Too Hot to Handle

by Chanta Rand

A deep voice suddenly filled the air in the small conference room. “I’m glad to see I’m not the only one Jewell barks orders at.”

  Jewell’s head snapped up to look at the intruding figure. One dusty boot was crossed over the other as he lounged in the doorway. An air of arrogance preceded him as his dark eyes bored self-assuredly into hers. Goosebumps tiptoed down her arms as she stared at her newest project. His long-sleeve, baby blue shirt and dark denim jeans hugged the contours of his chiseled frame. A tooth pick dangled precariously from his thick lips. She noticed he didn’t have the decency to remove his brown Stetson while indoors. Decidedly handsome, but he still had the manners of Borat.

  A discreet cough caught Jewell’s attention, and she noticed her staff staring with their mouths gaped open, so she stood and made the introductions. “Everyone, this is Mason Kincaid. Mason, meet my staff, Shayla, Clark, and Bree.”

  Mason stepped forward and shook hands with each person. “Pleased to meet you,” he said. Jewell watched to see if he’d learned anything from yesterday’s lesson. She didn’t hear any bones cracking, so she assumed he did it correctly.

  When Mason shook Bree’s hand, she looked into his eyes and breathlessly whispered, “Yes.”

  As Mason removed the toothpick, his dark brows stitched into a tapestry of confusion. “Excuse me? What was that?” he asked.

  Bree’s wide eyes raked over him like a fine toothed comb, not missing a single hair. “Yes, I will marry you.”

  Mason chuckled, rewarding Bree with a rare smile. “Sorry pretty lady, but I’m already spoken for.”

  Clark spoke up. “The good ones always are.”

  Jewell intervened. “Mason is Julia Rothchild’s fiancé. She hired me to help Mason with some…uh etiquette.”

  “From what I can see, not a damn thing needs correcting,” Bree observed.

  Mason shrugged. “That’s what I tried to tell Jewell, but she won’t listen to me either.”

  Jewell shook her head. Bree was one ally she couldn’t afford to lose to Mason. The woman could be pretty persuasive when she wanted.

  Even Shayla got in on the fun. “Portia Rothchild sure knows how to pick ‘em,” she murmured.

  “Okay, people,” Jewell prompted. “This meeting is over. We’re going to the cocktail party at Sam Kovack’s office. And Mason is going too, so I’ll need your help getting him dressed.”

  “With pleasure,” Bree purred.

  “Oh, joy,” Shayla retorted. “Another pretentious cocktail party. Sam Kovack is such a misogynist. And the rest of the attorneys at his firm are always looking down on us.”

  “None-the-less, he invited us. And since his office is only four floors above us, it would be rude not to show up,” Jewell advised.

  Clark interjected. “You know why it’s called a cocktail party, huh?”

  “Because it’s a party where cocktails are served.”

  “No,” he snickered. “It’s because the people who go to those events are hoping to get some cock or some tail afterward.”

  Both Bree and Mason laughed. But Jewell just rolled her eyes. “Clark, you’ve reached your dirty joke quota for the day. Give it a rest.”

  “I actually thought it was pretty funny,” Mason observed.

  She cut him a glance. “You would.” She noticed that he freely shared his smiles with the others, but rarely had one to offer her. Well, if he wanted her to result to ribald comments, he could just forget it.

  Shayla spoke up. “Mr. Kincaid isn’t dressed for a party.”

  “We’ve got that covered,” Jewell explained. “He brought a jacket and tie.” She turned to Mason again, and for the first time noticed he wasn’t holding the items she requested. Maybe he’d left them in his truck.

  “I don’t have a coat and tie,” he stated.

  Jewell’s mouth dropped open. She approached him and spoke softly for his ears only. “I thought I asked you to bring a coat and tie,” she whispered.

  He stared at her, his good-natured chuckle instantly vaporizing. “You didn’t ask. You told me. And I elected not to comply.”

  They stared at each other. His stern gaze silently challenged her. Feathery lashes framed the mysterious orbs that defiantly stared back at her. At first, she thought his eyes were black, but now realized they were the darkest brown rimmed with a gray border around the pupil. She’d never been good at staring contests; she was usually the first to blink. “You did this on purpose,” she accused.

  “Maybe. Maybe not. You left my house so fast you didn’t give me time to respond.”

  “Oh please,” Jewell argued. “Don’t act like you’re a victim. I can’t see anybody making you do something you don’t want to do – least of all me.”

  Mason snorted. “Especially you.”

  Jewell heard Clark clear his throat. “In case anyone was wondering, I do have an extra jacket,” he announced.

  He quickly stepped inside his office and returned with a dark coat encased in a thin sheet of plastic. “I had to pick up my brother’s dry cleaning on lunch.” He held it out toward Mason. “He’s about your size.”

  “But not nearly as handsome,” Bree offered.

  Jewell shot her a look.

  “Incredibly handsome,” Bree reiterated, not backing down.

  “Thanks,” Mason accepted the jacket, tearing the plastic off. “Nice,” he murmured.

  “It’s Hugo Boss,” Clark offered. “I hope that’s okay.”

  Jewell pursed her lips. She would bet her left eye tooth Mason had much nicer jackets at home – if only he’d bothered to bring them!

  Mason pulled the black jacket onto his chiseled torso. The fit was slightly snug, but it would work for an hour. It was amazing how a piece of clothing could quickly transform an individual. She’d told her clients the same thing a million times over, but seeing it happen with Mason gave her a strange sense of satisfaction. Clark lent Mason his tie, completing the outfit. She smirked. Maybe she could create a new look for her clients: Cowboy Chic.

  “You clean up quite nicely,” she told Mason as she adjusted the fat knot of his tie. Their eyes met and despite the warm temperature in the office, Jewell felt shivers of excitement prick her skin. Bree was right: Mason was incredibly handsome. But there was still the matter of that beard and she told him so.

  “Ain’t no way this mustache and beard is comin’ off,” he vowed.

  Make that ornery and incredibly handsome. “You’ll have to cut it at some point,” Jewell broke the news. “You can’t wear a full beard to your wedding.”

  “Why not?” He was back to growling again.

  She thought for a moment. She didn’t have a good answer for his question. All she knew was that clean-shaven was always best.

  “As long as there’s breath in my body, this beard stays.”

  Jewell had a few choice comebacks, but she decided to keep them to herself. A true strategist focused on winning the war, not necessarily each battle. All that mattered was that she got Mason ready by the date of the wedding. And nothing could keep her from that task.

  An hour later, Jewell was ready to bury Mason beneath the San Jacinto Monument. It was unbelievable that one man could do so much damage in such a short span of time. She swore the man was just vexing her on purpose to see how much she could handle. What started out as a respectable cocktail party had turned into a loud hoe-down, with Mason in the eye of the storm. For one, he refused to remove his hat. He looked ridiculous in a suit jacket with dusty jeans and a cowboy hat. Second, he refused to adhere to the two drink maximum. After his third drink, when she tactfully reminded him that he should consume no more than two cocktails, he sneered, ‘That’s a bunch of bull. If the drinks weren’t so watered down, three or four might work. But definitely not two drinks. Two is for lightweights that can’t hold their liquor!’ The fact that he said this loud enough for most of the room to hear didn’t help matters any.

  Third, he insisted someone ‘turn off this boring ass elevator music and liven up this
party.’ Jewell’s attempts to discreetly tug on the sleeve of his jacket were rewarded with skillful maneuvers Criss Angel would be proud of. Every time she approached Mason, he moved just beyond her grasp, craftily eluding her. She couldn’t call him out without making a scene, so she settled for glaring daggers at him from a distance.

  The last straw was when he insulted the host. When Sam Kovack invited him to play a few rounds of golf, Mason replied, ‘Nah, Sammy. Golf’s for sissies. But I can play a mean game of football.’ At one point, Jewell saw both men settle their argument by arm-wrestling. By that time, she was too weary to intervene. She just wanted to slink away and hide in a corner.

  When the party came to an end and she was finally able to pull him away, she was so mad she could barely speak. The two entered the elevator cab alone and rode it in silence back down to her office. When the elevator arrived at her floor and the doors opened, she stomped down the hall to her office and flung the door open before stepping inside. “That was a complete disaster!” she declared. “You acted like a beast in there. You can’t go around arm wrestling lawyers for God’s sake!”

  Mason pushed her up against a nearby desk, his palms flattened against the desk on both sides of her, trapping her in his muscular embrace. “You’re looking awfully pretty tonight, Ms. Davenport.”

  Jewell’s heart did a drum solo inside her chest. Mason was entirely too close to her. She could smell the sweet scent of rum on his breath when he spoke. His dark eyes were sensual and penetrating, silently holding her hostage with his gaze. She gasped as the hard lines of his body rubbed against hers. For a man who’d been bidding on heifers all day, he looked damn good!

  No, Jewell! You can’t fall for this man. Nip this in the bud – now.

  She said the first thing that came to mind. “I can’t abide by a drunkard, Mr. Kincaid.”

  Lips so full, she ached to touch them, curved into a crooked grin. “So a man’s gotta be drunk to tell you how good-lookin’ you are?”

  She should not be attracted to him. She shouldn’t be thinking of him in any other context except that of her client. No – her client’s husband-to-be. She looked him boldly in the eyes and said, “You don’t have to tell me how good-looking I am. I know it and I don’t need you to tell me.”

  One of his bushy eyebrows jumped into the air. “If I’d said that, you would have called me a cocky son-of-a-bitch.”

  She gave him a stiff smile. “If the shoe fits…”

  His eyes narrowed. “Yesterday you called me crude. Today, you call me cocky. Woman, you know you got a mean streak?” It seemed impossible, but he edged even closer to her, his body pinning hers against the desk.

  “What do you want from me?” she sneered. “You want me to stroke your ego?”

  “Nah, darlin’. I can think of other things that need strokin’.”

  Her body immediately responded; heat spiraled wildly through her and settled in the valley between her legs. Whatever he was trying to do, she planned to stop him in his tracks. “Don’t count on any additional stroking, Mason. And while we’re at it, you should know a proper gentleman doesn’t speak that way to a lady.”

  “And you should know the customer is always right. Now, how ‘bout whispering some sweet nothings in my ear?”

  “Hah! You want me to tell you that you’re smart and handsome?”

  “Wouldn’t hurt.”

  “Fine, then. You’re incredibly handsome. Are you happy now?”

  “Are you?” he snapped.

  Jewell swallowed. She had an itch to touch his beard and see just how soft it was. How would it feel against her skin? She had an instant vision of him softly rubbing that beard against her breasts. She closed her eyes to fight the feeling. Why was she so drawn to this ruffian? She refused to let him know how he affected her. She had the upper hand. She was in control. Her eyes flew open and she glared at him. “I’ll be happy when you move out of my personal space and stop treating me like a doe you just snared in your trap.”

  His dark eyes flashed with fire. His face was inches from hers. When he opened his mouth, she thought he would hurl another cynical retort at her. But he surprised her by crushing his lips against hers and ravaging her mouth. She shocked herself with her wanton response. She greedily accepted his mouth, giving in to her carnal curiosity. For days, she’d secretly wondered what he would taste like. And now she knew. And worst of all, she wasn’t disappointed. She kissed him back, pouring all her ardor into the kiss. Mason may have been rough around the edges, but his kiss was perfect, sending electric wires of excitement rippling through her body.

  Their tongues battled each other, each demanding submission – pulling, teasing, tugging, fondling. Jewell stroked his face, allowing her hands to finally touch the silken strands of his beard. She pressed her body against his, feeling the firm hint of his erection swell against the thin fabric of her dress. Caught up in the bruising kiss, she lost all sense of time. When she heard muffled voices in the hallway, she quickly pushed Mason away, fearing one of her staff would come through the door at any minute. Seconds later, the doors opened. Jewell put on her professional mask as Clark entered the office.

  “I thought I saw you come down,” he told Mason.

  “Yeah,” Mason grumbled. “I wanted to get this jacket back to you. Thanks, but it ain’t my style.”

  “No problem. Anytime you want to go shop for one, let me know.”

  Jewell had often pondered about Clark’s sexual orientation. Mason was fine enough for all genders to openly admire. Fine and talented. His kiss had left no doubt of that. And she had grinded shamefully against him, as if she’d never kissed a man. What the hell was wrong with her? Fornicating in public? Mason Kincaid had brought her down to his vulgar level.

  Once Mason had returned the jacket, Jewell hastily made her exit toward her own office. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” she breathlessly called, barely recognizing her own voice. “We’ll begin at six p.m.”

  “Make it seven,” Mason ordered. “And this time, you’re on my turf.”

  Before she could offer a rebuttal, he turned on his heel and walked off – but not before she saw his eyes slowly graze her body from head to toe.

  FOUR

  Mason watched Jewell’s slender fingers encircle the large globe in his library. She stood with the globe in one hand and spun it with the other. “And this is where Jordan is,” she said pointing to a tiny brown spot on the map.

  Mason sat in a nearby chair and squinted. “Doesn’t look like much.”

  “It’s a small country with a large impact. Their main exports are fertilizers and agricultural products. Their primary religion is Islam.”

  Mason watched Jewell’s mouth as she spoke. She wore bronze colored lipstick that shimmered in the light whenever she talked. She sure looked pretty in her orange silk pantsuit and high heeled sandals. The color looked good against her maple skin. He still remembered the taste of those lips. He hadn’t meant to get carried away in her office yesterday. She’d gotten him fired up by going off on him and all he could think about was silencing those lips. He’d only meant to shut her up and make her think twice about trying to “do him over.” He hadn’t expected that response from her – or himself. Truthfully, he was ashamed of his behavior. He had too much on the line to be tempted by her. Thankfully, Jewell had enough good taste for both of them. Today, she was back to her antagonistic behavior and she hadn’t mentioned the incident.

  “Do you always dress so formal?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Why? It’s just me. I’m easy to impress.”

  She smirked. “Do you see this globe? It has its own orbit – and it doesn’t revolve around you. I’m sorry to burst your bubble. But I don’t dress for you. I dress for me.”

  Mason hid his smile. He liked Jewell. He admired her grit and her honesty. She didn’t get flustered or act coy when he asked a question. It suddenly occurred to him that she knew a whole helluva a lot about him, but he didn’t know much
about her. “You got a man, Jewell?”

  One of her delicate eyebrows arched in surprise. “What does that have to do with anything?”

  Mason cut a glance at the globe. “What does this thing have to do with anything?”

  “I just happen to have the guest list for the wedding. Most people have already RSVP’d. Included is Princess Haya bint Al Hussein of Jordan. Do you know how to address a princess?”

  “Nope.” He yawned, already bored with the globe. “And I don’t wanna know either.”

  “Well, with an attitude like that, you don’t have to worry about anyone talking to you.” She spun the globe and her nimble fingers landed on France. “Of course, you’ll need to know all about France. Do you know the capital?”

  Mason shot her an amused look. “Portia’s mother, Vivienne can track her ancestors back to sixteenth century France. Don’t you think I know a thing or two about old Gay Pair-ee?”

  “With you, I can never be sure.”

  “I’m insulted. I can’t believe you think so lowly of me. Did you know I speak French?”

  “Really?” Her dark eyes sparkled with interest.

  “Yeah, you heard my French the other day.”

  Jewell pursed her lips. “Profanity does not qualify as French. I want you to take these lessons seriously, Mason.”

  “Why? Will there be a test afterward?”

  “Honey, your life is the test. Good luck!”

  ********

  Later, Jewell set up a wine tasting in his massive kitchen, complete with wine and several glasses. Mason watched her pull several bottles of wine from a portable cooler. “Seems like your bag of goodies is endless,” he remarked.

  She was adept at ignoring his sarcasm now. “At the reception, there will be a toast to the bride and groom,” she said, opening the first bottle of wine. “I’ve brought various types of wine for you to sample.”

  He leaned against the long kitchen counter. “I prefer beer.”

  “Too bad. These wines are all from Portia’s father’s private stock he keeps in his wine cellar. You’ll get to taste a number of flavors to see what you like best.”