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“And what do you do on these imaginary dates?” his colleague pressed, undeterred—and, apparently, unconvinced.
“I happen to like sushi.”
“You happen to like solitude. A bit too much. That’s why I’m helping you out this time.”
Chip gestured for him to veer to the left, into the crowded coffee house.
Tague jerked open the glass-and-metal door. The truth was, he’d only gone out for cocktails a handful of times over the past couple of years. No need to add fuel to Chip’s fire, though, so he didn’t mention his near non-existent dating activities. Tague was also still smarting over his split from Renee—a topic he avoided entirely with his friend.
Again evading thoughts of her, he asked, “What, exactly, is the purpose of this impromptu meet-and-greet?”
Granted, he was giving his best friend the benefit of the doubt, but shit. Tague knew there was no point in wasting fifteen minutes that could be better spent further prepping for a debrief he was scheduled to present this morning.
“The firm party Friday night,” Chip said. Reminded him, really. “Unless you pick up a date in five days, you’ll be the only junior partner there sans arm candy.”
Tague shot him a dour look. “That is not a term I’ve ever heard you use. You don’t subscribe to the arm candy theory as a means to spring-boarding one’s career any more than I do. My success in Tokyo speaks for itself.”
“There’s an image that’s necessary for the promotion to equity-partner you’re vying for—an image you have yet to cultivate, being the rebel of the Mason family.”
“To hell with the image,” Tague agitatedly muttered. “Look, this is ridiculous. Totally unwarranted. I don’t care if I’m the only one at the party without a date. I don’t need a date. I’ve put my name on the map by laying the groundwork to establish operations in Japan. I’ll do it time and time again, with or without a gorgeous wo—”
“Hi.”
Said gorgeous woman suddenly appeared before him, flashing a vibrant smile that revealed perfectly straight, pearly white teeth and a seductive dimple in her left cheek that rendered Tague speechless.
Something that never happened.
2
“You’re Tague Mason,” she said with a hint of awe in her sultry voice. “I’ve seen your name and photo in the Wall Street Journal. I have to say, for such a prestigious newspaper, they really ought to fire their photographer. I mean, honestly. They did not do you justice with that stilted studio mug shot. Maybe you should sue them.”
Her half-assed smirk intrigued Tague.
“You must be L.L. Branson,” he said.
“In the flesh.”
Tague eyed her from head to toe and back up, admiring the confident way she carried herself, and guessing her to be about five-eight without the four inches of heel she sported.
Two smoky-grey, wispy scarves encircled her neck once. The ends dangled along the front of a wraparound, slightly flared at the hips leather coat that was secured firmly at her narrow waist with a tied sash. She wore a tight, black miniskirt…barely peeking out from beneath the short hem of the jacket.
Fishnet stockings covered her legs—sleek and toned as best as he could tell—providing only a hint of titillation, because they disappeared all too soon behind thigh-high leather boots. Which were damn sexy, despite how much of those long legs they concealed.
His cock twitched.
“Wow, I’ve never been so efficiently undressed,” she quipped as Tague continued to take her in.
“Trust me, you’ve left plenty to the imagination.” Unfortunately for him.
L.L. wore all black, including the slightly drooping-in-the-back knitted beanie cap that contained what seemed to be an abundance of messy hair, if the wavy, cinnamon-colored strands loose about her face and shoulders were any indication. Her provocative, yet whimsical style both perplexed Tague…and ignited his interest.
She was the farthest thing from the typical Mason, Hoffman & Stein dinner-party type. Those women were neatly kempt, attired in designer fashions with salon hair and Elizabeth Arden makeup. Reasons one through four why Tague had no qualms about attending this function alone. He had no desire to date a replica of his mother.
Yet, given Chip’s manifesto on being an equity-partner carbon copy, that was pretty much what Tague had anticipated being set up with this morning.
Not a woman with aviator sunglasses and a light sheen of gloss on her mouth, which actually did make her deep-rose lips damn tempting.
And her scent... The alluring aroma—slightly musky, mostly dark and compelling—wafted under his nose so that he didn’t even recall they were in a coffee shop.
