Mr. Always & Forever

by Ashlee Price

  “How late?” she asks eagerly, dumping the box in the back of the trunk to stare up at me with hopeful eyes.

  It’s like looking at a puppy, dammit. Sometimes, saying no to her is incredibly hard.

  I wrinkle my nose as I concentrate on tomorrow’s diary. “There’s that party at nine. We don’t need to be there until five. Get to the office for three.”

  She gawks at me. “Seriously?”

  “Christ, Jessie, anyone would think I’m a slave driver.”

  It’s her turn to wrinkle her nose at me. “I never said that.”

  “No, but you’re not denying it, either.”

  A chuckle escapes her. “We’re just very busy, that’s all. When there’s work, there’s work, which is all for the good.” She shrugs. “But I certainly won’t complain about an afternoon start.”

  “What’s this about an afternoon start?” Dave asks, joining us with two overlarge and stuffed-full bags in his enormous paws.

  Jessie giggles—she has a huge crush on Dave. “Grazia’s decided to play nice and let us sleep in.”

  I roll my eyes at her antics. Not only does her voice sound so sugary sweet it’s a wonder Dave doesn’t catch diabetes by osmosis, but the way she’s pushing into him, swaying her body into his, well, either Dave is very, very dumb or completely uninterested.

  Though the man is a lighting and technical genius, I think it’s the former rather than the latter. Dave’s one of those salt-of-the-earth guys who have no idea when it comes to women.

  One of these days I’ll end up matchmaking, I know it. Because, hell, if I leave it up to these two, I’ll still be watching them giggle and guffaw at each other when I’m drawing my 401K.

  Shaking my head at my own ridiculousness, I open the minivan and climb behind the wheel. Lauren, Amanda, and William—the rest of my staff—all pop up, various containers in their hands. They stack them in the trunk while I check my email and wait for them to do their thing. They’ve all worked for me long enough to know the score, so I know I can take a breather while they organize the trunk.

  The content of my inbox is both a blessing and a curse. I started organizing events as a favor to an old sorority sister, who had more connections than brain synapses and couldn’t organize a party to save her life. Word slowly but surely spread after what can only be classed as an epic soiree one night until I’d accrued a reputation of my own. One that rivals some of the bigwig firms in the city.

  But it isn’t my passion. It pays the bills because my other love, fashion design, doesn’t.

  Every event I organize robs me of the time I need to hone my craft, which is in desperate need of honing, truth be told. It’s been a good six weeks since I actually sat down behind the sewing machine, and at least two weeks since I designed anything other than a seating plan for a party on my lists.

  Any hope that I can get some serious time behind the sewing machine tomorrow morning disappears at the sight of my inbox. My email boasts three more events: two definites from regular clients and then a third from no other than Marshall Levitt. Not that the email was written by him. God forbid. It was his PA, writing on his behalf. Somehow, I know the job is mine even though he’s requested an interview with me. Hell, I wouldn’t be surprised if Marshall has conjured up the whole thing simply as an excuse to work with me one-on-one.

  As big-headed as that sounds, you have to understand just who Marshall Levitt is. He gets what he wants. Tenacious as a bulldog with a string of sausages being wafted before his nose. In this case, I get the feeling I’m the knockwurst.

  Though the thought makes me grin, I shrug it off. I’m nobody’s sausage. Even if Marshall is attractive and one of New York’s most eligible bachelors, there’s a reason he’s earned that title—he’s perennially single. Undoubtedly, he wants it to stay that way, which means I’d only ever be a notch on his bedpost.

  Something that would never happen.

  With that reasoning, I can calm any qualms I might have about being at the focus of a billionaire tycoon’s attention.

  Yeah, right. If that’s true, why have butterflies suddenly taken residence in my belly?

  Shit, I hate lying to myself. It’s so damn pointless.

  “More events?” Jessie asks when there’s a lull in her flirting with Dave. She peers over my shoulder and nudges me from thoughts of tech entrepreneurs with more money than sense.

  I don’t bother to cover my PDA because usually she’s the one who wields it, and she does a far better job than me. “Yeah.” I pass her the phone and, realizing all my crew are in the van, stop idling and set off.

  Though it’s the early hours of the morning, the traffic is still bona fide nuts and requires far more concentration than it should. As I drive, the rest of the crew chats and discusses the event—for ‘discuss’, read ‘bitch about the partygoers’, and Christ, there’s so much to bitch about—and Jessie talks to me about the bookings we’ve just received. It’s a testament to how good we both are at our jobs that within a handful of minutes of reading the clients’ emails we’re discussing some of the finer details of the proposed parties.

  I know when she finally reaches Marshall Levitt’s email because she blows out a wolf whistle. Considering her mouth is pretty close to my ear, the sound has me jolting and almost swerving the car into the next lane in surprise. “What the fuck, Jessie!” I holler, getting the car back under control.

  “Oops.”

  Amanda whacks her on the arm. “Watch what you’re doing, Jess. Christ, are you trying to get us killed?”

  “I’m just surprised, that’s all!” she bursts out defensively. “I told you Levitt was looking at you like you were a piece of prime rib and he’d been vegan for too long.”

  Despite my irritation with her, I snicker. Then groan. “Don’t make me laugh. I’m too tired to laugh.” And I am. The weariness has settled into my bones until I know the only way forward is for me to climb into bed the instant I get home to sleep it off. There’ll be no sewing tonight. Nothing that nurtures my soul rather than my wallet.

  Before I can grumble anymore, Jessie pokes me in the arm. “Watch out for him, Grazia. I’m telling you, the way he looks at you isn’t right.”

  “Like the way you look at a certain guy is right?” I scoff.

  I only make the comment because I know the others are back in full-on bitch-fest mode. When she pokes me again, I chuckle. “Don’t bring that up,” she warns. “Especially not to keep me silent. You need to know this, Zia. He wants you.”

  There are worse things in life than to be wanted by a man like Marshall Levitt.

  Even though I’ve never been one to appreciate money and power over character and sensibilities, I have to admit that, while I’m not interested in anything close to a one-night-stand, there’s a rush in knowing such a powerful man is pulling strings to get me alone with him.

  I guess that rush tells me more than I’ve already figured—I must be attracted to the guy too, because I already know I’m not going to turn down his offer of employment. If anything, I’ll be there simply out of curiosity now.

  That conversation he wanted to have with me was obviously pretty important, and now, it’s almost imperative I find out just what it is he wants.

  As Jessie falls silent, concern obviously making her pensive, I let my mind wander onto exactly what a man like Marshall could want from me, and more importantly, what I’m willing to let a man like him take…

  Chapter Two – Grazia

  “Miss Fabiola, may I speak with you?”

  The low tone sends shivers down my spine. For the first time in my life, I can understand the simile: like silk over gravel. It’s soft, sensuous, yet with a rumble that is utterly masculine.

  Gulping at how attracted I am to the voice, I turn around and see a man I noticed watching me earlier. He’s tall and rangy, but with a strength that I know was forged on a school athletic field. In fact, with his dark wavy hair, sun-bronzed face complete with strong jaw, and nose that was probabl
y been broken during some game, he’s the epitome of the football players I’ve always crushed over but who have never, ever noticed me.

  I was a late bloomer—at least, that was what my Nonna used to say when I came home in tears at not having a boyfriend or angry that not a single one of my crushes liked me back. Seeing a man who appeals to both the young and older versions of me brings me back to the days when Nonna was still alive, and for that reason alone, I smile at him rather than casting a stern frown his way.

  Clients and guests sometimes think I’m free game. Like because I’m there organizing their party, I should reorganize them between the sheets.

  The guy holds out a hand. “I’m Levitt. Marshall Levitt.”

  I’d have to be a moron not to recognize the city’s latest hot commodity. And I’m not an idiot. He’s been in a couple of business magazines I subscribe to, and I’ve read the articles about his past. My supposition that he has the look of a football player is reinforced by a tidbit remember reading in one of those editorials. Not that much was mentioned about his past. I noticed that. When a question was geared towards his history, about the times that made him the man he is today, he managed to twist it around so that the only information his answer revealed was about current affairs and events.

  All told, I can’t deny that I admired his sneakiness.

  As well as him in a suit.

  Business journals don’t exactly have pinups on their covers all that often; they struck it rich the day they managed to get Levitt on their books, that’s for damn sure. I wouldn’t be surprised if women all over the planet, even those who didn’t give a damn about the business world’s movers and shakers, picked up copies just to drool over this guy.

  Holding out my hand in return, I’m jerked out of my reverie when he doesn’t shake it, but cups my fingers, turns my wrist and then raises it to his mouth. The instant his lips brush against the tender skin of my knuckles, a shiver runs down my spine. It’s the tickle of his soft mouth combined with the unexpectedness of the chivalrous and definitely outré move.

  I stare down at the top of his dark head and gulp. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Marshall.” I prefer not to stand on ceremony if I can help it, and in this case, I figure he’s definitely taken us down the rabbit hole with a greeting that belongs in a Cary Grant movie.

  If those are his moves, then that doubles his attraction.

  I’ve always been the sort of girl who prefers gentlemen to bad boys.

  “The pleasure’s all mine.”

  “You can call me Grazia. If you’d like,” I add on quickly. As far as I’m aware, there’s no reason for a man of Levitt’s caliber to need to speak to me unless it’s about business. And even then, I can’t imagine how I can be of help to him.

  I’m small fry. My business is good, solid, and I work with some of the city’s elite, but he’s corporate. From the tips of his hand-tooled leather shoes to the top of his three-hundred-dollar haircut.

  “I’d like,” he replies simply, and his smile about robs me of all air. His left front tooth is curved in just a tad, saving his mouth from the perfection that could describe the rest of him.

  I can feel myself gawking at him, staring at him in a shameful cloud of awe, as I’m left wondering what it would be like to feel those soft lips not just against my knuckles but against my mouth. To feel the pressure there, to taste him…

  The thought jerks me back to life and I tug my hand from his and try to shove on a professional smile. Whether I succeed or not is anyone’s guess. This man has thrown me for a loop, and that rarely happens.

  I could be pissed off about starting off in a position of weakness, but screw it. It’s been so long since I’ve been attracted to anyone that I’m almost relieved to feel my ovaries kick-starting into action.

  All work and no play has made Grazia a very dull girl.

  More than that, it’s made her a very horny one.

  “How can I help?” I ask, polite as can be as I try to get the situation back under control. Somehow that feels like an impossibility—controlled is not the way I’d describe myself at the moment. Flustered, definitely. In charge, nope.

  He shoves his hands into his pockets and does this odd shrug that has his hips jerking forward a little; maybe my mind’s in the gutter, or maybe it’s true, but I’m sure the move was made to make me look at his crotch.

  And damn, it worked.

  But even though I have my suspicions, when I look up at him, he appears neither interested or disinterested, amused or arrogantly aware that my gaze was most definitely fastened on that most masculine of his very luscious parts. Hell, I know my imagination is wild when a man shrugs and I immediately think he’s posturing to impress me.

  “Help…” He almost breathes the word, and his tone has me thinking of starlit nights and the moon’s rays pooling in a circle where the pair of us stand and I help divest him of his clothes. I’m close to shuddering when he continues, “I’ve seen you at several events now, and—”

  “You have?” I butt in, surprised that a man of his stature has bypassed my attention. I’m the one, after all, who handles the majority of the invitations, and it’s my job to know who’s who at any party I’m organizing.

  He waves a hand at my surprise. “The perks of my position. An invitation isn’t always a requirement to open doors.”

  On anyone else, the arrogant assertion would have pissed me right off. Instead, I know it to be the truth. He’s top dog in a city of top dogs… there’s no avoiding that reality. It is how it is, and ignoring it would be idiotic.

  I just wish I’d known. It would do my reputation good to have it known I’ve handled events for the most elite of the city’s elite.

  “Are you interested in my services?”

  The instant the words pop out, I wish I could recall them. His grin is wicked, and it sends thrills of excitement shooting through me. Why? Because there’s something honest about his attraction to me. And I like it.

  I don’t like games. I never have. I’ll run if there’s a whiff of having to play hard to get with any man. But here, I can tell that whatever he wants from me, he’ll be up front about it. Well, when he’s not teasing me.

  “Oh, I’m definitely interested in your services.” His eyes flare wide. “I’m just not wholly certain what the full range of those services is.”

  It’s my turn to grin. I purse my lips before it gets too wide though. He’s essentially doing what I just complained about—thinking that because I’m on the staff, I do anything, but I can tell there’s nothing sly going on here. His approach is open; we’re standing in the dining room where a dozen other people are talking and socializing, for God’s sake. There’s nothing underhand about this.

  “I have a website,” I mock. “GraziaFabiola.com. Everything I do is itemized on there. You can also find my contact details on the site. If my… services… appeal to you, then you’ll know where to get in touch with me.”

  “But I do prefer the personal touch, don’t you?” He moves closer, and rather than back off as I ought to, I angle into him, inadvertently making our positioning all that more intimate.

  Is it wrong that being more intimate with this man is the only thing on my mind?

  “Everything is very impersonal nowadays, isn’t it?” I concur, even though I know this is totally unprofessional and I should back off.

  Wondering what he’ll say by way of response, I’m consumed with disappointment when Deirdre, the hostess and my client, bustles up behind me and hisses, “Zia, where’s Charles?”

  Jerked from the intimacy of our conversation, I turn to her with a professional smile. “Probably where he always is, Deirdre.”

  She glowers at me, but the malice isn’t aimed my way but at her unsuspecting husband. “Why do we have these parties if he’s going to spend half his time in the den?” she grumbles mostly to herself.

  I can understand why she’s pissed. I’ve handled over half a dozen events for her, and each and every time, Cha
rles has slunk off to desk, leaving Deidre to work the room.

  I’d be pissed too, if I were her.

  “I’ll go and get him,” I tell her easily, then turn back to Levitt and feel disappointment flood me when I realize he’s no longer there…

  In fact, even two weeks on, I can still feel disappointment that our conversation was so rudely interrupted. The way he approached me could have meant one of two things; he was coming on to me, or he really needed my help with an event.

  If my female intuition isn’t totally rusty, then I’d say he was coming onto me. At least, I hope he was.

  It’s been a while since my bed saw any action, and with a man like Levitt between the sheets, I have no doubt ‘action’ would be an understatement.

  Shuddering at the thought, I take my shearing scissors and cut through the bolt of fabric in even strides. The sound of the cloth giving way is like music to my ears. When the piece is separate from the bolt, I lay it out on my work surface in front of me.

  My loft is split into three sections. The tiniest part is where I live. Even though the space is huge, I’ve made that part a studio. I sleep and eat, chill out and wash in one fifth of the available space. The other four-fifths belong to my events office—where Jessie also has a desk—and then my design studio.

  The latter part is my favorite. It’s here where I come up with my creations and do what I do best: fashion design.

  On the back wall, there are huge bolts of fabric in all different shades of brown and blue—they’re the colors I’m working with at the moment. Then there’s a work desk with a sewing machine, and another where I cut out the different patterns requisite to each design. I have another surface laden with different pots and boxes of buttons and decorations—everything from rhinestones to sequins. The rest of the room is dedicated to closets, each drowning with threads in hundreds of different colors as well as other bits and pieces that I sometimes need at a moment’s notice.

  Everything I do in here, I do alone. Not only is that how I prefer it, it’s also the only way to keep this affordable.