The Magnate's Takeover: The Magnate's Takeover

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He tried to smile back, but his face felt nearly frozen. When Jeff picked up the call on the third ring, David said simply, “Stop working on the current project. I’ll get back to you about it later. Understand?”

Jeff uttered a surprised, almost strangled yes, then David snapped the phone closed and dropped it back into his pocket.

“Project?” Libby’s lovely face was turned up to his, curiosity sparkling in her blue eyes. “Are you working on another hotel, David?”

“Something like that,” he said, finally managing to smile. “But at the moment, my love, I’m working on something much more important.”

“What?” she asked.

“This.”

He gathered her up, held her closely against his chest, and said, “Show me the way to lucky Number Three.”

Libby lingered in the shower, almost too embarrassed to leave the bathroom and face David. Had she ever had a worse idea in her entire life? Why would anyone ask the man responsible for the mirrored and glorious piece of architecture across the highway, the man who’d wined and dined her in its glorious penthouse, to even set foot in this chamber of horrors? What had she been thinking?

The door had opened with a long, drawn-out squeak comparable to a Boris Karloff movie, and then, as they stepped inside, the powerful odor of pine and Lysol had smacked both of them in the face. David, bless his heart, had tried not to cough, but it wasn’t possible. Libby herself had had an immediate sneezing fit before running into the bathroom and locking the door.

Now, the fluorescent light over the sink was making an odd, erratic buzzing sound and the toilet, just to the right of the tub, gurgled every once in a while even though she hadn’t used it. The plastic shower curtain, with its sand dollars and starfish and various ocean flora, looked so pitiful hanging there that Libby had to keep her eyes closed most of the time she was in the shower.

For one grim and painful moment, she decided that tearing this whole wretched place down was the obvious and only solution. Surely she could make her aunt Elizabeth see that.

But then she knew it was impossible. Aunt Elizabeth, as always, would stand her ground—this ground—her precious turf—the same way she always did when she insisted that Uncle Joe would soon be coming home. Libby couldn’t make her change. Lord knew Doug hadn’t been able to change her in all their decades together.

When all was said and done, there really wasn’t much Libby could do other than go with the flow. And the flow right now, coming down from the shower head, seemed to be welling up in the tub because of a drain that wasn’t working properly. She swore under her breath, then yanked the faucets off, hardly caring at the moment if she broke them or not.

She grabbed a towel—thin from years of wear and washing—and did her best to dry off. After raking her fingers through her damp hair, she wrapped the ratty towel around herself and opened the door.

David was sitting on the edge of a twin bed, leaning forward to change channels on the small television, something he probably hadn’t done in years.

“Welcome to 1970,” Libby said only half in jest. “Do you feel like you’re in a time warp? Like you’ve been transported back several decades?”

“Nope,” he answered as he punched off the television, then reached out his arms toward her. “I feel like Prince Charming waiting for his Cinderella.”

“David,” Libby said softly, hugging her towel tightly around herself. “I’m truly sorry that I insisted on this. I have no idea why it seemed so important to me, but I’m ready to leave, this very minute, if that’s what you’d prefer.”

He stood, and then took several strides across the gold shag carpet, closing the distance between them. “Actually, I’d prefer to make love to you, Libby darlin’. Here. Now.”

She tilted her head up, passed the tip of her tongue across her lips, inviting his kiss. Craving his kiss. “Yes,” she said. “Here. And right now.”

What did it matter where she was, she thought, when David’s kisses made her forget who she was. She released her grip on the damp towel and let it drop to the floor.

David stepped back. Without even touching her, he ravished her with just his eyes, whose color had deepened to a dark forest green. And his gaze alone caused Libby’s stomach to clench with a ravenous hunger, as if she hadn’t eaten for weeks. She’d never wanted a man the way she wanted this one. She never even knew, in all her thirty years, that such all-consuming desire was possible.

As he had before, David loved her slowly, exploring every part of her body as if she were the first woman he’d ever encountered, while leading her to discover sensations she’d never felt before.

And as before, it was Libby who, when pushed to the edge by his slow hands, by his warm tongue, by the feel of him so hard and deep inside of her, pulled David with her for the long tumble through magnificent fireworks and bright shooting stars.

Libby let herself drift into sleep, thinking she never wanted this man to leave her. If he did, she just might have to follow him if it meant going to the ends of the earth.

Seven

When Libby offered to fix dinner for him—which translated to popping two cartons of frozen macaroni and cheese into the microwave and seeing what she could come up with for a salad from the contents of the fridge—David politely declined, then offered a far better solution to the problem of dinner.

“Let’s go across the street.”

Libby laughed. “I thought you’d never ask.”

He didn’t take her up to the penthouse this time, but rather directly into the Marquis’ shining new, state-of-the-art kitchen, where the sous chef who’d fed them so well the previous evening was still on duty.

The young man snapped to his feet the moment they walked in.

“How’re y’all?” he said, revealing a wide smile along with a southern accent.

“We’re fine,” David answered, “and we’re famished. Mind if we look around?”

“It’s your kitchen. Whatever you find, sir, I’ll be more than happy to prepare. Kitchen’s are way better for cooking in than for sitting around in.”

David took Libby’s hand and led her deep into the inner workings of the facility. She’d never been in a restaurant kitchen before, and it was a whole new world for her.

“I’m not a very good cook,” she confessed while gazing into a huge stainless-steel refrigerator that was crammed with things she couldn’t even identify.

David, close beside her, chuckled. “So I gathered.”

“My aunt Elizabeth isn’t either.” She sighed.

“Maybe it’s genetic,” David said, his lips sliding into a grin and his eyes nearly twinkling. “What looks good to you? Anything strike your fancy?”

Actually nothing looked good because it wasn’t cooked, and there were no pictures to consult for the final product. “You choose for us, David,” she said. “As an old mac and cheese girl, I’m more than willing to defer to your expertise.”

He called out to the sous chef, naming ingredients and spices and sauces that might have been Martian as far as Libby knew. Then he told him, “We’ll be in the bar. You can serve us in there.”