скачать книгу бесплатно
“What? You got something against selling love? ’tis the season, my friend.”
Ahmed shrugged, not bothering to offer his opinion about romance or love in general. None of the so-called relationships he’d experienced had anything remotely like “love” attached to them. He didn’t want to seem like the Grinch or whatever the Valentine’s Day equivalent was.
“If you like it, I love it,” he said and caught the flicker of amusement on Sam’s otherwise stoic face.
Ahmed hid his hand behind his back and shot his cousin the bird. This time, Sam’s amusement came with a huff of quiet laughter.
Minutes later, Ahmed eased into the seat, once DJ Don Juan wrapped up his program. He slipped on the headphones and into his on-air persona.
“Hey, Atlanta! It’s Ahmed Clark on the air and in your ear for the next—” he looked at his watch, a gift from his father “—two hours and fifty-eight minutes. If you want to talk, call me. If you want to listen, open your ears real wide.” And he was off. Grin in place, anticipation for the next few hours bubbling under his skin.
Yeah, he could definitely do this for free.
He fell into the magic of being on air, exchanging laughter and information with his listeners until he got the signal from the sound engineer’s intern outside the glass. She flashed him five fingers. Almost time for Gabrielle Marshall to get on the microphone to hawk her goods. He gave Kiara the thumbs-up sign and started to wind down his heated discussion with a listener about citizen responsibility in the digital age. When the woman kept insisting regular people didn’t need to share everything they recorded on their cell phones, especially when it came to footage that would inflame the public, Ahmed cut her off with Rihanna’s “Desperado.”
When Kiara gave him the thirty-second warning, he was ready. The door to the sound booth opened. And it turned out he wasn’t prepared.
The Pink Lady from the hallway swept in on a cloud of crisp perfume, like she brought the spirit of autumn in with her, and Ahmed couldn’t help but inhale a deep breath of it. The pen he’d been making a note with dropped from his numb fingers and rolled across the notebook, across the desk and then to the floor. He heard Sam snickering. A signal for him to get it together. For real.
But damn, she had dimples. They bracketed her quick smile, and she sank gracefully into the chair across from him to easily fit the headphones over her high swirl of neatly pinned hair. Three diamond studs in varying sizes winked from the lobe of one ear.
“Hi, I’m Gabrielle Marshall,” she said. “Most people call me Elle.”
Her voice was pure sex. And damn if she wasn’t even sweeter looking up close. The smiling lips with just a hint of color. Big Bambi eyes and thick hair he could easily sink his hands into. He forced himself to pay attention to the now instead of the hypothetical future where he had her in his bed. He held out his hand for her to shake.
“Ahmed.”
She smiled wider, a curve of glistening and lusciously full lips that made him glad he was sitting down. After releasing her soft hand, he reached under the desk to subtly adjust himself.
Although Sam didn’t make another sound, Ahmed could feel his amusement from all the way across the room.
Ahmed cleared his throat and glanced at the timer. “I’ll introduce you after this song. You already know what to do, right?”
Why did that sound dirty?
The Pink Lady—Elle—nodded and settled her little purse on the desk. Her lips curved again. The pulse of heat in Ahmed’s slacks made him wince. A woman’s smile. Really? That was what was getting him hard these days? He must really need to get laid. He could easily picture her being the next woman sprawled, wet and panting, in his bed.
“Here we go,” he croaked.
The song ended and just about saved Ahmed’s life. Or maybe just his pride.
He switched on his mic. “All right, Atlanta. Somebody around here told me Valentine’s Day is coming up. It was a woman, so it must be true.” Across from him, Elle gave him a faint smile. “For you fellas out there who don’t know what to do for your ladies, we have some suggestions for you. I could tell you all about it, but I have somebody here who can do a much better job.” He tilted his head at Elle and lifted an eyebrow. Ready? She nodded. “So instead of killing cupid before he has a chance to show up, here’s Elle from Romance Perfected to tell you what you can do for your sweetheart on the day she’s expecting more than the usual.”
Across from him, Elle adjusted the headphones and leaned close to the mic. She licked her lips, her eyes looking with suspicion at the microphone, like she thought it was going to take a bite out of her. Then she drew in a silent breath, her features going blank for a moment. She looked nervous.
Ahmed felt an unexpected surge of protectiveness. “Tell the listeners what you have for them, Elle.”
She flicked a grateful gaze at him before taking another breath. “Good morning, everyone. I’m Elle from Romance Perfected. Your local, full-service romance concierge. I’m here to offer you a Valentine’s package of our services—a fully catered day or evening of romance for you and your date.” Nervousness ticked at the corners of her smile, but the warmth in her voice carried through to the mic.
And damn, what a voice it was.
It made Ahmed want to move closer, slide across the table separating them and put her in his lap for safekeeping. He imagined horny guys all over Atlanta wondering what honey-drenched sweetness was pouring down on them through the airwaves. He dragged himself back to the moment to pay attention to what Elle was saying. Concentration, or lack of it, had never been his problem before, no matter how beautiful the woman. Irritation at himself made his tongue sharp.
“You say ‘full-service.’” Ahmed made sure the quotes were understood in the tone of his voice. “What are you providing here? Is your dream man or woman included for the night?”
A tiny frown wrinkled Elle’s brow. “We don’t run an escort service, Mr. Clark.” Ah, the kitten has claws. “What Romance Perfected provides is a romantic experience tailored to the couple or the person being wooed. We arrange for the flowers, transportation and even the attire for the couple, if necessary. For the date itself, we prepare the perfect location, whether it’s a luxury spa, five-star restaurant or rooftop garden.”
It actually sounded like dates Ahmed’s assistants had arranged for him back when he was playing ball and too lazy to put too much thought into what he wanted to do with the women he took out between games. But Ms. Elle didn’t need to know that.
Ahmed leaned toward the mic. “So basically, you create illusions that push poor bastards into believing something like love exists.” Now, why the hell did he say that? He opened his mouth to apologize, but she didn’t give him the chance.
The confusion cleared from Elle’s face, and her eyes snapped with cool fire. “And you hide behind this microphone to talk trash about people and things you don’t know anything about. Love is as real as life gets, and romance is necessary.” Elle gripped her purse. “For people like you, I’m sure love doesn’t exist. If it did come your way, you’d destroy it just out of spite. Or just cold cynicism.”
“The world is cold and cynical, Elle.” He leaned hard on her soft name. “Haven’t you heard that the bad guys are killing decent folks every day in the streets? Or what people in the world are doing in the name of religion or whatever the excuse of the hour is? You’re the one not paying attention to the reality of this world. You can sell love all you want, but the rest of us aren’t buying.”
Beyond the glass of the sound booth, a flash of movement dragged Ahmed’s eyes from Elle. Clive stood behind his assistant frantically dragging his hand across his throat, making the universal gesture for “shut the hell up now.” But off the court, Ahmed had never been any good at following directions.
“You should see this woman, y’all,” he said into the mic. “She’s in the studio looking like some sort of fairy-tale princess in her pink dress with a bunch of flowers on it.” He dragged his eyes over her, giving in to the urge to tease her even more, although he’d give away his closet full of classic Jordans to see—and touch—under that seductive dress. Ahmed continued, riled up by the fire in her dark crystal eyes that flamed higher with each word he spoke. “Her shoes are so tall they look dangerous to walk in, and even her name sounds like something unreal and out of a storybook. Elle.”
He rolled her name over his tongue, and it felt almost obscene. He hoped the listeners didn’t hear it the way he did. Not delicate at all, but rather the low groan of sound he’d love to make while pushing into her soft and welcoming body. Ahmed’s stomach muscles clenched with arousal. What the hell was he doing?
Elle wasn’t impressed by his words either. Anger glowed in her brown eyes, and the dress shifted over her narrow shoulders and pretty breasts when she straightened in her chair. Ahmed could see the rapid pulse beat in her throat, the quickening breath that made her chest rapidly rise and fall. She looked anything but kittenish now.
“Romance and the celebration of love are an escape from the narrow and dangerous worldview of people like you, Mr. Clark. At Romance Perfected, we’re not fooling anyone—we’re assuring people of a beautiful experience despite the ugliness the world keeps throwing at us. That doesn’t mean I live in a fairy tale, Mr. Clark. It means I’m human, and I have hope. Can you say the same?”
“Hope and delusions are not the same thing, princess,” Ahmed said.
And although he was tearing the entire idea of love to shreds, there was nothing more in the world he wanted in that moment than to kiss Elle Marshall’s red mouth and the thudding pulse in her neck to show her what the raw side of romance felt like.
Chapter 2 (#ub3f5cc5a-8d47-5b83-a143-e9b22a1785bf)
Ahmed Clark was an ass.
Elle sat stiffly in the chair across from him, her face burning and spine tight, desperately wishing for the whole radio-show ordeal to be over. Sure, he was as gorgeous in person as the pictures her business partner had forced her to look at before she left for the station. But his cocky attitude and rude dismissiveness scrubbed away anything she could have found attractive about him.
They were alone in the room except for the bodyguard standing with his back to the wall, and Elle felt the sudden silence all around her like thunder. She swallowed the thick humiliation in her throat, fighting the heat blasting through her cheeks and all over her face in vain.
“All right, Atlanta. For a chance to win what the fairy-tale princess is offering this morning, call in and tell me the number of points I scored during my last game. The fifteenth caller with the right answer will get the night or afternoon of their dreams.”
Of course his question would be something about him.
Elle gritted her teeth, hating his butter-smooth voice that was stupidly perfect for radio. When her business partner, Shaye, had begged her to be the one to go to the studio to talk about Romance Perfected, Elle had initially refused. Shaye loved basketball, was a passionate activist and also happened to be a huge fan of Ahmed Clark.
“I’d make such a fool of myself over him,” she’d said to Elle, her hands doing crazy things in the air—her version of excitement. “Can you imagine it, me being on the radio to promote the business and ending up tonguing down Ahmed Clark before he even got the chance to ask me anything professional?”
Unfortunately, Elle could imagine it all very clearly. Shaye was sexually voracious, outspoken and just about always got what she wanted. So, here Elle sat. She clenched her hand around her handbag and fought for patience.
Ahmed had barely finished naming the terms for the contest before the phone lines started lighting up. Somewhere out in the office, an intern or office assistant was answering all the calls that were not number fifteen and giving the caller the disappointing news.
The leather of Ahmed’s chair squeaked faintly as he leaned back, headphones still on, the “on-air” light above the glass partition a bright red that matched the heat in Elle’s face.
“Do you know the answer to the question, princess?” he asked into the mic.
She gave him her most contemptuous look. “I have better things to do than worry about the balls you play with.”
Laughter burst from Ahmed’s throat, and Elle hated how charming it actually sounded. “Now, that’s something I’ve never heard before, Atlanta,” he said. “Do you believe a word of what this delicate princess says?”
The pet name grated on Elle’s nerves with all the power of the insult it no doubt was intended to be. But she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of reacting to it. Elle clasped her hands in her lap and sat back in her own chair, waiting for the moment when she could leave.
They hadn’t taken a commercial break to allow the calls to build up. In fact, it was hard to miss the station manager making the “keep going” gesture. He’d apparently changed his mind about cutting Ahmed off. The phones were blinking nonstop. Were both these men for real?
Before they’d gotten on the air, she could have sworn Ahmed Clark actually liked her. In the moments between her walking into the sound booth and starting to talk about the business, he’d looked at her with a familiar spark of attraction in his long-lashed eyes.
But now, he was practically going verbal gladiator on her, intent on hacking her to pieces with the sharp edge of his tongue. This wasn’t what she’d come here for, but she’d be damned if she backed out before Romance Perfected could get its money’s worth out of the radio spot they had paid for.
The phone in front of Ahmed beeped. He answered with the click of a button.
“Congrats on being the fifteenth caller. Talk to me.”
A laughing voice came on the air. “I don’t know the answer, but I wanted to say you two should go on a date together. I bet the fireworks would be off the chain.”
“Never,” Elle said before she could stop herself. She refused to cheapen something that was supposed to be romantic and turn it into a farce.
But outside the glass cage that kept her trapped with Ahmed, the general manager, Clive Ramirez, grinned with an alarming show of teeth, the look on his face clearly saying this was the best idea he’d heard all day.
“Thanks for the suggestion,” Ahmed said to the caller. “But I think the princess would prick the air out of all my balls if I even thought of asking her out.” Ahmed’s grin was infuriating, his tone meant to irritate her.
Elle barely stopped herself from giving him the finger. After all, it was radio not TV. But she had a business to promote. She’d show him a damn princess. She’d be the very picture of poise and graciousness until she got the chance to escape and never see his stupid face in person again.
“Very astute of you,” she said past clenched teeth. “And here I thought you were just another pretty face.” So much for being gracious.
Clive Ramirez made another motion from his side of the glass. Beside him, his assistant frantically answered call after call.
“All right, thanks for calling with your input. I’ll keep it in mind in case I don’t plan on having children in the future.” He hung up on the caller. “All right, since that number fifteen wasn’t it, let’s hear some Bruno Mars before we get to that next fifteenth call. Ring me up and tell me something good. I’m ready.”
As soon as the song started playing, Elle yanked off her headphones and stood up. She very gently put them on the chair, grabbed her purse and walked out, quietly closing the door behind her. She didn’t get two feet before Clive Ramirez was on her, grabbing her hand to shake with an enthusiasm she found more than a little unsettling.
“That was great, Elle!” When had they gotten on a first-name basis? “That spot was awesome. The phones were blazing even before we told listeners to call in. Nice work!”
Nice work? It had taken everything inside her not to cuss out Ahmed. Was that all it took to get a pat on the head from another random man these days? Elle pulled her hand back from Clive and shifted her feet to conceal her single step back from the man. “Um, thank you. I’m glad you think it went well enough.” She made a show of looking at the slender silver watch on her wrist. “I have to get to another meeting. Thank you again for inviting me on the air.” And for humiliating me six ways to Sunday in front of all of Atlanta. Or at least the half that listened to the Ahmed Clark morning show.
“It was my absolute pleasure. We’ll call you with the name of the contest winner so you can make arrangements for them with the prize.”
She tried to make it look like she wasn’t gritting her teeth. “Great. Looking forward to it.”
He tried to shake her hand again, but she shifted her purse to hold it in both hands. “Have a great day,” she said with her best fake smile.
Elle waited for Clive’s nod, a semblance of politeness remaining despite her immediate desire to walk very quickly away from the station and never return, then she turned on her heel and practically ran out the door.
* * *
By the time Elle got back to her office, she was ready to spit nails. Or kill Ahmed Clark with her bare hands. On the drive from the radio station, she’d tried to calm down, but it didn’t work. Every time she remembered the things the man had said to her on the air, for all of Atlanta to hear, she wanted to scream.
With a clenched jaw, she pushed open the door that led to a row of small ground-floor offices in a plain beige brick building in Kirkwood, not far from her house. The white door rattled as it settled in its frame, and she stood with her back against it, breathing evenly and trying to get her thoughts, anger and embarrassment to settle.
Despite their office building’s plain exterior, or maybe because of it, she and her business partner had decided to make their offices anything but. The hardwood floors were gleaming oak, while the walls shimmered from the sumptuous jade green silk wallpaper she and Shaye had picked out together. The wallpaper was as detailed as a painting. On it, a thick and leafless tree spread across all four walls. One branch held a brilliantly colored peacock hovering protectively over his peahen. A graceful and soft peach-colored sofa sat against the back wall of their reception area, and a coffee table with a few artfully scattered magazines waited for idle hands. It was meant to be a very welcoming and subtly sensual space.
Elle inhaled deeply and exhaled, her eyes tracing the plain brushstrokes on the wallpaper that made up the gray of the peahen and the contentment in her eyes while she lay beneath the wing of her beautiful mate. The sight of it, of love as Elle imagined it, usually calmed her. But not today.
“Shaye!”
She shouted her business partner’s name and pushed herself off the door, starting toward her own office then nearly colliding with Shaye when she came barreling around the corner. Thick curls spilled over her shoulders and surrounded a face that easily belonged on the cover of a fashion magazine. As usual, Shaye was gorgeous in her club-girl chic. Today’s outfit was a flesh-colored and skintight dress that showed off every voluptuous curve. She wore the royal blue Jimmy Choo heels—a lucky thrift-store find—Elle had given her for thirtieth birthday two years before.
“No need to yell,” Shaye said with a roll of her eyes. “I heard you from all the way in my office. The sound of your voice could shatter our champagne glasses. Chill, mama. That stuff was expensive.”
Shaye was the only one who could talk to Elle like that. Growing up mostly together in the foster care system with no one to care for but each other made the two of them even closer than siblings.
“Better the glasses than that damn man...” Elle made a sound of frustration. “Did you listen to the radio spot?”
Shaye snickered. “As if I’d miss it.”
When Elle kept going toward her own office, Shaye fell in step, her longer legs easily keeping up with Elle’s furious pace.
“The whole thing was pretty hilarious,” Shaye continued. “Even though you were obviously pissed.”
“He made me come off like some idiotic child, like I don’t know anything about the real world and the crappy things in it.”
Elle stepped into her office and dropped into the small love seat under the window while Shaye perched on the corner of her desk, ankles crossed and smiling. Elle wanted to shove her partner off the desk and onto her ass.
“Calm down, sweetie,” Shaye said. “Ahmed was just doing that for a laugh and to make the whole advertising give-and-take seem more interesting. He didn’t mean anything by it.”
“You weren’t there. He meant every damn word—”
The sound of her desktop phone ringing cut Elle off. “Who is that?” she asked, too irritated to bother getting up to look herself.
Shaye peeked over at the phone’s display. “It looks like the radio station.”
“Jesus... What now? They want to humiliate me some more today?” Elle clambered to her feet and answered the phone, putting it on speaker so Shaye could hear, too. She sat down behind the desk. “Romance Perfected. Elle Marshall speaking.”
“Elle, long time no chat!” Clive Ramirez’s booming voice rang through her office, and Elle exchanged a pained look with Shaye. “I wanted to tell you the latest developments myself.”
“What, nobody claimed our prize?”
“Just the opposite, my dear girl! Our phones rang off the hook even after we had a winner. They loved you and Ahmed together.”
Elle rolled her eyes. Those people must love a train wreck, because that’s all that was. “That’s good, I suppose. If the business gets some of that love, too.” She grabbed a pen and notebook. “So, who won the prize? I’ll reach out to them today.”
“Well, an interesting thing. The woman who won the prize gave it back to you.”
