by Amelia Wilde
For another, I’m waiting on the outcome of something far more important than Peter’s lack of confidence in his own decisions. I make a mental note to review his performance after the next quarter, and then I let myself get back to the real task of the day: making contact with Kennedy.
I spent all day yesterday thinking about what to do with the scrap of information her friend gave me outside the car, when Kennedy was still so close I could practically smell the scent of her shampoo, my muscles tingling with the urge to reach into the car and drag her back out, rush her back to my penthouse on the Upper East Side, and—
My executive secretary, Dahlia, knocks gently on the door to my office. “I received confirmation on the delivery.”
“Thank you. If she calls, put her through.”
Dahlia narrows her eyes at me, pursing her lips. “Did you get into trouble over the weekend?”
I shake my head in a parody of disapproval. Dahlia has been with me since I graduated from college and started Hawke Entertainment, which has benefitted—heavily—from its association with my father. She enjoys a salary well above market rates, and I have a secretary who isn’t awestruck by the fact that my personal worth is well over a billion dollars. “That’s an awfully personal question.”
“Oh, stop. You never send anyone flowers.”
“It’s not like I can send anything else to someone’s office.”
“You could send chocolates.”
“There are still options on the table. But flowers seemed appropriate.” More than appropriate. Kennedy, who took convincing to even step onto the dance floor, will appreciate flowers. At least I hope she will.
“So what are you apologizing for?”
I look at her with narrowed eyes. “What makes you think I have something to apologize for?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” she says, tapping the side of her cheek and glancing up at the ceiling. “The endless parade of women you normally hit and quit while you’re traveling all over the globe?”
“Every single one of those women loved the time we spent together.”
“I’m sure they did. But they didn’t love it when you dropped them like hot potatoes. I’ve sent too many parting gifts, Gideon. I thought you weren’t going to start in on women in the city for a while.”
By “for a while,” Dahlia means ever. The last woman I took seriously in New York City was a mistake of colossal proportions, and we’re tiptoeing dangerously close to actually discussing her.
“It’s not like that.”
“You sure?”
“Don’t you have work to do?”
“Harwood from accounting has updated division reports. Thought you should know—they’ll be up shortly.”
“Thanks.”
Dahlia disappears back through the doorframe, and I stare at the phone like a lovesick teenager from the 1950s.
I’m not lovesick. Not in the least. I can’t stop thinking about Kennedy, but so what? She’s an adventure that I can’t pass up, and to ignore the way she’s making me feel—even now, a day and a half after meeting her—would be to go against my No. 1 cardinal rule: always have a good time.
Today, a good time includes sending her flowers.
Her friend looked at me for a long moment as we stood next to the open door of the waiting car. I’d leaned in and let my grin slide into a half smile that ladies fall for every time. “Do I deserve her number? I don’t know.” I raised one shoulder an inch in a languid shrug. “But I could tell by the look on her face that she didn’t want us to be interrupted, but you did it anyway. You should give me her number. As a favor. To her.”
The brunette had laughed out loud. “I don’t know how she’d feel about that. She’s very protective about private details.” I stopped myself from saying something dirty about private details and waited. “No, I don’t think she’d like for me to give you her number.”
I’d shaken my head, though my heart sank right down to the concrete beneath my shoes. I had other options, of course, but they would take time and be more difficult to explain if I did find her information another way, and—
“Leah! Come on! The champagne!” One of the other girls called through the door, and Leah turned and gave her a scolding look.
“I’ll be right there.” Then she fixed her dark eyes on me again. “I’m not going to give you her number, but I’ll give you a clue.”
“What is this, the third grade?”
“Take it or leave it, rich boy.” A playful grin stretched across her face.
“I’ll take it.” It was a struggle to keep my voice casual, because everything in me was being drawn toward Kennedy, like a shooting star being sucked into a planet’s orbit.
“Ruby Reservations.” Then she’d turned and climbed into the car, pulling the door shut behind her. As the car pulled away, I could hear the women cheering inside.
The phone on my desk rings, jolting me out of the memory. It’s a call from Dahlia’s desk.
“Yes?”
“I have a call from Kennedy Carlisle at Ruby Reservations on line one.”
9
Kennedy
The smooth “Gideon Hawke” that glides across the phone line to my ear is all it takes to make me tighten my grip on the handset and suck in my breath. He sounds as sexy as he did on Saturday night. I haven't been imagining that he has the most resonant voice I've ever heard, the sound curling sensually down my spine. For a heartbeat, hearing the sound of his voice turns my brain to mush.
Why the hell am I calling him?
One glance at the enormous and elaborate bouquet of flowers on my desk brings me back to reality.
“I don't have a huge desk,” I blurt out, bringing my free hand up to slap my forehead. Maybe I was a bit of a reckless goddess on Saturday night at the club, all done up in that dress from Leah and painted in darker makeup than I'd ever choose for myself, but in the light of day, I'm Kennedy Carlisle, awkward human-in-chief.
Gideon laughs, the sound low and liquid, like wax dripping from a molten candle. “How can that be? The Kennedy Carlisle I met at the club is probably the CEO of her own company.”
It's my turn to laugh, though it comes out more like a nervous giggle than the sexy, flirty sound I envisioned. “Not quite. I have my own office, but my desk isn't nearly large enough for this—this—” I don't know how to describe the creation sitting in front of me. It's gorgeous and must have cost him a fortune, a mix of wildflowers and roses that looks like it belongs in the center of the table at a celebrity wedding.
“Lovely gift?” Gideon offers the suggestion in that same sensual tone. It's not mocking, it's not teasing—he says it like it's the most obvious thing in the world.
“It is lovely. But what I can't understand is why you would send it to me.”
“Did I get the wrong office?”
“No, this is my office.”
“Is there another Kennedy Carlisle with unbelievable...” The pause is long enough for me to take a breath. “...red hair and intoxicating dance moves that I haven't been able to stop thinking about for over twenty-four hours?”
My entire chest floods warmly, and between my legs there's a growing heat and slickness that has me pressing my legs together tightly underneath the desk. “I'm sure there's another Kennedy Carlisle in the city.”
“But not one who was at Lavo on Saturday night, dancing with me and telling me about the things she dreams of doing?”
I can hardly breathe. My thoughts coil around themselves, my arms tingling with goosebumps at the memory of draping them over Gideon's shoulders, every single one of my nerves on fire thinking of the electricity charging rabidly between us, of his glittering green eyes tracing a path over the curves of my body, and of his gaze locking on mine so powerfully that I never wanted to look away.
I straighten my back, trying to think of him as another client, but that goes absolutely nowhere. When I can bring myself to speak, my voice is breathy and high and not at all what I want to sound like. �
��That was me.”
“Good. I wouldn't want to waste my efforts on the wrong woman.”
Efforts. Right. Somehow, Gideon Hawke’s found out where I worked between Saturday night—truly, the wee hours of Sunday morning—and now. “It must have been some effort. I don't remember telling you where I worked.” Although that earth-shattering connection between us was intense enough that I wouldn't be surprised if it had slipped my mind.
No. I remember every word Gideon said. I was only drunk on him that night.
“You didn't. I had to ask your friend.”
“Is that a thing among the wealthy? Asking for a person's workplace instead of her number?” I'd caught a fleeting glance of him standing outside the car, talking to Leah, but I was trapped between bridal party members who were busily trying to convince me that at the suite I could really cut loose, and by the time I managed to shut them down, Leah was climbing into the car, he was gone, and I'd resigned myself to having missed my chance to—
To what? Date a billionaire whose top priority is jet-setting across the globe and taking stupid risks with his life? That wouldn't work out.
Forgetting him was my best option.
Until these flowers showed up.
He laughs again, and my nipples harden at the sound. “Hardly. She wouldn't give me your number. She insisted that you were very private with your personal details. I got the impression she thought you wouldn't be happy with her if she gave out your phone number to the stranger you'd been dancing with all night.”
It brings a smile to my face. “That's Leah.” She's always trying to draw me out of my shell, always trying to tell me that relaxing a little won't end in a tragedy, but in the end she's also there to protect me. Even if I'm more than capable of avoiding potential danger all by myself.
“She gave me a single clue, which was 'Ruby Reservations.'“
I roll my eyes. “So she didn't have a problem telling you where I work.”
“A lesser man would have forgotten it by the end of the night. But there was no way I could forget you.” He breathes in deeply, and I desperately want to know where he is right now. His office, clearly, judging by the secretary who answered the call to what has to be his private line. But is he standing near the window, sunlight streaming over his dark hair, lighting up those deep green eyes? Or is he sitting behind a heavy mahogany desk, tapping his fingers against the surface?
I need control of this situation. Marina could walk in the door any second with a new client, and I can't linger on the line with this man, getting more wrapped up in his voice and the effect it’s having on me by the second. “Why did you send me flowers, Gideon? I know that Saturday night was as far as things are going to go. Don’t be sorry about it.”
Even as I say the words, a certain wild hope flames in my chest. My heart pounds rapidly. The silence seems to stretch on forever.
Then he breaks it, and I can hear a smile in his voice. “I think you’re wrong about that, Kennedy. I think we could go much farther.”
10
Gideon
Even Kennedy Carlisle can’t turn down the siren song of an upscale dinner date with a man like me, though it’s a near thing. I spend the rest of the week practicing a kind of restraint I don’t think I’ve ever had to use before. With every other woman—save one—it’s been easy to have Dahlia send them some kind of token gift and forget about them.
With Kennedy, it’s exactly the opposite.
I can’t stop thinking of things I’d like to send her. Understated jewelry that costs as much as some people’s rent costs for a year. More extravagant flower arrangements. I’d have one of my favorite restaurants cater her a surprise lunch, but we didn’t have time to discuss food preferences while I was trying not to strip her dress off in the club.
She’d answered my dare—and that’s what it was, a dare—at the end of the conversation with a breathless question, her voice catching. “How much farther?”
I’d been a little surprised that she was still on the phone. She seemed so cautious, so tentative, about the flowers, something in her voice betraying a sense of unease signaling that a quick hang-up would have fit better with what I knew of her. But she didn’t back down.
“I want to see you in the light of day.” I’d laughed. “That’s not quite accurate. The light of evening, let’s say.”
“You’re asking me out on a date?”
“I sent you flowers at your office. Did you think I wouldn’t ask you out on a date?”
She’d let out another shaky laugh. “I don’t know. I don’t normally dance with men like you at nightclubs. This is a little…out of my comfort zone.”
“Oh, but don’t you like it?”
Kennedy had pulled back then, like the innocent phrase had pricked at something inside her, and I felt the shift between us even over the phone. “I don’t know.” Her answer was stated in complete honesty.
There was nowhere to go but forward. “I want to know more about you, Kennedy. I know a place we can go to enjoy some excellent food. And privacy. Nothing like that nightclub.”
She’d paused for the barest breath. “When?”
“Friday night. I’ll pick you up at eight.”
“That doesn’t give me much time to shop,” she said, her voice suddenly bright, collected, cool. “I’ll be ready. Goodbye, Gideon.”
“Wait!”
“What?” Her voice came from far away, like she’d already started to hang up.
“I need your address.” Everything seemed to hang on this moment. She’d agreed to the date, but this was her out—this was her chance to say no. “And your phone number, in case…”
I didn’t fill in the blanks. I didn’t have to. Kennedy laughed. “Right. I got a little ahead of myself.” Then she’d rattled off an address in Sunnyside and a set of digits as I scrambled for a pen and scribbled it down on the corner of one of the memos on my desk. As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she ended the call with a soft click.
The rest of this week has been one intense daydream after the next, Kennedy filling my thoughts from the moment I wake up in the morning to the moment I fall asleep at night. Something about her energy—the way she holds herself back from the world, then musters up the courage to dip one toe in—I want to know what makes her that way. I want to know what it will take to break her out of the armor she hides rigidly behind.
And now’s my chance.
I lean against the Mercedes E-Class my driver picked out of my New York lineup, the vibrations from the engine purring against my back, and try not to look like an upper-class stalker outside Kennedy’s building. It’s completely unremarkable—a brick front, an arch over the doorway, four stories high—but I can’t take my eyes off of it. This is where she lives. And sleeps. And...
There’s a movement near the door that catches my eye. Kennedy steps out onto the sidewalk. My heart skips a beat.
She’s stunning.
The dress she’s wearing is black, but that’s all it has in common with the short, strapless number she was wearing at the club last weekend. This one is shining with a constellation of sequins, but the hem is nearly at her knees, her cleavage displayed tastefully by a halter neckline that’s in full view, her red hair coifed in an elegant twist at the back of her head. There’s a lot more dress, but the extra length suits her.
I want to see what that dress looks like crumpled up on the floor of my penthouse.
“Hi, Gideon.” She comes toward me with her posture straight, her chin held high, like she’s bracing for something—I don’t know what—to happen, a clutch purse tucked into one of her hands.
“You look…absolutely beautiful.” The sun is setting behind the buildings, casting a golden glow that makes her hair look like living fire. And she’s not made up to be the dark, mysterious creature that she was in the club—her friends must have done that for her. Instead, her makeup is understated and elegant, and for the first time I see the deep vulnerability rooted in her blue eyes. E
ven when she smiles up at me, blushing a little at the compliment, there’s a question behind her expression that I can’t decipher, and I can’t answer.
Yet.
I’m going to find out how.
I extend my hand to her, and when she puts her palm in mine, I feel that same exhilarating jolt I did when we were at the club, and Kennedy’s nipples rise to attention beneath her dress. She’s not wearing a bra. My cock twitches in my trousers.
“Shall we?”
A little shiver runs down her spine, and she shifts her gaze from my face to the car, tilting her head to the side. “Is your driver…qualified?”
It’s an odd question, but there’s no way in hell I’m going to tease her now, not when I’m about to get her in the car with me. “Of course. John has been with me since I was in high school. He was hand-selected by my father for his expert driving record.”
She squares her shoulders and takes a big breath in. “Then I’m ready to go.”
11
Kennedy
The sight of Gideon in a tailored suit, the long lines of his body leaning against a gleaming car that must cost a fortune, makes my entire body flush with heat and desire. And then—and then—I see his face change when he looks at me, his expression turning from a studied cool to an intense, deeply seated attraction.
Maybe this isn’t a one-time thing. I allow myself to think it once before he takes my hand in his, and at that moment, I never want him to let go. I’m all wound up, despite the fact that when I got home from work, I lay down on my bed, parted my legs wide, and let my fingers play with my clit until I’d earned myself one shuddering orgasm, all the while thinking of his face, of the way he moves, of the way he touches me and leaves a burning heat in his wake, and more, what he could do to me if I’d only let him.
Of course, he lets go of my hand once we’re seated in the back of the car, and air rushes back into my lungs. Which is a good thing, because the tension shoots back into my shoulders the instant the driver pulls away from the curb. And Gideon notices.