Illicit Desire Page 4

  Raphael doesn’t respond, instead takes a neat bite of the salad. Its fresh greens, slivered almonds and fresh fruit, sliced steak so tender it falls apart at the touch of my fork, and bruschetta. It’s topped by crumbled feta with a spicy vinaigrette.

  Damn the man for distracting me with food. We eat in silence for a few minutes and then, “Why?”

  Raphael gives me a cryptic smile. “I told you, Cora. You’re ideal for this and I need someone to help me.”

  “I’m someone you feel pity for. You don’t need to help me.”

  His gaze bores into me, and I suppress the urge to shudder at the sheer intensity I see there. “I want to. And I don’t make decisions based on pity—I am not nearly that well-intentioned.”

  The server is back, with a large platter of grilled meats. Raphael leans back, and she slices some of the steak and chicken off for both of us, then darts away.

  “When we’re done, we’ll go upstairs and I’ll show you where you’d be working. Let you look over some of the proposals. Give me your opinion on them. This is a good opportunity—one for you to champion things you believe in. People who would never be able to succeed without our help, thrive.”

  “And when I back a company that flounders?” I ask, raising an eyebrow. “What happens then?”

  He shrugs. “We learn from our mistakes. Venture capitalism is a risk. I know that—and you need to know that I expect you to fail sometimes.”

  I nibble at the steak, thinking. There is another question, and a final concern. “How closely together would we be working?”

  A grin, flashing white teeth, there and gone as quickly as it came. “There will be days when we work closely, and others when we aren’t even in the same building. Ortiz Corp keeps me busy—and while I would love to spend all of my time on this, I can’t.” He sits back, and nods at my plate. “Are you finished?”

  I nod and he stands. “Come.”

  No one stops us as we leave, and I wonder how often he is here, and who he lunches with. Often enough that he’s got a tab, clearly.

  We step on the elevator, and a few others join us, casting quick looks at Raphael. He ignores them as we step to the back of the small car, and he touches me again, pulling me toward him with an arm around my waist. I shiver as he tucks me against his side, the warm length of his body pressed against me. He feels it—his grip on me tightens just a little, his hand splaying over my hip possessively. I want to move away as much as I want to press myself against him even more, and the urges confuse me. A whisper comes from the front of the elevator, and Raphael stiffens before his grip loosens. We stand like that even as the elevator empties, until we are the only people left, gliding smoothly upward.

  “You can let go,” I whisper.

  Raphael’s grip doesn’t change at all, but he does pull me closer, a fraction of an inch.

  I’m half disappointed when the elevator slows to a stop and the doors slide open.

  Ortiz Corp occupies the entire forty-eighth floor and the two above it. There is a thin young man with sharp eyes sitting at the desk in front of a glass wall. His shoulders ease and he smiles when he sees Raphael. “Jefe. Lou is in your office. There is also a message from the mayor’s office, when you have a moment.”

  Raphael nods. “Is Stella gone for the day?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Thanks, Raoul. Please hold my calls.”

  Surprise flickers over the other man’s face, but he nods and goes back to his computer with barely a glance at me.

  I’m not sure if that worries me or eases my fear—it’s surprising, but the sight of his boss with a woman isn’t so surprising that it solicits comment. What does that mean?

  And why the fuck do I care? I’m here for a job, not for a boyfriend. What—who—Raphael does in his spare time is none of my business.

  Raphael points out human resources, accounting, and the in-house legal team as we walk through the forty-eighth floor, then escorts me up a short staircase to the fiftieth. It’s spread out more, with cherry wood offices, and small open areas for assistants. “Each division in Ortiz has a director of operations,” Raphael says, leading me through the quiet halls. “We also have our board of directors here, though they don’t spend much time on the grounds. Any time you need a conference room, feel free to use them. We keep a girl on staff to help whoever is using them at any given time.”

  I look around. “Where will I be?” I ask.

  Raphael gives me a slow smile. “I thought you weren’t interested.”

  I fix him with a flat stare, and Raphael laughs, a rich noise that attracts the attention of the assistants we’re passing. He catches my elbow, and pulls me toward a second set of stairs, this one a wide oak expanse that sweeps up in an elegant arc.

  “This is the head of operations. My closest advisors and Miguel, my second in command, work here. It’s a bit tighter, since we only use half the floor.”

  Tight is not how I would describe it. The offices are huge, six spacious rooms across from each other, and a large seventh at the end of the wide hallway. He goes there, opening the door and waiting for me to enter. I step in cautiously, looking around. The view is spectacular, a wall of glass spreading Miami and the glittering Gulf out for as far as I can see. I drop my purse into a chair and approach the view slowly. Raphael waits behind me, not intruding, but watching as I stare out. “It’s gorgeous,” I murmur.

  “Thank you. You can’t see it from here, but the second tower will have a view of the city to the north.”

  “You’ve started construction?”

  He nods, “It’s going to be another year before we open for business, but we’re taking applications now for leases.”

  I can feel him moving around the large office, and then his hands are on my hips. I want to melt into his embrace. Instead I force myself to step away, skirt his desk and drop into the chair holding my purse. I perch on the edge and stare at him. “What proposals do you want me look at?”

  Raphael stands in the window for a moment, his jaw tight, framed by the sprawl of the ocean. He looks entirely too attractive like that, and I hastily look away.

  He slides three files across the desk, and I lean forward to take them. “I can back one of these. I want you to look at them, tell me why you would or wouldn’t chose a proposition and let me know your reasons.

  I nod, and gather them up. “Is there somewhere I can work?”

  His gaze slips over me again, warm and so heavy it’s almost a stroke of his hand. I feel it everywhere—on the curve of my legs and the hem of my skirt, the press of my breasts against my silk top, over the planes of my face and the curl of my hair. It’s just a look, but it’s more intimate than the majority of the men I’ve been with managed when I was naked in their arms.

  “Here is fine,” he says, curtly. And then his attention shifts away from me, to his computer. And I’m left with the hopes and dreams of three strangers to evaluate.

  Chapter 7

  Raphael

  SHE FIDGETS. A lot. At first, it’s because she’s nervous—I can pick it up in the way she darts glances toward me and tugs at her skirt every time she moves. But then she gets immersed in the files, and her brow comes down thoughtfully, and the fidget becomes less because of me, and more the natural outlet for her excess of energy. For an hour, she sits in front of me, reading the proposals and chewing on her pinky nail. Finally she tosses one of the files on my desk. I glance at it and then her. “Done?”

  She snorts, a distinctly unfeminine noise that teases a smile from me. Then she leans over the desk, grabbing a pen and a blank pad of paper. She situates herself on my couch, secures her hair behind her head, and gets to work.

  Cora loses track of time and her environment when she’s working. But she’s just as thorough and precise as I expected from what I learned in her background check. I can’t read what she’s writing, but I see a mass of lists and charts, with lines crossing and intersecting, and pages of notes. Finally, she rolls her neck an
d taps her pen on the paper pensively. I close the email I’m reading and refocus on her.

  “Have you met with the committees behind these proposals?”

  I shake my head. “Not yet.”

  She taps one of the projects with her pen. I recognize the logo of a small fashion boutique. “This is a sure thing. It’s in a good neighborhood, with a solid business plan, a designer and manufacturer already in place. It’s built to succeed.” She catches my eye, making sure I’m still with her. I nod and she takes a deep breath, then turns her attention to the second proposal. “This—it’s a risk.”

  “Why?”

  Her eyes dart to mine and she licks her lips.

  “It’s a luxury resort. That caters to kink lifestyles. Which makes promoting it difficult—they’ll rely strictly on word of mouth. They’ll need vendors, and a large staff. State certified staff. Legal disclaimers. It’s a lot of startup, and it’s a long gamble.”

  “But?” I prod, softly. She stares at the table, the projections and charts she’s drawn up. I’ve moved so I’m across from her, and I can tell everything is pointing her toward the boutique.

  “But you should do it. Because it’s a gamble, but it’s a good one. Miami doesn’t have anything like this, according to their research. We would need to verify that, but the people in this lifestyle would pay the asking fee for a chance to enjoy their lifestyle in luxury. This will allow it. And word of mouth will spread—plus we can do low key advertising in your clubs.”

  She’s lit up with excitement, her eyes bright, her words tripping over themselves in their haste to get out.

  But I can see the hesitation in her eyes, the brace for my rejection of her ideas. I can see it in her fingers, moving too rapidly as she taps her pen, and her gaze, which bounces around.

  I click over to an email and motion to her. “Come here.”

  She does, and as she leans over the arm of my chair, I can smell the perfume on her, and the soft scent of her shampoo—something a little too artificial and antiseptic.

  Cheap shampoo. My hands curl, irrationally angry. I want her to have the best of everything.

  “You already chose,” she says, staring at the screen. Her voice is soft with surprise. “Then—why?”

  “I wanted to know what you would do. I know where my instincts would take me, and I wanted to see if I was right about you. If you would be willing to gamble on the dangerous bet.”

  She stares at the email for a long time, and then glances at me. “When are you signing the paperwork?”

  “This Friday. We’ll meet with the Delancy brothers and talk details, timelines, and just how much capital they’ll need. They think a quarter million.”

  “Unless they already have the construction in place, that won’t be enough.” She says immediately. I feel a pang of loss as she leans back, straightening. “Do they?”

  I nod. “Yes, actually.” Her eyes go wide, and I laugh. “You really are as good at this as I expected.”

  Cora flushes. Glances at her watch. “I suppose you want me to go down to HR now?”

  I shake my head. “No. I’ll show you your office, and they’ll get the paperwork to you tomorrow. Do you have any requests for an assistant?”

  She looks startled, her eyes wide. “I don’t need an assistant.”

  “Yes, you do. You’ll be running point on all of our venture capital programs, as well as assisting me when I need it. If I’m out of the country. With construction going on the Spanish Lady, it’s going to be a lot, Cora. Take my word for it—you’ll want the help.”

  She licks her lips, and then blurts out, “What if this doesn’t work out? If I decide it’s not the right fit for me, and I want to leave?”

  I frown, and sit back. Cora scuttles to her side of the desk, and stares at me, her eyes wide and watching. “I don’t know why you would, but I suppose, we’d manage. Find someone else. This division of Ortiz Enterprise is just taking off, and while I have high hopes for it, and you, it won’t flounder without you.”

  Some of the tension eases in her shoulders, and I struggle to keep from standing and shaking her, demanding an explanation for that question and the way relief seems to coat her now that she’s had it answered.

  That won’t work with Cora. Treating her like I would one of the men in my cartel or one of the girls who work in the clubs won’t get her to do what I want, and I want her too much to fuck this up. So when I do stand, I give her space and room to bolt as I walk to my office door. “Let me show you to your office.”

  She’s quiet as we walk through the halls—the executive offices have mostly emptied this late in the afternoon. Her office is two doors down and across the hall from mine, across from Miguel, which is the safest place for her.

  The office is sparse—an uncluttered desk and large black leather chair, a wet bar and plush couch. She stares at the office for a long moment, and then gives a low whistle. “This is incredibly fancy for a girl you have a small debt to.”

  I shrug. “Your credentials impressed me.”

  She gives me a look over her shoulder, all sweet innocence. Then she sinks into her leather chair, and spins so that the view of the ocean and beach is spread out in front of her. She looks perfect here, in my office.

  “You know,” she says, her tone teasing, “I could give up my shitty apartment and live here. The Spanish Lady has everything a girl could ask for.”

  “I live here,” I say, softly. She twists back to look at me, lazy amusement in her eyes, and it hits me like a kick to the gut. One day, not terribly long from now, I’ll lock the door and make her scream in that chair. My fingers tighten, almost as if I can feel her thighs under them, and I shove my hands in my pockets, as I perch on the edge of her desk.

  “Why does Miguel think you have a boyfriend?”

  “The other day, my brother met me when the car dropped me off. We moved here together, when Paul got out of the Marines.”

  Some of the pieces of the puzzle that is Cora slide into place. “The background check didn’t mention a brother.”

  “He’s my stepbrother,” she says, standing. Something about this conversation makes her nervous, and she’s moving away from me, her eyes darting nervously.

  I catch her hand as she tries to slip past, my voice dropping to a low croon. “Where are you going, bonita?”

  “I should go home,” she says, breathless.

  I tug lightly on her hand and she whimpers. “What are you doing?” she whispers. She close enough now that I can feel her question against my skin, her heat against my body. I shift, spreading my legs so she stands between them. It would take very little to press against her, to push aside the last of the niceties that wrap around us. I don’t. Instead, I run my fingers lightly down her hair, letting a curl catch on my thumb as one hand skates down her back, and rests low on her waist.

  “If you have no one, why are you fighting this?”

  She opens her mouth, but I don’t hear her response before I’m kissing her.

  Cora tastes, impossibly, of honey and wine. She is frozen against me for a moment, in shock or fear, and then she melts, like butter, sagging into me, and I shift my weight to catch her as her lips part on the softest of sighs.

  She kisses like innocence and sunshine, sweet heat behind the soft touch of her tongue on mine, and the tentative nip of her teeth at my lip.

  I move, and she gasps against me as I shift us so that she is pinned to her window, held there by my body as I hold her head in place and ravage her mouth.

  I have thought of little besides kissing this woman, on every inch of her body, and hearing these soft noises of pleasure, since I watched her get mugged on my steps.

  My hand slips down, clutching her hip and pulling her tight against me. She whimpers, a devastatingly sexy noise, as I fit her to me, and I groan, leaving her lips to find the satin smooth skin of her neck. “Raphael,” she murmurs, her head falling back against the window.

  “I want you,” I hiss, biting lightly
at her neck. She shivers, and I pull her closer by the hips, nestling her sex against my raging erection. “I won’t lie or pretend that I don’t want you. I know that scares you.”

  I slip a hand between us, sliding it up to cradle her breast and she arches into my touch, tactic permission.

  Logic is in short supply right now. But I kiss her again, listening as she almost purrs and I stroke her. I could take her to my room, right now, seduce her.

  Fuck and forget. Except that’s not what I want. I gentle the kiss, soften my touch until she’s limp against the window, peering at me through half closed eyes.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow, Cora,” I murmur, leaning in to kiss her a final time. And then I leave her there.

  Chapter 8

  Cora

  I CASH THE CHECK, because there is no way I’m going back to Carlita Tower without looking presentable. Paul is gone before I get back, and it occurs to me, not for the first time, that I’ll be away from him more than I’m not.

  It’s to be expected, and I got used to being separated from him when he had three tours in Iraq. I write a quick note to him in the morning and pin it to the fridge before I dress in the new outfit. A black button-down dress, with a wide cream collar and belt, the skirt swishing pleasantly around my knees.

  It probably isn’t as nice as most of his staff will wear, and it’s not a designer label, but I won’t embarrass him. I shove a few bills in my purse and gather up my broken bag—I need to replace it sometime soon, but right now, spending any of the money from Raphael makes me nervous. It’s all I have if the shit hits the fan and I need to bolt.

  Thirty five thousand dollars is ten times what I had in my wallet the day I was mugged—something I know Raphael is all too aware of. It’s a staggering amount of money, more than enough to change my life. And because I’m desperate, I’m not sending it back to him.

  Because I want him almost as much as I want the job, I’m not telling him to go to hell.

  I shove that thought aside and hurry down the stairs, into the already blistering Miami heat.