“I’m going to tell her you’re gay.”
“Eat shit, Tony.”
“Don’t you miss it?” Tony asked, pulling his bag from the locker. “Don’t you miss the siren’s call of the pudendum? I bet you do. It’s why you’re walking around all tight-assed all the time. You’re just remembering what it was like.”
David merely stared blandly. “Why should I miss what I still have?”
“You’re seeing somebody?”
Was he seeing Ashley? Did once a month in a hotel room somewhere across the United States count as seeing her? Slowly he smiled. “Yes. Yes, I am.”
Tony swore, flipping his towel against the bench. “It’s Elena, isn’t it? She sits there, watching you in the ring with those exotic eyes, drooling all over herself. You should be ashamed, my friend, taking advantage of a young, nubile twenty-one-year-old with a body that could stop a rocket. I would beat you myself, if only because I am beside myself with jealousy.”
“She’s only twenty-one, Tony. That’s not my speed.”
“That’s every man’s speed.”
“Not mine.”
“You really got somebody? You’re not lying to me?”
“I got somebody.” I think.
“Now you’ve got me tied up in knots thinking of Elena. I’m heading to the showers, and if you hear ragged moans of pleasure, leave a man to his privacy. Next time, McLean. This time, I’m going to pummel you into a thousand tiny pieces.”
“Save your bull for your customers, Tony.”
“Do you know Transatlantic Pipe? The board’s about to kick out the CEO, and bring in a new one. A good one. A very, very good one. I’m telling you, it’s a buying opportunity.”
“Really? What do you know?”
“Enough. And my friend, only for you.”
At Tony’s devious smile, David got an idea. “Say, do you know a guy at Chase Investments? Barney something?”
“Barney Thompson or Barney Burdetti?”
“He’s probably young. Jerky. Full of himself and likes the ladies.”
“That’s Burdetti. Definitely Burdetti. You wouldn’t believe—”
“Can you invite him for lunch?”
“Got a man crush, David?”
“Nah, doing a favor for a friend.”
“The ‘somebody’ friend?”
“Another friend.”
“And suddenly, you got a lot of friends. Do I need to hate you? Are you suddenly having more sex than me?”
This time, David swore. “Sadly, probably not.”
“Okay, I won’t hate you then. Give me a couple of weeks, and I’ll see if I can’t wangle him for lunch. I’ll tell him your firm is still running double-digit gains. After the big meltdown, everybody’s nervous.”
“I’ll be nice,” David offered, lying through his teeth.
MIAMI IN JUNE was golden sunlight, pastel-painted stucco and ocean beaches so white it hurt your eyes.
Or so she’d been told.
Ashley had been in Miami for nearly three hours and all she’d seen was a muddled airport under renovations, the inside of a cab, the luxurious oceanfront room at the Setai hotel and the naked body of one finely made man.
Yes, Miami was a town of many, many things to see and do, but currently, she was only interested in one, and that was what made her nervous.
She fell back against the plush pillows, this time too tired to roll away from the warm invitation of his body—until her hand reached out and found an answering set of fingers that clasped around hers. Ashley’s heart squeezed in a manner that had nothing to do with the sex. She broke free and rolled away before the heart-squeezing got worse.
The room was intensely quiet. Too quiet despite the low thrum of the air conditioning, the rhythmic rush of the ocean lapping on the beach and the silent scream of a woman getting in over her head.
His breathing was slow and steady, in and out, then over again, and she noticed how quickly her lungs matched his in time. Her gaze held fast to the wall, desperately clinging there.
Damn.
He didn’t try and touch her, nor speak to her, and she was grateful for that simple courtesy. Yes, David was a perceptive man, and he could tell she was a woman teetering on the edge.
The worst thing was that it had been different this time. Frantic coupling? Check. Heart-ripping pleasure? Check. Exploding orgasm? Check. Check. Check. So what was new?
The way she needed to lock eyes when he was filling her. The way her fingers buried in the thick hair as if they belonged there. The way his body felt covering hers.
This wasn’t stranger sex anymore. The excitement and sense of the forbidden was gone, but what it left behind was something more disturbing.
So, what’s the big deal? Hop a flight to New York every now and again. You know this affair is nothing but compatible sex and working off a little stress.
You don’t know anything, Val.
I know more than you.
The hotel walls were dark brown, the color of the earth, the color of his eyes when he was spilling himself inside her. Ashley buried herself farther under the sheets. Unfortunately, they smelled like her, like him…like them, but still her nose stayed there, her mind memorizing the scent.
His finger stroked down her back, following the arc of her spine. Ashley smiled at the wall, but kept firmly to her side of the bed.
“You make me feel cheap,” he finally said, no trace of hurt in his voice, and she was grateful for that small courtesy as well.
David continued to talk, one benign finger coaxing her closer and closer.
“I know you’re only here to use and abuse me, but I have needs, too.”
At that, Ashley rolled over and stared at him suspiciously, but his face was as benign as that single finger that was tracking her skin.
“You think of me as just a fast-action pump and drill, variable speed settings and excellent torque, but I have feelings and when you turn away from me…” He looked at her, hazel eyes dancing, and sniffed.
All completely benign.
“What do you want?” she asked cautiously.
He shrugged. “I don’t know. But I need to feel you respect me.”
Ashley scooched closer. “I respect you.”
He sniffed again. “I need you to like me for my mind, not just the awesome sex.”
His eyes were still dancing, a smile playing on his mouth. As long as everything was casual, Ashley could play, too.
She scooched even closer, and curled into the safe crook of his arm, ignoring the warning voices in her head.
“You have a very nice mind. Sharp. Almost—dare I say—quick, for such a brawny stud such as yourself.”
Slowly his hand slid over her shoulder, not nearly as casual as the smile on his face, or the easy look in his eyes.
“Thank you for noticing.”
Content at last, Ashley smiled. For the first time she took a good look at their surroundings, at the steely gray ocean rushing back and forth outside the wall of windows.
He had picked the hotel this time because “the color red gave him a headache.” Ashley was curious to see what he would do. It wasn’t the stiff elegance of the Ritz, nor the lust tropics of the Biltmore, instead it was understated beauty.
“Nice room,” she said. “I approve.”
Beyond the windows, ominous afternoon clouds started to draw down on the Atlantic and announced the late-day storm you could set a clock by. Ashley watched as the clouds grew darker.
“The view’s great,” she added. He was so quiet that she turned her head, daring to look, but there was nothing to be afraid of.
“So, who’s our target this time?” he asked.
Ah, business. That was safe.
“Mariah D’Angelo. Twenty-seven. Got written up in WWD, and she’s starting to attract the attention of some of the big guns.”
He quirked a brow. “Big guns of the fashion industry?”
“You know—the usual suspects in trendy poof.”
“Trendy poof? You’re going to have to tutor me on the fashion lingo.”
She gave him a studious look. “I think you’ll do fine.”
The rain began, a quiet patter, starting slow, then quickly growing in intensity.
“You like the rain?” she asked him, enjoying this easy camaraderie. It was like being friends, with benefits.
“Rain in New York is a bitch. Streets flood, subways are late, cabs are scarce and there’s always an umbrella to jam you up.”
“Sounds charming.”
“However…when I’m not outside…for example, if I’m sleeping late or watching TV, or reading, I don’t mind it. I like it then.”
Her cheek rubbed against his chest, ostensibly because she felt restless and needed to move. This wasn’t easy camaraderie. This was “I miss you and I want to lay with you.”
And what’s wrong with that?
I can’t go to New York.
Okay, you win with that one.
No, I lose.
“You actually read?” she asked, back to snarky-snark because mundane chatter wasn’t mundane enough anymore.
“Shocking, I know.”
“I bet you read work stuff.” She needed it to be work stuff because any other answer indicated depth of character, and a seriousness that she didn’t want to think about. He was already too close to ideal. She needed to find flaws. Serious character flaws that she could sink her teeth into.
“Some of it’s for work,” he answered, so she hedged her bets.
“Comic books the rest of the time, right? Sci-fi, big trolls eating up Hobbit civilizations?”
“Comics, Steinbeck, Tolkien, Harlan Coben and Edgar Allan Poe. A veritable smorgasbord of literary taste.”
Ashley looked at him, shocked. “Poe? Nobody does that.”
“I do,” he protested, looking slightly hurt. “I’m very cerebral.”
She studied the hard swell of his arms, biceps that had never hefted the pages of Poe. No, David McLean just knew how to play a good game of mind-screw. “Cerebral, my ass.”
His free hand slid lower and lingered. “Your ass is many things. Cerebral is not one of them.”
And they’d moved full circle back to sex. Outside the rain was bearing down, isolating her from the rest of the world, isolating them.
She rose up on his chest, inviting his eyes to wander over her bare skin. This, sex, she could handle.
“I like the rain,” she whispered.
The amusement fell from his face, leaving behind lust…and something not so easy.
He pulled her closer, took her face, took her mouth, and it was far from easy. His kiss wasn’t hot passion or casual sex or mind-screwing play.
Without thinking, Ashley found herself sinking into this new kiss. The storm rolled across the Atlantic. She loved the rain, loved the feel of his body under hers, feeling his cock stir with carnal intent. But his heartbeat was firm, sure. Those powerful arms were tight, secure. He wasn’t letting her go.
Ashley lifted her head, stared into eyes that were not so simple, not so casual.
“Don’t think, Ash. Just go with it,” he urged.
He wanted her to step in the airplane, push away from everything she knew was smart, rational and logical.
And he called himself an analyst? Shameful.
However, smart, rational and logical weren’t currently invading her head. The storm outside, the storm in her head had drowned them out.
Her mouth hovered lower, her eyes not so simple, not so casual.
Just go with it? She would.
IT WAS ALMOST SEVEN when they met with Mariah, just as the woman was closing up her studio. The place was blazing with psychedelic colors and a chaotic mix of fabric and textures that defied description.
Very chichi with a head rush.
The clothes were arranged in disordered, yet strategic piles. It was organized anarchy, which suited the owner, because Mariah D’Angelo was as intimidating as leg warmers, circa 1983. Her hair hung in a long, kinked black braid down her back, and she wore blue jeans, an artistically ripped black T-shirt, her feet sporting polka-dot high-tops.
Hard to believe, yet true.
David took up an innocent bystander stance against the far wall while Ashley launched into her spiel without a sweat. “I want you to add your designs to the event. I’ll do two challenges. Casual and cocktail, and look, I’m even telling, so it’ll be easy. You know what they are. Just give me your best stuff, and we let the customers decide. No secrets. I don’t have a big operation. Only four stores, and they’re not even…”
David coughed once, soft yet effective. Uplifting, not downtrodden, was the mantra of the night.
“But we get a lot of traffic and the media coverage has already started.” It was true, Chicago Fashion Weekly had put two paragraphs in the September calendar. “It’s a golden opportunity.”
“What about my expenses?” asked Mariah, cutting to the heart of the matter.
“All covered,” promised David, who had no idea of the balance on the Ashley’s Closet credit card.
Mariah looked at David, then Ashley, then shrugged in a completely naive, trusting manner. “I’m in.”
Ashley hugged her, until Mariah—not that trusting—pulled away.
“I’m sorry,” Ashley apologized. “I’m working to recharge my…”
Another cough from David.
“Revolutionize the stores. Transform the fashion design landscape in Chicago,” she finished, flashing David a relieved grin. There. That wasn’t so hard after all.
The best part was that Mariah looked excited. “Do you want to check out the studio?”
Ashley examined the day-glo colors, the cottony soft fabrics, and sighed. “I think it’s my destiny.”
In the end, Ashley walked out wearing a newly purchased bijou pink bandeau top, with a matching sarong skirt with the sheerest of chiffon layers that danced around her thighs. To complete the frivolous ensemble—très Miami—she wore a white hat with a big, floppy brim. Beach Blanket Bingo meets Jackie Onassis.
She and David strolled through the open-air plaza, the summer breeze rippling through the skirt. She felt dramatic, alive, confident. She was the Ashley that she’d always dreamed of being.
“Can you believe it? She was entranced, like I was, you know, fabulous.”
“You were good,” he told her, and this time she didn’t mind the warm light in his eyes. She was even holding his hand, a daring move rife with untoward possibilities, but tonight she was walking on ocean air, with a salsa beat accompanying the marcato of her blood.
Couples cruised the square, doing nothing but enjoying life—what a concept.
“I had her eating from the palm of my hand.”
“Especially after you bought the clothes.”
“Oh, fine, burst my bubble, you big lug. Whining to me about how you’re all sensitive. You’ve got all the sensitivity of a razor blade.”
“Look at you. Giving back, a jab, jab, cross, and then wham, the body blow.”
Ashley stopped and stared. “Boxing!”
He shot her a confused look. “What?”
Ashley patiently explained to him the significance. “You box.”
He nodded, still not grasping the genius of her analytical skills.
“I bet you want to know how I figured it out. Don’t you? You are dying to know.”
Obviously sensing—finally!—the importance of this moment, he nodded again. Smart man. “Go ahead. Share.”
“Your arms,” she told him, her fingers trailing over his bicep in a brazenly uninhibited move.
“My arms?”
“It now makes perfect sense. Your biceps are too big for swimming, you don’t have runners’ legs, your thighs are too thick, runners’ are like matchsticks. But boxing…it fits.”
“You’ve been studying my body in some detail, haven’t you?” he asked, stroking his chin, very Sherlock Holmes.
“Embarrassed when a woman exp
resses admiration for your physiology?”
“Not at all. I thought it was my awe-inspiring sexual prowess that drew you, but this, too? My ego is growing by leaps, bounds…inches.”
Ashley knocked at his arm. “Pervert.”
He didn’t even try and deny it. “Busted.”
She studied his face and grinned. “I did great, didn’t I?”
“You were great.”
“It’s going to work, isn’t it?”
“It is,” he answered with complete confidence.
With one finger she flicked back the brim of her hat, pulled him close. “That was the exact, correct answer.”
His hand slid over the bare skin of her back, gliding underneath the thin material of her top. “I really like this. Very practical. Accessible. Sexy.”
“You think?”
“I think.”
“We should go back,” she suggested.
“We should,” he replied, giving her a long kiss. Then he took her hand and they walked briskly to the hotel.
“I have to be honest. I cannot lie,” she confessed. “It really is your sexual prowess.”
“Now who’s the pervert?”
“Busted,” she said, tucking nicely under his arm.
David only laughed.
IT WAS THREE in the morning, but outside the hotel it didn’t matter. The beach was still alive with Friday-night noise. The moon was full and golden, a brilliant orb that cast the room in its magical embrace. Inside the bed, it was warm and comfortable, a secret place.
“Tell me about your wife,” asked Ashley, daring to venture to secret subjects.
David propped up one elbow, and even in the faint light she could see the requisite jaw-clench. “There’s not a lot to say. We were married out of college. She’s a perfectionist.”
Ashley smiled and David, being overly sensitive, glared. “Why is that funny?”
She tried to keep a straight face and failed. “You can be a little stilted when you’re not happy. I can’t imagine two of you.”
“I’m not stilted,” he insisted.
“You’re not relaxed,” she pointed out, avoiding mention of the locked shoulders or the fisted hands.
“I’m relaxed.” His jaw clenched even more.
“Do you truly believe that?”
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