Hot Sexy Desire

by Nadia Lee

  “What do you want me to do? Gnash my teeth, rush out and propose to the first unmarried woman I run into?”

  “Why not? I know your spiel about not having gotten over Tessa is bullshit, just something you use to bang chicks without making a commitment.”

  I forcibly relax every muscle in my body. I’m not discussing Tessa with Nicolas. “I couldn’t care less about the money. I make my own, and I’m very comfortable.”

  “You’re happy working?”

  “Sure. I like Dominic. He likes me. I enjoy my job. What’s to be unhappy about?”

  “You’re such a dick. You have no plans to cooperate, you greedy bastard, because you want all the money.”

  “Cooperate on what?”

  “On winning this together! I was going to propose that we split the estate fifty-fifty no matter who wins.”

  I rub my temples. It’s too early for this level of bullshit. I can’t drink for another eight hours at least. Actually longer, because there’s no way I’m drinking under the same roof as Kristen. I need all cylinders firing. “Nicolas, I would never agree to that—not with you anyway.”

  “What?”

  “You remember how you asked me to ‘spot you’ five grand a couple of years ago, promising to pay me back the next week, but never did?”

  “Don’t get petty over pocket change. That was just the one time—”

  “Five years ago, you promised to meet me for dinner to discuss some business venture you wanted to propose, but then stood me up, claiming you were up all night writing. After rescheduling, you stood me up again because you were supposedly up all night again working on a book that you said was going to win you a Pulitzer.”

  “Well, yes, but I really was tired—”

  “Seven years ago, you ‘borrowed’ my car—which, by the way, was only a month old—to impress a date, without my permission. Then you promptly crashed it on your way home and fled the scene.”

  “But Maman took care of that!”

  “You’ve demonstrated repeatedly over the years that you’re an unreliable flake who only cares about himself. So no. I won’t enter into any ‘agreement,’ and you’re more than welcome to get married and have a baby ASAP. I won’t stand in the way. I meant what I said about not caring about Papy’s money.”

  “Liar! You just want to fix things with Tessa, and you need the whole billion to do it!”

  “Shut the fuck up.”

  He gives me a probing look. “It isn’t like you to feign ignorance. You know she’s in L.A.”

  Maman already told me this, too. I stare back blandly, while he watches me like a bug under a microscope.

  “Eddie’s here too. I know you want to patch things up with him. He’ll forgive you if you make things right with his sweet little baby sister.” He sneers.

  I shake my head. I didn’t have this discussion with Maman yesterday, and I’m not having it with Nicolas today.

  “You know what? I don’t care,” he says.

  “You came all the way here to tell me that?”

  “I can get myself a rich woman. L.A. has plenty to spare, including one in particular I’ve got my eye on.”

  “Who?”

  “Kristen King.”

  “Don’t. She’s Dominic’s baby sister, and she’s not rich.” I say that almost out of habit, but the fact is that Dominic set up a five million-dollar trust for her, so she’ll never want for anything. That fact used to be a secret…until a couple of months ago when some asshole “entertainment reporter” found out about it somehow. “Not as rich as you want, anyway.”

  “So? If I get married, I’ll get the one point two billion.”

  I shoot Nicolas a look cold enough to freeze him. He stares back at me. It hits me that my cousin honestly doesn’t get it. He’s just driven by his own self-interest. “You can marry anybody you want, except her.”

  His eyes narrow. “Really.”

  Shit. That was a stupid ass error, but rectifiable. I crack my knuckles. “Unless you’d enjoy getting a nose job from Dr. Fist…”

  “Fucking Neanderthal.” He jumps to his feet and stalks away, slamming the door.

  I need a drink.

  Chapter Ten

  Kristen

  The morning meeting is extra stressful. Mainly because my coworkers keep staring at me, and I feel like I have something on my face or worse. And is somebody surreptitiously taking pictures of me, or is that just paranoia? But the worst of it all is that I feel like my coworkers should know me better than this. They should know what kind of person I am after working together for months.

  I used to enjoy my time at Lola, Inc. I also used to enjoy checking my social media accounts. But at the moment, what I am feeling is hunted. Vilified. Hated.

  Twitter hates me because I’m all those things they hate—I am apparently entitled, rich and have never lifted a finger in my life for anything. The Twitter mob is now calling me #PedHo. So mature. I took one look at the red bubble over the Facebook app icon and put my phone away. No good can come of looking at any of that stuff. I should just delete my accounts.

  When I return to my desk, I see a huge bouquet of red roses. Wow. They didn’t go away with the tabloid article. Is this Amour? He’s never sent me anything at work before. Besides, I thought maybe he was Mr. Naked Intruder from yesterday.

  I stare at the flowers. Normally, I’d smile…but today? It could be some kind of hate bomb and go off when I get in range. Weirder things have happened.

  I pluck the card in the bouquet. Warily.

  Cheer up.

  –Your Number One Admirer

  Huh. Maybe this is a brand new stalker. Amour has never, ever referred to himself as an “admirer,” number one or otherwise. Wonder why this freak decided to start now. Don’t stalkers go online these days?

  “Hi, Kristen.” Preston clears his throat, then does it again when I look at him. “Hate to do this…but I can’t throw out any mail.” He picks up four huge rubber band-bound stacks from his cart. “Hey, nice flowers. From your boyfriend?” he asks as he puts the bundles on my desk.

  I sigh. “No.” Antoine will send me some in the future, but at the moment he’s under the misguided impression that my blood relationship to Dominic is an impediment. I pick up the stacks of mail, feeling their weight, and try not to grit my teeth. I don’t want to see a dentist for cracked molars.

  Preston hands me a much thinner bundle.

  “Here. These seemed like they might be important.” His eyes grow intense. “Once people see what a lovely, wonderful person you are, they’re going to be sorry.”

  I flash him a small smile. “Thanks.” If more people shared his opinion about me being lovely and wonderful, I’d be set.

  “My pleasure.” He starts to reach out, as though he’s about to pat my hand, then catches himself and walks away.

  Just in case Preston made a mistake and put something important in with the junk, I go through the thicker stacks. Most of the notes and letters are ridiculous, over-the-top outpourings of anger, harassment, judgment and other bullshit. All because people think they know me based on a single tabloid article.

  Argh.

  I dump them into the trash bin next to my cubicle and glance at the clock on my desk. Almost lunchtime. Normally I’d eat with my coworkers, but now …what’s the point? My professional dreams are being ruined over something stupid…and not of my own making.

  I rummage through my desk drawers for my emergency stashes. Four packets of stale oyster crackers. Three crumbling fortune cookies. Ugh. Seriously? I swear I’m better provisioned than this.

  Then my hand brushes against the thing I’ve been looking for. Ta-da, a king-sized Snickers bar! I clutch it to my chest with a soft sigh. This should not only give me the little pick-me-up boost I need but enough calories to get through the rest of the day.

  “Put that down,” comes an unfamiliar voice.

  I look over my shoulder at one of the most fashionably dressed women I’ve ever seen…wh
ich is saying something, given that I work for a fashion designer.

  She’s tall and slim, with dark brown hair flowing in loose, artfully blown curls. The red sleeveless wrap dress she has on shows off her curves in their best light—high, pert breasts and rounded hips and ass. She isn’t classically beautiful. Her face is a bit too wide and round, her forehead slightly narrow and her nose a tad too short. But the confidence and “I’m hot” attitude she carries elevates her to someone you can’t look away from.

  “Do I know you?” I ask.

  “Jo Martinez. Your sister-in-law asked me to help.”

  “Oh. You’re the reinforcements.” I blink as a thought occurs. “How did you get in? We have very good security in the building.”

  “I know some people here.” She smiles.

  “My goodness, Jo! You didn’t tell me you were dropping by!”

  My mouth gapes open at the exuberant greeting from the usually aloof and mildly disdainful Lola. She’s the head of Lola, Inc., and the creative and design genius behind the brand. Her specialty is women’s fashion, and her motto is that there is no woman she can’t make beautiful with her clothes.

  And she’s living proof. Lola isn’t beautiful, and her body isn’t proportioned right. Her legs are too short for her torso, and her waist lacks the natural dip that gives a sexy silhouette to a woman’s body. But her bearing is regal, her thick brown hair in a complex crown of a bun. Her face is boldly cut in broad and slightly harsh strokes, and her lips look like they’ve been on a diet—thin and anemic. But she hasn’t bothered with injections or other drastic interventions. Those are for people who don’t understand how to work with what they’ve got. Lola uses makeup and accessories to highlight her cheekbones and gorgeous chocolate eyes and draw attention away from her mouth.

  Her dress—her own design—pushes her modest breasts up, then flares out around her lower thighs and gives her a lovely, curvy silhouette. She’s skinny by anybody’s standards, although she bemoans her “plump” body—probably plump compared to the models she uses—and always makes sure to showcase her fantastic calves and toenails.

  And right now, she’s enveloping Jo in a big hug, and Jo is hugging her back. It’s weird as heck. I’ve never seen Lola spread her arms so wide, except to tell a size-two model she’s going to look “yay big” on the runway unless she cuts all the carbs from her diet immediately.

  “Good to see you, Lola,” Jo says. “But I’m actually here for Kristen King.”

  “Is that so?” Lola turns to me, superficially interested. It’s worse than her pretending like she didn’t know what was going on in the meetings, with my coworkers treating me weird.

  “She’s a new client,” Jo adds.

  Lola nods. “She should know how to dress herself.”

  “Normally she’s fabulous, but you know how she was nearly attacked in her own home? The poor thing.” Jo puts a hand over her chest, while making a face so sympathetically heartfelt it should win an Oscar. “I’d probably hide in a safe house somewhere if it were to happen to me, but she’s so brave to continue with her life. It’s just that… Well, when she fled her place—it isn’t safe anymore, you know—she left her clothes behind. I told her I’d bring her some stuff so she could choose a few items.”

  “Oh, that’s awful.” Lola’s expression is suddenly full of sympathy as well. “I didn’t know it was that bad. Why didn’t you say something, Kristen?”

  I almost choke. Lola isn’t the type of boss you run to for a sympathetic ear. “It, uh, just seemed weird for me to bring such a private situation to work.”

  “Nonsense. We’re like one big family here. You know that.”

  “I’ll drop by your office after I’m finished with Kristen,” Jo says with a smile.

  “Do that.” Lola leaves with an air kiss.

  “You’re really friendly with her,” I say.

  “I helped her once or twice when she was new. People tend to remember you if you’re kind to them when they aren’t in a position to reciprocate.” She pulls an empty chair over from a desk next to mine and lowers her voice. “Now, Elizabeth tells me you’re trying to seduce a man. I love a good seduction, especially when clothes I recommend get to play a part.” She rubs her hands together and pulls out a huge binder labeled “Kristen King,” flipping it open to the first page. “Let’s see. This is what I’ve chosen for you. You can try them on, or you can trust my judgment. Elizabeth sent me your photos and measurements, so I knew exactly what you need.”

  I look at the lingerie and clothes she’s chosen. Holy cow. I couldn’t have done better. Lace, silk and satin in so many colors and designs. Then come the robes. So many robes. Every single one is designed to accidentally fall open. Many of them are sheer or pretty close.

  “See this one?” Jo points at a long ivory robe with her red-tipped finger. “If you stand in front of a light, he’ll be able to see the outline of your body. That’s why you need to hold off on that Snickers bar…at least until you’ve achieved your objective.

  “I also brought some day clothes because he’s going to see you in the morning. You need something feminine, sexy and empowering. Men who only like meek, helpless women simply are aren’t worth the effort, you know. Oh, and scented candles. You can’t do a seduction without those.” Jo reaches into her purse, pulls out a small jar and hands it to me. “What do you think?”

  I open the jar and take a whiff. It’s a blend of jasmine, honeysuckle and rose with a hint of vanilla, spice and musk. Not too heavy, not too cloying, but ultra feminine and alluring. “Wow.”

  Jo winks. “It’ll dazzle anyone.”

  “How much do I owe you for all this?” I ask, my mouth slightly dry. I’m pretty sure I’m not supposed to ask, but I’ve got to do some math to see how I’m going to pay for it. I loathe touching my brother’s money, including the trust he set up for me. He made his fortune on his own, and he’s done enough paying for my education and expenses during unpaid internships. If I continue to be dependent on him financially, nobody will ever see me as a woman in her own right, rather than a billionaire’s spoiled baby sister. And I’d rather die than be seen that way.

  “Don’t worry. It’s been taken care of,” Jo says.

  I make a face. “No way.” Jo’s expression remains bland. Liza, of course. I love her, but she shouldn’t have. “I still want to know how much it is.”

  “Darling, you can ask Elizabeth when she’s back from Bora Bora. My contract is with her, not you, so I can’t divulge such details. Discretion is critical when you have famous clients.” Jo stands. “I’ll have everything delivered to your brother’s penthouse. It should be there before COB. Good luck getting your man!”

  Chapter Eleven

  Kristen

  I watch Jo disappear into Lola’s office then pick up my phone and start texting Liza.

  You shouldn’t have! I’m certain Jo costs a fortune I’ll never be able to pay back.

  Liza responds, Of course I should have. I owe you tenfold for trusting me all those years.

  Oh, Liza. A lump suddenly forms in my throat. She and Dominic have always been in love, but when they separated, it took a decade before they rediscovered their love, and it almost cost both of them their lives. I’ve always known she’d never betray or hurt Dominic, and I guess she really appreciated that…even though it wasn’t a big deal. I just went with my gut.

  I trusted you because you’re a good person. And I didn’t do it expecting a payout, I type.

  You’re my baby sister now. I’ve always wanted one. Let me indulge you.

  Hmm. The whole baby sister thing is a lot more palatable coming from her. Thank you. And I love you.

  Love you too. Now go dazzle Antoine until he doesn’t know what hit him.

  I smile. Liza the matchmaker.

  Since the Snickers bar has been declared off limits, I go to the break room to see if there’s anything healthy in our vending machine. Ah ha. A cup of fruit chunks in gelatin looks great. I’ll get two
, actually. I don’t do well on low sugar.

  As I feed the machine my quarters, I hear an ear-piercing scream from behind me. I jump, then turn around, my heart pounding. “What?” I say.

  “Oh my God, oh my God!” A woman stares, one hand on her chest, and points. “A spider! So gross!”

  I squint. A teeny thing, about a quarter an inch long, scuttles on the floor. Bet it’s more scared of the woman than she is of it, especially with the ruckus she’s making.

  I grab a small paper cup and put it over the spider, so the woman can’t see it anymore. “There. Better?”

  Her sizable chest is still rising and falling rapidly. Up down, up down. She pants like mad, a tad too dramatically. “Yes.”

  I peer at her. Her long platinum hair is unbound and straight, almost reaching the small of her back. There’s subtle, artful makeup on her face, contouring it until her high, delicate cheekbones and pretty nose stand out. Her large, wide eyes are the color of the Nordic sea, and with a rosebud mouth, she looks like a doll. A well-made, premium doll. Fragile, too. And quite fashionable in an ice-blue silk dress that fits her like spray paint and a pair of sky-high heels. The accessories on her ears and throat are tasteful but expensive. Tiffany items.

  Is she a model? I dismiss the thought as quickly as it pops into my head. Lola likes her models extra leggy and extra tall. Although this woman has amazing legs—the exact pair I wish I had—she’s too short, even with those heels.

  “Thank you,” she says finally, punctuating it with a tittering laugh. “I don’t know what I would’ve done without you.”

  I smile, saying nothing, although I don’t know why she added that. If I hadn’t been in the room, she could’ve just left. The break room doesn’t even have a door. Nobody’s trapping her here, especially not the tiny spider.

  “I’m Kristen,” I say.

  “Tessa Maxim.”

  She smiles. It’s a nice smile, showing just enough of her straight white teeth to be open and friendly, but something about it is unsettling. Then it hits me. It’s the same kind of smile Liza often put on before reuniting with Dominic—graciously obligatory. Except Tessa’s is emptier and—incredibly enough—even more practiced.