Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 75929 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 380(@200wpm)___ 304(@250wpm)___ 253(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75929 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 380(@200wpm)___ 304(@250wpm)___ 253(@300wpm)
I went to offer my hand. That custom, at least, I was familiar with.
But Bass pushed my hand back down.
The woman—Teresa—led us toward the conference room.
And it was only then that my gaze swept across the table to find the man standing at the head of it.
My step faltered.
This was Soren Vale?
This six-four, fit god decked out in a designer suit?
I mean, even if someone warned me that he was a man in his prime, I never could have conjured up the image of the man standing before me.
He was stupidly handsome.
With an emphasis on stupid.
What god would put all that good-looking into one man?
He could have just been tall and fit. But, no. No, he had a face sculpted by the greats—all perfect angles to make him both classically handsome but also darkly mysterious—yes, darkly. On top of that, he had a neatly shaped beard that looked (A) clean and (B) moisturized and soft. And to round it all out, he had gooey chocolate brown eyes, great lashes, stern brows, and dark brown hair that was kept long enough that it curled just above the collar of his shirt.
My panties were practically begging me to take them off and climb him like a tree.
If it weren’t for his cool, calm demeanor, I might have dropped character.
But when his hand clasped mine—so big it made my hand look like a doll’s—I swear I felt this sizzle shooting up my arm and across my chest, wrapping around my heart and squeezing.
Whatever the hell that was about.
So when my voice came out clear and collected, I was proud of my preparation that made that possible.
“Indeed, I do,” Soren Vale said, hand still holding mine.
Until Teresa interrupted the moment—and the eye contact that made me feel stripped bare, body and soul—to ask if any of us wanted coffee.
“That would be great,” I said, turning to give her a polite smile. “Cream and sugar, if you have it. Bastian,” I called, making him look up. “I’m sure Teresa would appreciate your assistance.”
His eyes narrowed at me for just a second before he shut his face down, gave me a nod and a ‘Yes, ma’am,’ and moved out of the room.
Maybe I should have felt guilty for sending him away. But I was going to have a harder time trying to keep my wits about me with Bass standing there, silently judging everything I said or did.
“Would you sit?” Soren asked, waving toward the seat directly to his side.
I nodded, trying not to trip on my stupid stilettos as I pulled out the chair and sat down.
Only when I was seated did Soren do that stupid undoing his coat button thing that shouldn’t have been so sexy, but somehow was, then take his own seat.
“I see you already have the blueprints,” I said, spying the hint of blue peeping out of the folder in front of him.
“I do. And I have to admit, it’s the perfect property for a nightclub.”
“I have my concerns about the staircases,” I told him. “I can’t imagine heavily intoxicated people—some wobbling in their heels—and steep staircases are a good idea.”
“The liability would be high, yes. But I didn’t intend to have the balcony open to the general public.”
“What did you have in mind?”
“A VIP section open only to private parties or drop-ins from celebrities who would prefer to party in private.”
“Wouldn’t that only increase the liability? Celebrities equals money equals great lawyers.”
“Not if there is a private elevator installed here,” Soren said, producing the blueprints and pointing to a spot just stage left. “That would exit right into the small alley between buildings, which exits—if I am not mistaken—here,” he said. His finger traced along the blueprint. I was supposed to be looking at the alley. All I could do was look at that finger, thinking of it tracing down the column of my neck, over my clavicle, down between my breasts, under the swells, up to circle my nipples…
A shiver racked my system at just the thought.
“Miss Amato?” Soren called.
“Yes,” I said, my voice breathy. I cleared my throat. “Yes, that’s correct. It’s a long, narrow alley that could use some cleaning up, if we are expecting celebrities to be willing to walk there, but it leads to a back road, where a car could be waiting.”
“Miss Amato,” Bastian said, appearing at my side with a large mug of coffee. It was the perfect cup: lightweight fine china, a solid sixteen ounces, with a wide, square handle.
“This is nice,” I said before I could keep the thought inside. “It’d be nicer with some sort of detail on it, though.” God, what was wrong with me? What successful businesswoman would comment on something as simple as a coffee mug?
“Mr. Vale makes me order cases of them,” Teresa explained, warm and familiar, like I was a friend, not a complete stranger. “Claims he spent years trying to find the right mug, and he doesn’t want to run out in case any of them get a chip. If you need us, we will be one buzz away,” she went on, touching Bastian’s arm to usher him out of the room.