by Serena Grey
“Thanks.”
There’s an awkward silence. Usually, we have so much to talk about. By now I’d have been quizzing him about his trip, about skydiving with Reese Fletcher, and he would have been giving me his typical funny answers. But not today. Does he have any idea how I’m feeling? Is he aware of how much being his friend has cost me these two years? How painful it is for me whenever I see him with other women?
I doubt it. After he rejected me, I became much better at hiding my feelings.
“It’s nice to see you,” he says, moving closer. His lips curve in a small, familiar smile. “I wasn’t expecting you to be here, but I’m glad you are. Don’t tell me you’re leaving?”
“I…Yes I am, actually.”
“That’s a shame.” He looks disappointed, and for a moment, I imagine that maybe he was looking forward to spending time with me. That hope goes out of the window with his next words. “You didn’t meet Claudia.”
Claudia Sever. The model he came with. The void in my stomach widens. “Is it true?” I ask. “Are you engaged?”
He smiles. “It’s crazy, isn’t it? Who would have thought I’d ever settle down?”
“Yes,” I agree, my heart breaking. “Who would have thought?”
The silence stretches again. I’m supposed to wish him happiness, like a good friend would do, but I can’t bring myself to say the words. Not when I was still holding on to the hope that when he finally took that step, it would be with me.
I force a small laugh, and even to me it sounds fake, and sad. “So what happened? You told me you could never settle down with any one woman.”
He frowns. “That was a long time ago.”
My eyes cloud. It’s hard to understand how your feelings for someone can be everything to you, and yet nothing to them. “Sometimes it still hurts like yesterday,” I say softly.
“Rachel…” he closes the distance between us and places comforting hands on my shoulders, “You know I do love you.”
The words come out of his mouth so easily. Words that in other circumstances would mean the world to me.
“Then why…” I stop before I make a total fool of myself. Why can’t we be together? Why do you keep breaking my heart?
“Rachel,” he says firmly, “We’re friends. You should be happy for me.”
I push away from him, letting his hands fall from my shoulders. “We were more than friends, and it was good. It was wonderful. It was the best thing that ever happened to me.” I stop talking, seeing the situation for what it really is. Me, throwing myself yet again at a man who has made it clear that he doesn’t want me.
His silence adds to my shame. I close my eyes. “I wish you all the best,” I murmur, before turning away and hurrying towards the elevators. I can feel tears stinging at my eyes, and I blink furiously to keep them from falling.
God! I should have thrown his friendship in his face when I had the chance.
Laurie tried to tell me, so many times. “He knows you’re in love with him, and he wants to keep you that way, so you’ll always be there. It’s an ego thing. As long as you let him, you’re going to be stuck in the same place while he chases the women who present a real challenge.”
I hadn’t listened. I’d been too eager, too willing to take the little Jack offered. I’d thought if we spent time together as friends, he would surely see that we were meant to be more than that.
How pathetic!
The elevator doors slide open, and luckily, the car is empty. I step inside and press the button for the ground floor, unable to control the tears gathering as the doors swish closed again.
The ride is short. After only a few seconds, the elevator stops on the ground floor. By then my face is wet with tears, and a glance at my reflection in the mirrored walls tell me that I’m not fit to walk into the lobby. I dab at the mascara smudges on my bottom lid, and without looking, I press a button to send the elevator back up. Hopefully, the ride up and back down again will give me some time alone to repair the damage that Jack has done, both to my face and my heart.
BY the time the elevator stops at the top floor and beeps. My face is under control again. Now I just want to go home and forget everything about tonight. Not that it will be easy. I’ll still have to face Jack at work, and I have no idea how I’m going to do that. I sigh. No matter what happens, I’m so done being his go-to companion.
I hear another beep and realize that a small box on the elevator panel is prompting me for a code. I frown. At the top of the panel, the button marked ‘PH’ is glowing. I’m on the penthouse floor, and the elevator probably needs a code to open the doors. I don’t have a code, obviously, so I pause, wondering what to do.
I didn’t even realize that I’d pressed the button for the penthouse. I’d just wanted time to fix my face. I press the button for the ground floor, hoping that will work. The prompt for the code beeps again.
Okay, so what am I supposed to do now? There must be an emergency button somewhere. I’m searching along the panel when suddenly, the doors to the elevator slide open.
And my breath stops.
Something happens. Either the earth drops, or it suddenly stops spinning. I feel unbalanced, as if I’m going to lose my footing. My hand finds the aluminum railing inside the elevator, and I lean on it for support while I stare at the Greek god standing on the other side of the open doors.
There’s no other way to describe him. He’s tall, at least a head taller than me, with long legs, lean hips and broad shoulders shown off in a perfectly tailored dark-gray suit, paired with a snowy white shirt. There’s no tie, and the top button of his shirt is open, exposing his throat and a little hint of hard well-muscled chest.
Dark gold hair frames his face. It’s wavy, and just long enough to tease his collar, with a few bright strands highlighting the dark waves. And his face! It makes me unable to remember what exactly I’m doing in the elevator. Dark winged brows, eyes a deep cerulean blue, and a Greek nose, slim and pointed like an arrowhead. His lips are full and sensual, and for some reason, they make me start to think of whispers, kisses, and those same lips tracing a path on my heated skin.
I stare, lost in the glittering depths of his eyes, and unable to tear mine away. Strangely, it seems as if everything that’s happened before this moment has somehow lost all importance. As if he can feel it too, his brow knits, a puzzled expression entering the eyes that seem to be stripping me and looking into the very depths of my soul. At that moment, it feels as if I know him. As if I’ve known him all my life.
I step back, my fingers curving around the railing and holding on. Finally regaining the use of my lungs, I take a long breath, unsuccessfully trying to dispel the effect his undeniable masculine sensuality is having on me. It doesn’t help that he’s still looking at me, his eyes traveling up and down my body as if he knows exactly what he’s going to do with it.
I close my eyes, trying to arrange my thoughts and ignore all the carnal images that have taken over my brain. Okay, so he’s probably the owner of the apartment. The man with the passcode. He looks as if he was on his way out. He must have opened the elevator from inside and is probably surprised to find me right outside his apartment, staring at him as if I’ve never seen a man before.
“Good evening,” I start haltingly, trying to find the words to explain why I’m there.
There’s only a small flicker of his eyes to show that he heard me. He considers me for a few more moments, while I wonder if he’s going to acknowledge my words at all, and then one of his perfect eyebrows arches up.
“Well,” he says finally, in a voice that’s almost whispery soft, yet deep, raspy, and so incredibly sensual, it sends shivers down my spine. “You’re not what I’d have chosen, but you’ll do.”
I don’t understand a word he just said, but that might be due to the fact that my brain is still discombobulated by his blatant sexiness. I watch as he steps back and inclines his head in a gesture that tells me that he wants me to come inside the apar
tment.
“Come in.”
I’m already stepping into the entrance foyer before I wake up from the effects of his voice. I stop and frown at him. What does he mean ‘I’ll do?’
“Um…” I start, looking for words. What will I say? I don’t know who you think I am, but I was just hiding in the elevator while trying to repair the damage to my makeup from crying over a guy who doesn’t give a rat’s ass about me, and I ended up in front of your apartment. Now if you don’t mind, I’d like to…I hesitate. What exactly do I want to do?
I don’t want to leave. That’s for sure. There’s something dreamy about being ushered into a million-dollar, luxury apartment by a man who looks as if he just stepped out of a ‘sexiest man alive’ photo-shoot. He thinks I’ll do? For what exactly? I want to know, and somewhere in a shameless part of me, I desperately hope I don’t disappoint him.
He sees my hesitation. “Come in,” he repeats in that mesmerizing voice, “I won’t bite.” There’s a short pause. “Unless you want me to.”
There’s suddenly a weird, achy feeling low in my stomach. I pull in a gulp of air, my legs propelling me into the dimly lit foyer. He clearly thinks I’m someone else, but whoever it is, I’m more than ready to play the part, at least for now.
He leads the way through the foyer into a large living room with floor-to-ceiling windows that look out onto the city. As he walks, he shrugs off his jacket, dropping it carelessly on a sofa to join a discarded tie. “Have a seat,” he says, turning back to look at me. Without the jacket, his broad shoulders, narrow waist, slim hips, and the hard muscles beneath his shirt are obvious, too obvious.
“Would you like a drink?” he asks.
It takes a moment for me to tear my mind from thoughts of his body. “Um...”
“Brandy, Water, Wine…?’
“Brandy,” I tell him.
He gives me a small nod, then walks across the living room to a bar by the side, where he pours two glasses, then adds ice cubes. I manage to tear my eyes from his body so I can look around my surroundings. The room is tastefully furnished, the classic architecture complemented by a décor that’s luxurious without ostentation. It feels like a home. A place you expect a family to live.
I wonder if he’s married.
Well, it’s not as if I’m planning to sleep with him, I tell myself, continuing my admiration of the room. Some of the furniture are classic antique pieces, and the walls are covered in some sort of textured finish, with paintings hanging here and there. There’s a family portrait featuring a couple that’s obviously his parents, based on his resemblance to the man in the picture, and two children, boys.
He’s clearly the older one of the boys. It’s the same perfect face, only younger. Next to the portrait, there’s a large black and white original of a beautiful ballerina, her posture graceful as she leaps through the air. It’s the same woman in the family portrait, his mother apparently. At the bottom of the frame, I recognize the Andrew Marvell quote, “A thousand years should go to praise thine eyes, and on thy forehead gaze.”
“Here.” I turn away from the picture as that soft raspy voice pours over me again, making me shiver. He sounds like temptation, and I cannot imagine any woman who wouldn’t agree to any suggestion made in that voice.
He hands me the drink, his eyes on my face, and I do my best to hold my hand steady when I take the glass from him. I almost fail when his warm fingers brush mine. It’s just a tiny touch, but I feel it everywhere from my fingers to my thighs.
Still watching me, he drops gracefully beside me on the sofa. I can’t tear my eyes away from him. I feel almost as if I can look at him forever.
“You like ballet?”
“Hmm.” I’m so lost in staring at him that it takes a while for his words to register.
He gestures at the print of the ballerina. “You seemed interested in the picture.”
“Well, I like ballet, as much as any little girl who ever wanted to wear a tutu.” I laugh nervously. Both Laurie and I had attended classes, but I’d stopped only after a few months. I preferred to read, even then. “But I was looking at the quote in the picture,” I continue, “It’s from one of my favorite poems.”
An eyebrow goes up, only a little, but it draws my attention to his eyes again. They look like sapphires, I decide, dark and rich, with an irresistible glitter in their depths. “Had we but world enough and time,” he quotes, “this coyness, lady, were no crime.” The corners of his sculpted lips lift in a small smile. “But you’re not coy, are you? That would be inconsistent with your profession.”
I frown, not sure what he means. He’s doing a slow perusal of my body again, almost as if he’s undressing me with his eyes. I should be annoyed that this stranger is ogling me so openly, but I’m not. Instead, I can feel my body responding. Heat unfurls in my belly, spreading until I can feel the insistent need all over my body.
What am I doing? A few minutes ago I was devastated because I found out that I’d been waiting in vain for Jack to decide I was the girl for him. Now here I am, letting another man turn me on, which, to his credit, he was doing just by looking at me.
I should explain that I’m not whoever he thinks I am and leave. But not yet. I want…
I want him to keep looking at me with that sensual, smoldering gaze. I want to keep hearing that sinful voice. I want to feel his hands on me.
I take a quick sip of the drink he gave me, breaking the contact with his eyes. I can’t be considering casual sex with a total stranger.
An insanely hot, sexy stranger, who has me aching for him without even touching me at all.
I drag my eyes back to the print on the wall, and the line of poetry, even though I’d much rather be looking at him. “The woman in the poem,” I say, “Was she being coy, or careful? Many people have tossed caution to the wind and surrendered to passion, and yet come to regret it later.” I’m rambling, but I can’t stop. It’s the only way to escape the spellbinding effect of being so close to him.
He doesn’t reply, so I turn back to look at him. His eyes are on my face, a curious, speculative gleam in their blue depths. How can his lashes be so long? I wonder, half in admiration and half in jealousy.
“You’re absolutely right,” he says finally, with a small chuckle. “Though only my brother would find a hooker who talks about poetry on the job.”
A what! I swallow a mouthful of brandy, and the hot fiery liquid goes down all the wrong places. I sputter, almost dropping the glass as I try to get my throat under control.
He’s at the bar and back in what seems like milliseconds. “Here,” he takes my brandy and hands me a glass of water. “Drink this.”
I take the water from him and take a huge gulp. He thinks I’m a whore!
No wonder! He’d been expecting a hooker. I give the water back to him, unable to meet his eyes. I should tell him now that he’s wrong, but his fingers close over mine. They’re firm and warm and hard, and even from that slight touch I can feel the heated pulsing intensify between my thighs.
He thinks I’m a whore!
“Are you alright?” he asks softly.
His fingers are still on mine, distracting me, making me think of all the other places where I want him to touch me. It’s only sex, I tell myself, and heaven knows that after two years of being stuck in the friend zone with Jack, I could do with some of that. If only to get my mind to move on to other things.
I lick my lips, nervous at the thought of what I’m about to do. He thinks you’re a prostitute! An inner voice of reason screams at me, but I don’t listen. I can only feel the growing excitement in the pit of my stomach, and the aching need in my body.
“I’m fine,” I tell him, venturing a small smile. “I just drank it too fast, but I’m fine.”
“Good.” His fingers are still around mine, and I wonder if he can tell that my heart is beating like a freaking drum. I’m going to sleep with this stranger, I think almost incredulously. I’m going to let him fuck me any way he wa
nts because he thinks he’s paid for that right, and I’m going to enjoy every minute of it.
He takes the water from me and sets it on the coffee table, his eyes never leaving mine. Suddenly, it’s hard to breathe. Why am I doing this? I could tell him he made a mistake and walk out of here. I could tell him that the hooker his brother sent is probably still on her way. I could go home to my empty bed, and spend the rest of the night crying over Jack…
…or I can just let him fulfill the promise of toe-curling sex I can see clearly in his eyes.
“What’s your name?” he asks.
“Rachel.” My voice is barely more than a whisper.
“I’m Landon.”
I’m doing this, I decide resolutely, smiling at him. What happens now? I wonder. How do we go from exchanging names to entwined bodies and clawing sheets?
“Did Aidan tell you it was my birthday?”
Who…? “Yes,” I lie, guessing that Aidan is probably the brother.
He nods. “What are your rates?”
For a moment, I have no idea what to say. “It’s already been taken care of...” I murmur.
“Of course, but tell me anyway.”
I pick a number off the top of my head that I think is exorbitant enough for a high-class hooker.
He looks impressed. “My brother is being very generous,” he says with a small chuckle. He studies me for a moment. “So…what do I get for that?”
I pause. “The whole night.”
“Anything I want?”
I take a lungful of air, pushing the small sliver of panic out of my mind. “Anything you want,” I whisper.
His lips quirk. “Follow me,” he says, getting up from the sofa.
He leads me out of the living room into a wide hallway, then up a flight of stairs to the upper floor. He walks gracefully, his obvious strength held firmly under control. He moves quickly too, so I don’t have time to admire the apartment, or do more than be awed by the sheer size.
Upstairs, he opens the door to a large bedroom with soft grayish walls, large windows half hidden by long, heavy-looking curtains, and a perfectly made bed. A light from the bedside lamp on one of the nightstands casts a soft glow around the room, giving it an intimate ambiance. There’s a lounge chair close to the windows, a writing desk and chair, and closer to the bed, there’s a soft looking armchair. I step inside the room, and Landon closes the door behind us.
