excerpt
Stepping out from under the modern glass entrance overhang that somehow
meshed with the age of the building and its neighbors, I enjoyed the relative
quiet of my tree-lined street before I reached the bustle and flow of traffic
on Broadway. One day soon, I hoped to blend right in, but for now I still felt
like a fraudulent New Yorker. I had the address and the job, but I was still
wary of the subway and had trouble hailing cabs. I tried not to walk around
wide-eyed and distracted, but it was hard. There was just so much to see and
experience.
The sensory input was astonishing—the smell of vehicle exhaust mixed
with food from vendor carts, the shouts of hawkers blended with music from street
entertainers, the awe-inspiring range of faces and styles and accents, the
gorgeous architectural wonders . . . And the cars. Jesus Christ. The frenetic
flow of tightly packed cars was unlike anything I’d ever seen anywhere.
There was always an ambulance, patrol car, or fire engine trying to part
the flood of yellow taxis with the electronic wail of earsplitting sirens. I
was in awe of the lumbering garbage trucks that navigated tiny one-way streets
and the package delivery drivers who braved the bumper-to-bumper traffic while
facing rigid deadlines.
Real New Yorkers cruised right through it all, their love for the city
as comfortable and familiar as a favorite pair of shoes. They didn’t view the
steam billowing from potholes and vents in the sidewalks with romantic delight.
They didn’t blink an eye when the ground vibrated beneath their feet as the
subway roared by below, while I grinned like an idiot and flexed my toes. New York was a brand-new
love affair for me. I was starry-eyed and it showed.
So I had to really work at playing it cool as I made my way over to the
building where I would be working. As far as my job went, at least, I’d gotten
my way. I wanted to make a living by my own merits and that meant an
entry-level position. Starting the next morning, I would be the assistant to
Mark Garrity at Waters Field & Leaman, one of the preeminent advertising
agencies in the United States. My stepfather,
megafinancier Richard Stanton, had been annoyed when I took the job, pointing
out that if I’d been less prideful I could’ve worked for a friend of his
instead and reaped the benefits of that connection.
“You’re as stubborn as your father,” he’d said. “It’ll take him forever
to pay off your student loans on a cop’s salary.”
That had been a major fight, with my dad unwilling to back down. “Hell
if another man’s gonna pay for my daughter’s education,” Victor Reyes had said
when Stanton made the offer. I
respected that. I suspected Stanton did, too, although
he would never admit it. I understood both men’s sides, because I’d fought to
pay off the loans myself . . . and lost. It was a point of pride for my father.
My mother had refused to marry him, but he’d never wavered from his
determination to be my dad in every way possible.
Knowing it was pointless to get riled up over old frustrations, I
focused on getting to work as quickly as possible. I’d deliberately chosen to
clock the short trip during a busy time on a Monday, so I was pleased when I
reached the Crossfire Building, which housed
Waters Field & Leaman, in less than thirty minutes.
I tipped my head back and followed the line of the building all the way
up to the slender ribbon of sky. The Crossfire was seriously impressive, a
sleek spire of gleaming sapphire that pierced the clouds. I knew from my previous
interviews that the interior on the other side of the ornate copper-framed
revolving doors was just as awe-inspiring, with golden-veined marble floors and
walls and brushed-aluminum security desk and turnstiles.
As I entered the building, I pulled my new ID card out of the inner
pocket of my pants and held it up for the two guards in black business suits at
the desk. They stopped me anyway, no doubt because I was majorly underdressed,
but then they cleared me through. After I completed an elevator ride up to the
twentieth floor, I’d have general time frame for the whole route from door to
door. Score.
I was
walking toward the bank of elevators when a svelte, beautifully groomed brunette
caught her purse on a turnstile and upended it, spilling a deluge of change.
Coins rained onto the marble and rolled merrily away, and I watched people
dodge the chaos and keep going as if they didn’t see it. I winced in sympathy
and crouched to help the woman collect her money, as did one of the guards.
“Thank you,” she said, shooting me a quick, harried smile.
I smiled back. “No problem. I’ve been there.”
I’d just squatted to reach a nickel lying near the entrance when I ran
into a pair of luxurious black oxfords draped in tailored black slacks. I
waited a beat for the man to move out of my way and when he didn’t, I arched my
neck back to allow my line of sight to rise. The custom three-piece suit hit
more than a few of my hot buttons, but it was the tall, powerfully lean body
inside it that made it sensational. Still, as impressive as all that
magnificent maleness was, it wasn’t until I reached the man’s face that I went
down for the count.
Wow. Just . . . wow.
He sank into an elegant crouch directly in front of me. Hit with all
that exquisite masculinity at eye level, I could only stare. Stunned.
Then something shifted in the air between us.
As he stared back, he altered . . . as if a shield slid away from his
eyes, revealing a scorching force of will that sucked the air from my lungs.
The intense magnetism he exuded grew in strength, becoming a near-tangible
impression of vibrant and unrelenting power.
Reacting purely on instinct, I shifted backward. And sprawled flat on my
ass.
My elbows throbbed from the violent contact with the marble floor, but I
scarcely registered the pain. I was too preoccupied with staring, riveted by
the man in front of me. Inky black hair framed a breathtaking face. His bone
structure would make a sculptor weep with joy, while a firmly etched mouth, a
blade of a nose, and intensely blue eyes made him savagely gorgeous. Those eyes
narrowed slightly, his features otherwise schooled into impassivity.
His dress shirt and suit were both black, but his tie perfectly matched
those brilliant irises. His eyes were shrewd and assessing, and they bored into
me. My heartbeat quickened; my lips parted to accommodate faster breaths. He
smelled sinfully good. Not cologne. Body wash, maybe. Or shampoo. Whatever it
was, it was mouthwatering, as was he.
He held out a hand to me, exposing onyx cuff links and a very
expensive-looking watch.
With a shaky inhalation, I placed my hand in his. My pulse leaped when
his grip tightened. His touch was electric, sending a shock up my arm that
raised the hairs on my nape. He didn’t move for a moment, a frown line marring
the space between arrogantly slashed brows.
“Are you all right?”
His
voice was cultured and smooth, with a rasp that made my stomach flutter. It
brought sex to mind. Extraordinary sex. I thought for a moment that he might be
able to make me orgasm just by talking long enough.
My lips were dry, so I licked them before answering. “I’m fine.”
He stood with economical grace, pulling me up with him. We maintained
eye contact because I was unable to look away. He was younger than I’d assumed
at first. Younger than thirty would be my guess, but his eyes were much
worldlier. Hard and sharply intelligent.
I felt drawn to him, as if a rope bound my waist and he were slowly,
inexorably pulling it.
Blinking out of my semidaze, I released him. He wasn’t just beautiful;
he was . . . enthralling. He was the kind of guy that made a woman want to rip
his shirt open and watch the buttons scatter along with her inhibitions. I
looked at him in his civilized, urbane, outrageously expensive suit and thought
of raw, primal, sheet-clawing fucking.
He bent down and retrieved the ID card I hadn’t realized I’d dropped,
freeing me from that provocative gaze. My brain stuttered back into gear.
I was irritated with myself for feeling so awkward while he was so
completely self-possessed. And why? Because I was dazzled, damn it.
He glanced up at me and the pose—him nearly kneeling before me—skewed my
equilibrium again. He held my gaze as he rose. “Are you sure you’re all right?
You should sit down for a minute.”
My face heated. How lovely to appear awkward and clumsy in front of the
most self-assured and graceful man I’d ever met. “I just lost my balance. I’m
okay.”
Looking away, I caught sight of the woman who’d dumped the contents of
her purse. She thanked the guard who’d helped her; then turned to approach me,
apologizing profusely. I faced her and held out the handful of coins I’d
collected, but her gaze snagged on the god in the suit and she promptly forgot
me altogether. After a beat, I just reached over and dumped the change into the
woman’s bag. Then I risked a glance at the man again, finding him watching me
even as the brunette gushed thank-yous. To him. Not to me, of course, the one
who’d actually helped.
I talked over her. “May I have my badge, please?”
He offered it back to me. Although I made an effort to retrieve it
without touching him, his fingers brushed mine, sending that charge of awareness
into me all over again.
“Thank you,” I muttered before skirting him and pushing out to the
street through the revolving door. I paused on the sidewalk, gulping in a
breath of New York air redolent with a million different things, some good and
some toxic.
There was a sleek black Bentley SUV in front of the building and I saw
my reflection in the limo’s spotless tinted windows. I was flushed and my gray
eyes were overly bright. I’d seen that look on my face before—in the bathroom
mirror just before I went to bed with a man. It was my I’m-ready-to-fuck look
and it had absolutely no business being on my face now.
Copyright © 2012 by Sylvia Day (www.sylviaday.com)
Excerpted from Bared to You
- Sylvia Day. Reprinted from author’s website www.sylviaday.com
