do more. Then I slyly bit my bottom lip, shook my head at him and pulled my hand out.
The fire in his eyes died a little and he looked at me with intense yearning. Right there, that is what I want to see. My confidence felt that familiar swell, but it was brief this time. It sank again quickly, almost as low as before. I gritted my teeth in irritation, pushing back against my subconscious, trying to feel that satisfaction I normally experience. But it was gone. I leaned forward, kissing Bob gently, then climbed off him, reaching for my dress, half listening to his sputtering words. Sorry, buddy, you’re done.
Nine
Wednesday, 8:15 a.m.
Brad De Luca’s cell rang for the seventh time that morning.
“De Luca,” he snapped into the phone.
“Julia Campbell,” his cousin Tony’s voice rang through the phone. Tony was a forty-year-old divorcé, with three kids, who drank full-time and painted houses as a hobby. Brad couldn’t remember the last time he had spoken to Tony before 11:00 a.m. He must need money. He groaned silently and waited for more.
“You know her?” Tony asked.
His mind searched his recent clients, conquests and acquaintances and came up blank.
“No, don’t believe I do.”
Tony’s voice slurred a bit. “She’s an intern at your office.”
“Oh. She’s probably with Broward or Clarke. They keep the female interns away from me.”
Tony laughed so hard he began to hiccup. “I bet they do, man! You’d be slaying them!”
Brad glanced at his watch impatiently and willed the man to get to the point. “Who’s she to you, Tony?” His voice had taken on the rough brogue of his Italian childhood.
“I got a call this morning from Bob Hanstle—the yuppie guy whose kitchen I’m painting? He’s trying to get information about her. He knows she works for your firm, and, given my last name...thought I might know someone over there.”
“Your last name isn’t De Luca.”
“Yeah, well, I might have mentioned that we’re related.” Brad’s patience waned. Tony probably “mentioned” Brad’s name at every job opportunity he got, in hopes of increasing his credibility.
“I don’t know anything about her.” He tried to convey a tone of wrapping up the conversation, but Tony wouldn’t let it go.
“Come on, Brad, give me something. This guy is desperate over this chick. She must have a magic pussy, man.”
“Sorry, Tony. Never met her before.” He hung up the phone. So...it must have been Broward’s intern. And she had another man hot on her trail. He really needed to get to the office.
* * *
I woke up buried in the soft sheets of my cozy bed. I stretched, rolled over and winced at the hangover headache that was pounding in my temples. I pulled my eye mask up and glanced at my bedside clock. Holy shit! 7:45 a.m. I attempted to jump out of bed and was squashed back down by the invisible stakes that were piercing some important cerebral mass in my head. I tried again, slower this time, and ended up on my feet. Glancing into the mirror next to my door, I saw a face smeared with makeup and a distinct floral skin design that I recognized from the embroidery on my pillow. Ugh.
I grabbed powder-blue capris, a white cardigan-camisole set and some tan heels. I didn’t have time to shower, so I scrubbed my face as quickly as I could and threw on some light makeup. As any party girl will tell you, one-day-old going-out hair looks pretty damn good, so I ran my fingers through it and headed out the door.
* * *
I was in the fourth-floor kitchen, buttering a stale biscuit and licking some melted butter off my fingers when he walked in.
Whoa.
It was as if every ounce of extra air left the room in that instant, squeezing all the space out with it and putting me front and center in his laser beam. Damn. We locked eyes and neither one of us moved. In his office there had been a long, empty expanse between us, and even then there’d been a sizzle. Now, there in the small kitchen, the full force of his...essence...was magnified tenfold. It scared the crap out of me.
His eyes were a normal dark brown color, not anything special, but they blazed with a powerful intensity. He smelled of...something. I don’t know how to describe the smell, but it was intoxicating and animal. The man reeked of masculinity and sex. He seemed to be a big, tight ball of controlled energy and I could just as easily imagine him ripping someone’s head off as dipping me backward into a kiss. As I stood there, frozen, his sexy features curled into a smile and he looked as if he wanted to eat me. I backed up and bumped into the counter. I was acutely aware of the butter all over my fingers—and dripping from the edge of my mouth. I licked my lips and said the first thing that popped into my mind.
“I’m not Tiffany.”
His smile faltered slightly, and he shook his head and chuckled. “I know.”
“I’m Julia. Julia Campbell. Broward’s intern.”
“I know.”
“You do?”
“Yes. I just asked Sheila where to find you. She said you were in here.”
“Oh.” A pause. His eyes never left mine. “Why were you looking for me?”
“Would you like to go to lunch?” He turned on some powerful, magical force, and radiated with intense sexual heat. I almost swooned, but caught myself. Keep it together, you damn woman!
“Umm, no.”
“No?” His grin increased and he looked almost incredulous. He glanced around as if wanting someone to witness this.
“No.” My voice grew in strength and confidence. Cocky prick.
“Why?” He moved closer and I lost all sense of reality. The man was like no one I’d ever met. I could see why divorcing wives would throw apart their legs and beg him for more than lawyerly duties. The man was walking, breathing sex. I had never found bodybuilders or large men attractive. I had pined for and worshipped the rail-thin, pretty look of male models. But this man was built like a god, with the disposition of Satan. I couldn’t imagine being an intern to this man and not doing more than filing his briefs.
I would have moved back farther, but the kitchen counter rail was already digging into my ass and no doubt now leaving a bruise. I met his amused gaze and tried to portray nonchalance.
“For one thing, you’re a little old.”
His eyes flickered a bit at that, but he kept his thoughts to himself. “And?”
“Annnddd, I’m not supposed to talk to you.” Even to my ears, that sounded juvenile.
His egotistic smirk was back. “Ahhh...yes. Broward wants to keep you all to himself.”
I didn’t like that response,
