The Do It List (The Do It List #1) (2 page)

“You would not believe the transformation.” Harold gushed to the man with the predatory gaze. “From butch creative in fatigues…”

 
I shot him a squinty-eyed glare.

 
“More like…” Harold hesitated, obviously rethinking his descriptors. “Definitely Milla Jovovich, Resident Evil butch—” His voice grew weaker. “In a strong…feminine…Beyoncé way.”

Luckily, Dan, the security man interrupted. “Tell you what my fine, caramel-latte miss, you forgot your card.” He waved my employee I.D. in the air.
 

“I’ll get it.” Harold headed for the lobby desk, just as the elevator dinged.

The man with the magnetic stare gestured me inside. I staked out a corner in the metallic box and he took the other.
 

Normally, I would gaze into the deep void of elevator space, but I found it hard to stop looking at the delicious hotness standing across from me.

He returned my interest with an equally curious, cheeky half-smile. What was this über-manly pheromone release? And those amazing eyes—blue enough to dazzle even in bad elevator lighting.

He raised a brow.
 

I narrowed my gaze, slightly. “Do I know you?”

The doors began to close.

“Wait for me!” Harold called out at the same moment the lights in the foyer flickered.

We both reached for the open button, but the polished steel panels continued to close. I moved to block the door with my arm, but it was too late. The elevator lurched upward, far from its usual smooth take off.

“He’ll catch up.” The man across from me shrugged.

At the second flicker of overhead lights, I glanced upward. “Harold and I work together, but I guess you figured that out.”
 

The handsome friend of Harold’s looked amused. He leaned back against the handrail and flashed those sparkling eyes. He had to be gay. The dark scruff along a chiseled jaw line, the subtle, two-tone saddle oxfords—oxblood over ebony. I repeat he had to be gay.

Why were all the really attractive men gay? A part of me suddenly wanted to know the stats. Exactly what percentage of hot guys were gay? Another part of me didn’t want to know. Unless…he was bi-sexual or European.
 

So I asked. “Are you with Harold?”

His mouth twitched. “Harold was kind enough to set me up with security, downstairs. I’m a new transfer from Scacchi & Scacchi, London.”

“Before or after the breakup?”

“Technically, pre-dissolution. London sees it differently.”
 

I detected a hint of an accent.

“But…” I tried not to sputter. “Wexler is keeping you, so you must be special. You’re not Howard’s boyfriend. And you’re just in from London, but you’re not British.”

“Dad’s a Brit. Mother returned to Manhattan after the divorce.” I gave him sensitivity creds for sharing a bit of painful personal data.
 

“Grace Taylor-Scott.” I raised my hand to shake. “I prefer Gracie.”

Long, tapered fingers clasped my hand and shook with just the right amount of business proper. “Bradley Craig.”

“I take it you’re going to be here for awhile. Guests don’t usually get set up with security passes.”
 

“Kinda looks that way.” A dash of American drawl added to his charm.

“Half Brit, half American,” I mused aloud.

He nodded. “My father’s business kept us traveling. London, New York, Hong Kong. When it came time for university, I decided on Cambridge.”

“Let me guess, you graduated St. John’s with letters.” I tilted my chin and squinted.

He wagged his head a bit sheepishly. “Trinity College, but I did my graduate studies at U of Penn.”

“Wharton?” In L.A. I had dated an attorney who graduated from the famous business school, a litigator with anger-management issues. And I knew a lot about schools, especially higher education. My parents had insisted on a great education, no arguments.
 

For some silly reason, I was relieved when he shook his head. “More psych related. Organizational dynamics—don’t roll your eyes—communication enhancement, team building, strategic planning.”

I honestly tried not to roll my eyes. “In other words, you’re on the executive management fast track.”
 

The lights dimmed again, and I checked the LED readout. Fifteen. And nearly as many floors left to go. “Brown out.” I murmured, scanning the recessed lighting in ceiling of the elevator. Dimmer than usual.
 

“Grid failure?” His lashes flicked upward.

“Budget cuts. Twenty-five hundred fewer union workers.”

“Redundancy?”

I smiled at his British terminology. “Con Edison calls it smart-sizing.”

“And whoever is left is…”

“Short-handed and angry about it.” I offered. “At the very least, disgruntled.”

He eased his broad-shouldered frame against the brushed steel wall of the elevator. “Disgruntled, excellent word.”

“As is redundancy.” The elevator shuddered upward, jerky and sluggish. I stole a glance at the panel beside the door. The green LED readout flashed nineteen. I dug in my bag and handed him a card. “Copy Chief, Barking Mad.”

He blew a soft whistle. “Hot shot creative.”

He referred to the boutique creative group within the larger agency. If you were a copywriter or art director, you wanted desperately to be a part of Barking Mad. If you were a suit after new business, you wanted us on your pitch. “We even use big words, occasionally.”

An abrupt, harsh flicker plunged us in and out of darkness. “Think we’ll make it?” He didn’t seem particularly concerned, the sparkle in his eye appeared to be more of a tease.

Outwardly, I remained calm and kept a close watch on the climbing numbers. Twenty…twenty-one. Seven floors to go. Inwardly, I cheered the elevator car upward. Come on baby, you can do it. Because as much as I might enjoy a brief entrapment fantasy with His Hotness…

Before I had a chance to get kinky with that thought, the elevator answered with a hard lurch. My stomach flip-flopped to each electrical pop and crackle as blackness swallowed up the small space.

My pulse pounded through every appendage as I stated the obvious. “We’ve stopped.” I needed to hear a voice in the dark. His voice.

“Do you need me to hold you?”

I A
VOIDED HIS question and went for sarcasm. “Blackout compliments of Con Edison.” Damn! I sounded breathless, or worse, frightened.
 

“I repeat, do you need—?”

“No holding.” I bit out, shrinking further into my corner. “At least, not at the moment.” I strained to see him through a suffocating blanket of darkness. To avoid a panic attack, I sucked in a few slow, deep breaths.

“Just thought I’d offer.”

 
A nearly imperceptible grin emerged from the shadows, as enigmatic as a Cheshire cat. Soon after I made out a straight, strong nose, and a glint in his eyes.

 
“Polls taken after Hurricane Sandy indicate women prefer to be held rather than receive verbal assurances alone.”

A tasteless climate change or end-of-the-world joke came to mind, but I found myself just…staring at the shadowed visage across from me. “Since you’re standing next to the call box, Mr. Craig, would you mind picking up the phone?”

“I would prefer that you call me Brad or Bradley.”

 
Cabinet hinges whined as he reached for the phone. “Hello, anyone there?” Brad or Bradley, as he preferred to be called, held up the receiver. A series of steady beeps punctuated the darkness.

 
I could just make out simple shapes against a field of black, and a few audio clues. He hung up and tried again. This time, a pre-recorded message replaced the busy signal. A female voice filtered through the small phone speaker.

I edged over and he caught my arm, guiding me closer. As unlikely as it might seem, something darkly permissive was going on between us.

Do not attempt to leave the elevator through the roof. Use the call box provided in each elevator car. Remain on the line and building security will contact you. You can also call Otis Emergency Services on your mobile device. The pre-recorded voice calmly droned on, repeating the number.
 

He hung up and dialed from his cell phone. “Voice mail.” He grimaced. “Signal’s a bit sketchy—” He broke off to leave a message. “We’re trapped in a lift—I mean elevator…” That piercing gaze made eye contact with me. “What’s the building address?”

“One eleven Eighth Avenue.”
 

He repeated the address and left his number. “Christ, it’s sweltering in here.”

 
I sensed more than observed him unbuttoned his coat and loosen his tie.

The air inside the stainless steel box had become sultry. I blew a strand of corkscrew curl out of my eyes, not that it helped my vision, much.

“Met this fellow once, an Aussie, who said anyone can open these doors.”

I gave the man credit he began with the obvious. The faint click of floor buttons preceded his move to the exit doors. “The trick is…”
 

“Might have known there’d be a catch.” I settled back against the wall.

“The trick is to find a spot where you feel a bit of give…” I imagined him running those long agile fingers down the groove between panels.
 

Small talk with a stranger, felt oddly comforting. I squinted into the dark. Bradley Craig wasn’t all that handsome, was he? Dapper maybe. I recalled a charcoal-gray suit, dusty plum shirt, and deep plum tie. Urbane. Sophisticated. And yet this man was a little too broad shouldered and rugged for a metro-male. Definitely more of a footballer.

A static buzz preceded a flicker of light, as an overhead lamp crackled to life. Stunned, it took me a moment to hope for something more, like an elevator in motion, but no such luck.
 

He exhaled a soft sexy grunt. “Must be some sort of emergency auxiliary light.”
 

He angled himself against the door panels and we connected, glad to see each other. Hungry gazes roamed, soaking in every visual detail.

Memory had failed me. Bradley Craig was dazzlingly handsome. From the wingtips of his elegant oxfords to that head of thick, close-cropped dark hair, adorable in its unkemptness. A hot mix—rugged yet polished—with a bit of scruff along the jawline.

“Soccer or Rugby?” I asked as the doors parted an inch or two.
 

 
A cool updraft circulated through the small chamber. He wedged a shoulder between door panels and gained a few more inches of separation.
 

He answered in a low, guttural rasp. “Is there any context to your question or am I free to answer with a nonsequitur of my choice?”

I gave him this, he had a wonky sense of humor. He pushed the doors farther apart, and I observed arm muscles ripple under that perfectly tailored Savile Row suit.

 
“What’s your game?”

“Basketball. Knicks fan, since I was a kid.” The panels opened enough to get a peek into the elevator shaft, which turned out to be a wall of cement blocks. Craning his neck, he checked above, then below. “Christ, we’re exactly between floors.”

So, no chance for a quick escape. My head moved in an almost imperceptible nod, as he positioned himself between door panels, and shoved harder.

 
“By any chance, did you happen to make a note of the last floor, before the blackout?”

“Twenty…two, maybe?” I did not wish to think about dangling from steel cables twenty-something floors from the ground. Too late. The thought spiraled into something anxious. I checked for signs of a panic attack. Shallow breathing and a rapid pulse.
 

“Have you ever done it in an elevator?” I blurted out, desperate for a distraction. I cringed at the suggestive remark, but that didn’t stop me from checking his reaction.
 

He cleared his throat softly. “I beg your pardon?”

I shook my head and backpedaled. “I can’t think what came over me just then. Forget I ever said such a thing. I must be out of my mind. I do not say things like that to strange men.” What began as a murmured apology ended in a freaky, near-hysterical rant.

In the dead silence that followed, I covered the heat of my cheeks with both hands.

“You’re frightened. And you have a beautiful blush, don’t hide it.” Braced between the doors, he rested his chin on a curve of upper arm muscle. “I may not have asked the question, but I was thinking something equally—”

His phone buzzed on vibrate and we both jumped. Instinctively, he reached for his pocket, and the doors shifted.
 

 
“Could you get that?” He locked both arms against the threat of imminent and crushing entrapment.

I scanned his lower torso. “Where is it?”
 

“Right-hand pocket.”
 

The thought of rummaging about in his slacks caused a hesitation.

“It’s either the doors or the phone.” He shifted his stance.
 

“No, stay where you are. I’d rather have the air.” I sucked in a deep breath. “Besides…” My pulse raced, as I slipped my hand into his trousers. “It could be the elevator company.”

I maneuvered around one large, hard device. “Sorry.”
 

“Don’t be.”

 
The look of raw lust in his eyes quickly sent my hand lower, to the object vibrating below. I grabbed the phone and dragged it out of his pocket. Apparently my cheeks were going to remain permanently inflamed around this man. I slid back the lock and held the phone to his ear.

 
“This is Bradley.” The garbled squawk on the other end sounded angry and female. “This is not a good time, Claire. I can’t talk right now—”
 

Cut off, he held back and listened. “How is Olivia?” His gaze met mine and lingered. “At the moment? I appear to be stuck in a lift.”

A few seconds of silence ensued, then a tinny response.
 

“Not sure, blackout of some kind.” The high-pitched voice warbled on. “Listen, I’m expecting a call from Con Edison, or the lift company. Apologies—yes, later.” He nodded to me and I pressed end.