Chapter Three – Marshall
“Miss Grazia Fabiola has just arrived in reception, sir. Shall I escort her up?”
When Miranda’s voice pierces the intercom speaker, I smile. Not at her voice, but at her words.
She’s here.
“Please do, Miranda. Also, upon your return, bring tea.”
“Certainly, sir.”
Miranda, I’m certain, is part robot and part humanoid. Though she’s beautiful, she makes blocks of ice seem warm and cozy. Nearly all my friends have hit on her at some point, and each and every one has ultimately failed. Something that only makes me respect her more. Not that I wouldn’t respect her if she started to date any of the bastards I call pals, but still, her taste tells me a lot about her. All of it good.
Rubbing my hands together, I realign the papers on my desk, quickly brushing the crumbs from the protein bar I ate a few minutes ago into the trash can. I take a quick sip of water, then reach into my drawer for a breath mint. I highly doubt she’ll let me kiss her during this interview, but hell, there’s no harm in a man preparing. Christ, preparation was how I made my fortune, and I’m not ashamed to admit that.
I sit back in my seat, letting it rock as I decide how to greet her. These things matter, I’ve come to realize. First impressions count. And though this isn’t our very first meeting, it’s our first meeting as potential client and contractor… and I don’t just mean to make her my events organizer.
I have three in-house events organizers; I don’t need to outsource, not really. Not that she needs to know that. This meeting is an excuse. Nothing more, nothing less.
I’ve tried to approach her at the various soirees I’ve attended where she’s been working behind the scenes, but to no avail.
Last night, seeing her at the auction, I knew I had to make my move. Especially when I saw Chris Evans staring at her too. No way in hell am I going to let that piece of shit anywhere near her. I saw her first, after all. Grimacing, because that makes me sound like a five-year-old, I try to figure out why I’m going to these lengths to speak with Grazia.
There is something about her, something… Hell, I don’t know what it is. And for a man who knows himself as well as I do, who’s as honest with himself as I am, that’s a large admission to make.
I’m a billionaire. Those billions were made with hard work, determination, and verve. I’m not accustomed to pussyfooting my way through life. If I want something, I get it. I chase after it until I can call it mine.
In this instance, I want Grazia. I want her badly enough to work at getting her. Because, though I will chase, it’s been a long time since I’ve had to.
The advantage of money and fortune is it’s incredibly easy to go through life making ‘friends’. Of course, those acquaintances will leave you the instant you cease to be of value to them. I’ve learned, along the way, to do unto others as they’ve done unto me. I toss them out when they cease to be useful to me, and I feel no shame in admitting that.
However, now isn’t the time to think about tossing people away… not when I’m trying to get Grazia Fabiola into my bed.
Just the prospect has my cock twitching in the expensive cage of my Savile Row tailored suit trousers. She has that bizarre effect on me, and though I don’t appreciate being made to feel like a teenaged kid with more hormones than sense, that very unusualness is why I’m willing to break with habit.
There’s a slight ping from down the hall which tells me the private elevator has been used to reach this floor.
She’s here.
God, I wish I did have the right to kiss her. To grab her to me, to steal her breath and drown her in passion.
She was made for passion, was Grazia. Every time I see her, I know it. It’s in the way she moves, in the way she breathes. Every ounce of her is filled with energy. A vibrancy that I’d love to capture, and that for as long as I have her in my bed, I intend on hoarding.
Deciding on my next course of action, I head to the front of my desk and perch on the edge of it. Crossing my feet at the ankle, I settle my hands ata either side of my thighs and wait for Miranda to knock. When she does, I wait a handful of moments and say, “Come in.”
Miranda’s smile is its usual icicle-forming self, and I immediately bypass her frozen sensibilities for the heady warmth of the woman behind her.
Today, even though she’s coming to a business meeting, Grazia is wearing a floaty black-and-beige patterned skirt that swirls about her ankles. Beneath the long hem, I can see some demure black pumps peeping out. A tight-fitting camisole covers her top half, but the bottom of the camisole is hidden under the high waist of the skirt.
There’s something modest about the outfit, yet at the same time, immodest. The long length of the skirt swirls about her shapely thighs and calves, revealing more than it should. Her breasts are lovingly cupped by the black silk camisole, meaning I can see every inch of her while every inch of her is hidden.
On her arm is a large shoulder bag, black leather, and a smile is pinned to her face when she enters the office.
As she walks toward me, everything that is ice in Miranda is fire in Grazia. It’s a wonder there isn’t some kind of storm brewing between them as the cold and hot fronts meet. Her hips sway, the sinuousness making me wish I could grab ahold of her butt and hug her to me. Lift that skirt and find out what she’s wearing underneath it.
Withholding a groan is a lot harder than it should be. Only the fact that it would make me seem like an untried youth compels me to keep quiet.
She reaches out for me with her hand, ready to shake mine, and the instant our fingers brush, it’s comforting to see her firm her lips, gulp a little in reaction. I noticed that before at Charles and Deirdre’s dinner when I tried to talk to her then.
Desire and passion… both swirl through Grazia like a tornado ready to take form, and I know that that single, simple touch of palm and palm has made the prospect of a twister much more likely.
In the periphery of my vision, I see Miranda with a tray of coffee. She places it on the desk, silently slinking out once her duty is done. The quiet snicking of the door is all the encouragement I need; I intended to talk business first, but now, with that explosive if silent reaction still at the forefront of my mind, and the need to strip her bare and stake a claim, I murmur, “I have a proposition for you.”
To be continued…