Tempting Eden (5 page)

“Rochester?” A man came from the front door of the building.

Ms. Rochester whirled. “Brad? How wonderful to see you!”

She met him halfway and allowed him to embrace her and place a kiss on her cheek. He looked to be in his late thirties, but maybe younger. He had dark hair and wore a formal black suit. Handsome, obviously moneyed. He paid me no attention.

“It’s been too long. What, almost a year since I saw you in Mobile at that Mardi Gras ball?”

She laughed. I recognized it as her fake laugh, the one she used for sales. “Oh, don’t remind me. That was a sloppy night for me.”

“I know. I just wished I’d been able to get away from Margaret for long enough to take advantage.”

Another fake laugh. Ms. Rochester’s eyes darted from me and back to him.

“And who’s this?” He finally addressed me.

“This is my assistant, Jack. Jack, this is Brad Willingston.”

We shook hands. His grip was firm, confident. So was mine. He cocked his head at Ms. Rochester and winked as if he and I shared some inside joke. We didn’t.

Then he put his hand on the small of her back and led her forward.

I wanted to take his arm off at the elbow. What he was touching belonged to me.

He opened the door for her. “Well, Rochester, let’s get down to it. Talk me into it like you always do.”

After Ms. Rochester leased the entire remaining square footage of the Windwood building to Brad Willingston, she jumped right back on Belle Mar. The next few weeks were busy, full of meetings and discussions. Ms. Rochester had me back burner the rest of her projects and assign them down the line to some of the other agents.

Belle Mar was her main goal, and she went after it with every ounce of energy she had.

The footprint for the massive structure was cemented into the sand along the Florida coast. Mr. Poole’s construction arm had already built most of the complex, but the interiors were still unfinished and in need of direction. This is where Thornfield stepped in, masterminding the room plans, the finishes, and building buzz to buyers.

Ms. Rochester didn’t like the architectural design renderings sent in by Mr. Poole’s chosen designer. She said they were too old-fashioned, not enough style. So she ordered another set from a more modern, up-and-coming design firm in Atlanta. The prices for the drawings alone would have put me through college twice over. Money was nothing to the people in this business—in this part of town, really.

Throughout our time together, Ms. Rochester’s mood shifted between cold one moment and pleasant the next. I couldn’t tell if I had offended her or if something else had. She never directed her anger at me, but had no problem expressing her emotions.

Overall, the rest of the office was professional, courteous. Only Ms. Rochester kicked up a stir every now and again. Her mercurial nature warded off the other agents and staff—all except Mr. Fairfax. It seemed like nothing could put that man off. He didn’t even raise an eyebrow at her quick temper.

The only time I knew for certain one of her angry fits wasn’t directed at me, was when she’d seen the offending Belle Mar drawings from Mr. Poole’s architect. She’d raced out of the conference room, still limping a bit, and hurried to her office. She slammed the door behind her as I sat at my desk and watched the scene unfold.

Her light glowed red on my phone, and soon I heard her giving someone on the other end of the line holy hell for bringing her “drawings straight out of a 1965 trailer park.” Her tirade lasted for a full-on three minutes before I finally heard her quiet, like the eye of the hurricane was finally passing overhead. Only a few more yells of profanity wafted to my ears before the light on my phone went out. Then I could hear her grumbling to herself.

She stayed in her office until noon that day. When she emerged, she smiled at me and told me to join her for lunch. She was a thunderstorm, raining here and rumbling there, but never in one place for too long.

I walked out with her. We rode down the elevator in silence, though I could tell she was observing me in the gold mirror doors. I studied her reflection. I’d seen her all week, followed her through the halls, taking down dictation, managing her busy days. I’d memorized her figure, her voice, even her sad limp that improved each day.

She wore another skirt suit. She seemed particularly fond of them. I hadn’t seen her wear a pair of pants all week. I didn’t mind. Her legs were one of her best attributes. Perfectly shaped, tapering down to small ankles. They were pale, as if she didn’t care for the suntans that most of the other women in the office sported. I imagined my hand on her leg, brown skin meeting the fairness, casting a shadow.

I glanced away from her. I couldn’t risk my imaginings going too far.

She coughed. “I don’t mind if you look. Is there something in particular you like?”

I caught her eye in the reflection. She had a smile on her lips, warmth in her tone. She had changed yet again, now in a playful mood.

“I—No.” I lied.

“No? You don’t find anything about me attractive?” Her tone was petulant, teasing, and she put her hands on her hips.

Heat rose along my collar, seeping up my neck. Her teasing made my blood pump harder, my need to press her up against the elevator and kiss her into submission growing stronger with each passing moment. The elevator began to slow, finally reaching the ground floor.

“That’s not what I meant, Ms. Rochester.”

The carriage stopped, and the doors opened. I waited for her to walk out first. She didn’t. I chanced a glance at her eyes, wondering why she stood still. The elevator doors slowly closed as we maintained our positions.

“What did you mean, then?” she asked.

I considered her for a moment before choosing my words. “I meant that you have a certain type of beauty. You are attractive. But not in the same sort of way as a lot of women.”

She crossed her arms over her chest. “What makes me so different?”

This wasn’t a proper conversation between employer and employee. I knew it, but I didn’t care. I’d watched her long enough to know what I thought of her. I’d already made up my mind.

“You aren’t a ten, if that’s what you’re asking me.”

She smiled. No hurt in her eyes, only confidence. “No?”

“No. But there’s more to you than looks that makes you beautiful.”

“Like what?”

I didn’t want to lose my job. I’d kept myself restrained, reserved, under wraps. It was for the best. But here she was, trying to goad me into a response. I decided to give her one.

“The way you run headlong at any situation. The way you feel at ease even when you’re under pressure. The way you seem to solve problems before they even begin. The way you don’t give a damn what your competition thinks of you. The way you aren’t afraid to tell people how you feel, what you think.” I stopped myself before I went any further. This repartee was just another test, her trying to judge me, measure me.

She took a small step toward me, invading my space. I looked down into her green eyes, giving her stare right back to her until she blinked. Something more than air existed in the space between us. I wanted to grab her waist, to link myself to her somehow. I wanted to claim her, to show her which one of us was truly in charge.

I maintained my stance.

“Do I make you uncomfortable?” she asked.

“Not even a little bit.”

She had no idea. The things I could do to her. The things I’d already done to her in my mind while I lay awake in the apartment behind Ms. Temple’s house every night. It wasn’t some ridiculous fantasy where the secretary bangs the boss. It was
her
. Something about her that I couldn’t quite define, but that I wanted, all the same.

“Does the way I do business bother you? The way I speak to you?”

I shook my head. “This is a job. You pay me to assist you. I’ll do that in any way I can.”

She cocked her head to the side. “You think this conversation is between a boss and her subordinate?”

I wasn’t sure what she meant. My face must have reflected my confusion.

She dropped her arms before reaching up and smoothing a few stray strands from her face. “I realize I pay you, that you work for me. But ever since that first day, when you won the business from Poole, I haven’t seen you as a subordinate. Can I teach you things? Yes. Do I have more experience? Yes. But you have certain intangibles, things I haven’t seen in any of the others in your position. Don’t sell yourself short.”

She couldn’t have surprised me more if she’d backhanded me and spit in my face. Actually, that would have been easier for me to process. This way of hers, the ability to put me at ease while simultaneously stunning me, made me wonder if she was gaming me somehow. But her frank gaze said differently. The truth was there in her eyes.

She reached past me and hit the button to open the doors. “Let’s get some lunch.”

CHAPTER THREE

E
DEN

W
E SETTLED IN AT
the Greek eatery a couple of blocks from the Galway building. Jack had been silent for the walk, once again keeping his thoughts to himself.

I’d gone too far with him on the elevator. I couldn’t help myself. I wanted to keep prodding him until I got some pushback, some real emotion. He’d come through for me and then some. I’d been rewarded in his words, the fire that lit in his eyes as he looked down at me. He was so close I’d wanted to touch him, to just stroke his cheek if only for a second to see what he felt like.

The moment was gone. I resolved to stop baiting him so much. But I knew I was lying to myself on that score. The more he revealed, the hungrier I became to know more about him. Is this what addiction was like?

We sat at a café table near the warm window as we waited on our food. The restaurant was perennially busy, crammed with worker bees from the downtown buildings. I recognized some clients here and there, giving them nods and waves. A couple gave a second look at Jack, no doubt wondering where I’d found such a handsome lunch date. But their manners kept their curiosity in check, and so we were allowed to eat in peace.

The server set our food down, and we prepared to dig in. The din of the restaurant was a low, soothing background. Lawyers to our right discussing a high-dollar litigation, a table of some sort of investment professionals behind us talking about points and rates. I liked the noise. Thornfield’s offices were always too quiet for my tastes, too serious and stuffy, especially for a sales office.

I took a bite of my salad, the vinegar and oil a perfect mix of tartness on my tongue. Jack watched me bite and chew, his gaze on my lips. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed, though he had yet to take a bite. He broke his concentration on my mouth and unfolded his napkin, schooling his features and focusing on his lunch.

He puzzled me. His façade of coolness was simply that, a front. He had something else going on in his mind. What he’d told me earlier, about going against his instinct, stuck with me. His natural state wasn’t the caricature of self-control before me. It was something far more unrestrained, wild perhaps.

I wanted to know more about him. Why was he so intent on keeping his true emotions tucked away? Only one way to find out. My resolution of five minutes before, to stop prodding him, fell by the wayside.

“Why do you go against your instincts?” I asked around a mouthful of greens.

His eyes flashed up and then back down again. He took a bite of his grilled chicken and chewed. Buying time before answering.

“It never served me well in the long run.”

“Being yourself didn’t serve you well?”

“I am myself. Right now.” He met my gaze again and spoke evenly. “I’m not somehow diminished by taking time to think before I speak. I’ve tried it both ways. Lashing out, being quick to rise, quick to anger. This way is better.”

He spoke so methodically, choosing his words with care. I envied the ability.

“But don’t you feel caged?”

“No. I feel free. I’m not chained to how I feel at a given moment. I can sort of, I don’t know, step back, take a breath, think it through, and then decide how I’m going to react to any situation. That gives me the power, not someone else and not whatever situation I find myself in.”

He fell silent and continued eating as I thought about his words. I couldn’t lay claim to any similar patience or self-reflection. I supposed he’d seen my lack of control plenty with the way I stalked around the office and exploded whenever confronted with the sheer idiocy of certain contractors and employees. I had never been one to make any efforts to save others’ feelings. As my grandmother always said, I wore my heart on my sleeve, no matter the consequences.

“Well, Mr. Bastion-of-Self-Control, I can’t imagine what you must think of me.”

He raised an eyebrow. “I already told you what I think.”

He was right. He had told me. I still felt a flutter in my stomach from the conviction he’d put into his words when I’d kept him in the elevator. I was more than pleased I was the subject that had elicited such a strong response.