The Collision on Hardwood Drive (3 page)

“Actually, that’s
exactly
what I had in mind,” he said, catching me off guard. I imagined him smiling, running his free hand through his hair. “In fact, I have something for you—something that just might speed your recovery.”

“I’m all ears.”

“Ah, patience, patience.” His voice sent another flurry of X-rated visions flashing through my head. My nipples hardened, pressing against the smooth cotton of my bra. His deep voice alone was enough to elicit an immediate physical response from me.

“My driver will pick
you up around seven, then.” I agreed before I could think twice.

I spent the rest of
the day unable to suppress my anticipation. As soon as I started to lose my resolve against seeing him again, I found myself picturing his evenly tanned face, broad shoulders, and piercing eyes. I weakened—despite my reservations because of my experiences, I was tempted. I was
extremely
tempted by this man. One thing was clear—I couldn’t wait to see him.

At six-thirty, his
Rolls-Royce pulled up to my apartment. I had spent the last hour obsessing over what to wear. I wanted to come off as nonchalant, as if I hadn’t put too much thought into my outfit, but I also wanted him to find me attractive.

And what if he’d act
ually want to… God, I feel like a schoolgirl all over.

I settled on a cling
y sweater dress, which subtly showed off my curves and highlighted my legs. My sister always advised me to flaunt what years of dancing gave me.

“If the goal is to s
educe, always look him straight in the eye, Steph. It drives men
wild
,” my sister said, her tone serious until we both dissolved into laughter. She was three years younger than I was, but far more accomplished romantically. She had that demure sex kitten look that led to her dating college sophomores while she was still in high school, then rich CEOs when she was in college. Men flocked to that girl like bears to a pot of honey.

Sitting cross-legged
on my bed in front of me, she would compose herself and lean in close. “Like this,” she would say, staring right at me—
into
me. “See? Intimidating, right? That’s what you want—to make him squirm. You’re the lion, and he’s the wounded gazelle.”

I would laugh again,
then. “A wounded gazelle, huh? Thanks for the lesson, Mufasa.” Then, I’d smack my forehead exaggeratedly, as if I’d just had an epiphany. “So
that’s
where all the gazelle meat in the freezer is coming from!”

She tried to keep he
r tone stern when she told me she didn’t mean it
literally
, but she couldn’t contain her mirth. Even though we didn’t share our looks, we certainly shared a sense of humor.

I was never exactly
shy, of course, but I wasn’t a vixen like my baby sister. I, however, had inherited my mother’s full lips and her deep mahogany hair that fell in silken waves over my shoulders. My sister and I hardly resembled each other, but we had the same natural pout our mother taught us.

My mom, who often ac
ted like our third sister, showed us how to stain our lips by blotting them against a Kleenex, creating a perfect heart. My dad worked long hours at his firm, sometimes through the evening and weekend, so we three girls became an inseparable team. At the age when most girls were complaining about their strict, bitchy mothers in high school bathrooms, our bond with our mother only grew stronger. Mom taught us to appreciate Bellinis, oysters, and stilettos. Unlike the other staid housewives of the Vermont suburbs, my mother was adventurous and exciting. She wanted to share her passions with my sister and me. She burned so brightly, lighting up any room she walked into. People fell in love with her left and right—my sister and I were no exceptions. We both adored her.

That evening, back i
n the present, I lined my lips carefully with a deep shade of red, blotting them gently and blowing a kiss to myself in the mirror on my way out for good luck. When we pulled up in front of the Huntley estate, the chauffeur opened the door for me. He led me to the house, where Beatrice greeted me warmly.

“Ms. Monroe,” she sa
id as she ushered me in. “It’s a pleasure to see you again.” I chuckled, wondering how many women she had seen come and go through this door. “Mr. Huntley is in the study. Right this way.”

We walked down the f
amiliar corridor and, again, I admired the elegant arches, the oak-framed oil paintings, and the plush, intricately patterned carpet underfoot. I pushed the door of the study open as soon as I was alone. Rob was inside, but he was on the phone, and he sounded irate.

“Well, that’s just n
ot
good
enough,” he said, his voice booming into the receiver. His eyes shone brightly, brimming with anger. “I don’t buy that.” He paused, letting the person on the other line speak for a moment before he interrupted. “If you think that’ll
ever
fucking happen, you have another think coming. If they want to play that game, they can take their chances—but I’ll squash them more quickly than they can say
equity
, you got that?” Rob raked his hand through his wavy tresses.

I found myself immer
sed in this passionate exchange and, much to my dismay, turned on by his fiery tone. As much as I was dying to hear where this was going, I felt as if I was trespassing. This call sounded private—maybe even confidential. Trying to do the right thing, I motioned to the door to suggest I could wait outside. He moved the phone away from his mouth and, still growling, said, “No, Stephanie—sit. I’m done with this.”

He directed me to th
e couch insistently, making me feel compelled to obey.

Then
, he turned, leaning one palm against the taupe wallpaper as he lowered his voice menacingly. “I’m going to say this one time, Dexter, and I want you to listen carefully. The board better be ready to go all the way, because if they start this, they had
damn
well better be ready to finish it.” With that, he slammed the phone down against his dark cherry-colored desk.

The whole room
buzzed with his fury, and I felt electrified by the energy. I wanted this powerful man to wrap my body in his, to feel his tension melt, to—but I couldn’t move. I was frozen to the spot.

Rob
made his way to the bar cart. “I didn’t mean for you to hear that,” he said, refilling his tumbler and taking a long swig of smoky liquor. A smile played at his perfect lips as his eyes explored my face and my body, slowing to admire my bare legs.

“Fuck, you’re hot.
I’m glad you’re here. I hope you’re ready for your gift.” This man said
exactly
what was on his mind—that much was clear enough.

The word
ready
lingered in his mouth. An image of us entwined on the couch, naked, flashed through my head. I willed myself to remain composed, suppressing a familiar flush. I would
not
go there with this man—I absolutely would
not
.

“I’m intrigued,” I s
aid, relenting to curiosity.

“Later.
Dinner first,” he says. He clearly enjoyed this game of stringing me along. “Hungry?”

I nodded.
I was starved, in fact. Something about him made me ravenous.

“Good,” he said, loo
king me over appreciatively before shooting me a suggestive smirk. “I hate women who never eat. I like a healthy appetite—both in and out of the bedroom.”

Beatrice stuck her h
ead in to let us know dinner was ready. We were led to the dining room and seated across from each other at a table set with ornate china (encrusted in gold, of course) and perfectly shined silverware. Above us was a crystal chandelier, shining in the light of the room and catching the glow of the flaming tall candles that lined the table. The room was quiet for a moment as we sat in silence, waiting for the meal to begin.

The way he’d talked
to me in his study made me feel desirable, something I hadn’t felt in quite a while now. I bit on my plump lower lip and raised my lashes toward him, staring
into
him as my sister used to tell me. He didn’t look away, instead returning my gaze and penetrating me with his eyes. We sat like that for what seemed an eternity, eyes locked.

Rob
didn’t seem a wounded gazelle.

My breath sped up
, and I couldn’t help thinking about wild jungle sex.
Take me right here, right now. Right on this table,
I thought.
Wouldn’t you rather eat me than dinner?

The dining room door
swung open, interrupting the tension mounting between us. Several large trays that smelled positively sinful floated in. A young, fresh-faced man appeared at my side to fill my wineglass with a chilled Sauvignon Blanc. The pooled perspiration of the liquid shaded the crystal beautifully. Dinner service had begun.

Rob
raised his glass and waited for me to follow suit, which I did as soon as picking up my drink. Tilting his wine toward me, he delivered a simple toast—“To you.”

A crisp, grassy tang
filled my mouth as I took a sip. I let the warmth of the alcohol wash over my body. I relaxed more and more by the second, my mouth watering in anticipation of the meal.

“Get ready, Steph,”
Rob said, almost like a warning. “This chef is in a league of his own.”

The young server pla
ced three golden-brown scallops on my plate. I bit into the white flesh of one and savored the hints of ocean blended with a rich and buttery wine sauce that exploded on my tongue. The scallop was tender and succulent, simply melting in my mouth. My lips curved into a smile of appreciation, even as I chewed.

As a dancer, I was t
aught that food was the enemy. Even one extra pound meant a verbal lashing from the instructor. I quickly learned to indulge only in the most worthwhile luxuries—fresh, seasonal food smothered in herbs and spices. This, however,
far
surpassed any meals I had treated myself to over the years.

Rob
seemed satisfied by his food and my expression. “This is only the first course. I’d wait until the end to choose a favorite.”

In the end, I could
do no such thing. Everything was my favorite. His staff brought out course after course of magnificently cooked dishes—fresh spinach leaves tossed with savory cheeses, roasted beets that stained the plate a beautiful burgundy, flaky halibut bathed in a fiery cream sauce, and crispy Brussels sprouts mingling with caramelized pecans.

As the wine flowed f
reely, I devoured bite after bite of incredible flavor. I asked about his family, and Rob began to open up as we ate, telling me about his parents, his brothers, and his past.

“My mom still lives
in the same little suburb we grew up in. She doesn’t want to go to a nursing home—hates the places, really—and, honestly, I don’t blame her.” Rob’s face had grown serious, suddenly, as soon as we started on his mother. “She doesn’t get out much anymore, so I visit whenever I can—though that’s never nearly as often as I’d like.”

I nodded sympathetic
ally. “Doesn’t she have any friends or family living nearby?”

“My little brother,
Nathan, moved back recently. He keeps an eye on her. I’d rather she moved in with me, though. Lord knows, I have the space. It would give me some peace of mind, too, but she says she doesn’t want to leave Philly. She’s pretty stubborn. You know the type.”

“Shocking,” I said w
ith a small smile. It was nice to hear that Rob cared about his mother so much. “So, that’s where you get it from.”

“I guess I am a
little
bit like her,” he admitted before he shook his head. “I think she prefers Nathan to me. He’s her baby, after all. Besides, I think they resent the fact that I left Philly. They think I left my
roots
.”

He paused again, loo
king downright contrite for a moment. “She loves to ask me about marrying too. She demands grandkids, and she’s
very
intent on always getting what she wants.”

“Reminds me of someo
ne we both know,” I quipped.

He laughed, quietly,
but his gray eyes remained thoughtful. He leaned in toward me, slowly. “I think she just wants me to settle down. Find the
one
.” With that, his expression grew playful once more, and he shot me a pointed look. “She doesn’t know how hard I’m trying.”

I felt myself blush,
the slightest bit of pink coloring my cheeks. “What about your father?”

“Gone,”
Rob replied, almost sounding as if he was at peace with it. “It’s been a long time now. He drank like a fish and that made him a difficult man to be around. He—didn’t make it easy for me or for Nathan.” He looked down in his glass for a moment before shaking his head. “I want to know about you. Parents? Family?”