Marrying the Manhattan Millionaire

by Braun, Jackie

  “You’re not that old,” he assured her, though the topic of biological clocks made Michael decidedly uncomfortable. “There’s still plenty of time for…well, you know.”

  “They’re called children,” she said dryly.

  “Right.” And he and Sam had wanted a couple of them, though they’d planned to wait a few years after marriage before starting their family. If things had worked out between them, would they be parents by now? Something soft and unfamiliar tugged at him, a yearning he didn’t quite understand and had never felt before. He cleared his throat and changed the subject.

  “Well, if you’re eating takeout at your office again tonight it sounds like you’ve got a long afternoon and evening ahead of you.” He reached over to filch one of her pretzels.

  She swatted his hand away. “I do. Very long. I should have brought a change of clothes for the little time I’ll have to sleep tonight before heading back to the office in the morning.”

  He snorted out a laugh. “I know the feeling. I’ve been living at Grafton Surry lately.”

  “Your social life must be as exciting as mine.” Her expression sobered, giving him the impression she regretted making such an admission. He, on the other hand, was ridiculously pleased. Not caring to examine why, he decided to goad her.

  “Is that a polite way of trying to find out if I have a significant other?”

  He expected Sam to take the bait and blow up. She didn’t. After taking a lengthy sip of cola, she instead turned toward him and boldly asked, “Well, do you? After the way you’ve kissed me twice now, I find myself wanting to know.”

  “No.” He shifted so he could place an elbow on the back of the park bench. The breeze caught her hair, tugging it this way and that. Before he could think better of it, he again reached over and tucked some of it behind one ear. The pad of his thumb lingered on her cheek. Her skin was so soft. He pulled his hand back. But it was too late. Now he had to know. “What about you? Any significant others?”

  She brushed some pretzel crumbs from her lap. “I think I just made it pretty clear that I’m not seriously involved with anyone.”

  Yes, she had. And, God help him, Michael liked knowing that. But now her use of the word seriously had him wondering. “Does that mean you’re casually involved with someone?”

  “At the moment, no.”

  At the moment. Another disturbing caveat that served up another helping of curiosity. Michael opened his mouth to seek further clarification only to have Sam shove a pretzel into it.

  Her dark eyes glittered with amusement and challenge when she said, “Unless you’re willing to go into detail about your romantic pursuits for the past seven years, I don’t think you want to ask me about mine.”

  “I suppose that’s fair,” Michael muttered. Though it didn’t make him any less curious.

  Sam rose to her feet and reached for the jacket she’d removed earlier. “Well, I should get back. The only thing I’m working on here is my tan.”

  He stood as well. “I got a chance to work on mine during the photo shoot in California.”

  “I noticed.” Sam’s smile twisted up his hormones. “See you later, Michael.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  WHETHER it was the result of winning the Addy, the loss of the Rawley account or spending time with Sam, during the past several weeks Michael had felt more energized and creative than he had in months, maybe even in years.

  He had an appointment with Sidney Dumont set for the following week to pitch his campaign. And it was a good thing, too, since the Herriman rumors had been confirmed in the current issue of Advertising Age.

  Around the corner from Michael’s apartment was a little market that offered a decent selection of meats, produce and freshly baked breads. He wasn’t much of a cook, but whenever he grew tired of takeout food and microwavable fare he stopped there on his way home from the office. That was the case on this Thursday evening. But after looking at a neatly trimmed porterhouse steak, he changed his mind.

  It was after eight o’clock and the idea of a heavy meal wasn’t all that appealing, especially if he not only had to cook it, but eat it alone.

  Of course, he didn’t have to eat alone. He didn’t have to be alone. He knew a couple of women who’d made it plain they’d welcome his advances. The one he wanted, though, was Sam, who was eager and reckless one minute and then every bit as cautious and restrained as he was the next.

  A habit, he’d called it after they’d kissed. He still hadn’t decided if it was the kind he would come to regret. Maybe it was time to find out.

  Sam did a double take after glancing through the security hole on her door. What was Michael doing outside? And why did he have to visit when she looked a mess? She’d worked late, as usual. Afterward, she’d felt too keyed up to go home, so she’d gone to the health club to work off excess energy, which she refused to believe might be sexual frustration. She’d overdone it a bit on the weight machines. Her quad muscles felt as if they’d just scaled Everest. So, for the past fifteen minutes, she’d been soaking in a hot bath complete with lavender-scented salts and lighted candles. She considered ignoring his knock and getting back to it, but in the end she pulled the lapels of her terry cloth robe together, sucked in a breath and opened the door.

  “I’m catching you at a bad time,” Michael said, sounding appropriately apologetic, even as his gaze slipped and his lips curved in male appreciation.

  “I was taking a bath,” she admitted.

  “With bubbles?”

  Memories of the things the pair of them used to do in the tub flooded back, but Sam maintained her poise and asked, “Is there any other kind?”

  His grin spread. “At last, something we agree on.”

  She shifted her weight to one foot. “What are you doing here at this time of night, Michael?”

  “Would you believe me if I said I was just passing by and decided to drop in?”

  “No.”

  “Okay, how about this. I wanted to see you.”

  The words had her flesh tingling, but she ignored the sensation. It was late, she was barely clothed, he looked like sin in a suit, and a bottle of wine was peeking from the top of the grocery bag he held. Sam could do the math. Even so, she asked, “Why?”

  Instead of answering her question, he coaxed, “Come on, Sam. Invite me in.”

  No. Sam definitely was not going to invite Michael into her apartment, especially while she was wearing nothing more than terry cloth and he was wearing that grin.

  But she heard herself say, “It depends on what you’ve got in the bag.”

  “You sure know how to put pressure on a guy,” he grumbled good-naturedly.

  “You’re in advertising, Michael. You’re used to pressure.”

  “I also know the value of presentation and doing research.” He reached into the bag and slowly extracted a loaf of bread. “Italian. Hard crust and made just this morning.” His tone was a seductive whisper that stroked each syllable. She found herself swallowing as he added, with a comical bob of his eyebrows, “Best of all, no additives or preservatives.”

  Sam folded her arms. “All right. Go on. You’ve got my attention.”

  He tucked the bread back inside and pulled out a package of herb-coated goat cheese. “This is not exactly low calorie, but you did say the other day that you indulge yourself now and again with ice cream. I figure this is worth a little indulgence, too.”

  “I’ve got nothing against treating myself on occasion,” she said with a careless shrug.

  “Good.” His gaze lingered on her lips for a moment. Then, with a flourish of his hand, he extracted the wine from the bag. “And the coup de grace, an award-winning Cabernet Franc that offers a succulent display of berries and silky tannins.”

  “Did you write the ad copy for that?”

  “Nope. I’m just a huge fan of the product.”

  “Medallion,” she said, glancing at the label. “I’ve heard of them. They’re in Michigan, right?”
>
  “Yes, and they took the gold at an international competition with this particular vintage.”

  “I can’t wait to try it.”

  “Does that mean you’re inviting me in?”

  Sam stepped back from the doorway and heaved a sigh, though she was feeling anything but resigned. “Why not? My bath is probably cold by now, anyway.”

  “Don’t be so gracious,” she heard him mutter.

  After handing Michael a corkscrew and acquainting him with her galley kitchen, Sam went to let the water out of the tub and blow out the candles. Then she changed into blue jeans and a fleece pullover. She resisted the urge to reapply her makeup or fuss with her hair, which had turned curly from the humidity. This was Michael. For six months before their wedding that wasn’t they’d lived together. Sam’s lease had been up and she’d spent most of her time at Michael’s anyway. He’d seen her without makeup or perfectly groomed hair on plenty of occasions.

  Sam slid her feet into the fuzzy slippers at the side of her bed and ignored the taunting inner voice that whispered, “He always claimed you were the most beautiful woman on the planet.”

  When she returned to her living room he was stalking around it. Energy. Michael had always had an endless supply. She’d appreciated that, too. At certain times more than others, she recalled now, as heat spiraled through her body. Fanning her face, she decided the fleece pullover was a bad idea. She felt too warm.

  And he looked positively hot. He’d shed his jacket along with his tie. The sleeves of his shirt were rolled up, as if he was eager to get down to some sort of business. Hmm.

  Sam cleared her throat. “Are you going to take a seat or would you rather wear a path in my Oriental rug?”

  Michael turned around quickly, looking a little startled. Then he went perfectly still.

  “Wh-what?”

  “You are the only woman I’ve ever known who looks as good dressed down as she does done up for a night out on the town.”

  His compliment warmed her far more than she wanted it to. Her heart thumped and then it began to ache as memories shifted to the forefront. To counteract her reaction she forced a note of flippancy into her tone and pointed to the food he’d laid out on a cutting board and placed in the center of her coffee table.

  “Flattery won’t get you as far as a little bit of goat cheese spread on a thin slice of that bread.”

  With a half smile, he got to work. When he handed her the bread he asked in a frightfully serious voice, “How far exactly do you want to go, Sam?”

  “The balcony,” Sam remarked, striving to keep her tone light. “It’s a nice night.” And she was feeling over-heated once again.

  After collecting her glass of wine, she exited the room through the pair of French doors on the far end. They opened to a tiny outdoor space lined with planter boxes that were empty at the moment, though she had plans to fill them with annuals soon. In the center stood a bistro table and chairs. She sat on one of the chairs, expecting Michael to take the other one and join her in the light that shone through the doors. He leaned against the railing instead, leaving his face in shadow.

  “That’s not what I meant, and you know it,” he said after taking a sip of his wine.

  Sam moistened her lips. “Can we talk about something else?”

  “Coward,” he said, but he changed the subject. “I like your apartment, by the way. The decor suits you far more than the furniture at your office does.” He tilted his head to one side. “Please tell me you didn’t pick out that desk.”

  “No. It was Sonya’s. The office was Sonya’s. She decorated it.”

  “And you’ve kept it exactly as it was. Why?”

  She shrugged. “It felt wrong to change things.”

  “Why?” he persisted.

  “You know why.”

  “I know you love your sister and that at one point the job you have was hers and so was the office. Both of them are yours now. They have been for seven years.”

  “I know exactly how long it’s been,” she snapped.

  “Sorry. Of course you do.”

  “Just so you know, I’m not rooted in the past. This apartment was hers before the accident, too. After I moved in I changed the window treatments and carpets, repainted the walls and furnished it to my taste.”

  Our taste, she thought, recalling their studio. She wondered if Michael had noticed that the couch was of the same sleek European styling as the one they’d picked out together.

  “But not your office, where, arguably you spend more time,” he said. “Are you afraid of what your father would say?”

  “No!” But the denial sounded forced, even to her own ears. Could that be the reason? She didn’t care to mull it over now. “Can we talk about something else, please?”

  “Fine. How about the Herriman account,” he asked as he stepped from the shadows.

  She blinked in surprise but kept her voice bland. “The Herriman account?”

  He chuckled and took the seat across from her. “Come on, Sam. It’s in Advertising Age. Are you telling me you don’t know they’re looking for new blood?”

  She allowed one side of her mouth to slide upward. “I might have heard something to that effect.”

  “Are you going for it?”

  She sniffed, vaguely insulted. “You have to ask?”

  Michael’s hearty laughter rang out into the night. “No. I figured as much. Of course, now that the news has been confirmed publicly, every advertising agency in Manhattan and beyond will be gunning for the account, too.”

  “I’m not afraid of a little competition. So, did you know about it beforehand?” she inquired.

  “I’ve been working on a campaign for weeks.”

  He looked awfully pleased with himself, which is why Sam said, “I have, too. Ever since Atlanta.”

  “Atlanta?” That brought him up short as she’d hoped it would.

  Sam said nothing. She ran the tip of one index finger around the rim of her wineglass and shrugged.

  “You’ve got a bit of a jump on me, then.” Michael let out a whistle.

  Straining to keep her smile in check, she inquired, “Are you worried?”

  “Maybe just a little. After all, I know what you’re capable of, Sam.” Though he said it in an offhanded manner, the compliment still warmed her. “But the race doesn’t always go to the swiftest.”

  “True. But I have no problem standing at the finish line waiting for the rest of the pack to catch up with me.”

  “Does that mean you’ve already met with Sidney Dumont?” he asked.

  She didn’t like having to say, “Not yet. I’m waiting to hear back from her.”

  Sam wished she hadn’t put it that way when he grinned. “She can be a bit eccentric when it comes to returning calls, but she did return mine. I’ve got an appointment on Monday, first thing. I’d offer to put in a good word for you, but that would be counterproductive.”

  “I don’t need a good word,” she said stiffly.

  “Of course you don’t. So, may the best ad exec win?” His brows lifted.

  “Yes, and I will.”

  His laughter was low. “Who knew that arrogance could be such a damned turn-on?”

  I did, Sam thought. Even at his cockiest, Michael had managed to get under her skin in a way no other man had ever managed to do. In fact, Michael was doing it now. She sipped her wine.

  “Why did you come here tonight, Michael? Surely it wasn’t to compare notes on the Herriman account?”

  “Do you want to compare notes?”

  “You know what I mean. So?”

  His cockiness vanished. For just a moment he appeared almost vulnerable, but then he stood and walked to the railing. Once again his face was obscured, making it hard for her to gauge his emotions, especially when he said in a conversational tone, “The other night I said kissing you had become a habit. Remember?”

  “Yes.”

  “Nothing about being with you is as mundane as a habit.”


  “Oh?” It came out a whisper. How she wished she could see his face since she didn’t have a clue where he was going with this conversation.

  “Uh-uh. It’s more lethal than that.” He huffed out a breath. “You’re like a damned addiction.” Finally he stepped into the light. The intensity of his gaze stole her breath, and that was before he said, “I want you.”

  Even as her heart thumped unsteadily and her pulse began to rev, Sam planned to be casual about his startling confession. But she botched the attempt by dropping her wineglass when she went to set it on the table. The wine splattered. The glass shattered. Michael’s expression never wavered.

  “I see we’re both on the same page,” he remarked dryly and lowered himself into the chair.

  Were they? She needed to be sure. “Define want.”

  His gaze turned molten. “I’d rather offer a demonstration.”

  “Michael, I’m being serious.”

  “So am I. I want you, Sam.” He snorted. “Do I really need to define the word for you?”

  She shook her head. “I guess not.”

  He waited a beat. “Got anything else to add?”

  She wanted him, too, though she couldn’t quite bring herself to say so. She still recalled the old hurt too vividly. Instead she said, “We had our chance.”

  “I know, Sam. I keep telling myself that. We came this close to forever.” He measured out an inch between his index finger and thumb. “Then we blew it.”

  We. Though Sam had preferred to blame him fully over the years, she nodded now. We. Yes, it had been a joint effort. She could have called Michael back or gone to see him. She could have tried harder to make him understand.

  The fact that she hadn’t had her whispering, “Maybe some things just aren’t meant to be.”

  “I’ve told myself that, too.” He scrubbed his hands down his face, looking weary suddenly, where a moment earlier he’d had the energy of a caged tiger. “Maybe that’s why I came back to New York, to prove it to myself.”

  His admission came as a newsflash. So, his uncertainty and lingering feelings for her weren’t recent.