the wanton invitation in her body as she’d reclined across that ridiculous purple couch of hers—a couch he hadn’t been so inclined to mock the next morning—the glow of her ivory skin and the tiny gold navel ring illuminated by flashes of lightning. The feel of her beneath his hands and mouth as he’d conducted a slow, teasingly soft exploration in direct contrast to the urgently pounding rain on the roof above them.
It had been sexual nirvana, and when his plane had touched down the next day at Logan, he’d already been thinking about how soon he could get back to Atlanta—not that they’d discussed seeing each other again. They’d overslept, and he’d barely caught a cab in enough time to make his flight. Then he’d come home to that damn e-mail that professed her longstanding “affection” for him and ended with the insistence that they resume a platonic friendship.
Since her announcement that she’d started dating Happy, David had dated plenty, too. He’d had a good time, but he’d yet to reexperience the explosive chemistry he’d shared with Serena. He supposed they’d never know what would have happened if she hadn’t been “too busy” to see him when he’d returned to Georgia for the holidays.
Now, he’d be returning permanently. David grinned at the possibilities. Yes, Serena was strong-willed and in a quasi-relationship. But David was a Savannah Grant, and judging by this morning’s signs, he had to conclude the universe was on his side.
Had she reconsidered the platonic guidelines in the months since he’d last seen her? Did she think of their night together? How would the sexual innuendo that had crept back into their e-mails translate to a face-to-face meeting?
Only one way to find out.
SERENA DONAVAN’S computer screen displayed the spreadsheets for this month’s income and expenses, but the information there was depressing enough that she was mostly staring out through the reception area’s picture window into the tiled hallway. For a Friday, today had pretty much sucked. Should’ve worn my lucky earrings.
The two-room office suite with its eclectic furniture might not be posh, but the near-Buckhead address for her self-owned business wasn’t cheap. She needed more lucrative offers than the earlier fraternity request, asking if she’d exchange her party-organizing services for beer—or, even less likely, for the amorous attentions of a post-grad who claimed he could ruin her for other men.
On the bright side, the slow business day meant her assistant’s absence wasn’t a strain, but it also meant reduced chances of a profit this month. Or electricity next month. Since Serena had to shell out money for caterers and deejays ahead of time, she was the one in a crunch if clients missed a payment or, in the case of this morning’s thrilling news, bounced a check.
When the phone rang, Serena mentally crossed her fingers. She settled the headset behind her ear, summoning her optimism as she pressed the call-intercept button. Even another dead-end inquiry was better than her bank informing her that her account was being charged for someone else’s insufficient funds. She’d have to ask her father, the southeast regional manager of a bank chain, about the logic behind that penalty.
“Inventive Events,” she said with a smile, trying to infuse her words with the right blend of bold creativity and competitive pricing. “We party professionally.”
“Hi.” There was a pause before the warm male voice asked, “Serena?”
David.
Speaking of ruining a girl for other men…
“Hey.” She blinked. “Long time, no hear.” In the technical sense, anyway.
They kept up with each other, but not usually by phone. E-mail allowed her to write if she happened to be thinking of him at two in the morning, and helped him stay in touch despite his executive workload with a voice technology corporation. Or his ever-so-slightly less hectic schedule squiring around socialites.
Maybe she was just feeling grouchy about his dating because her most recent relationship had fizzled.
It suddenly occurred to Serena that the pause in their barely begun conversation bordered on awkward. “David?”
“Sorry,” he said. “Hearing your voice threw me for a loop. I was expecting your assistant to answer, so when I got you, it caught me off guard.”
“I gave Natalie the day off to nurse a broken heart,” Serena explained.
“Softie.”
The slight warble of cellular static didn’t mask the grin in his voice. When she’d made the uncharacteristic decision to major in business—one of the few her father had ever approved of—no one had doubted she was smart enough to handle the coursework. But plenty had questioned whether or not she had the personality and killer instincts for it.
Her good-boss gesture, however, had been a purely selfish act of sanity preservation. Natalie saw her breakup, coming so soon after Serena’s, as a huge potential for bonding. She refused to believe that Serena wasn’t upset about being abandoned by Patrick…which she still hadn’t mentioned to David. He’d teased her enough during her relationship with the celebrated sculptor who was wandering the country in a quixotic quest for inspiration.
I’ll tell David about the breakup some other time, Serena rationalized, when we’re not on his dime. Yeah, because a Savannah Grant ever worried about dimes. “So, to what do I owe the pleasure of this call?”
“Oh, the usual. Just wanted to ask what you’re wearing.”
She laughed, echoing his teasing tone and glib reply. “The usual. Leather pants and black bustier.”
His appreciative wolf-whistle made her wonder where he was and if there were people in earshot speculating on his conversation. Clearly, David had ducked out a little early and wasn’t stuck inside his office on a gorgeous spring day. Assuming it was gorgeous in Boston.
She spared a wistful sigh for the afternoon she could have had if she’d been irresponsible enough to play hooky. Tricia, the mother who had raised her in a modern-day art commune after the divorce, would have blown off work to spend the day “nurturing herself,” but Serena had been influenced just enough by her father to keep her in the office today. He’d been so dedicated to work that his wife and daughter had seen him less and less each year.
Dismissing thoughts of her parents, she asked, “So, where are you calling from?”
“You’re going to have to give me a minute. I’m still working on this visual,” David drawled in a send-shivers-up-her-spine tone. In the sterile, black-and-white, Arial 12 e-mail format, their flirting was mostly benign, but when rendered in that husky voice…
“Okay,” he said. “The real reason I called is to find out what you’re up to this weekend.”
“Th-this weekend?” Her pulse stuttered.
“Yeah. Too busy to see an old friend?”
If he’d been “thrown for a loop” when the expected receptionist hadn’t answered, then Serena was now hurtling through the upside-down-and-back-again-lightning-curves equivalent of a new coaster at the nearby Six Flags.
Tell him you’re working, dating, painting your apartment. Something, anything, lie! The problem was, she didn’t have pressing plans, and while she had many faults—just ask her soon-to-be stepmother—dishonesty had never been one of
