She and Wolfe slid into the back of the SUV this time and allowed Isaac and Green to sit behind the driver. The SUV powered over the sand, roaring and rocking over ridges of high, powdery gold until they finally found solid road. Nine thirty caught them at the hotel, quickly separating from her former colleagues to head in for quick showers and more businesslike attire.
“You look beautiful,” Wolfe said.
She paused in front of the full-length mirror in the sitting room of their suite, smoothing the black tie that matched the sleek faux masculine lines of her blouse and pencil skirt.
“Thank you.”
Before, those words would have meant next to nothing. But now, after the night of shared kisses and sated desire, they held a universe of meaning. They meant, I remember last night. They meant, I still want you.
Nichelle tugged her gaze from Wolfe’s. She shook herself and grabbed the hotel key and her small shoulder bag.
Wolfe stepped ahead of her to open the door.
The meeting was in a small conference room a few floors below them. The room was bare except for a long table and three manila folders in front of three chairs. No fruit. No coffee. They apparently didn’t intend for it to be a long meeting.
Yasmina was already there when they walked in. She was talking with Mahmoud, who was dressed in a dark suit instead of the robes he had worn in the desert. Nichelle briefly met his eyes and smiled. He acknowledged her greeting, then quickly left the room. There was something going on here. She tilted an eyebrow in inquiry at Wolfe, but he gave only the smallest shrug. He didn’t know what was going on, either. But the look on his face said he would soon find out.
Yasmina shook Nichelle’s hand, then Wolfe’s. “Good morning,” she said. “I know you have other things to do so I will make this quick.” Yasmina picked up a folder from the table and put it in Wolfe’s hand. Before she could say anything else, the door to the conference room opened. Isaac and Orlando Green walked in. Yasmina excused herself to welcome them just as warmly as she had Nichelle and Wolfe. She gave them a manila folder of their own.
“Let me know if you have any questions,” she said.
Wolfe handed the folder to Nichelle without opening it. “This is yours, whatever the answer.”
She flipped the folder open with a casual hand, betraying none of the anxiety she felt. What she saw written inside made her draw a quick breath.
“Okay.” Nichelle nodded once and gave the folder back to Wolfe. The brief flicker of a smile touched the corner of his mouth when he read the few lines written on the crisp sheet of white paper bearing Quraishi’s letterhead and signature.
“Okay,” Wolfe echoed.
Across the room, Isaac and Green were glaring at the contents of their folder, obviously not liking what they saw. Reps from the other firm in the running for the Quraishi account took their folder and glanced briefly at it before speaking with Yasmina then leaving.
“Thank you.” Wolfe shook Yasmina’s hand.
“I’ll be in touch,” she said, then lifted her head so the other men in the room could hear her. “Please have some breakfast in the restaurant downstairs with Monsieur Quraishi’s compliments. If you need to follow up, please don’t hesitate to contact me.”
She smiled again at Nichelle and left the room.
Oh my God! Nichelle stood with her legs braced wide, hands crossed over her chest. They’d actually done it. Her knees shook, and her entire body went limp with relief.
“We did it,” she said to Wolfe, barely whispering the words. They shared a look of satisfaction. Nichelle turned away from Wolfe’s smile when footsteps sounded behind her.
“You don’t play fair, Nichelle.” Isaac stood far too close to her, his face a tight mask of anger.
“Fair?”
“You did something.” A vein ticked in his forehead. “You cheated your way into this deal. I don’t know how you did it, but I’m going to find out.”
“No cheating happened, Isaac.” She bared her teeth at him. “You always think there’s some great conspiracy at work when it’s just your own incompetence that cost you the prize. Grow up and get better.” She tapped the folder against her thigh. “Now, if you’ll excuse us, Wolfe and I have packing to do.” No sooner had she turned away from Isaac and Green than Wolfe was guiding her toward the door and down the lushly carpeted hallway.
She felt like singing.
“Franklin seems to be taking this a little too personally.” Wolfe’s tone seemed deliberately casual. As if he was trying to ask her something that he didn’t quite want to know the answer to. “Why is that?”
“He’s a sore loser about everything.” She shrugged.
Sudden tension radiated from Wolfe. His footsteps slowed. “Did you two used to be lovers?”
“No. But he wanted us to be.” She started to say something about not ever mixing business with pleasure, but the memory of last night wouldn’t let the hypocrisy past her lips.
“And here I was thinking he was just another stupid desk jockey.” Wolfe looked relieved. “But he’s smart enough to pursue you.”
“I’m not sure if smart is the right word,” she murmured wryly, remembering all the ridiculous things Isaac had done to get her attention while they worked together. Calling her father for permission to date her. Threatening to tattoo her name on his bicep. Asking her out on dates, multiple times, when she’d plainly told him she wasn’t interested. He had been persistent. Then belligerent, when she firmly denied him in no uncertain terms. Somehow, he’d convinced himself she was just holding out for bigger corporate fish and would only sleep with someone higher up in the company than him. Isaac Franklin was the very definition of a sore loser.
Wolfe stopped walking. “Office hookups can be tricky.” His eyes dipped to Nichelle’s mouth then lower. He wasn’t talking about Isaac at all.
“Yes, they can be.” She licked her lips as her heart began to beat faster. There was a question in his eyes, a demand, and she longed to answer it. Nichelle stepped back until her butt hit the wall. Wolfe followed.
His breath brushed her cheek. “Why don’t we—?”
“Monsieur and Madame Diallo!”
Wolfe broke off at their new client’s voice. He stepped back, smoothing his tie. Monsieur Quraishi waited for them by the elevator, looking well-rested and dapper in a pale blue suit. “I wish I could have been there for the reveal, but my daughter had a concert nearby that just finished.” He clapped Wolfe on the back and shook Nichelle’s hand. “Do you have time for a celebratory lunch?”
“Of course,” Wolfe said, although Nichelle wasn’t hungry. At least not for food.
“We’d love to,” she added for good measure, giving their new client a real smile even though, for one heart-stopping moment, she wanted to throw the account back in Quraishi’s lap just so she could hear what Wolfe had to say.
Wolfe tugged down his cuffs and put his game face back on. “Let’s go.” His grimace could have passed for a smile under a certain light.
“Excellent.” Quraishi waved them toward the entrance. “My driver is waiting outside.”
He took them to a small restaurant near the Jamaa el Fna market. The chauffeur let them out near the depot for the horse-drawn carriages at the entrance to the square, and they braved the heat, winding through the madness of the square toward the restaurant.
“It is chaos here,” Quraishi said. “But I would not trade it for anything.”
A member of his security team, hardly unobtrusive in his dark suit and with the clear surveillance earpiece coiled against his neck, drifted behind them. Beggars emerged from the crowd to hold out their hands, to murmur pleas in Arabic and French. Wolfe, without hesitating, pulled loose bills from his pants pocket, passing out dirham notes to anyone who approached him. When one of the security team moved to push the beggars back, Quraishi waved him away.
He gently shook his head at a woman who came close, her head and face covered in a dirty hijab. “If you give to one,”
he said, “all fall forward with their hands held out.”
As if to perfectly illustrate his point, another beggar materialized from the crowd, this time with a child on her hip. “Monsieurs,” she murmured. “Madame, s’il vous plaît.”
Wolfe gave money to her, too.
By the time they had completed the short walk to the restaurant, over a dozen beggars had approached them, with more on the way.
“You are a kind man,” Quraishi said. “I’m very pleased with my decision to employ your firm.”
“But kindness doesn’t equal effectiveness,” Nichelle felt it her duty to say.
Their new client’s eyes twinkled. “True. But it does make the working relationship, and the marriage, more pleasant.”
At the restaurant, they sat upstairs on its terrace overlooking the square. The host seated them at a table under a wide, fluttering canopy, sun-washed white and reminiscent of the tent they had almost slept in while in the desert. Pedestal fans moved the air around them, keeping the terrace cool.
A sudden breeze floated up and brushed the back of Nichelle’s neck. The same breeze flapped the tablecloth and caught the end of Wolfe’s tie secured by a platinum tie clip. She gave in to the impulse to stroke the paisley silk. It slid cool and soft between her fingers and over his solid chest. They exchanged a smile. Nichelle turned away from Wolfe in time to catch a grin on Quraishi’s usually reserved face.
“It is good that you two work and love so well together.”
Nichelle’s face heated, but she refused to act like some blushing, infatuated girl. “He is both easy to work with and to love.” She deliberately did not look at Wolfe, but she sensed his amusement.
“She is neither of those things,” Wolfe said. “But I enjoy a challenge.” He grinned.
“Marriage should keep you on your toes, yes?” Quraishi said. “Complacency is the way to lose everything important in a relationship.”
“We’re not at that stage yet,” Nichelle murmured. “My Wolfe is a constant source of surprises. Aren’t you, darling?”
“Anything to keep you by my side,” Wolfe said. His tongue, pink and damp, flicked out to touch the corner of his mouth.
Arousal flooded Nichelle in an instant. She swallowed and looked down at the napkin in her lap, fighting a blush. Quraishi chuckled with delight.
“By the way, before we go any further, please forgive my machinations regarding the desert trip, but I wanted to see how well you do under pressure. It helped me to finalize my decision.”
The corner of Wolfe’s mouth tilted up. Is that what having Franklin and Green with them was about?
Nichelle pressed her lips together. “As long as you got what you needed out of it,” she said. “I know we did.”
Quraishi chuckled. “I like your wife very much, Mr. Diallo. I think we’ll all work very well together.”
When the waiter came, Quraishi ordered nearly half the menu for their table, advising Nichelle and Wolfe what to try, telling them what were his favorites, and his wife’s, as well. The terrace level of the restaurant filled up as they talked and ate, the noise of other diners rising around them while their own conversation dwelled on nothing in particular. Despite the pleasantness of the meal, Nichelle wondered why they were having lunch together at all. Why the celebration? Why the interest in her and Wolfe? Not that they weren’t an amazing team. But still.
She noticed in her periphery when a group of Western women appeared on the terrace near them. The women were English and pretty, their familiar language oddly soothing after being enclosed within a French and Arabic speaking milieu for most of their trip.
Quraishi was explaining why she and Wolfe should travel to Essaouira, a nearby seaside town with a rich history and artisans who excelled in cabinet making, when a low voice in English interrupted them. It was one of the foreign women. This one was exceptionally pretty, with honey-colored skin and a tumble of curls down to the small of her back. A white dress made the most of her naturally dark skin.
“Pardon me for interrupting,” she said to Wolfe. “But my friend over there—” she pointed to the table where four other women watched her with expectant smiles “—was wondering if you would be interested in going out with us tonight.” A woman from her table waved at them.
The women were gorgeous and flirty, just the type that Wolfe would love in Miami. Nichelle knew he didn’t take up every offer thrown his way, but when it came to carpe diem, he was a master. And the women, an international collection of beauties with their skin shades ranging from palest cream to oak, seemed like a temptation difficult for any heterosexual man to resist. Even if he was pretending to be married.
Quraishi looked amused as he sat back in his chair and watched Nichelle’s face. He wasn’t looking at Wolfe at all. Not even a glance. She schooled her expression into bland lines and turned her attention to her pretend husband.
Wolfe offered a smile to the woman, the smile that probably had her melting in her summer sandals. Nichelle had seen that smile, and the pleasant devastation it often left in its wake.
“That’s very flattering,” he said. “Thank you. But I’ll be with my wife most of the day.” He tilted his head toward Nichelle, but did not reach for her in what she was sure would have seemed like fake affection.
The Englishwoman clapped a hand to her mouth. “Oh, I’m so sorry!” she said to Nichelle. “I didn’t know he was yours.”
“No apologies necessary,” Nichelle said in what she hoped was a gracious tone, even though inside she was seething. “This happens to us everywhere we go.”
The woman stood back with a cocked hip, eyes flickering to Wolfe, although she was speaking with Nichelle. “It must be frustrating for you.”
Is that what you’re going with, bitch? “Not really.” Nichelle stretched her lips at the woman. “He was gorgeous when I slipped the ring on his finger, and he’s one of those lucky people who will be pretty until the grave. Women tend to notice that sort of thing.” She dipped her head to the ring in question and smiled at Wolfe, who watched her with a careful expression.
The woman apologized again. “I’ll tell my friends he’s off the market!” Then she left them to rejoin her own table.
Wolfe spread his napkin across his lap. “That went well.”
Nichelle made a noise of irritation. “They didn’t miss that damn ring on your finger. They all stared at you close enough to memorize the size of your inseam.”
Quraishi choked on a laugh.
Nichelle abruptly realized what she’d just said, and in front of whom. “My apologies,” she said.
“None necessary.” Quraishi shook his head, still chuckling. “It was interesting seeing what a modern woman like you would do when challenged for her mate.”
At the word mate, she looked at Wolfe again, who was noncommittally drinking from his glass of mint tea.
In for a penny, in for a pound. Nichelle shrugged. “It really does happen all the time, though. Sometimes it’s fine, because there is a certain amount of flattery involved. Women want this beautiful man I call my own.” Their eyes met and Wolfe slowly lowered the glass, not breaking their gaze. “But sometimes, it can get a little irritating when rude women press the issue after it becomes obvious who I am.”
As she spoke, she realized she was telling the truth. For years she’d watched women flirt openly with Wolfe, even slipping him their numbers when they thought she wasn’t looking. It had all been blatantly disrespectful. She never blamed Wolfe for it. At least not always.
In the past, she had been upset when he returned the attentions of the rude ones who boldly came up to him when they were together. These women didn’t care that he was a married or taken man. They were simply intent on getting what they wanted. If Nichelle saw two people dining privately together, she assumed they were a couple, even if their body language was distant. She would never proposition a man while another woman sat only a few feet away. With or without a wedding ring.
On the occasions
she’d been bothered by those women and Wolfe’s response to them, she lacked the emotional awareness to know why she had been irritated. But now she knew. She wanted him for herself. She might even...
Nichelle choked on a gasp. She swallowed. “You know, I’m actually not in the mood for lunch at all.” She put her napkin on the table and stood. “If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen.”
Both men got to their feet, talking at once.
“We can leave now, Madame Diallo. It is no problem.”
“Let me get a cab and we can go back,” Wolfe said.
“No, please stay and enjoy your lunch.” She pushed her chair aside to escape the sudden prison of the table. “I saw plenty of cabs near the square. I’m sure I can grab one to take me back to the hotel.”
“Nichelle—”
“No.” She stared at Wolfe. “Stay. I insist.”
Then she fixed her face for her new client and offered her hand to shake. “I’ll be in touch with you soon.”
Then she was walking through the restaurant, past the women who all watched her with amused curiosity, and out into the sun. She drew a deep breath, cursing herself for allowing her emotions to push her out of the restaurant and make her look like a fool in front of Quraishi. But what was done was done. Nichelle straightened her spine and waded through the thick crowd in the square. It didn’t take her long to find a cab back to the hotel.
Once in the cool confines of the suite, she called Nala. “I think I’m totally screwed here,” she said in greeting when Nala answered the phone.
“Do you mean that literally?” Her friend sounded tired despite the teasing tone of her voice. “Because if so, this is not the time to call me. We can celebrate you and Wolfe finally sleeping together when I see you again.”
Nichelle frowned. Their connection was incredibly clear. “Where are you?”
“A riad not far from the main square. When you told me you were having trouble keeping yourself together around Wolfe, I hopped on a plane. Cannes is only a three hour flight from here.”
“Oh, thank you...” Nichelle sank into the bed with relief, glad for her best friend’s impulsive nature and the love that she showered her with so completely. And of course, her ridiculous bank account that allowed her to jump on a plane from France with just a few hours’ notice. She gave Nala the name of her hotel.
Affair of Pleasure Page 11
