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“You drive me mad. Just tell me why you’re here and Dominic isn’t.”
“He had to handle a family matter. So he called me to initiate you into the glamorous lifestyle of the escort business.”
“Lucky you.”
“I don’t believe in luck,” Graham answers, his tone serious.
I eye him suspiciously. “What do you believe in, then?”
“Taking chances where the benefits outweigh the risks, even if you fail.”
“Life isn’t always that logical.”
“My life is.”
My jaw clenches as I have nothing else to say. Graham has to rate as the most frustrating man I’ve ever met. I divert my attention through the tinted windows of the Mercedes-Benz, trying to distract myself with anything other than Graham Hoffman. The car is sexy, despite my earlier jab at his taste. I just will never give him that satisfaction of approval. I’m having too much fun playing the dangerous game of keeping him off-kilter, making him wonder.
We stop in front of a tall skyscraper in downtown. I don’t even remember going over the river to get to this section of the city.
“Stay put,” he orders.
I freeze as Graham exits the backseat in a fluid motion. Collins hands him an oversized umbrella, and the two men talk in private as the rain pelts down around them. By the time their conversation ends, the rain is just a trickle.
Graham closes the umbrella and walks to my side of the car. He opens the door and leans into the doorframe, gazing at me for a moment before he reaches out a hand, waiting for mine. I stare at him blankly, weighing my options. My feet slide in and out of my shoes, fidgeting on the floor of the car. I can refuse to get out, or I can accept his hand and then bolt at the first sign of freedom.
I watch as a couple of raindrops fall from the sky and land on his forehead. I want to wipe them away. Nothing about tonight is how I envisioned. I definitely never expected Graham to be standing above me, waiting for me to make my next move.
“I’ll explain once we are inside. Quit being so difficult,” he says with exasperation, continuing to reach for me. “I’m sure you are toting a concealed weapon inside your purse.” His head jerks to the side, motioning toward my silver handbag. “Feel free to use it on me if you think I’m being anything but a gentleman. Tonight is not the night to play.”
I look up at Graham in confusion. “I don’t own a gun.”
“Good. But I was referring to the pepper spray,” he says matter-of-factly.
My lips round into a silent O-shape. I do have it packed in my bag. Beside the condoms, no doubt. Smiling, I nod and take his right hand, which grasps me tightly, massaging circles into my palms. His left one flutters past my face and down into the seat near my behind. My eyes dart open wider, confused on what his digits are doing. I hear the release sound of the belt as it retracts. Oh, that. I feel like an idiot, and not for the first time today.
After quick maneuvering of the strap and hand holding, I am pulled from the car and urged to the front door of the Parkhouse Plaza building. The structure is iconic and has been featured in several action movies. I have never had a reason to enter it before now. The damp autumn air bites at my flesh that peeks out of the shawl. I second-guess my choice of open-toed shoes for evening wear, although my nails look cute between the straps of the design. Graham wraps his arm around my upper arms, holding me close to the heat of his body. I shiver but plant my feet firmly to the ground as I study the tower in front of me.
The alluring structure harbors one of the most magazine-notable restaurants in the area—El Pastel—with top-of-the-line chefs from all over the world. The rest of the elite building shares space with luxurious offices and is topped off with ten floors of condominiums—most likely owned by the richest people in Portland. I stare in awe of the illuminated shrubs and bronze railing leading up to the full-glass doors that are guarded by a formally dressed doorman.
“Come.”
The single word pulls me from my private show of observing the magnificence of such a display of architectural brilliance. I feel my blush warm my pale skin at my awestruck fascination.
“Mr. Hoffman. It is a pleasure to see you this evening.”
The two men exchange a look that does not register to me as friendly or hostile. Graham stiffens beside me and then relaxes in an instant, as he ushers me through the open doors. The doorman’s name rolls off his tongue without the reverence that seems to accompany my spoken name. Is he irritated about something? I start to theorize that Graham Hoffman has more high-maintenance tendencies than your average guy. I might need to consult Blake’s expertise to get a read on this moody man. He does seem to know and understand his gender well.
The lobby is made of ivory and gray marble. In the center of the floor sits a round pool that has floating plants and underwater lights. A clear cylindrical column rests in the middle of the pool with water cascading down around the column. Every few minutes, color filters change in the column to light up the water that flows down in different hues. It is majestic and unlike anything I’ve ever seen.
To the right of the fountain, an area is designated for social gathering, with couches, chairs, and luxurious glass coffee tables with huge earthy stone masses forming the foundations. A group of people dressed in long gowns and tuxedos talk animatedly to each other. I stare down at my shorter blue dress that had an affordable designer label even though it came from a clearance rack at TJ Maxx. I am sure upon inspection any woman of wealth would be able to label me as a counterfeit within seconds.
“You look stunning.” My chin is tilted up by two fingers. The sizzling crackle fills the air between us, and I can no longer divert my attention to anything else but his eyes. They captivate me and turn me into a melted puddle of goo. The words soothe my unease in an instant, igniting the slow burn between my thighs even more. Although exhaustingly frustrating, the sexual tension shared between the two of us is off the charts. I chalk it up to being deprived of attention for so long. Naturally, I would gravitate to confidence, mystery, and striking looks. It’s a no-brainer.
“There’s a theater that hosts concerts and shows each month,” he says while making a gesture to the group of people who at first sight look overdressed. “Or perhaps there is a wedding tonight.” I find that option only viable on a weekend. Nonetheless, I am thankful that I tried for more than just business casual—Dominic’s suggestion—for attire this evening.
“Hungry?”
The simple question stirs the marinating desire deep in my belly. I look up through my lashes at the daunting tower of man. The Parkhouse Plaza has nothing on him. I teeter on one foot, tapping the other behind me as I try to collect my thoughts. I’m not hungry—at least not for a full-blown meal. The queasy unease of my stomach tells me that a heavy meal is not in my best interest.
