Start Me Up

by Maggie Riley

  I knew it was all part of the game. I knew that I needed to impress people like the Sinclairs, who were a wealthy Manhattan family well known in socialite circles. If they liked what I did, not only would they invest, but they’d help spread the word. And I needed rich, influential people to champion my products. Sometimes a good conversation over an expensive dinner could be more effective than a million-dollar marketing campaign. Not that I was counting on it.

  But I did need this meeting to go well, a fact that seemed impossible given my current bad mood. A combination of dreading the tedious small talk that I knew I’d have to sit through, and the unabated lust that kept coursing through me, the last thing I wanted was to spend an evening eating overpriced food and talking about the weather, or the Yankees, or something that had absolutely nothing to do with the Celero, or any of my other eco-friendly products.

  I could feel a headache coming on.

  “Are you ok?” Libby was looking at me with a concerned frown. “You look pained.”

  She had no idea.

  “I’m fine,” I told her gruffly.

  Unsurprisingly that was not enough to convince her.

  “Do you have a headache?” she asked.

  It seemed pointless to lie. “A small one,” I confessed. “But it’s nothing.”

  “Too bad we don’t have any coconut water,” she teased, and I managed a smile.

  “That really only works for hangovers,” I told her.

  “Ah,” she shrugged. “Well, can’t say I didn’t try.”

  “I appreciate the effort.”

  The town car hit a pothole and Libby was jostled against me, her thigh pressing against mine. It was warm and soft and the hem of her dress had inched up in the process, revealing a lot of smooth, porcelain skin. Suddenly, I desperately wanted to press my lips there and work my way up. All the way up. Instead, I looked up at the car’s ceiling. Someone up there was tempting me.

  Thankfully it wasn’t long before we arrived at the restaurant.

  “Wow,” Libby looked up at the place with wide eyes. “We’re eating here?”

  I glanced out the window. Mrs. Reynolds made the reservations, as she always did, and the driver always had the address before we got in the car, so it wasn’t unusual for me to have no idea where I was going until I arrived.

  And Mrs. Reynolds always did an incredible job finding the best places to eat. As we walked in, I could see immediately why she had chosen this place for my meeting with the Sinclairs. Le Bernardin oozed class and sophistication. It smelled pretty incredible, too.

  The hostess greeted us warmly, giving me the kind of long, lingering look that I had been getting ever since I had a growth spurt in high school. On another night, I might have flirted, or at least returned the wink she gave me once the staring was done, but I was focused on the woman next to me.

  “I hope you like seafood,” I noted, watching plates of oysters and fish being delivered to white table-clothed covered tables.

  Libby just nodded, her eyes as big as the plates themselves.

  I had been to so many of these kind of places in the years since my company had become a success that I rarely stopped to appreciate the luxury and elegance of it all. Not too bad for a foster kid from New York, I thought, feeling a strange rush of pride. It had been a while since I had really ruminated on where I had come from and how hard it had been to get to where I was.

  My day to day life was so hectic and full of fires that needed to be put out, or fires that needed to be lit under someone’s ass, that I had stopped appreciating the fruits of my labor. Besides my car, and bike, of course. But suddenly, standing next to Libby, who was clearly experiencing a moment of complete zen as we were taken to our table, I became aware of exactly everything I had accomplished.

  “This place is amazing,” she breathed, obviously trying to take all of it in at once. “It’s so beautiful.”

  It was a beautiful restaurant. I usually was so eager to get meetings like this over and done with that I never stopped to appreciate my surroundings, even when it happened to be in one of the most expensive restaurants in Manhattan. It was nice seeing things through Libby’s eyes, I realized. Everything felt fresh and new. And exciting.

  She was especially beautiful in this moment, awe shining on her face, wonder reflected in her eyes. When had I lost that thrill for things? A thrill that I seemed to only be able to find on my bike these days.

  The Sinclairs were already at the table and they rose to greet us.

  “My apologies for the delay,” I said as I shook Richard’s hand and gave Nancy a kiss on the cheek. “You know how traffic can be.”

  “We certainly do,” said Richard, sitting back down.

  “This is Libby Hanson.” As I made the introductions, I realized that there was a good chance that Libby would have absolutely no idea who the Sinclairs were. Just as she had no idea who I was.

  There was something so refreshing about her lack of interest in the kind of circles that people like the Sinclairs traveled in. I was pretty sure that if I had brought any of the women I had dated (to use the term incredibly loosely), not only would they have known who the Sinclairs were, but also they would have been very, very interested in their status and wealth. I had a feeling that even if I told Libby exactly who they were, she wouldn’t act any differently.

  Right now she was smiling at them sweetly.

  “So nice to meet you,” she said, as I pulled back a chair for her. “Can you believe this place?” she asked, when I had settled into my own seat. “It’s incredible.”

  “It is one of our favorite places,” Nancy told her. “You must try the caviar, it’s exquisite.”

  “Oh?” Libby picked up a menu and I bit back a smile as her eyes nearly bulged out of her sockets when she looked at the prices. “Oh, well,” she chewed her lip. “I suppose I could try a little.”

  “I admire your self-control, dear,” Nancy reached over and patted Libby’s hand. “When it comes to caviar, I can barely resist.”

  Libby gave her a polite smile and shot me a look that clearly said “I can’t afford this.”

  “Then it will be my pleasure to treat you to as much caviar as you can stand,” I told Nancy. “The same goes for you, Libby.”

  “Oh, I couldn’t–,” she started to say but Nancy held up a hand.

  “Darling, when a man offers to buy you caviar, just smile and say thank you.”

  So Libby did just that, shooting me a dazzling smile, that spoke to both her relief and her sense of clearly being overwhelmed.

  “I’ve heard amazing things about the Chef’s Tasting.” I pointed to one of the many prix fixe. “Shall we all get that? With a few bottles of wine, of course.”

  “Fantastic.” Richard put down his menu. “The less time I have to spend deciding what to order, the more time we have to talk about the Celero, and how it’s going to change the auto industry for the better.”

  I was impressed. Not many people of the Sinclairs’ status came to meetings like this actually interested in talking about the product. I liked Richard and Nancy more and more. And it seemed that they had taken an immediate liking to Libby.

  “So how did the two of you meet?” Nancy asked after we had ordered.

  Libby and I exchanged a quick look, and I could see her cheeks turn red.

  “Oh, we’re not…it’s not like that…” she stammered before I reached out and took her hand.

  “Mutual friends,” I said, giving her fingers a squeeze, one that hopefully said “play along.” The last thing I wanted was for Nancy and Richard to learn that she was a ghostwriting a book about me. I had a feeling it wouldn’t be very beneficial to our meeting.

  The wine arrived and instead of tasting it like the rest of the table did, Libby just downed it. And coughed. “Mutual friends,” she coughed again.

  “And what do you do?” Richard wanted to know.

  “I write craft books,” Libby told them, giving me a quick side eye. I nodded, ho
pefully not enough for the Sinclairs to notice.

  “Craft books?” Nancy leaned forward, clearly interested. “What kind of crafts.”

  “All kinds.” Libby took another swallow of wine, this time seeming to take it more slowly. “I’ve written books on knitting, quilting, macramé, you name it.”

  “Macramé!” Nancy clapped her hands with delight. “I used to do that at summer camp when I was a girl.”

  “It’s having quite a resurgence,” Libby told her. “People are interested in exploring crafts that have been out of circulation for a while. I wouldn’t be surprised if velvet painting comes back with a vengeance.”

  Richard leaned back in his chair. “I used to have a velvet painting of Elvis when I was a kid,” he said with a fond smile.

  “We all did, dear,” Nancy teased.

  “I used to think it was the most beautiful thing ever.” He winked at his wife. “Until I met you, of course.”

  To my great amusement, Nancy blushed. This dinner was already ten times better than ones I had attended in the past. Usually with wealthy couples, the husband would compete with me about the cost of our watches or our shoes or something ridiculous, while his wife would be on her phone, or staring off into nothingness, clearly wishing she was anywhere else. Or her hand would find my knee – or higher – underneath the table. I’d had a few of those meetings when the wife was significantly younger than her husband and clearly interested in examining more than just my portfolio.

  Not the Sinclairs. These were exactly the kind of people I wanted supporting my work. It became imperative that I convince them not just to invest, but to take a personal interest in the company.

  “How long have you two been married?” Libby asked, looking at them the way most women did when they encountered a happy couple, with a touch of wistfulness and awe. It was pretty damn adorable.

  Down boy, I told myself. Lusting after an employee is one thing, but having tender thoughts is another. Both are bad, but one is worse. After my divorce, I was pretty sure I was not made for relationships. And Libby looked like someone who didn’t do anything but.

  “We’ve been married for almost fifty years,” Nancy said, looking at her husband with adoration. “A wonderful fifty years.”

  “That’s incredible,” said Libby. “I bet you’ve had some amazing times together.”

  “Oh yes,” Nancy’s eyes sparkled. “We both love traveling, so we’ve been all over the world.” She then launched into a story about their honeymoon, how they had gone to Egypt before it was as tourist-friendly as it currently was. By the end of her story about Richard and the camel that had fallen in love with him, she had us all in stitches.

  I glanced over at Libby, who was laughing so hard she was crying, her face beautifully flushed. She looked back at me, dazzling me with that smile of hers. Lust socked me in the stomach, and suddenly I wanted her so badly I couldn’t think of anything but. It must have shown in my expression because her eyes darkened and I could tell she was thinking the same kind of naughty thoughts that were now circulating through my mind.

  “What about the two of you?” Richard’s question interrupted my explicit daydream.

  Libby blinked and looked away, the spell broken.

  “The two of us?” she asked.

  “How long have you been together?” Nancy asked.

  “Oh,” Libby’s eyes darted over to mine, looking a little like a deer in the headlights. “Actually, we’re not–”

  She gestured towards me, but before she could finish her sentence, I took her hand and linked our fingers together, resting them on the table.

  “What Libby is trying to say,” I glanced back at Nancy and Richard. “Is that our relationship is fairly new, but we’re hoping we’ll be as lucky as you two.” I gave Libby my most charming smile. “Isn’t that right, babe?”

  Chapter 13

  LIBBY

  Hand holding? Smiling? Babe? Who was this man and what had he done with Jack Willis? And how could I keep him around?

  When Jack smiled at him, my knees went weak, my heart went ba-boom and my lucky thong got wet. It was almost as intoxicating as the look we had shared earlier, the one that had been full of very dirty, very exciting promises.

  I couldn’t figure him out. One minute he was cold and closed off, the next he was taking my hand and calling me by sweet endearments in front of clients. Was this just an act? Was he just trying to impress the Sinclairs? Trying to get them to invest in the company? Or did he mean it?

  His hand was rough against mine. Somehow, I hadn’t noticed it in the few times we had shaken hands, but Jack’s palm was calloused, not at all how I would have expected a millionaire’s palm to feel. The thought of him putting that palm – both palms and all ten fingers – all over me, made me even hotter.

  Jack cleared his throat and I realized that I had been staring at him with my mouth open. And that I hadn’t responded to his comment. He gave my hand a squeeze and nodded towards the Sinclairs who were looking at me with a slightly concerned expression on their faces.

  I smiled broadly – maybe too broadly – and nodded.

  “That’s right, darling,” I said. “It hasn’t been very long, but we just clicked.”

  “How lovely,” Nancy sighed, clearly eating all of this up.

  I felt a little guilty. Even though I had just met her and Richard, I didn’t like lying to them. Especially if it was in service of manipulating them.

  But even that didn’t really make sense. It seemed that they had arrived at dinner already excited about Jack and the company and the Celero. They didn’t need us faking a relationship to convince them to invest.

  I had to assume that Jack just didn’t want them to know who I really was. That he didn’t want to broadcast the fact that he had hired a ghostwriter – which made sense to me. But he could have said I was someone else – anyone else. I could have been an employee, an assistant, anything but a fake girlfriend.

  Instead, I was sitting at one of the most expensive restaurants in Manhattan, holding hands with one of the wealthiest men in the country. A man that every single woman in the restaurant couldn’t stop staring at. And I didn’t hate it. Nope, I liked it. A little more than I should. Which is why I didn’t pull away.

  Because a part of me was pretty sure that this was more than just an act. That whatever had sparked between us, that heat, that need that I had seen in Jack’s eyes, that was real. That he was still holding my hand because he liked the way my hand felt just as much as I liked the way his hand felt. That he wanted my hands on his body just as much as I wanted his on mine.

  Then he pulled away, and my sexy little fantasy burst.

  Dammit. Maybe it was just all business. Maybe it was all one-sided.

  I couldn’t figure it out. Couldn’t figure him out. I spent the rest of the evening watching his expressions, looking for any sign that he was interested in more than just my writing skills and quick fake girlfriend-ing ability.

  “It was so lovely to meet you,” Nancy told me as we got our coats at the end of the evening. “I’d love to get together some time and hear more about the craft books you’ve worked on.”

  “That would be nice,” I told her, surprised that this elegant woman was interested in my silly little craft books. Then again, macramé knew no bounds, it seemed.

  The Sinclairs left first, leaving Jack and me standing on the curb together, waiting for the town car. An awkward silence settled between us, and I rocked back and forth on my heels, not sure what to say. Or do.

  “I can just get a cab,” I offered, even though I was mentally wincing at the cost.

  “Actually, I was hoping we could talk more about the book,” Jack had his hands in his pockets, looking too handsome for his own good. No wonder every single head in the restaurant had turned when we headed out. God, he was nice to look at. The wind ruffled his hair a little, and it made me want to touch it. Touch him. Smell him. Lick him. All over.

  “You want to talk m
ore about it tonight?” I asked. I hadn’t looked at my phone recently, but it had to be after 11:00pm.

  “Unless you have somewhere you need to be,” his eyebrow was raised as if he didn’t think there was anywhere else I needed to be.

  For that arrogance alone, I knew I should have said no. Instead, I pressed my knees together, my entire body craving his touch.

  “I’m free,” I told him.

  “Good,” he said as the town car pulled up. “We’ll go to my place.”

  It was an amazing apartment. Of course, it was. He was filthy, stinking rich. He was going to have a nice apartment, I told myself. Still, even knowing that hadn’t prepared me for how beautiful it was.

  Like his skyscraper, the place was modern, steel and glass. The floor in the entryway was black marble, the walls a pale gray. Everything looked sleek, professional and very high tech. His front door had been unlocked with his handprint, the lights turned on when we entered, and I was pretty sure I could hear classical music start to play in the other room.

  “Can I get you something to drink?” Jack asked me, taking my coat.

  “Um, sure,” I said, still taking it all in.

  “Wine?”

  My eyebrows went up. I still had a slight buzz from all the wine we’d had at dinner – three bottles between the four of us – but the look he gave me made me nod. It was a knowing look, one that promised things. Or so I thought.

  I still didn’t know. There were moments when it felt like I could read him, like we were on the same page, but then his face would go blank and I would be uncertain if I had just imagined the seductive glances and hot looks.

  I followed him into the kitchen which was full of stainless steel appliances and more black marble. It should have felt cold, but somehow it didn’t. Maybe it was the brightly colored dishes that lined the open shelves, or the unexpectedly playful hexagonal backsplash tiles. Jack had removed his coat and jacket when he hung up my coat, and now the sleeves of his shirt were rolled back giving me a great view of his extremely attractive forearms.