The Power of Sunday Rose
Angelina J. Windsor
$20,000.00 for one week. No sex.
Or so said the writing on the back of the business card she was handed.
What begins as a way for Sunday Rose to make money for her college tuition soon becomes something else entirely for both her and Adam Drake, the businessman who hires her as his social hostess for seven days.
The beautiful and demure Sunday Rose has a wild side, and in unleashing it, Adam soon realizes he’s met someone whose sexual fantasies are more than a match for his own.
But one week only was the agreement and Sunday’s convinced she has no room in her life for anything except school and the jobs she works to pay for it. But Adam’s a skilled negotiator, used to getting to yes, even if he has to change the game to do so.
Reader Advisory: This story has graphic sexual language and scenes—no closed bedroom doors (or other rooms) here!
An adult contemporary romance from Ellora’s Cave
The Power of Sunday Rose
Angelina J. Windsor
Dedication
Dedicated to the wonderful sisterhood, plus Patrick! at Ellora’s Cave. I am humbled and thankful for all your help and the incredible sharing of our journey to publishing. We rock!
A special thanks to my editor, Rebecca Fairfax, for making me a far better writer.
And to my own White Knight who saved me. Thanks for Buttonland!
Chapter One
$20,000.00, one week, no sex.
The bold strokes of cursive on the back of the small business card grabbed my attention. My mama warned me I was born headstrong, lamented frequently that it would lead me off the straight and narrow path. And now, as I held the card with all those handwritten zeros lined up ever so neatly on the back, it dawned on me she might have been right about that one thing at least. For this kind of cash to help pay for college, I might be inclined to rush in and bend my standards a little.
Absolutely not, my conscience squawked.
What can it hurt to find out what he wants? It might be something fun, my alter ego cooed in that honeyed tone she favors.
It was a classic Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde moment.
My best friend Julie leaned over my arm, sipping her can of diet cola through a straw, to check out what I was staring at. She rolled her eyes with thinly disguised disgust. “Who is it this time, Sunday?”
I let my long hair swing across my face to cover my embarrassment. She was right. It was not the first time a man had pressed his business card into my hand, but this was different in that there was a dollar amount attached. The security guard who had delivered it was obviously not the man to whom it belonged. I glanced around at the stands full of fans. He was lurking, judging by the quality of the business card, in a private luxury suite.
I slipped it in my pocket, gave her a wry smile and a shrug. “Same old, same old. Would you like anything? I have to visit the ladies’ room.”
“Another drink, anything diet.”
Julie sighed, her frustration at watching her weight apparent in the resigned expression in her soft green eyes. She looked so pretty today with her thick dark hair pulled into a perky ponytail. She over-worried about her weight to the point I was concerned she was becoming obsessed. Her slender frame did not have an ounce of fat to spare.
“Sure, I’ll be right back.” As I made my way down the concrete steps to the concession area—on a rare night out, we were in the nosebleed section due to constrained finances—I wished my image had not been blasted up on the Jumbotron. But maybe the opportunity is a good one? Mr. Hyde again. I shook him off as I stepped up to the snaking line of resigned females and wished that arena builders would figure out a higher percentage of bathroom stalls was required by women.
A sudden hand at my elbow startled me and I almost dropped my phone.
“Miss, Mr. Drake was wondering if you’d like to join him in his private suite. It has a private bathroom at your disposal. I have a note for you by way of introduction to assure you that this is all on the up and up.”
I turned and looked up into the eyes of the man addressing me as he handed me the folded piece of paper. He appeared to be almost apologetic about his mission and his kindly middle-aged expression was reassuring. My eyes lingered on the firm handwriting, the same as the strokes on back of the business card. It stated his name again, Adam Drake, and that he had a real business proposition for me, underlined for emphasis. Still, I hesitated. Safety first.
It was like the man standing patiently beside me could read me when he went on in the same reassuring tone, “I can personally attest to your safety, miss. I promise you that you’ll be perfectly safe with Mr. Drake. I will escort you back to your friend at any time. It shouldn’t take but ten or fifteen minutes, that is, if you have the time?” He punctuated his succinct remarks with a knowing glance at the long line for the bathroom.
That convinced me. After all, there was plenty of security about if I wanted to scream for help.
“Okay, but first I text my friend to let her know what I’m doing and with whom.” I quickly texted Julie and then followed the man in the dark-gray business suit.
We sidestepped our way through the maze of fans jostling elbow to elbow for food and drink to a private elevator, my pulse increasing with every step. He pushed the button on the panel for the upper deck and we waited while it moved silently upward, the aquariums built into the walls filled with brilliant tropical fish a welcome distraction. I watched a school of rainbow-hued neon tetras chase each other playfully in perfect unity across the crystal-blue water like a red, blue and white flag and it helped me relax. As Shakespeare so brilliantly put it, “One touch of nature makes the whole world kin.”
The door slid open to reveal a long carpeted hallway and I stepped out ahead of my escort. He nodded respectfully to indicate I was to walk down the expanse alone and added, “Last door at the end of the hall. Mr. Drake is expecting you. I’ll be back to see you to your seat, miss.”
“I’ve let my friend know that if I’m not back in twenty minutes to alert security,” I warned him. He nodded respectfully and I breathed easier.
I walked the last fifty feet to the end of the hall and raised my hand.
And failed to knock.
Should I be opening this Pandora’s Box?
The decision was taken away from me when the door sprung open. My eyes fixed on the man towering over me.
Oh. My. God. I felt my mouth dry out and I swallowed hard, unable to look away. He was beauty and sex incarnate. An erotic romance cover model. His fragrance wafted over me, making my senses reel with instant lust. Had he put some kind of spell on me? I wanted to throw myself at him and that is definitely not me, the legendary ice queen. Not that I’m really frigid, just focused on school, not to mention working three jobs to pay for it and constantly worrying about keeping my grades up.
“Please, come in and join me,” he said.
Duh. I took the hand he offered, my legs wobbly, and looked into the whiskey-brown eyes of a man who wore his confidence like a second skin. My fingers tingled as they touched his warm hand. A lean Adonis, he was built for the kill.
I studied his beautiful face, riveted by the intensity and intelligence lurking just beneath the surface. He was a man unlike any other I’d ever met. In his early to mid-thirties, he was over six feet tall, which made him almost a full foot taller than me, with his rich brown hair expertly cut, his clothes reeking of money. I felt shabby in my bargain-basement sweatshirt and well-worn jeans. But it was just a hockey game. I had done a fairly decent job of my hair and makeup and painted my nails, so I looked decent.
But it’s long been drilled into me that
good looks fade and I’d need to have a lot more to offer if I was going to make my way in the world. Maybe it was time to save up for that rainy future my mama was always predicting. My mind was a muddle of thoughts as I stood lamely staring into his eyes, unable to turn away or say anything.
“You are even more stunning in person. May I ask your name?”
Nervous, I swallowed hard. I finally found the answer swimming lazily around my fevered brain.
“Sunday Rose Stark. I answer to Sunday or if you’re my Southern mama who’s fond of double names, Sunday Rose. Call me what you like, just don’t call me late for dinner.” Good grief, what was I saying that old hackneyed line for? “And I take it you are Mr. Drake?” I swallowed again, my mouth dry as the Atacama Desert in South America. Good. I still had some brain cells left to remember the name of the driest place on Earth. The attraction was beyond explaining. I’d heard of this through my girlfriends but had never experienced it firsthand. I didn’t like it. At. All. Fuck that damn cherub and his famous arrow, pointing it right at me.
“Yes. Please, come in and make yourself at home. Since I definitely don’t want to be confused with your mother, what can I offer you to drink, Sunday?”
His honeyed voice lush with power was seductive. I’ve studied psychology at college and knew more than the average person about the powerful effect of money on people’s character, because it had to be the money, right? Nobody could be born with this much magnetism. I sat down on a sofa, clasping my hands and thighs tightly together. The pose made me aware of the heat in my lower belly.
“I’m fine. I don’t have much time before my friend sends out a search party, so perhaps we should get down to particulars,” I said.
“You young people are in such a hurry,” he remarked, not looking at all offended. I made a small sound of derision. That made his eyebrows rise up with a question mark.
“You’re not that much older than I am. You can’t tell me a man of such obvious wealth or business connections is not a busy man,” I scoffed, indicating with my eyes the expensive furnishings in the room.
“What are you, twenty or twenty-one? I’m thirty-six. Light years away in life experiences. And isn’t each year in your twenties equal to living three years in your thirties and forties? Just sayin’.” He grinned to let me know he was teasing. “Yes, I am a busy man, but I also know enough to take time out for the things in life that matter. Like having a drink with someone I’m hoping will become a friend.”
His charming speech reduced my stress. “Okay, just one. I’ll have a light beer.”
“I believe we have Michelob Ultra. Will that do?”
“Perfectly.”
I murmured my thanks as he handed me a chilled glass glowing with golden bubbles of beer swirling up from the bottom like champagne. I took a sip and set my glass down on the coaster provided on the coffee table. Just fake it until you calm the fuck down.
“I have a proposition for you, Sunday, one that will help you with your tuition at college for the next year—assuming, that is, you go to college or want to go.” He sat down across from me, took a sip of his drink and gave me an inquiring look. He’d also poured himself a beer, pleasantly surprising me as it made him seem more human. Butterflies were having a heyday in my stomach.
“Yes, I go to college. What’s the job entail?” I asked. What did I have to do to acquire a sum that would take me the better part of a year, even working three jobs?
“This coming week I have a few social events planned and I’d like you to considering being my hostess. I have out-of-town guests arriving in twenty-four hours and my usual hostess just up and quit without giving notice.”
The serious look in his eyes suggested there was a lot he was not telling me, like this “hostess” was most probably a girlfriend who had just left him.
“I think you’re exactly the right woman for the job. I want—no, make that need—a beautiful distraction this week. For your making yourself available for all the evening dinners and entertainment—that I warn you will often run into the late hours, I’ll pay you the sum I wrote on my business card. Ten thousand up front and the remainder when the week is concluded. I will, of course, provide a proper wardrobe that you may keep after the week is over. What are you, a size two?”
I ignored his personal question and took another swallow of my beer.
“Surely there are many women in your organization who could step into a hostess’s shoes at a moment’s notice and do a far better job than I could. I know nothing about your business. I’ve never catered to the rich and I’m well-known for calling a spade a spade. Please excuse the cliché, but I want to be frank with you. I think you have the wrong woman.” Please, please don’t listen to me. I want to find out what’s hidden under those clothes. I blushed as the traitorous image of us naked flitted through my brain.
“Let me be frank with you. I saw you on the Jumbotron and for a few moments I forgot my troubles. Felt uplifted, if anything. Sure, your beauty is arresting, but I saw in those few precious seconds something in you that spoke directly to me. You brought to mind a woman who could launch a thousand ships and I had a deep urge to get to know you. The real you—the person behind that gorgeous face. And then realized I had the perfect opportunity to do that this very week. If it’s more money you want, I’ll double my offer.”
Wow. “No, your offer is more than fair. I just don’t want you to be disappointed in paying for my services if I don’t live up to your expectations,” I replied honestly, more than certain now he had just had his heart broken. He must be a little off-kilter, what with his Helen of Troy reference. It demonstrated his vulnerable side, which was in his favor. I was also flattered that he found me so attractive he had to meet me. So sue me.
“I could not imagine you not living up to my expectations. I just want a beautiful woman to be with this week during social events. Just be yourself.” He took a sip of his beer, eying me over the glass. His fingers holding the beer were well-formed and sensual. I felt the direct penetration of those intense, ever-so-enticing, warm chocolate-brown eyes all the way down my body. Whoa. My pussy was getting wetter by the moment just from looking at him. Don’t look, I warned myself. Damn, too late.
“You will, of course, be propositioned by other men. I can’t prevent that, I mean, my god, look at you!” His expression was almost comical and I sat nonplused, waiting for him to continue. My god, look at him. “All I ask is that you be polite and turn them down. Would that be acceptable to you?”
I nodded. The chances of meeting my soul mate that week were slim to none, though I’d just met my coveted lust object.
“Would you be so kind as to point the way to the bathroom?” Getting away to think for a few minutes sounded like a good idea. He and his proposal were a lot to take in.
“Yes, of course. It’s right over there.” He was all politeness as he pointed it out with an outstretched finger. He sat back and slipped his cell phone out of his jacket pocket, obviously going to check his messages while I was away. He was a man not hiding behind the door when favors were handed out by the gods.
I got up and walked carefully across the carpet. I’m a bit of a klutz, always thinking rather than paying attention to the placement of my appendages, and I prayed I wouldn’t trip over anything. I made it safely inside and closed the door. What if he planned on high-heeled shoes with my evening attire? The thought sent a whiplash of worry through my brain. It would be fifty-fifty whether I ended up on my ass.
I looked into the mirror over the sink and I was looking exactly the same as usual. I’ve always been surprised by this. For some reason I expected to see a different person in the reflection when I made a decision my mama would not have agreed with, and lord knows, there have been enough of them. But instead I saw me in the mirror exactly like I appeared earlier this morning.
I get that the image is a superficial likeness of me, because inside I’m not like I appear to the world. The world sees a long fall of smooth white-bl
onde hair, bright-blue eyes albeit looking a little shell-shocked at the moment, pink cheeks and red lips and they think, in certain quarters, must tear down. I’ve been told I look like a cross between a Barbie doll and an angel and can’t be very bright. But truth is I have an exceptionally high IQ and I admit I have something to prove to the world. I’m definitely no angel. Inside I’m a mess. A mess I’ve been ignoring for years. And according to my psychology professor, you ignore your past traumas at your own peril. Well, it had worked so far. And I certainly wasn’t going to go there this week. A fantasy to take my mind on an adventure—exactly what the doctor ordered.
I resolutely pushed back the dark memories trying to get past my defenses and washed my hands. Then, taking a few deep steadying breaths, I made a momentous decision and went out to speak to my new employer. I wanted the money, sure, but I also wanted to get to know the man.
I smiled and slipped back into my seat, picked up the beer and drank some more, covertly watching him finish up on his phone. Don’t look, I warned myself, but it was impossible. He drew me like a moth to the flame.
“Okay, do we have a deal, Sunday?” he asked pleasantly enough, though I could also see a hint of sadness in his look that spoke volumes, as if he was bracing himself. I was touched that my presence could mean that much to him and my heart reached out to him. My hands trembled as I licked my lips. I replied as confidently as I could manage, “Yes, Mr. Drake, I believe we do.”
“Good.” He gave me a warm smile. “Can you give me a few facts about yourself that will help me when I introduce you to my friends and clients? You know—organizations you belong to, favorite color, your hometown?”
Though I suspected he already knew most things about me, having access to the internet, for all he had to do was Google my name and my Facebook and Twitter accounts would pop right up. And he’d had plenty of time while I was in the bathroom.
The Power of Sunday Rose Page 1
