Authors: Glenna Sinclair
"Cara," her advisor barked at her. "I know you can hear me. Get in here. You're not going to want to miss this."
With a gusty sigh, Cara sat back from her desk and rose obediently. That was how her advisor began all of his solicitations—right before he was about to assign her an extra uncredited workload that she didn't want to deal with.
"This had better be good, Hollaway." She was the only student who talked back to him, but she fell in line just like the rest. Unlike the rest, she always made her deadlines, which was why he continued to allow her the leniency to do so.
Professor Bernard Hollaway was a fit and fierce-looking man of approximately fifty who had given up his hairline a long time ago; he now shaved his skull almost every morning, often when he arrived early to the office.
Cara entered and bypassed the chair in front of Professor Hollaway's desk to join him behind his monitor. When she realized he was only logged into his desktop, and had no browser windows open to show her, she stood back and crossed her arms. "Was that code for 'I don't want the other students to know why I'm calling you in here'?" she surmised. Hollaway eased back in his chair and unnecessarily straightened a stack of files on his desk.
"I've got an assignment for you," he said. "A real one. A real doozy. It's going to get you out of the classroom, and you're going to be gone a while."
"Where?" Cara asked curiously. She had never heard of this sort of opportunity coming up before, and definitely not for a student.
"New York." Hollaway glanced at her hard through the light reflection off his lenses, as if trying to observe whether or not she was up for it. Cara crossed her arms and tried to appear skeptical, rather than excited, about his offer.
"Do I get credit for it?" She had to cover her bases. "Who will be paying for the trip?"
"The client. And it will be credited." Hollaway straightened his files again. "I'm afraid I can't tell you any more about it. It was one of the stipulations of the client. So, you in?"
"How long will I be gone?" Cara's brain was awhirl with questions, but she already knew her answer. She
needed
this distraction to get her mind off things. She had thought coming back to school would be enough of a diversion for her, but her classes were unstimulating. Her dreams, on the other hand…
But that was the real problem. She still hadn't been able to forget about Simon Banning, and it felt like it was only getting worse by the day. She found herself staring at maps or at the GPS on her phone, retracing the backroad she had taken, her eyes eventually arriving at the pin that marked his house. She had deleted the pin, but that didn't change the fact that if she got in her car and drove, she was fairly confident she would know where to find him. What was he doing out there, all alone? How did he pass his days now that she was gone?
There wasn't a day that went by that Cara didn't wonder whether he had gotten her message. Was Melinda still employed with him? What could she possibly be planning next? A woman with her patience and sharp mind just
had
to have a backup plan. It's not as if she had waited, biding her time, on the off-chance that someone like Cara would break down outside the house.
She thought about the message, too, because she wondered if Simon would ever come and seek her out at school. And that was the most dangerous of all, because it
was
something she hoped for, when Cara knew she should be forgetting all about him now and getting on with her life. But life seemed so boring now without Simon in it to throw her a curveball, to make her pulse race when he entered a room, to make her hot and bothered with just a look…
"Can't say." Hollaway was peering at her again, as if wondering where she had just gone. Cara came back to herself and met her advisor's gaze evenly.
"I'm in."
"Thought you would be." Hollaway lifted his too-straight pile of folders and produced a plane ticket. Cara blinked, but took it without a second thought. Things were moving fast on this. Then again, she had always been a fast-mover. "You head out tomorrow morning. I'll forward you the address of the hotel where the client has requested to meet. Come back with a good story to tell, all right? And why don't you give me something to publish while you're at it? I'm sick to death of all these lists and opinion pieces you guys keep turning in to me. I want a
real
story."
#
That was how Cara Langford, journalism major, found herself in the lobby of the grandest hotel she had ever seen in her life.
The Four Seasons New York was one of the top ten luxury hotels in the city. If she hadn't done the research beforehand, she would have known it on sight. Fifty-two floors, and her room was located on the fiftieth.
Better start walking.
Cara grabbed an elevator to herself and shot to the top of the building. She was grateful for the opportunity to be alone to compose her thoughts; there was nothing like hurtling upward into the sky in a tiny box to put things into perspective. She needed to wash up and change before her meeting with her mystery client. She didn't even know if the client was a man or a woman at this point—all she knew was that she was to meet them in the bar downstairs at nine o'clock. Fairly late for any kind of interview, but maybe this was to be more of an introduction.
When Cara got to her room, she shot off a quick e-mail to describe what she would be wearing. She hadn't gotten a direct response back from the client yet, but she figured at least one of them should know what to look for. Then she closed her laptop, took a shower, and got changed.
Cara's choice for the evening was a skintight black strapless dress that barely came halfway down her thighs, and black pumps. While it wasn't something she could comfortably traipse around in on the Trinity College campus, she could tell already that it would help her blend in perfectly here. The price tag on black dresses wasn't always as immediately identifiable, and besides, it looked great on her—good enough that she doubted anyone would be looking at the dress itself.
It was also the exact opposite of the white dress she had worn the night she and Simon had spent the evening together
Cara turned as she examined herself in the mirror. She looked sleek and sexy while still managing to remain consummately professional. Hollaway would have blown a gasket if he had been there to see what she was wearing, but she wasn't dressing to impress her advisor. She adjusted her breasts before departing from the mirror to finish curling her hair and shading her eyes. The last thing she did before leaving her room was apply another coat of lipstick, and then unglamorously check her e-mail. No response, though it said her message had been received.
Downstairs, she was able to turn quite a few heads as she made her way to the bar. Mainly hotel staff; she assumed most of the clientele were out on the town on a Friday night. When she was comfortably seated at the bar, she updated her contact on where to locate her.
And then she waited.
And waited.
She was twenty minutes into her vigil, and just about to satisfy herself that her contact wasn't coming (and that as much as she wanted the credit, she had gotten a free trip to New York out of it), when her cellphone buzzed. Cara set her soda water down and fumbled for it quickly. Her inbox blinked, notifying her that she had one unread message. The e-mail simply read:
Sorry. Come on up. Floor fifty-two.
Floor? Really? Evidently, the client wasn't even going to give her a room number.
Evidently,
plans had changed. Cara sighed and shoved her phone back into her purse, signaling the bartender that she would like it all to be charged to her room.
Free trip to New York,
she reminded herself on a continuous loop as she made her way into the lobby and headed for the elevators.
"Excuse me? Miss Langford?"
Cara turned as one of the women stationed behind the front desk hastily approached her. "I'm so sorry, but are you Miss Langford?" the woman inquired. "I was told you'd be wearing…"
"Yes, I'm Cara Langford." This whole situation was getting weirder and more convoluted by the second. "What's up?"
"It's only that I got a message that you would be heading up." The woman looked at her meaningfully. "The penthouse?" she tried again when Cara didn't register recognition.
"Oh." She guessed her research had failed her on that front. "I guess I will be, yes—"
"You'll need the key," the customer service agent confirmed happily. She passed Cara a keycard, which the latter stared at incomprehensively.
"A key…to the room?" she asked uncertainly.
"No." The woman smiled broadly. "To access the floor. Have a good night, Miss Langford."
She was left to stand alone in the lobby and scrutinize the innocuous piece of plastic in her hand. Then she raised her head, straightened her dress, and headed for the elevators.
Free trip to New York.
She could literally afford to deal with a little eccentricity at this point, even if it was starting to wear on her nerves. Were all rich people this annoying, or was she just a magnet for the more special cases?
She got into the elevator, slid the card in, and punched the number for the top floor. She was very tempted to just get off on the fiftieth, overnight, and check out the next morning…but as the number of floors flashed ever upward, Cara found that ultimately she couldn't resist her own curiosity. She adjusted her skirt again to make sure it wasn't riding up, before shooting a paranoid look up at the camera.
Finally, the door slid open to admit her to the highest level. Cara exited slowly, turning to take in the cityscape outside a long line of windows. It was breathtaking. Even if she decided to turn back now, it would have been worth it just for the view.
There was really only one door, and she assumed that was the one that would admit her to the penthouse. Summoning her courage, and pulling her dress down once more for good measure, Cara strode to the door and knocked. To her surprise, it opened almost immediately, as if her mystery client had been waiting for her all along on the other side.
Cara looked up, startled.
It was Simon Banning who stood in the doorway before her, dressed in a dashingly expensive black suit.
Damn it, but he looked good. It became very apparent to Cara in the course of the five seconds she devoted to taking the man in that her dreams and fantasies had not done him any sort of justice. He wasn't as unreachably tall as she remembered; his shoulders were broader; his face… She had never imagined she would ever see that expression on his face again. He looked at her like she was an unexpected breath of fresh air washing over a man who was suffocating—as if she were the oasis just coming into focus after a long and devastating drought. The way Simon looked at her now made her skin heat, and her heart hammer with unexpected possibility. There was no way that this was happening. It must have just been a new variation on the same old aggravating dream.
But it all made sense now. Her mystery story… It was
Simon. He
had requested her, had even flown her out here for…what? The whole world already knew his story. And when he thought she had been about to tell it the first time…
Cara dropped her arms to her sides, letting them hang there as she deliberated. Then, she turned, and started to walk away.
She felt his hand catch her wrist before she had even managed to take a step. Cara whirled around, and had been about to open her mouth to protest, when she felt Simon crush his lips against hers. The kiss felt like desperation and relief rolled all into one; it wasn't combative at all, but the fight went out of her immediately as she let the terms of their unexpected reunion overpower her. Simon walked them both back to the opposite wall of the hallway, and Cara felt her shoulders connect solidly with the window. The surface was slick and cool, nothing like the burning heat of the Englishman currently pressing himself against her.
Their mouths locked together as if in an agreed-upon resolution of never being parted again; they lipped at each other as if mapping a re-acquaintance, making out in clear view of all of New York below. Cara had never felt so swept up—it was like being suspended in the sky and romanced divinely all at once.
Simon pulled away from her slowly, disengaging the activity of their lips, and Cara felt herself instinctively lean forward to follow. But their reunion had ended almost as soon as it had begun, and the Englishman drew back to meet her eyes. He looked at a loss and in need of direction.
Well, he could join the club.
"God, Cara. I'm so sorry. Not for kissing you," he added quickly. "Although I might feel differently in a moment if you decide to slap me for the transgression."
"You deserve a good slap," she replied once she had regained her breath. "And maybe from me most of all." She slid away from the window and walked past him, although it wasn't back toward the elevators, which was what she had planned initially. She walked right into the open doorway of Simon's room and made herself at home.
It wasn't easy to affect disinterest in her surroundings, of course.
Simon Banning
had never made it easy. The billionaire's suite took up the entire top story of the hotel, excepting the hallway she had just exited. The windows she had become rather duly acquainted with outside of the room extended into the main living space, replacing the far wall entirely; she was treated to another panoramic view of New York, although this one faced out toward the harbor.
With the exception of a few low-lit lamps in the farthest corners, the room was dark. Cara crossed to the window, attracted by the lights of the city. She heard the door close softly behind her, but she didn't turn around; she could see Simon's reflection clearly off the dark pane of the window.
"I didn't think you'd come," he said quietly.
"Yeah, well, it took me longer to figure out it was you than I care to admit," Cara said. In the reflection off the window, she saw a tired iteration of Simon's crooked smile draw his mouth upward.
"Really? How long?"
"I just told you I don't care to admit it." Cara sighed, and then finally she did admit it. "Until I saw you."
"Really, Cara? Do you have many acquaintances who can afford to stay in a hotel of this grandeur?" he asked interestedly.
First she had allowed him to kiss her, and now she was already letting him get under her skin. She finally turned to glare at him, and was glad the dim light of the room couldn't illuminate him the same way that the hallway had. She had never seen him in a suit like that before. Had they met under these circumstances to begin with, dressed as they were, rather than in a muddy field out in the middle of nowhere, she might have reacted to him
very
differently. Then again, she doubted he would have been able to hold his tongue for very long, and Cara… Cara wasn't the best at keeping her opinions to herself, not even in front of someone who was so clearly financially and culturally superior to her.
She crossed her arms over the tight front of her chest, and tried to ignore the fact that Simon's eyes dropped immediately to take in the voluptuous features her posture accentuated. "You made it fairly clear to me the last time I saw you that you had no interest in ever seeing me again. I assumed you were a man of your convictions."
"That wasn't the last time I saw you." Simon's quiet murmur carried to her, and Cara felt it along the back of her neck, like a caress. She wanted to be closer to him, but she ignored the whims of her body. "I dreamed about you almost every night. I couldn't get my mind off you, Cara. Everywhere I went in the mansion…" Simon walked slowly toward the center of the room, running his fingers along the backs of the imported furniture as if they longed to be touching something else entirely. "…The memory of you lingered in every single room. The gates, the foyer, the natatorium… my bedroom…"
"I was under the impression that you thought our time together was a mistake," Cara said in a raw voice. "And that you felt I was only attracted to you because I thought it would make a good story." She didn't mention her own longing for him, the deep desires that she had squirrelled away in her subconscious. She was more guarded about telling Simon the content of her own dreams.
"I was under
an
impression," he admitted. "But it wasn't my own. I know that I hurt you, Cara, but I've lived with the hope these past weeks that you would find it in you to forgive me when I told you that my own actions came from a wellspring of hurt. I'm not proud of it. Any of it." His handsome face fell miserably. "When I saw your expression when you left my hospital room…it took everything I had in me to not call you back. There was no one else I would have rather had by my side."
Tears sprang into her eyes at his confession, but she stood unmoving by the window. "Then why didn't you listen to me? I mean really
listen?
After I got back to the house and made sure everyone knew where you were, Melinda showed up in my bedroom. She suggested, and then flat-out offered, to help me write a story on you, Simon."
"And then you told her where to shove her story," Simon guessed. Cara's lips twisted in a bitter smile.
"I wish it could have had that ending. I wound up going to see
you,
and when you didn't want to see me, I went home."
"But you left me a message." Simon took a step closer. "With the man who towed your car. He was very insistent that I get it."
"Good. I was
very
insistent," Cara whispered. She thought Simon had taken another step toward her when she wasn't paying attention, before then realizing that
she
was the one who had advanced on him this time.
"You cared about my well-being, even when you thought I would have nothing more to do with you," the Englishman murmured. "I already had a feeling that I'd made a terrible mistake by pushing you away. When I heard you tried to contact me, I knew that you had been telling me the truth all along." They were standing so close together now in the darkened penthouse that she could feel his breath stir her hair with every word. "I just have to ask you for one more truth, Cara. Whatever you say to me now, I promise I'll watch you walk out of my life again and do nothing to stop you, if that's what you want."
"What is it?" Cara whispered. Her lips parted in the darkness as she raised her chin in question.
"What are your feelings for me?" She watched the shadows shift across his expression, playing to his every angular feature as his face hovered above her own. "Are they what they were before? Because before, I thought…"
Cara grasped the back of the billionaire's neck and drew him down to her, putting an abrupt end to his suspense. She didn't know the nature of her own feelings for Simon—she didn't know what they
should
be when everything, including their bank accounts and rocky history, was taken into account—but she knew that what she felt for him was powerful. It moved through her like a tide, like he was as gravitational as the moon, always pulling her toward him. Whenever they collided, it felt inevitable—there was no existing in a room with Simon for long without needing his hands on her.
She got her wish almost immediately. The moment her lips met his, the man ducked his head in submission to her desires; his hands came up to grasp the curve of her waist possessively. He was already familiar with how they fit together, but he let his palms drag down the small of her back to her rear, sampling for himself just how well the material of her tight dress hugged her asset. His hands moved below the elastic of her dress, hiking it up almost to her waist; dizzyingly, Cara thought the women who had designed it must have known what they were doing. She was clothed one moment, and half-naked in his arms the next, all with a sly touch of his hand.
"Cara." He murmured her name against her lips, and she silenced him again, jumping in the same moment to wrap her legs around his waist. The hand gripping her ass created a stirrup for her to sit in as she slid their pelvises close together. She felt his zipper catch on the crotch of her underwear as they kissed each other senseless. Their passion was fast and frantic now, as if they were racing together to catch up for lost time.
Soon the rush and relief of their reunion was replaced by something else altogether, and that was
heat,
unlike anything she had ever experienced before or thought she could possibly endure. The way Simon's tongue retreated each time before pushing past her teeth again felt more like he was fucking her mouth than kissing her, and Cara couldn't help but gasp at each insistent intrusion. She slid her lower body against his, moving against his growing erection, and the curve of Simon's hand pushed and pulled to help keep the rhythm. Soon she could feel herself hitting up against him, again and again, fitting the outline of his length against the indent between her legs and climbing it, setting off every pleasurable nerve in her body. One hand grasped her back, keeping her upright in the air against him, even as the other slid downward to explore the exposed crease of her backside.
"I love this dress," Simon gasped. He was making love to her in it, Cara realized—all of the movements were there, even if he had yet to penetrate her. He was used to getting what he wanted, and he made his gratification now immediate with her. They were in very real danger of getting off together without ever coming undressed.
"Bedroom," Cara whispered in his ear, cupping his face close beside her own. She felt his nod, and clung on as he carried her the distance of the front room to a darker offshoot past the entertainment center. This bed was even bigger than the one he kept at his estate, of a mattress size that Cara had never dreamed existed for sale. He deposited her gently on her back, and she had just shimmied out of her panties when he grasped her around her waist and suddenly pulled her back up again.
"Hey!" she protested, but in the next moment he had whipped her around and thrust her back down, bending her over with her tight end in the air. She felt his hand finish what it had started in the main room as it pushed the clinging fabric of her dress up and retired it to the swell of her plump, naked rear.
She had never tried this position before, and her inability to see what he was doing felt inexpressibly frustrating. Cara turned her head over her shoulder, catching his movement in snatches, but it was only enough to see he was stripping quickly. His shirt beneath the open suit was by now untucked and unbuttoned—had she done it in the other room?—and she caught a glimpse of his chest muscles rippling beneath. She reached behind her to take him in her hand, but he pushed her attempts away. His fingers gripped the mound of each exposed cheek, parting her, and she felt the pad of one thumb brush all the way down her slick entrance. Cara moaned and let her head fall as she pressed herself back against his touch. She could feel herself growing wetter by the minute as her body, and Simon's fingers, prepared her to receive him.
"I wanted nothing more than to take you in this dress the moment I saw you," Simon murmured behind her. She felt his free hand smooth along her contracting ribcage and up to her tightly-pressed cleavage. Having her at this angle, it took little effort on his part to drag the collar of her dress down and free her breasts over it. The form-fitting material kept them pushed up and into his hand, and he pressed and fondled them both at once as he slid a finger into her unexpectedly. Cara cried out. "Does that make me an awful candidate for an interview?"