Rachel Haimowitz & Cat Grant - [Power Play 1] (4 page)

“So I’m just a meal ticket, then?”

“I can buy my own dinner, thanks. And I’m sending the suit back

tomorrow.”

Jonathan grinned at the flash of fierceness, but couldn’t quite

resist replying, “Eating cold chili out of a can over the sink is hardly

what I’d call a decent meal.”

This time Brandon’s smile fell clean away and he took a single

step back, as if to flee from Jonathan right then and there. “How did

you—?”

He clenched his jaw, but too late; the question—the

confirmation
—was already out.

And yet he’s still here. Curious after all, then.

No, not just curious.
Compelled.

“Please”—Jonathan waved at the chair opposite him with his

wineglass—“sit.”

Brandon hesitated, hand poised on the back of his chair. Studied

Jonathan for a long moment, jaw working, before he finally sat down.

And wasted no time pouring himself a big glass of the baijou.

“Careful—” Jonathan began, but Brandon waved him off and

said, “I’ll drink your damn $3,000 Wuliangye if I want to.”

Interesting.
Jonathan gestured with his glass again—
By all

means.

“Shit,” Brandon said after another sip, “this stuff is
good
. The

sommelier has good taste.”

As if I don’t.
But Jonathan decided to let it pass—this time.

Brandon fidgeted with the imperfect knot of his tie, and

Jonathan’s eyes zoomed in on those long thin fingers, nicked and

calloused but clean. “So how the hell did you know what size I wear?

This suit fits like I ordered it myself.”

Jonathan smiled. “I have a good eye. And you have a great body.

I enjoyed dressing you up.”

“What, like I’m some kind of dol ?”

“Please,” Jonathan drawled, “don’t pretend you’re not enjoying

the feel of that fabric against your skin.”

“I
do
have my own suit, you know. Picked it out myself and

everything,” Brandon added, dry as the Wuliangye.

A dozen different replies rose to Jonathan’s lips, but there he kept

them; best to let the man have his pride, at least for now. He smiled.

“Yes, well, how about we order?”

The waiter, ever attentive, took that as his cue to join them with

menus. It seemed all the wonderful things he’d heard about this place

were entirely justified. But then he opened his menu, and his smile

faded. Chinese. Every last word. “Hmm,” he said, “Perhaps we should

ask for recommendations?”

But when he looked up, Brandon was studying the menu with

feigned interest. “Hmm,” Brandon drawled, in what struck Jonathan

as a deliberate imitation. “Have you ever had stuffed lotus leaves?”

Two can play at this game.
“Why not. What are they stuffed

with?”

Brandon consulted the menu again, then said, “Sticky rice,

Chinese sausage, shiitake mushrooms, chicken, and sun-dried

shrimp.”

Everything he’d stopped eating a long time ago. Too bad. “Very . . .

creative. Unfortunately, I’m a vegetarian.”

Brandon’s brows furrowed. “You don’t eat meat? How about

fish?”“Afraid not.”

Brandon turned back to the menu, forehead crinkling. “Okay.

Guess we can get them to substitute tofu. That all right?”

Jonathan shrugged, curious to see how far Brandon would take

this. Brandon turned to the waiter, and began speaking—in rapid-

fire Chinese.

Seriously
?

Jonathan pushed back in his chair, closed his open mouth as the

waiter nodded, said something back.

How on earth had his investigators missed this? True they’d

only had a day, but they’d dug up everything from his shoe size to his

eating habits, for God’s sake; surely a Chinese education would’ve

been easier to find than that?

Brandon turned to him with a feral grin—all teeth,
far
too many

teeth, and humor at Jonathan’s expense—and said, “They’re making

yours with tofu and seitan. Hope you don’t mind me taking the

liberty.”

Mind?
Delighted, more like. It’d been a long time since anyone

had surprised him quite so often, and it was wonderful to confirm

there was more to Brandon than a hot body and a gorgeous face.

Good. Beautiful faces got old fast, but beautiful
minds
. . . well,

that was an entirely different story. A beautiful face to go with it was

just icing on the cake.

Brandon was still grinning at him with a million teeth. “I thought

you knew everything about me,” he said. “Investigators miss a bit?”

“I suppose they did.”

“You should fire them.”

Jonathan laughed, and Brandon joined him. “So how does a

construction worker learn Chinese?”

That seemed to be the wrong thing to say; Brandon stiffened, put

his teeth away. “Fourteen years in Chinatown. How could I
not
? You

think I’m an idiot just ’cause I work with my hands? ’Cause I never

finished high school?”

“No, I—”

“I did get my GED, you know. Even got my associate’s. Okay, so

maybe it’s not MIT, but
fuck you
for thinking you’re better than me

for having money.”

Brandon shoved away from the table so hard he nearly tipped

his chair, and Jonathan reached across, grabbing his wrist. The look

Brandon shot him was downright dangerous, but he didn’t let go.

“That’s not what I meant,” Jonathan said slowly. “Do you really

think I’d bother with you if I thought you were stupid? I have better

things to do with my time.”

“Like pick up strangers in dive bars?” Brandon jerked his wrist

from Jonathan’s hand. “A little blue-col ar rough and tumble, a face-

fuck in an alley, and back to your limo and your Ivy League pals, is

that it?”

“MIT isn’t actually an Ivy League—”

“Oh
shut up
!” Brandon whirled toward the door, took two steps,

whirled back again. “God, you’re
infuriating
!”

Jonathan’s lips quirked into a grin. “And yet you’re still here.”

“If either of us goes, it’s gonna be you.” Brandon reached for his

wine, glaring daggers at Jonathan over the rim of his glass. Positively

adorable
.
“Haven’t eaten yet.”

“Thought you could get your own dinner.”

He drained his glass and sat back down on the very edge of his

seat, body language screaming,
Push me again and I’m outta here
.

“Fuck you. I ordered it, didn’t I?”

Jonathan leaned forward, planted his elbows on the table and

smiled over his laced fingers. “Have you any idea how badly I want to

kiss you right now?”

Brandon rolled his eyes. A step in the right direction, perhaps;

exasperation was better than anger. “Think you’re pretty funny, don’t

you?”

“Are you going to tell me to fuck myself again? Because honestly,

it’d be a lot more fun if you joined me.”

Brandon snorted, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe

Jonathan’s audacity. And was that a smile fighting its way onto his

face? “This time I expect dinner first,” he said. “Wouldn’t want you to

think I’m
too
easy.” Another flash of white, white teeth. “Takes more

than a five-thousand-dol ar suit to get into my pants.”

“Eight, actually.”

And worth every penny.

Watching Brandon eat was sheer pornography. He’d ordered

himself some beef dish which he wolfed down with relish, licking

drops of plum sauce off his long fingers. Surely he had to know what

that was doing to Jonathan’s . . .
appetite
. Jonathan could barely keep

his attention on his own plate, superlative as the food was. One of the

best meals he’d had in months—and he had a private chef.

Slightly tipsy, he leaned back in his seat and enjoyed the view.

How on earth did Brandon keep that body with such an obviously

prodigious appetite? Well, he no doubt did a lot of heavy lifting at

work. And after work, too; a man like that must beat off prospects

with a stick.

Soon the waiter cleared away their dessert plates and left them

staring at each other across the table. Brandon’s eyes looked positively

post-coital—a little sleepy, a little tipsy, a lot sated. God, to put that

look on his face every day . . . and not
just from food and wine.

Every day? Getting a little ahead of yourself there, aren’t you,

Jonathan?

No point denying they both wanted it tonight, though. So why

were they still sitting here? He cleared his throat, hitched a thumb

over his shoulder toward a row of windows. “My driver’s in the

parking lot.”

Brandon stood with a grin and took off toward the exit, leaving

Jonathan, with his much shorter stride, to jog behind him.

He’d have to pay for that later, Jonathan thought with a grin.

Brandon stopped short at the curb, gazing around the parking

lot. “Uh, which limo is yours?”

Jonathan smiled and signaled to his driver, who started up a black

Mercedes and drove it over. Jonathan had never much been one for

cars, but this one, elegant and guilt-free with its emissionless hydrogen

fuel cell, got him every time. He waved off the valet and opened the

back door himself, then ushered Brandon in with a flourish. “Age

before beauty.”

Brandon snickered and slapped him on the butt before sliding in.

Jonathan climbed in after, knocked on the divider, and off they went.

His gaze followed Brandon’s to the bottle of Veuve Cliquot in the

silver ice bucket in front of them. “Care for a glass?” Jonathan asked.

“Think we’ve had enough, don’t you? I mean, I want to make sure

your dick still works by the time we get to your place.”

Jonathan laughed and slid closer. “Fair enough. But why wait?”

He grabbed Brandon by his tie and dragged him in for a kiss.

The tie clip popped right off and landed God knew where.

“Hey—” Brandon said, but Jonathan cut him off with another kiss.

“Forget it. I’ll buy you a new one.”

Brandon pulled back, lips twisting into a scowl. “Or we could

just, you know,
look
for it.”

Jonathan shrugged, smiled, undid a shirt button peeking out over

Brandon’s vest and slid his hand inside, all smooth fabric and smooth

skin and
God,
he had to have this man. “Or we could just, you know,

do this instead.” Questing fingers found a nipple, pinched gently.

Brandon’s head tipped back on a moan, irritation forgotten.

Jonathan’s free hand traveled up Brandon’s throat, slid round to

the back of his head. He cupped Brandon’s skull in his palm for a few

precious moments before seizing a handful of hair. Brandon gasped,

but didn’t try to pull away. In fact, he leaned into it, head lol ing back

into Jonathan’s grasp.

Impossible to resist that sleek, smooth expanse of throat, pulse

throbbing visibly, clean line of ginger scruff beneath the chin.

Jonathan locked his lips on it and sucked hard, Brandon’s breath

catching as his teeth nipped hot flesh. He tightened his fingers,

yanked Brandon’s head back and held him there, trailing lips and

teeth along the underside of Brandon’s jaw. When he’d taken his

fill—
for the moment, anyway
—he pushed Brandon’s head back down

until their lips met, then guided Brandon’s mouth to his own throat.

“If you shove my face into your crotch again,” Brandon rumbled,

teeth flashing
,
“I’m gonna fucking
bite
you.”

Jonathan chuckled, fingers tightening past the point of pain in

Brandon’s hair—Brandon gasped against his throat, teeth scraping

again—and said, “I didn’t hear you complaining last night, Mr. So

Turned On I Came In My Pants.”

“Oh, you
fucker . . .
”

Brandon’s hands reached up to tangle in Jonathan’s hair. “Ah ah

ah,” Jonathan said, very deliberately taking one of Brandon’s wrists,

then the other, and laying them across Brandon’s lap.

“What, I don’t get to touch you back?”

“You have to
earn
it first.”

Brandon snorted, shook his head—or tried to, anyway; Jonathan’s

fist in his hair held him fast. “You think awfully highly of yourself,