Mikalo's Grace

Copyright 2012 Syndra K. Shaw

Smashwords Edition

All rights reserved.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters,
places, and incidents either are the product of the author's
imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual
persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely
coincidental.

Cover photograph by OLJ Studio

via shutterstock

Cover design by Renae Porter

Social Butterfly Creative

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This novel is dedicated

to you, the Reader.

Without you, there would be no words to
write

or stories to tell.

Thank you.

Chapter One

I noticed the suit first.

A light grey wool. Not the heavy wool of a
winter coat. No, this was the supple fabric found in the finest
stores and in the most powerful board rooms from here to Hong Kong.
The slight sheen, the perfectly laid collar, the white of a crisp
shirt peeking through, the cuffed pants spilling to the deep red of
shiny oxblood shoes.

Sipping my coffee, I let my eyes roam up the
stranger's leg, quietly enjoying how the expensive cloth grazed the
anonymous man's calf, traveled up the back of the thigh, the
splendid cut easily accenting the strength of the leg without
clinging too closely. The perfect break of the jacket as the
stranger lifted his arms ...

Oh my god.

What an ass.

Jesus, Ronan, rein it in. This was a coffee
shop. A public coffee shop. Not an all-you-can-eat buffet. And the
guy with the great ass was most certainly not on the menu.

I quickly glanced away, feeling the blush in
my cheeks as I busied myself with the pile of documents on the
table before me. Must focus. Could not get distracted.

Besides, his wife, his girlfriend, his
boyfriend -- no, that didn't feel right. This man just felt
super-duper straight. Not crush a beer can on his head while he
yells at the game straight, but definitely straight.

Any-hoo, no doubt wifey would not appreciate
you drooling over her betrothed.

Yet, still, the vision of the wool stretched
ever so slightly over the beauty of those cheeks lingered, the
image obsessing me. Whoever this stranger was, he worked out. Ran.
Played tennis. Swam. Climbed fucking mountains. Who the hell
cares?

Whatever he did, the curve of his ass was
amazing.

I'd eat breakfast off that butt.

My eyes rose, glancing again at the hapless
guy in grey wool with the beautiful cheeks getting his morning
coffee.

He now stood, to-go cup in hand, watching
me.

His eyes met mine.

And, with a wink, he smiled.

Shit.

Quickly I was shuffling papers, looking busy,
my cheeks burning bright red as I hoped and prayed a black hole
would appear and swallow me up. Fast.

The man was a child. Well, not really. But he
was younger. Younger than me. Not by much, but younger.

And the beauty of his butt couldn't come
close to how gorgeous he was from the front. The brief glimpse I
caught of his eyes and that grin and the mop of curly black hair.
His square jaw and large, strong nose. The broad shoulders and
barrel chest and tight torso and large hands. The hint of color in
his skin. A mother from the Middle East, perhaps. Or Greek. The
flesh clear and lush, the eyes dark, the hair thick.

In the end it didn't matter because he was
fucking perfect.

And he was walking my way.

And now he stood before me.

I lifted my head and tried not to gasp.

Far away, he was perfect. Up close, he was an
impossible dream.

I could feel myself growing wet.

I crossed my legs, squeezing them tight, and
tried like hell to focus.

"May I?" he asked, the voice deep.

Although there were tables nearby, tables
with empty chairs, I nodded, my ability to speak deserting me.

His eyes were gorgeous. His smile easy. Small
dimples in his cheeks and a gentle cleft delicately cleaving his
square chin.

Fuck. I was always a sucker for dimples and a
cleft in the chin. And a strong nose.

Not twenty steps away, a table of college
girls, all tight tummies and firm, round tits and sexual appetites
with the stamina to match, unapologetically eyed him, their hungry
stares damn near desperate as they all but licked their lips.

And here he stood talking with me.

What in the hell would he want with an
overworked attorney with dark circles under her eyes, a chipped
manicure, and an age that was decidedly not twenty?

Not that I was old. Although not twenty or
even thirty, I was definitely lingering in that space where forty
grew closer, but hadn't arrived. Yet.

"Thank you," he responded as he sat, placing
his coffee before him.

The tone was polite, even deferential. His
voice the pleasantly low rumble of an utterly masculine man. The
English perfect, though accented.

Clearing my throat, I finally spoke.

"That's a beautiful suit."

He glanced down, his hand idly fiddling with
the tie. Herm
è
s, I
believe. Deep red. Like his shoes.

"Yes?" he asked, his eyebrows arching, a grin
teasing his lips.

"Yes," I said. "You look very nice."

He extended his hand, the warmth of his large
palm at once wrapping around mine.

"I am Mikalo," he said, introducing
himself.

"Nice to meet you, Mikalo," I said, carefully
repeating the word. Mee-call-o. "That's a lovely name."

He nodded humbly.

"My mother," he responded with a shrug. "She,
my father --" He quickly crossed himself, his full lips briefly
kissing his fingertips as he continued. "..., they chose it. I had
nothing to do with it. I was just ... " And he lifted his hands,
spaced about a foot apart. " ... this big. I was a sleeping baby.
Brand new. They did not ask me. So, my name, it is what it is."

And then he smiled.

He was teasing me.

I smiled back.

"And yours?"

"I'm sorry," I quickly said. "Ronan. Ronan
Grace."

"And I am Delis."

"I'm sorry?"

"My second name. The name after my first.
Delis. It is Delis. And I am Mikalo Delis. That is my name."

Oh Jesus Christ. Even his name was fucking
edible.

Yes, Delis he most definitely was.

"Ronan," this Delis man was saying, "But that
is a man's name, yes?"

I nodded.

"My mother wanted a strong woman so she gave
me a strong name."

"And this woman I see before me is strong?"
he asked, his eyes holding mine.

"I think so. Yes."

"But you are still a woman," he said with a
slight smile.

At a loss for words, I simply nodded.
Again.

A single woman, I wanted to say. A woman who
hasn't been on a date in God knows how long. A woman who hasn't
been intimate in ... shit, how long? A year? Two?

Dust it off, spruce it up, and pop my cherry
all over again, and, yeah, I'd be a woman.

I guess.

Whatever. He was being polite. And a few
minutes with some delicious eye candy couldn't hurt.

"You are with Blankfein, Reynolds?" he
suddenly asked.

Ah yes, the papers on the table in front of
me. The law firm's name and address stamped big and bold at the top
of each page.

"Yes. Partner. Corporate Tax, some Trust and
Estates."

He nodded.

"I'm meeting with them. Interviewing is the
word, yes?"

I nodded. Yes.

"You're not from here?"

He shook his head.

"No, I'm from Athens. In Greece. I'm
Greek."

"I got that," I said, teasing him.

He paused and then laughed.

"Of course."

He continued.

"My English ... " he continued, pushing the
thought away. "I speak Greek with my family. Always Greek. Brothers
and sisters, their wives and husbands and all their children. Only
Greek. And Latin, of course. Italian, a bit of Portuguese. French
-- "

"Wait, wait, wait," I interrupted. "You speak
all those languages?"

"Of course. It is not difficult, no. If one
speaks Greek, you, of course, speak Latin. It's the fact of life.
And if you speak Latin, well, some Italian, it happens. The
languages are like cousins. It is not a far journey from one to the
other. They are good friends. And Portuguese is but another small
hop from Italian. The languages, they're friends too. They know one
another. It is easy."

"And French?" I asked.

"Ah, well French is French. If one wants to
be, how you say, complete, happy, you must speak French. Of
course.

"But sometimes, with English, when it has
been, how you say, forever, I have to brush it. Dust it away."

"Dust it off," I said.

"Yes, dust it off," he said quickly. "Thank
you."

"It's not bad, no?" he then asked, suddenly
worried.

I shook my head. "No."

What I wanted to say was it was almost
unbearably hot. The charming, clumsy sentences, the sincerity in
reaching for the right word. The almost little boy quality he had
as he tried so hard to say just the right thing made him the most
fuckable man I'd seen in a very long time.

He was watching me again, the dark eyes and
their infuriatingly long eyelashes quietly regarding me over the
rim of the cup as he drank his coffee long and deep, swallow by
swallow.

"It is good to speak with you," he then said,
still watching me as he put the cup back on the table. "The
English, it will come back."

"Are you nervous?" I asked. "About the
interview, I mean."

He shrugged.

"Not so much. I speak with you, it comes
back, the English."

"But the job, it must be exciting," I said.
"I'm sure it's a great opportunity."

"Perhaps," he said quietly. "But at the end
of this day, it is a job. Life is not just a job, no?"

"You're right. There's more to life than
work," I said, keenly aware that my life was nothing but right
now.

The table of college girls suddenly laughed,
the taunting undercurrent of their cruelty interrupting my brief
fantasy. You know, the one where I was engaging and interesting,
attractive and seductive. Where I was desirable.

The one where some Greek God like Mikalo
would look twice at me even if I wasn't a Partner at a law firm he
was interviewing with.

"Ah, well," I said, gathering my papers
together, "I shouldn't keep you."

I scooped them up, clumsily holding them to
my chest, the strap of the purse at my feet maddeningly out of
reach as I stooped to grab it.

His brows knitted, his eyes suddenly sad.

"Wait, was it something I said? Please, I am
sorry."

"No, no, no. I just don't want to keep you.
Or interrupt you. Or ... "

And then my eyes glanced toward the cabal of
bitchy girls, their heads now bent in conversation as their eyes
remained glued to him.

His followed mine before looking back at
me.

"Sit," he then said, his hand suddenly on me.
"Please."

I stayed in my chair.

His hand remained still, the long fingers
wrapped around mine.

"You must listen."

Chapter Two

I felt like an idiot. The documents still at
my chest, my purse still out of reach, my coffee now cold.

I should have left.

He watched me.

"Those girls," he finally said, "they bother
you?"

And now I felt like a fool. An immature,
childish fool.

"Yes?" he asked again.

I gave a weak shrug and a quiet nod and then
immediately regretted it.

"Why? Do you know them?"

I shook my head. No, I didn't know them.

"Do you think maybe I want one of them? That
I would be happy to go there and sit and be with them? Talk? Make
eyes and flirt?"

Before I could stop myself,

"You're young, you're handsome, very
handsome, and, well, yes, why not?" I said, trying like hell not to
look in those eyes again.