Womanizer

  I feel my stomach shudder and my spine shoot up straighter as he congratulates Gina and his eyes sort of trail past her shoulder to find me.

  I swallow.

  “Callan!” A short brunette waves at him as she walks inside, and then she hurries over to say hello.

  He leans down to kiss her on the cheek, his hands on her waist, and she turns her head and tries to kiss him on the mouth, but he lifts his head and tells her something and starts toward me.

  I look away and try to wade through the crowd.

  I spot Wynn sitting with a drink and contemplating the liquid, and my heart sinks when I think of how difficult it must be for her to know that both her best friends will be married before the year ends.

  I drop down beside her. I steal a glance in his direction when he’s not looking and thank god someone else seems to have stopped him in his tracks. I look at the way he stands, the way he laughs, everything he does is with a masculine sensuality that tugs at me in some primal way.

  That girl is hanging onto his side like it’s her place. All the chemistry I feel toward Callan instantly goes in the opposite direction with her.

  They’re flirting I think because she looks dopey-eyed at him, but he appears cool and collected glancing past her shoulder.

  And straight at me.

  His stare hits me like a lightning bolt.

  I glance away.

  Wynn jerks her head in the direction of Callan. “What’s up with him anyway?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well he’s got some willing little friend hanging right by him, and he won’t take his eyes off you.”

  I don’t dare turn. I shrug in my best attempt at nonchalance. “I work for him, he’s probably uncomfortable that he can’t be as bad as he likes because I’m here,” I say playfully.

  I feel him glance in my direction, and for some reason my eyes feel magnetized to his.

  He stands there as if he knows he is good looking times a thousand.

  He casts a glance at my little outfit.

  We exchange a subtle look that may not be so subtle at all. For a long moment I study his face without hurry, feature by feature. His eyes drink me up too.

  And suddenly I can’t stand the intensity of his stare, even from across the room.

  I excuse myself and wander down a hall, just looking for a little place here that doesn’t have him in it.

  “Livvy.”

  I keep walking and hear his footsteps come closer. I open the next door frantically and find myself staring into a utility closet, and as I realize it’s the wrong door, he takes my wrist and pulls me inside.

  His warm gold-bronze eyes are full of expectation. “Were you not going to say hello?”

  “Not really.”

  He just smiles and crosses his arms and rocks back on his heels, his eyes scanning my getup. “Gold, huh?”

  There’s a teasing light in his hazel eyes, unmistakable.

  “I have a rather boring corporate life, I live for the weekends.”

  “And I live to see you in that little outfit.”

  Something fizzles warmly inside my stomach at his words. “Please save your antics.”

  “It’s a compliment.” A thoughtful smile curves his lips; he chucks my chin. “If you got them more often you might recognize one.”

  Nervous by his teasing, I move a step back and bump into a bunch of shelves.

  He surveys me in silence, voice low. “Will you be home later tonight?”

  “Yes, but not for you.”

  “I’d like to talk.”

  “Talk to the tart you’re with.”

  “That tart is a good friend of mine and heiress to the Darhausen Wine dynasty.”

  “There are tarts in every tier of life. Yours happens to be wearing real diamonds, though not much else. She’s practically naked in someone’s living room.”

  “It’s my living room. And I know naked, and that’s not it,” he says with a seductive crinkle of his eyes, taking a step forward.

  This is his home?

  Shocked, I turn and he touches my shoulder, the warmth of his fingertips on my bare skin startling me. Nearly whimpering, I spin away to avoid the contact.

  “Tell me what’s on your mind.”

  I exhale.

  “Talk to me.”

  “I’m embarrassed.”

  “Why.”

  “I danced for you.”

  “You dance very well.”

  “And I seduced you.”

  “I know. I was there.”

  “And you let me.”

  “I did,” he agrees, planting a hand next to me on the wall, leaning closer. “I’m glad I’m the one you seduced and not some intern.”

  “You’re not the guy I meant to seduce! I was seducing Derek!”

  “Drake.”

  “Aha.” I nod, hating the butterflies I feel when he looks down at me. “Anyone but you.”

  “That’s not true. It was my tongue in your mouth last night, and it was you moaning like crazy when I put it there.”

  “It shouldn’t have been there.”

  “I say it should’ve. And so did your moans.”

  “Those were for Drake.”

  “Derek.” His eyes sparkle in amusement, and more butterflies appear.

  I purse my lips to keep from saying anything else.

  “Hey,” he says, roughly and with unexpected sweetness, “I’m still the same guy you were with last night.”

  “No, you’re not.” I scowl. “You led me on. You were amused about it.” I want to cry.

  “I find myself constantly amused by you, I plead guilty to that.” He’s speaking so sweetly to me I’m only getting sentimental about it.

  “Thanks. You should’ve told me I was hired to be your own personal clown.”

  “You’re not my clown.”

  “I’m not anything of yours. I just work for you.” I shake my head and swallow the lump in my throat. “I thought we were friends. Turns out our friendship was as fake as . . . this ring. As fake as my job at your company.”

  He has a thousand friends out there. I mean, why would he want to hang out with the twenty-two-year-old little sister of one of his best friends?

  “Your brother asked me for a favor, true,” he agrees, frowning at my words now, “but I’m not running a charity here. I looked at your résumé. You’re well qualified, a little rebellious and with a mind of your own. I appreciate that. And while Roth asked me for a favor, I plan to live up to my side.”

  “I’m not some sort of tool for you to feel better about yourself,” I resentfully say.

  “No, you’re not. And I would feel better if those blue eyes would stop shooting bullets at me. I enjoy the way you treated me, how real you were with me. I don’t get that a lot.” He shifts forward, his gaze completely honest and open and oh so warm as he seizes my chin and forces me to meet his gaze. “So I prolonged the time you wouldn’t know. And I wanted you last night. And I still want you now.”

  I drop my gaze to his throat.

  The air starts to feel thick enough that my lungs strain for oxygen. Callan and I are absolutely still, me staring at his neck yet achingly aware of his stare fixed on me.

  I go through the conversations we shared and feel more and more like a stupid girl with a crush on the guy who wouldn’t give her the time of day. The notorious womanizer everybody knows . . . seduced by drunk little me.

  “Will you fucking look at me, Olivia?” he growls softly.

  My eyes fly up to his. Oh god, he looks frustrated. He sounded frustrated. He said “fucking.”

  I’m fucking shocked! For a man who exudes so much control, yeah, it’s fucking shocking.

  He clenches his jaw, then reaches out and grabs my hand, yanking the door open with the other.

  “Let’s take this outside.”

  My eyes widen as he leads me down the hall, his hand warm on mine, and I know I should pry it away, but I can’t.

  We step outs
ide, onto a huge terrace with garden views as far as the eye can see.

  He leads me to a lounge and tugs me down to sit next to him, and only then releases my hand. He’s staring at me, and I am staring at the expanse of skin revealed by the undone top buttons of his shirt.

  It feels like we’re back in our own little world, but not quite.

  I don’t know what to do with my freed hand all of a sudden, curling my fingers into my palm because it tingles. Because his touch lingers.

  He continues staring at my profile in quiet desire for something. What, I don’t know.

  I look at him, and he looks at me, lifting his brow.

  He looks at me so piercingly I have no choice but to look back.

  “So did you go? See the sights?” He shifts forward, his voice soft, barely audible in the wind.

  “I went to the Art Institute. I still want to see so much more. I haven’t been out of Texas all that much. My fear of heights gives me panic attacks just thinking about flying. I can only seem to fly on my brother’s . . . well.”

  I shrug, searching for the words.

  “Even though I know I’ll be okay, physically my body reacts in panic,” I finish.

  The attentiveness in his eyes, the way he listens, it’s hard not to notice. “What happened?” he asks.

  “So, we had this tree house when we were little. I think . . .” I hesitate in continuing, but one look into his eyes and I’m done for. I add, “I think we should have a cigarette.”

  He laughs and pulls one out, lights it, and we share it as I go on. “My brother built it, but he outgrew it by the time he finished, so I claimed it as mine and showed it off to my friends. One day, Jeremy Seinfield came over and tried to kiss me. I told him we were just friends, but he got very mad.” I start to laugh as I remember his red, angry face and how scared I was. “He thought I’d invited him to the tree house so we could make out. He got down and demanded I come down too, but since he was yelling and I was afraid, I told him to leave. He pulled the ladder away, and at first, I thought it was a joke and that he’d come back.”

  I stop laughing and swallow, and he hands me the cigarette, his eyes glimmering in amusement as I take a drag for strength and hand it back.

  “My parents were away and my brother had just gotten his first car, a Jeep. He was out with his friends and I was up there all alone, stranded until he got home and heard me crying. I wailed so much I had a sore throat for days. He told me it would be over in a second, and he got a ladder and pulled me down. I didn’t want him to let go. Ever.” I laugh again at how childish I was.

  He chuckles too, but it’s a tender laugh, kind of like the one Tahoe has when he remembers that episode, then Callan sobers. “I’m sorry. I hope he sent Jeremy’s teeth flying to the other side of the sidewalk.”

  “Oh, he did.” I laugh. “I guess we all have our thing.” I eye him. “What’s yours?”

  “I have a few,” he says with that wicked gold sparkle in his eye. “I have an older brother. We’d roughhouse all the time. He was stronger, but I was faster. One day I decided I’d beat him. I started lifting weights, drinking protein shakes, the works, thinking getting stronger was the trick. He beat the shit out of me. And I wasn’t fast enough anymore to get away.” He laughs. “Not always the strongest win. I decided I’d rather be fast.”

  “Speaking of slow, I can’t believe how slow I was catching on to who you were.”

  “Slowest woman I’ve ever met.”

  “Don’t forget my bunch of freckles. That makes me unique.”

  “Utterly.”

  We laugh. His lips are so beautiful, more so when he laughs. “Well,” I hedge, intending to leave.

  “Tell me your concerns about what’s happening between us,” he says, stopping me in my thoughts.

  My eyes widen with dread.

  “I don’t regret it,” he tells me.

  I exhale.

  “Do you?” he asks.

  “Me?”

  “Regret last night,” he repeats; a question.

  I don’t think he’s breathing as he waits for my reply.

  I know that I’m not.

  I swallow. This can go nowhere, Olivia, really it can’t. I should give him a speech about how wrong this is, how this can’t be, but how can I when it feels so right when I’m with him?

  I’m not sure if I end up nodding in answer or shaking my head, or a little of both. “I’m confused. I don’t know why you even gave me the time of day since that first day on the terrace.”

  “I like talking to you, Olivia. Is that a crime?” he asks with a soft grin. “Because if it is, I should do it more often.”

  I sit tight, aware of the excited nerves going through me at his words. God help me. I look away.

  “I like looking at you too,” he says, just as soft.

  My eyes flick up to his. “Because I’m real with you?”

  His mouth curves and his eyes quietly promise, and more.

  I tip my chin up at a haughty angle. “I would’ve been different if I’d known who you were,” I warn.

  “That’s a shame.” He turns very thoughtful and slowly crosses his arms. “That’s disappointing, actually.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I like the girl I met on the terrace. The one who danced for me and seduced me to the point I lost control.”

  I blush. “I’m the same girl. I’m just intimidated.”

  His full, masculine laugh fills the silence. “Why?”

  “I hear things.”

  “Like what?”

  “You’re this player. I didn’t know I was sleeping with someone who had . . . so much experience. And you’re my boss.”

  “Not your direct boss,” he says with a significant rise of his brows. “And so I’ve played the field all my life, I’m not looking for anything serious. You said yourself, neither were you. Not until . . . what was it?"

  “Twenty-eight.”

  He grins. “Twenty-eight.”

  “But see, the point is, I have to make it to twenty-eight unscarred,” I say. “And a guy like you wouldn’t go by without leaving marks along the way.”

  “How would you know?”

  “Because you already did. Last night.”

  His jaw tenses visibly and his eyes flash with pain by my admission. He raises his arm as he looks at me with tenderness, and then he slowly lowers his hand, as if opting not to touch me. “I’m sorry,” he says.

  “Callan!” someone calls from inside.

  The lines of concentration deepen around his eyes and mouth, and a shadow of disappointment crosses his face as he glances at the door. “I better go.”

  I nod.

  A glint of hesitation appears in his eyes as he rises to his feet. “Are you still up for sightseeing?”

  “Always.”

  He looks at me with a tender smile then clenches his jaw as if refraining from saying something else.

  My lids slide down over my eyes, and when I raise them again, I find Callan watching me.

  The gold shades in his eyes flicker as if he’s battling something, those hazel eyes trapping me. “Where are you planning to go?”

  “Millennium Park. Navy Pier.” I shrug. “I was going to ask one of the interns, Jeanine or George, if they wanted to come.”

  “Looking forward to the Ferris wheel at the Pier?”

  “Oh, of course, you know how much I adore heights.” I laugh.

  He laughs too, then turns to me. “I’ll take you somewhere.”

  “No. Please don’t. Really. We’re good. We’ll have a cigarette before I go back home.”

  He frowns momentarily at my words, staring at me as if seeing me for the first time, here, on his home terrace. The air feels charged. Charged with . . . I don’t know.

  I want to kiss him.

  I don’t want to want to kiss him.

  It feels like goodbye.

  I’m not ready to let go of him yet.

  But I do. I smile weakly but hope it com
es out bright and cheery and he gives me a long look before he walks back inside.

  I remain outside for a minute then I head back in as well. I sit with Gina and Rachel, and two more girls who I don’t know join us on the couches and start talking about who’s dating who, the upcoming wedding, etcetera.

  “So are you two planning the wedding of the year?”

  “Not at all. We’re aiming for something small, either here or in Texas.”

  I sip on a martini and I peer through the crowd and spot him with a group of guys, his throat kind of sexy as he laughs, thick tendons rippling.

  Some girl taps his shoulder, and she looks googly-eyed at him but he nods absently to whatever she asks.

  She lifts her hand and offers him her cigarette, and he takes a drag and lets out a slow puff of smoke. I feel an awful pang seeing him share a cigarette with someone else. He shoves it into his mouth and walks over to the bar to mix up a drink, the cigarette dangling from his lips, his eyebrows creased in concentration.

  The brunette follows and keeps talking to him, and I see his mouth twist into a smile, even if the cigarette is still there. I look away. Determined to forget him.

  I spend Sunday reporting back home:

  Mom and Dad (thrilled about the upcoming wedding).

  Farrah and Veronica (they want to know how the Chicago clubs compare to the San Antonio and Austin ones).

  And then I dial my grandma (she was just happy I called).

  Later, I clean the apartment, then I head out to Millennium Park for a run. I run until my throat burns and I’m out of breath, panting with my hands on my knees. Then I drop onto a bench and listen to music as I guzzle down my water, my ponytail wet behind me, my running clothes plastered to my skin as I pull out my cell phone and ask Wynn if she’d like to sightsee and go to the Navy Pier with me.

  Wynn told me she saw us talking on the terrace of his place. “Anything going on?” she asked as we walked along the bustling main corridor of the Pier.

  “Yes. No.” I sighed. “I don’t know.”

  Wynn’s advice was don’t go there.

  She immediately grabbed my hand and took me to the bathrooms at the Pier and said, “Let’s see . . . aha!” She pointed at some scribbles on the wall and my gaze focused on one that read,