by Amelia Wilde
I laugh out loud, and it releases some of the tension that’s been building in my gut. “People ask you for money within minutes of meeting you?” I ask incredulously.
“If you have a reputation for being a wealthy bachelor, it usually doesn’t take a full minute.”
“That’s insane.”
“So is shouting at a man who solved one of your major problems. At least, I’m assuming that was a major problem, judging by how that woman sighed when I asked about your account.”
“I had my reasons.”
“Yes. And I want to hear all about them.” Weston’s eyes are deep, intense, and I don’t want to look away. “Why don’t you give the Rose a call and tell them you’re not available this evening after all?”
16
Weston
The evening turns the August heat into something more sultry than suffocating, but I’m still burning with anticipation waiting outside on the sidewalk for Juliet.
I still can’t believe she said yes.
I can’t say it’s a familiar feeling, being in disbelief about a woman agreeing to come out with me, and I can’t deny that it’s exhilarating. On another level, it’s darkly intriguing. Juliet isn’t toying with me. She has genuine reservations about almost everything we’ve done together, which isn’t much, admittedly—but every single encounter with her has had a major impact.
The minutes tick by. She said she’d be here at nine. She insisted on being dropped off at Anderson before anything else, and I saw in her eyes how torn she was about calling in to the Rose. If they give her any hassle, any at all, I’ll be the first to discreetly insist that they let this one occasion slide.
She could still decide not to show up.
Juliet is an enigma, and I’m dying to unravel some of the puzzle. She refused to exchange phone numbers, refused to let me send a driver to her place, and agreed to come on the condition that she could meet me on her own terms, using her own transportation.
If she’s changed her mind and is at the Rose right now....
A yellow taxi glides up to the curb, and my heart surges in my chest. I can make out the silhouette of a woman’s hair fixed in a low bun at the nape of her neck as she leans forward to pay the fare, swiping her card in the machine, tucking it back into her purse. Then she pushes open the door and steps out.
The moment her heel hits the curb, I’m sure that it’s Juliet, and I move as quickly as I can to the cab, offering her my hand.
She looks amazing.
Her eyes glitter up at me from the dark interior of the cab, and for once she doesn’t turn me down, putting her hand in mine and letting me help her out of the car.
I can hardly pick my jaw up from the ground.
She’s wearing black, like she was at the Rose, but this dress is somehow sexier, hugging her curves in an entirely different way. The dress she wore for work ended above her knees, wrapping around her thighs, but this one is floor-length with a long slit that gives me tantalizing peeks at the creamy flesh of her legs as she turns back, scanning the seat of the cab. “It’s good,” she says, and I close the door and tap the roof.
“I feel terrible.”
Juliet grins at me, like she’s already in on the joke. Maybe she is, for all I know. “And why’s that?”
“Because dinner isn’t enough for you in that dress. I should be taking you to an awards show. A movie premiere. Somewhere you can be seen on the red carpet.”
Juliet laughs, her red lips less vibrant than at the Rose, reminding me of the kind of expensive wine that glides so smoothly over your tongue that you can drink a whole bottle and never tire of it. “Nobody in the world is interested in seeing me on a red carpet.” Her eyes twinkle in the day’s fading light. “Except maybe you, Weston Grant.”
“I can’t be the only one. It’s impossible.” I offer her my arm, and she wraps her hand delicately around the crook of my elbow. Despite the fact that she kissed me with a ferocious passion this afternoon, my entire body thrills at her touch. I’m getting somewhere if she’s here and accepting any kind of help from me—even something as simple as my arm.
I lead her into the lobby, and we take the elevator to the penthouse restaurant. This is a Midtown gem that I try not to tell anyone about, because it’s the kind of atmosphere that’s completely spoiled by large crowds. As it stands, Skyline does business at a steady clip, and mostly with clientele like myself.
Juliet’s eyes light up when the waitress leads us through the space to our table. Everything is white, contrasting with the dark furnishings—white linen tablecloths, white runners on the floor—and all of it is meant to draw the eye outward, to the huge windows on the far side of the dining area that look out over Manhattan.
“I think you lied to me,” she says as soon as the hostess heads away from the table.
“I never have.”
“I’m underdressed for this restaurant.”
I can’t help but laugh at that. “You’re kidding. Every eye in the place was on you when we were walking over here.”
She gives me a disbelieving look. “How do you know they weren’t looking at you?”
“Because all the men staring in our direction aren’t interested in another man in a suit.”
Juliet shrugs. “You never know.”
“I know.”
We keep up this low chatter until the menus have been taken away and the first glasses of wine have been poured, and then Juliet lifts her glass to her lips. The sight of her lips curling over the edge of the glass are so tantalizing that it nearly stops my heart. I want them back on mine. I want her body back in my arms. I will myself to stay in my seat, to relax, to not let on that if she showed the slightest interest, I’d whisk her out of here and claim her in the backseat of my Town Car. “So,” she says, putting the glass down carefully on the table. “Let’s talk terms.”
I raise my eyebrows. “That’s what’s on your mind?”
“What else would be?”
“I’m thinking of a delicious few moments on the sidewalk outside of Overbrook.”
Juliet blushes a little. “It can’t all be fun and games.”
“Can’t it?” I look deeply into her eyes, and the corners of her mouth turn upward into a smile.
She takes in a breath, her cleavage peeking out over the low neckline of her dress. “Not all the time, no.” Juliet leans in, as if she’s going to reveal a secret to me. I brace for it. “I’d love to get this…issue of payment out of the way.”
I groan. “Trust me when I say that I don’t need you to pay me back.”
Her face turns serious. “Trust me when I say that I need to do this. I can’t accept a gift…a gift like that. It’s too much.” Her hand is pressed tightly against the tablecloth.
I counter, partly on instinct and partly because I’m not willing to lose this intensity, this energy between us. Not right now. “Give me the evening,” I tell Juliet, barely stifling the urge to reach out and take her hand. “Give me the evening, and then you can decide if that’s what you need…or if it’s something else.”
17
Juliet
I want to say yes to him. I want to say yes to everything that’s coming out of Weston Grant’s mouth, in spite of every instinct telling me not to, that it isn’t right, that I need to be self-sufficient. That I can’t reward a man like Weston for the way he’s built his fortune—stripping it right out of the palms of people like my dad.
I spent all afternoon on fire because of that kiss. No matter how many times I turn the memory over in my mind, I can’t decide which one of us it was that leaned in first. I’m beginning to think that there’s nobody to blame, exactly—that we both took advantage of the moment, of the fire burning between us.
I called the Rose and told Greg that something had come up.
“No problem, Juliet,” he’d said. “See you for tomorrow’s shift?”
“Of course.” I’d opened my mouth, ready to give him any number of excuses, but he’d ended the cal
l. It was almost too easy, but then again, I wouldn’t know much about ducking out of work shifts. I’ve never called in for anything since my first job at the ice cream shop in Lansing. My dad never would have endorsed anything like that, and I didn’t have to ask him to know. After a while, a strong work ethic became habit.
Then, the relief cascading over me like Weston’s hands on the curb, I’d drawn myself a bath.
The bath did nothing to cool the pulsing heat between my legs, or submerge the images of him to some space in my mind that wasn’t quite so front and center. The water caressing the folds of my pussy pushed me over the edge, and no matter how much I tried to convince myself that getting off to thoughts of him—to the real memory of his hands on my waist, on my back, on my cheek, of his lips on mine—would only add to this mistake, it wasn’t enough. I’d closed my eyes and spread my legs under the bubbles that were supposed to calm and soothe my mind, reaching down, seeking out my clit and rubbing it with two fingers in a familiar rhythm.
Picturing him.
And picturing us doing far more than what we’d done outside Overbrook.
Weston Grant, in a bedroom, the door locked firmly behind us, the sheets rumpled underneath us, no clothes separating us...
The orgasm left me so breathless that I went back for a second.
“It would be easy to give in,” I admit, forcing myself to meet his eyes. “But it’s—it’s very important to me that we discuss this.” He grins at me, leaning back in his seat. “Please.”
Something changes in his face at please, and he leans forward again. “Okay. What do you have in mind?”
I reach for my purse, tucked in the seat next to me, and pull out the sheet of paper on which I’ve written down some notes. It’s all based on the amount that Darla and I had discussed—a catch-up payment or two, plus a ballpark estimate of what a private aide might cost. I push it across the table toward Weston. “I’m not sure how well this matches up with—with what you paid earlier, but I should be perfectly capable of paying you back in installments with—”
“Oh, this doesn’t match up at all.” Weston glances over the numbers I’ve written on the sheet.
“It doesn’t? This is based on—this is what I owed Overbrook after an incident that happened a couple months ago with my apartment, and then the cost that Darla had mentioned for—”
“I didn’t pay for the overages.” He folds the paper back up and slides it back across the table. “I paid the entire bill. Well—” He tilts his head down toward the paper one last time. “She wouldn’t accept any payments past the month of February. For some reason.”
I stare at him across the table, the candles in the center flickering in tandem with the air currents in the room. There’s heat rushing to my face, and most of it is because I can’t believe I’ve been this stupid. “All right,” I say slowly. “So I owe you for all the Overbrook expenses…instead of Overbrook.”
“If you insist on looking at it that way.”
“I do.”
Weston’s mouth quirks into a smile. “Bottom line, Juliet James. What’s going to set your conscience at ease so I can seduce you?”
I laugh out loud, my thoughts creating a riot in my mind. “That’s a little forward, don’t you think?”
“Compared to the way you kissed me earlier?”
“I’ve been thinking about that.” I suck in a breath, trying to get myself under control. “And I don’t think I kissed you. I think you kissed me.”
“I think it was a mutual attraction so powerful that no human on earth could have resisted it. Not even you.”
His hands on my waist, his hands running down my spine....
“This isn’t who I am.” The words come out in a low whisper. It’s not like me to give in. It’s not like me to give up. So why does it keep happening with Weston Grant?
“Who are you?” He takes a sip of his wine, then puts the glass back in its place. “I’ve been waiting days to find out. I’ve been waiting nights. I’m losing sleep over you, Juliet.”
My heart beats so hard that it drowns out the low chatter in the restaurant, mutes the clinks of silverware on china. “You don’t think—you don’t think that’s a little crazy, losing sleep over a woman you’ve only met once?”
“Not at all.” Weston looks me dead in the eye. “Not when that woman is you.”
I let go of the numbers I’ve written on the paper. I let go of the pipe dream that I could pay Weston Grant back by February.
Almost.
“There’s one more thing.” He cocks his head to the side, waiting. I name a figure—one I’m certain will cover most of what he’s paid by February, with an option to extend payments until May if I can’t swing it.
But Weston is a businessman, and a wildly successful one. He’s never without a bargaining chip. “I’ll give you that option,” he concedes. “But only if you give me what I want.”
I can hardly get a breath in. “What do you want?”
“You.”
18
Weston
Juliet hesitates, her shoulders stiffening, and when she draws herself upright I can see the mask sliding into place. I can see her becoming the Juliet that she is at the Rose—accommodating, but cool and aloof in a way that makes her untouchable. But there’s a crack in her armor, and I saw it this afternoon.
I shouldn’t exploit it.
But I do.
I charge ahead, seizing the moment with both hands and gripping it as tightly as I can. “Let me into your life for two weeks.” That’s the gauntlet, but I’m not stupid enough to put it on the table without a sweetener. “At the end of two weeks, you can consider the payment deadline as the month of June.” It’s a month longer than she’s asking for. “Or you can consider your debt paid.”
The wheels in her head are spinning, and I can see the struggle written on her face. She doesn’t want to take my help, and she clearly has a problem with the way I do business, but I know enough about law school to know that the pressure is intense. If she didn’t have this weight hanging over her head, she might be able to reduce her number of shifts at the Rose. She might be able to spend more time focused on school and less on earning money to pay Overbrook—or me, as it stands now.
For Juliet, it’s not an easy choice.
I lean back, giving her another few inches to breathe. “You know, my earlier offer still stands.”
Her eyes are bright, laser-focused on mine. “What offer?”
“Take until the end of the meal, and then decide.”
Her shoulders relax a little. “I hate having these things up in the air.” She lifts her wine glass to her lips and takes another sip. “But in this case—”
“You know I’m right.”
“As much as it pains me to admit it.” She gives me a little grin. “Tell me something. Are you always this persistent with women?”
“I’m never this persistent with women.” Juliet laughs out loud. “Your uniqueness isn’t something I’m bringing up to flatter you. You’re actually one of a kind, Juliet James.”
“Are you always going to call me by my full name?”
“What else should I call you?”
“I don’t know.” She shrugs. “But now that you’ve wedged your way into my life, you probably don’t need to be quite so formal.”
“It does roll off the tongue.”
“You can thank my mother for that.”
“I’d like to thank her for more.” Her smile turns a little sad, and my heart sinks. Shit. “I’m sorry,” I say. “That was—that was out of line.”
“It’s all right.” Juliet takes a deep breath, but she doesn’t look away. “She died two years ago. Sometimes I forget and pick up my phone and try to call her.”
I let out a groan. “Now I feel like an asshole.”
“It’s really okay.” Juliet rolls her eyes. “She would have loved you. She always thought men like you were slick.”
“That’s high praise.”
&nb
sp; “Oh, I don’t know about that. She married my father.” Juliet laughs at her own joke, and the sound of it goes straight to my heart. “I’m kidding. My dad was quite the catch back in the day.”
“What’s the story with him? With Overbrook?”
Juliet sighs. “He’s—” She shakes her head, pressing her lips together. “He started showing signs of early onset dementia in his fifties, and then life added to his trouble. My mom died, and then six months ago, he was in a car accident that left him with a head injury. He hasn’t been the same since. His moods are so erratic, and—” Her chin quivers a little, but she quickly regains her composure. “That’s why a private aide will be a good thing for him.”
“Can I ask you a personal question?”
“Which one of these questions hasn’t been personal?” Juliet says it with a smile.
“A more personal question.”
“Why not?”
“Do you really think you have to do this alone?”
“Do what?”
“Arrange his care? Pay for his treatment? Go to law school….”
The waiter returns, delivering our perfectly plated meals. It hardly registers. I can’t take my eyes off Juliet—the soft lines of her cheeks, the curves of her body underneath her dress, the way her makeup is flawless but not overdone, making her eyes look huge and mysterious in the candlelight. She looks down at her plate for long enough to notice that my gaze is still fixed on her, and then she meets my eyes with another grin, wrinkling her nose. “Do I seem that lonely?”
“No, you seem—” I search for a word that won’t be offensive. “Independent.”
She laughs. “I don’t like asking for favors. My dad always said—” She laughs again, thinking of it. “I can still hear his voice in my head, but that shouldn’t be surprising considering he says it all the time, even now. He would always say, ‘chin up and get through it.’” Her eyes flick to the side, recalling some memory. “Any situation that came up, no matter how difficult—‘chin up and get through it.’”