by Zoe Chant
“Hello! Welcome to the Sinclair! Part of the Sinclair family of hotels! My name is Mary! What can I do for you today!”
Martin had no idea how to respond to that level of perky enthusiasm. He looked desperately at Tiffani.
She came to his rescue.
“Hi, Mary. I know it’s short notice, but our work thing is running into some serious overtime.” She rolled her eyes. “We’ll have to pick up some toothbrushes tonight. Could we go ahead and book a room?”
“Just one?”
“If it’s got double beds. The expense report’s going to be a nightmare already. Good luck making any money off this per diem, right, Martin?”
“Work!” Mary said brightly. “Can’t live with it, can’t live without it! Two keys or one!”
“Oh, one. We’ll be stuck together all day anyway.”
“Great! Room 1214! Credit card for one of you!”
Tiffani reached for her purse.
Martin, with his wallet just in his pocket, had a quicker draw.
“Thank you! Signature, please!”
He signed.
“Wonderful! Checkout is at eleven! Room service menus are by the phone! I hope you enjoy your stay at the Sinclair, part of the Sinclair family of hotels!”
“That,” Tiffani said in an undertone as they walked to the elevators, “was the fun kind of pretending. I should be a spy. Or, as Mary would say, I should be a spy!”
The brass elevator doors slid open.
They were the only ones there. Between the mirrored back wall and the shine of the doors, Martin was confronted by endless Tiffanis, carnival house of mirrors Tiffanis that glittered like diamonds or shone with an entrancing luster. Painted on the glass and metal, all the Tiffanis were visions of beauty.
And all of those reflections were only shadows of the gorgeous, warm woman who cast them.
And her, he could touch.
She saw him looking.
I would mind if you stopped, she’d said.
In the mirror, he could see the tumbled-down hair that had fallen loose from her bun. The loose strands looked like streaks of honey spilling down her neck.
He ran out of patience. He kissed her.
Her mouth was warm and sweet like caramel. He bent down to her and she rose up to him until they were caught in the middle, both of them depending on each other for balance. Tiffani’s hands found his shoulders like they were dancing.
The chime and shudder of the elevator reaching their floor shook them both. Tiffani pressed up against him, her head against his chest. She was so soft. He had knocked her hair clip askew.
Martin wanted her so badly that he fumbled the key card twice. Then Tiffani tried, but had no better luck.
She laced their fingers together.
“Next try works or we start undressing in the hall,” she said.
There was a soft click and the light on the lock turned green. Martin was almost disappointed.
But that feeling didn’t last more than a second. By the time the door closed behind them, he was already thinking about how her tanned skin would look against the cloud-white of the sheets. How the change in angle as she lay down would bring her amber teardrop necklace into the elegant hollow of her throat.
They kissed again. Maybe that was too polite a word for it. They were desperate for each other, with a heat he hadn’t thought possible. When the height difference became too much to grapple with, he simply picked her up and held her, her legs wrapped tightly around his waist, her ass cradled in his hands.
He wished he could have made love to her like that: standing, holding her up, just pushing up her skirt. Another time.
He unbuttoned her blouse, revealing an apricot silk bra with creamy lace. Luscious, but not as much as what was underneath, which was soon uncovered. He slid his tongue across one rose-colored nipple and felt it pebble underneath his touch. He moved further down to the sweet curve of her belly and kissed her navel.
He began to ease her skirt up but she shook her head. Breathless, she had to explain while panting. “No. It’s too long. I was trying to be so professional. Look at me now.”
He grazed his thumb across her belly. “You’re not on the clock.”
“What are we doing?” she said. “What is this?”
She undid a little latch at the top of her skirt and let it fall down to show a triangle of ivory underwear.
Tiffani continued, “Is this the sex we have because there was sort of a bomb and we’re so glad we’re still alive? Or do you just drive all women crazy?”
He couldn’t stand not being able to see all of her. She lifted up her hips as he slid her panties off. The curls between her legs was a crinkly light brown, the color of ash wood. He bent down and kissed her there, just on the cool skin right above where he could feel her heat and desire building.
“I’m glad we’re alive,” Martin said. “But that’s not why I’m here. And I don’t drive all women crazy.”
“That you know of,” Tiffani muttered.
He touched her cheek, his thumb resting against her strong, decisive chin. Her face was made for both smiles and defiance. She was made to keep going.
“I’m here because you glow.”
She looked at him, big brown eyes wide, and then surged up into his lap, fumbling at his tie, at his shirt buttons.
“Come on,” she said breathlessly. “Come on, please. Be mine. Be real for me—you feel like you have to be a dream.”
“You’re the dream,” Martin said.
He had smudged her lipstick. Her mouth was a blur of deep pink, her cheeks flushed. He’d never seen someone so all-over rose and gold. Her passion was a rare ornament. He had missed the slide of the amber teardrop entirely because, as a mere jewel, it couldn’t equal her glory.
Tiffani parted her legs.
Martin wanted to taste her but he also wanted to touch her: his head was a jumble of longings he couldn’t sort out. He kissed her mouth and put his hand between her legs, stroking into the hot softness of her. She was made out of living satin.
Tiffani held onto him. Her body tightened and tightened, like a bowstring drawing back. Then, with a cry, she called out his name and pressed up against him, her hips against his. The position knocked his hand away and she found her first climax with her slick, inviting folds poised against his cock.
She was beautiful, and he could have watched her come forever, but the tension was unbearable.
He took out one of the condoms. “Can I—?”
She nodded. All her hair was down around her shoulders now. She looked wild, like a Greek goddess springing up from the surf.
But all she said was, “Please. I want to feel you.”
Blood pounded in his ears. He rolled the condom on.
When he eased himself into her, she let out a deep, throaty moan, her hands digging into his back.
“It’s been so long... you feel so good, I didn’t know it could feel this good...”
He kissed her, recapturing the burnt sugar sweetness of her mouth. She spoke against his lips, an endless murmuring of yes and Martin. She was so alive, so responsive. He felt everything with her, as if he’d been stripped of all his protection and been left nothing but nerve endings and the beating of his heart.
No. He was nothing but the repetition of I love you, I love you, I love you thundering inside his chest.
He could not resist her for long, but she came again, just seconds before he did. There was a moment of perfect synchronicity, their bodies moving together as inseparable as drops of water in a river. It was like flying. It was better than flying.
Chapter Five: Tiffani
They had no time for afterglow.
Heedless, irresponsible, and as reckless as teenagers, they took it anyway. Five minutes, they agreed. It turned into ten.
Tiffani cuddled up under his arm. She stroked his chest with her hand. She liked the way her long, bare fingers looked against the hard muscles of his chest. Unlike him, she’d had good reason
to remove her wedding ring.
“You made me break a promise,” she murmured.
“That you’d have an entirely professional first day?”
“That I’d give up on strenuous exercise.”
He laughed and drummed his fingers against her shoulder. “Roll over onto your back.”
She did and he lowered himself down and kissed the curve of her belly.
“I love this spot right here,” Martin said. “Right above your navel. So you’re right. We’ll have to be more careful. Anything vigorous requires an immediate application of room service chocolate soufflé.”
“I think you may be overestimating how nice this hotel is.”
He grabbed a menu off the nightstand. “Room service... brownie sundae.”
“Not a bad compromise at all. But we really do have to—”
“I know, I know.”
“Not that I’m not tempted.”
Though she doubted she could have even started to explain just how tempted she really was. He couldn’t know what he did to her—but she had certainly done an embarrassingly good job of showing him, what with her going off like fireworks whenever he had so much as grazed her body with his, what with her admitting that he felt like a dream. Any other man would have bolted for the door after she’d said, “Be mine,” in her rush to feel him inside her. Not Martin.
And he had said that they would have to be careful. Would have to be—like they would be doing this again. Excitement made Tiffani’s toes curl.
She had gone a long time without much good luck, but this kind of passionate fling felt like exactly what she needed exactly when she needed it. As long as she didn’t lose her head.
Well, as long as she didn’t lose her head any further than sneaking off for a lunchtime quickie on her first day at a new job.
There was a bomb threat, she thought defensively as she buttoned up that ridiculously prim skirt of hers. I’m sure that excuses a little bit of self-indulgence.
Or six feet however many inches of self-indulgence.
Martin was still in bed, leaning against the headboard, looking at her with seemingly real regret as she donned each separate item of clothing.
He said, “I could read the dessert descriptions for you if you want to live vicariously.”
Tiffani laughed. “Please do. It’ll take me a minute to freshen up.”
“Brownie sundae,” Martin said. “My promise to you for later. A warm dark chocolate walnut brownie fresh out of the oven and topped with locally made French vanilla ice cream and a drizzle of sweet caramel sauce. Creamy New York cheesecake topped with cherries. Chocolate cheesecake with a rich Oreo crust, shavings of fine dark chocolate, and a dollop of homemade whipped cream. And... that’s it. It’s not much of a menu, two cheesecakes and a brownie sundae.”
“I don’t know that my willpower could have held out for another description, so it’s probably for the best.”
“Not if another description would have put you back in this bed,” Martin said.
Tiffani couldn’t keep from smiling at that, but she still shook her head. She was willing to be bold and take some chances—maybe even take more chances than a lot of people would think she should.
But this job was her shot at building a life of her own, and she couldn’t risk losing it. The world was mostly kind, but that didn’t mean it gave you unlimited chances, especially if you were the scandalous ex-trophy wife of one of the biggest white-collar criminals of the decade. No amount of temptation could have gotten her back in that bed, and the way she knew it was that Martin was still there and yet she wasn’t. Proof positive.
“Could I have your number?” she said.
Martin reached at once for the little pad of paper and pen on the nightstand. The speed at which he wrote out his phone number and handed it over to her was a nice compliment.
Tiffani folded up the slip of paper and slid it into her purse. She was under no illusions about what that purse might look like a few weeks from now, but in the first few days of her self-reinvention, it was still spick-and-span and impossible to lose things in. She could open it anytime she wanted and look down at that sheet of paper, a cozy promise of future happiness.
She walked to the side of the bed and leaned down to kiss him. No longer in the heat of the moment, she could take the time to note the clean smell of his aftershave, like cotton and seawater, and to feel the delicate bristle of his short hair under the palm of her hand. She lingered there.
And this was my quick exit.
“I’ll call you. You still owe me dessert.”
“Two kinds of cheesecake and a brownie sundae,” Martin promised. “And actually, I might see you this afternoon, if the trial goes forward at all today.”
She couldn’t pretend that she didn’t like the thought of him stationed in the corner of the room, even if it did mean she would have to proofread her pages a little more carefully before she turned them over to the judge. But she would have to restrain herself from asking him out again after the day wrapped up. She didn’t want to come on too strong.
And, even more importantly, she didn’t want to make a mistake. Not right now.
But she wouldn’t, right? She had this covered.
*
That afternoon, Tiffani was unflappable. The trial was postponed until tomorrow. She could have felt robbed of purpose, but instead she went about the backstage work of running a courtroom with the distinct feeling that she was glowing in a way no exfoliating scrub could have ever caused.
She felt like some sort of cheesy, earnest power ballad should have been playing as she walked through the halls of the courthouse. It wasn’t love, of course. (Right?) She couldn’t deny the champagne flutter of excitement in her belly at the prospect of seeing Martin again, though. No more than she couldn’t deny how pleasant her sore body felt after their lunchtime lovemaking.
But despite whatever quirk of chemistry or animal magnetism had caused such a spark between them, she was sure she could keep herself from getting carried away.
You’re telling yourself that often enough, anyway.
No. Her feet really were on the ground. She knew her worth and she knew exactly how unlikely it was that a man as great as Martin had really instantly fallen for her the way she had fallen for him. And it wasn’t like she wanted to completely upend her life before she had even finished putting it together, anyway, so what did it matter? She wanted something nice—she deserved something nice, dammit—and he wanted someone fun.
And that was what she was, wasn’t it? Fun, fun, fun. And never anything more than that.
But at the same time... her opinion of her own worth was a lot higher than it had been after she’d gotten that first talking-to from Judge McMillan.
Maybe I could have a little more to offer Martin than a good time.
With all that in mind, who had the time to be afraid of the big bad judge? He was just a cranky, narcissistic jerk whose biggest concern about the bomb threat was that it could have wrecked his chance at being part of such a big-deal trial. That thought gave her the confidence she needed to walk into Judge McMillan’s chambers when he called for her.
The judge had a glassy-eyed law clerk with him. The poor guy had clearly spent all day listening to his boss’s complaints.
“We can’t have any more of these interruptions!” McMillan said, as if they had personally called in the bomb threat.
“No, Your Honor,” the law clerk mumbled.
“This is not how I run my courtroom! Starting tomorrow, we are going to have an orderly, safe, uneventful trial, and the two of you are going to make sure that happens.”
Judge McMillan started going into great, mind-melting detail about his expectations of them.
Tiffani decided to just sit there and nod. She had Martin to think about to make this whole thing bearable. If the judge wanted to spend the afternoon ranting to her and his poor clerk about what all this meant for his career, that was fine with her.
She�
��d been married to Gordon for years. She knew how to tune someone out and still nod at just the right times.
Probably every trophy wife knows that. And doesn’t Martin deserve someone better?
That was the only time she felt her glossy, “yes, I’m listening” smile falter.
Luckily, it happened at exactly the right time for the judge to assume that this, like apparently everything else, was all about him: “Yes, I know, it would be catastrophic.” He drummed his fingers on his desk. “You know, Ms. Marcus, you might not be the worst possible fit for this trial.”
Didn’t he say the sweetest things?
“I’m glad you think so, Your Honor.”
“Well,” he said. He cleared his throat. “The two of you might be able to spend tonight doing nothing, but I can’t afford to. I’ll see you both in the morning, then. Bright and early.”
Thank God. Tiffani had rarely been so happy to leave a room.
To her surprise, McMillan’s clerk stopped her before she could leave the courthouse. He’d come jogging after her, even, his striped tie bouncing up and down against his chest.
“I just wanted to shake the hand of a fellow survivor of that conversation,” the clerk said. “If you could call it a conversation.”
Tiffani laughed. And since he really did stick his hand out, she shook it.
“I really don’t think it counts as a real conversation, no. I don’t think you got to say a word and—and he didn’t even introduce you! I’m Tiffani Marcus, the new court reporter who is apparently going to bring down civilization as we know it.”
“Now, don’t be so hard on yourself. Evidently you’re not the actual worst stenographer in the world. From him, that’s the highest possible praise.”
“I’m terrified that you might be right.”
“Oh, I’m right,” the clerk said grimly. “I’ve been with him for a few years now. Bruce Tompoulidis, by the way.”
“Nice to meet you. Good to know someone in there is going to be a friendly face.”
She turned to leave, but he spoke up again.
“Now that we’ve both escaped from hell but know we’re tragically doomed to go back to it in the morning, do you want to commiserate over a drink?”