by Mara Leigh
I glance at my watch. “How long will the meeting take?”
She stops on the last flight of stairs, halting so suddenly I nearly smash into her, and then she turns, her impatience as clear as glass. “Ember, I let you work from home and you’ve done a great job—way better than our last accountant.” Her large eyes roll as she shakes her head. “I don’t think it’s too much to ask you to go to one offsite meeting with a donor. Especially one so important.”
“No, it’s not, but I…” I close my eyes, wishing I could get past my irrational fear of the dark.
She squeezes my arm, and I open my eyes to find hers full of empathetic kindness. “Don’t you worry, lamby, we’ll get you home before nightfall.”
Her words are kind—both in meaning and delivery—but I can’t help but feel foolish. I’m twenty-five years old and I’m still afraid of the dark.
Ember
Shana takes a long deep breath and shoots me a smile. We’re standing in front of a metal door just inside a narrow alley behind a center city office building. Above us, camera lenses dip to take obvious note of our presence.
“Are you sure this is the place?” I ask her. The alley is clean, pristine really, but this is definitely the back of this building—the opposite of inviting. Super sketchy.
She pulls out a crumpled sticky note from her pocket and reads, “When the car drops you off, enter through the metal door on the left of the alley.” She glances around. “This has to be the right door.”
“This doesn’t seem strange to you?” Or dangerous? I moved to Philadelphia not long after I turned eighteen, but after growing up in the country, I’m still cautious.
She shrugs. “Rich people are eccentric.”
Shana should know. My earthy, scattered boss, who buys most of her wardrobe at used clothing stores as a protest against fast fashion and waste, is actually the youngest daughter of the man who’s family owns the largest real estate company in the state.
Shana holds open the door for me, and the space we step into is narrow, but belies the simple steel door. The entrance way is sleek and tasteful, modern and yet somehow classic with long, teal curtain panels hanging at intervals over crisp white walls that rise at least twenty feet up to a ceiling covered with gleaming metallic ceiling tiles. The lighting is recessed, it’s source unclear, creating the illusion that the white and black floor tiles are floating over a bed of light.
A shiny black door opens at the back of the room, and a tall, elegant man appears, dressed in a tuxedo complete with white gloves. “Welcome.” He bows slightly. “Shana Johnson and Ember Cross, I presume?”
“Mr. Zuben?” Shana walks forward, extending her hand, but the man shakes his head.
“He will meet you inside the club.”
Club? I’ve never been outside after dark, never mind inside anything that could be described as a club, and a frisson of excitement races through me. Or maybe it’s fear. I’m not sure my body knows the difference. “What kind of club is this?” I ask.
Shana hip checks me and shoots me a look that says, ‘shut up’.
“It’s a social club,” the man answers as we pass him. “Exclusive to the most senior executives of DEFTA.”
DEFTA. That’s where we are? I know little of the mysterious company whose name graces the top of this major high-rise in center city Philadelphia.
The man shuts the door from the lobby, leaving the three of us in a wide hallway painted deep black. At least I think it’s painted. The texture of the walls seems cushioned, and it’s hard to resist touching them to test how far my fingers would sink in if I pushed. But before I can act on my impulse, a door at the other end opens and light floods the dark hallway.
We enter the most beautiful room I’ve ever seen.
“Wow,” Shana says, clearly impressed too, even though I’m sure she’s seen way more beautiful spaces than I have. “This is really something.”
I nod as my attention is pulled from one place to another—red velvet and satin, gold detailing, wood paneling, rich leather chairs in a deep blood red, antiques galore—and, although it’s super-fancy, the space also feels comfortable, as if the room is literally asking us to make ourselves at home.
“…and this is our accountant, Ember Cross,” Shana says.
My attention snaps from the surroundings to her voice, and I realize that, while I’ve been lost in the decor, she’s been in the middle of introductions.
Focusing on my hand, I reach forward to shake the man’s, and his engulfs mine. His touch is warm and soft, his fingers long, his skin light brown, and his face… Raising my gaze, I can’t draw a full breath as I take in the most handsome man I have ever seen in the flesh.
His warm, brown eyes are rimmed with the kind of thick, dark lashes women yearn for, giving the illusion that he’s wearing black eyeliner, his eye whites shimmer in contrast, and his deeply tan skin luxuriates over sharply chiseled features so perfectly symmetrical it’s hard to believe the man’s real. He’s more like an artist’s interpretation of male beauty, and his thick, well-groomed brows rise as he stares.
Stares at me.
His gaze on me is so intense it makes me feel naked, and heat rises to bake me from the inside. I suck on my cheeks, desperate for enough moisture to allow me to speak.
“Ms. Cross?” His intense attention turns to a look of concern, pooling in the depths of eyes the color of chestnuts that I can’t stop staring into. “Are you quite well?”
“Yes.” My heart racing, I drop his hand and step back. “Yes, fine. I’m very well. This…this is a beautiful room. I’ve never seen anything like it.” Or anything like you… And I’ve certainly never felt anything like the reaction his handshake and attention set off in my belly.
“Mr. Zuben,” Shana interjects, reminding me she’s there. “We’re very excited to answer your questions and to show you how much your generous donation will help homeless youth in our city.”
His eyes flash with what looks like a message directed at me, one I don’t understand, then he turns toward Shana. “Ms. Johnson, I requested a meeting with your accountant.”
“This is her.” Shana smiles, trying to hide her confusion.
“Alone.” The man’s intense glare turns back to me again and my belly tightens.
Shana grabs my forearm and tugs, urging me closer toward her—and away from the handsome man. I smile at her mothering instincts, saving me from the big bad wolf. As if a wolf would dress so well, or smell so good, or be so amazingly handsome.
Shana clears her throat. “Mr. Zuben, I assure you that I can answer any questions about our finances. I am the executive director of Sanctuary House and have been for nearly twenty years—”
“Precisely why I would like to speak to your accountant on her own.” His tone is abrupt, his voice low and deep.
Looking stunned, Shana shifts her huge pack up to her shoulder, but it slides down her arm again.
“My request was for an in person meeting with your accountant,” the billionaire says sharply. “Check your correspondence.”
“But—” Shana shoots me a look of alarm.
I force a quivering smile onto my face as I nod and mouth, “I’ve got this.” I certainly hope I’ve got this, because if I don’t, that will be the end of Sanctuary House.
The man who brought us in, gestures for Shana to follow him out of the club.
Another tuxedoed waiter appears out of thin air and pulls out the table of a semi-circular booth to make it easier for me to slide onto the shiny leather seats, such a dark red they could have been dyed with blood.
“Ms. Cross, shall we sit?”
Nodding toward our potential benefactor, I perch on the edge of the seat, and he slides in next to me.
The waiter pushes the table in, trapping me. “What can I get you?” he asks.
I shake my head. “I’m fine.” I reach for my tote bag.
“There is no doubt that you are fine,” Mr. Zuben says. “But you must accept my hospital
ity. I insist.” He smiles at me with what seems like genuine kindness, but his eyes dance to an entirely different piece of music—one part amused and the other…this man seems fascinated by me, like I’m a strange creature he’s never before encountered.
A dance starts low in my belly, but at the same time my chest widens with confidence. “If you insist, then you might as well choose my drink for me too.”
His eyebrows rise, his face flashing amusement, but then his eyes narrow as he studies me in what feels like an academic way, like he thinks my drink preferences can be found in the pores of my skin.
“Ms. Cross will have a sidecar,” he says without turning to the waiter. “And I will have one too.”
“What’s in a sidecar?” I ask.
“Cognac, Cointreau and a dash of lemon,” he answers.
My limited drinking experience is another side effect of avoiding the dark. Beyond the occasional glass of wine, I don’t drink and have no idea what those ingredients taste like, aside from lemon, but I don’t want to appear unsophisticated or ungrateful.
“Sounds delicious.” And strong.
“It is.” He smiles again and everything inside me flutters.
I nod slightly, then remembering why we’re here, I pull my laptop out of my tote and set it onto the table. Thumb in the indentation, I start to open it, but Mr. Zuben puts his hand on the lid.
I turn toward him, shocked.
“I have studied the organization’s financial statements in great detail.” His hand brushes over mine as he moves it from my laptop and my breath catches. “I will contact you if I require additional details.”
My shock vanishes as I’m fully absorbed in this man’s eyes. I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many dimensions to the color brown. At first they seemed like chestnut, but now I see that deep brown and amber flecks dance through his irises, combining into the sparking light brown color I saw from a distance.
But up close… Up close…
I turn abruptly away, alarmed by the intensity of his gaze and the resultant stirring in my belly—and down lower. “Mr. Zuben,” I say softly.
“Just Zuben.”
“Okay, Zuben.” I draw a long breath to settle all the crazy things going on inside of me. The survival of Sanctuary House depends on this meeting—on me. “If you don’t want to see our financial statements, what exactly can I do for you?”
“A lot I suspect.”
My back stiffens.
His long elegant fingers shift on the table and he leans back against the padded leather bench. “My main objective today is to meet you. I never make donations of this size without getting to know the people responsible for keeping track of the money.”
The waiter arrives and sets down two cone-shaped glasses on stems, one in front of me and one for Mr. Zuben. No—just Zuben.
“It’s imperative that I inherently trust an organization’s accountant,” he says.
I nod and shift my focus to my drink.
Our glasses are rimmed with something crystalized, maybe sugar or salt, and the contents are amber, shining under the warm lighting. The drink’s almost clear, but with a slight murkiness that I suspect comes from the lemon.
“Shall we drink to Sanctuary House?” Zuben raises his glass.
“And to you.” I lift mine. “Your generous donation will transform our organization.”
He takes a sip of his drink and I tip mine to my lips.
It’s definitely not salt on the rim. I’d guess sugar, held there with lemon and something else I can’t quite make out. Passing my lips, the liquor burns my tongue and then my throat as I swallow. I try to stifle a cough.
“Do you like it?” Zuben asks, eyeing me with concern.
I nod, taking another small sip when the burn subsides.
“What flavors do you detect?” he asks.
Closing my eyes for a moment, I run my tongue around my mouth, not wanting to say something obvious like sugar or lemon. I want to impress him. There are flavors I recognize, but I’m not sure—“Orange?”
Zuben nods. “Orange peel is used in the distillation of Cointreau.”
Taking another sip, I hold the bittersweet liquid in my mouth as I inhale, and the flavor floods my senses.
“I’ve never had Cointreau before.” I smile at him. “What was the other thing in the drink?”
“Cognac,” he replies. “It’s a type of brandy, made in specific regions of France.” His voice is rich and soft, like velvet at this low volume, and I even though I’ve never had a big interest in alcohol, I want to hear more.
He tells me more about the origins of brandy and what makes cognac special amongst brandies and why this particular cognac is extra special, or something, and then he starts using French and Dutch words for equipment and places. But I don’t even try to keep up with the details. I just like hearing his voice and the heat of his attention as it floods over me. I nod and smile as I take small sips of the drink.
I’m mesmerized by this man—by his voice, his eyes, and the way he looks at me, and by his long fingers and how they are such a inconsistency of strength and grace as he gesticulates to emphasize points. My gaze follows as his index finger drops to the white tablecloth and draws an invisible outline of what I believe is a map of France, and then circles little areas of it to show me where the best cognac is made.
His hand moves to his glass, and my gaze follows it to his perfectly formed lips as he takes a sip of his drink—only his second sip, I realize—even though mine’s halfway gone. After he drinks, his eyes close and his cheeks and lips move slightly as he takes obvious pleasure in the flavors.
“Are you a liquor expert?” I ask. “Is that your profession? I don’t know much about DEFTA.”
His eyes snap open. “Why do you ask?”
“You sure know a lot about brandy.”
“Cognac,” he corrects, then shakes his head. “I went into too much detail. Sharing an excess of knowledge is my worst vice.” He smiles. “Please. Tell me more about yourself.”
“Me?” I shift slightly. “Sanctuary House provides support for homeless and at risk youth through a variety of programs which—”
“I know all that.” His words, cutting me off, are abrupt, but the way he looks at me is the opposite. “I asked about you.”
I want to slide closer to him, to feel the touch of his fingers again on my skin… But that’s the effect of the alcohol. And there’s nothing interesting about me to tell—nothing I share anyway. I need to focus, to sell him on making this donation.
“May I tell you about our upcoming fundraising event?” I ask.
He shrugs.
“It’s a black tie gala and based on ticket sales it should raise thirty percent of our annual operating budget—and more if the silent and live auctions go well.”
Zuben nods.
Grateful that he hasn’t cut me off again, I continue on the topic. “This year, Shana decided to add a live auction with a very exciting element.”
“And what is that?” Zuben takes a sip of his sidecar.
“Patrons will have the opportunity to bid on an evening out with—well some are dates with local celebrities, and others with some of our staff.”
Zuben frowns. “Shana is prostituting the staff?”
“No!” I exclaim. “It’s all in good fun, I assure you. All of the volunteers for the auction are of legal age and have willingly agreed to participate, and none of our patrons would expect…” My cheeks are burning.
Shaking my head, I close my eyes for a beat.
When I open them, Zuben’s leaning forward slightly, his attention directly on me. “Will the pleasure of your company be on the auction block, Ms. Cross?”
“Me?” I shudder. “No, I…”
Setting down my cocktail glass, my fingers slip and the glass tumbles forward. I reach for it, and the top of the thin vessel ends up sandwiched between my palms.
I crush it.
“Oh!” Embarrassment floods me and I ca
tch the stream of blood with my other hand to make sure none lands on the white tablecloth.
“You are bleeding.” Zuben’s elegant fingers take my injured hand, and he studies it with a brazen intensity that makes me feel unbelievably vulnerable. Inhaling deeply, he studies my cut palm.
His hold is at once gentle and firm, his skin transferring an electric heat into mine that makes me ignore the pain from the cut. My heart races as he bends forward and pulls a tiny shard of glass from the wound.
Blood oozes from the cut, and he bends to press his mouth against my palm.
An intense shiver of pleasure races through me that I don’t understand, and my face heats as if I’m too close to a raging fire. His lips on my skin feel foreign, his action’s shocking, but my pain eases, and time seems to stop as I relish the thrill of his lips moving against my skin and his tongue unmistakably flicking over my wound.
Still with his mouth on my palm, his gaze lifts to meet mine, and I realize my mouth is open, my breath thready, and even more shocking, desire is pooling between my legs. Desire like I’ve never felt before, not even reading the hottest romance novel or making out with the few boys I briefly dated in college.
“Mr. Zuben,” Shana says.
I pull my hand back and turn to see that she’s returned, standing just in front of our table, her eyes wide.
“That was—” her back stiffens, “—I’m sorry, but that was highly inappropriate. Not to mention unsafe, your mouth against an open wound…”
Zuben nods to acknowledge her, but continues to stare at me, and something in his expression has changed. Something in his entire body, his entire presence. There’s now something animalistic, something wild lurking under the staid and elegant businessman’s formal exterior. It scares me.
“Ms. Johnson is right,” he says looking at me, “but the alcohol will kill any bacteria from my lips. Do you have any blood borne illnesses Ms. Cross?”
I shake my head.
“And did I make you uncomfortable?”
I shake no again, because uncomfortable isn’t the word I’d choose to describe how he made me feel, although I do admit that the damp heat between my legs is making me feel some kind of way, especially as he leans closer again and inhales, like he can smell my unexpected arousal.
