Caroselli's Baby Chase. Michelle Celmer
neither of us has anyone to kiss…”
“I was told that it’s un-American to start the New Year off without a kiss,” he said.
“I guess that doesn’t leave us much choice, then.”
With a grin, he held out his hand and she took it. She slid down off the stool, and didn’t show a bit of resistance as he tugged her closer. He should have been watching the ball drop, but he couldn’t seem to peel his eyes away from her face. Standing this close he would have expected to see at least an imperfection or two, but her skin was flawless, her eyes such a clear gray they appeared bottomless. His eyes dropped to her mouth, to lips that looked full and soft and kissable.
Only an hour ago he had been dreading the arrival of the New Year, now he could hardly wait for those last thirty seconds to pass. Then it was twenty seconds, and when it reached ten, everyone in the bar started to count. Except for him and Carrie. Their eyes locked, and they stood so close now that her warm breath feathered against his lips. They waited in anticipation. Five…four…three…two…
Unable to wait another second, he slanted his mouth over hers and the cheers and hoots, the shrill of noisemakers and the chorus of “Auld Lang Syne” being sung—it all faded into the background. Her lips parted under his. He heard her sigh as he sank his fingers through the silky ribbons of her hair, felt her melt against him when he pulled her closer. The softness of her lips, the sweet taste of her mouth, were more intoxicating than any drink. And he wanted her, knew he had to have her, even if it was for only one night.
He wasn’t sure how long they stood there kissing, their arms wrapped around one another, but when he finally broke the kiss, they were both breathless and Carrie’s cheeks were rosy and hot.
“At the risk of sounding too forward,” she said, “would you like to come up to my room?”
Of course he wanted to. “Are you sure that’s what you want?”
That must have been the right answer, because she smiled and took his hand. “I am now. I figure, why not start the year with a bang?”
He grinned, squeezed her hand and said, “Let’s go.”
Two
Start the year off with a bang indeed, Carrie thought as the cab inched along in bumper-to-bumper traffic through the slushy streets of Chicago. Two days later and her neck still ached, there was a bruise on her shin where she had banged it on the headboard, and she had angry-looking rug burns on her knees, but it had been so worth it. She hadn’t been banged so well, or so many times in a row, in years. The man was insatiable, and gave as good as he got. Better even. And as she had imagined, he looked just as good out of his clothes as he did in them. She would even go so far as to say that it was the single most satisfying, fun and adventurous sexual experience of her life. Then he had to go and ruin it by skulking off in the middle of the night without even saying goodbye.
He hadn’t left his phone number, which she could have looked up if she had caught his last name. But all evidence pointed to his not wanting to be found. For all she knew, Ron wasn’t even his real name, and he had been sitting there alone looking for someone just like her, someone to bang in the New Year with. Maybe all he’d really wanted was cheap sex.
Oh, well. At least it had been really good cheap sex. And in her own defense, she’d hit the minibar in her room before she had even ventured downstairs and had been more than a little drunk. It was possible that he wasn’t even as good-looking as she thought. Or that great of a lover.
She wasn’t sure if that should make her feel better or worse.
She had been in Chicago barely forty-eight hours, and already she’d invited a strange man up to her room, had sex and had gotten dumped. That had to be some kind of world record.
But Ron—if that was really his name—wasn’t totally to blame. She did have the tendency to come on a little strong, and sometimes men took it the wrong way. Under normal circumstances she was outspoken. Get her a little tipsy and she had the tendency to say things she probably shouldn’t. According to her stepfather, her sassy mouth had been her biggest problem. And his cure for that had always been a solid crack across said mouth with the back of his hand.
She didn’t recall everything she and Ron had discussed that night, but she seemed to remember some of it being very personal in nature.
“This is it,” the cab driver said as the car rolled to a stop outside Caroselli Chocolate headquarters. As soon as the contracts were signed, and a timetable set, she would look for an apartment or condo to lease. There was nothing she hated more than living out of suitcases for extended periods of time.
She paid him, grabbed her briefcase, climbed out of the cab and walked to the revolving front door, the damp cold seeping through her coat, the heels of her pumps clicking against the slushy pavement. She pushed her way inside, into a lobby of glass, stainless steel and marble, and walked to the guard station, the alluring scent of chocolate drawing her gaze to the gift shop at the other end of the lobby.
“Caroline Taylor. I’m here for a meeting,” she told the guard.
“Good morning, Ms. Taylor. They’re expecting you.” He handed her a name badge that said “Guest,” which she clipped to the lapel of her suit jacket. “Take the elevator behind me up to the third floor and see the receptionist.”
“Thank you.” She walked to the elevator, back straight, head high. There was no lack of security cameras, and it was critical to make a good impression the second she walked in the door. Despite her reputation, and her impeccable record for getting the job done, some people, men of a certain era in particular, sometimes doubted her abilities. and this being a family business, she had no doubt that she would be working with several generations of Carosellis.
As she rode up to the third floor she shrugged out of her overcoat and draped it over her arm. When the doors slid open she stepped out of the elevator into another reception area. A young woman whose nameplate announced her as Sheila Price was seated behind a large desk, and beside her stood an attractive, older gentleman in a very expensive, exquisitely tailored suit. Considering his age, and the air of authority he exuded, she was guessing he was one of the three Caroselli brothers, the sons of Giuseppe who now ran the company.
She walked to the desk, nervous energy propelling her steps. She hadn’t planned to expand her business outside the West Coast area for another year or two, but Caroselli Chocolate was the largest and most prestigious company to approach her thus far, and when they called, it was too good an opportunity to pass up. Of course, if she botched it up, it would decimate her reputation and probably destroy her career.
But that wasn’t going to happen.
“Welcome, Ms. Taylor,” the man said, stepping forward to greet her. “I’m Demitrio Caroselli.”
“It’s a pleasure,” she said, shaking his hand, a little surprised that the CEO himself was there to greet her.
“Can I take your coat?” Sheila asked.
“Yes, thank you,” she said, handing it over.
“Everyone is waiting for us in the conference room,” Demitrio said, gesturing down a long hallway lined with offices. “It’s this way.”
Being a private contractor, Carrie answered to no one, and being in such high demand, she walked into every meeting knowing she had the upper hand. That didn’t mean she wasn’t slightly nervous. But she seriously doubted they would have shelled out the expense of a first-class plane ticket and a five-star hotel if they weren’t seriously planning to sign the contract.
“Do you prefer Caroline or Ms. Taylor?” he asked.
“Caroline or Carrie,” she told him.
“We appreciate your coming to see us on such short notice,” he said. “And so close to the holidays.”
“I’m happy to be here.” The assignment back in L.A. that she