Chapter Three
Elisabet
Stepping into the Stone International building is like walking into one of the opulent boutique stores in France or Italy. It’s luxurious, modern, and looks as if money drips from the paint that adorns the walls. Taking small steps toward the reception desk, I allow my eyes to take in every square inch of the welcome area.
White walls, black carpets, and furniture the color of a decadent burgundy greet me, along with a stunning receptionist who is perched on a chair behind a desk that seems to swallow her.
“Good morning. How can I help you?” she asks. Her smile isn’t plastered on; instead, it’s genuine.
“I’m here for my ten o’clock with Mr. Stone,” I inform her, giving her a kind grin of my own. She nods, taps away on the keyboard for a few seconds before picking up the phone and dialing a number.
“Mr. Stone, your appointment is here.” Her voice is lowered, but I can hear every word. “Yes, Sir. I’ll show her in.” When she hangs up, she rises from her chair and rounds the humungous white oak desk. “This way.” She turns toward the long hallway, which takes us into a smaller area where there are two elevators that look like they’re from a 1950s movie.
I glance her way, taking in her outfit, which is immaculate. Black pencil skirt, bright red blouse, with shiny onyx heels. Her dark hair is pinned neatly in a bun on the back of her head as she leads me toward the silver metal doors.
Once they slide open on a soft ding, we step inside, and she pushes the button for the top floor. Fifteen. It’s not a skyscraper, but I’m sure Mr. Stone has a lovely view. Silence follows us up to the offices, until the doors open and my guide gestures to the floor without stepping out of the elevator.
“He’s waiting,” are the only words she utters before pushing a button, and the doors whoosh close, leaving me on the landing outside two ornate wooden doors. With my hand on the gold doorknob, I twist and push. A soft whoosh beckons me inside, and I’m met with an office that’s both elegant and modern. With soft touches of grays and blues, the black and white artwork compliments the faux leather furniture, along with the one wall of books, which are shelved in a dark oak bookcase. It’s not the space I pictured when I thought of him.
Something about the playboy made me think he’d be seated in an office filled with the usual toys affluent men of his stature have surrounding them. Perhaps more glass, less wood, and for some reason, I thought he’d have his accolades hanging on the walls. But when my gaze trails over the room, it’s bare, bar from a lone painting that hangs opposite his desk.
There’s something sad about it. The colors are dark, almost as if the artist wanted the viewer to feel the pain of the subject. A woman with dark hair, porcelain skin, and pale blue eyes. She’s dressed in a peach-colored dress.
“Ms. Rossi.” His voice teases my name in a baritone which sends a shiver skittering up my spine. I didn’t realize he was British, but the accent is familiar from when I visited. I can’t place where exactly he’s from, which causes me to wonder how long he’s been living in America.
When I finally turn to the desk, where he’s perched on, I’m met with the teal eyes of Landon Stone. His eyes are partly light brown, and the other half a blue-green that reminds me of a lake. It’s alluring, pulling me in as if there’s an invisible cord tugging me closer.
The effect of him, of his aura, surrounds me, grips me in its feral claws, and I know why so many women fall for him, or even drop their panties for him. He emanates sensuality like a cologne.
“Mr. Stone.” I nod, offering him a smile, as I step farther into his domain. This is his kingdom. He rules it. There’s no question about it. “Thank you for meeting with me today,” I say, offering my hand, but nothing could’ve prepared me for the jolt of electricity that shoots all the way down to my toes from the top of my head.
“Anything for a beautiful lady,” he coos in a thick British accent. His voice is husky, causing goosebumps to rise up over my whole body. His large, probably six-foot frame towers over me, and I’m tempted to hide in his warmth. His eyes shimmer with mischief, and I can’t help a small smile from playing on my lips. For a moment, I forget who I am and why I’m here. “How can I make you smile today, Ms. Rossi?” he says, breaking the spell. His boyish charm and masculine confidence holds my attention more than I care for.
Inhaling a deep breath, I respond, hoping to sound confident. It’s been far too long since a man has paid me attention the way he is, and it’s knocking me off my game.
“I’m here to purchase the building on Chestnut Street. It’s vacant at the moment, I have the money, and I’d like to have the papers drawn up as soon as possible.” When I stop for a breath, I realize I’m rambling. I’m talking too fast, and the pitch in my tone is evidence that he’s affected me.
“Easy, Darling.” He chuckles, walking back to his desk, offering me a view of his ass and the way those dark slacks seem to mold to his muscular thighs. Jesus. I need to get my head checked. He gestures to the chair opposite his desk. “Sit. Let’s talk.”