by Cara Nelson
The engaged couple withdrew to open the dancing inside the marquee, and Des pulled Annelise into his arms. The crowd drifted down the lighted path to the marquee and they heard the band start up with an old Cole Porter tune. Soon, they were alone except for a few waiters clearing away dishes. Annelise drifted against him and shut her eyes. The scene around her was perfect, and she’d worked hard enough to make it so. But it was nothing compared to the joy of being in Des’s arms, a warm autumn breeze cooling them as they embraced.
“You done good, firecracker,” he said against her hair.
“Thanks. It’s been—” Annelise hesitated.
“Harrowing?” Desmond supplied tactfully.
“I was gonna say a real bitch, but harrowing works, too.” She laughed as he twirled her around once to the music and swept her form from head to toe with an admiring gaze.
“Now it’s time I took you dancing again. Tomorrow night?”
“Tomorrow night I’m going home to get some rest,” she said, exhausted.
“Tomorrow night, I want you resting at home. At our home. Move in with me, Annelise. I don’t like being apart from you.”
“I did that already, Des. I lived with—“ He put a finger to her lips.
“Don’t say his name. He’s not me. I’m the best, remember.”
“I don’t want to—”
“Get hurt? I don’t want to be hurt either, but it’s a risk. Everything’s a risk. You took a risk driving up here in traffic, and you took a risk walking any distance in those shoes.”
“Des, you know what I mean,” Annelise pleaded.
“Yes, I do. And I know your granny didn’t raise a coward either. When I meet her, there’ll be a ring on your hand,” Desmond announced.
“I didn’t mean I wanted a ring, Des. You don’t listen to a word I say.”
He reached into his pocket.
“Weirdest thing. I rented this suit and it came with a little box.” He handed her a black velvet box and watched with delight as her eyes grew round. Annelise Hollingford was rendered speechless for the very first time in her life, and Desmond savored every moment of it.
She flipped it open and gaped at the dazzling ring that was nestled inside. It was a dark red opal, with intriguing flashes of scintillation catching the candlelight and refracting rainbows out of its cabochon depth.
“I was going to go with a diamond, but this was the only thing I found with a fire like yours. I’ve never backed down from a fight yet, and I’m not letting you go. I want it in writing. On a marriage license, if you want precision. Marry me.”
“I—I’m not sure I want to be married at all. My granny—“
“I already talked to her. She said I was ballsy and I’d be good for you. She also asked if I had a brother for her.” He laughed. Annelise nodded slowly.
He’d spoken with her granny, had asked for her approval. Annelise was touched in spite of herself, felt her resolve thawing out. His devotion, his fierce determination, that eminently desirable opal ring....together it spelled her doom, or rather, the combination would be the making of her.
“I’m still not sure about marriage, but I can try it. I never had heated seats before this car and I like them okay,” she teased. “They’re a consolation.”
“Baby, you won’t need any consolation.”
Desmond slipped the ring onto her finger and they went down the steps to the marquee, kissing by the light of the luminarias before they stepped into the chandelier-bright tent. A live band played songs Hannah had picked out and they danced, sipping champagne with raspberries in each flute. Annelise accepted congratulations on the party and leaned against Des, watching happily from the sidelines as the guests danced and drank and laughed.
Hannah came over again to thank Annelise and spotted the ring on her finger. Clutching the woman’s hand, she grinned.
“I’ll plan your engagement party for you. It’s only fair,” Hannah offered.
“Thanks, but we’re eloping,” Annelise blurted out. “I don’t want all this—lavish ceremony.”
“You’re getting better.” Hannah smiled. “You thought ‘bullshit’, but you didn’t say it aloud. Congratulations, honey. I’m so happy for you.” Hannah went and whispered to Shannon, who rushed over to see the ring.
“I cannot believe this! Engaged! And you didn’t even want to accept the lunch he sent over!” Shannon enthused, admiring the distinctive jewelry and the attractive fiancé equally.
“I’m glad she did,” Desmond put in. “You must be Shannon.”
“Yes. Sorry. I’m Shannon. I work with Annelise. I’m the pregnant chick,” she said, indicating her belly. He shook her hand and greeted her kindly. “I give her a hard time because I love her,” Shannon said.
“So do I,” Desmond replied. “In fact, I’ve loved her since she insulted my food business.”
Annelise smiled up at him. “I’ve loved you since you took me dancing,” she whispered. Turning back to her friend, she found that Shannon was gone, had made her way up to the bandstand. Soon salsa music blared through the speakers and Annelise laughed.
“You said you wanted to take me dancing. Here we are,” she said, pulling Des onto the floor where he whispered seven counts against her hair and led her around the floor, spinning her fast.
“You haven’t had any margaritas, so let’s keep the humping to a minimum. I hear this is an upscale affair,” he warned. She laughed merrily.
“You ain’t kidding about upscale. Damned caterer charged us twenty-eight thousand dollars.”
“Of course he did. He had a ring to pay for,” Des shot back, kissing her. “I hear you can’t win anyone’s hand in marriage for less than that.”
“You got some competition. My boss owes me a fifty thousand dollar bonus for bringing this party off without a hitch.”
“Your boss has to pay cash because it’s a business transaction. He can’t offer you jewelry and sexual favors like your husband can.”
“Husband?” she said speculatively as he led her off the dance floor.
“You don’t like ‘husband’?”
“I just think of you as my man.”
“I can handle that. Any chance you’d like to give up administrative work and run a catering business?”
“I’ll consider it. I like my independence, Des.”
“So you’ll own half of it. You can say I work for you. You own the shop and I’m just the cook.” He smiled. “Think about it. I called the agency you told me about. They said they didn’t have another Annelise Hollingford available, so I’ll just have to poach you from your current employer. I hear he’s insane, so it shouldn’t be difficult,” Desmond whispered in her ear.
“Shhh!” Annelise giggled. “Someone will hear you.”
“I don’t care. I don’t hang out with these people. I have a food business,” Desmond said solemnly. “I haven’t taken a vacation one time in five years. I think I’m due for a holiday. What do you say we get married on a beach?”
“I think I’d say I’m free next week if you are,” she answered without hesitation.
“Now will you sublet that stupid apartment that’s too close to Chlamydia Boy?”
“Yes, I’ll sublet it. As for the ex—speaking of things I’d like you to say more quietly,” she hissed.
“I thought Chlamydia Boy was his name. When I tagged his door last night in red, it’s what I wrote on there.”
“You what?” she squealed in disbelief, attracting the attention of several guests with her volume. “You didn’t!”
“I told you I used to lead a life of crime. Let’s say I had a slight relapse before I came to Greenwich.” He grinned wickedly.
“I love you,” she said, kissing him.
“See, I didn’t even have to buy a ring. I could just vandalize your ex’s door to win you over. Anybody else you want tagged? Crazy on Cates’s door maybe? Indecisive for Hannah?” he teased.
“You keep that shit up and I won’t visit you in jail,”
she warned.
“What? No conjugal visits?” Desmond faked a whine.
“No way. You’re embarrassing me.”
“Wait, no, embarrassing is...let me hump you on the dance floor.”
“Shut up.”
“Make me.”
“Really? ‘Make me’? That’s the best you can do?”
“You haven’t seen the best I can do, baby,” he said with a slow, heated smile.
“Then show me. Audacity is everything, or so I’ve been told.”
END OF BOOK 2
Book 3 Released September 2014
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Men of the Capital Series
The Billionaire’s Hotline
A Matter of Taste
Book 3: November 2014
Excerpt from ‘The Billionaire’s Hotline’ Download Instantly Today!
“That’s right, Miss Hollingford, number nine on the list. Rebecca, actress, 27. Tonight at the Blake, say eight o’clock,” Jasper told his social secretary.
So far, the project had worked like a charm. Hot and cold running blondes at the touch of a button. Last night’s text had delivered a stunning lab assistant to his favorite sushi place in a barely-there bandage dress. She wouldn’t eat, swearing that there were bacteria in raw fish, so he didn’t even have to buy her dinner, just a dirty martini. Tonight he wanted someone light and fun. An actress sounded just right, although 27 was a little on the elderly end of the spectrum for his taste.
Jasper had had a productive day, finalizing the acquisition of two more promising competitors in the wind energy industry. He didn’t care much about green energy, but he liked to breathe and figured it was easier to make a profit off people who were healthy and generating income to buy his other products. It seemed a sound investment. Better than those e-cigarettes he’d passed up; although they were gaining popularity, he still thought they looked ridiculous. He hoped the actress didn’t smoke plastic cigarettes or anything else…he couldn’t stand the taste.
At eight, Jasper was sitting at the bar at the Blake in the same suit he’d worn to work. If it had been a date or an event, something where he had to worry about the impression he’d make, he would have gone home to change. As it was, he was able to work straight through until 7:45 and still make it to his rendezvous on time. He congratulated himself again on the sheer convenience of his planning…investing in a hotel with a lux bar close to the office, hiring a secretary and ersatz bagel boy to orchestrate his social life. It was good to be king, he mused complacently.
At 8:10, his actress had not arrived. He called Miss Hollingford with instructions to text the woman again. At 8:20, he demanded the number and texted her himself. There was no response, and certainly no delectable blonde on the menu at the Blake Bar. Exasperated, he texted again five minutes later. Didn’t she realize his time was valuable? If she showed up by 8:30 and apologized, he’d still sleep with her, he decided magnanimously. If she showed up by 8:40 and was suitably gorgeous, he might even buy her a drink first, although to his mind she had already wasted the getting-to-know-you courtesy quarter hour with her appalling lateness. He knew he should give up and return to the office, but he was reluctant to admit that his system had failed. It was a matter of pride now. Even though he could be at the gym or signing off on a leveraged buyout. Irritated beyond the telling of it, Jasper texted again. It felt good to plague her with obsessive reminders. It was satisfying somehow. He didn’t even admit the possibility that she’d discarded the phone or forgotten to charge it.
At nine, a vagrant entered the bar, her cut-offs and tank top spattered with paint. Messy brown hair was coming out of a lopsided ponytail and her face was flushed. Perhaps she was mentally ill, Jasper thought idly. Security should come take care of this before the patrons were importuned with some sort of scene. Even his house cleaner dressed better than that. What business she thought she had in an upscale hotel bar was beyond him. He punched in another text angrily. Seconds later, an absurdly loud message beep sounded…from the phone that vagrant creature held in her hand. She brandished it with disgust and marched directly up to him.
The mentally-ill street person addressed billionaire CEO Jasper Cates.
“Who the HELL do you think you are?” She hissed. People had ceased to talk and were avidly listening to the confrontation. Jasper let his derisive gaze sweep her from head to toe languorously.
“That depends entirely on whom exactly you think I am.”
“You’ve been texting this phone incessantly for the last hour and a half now what do you want?”
“There appears to be some mistake. I was trying to reach Rebecca,” he said smoothly, pleased that he remembered the actress’s name and wondering why in God’s name the half-witted bagel boy would have given a phone to this harpy. She wasn’t blonde, she wasn’t happy, and she clearly wasn’t overfond of Crossfit, judging by the softness of her shape. She wasn’t even clean.
“Becca is my sister,” she said. “You need to leave her alone. She’s happy. She’s with someone now, and she doesn’t need you fucking things up for her with your stalking.”
“Did you just say fucking in the Blake Bar?” Amusement quirked the corner of his sardonic mouth.
“Yes, I fucking did,” she spat. “Now stop texting and calling this number. It’s not Becca’s phone anymore, and I’m certainly not interested in you.”
“I assure you I won’t be trying to contact anyone at that number again. Clearly Rebecca’s life is going another direction now. I cherish the effort and grace required to inform me of that fact when a simple text message would have been adequate.”
“You were texting her obsessively. It was—alarming. I wanted to make sure you backed off.” A number of sophisticated diners were gaping at her, and her courage withered. “I know how I must look. I was painting my apartment when you started texting and…I guess I didn’t think it through.”
“I’ll take the phone back.”
“No. I need it. She gave it to me because she was through with it. It was hers. Were you the guy who gave it to her?”
“No but the phone belongs to my company.”
“Then how did Becca—never mind. My sister gave it to me, and I’m keeping it.”
“Listen, Miss—“
“Largent. Hannah Largent,” she said, hands on her hips, fury at defending her phone burning away her fit of embarrassment.
“Miss Largent, your sister was given the phone for a reason which is no longer viable. Return it to me.”
“Forget it.” She turned around and stalked out of the bar.
Without hesitation, Jasper left his drink and took off after her. The idea of this harpy keeping one of his phones when it could be redistributed to a woman who met his criteria was offensive. That was his thirty dollar disposable phone, and he’d be damned if some stupid actress was going to get away with giving it to her frumpy sister. He caught up to her. Maybe she wasn’t as out-of-shape as he had thought, considering her speed. Grabbing her by the arm, he stopped her. She whipped her head around, her ponytail flicking him across the face.
“Seriously? You’re going to follow me, because all the text stalking didn’t make you seem psycho enough?” She scoffed.
For the first time, he noticed that her voice was gorgeous, low and husky. It made him think of a dark cabaret, a pair of red lips closing around a white cigarette, the tip of a pink tongue darting out to form a perfect pale smoke ring drifting up to the rafters. Her voice was like velvet, and he had a fierce urge to cover her mouth with his.
“My phone,” he gasped.
“No, that’s MY phone. Were you go
ing to give it to some other girl? Wait—that’s it, isn’t it? You gave the phone to Becca or had someone else do it so you could call her to hook up. How many phones have you given out?”
“Twenty-nine.” He smirked.
“That is repulsive. Who does that?”
“I’m a busy man, Miss Lawson.”
Hannah leaned closer for emphasis. “Largent. But if you’re as successful as you act, you already knew that and just said my name wrong to put me in my place.”
Now Jasper knew she sounded like Nina Simone and smelled like cinnamon gum. He found it hard to regulate his breathing, much less keep his hands to himself.
“Excuse me?” His eyebrows shot up.
“You dropped your voice to make it sound confidential, but your eyes cut to the left. You’re trying to manage me with a falsehood.”
“Are you a criminal profiler or something?”
“Actually, I do voiceovers and some sound effects editing. I work both sides of the sound board. I know how to manipulate intonation linguistics. It’s part of my job. You, Mr. Cates, have a Machiavellian inflection.”
“Is that a clinical term?”
“No. I just made it up, but it suits you, because you’ll say anything to achieve your objective. You belittle me, lie to me, and harass my sister.”
“I merely tendered an invitation which she no longer wishes to accept. Return my phone so it can be recirculated.”
“I refuse to abet such a blatantly patriarchal attempt at human trafficking.” Her low voice grew haughty, but no less irresistible for it.
“Human trafficking entails financial gain or compensation. I read Half the Sky, so don’t try to give me a vocabulary lesson and mischaracterize my dating methodology as an atrocity against women and children.”
“Prostitution, then.”
“Again, by definition, a financial transaction. I have never had to pay for or even coerce sexual favors from anyone.”
