One Exquisite Touch: Book One in The Extravagant Series Page 7

  She pats my cheek, a thoroughly motherly gesture. “You know me so well.”

  “We’ll pack it up. We’ll ship it. We’ll send it where you want—your home, your office, or your classroom.”

  She gives me a soft smile. “You’re always so sweet about that, but I truly don’t need anything. I have everything I need.”

  “This isn’t about need, Mom. It’s about want. It’s about what you enjoy.” We had so little growing up, and anytime my mother, brother, or I wanted anything, that want was diminished, it was squashed. We were taught to want nothing. We were taught that wanting things was bad.

  As my mother’s gaze travels around the store, my attention is drawn to a small stack of leather-bound books. One of my indulgences. This collection happens to be of sonnets, so I pick it up. It fits the theme of the store—lush, intelligent gifts—and I love it.

  I decide to buy it as a gift for someone.

  “I’m getting you the map,” I tell my mother, since she’s still gazing at it with longing in her eyes.

  “If you insist,” she says.

  “I do. I do insist.”

  When we head to the counter, I tell the clerk that we want both the book and the map on the wall. The goateed man gives me a nervous look, then swallows. “Your money’s no good here, sir.”

  I laugh. “I’ll pay just like everybody else does. This is not on the house.”

  He stares at me as if I’m speaking Greek, but I give the young man a firm look. “I appreciate your effort, but trust me, I’m going to win this battle. And I’m going to pay for both of these,” I say, then I reach into my wallet and toss some bills on the counter.

  As we leave the store, Mom glances at the leather-bound volume. “You’ve always loved your Shakespeare.”

  “Of course. I was raised by a scholar.”

  And an asshole, I add quietly in my head. But we don’t speak of my father. There’s no need to. I don’t like to think of the man who told me that I deserved nothing growing up because I’d be nothing. That I was a mistake. That he never expected anything from me because he never wanted me.

  And so, for the longest time, that was all I delivered. Nothing. I thought he was right about everything, but he was wrong. I clench my fists, my shoulders tightening, that familiar surge of borderline anger rising in me when I think of him.

  Time to lock up the thoughts of the man who is out of my life, as I always do when they descend on me and try to convince me that I’m still nothing.

  He knew how to make my brilliant mother feel that way about herself too, and I’ll never forgive him for that. I’m so damn glad she’s finally out from under his thumb. It took long enough, but here she is, enjoying herself, living freely, being all she wants to be.

  We pop into a few more shops, and when we’re done, we stroll toward the spa. Along the way, she gestures to the design of the lobby, the sleek, stylish, thoroughly modern feel of this hotel. “You have great taste, Cole.”

  “You taught me well. You taught me to appreciate words. You taught me to appreciate beauty and the finer things in life.”

  She wags a finger at me. “And don’t forget that I taught you to appreciate history too.”

  “I would never forget that. I would never forget that you have to learn from history or it repeats itself.”

  “Indeed, it does. And now look at us, learning from it, and learning from it means treating yourself well and treating others well too.”

  “I couldn’t agree more.”

  She gives me a pointed but sympathetic look. “That includes yourself.”

  I bark out a laugh. “You think I don’t treat myself well?” I gesture with helicopter arms to the luxury surrounding us. “I want for nothing.”

  A soft smile crosses her lips as she shakes her head. “That’s not what I mean.” She taps my sternum. “I mean here.”

  I sigh softly, the muted kind. “I know what you mean.”

  “You’ve been so focused on business since Georgia,” she says, and my body tightens at the mention of a woman from years ago.

  I say nothing, letting her continue. “I know it’s hard to put yourself out there. I know you didn’t always see the best examples from your father and me. And I know that was hard, losing her.”

  It was hard. But it was also years ago. I’ve moved on. I’ve made it through. “I’m fine.”

  She squeezes my shoulder. “Then maybe let yourself . . . go out.”

  I roll my eyes. “You think I don’t go out?”

  “You know what I mean. Go out and let someone in,” she says.

  We’ve arrived at the serene waterfall that frames the entrance to the spa. “I’ll consider it,” I say, but she gives me a stare that says she knows I won’t.

  “Do consider it,” she says, a soft plea.

  “I said I would. Now go enjoy yourself.”

  “Oh, I love when you tell me what to do.”

  “Good. Go relax, have fun. You’re starting a new semester soon, and you have all of those young minds to shape, so unwind before you have to go back to California.” I look at my watch. Her trip has lasted less than thirty-six hours, but I’m glad she made it out here. “I’ll pick you up at the end of the day and take you to the airport.”

  She shakes her head. “You don’t have to take me to the airport. The driver can take me.”

  “I want to, and I will. End of story.”

  She gestures for me to take off. “I have an appointment to go get pampered, and you have your meetings. Who are you seeing this morning?”

  “The hotel owner across the street.”

  She straightens the lapels on my suit jacket. “Remember to play nicely with the other children.”

  I laugh. “We’ll see about that.”

  I say goodbye, and as I make my way through my hotel, my thoughts once more return to the other night with the stranger. I replay those moments on the dance floor and in the alcove. The taste of her skin, the feel of her long blonde waves, the sound of her voice, so sensual and delicious.

  And the slide of her lips. Pink and alluring.

  That woman is front and center in my mind as I walk across the street to my meeting, recalling how she moved against me, how she fell apart in my arms and Daniel’s arms too.

  How that felt.

  Exquisite.

  Everything about her was exquisite.

  I linger on thoughts of her for a few more minutes, knowing that once I head into the meeting, I’ll have to expunge them.

  With the book I purchased in hand, I weave my way along the walkway over the Strip. Once at The Extravagant, I stop at a mirror near the entrance to check my reflection.

  Custom suit.

  Silk tie.

  Pressed shirt.

  Combed hair.

  Neat shave.

  I look the part of the new hotel owner in town going to meet with Sage Carmichael for the first time.

  I’ve heard good things about her. She’s well-respected and is known for her focus on her employees. For above-average pay, as well as good healthcare. She attracts the best with what she offers them.

  With the revamp of the hotel, she’s been attracting a whole lot of bookings too. Bookings that, admittedly, I’d like to have at The Invitation.

  Competition is fierce in this city for rooms, and her renovation is amazing, with the ruby, emerald, and sapphire themes throughout the property. The jewel motif is gorgeous, extravagant indeed.

  That word alone—extravagant—shoots my thoughts back once more to my stranger, as I count down the days till I see her again. The woman who’s still dancing her way through my thoughts. And honestly, even though I’ll be seeing her with Daniel, part of me does want to see her alone.

  Take her alone. Have her all to myself.

  Bring her incandescent pleasure. Just me. Only me.

  Daniel won’t care. Daniel isn’t possessive, nor am I.

  We share women in the moment, not for a longer term. We share them because we lo
ve making women feel good.

  But I’m more than capable of doing that by myself too.

  Though she seemed like the kind of woman who wants us both, and what a woman wants in bed, she should damn well have.

  That is my rule to live by.

  I walk through my rival’s casino, surveying it once again. I’ve been here before. I checked it out. You need to understand the competition. I made sure I canvased every nook and cranny, knowing that I had to make mine better. Then I had my people pay visits here during the renovation so I knew what was going on every step of the way.

  I don’t ever want to be surprised in business, and nothing at her hotel surprises me. All of it impresses me though. It exudes class and says sophistication, most of all, beauty. That’s the theme the Carmichael sisters have chosen, and everything typifies it.

  Dragging a hand through my hair, I head to the third-floor executive suites with the book in hand, ready to give it to her as a nice to meet you and I’ll try not to be a dick gift. But I make no promises.

  The door to the suites is open, and the woman at the front desk lifts her face, flashes me a smile from behind her red glasses, then says, “Hello, Mr. Donovan. It’s good to see you.”

  She’s good at her job, since she knows me on sight.

  “I have a meeting with Sage Carmichael.”

  “Yes, you do. Let me tell her you’re here.”

  The woman disappears down the hall then reappears a minute later, gesturing to the hallway. “She’s ready for you.” I walk down the hallway toward the corner suite. The executive offices are set in the middle of the property, giving a view of the casino floor below. The woman shows me in and closes the door behind me.

  And holy fuck.

  Standing in front of the glass window overlooking the casino is a stunning woman in a red dress with a zipper all the way down the back.

  I want to unzip it with my teeth.

  Her blonde hair is twisted neat and tight in a clip. Those silky strands remind me of my stranger. That clip, too, reminds me of the one she left behind that night. The barrette I picked up when she scurried away. The barrette I plan to give her next weekend at the party.

  But right now, I’m not thinking of my stranger, because I’m too busy admiring the view in front of me.

  That body. That ass. Those legs.

  She stands at the window, hands on the sill, gazing at her empire below.

  She looks powerful, and power looks so damn good on a woman, especially when a powerful woman gets on her knees at your command.

  I’d like to put her on her knees.

  And I feel a little bit guilty for admiring my colleague like this. For focusing on her body rather than her brain.

  I vow to erase these momentary filthy thoughts when I speak to her. These sexual thoughts floating through my head of how she would look without that dress on.

  But admittedly, I also feel the slightest bit guilty too, because all my energy, all my ample sexual energy, should be on the woman I’m seeing at the next party. Only it’s on the woman in front of me.

  “Good morning, Sage,” I say.

  The woman in red turns around.

  My jaw threatens to fall to the floor, and it’s only years of practice, years of composure, that cause me to keep it shut when I see her face.

  Because that mouth. Those lush pink lips. There is no question. She is the one. She is one and the same.

  Sage Carmichael is my stranger.

  And I want her even more.

  But she’s also the cutthroat competition, and that is going to be a big problem.

  10

  Sage

  Something about him feels deliciously familiar.

  I can’t quite put my finger on it.

  Or maybe I want to, but I’m not sure that I should.

  Or that I’m ready to.

  So I zero in on the man in front of me.

  Cole Donovan.

  Pictures don’t do him justice.

  Pictures don’t always convey smolder. Because his dark eyes are the most intense I’ve ever seen. They are bedroom eyes. They are I’d like to know what you look like naked eyes. A wicked glint tangos across those dark irises as they sweep over me.

  And that glint? It tugs at something. A fresh memory, a dirty hope.

  But I push it aside as I catalog more of the man in front of me.

  The competition.

  I steel myself, trying to strike thoughts of his sex appeal from my head.

  Because that smile he wears? That sliver of a grin? It’s of the we’re colleagues but also ruthless competitors variety. I’d do well to remember that—we might need to work together, but we will always be chasing the same prize. To be the hotel that visitors choose first.

  And I’m sure he’d be so damn happy to eat some of my hotel’s revenue for breakfast.

  Speaking of his lips . . .

  Another sliver of an image flashes before me brightly, like a crack of lightning across the darkening sky. I rewind to the other night. To the feel of my American’s lips on me. On my breasts, on my neck, on my mouth.

  Then I fast-forward to mere moments ago when he said my name, when Cole Donovan breathed Good morning, Sage, all raspy and growly on his lips, like he knew the secrets of my name. Like he knew me as the stranger he met the other night.

  My mind screams no.

  This can’t be the same man. My competitor can’t be my secret lover. Or rather, one of my secret lovers.

  Shake it off, Sage.

  Focus on the now.

  Let go of your fantasies.

  I stride across the plush carpet in my high-heeled shoes, fixing my focus on everything real around me.

  The desk.

  My office.

  The place where I make decisions.

  Where I run this luxury hotel and all the other ones around the country and the world too. This is not the room to indulge in fantasies. Nor is it the moment to linger on sensual memories.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Donovan. I’m so glad you could come to my hotel.”

  His lips twitch almost imperceptibly.

  Like he wants me to see a little hint of something in them. Saying he knows me. He has a secret. And he relishes that secret.

  I swallow roughly. My skin warms as he stares at me and I take his hand.

  No. “Warms” is wrong. More like sizzles from this man’s touch as he wraps his fingers around mine, almost like he’s reminding me what he can do with those fingers.

  And I know.

  I know that hand.

  Intimately.

  I do my best to remain cool, but it’s hard. So hard when he whispers in a seductive voice, “I assure you, Ms. Carmichael, the pleasure is all mine.” He takes a beat and levels me with another intense gaze, his eyes shimmering with desire. “Emphasis on pleasure.”

  So. Much. Emphasis.

  My breath hitches, my body hums, and my libido throws a ticker-tape parade. The traitorous bitch.

  This man.

  For a few delirious seconds, I’m lust-struck. I don’t want to let go of his hand. I don’t want to do the right thing. I want to do the bad thing. The dirty thing. I want to tug him against me and revel in the press of his body. I want to taste those lips again.

  I want to let him unclip my hair, jerk my neck back, and blaze a trail of hot, filthy kisses along the column of my throat. And then tell him to do it again. What he did the other night. I want to let him slide his hand between my legs and get me all the way off.

  Or better yet, ask him to bend me over my desk and show me what he can do when he hikes up my dress.

  Ask him to fuck me hard, fuck me dirty, fuck me with his friend watching.

  These thoughts.

  These out-of-nowhere thoughts.

  But are they truly out of nowhere? Or has he awakened a part of me that was sleeping peacefully for far too long?

  A part of me that’s peeking around corners of my desire, peering down halls of my
lust, whispering, Do it again, do it again.

  Somehow, I find the will to put on my best professional voice. “I am delighted to make your acquaintance.”

  He says nothing. Just does that thing again with his lips. That little twitch. That hint of mischief.

  “You’re delighted to make my acquaintance?” And then, like he’s savoring the next word, he breathes out, “You mean . . . again? You mean delighted to make my acquaintance . . . again.”

  I could grab his tie. I could yank him against me and say, Yes, you cocky bastard, I am fucking delighted and let’s find out how much. Because this is not simple delight; it is wicked, filthy desire. Instead, keeping a very stoic expression, I say, “And is that how I look?”

  I try to be tough, but it’s hard to maintain the facade when his eyes eat me up. They devour me. They undress me.

  With his hand still clasping mine, he rumbles, “Yes, that’s how you look. Do you want to know why I say that?”

  I take the bait, lust leading me on. “Why do you say that, Mr. Donovan?”

  He lets go of my palm, raises his hand, and slides his finger down my collarbone to the neckline of my dress. His touch sets my body on fire, turns my veins to liquid gold. “Because you look the way I feel.”

  He says it all whispery, growly, and holy fucking shit.

  His words.

  His body.

  The way he stares at me like he owns my pleasure.

  Like he knows my pleasure.

  Like he wants to pour it in a glass, drink it down, consume it.

  The hair on my arms stands on end. His wicked words send tingles through me, around me, wrapping me up in them like someone has sprinkled me with erotic pixie dust, and it’s not fair, it’s not fair, it’s not fair.

  “And how do you feel?” I ask, unable to resist this back-and-forth.

  He steps closer and utters one dangerous word. “Hungry.” That’s all he says. He imprints it on the air.

  And I answer with the truth. “Me too. Yet indulging would be a bad idea,” I say, a little amazed I got that out.

  A lot amazed because I am all hot and bothered, and I need to cool it down. I picture dropping a bucket of ice water on my head.

  There. That works.