Finally, he sucks in a long breath. "Well, I trust you, Ella. I always have," he says as he starts walking away.

I scurry up to him and lace my hand in his. "Thank you."

"The guy's kind of weird," he says as we reach his sleek black truck.

"I know."

I rest my hand on the car handle, waiting for the beep of the key fob, but it doesn't come.

Gabe wraps his arms around my waist, and I turn to face him. "Not so fast," he says and he leans in to kiss me.

My lips open against his, and our tongues tangle. Despite the coolness of the night, all I can feel is Gabe's heat-his warm arms around me, his scorching kiss. The kiss feels amazing, but as great as it is, I feel inhibited, standing there in a public lot. I try to tear myself away, but his kiss is wild.

"Gabe," I breathe, pulling away from him. "Let's wait till we get home."

"I don't want to wait," he breathes into my neck, warming my cool skin. "I want you now."

He's arousing me. I admit it to myself, but there's no way we're having s.e.x against his truck in a public parking lot.

He reaches in his pocket, and I hear the beep I had been waiting for. But oddly, I don't move.

He trails the tip of his finger along the side of my face, his intense gaze not leaving me. "Get in the back."

"I...I don't think-"

He slides his hand beneath the hem of my little black dress, slowly up high, between my thighs. "Get in the back," he breathes into my ear. "I want to f.u.c.k."

I'm speechless...and really turned on.

I admit it-I like dirty talk. And Gabe knows this all too well.

I open the back door and hop in the truck, do as I'm told, and slide in the back.

He joins me and presses his weight between my legs, a hint of cologne filling my nostrils. His tongue finds mine. His kiss his wild-it wanders-traveling from my mouth, to my chin, my cheeks, all over.

He and I haven't done this kind of thing in a while-s.e.x in public. I suppose we're not completely in the open, but it's certainly public enough for me. I feel so wanted.

The rough sensation of his unshaven jaw sends chills through me. The warmth of him heats me, and I can barely feel the coolness of the night. He's all over me-his hands sliding up my thighs under my dress, his mouth on my neck. I reach for his belt.

It's fun to act like a wild teenager, without a care in the world, when you're really a respectable, suburban working mom.

I want him inside me.

And I suddenly don't care about the public lot, or any person walking by for that matter. His lips travel down the edges of my face, and he lingers there, biting gently-his p.r.i.c.kly whiskers brushing against my skin. I love the sensation of him against me. My fingers are tangled in his unruly hair, and my legs are spread wide against him. He slides his hand up my thigh and reaches for my panties.

He pulls away and slides my panties off slowly...leisurely. I can barely see his sly smile in the darkness, but I know it's there-he's such a tease.

Finally, as he pulls my panties over my strappy heels, he whispers, "What do you want me to do to you?"

So many things...

"Nothing," I whisper with a coy smile. "I'll take it from here."

I move up against him and climb on top of him. He leans back against the seat with a delicious smile on his face.

I straddle him, filled with antic.i.p.ation. As I kiss him, I slip his belt out of its buckle in a swift move and free him from his pants. I take him in my hand. He's hot and hard for me.

He closes his eyes.

And I take him inside me.

Where he belongs.

Chapter Eight.

We just clicked, didn't we?

WELL, I'M STILL ALIVE.

I haven't died of curiosity, after all.

I slide one leg over the other, mildly tempted by the bar wedged in the middle console of the town car. I'm not much of a drinker at all, but my nerves are shot. I take in the interior of the car-sleek taupe leather interior, television screen and satellite radio, dark windows.

Weston has arranged for a car to pick me up after school. I've sent the girls with Carla, a mother at the school who lives near our house. Chloe was beyond excited because Carla's daughter Maya is one of her best friends at school.

I grab a water bottle from my briefcase, wondering if I'm properly dressed for the upcoming events. I am wearing my usual "school uniform"-a pencil skirt, a white blouse, and tortoise framed gla.s.ses. I spot my reflection in the window and regret not taking the time to put in my contact lenses-I look positively librarian-ish.

I've brought my laptop and my notebook, not knowing what to expect. Not knowing what to expect is kind of exciting, but extremely annoying as well.

I spend the hour-long ride trying to figure out what this meeting might be about, fantasizing about Weston and wondering what he might be wearing today. I could be making the most of my brain cells and coming up with a genius business idea-a solution for dripping juice bottles, a kid's jacket zipper which is actually easy to zip up, or something like Baby Einstein-that was genius-I wish I had thought of that. I could be coming up with a revolutionary business idea right at this moment and become rich and famous.

But no...I prefer thinking about Weston's arms in a fitted b.u.t.ton shirt.

We all make our choices.

Edward, Weston's driver, a red-cheeked, cheerful man in his fifties, drops me off in front of Hanson & Hersch Developments, Inc. Edward and I share an awkward moment when he sprints out to open my door, and I'm practically outside the car already when he reaches me.

"Let me take care of that for you, Miss."

I smile up at him, slipping out of the car. He addresses me as "Miss," not the dreaded "Ma'am." I like him already. I just really don't know how it's done-this way of life the one percent are so used to.

"I'm sorry. I've never had a driver before," I confess. "This is all new to me."

"It's easy...really," he replies with a cheeky smile. "Just let me wait on you, hand and foot."

I laugh. "I'm the one who's usually waiting on others. This is going to take some getting-used-to."

He laughs as he closes the car door behind me. "Call me Edward," he says, offering his hand.

I smile up at him and shake his hand. "You can call me Mirella...or Miss, if you prefer," I add with a playful smile. "I like the sound of that. It makes me feel young."

"Miss Mirella, it is," he says with a mischievous smile, his cheeks a deeper shade of crimson.

Hanson & Hersch Developments, Inc. is an impressive structure-about twenty stories high, slick and all gla.s.s. I shield my eyes with my hand, stretching my gaze to the top-the gla.s.s reflects the rays of the sun, and the effect is blinding.

I'm a little intimidated when I enter the lobby and make my way to the receptionist. I have the sensation of having traveled in time, and it seems I find myself in 2050-modern, curvaceous shapes surround me-futuristic chrome lighting fixtures hang from the ceiling, and everything is white. The walls are white. The curvy plastic chairs, which look extremely uncomfortable, are also white. The weird bean-shaped front desk is...yes...white.

I hate white...it is so sterile. I want color. I want warmth.

The receptionist, an ultra-skinny hipster type, greets me with a smile. I introduce myself and inform him Mr. Hanson is expecting me. The receptionist speaks into a mouthpiece as he taps away at a computer. "A Mrs. Keates is here to see you. Can I send her up?"

"Yes, Mr. Hanson," he says. "Yes, that's great."

"Mr. Hanson would like to come down and greet you," he informs me, and directs me to take a seat on one of the uncomfortable-looking chairs.

I sit down, surprised to find the chair to be extremely comfortable. I look around. This is not what I had envisioned. I've pictured Weston in his office before, dressed in his sleek suit, surrounded by colleagues, making important business decisions. I've always pictured the walls mahogany, the furniture stuffy, the lamps Tiffany, and the lighting dark. But yes, this fits Weston better.

This is very "Weston."

I spot Weston right as he rounds the corner. He's all smiles and gorgeous as usual. I jump to my feet, giddy as a school girl.

Settle down.

Right...not likely.

"h.e.l.lo, Mirella," he says as he offers me his hand. I shake it, maybe a little too enthusiastically. I can't quite keep eye contact-my eyes drift to his sleek, black suit vest and fitted checkered b.u.t.ton shirt, open at the collar. No jacket. No tie today. I like this casual look.

His gaze sweeps over me. "How was the ride here?" So he's checking me out too.

"Wonderful," I answer as we enter the elevator-all mirrors.

What a job it must be to clean this thing.

He presses a b.u.t.ton and turns to look at me again. Our reflections stare back at us from every angle. Weston's presence is so much more imposing than mine-I look like a little church mouse, standing next to his tall frame.

He doesn't seem distracted by the mirrored walls-he hasn't taken his eyes off me since we've entered the elevator. "I like your gla.s.ses," he says, a slight curve to his lips.

I don't think he's purposely trying to be seductive...but he is. And I want to tell him to stop it. This instant.

The elevator chimes, and he motions me out. He leads the way to a receptionist desk.

"Please hold all my calls for the moment, Kathryn, if you could."

"Not a problem," Kathryn says, smiling at me. She seems like a jovial woman, and well put-together-hair in a bun, slightly graying at the temples, a cla.s.sy red suit perfectly hugging her slim figure.

Weston promptly introduces us. "This is Mirella Keates."

I stand a little straighter and extend my hand. "Nice to meet you."

"This is my a.s.sistant, Kathryn," Weston explains. I remember he's mentioned her before, although he probably doesn't remember the conversation at all. Unlike me, he most likely doesn't have every single word I've ever said, catalogued in his memory, retrievable at any time.

His office is similar to the lobby-very bright, contemporary, and highly organized. Books and publications, contemporary sculptures and models are wonderfully displayed on gla.s.s shelves. His desk is all gla.s.s. All gla.s.s! And the items resting on it are aligned in perfect symmetry. The pens in his gla.s.s pencil holder are all black and identical, tops pointing up-no ugly plastic white pens from Don's Supersaver Drycleaner.

He rubs the back of his neck as his gaze travels to the two retro, white tufted leather chairs by the large window. "Please take a seat."

I've seen those kinds of chairs in fancy decor magazines, and I've always wanted to sit on one. As I make my way there, I walk past his gla.s.s desk and slide my fingers along its edge, itching to grab something and mess with it. I reach for one of the black pens and flip it upside down.

He smiles at me. "I see you've come to make trouble."

G.o.d, he is beautiful.

I smile back at him as I head to the sitting area and plop my rear on one of the fancy chairs.

Comfy.

I take in the Chicago skyline as I gingerly set my briefcase on the floor and cross one leg over the other, trying to appear sophisticated.

"You look very charming today."

Well, "charming" wasn't quite what I was going for, but I'll take it. "You too," I say with a sly smile.

Okay, this is definitely not a business meeting. At least, it doesn't feel like one.

He paces back and forth across the room and finally stops at the well-stocked bar and coffee station. "Can I offer you anything to drink?"

"No, thank you."

I'm not thirsty. I'm not hungry. I'm simply dying of curiosity-I can't wait to find out what this mysterious meeting is all about.

Finally, he takes a seat-not on the sofa, but rather on the coffee table, right in front of me. He rubs his hands on his fitted charcoal pants, and his right knee bounces up and down-I can't help but notice. His leg stills when he catches my wide-eyed stare. Whatever this meeting is about...it has turned him into a bundle of nerves.

He's so close...I can see the gold speckles in his eyes.

Yes, this is so definitely not a business meeting.

I have a tiny momentary lapse of judgment and itch to kiss him. But still having my wits about me, I tilt my head away.

He closes his eyes for a second and clears his throat. "First, I feel I must warn you..." he starts as he rests his hand lightly on my knee. My heart unexpectedly hammers in my chest, and I stop breathing for a second. His touch feels wonderful. I don't think he's ever touched me before. He jolts his hand away, as quickly as he's put it there. "You'll probably be shocked," he starts, the pitch of his voice uncharacteristically high, "by what I'm about to say."

Shocked?