Текст книги "Crave"
Автор книги: B.J. Harvey
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Текущая страница: 6 (всего у книги 17 страниц)
Five days later, Grant and I are sitting in the reception area of a high-rise office building downtown, waiting to be called into a conference room filled with the four-person board of directors for the new museum project.
“I don’t have a good feeling about this, Cal.” Grant has been crossing and uncrossing his legs ever since we arrived. When he’s not doing that, he’s leaning forward and bouncing his knee.
“Grant, calm the fuck down. We’ve checked everything twice, and we know we followed the design brief. We tried to guide them toward something more fitting for an installation like this. Maybe they’re balking a bit and want to push back on some aspects. That’s precisely why we made sure there was room to move. I knew they’d do this.”
“When did you become the voice of reason?”
“When did you ever think you were the sensible one in this partnership?”
“Good point. Shut up, you smug bastard.” The smirk on his face is a much more relaxing expression than the frown that he’s been wearing for the past few days.
“At least that got your damn leg to stop bouncing.”
Tammy, the board’s secretary, who introduced herself to us with a pouty smile and a soft hand on my arm when we arrived, interrupts us. I watch with amusement as she pulls her shoulders back and thrusts her breasts forward, adding an extra—and rather unnecessary—sway to her hips as her hooded eyes looked my way. Her complete disregard for both public and professional decorum is unappealing at the very least, even if I was in the market for a fan girl wanting to get herself some attention. The misleading and misreported Callum Alexander publicity machine strikes again.
Tammy stops inappropriately close to me, looking up from her diminutive stature to meet my gaze. “The board is ready for you now, Mr. Alexander.”
Grant clears his throat beside me to cover up a snort.
“I’m sure my partner, Mr. Richardson, would love to follow you to the boardroom as well, Tammy. Do you think you might be able to show him the way?”
“M . . . Mr. Richardson, please follow me.”
Grant covers his mouth to hide his uncouth snort.
“Thank you, Tammy,” he replies, shoving me with his shoulder and muttering a quiet “thanks” under his breath for my ears only. I grin and follow them both down a long corridor, turning into a large boardroom filled with a black rectangular table. Lining one side is four chairs, each one filled with a member of the board.
Going down the line, Grant and I step forward and greet each member, recognizing them from our design presentation and subsequent contract signing. Left to right there is the board chairman, Richard James, then the three other board members—Helen McDonald, Lawrence Knight, and Hudson Miles.
“Take a seat, gentlemen, and we’ll get started,” Richard James, says across the table. He’s very no-nonsense, a straight talker who likes to get the job done.
Never one to waste time, I quickly get to the point, knowing that a direct and definitive approach is always best. “Excuse my bluntness, but we feel we’re at a disadvantage, especially given the distinct lack of details we’ve received regarding today’s meeting . . .” I leave my statement open-ended, the inflection in my voice indicative of the need for a response from a member of the board.
Mr. James continues, looking especially uncomfortable with a ramrod straight posture and furrowed brow. “Well, now. Let us clear that up for you right away. I’m sure this is all a big misunderstanding. Especially given the reputation of Alexander Richardson and the utmost respect we hold for your designs and your concept for the project. However, three weeks ago we received some concerning correspondence, which called into question the originality of your design. Normally we would dismiss this, given that the accuser has failed to supply their contact details to support their allegations. However, in this instance we’ve decided to investigate the claims due to the national significance of the museum project.”
I look over at Grant, who is frowning as he turns toward me. I offer him a quick and curt nod before returning my attention to the board members opposite us. Leaning back in the black leather chair, I rest my elbows on my knees and steeple my fingers in front of me. I wait for a few moments, making eye contact with each and every person on the board.
“I understand, Mr. James, and of course we will fully support any investigation you conduct. I would like to know the specific details of the accusation though. I believe that is a concession we should be afforded, given that it is our firm’s reputation that is at risk should this accusation and the corresponding investigation into both our design process and the approved concept for this building be made public. A concept which was already unilaterally accepted by this very board.”
Lawrence reaches up and adjusts his tie, showing his obvious discomfort with the turn of events. They probably expected Grant and I to roll over. What they didn’t anticipate is that Grant and I have gone through every aspect of this project over the past two weeks. We have left no stone unturned and know that every rule has been followed, every box ticked, and every step of the tender process with the board has been adhered to.
There is no way that our concept is not original, and this so-called accusation is frivolous and time-wasting. It is simply a red herring.
Grant sits up, leaning forward. “I’d also like to note that if this was to be leaked to the media by anybody in this room and the reputation of our firm, and in fact our livelihood, was adversely affected in any way, shape or form, Callum and I would be forced to seek legal advice. As it stands, if we are exonerated by your investigation, of which I’m in no doubt we will be, we will still be seeking advice as to our rights in a situation such as this.”
“Oh . . . oh no, please, gentlemen,” Helen McDonald says in a soft placating voice. “Do not misunderstand us. We are simply following protocol here. We do not believe this accusation at all. It’s just that our hands are tied. If we do not follow through on the complaint and they chose to escalate the matter to Washington, which would undoubtedly involve the media, there would be a lot of questions asked. We want to clear this up just as much as you do.”
Grant and I look at each other again. My blood still boils at the calling into question of both my professional and personal integrity, as well as that of my business partner and best friend. With another silent nod, my eyes flare quickly, telling Grant it’s time to leave. We both stand up.
“Thank you, Helen,” I say nodding toward her, “and gentleman. I gather the board secretary will be in touch with us regarding an appointment with your investigator?” I quirk my brow, not bothering to hide my anger at this point. I may be a consummate professional, but even the most impenetrable demeanor can crack in the face of insult.
Richard walks around the table to shake my hand. “I’m so very sorry about this, gentlemen. We want to get this cleared up so that the groundbreaking ceremony next month can still go ahead unhindered.”
“That would be appreciated, Richard,” I say. He releases my hand and goes to shake Grant’s.
By the time we reach the Range Rover, my head is threatening to explode. Throwing my briefcase into the back seat, I latch my safety belt and grip both hands on the steering wheel, my knuckles turning white while I wait until Grant closes his door before letting out a loud growl.
“What the hell was that back there?” he asks, beating me to the punch. His incredulous tone merely vocalizes what I’m already thinking.
“Who the fuck knows? I do know that there is absolutely nothing to this so-called accusation, and whatever investigation they plan on conducting will prove that beyond a shadow of a doubt.”
“Fucking oath, it will. We dotted all the i’s and crossed all the t’s. There is no way our design is matching anybody else’s. We spent weeks drafting up that concept. I poured the coffee down your throat and replaced the toothpicks under your eyelids my damn self. Who would do something like this?” Grant’s hand reaches up around his neck to loosen his metallic blue necktie he’d only finished tying just before the meeting.
I shake my head, the tension from the meeting slowly starting to ease with every deep, soothing breath I take. My muscles remain rigid, and the pulse in my neck continues to struggle to comprehend the last thirty minutes of my previously uneventful Friday.
“I promise you this. We’ll fight this to the death, Cal. Our word is worth more than some anonymous fucking tip. But I will say that if anything delays the mayor putting that fucking spade into the fucking ground on the waterfront, there will be hell to pay.” Grant sweeps his arms wide, almost taking me out in the process.
“I think we need a drink. I don’t know about you, but there is no way I’m going back to the office after that shit storm.”
“You’re a fucking scholar and a saint, Callum Alexander.”
“Truer words have never been spoken,” I retort, earning a chuckle from my best friend. I turn the key and the V8 engine roars to life, rumbling throughout the garage as I pull out of the parking space and drive up the ramp toward street level and hopefully a bar serving strong liquor.
Two hours later we’re sitting on the balcony of Cisco, an upmarket bar situated right on the water just left of the Golden Gate Bridge.
Knowing I have dinner with Lucia later in the night, I’m careful to restrict myself to only a few tumblers of scotch while Grant is four beers in and at threat of a neck injury if the frequent changes in direction his head is pointing are any indication. He still acts as if we’re the same nineteen-year-old guys at college who could have any woman we wanted, any time we wanted. Where an empty bed on any night of the week was a wasted opportunity in his opinion. Ever since his divorce, it seems like he still believes in the same philosophy.
He’s lucky in the fact that we decided to only attribute my name as the principal designer to Spera House, the project that put our firm on the national architectural ‘map,’ so to speak. He likes to pull out the ‘I’m with him’ card at events and parties. To be honest, if it draws attention away from me and allows me the chance to simply enjoy myself without the added pressure of the name, the reputation and the ‘bachelor’ notoriety, then I’m thankful for the reprieve.
“You want another?” He slurs slightly as he stands up beside me, his chair scraping loudly against the tiled floor of the balcony.
“I’ve got plans later, so I better not.” Looking up at him, I see his eyes widen before a wide smile creeps over his face.
“Plans or plans?” He raises his hands in the air to make accent quotes with his fingers, winking at me when I shake my head and look away from him.
“Ah, like that, is it? And who might these plans be with?” he teases, knowing full well who I’m seeing tonight.
“It’s for me to know and you to not concern yourself with.” I lift my glass to my mouth and smile against the crystal.
“Oh, like that is it? Your loss. I see a rather lovely group of ladies at the bar I’d like to acquaint myself with. I’ll be back.” He disappears from my peripheral vision and I look up and out over the water, anticipation for the night ahead slowly increasing every time I check my watch, which is frequently.
A few minutes later, I hear a loud, obnoxious laugh by the bar, and I turn my head toward the sound to see a rather inebriated, dangerously perched Jodi, standing next to Grant and another woman. Her hand rests suggestively on his forearm, her all too familiar tricks of seduction coming out in full force. She strokes her fingers against his skin as he turns his head toward hers and leans down to whisper something in her ear.
He pulls back and stands up straight, a huge panty-melting grin plastered on his intoxicated face, and I just know that he’s using his charm to win her over. Little does he know that very little charm is required to get Jodi Malestrom interested in anything of the horizontal variety.
When his eyes meet mine, I jerk my head sideways to get his attention, watching as he fishes a business card out of his pocket and hands it to her before planting a teasing kiss on her cheek and walking back out to the balcony toward our table, thankfully blocking her view of me.
He takes his seat and swigs his whisky before dropping it back onto the table loudly.
“You know who that is?”
“A future participant in the Richardson Walk of Shame?” he says with a laugh.
“That, or the same Jodi that I kicked out of my bed a few months ago who had grand plans to hang her Louboutins on the Callum Alexander star?”
He looks over his shoulder at her before returning his gaze back to me. “You’re fucking shitting me?” He splutters.
“Wish I was. Let’s just say that she did not get the message when I made it very clear that I was not in the market for a Mrs. Alexander at this time, and that the fact her legs have been wrapped around my back did not make her a frontrunner like she expected,” I reply dryly.
He looks to the sky and groans. “Another Alexander cheerleader. Just my luck.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Smug bastard.”
“Oh believe me, she served a purpose, but had I known she would continue to misinterpret our infrequent liaisons as an ode to something more, I would’ve let that ship sail a hell of a lot earlier than I did.”
He takes one more look at her, his eyes raking over her head to toe and back up again. “She could’ve hung anything she damn well wanted off of me, misinterpretation be damned.”
“Dammit.” I groan when I accidentally catch Jodi’s eye. She smiles brightly and leans over to say something to her companion before grabbing her half-filled cocktail glass from the bar and walking toward us.
“What?” Grant asks, oblivious to the impending visit.
“You gave her your card didn’t you?”
“Of course,” he replies, his brows furrowing in confusion. “Why?”
“Well since your card says Grant Richardson of Alexander Richardson, you don’t think she might have put two and two together and for once in her life, actually gotten four?”
“Shit . . .” He groans.
“Callum,” Jodi purrs as she reaches our table.
“Jodi, what a pleasant surprise.” I stand up but am careful not to touch her.
“Oh, stop with the niceties, Cal. We both know that you’re docile in the day, naughty at night.” She leans into me, her hand taking the opportunity to run behind my back and squeezing my ass.
I step sideways, forcing her hand to drop along with her friendship façade. I take my seat again and watch with puzzled amusement as Grant looks up at our visitor with devious fascination.
“Jodi, I didn’t realize you knew my business partner,” he says.
“Oh yes, you could say I’ve made his acquaintance a few times.” She giggles and snorts unattractively, the copious amount of alcohol coursing through her making her seemingly uncouth and very unlike the well put-together woman I’d taken to bed when I needed release.
Thankfully I saw her for what she was a long time ago—an emotionally stunted woman raised in an affluent environment not lacking in luxury, but lacking in love and attention. Fortunately for me, women like Jodi float from one rich, powerful man to the next like a bee hovering from flower to flower.
She turns her attention to Grant, placing her hip against the table and resting her hand close to his. “I don’t care if you work with him. My offer from inside still stands.”
If this wasn’t such an entertaining train wreck to watch, I’d be tempted to step in and stop the woman from embarrassing herself further. But after the day I’ve had, anything where the attention is not directed at me, my design practices, or has my integrity being called into question, has free rein. Although with Jodi lurking around, I feel the need to protect Grant.
He looks over at me and gives me a sly smirk before returning his amused attention to his willing bedmate. Placing one hand over the top of hers, and running the other up and down her exposed forearm, he leans in closer. “That man over there may be my business partner, but he’s also my best friend, and a long time ago we made ourselves a deal—a gentleman’s agreement, we’ll say.”
“And what was that?” she asks softly, her drunken attempt at sounding seductive almost laughable.
“That I’ll never stick my dick in anyone who’s stupid, sly, money hungry, or a fame whore . . . and sweetheart, you’re ticking all those boxes, and I’ve only spent a few minutes with you.”
She stands up straight, almost knocking the table over. “Go fuck yourself!” she yells before storming off in her six inch heels
“Harsh, but nice,” I muse.
“And to think I was thinking of giving her one for the road,” he adds.
I laugh out loud, Grant joining me as I raise my glass up to meet his outstretched one.
“To one hell of a ride thus far, and the afternoon from hell.”
“And hopefully an evening that will erase it all.”
Leaving Grant at Cisco, I make my way home, and when I walk into the kitchen, I’m more than thankful to my housekeeper Maureen, who has not only cleaned the house but also left a note on the countertop with directions for reheating the dinner she has made for tonight.
I’m not the clichéd bachelor who can’t cook and take care of himself. My mother is a firm believer in equal rights, and ensured that her sons were taught to prepare meals before we left home. But knowing that I had the board meeting this afternoon, and after all of the work Grant and I have completed this week to check then recheck our design and processes, I knew that it would’ve been impossible for me to prepare the kind of meal I wanted to in the short amount of time I’d have.
Glancing at my watch, I realize that I’ve barely got time for a shower. I turn the oven on to the instructed temperature, and walk up the circular staircase to the first floor where the master bedroom and en suite are.
When I designed my house, I went for functionality and ease of use, all the while making sure that I capitalized on the expansive and very much sought-after view of San Francisco Bay. I did this with two-story high glass walls and a large sweeping balcony lining the full width of the building. On the ground floor is the large living area and kitchen, with a short corridor leading off the room down to two guest bedrooms, the main bathroom and my home office. Up the staircase, which rises from the side of the living room, is a mezzanine landing which looks over the ground floor and out toward the water. There are two doors coming off the back wall. These lead to another guest bedroom and the master bath.
Finally there is one of the best features of the house—the master suite, which comprises of half the second story. Wall-to-ceiling windows with a smaller, more private balcony comes off the side, and a large walk-in closet is flanked by a door leading to the bathroom. My mahogany California king bed sits in the middle of the room against the far wall, and apart from two antique black suede chairs and a small wooden table I inherited from my father’s parents, I’ve purposefully left the room sparse to give an exaggerated impression of its size.
I’d designed my house ten years ago when Grant and I were still establishing ourselves, hoping that one day I would be in the position to make the design a reality. Two years ago, when we were awarded the contract for Spera House, I was able to fulfill that dream.
It’s not to say that I haven’t owned houses before, and to this day, I have an extensive investment property portfolio spanning the west coast. Being in the position to secure the land and build this property was an achievement that has not yet been superseded in my life, and I cannot foresee anything in the future that would even come close.
Since my profile has become rather public, I have had to increase security to ensure that my private life remains precisely that—private. I wanted to have a sanctuary that was entirely my own space. In this house, I have succeeded in doing that.
Entering my bedroom, I drop my wallet and keys on the small table beside the bed and make my way into the bathroom. Stripping my clothes off, I turn the shower on and step inside, the glass room filling with steam as I let the hot water wash the day away.
My shoulders are tense from the events of the afternoon, my muscles rigid and taut. I turn around in hope that the water will ease the discomfort but as I stand there, my thoughts travel to the night ahead.
I’m the one who invited Lucia to my house.
My home.
The one place I don’t bring women. For their sake and especially mine. It’s a self-protection mechanism that has served me well. I felt I needed to have Lucia in my space, my territory. The uncertainty I feel in regards to this woman has me thinking too much, overanalyzing situations that any other man would be comfortable in.
But I’m not any other man, and knowing that there is a latent darkness beneath my surface, one I find myself at war with on an all too frequent basis
My deepest fear is that my attempt at normalcy with Lucia will put both of us at risk. There is something about her that makes me want to get to know her, be close with her, something beyond the physical connection we have, the intensity of which still has me unsettled and uncertain.
I can’t seem to stay away; I don’t think I want to anymore.
There’s something about her that has me conflicted in the worst possible way. The fantasy of being inside her again, of making her scream in pleasure by my hands always seems to morph into darker thoughts—more sordid depraved contemplations that I have no place in imagining.
Stepping out of the shower, I wrap a towel around my waist and walk to my closet. I’ve come to the realization that although I want her close, I have to tread lightly.
It’s the best way for the both of us.
I’m putting a nice bottle of Napa Valley Chardonnay in the fridge to chill when my cell starts to vibrate on the marble kitchen counter. Assuming that it’s a drunken update from Grant, I grab the phone to see an unknown number.
“Callum speaking.”
“Mr. Alexander?” an unfamiliar male asks.
“Yes. How may I help you?” My muscles tense immediately, it’s not unprecedented but if somehow the press has got hold of my private number, it means there is a leak at the office. And leaks at the office—especially with the museum project’s current issues—would not be ideal right now.
“It’s Gregory Graves. Mr. Richardson told me to call you if I had any questions.”
“He did, did he?” I reply cautiously before continuing. “Mr. Graves, I have to admit this contact is a bit unexpected. It is outside of office hours, and I’m unsure how there could be anything so pressing that it requires my attention on the weekend.”
“Ah, yes. Sorry. It’s just that I’ve been looking over your recent finished projects to get up to date with everything the firm is involved in. And I was interested in the Spera Building concept—”
“Mr. Graves, I appreciate the interest and the enthusiasm you have brought into your role at the firm. It has not gone unnoticed.”
“Thank you, sir. I had hoped I would make a good impression.”
“Indeed. Unfortunately, I’m expecting a dinner guest so I do not have the time to discuss this kind of thing right now. However, if you talk to Annie on Monday, she can book you in an appointment with me, and we can discuss any questions you might have.”
“Wow. That would be fantastic Mr. Alexander. Do you, ah . . . do you mind if I brought you my designs to look over again? I know you’ve been very busy of late, and Annie has not been able to find a time for me to meet with you again, but I would value any advice or suggestions you might have on the direction I’ve taken with it.”
“I’m sorry that my schedule has been near impossible in recent weeks. If I have time in my schedule, I will try my best to fit you in, Mr. Graves. Now if you’ll excuse me, I must be going.”
“Oh yes. Sure. Thank you Mr. Alexander. Sorry for interrupting your evening.”
“Have a good weekend, Mr. Graves.”
“You too. I’m sure a man as impressive as you has a very full weekend planned.” Well that comment is mildly inappropriate, if not suggestive. He breaks me from that thought by adding, “I’ll go see Annie on Monday.”
“Yes. See you Monday.” I end the call, wondering if I was ever as enthusiastic about my internship as Gregory Graves seems to be about his.
The one positive is that his call took my mind off my growing anxiety over Lucia’s impending visit.
More concerning is how he got my personal cell number.
Just as I’m beginning to second-guess my decision making ability, the front gate’s intercom shrills and Lucia’s voice amplifies throughout the room. “Hello? Callum? It’s Lucia.”
I step toward the entranceway wall and lift my finger to answer her. “Hey. I’ll buzz you in.”
I push in the four-digit code to open the gate and watch on the small closed-circuit screen as a blue Mini Cooper drives through the entrance and up the stone driveway, stopping in front of the closed garage door. When I open the front door, she’s standing there waiting for me.
“Hi.” A very uncharacteristic opening for me, but I’m rendered speechless by the way she looks. Her dark brown hair has been curled into soft flowing waves, and her long black eyelashes make her look precisely like the seductress I think she may be.
She’s wearing a grey, hooded woolen dress with a revealing neckline, falling just above the knee. It’s demure but alluring, a fact that does not go unnoticed.
“Hi, yourself.” The smirk on her red painted lips tells me that she’s achieved the desired effect. She wanted to arouse me with one look and something in her eyes is giving me the impression that she wants to show me what I left behind when I left her last time.
What she doesn’t realize is that I’m unerringly aware of the many shortcomings in my decision to leave her that night.
“Find the place okay?” We’re still standing on my doorstep. I’m frozen in place, and she’s standing opposite me watching, almost studying me.
“Yeah, there’s this thing called Google Maps. You should try it some time. Works a treat.” She winks at me before her expression softens and she regards me carefully. “Look, Callum. If you’ve changed your mind about this, I can—”
I shake my head and step aside, waving my hand out toward the large living area. “No. Sorry, I’m being rude.” I pause and autopilot kicks in. “My father would scold me for leaving a beautiful woman outside in the cold. Please, come in.”
She watches me momentarily before crossing the threshold. “I was starting to wonder if there was a new al fresco trend of eating on the doorstep. Thought I might have missed the boat on a hot new concept.” She smiles widely, and although the tight muscles in my shoulders ease slightly, I’m still conscious of the fact I’m stretched thin from the events of the day and the anxiety of having Lucia in my home.
Closing the door behind us, I follow her as she walks toward the living area. “Straight ahead. Dinner should be ready in about fifteen minutes. I hope that’s okay.”
She spins around and continues to walk, but now she’s moving backwards while watching me. “Callum, you’re acting like you’ve never had a woman here and for a man like yourself, there is no way that could possibly be true.”
I look down at the floor and smile, half embarrassed at the veiled reference to my reported reputation and half relieved that my awkward behavior does not seem to have swayed her interest going by what she just said.
“It’s true,” I reply, taking a step toward her. When her steps falter, I take the opportunity to bring my body in close. Tilting my head down to look at her, I wrap an arm around her waist, trailing it down to rest dangerously close to her ass. “That’s what I think about any so-called reputation.”
Her wide green eyes look up to meet mine. “Hmmm. What were we talking about again?” Her lips twitch and her breathing quickens, the atmosphere in the room instantly thick with tension—the right kind this time.
“Don’t believe everything you hear,” I murmur as my eyes drop to her lips.
“And what would I have heard?”
I watch her. She honestly has the best game face I know. So hard to read. So hard to get a measure of. “How do you do it?”
“Do what?” She trails off as my face moves in closer, my body putting aside any misgivings I may have had.
“Make me want this. Make me want you.” I sound drunk. The effect this woman has on me intensifies the closer we get.
“Do you need your arm twisted?”
I decide then and there to just go with it. Follow my instincts and see how she reacts to the real Callum Alexander. “When it comes to you, I’m a done deal.”
“Prove it.”
“Luce . . .” I say her name, loving the way it rolls off my tongue. The way her eyes soften and the corner of her mouth curls upward are an added bonus.
“Yeah, Cal.”
“Shut up and kiss me.”
“Why don’t you shut up and kiss me?”
So I do, lowering my head and dragging my tongue along the seam of her lipstick-covered lips. I rake my hands through her hair, tugging just to the point of pain before plunging my tongue into her mouth, tasting and taking, touching every part of her from shoulders to hips. I push forward and feel her body jolt as she hits the wall.
Then it’s no holds barred. The kiss turns from wild to rabid in the blink of an eye. Her hands snake under my shirt, her fingernails biting into my chest as I press my body hard against hers. My cock is incessant in its protest, and every tilt of her hips against mine increases the need to take her right there in my hallway. Minutes pass, but it feels like seconds because we’re too lost in each other to care.
I wrench my lips from her mouth and lean my forehead against hers, my breath coming hard and fast, matching hers as we try to recover. “I think it’s time for dinner,” I murmur between breaths, amazed that I’m still able to think coherently after a welcome like that.
“You’re a great date, Mr. Alexander,” she says with a grin as we move apart.
