The Boss's Son Box Set Page 8

  They emerged not in the parking structure but at street level, stepping out onto sand. The city lights and the moon warred for reflection in the dark water beyond. She took a long breath of the salt air and stood transfixed, almost dizzily as she watched the inexorable pull and slide of the water under the weight of the moon.

  The sounds of traffic and voices seemed far away, as if they were far out in the ocean instead of standing at the edge of it. Jack took off his shoes and tried to lead her forward to walk along the sand, but she looked at him and then down at her stilettos. The flash of his grin in the darkness, then he was on his knees before her, unbuckling the strap of her shoe and slipping it off her foot so she could stand barefoot on the warm sand. He ministered to the other foot as well and stood, handing her the shoes.

  “Those are nice, but it’s time to take them off,” he said. She wiggled her toes gratefully, feeling the texture of the sand.

  Jack led her down the beach a little ways to the pavement of the busier harbor area. There were only two ships in at that time, and Jack stepped up onto a vacant dock, bending to give her his hand. She climbed up after him, jerking the hem of her tunic down as she stood. They walked out to the end of the dock, and he spread his coat for her to sit on. They dangled their legs, feet not reaching the water.

  “When I first moved here, I couldn’t sleep. I was on some new prescription to help me focus, and all it did was give me the insomnia from hell. So I’d walk for miles at night. I was restless. It made me crazy to stay cooped up inside. So I got to where I came down here and watched the water.”

  “Did it calm you down so you could sleep?”

  “Not really. I didn’t sleep for a long time. But it was better down by the water. Peaceful.”

  “Like meditation?”

  “More like it got me out of my own head. I still come here sometimes if I’m overwhelmed, or just to watch the boats.”

  “What is it with men and boats? I get seasick.”

  “Men and boats? That’s a question for the Vikings, Britt. Men want to dominate the sea and prove they’re men.”

  “That makes zero sense to me.”

  “Eh, me neither but it sounded like I really knew. Boats are okay. I mainly like to watch them go in and out, imagine where they’re headed, that kind of thing.”

  “That I can understand. Tell me about this one, closest to us, then.”

  “That one’s going to South America to get fruit. Loads of bananas and papayas. All the people on board will go ashore the first night to look around, and they’ll all end up in a salsa club, shitfaced and learning how to dance,” he said with a smile.

  Britt could imagine it when he told her the story, a lot of weathered, tired sailors, their forced merriment. Drinks and the energy of being in a crowd again after weeks of isolation on the ship, the curves of women in bright short dresses as they danced, the alcohol telling the sailors they could dance too. She smiled at the thought, of dim rooms and flashing red lights and the throb of Spanish guitar.

  “I like that. What about the other boat?”

  “That one? They’re going to load it with steel girders tomorrow. It’s going all the way to India, the long way around, to build a school. The girders are too big even for a cargo plane, so they’re sipping. The sailors will unload the beams at the harbor and never even go ashore. They don’t know how beautiful India is. They just think it’s full of child brides and waterborne illnesses because they’re so ignorant. They’re not going to have half as much fun as the South American boat’s crew.”

  “Have you been to India?”

  “Sure. It’s gorgeous.”

  “What’s it like there?”

  “It’s just—people. Wall to wall. There’s no being alone; there’s always voices and a crush in the streets or on the sidewalks, people, cares, animals. Everything is so alive and vibrant and never stops—horns honking, they even have loudspeakers in, like, the mosques and other places you’d think would be fairly quiet. And guys would just shove their phone in my face to take a picture.”

  “Are you famous?”

  “No, I was a tourist. I look and sound different so, boom, photo opp, I guess.”

  “So personal space isn’t a thing?”

  “No. Privacy isn’t either. It’s just different.”

  “Hmmm...so if I decide to travel there in my far off adventurous future, what should I do?”

  “Only drink the mineral water, get a tetanus shot before you go, always argue with your host.”

  “What?”

  “It’s rude not to. Like if you go out, and your host is going to pay, you have to argue with him and try to yank the checkout of his hand. It’s pretty funny, but it’s really impolite to just go with it and say thanks. Then if he pays, you have to shove money at him.”

  “That seems weird. Wait, should I have shoved money at you back at the Ocean Club?”

  “We aren’t in India. If we were, you’d have to wear pants for sure, baggy clothes. Don’t mention Pakistan.”

  “I’m pretty sure I’ve never mentioned Pakistan to anyone ever.”

  “Then you’d be fine. Ride from Manali up to Leh on a motorbike. It’s heaven.”

  “What’s Leh?”

  “It’s like the highest city in the world. It takes a while to get used to the altitude, but the views are amazing, and the samosas were killer.”

  “Hmm...killer samosas. That’s a great name for a band,” she teased. “I bet it’s beautiful there.”

  “It is. Do you like camping?”

  “No. Unless camping means there’s no hot tub at the hotel.”

  “A nature girl, I see. Maybe Leh isn’t your scene. Taj Mahal?”

  “I’ve seen pictures of course. It’s too beautiful to be real. It looks like a fantasy to me.”

  “It’ll take your breath away. It’s so unbelievably pale and perfect, just, right there on the river.”

  “I’d go to India to see that.”

  “I’d take you there. Would you go?”

  “What? Now?”

  “Spontaneity isn’t your thing, I take it.”

  “I have a job. I have bills. So, no, I don’t go to the Far East on a whim, Jack,” she said a little churlishly. “It’s not because I’m no fun, it’s because I’m responsible.”

  “You can be both.”

  “I can’t. You maybe can, but you’re working for fun and taking a dollar for your salary. It’s not like we have the same situation.”

  “I know your boss,” he winked.

  “I’m not taking advantage of your relationship with Mr. Fitzsimmons to garner special treatment,” she said primly.

  “You make it sound like my relationship with him is illicit. He’s my dad,” he snorted.

  “Yeah, well, we don’t all come from privilege,” she sniffed.

  “I asked you to go to India, not start an argument about the economic stratification of America, Britt.”

  “I can’t go with you, okay? I’m scared.”

  “Of what? Me?” he asked, turning to look at her.

  “Of taking a chance like that, of interrupting my life to chase after some guy and then getting hurt really badly. What if it changed everything?”

  “What if it did? What if the change was better?”

  “In my experience, change has always been for the worse.”

  “Not true. You walked into Tamarind to meet Kevin, and you walked out with me. That’s a change for the better.”

  “I’ll give you that one, but it’s the exception.”

  “My dad’s not a pervert.”

  “Good to know,” she said.

  “Your last boss was a groper, right? You’ve got a new boss who’s less offensive than the last one. I mean, the worst my dad is going to do is go on about deep sea fishing until you die of boredom.”

  You picked the only two examples of positive change in my whole life,” she said.

  “Somehow I doubt that. I think you’re scared. No basis for it
, just afraid things won’t work out, and you’ll feel stupid for trying.”

  “That’ is totally a basis for fear.”

  “I’m not trying to make you do anything, Britt. You don’t have to fight so hard with me.”

  “I’m not sure how...not to fight.”

  “You knew the other night.”

  “I was pounding margaritas pretty hard that night. It was artificial courage.”

  “I think it was all you. Didn’t you ever hear that drunks and kids always tell the truth?”

  “Not really, no. It’s a cute theory though.”

  “You want to try.”

  “Do you have a crystal ball?”

  “No, I have a barefoot girl in a short dress. Everything about what you’ve done—agreeing to go out with me, dressing like sex on legs, eating bread and making me laugh and letting me take off your shoes...everything tells me that you want to try, no matter what you say.”

  “That’s a really skewed definition of consent.”

  “No, it’s about actions speaking loudest.”

  Britt tried to roll her eyes at that, wanted to discredit him, but she looked down at their legs, saw how she had crossed her long legs toward him, how she leaned in closer to hear his confidential murmur, how her hand was even now on his thigh. Her body was trying to get closer to his, practically ready to climb in his lap no matter how much lip service she paid in protest.

  “Jack.”

  “What?” he said, waiting for her to argue.

  She kissed him. Her hand on his face, a day’s worth of stubble rasping against her sensitive palm as she kissed his upper lip, nipping at it softly and then catching her breath when his hands on her back pressed her closer. Britt wrapped her arms around his neck and opened her lips for him, taking the kiss eagerly, smiling at the thrum of life in her skin at his touch, the way he made her feel everything more vividly, made her senses sharpen into focus so she could take all of him in. Jack drew back and smiled, stroking her cheek.

  “See, you make it hard to believe what you say.”

  “What if I say I missed you?”

  “Did you?”

  “Yeah,” she said with a half-smile. “I did. I missed kissing you. I missed being, just, carefree.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Like six thousand percent.”

  “For an accountant that’s a lot.”

  “It really is.”

  “If I promise not to make a pass at you, will you come back to my apartment?”

  “Why in the name of all that is holy would I agree to go to your apartment if you weren’t going to make a pass at me? Unless you have ice cream. I’d totally go for ice cream.”

  “No ice cream. Just a guitar. I want to play for you.”

  “Oh, hell, Jack. Don’t tease me,” she laughed. He helped her to her feet, and she put her shoes back on. They walked back to the parking garage, and he drove uptown to the sleek high-rise where he occupied the penthouse.

  “FZ Towers? Does your family own everything?”

  “Not everything. We do not own any ice cream shops or casinos.”

  “A temporary oversight, I’m sure. You’ll have to fix that. Brainstorm a private casino or something.”

  “I’ll put that on my list,” he said.

  Chapter 17

  Everything in the lobby of the security building was gray or stainless steel; even the upholstery looked modern and stark. The glass elevator seemed to hurl them upward into the darkness. A sense of vertigo took her as they hurtled through the night, stars seeming to press in on the glass walls as they moved with a swift whoosh. Britt steadied herself on Jack’s arm, wobbling a little on her heels.

  His apartment was magazine perfect, a low curving couch like an apostrophe facing the vast floor to ceiling windows with their sparkling city view with the water beyond only a dark ribbon on the horizon. A broad marble topped coffee table was stacked with glossy books and an orchid in its urn. Everything about announced the services of a professional decorator. A huge canvas over the piano was a bold abstract piece with emphatic streaks of jungle green, gold, and pale peach. The size of the room, its unapologetic vastness was the most reflective of Jack. Not the orchid or the art, but the open space, the variety it housed.

  “Do you like it?” he asked.

  “It’s great. Very—fancy.”

  “Is fancy a problem?”

  “No, I’m just afraid to sit down because if I left a fingerprint, I know I couldn’t afford to replace a single throw pillow in this place.”

  “I’ll just have the girl who does payroll garnish your check until my pillow’s paid off. Don’t worry,” he said.

  “Can I wear shoes in here? Should I take them off?”

  “You’re welcome to take off anything you like,” he said, dropping his jacket on a chair, taking off his tie.

  Jack rolled up his sleeves, and she stopped unfastening her shoes to watch.

  “What?”

  “The tattoo on your wrist. I didn’t get a good look at it. I’d like to know what it is.”

  “I guess I get the arrow but what do the letters mean?”

  “That I was drunk off my ass in Singapore.”

  “You had this done in Singapore?”

  “I’m not defending it as one of my better choices.”

  “What does it say?”

  “You hold a buffalo by his ropes, and you hold a person by his promises.”

  “You have a buffalo tattoo? That is hot,” she teased, tracing the arrows lightly with her fingertips.

  “Only think of the wisdom there...about buffalo,” he teased.

  “Don’t get drunk in Singapore?”

  “Or you’ll end up with a Malay proverb tattooed on your arm,” he finished.

  “Maybe India with you was a crap idea after all. I could’ve wound up with Hindi tattoos.”

  “There’s always that possibility. Now sit down and get comfortable,” he instructed.

  Britt curled her legs up under her, seated in the curve of the long white couch. Jack disappeared into the other room and came back with an acoustic guitar. He sat down on the coffee table, one foot tucked under him, balancing the instrument. Carefully, he set his fingers on the neck, placing them. An experimental strum or two, and he began.

  If she had thought the glass elevator gave her vertigo, this was worse and better at the same time. A cavernous room with the yellow glow of one lamp whose light dissipated long before it reached the walls, tall windows at a dizzying height, and the consuming sight of Jack Fitzsimmons with a guitar in his hands. The way his hands moved over the curving body of the guitar, the way he stroked the strings reminded her of the way he had touched her, held her.

  Shivering at the memory, she heard the rasp of his honeyed voice blend with the strings. Waiting for the lyrics to register, she couldn’t quite hold onto which song it was. She knew it was vaguely familiar, but she didn’t know the words, too lost in his voice and his music to wonder much about its origin. Something about a thief, a barefoot servant that made her think of troubadours and medieval castles and dancing, a costume ball perhaps. The way he sang, just like the way he had spoken to her of India and South America, made her see things and believe things.

  When he was finished with that song and began the intro to another, he looked up at her, searching, looking for a reaction, for approval. Britt hesitated only a moment, uncoiling her legs from beneath her and going to kneel beside him. She pulled his head down to kiss him. He laid his guitar aside and pulled her up into his lap, her legs splayed open, the tunic rucked up above her hips. Jack’s hands slid up her thighs and cupped her backside, drawing her hard against him. Their kisses were urgent, playful. She had his shirt off, and there was something about kissing him like that, his skin under her hands, that made her feel reckless. Jack’s hands worked up her dress to stroke her back. Britt tossed her head back to give him access to her neck, arching against him as his mouth found her throat. Everything, even the bru
sh of her own earrings against her skin turned her on when she was with him. Every place he touched her seemed to catch fire, to cry out for more.

  Britt caught his hand as he swept her fallen hair back. Holding his wrist, she kissed it, her tongue tracing the line of the arrow inked there. She spent a terribly long time kissing his wrist, the back of his hand, his palm. She took his thumb in her mouth and sucked at it. He rubbed her bottom lip, kissed her chin and her jawline. Soon Jack had her legs around his hips. He lifted her up and laid her on the couch, a smile on his lips. He set his forehead against hers, and she could feel his breath coming fast against her skin, could just make out the gleam of sweat on his neck and shoulders. She loved seeing him above her, welcomed the weight of him on top of her. Britt stretched her arms above her head languorously and smiled at him. He nipped at her lips, teasing her until she caught his head in her hands and held his face to hers for a deeper kiss. She loved the texture of his hair in her hands, the brush of his trousers along her bare legs. They kissed and touched, teasing each other round and round until he stripped away her dress and left her bare but for a scrap of lacy panties.

  “May I?” He raised an eyebrow as his fingers hooked into her pink lace knickers.

  “Yes,” she said emphatically.

  With one swift movement, he ripped them off of her. She made a sound, a light squeak as if she had always wanted him to tear her clothes off, as if the act had been erotic as well as urgent. Never in her admittedly limited experience had a lover been so carried away with desire that he’d ripped her clothing. It seemed shocking to her that she could rouse such lust in a man like Jack. She waited for him to take off his pants, to position himself between her legs and take her. She lay there patiently, her pulse finally slowing down. He was just kneeling there looking at her. She was growing self-conscious. Had she left streaks of self-tanner? Was it obvious that she didn’t go to the gym more than once a week or that she ate too many carbs? Uncomfortably she started to twist beneath his gaze, finally sitting up.

  “At last.”

  “What?”

  “I was waiting for you to come to me. I thought you never would. Britt, I don’t want you to submit to me, I want you to need this, too.”