My team members have blown me away this week with their innovative ideas and I’m impressed by how quickly they compile original sketches based on the full day of meetings we had with the client on Monday. Things might get tricky because I’ll be forced to use Canadian contractors, but I’m certain Dahlia, my senior project manager, will be able to manage this foreign team without a hiccup.
I want to thank my hardworking crew and I decide to pay for a full weekend’s stay in Niagara Falls before they head out on Monday afternoon to New York. This will allow them to rejuvenate and I can use the rest of this day and the upcoming weekend to catch my breath.
I’m staying behind to spend Saturday combing the street around our hotel. I’ve spotted a lot of adorable boutiques and I want to grab a few little souvenirs to bring back home for the rest of my team.
Right after I see my team off in the limo I rented to drive them to Niagara Falls, I plunk myself on a stool at the bar at the Four Seasons Hotel where I’m staying to have easy access to food and cocktails. As I sip on a Grey Goose La Poire classic martini, flipping through the archive pages of the Daily Mail on my iPad, I’m still in shock at how a casual affair turned into a media frenzy before I had time to blink.
Jesus, I can’t believe these photos. They make me look like a gold-digger—which I’m not. I earn my own money.
I still don’t understand how the British paparazzi managed to catch Ludvig and I in such compromising positions. They must have been parked at our London hotel door twenty-four-seven to be able to snatch such candid photos of our passionate interludes. Hollywood stars lament about the U.S. paparazzi, but nothing compares to the viciousness of the British rag papers. They’ve called me every name in the book—gold-digger, desperate, exhibitionist, wannabe royal, unsuitable and vulgar. My God, one U.K. paper said I was faking a pregnancy to get married to a royal and they had manipulated a photo of me to make me look like I was expecting. I hate to agree with Sofia, but it was two months of pure travesty.
I still can’t believe these photos went viral.
The only saving grace is the fact those photos show me naked from the back straddling the Count. Thank God my boobs aren’t hanging out and no other private parts are on display for the world to see. I would have been mortified if anything more revealing leaked.
Dealing with the British press was only half the fun. Ludvig insisted on me meeting his family and against my better judgment, I accepted. Most of his family members were lovely and amused by this new relationship. His older sister was the devil and took personal pleasure in attacking me and making sure I knew I was well out of my league.
The only upside was the deluge of extra business—our offices got flooded with calls from U.K. businesses and a number of other European establishments. Contrary to popular belief, a little scandal can be good for business. Secretly, I suspect a lot of the men calling were hoping they would deal with me directly, but I’m no fool—I sent my top designers to manage the projects once I closed the deals.
Thank God this is all behind me now and I hope the next few days will allow me to figure out how to break things off with Dylan.
“Those are some outrageously sexy heels.”
My eyes leave my iPad and trail down to my shoes and I wiggle my foot to remember which pair of Christian Louboutins I’m wearing.
Oh, yeah, the nude ones adorned with studs and topped with a bow. They always seem to leave men weak in the knees.
I move my eyes from the shoes to the speaker. Is that a British accent I detect?
“Well, thank you,” I say as I meet his sparkling blue eyes.
“Dare I say men would go to war to defend the honor of a woman with such taste? Those shoes can make a guy lose his senses.”
I take in the sexy and elegant man standing in front of me. Whoa! I might enjoy this contract in Toronto much more than I expected if all Canadians look this delicious. “You like the shoes, I gather?”
“I like the woman wearing the shoes, to be precise.”
“You flatter me.”
“Oh, please, surely I’m not the first man to trip all over your exquisite beauty. You’re absolutely stunning and when you walked in the room an hour ago, all heads turned to admire you. You sashayed in here like you owned the place. I love that kind of confidence in a woman. The only reason I didn’t approached you earlier is because I was in a business meeting and I had to force myself to focus on my much homelier guest.”
“You’re going to make me blush,” I say as my cheeks flame.
Very few men possess the repartee to make me blush. This guy’s got some serious game.
He grins and holds out his hand. “My name is Nikolaj.”
“It’s a pleasure, Nikolaj. I’m Ciara.”
“May I sit?”
The eloquent and sexy guy with a British accent wants to talk! This should be interesting. “Please, be my guest.”
“So Ciara, what brings you to this lounge?”
“I’m here on business. Forgive me for asking, and this might be because this is my first time in Canada, but your accent sounds more British than Canadian.”
“It’s actually slightly confusing. I’m from Denmark, but my parents sent me to boarding school at the age of twelve in London. I only left London once I had secured my first degree at Oxford, which explains the British-Danish accent.”
“Where did you get your second degree from?”
“Ah, you’re paying attention,” he says, narrowing his eyes as he curls up the side of his lips in a smile.
“Of course I am,” I say, as my eyes light up.
This is going to be fun. He’s sexy and smart.
“Alas, I’m quite predictable. I also have a MBA from the Kelley School of Business from Indiana University.”
“You’re right, it’s all slightly confusing. For the record, there’s nothing predictable about an Ivy League degree—I guess in your case two.”
“Well, I say predictable because I really wanted to be a football player. I think you call them soccer players here in North America. But my family would have nothing to do with their youngest son kicking a ball for a living.”
“I hear you. My father almost had a heart attack when I told him I wanted to become a chef. I would rather have shaved off my hair than become a lawyer.”
“So you’re a chef?”
“Not quite. I realized during my apprenticeship I wouldn’t enjoy standing all day in a hot kitchen,” I say, bending the truth.
“You’re a real rebel. I like you already. As for the confusing part of my identity, I can do you one better. Wait until you hear my full name. Now that’s confusing.”
“Try me,” I say as I suggestively lift my eyebrows.
He sizes me up with his deep blue eyes and smiles like a man who’s met a formidable adversary. “Are you ready?”
“I was born ready.”
We both laugh.
“My full name is Nikolaj Tristan Johan von Henningsen de Bretteville. What a mouthful, right?”
“Indeed it is. So should I call you Mr. von Henningsen or Monsieur de Bretteville?”
“Well, well, well. Someone speaks more than one language. Your French pronunciation is flawless.”
“I grew up in Paris when I was younger.”
“I love Paris. It’s one of my favorite cities in the world.”
“It’s also one of my favorites and I make a point of going as often as I can.”
“You have impeccable taste in shoes and cities.”
He’s very smooth. “If you’re Danish, how did you end up with a very French-sounding last name?”
“I have a double surname which indicates somewhere up my lineage I might have had a great-great-grandfather who was part of Danish royalty. The French surname indicates the same. It seems one of my forefathers was a French nobleman who married a Danish noblewoman and they kept both names as a status symbol.”
Royalty? Seriously? Here I was wishing I could put this scandal behind me.
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“It’s fascinating. You know so much about your roots,” I say as an attempt to pretend the tabloid scandal isn’t still a sore spot for me.
“Europeans love to retrace their roots, especially if they lead to a royal ancestor or two. I only go by Nikolaj von Henningsen. The rest sounds a bit too pretentious,” he says as he holds my gaze.
Damn, those blue eyes are dangerous. “I assume Nikolaj is Danish for Nicolas?”
“You’re correct.” He flashes a disarming smile.
“Do you prefer Nik or Nikolaj?”
“Which do you prefer, Ciara?”
I curl up my lips, amused by his question, and ponder for a second before answering. “Nikolaj. The name is sexy.”
“Is that all you find sexy about me?”
He’s smooth like perfectly aged rum. “Sometimes a question is better left unanswered.”
“There’s a lot I could read into your answer.”
I uncross my legs to relieve the tension building from the innuendo.
God, this man is sizzling hot. He’s very tall, immaculately dressed in an expensive well-tailored grey suit that hugs his fit body like a glove, his smile is sure to make me melt and his accent is a major turn-on. The fact he has such impeccable repartee makes him so much more interesting.
“Where are you from, Ciara?”
“New York City.” Thank God he changed the subject.
“Ah, the most vibrant place in America.”
“I’m a true New Yorker and love the city.”
“You say you’re here for business? We seem to share something in common. I’m here on an extended business trip. I’ve been here for the past ten months developing the Canadian, U.S., and South American market. Since I have to fly to the U.S. a couple times per week, I decided to move temporarily to Toronto to make it easier for me to hop on a plane to meet prospective clients.”
“What do you do?”
“I play games,” he says with a twinkle in his eyes.
“Games?” I ask, a little perplexed.
“Yes, my company, Maximus Enterprises Holdings, develops sports-based video games. My cash cow so far has been Europe. We dominate the market since we’ve been able to customize the language feature of all of our games. Americans only deal with one language, but they’re getting more and more into soccer, aka Euro football. My company has been growing in leaps and bounds on this side of the Atlantic thanks to this newfound interest. Since we’re already doing quite well with our Spanish soccer games in South America and in Spain, we intend on also going after the Hispanic market in the U.S.”
“Very impressive. You sound like a busy man.”
“I love what I do and I suspect you’re the same.”
“I’m surprised you’re the one taking care of all the negotiations. As a CEO, I assume, you must have a lot on your plate.”
“I only close big clients who could bring us several hundreds of thousands of dollars in additional monthly business. I leave the rest to my directors. I made sure to have a small team here with me in Toronto to support me in our growth phase. The rest of the team remains in Copenhagen and in Dublin.”
“You have quite the sophisticated operation.” This guy plays to win. “So if you’re not a chef and you’re not a lawyer, what fills you with passion?”
“I’m a lighting designer and I love what I do. I wake up every day feeling lucky. I’m here in Toronto because one of my clients is expanding his fleet of boutique hotels internationally.”
“I love a woman who lives her life with passion,” he says flirtatiously.
Are we still talking about my profession?
I pretend that I didn’t pick up on his innuendo. “I’ve worked very hard for my success and I bring my A-game to every single project. Word gets around fast in New York when you’re good at what you do. I’ve been fortunate—most of my clients have businesses across America and it’s allowed me to quickly make a name for myself. ”
“Very fascinating. I don’t think I’ve ever considered the importance of lighting design in an upscale place like this,” he says as he scours the room looking at the impeccable fixtures.
“Lighting can truly take a room from ordinary to extraordinary when done well.”
“I see,” he says, smiling. His gaze is intense and he narrows his eyes before speaking. “Can I buy you another drink?”
It’s a simple question, but one filled with possibilities. This guy is handsome and he’s a master at flirting. Another drink could lead to two or three more.
“Why not?” I say, holding his gaze.
A few too many drinks later, Nikolaj and I are like long-lost friends. As much as I love American men, there’s something so alluring about European men. Nikolaj is the perfect gentleman, but like so many other European men, his cool façade usually hides a much naughtier side, which I’d love to discover. I’m sure there’s far more to Mr. von Henningsen de Bretteville because from my experience, a man who flirts like a pro has a lot more to offer in bed.
“I think I should have stopped two martinis ago. I’m feeling the effect of too much Grey Goose in one sitting,” I say, as I brush my hair off my face.
“Your hair is so beautiful, so big, so wild and so curly. I can imagine how sexy you look in the morning.”
“Excuse me?” I choke on a sip of my Martini. Did he just make a pass at me?
“Huh? Nothing. I didn’t say a thing. It’s the alcohol talking,” he says with an angelic face. “You know, I have the perfect solution to sober up and make you forget I made an obvious pass at you.”
“Really? And what’s your brilliant plan?” I say, smiling.
“Dancing!”
“Dancing? There’s dancing at this hotel?”
“No, alas, the Four Seasons is far too posh, but across the street there’s a cool boutique hotel where the best DJs entertain a crowd of partygoers on Friday nights. It was a lucky find after a dreadful week and I’ve been going back ever since. The music is old-school house vibes, the mood intoxicating and the view of the city breathtaking.”
“Old-school house vibes? You don’t strike me as the type who would enjoy club music.”
“Try me.” His electric eyes are peering into mine and the sexual intensity emanating from his body is overwhelming.
One dance can’t hurt. “Okay, you’re on. Let’s go.”
“Let me pay first and then you can impress me with your moves.”
He pulls out a black American Express to settle the bar tab, which by now must be well over two thousand dollars since we’ve indulged in scrumptious appetizers and Nikolaj insisted on celebrating our fortunate encounter by ordering a bottle of Dom Perignon after he had polished off three glasses of Louis XIII cognac. I peeked at the cocktail menu earlier and nearly gasped when I realized each one of his drinks was a cool three hundred dollars. The black American Express comes as no surprise. Mr. Nikolaj von Henningsen is extraordinarily rich.
* * *
The rooftop of this boutique hotel is as outstanding as Nikolaj described. The place is buzzing with well-clad socialites. When we arrive, the party atmosphere is at peak levels and in danger of boiling over. The crowd is swaying to the beat of the loud music and booming bass.
This is a serious party!
As Nikolaj and I make our way through the sea of people, the DJ sets the tone for the next song.
“Boys and girls, ladies and gentleman, we’re going back—way back. I hope you remember some of these cool beats because we’re about to bring the roof down! Now make some noise!”
The crowd roars at the DJ’s announcement and a flood of bodies cram the dance floor.
“To kick things off with this old-school house jam, let me see you move it to Usher’s Yeah. Ladies, move like you mean it! Gentlemen, give me some attitude. I’m about to drop something hot!”
“This song is fun. Let’s go dance,” Nikolaj says, pulling me to the center of the dance floor.
The beat is dangerously steamy, the ai
r is filled with tension and Nikolaj surprises me with his moves.
Where did he learn how to dance so well? For a man so tall and so muscular, he moves his body like a trained pro.
“You know, from a one to ten, you’re a certified twenty and the way you sway your body makes me want to do a lot of very sinful things to you, Ciara.” He lifts my chin and kisses me forcefully.
Was it so obvious I was dying for him to kiss me?
His comment makes me instantly wet. His kiss ignites a burning fire threatening to consume me whole. This guy is so forward and so bold, I might let him get lucky if he continues to be this persuasive. Of course, with his sexy British accent, it wouldn’t take much to push me over the edge.
“Really?” I playfully push him away. If he gets any closer, the pressure of his hard cock against my body will weaken my resolve and it will be a struggle for me to restrain myself. “You’re very forward, Nikolaj.”
“For some reason, I don’t think you’re shocked or bothered,” he says, as he puts his strong hand on the small of my back to pull me even closer to him.
Whoa, who raised the temperature in this place?
His mouth is so close to mine I can nearly taste the expensive cognac on his breath. As much as I love my relationships to be casual, Nikolaj is a little too much to handle and this conversation is getting heavy fast. I wiggle myself away by turning my back to him so I can dance far from his sexy body.
Keep it together, girl.
I close my eyes to take in the beat of this song and to let the music take over all of my senses. My hands explore my body, brushing my ass, stroking my thighs, up to my stomach, further up to my shoulders, around my neck and up to my heavy curly hair. My emerald and white Diane von Furstenberg wrap dress opens flirtatiously to allow the breeze of the night to caress the moisture glistening across my chest. Pearls of sweat trail down the side of my temples and it’s as if the music has enraptured me. The chorus of Usher’s song only intensifies the bad girl in me.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah! Yeah, yeah! Yeah!”
I still have my back facing Nikolaj, but I know he’s watching. It’s as if his blue eyes are burning my skin. I undulate my hips to the lyrics of the song knowing full well he can’t peel his eyes off of my bottom. I’m so overtaken by lust I channel Jennifer Lopez’s sexiest moves and give this guy something to remember. I’ve seen men almost lose it when I sway my hips in a circular motion as I slide my body up and down. The implicit message of things to come is what turns them on so much.
Casual Encounter Page 2
