The income her books brought in was crucial to revamping the faltering finances of Trident. If Red was going to whip the newest part of his sprawling empire into shape, he needed this meeting to proceed perfectly. He paused, smirking at his choice of words. Ha. This was one leopard with some predictable spots.
Perhaps Corelli would strut into his office in tight leather and too many buckles, wielding a whip and black lipstick. That could be either interesting or terrible. What if such a look sat uneasily on her? Not sexy.
There was also the possibility that Ms. Antoinette Corelli was a wallflower—a forgotten mouse of a woman, tucked into a dowdy sweater, and slacks with an elastic waistband. A spinster getting her thrills from being naughty in secret. Possibly sexy. It depended.
God. He laughed uneasily. Red had lost his mind and this meeting couldn’t be over fast enough. Whoever Corelli turned out to be, he only had to hand over the new contract they’d drafted, assure her that she was the jewel in the crown, and move on with his life.
Anyway, it never took Red longer than a few minutes to figure people out, and this would be no different. Business, plain and simple.
Corelli would naturally be wary, having a new commander looking over her shoulder. But making nervous people get comfortable, making them offer up their reservations and worries to him like gifts to a god—that was kind of what he did best. Red’s superpower, as it were.
He wasn’t going to spend the next hour thinking about all the intriguing things this woman had imagined in the pages of her books. He wasn’t.
The expected knock from his assistant Wayne rapped a staccato rhythm on the wood of his door. It was time.
“Enter,” Red called. He wasn’t nervous. And he wasn’t half hard already. That would just be flat-out insane.
Red stood as Wayne ushered her in, his whole body snapping to attention when Ms. Corelli cleared the doorway. Desire for her began to smolder right then, as she strode across his office and he realized that the recent mental image he had concocted of her—dowdy, middle-aged suburban housewife—was woefully inaccurate.
It wasn’t until the first touch of her skin, when Corelli extended her hand confidently to shake his, that Red’s want of her turned into a full-bodied blaze. His scurrilous brain supplied him with an image—one he supposed he ought to feel guilty for. Instantly, he imagined that instead of releasing her hand, he yanked on it, pulling her forward across his desk.
In his mind’s eye, Red rounded the hulking piece of furniture in seconds and stood behind her, his palms smoothing up her long legs and pushing Ms. Corelli’s slim gray skirt up over her hips. He laid a hand lightly on her back, and he gazed down at the pale, bared skin of her thighs. His other hand reached to stroke her between her legs, and…
And Red’s little fantasy ground to a halt. He sat heavily down in his big leather desk chair and gestured for the woman to take a seat opposite him. He was annoyed to realize that he could not at all envision what sort of underwear this woman might wear. Even more weirdly, he didn’t know what kind he wanted her to be wearing. Right—because that mattered right now.
He gave himself a mental shake and tried to refocus on the conversation. His star author presented herself very professionally, poised and confident. She was seductive, too, he noticed—which was not something he’d usually say about a woman built like her. Corelli was on the petite side, but slim and graceful nonetheless—long-legged and willowy, without the supermodel height.
Not an inch too much skin showed anywhere, nothing clung too tightly, and her posture was ladylike without crossing too far into demure. Red was excruciatingly conscious of her figure, her beauty, her allure. She was perfect for what he wanted. He had to be nuts to think it.
He desperately wanted to wrap a hand in her shining, shoulder-length hair—which was the light brown of…he struggled to come up with an adequate analogy that didn’t involve rotting autumn vegetation or alternative meat products. The best Red could come up with, though, was wood—the soft color of a cask, the sort that a fine bourbon might be aged in.
He doubted she’d appreciate that. He hadn’t been able to compare her hair to the booze itself, after all, merely its weathered receptacle.
Her eyes, on the other hand, those were something else entirely—those would burn nicely going down. Her eyes could lay his six-foot-five ass out on the ground, all on their own.
Corelli was saying something to him with just the faintest touch of amusement in her brandy eyes and on her lips. Red ought to be more careful. He supposed a woman like her might very well know the direction of his thoughts. She was obviously sharp as a whip.
The phrase struck him with an arrow of desire straight into his gut. The rest of his insidious fantasy dropped into place suddenly: she wouldn’t be wearing any panties at all, and his large palm would smack her on the ass. Hard.
Red jerked, suddenly uncomfortable with his wayward thoughts. Uncomfortable, period. This sort of intimate awareness of a woman had never happened in the office before. Not here, not like this—and truly, only rarely anywhere else in his life. Never when it was supposed to, that was for damn sure.
He could tell by the look on Corelli’s face—no, wait, she was called Piper—that she thought he was acting strangely. He needed to pull himself together and regain control of the conversation.
“Forgive me,” he murmured, by way of explanation. “It’s been one hell of a week.” When Red realized that he truly had no idea of what had been said so far, he took a deep, fortifying breath.
He launched into the backstory of his research and explained some things she likely already knew about her own industry. It made him feel grounded to recite the facts, though. More in control. And as he told her about how he’d read all her books, he recalled how unexpected they’d been.
Red had thought they might be the idle (though skillfully-rendered) daydreams of a lonely old lady, or possibly some past-her-prime cougar. Now that Piper sat before him, however…he wondered. Maybe she knew exactly what she was writing about. Perhaps there was more reality in her novels than he’d supposed.
Red drummed his fingers and considered her. Did he want there to be? Despite her whole unflappable veneer and her professional clothes and manner, her shoes were not entirely respectable, were they? In fact, they were so sexy they bordered on slutty—and did unholy things to her slim, lovely ankles, and the curve of her calves.
He wanted—no, needed—to know more about her.
Red told himself it was because she was an outlier. An anomaly who didn’t fit easily into any of the customary categories he usually sorted people into.
Piper was pretty without seeming to be aware of it, sexy without apparent effort, and had a complicated, naughty mind that he’d love to get lost in.
Red wanted to know where she came from. What did she like? What made her tick? He wanted to unwrap her layers like it was his birthday, and none of that had the least bit to do with PKM, Trident, or his bottom line.
For fuck’s sake. He’d unwittingly waltzed right into the world’s oldest, most worn-out trope, the one so many of his idiot brethren seemed so fond of: the lady in the streets and freak in the sheets. And Red had gone and done it at work.
Again, he wondered what the hell had gone wrong here. What mysterious sorcery did this woman possess, that she’d tossed him into such unfamiliar territory? Red hated not having all the information he needed. He didn’t enjoy not being one hundred percent certain of his next move.
Which likely explained why, before he quite knew what was happening, he’d wrapped up their train wreck of a meeting and cleared his schedule. Without thinking about it—without much conscious thought at all, really—Red was walking Miss Piper to the elevators like he could do it in his sleep.
He was done for, that was clear as fucking day.
THREE
WHEN THE TOWN car dropped them at the curb twenty minutes later, Piper couldn’t help but notice the way Red MacLellan snagged the gazes of so ma
ny people out on the street. After the meeting she’d just endured with him—not to mention the car ride—she could hardly blame them.
Red was hard to miss. He was literally larger than life, with uncommon coloring and a commanding presence. It was no wonder he stopped traffic, and probably hearts. Piper could barely manage to take her eyes off him herself.
But she did not need the headache of another alpha man. Been there, done that. Her former fiancé Kyle had a similar effect on people, and she knew now where that led. It might have taken her too long to figure it out back then, but she wasn’t likely to forget the lesson soon. It had been hard enough to stomach it the first time.
It was funny how an innocuous get-together could transform into a social minefield so quickly. There’d she’d been, cheerfully mingling at Kyle’s college reunion, telling everyone about the wonderful things they’d planned for the wedding.
When the whole time, those people had known a different story—a more pertinent one. A tale in which Kyle, her supposedly devoted man, was infamous for blazing a trail through the beds of cocktail waitresses all over town. A tale in which Kyle’s junk never rested and he never told the truth.
A story in which Piper, somehow, still filled the role of antihero.
Ever since, she’d wondered how difficult it had been for Kyle’s crowd to force those indulgent smiles onto their faces. Had they speculated about Piper afterward with their spouses or taken bets on how long she and Kyle would last? Had they debated whether she knew what kind of person she was marrying, or whether she cared? Whether Kyle cared?
Piper had only discovered the true thoughts of one woman, after all—the one who hadn’t quite managed to keep her judgments to herself. Piper could no longer remember if it had been a former classmate or an ex-girlfriend, and it hardly mattered anymore.
The only relevant part was the way the smirking woman had demanded to know how Piper had become a porn star in the first place.
Piper could remember the way her next words had felt in her mouth, even now. “I’m…not. I’m a writer.”
“Oh really?” had been the arch response. “And what do you write?”
Piper had been confused, naturally. “Just…romance.” She still chafed at her unfortunate choice of words. Not just. Never just. For her, romance was everything.
The woman’s expression had said it all, though. Piper was speechless in the face of it, desperate to defend herself but so caught off-guard she couldn’t summon the argument.
But…why bother trying when it would make no difference? That woman’s mind—all their minds—were already made up. They’d been fed a litany of lies by a man they admired, and they’d swallowed them whole. Kyle had led his acquaintances to believe Piper acted in pornos and then relished the inevitable result.
Everything crystallized into one sickening revelation for Piper, then. The truth was, the man she intended to spend her life with fancied himself an author, too. And, while Kyle never seemed to finish his own magnum opus, he was always more than happy to weigh in on Piper’s writing.
He’d called her inauthentic, but she realized he might’ve been jealous of her and had found a way to put her in her place. Maybe he’d simply been bitter that Piper wasn’t the sexpot he’d expected her to be. Maybe he got off on being the guy with the slutty fiancée.
Whatever his motivations were, his words had been misleading enough that people jumped to conclusions. He hadn’t corrected them. Instead, Kyle fed their misconceptions—nurtured them, even.
If he couldn’t stand to see her succeed where he himself fell short, why try to marry her, then? Piper assumed it was his way of keeping her down permanently. The bastard.
After those light bulbs had gone off, Piper’s life had devolved into a painful blur, and one long, ugly mess.
By the time she tried to tackle the final book in the series she’d been working on, her confidence was at an all-time low. Piper struggled from start to finish, and for the first time ever, Trident had brought in story coaches and developmental editors. She had wondered despondently whether the man she’d given her heart to had ruined her for good.
PIPER SHOOK OFF the memory and pushed herself to catch up with the long stride of the man charging up the sidewalk in front of her. All of that was in the past. Piper only needed to be concerned about her future now—and her dinner date held that in the palm of his very large hand. She’d do well to pay attention.
The fancy Japanese restaurant Red led her to was dimly lit, with dark wood walls, small fountains burbling softly, and a giant golden statue of some god or another looming on the back wall.
“This is so pretty,” Piper breathed, looking around. “I love it. How did you know?”
“You said Japanese first. Whether you realized it or not, that was your preference. You were trying to be accommodating, but deep down, you knew what you wanted,” Red informed her.
“It looks like you did, too.”
His smile was cryptic, but his words were easy enough to understand, “You’ll see—the food here never disappoints.”
A beautiful, kimono-clad hostess glided up and bowed. “Mr. MacLellan, what a pleasure to see you.”
“Hey, Miko. I don’t suppose you have anything available this evening.”
“For you? Always,” the hostess assured him. “Table for…two?”
If Piper hadn’t already been watching the other woman closely, curious about the fact that Red had called her by name, she might’ve missed the way Miko’s eyebrows twitched just a tiny fraction when she inquired about the number in their party. Miko was too much of a professional to comment outright, but why did she seem surprised?
“Yes. Something private, if you have it.”
“Naturally. Right this way.”
Red winked at Piper and murmured, “Pays to be a regular.”
The hostess ushered them to a row of curtained-off alcoves lining the side of the restaurant. She indicated the one on the end, then drew open the curtain and waited.
Red gestured Piper up the two wide steps but stopped her at the top with a hand on her arm.
“We should take off our shoes first,” he told her.
Before Piper could figure out how in the hell she was supposed to accomplish that gracefully, the man dropped into a crouch in front of the entire restaurant to help her. Red’s hands dwarfed her ankles when he slipped first one heel off her foot, then the other. His thumbs brushed almost imperceptibly over her anklebones, and then he set her shoes aside.
Red rose to toe off his wingtips and lined them up neatly beside her pumps. He handed Piper down into the dropped seats and sat across from her. She tried not to think of their exposed feet, mere inches apart under the table, because that would be weird.
Instead, Piper congratulated herself on remembering to paint her toenails a sexy dark red last night, and for choosing to leave off the stockings this morning.
Her lucky leopard heels had obviously increased in potency since the last time she had employed them. Piper probably ought to remember that the next time she decided to pull them out.
Miko had procured a small clay teapot from a sideboard nearby. The hostess leaned in quietly to fill their cups, set the teapot beside their menus, then departed.
Red watched Piper intently as she shrugged out of her sweater, then assessed the lacy charcoal-gray shell she wore underneath with his measuring brown eyes. He turned away. A waitress had appeared suddenly at his side.
Piper glanced at the menu, and her eyes snagged immediately on the list of fruity cocktails. Ah. Liquid courage.
“Can I get you something to drink?” the woman inquired.
“I’ll have a Singapore Sling,” Piper told her cheerfully. Even the name was fun to say.
“And will you be having your usual, sir?”
Red nodded. “Yes. Thank you.”
Once the waitress closed the curtain again, Piper commented drily, “I’d never guess you came here often.”
“I know. But,
more importantly, what the hell is a ‘Singapore Sling’?”
“No idea,” she shrugged.
He frowned. “Then why would you order it?”
“It sounded interesting. Besides, how bad could it be?”
Piper was saved from elaborating by the rail-thin man delivering their drinks. He liberated Red’s usual from a nest of straw in a small wooden box, then poured it with great ceremony from a beautiful stone bottle. Sake, Piper decided, and a special one at that. Had to be.
The waiter hovered expectantly. Red took a sip and smiled, then turned to ask Piper, “Any particular favorites on the menu?”
“I love tuna tataki. Also, hand rolls with eel.”
“Are you open to trying new things?”
“Absolutely.” And, now her mind was back in the gutter.
“Okay if I order?”
“Knock yourself out,” Piper told him. She got busy taking her first slug of the Sling, and it was…whoa. Strong. It was strong. Strong like Red’s hands. Strong like his personality.
The second sip went down easier than the first. She would have to be careful if she didn’t want to morph into a horny, giggling teenager by meal’s end.
Piper clued back into Red’s discussion with the waiter right in time to hear him remind the guy, “You remember about the peanuts?”
“Of course, Mr. MacLellan. We’ll be very careful, as always.”
Piper held up a hand, looking between them. “What about peanuts?”
Now Red was the one shrugging. “Deathly allergic,” he intoned, like it was no big deal.
Piper turned immediately to the waiter. “Please make sure my food is safe for him, too,” she asked. “In case we want to share.”
“Certainly.” The guy bowed slightly, stepped off the stairs, and pulled the curtain mostly shut. Through the opening, Piper watched him stride quickly toward the kitchen.
The Titan Was Tall (Triple Threat Book 1) Page 3
