“There you go, sir. Can I get you anything else?”
He accepts the coffee with thanks — good mannered too, dammit — and waves me over to the sofa.
“You can tell me what you know about my company while we wait.”
I want to crawl into a ball under my desk and pretend this messed up day hasn’t started yet, but I obey with a slight nod instead and seat myself a good three feet away.
“Well, to be honest, I haven’t really read up on your company. I don’t know anything. I assume you’re into shipping—”
“Yes, but the ad campaign I want is for the cruise line side of things, not the trade,” he explains, and I blush.
I should know this.
“You have a cruise line?”
“Yup. We branched out about six years ago to take advantage of the growing industry. A lot of money to be made in expensive luxury holidays, despite the economy, so I bought an old line and revamped it. We offer the best in luxury,” he explains, and I see his eyes take on a seductive light when I realize my skirt has ridden up my thighs and I’m showing a bit too much skin for comfort.
I tug imperceptibly at the hem as I clear my throat and start volleying questions.
“What’s so special about this campaign, though? I assumed your focus would be around your bigger shipping interests,” I say, fiddling with my nails as he continues to stare.
“We’re in the process of instituting environmentally sustainable cruises in the next few months. We’ve refitted some liners to utilise solar power, new wastewater treatment methods, and alternative fuel options. What I want is for the campaign to emphasise the impact of our services on the environment. Cleaner cruises are the way of the future, and I’d like for the company to be rebranded as an environmentally friendly option to vacationers.”
Wow. It must have cost millions to take a step in this direction. I’m no environmental expert, but I’ve seen what alternative energy and carbon reducing initiatives cost. Suddenly I feel a respect for the guy that I really don’t want to feel.
He’s so likeable I’m finding it hard to remember why I shouldn’t want him.
“That’s so cool. It must have cost a fortune. How many ships are eco-friendly?”
“Three. It’s a process to get them up to the standards I want, so we’ve launched three so far.”
My mind has taken what he’s telling me and run with it, and I see a myriad of paths this campaign can take. I am so excited by the prospect I don’t notice when his hand brushes my thigh, until I feel a tickle at the hem of my skirt.
My eyes practically bug when I look down to see his thumb stroking me. When I look up I am caught in the glare of his desire. He wants me, I can see it, and the knowledge frightens me as much as it turns me on.
“Uh, er, I should get back to work,” I say, rising quickly and dislodging his hand.
“If you insist.”
Oh, but I do, I must, I think silently as I scuttle to my station and sit gingerly. He continues to stare as I pretend to work, and by the time Jordan walks in I’m a bundle of rattled nerves.
Things, things that I haven’t felt since the first year of my disastrous marriage are coming to life deep inside me, and I feel unsettled to the extreme.
I have never been this conscious of my own body, never, and I’m not sure what to do with it.
“Hannah, coffee,” Jordan barks, stopping short when he spies Gregory Lucas. “Oh, hello. I’m sorry I kept you waiting. The traffic, you know,” he rambles off as Mr Lucas follows him into his office.
I scramble to my feet and rush to the little kitchen, taking deep breaths to regain my composure before joining them. By the time I enter Jordan’s office I am my usual unflappable self, and I feel more composed as I serve the coffee and hand Jordan his notes.
“I’ve been telling Miss Newman about my expectations of the campaign. I hope you’ve been researching the issue. I want people to know what the line has to offer on a global perspective.”
Jordan looks nonplussed, and I’d bet my prized Manolo Blahniks —post-divorce shopping —he doesn’t have a clue what’s going on. Lazy bastard.
“Well yes, yes, of course. Here at Yates and Marshall we offer only the best.”
What a crock. If the account had gone to Jack that statement would be so true. Under Jordan’s guidance the campaign will be filled with blonde beach babes swimming in the cruise ship’s pool. If he’s lucky.
I blush, feeling embarrassed for him, and make a quick escape, studiously ignoring Mr Lucas and his oddly penetrating eyes.
My phone is ringing when I sit, and I answer it with a terse hello.
“So how hot is he?”
Oh, Lucy.
“Don’t you have work to do?”
“Nope. My boss actually knows how to do his job. What’s wrong?”
What isn’t wrong? I’ve developed a monumental crush on a client, I have to go to the nursing home and sit through an hour of lecturing by Mrs Ludwig, and my sister’s a mooch.
“Nothing. Just digging up stuff on the new client’s company.”
I love Google. He, and I say he because he’s become a living entity lately, is my friend. He never lets me down and usually rewards me with more information than I actually require.
“What happened to my wrap yesterday?” I ask, digging a granola bar out of my purse as I read the Lucas Cruises and Sea Travel website. There’s so much here I won’t have to look anywhere else.
Have I mentioned how much I love order?
“Sorry. I went to lunch with Tony, and by the time we got back…it was smooshy. Sooo, back to the reason I called you. How hot is he?”
She says it so loudly I pull the phone a good distance from my ear and wait for the squealing to stop. I don’t want to talk about my schoolgirl crush, but what the hell.
“Super-hot,” I admit, hitting print and grabbing up the paperwork. “You could have warned me, Luce. I just about swallowed my tongue when I found him at my desk.”
“But I did! I told you he was—”
“Fine with a capital F. I got it. Fine is not exactly accurate though, is it?” I ask, and I grin as she starts rhapsodizing about abs beneath the starched shirt and an ass you could bounce a quarter off.
By the time we say goodbye I’m giggling at her enthusiasm.
“Good to know you’re not as immune as you appear to be, Miss Newman,” I hear, and I look up to see him lazing against Jordan’s office door, a huge grin of victory on his face.
Blood rushes to my cheeks, and I freeze as mortified embarrassment washes through me. I don’t say anything because, honestly, there is no way to unsay the words ‘nice ass’, ‘dreamy eyes’ and ‘ravish-me lips’.
At this point I’m just hoping he didn’t hear the part about my three year celibacy and the sudden need to break my dry spell. Could this day get any worse?
“Dinner,” he says as his eyes drop to half-mast.
“Dinner?” I croak.
Really, Hannah, get a hold of yourself.
“We should go to dinner,” he clarifies, and I can see he’s laughing at my stunted replies.
Dinner. He wants to go on a date? Hell no. Heeell no! As much as my vagina is screaming with glee, I absolutely refuse to sit through an hour of blushing and stuttered replies while this gorgeous specimen silently laughs at me.
I also, and this is important, do not want anything to do with men right now. If ever. I’ve been married and survived the crushing disappointment of a disinterested man. I’ve already Googled Gregory Lucas —briefly, because I’d felt weird about it — and seen the drove of broken hearts left in his wake. I do not intend to be one of the heartbroken millions, thank you very much.
“You know, that meal we eat after dusk,” he prompts, and I shake myself back to reality.
“No.”
That sounded good, I think.
“No?” he asks, and I can see how perplexed he is by my outright refusal. Obviously Gregory Lucas is not used to th
e word. A small thrill of victory races through me, and I fight a smile. I take my pleasures where I can, and thwarting him is not too shabby on the pleasure scale.
“No, thank you, Mr Lucas. I do not fraternize with the clients.”
Although right now, with the lazy, seductive way he’s looking at me, I really do want to fraternize. And fraternize. And fraternize some more.
His eyes light suddenly, and my stomach drops to my feet as he ambles over and plants his hands on my desk, leaning so close I feel his breath on my lips.
“That’s okay. You just sit there and look beautiful. Leave the fraternizing up to me,” he drawls. “I can promise you, darlin’, I fraternize very well.”
My mind instantly conjures images of exactly what his fraternizing entails, and I feel a swift heat set in between my legs as a steady throb of arousal beads my nipples.
Lord, the man’s mouth, so close to mine, probably knows exactly how to…fraternize. With skill and determination.
“Hannah, I — oh, Lucas, you’re still here.”
I wrench away from him and look anywhere else but Jordan as he freezes and looks between Mr Lucas and me.
“I was just leaving, Jordan. Miss Newman had an eyelash in her eye.”
An eyelash? The man is a genius tycoon, and that’s the best he can do? I think heatedly as he winks, turns on his heel, and strolls to the elevator with an indolent swagger.
“Yes. Well. Hannah, I need you in my office,” Jordan mutters as soon as the doors close and we’re left alone.
I ignore his probing stare and gather my notepad, cursing the man to hell and back. I do not need this right now.
As I sit through twenty minutes of Jordan’s demands and idiotic ideas, I stretch my brain for a way to avoid Gregory Lucas and his smug innuendo.
Mars seems reasonable, if I could get there.
Chapter Three
“So you see, Hannah, we simply cannot allow this sort of behavior. Not only has she decided that Naked Thursdays are in, but she’s been seeing three different men this month. I cannot begin to tell you what happens when three eighty-year-old men decide to ‘fight for their love’,” she says, shuddering lightly.
I can just about guess, and what I see is that the old bird has decided to play it fast and loose with her love interests. My nana is a two-timing old bat.
I am sitting in Mrs Ludwig’s office, feeling like I’ve been lambasted by the principal, and my brain feels like Swiss cheese as the woman rambles on about policies and inappropriate behavior. I don’t even want to know what she means by the ‘landscaping’ seminar my nana’s been touting to the other residents.
My nana does not garden, so that leaves….
Do old ladies even need to do that kind of stuff? The thought grosses me out even more when I remember Nana’s shopping list last month. I should have known when she’s asked for goggles, a pack of disposable razors, a hand mirror, and three cans of shaving cream that she was up to no good.
Long story short, I have two weeks to find an alternative care facility for Nana before the home boots her frisky ass to the curb.
“But…can’t I just talk to her? Please? She really likes it here, and I don’t want to have to move her again,” I beg, lying through my teeth, willing the woman to take pity on an old woman and by extension me.
The truth is, Nana hates this place, and every other one she’s been in, ergo her continued sexual harassment of the residents of the homes. It’s been this way since the day she went into a home, and no matter how many times I explain that I am not equipped to care for her from home, with my job and commitments, she still continues to do her best to get expelled from each one.
Short of a personality transplant and/or a large dose of mood-altering drugs, nothing I say or do will change her shenanigans.
“If I give her one last chance—”
“Oh, thank you!” I burst out, feeling almost lightheaded with relief.
Maybe I can slip some night time cough syrup into her apple juice. All that’ll entail is being here at least once a day. The idea bears further thought. Or a bribe-worthy nurse.
“This is the absolute last chance I’m giving her, Hannah,” she warns sternly, and I nod sagely.
“I understand,” I say wearily, rising to leave and go tell Nana her latest scheme has failed and that she’s still homebound. “Thank you so much for your understanding, Mrs Ludwig. I swear I’ll get her in line.”
What a crock. It would be easier to wrestle an alligator while painting my nails than it is to talk sense into Nana’s head. I love her, but seriously, she’s the most stubborn woman I’ve ever met. I don’t know how Mom lasted ten years corralling her, but I am obviously not made of enough steel to do so.
The last time I told her not to proposition a man she went on a hunger strike for two days. Meatloaf Monday had broken her of her ‘ideals,’ but I can’t be making meatloaf every day.
When I get to her room it’s empty, and I turn in a circle with a sinking sensation. Great, let’s hope I find her before someone catches her in a tricky situation.
Alas, my luck is not that great.
A feminine yell of outrage echoes in the air, and I race toward the sound, stopping dead in my tracks in the doorway of another room, my eyes watering, probably trying to climb out of their sockets as I see the most mortifying thing I have ever witnessed, next to the famous Sixth Avenue subway streaker.
I’d walked right by him once and gotten an eyeful of things that should not be seen. True story.
This beats that unholy sight by a mile.
“Oh Nana, no!”
There are some things you cannot un-see. Ever.
Nana is sitting buck ass naked on the edge of a twin bed with an equally naked geezer doing a good helicopter imitation in front of her. To her delight. And the horror of my bleeding eyeballs.
“Jesus,” I groan, and I swear I can feel Mrs Ludwig as she walks up behind me.
I close my eyes in defeat and take a deep breath, trying and failing to scrub the sight from my screaming brain.
“Strike three. Hundred,” Mrs Ludwig says dourly, and I just nod, opening my eyes to see a grinning Nana reaching for her…
I book it out of the room before I get another graphic view of my nana and her proclivities, and a chuckle escapes when I see the nurse and Mrs Ludwig shut the door quickly with twin groans.
I have to find amusement where I can right now, and seeing these women turn green is about as good as it’s going to get. You’d think they’d be used to this by now, the way they’ve been villainizing my poor defenceless nana.
“I guess there’s nothing I can say?” I ask hopefully. “Maybe a donation to the Christmas fund?”
Mrs Ludwig shakes her head, and I see the nurse grin widely. Apparently Nana has made no friends on the nursing front. Big shock.
“Sorry, kid.”
***
Three hours later, and a cab ride that will live with me forever, thanks to Nana’s descriptive talents, we make it to my apartment, and I slump against the door as she inspects my tiny apartment with a sniff.
“Is this it?”
“On my salary? You’re lucky we don’t have to bunk together,” I growl, lugging her suitcase to the spare room.
I do not know what I’m going to do about a babysitter, but that’s another worry that I just can’t deal with right now.
“Hannah, darling, where is the sitting room?”
In the penthouse on the Upper West Side, I think smarmily, dropping her luggage with a thump.
“No sitting room. There’s a bathroom, two rooms, the kitchen, and the couch.” Think shoebox. For a three-year-old’s pair of shoes. “Make yourself at home while I go Lysol my eyes.”
As I wash my hands and splash water on my still burning cheeks, the solution comes to me, and I practically dive for the phone. One hand washes the other, right? I mean, if I can do favors for other people, it stands to reason I can expect a little help with this situation.
“No,” Amber says ten minutes later after I’ve laid it all out for her.
She’s saying no? After I bailed her ass out of the fire? Well, hell, no! I have a job and a life of strict rules to follow. I cannot live with the constant chaos that has suddenly beset my life. I’ve worked too hard to get things exactly the way I want them, and I cannot go back to the way I was before.
That way lays danger and a shotgun wedding followed by an equally messy divorce. No, I’m done taking risks.
“You want to come over and repay the thousand dollars you borrowed?” I ask, listening to her groan and enjoying it with a sadistic delight I didn’t know I was capable of.
“Shit. Bring her over tomorrow,” Amber finally snarls, and I end the call with a grin.
This day has been an absolute nightmare, but I have finally won. Tomorrow my life will be back to its orderly regimen, with nothing to show for the chaos except one slightly embarrassing encounter with the oh-so- heavenly Gregory Lucas.
Chapter Four
The next day I take Nana to Amber’s place and get to my desk with a minute to spare. I’m feeling in control again, and as I make coffee, go through emails, and start putting together the research I’ve done on Lucas ships for Jordan, I feel a lightness that has been lacking.
You probably think I’m a heartless bitch for the way I’ve been acting, so I’ll explain. After years of studying I graduated college with a degree in Philosophy.
Great to be interested in something enough to spend four years of my life studying it. Too bad it hasn’t landed me my dream job or cut the mustard when it comes to paying the bills.
Another useless something I picked up in college was my husband. He who shall not be named (Tom). I spent two miserable years of my life supporting him on a lousy tour director’s salary before I got fed up and gave him an ultimatum. Find a job or leave.
Needless to say, it hadn’t worked, and he’d moved back to his mother’s place, and by the time the divorce was through I’d been paying him to stay out of my life.
I decided the day the judge ordered me to fork over alimony that I was done making decisions with my heart instead of my head, and that from that point on I would always maintain a strict standard.
BEG (A Standalone Billionaire Romance Novel) Page 20
