Read Online Slave to Love by Julie A. Richman - Free Book Online
Authors: Julie A. Richman
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long, muscular frame into the car with the ease of a mountain lion.
Me and my smart ass mouth. I am never going to make it to TFV1 without ‘shitting where I eat’, if this keeps up. I can’t let that happen. There’s so much on the line. Kemp’s promotion is imminent. I cannot throw it all away now. No matter how overwhelmingly attracted I am to this man.
The physical space in the cockpit of this tiny car is my enemy right now. We are so close together, that with every turn my knee brushes his hand on the stick shift and there’s nowhere for me to move away. I hate that part of me wants to throw caution to the wind and turn my back on everything I know to be true. I hate it. And what I really loathe is my fear that I’m going to lose this battle at the most critical juncture of my career.
We cross the Colorado River and turn left on Riverside Drive. It’ll only be five more minutes in this car with him until we are pulling up in front of my house. Conflicted? That’s a freaking understatement. I want my personal space back, but I fear the emptiness when he retreats. The last twenty-four hours have been overwhelming and confusing. Is there a right or a wrong? I ask myself. And is he worth the risk or will he be the biggest colossal mistake of my life?
I don’t know that I can risk that.
Pulling into my driveway behind my car, Hale cuts the roaring engine. Immediately, he opens his door and I’m relieved as he vacates my space. He’s around the tiny car in a nanosecond, opening my side and offering me a hand to help me out. Biting my tongue, I hold back making a smart ass comment.
Instead of letting my hand go, he threads his fingers through mine as he sees me to my door, as promised. We are so fucked. Or maybe it’s just me that’s so fucked as my hand remains nestled and lost in his.
Letting go, he raises his finger to the top of my cleavage, touching it. “No mermaid. I like the mermaid. Why aren’t you wearing my chain?”
“Because I fear I’ll get tangled up in your chains.” And with that simple admission, Hale Lundström finally got the truth he was hoping the third Manhattan would bring.
The scent of eucalyptus and the fragrance of brightly colored perennials, mingled with hibiscus and bougainvillea crowd my senses, pushing forth memories of past stays here at the Beverly Hills Hotel. I didn’t even realize I had these memory imprints, but the perfumed onslaught has deposited them at the forefront of my brain. I wonder if the memory imprint will change after this trip. Will smelling this medley of scents now forever be associated with Sierra Stone?
The schedule doesn’t begin until tomorrow morning with breakfast in their President’s bungalow. It appears that I am the only out-of-town client and therefore, the only one spending the night at the iconic Pink Palace . Kemp had extended the invitation to meet them in the Polo Lounge when I arrived, and I head there directly, after checking into my bungalow.
Strolling in, I scan the vast room in search of Kemp and Sierra and amongst a sea of California blondes, I spy her loose waves immediately and head in their direction. Kemp sees me approaching and stands to greet me. Sierra and the other man at the table look up. I catch her eye, hoping she can read my non-verbal body language telling her how happy I am to see her again.
“Bob Mannon,” a fifty-something grey haired man of medium build stands, extending a hand.
I gently lay a hand on Sierra’s shoulder to let her know that she doesn’t need to get up to greet me and don’t miss the opportunity to deliver a slight, yet imperceptible squeeze. It’s been over a week since our last TFV1 meeting and I would kill to whisk her out of this lounge and ply her with Manhattans.
“We just ordered drinks,” Bob informs me. “Let’s get the waiter over here for you.”
Facing Bob, I take a seat between Sierra and Kemp. When the waiter arrives and places a Manhattan in front of Sierra, I
Me and my smart ass mouth. I am never going to make it to TFV1 without ‘shitting where I eat’, if this keeps up. I can’t let that happen. There’s so much on the line. Kemp’s promotion is imminent. I cannot throw it all away now. No matter how overwhelmingly attracted I am to this man.
The physical space in the cockpit of this tiny car is my enemy right now. We are so close together, that with every turn my knee brushes his hand on the stick shift and there’s nowhere for me to move away. I hate that part of me wants to throw caution to the wind and turn my back on everything I know to be true. I hate it. And what I really loathe is my fear that I’m going to lose this battle at the most critical juncture of my career.
We cross the Colorado River and turn left on Riverside Drive. It’ll only be five more minutes in this car with him until we are pulling up in front of my house. Conflicted? That’s a freaking understatement. I want my personal space back, but I fear the emptiness when he retreats. The last twenty-four hours have been overwhelming and confusing. Is there a right or a wrong? I ask myself. And is he worth the risk or will he be the biggest colossal mistake of my life?
I don’t know that I can risk that.
Pulling into my driveway behind my car, Hale cuts the roaring engine. Immediately, he opens his door and I’m relieved as he vacates my space. He’s around the tiny car in a nanosecond, opening my side and offering me a hand to help me out. Biting my tongue, I hold back making a smart ass comment.
Instead of letting my hand go, he threads his fingers through mine as he sees me to my door, as promised. We are so fucked. Or maybe it’s just me that’s so fucked as my hand remains nestled and lost in his.
Letting go, he raises his finger to the top of my cleavage, touching it. “No mermaid. I like the mermaid. Why aren’t you wearing my chain?”
“Because I fear I’ll get tangled up in your chains.” And with that simple admission, Hale Lundström finally got the truth he was hoping the third Manhattan would bring.
The scent of eucalyptus and the fragrance of brightly colored perennials, mingled with hibiscus and bougainvillea crowd my senses, pushing forth memories of past stays here at the Beverly Hills Hotel. I didn’t even realize I had these memory imprints, but the perfumed onslaught has deposited them at the forefront of my brain. I wonder if the memory imprint will change after this trip. Will smelling this medley of scents now forever be associated with Sierra Stone?
The schedule doesn’t begin until tomorrow morning with breakfast in their President’s bungalow. It appears that I am the only out-of-town client and therefore, the only one spending the night at the iconic Pink Palace . Kemp had extended the invitation to meet them in the Polo Lounge when I arrived, and I head there directly, after checking into my bungalow.
Strolling in, I scan the vast room in search of Kemp and Sierra and amongst a sea of California blondes, I spy her loose waves immediately and head in their direction. Kemp sees me approaching and stands to greet me. Sierra and the other man at the table look up. I catch her eye, hoping she can read my non-verbal body language telling her how happy I am to see her again.
“Bob Mannon,” a fifty-something grey haired man of medium build stands, extending a hand.
I gently lay a hand on Sierra’s shoulder to let her know that she doesn’t need to get up to greet me and don’t miss the opportunity to deliver a slight, yet imperceptible squeeze. It’s been over a week since our last TFV1 meeting and I would kill to whisk her out of this lounge and ply her with Manhattans.
“We just ordered drinks,” Bob informs me. “Let’s get the waiter over here for you.”
Facing Bob, I take a seat between Sierra and Kemp. When the waiter arrives and places a Manhattan in front of Sierra, I
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