant chair between them.
“Really?” he mused, pouring himself a second shot and watching how cool she played off the bizarre situation. “Why’s that?”
“Because my sister has a big mouth, and I’m certain she told you that I was meeting my date here tonight.” Placing her beaded clutch on the bar and dropping her guard, she pulled out a compact and freshened her lipstick as she had done a thousand times during their marriage. “And I know nothing would give you more pleasure than introducing yourself to him as my ex-husband.”
Before he had a chance to retort by citing the irony of how she was sexing herself up in front of him for the benefit of another man, she crossed her legs with a jangle. He lowered his gaze, first onto the lace garter band of her black stockings, peeking out from the high-slit of her leather skirt, then onto its back-seam drawing a seductive line along her calf down to her ankle—and the lavish ruby and diamond anklet encircling it.
For a brief moment, he almost didn’t recognize it, as if he was looking at a curious counterfeit, mesmerizing him with its similarities. Later, when he replayed the memory in his mind, he remembered every frame of it in slow motion—the sensuality of her sheer stockings, the plump curve of her calf, the tear-drop ruby pendants dangling from the diamond-encrusted anklet. Then he recalled deliberately altering the expression on his face, morphing his mouth from a cocky smirk to a serious gaze of contemplation as the realization sank into his consciousness: she was his Contessa.
There could possibly be one and only reaction:
Fuck.
Then he had a second, equally exasperating thought:
Conchita.
The perpetrator of the hoax flashed through his mind. She had recently handed off the phone number of a “friend” who, according to Conchita, was looking for something fun and casual—no names, no strings attached. He didn’t expect to ever call it. But in a moment of weakness, after the divorce had been finalized and the realization that he was no longer married to the love of his life burned deeply into his heart, he dialed it and she answered.
Why hadn’t they uncovered each other’s identity sooner? As Alma glanced at her wristwatch, anxiously waiting for another man to walk into the lounge and whisk her away from him, it seemed almost too impossible to believe. But she had changed her phone number after their divorce and he no longer had it. And after he purchased The Peoria, he decided he wanted a new business phone dedicated only to his building tenants and commercial contacts. Alma obviously didn’t realize he owned the building, and she certainly didn’t realize that she was ultimately waiting for him.
“You look nervous,” he finally said, clearing his throat and mentally discarding the script he had written and re-written in his mind for this exact moment. “I assume this is a first date?”
She shot him a glare. Even if she did look nervous, she silently warned him, she didn’t need him pointing it out. “I don’t think you should make any assumptions, Harvey.”
“Okay, second date,” he teased, dismissing her warning. She had left her glasses at home, allowing her dark penetrating eyes to fire imaginary bullets directly into his forehead. He hid his smile and secretly wondered how many bullets he could get her to fire.
“Actually, we’ve known each other for a while,” she declared, glancing over at the elevator cab, hoping for her immediate rescue. “We’ve talked and texted each other for weeks.”
Harvey grinned. He couldn’t help it. The way that she claimed to know “him” while not knowing he was sitting directly in front of her was both endearing and perversely entertaining.
“Sexting…I mean, texting each other for weeks,” he repeated. “Sounds like a very serious relationship.”
Sensing he was laughing at her, she straightened her posture, inadvertently enhancing how the neckline of her sheer pink blouse cut between the valley of her breasts. Harvey wasn’t sure, but he guessed she might be braless. Physically affected by the image of her—naked and at his mercy—his amusement quickly faded as he succumbed to his desires and adjusted his strategy.
“Okay, my fault. Let’s try this again.” He removed his suit coat and swung it across the back of his chair. Then he unfastened his lapis-studded cuff links and tossed them into the empty cigar tray on the bar. He hated business attire and its pretense of formality, and he wanted nothing more than to abandon their charade of fancy-pants phoniness.
“As usual, I’m being a jerk by putting you on the defensive when you shouldn’t be. You look amazing, Alma. Really stunning. Your hair, your makeup, that blouse and skirt and legs…absolutely dynamite.”
She glared at him sideways, noting as he casually rolled up his cuffs past his wrists. When she seemed certain he was genuinely complimenting her, she uncrossed her legs again and relaxed her shoulders with an audible sigh.
“You don’t look too bad, either,” she offered as a truce, her gaze falling onto his cuff links. “Those were always my favorite.”
“I know,” he said, remembering the exact moment he had chosen them for tonight. “C’mon, let me buy you a drink.” He nodded to the bartender to gain his attention.
“No—” she protested, “I can’t drink on an empty stomach. You know how much alcohol affects me. I’ll turn into a giddy impulsive schoolgirl.” Shifting in her chair, she attempted to adjust her leather skirt, as if she knew she was exposing more of her garter than she intended. Harvey pretended not to notice, hoping she would drop her guard and reveal even more.
“Yep, I know. But I like it when you’re a giddy impulsive school girl. And you know I’ll always try.” He shot her a sly smile. “Besides, I’m pretty sure you’re going to need something to get you through tonight. Andy, can you please bring a Lemon Drop for Miss Castillo.”
“Right away, Mr. Zale.”
Alma arched her eyebrow. “They know you by name here? Impressive. You must bring all your dates here.”
He waffled. “I’m sort of friends with the owner.”
“I see…” She clearly sensed he was holding back more than he should because she still knew him better
than anyone.
He deliberately changed the subject. “So, do you think he knows you’re allergic to shellfish?”
“Who?”
“Romero.”
“I’m sure there will be other things to eat.” She reached out for the appetizer menu and scanned through it.
“Saw shark soup?” Harvey offered.
Alma scrunched up her face and shook her head.
“Yeah, I expected a veto on that one.”
“But you got the drink right.” She unexpectedly laughed with relief as the bartender placed the glinting syrupy martini in front of her.
“I’ve had plenty of years of practice,” he answered, studying the way something so simple made her so happy. “You know…you’re really easy on the eyes when you smile.”
She flashed him a sassy “whatever” smirk over the rim of her martini. It was a corny comment, but he didn’t care. Cradling his cheek in his palm, he absorbed the relaxing effects of two vodka shots while she playfully licked the sugar-encrusted rim with her agile tongue. When she did things like that, she was easy on the eyes—and every other part of his body.
“How about the white truffle duck soufflé?” he proposed.
“Yum, that sounds delicious.” She shifted her attention back onto the menu. “Where is that?”
“Second to last choice.”
“Dear God!” she cried out, spotting its price. “One-hundred and thirty dollars?!”
Harvey waved away her horror. “Don’t worry. We’ll put it on Romero’s tab.”
He took the menu from her hands before she had the chance to flip it over and spot “Ballbuster” under the selection of cocktails. “You know, your date is going to be a lucky man tonight—if he actually has the balls to show up.” He glanced at his wristwatch. “So how late is he?”
“Eleven minutes,” she replied.
“Hmm, that’s a tough one.” He rubbed his freshly shaven chin pretending to be in serious contemplation. “He could have a valid reason. Or he could just be an asshole.”
She ignored him, opting instead to down the first half of her cocktail in an effort to shore up her waning confidence.
“But then again,” he continued, “I probably would get cold feet, too, if I spotted a drop-dead gorgeous woman like yourself waiting at the bar for a rough-around-the-edges joker like me.”
“We were married, Harvey. You spotted me all the time and you never got cold feet.”
“Touché. But I usually spotted you in morning, wearing bunny slipper and flannel pajamas.” He waved to the bartender to replace her cocktail. “That’s a little bit different than a leather skirt and garter stockings.” He raked his eyes over her wardrobe, indulging in its full effect. “But I still got you out of those pajamas whenever I wanted.”
Just like when they were sexting each other, he was testing her, pushing the boundaries, just to see if she would push back or let him tiptoe across them. She didn’t push back, but she didn’t encourage him either.
“I wore high heels on plenty of occasions while we were married.”
“And you hated every minute of it,” he said, noting how half her foot was slipped out of her heel.
“True,” she admitted. “Neither one of us were very comfortable at all those real estate hoity-toity networking galas.”
“Or your fancy-schmancy antique auctions,” he lobbed back. “Which is why I always dragged us to the local taquería afterwards.”
“To get me drunk on margarita mix,” Alma replied, sipping from the second martini served to her by the bartender, and savoring the relaxing effect.
Harvey leaned in, closing the distance between them. “No, it was always to fatten you up on pork carnitas.”
“With extra sour cream,” they both added in unison like an absurd comic routine.
“I never complained,” she said, crossing her legs and inadvertently showing off the anklet that he’d bought for some other nameless, faceless woman. Now, it seemed impossible to imagine it on anyone else except her. “It’s not like I’m a very high-maintenance girl, Harvey.”
He muted his smile. A low-maintenance girl with stratospheric expectations.
“No,” he conceded. “And it still is one of your best attributes.”
“Well, if my date does ever show up, please don’t tell me you’re going to hang around to hassle him.”
“I considered it.” He reached into his pocket and checked the time on his phone.
“Where’s your own date, anyway? I expected you to show up with an entire entourage of women.”
On cue, a strikingly beautiful Persian woman stepped out of the elevator. Harvey knew her well. She was a foreign diplomat at the Iranian Embassy and a regular guest of the CEO of a major airline company who was a current resident within The Peoria’s luxury suites. Harvey enjoyed having drinks with them. The CEO routinely offered to teach Harvey how to fly his private jet and she spoke six languages, all of which peppered her English with various accents.
“That’s my cue,” he announced, standing up from his chair and sliding his arms back through his suit coat. “Hey, Andy…can you please make sure that anything Miss Castillo eats or drinks goes on my tab.” He winked at her. “Just in case Romero forgets to bring his wallet.”
Alma frowned as he prepared to leave. He quickly sent a flurry of text messages, and her purse vibrated across the surface of the bar. But she failed to notice.
“Don’t forget your cuff links…” Scooping them into her palm, she moved forward to refasten them for him. Closing his eyes, he turned into her body, indulging in the scent of her perfume and the way her long dark hair whispered against his arm.
“Thank you,” he said softly, fixing his eyes on her own.
“You’re welcome,” she whispered, as if she wanted to say something more, but chose silence over vulnerability.
After a moment, he forced himself to pull away and cross over to the other end of the lounge. Like a masterful showman, he extravagantly greeted the exotic woman with kisses on both cheeks. She held out her bejeweled hands to embrace him like a lover. It was a scene everyone in the bar would notice, including her, he thought, feeling both ingenious and devious.
And after fifteen minutes of wining and dining with the Iranian diplomat in a private booth in the VIP section of the lounge, the only regret still lingering in Harvey’s heart was the fact that he had chosen the low road over high road—as he had so many times before. He could spin it different ways, ensuring the final judgement was always in his favor, but still, there was a nagging pang of doubt plaguing his own sense of peace. She always expected more from him and he always failed to deliver. It was the reason why she ultimately had divorced him, and it was the reason why she was willing to accept the advances of a stranger who seemed to offer her something he never had—dependability. In fact, the only thing consistent in their relationship was the fact that Harvey routinely disappointed her, choosing his own selfish needs over her own. It had been his fatal flaw, he reflected, especially the moment he finally glanced over to the end of the bar and processed the reality that Alma was gone.
Chapter Thirteen
It wouldn’t have been so bad if he didn’t flaunt it, Alma thought, as Harvey greeted his date at the far end of the lounge. Another Amazon princess.
Trying to numb her sense of inferiority, Alma slurped down the second martini the bartender had placed in front of her. She had been naïve to let Harvey flirt with her while he was simply killing time, waiting for his real date. But that was Harvey’s special talent—making Alma feel both eternally irresistible and utterly foolish. Bastard.
She glanced up at the clock. Sixteen minutes late. Then she realized she had failed to check her messages.
Renewed with hope, she rummaged through her purse and sighed with relief when she discovered his text:
Sorry I’m late. I’m definitely an asshole who doesn’t deserve you for making you wait… But if you accept my apology, I promise to make it up to you in
the Turkish Suite.
The Turkish Suite? Alma’s hands trembled. She hadn’t expected to accelerate things so quickly, or at least, not until she had a chance to meet him in a public place, face-to-face. She expected to be reassured—even masterfully seduced—by his charming conversation and natural swagger. Perhaps then she would allow herself to accept his offer to extend their night together in a more intimate setting. But that fantasy abruptly turned into dread which spiraled into a queasy sickness. God, how could she be so naïve? Naïve and foolish.
She knew how. It was the same reason she had allowed Harvey to shower her with attention, despite knowing nothing good would come of it. It made her feel like someone different. Someone she used to be, and someone she yearned to become again—a sexy, attractive, supremely desirable woman.
Before she had a chance to decide whether or not she would respond to his text or simply gather up her purse to leave, severing their relationship through her silence, a ridiculously handsome man in a waiter’s tuxedo approached her with a silver tray balanced on his hand.
“Good evening, Miss Contessa…I am here to deliver you this. It is his sincerest wish that you accept it.”
Realizing he was simply the messenger, Alma peered down at the shiny black keycard.
“For the Turkish Suite?” she asked.
“Yes, one of our finest,” the waiter replied. “Simply take the elevator up to the seventy-seventh floor. It’s a private penthouse suite. He’ll be there waiting for you.”
With his boyish charm and deferential gaze, it was hard not to trust him—or whoever was sending him. She took the keycard into her hands and nodded her thanks. Glancing in Harvey’s direction, she noted his familiar boisterous laughter, ricocheting off the frosted glass table tops. She looked away, unable to see exactly where he placed her hand on the exotic woman’s shoulder. She only knew another man had just arrived to their table, and she no longer wanted to wait around like the most awkward wallflower at a wedding reception, languishing in the corner.
Exes (Billionaire Romance #3) Page 13