Gettin' Hard (Single Ladies' Travel Agency Book 1)

by Carina Wilder

  And here she is. I count myself lucky to be in her presence.

  “I’m going to take you down to the rooms where the magic happens,” I tell her, guiding her gorgeous red-clad body through the hall back to the elevators. “Just so you can get a look at what we do here.”

  “Okay,” she says. A woman of few words today. She’s flustered, her chest still red. I love that. I turn to her once I’ve pressed the elevator’s button and smile. Beautiful creature, she is.

  “You all right?” I ask. She nods silently. She’s not, really. She’s as horny as I am. Deep in both our minds is imbedded the notion that if we could just fuck each other one more time, we’d be satisfied. But the truth is that we wouldn’t. We’d hook each other, sink deeper into this quagmire of desire for one another. We’d suffer for it when the time comes for her to leave, or for me to flee, whichever occurs first.

  Ding!

  The elevator door opens and we hop on, only to stand in opposite corners again, like strangers. I can’t help but stare at her profile, at those features that I first saw an ocean away. Beautiful, thoughtful eyes. Restless lips. She’s chewing on the bottom one right now. Damn her sensuality.

  The doors slam shut, isolating us from the world once again.

  “I own this building,” I tell her, puffing out my chest in mock manliness, “which means that if I hit the emergency stop button no one will mind.”

  She looks at me sideways, an expression of surprise widening her eyes. But when she realizes that I’m joking, she lets out a nervous laugh. “I imagine that’s true,” she tells me. “But of course there’s no reason you’d do a thing like that.”

  “No reason at all,” I reply, “though I must tell you, there’s less turbulence on this thing than an airplane.”

  I’m being cruel. Testing her. But she’s strong, and refuses to take the bait. She goes silent, a little smile just barely visible on her lips, until the elevator stops at the third floor.

  “Here we are,” I say, ushering her out when the doors slide open. Her scent wafts in my direction and my heart roars to life in my chest. She smells of sex just by virtue of her arousal. God, she’s delicious.

  Adriana

  He’s been smiling at me since we left his office, and I’ve done everything I can to prevent myself from returning the favour. I can’t let myself be charmed again. It’s all well and good to know that he’s not a lying, cheating pig, but I keep reminding myself that my heart’s on the line here. This guy is like heroin, and I’m not into overdosing. My heart couldn’t take the withdrawal when I head back home.

  Much as I’d love to be, I’m not Katherine. I’m not someone who can just take on lovers without repercussions. I think too much, feel too deeply. The truth is that Conlon has already hurt me more than he should have done. I can only imagine what he might do to my heart if I let myself open up to the idea of loving him.

  So I’ll just do my job, get the information I need from him, then go back to my apartment. There’s no reason I need to see a lot of him over the next few weeks even if I do agree to write the memoir; he or an assistant can send me information via email.

  I resisted acknowledging the insinuation that he’d like to have elevator sex with me. I think he was teasing, anyhow. The guy’s body language isn’t screaming “Let’s do this.” It’s barking, “Don’t worry, I’m not going to touch you again.” He’s trying as hard as I am to convince himself that we’ve got to keep apart, and I’m grateful for it, I guess.

  When we’re out, he guides me down a white hallway to a locked room. After poking in a long numerical code, he shows me inside to a huge space filled with exercise machines. Treadmills, weights, bikes, you name it. Some people are working out, while others in white lab coats take notes on clipboards and tablets.

  “What’s this?” I ask, wondering why he’s brought me to a gym. But Conlon doesn’t need to reply. A moment later I notice that a woman on one of the treadmills has a prosthetic leg. This must be the place where the patients get evaluated for progress.

  “Come,” he says, guiding me to a table at the far end of the room where a man is sitting, writing on a piece of paper. Conlon pulls a chair up opposite him and gestures to me to take a seat.

  “This is one of our clients,” he says. “We fitted him with this new arm three weeks ago, though he’s used several of our products.”

  The client is broad-shouldered and handsome, with dark brown hair and blue eyes. He looks oddly similar to Conlon, though for a moment I tell myself I’m just imagining things.

  “Nice to meet you.” I reach over to shake the client’s right hand. He lays his left over it, and when I see it moving, I pull back quickly. It looks like something out of a Terminator movie.

  An apologetic frown perches itself on my face once I realize what I’ve done. “Sorry,” I say. “I was surprised…”

  But he reaches over with the prosthetic hand and to my surprise he not only touches my arm with his fingertips, but squeezes a little. “Nice to meet you, too,” he says. Like Conlon, he has an English accent.

  “How did you…how does that hand work?” I begin to ask, not sure which man to look to for an answer.

  Conlon reaches down and pulls the man’s sleeve up, showing me a series of wires adhered to various spots on his muscular, intact upper arm. “His brain sends signals the prosthetic, which reads those signals and reacts like a regular limb would. Oh, by the way, this is Galen. He’s my slightly younger brother.”

  My eyes widen for the hundredth time today. Well, this was unexpected. “Do you live in Paris?” I ask. I don’t know if somewhere at the back of my mind I’m thinking ménage.

  No. Definitely not.

  Although…

  No. Handling one Davies boy is plenty for me.

  Galen shakes his head. “No, I live in London. But big brother here flies me over occasionally for treatments.” He leans towards me, issuing a sly smile. “I’m fairly certain he’s trying to turn me into a cyborg.”

  I laugh. I like this guy. He’s laid back and seemingly totally unfazed by his lack of most of an arm. Conlon did say as much when he told me about Galen on the plane, but I’m still surprised by his nonchalance.

  “Well, this is fortuitous,” I say. “I’ve agreed to—maybe—write a book about your brother. Now I can just get the inside scoop from you.”

  “I have many stories to tell. We should go out and have a drink,” Galen says, his tone a little flirty. I can see Conlon tensing up next to me and I must admit that it gives me pleasure.

  “Not so fast, mate,” he replies. “She’s my sexy biographer, not yours.”

  “Yes, but I’m important research,” Galen protests. He’s a flirt, this one.

  Conlon’s mouth opens and he’s about to reply when his phone buzzes. Looking at its screen he curses under his breath. “Must take this,” he says. “Possible new contract. You two going to behave if I leave you alone?”

  “Cross my heart,” Galen answers, drawing an X over his chest with his fingertips.

  I just shrug and reply, “Who knows?”

  When Conlon’s left us, Galen leans in again. “Truth is I’m taking the piss. I know perfectly well who you are.”

  “Who I am?” I ask, convinced that he’s mistaking me for someone else. “Who am I?”

  “You’re the woman my silly brother met on the plane. The famous Adriana.”

  “How the hell am I famous?” My cheeks light on fire. Did Conlon tell him about our little adventure?

  “You’re the only woman who’s ever had a lasting effect on him. Look, my brother is a lot of things. He can be a right prick. But I saw him shortly after he returned from New York, and I can tell you that he was despondent. I’ve never—and I mean never—seen him like that. I asked him what was up. At first he wouldn’t tell me, but I got it out of him eventually.”

  “You got what out?” My chest has gone red again, too. I can feel it.

  “That he met a miraculous woman and that
he was afraid he’d never see her again.”

  My jaw drops. “He said that?”

  “Not in so many words, but I’m no idiot. I managed to get your name from him. He told me a good deal about you.”

  I’m frozen, flattered, horrified, wondering if Conlon went so far as to describe my woman bits.

  “Tell me about him,” I say, changing the subject. “What was he like as a kid? I can’t quite picture it.”

  “Ah,” says Galen, making a fist with his prosthetic. “He never got to be much of a kid. My mother died when I was about nine. He was thirteen. Our father wasn’t of much use to us, so Conlon was my caretaker. He did everything for me. Cooked, cleaned, helped me with homework. He never experienced the freedom of teen years when people are meant to date, learn to deal with relationships, and so on. Before he knew it he was an adult. A sodding handsome one, too. Women flocked to him.”

  “So he had lots of girlfriends?” I ask, jealousy eating away at my internal organs.

  “Oh God, no. Conlon is aloof. Impenetrable. He kept to himself, always. That’s why I was so stunned to see the effect you’d had on him.”

  “We only met once,” I say. “Well, twice, if you count me shooting him down in the bar…”

  “You shot him down?” Galen slaps his palms—skin and prosthetic—on the table top, and grins wide. “That’s amazing!”

  I laugh. “The irony is that I think it was partly a conversation with you that turned me off him. He was making some reference to some woman’s ‘tits til Tuesday.”

  “Ah, yes. My fault. A fling turned into a pseudo-relationship gone horribly wrong.”

  “Well, it doesn’t matter anyhow. Our relationship is purely professional.” A flurry of movement across the room draws my gaze. Conlon is making his way back towards us, his eyes locked on my own. My chest heaves as my heart starts to pound again.

  “Professional, you say. You sure about that, Love?” Galen asks. “Looks to me like you’re as smitten as he is. Look—my brother can be a wanker, to be sure. But don’t dismiss him outright because he’s hard to read. He’s never learned how to be with someone. He’s never had the time.”

  “He won’t have the time with me, either,” I say. “I’m only here for a few weeks.”

  “Love doesn’t take weeks. Sometimes it’s only a matter of a few hours.”

  Eighteen

  Conlon

  Galen’s been chatting Adriana up, I can tell. Not in a lascivious way, of course; he wouldn’t do that to me. But I can tell that he’s said something to her that’s got her flushed all over again.

  “Is he talking your ear off then?” I ask as I pull a chair up across from her.

  “Not at all,” she says, giving me a very shy, very sexy look. “Just explaining a thing or two about what makes you tick.”

  “I hope it’s helpful,” I reply. “For the book, I mean.”

  Her features harden as I remind her that I too can focus my mind on business. “Yes, it will be helpful,” she says. “Though I need more information, of course.”

  “Good, because that phone call was from a colleague cancelling a dinner meeting we were supposed to have tonight. Would you come out with me, Adriana? We could talk further.”

  She hesitates for a moment before replying. “Actually, I can’t. I have a prior engagement.”

  A pang of envy shoots through me, landing somewhere in my chest. She’s been in Paris for all of a day, and already she’s got a date of some sort. But of course she does. “Right, then,” I reply. “Tomorrow?”

  She looks at Galen before speaking again. “Your brother is here—I wouldn’t want to keep you two from seeing one another.”

  “No problem there,” Galen says. “I’m due back in London tomorrow morning. But if you’re not going to entertain this ass-muffin tonight, Adriana, maybe I could take him out instead. There’s something going on in town that I’d like to see.”

  “Perfect, then,” I say. “No excuses, writer woman. Let me take you to a little restaurant I know tomorrow evening. Live music, candles, the whole Parisian experience.”

  “I…” Unable to come up with another excuse, she nods. “Okay, that would be great. I’ll bring my notebook.”

  “Splendid,” I say. “In the meantime, why don’t you give me your phone number so that I can text you the location?”

  “Sure,” she says, extracting a piece of paper and a pen from her wallet. Some bloke’s business card, it seems. She crosses his name out and writes her own, followed by the number, handing it back to me. We rise to our feet and she extends a hand towards Galen again. He stands, leans across the table, whispers something in her ear then kisses her cheek. Adriana laughs. Bastard always was more charming than I am.

  “I hope you’re not planning on taking off just yet. I’ve got a little more to show you before I’ll let you go,” I tell her, and she agrees to accompany me to a room down the hall. This one’s got no people in it; only computers, at least for the moment.

  “Come, I want to show you how our tech works,” I say as we walk.

  “Isn’t your technology top secret?” she asks.

  “Not at all. The actual design and programming are widely known. But we’re the only company around that issues prosthetics for affordable prices, so we’re a little ahead of the game in terms of production.”

  “Define affordable.”

  “Free.”

  “What?” Adriana looks like she might faint. “How is that possible?”

  “It’s what comes of having my finger in many pies. I work in robotics, ergo I supply robots to major corporations to help in their manufacturing processes. I suppose I’d have to say that’s my bread and butter. The prosthetics are my favourite part of the business, but by no means the money-maker.”

  “I see.”

  I show her some computer-generated mockups of new limbs that we’ve designed but haven’t yet built, and immediately I sense how impressed she is. Pride floods through me to think that this beautiful woman holds me in any esteem whatsoever.

  “Conlon, this is incredible,” she says, turning to me as she leans her palms on the desk. “Really, I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I suppose pleasure robots aren’t too far off,” she adds, lightening a mood which has gone far too serious for my liking.

  “Pleasure-bots are what keep me company when I’m at home alone,” I tell her. “Female hand-jobby units with special padded fingers.”

  “Really?” she laughs, her eyebrows raised.

  “No. I prefer the real thing,” I say, daring to slip a fingertip along her left forearm. She pulls away, hoping that I don’t see the gentle shudder of either delight or revulsion. Here’s hoping it’s delight.

  “I think maybe we should keep our relationship professional,” she mutters so quietly that I’m not sure she’s convinced by the concept.

  Convinced or not, my hard-on flees like an antelope being hunted by a lioness.

  Adriana

  His touch is electric, sending hard jolts of excitement right through to my core. It would be the easiest thing in this empty room to turn to him, to press my chest into his and find his tongue with mine. To forget that the rest of the world exists.

  But I’m still processing what Galen said. That Conlon never had the experiences that a young man should have. Never had girlfriends, never felt love, at least not really. He’s as I suspected, a man shut off from the prospect of intimacy. I didn’t come to Paris to have my ego sucked dry by a man who doesn’t know how to deal with women.

  I came here to fill myself with confidence. To remind myself that I’m fine on my own, even flourishing. My life has never been better. But this man could sure make it painful if I let myself get too involved with him.

  Of course, he could also make it perfect. He’s everything I’ve ever wanted in a man. He’s brilliant, he’s beautiful, he’s athletic, he’s protective. Not to mention that he makes me hornier than anyone
ever has.

  Here’s the thing: I’m fucking scared. Scared to give him the power that comes with love. One person always loves harder than the other, and we both know who that would be in this scenario. He would squeeze my heart hard. Then, when he was tired of me, he’d fling it away from himself like a 100-mile per hour fastball.

  But while we’re standing together like this, while I know he wants me—that’s when I get to be the powerful one. That’s when I get to hold the cards. I want to follow Katherine’s advice, to take life in both hands and steer my way through it.

  I’m just not sure I know how.

  “Professional. Yes, of course,” he says, pulling back and pocketing his straying hand. I’m not sure, but it looks like maybe he’s adjusting an erection. “Sorry.”

  “Nothing to be sorry about,” I reply. Should I say more? “Look, it’s just…”

  “No need to explain,” he replies. “You’ll still come to dinner tomorrow though, yeah?”

  “Of course. I need to learn more about this place and what you do,” I tell him, gesturing to the room. “But if I’m supposed to write your memoir you need to tell me more about yourself, too.”

  “I’m an open book,” he says.

  “No you’re not. You’re a book with a lock on the cover, and somewhere along the way someone’s lost the damned key,” I reply, my lips ticking up into a smile. I can’t help it; he looks almost flustered, and it’s sort of cute. God, maybe he’s as confused as I am. “Anyhow, dinner, tomorrow night. Six. I’ll be there, Conlon. Count on it.”

  Nineteen

  Adriana

  At seven p.m. I hike over towards the address Katherine sent me, a location only a few blocks north of Notre Dame cathedral. The building is beautiful, as all Parisian buildings are, but oddly nondescript. When I arrive, I see that a very large, very locked door is standing in my way, and my curiosity is piqued. I have absolutely no idea what she’s planning.