Page 11 of Tempting Eden

Ms. Rochester whirled. “Brad? How wonderful to see you!”

She met him halfway and allowed him to embrace her and place a kiss on her cheek. He looked to be in his late thirties, but maybe younger. He had dark hair and wore a formal black suit. Handsome, obviously moneyed. He paid me no attention.

“It’s been too long. What, almost a year since I saw you in Mobile at that Mardi Gras ball?”

She laughed. I recognized it as her fake laugh, the one she used for sales. “Oh, don’t remind me. That was a sloppy night for me.”

“I know. I just wished I’d been able to get away from Margaret for long enough to take advantage.”

Another fake laugh. Ms. Rochester’s eyes darted from me and back to him.

“And who’s this?” He finally addressed me.

“This is my assistant, Jack. Jack, this is Brad Willingston.”

We shook hands. His grip was firm, confident. So was mine. He cocked his head at Ms. Rochester and winked as if he and I shared some inside joke. We didn’t.

Then he put his hand on the small of her back and led her forward.

I wanted to take his arm off at the elbow. What he was touching belonged to me.

He opened the door for her. “Well, Rochester, let’s get down to it. Talk me into it like you always do.”

After Ms. Rochester leased the entire remaining square footage of the Windwood building to Brad Willingston, she jumped right back on Belle Mar. The next few weeks were busy, full of meetings and discussions. Ms. Rochester had me back burner the rest of her projects and assign them down the line to some of the other agents.

Belle Mar was her main goal, and she went after it with every ounce of energy she had.

The footprint for the massive structure was cemented into the sand along the Florida coast. Mr. Poole’s construction arm had already built most of the complex, but the interiors were still unfinished and in need of direction. This is where Thornfield stepped in, masterminding the room plans, the finishes, and building buzz to buyers.

Ms. Rochester didn’t like the architectural design renderings sent in by Mr. Poole’s chosen designer. She said they were too old-fashioned, not enough style. So she ordered another set from a more modern, up-and-coming design firm in Atlanta. The prices for the drawings alone would have put me through college twice over. Money was nothing to the people in this business—in this part of town, really.

Throughout our time together, Ms. Rochester’s mood shifted between cold one moment and pleasant the next. I couldn’t tell if I had offended her or if something else had. She never directed her anger at me, but had no problem expressing her emotions.

Overall, the rest of the office was professional, courteous. Only Ms. Rochester kicked up a stir every now and again. Her mercurial nature warded off the other agents and staff—all except Mr. Fairfax. It seemed like nothing could put that man off. He didn’t even raise an eyebrow at her quick temper.

The only time I knew for certain one of her angry fits wasn’t directed at me, was when she’d seen the offending Belle Mar drawings from Mr. Poole’s architect. She’d raced out of the conference room, still limping a bit, and hurried to her office. She slammed the door behind her as I sat at my desk and watched the scene unfold.

Her light glowed red on my phone, and soon I heard her giving someone on the other end of the line holy hell for bringing her “drawings straight out of a 1965 trailer park.” Her tirade lasted for a full-on three minutes before I finally heard her quiet, like the eye of the hurricane was finally passing overhead. Only a few more yells of profanity wafted to my ears before the light on my phone went out. Then I could hear her grumbling to herself.

She stayed in her office until noon that day. When she emerged, she smiled at me and told me to join her for lunch. She was a thunderstorm, raining here and rumbling there, but never in one place for too long.

I walked out with her. We rode down the elevator in silence, though I could tell she was observing me in the gold mirror doors. I studied her reflection. I’d seen her all week, followed her through the halls, taking down dictation, managing her busy days. I’d memorized her figure, her voice, even her sad limp that improved each day.

She wore another skirt suit. She seemed particularly fond of them. I hadn’t seen her wear a pair of pants all week. I didn’t mind. Her legs were one of her best attributes. Perfectly shaped, tapering down to small ankles. They were pale, as if she didn’t care for the suntans that most of the other women in the office sported. I imagined my hand on her leg, brown skin meeting the fairness, casting a shadow.

I glanced away from her. I couldn’t risk my imaginings going too far.

She coughed. “I don’t mind if you look. Is there something in particular you like?”

I caught her eye in the reflection. She had a smile on her lips, warmth in her tone. She had changed yet again, now in a playful mood.

“I—No.” I lied.

“No? You don’t find anything about me attractive?” Her tone was petulant, teasing, and she put her hands on her hips.

Heat rose along my collar, seeping up my neck. Her teasing made my blood pump harder, my need to press her up against the elevator and kiss her into submission growing stronger with each passing moment. The elevator began to slow, finally reaching the ground floor.

“That’s not what I meant, Ms. Rochester.”

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