Lindsay Evans - Pleasure Under the Sun

In the condo, she put her keys on the silver-plated hook by the door, walking by moonlight into the living room to drop her briefcase on the couch, then detouring in the kitchen to grab a crystal tumbler from the cupboard. Ice cubes clinked against the glass as she held it under the fridge’s dispenser. At the sideboard in the sitting room, she poured Scotch into the tumbler. The liquor gurgled and splashed over the ice in the silence.

Seven Carmichael briefly floated through her thoughts as she took the first sip of the twelve-year-old single malt. He had been like the drink, a searing heat through her senses that put her on pause for a moment to pay close attention to the slow burn over her tongue, in her chest and her belly.

Bailey shook him from her head.

It had been a long day, but she was far from tired. Her work energized her. And though she would have liked to share the evening with someone—the silver rush of moonlight over her hardwoods, the coolness of the floor against her bare feet, her quiet walk back out of her condo and up the elevator to the rooftop pool—she also savored her privacy. Her things.

Her home was all paid for. So was her car. She owed no one. It was a great feeling. One she cherished even as she sat at the edge of the pool with moonlight and starlight winking overhead, her whiskey by her hand. Alone.

Chapter 3

“If I’d known you were going to make a play for her, I would have warned you.” Marcus braced his elbows against the bar, sipping from his Hennessy and Coke. “Unless you’re corporate, you’re wasting your time.”

“Why? Is she just about money?” Seven asked.

He hadn’t gotten that vibe from her at all, and she had seemed to warm to him over the course of the hour they’d spent together on her office floor. But that warmth had disappeared once Marcus opened his big mouth and told her what Seven did for a living.

Seven tilted the last of his beer to his lips and leaned back in the chair at the bar of Marcus’s favorite spot, Gillespie’s Jazz and Martini Bar. The sound of the piano wove through the lazy Monday night, while soft laughter, the clink of glasses, the flash of jewels imbued the air with a subdued urban magic.

“Nah,” Marcus said dismissively. “She doesn’t care about things like that. Her last man was a teacher, some professor over at UM. She just doesn’t do artists.”

Seven looked at him. “If you knew that, why did you tell her that?”

“Like I said, man. I didn’t know you were feeling her like that. Most guys, once they realize she’s such a hard-ass, they back off. She’s hot, but damn!” Marcus shook his head.

Seven breathed in the memory of Bailey. Everything about her was hot. Her body. The way she had thawed for him like an ice sculpture under the rising sun. And her smile—absolutely incredible.

“Just give it up, man.” Marcus raised his drink to his lips. “You’re better off.”

Seven made a noncommittal sound. After what had happened in Bailey’s office, he’d been in a hurry to distance himself from Marcus, convinced that the other man was bad luck for his new life in America. He had left Braithwaite and Fernandez to view a condominium with vacancies. Luckily, they allowed him to move in immediately. When Marcus called to invite him to Gillespie’s, Seven had reluctantly accepted, plugging the address into the GPS and making his way to the club.

“You’re not going to give up, are you?” Marcus asked, his tone of voice saying that Seven should give up.

“Why should I?”

“I already gave you a good reason. Bailey is a genius with money, but she’s a bitch. Plain and simple.”

“Every strong woman isn’t a bitch, Marcus.”

“Spoken like a man who’s already whipped. And she didn’t even give you any.”

Seven gestured to the bartender for another beer. “Spoken like a man who’s never had a special woman in his life.”

“I’ve had plenty of special women.” Marcus laughed.

Seven nodded his thanks as the bartender slid him another bottle of Corona with lime.

“And speaking of which...” Marcus swiveled around in his chair as two women walked up to them, parting the crowd with their video-girl good looks. It was two of the girls from earlier that day. “Felice and Masiel are here for our pleasure,” he said, pulling Felice against him. The girl settled into his chest with a satisfied purr while her friend looked at Seven expectantly.

Seven squeezed the lime into his beer then slid the crinkled remnants of the citrus into the full bottle. “I don’t need any company tonight, thanks.” He sipped his beer, mouth puckering at the tartness of lime and beer.

Marcus stared at him in amazement. “You’re refusing this?” He gestured to Felice’s lush frame while she posed seductively, hand on hip, breasts thrust out.

“You’re hot like fire, baby,” Seven reassured the woman. “But I’m not in the mood.”

“Damn. You are whipped.” He started to sing Babyface’s “Whip Appeal” in a surprisingly good voice.

Seven laughed despite his irritation. “Forget you, man. I’m heading out. See you later.” He put the beer to his head, drinking as much as he could, then thudded the mostly full bottle against the bar with a sound of finality. He stood.

“You’re going to regret giving this up,” Marcus said. “But that’s cool. I’ll handle the girls for you.”

Masiel claimed the seat Seven had vacated, giving him her sexiest hurt look.

“Enjoy.” Seven tipped his imaginary hat at Marcus in a mocking salute, then turned and left the bar.

He didn’t have a particular destination in mind. His only goal was to get away from Marcus and his poison so he could have some time to himself. To think. To just be. But as Seven climbed into the rental Lexus and drove away from the bar, he suddenly realized that what he wanted more than anything was to go for a swim. Although he’d been in Miami for four long days, he had yet to get in the water. It had been months since he’d been in the water, not since his trip to Jamaica last winter to visit his parents.

Even then, he’d spent most of his time helping his parents around the house—fixing, climbing, painting, all good and honest work that left a pleasant ache in his body and sharpened his hunger for the good food his mother always had in the kitchen. A pang of homesickness took him, and Seven stepped harder on the gas, pushing the car up Collins Avenue toward his new condo. Once there, he quickly parked, went upstairs to change into his swim trunks and a white jogging suit, then walked the two blocks to the beach.

It was dark. The beach was deserted except for the occasional passerby. Waves tumbled up on the sand, pale waves painting the sand dark as they capered up on the beach before retreating back into the ocean. Seven kicked off his sandals and pulled off his jogging suit. The water called him.

Chapter 4

Bailey didn’t realize she’d brought her phone up to the roof with her until it rang. She put down her Scotch—her third glass in the past two hours—to answer it. “Good evening, Bette.”

Her sister chuckled into the phone. “Hello, sister dear. Did you finally leave the office?”

“Yes. Thank you very much.”

Bette made a shocked noise. “It’s not even midnight.”

There had been many nights when Bette had called her as late as two in the morning to find Bailey still at the office, laboring over some account or other. Worthless things, her sister said, despite the fact that her clients were worth billions and she handled millions of dollars of their money.

“What happened to drag you out of your den?”

“Who says something happened?” But something in her tone must have warned Bette.

“Ooh,” her sister gasped, drawing out the exhalation like caramel. “Do tell!”