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Authors: Carol May

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BOOK: Shattered Heart
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Chapter 9

As Nash expertly zips back up I-95, returning us into the city, Houston turns toward me, stretching out his seatbelt to place his left arm across the seat back. Giving me his oh so sexy grin, “If you are up for another attempt at having a Sidecar, I’d be happy to try my hand at creating one.”

Lost in examining his dimple but not wanting this evening to end, I give the old pretend your thinking expression, “They say third time is the charm, but I think I am giving up on the Sidecar tonight.”

Looking somewhat surprised, he replied, “Oh, alright.”

Raising my eyes up to meet his in what I hope is at least seductive, I quickly add, “Maybe I should focus on a nice glass of wine.”

Smiling as he touched my shoulder he replied, “Did you hear that?”

Looking around me, I shake my head, “No, I didn’t hear a thing. What was it?”

“I believe that was my cognac moaning because the ingredients for your Sidecar will not be needed.”

I swat at him, “Really?”

“Yes, really.” Moving his other hand up to cup my chin, he traces my lower lip ever so gently with his thumb. “Which in turn means, the cognac will not get to touch these luscious lips.”

Smiling back at him, “So that was your cognac making that sound? Wow, that is some alcohol. I‘ve never heard of any cognac that could make sounds. Must taste really special. ”

“Yes it is and of course it tastes special. Joking aside, I do have a decent wine cellar at my home over in Bicknell, if you’re interested?”

“Mr. Donovan, I am so interested.” Pausing for just a second, I continue, “in your wine that is.” Oh my Lord, did I really just say that?

“Well, Ms. Jensen, that is good to know”. Nodding his head, “That it‘s my wine you are interested in. However, I must admit I am little disappointed. I was hoping to see what or who in this case that I might hear moaning tonight?”

Flashing me a heart stopping smile, I knew someone would be moaning tonight, for sure.

“Dade 303, Nash.”               

“Very good, sir.”

Pulling onto the
travertine paved drive
of the luxury apartment complex, Dade 303, the doorman is waiting to greet us. Hurriedly moving to open our door, Houston greets him with a generic smile, “Martin.”

“Good evening, Mr. Donovan, Mam.”

Between Martin, the luxurious fountained lobby, and the overall ambiance of the building, I wouldn’t have been surprised to find a uniformed
elevator operator standing at the ready, when the doors opened. Instead Houston, inserted a key card into a slot, which zips us up toward the twentieth floor. On the ride up, I feel the warmth of Houston’s hand as he rests it on my lower back. It feels as if electricity is shooting from it throughout my body. I’m tingling, almost as if I had touched a live, sparking wire. Maybe that is what Houston is to me the spark to help me feel alive again.

“I need to spend about thirty minutes making some calls since I was unexpectedly out of the office this afternoon.”

“Oh really? Unexpectedly, out of the office.” I glance up at Houston out of the corner of my eye, as I silently question myself, what in the world am I doing? Which initiates an internal conversation between my mid-west upbringing and my big city girl self. I’m living that’s what I am doing. Even though this is not the way I envisioned this evening going, it has been memorable, so far, to say the very least. I was suppose to be at Chester’s laughing enjoying a girl’s night. Girl’s night? Heck who am I kidding, I prefer this tall, sexy hunk beside me to the girls. I am most definitely enjoying this night. My heart is racing. My mid-west girl tries to give me some grief as the elevator stops. I think about just not getting out. What would he say if I just let the doors close with me inside and returned to the ground floor? Would that be the end of whatever this thing between us might become? Stop it! You are here for a glass or two of wine and some good conversation, nothing else.

The elevator doors open, providing an uninterrupted ocean view that is nothing less than spectacular. “Oh my. I knew it would be stunning but this is beyond stunning.” I whisper.

With just a hint of amusement in his voice, he said, “I am going to make those calls. Make yourself at home.”

Nodding, I enter the main living space feeling as if I am floating on air.  It isn’t that we’re that high, it is the wall of glass ahead of me. If I didn’t know better, I would think that the wall was actually missing. As if I have lost all control, my body automatically moves to the wall, like a moth being drawn to a flame. Standing motionless, staring out into the movement of the vast aquamarine waters Miami is known for I realize that my calm before the storm feeling is lost. The calm isn’t lost just the storm. I really can’t remember when the storm feeling wasn’t there. Raising my eyebrows just a little, I question myself asking if I want this storm to dissolve. If this might be a storm, I want to head into full force.

After a period of time, I turn to take in the beauty of the room. The honey earth tones of the furniture complimenting a cream marble flooring that’s covered with a plush, navy rug. It’s a perfect space. As I stand absorbing the beauty of it, I realize I wouldn’t change one thing. Everything portrays a calm and serene atmosphere that doesn’t detract from the view. A view that I can’t seem to get enough of; as I glance back to take another peek at those beautiful blue waters, I feel as if maybe I am getting a peek into Heaven. Drawing away from the outdoor view, I return to the penthouse. As my eyes sweep the room, I find myself moving toward the most magnificent piece I have ever seen. Slowly, reaching out to touch, I almost withdraw my hand afraid that maybe I shouldn’t. As if my hand has a will of it’s on, it moves to touch Houston’s chiseled face, which bears the beginning of a five o’clock shadow. These tiny prickles launch a sensation through me that is indescribable. With our eyes locked, all I can say is, “It is beautiful here.”

“Yes, I do have a great view of the Atlantic.”

Smiling, “I agree that is beautiful, too. I suppose beautiful isn’t the appropriate word” for describing the center of my attention. “Maybe strikingly handsome would be more appropriate.”

Breaking the spell, he cleared his throat. Looking down, “Please forgive me for changing out of my suit. While I was on the phone, I knocked over a bottle of what smelled like some type of cleaner that the service must have mistakenly left sitting out.” Smiling wickedly he continues, “I would be happy to get you out of your work clothes also.”

Lightly slapping his firm, well defined chest, (I like doing that. Gives me an opportunity to touch all that sexiness) “I just bet you would.” Running my eyes up and down I manage to get out, “You look as if you are comfortable in your jeans. I’m fine really.” I thought he looked yummy before but mercy those jeans! They look as if they were made specifically for him. The way they hug his thighs. Not to mention that white t-shirt that is topping them off.

“Let me show you around,” as he spreads his arm wide welcoming me into the remainder of his home. We’ll go upstairs in a minute. He leads me into a contemporary kitchen that has me drooling. I imagine most chefs would probably kill for it. Walking over to the island, I notice it has a unique countertop. He opens a drawer and pushes a button. Running my hand across the counter I ask, “What is this countertop?”

“That’s Pyrolava.” He tells me.

“Never heard of it. It’s interesting.”

“It’s a volcanic stone. I had shipped from Central France.”

“So, you cook?”

“Not me, no. Why?” 

“I just thought if you went to all that trouble to have something shipped that far, it must be for something you like to do. You know something special.” I was so enthralled with the counter that when I looked up, he was gone.

“Houston?” “In here.”

I followed his voice and stopped at the entrance of a small room with rows and rows of wines. “Holy cow! You said a small wine cellar. There is nothing small about this.

“Ahh, here it is.” He returned with a bottle in hand. Handling the corkscrew with precision of a surgeon welding a scalpel, he opened the bottle with expertise. “Let’s allow it to breathe, shall we?”

He shows me the remaining rooms on this floor, including two bedrooms, three bathrooms, and his office-which I noticed was locked. Raising my eyebrows, “Trust issues?”

Old habits, Charli. Just old habits. When you grow up with a mother that remarries ever five or six years, you learn to keep private things private. The locked door has nothing to do with you. I keep it locked always. Cleaning people, entertaining.”

“Ah, yeah, because the cleaning people you employ are not trustworthy. I get it.”

Shaking his head, “I don’t employ a household staff at any of my residences but at my New York home.

“Pardon, my asking but how many homes do you have?”

As we move upstairs, “You know, it differs some years. It depends on where I am currently doing business, how long my stay requires. If I am opening an office in the region, I generally purchase a place. When I purchase one of the qualifications for me to view a space is the amenities I rely on the building management to provide the services.”

“Oh, ok.“

Let’s see, right now my penthouse in New York City (which is my main home), here, hunting lodge upstate Michigan, Ski Chalet Breckenridge Colorado, beachfront just south of Los Angles. So, here in the States, five.” My confused look must have been funny to him because he laughed. “Something funny, Mr. Donovan?”

With a grimace, so we are back to Mr. Donovan? I thought you would be more versed in proper etiquette.”

“Pardon me. Proper etiquette? (The mid-west girl is about to break through.) Do you serve on the etiquette police board or something kind sir?”

Jokingly he continues, “Well, it’s complicated Ms. Jensen. I happen to be familiar with a little known etiquette rule which deals with titles/surnames.”

OK, so I’ll play along. Smiling, I say, “Oh really? By all means, please explain what this complicated etiquette rule concerning titles/surnames is?”

The specific wording has slipped my mind but I do know it addresses attire.”

Nodding my head, I say, “Oh? Tell me some more about this little known attire rule.”

Taking a step “If one conversation participant is dressed in denim then both parties should be in denim or casual attire. Part two of the rule address the usage of surnames when in such relaxed attire.”

Crossing my arms and leaning back against a door that leads to some undisclosed room, “Really? Just what would that rule be that apparently my Mother, God Bless Her, failed to teach me?”

“It states two things: one: No person should be addressed by Mr. or Ms. if they are in denim, in their home, after nine pm. I am shocked that you are not familiar with that rule.”

“Nope, afraid not. Here’s the catch to that rule, I’m not at home.” Smiling, “So according to your rule, I should be addressed as Ms.”

Seeing the folly in his made-up rule, he went on “As I agree you aren’t but I am. No Mr. or Ms.”

The second part of the rule addresses what? Pray tell me kind sir.”

“I’ve forgot the actual wording but it does require that both conversation participants be in comfortable, relaxed clothing.” He says as he takes a step narrowing the small space already between us.

“Well, since I don’t have anything except the clothes on my back (as my Gran would say) you might as well call the comfortable attire police. They’ll have to cuff me and take me away.”

With a mischievous smile, Houston leans into me, raises my hands above my head and holds them there while he grazes my lips with a kiss. Pulling back enough to lean his head in to whisper in my ear, “Cuff you? Sounds interesting, Charli, very interesting.” Nibbling on my ear with just enough pressure for me to barley feel his teeth he questions at just above a whisper, “Do you like handcuffs, Ms. Jensen?”

He asks as his hands hold me in that position just long enough to make me want more than the subtle kisses I was getting. Pushing my body to meet his, I could feel how hard he was becoming. The amount of heat building in my core is causing my city girl attitude to step up. I wouldn’t object if he rammed himself into me as deep as possible this very moment.

Breaking away from me with a smile that tells me, he knows exactly what he is doing to me, a moan escapes my lips. Continuing with what I thought was a tour, we stop just outside a door, where Houston gestures for me, “Come with me.”

As we enter a bedroom that has a view which mirrors what I saw downstairs, Houston simply says, “The master bedroom.”

Both my mid-west and city girls are speechless. I open my mouth but before I could make any comment, he touches my lips with his index finger.

“Not a word. When I take you on this bed it won’t be because I have tricked you into this room. Make no mistake about that.”

Jokingly, I press my lips together and wrinkle my brow as if I was trying really hard to not speak. He leads me into a closet that is about the size of my entire apartment.
This
room, because it is more than a closet, has all of his clothes hanging organized in a boutique style.

I stand taking it all in, “I thought I was fanatical about my clothes but you certainly have me beat.”             

BOOK: Shattered Heart
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