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“Seven.” She said his name firmly.
He smiled with quiet satisfaction and turned for the door. Bailey couldn’t stop herself from watching his strut across the plush carpet, the dip in his stride, the subtle press of his butt against the loosely draped jeans.
“Thank you for your business,” she said, forcing her eyes up to his face. “Good luck with your relocation in Miami.”
“Thank you, Bailey.” Her name was a tease on his mouth.
He walked out of her office, leaving the door slightly ajar. She moved to close it but paused with the door handle in her fist, head low as she listened to his slow footsteps down the hall toward the lobby and Celeste’s desk. Despite his heavy, potent masculinity, his stride across the marble floors was like a dancer’s, light and graceful. Unhurried. She wondered if the way he walked was the same way he made love. Bailey shook herself, swallowing thickly. No use in dwelling on that. She closed the door and tried to put him out of her mind.
* * *
The phone abruptly rang, jolting Bailey’s attention from her computer screen. She looked at her watch. It was 7:18. Celeste was long gone and, Bailey guessed, so were the partners and her assistant. Bailey looked at the number ringing through on the desk. It was an unfamiliar one.
She picked up the phone. “Yes?”
“What happened to your lovely island receptionist? She doesn’t keep the same hours you do?”
Bailey took off her glasses, annoyed at herself for the leap in her belly at the sound of the Seven Carmichael’s voice. “No one keeps the same hours as I do,” she said dryly. “What can I do for you?”
“Well, you can start by having dinner with me.”
Persistent, aren’t you? A fraction of a smile touched her mouth. “I told you, I’m working for the rest of the night then I’m going home to my bed.” Under her, the chair squeaked faintly as she leaned back away from her desk, turning to look out the window.
Night had settled around the building, flaring diamonds of light from the high-rises below and on the bridge marching over Biscayne Bay. Miami glittered with its particular beauty, tacky and gorgeous at the same time.
“There’s a saying about Mohammed and the mountain I won’t quote to you, but you get the idea.” His voice was rich with amusement, echoing oddly through the phone.
The faint sound of footsteps tilted her ear toward the hallway, an echo of what came through the phone earpiece. Someone knocked on her door. Then it opened, revealing Seven Carmichael.
“Will you call the police if I come in?”
He stood in the doorway with a picnic basket in his hand, an iPhone to his ear. He looked even better this time around with the white shirt wilted around his body from the spring heat, draping across his muscular chest like a lover’s promise. The scent of hot, spiced meat and fresh bread came to her nose from his basket.
“I promise this isn’t anything more sinister than dinner.” He took the phone away from his ear and gave her a thoroughly unapologetic grin.
In that moment, Bailey was aware that her mouth was hanging open. She closed it with a snap. “What if I tell you I’m not hungry?” she asked, briefly turning away to save the spreadsheet on the computer before giving the man her full attention.
Against her will, she found herself examining him again, eating him up with her eyes, searching for a flaw in him. She found none.
“I don’t go out with my clients,” she said.
“Then I’d rather you tear up the agreement we signed earlier,” he said. “Because I really, really want to go out with you.”
On his tongue, the words go out sounded like something else altogether. Something wicked. Something delicious.
Bailey clenched her thighs together under the desk, surreptitiously licking her lips. “Stalking is illegal in this country, I hope you know,” she said, tilting her head to look up at him.
“Is that what you think I’m doing?”
“Isn’t it?”
He shook his head. “I’m simply bringing a beautiful woman dinner.” He stepped fully into her office and pulled a folded blanket from the top of the basket. “If you want me to leave, I will. You’ll miss me, though.”
Seven set the basket on the floor and unpacked a feast. A roasted chicken. A salad of mixed field greens covered in red apple slices and crumbles of blue cheese. Two croissants. A bottle of chilled white wine. Bailey felt the spurt of appetite in her mouth, a flood of hunger under her palate as the smells pushed deeper in the room, tempting her.
She never ate in her office. Ever. She thought if she brought any hot food into her office, the smell would permeate the walls, the carpet, would linger and become stale and nauseating, marking her as common to the partners. Not worthy of her own corner office and the coveted partnership.
But it wasn’t every day that a man brought her something without wanting anything in return.
“I don’t—” Eat in here, she was going to say. But watching him kneel on the blanket, the thin white material of his T-shirt stretching over the muscles of his back as he made their dinner, the words curled up in her mouth then slid back down her throat. “I don’t have any dishes,” she said instead.
“All taken care of.” He jerked his head toward a place beside him on the blanket. “Come sit and have something to eat. The sooner you eat your dinner, the sooner you can throw me out.” He flashed her a smile that swayed her resolve even more.
Bailey kicked off her shoes and sat on the blanket. Even with the competing aroma of the food, she could detect his scent, a woodsy cologne, the faint tang of sweat. He smelled of masculinity and the outdoors.
“I didn’t invite you in here to bring me dinner.” She tried to make her words firm but knew they were as melting as butter left out in the sunlight. Bailey took a slice of apple and felt its satisfying, juicy crunch between her teeth.
“I know. You didn’t invite me in here at all, but I appreciate you opening your door.” Seven brought out two plastic plates, forks and clear cups.
“I’m sure you know what I’m going to say next.”
“Yes, I do. But save all that love talk for later.”
Bailey shook her head, reluctantly smiling. Seven pulled a small stack of napkins from the basket and put it in the ocean of space Bailey had left between them. “I got all this from Whole Foods, so I assume it’s all organic and good for you, in case that’s a concern.” Seven tugged a chicken leg free and began to eat. “Go ahead,” he said, chewing.
Bailey tucked her feet under her on the blanket, glanced up at him through her lashes, at his smiling mouth glistening from the chicken juices.
“Okay.”
She made a small sandwich from a croissant, chicken and bits of the salad. The food was good. Her croissant was buttery and warm around the perfectly seasoned pieces of chicken, faintly bitter greens, sweet apples and crumbly blue cheese. Beside her, Seven ate with rich appetite, quickly finishing the chicken leg before reaching into the golden-brown bird to rip out a piece of the breast with his long fingers. Her stomach fluttered.
“I appreciate you making time in your evening to see me,” Seven said after finishing his latest mouthful.
“You didn’t give me much of a choice.”
“Yes, I did. You know that better than anyone.”
He was right. She could have called the police. Called security. Or even pointed to the door and demanded he leave immediately. He didn’t seem the type to ignore a woman’s wishes. But that was an assumption based on absolutely nothing. The last time she’d assumed so much, she’d ended up with a tarnished engagement ring and a lifetime of embarrassment.
Seven ripped a croissant in two, watching her carefully. “If you want me to leave, I will. You never have to worry about me forcing myself on you. Never.”
She shook her head. “It’s not that. I—”
A knock interrupted her. “Ms. Hughes, are you still here?”
She froze with a piece of chicken in her mouth. One of the firm’s partners was at the door. A brief flutter of panic rippled through her stomach. She thought they’d all gone home. Quickly, she finished chewing, wiped her hands on a napkin and stood up to open the door. Her boss Harry Braithwaite stood on the other side, briefcase in hand.
“Good evening, Mr. Braithwaite.” She smiled at her boss, blocking the view into the office with her body. “Yes, I’m still here. Taking care of a few last-minute details with the Wallace-Chatham account.” That wasn’t a complete lie. She’d been poring over the paperwork when Seven called.
Bailey fought the urge to curl her bare toes self-consciously in the carpet, hoping he hadn’t seen them. Going barefoot in the office was heavily frowned upon, especially by the raving germaphobe Raphael Fernandez. But bare feet made her feel unfettered and free, especially in the glass prison her office could at times become.
“That is a tricky one, isn’t it?” Harry said. His nose twitched.
Did he smell the food in her office? Would he ask to come in and talk about the account?
Bailey cleared her throat. “Nothing I can’t handle.”
He nodded briskly. “Good. That’s just the kind of attitude we like for a partner to have.” Mr. Braithwaite nodded again, eyes flickering behind her to look into her office. “Keep up the good work. I’ll see you in the morning.”
Bailey released a quiet breath. “Have a good night, Mr. Braithwaite.”
He thanked her and headed down the hallway for the elevators. He and Raphael had been dangling the partnership carrot in front of her for the past few months now, stressing how a Braithwaite and Fernandez partner should act, react and behave. And Bailey was success-driven enough to leap for that carrot. With a broken engagement now two years behind her and no immediate prospects for a family of her own, this was something she wanted more than ever.
Her sister, Bette, thought she was being downright ridiculous about the partnership thing. But her sister never worried about anything. For her, life was one big expensive party where someone else always picked up the tab. She was as carefree about life as Marcus. Only he could actually afford to be. Bette could not.
Bailey waited until Mr. Braithwaite was halfway down the hallway before she went back into her office.
Seven’s eyebrow quirked with mischief. “Did I almost get you in trouble?”
“Hardly,” she said. “This is not the principal’s office.”
“Not unless you’re the sexy teacher, and in that case, I’ll be more than happy to be your naughty student.” He grinned.
She shook her head. “No.”
But his teasing was infectious. She almost smiled as she sat back on the blanket next to him and picked up the remains of her sandwich. Her boss hadn’t noticed anything. And if he had, he hadn’t said a word about it. Surely, something like this couldn’t affect her chances of getting the partnership. She dismissed Harry Braithwaite from her mind and bit into the sandwich.
“You need to relax,” he said. “It’s a job. Not your life.”
“For me, it’s the same thing.” She covered her mouth with one hand as she answered him, still chewing.
“Then we need to change that.”
We?
Bailey laughed. Seven’s audacity and the way he stirred her sleeping libido made her want to prolong these moments in his company. He was charming, almost unnaturally beautiful, and she liked him. A lot.
Seven opened the bottle of white wine and poured some into two of the plastic cups.
“I can’t.” Bailey held up a hand in refusal. “I’m working, remember?”
“It’s just sparkling grape juice.” He lifted the cup and brought it to her mouth. “Here, see for yourself.”
Bailey blushed, warmed by his nearness, the low and intimate sound of his breathing. She smelled his musk, the kiss of sweat on his skin, and swayed closer. Her thoughts flickered on and off like a dying light bulb. Don’t touch him. Tell him to leave. You can’t afford this kind of man in your life. God! He smells so good.
She’d never felt this deep an attraction for someone. It frightened her a little. Made her want to draw back from the simple offering he made. Seven’s dark, curly-lashed eyes peered deeply into hers, as if he was offering her more than grape juice. She opened her mouth and tasted the crisp sweetness of what he gave her. The grape juice effervesced over her tongue. An unexpected bite of spice made her mouth tingle. She sneezed.
Seven laughed. “It has ginger in it.”
“Damn. Ginger always makes me sneeze.” To prove it, she sneezed again.
He sipped from the same cup he’d asked her to taste. “That is adorable.”
His laughter mingled with the sound of her cell phone’s ring tone. Smiling, Bailey wiped her nose with a napkin and stood to grab her phone off the desk. Marcus’s image and name flashed on the phone’s display. For a moment, she debated not answering. The last thing she wanted to do was deal with Marcus and his foolishness, especially when she’d managed to all but forgive and forget that he was a friend to her good-looking and damn near irresistible office guest.
Bailey sighed and picked up the call. “Hi, Marcus.”
Seven looked up when she mentioned his friend’s name, a frown on his otherwise smooth forehead. Then he looked away, busying himself with taking something out of the picnic basket. Bailey sank down into her chair and turned her attention back to the phone call.
“You sound happy,” Marcus said.
“Don’t make it seem like such an unusual occurrence.”
“Isn’t it? You’re the only chick I’d ever tell she needs to get laid. Since Clive, you act like you’ve been saving the kitty for marriage.”
Bailey’s good mood abruptly evaporated. “What do you want, Marcus?”
He had the nerve to laugh in her ear. “I was calling to check on my boy, Seven. Did you take care of him?”
“We’re talking right now,” she said.
Marcus whistled. “Damn. It’s like that?” He laughed again, this time with a whole other meaning behind it.
“No. It’s not.” Bailey’s face flushed with heat, but she kept her voice hard.
“This is shocking the hell out of me. You don’t have time for any man that’s not—”
“Get to the point, please. I have things I need to get back to.”
“I bet you do.” He chuckled, a low and dirty sound. “Anyway, tell Seven that Nilda wants to buy one of his pieces. I’m with her right now. I tried to call his cell but he’s not picking up.”
Bailey knew Nilda. Another one of Marcus’s friends with more money than sense.
“Pieces?”
“Yeah. Your new boyfriend likes to hammer on things and sell them as art. Chicks can’t get enough of him or his stuff.”
“He’s a sculptor?”
Seven looked up at her tone of voice. Bailey turned away from him to stare, blinking, out the window. “You didn’t mention that before.”
“Does it matter? You want clients and he’s got money to help you get that corner office.” The sound of laughter and a popped bottle of champagne gurgled to Bailey through the phone. “Anyway, I gotta go. Pass my message on to the man, will you? He can call me if he wants to get together later.” Marcus hung up.
Slowly, Bailey did the same. An artist.
It made sense. All along, there had been something about Seven that reminded Bailey of her father—her dear broke and irresponsible father.
“You didn’t tell me you were an artist,” she said, voice brittle with the frost of her disappointment.
