Friendship On Fire. Joss Wood
the multidivorced, once-widowed socialite have an office?—but Paris insisted on meeting for a drink at April, a Charles Street bar. Hopefully, since it was late afternoon, the bar would be quiet and he could pin Paris down to some specifics with regard to the design of her yacht. Engine capacity, size, whether she wanted a monohull or a catamaran. He had to have some place to start. Oh, and getting her to sign a damn contract would be nice—at least he would be getting paid for the work he was doing.
But Paris, he decided after couple of frustrating conversations, had the attention span of a gnat...
Noah pushed his way into the bar. Another slick bar in another rich city; he’d seen many of them over the years. Looking around, he saw that his client had yet to arrive, and after ordering a beer, he slid onto a banquette, dropping his folder on the bench beside him.
It was his second full day back in Boston and, in some ways it felt like he’d never left. After being kicked out of the Brogan house by his favorite pain in the ass, he spent last night on the Resilience and his brothers and Levi had each brought a six-pack. They’d steadily made their way through the beers while sitting on the teak deck, their legs dangling off the side of the yacht. No one had mentioned his abrupt departure from the house and he was glad. The last thing he wanted to discuss was Jules and the past.
Noah murmured his thanks when the waitress put his beer in front of him. Taking a sip, he wished he could make the memory of Jules standing in the bathroom, looking dazed and turned on, disappear as easily as he did this beer. He’d heard the door open and turned and there she was, shirtless in the bathroom, a wet dream fantasy in full Technicolor. Her hair was around her shoulders, her slim body curvier than before, her surprisingly plump breasts covered by a pale pink lace bra. He’d immediately noticed the darker pink of her pert nipples and her flushed skin.
Then he’d made the mistake of meeting her eyes.
Noah shifted in his chair, his junk swelling at the memory. Emotions had slid in and out of her eyes; there was surprise and shock, and it was obvious that nobody had told her that he was back in town. But those emotions quickly died and he’d caught the hint of hurt before appreciation—and, yeah, flat-out furious lust—took over. Her eyes had traced his body and he knew exactly what she was thinking, because, God, he’d been thinking it, too.
He wanted her...his hands on her long, slim body, his mouth on her lips, her skin, on her secret, make-her-scream places. Whatever they started with that one kiss so long ago hadn’t died. It had been slumbering for the past ten years.
Well, it was back, wide-awake and roaring and clawing...
The impulse to kiss her, to taste her again had been overwhelming, so he had. And it was as good—no, freakin’ spectacular—as he thought it could be. He’d thought about dragging her back into the shower, stripping her under the water and taking her up against the tile wall. He still wanted to do that more than he wanted to breathe.
He was so screwed...
“Noah? Noah?”
Noah jerked himself out of his reverie and looked up into Paris’s merry blue eyes, her face devoid of lines. Standing up—hoping he wouldn’t embarrass himself—he took her outstretched hand. She looked damn good for someone in her sixties, thanks to the marvel of modern plastic surgery.
Paris sat down opposite him and put her designer bag on the table. She ordered a martini, and after the smallest of small talk, she leaned back against the banquette, eyeing him. “So, I understand that you were once engaged to Morgan Blake.”
Oh, Jesus. Noah kept his face blank and waited for her to continue. “I told her that you were designing a yacht for me—”
“Well, technically I’m not. Yet,” Noah clarified. “You haven’t signed the contract, nor have you paid me my deposit, so right now we’re still negotiating.”
Paris wrinkled her nose before opening her bag and pulling out a leather case. She flipped it open and Noah saw that it was a checkbook. Paris found a pen and lifted her eyebrows. Noah gave her the figure, his heart racing as she wrote out the check. Taking it, he tucked it into his shirt pocket before withdrawing a contract from his folder. Paris signed it with a flourish and tossed her gold pen onto the table. One payment down and he’d receive the bulk of the money when she approved his final design. “Now, can we talk about Morgan?”
“No.”
Paris pouted. “Why not?”
“Because we need to talk about hulls and engines and square feet and water displacement. I’m designing the yacht, but I do need some input from you,” Noah said, his voice calm but firm.
Paris looked bored. “Just design me a fantastic yacht within the budget I gave you. I hear that you are ridiculously talented and wonderfully creative. Design me a vessel that will make people drool. I don’t want to be bothered by the details.”
The perfect scenario, Noah thought, pleased. There was nothing better than getting a green light to do what he wanted. He just hoped that Paris wouldn’t change her mind down the track and morph into a nitpicking, demanding, micromanaging client. But if she did, he would handle her.
Noah handed Paris her copy of the contract, wincing when she folded it into an uneven square and shoved it into the side pocket of her bag. She drained her martini and signaled the waitress for another. “So, about Morgan.”
God. Really? “Paris, I don’t feel comfortable discussing this with you. You’re my client.”
Paris waved his measured words away. “Oh, please! I’m an absolute romantic and a terrible meddler. I nose around in everyone’s business. You’ll get used to it.”
He most definitely would not. “There is no Morgan, Paris. That ended a long, long time ago.”
“Oh, I got the impression she’d like to pick up where you left off.”
Okay, it was way past time to shut this down. “Yeah, my girlfriend might object to that.”
Paris’s eyes gleamed with interest. “You have a girlfriend? Who is she?”
He could’ve mentioned Jenna in Cape Town or Yolande in London, who were both beautiful and accomplished good friends he occasionally slept with. But another name popped out of his mouth, thanks, he was sure, to a hot encounter in a bathroom yesterday morning. “Jules Brogan.”
Paris’s eyes widened with delight. “I know Jules. She decorated my vacation house in Hyannis Port.”
Oh, crap! Crap, crap, crap.
“She was named Boston’s Most Exciting Interior Designer a few months back.”
She was? Why had he not heard about that? Probably the same reason the family hadn’t told Jules about his return. They didn’t discuss either of them ever.
“She’s your girlfriend?”
“We’ve known each other for a long time.” That, at least, was the truth.
Paris’s pink mouth widened into a huge smile. “She can do the interior decoration for my yacht. Aren’t you supposed to give me an idea of the interior when you present the final design?”
Oh, hell, he didn’t like this. At all. “Yes. But I have my team of decorators I normally work with in London,” Noah stated, wondering how this conversation had veered so off track. Oh, right, maybe because he lied?
“I want Jules,” Paris said, looking stubborn. Her face hardened and Noah caught a glimpse of a woman who always got what she wanted. “Do not make me tear up that contract and ask for my check back, Noah.”
Je-sus. Noah rubbed the back of his neck. She would do exactly as she said. Paris wanted what she wanted and expected to get it. No did not feature in her vocabulary.
Noah leaned back, sighed and eyed his pain-in-the-ass client. “You’re going to be a handful, aren’t you?” he asked, resigned.