And from the way her mouth hung slightly open, her gaze warm and welcoming, she knew it, too.
“This is my cue to go,” he heard Finley say. At least he assumed it was Finley. He hadn’t taken his eyes off Marguerite to confirm the other woman’s presence. “I’m not going to the gala, so this is farewell. Nice meeting you, Marguerite. I had fun playing fairy godmother. I’ll have to find a way to do it again.” Finley patted him on the arm as she passed by. “Don’t bother seeing me out.”
“Bye, Finley,” Marguerite said. “Thank you for everything.”
“Don’t let him rip the dress after all my hard work,” Finley called, and he heard the front door open and close.
He closed the distance between him and Marguerite in seconds flat. But when he would have taken her in his arms, she held up a hand and stopped him. “The gala is a masquerade,” she said. “Were you going to tell me before we arrived?”
“It’s a masquerade? Huh.” He assumed it was black tie, like all the other galas he had to attend for business. Then he squinted at the silly party hat in her dark hair. “Is that a cork?”
“I’m champagne.” She did a slow twirl, the silk of her dress lifting to show off her toned calves.
“You’re intoxicating, all right.” He made another attempt to draw her close, but she evaded his grasp.
“Finley will kill me if I let you destroy my outfit.” She removed the headband and took off the filmy piece of fabric she wore draped around her shoulders. “Okay...now. But mind the dress. It’s Aracely’s.”
He didn’t need another invitation. He had dreamed of her mouth all day, to the point that Luke had made him the presenter so he would be forced to pay attention at the meeting. The heat and the wetness, the thrust of her tongue as she played with his, the way she bit gently, then suckled on his lower lip. He made his dreams a reality as his hands, jealous of the silk caressing the curves beneath, traced paths across her back, held her waist, cupped her rear and brought her tight against his increasingly impatient erection.
She pulled back slightly to grin at him, her lips red and swollen, her gaze hot and bright. “Hello. I take it you’re glad to see me.” She wriggled against him, and he had to count to ten backward before he could respond.
“Happy to continue to show you how much,” he growled, but when he would have captured her mouth with his anew, she started to laugh. “What is it?” he asked.
“You have glitter all over your face,” she snort-giggled. “In your hair, too. And on your shirt. I think it was on my hands.”
No wonder she glowed. This close, he could see tiny metallic sparkles shining all over her, from her dark tresses to the shadowy valley revealed by the deep V neckline of her dress.
“Sorry, it’s a pain to get rid of.” She brushed at his shirt, leaving more glitter behind than she removed.
He caught her hands in his. “I have a plan.”
He led her to the staircase that connected the main living floor with the bedrooms above and urged her to go first, admiring how her dress clung to her rear. Now he was going off script for the evening. He had a carefully orchestrated itinerary, everything planned and ordered to dazzle Marguerite. Drinks at a speakeasy bar, tiny and dark and private. Dinner at a Michelin-starred restaurant where he had arranged for the sommelier to bring out a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon from St. Isadore as a surprise. Wandering the city after dinner while exchanging bites of handcrafted ice cream from one of the city’s premier small-batch creameries. Then home, to—
Home. He’d never thought of the word as it applied to him. Sure, he owned residences. Two at the moment. But they were places to store his clothes and grab a few hours of sleep between work and meetings. He’d bought this place for its investment value, and the clean, modern aesthetic appealed to him. But it had come fully furnished and he never thought twice about changing the decor.
What would it be like to have a home, not just a house?
Especially if Marguerite were by his side as he turned off the lights each night. Across from him at the dining room table. Bustling in comfortable silence while they made meals together. Holding the hand of a little girl with dark curls who clung to his fingers with her other hand.
It was a nice vision. A good one. But homes were not for the likes of him. He needed to be able to pivot quickly, take advantage of opportunities, build his companies. He would never be a mow-the-lawn-on-Saturday kind of guy. He couldn’t be and still be able to provide for Nico and his grandparents the way he wanted. The way he had to.
Then Marguerite reached the top of stairs and turned back to catch his gaze, her eyes glinting with mischief and passion. She slowly raised her hands to her shoulders and, her fingers lingering on her skin, pushed the thin dress straps down her arms. The silk slipped and fell away, revealing the perfect globes of her breasts, tipped with rosy pebbled peaks. “Which way to your bedroom?” she asked.
All thought fled. “First things first,” he growled and took her hand, leading her to his bedroom suite and its immense bathroom.
She gasped. “This is bigger than my bedroom and living room put together.”
He took out his phone, grimacing because his jeans were far too tight, and pushed a few buttons on his home app. The lights dimmed as the shades rolled up, revealing a wall of continuous glass and the city lights twinkling in the valley below.
Marguerite held her dress up to her chest. “Wow. But holy exhibitionist, Batman.”
He crossed to stand behind her, his hands coming up to cover hers and gently urge her to let the dress fall, down to her waist, and then farther, to the heated tiled floor. “The glass is treated,” he murmured in her ear, taking a second to bite, ever so gently, her earlobe. She shivered and pressed her back against him. “We can look out. No one can look in.”
“Then, you’re overdressed.” She turned around in his arms, stepping out of the pooled dress and her panties. He helped her make equally quick work of his clothes. But when she took his erection in her hands, he gathered up his self-control and moved out of her grasp.
“Glitter,” he said, and drew her to the shower that occupied the far end of the room.
Evan never had any particular fantasies about showers. They were utilitarian, meant for removing the day’s grime. As long as there was enough water, showers didn’t occupy his thoughts.
That was all changing.
He turned the shower on, the recirculation system ensuring immediate hot water. “Right temperature?” he asked Marguerite.
She responded by moving past him to stand under the rain-forest spray, her head back and her eyes closed as the water ran over her hair, over the tips of her breasts, rivulets dancing down the curves of her belly, hips, thighs.
He’d never seen anything so achingly beautiful.
Marguerite opened one eye. “You’re wearing glitter, too,” she said with a slow smile. “You should wash. All over.”
He didn’t need additional encouragement. He joined her, pulling a washcloth from a basket of fresh ones on the nearby counter. Then he squeezed a good amount of body wash onto the cloth from a decanter mounted on the shower’s one tiled wall. “Turn around.”
He gently ran the cloth over her back, soaping her skin and then rinsing the suds away. She shivered as he found ticklish spots. Then he filled his hands with shampoo and began to wash her hair, drawing circles on her scalp and letting the wet strands spill through his fingers.
Her breathing became rasps. Her hands flew out to brace herself against the glass wall, her body silhouetted by the city lights.
And she was his. Right now. He almost fell to his knees.
“You’ve ruined me,” she said. “I am never letting anyone else wash my hair.” She turned, the hard pebbles of her breasts rising and falling against him. “Let’s see if I can ruin you.”
She found his erection with her hands, which w
ere slick and slippery with soap. She knew him by now, and he welcomed her knowledge, the steam and the spray and the wet heat surrounding them adding an extra dimension that caused his eyes to roll back in his head far too quickly. He wanted this to last, damn it, but it was hard to think with her clever fingers knowing just where to rub, to pull, to linger. His erection swelled to almost painful dimensions, the pressure becoming unbearable. She was going to ruin him far faster than anticipated—
He blindly reached out, found the valve controls and turned the water off. Marguerite stopped her ministrations, just in time. “What happened?”
“I want to make it to the bed,” he ground out. “But first, I have an idea.” He tugged her toward the shower bench and had her sit down. Then he unhooked the handheld sprayer from its holder next to the bench and turned a different switch.
The pressure was light, the temperature warm but not too hot. He sat down beside her and pulled her onto his lap, her legs straddling his. Then he pointed the stream of water at them.
At her, specifically. At the beautiful triangle of tangled dark curls between her legs and the delicate exposed flesh underneath. He held her open, finding the spot where the water pressure would be the most appreciated.
He would never tire of hearing her scream his name.
Later that night, after Evan called the restaurant and had his planned menu delivered to his door, after another courier brought some of San Francisco’s best hand-crafted ice cream, after they turned Evan’s bed into a demolition site of blankets and pillows, Marguerite collapsed against him. He stroked her back, luxuriating in the weight of her, the warmth, the tiny tremors that still shook her. She eventually calmed, her breathing slowing, and when he was pretty sure she was on the threshold of sleep, he settled her gently next to him, finding the covers and pulling them over both of them. She curled into his side with a sigh, her left hand resting on his chest.
Right over his heart.
He kissed the tip of her ear, intending to follow her into slumber. And that’s when she spoke. Quietly, so quietly he could tell himself he didn’t hear her correctly, that she was sleep-talking, that she didn’t mean it. “I love you.”
He stilled. “Marguerite?” he whispered, once he had worked up enough moisture into his mouth. “Did you say something?”
“Wha...?” She blinked sleep-filled eyes at him. “I love your bed. Your sheets must have a gazillion thread count.” Then her breaths turned into tiny snores. He’d always found her snores—snuffles, really—adorable, but they barely registered.
She’d said she loved him.
So maybe she didn’t say what he thought he had heard. But now that the thought was in his head...it would not leave. What if she had said it? What would it mean?
After all, people said they loved all sorts of things, all the time. Baseball, for example. Kittens. His sheets. It was a strongly worded phrase of appreciation, nothing more. There was absolutely no reason why they couldn’t continue as they had been, conducting business during the day and having fun after hours.
Then Marguerite shifted, her left leg tangling with his, her tousled hair tickling his skin, and his heart twinged in pleasure-pain at her expression, open and vulnerable in sleep.
He could no longer deny it. She might love his bedding, but he was falling in love with her.
This was a disaster.
When the screen on his phone told him it was 5:00 a.m., he carefully untangled himself from Marguerite and left the bed.
Eight
Marguerite awoke with a start. For a second she didn’t know where she was, then she relaxed and sank back into the down-stuffed pillows. San Francisco. Evan’s house. And it must still be the middle of the night since the room was so dark. She closed her eyes and prepared to drift back to sleep, her hand reaching out for Evan’s comforting bulk—
No Evan.
Now she was fully awake. She turned over and looked at the clock on the bedside table. Eight o’clock? She blinked. That was well past the time she usually woke up. The last thing she remembered was closing her eyes after falling apart in Evan’s arms. Well, he’d promised to blow her mind—and he had, wiping it so clean she’d forgotten where she was. The blackout shades covering the floor-to-ceiling windows helped add to the confusion.
There was a note on Evan’s pillow that read simply, “Didn’t want to wake you. Come downstairs when you’re ready.” So she showered and put on the casual sundress she’d packed, and eventually made her way to living area.
Evan sat at the kitchen table, intently focused on the open laptop in front of him. Shaved, showered and dressed in his usual work uniform of button-down shirt and dark jeans, he appeared as if he had been up for hours already. She hesitated on the threshold, not wanting to interrupt him, aware she had just literally tumbled out of bed. It was an odd feeling, as in Napa, she had no trouble making her presence known at any hour of the day.
He looked up and caught her gaze. His intense expression transformed into a grin, although it didn’t reach his eyes. “Morning, Sleeping Beauty,” he said. “There’s fresh coffee in the kitchen. And my housekeeper stocked the pantry with the best pastries in the city. Help yourself.”
She nodded, her bright mood upon awaking starting to dim. Sex with Evan was always amazing, and last night hadn’t been an exception. In fact, last night their connection seemed to be...one of souls, as well as their physical bodies. She wasn’t sure what she expected from him this morning, but it certainly wasn’t an Evan who looked like he barely remembered that he’d left her slumbering in his bed.
But he was deep in a work crisis, so perhaps he had no choice. She walked farther into the kitchen but wasn’t sure where the coffee maker was, much less the pantry. The counters were bare expanses of gray-veined, white marble, the floor-to-ceiling cabinetry finished in dark gray with no visible handles. “Um, Evan? Where is the coffee?”
“Allow me.” Evan got up and reached behind her to touch what looked to Marguerite like part of the kitchen’s backsplash then returned to the table and his laptop. A door, seamlessly concealed, rolled up to reveal a chrome-and-brushed-metal coffee maker, as sleek as everything else in the room. She would never have found it.
After filling a heavy stoneware mug she found on a rack next to the coffee maker, she clung to its handle. It felt good to hold onto something solid. Evan’s house was gorgeous, but it felt like a stage set. Just this side of too perfect to be real.
St. Isadore’s cozy if worn decor said, People live and love and lead full lives here. Evan’s house said, The photographer from Architectural Digest will be here any minute.
The tendril of trepidation present ever since Nico had announced he was returning to school blossomed anew. She loved St. Isadore despite—or rather because of—its flaws. Could Evan?
Or would he sell it, disposing of a flawed and no longer necessary business asset?
“Hey,” she said into the silence. “You’re staring at your computer screen as if it’s the only thing standing between you and disaster. Work causing a headache?”
She didn’t mean it literally. But the more she took in the set position of his jaw, the slightly ashy undertone to his complexion, she wondered if she had discovered the cause of his earlier distance.
“Definitely a pain, but lower. Like, in the ass.”
“Sorry. Anything I can do to help?”
“Want to build a valuation model?”
“Does it involve LEGOs?”
A bark of laughter escaped him. “I’d love to see Luke’s face if I walked in with a LEGO kit for our meeting.”
“Then, no, I’m afraid that’s the only model building I do.” Her phone buzzed and she pulled it out of the pocket of her dress. “It’s one of the vineyard managers.” She answered, “Hi! What’s going on?”
* * *
Evan watched Marguerite as she spoke into her phon
e, her dark blue eyes sparkling in the morning sun that streamed in from the floor-to-ceiling windows. But it was her bright smile that lit her face. Lit the room, for that matter, the sunshine a pale source of illumination by contrast. For the first time that he could remember in a long time, he enjoyed being present in the moment, not concentrating on what he had to accomplish and where he needed to be next.
Now that he had a few hours to become accustomed to last night’s revelation, Evan could finally stop the thoughts in his head from crashing into each other without a trace of coherency. So, he didn’t plan on falling in love with her. He didn’t plan on falling in love with anyone at any time. His life was purposefully built to exclude any entanglements that might pull him off track from his goals. He resolutely stayed clear of the door in his mind marked Do Not Enter and surrounded by neon-red flares and bright orange caution cones. The same flares and cones that had blocked off what remained of his parents’ car—
No. Not opening that door.
“Talk to you soon. Bye.” Marguerite put her phone away and turned to him. Excitement danced in her gaze. “Veraison is starting.”
“Very what?”
“Veraison.” She pronounced the word with a Parisian flair. “It’s when the grapes start to ripen.” She opened up a note-taking app on her phone. “Let me jot down some thoughts while the conversation is still fresh in my head.”
“Cool. But...isn’t that what grapes are supposed to do? You look like you spotted Santa on your rooftop.”
A full smirk twisted her lips. “Yes, wise guy, grapes ripen, and that’s exactly why veraison is thrilling. This is our first indication of what kind of harvest we’ll have this year, which will determine how much we bottle and when.”
He nodded. “Got it. Your French accent is excellent, by the way. But then, it should be, considering your name.”
She stopped typing on her phone and looked up. “Oh. About my name...”
He frowned. “What about it?”
She half smiled, half grimaced. “Marguerite is my middle name. My first name is Daisy.”
Who's the Boss Now? Page 11
