of his leather shoes, everything about his body language announcing his eagerness to reach his destination. The elevator jerked harshly, causing the woman in front of him to fall awkwardly against his body. A soft voice muttered a quick apology as she fought to regain her footing.
“No problem,” he responded, his gaze moving to focus on her female frame.
The woman’s attire was conservative but casual. Too casual for her to be an employee of Stallion Enterprises. Form-fitting Levi’s jeans hugged narrow hips and a small waist. She was leggy, the appendages seemingly a mile high for such a petite woman. A bright white blouse dressed her torso and from where he stood he imagined it was buttoned well up to her chin. He was suddenly aware of the faint scent of lavender wafting up from her space into his, the delicate aroma inciting a current of electrical energy through his bloodstream.
She tilted her head ever so slightly, just a hint of movement as though she were listening for something in particular to sound above the static breathing and the occasional cough of the other occupants. The elongation of her neck as it dipped, as if in invitation, suddenly made him want to lower his mouth to her flesh. He was suddenly lost in the thought of himself laying a path of damp kisses against the soft skin that peeked below the loose bun atop her head, a wealth of cinnamon-colored curls shimmering beneath the fluorescent lights. The moment was disturbing and he found himself fighting to resist the urge that had instantly consumed him.
The elevator stopped short, shuffling them one against the other. Marah’s heart dropped into the pit of her stomach as the sharp movement caused her to fall back on the man.
The stranger leaned forward slightly, moving to whisper into her ear. “I’m very sorry,” he said, his voice a low gust of breath against the back of her neck. His voice was a throaty, deep rumble, the seductive vibration of it and the warmth of his breath only serving to aggravate Marah’s discomfort. She nodded ever so slightly, not bothering to respond, not quite sure what she should say, if anything at all.
The elevator climbed three more floors. As the conveyance approached the twentieth floor and came to a halt, it emptied enough for Marah to make a quick exit. Maneuvering her way to the front of the conveyor she stepped out into the corridor. Unable to resist, she turned to look over her shoulder, her gaze meeting the man’s fully for the first time. She was suddenly taken aback by his rugged good looks, rock-solid body and imposing stature. He had stepped to the forefront of the elevator behind her and was staring as well. Their gazes locked for just a brief moment, then the elevator doors closed shut between them and the stranger disappeared out of sight.
Marah inhaled, a deep influx of air filling her lungs. She eyed her watch one more time, then glanced around to see where it was she stood. A neon sign directed her to a restroom and Marah rushed inside to regain her composure.
Minutes later, she resumed her trip up the elevator to the fifty-fourth floor intent on doing the one thing she’d come to do. As the elevator doors opened, pointing her toward her destination, Marah knew there would be no turning back.
Determined to get an audience before chairman and chief executive officer John Stallion, Marah eased her way down the short length of corridor. The man had steadily refused to take her calls over the past few weeks, not even bothering to acknowledge her efforts to reach him, and Marah fully intended to give him a very large piece of her mind.
The robust black woman seated at the oak desk in the foyer was ill-prepared for Hurricane Marah as she stormed toward the closed doors, pushing her way past without seeking permission first.
“Excuse me, but where do you think you’re going?” the woman demanded as she jumped to her feet, rushing behind Marah.
Marah paused momentarily, turning in the direction of the booming voice. “I need to speak with John Stallion. And I need to speak with him now,” she responded, her hand wrapped around the doorknob of the executive conference room.
“I don’t think so. Mr. Stallion is in a very important meeting.”
“Well, this is important, too,” Marah intoned, the knob turning in the palm of her hand.
“You can’t go in there,” the woman reiterated, her voice rising sharply.
Marah snapped back, her own tone loud and crisp, “Watch me!”
Before either woman could utter another word, the door to the room swung open, pulling Marah over the threshold so abruptly that it took every ounce of effort not to fall flat on her face. As she stumbled through the entrance someone caught her by the elbow, stalling her fall to the carpeted floor.
A familiar baritone voice rumbled at her side. “May we help you?”
The matronly figure on Marah’s heels answered before Marah could collect her thoughts. “I tried to stop her, John. Do you want me to call security?”
Marah shook off the large hand still clutching her elbow. Pressing a palm to her abdomen, her gaze swept around the room, acknowledging the four pairs of eyes that were suddenly fixed on her, her own stare finally resting on the exceptionally tall black man at her side. The man from the elevator.
Heat flushed her face, a wave of embarrassment coursing through her. She took a deep inhale of air, stalling the quiver of nervous energy that rippled through her center. “I need to speak with John Stallion,” she finally muttered, her attempts at a commanding tone failing her. Marah struggled to fight past the rise of anxiety, trying to maintain a firm hold on an icy demeanor.
The older woman motioned as if to speak, her words stalled by the nod of her employer’s head. “Thank you, Miss Hilton,” he said, dismissing her. “We’ll take it from here.”
“Yes, sir.”
Marah glanced over her shoulder to see the woman close the door behind her, suddenly leaving her, and them, alone.
John Stallion moved to the conference table, taking a seat in an oversize leather chair. He crossed an ankle over a knee and his arms over his chest as he eyed her curiously. A faint smile pulled at his mouth as he and the three men sitting around him appraised her, their gazes sweeping from the top of her head down to the floor beneath her feet and back again.
Marah was not amused as her own gaze shifted from one cocky face to the other. It was obvious that all four men were related, each possessing the same distinctive features: black-coffee complexions, chiseled jawlines, seductive bedroom eyes, plush pillows for lips and the same sexy, smug smile.
The man seated at the head of the mile-long conference table gestured in her direction. “So, Miss…?”
“It’s Ms. Ms. Briscoe,” Marah answered curtly, taking two steps in his direction.
“Well, Ms. Briscoe, what do you need to speak with me about?”
“Are you John Stallion?”
“I am and these are my brothers.” The man pointed with his index finger. “That’s Matthew, Mark and Luke.”
Marah looked from one to the other, her expression voicing her amusement. Back in the day Ma and Pa Stallion obviously didn’t realize their biblical brood was going to grow into evil incarnates set on stealing other folks’ life savings. Marah could only shake her head at the absurdity.
Reaching into the leather satchel slung over her shoulder, she pulled a stack of legal documents from the inner lining, tossing them onto the table in front of the man. “I
