by Megan Hart
"She walked out."
"What the hell?" Barry sounded speechless, which was unusual for him. The man could talk through anything.
"I'm going home." Elliott punched the elevator button again, irritated. He stepped back to look at the numbers lit above it, frowning at the holdup. Someone a few floors up must be holding the door for some reason. "I don't have a date anymore."
"I've got some spares here." Barry laughed again. "You can have more than one."
Elliott pushed the button again just as the door opened. Phone still pressed to his ear, he got on, nearly running into a petite girl with dark hair in a short, pixie cut. She stepped out of the way just in time with a startled noise.
"Sorry," Elliott said. To Barry, he added, "No. Not you. Bumped into someone on the elevator."
"A female someone? Bring her along." With that, Barry hung up before Elliott could offer any further protests.
With a snarling sigh, he tucked his phone into his pocket and gave the woman a glance. He'd seen her around, maybe in the lobby or elevator before. A tiny thing, she barely came up to his shoulder, and that hair. Black and glossy as a raven's wing, brushing over her cheeks like feathers. Her black skirt hit her just below the knee, basically unspectacular but form fitting enough to show she had a nice ass. Cheap fabric, too. Her white blouse could've used an iron, and her shoes made him want to cringe. Black and gray plaid flats with a pointed toe.
And damn, she'd caught him looking.
Elliott didn't often blush. Shame might occasionally come for a visit, but embarrassment never rang the bell. Yet now, trapped in this woman's equally frank assessment of him, Elliott felt heat rising up from his throat and across his cheeks. She looked as though she'd seen right into the heart of him, and he didn't like it.
Hated it, as a matter of fact, feeling as though anyone could possibly try to know him, especially a semi-stranger on the elevator. His cold glare should've stung her into looking away, but the woman only smiled, lips quirking. She raised a brow, too.
"Working late, too, huh?" She reached past him to push the door close button because it had remained open. "This thing's acting up tonight. If we're lucky, maybe we'll get stuck."
"Lucky--" He stopped himself to study her.
She tilted her head to look him over again before she turned, giving him another view of that tight rear. She pushed the lobby button once more, though it was already lit, then gave him another slow, lingering glance over her shoulder.
That smile. Fuck, it slew him. She was so far from his type she might as well have been another species, and yet something about her stirred heat low in his belly. It echoed the blush he'd felt earlier, and Elliott frowned.
"It's Friday night. You should be out to dinner or at a party. Not in the office." She leaned against the railing with one foot propped on the wall behind her. Her bag, an enormous tote made of patched fabric squares, shifted, and she slung it higher on her shoulder.
"I was going to a party, but my date . . . left." The words slipped out of him unbidden, for no other reason than it would've felt rude not to answer her at all. That's what he told himself, anyway, watching the curve of her hip and the quirk of her smile.
The woman didn't look surprised or even sympathetic. "Women can be crazy bitches."
"And men can be arrogant assholes," Elliott countered, surprising himself.
She laughed at that, and he admired the crinkles in the corners of her eyes. "Truth. I'm Simone."
She held out her hand, and Elliott took it. "Elliott Anderson."
"I know you, Mr. . . . Anderson." She put an unwieldy pause between the two beats of his name, and his blank look must've given him away, because she laughed again. "You've never seen The Matrix?"
"No."
She shook her head. "That's too bad. It's a good one."
The elevator bumped open on another floor, the door opening and staying open long past the time it would've taken even a crowd to get on. Simone sighed and pushed the door close button again. She gave him a shrug.
"You're working late, too. No party for you?" He asked.
"No. No plans either. Maybe a glass of wine and a book." She eyed him as the elevator jerked to another stop. "I could be convinced to go to a party, though. Since you don't have a date, I mean."
Startled at her boldness, but intrigued, Elliott let his eyes meet hers, giving her an extra-thorough perusal. She was pretty, he thought. Not beautiful, not trying to be. He liked long hair on women, but her short cut emphasized her features and brought out the slightly catlike tilt of her eyes. Her mouth, even with that quirking smile, was lush.
Still . . . He shook his head. "You wouldn't have a good time."
"I always have a good time," Simone said.
The elevator opened again to reveal nobody waiting. Irritated, Elliott leaned past her to stab the close door button. "What the hell is the matter with this thing?"
"Safety feature?" Simone asked. "Maybe they program it to stop on every floor so that if someone's in here after hours and they get assaulted on the elevator, they have ample opportunity to escape."
He laughed, then saw she was serious. "That seems inefficient."
"Not if you're being assaulted."
She was quick-witted. He liked that, quite a lot. A few more floors to lobby level, and he was actually going to be a little disappointed he'd have no more excuses to talk to her.
"So. The party?"
He shook his head again, making a show of being obvious in his study of her. "You wouldn't fit in. Sorry."
He'd been too blunt; he saw it in the flutter of her blink, the tiniest droop of her smile. Shit. Think before you speak, Molly always told him, but he'd never quite gotten the hang of figuring out when that was important. For the second time that night, heat spread to his face. He turned away so she wouldn't see it, and so he wouldn't have to see what his casual cruelty had done to her.
The elevator at last opened onto the lobby. Elliott might not know when to curb his words, but that didn't mean he couldn't still be a gentleman--he paused, a hand on the door to make sure it didn't close, though the past ten minutes' trip had made that seem unlikely to be a problem. He waited for Simone to walk out ahead of him, and when she didn't, turned to see what was taking her so long.
She straightened just as he turned, settling her foot further into a black patent stiletto and tucking her flats into the shoulder bag. She gave him a smile from red, lush lips. The top button on her white blouse was undone to show a hint of creamy cleavage and a white lace bra, nothing too revealing but definitely no longer office appropriate. The skirt had magically become shorter, showing off that shapely ass and now her thighs through a small slit. She'd done something to her hair, too. Spiked and ruffled it.
She'd transformed.
Giving him an up-and-down glance, Simone shrugged her bag over her shoulder and pushed past him with her head held high and that ass swaying. Mesmerized, Elliott could only stare after her until the door nudged his hand like a puppy begging for affection. Then he stepped out.
"Wait a minute," he said. "Are you still up for a party?"
Chapter 3
You wouldn't fit in.
Elliott's casual comment shouldn't have stung her, but it had. Mostly because of the way he'd said it, so obviously sincere and not trying to hurt her feelings at all. Just being honest. That was somehow worse than someone trying to be mean. She could dismiss nasty, no problem, with both her middle fingers and a sneer.
Honesty was always harder not to take to heart.
He'd been right, though. The moment they stepped out of the elevator and into the penthouse apartment where the party waited, Simone felt out of place even with her quick change in the elevator. All the other women here wore evening gowns or cocktail dresses. Sparkly jewelry. Blondes, brunettes, and redheads in a veritable cascade of beautiful women who hung on the arms of the men they accompanied. Women who spoke when spoken to, and only then to giggle or coo.
Hell no, Simone didn't fit
in here, not on any level. She did fit perfectly on Elliott's arm, however. Together, the pair of them turned heads as they moved through the crowd to greet his friend Barry. Let them look, Simone thought, giving every single one of them a broad, bright smile. Sometimes a wink. Looking was free.
"You made it!" Barry clapped Elliott on the shoulder hard enough to make Simone wince, though Elliott didn't so much as blink. Barry zeroed in on Simone, and if she surprised him, he was polite enough not to show it. "And this is . . . ?"
"Simone Kahan," she said without waiting for Elliott to introduce her. Who knew if he even remembered her name. He'd barely said a word to her in the cab over here. Barely even looked at her. She held out her hand.
Barry took it. "Nice to meet ya."
Simone laughed. "The pleasure is all yours, I assure you."
"I like this one." Barry squeezed her fingers and looked at Elliott. "Where'd you find her?"
"He picked me out of a catalog." Simone tucked her hand into the crook of Elliott's elbow and gave him a grin he didn't return.
"I met her in the elevator."
Barry didn't seem shocked, just gave Elliott another one-two punch to the shoulder and a knowing wink. "You’re the man, as always. Did this bad boy get you a drink yet?"
"No."
"That's cuz he's an arrogant prick," Barry said and held out a hand for her to take. "C'mon. Let me get you set up."
With an amused glance over her shoulder at Elliott, Simone let Barry lead her toward a full bar set up, complete with bartender. "Gin and tonic, please. Extra lime."
"I'll take a vodka tonic." Barry gestured toward the room and then toward Elliott, who'd been immediately swarmed by a cluster of women.
Simone might have been jealous, if it looked like Elliott were enjoying himself. Or if she had the right to be, she reminded herself, watching as he discreetly brushed off every clinging touch, every simpering smile.
"How'd you say you met again?"
"We work in the same building," she told him. "We bumped into each other on the elevator. He needed a date for this party. I like parties."
Barry downed half his drink and then held the glass out to the room. "Elliott hates parties."
"What kind of person," Simone said, looking across the room where Elliott was still besieged by women, "hates parties?"
Barry laughed. "A cranky bastard, that's what kind."
"So why invite him?"
Barry looked at her in surprise. "Because he's been my buddy since college, and he's one of the few people who I can count on not to kiss my ass. And he's good at finding out stuff I need to know."
That was an interesting insight into Barry's character if ever there was one, and Simone totally got it. She gave the room another glance, this time taking in the rest of the party and not just Elliott. "About what?"
"People," Barry said.
Simone had no idea what that meant. "So . . . what's the party for, anyway? Birthday? Bar Mitzvah? Quinceañera?"
Barry snorted out laughter again and gave her another assessing look. "He really picked you up on the elevator?"
"I picked him up, if you want the truth." Simone leaned closer to say in a conspiratorial voice, "I picked him up, if you want the truth."
"I like you."
Simone grinned and toasted him. Their glasses clinked. Barry drained his, but Simone still sipped. She hadn't eaten anything since a very late lunch, and the booze was going to go straight to her head if she wasn't careful. Maybe other places, too, not that she'd mind that.
"The party," he said after a moment. "Well, I'm what you might call a dealer in promises."
"Are you the devil?"
Barry burst into a round of laughter so loud it made all the other conversations stop while everyone stared. He wiped his eyes and gestured at the bartender for another drink. "You are something else. Yeah, I might be the devil, at least according to some. What do you do?"
"I work in human resources for a global marketing corporation in the same building where Elliott makes his millions." Simone teased the rim of her glass with her tongue, amused by the way Barry's gaze went straight to it. Well. So far at least it wasn't her tits.
"He's a lawyer."
"I know what he does," Simone said.
Barry frowned. "See that guy in the corner, talking to the one in the gray suit?"
"Of course."
"He's the future governor of Louisiana."
Simone barked out a laugh she covered quickly with her hand. "That guy? That kid? He's what, twenty years old?"
"He's almost thirty. Got a baby face. But he'll be governor, don't you worry about that. He's got old money behind him and a daddy who wants nothing more than to see his baby boy get into politics."
Simone watched the guy, who wore his suit like it weighed too much. He had a woman on each arm and a drink in one hand. His eyes were a little red. "What's he doing in Philadelphia?"
"Daddy owns a construction business. Low-cost housing mostly, though there's some commercial work in there, too. He's up here to get bids on materials, and it's my job to connect him with the people who are gonna give him what he wants. So I'm gonna get him a little drunk. A little laid. And then I'm gonna use the stuff Elliott found out about him to lean on him a little. Nothing serious. Just . . . persuasive."
Simone's brows went up. "What kind of stuff does Elliott find out for you?"
"Legal stuff," Barry said. "Of course."
"Of course." They stared at each other until Simone laughed. The gin was making everything seem brighter than it was. She patted him on the shoulder. "You know what makes a party even better? Food."
"Buffet is through that doorway right there, honey. You go get yourself a plate." Barry gave her an appreciative glance that Simone tried and failed to find irritating.
The thing with men was, she thought as she followed Barry's directions and helped herself to the buffet, most of the time, they had no idea they were being giant douchecanoes. Getting all bent out of shape about a stranger calling her honey was stupider than getting mad about him ogling her breasts, especially when her breasts were pretty damned spectacular, if she did say so herself.
She'd filled her plate with a delicious-looking assortment of spring rolls, cheese and mustard, and some little quiches when Elliott found her. She held up the plate. "Want some?"
"No, thanks. I don't eat from buffets." Elliott put a hand lightly on his stomach for a second, scanning the room behind her before focusing on first the plate, then her face. "You're going to eat all that?"
Simone paused with a spring roll halfway to her lips. "Yes. Is there a reason I shouldn't? Barry told me to help myself."
"There's fruit over there." He pointed.
Simone deliberately bit into the spring roll and chewed, then swallowed. "And?"
"Fruit would be better for you."
He still wasn't looking at her, but beyond her, so Simone waited without answering until he gave her the benefit of his gaze. "I'd rather have a spring roll. Mmmm. You should try it. Want a bite?"
"No."
It was hard to miss the look of fleeting disgust. She didn't ask again. Instead, she glanced behind her. "Who are you looking for?"
His eyes met hers. "Who says I'm looking for anyone?"
"The way you keep scanning the room behind me. A girl could get a complex." Simone licked her fingertips and watched him watch her do it. She kept herself from smiling. She didn't want to scare him off, and something told her that if she acknowledged that she saw Mr. Elliott Anderson ogling the way her tongue flickered on her fingers, he would pull another one of those strangely endearing retreats. She dragged another spring roll through a smear of mustard and bit into it. Flavor exploded on her tongue, so good she had to make a little noise. "Mmmf. You really need to try this, Elliott."
"No, I--"
"C'mon," she said and stepped closer, offering the food.
He jerked his head to the side to keep her from his mouth. "No. Thanks."
At that moment, someone in a damned hurry to get at the buffet pushed behind her, shoving her into Elliott's arms. He caught her just above the elbows to steady her, but in the few seconds before Simone caught her balance, they were pressed against each other. Belly to belly. Chest to chest. She breathed in the scent of him, felt the heat of his skin even through the material of her blouse. The roughness of his trouser leg scraped for a second at the inside of her thigh.
And then they were standing with only inches between them, and his gaze had gone dark. His mouth parted. His tongue came out to wet the center of his lower lip, and oh, fuck, did she want to kiss him. No. She wanted something else.
She wanted him to kiss her, hard and bruising, bringing the taste of blood. And in that instant, something in the flash of his gaze told Simone that maybe, just maybe, Elliott wanted the same thing. It was gone as fast as it came. When his grip on her arms loosened, she let out a small, disappointed sigh.
"You spilled," he said with a grimace of distaste.
She looked down at her blouse, now stained with splatters of soy sauce and mustard. Frowning, Simone set her plate down on the small table meant for used dishes. "Damn it."
"There's a bathroom down the hall. To the left." Elliott pointed.
In the bathroom, which was almost the size of her entire apartment, Simone shrugged out of her blouse and held it at the sink, scrubbing at the stains, hoping they wouldn't set. Of course, even though the stains faded, now her entire blouse was transparent. Standing in her bra at the sink, she sighed. She'd be trapped in here until it dried.
It could've been worse. Technically a powder room because it had no tub or shower, the bathroom still had two sinks and, an odd choice for a residential bathroom, two toilets in separate stalls. A small alcove held a padded bench. The decor was a mix of French Provincial and what Simone could only call "Grandma's House" chic--gilded faux gas lamps on the walls, ornate frames around pictures of small children in Victorian clothes, and dried flowers over the mirror, which was also in a fancy gold frame.
All proof that money didn't mean you had taste to match. Shaking her head, Simone shook out her blouse and held it to the light to see if she needed to do more scrubbing. Behind her the door opened just as she realized that one, she hadn't locked the door and two, it was a coed bathroom.
