Slave to Love (8 page)

“They make theirs with rye whiskey instead of bourbon.”

Another two sips and the cherry is no longer submerged. Sierra reaches into the glass and plucks it out. About ready to pop it into her mouth, she catches my eye and smiles. She’s just messing with me. Reaching out, I grasp her slender wrist and slowly pull it to me. Taking the tips of her thumb and forefinger into my mouth, I suck the cherry out from between her fingers and show it to her on my tongue before slowly chewing it, a smile firmly planted on my face.

I’m still holding her wrist and with my free hand, I signal to the waiter for two more.

“We need to talk, Hale.”

I can see she is struggling. We are in such dangerous territory and we escalate there quickly and too easily. She is clearly unnerved and I’m not sure if it’s by her own behavior, mine or what happens when we’re together. Her eyes search mine as if she is hoping to find some truth. I loosen my hold on her wrist and pick up my drink.

“Let me start by first saying something I have yet to say to you. I’m sorry, Sierra. I’m sorry I disrespected you.”

“You treated me like a bimbo, Hale. That is just not acceptable.” She stops and picks up her drink. “As a woman in the corporate world, I have to work twice as hard to get to the same place as my male counterparts. So I work three times as hard. And I’m good at what I do, really good. So for you to treat me that way, is just not excusable.”

“I don’t even know how to explain myself. I know what I did was inappropriate and wrong. I was touching you and then I was
touching
you.”

“I have never crossed the line in business. Men can do it. Women can’t. When men do it, they get an “atta boy”. Women get labeled as sluts and never taken seriously again from a business perspective. I’ve worked really hard to get where I am.”

The sincerity in her eyes is eating at my gut. How do I even explain this to her? How do I tell her?

“It wasn’t my intent to offend you or disrespect you and I totally understand why you feel the way you do. I had no right to be touching you. You didn’t give me that permission and I way overstepped my bounds by taking something you didn’t give me.”

When she remains silent, I cave. I’m crumbling. This girl has no clue that I would do anything for her.

“It’s just,” I pause, knowing if I continue to speak, I’m going to sound like a lunatic, “it’s just, I wasn’t thinking and it felt so natural and right to be touching you. Unfortunately, it was inappropriate and offensive to you.”

“Would you grab a male colleague’s ass?”

“No. But if I’m going to be totally honest with you, I would never be fantasizing about a male colleague’s ass.”

The shock that registers on her face is almost comical. But not quite.

“You fantasize about my ass?”

“Your ass is gorgeous, Sierra. I’d have to be dead not to notice it.” I kill the last sip of my second Manhattan.

With the timing of a Swiss clockmaker, the waiter approaches the table, handing Sierra her menu first and then one to me. I make eye contact with the man and he beats a hasty retreat.

Looking down at my menu to put a halt to the conversation for now, I pretend I’m reading the chef’s specialties, until I hear her small gasp. Looking up, our eyes meet. The surprise conveyed in hers are the reaction I was hoping for as I raise my brows, silently asking her to answer.

Across the top of her menu, the restaurant has printed the message:

Let’s start over again, Sierra.

My heart is melting. I
want to stay mad at him, but I can’t. What he did was wrong. No doubt about that. But I think I understand now that we are both fighting something we’re really not quite sure how to handle. And probably not doing a good job of it.

I can’t believe he had the restaurant print a personal message to me on the menu.

“Yeah,” is all I say as I meet his deep blue eyes, eliciting a smile that makes the edges of his eyes crinkle. The man is so damn handsome and I fear I’m going to break every rule I live by and become the ultimate hypocrite after all the shit I’ve given him.

“Here’s the thing, Hale,” I need to lay it out there for him so that there is no confusion. “While we’re working on your project, we really need to keep it a work relationship.”

“I understand.” He nods and I’m having problems concentrating on anything but the dark stubble on his jaw that makes him look so damn masculine. Hale Lundström is a man, he is not a little boy. And he’s the man that I want. “What I’m struggling with,” he goes on, “is how do we stop our rapport, our banter? The cherries, for instance. And do we even want to stop that? It’s our way of getting to know one another, Sierra.”

“I don’t know,” I’m shaking my head. “This is really confusing.”

Hale flags down the waiter and orders yet another round of Manhattans. He responds to my wide-eyed look with a laugh, “Don’t worry, we’ll eat plenty of food to sober up before I make you get back in the Lotus; but one more drink will decimate both our walls so that we can be really honest with one another.”

He’s right, his words resonate and make the little hairs on the back of my neck stand up. Admitting that I think about him obsessively, wondering what it would feel like to be pinned underneath him as he uses his muscular thighs to nudge mine open is probably more honest than I want or need to be.

When the waiter delivers our drinks, I’m almost afraid to take the first sip.

“To crashing through walls without decimating all boundaries,” he pauses and I take a sip. “Yet.” He finishes his sentence and I choke.

“Are you sure you’re okay to drive?” We’re waiting for the valet to bring the car around. A typical summer’s night in Austin. The setting of the sun has yet to cool the still evening air, even as it approaches 11:30 P.M.

“Sierra, if I were not okay, we’d be in the back seat of a cab right now.”

“We’d?” I’m surprised.

Laughing, “Yes, we’d. Because first we’d be dropping you off in Travis Heights and I’d be walking you safely to your door. And then the cab would be taking me home.”

“Wow, you’ve almost got me believing you’re a gentleman.”

“I do have manners. I just don’t always display them. As you’ve already witnessed.”

“Where do you live?” I’m dying to know.

“In The Austonian,” he’s somehow surprised that I don’t know he has a residence in the skyscraper where he’s got the executive office space, where my office is when I’m working on SpaceCloud business. “The other half of the floor is my apartment.”

Wow. I’m suddenly uncomfortable at how close I’ve unknowingly been to his bed. And now that I know, well, that adds another level of distraction. I’m going to have to keep myself from fantasizing about nooners.

The valet pulls up with the Lotus. “Sweet ride,” the kid excitedly says to Hale.

“Need help getting in?” The smirk on his face shows how much fun he is having fucking with me.

“Maybe that should be my question to you,” I shoot back without missing a beat.

His laugh is hearty, “Baby, I never have problems getting in.” And he folds his long, muscular frame into the car with the ease of a mountain lion.

Me and my smart ass mouth. I am never going to make it to TFV1 without ‘shitting where I eat’, if this keeps up. I can’t let that happen. There’s so much on the line. Kemp’s promotion is imminent. I cannot throw it all away now. No matter how overwhelmingly attracted I am to this man.

The physical space in the cockpit of this tiny car is my enemy right now. We are so close together, that with every turn my knee brushes his hand on the stick shift and there’s nowhere for me to move away. I hate that part of me wants to throw caution to the wind and turn my back on everything I know to be true. I hate it. And what I really loathe is my fear that I’m going to lose this battle at the most critical juncture of my career.

We cross the Colorado River and turn left on Riverside Drive. It’ll only be five more minutes in this car with him until we are pulling up in front of my house. Conflicted? That’s a freaking understatement. I want my personal space back, but I fear the emptiness when he retreats. The last twenty-four hours have been overwhelming and confusing.
Is there a right or a wrong?
I ask myself.
And is he worth the risk or will he be the biggest colossal mistake of my life?

I don’t know that I can risk that.

Pulling into my driveway behind my car, Hale cuts the roaring engine. Immediately, he opens his door and I’m relieved as he vacates my space. He’s around the tiny car in a nanosecond, opening my side and offering me a hand to help me out. Biting my tongue, I hold back making a smart ass comment.

Instead of letting my hand go, he threads his fingers through mine as he sees me to my door, as promised. We are so fucked. Or maybe it’s just me that’s so fucked as my hand remains nestled and lost in his.

Letting go, he raises his finger to the top of my cleavage, touching it. “No mermaid. I like the mermaid. Why aren’t you wearing my chain?”

“Because I fear I’ll get tangled up in your chains.” And with that simple admission, Hale Lundström finally got the truth he was hoping the third Manhattan would bring.

The scent of eucalyptus and
the fragrance of brightly colored perennials, mingled with hibiscus and bougainvillea crowd my senses, pushing forth memories of past stays here at the Beverly Hills Hotel. I didn’t even realize I had these memory imprints, but the perfumed onslaught has deposited them at the forefront of my brain. I wonder if the memory imprint will change after this trip. Will smelling this medley of scents now forever be associated with Sierra Stone?

The schedule doesn’t begin until tomorrow morning with breakfast in their President’s bungalow. It appears that I am the only out-of-town client and therefore, the only one spending the night at the iconic
Pink Palace
. Kemp had extended the invitation to meet them in the Polo Lounge when I arrived, and I head there directly, after checking into my bungalow.

Strolling in, I scan the vast room in search of Kemp and Sierra and amongst a sea of California blondes, I spy her loose waves immediately and head in their direction. Kemp sees me approaching and stands to greet me. Sierra and the other man at the table look up. I catch her eye, hoping she can read my non-verbal body language telling her how happy I am to see her again.

“Bob Mannon,” a fifty-something grey haired man of medium build stands, extending a hand.

I gently lay a hand on Sierra’s shoulder to let her know that she doesn’t need to get up to greet me and don’t miss the opportunity to deliver a slight, yet imperceptible squeeze. It’s been over a week since our last TFV1 meeting and I would kill to whisk her out of this lounge and ply her with Manhattans.

“We just ordered drinks,” Bob informs me. “Let’s get the waiter over here for you.”

Facing Bob, I take a seat between Sierra and Kemp. When the waiter arrives and places a Manhattan in front of Sierra, I press my thigh against hers and inform the waiter, “I’ll have what she’s having,” hoping she’ll pick up the iconic line from
When Harry Met Sally.”

When my drink comes, we toast.

“How’s your Manhattan?” I ask, my voice low.