Come Again Page 4

  “We never dated.” I finally answer Casey’s question. “He was friends with Justin when we were kids.”

  “Big brother friends.” Moira clucks her tongue. “On the one hand, ew. On the other, he’ll have to be sensitive and caring to your needs, otherwise you’ll sic Justin on him.”

  “Maybe that’s a healthy choice.” Casey brightens a little. “Maybe you’re breaking out of your ‘all assholes, all the time’ phase of life.”

  “It is not all assholes all the time in here,” I say. Moira puts a finger to her lips to shush me, which annoys me all the more. “What? I can’t say the word assholes in a classy place like the Algonquin?”

  “Come again? I believe you can say the word assholes anywhere you choose, regardless of the venue,” Fraser says right behind me. Every muscle in my body freezes. Slowly, I thaw myself enough to turn around and find him towering over me. He shaved that stubble of his, which shows off how incredibly square and well defined his jaw actually is. It’s like a rock that could be used to cut other rocks. His dark hair curls a little in front of his eyes, which are set to full on smolder. One hand in the pocket of his immaculate suit, he looks like the god of business descended from on high to give pleasure to us mere mortals.

  Casey’s staring at him open-mouthed now, and Moira has finally lost her fight with the ostrich feathers and has collapsed onto her side. We are putting on quite a show right now.

  “Whether you should say the word assholes, well, that’s another issue entirely.” Fraser doesn’t smile, and he doesn’t wrench his gaze away from mine.

  “You find ways to work little lectures into everything, don’t you?” Why does he always have to sneak up behind me when I’ve been drinking? Is he fated to be my own personal demon of alcohol? “I think that you should use whatever word is most spot on in the moment.”

  “I see. And what word do you think needs to be uttered right at this moment?” His voice is rich and low, a challenge in his eyes. As irritated as I am, a hot flush is creeping over my body. God, I think I can feel my nipples standing to attention, and a line of heat licking down my center to…well, I have to cross my legs.

  There are so many words. Asshole. Creep. Smolder. Chisel. Douchebag. Sexy.

  My brain is shorting out with all the options.

  “Rude. Because you’re neglecting your date, and I’m ignoring my friends.” I turn to Casey and Moira to make the case…and find that they have grabbed their purses and utterly abandoned me to Fraser Drake. I look all around the bar in a growing panic, and find that they have truly high-tailed it out of here. God, did they run into the street in a mess of tangled beads and feather headdresses? And did they settle up their bar tabs, or do I need to get them? The fiends.

  They left me to the sexy, arrogant mercy of Fraser Drake. No cookie dough parties again, ever. At least for another week.

  “Your friends appear to have abandoned you.” Ah, what an observation. “And I was not on a date. The lady is a business associate.”

  I look over to the table, and find that she’s gone as well. Maybe Fraser and I just landed in an alternate dimension where all our friends and family are gone, and we have to cling to each other for comfort. What an awkward, triple X porno surreal world that would be.

  Damn, my body likes that idea way more than it should.

  “Business. Yes. Of course.” I snatch up my purse, and signal to the waiter to come and bring the check. “Well, if your meeting’s over you’ll probably want to get home.”

  “Are you in a hurry?” His voice deepens by a fraction. “Am I keeping you from a date?”

  Is it my imagination, or does he sound a little interested in my reply? And is it my imagination, or do all the muscles south of my abdomen clench at the appetizing idea that he’s jealous?

  “No date. Not keeping me. From. You.” All right, we have all the correct words. Now, we just need to piece them together into a real sentence. As I stand, Fraser takes the check from the waiter with the ease of plucking an apple from a branch. My breath catches in my throat. “Chivalry ain’t dead, I see.”

  “I’m very chivalrous.” His eyes crackle with wicked light. “Despite what you thought last time we met.”

  Right, teaching Sawyer to crush balls. That feels like a million years ago. “Well, I am a professional woman who can buy her own drinks. Thank you.” I reach for the check, but he’s already slid in his card and handed it back. Man, was that a black AmEx? Probably made of solid gold and weighs a ton.

  “If you’re not busy, and if you haven’t had too much, why not drink with me? For old times’ sake?” He gestures towards a private corner booth, lush leather seats and gleaming white linen tablecloth. “There’s so much to catch up on, Emma.”

  My name on Gavin’s lips sounds crisp, like the first bite of an apple. From Fraser, it sounds husky and sensual, instantly making me think of candlelight and silk sheets. And that means I have to get my head examined, because as I said before, Fraser Drake was the least sexy boy when we were growing up. All elbows and knees and khaki pleats and debate club and…and…

  Boy, has he filled out and made it work.

  One drink. Then you can cure whatever weird craving you have for this guy, Emma. Because he’s still a giant douchebag, and he’s still Justin’s friend who shoved you in a closet that one time.

  Or was it that he hid in a closet because he couldn’t stand you anymore?

  Either way, a closet was involved.

  “All right. One drink. Sounds good.” As he leads me to the booth, I hold up a hand. “But this time, I pay.”

  “Oh, I’m not sure we can allow that.” He slides into the booth with ease. “There might be some wrestling when the check comes.”

  Put aside how much I’d like to wrestle Fraser right now, sans clothes, and I instantly feel better. He’s still a controlling, patronizing douche. By the end of this evening, I’m going to be cured of my sudden, inappropriate Fraser Drake thoughts once and for all.

  At least, I hope I will.

  5

  Fraser

  Fate has a funny way of working against me. As my drinks with Gillian were winding down, I found myself certain I was being watched. If I hadn’t caught her eye, and if I hadn’t been through with my cocktail, I’d have gone about the rest of the evening without a whisper of worry. I’d have returned home feeling confident in being able to forget her.

  But Emma Brightman does not exist to be forgotten. She’s worn the most cunning beaded dress tonight, swirling, decorative lines of red and gold beads over a silk sheath. It helps that the dress is pushing up her breasts, so that the tops of them curve invitingly. I want to pull her closer, trace my tongue along the cunning swell of those—

  “Who was the business meeting?” Emma takes a sip of rosé. “She’s pretty gorgeous.”

  Instantly, my fantasies are dashed on the rocks of reality. Gillian was punctual as ever for our meeting. Her eyes shimmered with hurt, and hope. She…

  I can’t think of her now, not when I’m with Emma.

  “Financial allocations. Nothing to interest you,” I say. Emma stiffens.

  “Right. Because I’m an airhead LA blonde who can’t or won’t understand basic business.” She takes a long drink of her wine, I think in an effort to get this over with quickly. “Like you said at my Mom’s party. You haven’t changed at all.”

  Somehow this woman enrages me and arouses me all at once. She’s so quick to assume the worst; why should I want her at all? Besides how tempting she looks in that spangled gown, how her dark golden hair tumbles around her shoulders.

  Really, no idea why I should be enthralled.

  “Do you always believe the worst in people?” I ask as the waiter delivers my Old Fashioned. Emma smirks and rolls her eyes.

  “I work in Hollywood. It’s an essential quality for staying in a job.” She clinks glasses with me.

  “I’m surprised you’re not doling out advice professionally.” Fuck, why do I sound so damned
robotic and monotonous? Probably because I can’t stand to be seen as weak. “You seemed good at it, I mean.”

  Emma gives a sound of surprise. “No sting at the end of that compliment? I feel like I need to brace myself for the next attack.”

  “How do you know you wouldn’t like it? The attack, I mean.”

  Fuck, her eyes go wide with surprise. Because that’s all I can think about: the attack, the surprise, the erotic confusion that comes from lifting this woman into my arms and carrying her to one of Al Capone’s favorite private drinking rooms. I know this because a glowing neon sign is pointing out that particular nook. There, we’d order a bottle of iced champagne before shutting the curtains, and I’d undress her, become intimately acquainted with her round, perfect—

  “Gorillas,” I mutter. I discovered this afternoon that thinking of those sad, lonely gorillas is the only thing that sets my lust for Emma on simmer rather than boil.

  “Gorillas? Like…a surprise attack by gorillas?” Emma is lost, as she should be. I am insane.

  “Would you like another drink?” I notice she’s taken another hefty swig of rosé, probably trying to keep her composure in the face of this conversation.

  “I think I’d better.” She flags the waiter, then orders a gin gimlet. “You?” she asks me.

  “I’ll stay with the Old Fashioned.” I dismiss the waiter with a nod of my head, and go back to staring into the amber liquid in my glass. Emma smirks; even her smirk is delectable. Damn this woman.

  “That’s always been you, hasn’t it? Old Fashioned through and through.” She crosses her arms and relaxes against the seat. That’s how she feels during this drink, relaxed and unconcerned. I want her at the edge of her seat, panting with a growing lack of erotic control. How would another man go about this? He might comment upon her hair, describe it as a mass of goldenrod, a shimmering assortment of—

  “Your hair,” I tell her, leaning in, “is a mass of tendrils.”

  She blinks. “Not sure if insult? Please to add more information?”

  I think the best thing to do would be to set the building on fire and leave. This night isn’t going to get any better.

  “I was simply proving your point: an old fashioned man compliments a woman’s, er, tendrils.”

  “Okay. Let’s switch gears, because I think we’re getting even more confused than we usually are.” Emma holds up her glass. “How about a game?”

  “Come again? A game?” In my wildest dreams, it will involve removing articles of clothing. I can imagine Emma sitting before me in only a lace bra and panties. Then, I imagine her delicately undoing the clasp of her bra and removing it, revealing a pert, perfect pair of—

  Don’t say gorillas, Fraser. Don’t you fucking say gorillas.

  “We take turns guessing facts about each other, you know, what we’ve done in the half a lifetime since we last met. If I guess something about you and it’s wrong, I take a drink. If I’m right, you take one.” She arches an eyebrow, her mouth quirking with mischief. “Want to play?”

  I stiffen. It’s one thing to bare our bodies, but another to reveal our pasts. I can’t have Emma getting closer to the truth of Gillian. Of what I was really doing here tonight.

  But if I can keep her here with me, and with alcohol, perhaps it will be worth it.

  “All right. You go first.” I recline in my seat, looking the picture of ease. I hate myself for it; I hate to lie about anything. “Take your best shot.”

  Emma narrows her eyes and places one finger against her lips. “You lost your virginity in college.”

  I pick up my glass…and then indicate for her to drink. “You lost.”

  “You’re kidding?” She clucks her tongue as she drinks. “After college?”

  Oh for fuck’s sake. “Last year of boarding school. A night of passion with Cecily Rothschild in the boathouse.” Fuck, I’ll never forget that night. Or those boats. Massively uncomfortable.

  Emma snorts, and claps a hand over her mouth. “You, of all people? Mr. Pleats and Polos got laid in high school? God, I’m so ashamed. I had to wait ‘til spring of freshman year at UCLA.”

  I’m not going to guess about her first sexual experience, because I don’t need to give my throbbing half-mast erection an excuse to unleash itself. Is it my imagination, or does Emma slide around the table a bit? No, it’s no imagination. We’re sitting alongside each other now, and the scent of her perfume, the Chanel and gin and strawberry lip gloss and Los Angeles sunshine, it all envelops me. I have to keep my hand steady on the table. I clench my jaw, which she notices. Her eyes light up.

  “Aw, don’t like being touched? Don’t worry, I won’t get closer.”

  Get closer, damn you. Touch me.

  Gorillas.

  “It’s my turn.” I appraise her, from the golden tops of her (plentiful, succulent) breasts to her (bright, exquisite) green eyes. What do I know of her? She’s free with her advice and her love; she clearly adores Justin, and that little girl I saw her dancing with in the kitchen. But it’s love that’s desperately looking for a direction. There’s something still unformed about it, sweet and childlike in a way. It’s never taken root. It’s never…

  “You’ve never been in love.”

  I don’t know why the hell that comes out of my mouth. Why not something like ‘you’ve backpacked across the country’ or even something flirtatious like ‘you’ve forgotten your underwear at someone’s house before’? Because I see the way my words hit her; they’re a blow. I’m waiting for her to tell me to take a drink, to save face. Hell, I’m bringing up my glass to do it for her. But Emma waves her hand, and takes a sip of gimlet.

  “Guilty as charged. Thirty-two and never in love.” She sighs, a cheek in her hand. “Lots of lust, though. Some reciprocal lust.” She winks, trying to lighten her spirits again. “Some hot reciprocal lust.”

  I clench my fist under the table, collectively strangling all these phantom lovers in my imagination. I don’t tell Emma that, of course. Something tells me she’s not a woman who likes a man to take control.

  Not until she wants him to, of course. Bloody hell, I’m going to have to sit with my legs crossed soon if my cock doesn’t calm itself.

  “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.” I sit as straight as possible, staring into her eyes. Those green, marvelous depths. Her lips part with a breath of surprise.

  “You know, I can’t get a read on you,” she says. And I don’t want her to. I don’t want her to know what kinds of lewd and decidedly naked thoughts are dancing in my subconscious as we speak. I don’t want her to know how I want to throw her down in this booth, with half of hipster Los Angeles watching, and have her screaming my name in ten seconds flat. Above all, I don’t want her to know about performing in Cambridge’s all male a capella group in my first year. I don’t want her to know about the straw boater hats we used to wear.

  Emma Brightman would never let me live down those straw boater hats, no matter how rugged and aggressive I am in bed.

  “I don’t like to be conspicuous,” I say at last.

  “That explains the stick-up-butt expression.” She clenches her jaw, and her eyes go taut at the edges. She winces, as though pained. “See? You’d do a lot better if you’d only relax your face a little.”

  “With whom, might I ask, am I supposed to do better?” The effects of that drink are coming on at last; I hear myself growl those words. I let my eyes trace over her body, and when I look back at her face, I find that she’s…blushing.

  Emma is blushing because of me, and I feel a surge of hot, very masculine pride.

  “You know. Just. Anyone.” She dives back into her drink, and now is my moment. I lean in closer to her, breathing in the intoxicating scent of her perfume. Her hair. Her body.

  “Do I look more relaxed now?”

  She gazes back into my face. My hand rests on the seat behind her. All I need to do is reach down, graze my fingertips down her bare arm. I can feel her shudder at my touch,
hear the soft sigh that comes from her lips.

  “You look kind of cross-eyed,” she admits.

  Right. Fix that, Fraser. Fix it now.

  “Now?” My voice pitches lower, deeper.

  “You look constipated.”

  “Now?” Deeper still.

  “Dewy.”

  “Now?” If I go any lower, I’ll blow out my vocal chords.

  “Just right.”

  She leans back against the booth, a smile quirking those perfect lips of hers. Hell, was she flirting? I can’t tell. I’ve lived in England since I was eighteen, and we’ve a different way of doing things there. What happens is you shake hands with someone, make polite conversation in the office kitchen every weekday for eight years, get pregnant, and then admit you love one another. Works perfectly.

  American was my first language, but not my fluent one.

  If Emma was flirting, though, I think I might need to summon a vehicle to whisk her off into the night. An ubermensch, perhaps. Or some other car service composed of desperate twenty somethings with piña colada air fresheners in their Kias.

  I would summon a hungry college student and have him drive us to my place, where I could get her into bed and out of—

  “Gavin? I mean, Mr. Walker? I mean, uh, hey you?” Emma sits up straight, looking bewildered at the gentleman who’s strolled up to our booth.

  No. No, it can’t bloody well be.

  “Emma. I thought you said you had a drinks night with your girl friends?” Gavin Walker tsks in a voice dripping with false hurt. “I feel so misled.”

  “So misled, you had to come down to the same bar? What a stunning coincidence,” she drawls, but I hear that excitement that laces her voice. Her expression lights up, an easy, unconscious shift of her features. Seeing Gavin has given her a jolt of exhilaration. “This is my old friend, Fraser Drake. Fraser, this is my boss—”

  “Gavin.” I manage his name with a neutral expression, which is the best I could hope for. He returns this with a half nod, and a…sympathetic smile.