Pleasure Under the Sun. Lindsay Evans
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