Lindsay Evans - Pleasure Under the Sun

The man on the deck of Marcus’s pretentious little boat had appeared overhead like a dream to the soundtrack of Janelle Monáe’s “Tightrope.” She’d never been one for wild behavior, but frustration at having to present herself as perfectly square partnership material and as a relentless worker bee had caused another side of her emerge in that moment. So Bailey had called out to him, flirted with him in a way that she wouldn’t normally have, especially if she’d known she was going to see him again.

“I want to reallocate some funds and set up local accounts,” Seven said. “But that’s not very important now.” He chuckled, white teeth flashing against his toffee skin. “It’s a small world, isn’t it?”

“Yes, very. Especially when you run in Marcus’s circles,” she said.

Her friendship with Marcus was good for business but hell on her personal life. He’d referred enough big-money clients her way that she’d be a fool to alienate him. At the same time, all the men she’d met through him, at least the ones she’d found attractive, turned out to be assholes, criminals or both. She clenched her teeth to keep the smile on her face.

“I just met him a couple of weeks ago.” Seven sat back in the chair and sipped from the black mug with the firm’s monogram on it, his amused and interested gaze devouring her from the small distance. “But I didn’t come here to talk about him.”

On the boat he had seemed distant, not just physically but emotionally, an unattainable dream safe to flirt with. But up close here in her office, he was all personal contact and heat. A danger. Especially since he was one of Marcus’s friends. Those guys, if they had money, were usually arrogant pigs who assumed their money could get them everything and everyone they wanted. If they were broke, they were parasitic hangers-on trying to jump from one well-fed fish to another. Her sister always said that was most men in Miami. Only Clive had been the exception. He had fit all her criteria but turned out to have fidelity issues.

“So what did you come in here to talk about, Mr. Carmichael?”

Seven chuckled again, another stomach-warming sound that made her want to sink deeper into her chair and hear it some more. “Call me Seven, please.” That smile of his played havoc with her senses. “I came in here to talk about my money, but suddenly that idea doesn’t sound as appealing, or urgent, as it did before.” He glanced around her office. “Are you free for dinner tonight? I’d love to take you out and get to know you in a more intimate setting.”

Yes. She wanted to say yes. But the reasons not to have dinner with him crowded in on her, forced other words past her lips.

“I’ve already eaten and I’ll be here all evening,” she said.

“I see.” His lips curved in a slow, sexy smile. He sipped again from the mug of hot chocolate, licking his mouth.

“So, for the reason you’re here....” Bailey prodded.

He nodded, gave another of his secret smiles and got down to business. As he spoke, Bailey sighed quietly with relief and took up her pen and pad to take notes. Seven finished his hot chocolate as they talked about his money, what he wanted to do with it, the possibility of him relocating to Miami and taking advantage of all the amenities Florida had to offer.

They didn’t talk again about anything personal, certainly not about how she’d like to see him again if only he wasn’t one of Marcus’s friends. At the end of their hour-long conversation, he signed the papers to make their financial relationship official, shaking her hand as he stood up to leave. She took his empty mug from him and gave him a cool nod.

“Have a good evening, Mr. Carmichael.”

“My name is Seven.” His hand was warm around hers, firm and solid, as Bailey briefly allowed herself to imagine his body would be. Thoughts were harmless. It was no big deal to picture this beautiful man without his shirt, imagining she would get the chance to prove she could handle him as she’d boasted the previous night while the wind and his presence blew her boredom away.

“Seven.” She said his name firmly.

He smiled with quiet satisfaction and turned for the door. Bailey couldn’t stop herself from watching his strut across the plush carpet, the dip in his stride, the subtle press of his butt against the loosely draped jeans.

“Thank you for your business,” she said, forcing her eyes up to his face. “Good luck with your relocation in Miami.”

“Thank you, Bailey.” Her name was a tease on his mouth.

He walked out of her office, leaving the door slightly ajar. She moved to close it but paused with the door handle in her fist, head low as she listened to his slow footsteps down the hall toward the lobby and Celeste’s desk. Despite his heavy, potent masculinity, his stride across the marble floors was like a dancer’s, light and graceful. Unhurried. She wondered if the way he walked was the same way he made love. Bailey shook herself, swallowing thickly. No use in dwelling on that. She closed the door and tried to put him out of her mind.

* * *

The phone abruptly rang, jolting Bailey’s attention from her computer screen. She looked at her watch. It was 7:18. Celeste was long gone and, Bailey guessed, so were the partners and her assistant. Bailey looked at the number ringing through on the desk. It was an unfamiliar one.

She picked up the phone. “Yes?”

“What happened to your lovely island receptionist? She doesn’t keep the same hours you do?”

Bailey took off her glasses, annoyed at herself for the leap in her belly at the sound of the Seven Carmichael’s voice. “No one keeps the same hours as I do,” she said dryly. “What can I do for you?”

“Well, you can start by having dinner with me.”

Persistent, aren’t you? A fraction of a smile touched her mouth. “I told you, I’m working for the rest of the night then I’m going home to my bed.” Under her, the chair squeaked faintly as she leaned back away from her desk, turning to look out the window.

Night had settled around the building, flaring diamonds of light from the high-rises below and on the bridge marching over Biscayne Bay. Miami glittered with its particular beauty, tacky and gorgeous at the same time.

“There’s a saying about Mohammed and the mountain I won’t quote to you, but you get the idea.” His voice was rich with amusement, echoing oddly through the phone.

The faint sound of footsteps tilted her ear toward the hallway, an echo of what came through the phone earpiece. Someone knocked on her door. Then it opened, revealing Seven Carmichael.

“Will you call the police if I come in?”

He stood in the doorway with a picnic basket in his hand, an iPhone to his ear. He looked even better this time around with the white shirt wilted around his body from the spring heat, draping across his muscular chest like a lover’s promise. The scent of hot, spiced meat and fresh bread came to her nose from his basket.

“I promise this isn’t anything more sinister than dinner.” He took the phone away from his ear and gave her a thoroughly unapologetic grin.

In that moment, Bailey was aware that her mouth was hanging open. She closed it with a snap. “What if I tell you I’m not hungry?” she asked, briefly turning away to save the spreadsheet on the computer before giving the man her full attention.

Against her will, she found herself examining him again, eating him up with her eyes, searching for a flaw in him. She found none.

“I don’t go out with my clients,” she said.

“Then I’d rather you tear up the agreement we signed earlier,” he said. “Because I really, really want to go out with you.”

On his tongue, the words go out sounded like something else altogether. Something wicked. Something delicious.