A.C. Arthur - Eve of Passion

“That sounds nice,” she replied, her tone a little more standoffish than it had been before. “I’m staying at the Four Seasons. But I should really get back to work.”

Ballard would accept that excuse, for now. He reached for her hand and lifted it to his lips, kissed the back as his gaze remained focused on her. “I’ll pick you up tomorrow at seven.”

She smiled again, a wide brilliant smile that might have been practiced but rubbed along his body like warm oil anyway. “I’ll see you tomorrow at seven,” she said before slipping her hand from his and turning to walk away.

Ballard watched her walk. He watched the sway of her ass, the line of her shoulders, the curve of her calves, and he wanted her. Damn but he wanted her like he’d never wanted another woman in his life.

* * *

In his king-size bed hours later, Ballard lay on his back, his eyes closed but still seeing her, her scent still wafting through the air around him.

This was ridiculous. He did not do this over women. Ever. He met them, conversed with them, took them out, slept with them and then moved on. The connections were mutually beneficial in the physical sense and usually unsatisfactory on any long-term platform. He’d gone through his entire adult life perfecting that situation; until now he barely remembered most of the women who had been in his life.

Yet he remembered Janelle Howerton with startling clarity.

In fact, he thought, his hand drifting down beneath the sheet, the hot weight of his length waiting, he remembered too much about her. Like the softness of her skin, which Ballard believed would most likely encompass the entire stretch of her body. The graceful curves of her breasts and backside that had his length jutting upward.

When his fingers wrapped around his erection, prepared to go along with the memory and take him to a pleasurable release, he moaned. Then he yanked his hand from beneath the blanket, thoroughly agitated with himself for even thinking about going there.

That wasn’t the type of man he was. He didn’t need to pleasure himself when there were so many other women out there who were up to the task.

But his dreams didn’t continue with any of those other women; they progressed with one female in particular as the star performer. Cloaked only in the intriguing black domino mask, she enticed him throughout his sleep, pushing him to the brink until the next moment he woke in a sweat, erection so hard it was painful, mind so full of her he almost whispered her name—Janelle.

Chapter 3

He was not what she’d expected.

Actually, Janelle hadn’t expected anything where Ballard Dubois was concerned, because he’d been the absolute last person on her mind. The man her father asked her to speak with, to convince to support his campaign, had not been on her radar at all. Last night had been all about making Mr. Harford’s party a success for Rebecca’s sake as well as for her own. Now that it seemed she’d done that—as evidenced by Mr. Harford’s continual praise throughout the event and once he and his wife were preparing to leave—Janelle could allow herself to think about that other matter.

He was tall and extremely good-looking, two things she hadn’t really considered he might be after her conversation with her father. He smelled good, which was always a huge plus in Janelle’s book. Dancing was definitely something he did well, in addition to holding a female close enough to make her almost swoon—which hadn’t happened to her in more years than she could count.

Swooning meant falling and falling meant giving up every piece of who she was to someone who might or might not handle that commodity with care. Giving up everything left one extremely vulnerable and susceptible to deceit and, later, absolute mortification. In essence, to Janelle’s way of thinking, and courtesy of her past relationship, swooning was the beginning of the end. It was a definite no-no, as evidenced by her lack of dating life and the intention to keep that plan going.

With that said, Ballard Dubois and his lean build, pecan skin tone, close-cropped black hair and neatly barbered goatee could certainly make a woman want to change her mind about the no-dating status. A woman other than Janelle.

Yet here she was, preparing for a dinner date with him. No, correction, this was not a date, because Janelle did not date. She was meeting with him as a favor to her father and that was all. The butterflies flitting around in the pit of her stomach as she rode the elevator down to the lobby told another story entirely, but she’d decided to ignore them no matter how persistent they seemed.

She’d dressed in a simple pantsuit, one of two she’d brought with her just in case, navy blue with a short jacket and a silver shell beneath. Her shoes were new, four-inch-heel pewter platforms that she loved like the French toast she’d had for breakfast. Her hair was down, straight and pulled over her left shoulder—the down-and-casual look. One hour was all she’d allotted for this little get-together. Then she was hitting the road, heading back to Wintersage and the many meetings she’d had to reschedule with the Parents’ Association and other vendors to discuss the infamous homecoming dance.

Traffic in the lobby was pretty busy and Janelle found herself looking from the front entrance to the walkway, both viable spots for Mr. Dubois to enter the lobby. A glance at her watch confirmed he was late, by four minutes exactly. She was a stickler for being prompt, early if possible, hating the notion of abusing anyone’s time. Clearly, he did not subscribe to the same belief.

She folded her arms, gazing down at the bold black-and-gold floor design, then up to the vibrant and colorful floral arrangements strategically placed around the area. Vicki would love the color selection and how it offset the dark flooring. She probably would have stood here rearranging the position of the flowers to her liking for a better vantage point, or most certainly would have examined them for the best use of color and variety. Vicki was a perfectionist that way, Janelle thought with an inner smile. Janelle, Vicki and Sandra were all similar in that regard. That was why the Silk Sisters had garnered such rave reviews for their work.

“I hope that smile on your face is because you’re thinking of me.”

His smooth, deep voice interrupted her thoughts and Janelle tried not to be annoyed by that fact coupled with his tardiness. She also tried not to notice how good he looked in his smoke-gray suit with the faintest pinstripe and ice-blue dress shirt and matching tie. There was no doubt that a man who could wear a suit well was tops in her book, but there was also no doubt that she was not supposed to look at Ballard Dubois that way.

“Actually, no, but that doesn’t mean that I’m not pleased to see you,” was her cordial reply.

“Okay, well, we’ll let my bruised ego deal with that later,” he said, offering his arm to her. “Shall we?”

It was a little much, she thought. She didn’t need to walk arm in arm with him to have dinner. Still, she reminded herself that she was doing this for her father, for his precious campaign, as she laced her arm through Ballard’s and walked with him toward the hotel’s very popular lounge.

“I figured you would be tired from last night’s festivities and made reservations someplace close,” he told her as they moved through the glass-door entrance.

Great, she thought, giving him a nod and smile of agreement. She wouldn’t have far to go to get back to her room.

Once they were seated, Janelle allowed herself another indulgent look at her dinner partner. Damn, that suit looked good on him, or was it that the man might possibly look good in anything? She wasn’t sure. A gold watch—she didn’t even guess at the name brand, knowing instinctively it would be expensive—glimmered at his right wrist, a huge signet ring casting the same posh glow on his right ring finger.