“I’m sorry to be late,” she said loudly, announcing her entrance without a formal invitation.
He turned towards her, the menace of his eyepatch stopping her in her tracks. “It doesn’t matter,” he replied sternly. “I can’t make sense of these damn Luxembourg buttons.”
She started to slip into aggression as a form of defense, but then thought better of it. The edge in his voice told her that he had already lost his patience; now, he was fighting to keep from losing his pride.
“Well, it can’t be rocket science. It’s just a suit. And that’s what I’m here for.”
He cast his gaze off the suit and onto her, as if the casual toss in her voice surprised him. The piercing glint in his unpatched eye relaxed into something softer—something unguarded and informal—something more like an unexpected gaze of interest.
“Is that the infamous scarlet dress?” He nodded to her with his chin, his voice low and husky.
“Yeah, pretty infamous.”
She spread her hands across the form-fitting bodice, then rotated her hips towards him, granting him an unobstructed view of the cinched curve of her waist.
Without smiling in return, he lifted his eyes from her waist to her neckline, deliberately scanning the forbidden contours of her cleavage. Then, he pushed forward and seized her by the hand, drawing her towards his hard bare chest. His grasp tightened around her wrist, pulling her closer. Like a moment frozen in time, he studied her face, as if he was taking in the fresh hue of her red lips, just as he had done earlier that morning during their interview.
“Ebony was right,” he finally whispered. “Scarlet does complement your eyes.”
He slid his hand back down the curve of her hip, and for a fleeting moment, she thought she felt his hand testing the smoothness of her leg through the thigh-high front slit of her dress. But then she realized it was only the hem of the dress, brushing against the back of her knee.
“But you’re missing an important part of the ensemble.” He looked down at the pair of high heels in her hands.
Maybe it was his calm voice, or the way he stood almost naked in front of her, as if it was the most natural thing in the world, but she was suddenly inspired to confess her biggest fear.
“Please tell me you’re not going to put me on display in front of all your wealthy snobby friends and let them ridicule me over the rims of their champagne flutes for my inability to strut around like a model in high heels.”
“If I wanted a model, I would have hired one through a casting agency.”
It was true, and they both knew. Why he ended up hiring her she still could not fathom, but here they were—together now—and they both seemed resigned to the fact that there was no going back.
He lowered himself to the floor and unexpectedly encouraged her to slip her foot into the first heel.
She acquiesced, touching his bare shoulders with her fingertips to steady her balance. “You can unbuckle a woman’s slingback heels, and yet you need me to help you figure out the buttons on your new suit?”
“I’ve had plenty of practice removing women’s high heels.”
She rolled her eyes. Of course he had.
He nudged her into the second heel before rising to meet her gaze. Boosted by three extra inches, she stared straight at him, her mouth almost level with his chin. Almost his equal.
“See…heels have their advantages,” he quipped, taking in the proximity of her lips to his own.
“That advantage cost you three thousand dollars”
“I would have paid one hundred thousand.”
She could smell the scent of his aftershave—crisp and elegant—nothing like the edgy scent of cigarettes and painter’s varnish that permanently stained Enzo’s skin.
“You’re still missing one more thing,” he teased her.
He turned away and she actually heard herself sigh with disappointment.
He approached a small, square wall safe above the nightstand, punching in numbers on the keypad, and pulling open the door. When he turned back, something glinted in his hands like diamonds and emeralds the size of ice cubes. Dangling it from his fingers by its clasp, he displayed a sparkling necklace for her to view. Holy hell. Those were diamonds and emeralds the size of ice cubes in an intricately-designed platinum choker setting.
“Turn around.”
In a daze, she obeyed and turned her back on him, whimpering the moment the cold prick of platinum slid down her neckline. Goosebumps tingled along the nape of her neck as he swept away her long hair to allow the necklace to settle around her throat.
“It must be nice to be able to buy anything you want,” she whispered, touching the necklace like it had robbed her of her voice.
“I didn’t buy this,” he replied, coaxing her to face him. “It’s a priceless family heirloom from my mother. It was part of her historical jewelry collection that her mother—my grandmother—smuggled out of Amsterdam after the Nazis invaded the city. It was a gift from Prince Alexander of the Netherlands to his nurse who cared for him after he was almost killed by a tree during a storm. The fable says that Alexander’s forbidden love for her was the reason why he never married.”
He stared at her face and neckline with intensity.
“That story almost makes you sound like a hopeless romantic.”
He smiled, as if it was the honest truth. “My mother knows that emeralds are my favorite gemstones. She would prefer I give it to my future fiancée, but very little in life works out as one plans.”
He traced the square-cut emeralds with his fingertip, admiring the way they glinted against her olive skin.
“And no…I don’t believe that I can buy anything. In fact, when you have enough money to buy everything, you quickly realize that the most important things cannot be bought at all.”
Like beads of sweat, water droplets still dripped off his firm pecs. He gazed at her, intently, daring her to be the first one who turned away. She challenged his gaze, wondering if his stern temperament and menacing eyepatch concealed more than just physical injury.
“I think it’s your turn to get dressed.”
“Probably,” he agreed, but he did not turn away.
Finally, she caved, sensing he was more than happy to remove his towel and test whether or not she was as tough and unshakeable as she pretended to be. Clearly, she was not.
Evading him, she drifted to the glass door leading to an open patio, realizing she could see his ghostly reflection in the window as he slipped on his black tight-knit briefs.
“So who’s going to be at this dinner anyway?” she asked, watching his blurred reflection, waiting for him to slip on his pants before she rotated back to him.
“One of my business partners who financed The Spire.”
“Sounds like a dull dinner.” She noted how he was holding up his black dress shirt, inspecting its front seam, searching for a way to unbutton it.
“And my younger brother and his new fiancée,” he abruptly added. “Who also happens to be my ex-girlfriend.”
She crossed her arms and stared at him. He avoided meeting her eyes.
“So the real reason you need me tonight is not to help you see. It’s to make your ex-girlfriend jealous?”
He neither confirmed nor denied it. “There’s going to be more to this dinner than you realize, Inez.”
She absorbed his warning, but ignored its implications with silence. Instead, she moved towards him and took the dress shirt out of his hands. “Here,” she said, encouraging his cooperation. “There’s only four cross-over buttons at the top and a weird, European Metrosexual Mandarin collar. So you’re right. You’ll never get this on without me.”
He sighed and sat down on the edge of the bed.
“Arms up,” she ordered him.
Guarding his eyepatch, he obeyed, allowing her to slip the shirt over his head.
“You never take that off, do you?” she asked while smoothing out the folds of the shirt across his broad shoulder and firm
chest.
“No.”
“Not even when you shower?”
“Never.”
She knew better than to press it. He lifted his sharp chin as she fastened the four black enameled buttons along the Mandarin collar. Finally, she pulled away and tried not to notice how handsome he looked in all black. At least his eyepatch matched the whole ensemble.
“You know, since this dinner is going to be our first test as a couple, don’t you think we should establish a few ground rules?”
“Ground rules?” he repeated. “What kind of ground rules?”
“Like how much we can touch each other. You know, like holding hands is fine, but not if your palms are sweaty.”
He snorted. “What about if your palms are sweaty?”
She ignored him. “But no hugging, fondling, or touching of my ass.”
Sven arched his brow, as if he hadn’t considered it—until now.
“And this is an important one,” she asserted. “No calling me, ‘baby.’ I don’t wear a diaper and I definitely don’t suck anything except chocolate milkshakes.”
He rose from the bed and stalked towards her. “That’s quite a list, Miss Sanchez,” he said, his voice menacing and rebellious. “Do you give all your boyfriends that many rules?”
“Maybe.” She pushed against his masculine chest, clad in his black dress shirt, crowding into her personal space. “Just blind billionaires paying me to act like their girlfriend in front of their ex-girlfriends.”
“Well…let’s review my ground rules, shall we?”
He drew her closer against his body like a punishment and traced the contours of her chin with his fingertip. “Tonight is extremely important for me, so the only thing that I expect from you is for you to support me in every way.” He clenched his jaw and focused on her face—her lips, her eyes, her hair. “Do you understand?”
He peered into her eyes, holding her steady. His mouth hovered over her lips, emitting a faint heat, testing her willingness to accept or defy him. She absorbed his lingering gaze and unyielding embrace, and responded with a sigh. No kissing—she had forgotten that in her ground rules. Clearly, he didn’t care about her ground rules.
Shutting her eyes slowly, she relaxed in his arms, expecting their lips to meet. But instead, like a cruel joke, he freed her and brusquely turned away from her with a smirk.
She glared at him, seeking out why she felt disappointed that he had released her. “You’re a real asshole, Sven,” she finally replied, a hint of dejection creeping into her voice. “I hope you realize that.”
He nodded and lifted up his suit coat from the bed. “Now you sound more like my girlfriend.”
“An asshole. Truly.”
“Come now,” he directed her, waving his coat like he was luring a bull to charge him. “Help me put on this ridiculous Luxembourg suit coat so we can go get some drinks.”
Chapter Five
Within the elevator, they stood side-by-side in silence as they sped up endless floors to the top of the Watercross Tower. Inez stared at Sven’s reflection in the mirrored doors of the elevator cab. Dressed in all black, he looked austere and unshakeable—his fitted high-collar suit coat accentuating his black eyepatch and the severe angles of his Dutch profile. His hair was slicked back and glinted like gold under the elevator’s overhead lights. He reminded her of a naval commander, mentally preparing himself for battle. Was he preparing for battle? They had hardly spoken during their drive there in the back of his Rolls Royce; instead, he encouraged James to speed through every yellow traffic light, as if the sensation of the car’s acceleration released his own raging thoughts.
Inez had known him for less than six hours, but already she had learned that he was a man who was not accustomed to surrendering. Whatever professional and personal agenda he had for tonight’s meeting, it was obvious that he intended to obtain it at all costs. As the elevator rose, she eyed his stern expression and tolerated his punishing silence in the elevator, realizing his appearance walked a fine line between couture runway model and merciless executioner. In comparison, she gazed at her own ensemble—beaded bolero jacket, emerald and diamond choker necklace, scarlet strapless cocktail dress, and Cinderella slingback heels. No matter what fruitless protests Inez had made about her own wardrobe, Ebony had been right about one thing: she did look amazing standing next to Sven.
Ping.
The elevator chimed and the doors rolled open. Without warning, Sven took up her hand into his own. Like his possession, she thought, until he waited for her to guide them out of the elevator. Okay, maybe more like his equal, she reluctantly corrected herself. She led them into the seductive lounge, dimly lit by glowing red lanterns that reflected off the silver legs of the high-back black bar stools.
Red and black. A second point for Ebony. Sven and Inez blended right in.
The maître d’ rushed into the reception area and greeted Sven with recognition.
“Good evening, sir. The Van der Meer party?”
Sven nodded. “Yes, thank you.”
“Right this way.” As they were ushered toward a long private corridor, Inez halted them in their tracks.
“Look at that view!” she exclaimed, gazing out the lounge’s panoramic windows at the skyline, flawlessly twinkling like a tourist postcard. She involuntarily held her breath, almost certain she could see the curve of the earth.
“Just wait,” Sven replied. “Our table will have an even better view.”
He shook her hand, encouraging her to follow the maître d’ down the corridor, lined with velvet walls and a coffered ceiling, each panel of glass churning with glittering plasma. The maître d’ nodded with a smile and allowed them to pass by into the private bar lounge. Anticipation pricked her skin and fluttered within her heart. Sven’s relentless clasp of her hand was measured and controlled, signaling he wanted her by his side for their entrance.
“Well, if it isn’t the man of the hour.” The boisterous voice from the man leaning against the bar ricocheted off the polished nickel table tops, announcing their entrance.
Sven stopped them. “How many guests are there?” he whispered.
“Three in total.”
“Two men? One woman?”
“Yes,” she confirmed, observing the other man and woman enjoying their cocktails at a broad table closest to the floor-to-ceiling windows. Their backs were towards them, but the table’s magenta lamp shades cast a devilish hue on their profiles. The woman hardly glanced over her bare shoulder, as if the mere act of acknowledging Inez’s presence might strain a muscle in her slender swan neck.
Sven nodded, confirming his blurry account with her more reliable vision. Like a reflex, he held out his hand to greet the tall, imposing man who approached them.
“And who is this stunning goddess you’ve brought with you tonight?” the man asked, pushing past Sven and sweeping into Inez’s personal space. He was tall, tanned, and impeccably dressed in a trendy lavender shirt and metallic grey suit vest.
“Inez Sanchez…this is Eliot Watercross,” Sven replied, providing the formal introductions. “His firm, Watercross Capital, built and financed The Spire, and about a half dozen other buildings in the city. Including this one.”
Eliot lifted her hand and kissed it. “Let’s give credit where credit is due. The Spire was a joint venture with Van der Meer & Associates. But it’s true that this building, Watercross Tower, is all my own.”
“Which is why you’re one of the most hated men in Chicago,” Inez said, watching his presumptuous lips slip off her hand with uncertainty.
“You’re the man who infamously lobbied City Hall for the rights to fill the Chicago River with dirt and gravel to build the foundation for this skyscraper.”
Eliot’s tiger green eyes seized on Inez. “Beautiful and smart. That’s a dangerous combination. Where did you pick her up, Sven? One of the architectural boat tours?”
His joke had a hint of mockery beneath it. She forced a smile, glaring at the sm
ug grin that spread across his tanned face.
“Not since the nineteenth century, when the Chicago city bosses decided to reverse the flow of the river to send all the sewage waste downstream, has anyone attempted to alter the natural flow of the Chicago River,” Inez sassed back.
Her direct challenge seemed to intrigue him. Eliot crunched down on the ice from his tumbler and rubbed his chin.
“Beautiful, smart, and well-equipped with a sharp tongue that she’ll happily use against you,” Sven said, placing his own kiss on her hand, like a subtle gesture to mark his territory. “Best to tread carefully, Watercross.”
Inez shivered, disarmed by the warmth of Sven’s lips against her hand and the sincerity with which he delivered his compliments.
“Always,” Eliot agreed. “I’d offer to take your coat, but it looks like you might want to keep it. It’s the sweeping vista that sends chills down your spine. It makes you feel like you’re precariously suspended outside—seventy stories in mid-air.”
Throwing back the rest of his rum, Eliot shamelessly dropped his gaze down onto her cleavage.
It was more than just the vista, thought Inez, completely irked by Sven’s business partner.
“It’s probably the fishbowl walls,” Inez replied, attempting to force Eliot’s attention off her boobs. “You must be a Mies van der Rohe fan, like Sven.”
“Miss Sanchez, you’re such an architectural aficionado,” Watercross drawled. “Celeste…looks like you’ve got competition tonight.”
Eliot called out to woman sitting at the dining table. Celeste. Inez stared at the woman, remembering Ebony’s hint about Sven’s ex-girlfriend.
“Shall we?” Eliot ushered Inez forward, but Sven kept her tethered by the hand. She understood. It was a new environment and she made a careful effort to seamlessly guide him to the table. The man and the woman sat in high-back metallic chairs on the outer edge of the table, forcing Inez to take a seat along the cushioned bench on the opposite side of the table along the windows. As she slipped into her place, she glanced behind her, conscious of how the curvature of the glass wall accentuated the illusion of dropping eighty stories through a void of darkness to her death.
Closer Page 6
