by Kimber Chin
She fit against him the way she knew she would, perfectly, nestled in as though he was made for her. “Cara.” It was a groan and he tilted her face up.
Richard Thompson was going to kiss her. A man she only met today. A little over an hour ago. She should resist. Say no. Anything. Her eyelids lowered. No, not that. That wasn't helping.
He pressed his lips against her chin, his hot breath puffing on her cheek. When his tongue darted out to sample her skin, Cara trembled.
Then his mouth was gone. Cara opened her eyes to find him studying her, his eyes black. She should feel relieved. Instead, she felt cheated. He tasted her. She wanted to taste him.
Her lips parted and that was all the encouragement Richard needed. He swooped down, she rose up to meet him as best she could, her back arching, mindlessly pushing her hips out.
Too low. She was too short. Easily rectified. As his tongue explored her mouth, Richard scooped her up, lifting her onto the edge of the sink, her yoga pant-wearing butt hanging over the basin. Her knees parted to let him closer and yes, that was it, just right.
His mouth was a tantalizing mix of molten chocolate and hops. He loosened her seen-better-days scrunchie, combing his fingers through her tangles. Her outside reflected her inside; she was coming apart, literally, shattering into tiny pieces.
But not soon enough. Not before he broke the kiss, breathing heavy; his forehead resting against hers.
"There.” Richard's voice was edged with pure male satisfaction, with her, a woman well kissed. Cara was that, her lips plumped with passion. “Who says I'm not handy?"
Who, indeed?
* * * *
He was going to kiss her again. Tomorrow night. Kiss her and touch her. Make her moan a bit. He liked that sound coming from the back of her throat.
But no agreeing to the auction. And no buying a house.
Richard rolled down the taxi window, letting the cool night air wash over him, the driver anxiously watching him in the mirror. The man probably thought he was going to be sick.
A possibility. He ate a few too many cupcakes, resulting in a viscous sugar high and an upset stomach. Kissing Cara didn't help, either. So very sweet.
She was a saleswoman, he had to remember that. She'd want him to do the auction thing. That wasn't going to happen. No way. No how. The press would use that as an excuse to pry into his personal affairs.
Not that he had much to hide, not recently. His life was exceedingly boring: work, eat, sleep, work, eat, sleep, but he didn't want the name of every girl he ever dated in the distant past trotted through the papers, or heaven forbid, details of his sex life, what little there was of it.
He had also done a few things in college, things he'd prefer his family, his mother—a shudder ran down his spine—his mother's friends, not know about. The streaking incident alone would give his mother a coronary. He had been very, very drunk and didn't remember much, but his buddies said it was one for the fraternity history books. Then there was that bachelor party in Vegas. And Brenda who had been married, he found out afterwards. Her poor husband. If that ever...
No, no press time for him. Cara would probably be disappointed, but only for the charity. He could make a big, fat donation and all would be forgiven.
As the cab pulled up outside his apartment building, Richard grimaced at the unsavory sorts leaning against the high wrought iron fence, drinking out of brown paper bags and smoking hand-rolled cigarettes.
Was Shirley right about his place? Richard tossed some bills forward, clutching the tins of cupcakes to his chest as he exited. It wasn't in the best neighborhood.
The people...
He nodded to his personal thug, T-Bone, as he entered the building. The man was on the Thompson payroll, keeping the press away and his car in one piece when it was operational.
The people, the best he could say about them was that they were real.
Real scary. A one-eyed man pushed past, a scar running from forehead to chin. Richard couldn't picture Cara visiting him here. No way. He'd tell her as much.
Though how could he tell her not to visit? Any woman would be suspicious at that news, like he was hiding a wife and kids. Or some other dirty little secret he was too tired to think of right now. Cara would want to visit and he couldn't really stop her.
Lord. Richard sighed as he stepped over some sprawled out kid waiting outside another apartment door. He'd slip some extra bills and a description of Cara to T-Bone in case she didn't listen.
He'd also think about his living arrangements. Especially if he wanted Cara to stick around, which, by the way she was kissing tonight, was a distinct possibility.
No agreeing to the auction. That was a definite no. The new house? He'd consider it.
[Back to Table of Contents]
Step Three
Problem Identification: Clearly identifying a prospect's exact problem or need. Until the prospect's problem has been uncovered, a solution cannot be presented.
This date was supposed to be perfect. A nice dinner, a walk in the park, then back to her place. There she'd be, surprised by the daisies he had had delivered. According to Shirley, Cara's favorite flower. She'd want to show her appreciation.
Yeah, Richard had the evening all planned. In his mind.
The reality was much different.
Being nervous, by mid-afternoon he had spilled coffee all over his best blue shirt, worn to match Cara's eyes. Not sexy. So he sent a grumbling Shirley out to get a replacement. Only she didn't pick up one from a rack but grabbed one folded in those compact packs.
Richard would have wet down the crisp folds that signaled to the world he was wearing a new shirt if he had had a second to himself. But no, Duncan, the contractor, decided that now was the only time to talk about the infrastructure for the new project. The intense young man nodded when Richard suggested tomorrow was better but kept on talking. And talking. And talking. He didn't even pause when Richard told himself screw it, he was going to be late, and changed his shirt in front of him.
He left Duncan talking to his back and passed Shirley, muttering something about his hair. He didn't have time to heed her warning, how bad could it be? But when he caught his reflection in the glass of the revolving door, he realized that was a mistake. His never neat do looked like he had stuck his finger in a light socket. Nothing he could do at that point but pretend he liked it sticking straight up.
Of course, he couldn't catch a break with the press, either. Since that Venture offer, every freelance newsman in the country followed him around. The quarter of a million bucks was too large to ignore.
They were waiting for him outside the office as he made the mad dash into Cara's waiting car. Lucky for him, she drove the only Volvo out front or some unwitting driver would have had a surprise guest.
Richard now looked toward the restaurant door. He seemed to have lost them, for the moment. It was only a matter of time. They'd hunt him down, and he'd lose his temper, cause a scene, and Cara would never see him again. He'd end up alone and locked in an apartment he no longer liked that much. His lips twisted. Life wasn't fair.
"I have it on vibrate,” Cara mentioned, yet again.
"That's fine.” Her cute, little, coral pink phone was on the table. The model he had advised she buy, via Shirley, their interface. The phone was feminine and dainty like Cara, in her blush pink skirt suit and bubblegum lips.
Holy hell, he swept a hand through his hair, hoping to calm it down, how could he impress a woman like that?
"No one should call."
"Fine.” Why would he care if they did? It was the nature of her job to receive constant calls. It was in her nature. If Richard couldn't accept that, he shouldn't be dating Cara Jones. Damn it.
"You don't like the restaurant.” She squirmed in her seat. “We could go to the one across the street."
"The restaurant is fine too.” The one across the street was fancier than this dive, but the food wasn't as good, she earlier explained. Mei, the dark-haired
waitress, bumped his chair as she poured his tea. Cara smiled at her and tapped a couple fingers on the table as a thank-you. So sophisticated.
A middle-aged Chinese man with crazy hair rivaling Richard's own shuffled up to their table, studying both of them intently. Richard glanced away, willing him to walk on by.
He didn't. He stopped in front of them. Oh, here it goes. Richard's shoulders tightened.
"Cawa Jones,” he chirped and Richard relaxed. For her, again.
With an apologetic glance at him, Cara rose, smiling. “Mr. Leung, so nice to meet you.” Handshakes were exchanged. “This is...” No, don't say it, Richard silently pleaded. “Richard, he's in computers."
In computers? It made him sound like he was completing rebuilds in his mother's basement. Richard got to his feet. “Mr. Leung.” Both of them bowed their heads slightly.
Then he was forgotten as the older man asked if there was any financing specifically for newcomers. A unique experience for Richard before tonight, before Cara.
He liked it. It was like having a social life without all the small talk heavy lifting. Included, but not expected to contribute. No one looking at him. No one asking him personal questions. If Richard wasn't so concerned about impressing Cara, he'd be enjoying himself.
But he wasn't because she wasn't. Damn it, he was making a mess of the evening. Cara darted an anxious look Richard's way as she gave Mr. Leung her card, asking him to call her. The blunt-speaking man was more persistent than Richard's super keen contractor, and she ended up promising to speak to the entire family, including at least two dozen aunties and uncles.
A chore, but he wouldn't know it to look at Cara. She was gracious and warm, no hint of resentment on her beautiful face.
"I'm sorry about that.” She primly placed the cloth napkin back on her lap. “Mr. Leung is a dear man."
"Like Mr. Chow.” The aptly named owner. Upon arrival, they had been beckoned back to the kitchen for a discussion on whether the chef/owner should lock in his mortgage or not. And the parking lot attendant before with questions about tenant rights. If Richard remembered correctly, he was a dear man, too.
Cara said it like she meant it. Like she knew, without a doubt, that they were all dear men and she was lucky to have spoken with each and every one of them.
Did she feel that same way about him? Was he merely another dear man?
Cara's mouth twisted. “I know a lot of people."
"You do. Is it always like this?” Richard transferred some lemon chicken onto his plate. Was this a regular outing for Cara? That wouldn't be bad, not at all. All the attention on her, not him.
"Pretty much.” She twisted a lock of blonde hair around her finger, an endearing nervous action.
"You don't mind?"
A whisper of a sigh, bringing his attention to those full lips of hers. How long before he could kiss her again? He pulled up his shirt sleeve to check the time. Too early.
"Sometimes I do, like now.” Cara's sad blue eyes were on his watch too. Was he boring her? “But my face is public property, on bus stop billboards, in the newspaper every week. People feel they know me."
"They don't.” They didn't know Billionaire Richard, either. He frowned as a familiar face passed the picture window, yet again, hands shading the glass, peering in.
"Doesn't matter. It comes with the job. I knew how it'd be from the start."
"I didn't.” Richard stabbed a piece of chicken. All he wanted was a normal evening out with Cara. Was that too much to ask?
Blue eyes widened. “You thought you could sell your company for billions and not come to the public's attention?"
Oh, hell. Those damn billions again.
* * * *
No wonder none of her boyfriends lasted very long, Cara silently cursed. She thought she had arranged everything, leaving the saleswoman at home. Wendy was taking her appointments. She had sent both her personal and business lines straight to voicemail. Only her emergency number was active and that was, well, because it was her emergency number.
Didn't matter. Even when she wasn't at work, she was at work, her phone on, her face recognized. They couldn't have a simple meal without being constantly interrupted.
Richard was a private, private man. He didn't say anything, but she could sense his unhappiness, his uneasiness. Glancing at his watch, waiting for the date to be over. Looking at the exit. One wrong word away from bolting out the door.
Cara groaned; many, many wrong words were headed in their direction, snapping photos rather indiscreetly.
"Quick, Richard.” She leaned toward him, ignoring how nice he smelled. “Name one neighborhood you'd never want to live in."
To his credit, he hesitated for only a moment before saying, “Park Hill."
Good answer. She wasn't a fan of that old money part of town, either. Too stuffy.
"Fred.” Again she got up, feeling like a jack-in-the-box, plastering a welcoming smile across her face and held both hands out to the newspaper man. “So nice to see you."
"Cara.” The hard faced reporter stepped back, slightly surprised at the welcome, but then moved forward, giving her a buss on each cheek. “Fancy seeing you here."
"Yes, imagine that,” Richard grumbled, his face as dark as an unlit attic.
"Fred, have you met Richard?” Cara introduced the two men.
"I don't believe I've had the pleasure.” Fred extended a hand and winced as it was taken. “Are you?"
Fred, a nice man in a dreadful business, knew perfectly well who her date was. “Richard Thompson, yes, he is.” She didn't like the way Richard was gritting his teeth. A horrible time with her and now this.
"And you two are?"
He was looking for a story, so she'd give him one. “You know how it is, Fred, always working."
"Yes, someone has to pay the bills.” Those jaded eyes thoughtfully studying Richard told Cara who Fred thought that someone was. As she intended. “Any particular area?” Fred probed.
"What area did you mention, Richard?” Cara flipped the question to him. Fred would get suspicious if she did all the talking.
Brown eyes slanted to her. Cara tilted her head expectantly. Would he play along? “Park Hill.” Resentful, but he would.
Fred whistled under his breath. “Nice part of town. Wasn't aware there was anything available."
"That market doesn't advertise in the paper.” Not normally. “Have you seen inside 217, Fred?” Before the man could respond, she continued, “If you give Bunny a call and mention my name, she'll give you a private viewing, tonight, if you wish. I'm certain readers would be interested in the house."
Bunny would be happy for the publicity. The mansion wasn't moving.
"Cara.” Richard wasn't happy. How could he be? He'd be in the paper tomorrow whether he wanted to or not. That was decided before Fred even reached their table.
Might as well make it the best coverage possible.
"Oh, and Fred, I see you brought your camera with you.” Hard not to notice as it was in his hand. “Would it be possible, that is, could I?” She bit her lower lip. “Impose on you to take a photo of Mr. Thompson and me? For my files?” Her private files.
"Cara.” A louder warning growl in her ear this time, sending shivers down her spine.
"Trust me,” she whispered back. She would take care of him.
Richard blew up a breath, flaring his nostrils, not even moving that gravity defying hair. “Okay."
Cara turned back, pleased. He trusted her. She wouldn't let him down. “As a favor to me, Fred?"
"Of course, Cara.” An official photo. The newsman scrambled to get his gear ready.
She wrapped an arm around Richard, stroking his tense back muscles under his jacket, and striking a pose. The camera clicked and Cara moved nearer to Fred. “Let me see."
Cara kept her expression neutral as she saw the absolutely horrid face Richard made on the screen. Not printable, not at all. “Fred, I look ghastly, could you take another?"
T
hey'd do this all night if they had to. She'd give the press one half decent photo of him. So the rest of the world could see how handsome he was.
Again she wrapped her arm around her pseudo date, but this time, instead of rubbing his back, her hand moved lower.
"Cara,” he squeaked as she grasped a handful of round, tight buttocks.
"Smile."
This time he did. A wonderful photo. Even his mother would be proud. “Thank you, Fred. I do believe that's the first photo of the night.” If she didn't count all those nasty candid's he had been clicking. “'Course, if other photographers find us and ask, we'll have to be as accommodating, you understand? We can't give exclusives."
"No, that wouldn't be right,” Fred agreed, but by the speculation in his eyes, he understood her meaning. He was known to protect his stories. With his help and a little luck, they'd be left alone for the rest of the evening.
This would allow Cara to try to salvage something of the night. To convince Richard she deserved another date, regardless of how horrible this one was.
There was silence at the table until the newsman exited the restaurant, Richard scowling down at his now cold food. Poor man. He clearly hated all this.
All this was part of her life. Would another date with her be any different? Did their relationship have a chance?
"Again, I apologize.” She took the blame, shrugging her shoulders. “Part of going to dinner with me.” And that wouldn't ever change.
His forehead wrinkled and nose scrunched up, making her want to kiss him silly. Oh, dear, he was too adorable. “Fred was looking for me, Cara."
"Was he?” Of course, he was, but Fred wouldn't have found him if Richard hadn't been out with her. “Maybe. Mr. Leung and Mr. Chow were for me, however. You have to give me credit for that."
"I do.” He grinned boyishly, his brown eyes lighting up, making her heart flip. “Maybe we should start keeping score."
Start, that had to mean another date. Cara beamed back at him.
On impulse, she grabbed the hand he rested on the tabletop. Richard flipped his palm over, lining his warm, rough fingers up with hers. “No need to keep score,” she grinned at him. “I'm already beating you two to one."
