Книга - Pleasure Under the Sun

Pleasure Under the Sun
Lindsay Evans


Passion is the ultimate seducerThey meet at an invitation-only party in Miami. Desire instantly ignites. Financial advisor Bailey Hughes knows better than to get involved with playboy Seven Carmichael. But the gorgeous, world-renowned sculptor refuses to take no for an answer. And soon Bailey finds herself aboard a private yacht—enjoying days and nights of pleasure beyond her hottest fantasies. The moment he saw her, Seven was obsessed. From Key West to an intimate Jamaica paradise, he’s embarked on a campaign of seduction to make Bailey his. With a passion the wary businesswoman can’t resist, he’s breaking down all her defenses. What will it take to win what he wants and needs most—Bailey’s carefully guarded heart?







Passion is the ultimate seducer

They meet at an invitation-only party in Miami. Desire instantly ignites. Financial advisor Bailey Hughes knows better than to get involved with playboy Seven Carmichael. But the gorgeous, world-renowned sculptor refuses to take no for an answer. And soon Bailey finds herself aboard a private yacht—enjoying days and nights of pleasure beyond her hottest fantasies.

The moment he saw her, Seven was obsessed. From Key West to an intimate Jamaican paradise, he’s embarked on a campaign of seduction to make Bailey his. With a passion the wary businesswoman can’t resist, he’s breaking down all her defenses. What will it take to win what he wants and needs most—Bailey’s carefully guarded heart?


A blush heated her face and she turned abruptly away from him to face the evening beyond the balcony.

She wanted to… She needed… Images of what she wanted came to her. Hot. Clawing. Sweaty. Impossible. She squeezed her eyes shut, pressed a hand over her racing heart. Seven stood just behind her, but she couldn’t face him yet. He could easily see the hunger in her face. See how effortless it would be for her to forget her precious principles and make love with him tonight.

“If it makes you feel better, you can tell yourself that kiss was to seal our new business arrangement.” His breath brushed the back of her neck. “I’ll see you in your office on Monday.”

A hot tremor quaked her thighs. She fought it and straightened, then turned around, determined to reclaim her composure and get back on even footing with Seven. But, except for the whispering girls and the woman smoking her cigar, Bailey was alone. She swallowed her disappointment. Then turned back to the night, hoping it would soothe her riotous mind and overheated body.


LINDSAY EVANS

is a traveler, lover of food and avid café loafer. She’s been reading romances since she was a very young girl and feels touched by a certain amount of surreal magic in that she now gets to write her own love stories. Pleasure Under the Sun is her debut title for the Harlequin Kimani Romance line.


Pleasure Under the Sun

Lindsay Evans




www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


Dear Reader,

What condition would your heart be in if you had a harrowing experience and your young life was a roller-coaster of thrilling adventures you never wanted?

My heroine, Bailey Hughes, is still shell-shocked from childhood trauma and adult romantic misfortunes. She’s far from ready for the gorgeous sculptor with the bedroom eyes eager to sweep her into his arms for nights of intense passion. Join her for this romantic journey into the unknown. I hope you’ll enjoy it.

Lindsay Evans


Many thanks to Kimberly Kaye Terry

for her invaluable help on this journey of mine.

Also to Khaulah Naima Nuruddin, Sheree L. Greer,

Angela Gabriel, Brook Blander, and Keturah Israel—my friends and supporters. The butterflies in my garden.



For Dorothy Lindsay and Cherie Evans Lyon.

Your encouragement and love lift me up, always.


Contents

Chapter 1 (#uc5b88fa0-db27-5031-a63c-8d65eb61eaf0)

Chapter 2 (#u81cd6d74-b698-5517-b9c3-0e3a025c0b93)

Chapter 3 (#u39517e8c-befc-50bd-9a49-400d03b3b68c)

Chapter 4 (#ud8ded320-5f67-510f-8c89-84e8a2972111)

Chapter 5 (#u9dee068d-4a30-573e-a449-702a7621e552)

Chapter 6 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 7 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 8 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 9 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 12 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 13 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 14 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 15 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 16 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 17 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 18 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 19 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 20 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 21 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 22 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 23 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 24 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 25 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 26 (#litres_trial_promo)


Chapter 1

“You are the hottest thing I’ve seen all night,” the woman said.

She looked up to the docked yacht where Seven Carmichael stood, and watched him with a sly smile. She sipped from a glass of Scotch as she stood in the midst of the chaotic swirl of bodies on the back lawn of Marcus Stanfield’s Star Island mansion. High heels. Tight jeans. A sheer white blouse showing off a lacy black bra underneath. She was a gorgeous flash in the night, something Seven could definitely appreciate, although he usually preferred his women a little less obvious. Actually, she wasn’t just gorgeous. She was absolutely stunning.

His lips twitched in response to her compliment while another body part responded in a similar fashion to her sleek and sensuous body. “Thank you,” he said. “You’re not so bad yourself.”

He’d forgotten how delightfully forward American women could be. He braced his arms against the boat’s railing, watching the woman, who continued to boldly stare, hip cocked to one side, elbow of one arm resting in her palm, the crystal tumbler of Scotch held near her lips. Her gaze devoured his six-and-a-half-foot, muscled, toffee-colored frame.

“Don’t worry, honey. I’m just taking in the view. I have no intension of touching the merchandise,” the woman said. “At least not yet.” She smiled again, a suggestive movement of her glistening maroon lips.

“Are you so sure you could handle me?” Seven teased.

She looked him over again, brown eyes sparkling, hair swept up into an elegant pompadour. “I could handle two of you, honey.”

Seven was absolutely tempted to challenge the woman on her boast. The longer he looked down at her statuesque form, with its bold swath of hair and the white silk blouse fluttering in the breeze over her lace-cupped breasts, the more his intrigue and interest grew. But... “Maybe I’ll give you the chance to prove it another time,” he said. “I have a twin.”

The woman laughed, a husky gurgle of sound, and lifted her glass to him in salute. Then she turned on her high heels, treating him to a glimpse of her small but shapely behind in the tight jeans, and strutted down the walkway of the back lawn toward the mansion, where another party was going strong. Seven watched her go with regret, fighting the unfamiliar urge to rush after her and find out more about that heavily implied stamina of hers. He’d never been one for casual hookups, but something about that woman made him want to change his mind.

Seven stood on the deck of the yacht for a moment longer, feeling the minute movements of the Dirty Diana as she swayed in the dock, as much from the gentle undulations of Biscayne Bay as from the activities of the over two dozen partiers on board.

Beautiful women pranced around on the deck in their high heels. Well-dressed men—most with cigars in hand—stalked after them. Everyone was drinking and partying hard to Drake pounding from the speakers, their laughter high and bright. The hors d’oeuvres were plentiful and provided by uniformed waiters making regular trips between the mansion and boat. And at the center of it all stood Marcus Stanfield, Seven’s host and recent acquaintance.

The billionaire playboy’s generosity had come as a surprise to Seven, but he knew well enough from experience the whims and whimsies of the rich. He wouldn’t let himself get too used to Marcus’s hospitality. As quickly as it had been given, it could be taken away.

But at least Marcus’s spur-of-the-moment generosity had brought Seven from the arid deserts of Dubai to a much more appealing climate. When Marcus had come to Seven’s last solo show in the Arabian city, he had taken a liking to Seven’s work, immediately buying two pieces and arranging to have them shipped to Miami. His attention brought Seven to the notice of a few others at the opening, including a B-list British actress whose pants Marcus was trying to get into.

The actress later hosted a dinner party for Seven at her home, where he and Marcus ended up talking for most of the night. Toward the end of the party, Marcus declared that he hadn’t met anyone as interesting as Seven in a long time, and invited the artist to come with him to Miami as his guest. Seven, who had already planned on leaving Dubai, readily accepted the invitation.

Miami was his kind of town. Although he was visiting for only a short while, he could see himself settling down in a place like this. And not just for the abundance of beautiful women. It was the water, the international flavor of the city, the way certain sections reminded him of Jamaica—of Kingston, where his parents had moved from when he was a child. He was tired of living out of a suitcase, going wherever his work took him.

In the circle of hangers-on and admirers, Marcus caught Seven’s eye and grinned, pointing with his glass of champagne to the two girls hanging off his arms. Do you want some of this? his look asked. Seven shook his head and smiled.

“No, thanks, man. Enjoy it.”

The Dubai trip had worn him out. He’d spent almost two years there, finishing up the steel sculpture commissioned by the Bank of Arab Emirates. It was a prestigious commission. A well-paying one. If he wanted to, he could stop working for another two years and still live in the style to which he’d grown accustomed. But Seven liked working too much. Not to mention it was good to keep working while people still knew his name and were willing to pay exorbitant sums of money for something that came from his sweat and two hands.

In many ways, his career had been pure luck. He was lucky to have this life of his. Lucky Seven, as his mother called him. Her seventh child, the firstborn of the twins, her only children to survive past birth.

As Seven watched, one of the women from the pack surrounding Marcus separated herself and came toward him. She was short, but her stilettos gave her the much-needed height, helping to make her seem more grown-up than she actually was. Her rounded cheeks and the acne-dotted skin Seven could still see under her heavy makeup gave away her age. He would eat his welding helmet if she was even twenty-one. At thirty-five, he was far too old to be playing with children.

“What you doing out here by yourself, handsome?”

The girl tottered close, the hem of her cream-colored dress fluttering around her thighs, threatening to expose her backside. Seven vaguely remembered her from a few hours ago, when Marcus had made the introductions on the yacht. This one was filthy rich, an admitted art groupie who’d slipped her number in Seven’s pocket once the introductions had been made.

She was pretty and bold, but instead of taking her to his bed, Seven wanted to clean the makeup off her face and return her to her parents.

“I’m checking out the view,” Seven said with a smile.

The girl came even closer, sipping her nearly empty glass of champagne. She touched his arm, then playfully squeezed his biceps. “Yeah, me, too. And the view from where I stand is really hot.” Her breath smelled like champagne and strawberries as she leaned against the railing toward him.

After the woman in the backyard, this girl seemed too self-conscious, a flashy beauty without the confidence to back it up. Seven gave the girl his most charming smile and touched her arm, saying without a word she was beautiful, but tonight wasn’t the night. Her smile faltered. She clutched at the glass of champagne like a lifeline. A girl like this wasn’t used to being refused anything.

“A gorgeous woman like you deserves better company than me,” he said. “My head is in a whole different place tonight.” He squeezed her waist and, before she could say anything else, left her in search of solitude.

Seven felt her bemused eyes on his back as he walked away, but did not turn around. As he gripped the railing to get off the yacht, Marcus swam out of his crowd of admirers to Seven’s side.

“You having a good time, man?”

“You know I am.” Seven slapped his host on the back.

“Good. I don’t want you to get too bored.” Marcus grinned as if that was an impossibility. He shoved a full glass of Scotch into Seven’s hand. “Here. To make the party even better.”

“If things get slow for me here, I can always head back down to the house. The action down there looks hot.”

Hip-hop blared from the outdoor speakers on the back lawn of the mansion, while barely dressed women leaned from the balconies or danced suggestively to the music. Some had jumped into the pool in their party clothes, while others had simply stripped, inviting anyone else to join them with come-hither looks over their wet shoulders.

“Good, good. And don’t forget you can stay here as long as you like. My place is your place. And everything in it.” He inclined his head to encompass the women he’d just been talking to, one of whom was staring at him with a flirtatious come-get-it grin. She blew Marcus a kiss and he laughed, pretending to catch it and put it on his crotch.

“Thanks. I won’t be staying too long at your place, though,” Seven said, making a sudden decision. “I’ll get my own soon. But before I get too settled here, I need to take care of a few financial things.”

Most of his money was at a bank in England. He needed to set up accounts in the U.S. and arrange for his last check from the Bank of Arab Emirates to be sent there.

“That’s the last thing you should worry about. I know a money guy who can help you with whatever you need.”

A money guy, huh? Seven thought briefly about refusing Marcus’s help. Although Seven’s finances were very much in the black, in just a few short days of knowing the American billionaire, he’d received commissions worth almost three times what the bank in Dubai had paid him for the piece in their lobby. A man who made that happen probably knew a thing or two about multiplying and sheltering a fortune.

“Okay,” he said. “I’ll meet with your guy.”

“Cool.”

“Marcus, baby!” The sloe-eyed woman from across the room had apparently gotten tired of sending her kisses long-distance. She grabbed Marcus’s arm. “It’s time for you to tuck me in.” She grinned, all tiny teeth and bountiful cleavage.

Seven held up his hands. “Go ahead. I won’t keep you from your duties.”

Marcus tossed a grin his way before walking off with the woman toward the sleeping quarters belowdecks. Seven stayed only long enough to finish his Scotch. That last drink forced him to acknowledge the tiredness tugging at his shoulders and making his lids flag over his eyes. The past few days of nonstop partying with Marcus were catching up to him. Seven placed his empty glass on the tray of a passing waiter and left the boat, heading down a stone-paved path to the small cottage at the back of Marcus’s mansion. Music throbbed faintly behind him, followed him on his escape from the mad party, the sounds of laughter, a body splashing into the pool.

Seven let himself into the relative comfort of the cottage, undressed and fell into the bed. It enfolded him like a lover, soft as dreams yet firm under his back. Soon, he drifted into sleep, the worries and annoyances of his third day in Miami fading away with the sounds of the music from the larger house.

* * *

“Hey, wake up, rock star!” Someone pounded at the cottage door and called out again, “Wake up!”

Seven jolted from his sleep, reaching automatically for his cell phone on the bedside table to check the time. He swore under his breath. It was just past noon. Monday. But his body felt as if it could still do with another five hours of sleep. With a groan, he scrubbed a hand over his face. In the large mirror across from the bed, his reflection gazed tiredly back at him, bleary-eyed and naked. His body, hardened from years of lifting and shaping his steel sculptures, looked almost too heavy for him to haul out of the bed.

Whoever it was knocked on the door again, forcing Seven to gather the top sheet around his bare hips and stumble to open the door. Marcus stood there, grinning.

“About time you got your lazy ass up,” he said.

A trio of young women stood behind him, staring over his shoulder at Seven’s bare chest and stomach. Seven was suddenly glad that he’d taken the time to cover himself, otherwise the girls would have gotten more than they’d bargained for. But, looking at the scantily dressed girls who watched him with a shark’s intensity, maybe they wouldn’t mind seeing him naked, after all.

“Damn,” one of the girls said under her breath.

Seven cleared his throat. “Morning. It’s a little early, isn’t it?”

“It’s never too early.” Marcus laughed as if he’d made some big joke.

Behind him, the girls tittered on cue.

“You remember the girls from last night, right?” Marcus gestured to the women around him by way of introduction. Kenya was the bleached-blonde with deep gold skin. Felice wore her hair in a short natural, a pretty complement to her deep chocolate complexion. And Masiel had a fountain of black hair spilling around her narrow, foxlike face. All three girls were fiercely made up, dressed as though they’d just come from the set of a rap video.

Confused, Seven looked at the foursome gathered on his borrowed doorstep and gave them a questioning look.

“I came to take you to that money guy I told you about,” Marcus said. “The girls and I are on the way to that side of town and thought you might want to tag along.”

Seven raised an eyebrow at “the girls,” who wore tight skirts and body-hugging blouses of the animal-print variety. They didn’t look ready to see anyone’s money guy. Unless he was a pimp.

Marcus read his look accurately enough. “They’re not seeing the banker, you are. Come on. Get dressed. Maybe after you’re done we can go grab the jet and go for a bite and a sail in Cape Cod.”

Seven hesitated. He was flattered by Marcus’s interest, but he had had enough of the man’s hearty company. Marcus was generous, but he seemed to expect to be entertained at all times. His investment in Seven made him think the artist was there for his entertainment. It was time to end this.

“I have to shower. I don’t like leaving the house dirty,” Seven said.

“We’ll wait.”

And they did. As he walked out of the room to go shower, Marcus and the three girls sauntered into the small living area. Marcus fell into a sprawl on the couch while his companions grabbed the video game controllers and knelt in front of the fifty-inch flat screen to start a game.

In the bedroom, Seven quickly discarded the sheet and grabbed some clothes from his suitcase, climbed into the travertine-tiled shower and turned the water on full blast. The hot water washed away the last of his tiredness, flooding over his head and face, dripping through his lashes, over his mouth and down the muscular planes of his chest, belly, the thick stalk of his sex and his corded thighs. He sighed into the water, the heaviness in his body falling away to leave him awake.

Energized, he quickly finished his shower and dressed in jeans, a plain white Armani T-shirt and a favorite pair of loafers. He walked into the living room, fastening the clasp on his watch.

There, the three girls played “Just Dance,” their breasts and hips shaking as Marcus looked on with laughter and appreciation.

“Ready,” Seven said.

“Yummy,” Masiel murmured, turning her attention from the video game. Bouncy black waves tumbled down her back as she twisted around to look at Seven.

“I liked him better without clothes,” Felice said. With her close-cropped hair and sensual mouth, she was pretty in a Meagan Good kind of way, although not as sexy.

“I’ll take you however I can get you.” Kenya gave up any pretense of paying attention to the game and strutted over to Seven, who stepped back before she could touch him.

He wasn’t into playing with another man’s toys. Marcus watched all the action with a faint smile but didn’t say a word.

Seven raised an eyebrow. “You ladies are making me blush.” Though clearly he was in no danger of doing that. He looked at Marcus. “Are we heading out or what?”

“Of course.” Marcus stood up with a set of keys in his hand. “Let’s go.”

In the detached garage that was as big as another house, he chose a black Mercedes C-Class sedan and ushered the girls into the backseat before getting behind the wheel. He looked at Seven briefly. “You want to drive?”

Seven got in the passenger seat. “Yeah, right. I’m just here to relax and go along for the ride. Drive on.”

Marcus chuckled.

They drove out of the garage, under the wide, slowly lifting door, into the bright spotlight of a Miami Monday afternoon. Diamond sunlight bounced off the reflective lenses of Seven’s sunglasses as they wove through the estate’s main drive, flanked by bright ginger plants, yellow hibiscus and a profusion of thick-stalked pink and red flamingo lilies, plants Seven was used to seeing in Jamaica. A neatly manicured dozen or so acres, the landscape was occasionally broken by a hatted gardener stooped over a bed of flowers or stretch of grass. The smell of fresh-cut grass drifted into the car despite the closed windows and arctic AC.

The chill of the car made Seven suddenly wish for a cup of a hot chocolate. Steaming from the stove, not a packet. Freshly shaved from a ball of cocoa, swirled with milk and a dash of nutmeg. Just like his father made for him whenever he was home in Jamaica. Yeah, that was what he wanted.

Seven emerged from his momentary fantasy of hot chocolate to the sound of the girls giggling in the backseat. Marcus navigated the car through the mansion’s wide double gates and out to the long bridge heading off Star Island and to the A1A for downtown.

“The firm is downtown,” he said to Seven. “I’m not sure if Bailey can do anything for you today, but I let her know you’ll be there soon.”

“Her?”

“Yeah. Bailey. She’s my money guy.”

Masiel tapped Marcus’s shoulder from the backseat. “Can we go shopping on Collins Avenue?”

Marcus glanced back at her in the rearview mirror. “What, you got Collins Avenue money, girl?”

A chorus of giggles sounded from behind Seven.

“Honey, we thought you’d treat us.” Felice pouted, cocking a thigh bared in her short skirt. “We’re always treating you,” she said.

Seven didn’t have to imagine what the girls were always treating Marcus to. In the rearview mirror, Masiel gave him a teasing, wet-lipped smile as she trailed a red fingernail along her low neckline. He wasn’t impressed.

“You can drop me off at your money guy’s office and take off,” Seven said. “I got this.”

“See, he got this,” blond-haired Kenya mocked as she offered her cleavage for Marcus’s consideration. “We have needs, Daddy.” Her declaration set off another peal of laughter from the other girls.

In his profession, the rich and bored often clung to artists as a way to relieve their boredom—a lot like Marcus was doing now. Seven had seen enough of this type of leeching to last a lifetime. These girls bartered their bodies and their time for jewels or money or trips outside their small towns, riding that tiger as long as their looks lasted while hoping for one of these men to sweep them off their feet and offer marriage. He glanced at the trio in the backseat. He didn’t see Marcus marrying any of them, but then again, he had underestimated women enough to know he could be wrong.

“Here it is.”

The car pulled up in front of a high-rise glittering with blue glass and steel. “You’re going to the top floor. Braithwaite and Fernandez Wealth Management. Ask for Bailey Hughes.”

Seven nodded his thanks, patted his back pocket to make sure he had his wallet and got out of the car. As he slammed the door shut, one of the girls clambered over the other two to claim a position in the front seat beside Marcus. The younger man saluted Seven with a tap of fingers against his brow and peeled off down the street.

Inside the building, the AC threatened to turn him into an icicle in his thin white shirt and jeans. He pressed the elevator for the twenty-second floor, and when the car arrived laden with a half dozen business types who gave him cool, dismissive gazes, he got on and rose in swift quiet toward the building’s summit.

* * *

The top floor was rarefied air indeed. Seven stepped off the elevator into the marble-paved lobby of Braithwaite and Fernandez Wealth Management and the cold smell of new money. A thick mahogany desk sat directly in front of the elevator. Behind the desk, a freckled redhead with wheat-colored skin watched as he walked through the steel doors of the elevator. The heels of his loafers rang out against the marble.

Seven shivered slightly in the chilled air, feeling goose bumps rise over his arms. The lobby was cold and massive. It stretched out in both directions with an impressive view of the Miami skyline to the left and an ocean of cream marble in a long corridor that branched off into several hidden hallways. Purple orchids stood in tall black planters at each corner of the large lobby, a complement to the long row of black leather armchairs lining the back wall on both sides of the elevator.

“Good afternoon,” the redhead greeted him with a surprising island accent. Bahamian, if he wasn’t mistaken.

“Good afternoon. I’m here to see Bailey Hughes. I was referred by Marcus Stanfield.”

“Of course. Have a seat.” She gestured to the thick armchairs as she lifted the phone to her ear. “Your walk-in is here,” she said into the receiver. After a moment, the woman nodded. “Of course,” she said then hung up the phone.

“Ms. Hughes will be with you in a moment. Would you like a beverage while you wait?”

Seven looked around the reception area at the miles of marble, at the original Rothko on the cream walls. A place of obvious wealth and influence. They’d have what he wanted. “A cup of hot chocolate if you have it,” he said.

“Of course,” the young woman said. She moved from behind her desk with a click of her impressively high heels against the marble and disappeared down the hallway.

Seven shoved his hands in his pockets and strolled to the wide windows. Miami lay spread out before him, bright and glittering with its ribbons of roads, high-rise buildings and the gilded waters of Biscayne Bay. It was no Jamaica, but he looked forward to making a home here.

The sound of shoes on the marble drew his attention from the view. Two men, both middle-aged, with gray hair at their temples, one Latin and the other white, emerged from a long hallway, talking quietly. They looked up at him as they passed, nodding in quiet acknowledgment, although the white one, taller and in a more expensive suit, gave a narrow-eyed glance at Seven’s jeans and T-shirt. Seven, used to the contempt of corporate types, at least until they realized how much money he made, let the man’s cool-eyed stare roll off his back like bathwater.

He returned his attention to the view outside the window.

“Here you are.” The pale islander returned, holding a steaming mug in both hands. She smiled, then gestured toward the long hallway the men had come from. Seven gazed longingly at the cup in her hands. “Ms. Hughes will see you now. Follow me.”

She went ahead of him, long legs beautiful and eye-catching under the black skirt. At the third frosted-glass door, she stopped and knocked briefly.

“Come.” A voice came faintly from behind the slightly open door.

The young woman opened the door for him and waved him inside, simultaneously handing him the hot cocoa and gesturing toward one of the leather seats in front of the desk. Her duty fulfilled, she left.

Only a brief view of the office registered: ceiling-high windows, a wide glass desk, a figure rising from behind the desk with a hand outstretched. The woman behind the desk wore gray slacks and a white blouse with a heavy white bow at her throat. Her hair, straightened and parted down the middle, was tucked behind her ears. The usual banker type. Boring and barely attractive. But something about her pricked Seven’s memory.

“I’m Bailey Hughes. It’s a pleasure to meet you,” the woman said.

Seven’s hand rose automatically to meet hers even as his mind registered the familiar lines of her face, her sharp blade of a body, which had drawn his attention before.

“Have we met?” he asked, shaking her hand.

Her mouthed twisted briefly in a smile. “No, we haven’t. At least not formally.” She drew her hand back. “And I still don’t know your name.” She looked up at him, challenge in the arch of her eyebrow.

He grinned. “Seven Carmichael.”

“As I said before, a pleasure.”

“Likewise,” Seven said.

He watched her carefully, the gazellelike grace of her body, the challenging toss of her head, the long neck. Suddenly, he remembered the sound of laughter around her, the splash of bodies hitting the water. Marcus’s party. Last night. The woman who had taunted him from the back lawn.

“Damn. It’s you.”

She laughed softly, dismissively, and drew back even more to stalk away from him—secretive smile, long legs, a fake banker’s demeanor—to sit once more on the other side of her desk. In that moment, he saw that it was a mask she wore, something she pulled down to hide the vicious beauty he’d seen last night. And he was intrigued.

“Marcus told me you need help with asset management,” she said with a cool smile. “What is it that I can do for you, Mr. Carmichael?”

He sat in the leather armchair across from her desk, with the warmth of the hot chocolate sinking into his palms, the drink nearly forgotten as he focused on something he wanted more. Seven grinned.


Chapter 2

Standing in her office was the most beautiful man Bailey had ever seen. Brown skin. A sinner’s mouth. A muscled body under a loose white T-shirt and designer jeans. From the top of his sharply barbered head to the tips of the square-toed leather shoes peeking out from under his jeans, he was absolutely perfect.

Bailey gripped his hand firmly and bit her cheek at the tingle that ran through her arm, the jolt of attraction.

“Have we met?” he asked. His voice was deep, rough, with a hint of an accent. He smiled then and his teeth were like a bright light against his deep golden skin.

Bailey said something in reply but she didn’t know what. This man was magnetic. She stepped away from him and put the shield of her desk between them, sinking into her chair with relief. What was wrong with her? She’d seen other attractive men before.

He arranged his lean length in the chair directly across from her and sipped the hot chocolate the receptionist, Celeste, had given him before she left. He stretched out his long legs before him, his gaze attentive, a smile crinkling the corners of his eyes. Damn, he was fine!

“Marcus told me you need help with asset management.” Bailey leaned forward on her desk, hands clasped. “What is it that I can do for you, Mr. Carmichael?”

Despite his attentive gaze, Seven Carmichael looked as if he wanted to talk about anything but the reason he was in her office. He took a leisurely sip from his mug, still watching her. Bailey remembered him, too. How could she forget?

Last night at Marcus’s party, she had been bored out of her mind, regretting her hasty decision to leave home for the questionable pleasures of whatever Marcus had to offer. But at home, she had felt pent up, confined by her relentless pursuit for partnership at the firm. Despite it being a weekend, she’d worked twelve hours that day alone. After only an hour at the party, she’d walked out to the dock of the mansion to get a glimpse of the bay and calm her mind before heading back to the soothing solitude of her Miami Beach condo.

The man on the deck of Marcus’s pretentious little boat had appeared overhead like a dream to the soundtrack of Janelle Monáe’s “Tightrope.” She’d never been one for wild behavior, but frustration at having to present herself as perfectly square partnership material and as a relentless worker bee had caused another side of her emerge in that moment. So Bailey had called out to him, flirted with him in a way that she wouldn’t normally have, especially if she’d known she was going to see him again.

“I want to reallocate some funds and set up local accounts,” Seven said. “But that’s not very important now.” He chuckled, white teeth flashing against his toffee skin. “It’s a small world, isn’t it?”

“Yes, very. Especially when you run in Marcus’s circles,” she said.

Her friendship with Marcus was good for business but hell on her personal life. He’d referred enough big-money clients her way that she’d be a fool to alienate him. At the same time, all the men she’d met through him, at least the ones she’d found attractive, turned out to be assholes, criminals or both. She clenched her teeth to keep the smile on her face.

“I just met him a couple of weeks ago.” Seven sat back in the chair and sipped from the black mug with the firm’s monogram on it, his amused and interested gaze devouring her from the small distance. “But I didn’t come here to talk about him.”

On the boat he had seemed distant, not just physically but emotionally, an unattainable dream safe to flirt with. But up close here in her office, he was all personal contact and heat. A danger. Especially since he was one of Marcus’s friends. Those guys, if they had money, were usually arrogant pigs who assumed their money could get them everything and everyone they wanted. If they were broke, they were parasitic hangers-on trying to jump from one well-fed fish to another. Her sister always said that was most men in Miami. Only Clive had been the exception. He had fit all her criteria but turned out to have fidelity issues.

“So what did you come in here to talk about, Mr. Carmichael?”

Seven chuckled again, another stomach-warming sound that made her want to sink deeper into her chair and hear it some more. “Call me Seven, please.” That smile of his played havoc with her senses. “I came in here to talk about my money, but suddenly that idea doesn’t sound as appealing, or urgent, as it did before.” He glanced around her office. “Are you free for dinner tonight? I’d love to take you out and get to know you in a more intimate setting.”

Yes. She wanted to say yes. But the reasons not to have dinner with him crowded in on her, forced other words past her lips.

“I’ve already eaten and I’ll be here all evening,” she said.

“I see.” His lips curved in a slow, sexy smile. He sipped again from the mug of hot chocolate, licking his mouth.

“So, for the reason you’re here....” Bailey prodded.

He nodded, gave another of his secret smiles and got down to business. As he spoke, Bailey sighed quietly with relief and took up her pen and pad to take notes. Seven finished his hot chocolate as they talked about his money, what he wanted to do with it, the possibility of him relocating to Miami and taking advantage of all the amenities Florida had to offer.

They didn’t talk again about anything personal, certainly not about how she’d like to see him again if only he wasn’t one of Marcus’s friends. At the end of their hour-long conversation, he signed the papers to make their financial relationship official, shaking her hand as he stood up to leave. She took his empty mug from him and gave him a cool nod.

“Have a good evening, Mr. Carmichael.”

“My name is Seven.” His hand was warm around hers, firm and solid, as Bailey briefly allowed herself to imagine his body would be. Thoughts were harmless. It was no big deal to picture this beautiful man without his shirt, imagining she would get the chance to prove she could handle him as she’d boasted the previous night while the wind and his presence blew her boredom away.

“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.

Frowning, Seven slowly got up from the floor and sat in the chair across from her desk, putting them at a relatively even height. “You look upset. Why does it matter?”

“It matters.” Bailey clenched her fist and realized she still held the cell phone in her hand. She put it on the desk and leaned back in her chair. The fact that he was Marcus’s friend, she could have possibly overlooked, but this... This slammed the door on every possibility between them.

“What’s the problem?” he asked.

Suddenly, Bailey felt tired. The stress of her day and the seesaw of emotions from Seven’s appearance hit her like a Mack truck.

“Actually, there’s no problem,” she said.

“If that isn’t giving me mixed messages, I don’t know what is.” Seven raised an eyebrow in her direction. “What is it? You don’t like artists. Did one break your heart or something?”

“I have a lot to do tonight. Can you just pack all this stuff up and go, please?” She slipped her stockinged feet into the four-inch black Manolo Blahnik pumps under her desk to regain some semblance of power in the conversation.

Seven leveled a steady gaze at her. “Okay,” he said.

Although his movements seemed slow and unhurried, he quickly gathered the remains of their impromptu picnic into the basket and tucked them away. Soon, he stood at the door, ready to leave.

“Thanks for stopping by,” Bailey said. Even with every disastrous thing she now knew about him, she still wanted to rush over to Seven and ask him to stay. Beg him to stay. “It’s unfortunate we won’t be working together, after all.” Slowly, she stood up to her full height and then some in the couture stilettos, giving him her coolest and most professional smile.

He held her gaze for a long moment before responding. “Yes, a shame.” Then he was gone.

Bailey’s smile withered away. After his faint footsteps had faded down the hallway, she stood in the middle of her office, with the after-fragrance of their picnic swirling around her, disappointment like ashes on her tongue.

* * *

She left the office shortly after Seven did, unable to concentrate on work. With him gone, the building seemed lonely in a way it hadn’t before. Lonely and cold. Bailey gathered her briefcase, turned off the lights in her office and got on the elevator, pressing the button for the parking garage.

The last time a man had intrigued her as much as Seven, she’d quickly opened herself to him, excited that, for the first time in her twenty-eight years, she felt something close to love, a feeling her sister always swam in like some rarified pool in an otherwise dry universe. Bailey had almost drowned. She hadn’t realized that Clive, a professor at the University of Miami, had been steadily sleeping his way through his graduate students. Even after he’d asked her to marry him.

Bailey’s heels clicked a sad tattoo against the cement floor of the garage. Although it was almost nine in the evening, hers wasn’t the only car in the well-lit parking structure. She pressed a key on the remote and it chirped once, unlocking the pale blue Volvo C70 with a quick flash of the headlights. She climbed in and turned on her stereo and the Alice Smith song that had been playing on her way to work blasted into the small confines of the car. The bluesy, big-throated song blew away her unproductive thoughts about her love life and anything else lurking in her subconscious.

With the top down, she drove to her beachside condo, enjoying the feel of the wind in her hair during the short drive. She knew the route well and had driven it most of the eight years she’d been working at Braithwaite and Fernandez. It hadn’t been her first job offer after graduating from the University of Miami with her degrees in finance and business administration, but it was the one that had the most potential for growth and allowed her to stay in Miami. Stability. She had it. And it was something she was grateful for.

In the condo, she put her keys on the silver-plated hook by the door, walking by moonlight into the living room to drop her briefcase on the couch, then detouring in the kitchen to grab a crystal tumbler from the cupboard. Ice cubes clinked against the glass as she held it under the fridge’s dispenser. At the sideboard in the sitting room, she poured Scotch into the tumbler. The liquor gurgled and splashed over the ice in the silence.

Seven Carmichael briefly floated through her thoughts as she took the first sip of the twelve-year-old single malt. He had been like the drink, a searing heat through her senses that put her on pause for a moment to pay close attention to the slow burn over her tongue, in her chest and her belly.

Bailey shook him from her head.

It had been a long day, but she was far from tired. Her work energized her. And though she would have liked to share the evening with someone—the silver rush of moonlight over her hardwoods, the coolness of the floor against her bare feet, her quiet walk back out of her condo and up the elevator to the rooftop pool—she also savored her privacy. Her things.

Her home was all paid for. So was her car. She owed no one. It was a great feeling. One she cherished even as she sat at the edge of the pool with moonlight and starlight winking overhead, her whiskey by her hand. Alone.


Chapter 3

“If I’d known you were going to make a play for her, I would have warned you.” Marcus braced his elbows against the bar, sipping from his Hennessy and Coke. “Unless you’re corporate, you’re wasting your time.”

“Why? Is she just about money?” Seven asked.

He hadn’t gotten that vibe from her at all, and she had seemed to warm to him over the course of the hour they’d spent together on her office floor. But that warmth had disappeared once Marcus opened his big mouth and told her what Seven did for a living.

Seven tilted the last of his beer to his lips and leaned back in the chair at the bar of Marcus’s favorite spot, Gillespie’s Jazz and Martini Bar. The sound of the piano wove through the lazy Monday night, while soft laughter, the clink of glasses, the flash of jewels imbued the air with a subdued urban magic.

“Nah,” Marcus said dismissively. “She doesn’t care about things like that. Her last man was a teacher, some professor over at UM. She just doesn’t do artists.”

Seven looked at him. “If you knew that, why did you tell her that?”

“Like I said, man. I didn’t know you were feeling her like that. Most guys, once they realize she’s such a hard-ass, they back off. She’s hot, but damn!” Marcus shook his head.

Seven breathed in the memory of Bailey. Everything about her was hot. Her body. The way she had thawed for him like an ice sculpture under the rising sun. And her smile—absolutely incredible.

“Just give it up, man.” Marcus raised his drink to his lips. “You’re better off.”

Seven made a noncommittal sound. After what had happened in Bailey’s office, he’d been in a hurry to distance himself from Marcus, convinced that the other man was bad luck for his new life in America. He had left Braithwaite and Fernandez to view a condominium with vacancies. Luckily, they allowed him to move in immediately. When Marcus called to invite him to Gillespie’s, Seven had reluctantly accepted, plugging the address into the GPS and making his way to the club.

“You’re not going to give up, are you?” Marcus asked, his tone of voice saying that Seven should give up.

“Why should I?”

“I already gave you a good reason. Bailey is a genius with money, but she’s a bitch. Plain and simple.”

“Every strong woman isn’t a bitch, Marcus.”

“Spoken like a man who’s already whipped. And she didn’t even give you any.”

Seven gestured to the bartender for another beer. “Spoken like a man who’s never had a special woman in his life.”

“I’ve had plenty of special women.” Marcus laughed.

Seven nodded his thanks as the bartender slid him another bottle of Corona with lime.

“And speaking of which...” Marcus swiveled around in his chair as two women walked up to them, parting the crowd with their video-girl good looks. It was two of the girls from earlier that day. “Felice and Masiel are here for our pleasure,” he said, pulling Felice against him. The girl settled into his chest with a satisfied purr while her friend looked at Seven expectantly.

Seven squeezed the lime into his beer then slid the crinkled remnants of the citrus into the full bottle. “I don’t need any company tonight, thanks.” He sipped his beer, mouth puckering at the tartness of lime and beer.

Marcus stared at him in amazement. “You’re refusing this?” He gestured to Felice’s lush frame while she posed seductively, hand on hip, breasts thrust out.

“You’re hot like fire, baby,” Seven reassured the woman. “But I’m not in the mood.”

“Damn. You are whipped.” He started to sing Babyface’s “Whip Appeal” in a surprisingly good voice.

Seven laughed despite his irritation. “Forget you, man. I’m heading out. See you later.” He put the beer to his head, drinking as much as he could, then thudded the mostly full bottle against the bar with a sound of finality. He stood.

“You’re going to regret giving this up,” Marcus said. “But that’s cool. I’ll handle the girls for you.”

Masiel claimed the seat Seven had vacated, giving him her sexiest hurt look.

“Enjoy.” Seven tipped his imaginary hat at Marcus in a mocking salute, then turned and left the bar.

He didn’t have a particular destination in mind. His only goal was to get away from Marcus and his poison so he could have some time to himself. To think. To just be. But as Seven climbed into the rental Lexus and drove away from the bar, he suddenly realized that what he wanted more than anything was to go for a swim. Although he’d been in Miami for four long days, he had yet to get in the water. It had been months since he’d been in the water, not since his trip to Jamaica last winter to visit his parents.

Even then, he’d spent most of his time helping his parents around the house—fixing, climbing, painting, all good and honest work that left a pleasant ache in his body and sharpened his hunger for the good food his mother always had in the kitchen. A pang of homesickness took him, and Seven stepped harder on the gas, pushing the car up Collins Avenue toward his new condo. Once there, he quickly parked, went upstairs to change into his swim trunks and a white jogging suit, then walked the two blocks to the beach.

It was dark. The beach was deserted except for the occasional passerby. Waves tumbled up on the sand, pale waves painting the sand dark as they capered up on the beach before retreating back into the ocean. Seven kicked off his sandals and pulled off his jogging suit. The water called him.


Chapter 4

Bailey didn’t realize she’d brought her phone up to the roof with her until it rang. She put down her Scotch—her third glass in the past two hours—to answer it. “Good evening, Bette.”

Her sister chuckled into the phone. “Hello, sister dear. Did you finally leave the office?”

“Yes. Thank you very much.”

Bette made a shocked noise. “It’s not even midnight.”

There had been many nights when Bette had called her as late as two in the morning to find Bailey still at the office, laboring over some account or other. Worthless things, her sister said, despite the fact that her clients were worth billions and she handled millions of dollars of their money.

“What happened to drag you out of your den?”

“Who says something happened?” But something in her tone must have warned Bette.

“Ooh,” her sister gasped, drawing out the exhalation like caramel. “Do tell!”

Bailey picked up her Scotch and brought it to her lips. “There’s nothing to tell.”

“Shut up with your lies, girl!”

Bailey was helpless to the slight smile that quirked her lips. An image of Seven came to her, his hand raised to lift the plastic cup of sparkling white grape juice to her mouth. His own mouth smiling.

“It’s nobody.”

“Well, if he made you leave the office at a reasonable hour, I want to meet this nobody.”

“He’s...” She felt the disappointment again. “He’s like our parents.”

“What...dead?”

Bailey hissed. Sometimes she wondered what was wrong with her sister. “No. He’s some sort of artsy type. He sculpts or something.”

“Not this again.” She could practically see her sister plop down on the nearest available surface, flip her long dreads over her shoulder with irritation and scowl into space. “The life we had with Mama and Daddy wasn’t so bad.”

“What are you talking about? There were months when we were damn near homeless.”

“But didn’t we have so much fun?” Bette stretched out the last word as if it was the most important part of their lives. Damn the unpaid bills and insecurity about the roof over their heads, or where their next meal was coming from, or the constant moving from place to place following one art residency or another. There were nights when Bailey had cried over the desperation of it. She hated that life. The thought of going back to something like it terrified her.

Bailey sighed and took a sip of her Scotch. It seared across her tongue in a wave of beautiful heat, flowed down her throat like liquid silk. She stood at the edge of the cordoned-off rooftop to look down on the trickle of evening traffic, the winking lights from the occasional passing car. Bette was talking, but she tuned her sister out. They could never agree on their life before Miami. It was as if they had lived different versions of the same story. For Bette, it had been a dream. For Bailey, it had brought nothing but nightmares.

A movement on the beach caught her attention. For a moment, she didn’t know what it was, but the shape coalesced into a masculine silhouette walking out from the water. A dark, muscled figure with long, lean legs and slim hips covered in tight white swim trunks.

“What?” Bette’s voice cracked at her through the phone.

“Huh?”

“Did you say something?” her sister asked.

Bailey cleared her throat. “No, I didn’t say a thing.”

“You weren’t listening to me, either, were you?”

She leaned over the balcony, trying to see the man more clearly. “Not really.”

“Typical.” Her sister made a noise of frustration. “I don’t even know—”

“There’s a really hot guy on the beach.”

“Really?” Bette asked, her irritation apparently forgotten. “What does he look like?”

The waves whispered like a siren in the quiet evening. On the sand, the man stood with his hands on his hips, staring into the dark water. There was something vaguely familiar about him, about the masculine perfection of his body close enough for her to see his sculpted back with its deeper shadows of muscle.

“I can’t really tell, but his body is ridiculous,” Bailey murmured as she leaned over the concrete barrier. It pressed into her ribs through her blouse.

She’d seen enough body-conscious gay men walking on the beach that she wasn’t easily impressed. This specimen below her was something else. A brief thought of the man who’d brought dinner to her office intruded. But she shoved it away. It was easier to be frivolous and giggly with her sister, someone who wouldn’t take her appreciation of a stranger’s body for anything other than what it was.

“Does he look like Tyrese?” Bette asked with a laugh. “Damn, maybe it is Tyrese.”

“No. This man looks much better.” Oh, my God, so much better. “I wish I had my binoculars.”

“Now you’re just being creepy.”

“No. Just appreciative.”

“And drunk, too, I expect.” Bette laughed, a low and happy sound that made Bailey smile. “I wish I could come over there and have some of what you’re sipping on. And check out that hottie for myself.”

“No one told you to move all the way to Fort Lauderdale. There’s nothing up there but old queens.”

“And me.”

Bailey made a rude noise. “How could I forget?” She leaned her hip against the stone railing, paying proper attention to her sister while keeping her eyes on the man on the beach.

“Speaking of queens, I’m coming down to Miami to do work for a Colette fashion show this week.” Bette made a flippant sound as if her being the makeup artist of choice for one of the biggest fashion names in the industry was nothing. “You should take me to dinner and invite me to spend the rest of the week with you.”

Bailey smiled. “Sure. Mi condo es su condo.” She purposely didn’t say anything about taking her sister to dinner.

Bette noticed, of course, and muttered something about Bailey being a cheapskate, although they both knew that the dinner would happen—probably multiple times in the week—and that Bailey would pay.

Her sister was quiet for a moment, and Bailey heard only her low breathing, the rustle of some sort of plant, as though she was outside in the backyard of her rented Wilton Manors house.

“You know you have to get over this thing about men like Daddy,” Bette said.

“What about you and your thing about women like Mama?”

“I’m not even going to justify that with an answer.” For once, her sister sounded incredibly grown-up, coolly attempting to put Bailey in her place. “I’m not shutting a whole population of people out of my dating pool just because they don’t have the kind of job you find ideal.”

“I’m not going to compromise myself—”

“It’s not compromise when you’re making yourself miserable going after guys like Clive, who aren’t worth anything. I’m sure the guy you were lusting after is great if you’ll just give him a chance.”

“I don’t think so,” Bailey muttered.

On the beach, the man turned away from the water and began to pull on his clothes. He shoved his feet in sandals and threw something—probably a shirt—over his shoulder. A sixth sense must have warned him about her watching, because he looked up. And Bailey lost her breath. She was dimly aware of him raising a hand in acknowledgment. Then, instead of waiting on a response from her, the man walked up the sand away from the water, and away from her. Bailey blinked as she watched the dark figure disappear down a narrow side street.

It was Seven Carmichael.


Chapter 5

Bailey couldn’t stop thinking about him. At work the next day, he lingered in her mind like the sound of the sea, haunting and unforgettable. Long after his figure had disappeared from below her at the beach, Bailey had allowed her thoughts, loosened by the Scotch, to dwell on the most beautiful man she had seen. Bette had tried to talk her into seeing him again, but Bailey refused to listen to her. Just because he had a hot body—a damn near perfect body, in fact—didn’t mean she should just throw her principles out of the window.

“That’s exactly what that means,” Bette had said with a happy lilt to her voice.

Wasn’t Bailey the one who had been drinking?

“Aren’t you supposed to be gay or something?”

“Bisexual,” Bette had corrected. “I can’t wait to see this guy. It’s too bad we’re not identical twins. I could get his cookies and he’d never know the difference.”

“I think you’ve been sleeping with women too long. Guys don’t have ‘cookies,’ Bette.”

“Oh, yes, they do, sister dear.”

Bailey had almost hung up the phone on her. After their call, she’d felt regretfully sober. She’d left the comfort of her balcony for a long shower, where her thoughts had lingered over the picture Seven made on the beach—muscled back, tight body, lean grace in every movement.

“I don’t want him!” Bailey had said to her reflection in the bathroom mirror as she combed out her wet hair. No one in the room had believed her.

The next morning, she tried to focus despite an unexpected hangover. A virgin Bloody Mary and too many cups of coffee later, she still didn’t feel 100 percent. In her office, she was sluggish, forcing her mind from thoughts of her comfortable bed to the task at hand.

Her client Raymond Gooden sat in her office, carefully glancing over the papers she had just presented for him to sign. Bailey took a deep breath of relief. The headache was finally going away, and at least he didn’t seem to notice her sluggishness. She’d managed to present nothing but a competent, businesslike front to her client as they’d discussed plans for investing the latest three-million-dollar payoff from his European film investments.

Wearing a red tie, body-conscious suit and trendy haircut, he seemed to be taking advantage of all the perks of his money, but contrary to appearances, Mr. Gooden was very cheap. If he ever asked Bailey out, he’d probably expect her to pay.

She flicked her gaze across her desk at the fiftysomething-year-old man. Why was she thinking about this man asking her out? Just because Seven Carmichael... Bailey clamped down on her thoughts and forced herself back to the matter at hand.

“What do you think, Raymond? Are these figures to your liking?”

“These numbers are fine with me,” Mr. Gooden said, offering a slight smile.

As soon as Raymond Gooden left her office, she gathered his paperwork, slipped it into his file and put it in the outbox for her secretary. Bailey had digital backups of everything, but she enjoyed the touch of paper. It gave her a sense of security the intangible digital material did not have. Funny, since people would say what she did with money—trading, multiplying and moving it around in a world far removed from paper—was the ultimate triumph of the intangible over tangible. But she didn’t care; she lived with her contradictions as well as anyone else.

As she flipped through her notepad to see what notes needed transcribing, someone knocked on her door.

“Come in,” she called out.

She’d expected her secretary coming in to tell her she was heading out to lunch, but instead, it was Raphael Fernandez, the less appealing of her two bosses. He came into her office, took a small bottle of antibacterial spray from his pocket, spritzed his hands, then wiped them on a handkerchief he took from his breast pocket. Apparently, he’d had to touch her germ-ridden doorknob on the way in. Raphael swept inside, attempting to take up most of the space in her office. Luckily, they’d given her enough square footage so that wasn’t possible. So instead, he loomed over her desk.

In a tailored charcoal suit, with his handkerchief once again tucked into the pocket of his jacket, and an American flag lapel pin, Raphael presented the perfect picture of a wealthy and patriotic gentleman. Though he dressed the part of an urbane man about town, his face was like a fighter’s—rough-looking, with a scar slashing across his right cheek and a nose that looked as though it had been broken a few times. It was a contradiction that pleased the clients. Maybe they thought he was one who would protect their money at all costs.

“Bailey,” he said. Unlike Mr. Braithwaite, Raphael preferred the more casual approach. Although, with him, his use of her first name was almost patronizing. It was a skill Bailey sometimes marveled at. “Harry told me you were here working until the small hours last night.”

“Not that late, Raphael. A few things came up with a potential client. It didn’t take very long. Mr. Braithwaite caught me when I looked the busiest.” She gave him a cool smile.

“Nevertheless, I wanted to tell you that you’re doing a good job. Your work here at the firm has not gone unnoticed.”

“Thank you, Raphael. I’m merely doing my job.”

“And doing it in an exceptional way,” he said.

Although she didn’t like Raphael as much as she did Mr. Braithwaite, she found that he had a grudging respect for her that made itself known at the most bizarre of times. Like now. She merely leaned back in her chair, lacing her fingers together under her chin to watch him posturing, instead of entering into a battle with him over the physical position of power in the room. The scar on his cheek lifted his mouth in a vaguely menacing smile.

Bailey smiled back at him.

Raphael smiled again in approval and stepped back, ready to leave her office. Then something on her desk caught his eye. Her notepad.

“Do you know Seven Carmichael?”

She looked down at her desk to see what he’d noticed. Seven’s name scrawled on the yellow legal pad along with some financial figures.

“Ah, yes. He came in yesterday for a consultation. He’s relocating to the Miami area and is on the hunt for a local firm to handle a few things for him.”

“Did he bite?”

“No. I don’t think he’d be a good fit for us.”

“Good fit? My dear, this man is worth millions. Not just that, his art is being collected by every bank and bored housewife with a garden. Get him to change his mind and come with us.” He lifted an eyebrow. “Unless you don’t want that partnership, after all.”

Bailey winced. Not this again. Every time she thought she’d done something good enough to catch the attention of the partners, another test or hurdle appeared. Would it end? Bailey clenched her back teeth, cursing herself for not ripping off the page with Seven’s name and throwing it away when she first got into the office.

“Okay,” she said. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Bailey almost slammed the door into Raphael Fernandez’s back as he left her office. Was she really going to do this? She looked down at the traitorous notepad with Seven’s name written in her clear cursive. She hadn’t written down more than a few notes under his name, but that had been enough to bring him to her boss’s notice. Bailey cursed softly.

* * *

After work, she resisted the urge to call Bette. Her sister would only laugh at her for wanting the partnership so badly. With most things in Bailey’s life, her sister was able to listen, laugh and commiserate over the appropriate adult beverage, but this job at Braithwaite and Fernandez was something Bette didn’t understand. She thought the job was getting much more out of Bailey than she got out of it, and if she ever got the partnership, that inequality would only get worse.

She had a sneaking suspicion that Bette was right. With that depressing thought, she pulled her car into the Whole Foods parking lot near her office to grab a few essentials for the week. She slung her purse over her shoulder and stepped from the car, pressing the remote to lock the convertible and turn on the alarm. There was a grocery list in her purse somewhere. She rifled through the thick black bag, still making her way toward the entrance of the store.

“Bailey Hughes, is that you?”

She looked up from her purse, empty-handed at the sound of the familiar voice. Oh, great.

For once, she’d left work at a reasonable hour, so the parking lot was full of the after-work crowd doing the same thing she was. She’d barely been able to find a parking spot. If anyone asked her later on, she’d use that as an excuse for why she didn’t look in the right direction when she first heard Clive call her name. She glanced once over her shoulder, knowing he wasn’t behind her, then kept walking toward the entrance of the store, moving swiftly through the crosswalk and past slow-moving pedestrians.

“Bailey!”

Damn. He was almost in front of her, walking briskly toward her at an angle from the store’s exit. It was hard not to notice him there, an attractive man of medium height, light brown complexion and startling hazel eyes.

He headed directly for her from the grocery store, pushing a shopping cart with a toddler strapped into the attached child seat. A brown-skinned woman with a long ponytail walked next to him. She carried her purse over one shoulder and distractedly scrolled through something on her cell phone. He stopped the cart a few feet from Bailey, forcing her to acknowledge him.

“Clive.” She greeted him with a deliberate lack of enthusiasm. “It’s been a long time.” I wish it had been longer.

“I thought that was you. I haven’t seen you around in a while.”

“Why? Were you looking for me?”

At her words, the woman looked up from her phone. Her eyes narrowed as she took in Bailey, from the top of her perfectly pressed and sculpted hair to the tips of her Jimmy Choo black python ankle boots. Bailey may have felt like hell this morning when she left home, but she had been determined to look good. The woman put her phone away and sidled closer to her husband.

He chuckled. “Of course I wasn’t looking for you. But I do know you don’t work too far from here. Remember how you used to go crazy for the chicken wings at this place?” He jerked his head toward the market.

That’s what you remember about me?

Bailey shrugged, then looked past him toward the store. How much longer was he going to prolong this?

“Oh, this is my wife. Charmaine.” He gestured to the woman, who tucked her hand in the crook of his arm and smiled brightly at Bailey. A child. She barely looked twenty-five.

“Hello.” Bailey greeted her with the smile she didn’t have for Clive.

She didn’t give the woman her name. The girl looked young enough to be one of his graduate students, which was probably what she had once been. From the way Charmaine was holding on to Clive, she was well aware of his inability to keep his penis in his pants when away from home. Charmaine stroked the toddler’s curly Afro.

The child grinned and waved his arms. “Dada.”

“And this is our son, Kofi.” Clive touched the child’s arm flailing in his direction.

“That’s great,” Bailey said to Charmaine. “You have a handsome boy there.” She nodded toward the child in the shopping cart so the girl wouldn’t mistake her meaning.

Charmaine’s smile widened. “Thank you. Isn’t he just? Clive and I are working on a little sister or brother for him to play with.”

“How sweet,” Bailey said. Did I really need to know that?

“So what are you doing these days?” Clive asked.

“Grocery shopping.”

He gave a hearty and fake laugh. “You were always so funny, Bailey. How could I ever forget that about you?”

“Yes, how could you?”

She, Clive, Charmaine and the baby stood in uncomfortable silence for a moment. Then Bailey had enough. She nodded at the young woman. “It was good to meet you, Charmaine, but I have to run. Clive, take care of yourself.”





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