Janelle Denison - Private Pleasures

The lessons he'd learned had proved invaluable through the years, in dealing with the many stepfathers who'd traipsed through his life, in business and his personal life. He'd always steered clear of forming emotional attachments and instead focused on work and the acceptance of his colleagues. In business, at least, he'd gained the respect he'd never received from his father.

"I have no idea what those reasons are," she said from behind him, pulling him from his thoughts. "I've spent eight months with you, and I don't even really know you."

He turned back around. "You know me better than anyone."

"In some ways, yes," she said, strolling around his office and looking at the plaques and awards mounted on the wall. "Physically and on a business level, but emotionally, I'm not quite sure what makes Grey Nichols tick. I know little to nothing about your family, your childhood, what makes you the person you are or why you can't, or won't, commit yourself to marriage and a family." She stopped her wandering and tilted her head at him, regarding him speculatively. "I've learned you're a driven man, but I haven't quite figured out what drives you. I know you built this company from scratch, with no help from anyone. Not because you told me, but because I read it here," she said, pointing to an article from a prestigious business magazine he'd had framed. "Where did that drive come from?"

The answers jammed in his throat, right along with bitter resentments he'd kept buried for years. What Mariah didn't realize is that she knew more about him than he'd ever let any woman close enough to learn. That in itself scared him on an emotional level.

She sighed and propped a hip against the edge of his desk, letting a long, shapely leg dangle. "How can we build a secure relationship when you can't even trust me or talk to me?"

He bristled, feeling raw. "We talk."

"Always about me and my family and my business. We never share things about your life. Or rather, your past." She glanced down at the hands in her lap. Her nails, he noticed, were painted a spring pink color instead of her normal clear polish. "I guess that's why it came as such a shock to learn that you don't believe in love, and you never want to get married. Especially when that's all I've ever wanted."

He smiled, though his heart wasn't in it. "They say opposites attract."

"I hardly think a drastic difference in values is what that quote means."

His fingers curled tight around the pack of Turns. "Then I guess this leaves us at a stalemate, huh?"

Sliding gracefully off his desk, she moved toward the chairs. "How about being friends?"

He figured if that was the only way he could see her, and possibly change her mind about them, then he'd agree to just about anything. "Friends it is," he said, his mood lightening a little. "How about a kiss to seal the pact?"

"How about a gift, instead?" Picking up the large flat package wrapped in burgundy plaid paper, she handed it to him, careful not to let their fingers brush, or anything else for that matter.

"What's this for?" he asked, eyeing the package curiously.

"For you." Her eyes had regained that enthusiastic sparkle he loved. "I bought it when we went to San Francisco two months ago."

He smiled, remembering how he'd surprised her one weekend with plane rickets and reservations at a five-star hotel in San Francisco. "We had a good time, didn't we?"

"Yes, we did," she agreed quietly.

He ran a finger along the smooth edge of the present. "There could be more good times."

Her gaze held his steadily. "No, Grey, not for us."

Strike one, he thought, knowing it would take time to convince her that they belonged together. He turned his attention to the wrapped gift. "How did I miss something so big and bulky on the plane trip back home?"

"I had it mailed." She leaned back against his desk, watching him. "Go on and open it."

He ripped the paper off, revealing a beautiful, expensive painting they'd seen in an exclusive gallery in San Francisco. They'd both been drawn to this painting entitled, Lover's Cove. At first glance the picture seemed ordinary; a black, rock-encrusted cove on a secluded stretch of beach, the crystal blue-green water sweeping along the shore. But upon closer observation, and with the gallery owner's shared secret, the shadows on the wall of the cove took the shape of two lovers in an erotic embrace. The painting was beautiful and serene, but intimate for the knowledge of those two lovers who seemed lost in their own private world.

"Thank you," he said, awed by her thoughtfulness when he knew how much she'd wanted the picture for her own. Did she realize he'd never be able to look at the painting and not think of her?

Her smile held genuine pleasure. "It's a housewarming gift for your new home."

"You decorated the place," he said. "You deserve to hang the picture. I've got the perfect spot. In my bedroom."

She saw through his ploy. "I think you can handle hanging a picture on your own."

Strike two. She could hardly blame him for trying. "It was worth a shot." He gently set the picture against the chair. "The place looks great, by the way." Big and lonely, too, without you there.

"I'm glad you like it." She looked enormously pleased by his compliment. "If you don't mind, I'd like to send a photographer over to shoot some photos for my portfolio. I'll set up a time when you'll be home."

"That'll be fine." He glanced at his watch. It was nearly six, and he knew he'd never get any work done now. But he didn't want her to leave either. "How about having dinner with me?" he suggested casually. "I can have the Chinese takeout deliver some chow mein and lemon chicken." Her two favorites.

Her gaze glanced off the leather couch against the far wall, then skittered back to him. "You know it would end up being more than just dinner."

True. Every time they'd ever eaten in his office they ended up making love. On the couch. The carpet. His desk. He'd like to think she'd be that weak, but knew better by the determination she'd displayed today.

"I know I'd like for it to be more than that," he admitted with a wicked grin. "But I promise to be on my best behavior."

"You're never on your best behavior." She straightened and smoothed a hand down her very short skirt. "Besides, I can't. I'm meeting someone for dinner at seven."

Jealousy gripped him, demanding another antacid.

She picked up a paper bag and set it on his desk. "Here are the last of your things from my place."

Make that two antacids. "I guess this is it, then, isn't it?"

"Yeah," she whispered, then asked. "Are you still going to my father's sixtieth birthday party?"

"Am I still invited?"

"Of course you are." She picked up her purse and settled the thin strap on her shoulder. "My father has always thought very highly of you."

"Even after our breakup?"

She paused for a moment, as if formulating an adequate response. "Dad was…disappointed to hear we're no longer dating, but he still respects you."

The respect was mutual. He'd met Jim Stevens nearly a year ago, after contracting to install an elaborate security system in the investment firm he owned. Jim was a successful businessman, and it had been obvious that he was very much the family man, as well. He'd boasted about his daughters, and when Grey happened to mention he was building a custom home, Jim had insisted he call his daughter, Mariah, for a consultation on the interior design. Grey had been reluctant-he liked to choose his own women and he certainly didn't like the thought of being "setup"-but in order to maintain Jim's prospering company as one of his accounts, out of courtesy he'd called Mariah. One evening together discussing the design of his house and he'd been a goner.