Читать книгу Pleasure Under the Sun - Lindsay Evans - Страница 11

Chapter 2

Standing in her office was the most beautiful man Bailey had ever seen. Brown skin. A sinner’s mouth. A muscled body under a loose white T-shirt and designer jeans. From the top of his sharply barbered head to the tips of the square-toed leather shoes peeking out from under his jeans, he was absolutely perfect.

Bailey gripped his hand firmly and bit her cheek at the tingle that ran through her arm, the jolt of attraction.

“Have we met?” he asked. His voice was deep, rough, with a hint of an accent. He smiled then and his teeth were like a bright light against his deep golden skin.

Bailey said something in reply but she didn’t know what. This man was magnetic. She stepped away from him and put the shield of her desk between them, sinking into her chair with relief. What was wrong with her? She’d seen other attractive men before.

He arranged his lean length in the chair directly across from her and sipped the hot chocolate the receptionist, Celeste, had given him before she left. He stretched out his long legs before him, his gaze attentive, a smile crinkling the corners of his eyes. Damn, he was fine!

“Marcus told me you need help with asset management.” Bailey leaned forward on her desk, hands clasped. “What is it that I can do for you, Mr. Carmichael?”

Despite his attentive gaze, Seven Carmichael looked as if he wanted to talk about anything but the reason he was in her office. He took a leisurely sip from his mug, still watching her. Bailey remembered him, too. How could she forget?

Last night at Marcus’s party, she had been bored out of her mind, regretting her hasty decision to leave home for the questionable pleasures of whatever Marcus had to offer. But at home, she had felt pent up, confined by her relentless pursuit for partnership at the firm. Despite it being a weekend, she’d worked twelve hours that day alone. After only an hour at the party, she’d walked out to the dock of the mansion to get a glimpse of the bay and calm her mind before heading back to the soothing solitude of her Miami Beach condo.

The man on the deck of Marcus’s pretentious little boat had appeared overhead like a dream to the soundtrack of Janelle Monáe’s “Tightrope.” She’d never been one for wild behavior, but frustration at having to present herself as perfectly square partnership material and as a relentless worker bee had caused another side of her emerge in that moment. So Bailey had called out to him, flirted with him in a way that she wouldn’t normally have, especially if she’d known she was going to see him again.

“I want to reallocate some funds and set up local accounts,” Seven said. “But that’s not very important now.” He chuckled, white teeth flashing against his toffee skin. “It’s a small world, isn’t it?”

“Yes, very. Especially when you run in Marcus’s circles,” she said.

Her friendship with Marcus was good for business but hell on her personal life. He’d referred enough big-money clients her way that she’d be a fool to alienate him. At the same time, all the men she’d met through him, at least the ones she’d found attractive, turned out to be assholes, criminals or both. She clenched her teeth to keep the smile on her face.

“I just met him a couple of weeks ago.” Seven sat back in the chair and sipped from the black mug with the firm’s monogram on it, his amused and interested gaze devouring her from the small distance. “But I didn’t come here to talk about him.”

On the boat he had seemed distant, not just physically but emotionally, an unattainable dream safe to flirt with. But up close here in her office, he was all personal contact and heat. A danger. Especially since he was one of Marcus’s friends. Those guys, if they had money, were usually arrogant pigs who assumed their money could get them everything and everyone they wanted. If they were broke, they were parasitic hangers-on trying to jump from one well-fed fish to another. Her sister always said that was most men in Miami. Only Clive had been the exception. He had fit all her criteria but turned out to have fidelity issues.

“So what did you come in here to talk about, Mr. Carmichael?”

Seven chuckled again, another stomach-warming sound that made her want to sink deeper into her chair and hear it some more. “Call me Seven, please.” That smile of his played havoc with her senses. “I came in here to talk about my money, but suddenly that idea doesn’t sound as appealing, or urgent, as it did before.” He glanced around her office. “Are you free for dinner tonight? I’d love to take you out and get to know you in a more intimate setting.”

Yes. She wanted to say yes. But the reasons not to have dinner with him crowded in on her, forced other words past her lips.

“I’ve already eaten and I’ll be here all evening,” she said.

“I see.” His lips curved in a slow, sexy smile. He sipped again from the mug of hot chocolate, licking his mouth.

“So, for the reason you’re here....” Bailey prodded.

He nodded, gave another of his secret smiles and got down to business. As he spoke, Bailey sighed quietly with relief and took up her pen and pad to take notes. Seven finished his hot chocolate as they talked about his money, what he wanted to do with it, the possibility of him relocating to Miami and taking advantage of all the amenities Florida had to offer.

They didn’t talk again about anything personal, certainly not about how she’d like to see him again if only he wasn’t one of Marcus’s friends. At the end of their hour-long conversation, he signed the papers to make their financial relationship official, shaking her hand as he stood up to leave. She took his empty mug from him and gave him a cool nod.

“Have a good evening, Mr. Carmichael.”

“My name is Seven.” His hand was warm around hers, firm and solid, as Bailey briefly allowed herself to imagine his body would be. Thoughts were harmless. It was no big deal to picture this beautiful man without his shirt, imagining she would get the chance to prove she could handle him as she’d boasted the previous night while the wind and his presence blew her boredom away.

“Seven.” She said his name firmly.

He smiled with quiet satisfaction and turned for the door. Bailey couldn’t stop herself from watching his strut across the plush carpet, the dip in his stride, the subtle press of his butt against the loosely draped jeans.

“Thank you for your business,” she said, forcing her eyes up to his face. “Good luck with your relocation in Miami.”

“Thank you, Bailey.” Her name was a tease on his mouth.

He walked out of her office, leaving the door slightly ajar. She moved to close it but paused with the door handle in her fist, head low as she listened to his slow footsteps down the hall toward the lobby and Celeste’s desk. Despite his heavy, potent masculinity, his stride across the marble floors was like a dancer’s, light and graceful. Unhurried. She wondered if the way he walked was the same way he made love. Bailey shook herself, swallowing thickly. No use in dwelling on that. She closed the door and tried to put him out of her mind.

* * *

The phone abruptly rang, jolting Bailey’s attention from her computer screen. She looked at her watch. It was 7:18. Celeste was long gone and, Bailey guessed, so were the partners and her assistant. Bailey looked at the number ringing through on the desk. It was an unfamiliar one.

She picked up the phone. “Yes?”

“What happened to your lovely island receptionist? She doesn’t keep the same hours you do?”

Bailey took off her glasses, annoyed at herself for the leap in her belly at the sound of the Seven Carmichael’s voice. “No one keeps the same hours as I do,” she said dryly. “What can I do for you?”

“Well, you can start by having dinner with me.”

Persistent, aren’t you? A fraction of a smile touched her mouth. “I told you, I’m working for the rest of the night then I’m going home to my bed.” Under her, the chair squeaked faintly as she leaned back away from her desk, turning to look out the window.

Night had settled around the building, flaring diamonds of light from the high-rises below and on the bridge marching over Biscayne Bay. Miami glittered with its particular beauty, tacky and gorgeous at the same time.

“There’s a saying about Mohammed and the mountain I won’t quote to you, but you get the idea.” His voice was rich with amusement, echoing oddly through the phone.

The faint sound of footsteps tilted her ear toward the hallway, an echo of what came through the phone earpiece. Someone knocked on her door. Then it opened, revealing Seven Carmichael.

“Will you call the police if I come in?”

He stood in the doorway with a picnic basket in his hand, an iPhone to his ear. He looked even better this time around with the white shirt wilted around his body from the spring heat, draping across his muscular chest like a lover’s promise. The scent of hot, spiced meat and fresh bread came to her nose from his basket.

“I promise this isn’t anything more sinister than dinner.” He took the phone away from his ear and gave her a thoroughly unapologetic grin.

In that moment, Bailey was aware that her mouth was hanging open. She closed it with a snap. “What if I tell you I’m not hungry?” she asked, briefly turning away to save the spreadsheet on the computer before giving the man her full attention.

Against her will, she found herself examining him again, eating him up with her eyes, searching for a flaw in him. She found none.

“I don’t go out with my clients,” she said.

“Then I’d rather you tear up the agreement we signed earlier,” he said. “Because I really, really want to go out with you.”

On his tongue, the words go out sounded like something else altogether. Something wicked. Something delicious.

Bailey clenched her thighs together under the desk, surreptitiously licking her lips. “Stalking is illegal in this country, I hope you know,” she said, tilting her head to look up at him.

“Is that what you think I’m doing?”

“Isn’t it?”

He shook his head. “I’m simply bringing a beautiful woman dinner.” He stepped fully into her office and pulled a folded blanket from the top of the basket. “If you want me to leave, I will. You’ll miss me, though.”

Seven set the basket on the floor and unpacked a feast. A roasted chicken. A salad of mixed field greens covered in red apple slices and crumbles of blue cheese. Two croissants. A bottle of chilled white wine. Bailey felt the spurt of appetite in her mouth, a flood of hunger under her palate as the smells pushed deeper in the room, tempting her.

She never ate in her office. Ever. She thought if she brought any hot food into her office, the smell would permeate the walls, the carpet, would linger and become stale and nauseating, marking her as common to the partners. Not worthy of her own corner office and the coveted partnership.

But it wasn’t every day that a man brought her something without wanting anything in return.

“I don’t—” Eat in here, she was going to say. But watching him kneel on the blanket, the thin white material of his T-shirt stretching over the muscles of his back as he made their dinner, the words curled up in her mouth then slid back down her throat. “I don’t have any dishes,” she said instead.

“All taken care of.” He jerked his head toward a place beside him on the blanket. “Come sit and have something to eat. The sooner you eat your dinner, the sooner you can throw me out.” He flashed her a smile that swayed her resolve even more.

Bailey kicked off her shoes and sat on the blanket. Even with the competing aroma of the food, she could detect his scent, a woodsy cologne, the faint tang of sweat. He smelled of masculinity and the outdoors.

“I didn’t invite you in here to bring me dinner.” She tried to make her words firm but knew they were as melting as butter left out in the sunlight. Bailey took a slice of apple and felt its satisfying, juicy crunch between her teeth.

“I know. You didn’t invite me in here at all, but I appreciate you opening your door.” Seven brought out two plastic plates, forks and clear cups.

“I’m sure you know what I’m going to say next.”

“Yes, I do. But save all that love talk for later.”

Bailey shook her head, reluctantly smiling. Seven pulled a small stack of napkins from the basket and put it in the ocean of space Bailey had left between them. “I got all this from Whole Foods, so I assume it’s all organic and good for you, in case that’s a concern.” Seven tugged a chicken leg free and began to eat. “Go ahead,” he said, chewing.

Bailey tucked her feet under her on the blanket, glanced up at him through her lashes, at his smiling mouth glistening from the chicken juices.

“Okay.”

She made a small sandwich from a croissant, chicken and bits of the salad. The food was good. Her croissant was buttery and warm around the perfectly seasoned pieces of chicken, faintly bitter greens, sweet apples and crumbly blue cheese. Beside her, Seven ate with rich appetite, quickly finishing the chicken leg before reaching into the golden-brown bird to rip out a piece of the breast with his long fingers. Her stomach fluttered.

“I appreciate you making time in your evening to see me,” Seven said after finishing his latest mouthful.

“You didn’t give me much of a choice.”

“Yes, I did. You know that better than anyone.”

He was right. She could have called the police. Called security. Or even pointed to the door and demanded he leave immediately. He didn’t seem the type to ignore a woman’s wishes. But that was an assumption based on absolutely nothing. The last time she’d assumed so much, she’d ended up with a tarnished engagement ring and a lifetime of embarrassment.

Seven ripped a croissant in two, watching her carefully. “If you want me to leave, I will. You never have to worry about me forcing myself on you. Never.”

She shook her head. “It’s not that. I—”

A knock interrupted her. “Ms. Hughes, are you still here?”

She froze with a piece of chicken in her mouth. One of the firm’s partners was at the door. A brief flutter of panic rippled through her stomach. She thought they’d all gone home. Quickly, she finished chewing, wiped her hands on a napkin and stood up to open the door. Her boss Harry Braithwaite stood on the other side, briefcase in hand.

“Good evening, Mr. Braithwaite.” She smiled at her boss, blocking the view into the office with her body. “Yes, I’m still here. Taking care of a few last-minute details with the Wallace-Chatham account.” That wasn’t a complete lie. She’d been poring over the paperwork when Seven called.

Bailey fought the urge to curl her bare toes self-consciously in the carpet, hoping he hadn’t seen them. Going barefoot in the office was heavily frowned upon, especially by the raving germaphobe Raphael Fernandez. But bare feet made her feel unfettered and free, especially in the glass prison her office could at times become.

“That is a tricky one, isn’t it?” Harry said. His nose twitched.

Did he smell the food in her office? Would he ask to come in and talk about the account?

Bailey cleared her throat. “Nothing I can’t handle.”

He nodded briskly. “Good. That’s just the kind of attitude we like for a partner to have.” Mr. Braithwaite nodded again, eyes flickering behind her to look into her office. “Keep up the good work. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Bailey released a quiet breath. “Have a good night, Mr. Braithwaite.”

He thanked her and headed down the hallway for the elevators. He and Raphael had been dangling the partnership carrot in front of her for the past few months now, stressing how a Braithwaite and Fernandez partner should act, react and behave. And Bailey was success-driven enough to leap for that carrot. With a broken engagement now two years behind her and no immediate prospects for a family of her own, this was something she wanted more than ever.

Her sister, Bette, thought she was being downright ridiculous about the partnership thing. But her sister never worried about anything. For her, life was one big expensive party where someone else always picked up the tab. She was as carefree about life as Marcus. Only he could actually afford to be. Bette could not.

Bailey waited until Mr. Braithwaite was halfway down the hallway before she went back into her office.

Seven’s eyebrow quirked with mischief. “Did I almost get you in trouble?”

“Hardly,” she said. “This is not the principal’s office.”

“Not unless you’re the sexy teacher, and in that case, I’ll be more than happy to be your naughty student.” He grinned.

She shook her head. “No.”

But his teasing was infectious. She almost smiled as she sat back on the blanket next to him and picked up the remains of her sandwich. Her boss hadn’t noticed anything. And if he had, he hadn’t said a word about it. Surely, something like this couldn’t affect her chances of getting the partnership. She dismissed Harry Braithwaite from her mind and bit into the sandwich.

“You need to relax,” he said. “It’s a job. Not your life.”

“For me, it’s the same thing.” She covered her mouth with one hand as she answered him, still chewing.

“Then we need to change that.”

We?

Bailey laughed. Seven’s audacity and the way he stirred her sleeping libido made her want to prolong these moments in his company. He was charming, almost unnaturally beautiful, and she liked him. A lot.

Seven opened the bottle of white wine and poured some into two of the plastic cups.

“I can’t.” Bailey held up a hand in refusal. “I’m working, remember?”

“It’s just sparkling grape juice.” He lifted the cup and brought it to her mouth. “Here, see for yourself.”

Bailey blushed, warmed by his nearness, the low and intimate sound of his breathing. She smelled his musk, the kiss of sweat on his skin, and swayed closer. Her thoughts flickered on and off like a dying light bulb. Don’t touch him. Tell him to leave. You can’t afford this kind of man in your life. God! He smells so good.

She’d never felt this deep an attraction for someone. It frightened her a little. Made her want to draw back from the simple offering he made. Seven’s dark, curly-lashed eyes peered deeply into hers, as if he was offering her more than grape juice. She opened her mouth and tasted the crisp sweetness of what he gave her. The grape juice effervesced over her tongue. An unexpected bite of spice made her mouth tingle. She sneezed.

Seven laughed. “It has ginger in it.”

“Damn. Ginger always makes me sneeze.” To prove it, she sneezed again.

He sipped from the same cup he’d asked her to taste. “That is adorable.”

His laughter mingled with the sound of her cell phone’s ring tone. Smiling, Bailey wiped her nose with a napkin and stood to grab her phone off the desk. Marcus’s image and name flashed on the phone’s display. For a moment, she debated not answering. The last thing she wanted to do was deal with Marcus and his foolishness, especially when she’d managed to all but forgive and forget that he was a friend to her good-looking and damn near irresistible office guest.

Bailey sighed and picked up the call. “Hi, Marcus.”

Seven looked up when she mentioned his friend’s name, a frown on his otherwise smooth forehead. Then he looked away, busying himself with taking something out of the picnic basket. Bailey sank down into her chair and turned her attention back to the phone call.

“You sound happy,” Marcus said.

“Don’t make it seem like such an unusual occurrence.”

“Isn’t it? You’re the only chick I’d ever tell she needs to get laid. Since Clive, you act like you’ve been saving the kitty for marriage.”

Bailey’s good mood abruptly evaporated. “What do you want, Marcus?”

He had the nerve to laugh in her ear. “I was calling to check on my boy, Seven. Did you take care of him?”

“We’re talking right now,” she said.

Marcus whistled. “Damn. It’s like that?” He laughed again, this time with a whole other meaning behind it.

“No. It’s not.” Bailey’s face flushed with heat, but she kept her voice hard.

“This is shocking the hell out of me. You don’t have time for any man that’s not—”

“Get to the point, please. I have things I need to get back to.”

“I bet you do.” He chuckled, a low and dirty sound. “Anyway, tell Seven that Nilda wants to buy one of his pieces. I’m with her right now. I tried to call his cell but he’s not picking up.”

Bailey knew Nilda. Another one of Marcus’s friends with more money than sense.

“Pieces?”

“Yeah. Your new boyfriend likes to hammer on things and sell them as art. Chicks can’t get enough of him or his stuff.”

“He’s a sculptor?”

Seven looked up at her tone of voice. Bailey turned away from him to stare, blinking, out the window. “You didn’t mention that before.”

“Does it matter? You want clients and he’s got money to help you get that corner office.” The sound of laughter and a popped bottle of champagne gurgled to Bailey through the phone. “Anyway, I gotta go. Pass my message on to the man, will you? He can call me if he wants to get together later.” Marcus hung up.

Slowly, Bailey did the same. An artist.

It made sense. All along, there had been something about Seven that reminded Bailey of her father—her dear broke and irresponsible father.

“You didn’t tell me you were an artist,” she said, voice brittle with the frost of her disappointment.

Frowning, Seven slowly got up from the floor and sat in the chair across from her desk, putting them at a relatively even height. “You look upset. Why does it matter?”

“It matters.” Bailey clenched her fist and realized she still held the cell phone in her hand. She put it on the desk and leaned back in her chair. The fact that he was Marcus’s friend, she could have possibly overlooked, but this... This slammed the door on every possibility between them.

“What’s the problem?” he asked.

Suddenly, Bailey felt tired. The stress of her day and the seesaw of emotions from Seven’s appearance hit her like a Mack truck.

“Actually, there’s no problem,” she said.

“If that isn’t giving me mixed messages, I don’t know what is.” Seven raised an eyebrow in her direction. “What is it? You don’t like artists. Did one break your heart or something?”

“I have a lot to do tonight. Can you just pack all this stuff up and go, please?” She slipped her stockinged feet into the four-inch black Manolo Blahnik pumps under her desk to regain some semblance of power in the conversation.

Seven leveled a steady gaze at her. “Okay,” he said.

Although his movements seemed slow and unhurried, he quickly gathered the remains of their impromptu picnic into the basket and tucked them away. Soon, he stood at the door, ready to leave.

“Thanks for stopping by,” Bailey said. Even with every disastrous thing she now knew about him, she still wanted to rush over to Seven and ask him to stay. Beg him to stay. “It’s unfortunate we won’t be working together, after all.” Slowly, she stood up to her full height and then some in the couture stilettos, giving him her coolest and most professional smile.

He held her gaze for a long moment before responding. “Yes, a shame.” Then he was gone.

Bailey’s smile withered away. After his faint footsteps had faded down the hallway, she stood in the middle of her office, with the after-fragrance of their picnic swirling around her, disappointment like ashes on her tongue.

* * *

She left the office shortly after Seven did, unable to concentrate on work. With him gone, the building seemed lonely in a way it hadn’t before. Lonely and cold. Bailey gathered her briefcase, turned off the lights in her office and got on the elevator, pressing the button for the parking garage.

The last time a man had intrigued her as much as Seven, she’d quickly opened herself to him, excited that, for the first time in her twenty-eight years, she felt something close to love, a feeling her sister always swam in like some rarified pool in an otherwise dry universe. Bailey had almost drowned. She hadn’t realized that Clive, a professor at the University of Miami, had been steadily sleeping his way through his graduate students. Even after he’d asked her to marry him.

Bailey’s heels clicked a sad tattoo against the cement floor of the garage. Although it was almost nine in the evening, hers wasn’t the only car in the well-lit parking structure. She pressed a key on the remote and it chirped once, unlocking the pale blue Volvo C70 with a quick flash of the headlights. She climbed in and turned on her stereo and the Alice Smith song that had been playing on her way to work blasted into the small confines of the car. The bluesy, big-throated song blew away her unproductive thoughts about her love life and anything else lurking in her subconscious.

With the top down, she drove to her beachside condo, enjoying the feel of the wind in her hair during the short drive. She knew the route well and had driven it most of the eight years she’d been working at Braithwaite and Fernandez. It hadn’t been her first job offer after graduating from the University of Miami with her degrees in finance and business administration, but it was the one that had the most potential for growth and allowed her to stay in Miami. Stability. She had it. And it was something she was grateful for.

In the condo, she put her keys on the silver-plated hook by the door, walking by moonlight into the living room to drop her briefcase on the couch, then detouring in the kitchen to grab a crystal tumbler from the cupboard. Ice cubes clinked against the glass as she held it under the fridge’s dispenser. At the sideboard in the sitting room, she poured Scotch into the tumbler. The liquor gurgled and splashed over the ice in the silence.

Seven Carmichael briefly floated through her thoughts as she took the first sip of the twelve-year-old single malt. He had been like the drink, a searing heat through her senses that put her on pause for a moment to pay close attention to the slow burn over her tongue, in her chest and her belly.

Bailey shook him from her head.

It had been a long day, but she was far from tired. Her work energized her. And though she would have liked to share the evening with someone—the silver rush of moonlight over her hardwoods, the coolness of the floor against her bare feet, her quiet walk back out of her condo and up the elevator to the rooftop pool—she also savored her privacy. Her things.

Her home was all paid for. So was her car. She owed no one. It was a great feeling. One she cherished even as she sat at the edge of the pool with moonlight and starlight winking overhead, her whiskey by her hand. Alone.