Passionate Kisses Read online

  Mortified to my core, I nod, and on less-than-sure legs, head for my seat, right behind Mr. Carrey.

  Through the morning session I remain busy, taking instruction from my boss, fetching documents, accessing information on my laptop. Because of Mr. Carrey's lack of computer expertise, I facilitate his communications with everyone in the firm. A two-edged sword, that. Although I possess intimate knowledge of every facet of the negotiations, it keeps me at his beck and call.

  I stop my gaze from straying in Gabriel Storm's direction. When he speaks, I focus on my laptop, the back of my boss's head, anywhere but the fascinating eyes of Storm Industries' COO. But when he speaks, I can't ignore his brilliant mind. His erudite discussion of the most complex financial matters fascinates me. An argument could be made that his degrees from Oxford and the University of Pennsylvania’s Wharton School of Business have something to do with his acumen and inspired tactics, but rumor has it he's inherited his business savvy from an ancestor—an American nineteenth-century oil baron.

  At the mid-morning break, most of the negotiators make a beeline for the restrooms.

  But Gabriel Storm remains.

  While I call the facilities team to let them know the room is temporarily vacant so they can clear the detritus from the meeting—dirty cups, plates and trash—I notice his fiddling with the coffee machine. Since it's my job to make our guest feel at home, I approach him and demonstrate how the single-serve brewer works.

  "Thank you. Elizabeth." Eyes narrowed, he peers at me over the coffee mug's rim.

  His power, his intense masculinity, hit me like a semi, sucking the air out of my lungs. He doesn't help matters when he steps closer, forcing me to look up at him. My five seven is no match against his six three.

  "You're welcome." I rasp out in a breathy murmur.

  He takes a couple of sips before resting the cup on the counter, his gaze riveted on me.

  Eager to break the spell he weaves so easily around me, I spout, "I don't know how you can drink that black. Too strong for me."

  "I like the taste of potent things in my mouth—coffee, brandy, a woman’s honey.”

  A woman's honey? My pussy clenches and I flush with heat. What would his mouth feel like? Licking, tasting, ravishing me. I shake my head. I’ll never know, will I?

  As the cleaning crew drifts into the opposite side of the room, I emerge from my lust-induced reverie. I need to walk away. Now. Before I do something really stupid. I manage only half a step, before his hand circles my wrist and reels me back to him.

  An urgent heat flares in his eyes. "Are you attached, Elizabeth?" he asks in a gravelly voice, barely loud enough for me to hear.

  My legs turn to rubber. My breath hitches. "Attached?"

  His thumb scrapes the inside of my wrist, setting off a wild pulse within. "Do you have a partner, a significant other, a boyfriend?"

  "No." I blurt out before I can think about the appropriateness of his question. Or my response.

  "Good." The hold on my wrist relaxes. It’s only then I realize how tense he’d been. As if my answer mattered to him. "Are you free tonight?"

  What the—? Yeah, we shared a moment in the elevator and when I entered the conference room. But he’s on the opposing side of a half billion dollar deal. I can’t go out with him.

  Not wishing to appear rude, though, I sidestep the question. "Chances are I'll be working late."

  "Surely Carrey won't keep you. He'll want you to be fresh tomorrow morning for the negotiations. Meet me for drinks at my hotel. I'm staying at the Four Seasons. Around seven?"

  I try to say something. But stunned by the turn of events, I can’t.

  He palms a card from his jacket. "My mobile number. Call me when you leave the office so I know when to expect you." He strokes the card against my cheek.

  His touch sets off something within, a trembling I can’t control.

  As he slips the card into my hand, his eyes turn the color of a savage storm. "You're very responsive, Elizabeth. I like that." And with that he strolls away, all liquid movement and languid grace.

  What the hell just happened? I didn’t say yes.

  You didn't say no. Elizabeth. His panty-melting voice whispers inside my head.

  The negotiators file back into the room, and I look down, hoping to hide my state of unrest. That’s when I spot my loose sandal clasp. The darn thing’s about to break. No wonder I wobbled.

  I access the stairwell, yank off my shoes and dash down to my secretarial station to grab an emergency pair of black pumps I scuffed during a run-in with an escalator. They’ll have to do. Upon my return to the meeting, Mr. Carrey waves two fingers at me. Pinning a rigid smile on my face, I walk toward him, hoping he hasn't noticed my change in footwear. The man is a stickler for spotless business attire.

  But he merely hands over a yellow legal pad and asks me to type his notes over lunch. Clutching it like a life preserver, I leave the room as calmly as my unsure knees allow, resolutely refusing to glance in Gabriel Storm's direction.

  Chapter 3

  A COURT FILING, which Mr. Carrey trusts me to see through, keeps me chained to my desk and out of the conference room for the afternoon. By the time the papers are duly docketed with the court, I've talked myself out of going out with Mr. Sex-on-a-Stick. I don’t need any complications in my life. Not as busy as I am. Knowing Mr. Carrey, I’ll probably be working late. And the most important reason of all, he’s on the opposite side of a business deal. If I’m caught with him, I can kiss my career goodbye.

  Around 5:30 I spot my boss strolling down the hallway, flashing his 1000-watt smile and giving the thumbs up to a couple of partners standing outside an office.

  "Went well?" one of them asks.

  "Yes. Both sides are eager to complete the deal and Storm Industries has the assets to make it happen," Mr. Carrey says.

  "Another win, then." The partner pats him on the back.

  "Well, it's early days, but I'm hopeful." He never fails to play up to a crowd, and a crowd it has become as more partners emerge from their offices to join the celebration.

  When he walks toward me, he proves true to form and passes me another pad full of cryptic writing. "Type this."

  "Yes, sir."

  The party moves into his office. Soon, glasses clink and loud exhortations of victory abound. Clearly, they've broken out the booze from my boss's liquor cabinet. Preliminary celebration, if they ask me. This early in the negotiating process, anything can happen. Half an hour later, things quiet as lawyers wander off, probably back to their offices to try and top Mr. Carrey's accomplishments of the day.

  At 6:15, he emerges from his office, a document in his hand. "I'll need you to analyze Storm Industries' proposal. No more than ten pages. Can you do that tonight?"

  Not the first time he’s asked me to evaluate financial data. I graduated summa cum laude in Economics, after all. The document, which contains tables and pie charts, will take me a couple of hours to read and at least another two to analyze. I groan inwardly. After working practically around the clock for the last two weeks, my only goal for tonight had been to veg out in front of the TV with a quart of Ben & Jerry’s Chocolate Fudge Brownie. But that is out of the question now. I can't say no. Not if I want a future with Smith Cannon. I pin on my brightest smile. "Be glad to, Mr. Carrey."

  "Have it on my desk by 8:30 tomorrow." He raps on the ledge, his way of saying goodnight, and strolls away, leaving silence behind.

  I try to stuff the report into my tote, but with my notebook on one side, and my life’s necessities in the other, there’s no room. None too gently, I jam the document into my duffel bag and return to typing his notes. While I work, I pop peppermints into my mouth, the only sustenance to be found on my desk, hoping they’ll hold me until dinnertime. When I'm done, I print out the double-spaced pages, and place them on the center of his desk, duly stapled in the right hand corner the way he likes.

  As I'm signing off from my computer, my phone rings. Caller
ID flashes an unknown number with no name. I'm sorely tempted to let it roll into voice mail, but like an idiot I answer. Could be a client after all.

  "Hello, Elizabeth." Gabriel Storm.

  I don't need to ask how he has my number. We emailed our contact information to the Storm Industries' negotiating team. How did I forget to text him we couldn’t meet? Too much on my mind, that's how.

  "Should I send my car for you?" I shiver at the sound of his hot and sultry voice.

  "No, I"—I'm too damned tired for this—"would you mind if I decline your very generous offer?"

  "Why?" Surprise tinges his voice. Surprise and puzzlement. I imagine not many women turn him down.

  "I'm exhausted, Mr. Storm. All I want is to go home and relax."

  “Please call me Gabriel. We can do that if you wish."

  "No. I didn't mean . . ." Damn! I can't invite him to my house. I would need to spend a day cleaning it, making it spit spot. "That's not going to work."

  "What will work?"

  I sigh. The man has not become a billionaire by taking no for an answer. Fine. As long as I’m wishing, I may as well shoot for the moon. "A warm bath, a massage, and a steak dinner. Not necessarily in that order."

  "Done."

  "What?!! No, I didn't mean for you . . . I need to go home. I want to go home. Do you understand? It's lovely of you to offer but this isn't going to work."

  "Why not?"

  "Because you're you and I'm me, that's why."

  "Well, there's an argument I can't refute." I can just see his luscious smile.

  "It was lovely, really lovely of you to ask, but I'm going home. I’m sorry. I have to go now. Good night." And with that, I hang up.

  I stare at the phone, half expecting it to ring again. When it doesn't, I fling my purse and exercise bag over my shoulder and stomp toward the stairwell. On my way down, I enumerate the many reasons why Gabriel Storm and I won’t work.

  He's a gazillionaire. I barely make expenses every month. He owns mansions all over the world; I co-rent a townhouse in Alexandria with my best friend. Women fall all over themselves to go out with him. I haven't had a date since forever. Granted, by my choice. If all that is not enough, Storm’s on the opposing side of a very big deal. If Mr. Carrey found out I went out for drinks with him, he'd go nuclear.

  How very sad my life has become. All I do is work, study and attend law school.

  Upon reaching the ground level, I bid goodnight to the security guard before schlepping out the door. So engrossed am I in my pity party, I almost miss the Lincoln parked in front of my building. But I don't miss what comes next. Gabriel Storm, pouring out of the limo in one smooth slide, champagne flute in hand.

  For a couple of seconds I stand motionless on the sidewalk, taking him in. He's changed into another suit, a black one this time. The jacket caresses his broad shoulders; the trousers hint at his powerful legs. A slight breeze ruffles his hair, tossing that one rebellious strand over his brow. Hard to believe, but he’s even more gorgeous than the photos Hello! magazine splashes across its pages of him escorting one woman or another, each one more gorgeous than the next.

  But then anger sets in. How dare he show up when I declined his invitation? What if somebody sees him? Sees me? Fuming, I stomp toward him. Conscious of passersby, I lower my voice, so only he can hear me. "What are you doing here?"

  "Making good on my invitation." He raises the champagne glass.

  "This"—I wave my hand at him, at me, at the limo—"can't happen." I grit out.

  Ignoring my anger, he trails a finger down my bare arm, setting off a wild pulse beneath my skin. His gaze narrows into a sleepy-eyed look, and just like that, my panties grow wet.

  "Get in, Elizabeth. We can discuss your objections in the car."

  Nope. Not happening. Just as I turn away, the heavy gym bag slides off my shoulder.

  He catches it before it hits the ground.

  “Give it to me.” I demand, sticking my palm out.

  He’s all ease as he holds the bag in one of those big masculine hands of his. “Elizabeth, be sensible. The bag is heavy and it’s about to rain. I'll take you anywhere you wish. Now, please, get in."

  Much as I hate to agree with him, he’s right about the weather. The hot, sultry day has turned cloudy; a storm threatens on the horizon. I’ll be lucky to reach home before it rains. Besides, we've already caused a commotion of sorts. Pedestrians stare as they pass by, no doubt curious about our exchange. Although we've kept our voices low, they’ve probably caught on to my body language. Even more alarming, somebody from my firm could emerge from the building at any second. “Fine.”

  The left side of his mouth kicks up. "I'll have Samuel store your luggage in the boot."

  I look at him, confused. "Samuel?" Who is he talking about?

  A large, African-American man rounds the end of the limo. He’s sporting a Panama hat, and a damned fine summer suit.

  Where has he been hiding? Have I been so dazzled by Gabriel Storm I failed to notice him?

  "Elizabeth, meet Samuel.” Nodding toward the man, Storm hands him my gym bag.

  “Nice to meet you, Samuel.”

  “Likewise, Ms. Watson.” He shakes my offered hand, dwarfing mine with his. Going by his clothes and his professionalism, he doesn’t strike me as a run-of-the-mill limo driver. Could he be something more?

  Once the duffel’s stashed in the trunk, Storm guides me into the limo and crawls in after me. The back seat of the Lincoln contains enough room to sit a polite distance apart, so I scoot over to make sure we don't touch.

  Although Storm arches a brow, he doesn't question my maneuver. Instead, he focuses on my destination. "If you'll provide Samuel with your address, he'll drive you there."

  Not likely. I'm not about to let Storm know where I live. "Can you drop me off at the King Street Metro, please, Samuel? My home is a brief walk from there."

  From the driver's seat, Samuel darts a quick glance toward Storm. Only when he nods does Samuel say, "Sure thing." His accent is a strange mixture of the American South and a touch of Brit which makes me wonder further about his connection to Storm.

  Samuel eases us into the early evening 17th Street traffic. Although it’s past rush hour, enough cars clog the road to slow our progress. The ride will take half an hour, maybe longer.

  Storm slips the champagne glass he’s holding into my hand. "Drink, it will make you feel better."

  I scowl but drain the alcohol in one long gulp. After the day I've had, I need it.

  He takes the empty flute and secures it in a receptacle seemingly tailor-made for it, before pressing a button on the door's arm rest. The partition between the front and back of the vehicle rolls up, isolating us. "Samuel can't see or hear us. Now talk."

  Get in the car. Drink. Talk. The man loves to issue commands. "If anyone from my firm sees us, I could lose my job. We can’t be seen together. Not outside the office." If word got back to the Smith Cannon management that I climbed into a limo with Gabriel Storm, not only would they fire me but my entire future would be in jeopardy. Oh, they would come up with a valid reason for terminating my employment, but the result would be the same. My keister would be out on the sidewalk. And once it got around that Smith Cannon let me go, I would have a difficult time obtaining an associate position in any Washington, D.C. law firm that practiced high stakes corporate law. In a business deal, one simply does not fraternize with a member of the opposing side.

  "Nobody from Smith Cannon saw us."

  "How do you know?" I huff out.

  "Because no one exited your building while you harped at me.”

  Harped at him? "I did not—" I sputter.

  “Calm down." He touches my arm.

  How very condescending of him. But then he’s probably never dealt with someone who depends on her paycheck for a living. “In case you failed to notice, the building has windows. Anyone could have seen us." A note of hysteria creeps into my voice.

  "Relax. Everyth
ing will be fine." He reaches over, tucks an errant curl behind my ear.

  “Stop touching me.” I glance out the window. We’ve reached my favorite D.C. monument, the one where Thomas Jefferson stands guard over the Tidal Basin. Another twenty minutes before we reach King Street Metro. I burrow into the corner of the back seat and prop my purse between him and me, hoping he gets the ‘Keep Out’ sign.

  Moving closer, he curls an arm on the seat above me. “What are you so afraid of?”

  “Haven’t you been listening? That I’ll lose my job.”

  He states the obvious. “Nobody here but you and me.” His eyes scrunch as he scrutinizes me. “No, I don’t think that’s what you fear. Or at least not what you fear the most.”

  I cross my arms against my chest. “Oh, really? What do I fear the most then?”

  His hand, that large hand which fascinated me in the conference room, circles my jaw. His thumb brushes across my lips. Shivering, I fight the urge to suck him into my mouth. Taste him.

  “You’re drawn to me.”

  “So what?” I shrug. “You’re an attractive man. It’d be strange if you didn’t affect me in some way.”

  “But you see. Elizabeth. You’re trembling. So that tells me I’m more than a casual attraction to you.”

  “If I’m shaking, it’s with anger, not desire.” I snap back.

  He tilts his head back; his nostrils flare. Is he seeking answers from some divinity? A second later, he fixes that narrowed gaze on me again. “No. You’re lying to me, to yourself.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I can smell your body musk.”

  Oh, geez. Nothing like cutting to the chase. “You’re wrong.”

  “Prove it then. Prove that you’re only mildly attracted.”

  “And how do I do that?” I snarl at him.

  “Kiss me. If you’re not into me, you’ll be able to stop after one kiss.”

  I drop my head into my hands, let out a mirthless laugh.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “You. You’re so fucking arrogant. God.” Glancing up, I drill him with my best glare. “You’ve probably never had to work for it. Have you? Women must drop into your lap without you barely having to raise a pinkie. And here you are at a business meeting, we make a connection on the elevator, and you think easy lay, right? Right?”