Текст книги "Pure Abandon"

Автор книги: Jeannine Colette

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Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 20 страниц)

Malory and I step into the Whiskey Blue at the W Hotel. With its navy snakeskin-leather club chairs and dim lighting, the place is a modern-day take on an old New York gentlemen’s club. The zebra-striped couches bring an added flair that makes it the perfect spot for the young office set.

The place is swimming with suits and Louboutin-wearing young women hoping to meet their seven-figure mogul future husbands. These women are dressed to the nines.

Before leaving the office, Malory insisted we freshen up. I touched up my makeup and let my hair down, while Malory took the liberty of removing my cardigan. That is before the inquisition about Asher’s visit to my office started in the cab ride over here.

I rolled my eyes. “Please tell me I can go to the ladies’ room without someone tracking my every move?”

Malory laughed. “It’s not your moves they’re tracking. It’s Asher’s. Everyone saw him go to your office.”

The cab cruised up Park Avenue. I only had to make it a few blocks before exiting the conversation. As much as Malory was my closest confidant at our previous job, I just didn’t want to give her any reason to think something is amiss with Asher. I value her respect too much.

Malory’s eyes studied me, but I never faltered. Our conversation shifted to shoes, and by the time we arrived at Lexington and 49th, we decided to swap. Her red stilettos gave me the added color she said I needed for a night on the town. I traded her my beige patent leathers, which, of course, she made look sexy as hell.

“Damn, girl, your legs look killer in those shoes. You should wear higher heels from now on.”

“No, thank you,” I say as I almost lose my balance. “Three-inch heels are as high as I need for the workday. How do you last in these things all day?”

“It’s what I do in them at night that should be the question.” Malory gives me a wink and I laugh at her laissez faire attitude toward sex.

Unsure of my footing in these shoes, I take a seat at the bar, thankful there’s one available, and order a glass of wine. Almost everyone from the office is here, some with their significant others, occupying booths and barstools, while Trish, Malory, and I are chatting at the bar. Heather is at the opposite end of the bar, chatting up some Fortune 500-looking guy. I can’t help but hope he’s really the mailroom boy in disguise.

Trish, as it turns out, is pretty funny. Give her a drink and she opens up into a great storyteller. She even has a few dirty jokes that have Malory and I bending over the bar in laughter. I don’t know if it’s the drinks or the fact that Trish, this very sweet little redhead, is telling dirty jokes that makes them so funny. I decide it doesn’t matter and lose myself in the conversation.

The evening also allows me to see how my coworkers interact outside the office. Erik is just as I would have imagined. He’s sitting at the booth in heavy conversation about work with Harvey, Kevin, Gretchen, and Richard. They’re all hanging on his every word. Especially since, every so often, Erik orders a round of shots for the team. That is exactly how I’ve interpreted Erik since meeting him, all work but a lot of fun.

Gretchen is still sewn up, head to toe, in her work attire. Where I let loose a little, she still has her shirt buttoned to her neck and blazer fastened around her waist. I think she only wears jeans to the office just to prove she’s not completely uptight. And when she does, they’re trouser cut. No hip huggers for her. I also watch her chemistry with Harvey. He may not be the most attractive man, but from his calm demeanor and attentiveness, I can tell he’s a good man. Even in the office, whenever I have a question that might seem silly or embarrassing, I always ask Harvey because I know he won’t judge. Shame on me for judging him.

Heather is in her full glory, having changed into a sequin cocktail dress shorter than anything I’ve seen her wear to date. She’s in full conversation with Mr. Fortune 500. Even when I went over to wish her a happy birthday, she gave me a quick “thanks” and quickly averted her attention to everyone but me.

Two hours later, I’m quite buzzed. My second glass of wine is sitting in front of me at the bar. Couple that with the two rounds of shots Erik ordered for us and I’m feeling good. Really good. So good that when Trish starts talking about how she and her boyfriend, Kevin, used anal beads the weekend before, and she describes it like “Mardi Gras in my pants,” I’m literally falling off my chair from laughing so hard.

On my way off the chair, I try to grab hold of the bar, but someone from behind catches me before I hit the floor. Like a rag doll, I’m lifted up and onto my chair. I really can’t have any more to drink.

As I gather myself and wipe the tears of laughter from my eyes, I look up to see Malory and Trish staring over my shoulder, their jaws falling to the floor. I don’t have to turn around to know who’s behind me. The smell of tobacco and vanilla causes me to sober up, quickly.

“I see you guys are having a good time. Please, ladies, don’t let me disturb you. Though, I’d love to know what’s so funny that I nearly had to file workers comp for one of my new star employees.”

My ears blush red in embarrassment. I slowly turn around to see Asher standing tall, picture perfect, as if the day just began. He’s in his full suit with perfect hair and golden eyes. He towers over the three of us, as intimidating as ever. I can feel the heat of his hand on the back of my chair as he leans over to get the bartender’s attention.

“Auchentoshan, twenty-one.” Asher orders his drink and puts his black label Amex on the bar. “And the tab for all this.” He makes a motion with his hand toward the members of Asher-Marks who are out celebrating.

Trish takes a sip of her Captain and ginger, trying to wipe the flush from her face. There’s nothing more embarrassing than being caught by the big boss, doing shots and talking about sex. I wonder if he heard?

Malory isn’t concerned in the least. She is confident and brilliantly beautiful. She has no need to even hide behind her glass.

“Fine choice of scotch.” Malory swivels her chair so she’s in direct line with Asher. “Though I always took you as a Macallan kind of man.”

The three of us watch as he draws his lowball to this lips and takes a sip of the malt liquor, letting it swim around his teeth before swallowing.

“Macallan 1939 is my vice. But there’s a time and a place for largess,” he says with a wicked smile. “Are you a scotch drinker, Ms. Dean?”

“Only with a cigar.” Seductiveness leaks in the way she speaks. I’ve never seen her interact with Asher before. If she weren’t like this with everyone she meets, I would think she had a thing for our boss.

“May I?” Malory motions toward Asher’s glass.

“Be my guest.” He leans into her, offering up the golden liquid in his crystal glass.

Malory raises the glass to her lips, repeating the savoring process Asher had a moment before, never taking her eyes off Asher as her tongue rims the glass.

Trish and I exchange a glance. So I’m not the only one who noticed that.

“Vanilla and honey. A nice blend.”

Their eyes remain connected as Asher’s lips curl up to one side like the devil he is.

Vanilla. Is that the smell? No, he can’t smell that delicious from drinking scotch. Can he? Maybe it's a Scottish thing. I grab my wine glass and take a sip.

Trish breaks the tension. “Speaking of vanilla, the flowers on my desk have an incredible aroma of vanilla.”

I nearly choke on my Pinot. Instead, I spit it across the bar. Malory and Trish step back in surprise. Asher looks unaffected by the scene.

“Went down the wrong pipe.” I swallow.

Like a bolt of lightning, Heather is at my side, taking the space between Asher and me. I’m surprised it took her this long to approach him yet happy for the diversion.

“Mr. Asher! I’m so happy you came out for my birthday. I thought you had plans tonight.” Heather’s short skirt grows shorter as she leans over farther to cut the line of sight between me and the devil with golden eyes.

“I’m glad I was able to see everyone, but I’m not here to enjoy the festivities. I’m on a date.” Asher raises his glass and nods toward a young leggy blonde on the other side of the bar. She’s wearing a long-sleeved black dress with a micro skirt and dangerously low neckline that reaches her navel. She’s standing there looking bored yet waiting dutifully for her mogul to wrap up with his minions.

“You should ask her to join us,” Trish cheerfully offers. Bless her heart.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea. I never mix business with pleasure.” I can’t see Asher’s expression as he utters these words. I wonder if he’s directing them toward someone. Maybe Malory?

“Asher, we weren’t expecting you.” Erik walks over from his booth. “Not like you to join us at our little get-togethers.”

“I like to make unexpected appearances now and then.” His demeanor is calm and authoritative. He’s still in workplace mode.

“Don’t we know that from this afternoon?” Erik reaches up to set a friendly pat on Asher’s shoulders. “If you don’t mind me stealing these ladies, Heather, Malory… Harvey and I have a bet I need you to settle.”

“Sounds intriguing.” Malory willingly takes my patent leathers over to the booth while Heather sulks away from Asher. Erik gives Asher two taps on the back and escorts the girls over to the booth. I immediately hear an uproar as the girls approach. Apparently, they’re reliving some old escapade and are trying to decipher whose version of the story is correct.

Trish is still at the bar, with Asher and me, feeling out of place. “I’m going to see what all the commotion is about.” No, little redhead, don’t go!

Asher takes Malory’s seat next to me. We’re each sitting at a corner of the bar so our chairs easily swivel toward each other. I must leave when I finish this last glass. A cab is definitely in order.

“Are you going to let your date stand there all night?”

Asher rubs his pointer finger along the rim of his glass. “I have a perfectly good sixteen-year-old scotch in front of me. Why should I let that go to waste?”

“You can drink your scotch with your Twinkie.” The liquor is making me feisty.

“For starters, that is not a Twinkie. Her name is Monique, and she happens to be a very wealthy socialite.”

“That must be comforting. She clearly doesn’t want you for your money. I heard that’s a major concern of yours.”

“She may not need my money, but she definitely wants the power. Monique is like the others. She’ll stand there all night if I ask her to.” Asher flashes a smile, showing off his perfect teeth and full lips.

“Then why bring her at all? If you don’t even like her…”

“A man has needs. She’ll do for tonight.”

I down the last of my wine. “You are disgusting.”

“I am honest. I told you we’re friends. We’re honest with each other.”

“It still doesn’t mean I can’t be repulsed by you.” I barely get the words out as I dismount from the stool and grab my purse.

I turn to walk away but am pulled back by Asher’s hand on my arm. “Please, don’t let me offend you. We’re having a nice night. I haven’t had the chance to tell you how lovely you look. I like your hair down. It’s very becoming of you.”

Night and day he is!

“Thank you, Asher, but really, it’s late and I have to go. And you have a Twinkie to tend to.”

Asher rises from his chair, leaving his scotch. “The Twinkie can wait. How are you getting home? You’ve had a lot to drink, and in those shoes…” His voice trails.

“I’m taking a taxi home. I’ll be fine.”

“I’ll walk you out.” He places a hand on my back and ushers me toward the door.

“No, people cannot see me leave with you. They’ll get the wrong idea. It’s entirely—”

“Inappropriate.” Asher finishes my line. “Come on. I’ll walk you out and come right back. It’s the responsible thing to do. Besides, I want to see how long I can make the Twinkie stand there.” He beams in a devilish grin that takes up his entire face. He’s so mean, yet his boyish charm makes him disarming, and I can’t resist.

Turning on my heel, I follow Asher out of the hotel and walk to the curb to hail a taxi. My hand is high in the sky, trying to flag a car, when I turn around to see Asher standing on the sidewalk, hands in his pockets, staring at me.

“Enjoying the view?”

“You have no idea.” He leans back on his heels. “You really should wear fuck-me shoes more often.”

“These are not fuck-me shoes and they’re not mine. Asher, I am a marr—”

“Married woman, I know.” There he goes, finishing my sentences again. “You know, just because you’re married doesn’t mean you can’t get spicy like this every now and then. It’s a good look for you.”

The air outside is cool, yet I can feel my skin heat up. Standing under the street lamps, Asher looks divine. The shadows highlight his square jaw and perfectly formed nose. His hair glistens and his eyes light on fire. Even in my five-inch heels, I feel small compared to him. He commands attention, and I can’t help but give it to him.

“Enjoying the view?” He teases my line back at me.

I blush in embarrassment. Was I really just gawking at him in public?

“It’s the lighting. New York City streets at night make people look so…” What’s the word?

“Angelic.”

That’s it. How did he know?

“You look divine standing there in the light. Pure,” he says before getting a very serious look on his face. “I meant it when I said you looked beautiful tonight.”

“You never said I looked beautiful.”

“I was thinking it.” Asher steps toward me, and I am vaguely aware that a black SUV has driven up alongside me. “Your husband is a lucky man.”

Asher steps around me and opens the back passenger door. “Devon will take you home.”

I open my mouth in protest, but he puts his finger over my lips.

“Devon takes you home and that’s final. I have some company upstairs to entertain, so I won’t be leaving for a while. He’s all yours.”

“Thank you, Alex.”

“Alex? What happened to Asher?”

“I only call you that when I’m mad.”

“Well then, let’s hope I stay on your good side. I like it when you say my name. Knowing our track record, I’ll do something to have you calling me Asher by morning.”

“Good night, Asher.”

“Already?” He laughs.

“Why wait ‘til morning? If it’s a given, I might as well just call you as you are.” I walk over to the open door, about to get into the car as Asher holds the door behind me.

“Savory or sweet?” he asks, causing me to turn around.

“Excuse me?”

“Breakfast. Do you like savory or sweet?”

It’s an odd question, but he is an odd man.

“Pancakes.”

Asher seems to find this answer acceptable.

“Sweet dreams, Gray.”

“Enjoy your Twinkie.” I climb into the backseat and he closes the door of the car.

Maybe it’s the wine talking but, I have to admit, I’m starting to like nicknames.

The sun beats down on the New York City pavement as I exit the subway terminal and walk briskly to Lincoln Center. I haven’t been inside David Geffen Hall in over two decades and want to reacquaint myself with the venue before finalizing production details for Asher’s report.

A bright young woman named Claudia escorts me through the campus and gives a guided tour of where the gala will take place. The limos will pull up on Broadway and the guests will walk out on a black carpet. The paparazzi pit will be on the far right side of the carpet. At the end of which, a station will be set up for interviews by select media outlets. There is a giant fountain outside. I can imagine it lit up and glowing in the evening, with spotlights illuminating the space for the event. It will look spectacular. I request rows of lighted-trees be placed around the parameters to create an elegant ethereal feeling. We make a deal for the venue to pick up the added expense.

Inside, I ask to see the concert halls. They are exquisite. David Geffen Hall is nothing short of spectacular, adorned with gold filigree and velvet seating.

Claudia’s phone rings and she excuses herself. I leisurely glide my fingers over the front of the stage, taking in its enormity up close. My thoughts are halted by his husky voice.

“Have you ever performed?”

I freeze and look up onto the dimly lit stage. Walking out from the left wing, he’s dressed in dark jeans and a black button-down shirt with the top button undone. He looks polished and perfect. What is he doing here?

“Mr. Asher. It’s a pleasure to see you again, albeit a surprise,” I say, adjusting my bag on my shoulder.

“I could say the same thing.” He strolls across the stage and takes his place above me, idyllic eyes gazing down at me. “Mr. Asher? Since when did we go back to formality?”

I stare up at him in awe. His golden highlights are combed perfectly, glistening in the soft light of the stage.

“Did you enjoy your Twinkie?” I ask.

“Turns out I’m not into sweets.”

“No?”

Asher tilts his head to the side. “No, I want something a little more savory. Say, a Gray’s Papaya.”

We may be on friendly terms now, but his innuendos still make me uneasy. I give him my best deadpan stare. “I think you should stick to dessert.”

“Come up here,” he commands, holding out his hand.

After a beat, I raise my hand and grab his. I walk up to meet him, careful not to trip over my wobbly feet.

I look out at the scene in front of me. The theater is massive. Over twenty-seven hundred seats face me. It’s hard to imagine this is our smaller venue. You can only imagine how many people will be at the Central Park event. It’s no football stadium, but our talent is excited to play on this iconic stage.

The room is illuminated in golden hues. The lights on the balcony aren’t lit, but I know they’re spectacular when turned on. The room irradiates in their warmth and casts a heavenly glow from all sides of the theater. There are three rows of balconies lining the left, back, and right walls.

The stage is lined in wood, but for our event it will be covered in backdrops, plasma screens, and a top-of-the-line lighting system. Erik, Richard, and the technical team have all been working hard making sure this place will be perfect.

My eyes travel around the room and fall on my hand, still enclosed in Asher’s. I pull it back quickly.

“Feels incredible, doesn’t it?” For a second, I think he’s talking about our touch, but I flush to realize he’s talking about the stage. He’s right. The feeling is extraordinary. Standing here facing hundreds of seats… I feel larger than life. The corners of my mouth turn up in an insolent smile, but it quickly fades when I realize he’s staring at me.

With a puckered brow, he looks at me quizzically, as if trying to answer a plaguing question inside his head. He shakes it off and moves toward the back of the stage.

“I used to perform on this stage when I was a boy.” He reminisces.

“What do you play?” Of course he’s a classically trained savant.

“The cello.”

My face must register surprise, because he laughs, and for the first time, I relax. He has a great laugh.

“This is something I am very passionate about. Music is my life. That is why these concerts are so important. Through music you can express how you feel. Through music you can find yourself. And there is no greater way to bring people together than with a song.” His passion for the subject is genuine. He seems so vulnerable; as if music were a beautiful woman he can’t get enough of.

The room goes silent. I realize I’ve been too quiet, probably because I’ve been busy assessing him, admiring him. Mega-mogul, philanthropist, and musician… The list goes on.

“May I ask you a personal question?” he says, taking a step closer, invading my personal space. I nod and wonder how personal he plans to get. “Why do you go by your maiden name?”

The deadly question that has plagued my marriage. The answer is because it’s my name, my given name, and I never understood why women have to give up their name for their husbands. Why can’t it be the other way around? My son has Gabriel’s last name.

I am a Grayson. That’s who I am.

“That is a personal question. But to answer it, I would have to say it’s because I don’t believe in conformity.”

His cheekbones rise to meet his eyes. It’s as if I said the exact thing he wanted to hear. “Do you hear that?” he asks.

“Hear what?” I strain to find the sound.

“Music. Dance with me. “

“But I don’t hear any—” And before I can finish, he pulls me up against him and moves me across the stage.

My hand rests on his shoulder; I can feel the muscles beneath his shirt. My other hand is in his palm, his soft skin holding mine. We glide across the stage to imaginary music and before long, I can hear it pulsating through my ears. My body against his, I feel safe and secure. It feels like home.

“Will you accompany me somewhere?” he asks, his voice like smooth caramel.

“Today? My boss might be upset I’m not at work.” I tease.

Asher cocks his head to the side and gives me a wink. “I think I can persuade him not to be too upset.”

As we exit the building, he leads me to an alleyway on the side of the building. Expecting to hail a cab or hop into a black SUV, I’m surprised when he stops in front of a motorcycle.

“Here, put this on.” He hands me a helmet.

“Do you always carry a spare?” I say, hesitation in my voice.

“I was hoping I might have company today,” he says with a glimmer of mischief.

Reluctantly, I take the helmet and place it on my head. He walks toward me to straighten it out and fixes the chinstrap. I feel like a child being protected, and for some reason I enjoy it. He places his helmet on and climbs onto the bike. With his dark jeans and leather jacket, he looks like a guy I could have a beer with, not the in-control CEO who has been dominating my thoughts for the past month.

He takes my hand and leads me over the seat of the motorcycle until I’m straddling it.

“Put your arms around me and hold on tight.”

I reach around him and place my hands on his stomach. Asher grabs my hands and pulls them tighter and higher. A charge stirs inside me. He kicks the bike into action and we take off. I’m surprised to hear music, beautiful orchestra music, ringing in my ears. These helmets have speakers! I can hear the sounds of the New York Philharmonic gracefully dancing through my head. I feel like I’m floating.

We drive up Columbus Avenue and head straight toward Harlem. The hot July morning is cooled by the breeze we create. We drive trough the cultural center of the city, passing bars, restaurants, and stores, all new to the revitalization of this once depressed area. We pass through some blocks Gwen would never be caught dead in and pull up to a school made of brick and mortar.

Asher dismounts from the bike and grabs my hand, helping me off. I would tell him I can do it myself, but I’ve never been on a motorcycle and my legs are still vibrating from the short ride.

I hand him my helmet and he rests it on the motorcycle, not caring if someone will try to steal it. Come to think of it, I don’t think we’re even allowed to park where we are. Asher doesn’t seem to have a care about that either.

I shrug my shoulders and follow him inside the building. He has this way of walking in front of me without looking back to make sure I’m following him. It’s like he knows I’m going to just go wherever he tells me to.

The building is fairly empty, as school has been let out for the summer. A few students are in the building occupying classrooms. I try to peer into the rooms to see what they’re doing, but Asher’s long strides are difficult to keep up with. We continue through the halls until we approach a classroom filled with twenty or so children and their parents. The children are talking on one side of the room while the parents are on the other.

Everyone stops their conversations and focus on the door as soon as he enters. Pleased expressions cross the parents’ faces while the children run up to him.

An older woman, who appears to be in charge, ushers the children away from Asher and tells them to take their places by their instruments. They all take a stand by a cello. Their backs are to the audience and they’re facing a wall.

In front of the children, in the front of the room, facing us is the same instrument, double in size. Asher motions for me to take a spot standing next to one of the parents while he moves to the front of the room.

Asher takes his place, seated behind the cello, and looks on to the kids.

“Mr. Asher… Mr. Asher!” A young girl about seven raises her hand to gather Asher’s attention. “I have a special song for you.”

His jaw widens. “I’d love to hear it, Jaelyn.” He answers the girl with familiarity.

We’re at a music class and I’m trying to figure out if Asher is the teacher or a volunteer or just doing this as a one-time sort of thing.

The young girl leans downs on her cello and starts to play a beautiful melody far beyond her nine years. She makes a few mistakes, but Asher doesn’t correct her. When she concludes her musical interlude, she looks up at Asher with a big grin on her face. She has clearly been anxious to play that for him.

“Thank you, Jaelyn. I can tell you’ve been practicing.” He leans forward and touches the little girl’s cheek causing her to blush. I want to assure Jaelyn he has that effect on women of all ages.

Asher removes his leather jacket and begins a cello lesson. He’s amazing. The way he talks to the children, his patience and manner with them is surprising. I didn’t see him as being a teacher.

With the twenty children surrounding him, Asher teaches them how to play their giant violins, and while the sounds from the children in unison leave much to be desired, you can tell he has made a lot of progress with them and they’re desperate to please him. Equally impressive is the amount of parents surrounding the lesson. I wonder if they’re here for their children or to steal glances of the beautiful mogul.

“Isn’t he amazing?” A tall African-American woman leans over to me.

“Yes, these parents must spend a lot of money to have Alexander Asher teach their children to play the cello.”

“Oh no.” She corrects me. “Mr. Asher volunteers his time every week. These are underprivileged children. This is his way of keeping them off the street.”

I’m confused. “But the cello is an expensive instrument.”

“All donated by Mr. Asher. He teaches a class here but funds the program in seven schools across the city.”

So this is where he is every Friday. He said he had a standing appointment until the concerts. These must be the kids he’s having perform at the gala.

Perhaps he is for real. But why would this man who spends his days and nights carefree spend so much time helping children? I’ve seen his bio. He donates millions to children’s charities. I assumed it was a publicity stunt, but seeing him with these kids, knowing he’s here with them every week… You can’t fake that kind of generosity.

The class ends and the students each hug or high-five Asher. He pays attention to each child and asks them questions about their school week and if they’ve been good to their parents. It is genuine to watch.

“I’m impressed.”

“I’m glad. Come,” he says, placing his hand on my elbow, escorting me back to the bike. “I have one more place I’d like to show you.”

This man can ask me to go anywhere right now and I’d follow.