Can't Touch This (10 page)

I can’t help but laugh at myself.  I’m not sure exactly what I’m looking for this weekend.  I’m not really after a quick roll in the hay.  Well, okay.  Yes.  Maybe.  I don’t know.  Men confuse me with their flirting, their sexy eyes eyes, endearing smiles, and the way they look at you.  No wonder we’re such easy targets for a charmer.  Or a dimple.

I watch my reflection in the mirror and smooth the wrinkles from my new outfit.  Before my trip, William and I went shipping to find me the perfect little black cocktail dress.  We found it at JC Penney’s of all places.  I can’t believe what a stylish outfit I bought for only twenty-nine bucks.  It will be perfect for the cocktail party scheduled at Forest Lynch’s art gallery on posh Lincoln Road tonight.

I open up the double glass doors to the balcony and breathe in the ocean and the sunshine.  If I’d known how amazing Miami was, I’d have stayed a week.  With Rory.  We’d make it to that coveted third date yet.  Man, Griz is going to win that bet from me yet.  I close my eyes and envision Rory’s long legs, magical eyes, and pale hair tangled up on the rich tropical fabric bedcover.  There’s something about the tropical climate that’s made my body come alive.

I hang some of my clothes in the walk-in closet—that’s nearly bigger than my entire bedroom at home—and then check out the bathroom.  The rich Italian marble from the lobby repeats itself and the peach wall coloring gives it an overall beachy aura.

I’d love to invite Rory back up here, but then this is technically only our second date.  Technically there shouldn’t be sex this time and we should wait until the tradeshow in San Francisco.  Stupid, antiquated dating rules.  In any event, I
did
get a bikini wax in anticipation.  And boy, did that hurt like hell.

Reagan Vanbiesbrouck, one of our top sales people, is supposed to be coming in from the Left Coast to help me with this show.  We’re scheduled to meet up in the lobby bar any minute.  I hustle downstairs, but I don’t see her as I step off the elevator.  The bar area is dotted with smartly dressed men and women, sipping complicated cocktails and designer appetizers.

The registration table for the conference is off to the right from the front desk, so since Reagan isn’t here yet, I decide to go ahead and check in.

“May I register?” I ask.

“Sure thing, sugar.  You an attendee or an exhibitor?”  A buxom brunette named Tawnya greets me.

“Exhibitor.  Vanessa Virtue from DigitalDirection.”

“Of course.  Here you go,” she says, handing over a nametag, registration packet, and ticket for tonight’s cocktail party.  “There’s someone from your company already here.  You can go ahead and set up in the ballroom.  Your materials have been delivered there.”

“Thanks,” I say, wondering why Reagan would take it upon herself to set up the booth without me.

Trying not to trip on the smooth marble floor in my strappy sandals, I make my way to the ballroom.  It’s crammed with booths and table top exhibits.  Many vendors are unpacking boxes or searching around for power sources and Internet connections.

I see a pair of legs sticking out from under the skirted table in our cordoned-off area.  They don’t exactly match Reagan’s trim figure.

“Excuse me.  What are you doing?  May I help you?” I ask the stranger.

Obviously startled, the person jumps and I hear the crack of skull against the base of the table.

“Son of a bitch!”

I nearly gasp when Kyle Nettles crawls out rubbing his head.  My hand covers my mouth.  “You’re not supposed to be here, Kyle.”

“Nice to see you, too, Vanessa,” he says, wincing at the pain.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“It’s okay.  Change of plans.  Reagan got called to Oregon, so I’m here to help out.”

I swallow noticeably and try to get hold of my freaked out pulse as I look at Kyle in his pressed black pants and fitted yellow Polo shirt.  He looks like he’s been to the tanning booth, too.

“I, um, well, no one told me.”

He continues to rub at his cranium that must be pounding from that whack on the table.  “I was up in Tampa when Reagan called to tell me she wasn’t going to make it.  I figured you couldn’t do a show, even one this small, all on your own.”  He stops and looks over to the booth while I process all of this information.  “Say, I’ve been trying to get into this, but it’s locked.  Is there a key somewhere?”

“Yeah, I’ve got it.”  I dig through my purse and hope that I stashed the key in there.  “What?  You think we’d ship the booth without some sort of protection?”

A silly grin breaks out over Kyle’s face.  “Why don’t you just wrap a condom around it?”

My stunned laughter bursts forth.  Kyle Nettles, Mr. Corporate Boy, made a joke.  I’m impressed.  I whip out the small silver key and unlock the plastic tubing that holds the makings of our display.  In no time flat, Kyle and I have the thing built and our brochures properly exhibited along the table’s edge.

Kyle runs his hands through his hair, making it stand on end.  I try not to stare at the movement and remember that I’m here to see Rory.  It’s going to be awkward trying to spend time with Rory with Kyle here, as well.  Course, knowing Mr. Corporate Boy, he’ll be knee-deep in prospect meetings the whole two days we’re here.

I look around the room and spot the familiar teal and blue SalesTracker display across the expansive ballroom.  No Rory, though.

Kyle’s cell rings and he excuses himself.  I take the opportunity to slip into the foyer to locate a house phone.

“Rory Ellery’s room, please,” I say when the operator answers.  My heart races as the line buzzes.  After four rings, it goes to the guest voice mail.  That means he’s checked in, but just not in the room.

Kyle’s still on his cell phone when I return.  “You know, we can still catch some sun before the formalities begin,” he says.  “Yo, Vanessa.  Did you hear me?”

“Are you talking to me?”

He snickers.  “Yeah, who else?  What do you say we hit the beach?”

I’m sure there’s something in the Employee Handbook that would totally discourage our hanging out for some rays in the middle of the day.  However, if Jiles’ boy Kyle suggests it, maybe it’s not a bad thing.  Besides, it’s only four and we’ve done as much work as we can at this point.  The cocktail party doesn’t start until eight, so there’s plenty of time to hang on the beach before I get dolled up to see Rory.

Fifteen minutes later, I meet Kyle on the sand with the ocean’s cerulean water sparkling in the Florida sunshine.  But the beautiful site of nature is nothing compared to Kyle in his navy swim trunks that mold to his trim waist.  Thank God I have sunglasses on and he can’t see me staring at his model-perfect chest and flat stomach.  Seeing him shirtless like this is only going to generate even more wild fantasies about this unattainable man.  He’s
way
out of my league.  I take the chaise lounge next to him, wondering if I should take off my wrap-around skirt that covers my royal blue tankini.

I try to relax sitting here, but all Kyle does is talk about work.  Bottom lines and spreadsheets, leads, and client services.  I admire that he’s so dedicated to the company, but I’d like to get to know more about him.  Where he went to school, how many kids are in his family, what’s his favorite ethnic food, how does he take his coffee in the morning.  I shake my head hard over the last thought and pick back up on him talking about “quality assurance follow-up” on something or other.  I’m a hard worker, but there’s a time and a place for everything.

“Why are you so business-focused,” I ask and then bite my lip for my forwardness.

“It’s my job,” he says.

“Sure, it’s a job, but it’s not your life.”

He stares ahead.  “Work defines us.  It’s who we are.  We spend more time at the office than at home or with our family.  A job worth doing is worth doing well.”

I admire a strong work ethic.  I also know that unless you’re an owner or a major stockholder, you’re just a working stiff.  And it scared holy hell out of me that with the flick of one person’s wishful wrist, I can be gone >>poof<< in a matter of seconds through layoffs or reduction in force.

“My dad worked his ass off for twenty-five years for a company,” Kyle says.  “His customers loved and respected him.  He won awards, garnered accolades, and retired a happy man who made a difference in people’s lives.  I’m just trying to do what the old man did.”

I smile and cut my co-worker a tad bit of slack.  Still, we’re on the beach and I want to relax.

“Kyle, Kyle…”

He squints over his sunglasses.  “What?”

I put my finger to my lips and say, “Shhhh.  Let’s not talk about work anymore.  Let’s just enjoy the beauty of nature that’s before us.”

“Oh.  Right.  Sorry.”  He leans back and keeps quiet.

The Eden Roc cabana boys interrupt every now and then, tending to our every need.  For a modest fee, cute little Marco brings cushions for the beach chairs and offers to get us drinks.  Kyle passes, as do I.  Don’t want him to report back to Jiles that I’m a lush in the middle of the afternoon.

Unable to talk business non-stop, it seems that Kyle’s fallen into a deep sleep.  His breathing deepens and he doesn’t move.  Like his old man, Kyle works his own ass off, so I can see why he’s exhausted.  However, this gives me the perfect opportunity to inventory his rock-hard muscles that tighten with each of his breaths.  He’s under a lot of strain and stress in his position at DigitalDirection.  Expectations are high in the company, so I do I understand his non-stop business talk and focus.  I soften as I scan my eyes up to his face.  His parents much be very proud of him and what he’s achieved so far.  I’m sure his dad brags about him to the neighbors and his fellow retirees.

There’s more to Kyle Nettles than just his classic good looks.  I hope to learn more as we get to know each other more.  For now, I can’t help but admire the physical as he sleeps in the sunshine.  His chest is sculpted as if it were chiseled by the master artist Rodin and set in his garden in Paris for all to see.  My hand lifts to explore the small dusting of dark hair that swirls between his pecs.  My pulse accelerates as I gaze upon this magnificent specimen of a man, damning my treacherous thoughts of throwing myself on him right here, right now.  I’m out of control.  I’m in need of major cooling off.

I spin away from Sleeping Beauty and hoist myself off the chaise.  The wrap gets tossed onto the ground and I break into a finish line type run through the sizzling sand.  The churning waves pull at me as I rush into the refreshing and cooling waters of the Atlantic.  Exactly what I needed to put out the flames of desire threatening to consume me and ruin my career at DigitalDirection.

Damn these men and the control they have over us women.  Like the moon tugging at the tides.  As I plunge deeper into the ocean, I let the salty waves consume all thoughts of Kyle Nettles.  He’s off limits.  End of story.

Tonight, my focus returns to where it should be:  Rory Ellery.

D
ressed to kill
in my JC Penney couture, I wait for Kyle in the lobby of the Eden Roc.  I scan the myriad faces at the bar for Rory, however, he’s nowhere to be seen.

I pluck at the tiny spaghetti straps of my new dress that molds to my bust and midriff and tapers over my hips, ending just above my knee with a nice long slit in the back.  I’ll admit, I feel kind of sexy as the fabric brushes the back of my bare—freshly shaved and nicely tanned—legs.

I’m pleased with my appearance and hope Rory will take notice.  I took William’s advice when he fussed at me that I need to “quit hiding beneath your hair.”  So, I swept it up into a messy ponytail leaving wispy tendrils curling around my face just like all of the models in the fashion magazines.

My cubic zirconia earrings and necklace set shimmer like real diamonds against my tanned skin.  I look so much healthier now since I’ve gotten some sun, no longer the pasty-white New Englander.

“Well, aren’t you a sight?” I hear from behind me.

My heart rate triples as I turn hoping it’s Rory, but it’s actually Kyle standing there.  He’s wearing a thin, white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbow, accentuating his afternoon tan.  His pressed khaki pants flatter his physique and I have to blink hard to keep myself from staring too much at him.  Stop.  Regroup.  Concentrate.  Rory.  Must think about Rory.

It’s hard to think of anyone else with Kyle standing here.  “You look great,” I say in a cool, nonchalant manner.  “Ready to knock the female attendees on their arses?”

Kyle smiles.  “Now you know this trip is all about business, not pleasure, Vanessa.”

I half-heartedly grin back, knowing he’s right, yet knowing I’ll push the envelope if Rory actually is around.

Suddenly, conference attendees are herded like cattle into three awaiting air-conditioned buses to transport us down Collins Avenue to Lincoln Road.  I glance around at everyone on the bus but don’t see him.  I glimpse plenty of Ralph Lauren, Tommy Hilfiger, even Versace, but no Rory Ellery.

“Where can he be?” I mumble as I sit down and look out the window.

Kyle takes a seat next to me.  “Who’s
he
?”

Crap!  I didn’t mean to say that out loud.  I’ve got to improve upon the inner monologue problem.  “He?  Oh, I meant
you
.  I was, um, saving you a seat.”

“Oh, okay.  Thanks.”

We ride in silence since I’m so afraid of saying the wrong thing in front of Kyle.  Which is weird because I’ve never had a problem talking to people before in my life.

The bus drops us off one block from the Forest Lynch Gallery, made famous when Oprah bought a painting from the artist’s collection.  Lincoln Road is considered to be the cultural center of South Beach.  Once-struggling artists now find their work treasured, adored, and sold on this pedestrian mall.  Small cafés, restaurants, and most every upscale designer chain store you can imagine dot the sidewalks, which stretches from the Atlantic Ocean almost to Biscayne Bay.  I breathe in the warm night air and soak in the atmosphere of the cool breeze, the chatter from nearby diners, and the music pounding of Trance music from the CD store across the way.