She turns, eyes sharp, prepared to sharpen her teeth on Simon’s bones, but finds Greenpeace standing on the other side of Simon’s embarrassed form.
“So you came back?” he teases. “Are you here for speed-dating, or just to make a PSA about ruffies?”
“A lady can never be too careful. There’s no telling what some of these guys may be up to.”
Simon grunts, looking from Greenpeace to Janice.
Greenpeace smiles. “Some of whom might argue against the idea that women are the only gender who should be careful. I’ve known some who aren’t above such antics.”
“I’m sure you do. Where do you meet them, at the trash heap?”
“Ah, so you remember me.”
“Indeed, I do.”
The bartender sets Janice’s replacement Cosmo on the bar.
“You can put it on his tab.” She gestures to Simon.
“What?” he protests.
“Now, let’s not make a scene. Let me pay for the drink, and bring me a whiskey sour.” Greenpeace hands over a black credit card with a wink.
“How was I supposed to know you wanted me to keep an eye on your drink?” Simon eyes up Janice’s cleavage.
She takes a sip and licks her crimson lips, glaring at him.
“Were you here tonight?” Greenpeace leans into Simon’s space, his green eyes sparkling with mischief and a private joke.
“Yes, although the inventory wasn’t of the same quality as last week.”
“It wasn’t, huh?”
“No, there was a distinct something missing.” She drinks in his visage. Even with Simon sitting between them, the connection crackles and sparks, threatening to set their drinks on fire. Vodka Falmbée.
The bartender returns with Greenpeace’s drink. “That wouldn’t have been because of me, would it?” He takes a sip.
“You? No, I can’t imagine that.”
Their eyes lock, the banter as exhilarating as the first time they’d met.
“Hey, do you, um, want to grab something to eat?” Simon interrupts, his unwavering hope endearing, if a touch annoying.
“I think I’ll wait, but you go ahead. I’ll see you around.” Her eyes don’t waver from Greenpeace’s as she speaks.
“Yeah, great.” Simon gestures to the bartender to close out his tab and sits between them, fidgety and forgotten.
“So did you ever figure it out?” Greenpeace picks up the conversation as if Simon had never spoken, keeping his posture relaxed and confident.
Janice can’t determine just what breed of man he is. “What’s that?” She returns from her musing, caught off guard by the question.
“Why I don’t recycle.”
“Oh, I just figured it was one of your many charms. Perhaps you’re part of Al-Qaeda, too?”
“You found me out, but I can’t get into a cell. This beard just won’t grow in.” He ran a hand across his rugged features.
“I hear Rogaine works wonders.” She sips her drink.
“Oh? You tried it?”
“Definitely. You should see my legs.”
Greenpeace tilts his head back and laughs with abandon. Nothing but joy shines from his face, and his eyes narrow from the expanse of his smile. “I was right.”
“About?”
“About you.”
“Mmm, what about me, exactly?”
“You’re interesting.”
“So you remember me, too.”
“How could I forget?” He leans in closer and scoots into the now vacant seat between them, Simon having disappeared without notice.
The scent of a long day and cardamom surround her as he approaches. His lips part slightly and drop to hers.
She smirks and takes a sip of her drink.
“I have a confession,” he whispers.
“Oh?”
“Yes, something I’ve been dying to tell you.”
“Well, I wouldn’t want your death on my conscience.” She leans in, tempted.
“No, that would be tragic. Mourners would fill the streets. Black coats would billow out from Central Park and the tears... oh, the misery.”
“Yes, I’m sure that’s just how it would be.” She rolls her eyes at his dramatics.
“Women keening over my grave.”
“Personally, I’d throw myself in the East River.”
“That seems reasonable.”
“Glad we agree. Now your confession.”
The air between them pulsates. Heat and music rise in proportion to one another, but she barely notices, her thoughts consumed with nothing but him.
“Yes, I have one. Were I Catholic, I’d call on a priest, but I’m afraid I’d give the poor man a heart attack.”
“Must be a good one.”
“It’s about you, a bit of a fantasy, actually.” He slugs back his whiskey, drinking half the glass.
“Really?” A thunderbolt shoots though her body at the thought.
“Every night when I come home from work, there’s this fleeting moment when I think you might be there, sitting on my couch, drinking a glass of wine, dressed only in one of my shirts: something conservative. In my mind you’re wearing thigh highs.” He slips a hand up Janice’s leg to the top of her stockings. “Yes, something just like this.”
She’s distracted by the tight grip of his hand on her thigh. “That’s not much of a confession.” She shrugs, having hoped for something a touch more titillating.
“No? A fantasy about a woman I’ve only met once? Could be considered obsessive to some, since I think about you every single day.”
“The world of fantasy is far more expansive than that.”
“Sometimes the simple things bring the most pleasure.” He slides his fingers higher up her leg.
“Only to those who aren’t in touch with their own darkness.”
“And you know darkness?” He continues to sneak his hand higher up her thigh.
“I do, and I know men. Trust me, that’s not much of a fantasy.”
Greenpeace leans in, his breath tickling her neck. “I didn’t tell you the rest.”
Her eyes widen and shockwaves of anticipation radiate from the warmth of his breath straight to the heat of his hand. She brings her hand to her neck, covering it in an attempt to control her reaction.
Greenpeace drains the rest of his drink. “Do you want to get out of here?” He rubs his thumb across the smooth flesh of her upper thigh.
“I’m not going home with you.” Janice is unsettled by her body’s response to his touch.
“I didn’t suggest you were.”
“You certainly did.”
“No, I merely suggested a change of venue, a departure from this fine establishment. Any assumptions placed on that were yours. I don’t care where we go—dinner, drinks somewhere else, dancing. Let’s break into the Met, or see what’s showing at one of the little theaters down in Tribeca. I just want to spend some time with you. You’re so unlike the women I usually run into. This city is full of people with nothing to say. You’re... I don’t know the word for it, but I want to know more. Come on. For all I care, we can drive upstate and watch the sunrise, maybe do some antiquing. I can take the day off.”
“Shit!”
“What?”
“Work! I didn’t tell Portia—” Janice digs her phone out of the small purse on her lap and checks the time. “Shit.”
She stands up and swoops out of the overcrowded bar with her phone in one hand and her purse in the other, leaving Greenpeace to stare after her. She’s never late and always calls if she won’t be in before clients begin to arrive. On the rare occasion she takes a day off, she always arranges the schedule in advance, usually closing the house completely and only allowing outside engagements. Five days a week, Wednesday through Sunday, she presides over her business and the people in her employment. On the two days the others take off, she’s making plans, keeping secrets, and shaking hands—Portia usually at her side.
Outside, she dials the private line
, which rings on a special tone at Portia’s desk.
“Sweet dreams.” Portia’s voice coos over the line.
“Portia, it’s me. How is everything?”
“Fine, of course.” The hurt tone in her voice is enough of a reprimand to make Janice switch gears after the flush of emotion passes.
“Yes, of course you have everything under control. I’m usually there by now or I’ve called, and didn’t want you to worry.”
“Everything is fine, Miss Necia. When will you be joining us tonight?”
Greenpeace steps out of the bar and stands next to her, closing his phone after a call of his own.
“Umm, I’m not sure when.”
Greenpeace raises an eyebrow. Work? he mouths.
She nods and turns her back to him. That intoxicating giddiness he inspires sets the world off kilter again. He does something to her equilibrium.
“Are you not coming in?” Portia’s voice pitches up, shrill with surprise.
“I’m not sure yet, but I have every confidence you can handle things there without me.” Janice feels the intensity of Portia’s smile. It radiates through the cell towers, spreading with electric joy.
“Of course, Miss Necia. Thank you.”
“I may be in yet, and my phone is on if you need to get a hold of me.”
“Have fun.” A giggle breaks through Portia’s professional tone.
“Good night, Portia.” Janice hangs up the phone, not waiting for her response. She glances over to where Greenpeace stands, holding open a car door, beckoning her to join him.
Managing Desire
Portia’s exuberant giggle pulls Jackson’s attention away from his post. Her emotions call to him like a siren song. He’s completely at her mercy.
She beams over at him, always aware of his proximity.
He stands sentry behind the staircase, out of sight but on hand. He holds a book and flashlight, and wears an earpiece that connects him to the rest of the security staff. Despite the ever-present novel in his hand, he rarely reads—content instead to gaze across the grand foyer at Portia for hours. He watches her every night¸ and never gets tired of it. And the best part is, neither does she.
He steps into the light, teasing her with his muscular upper body rippling under a tight, black tee-shirt that melts into his ebony skin. Tonight, he wears leather pants. Portia mentioned liking them once; he now owns four pairs.
She rushes from her desk to meet him in the grand foyer, motioning for him to return to his post. “That was Miss Necia!”
“Is she in trouble?” Jackson’s military history and desperate need to repent always leads him to assume someone needs rescuing.
“No, I think she’s on a date.”
“Necia?”
“Miss Necia,” she corrects.
“Are you sure?”
“She didn’t say, but called to check in and said she might not be in tonight.”
“I don’t think that’s ever happened before.”
“She also said... she said... she trusts me to run things here alone.”
“Of course she does, You practically do already.”
“Yes, but she said it. That she has ‘every confidence’ in me!” Her petite frame vibrates with glee. If they weren’t at work, she would be bouncing around him, moving her tiny hands and reliving the short conversation over and over.
His heart swells to see her so happy. He longs to pull her into his arms, pick her up, and twirl her, but he keeps his hands at his sides, overworking his smile to try and convey how much he loves her.
“That’s wonderful, my-ah sladkaya.”
Portia’s face falls.
Shit. “Sorry.” He runs a thick hand over his cropped hair. They rarely speak at work, so he forgot the unspoken rule: no Russian in the office.
She nods, her smile flaring back to life. “I love The Sugar House, Jackson. I know I tell you almost every day, but this life—it’s more than I ever imagined. And Miss Necia.... Thank you for bringing me here.”
Her smile ignites bright enough to warm his heart. “I would do it again.” He speaks soft and low. “I would do it all again.”
Portia lowers her head and nods, shyness replacing her joy. “You should get back to your nook, I have work to do.”
“I’m here if you need me.”
“You always are.”
“Always will be.”
A shy look appears on her face—a part of herself rarely shown at The Sugar House, but one of the many facets to her beauty.
Jackson steps back, recedes into the shadows, and watches.
The Greenpeace Manifesto
Janice settles into the black town car as Greenpeace closes the door behind her and walks to the other side. A closed privacy screen separates the front and back seats.
When he opens his door, she loses her breath at the sight of him. His sculpted features and sexy composure are wrapped in a suit that easily cost more than a week’s salary for the average New Yorker. But that’s not what impresses Janice—she deals with rich and powerful men every day. No, it’s the ease with which he wears it that takes her breath away.
He sinks into his seat, closes the door and leans back, training his full attention on her. The top two buttons of his shirt are undone, showing a hint of chest hair and the prominent line of his collar bone.
She longs to reach out, run her tongue along the line of his jaw and—she stops mid-thought, aware of his mocking smile.
The car shudders to life, bringing a welcome distraction.
“Your name is Janice.” Greenpeace rests his head back against the door frame.
“You know this because?”
“You’re still wearing your name tag.”
“Fuck.” She reaches up and rips the sticker off her dress. After crumpling it into a ball and dropping it into her purse, she uses her nail to pick at the residue.
Greenpeace takes a bottle of water out of a bag on the floor and offers it to her.
“Thanks.”
“Janice is a nice name.”
“My mother would appreciate that.” She opens the bottle and retrieves a tissue from her purse to dab at her dress, using her nail to scrape the gum away.
“You’ll be mentioning me to your mother?”
“No, she passed away.” The last remnants of the sticker dissolve and fall away.
“Your father, then?”
“No.”
“No?”
“You’re still mysteriously anonymous.” She takes a sip of water, screws the cap back on, and hands it back.
“You like that though, don’t you?” Greenpeace smirks before reopening the bottle and taking a sip.
She laughs. “What makes you think that?”
“You haven’t asked.” He sets the water bottle in the door pocket and crosses his long legs, letting them reach into her space.
The warmth of possibilities draws her attention. “What?”
“My name... you haven’t asked my name.”
“I guess I haven’t.”
“Are you going to?”
“No, I think I’ll wait on that.”
“Test the waters first?”
“Something like that.” Janice smirks. The linguistic engagement mirrors a fencing match—advance, attack, parry.
“You don’t date much, do you?”
“Is that what this is? A date?”
“It loosely resembles a date, yes.” His chuckle warms the car.
“Then no, I guess I don’t date much.”
“Consider this your first lesson.” Greenpeace reaches overhead and presses a button next to the dome light. “Henry, can you check if we can get into Tahlia’s?”
“Yes sir. For two?”
The driver’s voice fills the backseat, reminding Janice where they are.
“Yes, thank you.” He drops his hand from the intercom to Janice’s leg.
She shifts closer, unabashedly taking in his features. Green eyes meet hers.
�
�You are breathtaking.” His voice is a sigh.
Compliments are commonplace for Janice—her evenings are filled with men and women asking if she’ll break her rule and take a client herself—but the way he delivers it, with such reverence, reaches in and seduces her. A rare warmth spreads across her cheeks; she doesn’t often blush.
He moves his hand to her waist and pulls her flush against him.
She drops her gaze from his eyes to his lips, and the seed of desire he planted last week flares to life in her core. For a moment her mind recedes and all she can feel is want—to have his lips on her neck, her breasts. The rare fuck offered relief, but this man offers something more, something with depth.
He dips slowly and closes the space between them, pressing his lips against her flesh in a gentle, chaste kiss.
She flexes her fingers, fighting the instinct to envelope him in her arms. She presses the palm of her right hand against the ceiling, holding back a moan as he leaves a trail of innocent kisses along her neck, driving her to insanity.
He reaches his hand up, grasps her breast, and massages it firmly. His kiss becomes impassioned and open mouthed, leading down the line of her collarbone and across her chest to the line of her dress. He grazes her cleavage with his teeth.
Her body reacts, arching up into his touch. She moans and drops her hand into his hair, running her nails along his scalp while pulling him against her.
He wraps his hands around her, pulling her chest against his.
Her crimson lips, tingling with the promise of his kiss, separate in anticipation.
He nibbles on her neck, eliciting tiny sighs. As her nails dig into the meat of his shoulders, scraping against the fabric of his suit jacket, he abandons the gentle caress and nips at her ear.
His teeth scrape against her skin and she loses all control. She pulls away, pushes him back against the leather seat, and pins him with her body. His chuckle infuriates her and ignites the passion she’s held at bay for years. Lust-driven instinct compels her as she finally brings her lips to his.
Their mouths move in unison, testing the other. The scruff of his beard scratches against her chin, tickling her flesh and engaging her other senses. She is surrounded by him—the scent of cardamom, the sound of his moans, the taste of his lips. Her eyes list at half mast, but she can see his smiling eyes even in her dreams. She pulls his lower lip into her mouth, nibbling gently.
Sugar & Salt Page 3
