Drawn to You Read online

  “That’s so awful.” I exclaim, unable to imagine how painful it must have been, how painful it must still be for him.

  Sonali shakes her head. “Yes, but they were both uninjured. Poor things.”

  “Yes poor things,” Chelsea says. “But enough with the sad stories. I still want to know what Landon Court was doing in our building.”

  “Maybe he’s planning to take over Gilt,” I quip. “Takeovers are the new conquests.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t mind working for him,” she grins. “Or under him, depending on what he prefers.”

  It’s an innocent statement, but my reaction to it, a mixture of possessiveness and fierce jealousy, startles me. I shouldn’t care if my beautiful colleague finds Landon attractive. He’s nothing to me.

  “I doubt he’s available,” I point out, unable to let it go.

  “Yeah,” Chelsea sighs, “but a girl can dream.”

  WE walk back, with Sonali doing a running commentary on every hot guy we pass on the street. By the time I get to my office, I’m still laughing a little, but my thoughts soon go back to Landon, and the things Sonali said about his mother’s death.

  I do a quick search on my computer, looking for old archived news reports from twenty years ago. It’s not hard to find a report on the accident.

  Even before I start to read the article, my heart breaks at the picture of two boys. Both wrapped in blankets, the little one looking confused, while the older one, Landon, has the most heartbreakingly sad expression. Next to that is a picture of a beautiful couple, his parents.

  I start to read the article. The car had skidded off the road and somersaulted a couple of times. According to an eyewitness, a teenager who’d stopped his car a few minutes after the accident occurred and called an ambulance, Landon had emerged from the car carrying his little brother, but the car had started to burn immediately after, and by the time the ambulance reached them, it had been too late for Alicia Creighton Court.

  Oh Landon. To witness all that! He must have been devastated.

  My desk phone starts to ring. Reluctantly, I abandon my perusal of the article and answer the call.

  “Hello,”

  “I’m just confirming that you’re back from lunch.” Carol Mendez’s voice is, as usual brusque and efficient.

  “Why?”

  “Jessica wants to see you.”

  I frown, a sense of déjà vu creeping into my spine. “Now?”

  “Well, not tomorrow.” I hear her say something, not to me. Then her voice comes back on the line. “Sit tight. She’s on her way.”

  I hear a click as the line goes dead. Jessica Layner was coming to see me? If that wasn’t strange, I didn’t know what was. I close the browser and arrange a stack of sheets on my desk, wondering what she wants. I just know, somehow, that this has something to do with Landon.

  Jessica pauses at the door to my office, her eyes taking in the space as if she can’t quite believe how small it is. She looks stylish in a cream sheath dress and scarlet heels. There’s a rumor that the powerful women in the Gilt organization are perpetually in competition, which is why they always look on point and demand perfection in every single aspect of their magazines.

  She takes a step inside the room and closes the door behind her. I get up from my seat, and she waves a hand. “Oh sit,” she says lightly, “I’m not the president.”

  I sit my ass back on the chair, confused. She walks to the window and stares out. “You haven’t got much of a view have you?”

  “It’s adequate.”

  She shrugs, then turns around to looks at me. “There’s a hotel in San Francisco. The Gold Dust Hotel. It’s one of those old, classy places.” She looks at me to see if I’m following. “Landon Court purchased it some time ago from the original owners, and it’s been undergoing renovations ever since.”

  I wait for her to continue, not sure where I come in, but already knowing deep down that Landon has initiated something that I won’t like.

  “I’ve already heard that it’s going to be a top destination in San Francisco, and he has the most renowned interior designers as part of the project team,” she says. “About a month ago I approached him about doing an article in Gilt, a glimpse into the new hotel for our readers. He wasn’t interested.” She pauses. “Then last week, his assistant calls to arrange a promotional article for a lounge he owns. And yesterday, he was here, asking to see you, and offering me the article about the Gold Dust.”

  I frown. “I’m not… I don’t think it has anything to do with me.”

  She raises her perfect brows. “You don’t?”

  I shake my head. “Maybe he decided he needed the publicity for his hotel after all.”

  Her eyes assess me for a moment. “When you applied to Gilt you wanted a position at Gilt Review, why?”

  I studied English Literature, and I’ve always wanted to have a career that had something to do with books and literature. “I thought it would be the right fit for me.”

  She waves a hand in a dismissive gesture. “There’s no such thing as a right fit. You have to take ownership of wherever you find yourself, make it fit you.” She stops and gives me a look. “You’ve applied yourself very well here. You won’t have a problem going to San Francisco to write about the transformation of the Gold Dust, would you?”

  I choke on air. “You want me to go to San Francisco to write about Landon Court’s hotel?”

  “Don’t you want to?”

  I swallow. “I’m not sure… I’ve never handled anything like that.”

  She gives me a questioning look. “I would have thought you’d be sick of all those promotional articles by now. You’re not a hack. This is a real assignment. It’s going to be a main feature.” She walks over to my desk. “I’m not in the habit of visiting associates in their offices, I want to know if there’s a conflict, any reason you can’t do it.”

  I hesitate. Do I really want to tell my boss that I don’t want to take an assignment because I think that the owner of the property I’m going to be writing about, a billionaire with properties around the world, wants to get into my pants? And Landon, God! I wonder if writing the feature would mean seeing him again. I can’t lie to myself. I want to see him, especially after the article I just read about him. “I would love to do the feature,” I hear myself saying, “I’m glad you considered me.”

  Jessica nods. “The travel arrangements are being made at his end. You’ll be meeting with Tony Gillies at the Swanson Court Tower to discuss logistics. Is that okay?”

  “It’s fine.”

  ‘That’s all then.” She taps a perfectly manicured nail on my desk. “All the best.”

  An hour later, I’m climbing out of a taxi in front of the impressive mixed use office and residential high-rise that’s the SCT building. As I walk towards the revolving doors, I catch a glimpse of myself in the reflective glass walls. I’m wearing a gray pencil skirt, a light-green silk blouse, and black pumps, with my hair held back on one side with a rhinestone barrette. I pause for a moment to check that the little makeup I applied before leaving the office looks okay, then I mutter an unladylike curse and keep walking, unwilling to accept that Landon is the real reason why I’m so concerned about my appearance.

  Screw him, I think resentfully, giving my name to the security at the front desk. They’re apparently expecting me, and they hand me a visitor’s pass to enable me cross the turnstiles between the doors and the elevator bank.

  “Sixty-second floor,” one of the guards informs me.

  “Thank you,” I reply, still thinking of Landon. I have no doubt that he has engineered this whole thing because he thinks he can use it to get me into his bed, but I’m determined to disappoint him.

  On the sixty-second floor, the elevator doors slide open, revealing a spacious reception room with a large marble desk and a TV screen overlooking a plush seating area. I step outside the elevator a second before an almost invisible glass partition between the elevator bank and the r
eception area slides open, allowing me to walk towards the reception desk. There, an immaculately dressed girl with cropped black hair and glasses is waiting for me with a friendly smile.

  “Good afternoon, Miss Foster,” she says cheerily.

  “Good afternoon,” I reply, waiting as she scans my visitor card. While I wait, another set of glass doors slide open and a sharp looking guy steps into the reception area. He’s about my height, and like the receptionist, he’s perfectly dressed in a trendy looking suit, his short curly hair neatly framing his face.

  “Hello,” he starts, extending his hand. “You must be Miss Foster from Gilt. I’m Tony Gillies, Mr. Court’s assistant. We’ll be discussing the logistics for your trip in his office. Please follow me.”

  In his office? “Landon… Mr. Court is going to be there?” I ask, suddenly tense.

  “Yes,” Tony nods and then starts to walk, giving me no choice but to follow him through the sliding glass doors into a long wide corridor with glass partitioned offices on one side, and conference rooms on the other. At the end of the corridor, there’s another set of glass doors that lead into a large office with two desks and a sitting area. One of the desks is occupied by a woman speaking into a set of headphones in a language that sounds like Italian. I can’t say for sure, because I’m totally hopeless at any language that’s not English. She doesn’t look up when we enter.

  “Please take a seat,” Tony says, the picture of formal efficiency. He glances at his watch. “Mr. Court is in a meeting at the moment, but it will be over in a few minutes. Would you like anything to drink?”

  I shake my head. “No.”

  He nods, then retreats behind the second desk in the room. As I wait, I use the time to look around. On one side of the room, there’s a wall of some sort of frosted glass with a door in the middle. I’m guessing that it’s the door to Landon’s office when it opens and three men pour out of the room beyond, talking quietly among themselves. Through the open doorway, I catch a glimpse of Landon seated at the head of a conference table. He’s looking at some papers on the table, a frown of concentration on his perfect face. I can’t tear my eyes away from him. I would keep on staring, but the doors close, blocking him from my view.

  “We can go in now.” Tony is already standing by my side. I also stand, nervously smoothing my skirt. Why am I so anxious? I have nothing to be worried about.

  Apart from being in the same room with Landon again.

  I follow Tony to the door, waiting as he holds it open for me to walk inside. Immediately, my eyes settle on Landon. He’s now standing beside the conference table, tapping an impatient finger on the glass surface. He’s removed his jacket, which is now hanging off the back of the chair he just vacated. In just his light blue shirt and slim black pants, the strength and fitness of his perfect body is obvious, much too obvious.

  I step into the office, and he looks up. His hair is slicked back, making him look even more intense. As his blue eyes land on me, he breaks into a smile. My heart misses a beat at the transformation to his face, and my steps falter.

  “Come in Rachel.”

  I steady myself and keep on walking. The office is easily larger by far than any I’ve ever been in. Aside from the conference area, there’s a sitting area with comfortable looking leather chairs and a glass coffee table. A large desk sits on a slightly raised area, almost like a dais, with the skyline of Manhattan as a backdrop. There’s a wall covered with screens, which, at the moment, are all tuned to different news channels and financial reports from around the globe.

  He has already pulled out a chair, standing behind it as he waits for me to sit. I walk towards him on shaky legs, cursing myself for the uncontrollable effect he has on me. One look and I forget all my resolutions.

  Tony busies himself with setting up the projector, oblivious to the tension between Landon and me. I take the offered seat, trembling slightly when Landon’s fingers deliberately brush my shoulders before he returns to his own seat. After a few seconds, Tony joins us at the table and starts up the slide of pictures of the new hotel, showing the stage of refurbishment already accomplished. The décor is a little more light and modern than the New York hotel, with more glass and brighter colors, but whoever the interior designer, they sure knew what they were doing.

  Landon doesn’t say a word as Tony goes over the description of the hotel, the facilities being provided, the design firms involved, and what Swanson Court International hopes to achieve with the new hotel. We go into the history of the property. Formerly known as The San Francisco Gold Dust hotel, it was built in the twenties and has been in the Sinclair family for generations. Landon had recently acquired the property from Evans Sinclair, and will reopen it under the name, The Gold Dust, A Swanson Court Hotel.

  I take notes, asking questions, making notes of the clarifications, and highlighting areas for further research. Tony has done a great job on the slide, highlighting the extensive and indigenous art collection that’s part of the property, the high class spa, famous chefs, and the celebrity fitness trainer who will be joining the hotel. I have no doubt that for the people who can afford it, it’s going to be worth every penny.

  Finally, we get to the end of the slide, and I look away from the screen to find Landon’s eyes on my face.

  “Is that all?” he asks. He’s talking to Tony.

  “Yes.”

  “Thank you. You can leave us now,” he says, “Miss Foster will communicate any requests for additional information or clarification.”

  Tony nods and exits the office, leaving me alone with Landon. I avoid looking at him, feeling the tension in the air thicken with each passing second.

  I start to get up. “I should be going.”

  His hand on my arm stops me. “No, don’t.” He moves his chair from the head of the table to directly beside mine, arranging it so he’s facing me. “We should talk.”

  “I know what you’re doing,” I say heatedly. “You engineered this assignment so you can get me to spend time with you.” I glare at him. “Well, guess what, this time you’re not going to get what you want. You’re wasting your time. I’m not going to let you get away with manipulating my job just so you can fuck me.”

  His eyes flare at my heated words, but instead of responding, he presses a button on the desk, turning the frosted glass of the office walls even more opaque. “Let’s see,” he starts, “I generously agreed to a request your boss made a long time ago. How’s that manipulating your job?”

  “And the article about the Insomnia Lounge?” I challenge.

  “I brought you there to give you a chance to tell me the truth, which you didn’t take, for whatever reason.”

  “Maybe because I didn’t want to. Maybe because I was perfectly fine with you thinking I was a hooker. Maybe because I had no intention of ever seeing you again.”

  He leans forward, his hand still on my arm. Suddenly I feel helpless against the magnetic pull from his body. Who am I fooling? I want him. I want him so badly I can taste my desire.

  “Quit lying to yourself,” he says quietly.

  I let out a soft breath through parted lips. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Tell me the truth, Rachel,” he challenges. “What do you want?”

  I don’t answer, so he continues. “You see, I know what I want. I want you. I didn’t ask Jessica Layner to give you the feature, but I hoped she would, especially after I told her that I was a fan of your work. I’ll be in San Francisco for a week, and I want you there with me. I want to fuck you every day we’re there. I haven’t stopped thinking about it since that night at my hotel. I want to make you come until you beg me to stop, and I know you want the same thing.”

  I swallow hard. His words are doing something to me. Already, my nipples are hard and aching, pressing insistently against my bra. I wonder if he can see them through my blouse, even as I hope desperately that he can’t. He hasn’t even touched me and yet, I already feel breathless with desire. My cheeks flush, a
nd I close my eyes, frustrated with my inability to control my body around him.

  “But if you’d prefer not to,” he continues, “then we won’t see each other in San Francisco. You’ll do your work, return to New York and probably never see me again. Is that what you want?

  I want him to kiss me. That’s what I want. I want to lean forward and close the gap between our lips. I want to taste the warmth of his mouth. I feel bewitched, confused, a second away from forgetting my own name. I can hear my breath coming in soft little pants, like there’s no longer enough air in the room.

  “What do you want,” he repeats.

  I open my mouth, not sure what I’m going to say, and immediately his lips close over mine, warm, demanding and skillful. His tongue traces my lower lip, then dips into my mouth, teasing, caressing, and stroking the desire that’s already burning inside me into a frenzy of hot, uncontrollable need.

  He pulls away and I moan in complaint, leaning forward, aching for more. “This is what you want.” His voice is warm and seductive. I stare at him through glazed eyes, wondering why he’s stopped kissing me. “Your nipples are hard, Rachel.” He lifts one hand to stroke one of the hardened nubs through my top, as if to prove his point. A low moan of pleasure escapes me. “Between your legs you’re wet and aching for me, aren’t you?” His eyes are blue fire burning into mine. “I know you want me to fuck you, right here, in this office, on the floor, on my desk, against the wall, anywhere. You wouldn’t care. You just want me inside you, right now.”

  At his words, acute desire shoots through me like a lightning bolt. My body clenches needily, helpless against the mental assault of his words. Almost as if I’m under a spell, I reach for his face, pulling it down towards mine.

  He claims my lips hungrily, getting up and pulling me up to my feet in the same movement. He lifts me up, pulling my skirt up so I can wrap my legs around his waist as he carries me over to his desk.