The Extravagant Collection, page 36
Others need to be sharp too.
And last night, others were.
A minute later, Daniel sweeps in, looking well-rested and ready to tackle the day in his slacks and crisp linen shirt, a glint in his eye.
Is that a glint that says we have a secret? But we don’t, of course. Knowing what he looks like in lounge pants is hardly worth exchanging flirty glances over.
“Don’t you look like you’re on a honeymoon,” I say, scanning his attire. After I was practically ogling him last night, it’s best if I act like it’s normal to comment on his appearance.
He sits across from me, proffering a sly smile. “It’s my honeymoon, love,” he says as the waitress arrives at our table.
“Congratulations to the newlyweds,” the friendly woman says.
I laugh, rolling my eyes as I spread a napkin across my lap. Daniel lifts his chin, greeting the freckled server. “Thank you so much. We’re having a wonderful honeymoon already.”
“That is fantastic to hear. This hotel is certainly known for that,” she says, like she has a little secret tucked in her back pocket.
“As it should be. I barely made it out of the room,” Daniel adds, playing it up. Such a ham.
The waitress smiles. “I remember what that was like a few years ago with my husband.”
She takes our order, brings Daniel a tea, then I launch right into business. “I want you to know I’ve already done an analysis and activated a plan to replace the chandeliers.”
“Of course you ‘activated a plan,’” he says in that teasing voice. “You probably didn’t even go back to sleep last night, did you?”
“I slept for a bit.”
He wags a finger at me. “I don’t believe you. I bet you were up for hours, running numbers. Admit it. That’s what you did, Scarlett. You are one of those people who can survive on two to three hours a night of shut-eye.”
“That’s not true,” I say as he lifts his cup.
“I bet you can survive on numbers alone. You eat them for breakfast, right? I suspect the waitress is going to bring you a side of equations with your berries. They’ll power you through literally the entire day. All of your strength, all of your intensity comes from your financial reports.”
“I like numbers,” I say, but inside, I’m trying to suppress a grin.
“No. You love numbers.”
I arch a brow. “I believe my insane love of numbers is why you and Cole were so happy to have me invest. Same thing that has allowed us to expand, which is what the two of you wanted when you offered me a share. So there.”
“You have made many things possible, and for that, I’m incredibly grateful,” he says, taking a drink of his tea.
I take another pull of my coffee and set it down. “And also, thank you for what you did last night.”
He waves his right hand in front of his chest. “You mean giving you a wonderful view of all my assets?”
I shake my head. “Making sure the guests in rooms adjacent to chandeliers had other places to stay. I can’t believe that thought slipped my mind. I’m ashamed. But I’m glad that you caught it.”
He puts his cup down, his expression gentle but earnest. “Scarlett, we’re a team. You don’t have to do everything. That’s why we work together.”
“I know, I know. I just, I wish I had thought of it. But you did, so I’m glad.”
“I’m all about making my lovely wife happy,” he says as the waitress returns with our food.
As she sets down Daniel’s egg whites and my cup of berries, she asks if we’ve visited the Helen Williams winery.
“Hmm. I don’t think so,” Daniel says, leaning back in his chair, clearly enjoying the marriage ruse. “Are there lots of dark corners to tug my bride into and smother her with kisses?”
The woman laughs knowingly. “It’s perfect for when you can’t keep your hands off each other. My husband and I were married a few years ago, and we stayed in Aix-en-Provence. We toured the city, went to terrific restaurants, visited fabulous wineries. And we stayed at this fantastic boutique hotel that made you never want to leave. All sorts of dark corners for kissing, and an elevator that played sensual music,” she says, then blinks as if the memory of her honeymoon just flashed before her eyes. “But of course, this place is like that too.”
Sure, but it could be better. Better mirrors, better lighting, better mood music.
And I’m intrigued by her mention of this other place.
Especially since this waitress doesn’t seem to recognize us. Not that we’re rock stars or celebrities. But she isn’t talking to us as if we’re the new owners. She’s talking to us like we are, indeed, the honeymooning guests.
And she’s dropping a tip, as waitresses do.
“Thanks. What was the name of the boutique hotel?” I ask.
She screws up the corner of her lips, deep in thought, then her green eyes twinkle. “Le Pavillon de Aix-en-Provence. But last I heard, it was for sale, so probably not worth checking out. Besides, why would you want to when you could stay here at our sister hotel?”
“Grand. Thanks so much,” Daniel says as the redhead takes off to tend to other customers.
He lifts his fork, holds it midair, and levels me with a knowing gaze.
Three years doing business together, and I do know this man.
His blue eyes are twinkling with dollar signs.
I bet mine are too. I cross my arms, a satisfied grin on my face. “I know what you’re thinking.”
“That’s either scary or incredibly sexy.”
“Daniel,” I chide, though sexy is right because I happen to think untapped potential is wildly arousing.
He leans closer, so close I can smell the pine of his aftershave and the clean ocean breeze of his shampoo. They make a delicious cocktail of manly scents that drift through my nose, that go to my head, that remind me how utterly intoxicated I was at seeing him in the hall last night.
But it’s not only that. It’s the potential we both sense here. Business deals are the antidote to heartbreak. They’ve carried me through some of the toughest years of my life. And nothing, nothing in the whole entire universe, has healed me more than making deals.
His voice is low, hushed. “Are you thinking we should check out that hotel?”
“And that we have time to pop over to Aix-en-Provence before we return to Paris for our meeting with Cole tonight?”
“Precisely.”
“Then, yes. Yes, I am.”
We eat breakfast, grab our bags, and head to the train station, settling into a first-class car. His arm brushes against mine as he takes a seat, and my breath hitches from that random touch.
I do my best to hide my reaction, but when his eyes meet mine, I’m not sure my best is enough.
His are darker, hungrier.
And maybe he hasn’t forgotten that moment last night either.
4
DANIEL
I met Scarlett for the first time three years ago. She was a legend in business, a whiz-bang financial advisor with the Midas touch when it came to investing, and a particular expertise in real estate and hospitality.
Her name was whispered in business circles, spoken with a hushed kind of adoration. With a wish and a fervent hope, you’d be lucky enough to simply score a meeting with her.
Scarlett Slade.
Why, you simply must know the London School of Economics wunderkind.
I picked up the phone, rang her office, and requested a meeting. She made me wait two whole weeks. She was that busy.
I waited patiently. I have stores of patience.
At the time, she worked in London, where I often was, running the business out of my Knightsbridge office.
We met for lunch at a vegan café she’d raved about. It was her favorite, she’d said.
When I arrived, I wasn’t shocked by how stunning she was. If I were shocked, that would have meant I hadn’t done my research, and I research everyone I work with.
I’d seen her photos, knew she had lush chestnut hair, dazzling green eyes, and a grin that seemed to contain multitudes of secrets. Secrets men would get down on their knees to beg to know.
But looks, while obviously nothing to turn my nose up at, have never been my downfall. My true penchant, my favorite thing, the trait that makes me want a woman, is wit.
Rhetoric.
Confidence.
Scarlett Slade has all that. She could bottle that triumvirate and make a mint.
At our lunch meeting, she confessed she’d only made me wait to see her because she’d been in Costa Rica learning how to surf.
“What inspired you to do that? Anything in particular?” I asked.
“A book. The heroine traveled to Central America, hoping to find herself, to discover her missing verve, if you will.”
“Had you misplaced your verve?”
She laughed, shaking her head. “Not at all. But the character made it seem so simple, learning to ride the waves. And I thought, Clearly, I can do that too.”
“Was it easy?”
“Not in the least. I raise a glass to all the amateur surfers of the world. They are magicians as far as I’m concerned.”
“Just as I suspected,” I said, then lifted my water glass to the wave riders. “But are you glad you learned?”
“I am. I’ve been trying to do the things I want lately,” she said, and those words signaled that perhaps something or someone had held her back from doing that in the past. I didn’t pry. The first lunch wasn’t the time. But I did share that desire—to try new things. Life is short. Fate can fuck you over.
“Good for you. Best to seize the day, isn’t it?” I asked.
“Indeed. We don’t know what tomorrow brings,” she said, and perhaps that was the start of our bond. That knowingness. That baseline understanding of the transience of, well, everything.
“In the end, how did you and surfing leave things? Will you go again?”
“Let’s just say this. I’m better at surfboard yoga than at actual surfing. But do you know what I’m quite fantastic at?”
“Tell me.”
She leaned forward. Set her chin in her hand. Spoke in a sensual whisper. “Making money. And then turning that money into more money. Now, how can I help you do that, Daniel?”
I don’t think I’ve ever been more turned on in my life than I was when she said those words.
Here I am, three years later, traveling by train with my financial advisor turned business partner. All to check out a tip from a waitress.
But you never know where your best tips will come from.
And here Scarlett is, as wildly attractive as she was back then. Her long legs, clad in designer jeans, are crossed. She’s wearing black flats with red soles, and kicking one back and forth. Her burgundy silk blouse is unbuttoned just enough to show a hint of her breasts, the barest tease of soft flesh. Her diamond earrings blaze from the sun shining through the window, and her carved cheekbones accentuate her gorgeous face.
As we recap our plan, my gaze drifts briefly to her throat, to the column of her neck.
What does her neck taste like? Would she moan if I bit her earlobe? Would she cry out if I smacked her arse?
“Does that sound like a good plan?”
No idea what the plan is.
“Sounds fantastic,” I say, figuring I can wing it.
Sort of like how I deal with these flare-ups of attraction that happen when I’m around her.
I manage.
I’ve been wildly attracted to her since we met, and I’ve never acted on it.
I need her too much. Anything more than a late-night fantasy would be the height of foolishness.
Risk is one thing, but I abhor stupid decision-making.
As we step off the train an hour later, I slide my aviator sunglasses on and crook my lips into a grin. “Let’s go see if this hotel is as naughty as we expect it to be.”
She casts me a glance. “I’m not sure hotels are naughty. It’s more that the people staying in them are.”
I couldn’t agree more—and last night, thinking of her, I definitely was. “You have me there.”
We sail into the boutique hotel, where I scan the lobby, mentally recording every detail, then inquire about a room.
The front desk manager says one is available right now, so I check in, perusing the restaurant, the bar, and all the amenities as we go, making our way to the elevator and up five stories.
Once we’re off the lift, we head into the room, but we have no plans to stay, only to appraise it.
I unlock the door, open it, then say, “After you.”
“Always such a gentleman.”
Once inside, Scarlett oohs and aahs, her gaze landing on a mirror on the wall. It’s sleek and modern, and positioned perfectly for a crystal clear view of any and all bedroom sports.
The mirror screams sex.
Her lips form an O. “That mirror is so decadent.”
I move behind her, meeting her gaze in the glass. “I trust you’re thinking about decadence for one thing and one thing only?”
She hums a yes. In her reflection, I swear I can see trysts and liaisons flickering across her green irises.
This woman.
What would she do if I were to reach my arms around her, unbutton her blouse, and let the fabric fall down? How would she respond if she were revealed to me in the mirror?
Would she want to be watched? Would she want to see how I look as I undress her, as I slide off all her clothes, as I run my hands along her soft, delicious flesh?
She’d see the truth of my desire.
The way I crave her and crave control at the same time.
If we existed in a parallel universe, I’d worship her as I put her on her knees. I’d adore every inch of her skin before I tied her up, had my way with her body, and fucked her into blissful oblivion.
Get a grip.
I blink away the dirty thoughts.
I must focus.
But it’s hard when she tilts her head and seems to be considering something in the mirror.
It’s hard, too, when I don’t want to tear my eyes away from the beauty with the sculpted cheekbones and full red lips.
“What are you thinking, Scarlett?” I ask.
She meets my gaze in the mirror. “This one is so much better than the one at our hotel in Avignon.”
“So you’re a mirror connoisseur?”
She nods, looking a little guilty. But it’s not a bad sort of guilty. Rather a dirty, delicious sort. “I am.”
Then abruptly she blinks and wheels around, almost as if she’s been thinking something she shouldn’t while she was gazing in the mirror.
She clears her throat and gestures toward the lavatory. “I should go check out the bathroom.”
“Go forth.”
She heads there, then gasps. “I’m going to retire right here, right now.”
Laughing, I follow her. The bathroom is sumptuous, with marble tile, thick towels, and a clawfoot tub.
“I love a clawfoot tub,” she says in a reverent whisper. Then, like a good investor, she heads to the bath, sits on the edge, and turns on the water, testing, I presume, to make sure it doesn’t come out rust colored.
“It’s perfect,” she says, then turns off the tap and whirls around.
She loses her grip, almost slipping.
“Oh!” she cries. Her skull heads toward the tap.
I lunge toward her as she stretches out her arm to brace herself on the edge of the tub, but she whacks it on the tap.
Hard.
“Ouch,” she yelps, grabbing her forearm, her face wincing as I reach for her.
“Are you okay? Are you hurt?”
She tries to wave me off, her tone stoic. “I’m fine, I’m fine.”
But the furrow in her brow, the pain in her eyes tells me she’s not.
“You’re not fine,” I say. “You just smacked your hand on the tap. I know what it’s like for a hand to be . . .” I don’t finish the thought. The scar on my right hand tells the story. Her eyes soften, drifting down to the mark. I ignore the sad look in her irises. “We need these hands of yours to work. To operate your spreadsheets,” I say lightly.
Despite my scar, my hands work just fine.
For nearly everything. There’s only one thing I want to do with them that I no longer can. But that thing has nothing to do with women, or strength, so I lift her up, scooping her into my arms.
Her eyes widen. “Why are you carrying me?”
“You’re wounded, woman.”
An eye roll is her reply as I carry her to the bed and set her down on the edge of the king-size mattress. “I’m not damaged.”
“Of course you’re not damaged. But you did whack your arm.”
“My hand too,” she says, softly this time.
I crouch in front of her, reaching for her. “Let me see it.”
“Are you a doctor?” she counters, but she lets me inspect her injury.
“I’m the doctor in the room,” I tease.
I ask where it hurts, and she points to her wrist, frowning. I run a thumb gently along that tender spot, that tantalizing place that can drive a woman wild.
If you touch her just right.
Which it seems I am doing, since Scarlett’s breath hitches.
“Daniel,” she whispers, her voice perhaps betraying her. “I’m fine. I swear I’m fine.”
I tuck my finger under her chin, lift it, and meet her gaze. “Are you sure?”
She nods, her eyes a little glossy. “I swear I am.”
“Let’s be certain.”
I lift her wrist to my face, my eyes on hers. Waiting for a sign. Waiting for more.
“Yes, please.”
So I bring her wrist to my lips and press a kiss to my business partner’s skin.
She lets out a low moan.
A groan works its way up my chest, and I swallow it down as I dust my lips over her pulse point.
I close my eyes, inhaling her, savoring the scent of her skin, of her lotion, of her Scarlett-ness.
I should move away. But she’s right here.
