Harlequin Kimani Romance September 2014 Bundle: Seduced by the Heir\Secret Silver Nights\Someone Like You\Indulge Me Tonight (10 page)

“I bet you would. You always did have a thing for Italian guys!” Laughing, Paris ripped open the envelope and read the invitation. Her heart fell and her shoulders sagged.

“What's wrong?”

“Kennedy, I'm so sorry, but I won't be able to come. The Excel Construction charity gala is the same day.”

Her eyebrows merged together. “So? Skip it.”

“I can't do that. Dad would disown me!”

“I survived.” Kennedy eyed her coldly. “I don't make as much money as you do, and I'll probably never travel around the world or live in a million-dollar neighborhood, but I love my life and I wouldn't trade it for anything in the world. Can you say the same?”

An awkward silence fell between them.

Paris couldn't find her voice. Her sister's words replayed in her ears, taunting her like an invisible bully.
I love my life and I wouldn't trade it for anything in the world. Can you say the same?

Sadness consumed her, causing memories of that tragic winter night to surface. Paris pressed her eyes shut and deleted every thought of her ex from her mind. She tried to think of something funny to say to lighten the mood, but came up empty.

“I better go.” Kennedy swung her purse over her shoulder. “It's getting late, and Anthony and the kids are probably wondering where I am.”

Paris snatched the cordless phone off the counter and gestured to the take-out menus taped to the stainless-steel fridge. “Don't go. I was just about to order in. We'll make mocktails, eat dinner and watch your favorite reality TV shows!”

“No, thanks. I've already overstayed my welcome as it is....”

“Don't say things like that. I love having you here. That's why I gave you a key.”

“I'll give you a call later in the week.”

Paris reached into her pocket, took out some folded bills and handed them to her sister. “Buy the kids pizza tonight, and take them shopping tomorrow.”

“Keep it. Money's tight, but I'm not a pauper.”

“I know. I just like spoiling the kids. That's what aunties do!” Paris hugged her sister and dropped the money inside her purse. “Are we okay? I hate when you're mad at me, and I didn't mean to upset you.”

“I'm not mad, just disappointed, that's all.”

“I'm happy for you and Anthony, and I wish I could come to your party. But I can't be in Atlanta and Washington at the same time.”

Dropping her gaze to the floor, Kennedy twisted her gold wedding band around her finger. Her eyes were sad and her lips were trembling, but she spoke in a clear voice. “You just wait and see. Our anniversary bash is going to be the talk of the town! Everyone who loves and supports us will be there, and that's all that matters to me.”

Wincing, Paris tried not to let her sadness show. Feeling guilty for the things she'd said earlier to Kennedy, she watched helplessly as her sister yanked open the front door and marched down the walkway.

Paris blinked back tears. She felt unhappier than she'd ever been and wished there was someone she could talk to. Thoughts of Rafael overwhelmed her mind, but she pushed them aside. She had no right to call him, not after the way she'd treated him in Venice.

Standing on the welcome mat, watching Kennedy drive away, Paris was hit with a startling truth: in less than twenty-four hours she'd screwed things up with her sister
and
the only man she'd ever truly loved.

Chapter 11

T
he moment the Boeing 747 landed at Dulles International Airport on Friday morning, Paris was off and running. She touched base with her assistant back in Atlanta, answered her emails and sent Kennedy a funny text message to lighten the mood between them.

By the time Paris reached the baggage claim area she'd checked off everything on her to-do list and revised her weekly schedule.

Tired and hungry, Paris stood in front of the carousel taping her foot impatiently on the floor. She'd been up since 5:00 a.m., and after weathering treacherous road conditions in Atlanta, had boarded an airplane filled with crabby travelers, wailing babies and bitchy flight attendants. Her stomach grumbled and groaned, but she ignored it. She'd eat when she reached the W Hotel Washington and not a moment sooner.

Paris touched her neck, remembering she'd lost her heart-shaped pendant, and sighed with regret. She'd called Hotel Excelsior every day since returning from Venice, hoping that a Good Samaritan had turned it in, but she had no such luck. Paris kept telling herself it didn't matter, that she could replace it with something more expensive from Cartier, but deep down she knew the piece was unique. Rafael had given her the necklace for her twentieth birthday, and she'd worn it every day for the past fifteen years. It had sentimental value and could never be replaced. She'd always considered the necklace her good luck charm and felt naked without it.

Shaking off her sadness, Paris raised her hunched shoulders and straightened her electric-blue blazer. She didn't have time for a pity party. She had a speech to write for the Women's Business Expo, contracts to read and a charity gala to plan. Now more than ever she had to stay focused and keep it together.

Swallowing a yawn, Paris pulled back the sleeve of her blazer and checked the time on her wristwatch. If she finished writing her speech by noon, she could squeeze in a nap and a little retail therapy at her favorite Georgetown boutique.

“If you were a hamburger at McDonalds you'd be the McGorgeous!”

Oh, brother, not again,
Paris thought, groaning inwardly.
Why do lowlifes keep hitting on me? Do I have the word
desperate
written across my forehead in yellow neon marker?

A guy dressed in a black bomber jacket and baggy clothes saddled up beside her, wearing a toothy grin. Annoyed, she sucked her teeth and rolled her eyes to the ceiling. The stranger had tattoos, gold teeth, and gave off a bad-boy vibe. He definitely wasn't her type. She preferred athletic, clean-cut men with impeccable manners.

Men like Rafael Morretti.

Thoughts of the handsome Italian filled her mind. As Paris reminisced about their time in Venice, she couldn't help wondering if what Cassandra had told her was true. Last night, while she was working in her home office, her best friend had called to talk about her romantic Caribbean honeymoon. They'd chatted and laughed for hours, but the moment Cassandra mentioned Rafael's name Paris had lost her voice. Her tongue froze inside her mouth and her heart beat wildly.

“Rafael called Stefano in a panic the day you left Venice.”

Paris played dumb. “Really? That's odd. I wonder why.”

“I don't know. You tell me.”

“There's nothing to tell.”

“Oh, but I think there is. Rafael was supposed to go clubbing with the bridal party after the wedding, but he got on the elevator with you, and that's the last anyone saw of him.”

“You make it sound like he was abducted!” Paris cracked up. “Maybe he changed his mind and crashed in his hotel suite.”

“Or,” Cassandra stressed, raising her voice, “maybe you put it on him, and he blacked out!”

Twenty-four hours later her friend's joke still made Paris laugh.

“Are you from around here or just visiting?”

Paris blinked and surfaced from her thoughts. Spotting her Versace suitcase on the luggage belt, she stepped past the five-foot nuisance running his mouth and grabbed her designer bag. Weaving through the crowd, she stalked through the airport, desperate to distance herself from the tattooed stranger with the weak-ass pickup lines.

Paris slid on her sunglasses, flung her pashmina scarf over her shoulders and strode confidently through the sliding glass doors. The sky looked gloomy but the air smelled clean and fresh. Taxicabs crawled along the glistening street, car horns blared in the distance and travelers rushed in and out of the busy airport doors.

The black Town Car idling at the curb flashed its headlights, and Paris hustled down the sidewalk as fast as her stiletto boots would allow. She threw open the back door, heaved her suitcase inside and buckled her seat belt. “W Hotel Washington, please.”

The driver nodded and joined the slow-moving airport traffic.

Hearing her ring tone, Paris plopped her purse on her lap and rummaged around inside for her cell phone. Finding it, she clutched it in her hands. Her father's number popped up on the screen. Lowering her hands to her lap, Paris considered letting the call go to voice mail. Since returning from Venice, she'd spoken to her dad numerous times, and every time they spoke he was outright rude to her. Paris knew why he was calling, and didn't want to hear another word about the World of Concrete convention in Las Vegas next month.

The phone stopped ringing but started up again only seconds later.

“Good morning, Dad. How are you?” Paris asked, faking a cheery, upbeat voice.

“I don't have time for idle chitchat. Terrance Franklin should be here any minute now, and I don't want to keep him waiting.”

“Oh, that's right, you're meeting to discuss his new inner-city project in Dallas.”

His voice warmed. “I think building a community center in his grandfather's name is an excellent idea, and I want Excel Construction to be a part of the project.”

“I agree.” An idea sparked in her mind, and a smile curved her lips. “Dad, could you get Terrance Franklin's autograph for Anthony? He's a huge football fan, and Terrance is his all-time favorite player.”

Her father made a disgusted sound. “I will do no such thing.”

“Why not? It would mean the world to Anthony.”

“I don't care. It's ill-mannered and highly inappropriate.”

Confused, Paris stared down at her cell phone. “What is? I don't understand.”

“Of course you don't. Your generation doesn't know the first thing about professionalism or social niceties,” he complained. “Do you have any idea how foolish I'd look asking the Heisman Trophy winner for an autograph during our meeting?”

Paris strangled a groan. All that mattered to her father—besides making money and rubbing elbows with Washington's upper crust was being revered by his clients, associates and well-heeled friends at the Washington Golf and Country Club. He loved vintage wine, but never drank in public for fear of being labeled a drunk, dined only at five-star restaurants and flaunted his wealth in the hopes of ending up in the society pages.

“I didn't call to discuss proper business etiquette....”

His brisk tone cut into her thoughts.

“I called to give you the new password for the alarm. Get a pen and right it down.”

“Dad, I'm not staying at the house.”

“Why not? There's more than enough room for you at the mansion.”

“I know, but I'll be coming and going for the next few weeks and I don't want to disturb you.” Her excuse sounded pathetic but Paris didn't have the guts to tell him the truth. “Since the Women's Business Expo is being held at the convention center, I figured it made more sense to just book a suite at one of the nearby hotels.”

Silence plagued the line. It lasted so long Paris feared her father had hung up.

“Hello? Dad? Are you still there?”

“Yes, of course. I'm just...thinking.”

Paris heard papers shuffle and knew her dad was sitting behind his executive desk reading contracts and sipping Colombian coffee. He was a creature of habit who lived for rules and structure. And he wasn't happy unless he was calling the shots. That's why Paris chose to stay at a hotel and not at his lavish mansion.

“Do you have time to meet for dinner tonight or are you too busy?”

“Dad, don't be silly. I'm never too busy for you.”

“You better say that! I'm the guy who signs your checks, and don't you forget it!”

His laugh startled her. Paris couldn't remember the last time she'd joked around with her dad, and hearing his loud chuckle warmed her heart. Their conversations were always about work, but tonight she planned to talk to her dad about Anthony and Kennedy's anniversary party, not ways to boost profits and productivity at Excel Construction.

“Good news,” he said. “I pulled some strings and got you registered for the World of Concrete convention.”

“Dad, I thought we talked about this. I'm not going.”

“Of course you are. We go every year.”

Yeah, and every year I consider faking my own death!

“This is not open for discussion, Paris. You're going and that's final.”

“Why don't you take Oliver? He's never been to a World of Concrete convention.”

Her father barked a laugh. “Don't be ridiculous. Your brother doesn't know the difference between a drill and a hammer! He'd be absolutely useless to me at the conference.”

Paris bit her tongue, deciding not to argue with her dad. There was no way in hell she was going to the three-day conference in Las Vegas at the end of the month. And there was nothing he could say or do to change her mind.
Maybe he'll fire me!
she thought hopefully.
Then I could open the beauty salon of my dreams.

“I have to go,” he said briskly. “Be at Bourbon Steak by seven o'clock sharp.”

Taking a deep breath, Paris disconnected the call and stretched her legs out. Thankfully, the driver didn't try to make conversation, and as she closed her eyes and sank into her seat, she decided she'd reward him nicely for his silence. Alone with her thoughts, she allowed the stress and anxiety of the past seventy-two hours to fade away.

Thoughts of Rafael inundated her mind again, and for some unexplainable reason she wondered what life would be like if he was her man. Would he accompany her to black-tie events? Would he make an effort to get along with her boisterous, dysfunctional family? And most important, would he be open and honest and love her unconditionally?

Paris shook her head and chided herself for being silly. Back when they were dating, Rafael used to love to take her out, but now he was a homebody who'd rather read the
Wall Street Journal
than party at the hottest nightclubs, and that would never change. He preferred spending quiet evenings at home, while she enjoyed red-carpet events, movie premiers and lively concerts.
We're more different than alike, so why am I fantasizing about him? And why do I wish he was here with me right now?

Her head jumped from one thought to the next. Paris treasured her independence, and didn't want love to cramp her style. But she couldn't deny her feelings for Rafael. She wanted him, and not just because he had juicy lips and the body of a Greek god. He was a romantic at heart, chivalrous and kind, and she loved being with him.

Memories of New Year's Eve consumed her. It had been the most sensuous night of her life, and reminiscing about her epic encounter with Rafael triggered a rush of desire. Her feelings for him were so powerful and intense they scared her. He knew just what to say to make her smile, never failed to tell her she was smart and beautiful and made love to her with reckless abandon. His kiss was magic, his touch explosive, and a week after their one-night stand, Paris was
still
tingling between her legs.

Haunted by his smile, she struggled to control her emotions. Their behavior on New Year's Eve was hard to justify, and impossible to condone, so why was she reliving every moment of that night? And why was she itching to make love to him again?

Paris longed to hear his voice, could almost feel his soft, tender caress. Tapping her index finger on her cell phone, she wrestled over what to do about him.
Should I or shouldn't I?
she wondered, trying to ignore the suffocating knot in the pit of her stomach.

The town car slowed and then stopped. Paris opened her eyes and looked out the window. She saw children playing in the snow, mothers trudging up the block pushing baby strollers and mail carriers jogging from one brownstone to the next. Before she could ask the driver if he was lost, he got out of the car and slammed the door.

I hope he isn't doing personal errands on my dime, or—

A gush of cold air flooded the car when the back door swung open. Her teeth chattered and she shivered, but when she looked up as the driver took her hand to help her out of the car, a delicious heat spread through her body.

Paris couldn't believe her eyes. The town car driver was Rafael. The man she'd made sweet love to seven days earlier. Panic rose in her chest and fear coated her throat. Her first impulse was to try to make a break for it, but Paris knew she wouldn't get far.

She touched a hand to her chest. Her heart slammed into her rib cage, stealing her breath and her voice. If she didn't get her emotions under control she was going to have a panic attack, right there on the street.

Breathing deeply slowed down her erratic heartbeat. Paris tried to speak, wanting desperately to apologize for the way she'd treated him in Venice, but couldn't get the words out.

“Good morning, angel eyes. You're looking gorgeous, as usual.”

The sound of his dreamy, sensuous voice caused desire to well up inside her. Paris felt the urge to touch him, and an even stronger urge to kiss him all over. Unexpectedly seeing Rafael again made her feel excited and nervous at the same time. But all she could think about was how handsome he looked in his crisp black uniform.