by B. J. Harvey
I lean against the room’s corner bar. Catching my reflection in the mirror behind the top shelf, I square my shoulders, standing up tall as I try my best to look foreboding and unapproachable. The event may be in my honor, but I’m not ignorant to its true purpose—to raise funds from the college alumni on the back of my latest feat. The great Callum Alexander success story is the gift that keeps on giving, it seems.
Cradling my glass of Glenlivet, I peruse the room with unabashed indifference. I don’t care whether I’m here or not. To be honest, I’d rather be in my own secluded sanctuary, sitting back in my black leather chair looking out towards the bay. Instead, I’m wearing a tailored black Tom Ford tuxedo in a room full of fellow chameleons making incessant small talk about inconsequential matters.
Everything I do—the way I act, the car I arrived in, even the label on the suit I wear—all matter. I fit the mold when I’m like this. In this setting, my own chameleon costume is in its element, making small talk with university staff, professors keen to discuss their latest batch of students, star-struck students hoping to get even a toe in the door, and even benefactors hoping to pull me into the ‘old boys club.’ Everyone has an agenda; everyone wants a small piece of me. That’s why I’m more reserved at functions like this. I sit back, I watch, and I rarely engage with others unless they approach me.
There are many layers to my disguise, my public persona. Very few people get an insight into the real Callum Alexander—my family and a few very close friends, but that’s all. Everyone else gets this Callum, the well-respected, well-regarded, successful man living the American dream. Sacrificing a lot and remaining in control at all times is something that I’ve had to do, but that may have something to do with my desired predilections more than anything else.
I shake my head as my thoughts go down an entirely inappropriate track for an event such as this, adjusting my pants discreetly as I down the rest of my drink. I set my glass on the bar and signal to the barman to prepare another. When it arrives, I head toward the front of the large hotel ballroom, trying not to think the dark thoughts that are starting to blur the edges of my seemingly bright life.
As I walk through the crowd of mingling people with a narrowed brow, my lips are drawn into a thin line as I search the room for a familiar face but come up empty. The looks I get in return tell me my body language is obviously not its normal welcoming self. It’s somewhat understandable; my mind is elsewhere. I’m too busy considering why I bother with the wolf-in-sheep’sclothing facade.
I’ve worked hard and foregone a lot to get where I am today and have continued to do so in order to maintain it. To lose it all now would be unfathomable.
A man that could easily have been a mirror image of myself ten years ago steps into my path with his hand out. “Mr. Alexander?”
I take a moment to study him. He’s just short of my six-foot two-inches, with broad, confident shoulders and tailored suit that’s no doubt equally as expensive as mine, a sign that he definitely come from money. His almost black hair is slicked to the side and back off his face, adding character to his fresh, bright-eyed and hopeful expression as he looks at me.
“I’m such a big fan of your work,” he says. My chest tightens at his adulation.
I return his hand shake. His grip is strong, firm, but not threatening. There is no semblance of ego in this exchange. “I’m in my third year and we’ve been studying your designs this semester ahead of tonight’s event,” he continues.
My eyes widen at his revelation. Studying my work? I’m only thirty-four. When I was a student, we studied the greats. Not a fly-by-the-seat-of-his-pants modern designer lucky enough to have overextended his abilities and caught a big break—twice.
“Thank you. I hope you haven’t been studying my work too closely. You might find something to improve on,” I add with a wink. Now it’s his turn to be shocked.
“No chance of that happening, Mr. Alexander. Your concept for Spera House in Boston was genius. Inspired. The way you contrasted the stark lines of modern concrete with the curves of the building’s historical neighbors was amazing.”
Well, the young man certainly studies well. “The location motivated me. What can I say?” I smile at him.
“I’d love to discuss the possibility of an internship at your firm, Mr. Alexander. It would be an honor and a privilege to learn and work under you.” The man has done his homework. The internship has only just been formally announced a week ago.
I nod and note his clenched fists by his side as I reach into my jackets inside pocket and pull out my business card. It’s a crisp cream thick stock with silver script printed, saying Alexander Richardson.
This is me on autopilot—smile, converse, and hand over the business card with instructions to contact my assistant. It’s straightforward, direct, and leaves little room for confusion. For a man like me, it’s the perfect networking strategy.
I hand the card over to him, and he grips it tight in his fingers and looks at it, running his thumb over the print before staring back at me.
“Give my secretary Annie a call tomorrow, and she’ll run through the application process with you.”
His shoulders square up and it’s obvious that the opportunity to work with me is something he would value highly. “Remember to tell her you met me last night and to schedule an interview for you with me straight away.”
The young man opens his mouth and then closes it again before nodding once and pocketing the business card. “Wow, that would be such an amazing opportunity. Thank you, Mr. Alexander.”
I reach out to shake his hand again. “Thank you for admiring my work. Us creative types love appreciation as you well know, Mr. . . .”
“Gregory Graves.” Shaking my hand quickly again, he pulls back and again draws a fist against his leg.
“Mr. Graves, nice to meet you. I’ll be seeing you soon.”
“Have a good evening,” he says quickly before walking back into the crowd and out of sight. I have to give it to him, to approach me so assuredly and ask straight out about the internship says a lot about his ambition and drive. Normally the selection of applicants for our intern program are far from ideal. Gregory Graves might just lift the standard of this year’s options.
I continue to walk through the middle of the room, I scoff to myself as I take in the large soirée for something that seems so trivial, but these events are never what they seem. The ticket prices are inflated and the propaganda surrounding the walls of the room tells the real truth of tonight’s get together; put me front of stage like the prized pony they’re all so proud of and in the process, raise funds for a new business center.
“Callum!”
I turn my head to see my best friend and business partner, Grant, walking towards me. The tension that had been building for the past hour starts to dissipate and I breathe a sigh of relief knowing that there’s at least one person I can be myself with tonight.
I can’t help but laugh at him. He’s only just arrived and already he’s trying to adjust his bowtie. Grant Richardson, my best friend since high school, the only person in my inner circle, and another one who doesn’t like the pretense that this event signifies, is not a fan of tuxedos. Actually, he’s not a fan of anything restricting, marriage included. He looks around the room and huffs out a big gust of air from his mouth.
“Damn, this is the real deal tonight, isn’t it? Callum Alexander returning to Mecca.”
I bump his shoulder with mine. “Fuck off, Richardson. You think I want to be displayed like a work of art?” My light tone matches the ridiculousness of his statement.
He raises an eyebrow at me, his face full of disbelief. “Really? They’re proud as hell of you, Cal. It just so happens to also coincide with their need to raise a shitload of cash. Fluke?” His smile is full of mirth.
I chuckle. “You know as well as I do that it’s not. It makes good business sense, even if they are using me as the big draw card.”
He nods in agreement.<
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Looking up at the large clock on the wall I realize it’s only eight p.m. and I’ve still got another two hours of this crap to put up with before I can make my escape. Lifting my glass to my mouth again. The warm swill of whiskey goes some way towards making the night slightly better
“Anyone good to look at?” Grant knocks me out of my thoughts, steering my mind toward the fairer sex.
He moves to my side to scan the room’s guests and I join him, looking around absentmindedly.
“Not that I can see, but the night is still young. You never know your luck in this fine city at night.” I laugh.
“A man can only hope,” Grant retorts.
“Looking for another trophy wife, Grant? Didn’t you learn anything from Olivia?” I ask.
Olivia is Grant’s ex-wife, a second runner-up Miss Montana with old money and a killer rack that captured his attention before she’d even opened her mouth. Cue a whirlwind courtship and a quickie Vegas wedding, and Grant was off the market. Or so we’d all thought. He’d soon realized that good looks and a well-known family name didn’t mean she was intelligent or could offer him anything more than great arm candy. The moment Grant realized that he wanted more, his young trophy wife was out the door.
Suddenly he signals the attention of a waitress walking past with a tray full of champagne flutes. “Excuse me,” Grant says as he swipes two glasses off the tray as soon as she offers it to him.
“Thank you,” I murmur under my breath, not looking her way. When I feel eyes on me, I turn and see the waitress hasn’t moved on. She’s standing beside us, openly staring.
I turn my body towards her. “Sorry, did you need something?”
“You’re Callum Alexander, right?”
I roll my eyes and exhale noisily before slipping my professional welcome mask back on and flashing her my most winning smile. “That’s me, and you are?”
“Lucia. Lucia Harding, but I prefer Luce.” She balances the laden tray onto her palm and holds out her other hand to me, her gaze never wavering as she introduces herself. Green eyes with a slight speckling of amber take me in as she waits for my next move. What surprises me more than anything is the way she’s seemingly unapologetic as she stands there and studies me. It takes Grant to clear his throat before I realize that I’ve been staring right back at her. Putting my hand in hers, my smile morphs into something more genuine, almost real. Something that hasn’t happened in a long time.
“Luce . . .” I keep my hand in hers and tilt my head to my right where Grant is standing. “This is my rude friend, Grant Richardson, my partner-in-crime and right-hand man.”
Her cheeks blush a light-red hue, and I can’t help but wonder what on earth she’s thinking about. Then my own mind wanders to what else could make her blush, what I could do to her to elicit such a response. A gentle squeeze of my hand snaps me out of my errant thoughts, and I realize I’m still holding her hand, but she’s not pulling hers away, either.
A strange, yet captivating moment.
I study her face. It’s as if my subconscious feels the need to commit her to memory. Her skin is like warm porcelain. A scattering of freckles adorn the bridge of her nose and cheeks, giving a hint of character that only serves to draw you in further. She’s impossible to ignore. There’s a glint in her enchanting eyes, hinting at a depth you want to dive in and explore.
She may have the appearance of an ordinary college student roped in to work the event, but one look at her and you know that she is so much more than that. And fuck me if I don’t want to find out exactly what that is.
What has me perplexed is why a simple introduction, a simple handshake, can have me overthinking the interaction.
Like it actually means anything to me.
She’s just another woman. I could probably click my fingers and have her in my bed, naked and begging for more within the hour if I wanted to. Then again, there’s something about her, something I can tell just from looking at her that tells me she could be different from any other woman in this room. A diamond in the rough.
I find myself leaning forward into her space, watching my thumb as it brushes over the top of her knuckles as I get closer. Her breathing quickens, and her hand becomes clammy inside of my own. I blink twice as I lift my gaze from our hands into her widened eyes.
What the hell just happened there?
I pull my hand back and step back toward Grant, nodding once in the young woman’s direction to silently dismiss her before ensconcing myself in the conversation Grant is having with one of the college professors beside me. Yes, it’s an asshole move. One that I’m not proud of. Nevertheless it’s what I had to do.
There is nothing about me that could cater for a woman like her: young and undoubtedly innocent, deserving of flowers, big gestures and declarations of never-ending adoration. What I can offer is nothing more than a short physical liaison that would be mutually satisfying but emotionally dormant.
What I truly want is far more extreme, and in no way sentimental. Something that would have her running for the hills.
A minute later, I look back toward her only to be met with her retreating back as she walks away. The subtle swing of her hips is a telling sign that she knows I’m watching.
A jolt of lust shoots through me as I rake my eyes over the curve of her waist, rounding her hips and fixating on her ass. Having dismissed the idea of pursuing her further, I suddenly want a do-over. I want my charming, panty-dropping mask to slip into place so I can try talking her into something she’s probably not equipped to deal with. But the selfish man inside of me would take whatever I could get from her.
I’ve felt lust before. I’ve also succumbed to it. It’s what leads me into my dark thoughts, the idealistic fantasy to truly let go.
For someone like me, lust can be a dangerous emotion. Lust leads to want. Want leads to need. A need that leads to the undeniable struggle inside of me to resist what I truly desire.
What I truly crave.
About the Author
BJ Harvey is the International Bestselling Author of the Bliss Series. She writes contemporary romance, romantic comedy, and romantic suspense.
An avid music fan, you will always find her with headphones on while writing, and the speakers blaring the rest of the time. She’s a wife, a mom to two beautiful girls, and when she’s not writing – she’s reading.
BJ resides with her family in what she considers the best country in the world—New Zealand.
She describes her writing as a little swoon, a lot of heat, a bit of drama and a whole lot of love.
Author Links
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/bjharveyauthor
Twitter: @bjharveyauthor
Instagram: bjharvs
Tumblr: http://bjharveyauthor.tumblr.com/
Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/6886702.B_J_Harvey
Sign up for her mailing list here: http://eepurl.com/MfpyP
Books by B.J. Harvey
Bliss Series
Temporary Bliss (Bliss #1)
True Bliss (Bliss #2)
Blissful Surrender (Bliss #3)
Permanent Bliss (Bliss #4)
Stranded (Christmas novella with a Bliss Series connection)
Romantic Suspense
Lost in Distraction (Lost #1)
Lost For You (Lost #2)
Lost Without You (Lost #3)
Coming Soon . . .
Crave
Table of Contents
Temporary Bliss
True Bliss
Blissful Surrender
Permanent Bliss
Finding Bliss
About the Author
Author Contact Links
Books by B.J. Harvey
Coming Soon … Crave
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