Читать книгу: «Pleasure Under the Sun»

Chapter 1

“You are the hottest thing I’ve seen all night,” the woman said.

She looked up to the docked yacht where Seven Carmichael stood, and watched him with a sly smile. She sipped from a glass of Scotch as she stood in the midst of the chaotic swirl of bodies on the back lawn of Marcus Stanfield’s Star Island mansion. High heels. Tight jeans. A sheer white blouse showing off a lacy black bra underneath. She was a gorgeous flash in the night, something Seven could definitely appreciate, although he usually preferred his women a little less obvious. Actually, she wasn’t just gorgeous. She was absolutely stunning.

His lips twitched in response to her compliment while another body part responded in a similar fashion to her sleek and sensuous body. “Thank you,” he said. “You’re not so bad yourself.”

He’d forgotten how delightfully forward American women could be. He braced his arms against the boat’s railing, watching the woman, who continued to boldly stare, hip cocked to one side, elbow of one arm resting in her palm, the crystal tumbler of Scotch held near her lips. Her gaze devoured his six-and-a-half-foot, muscled, toffee-colored frame.

“Don’t worry, honey. I’m just taking in the view. I have no intension of touching the merchandise,” the woman said. “At least not yet.” She smiled again, a suggestive movement of her glistening maroon lips.

“Are you so sure you could handle me?” Seven teased.

She looked him over again, brown eyes sparkling, hair swept up into an elegant pompadour. “I could handle two of you, honey.”

Seven was absolutely tempted to challenge the woman on her boast. The longer he looked down at her statuesque form, with its bold swath of hair and the white silk blouse fluttering in the breeze over her lace-cupped breasts, the more his intrigue and interest grew. But... “Maybe I’ll give you the chance to prove it another time,” he said. “I have a twin.”

The woman laughed, a husky gurgle of sound, and lifted her glass to him in salute. Then she turned on her high heels, treating him to a glimpse of her small but shapely behind in the tight jeans, and strutted down the walkway of the back lawn toward the mansion, where another party was going strong. Seven watched her go with regret, fighting the unfamiliar urge to rush after her and find out more about that heavily implied stamina of hers. He’d never been one for casual hookups, but something about that woman made him want to change his mind.

Seven stood on the deck of the yacht for a moment longer, feeling the minute movements of the Dirty Diana as she swayed in the dock, as much from the gentle undulations of Biscayne Bay as from the activities of the over two dozen partiers on board.

Beautiful women pranced around on the deck in their high heels. Well-dressed men—most with cigars in hand—stalked after them. Everyone was drinking and partying hard to Drake pounding from the speakers, their laughter high and bright. The hors d’oeuvres were plentiful and provided by uniformed waiters making regular trips between the mansion and boat. And at the center of it all stood Marcus Stanfield, Seven’s host and recent acquaintance.

The billionaire playboy’s generosity had come as a surprise to Seven, but he knew well enough from experience the whims and whimsies of the rich. He wouldn’t let himself get too used to Marcus’s hospitality. As quickly as it had been given, it could be taken away.

But at least Marcus’s spur-of-the-moment generosity had brought Seven from the arid deserts of Dubai to a much more appealing climate. When Marcus had come to Seven’s last solo show in the Arabian city, he had taken a liking to Seven’s work, immediately buying two pieces and arranging to have them shipped to Miami. His attention brought Seven to the notice of a few others at the opening, including a B-list British actress whose pants Marcus was trying to get into.

The actress later hosted a dinner party for Seven at her home, where he and Marcus ended up talking for most of the night. Toward the end of the party, Marcus declared that he hadn’t met anyone as interesting as Seven in a long time, and invited the artist to come with him to Miami as his guest. Seven, who had already planned on leaving Dubai, readily accepted the invitation.

Miami was his kind of town. Although he was visiting for only a short while, he could see himself settling down in a place like this. And not just for the abundance of beautiful women. It was the water, the international flavor of the city, the way certain sections reminded him of Jamaica—of Kingston, where his parents had moved from when he was a child. He was tired of living out of a suitcase, going wherever his work took him.

In the circle of hangers-on and admirers, Marcus caught Seven’s eye and grinned, pointing with his glass of champagne to the two girls hanging off his arms. Do you want some of this? his look asked. Seven shook his head and smiled.

“No, thanks, man. Enjoy it.”

The Dubai trip had worn him out. He’d spent almost two years there, finishing up the steel sculpture commissioned by the Bank of Arab Emirates. It was a prestigious commission. A well-paying one. If he wanted to, he could stop working for another two years and still live in the style to which he’d grown accustomed. But Seven liked working too much. Not to mention it was good to keep working while people still knew his name and were willing to pay exorbitant sums of money for something that came from his sweat and two hands.

In many ways, his career had been pure luck. He was lucky to have this life of his. Lucky Seven, as his mother called him. Her seventh child, the firstborn of the twins, her only children to survive past birth.

As Seven watched, one of the women from the pack surrounding Marcus separated herself and came toward him. She was short, but her stilettos gave her the much-needed height, helping to make her seem more grown-up than she actually was. Her rounded cheeks and the acne-dotted skin Seven could still see under her heavy makeup gave away her age. He would eat his welding helmet if she was even twenty-one. At thirty-five, he was far too old to be playing with children.

“What you doing out here by yourself, handsome?”

The girl tottered close, the hem of her cream-colored dress fluttering around her thighs, threatening to expose her backside. Seven vaguely remembered her from a few hours ago, when Marcus had made the introductions on the yacht. This one was filthy rich, an admitted art groupie who’d slipped her number in Seven’s pocket once the introductions had been made.

She was pretty and bold, but instead of taking her to his bed, Seven wanted to clean the makeup off her face and return her to her parents.

“I’m checking out the view,” Seven said with a smile.

The girl came even closer, sipping her nearly empty glass of champagne. She touched his arm, then playfully squeezed his biceps. “Yeah, me, too. And the view from where I stand is really hot.” Her breath smelled like champagne and strawberries as she leaned against the railing toward him.

After the woman in the backyard, this girl seemed too self-conscious, a flashy beauty without the confidence to back it up. Seven gave the girl his most charming smile and touched her arm, saying without a word she was beautiful, but tonight wasn’t the night. Her smile faltered. She clutched at the glass of champagne like a lifeline. A girl like this wasn’t used to being refused anything.

“A gorgeous woman like you deserves better company than me,” he said. “My head is in a whole different place tonight.” He squeezed her waist and, before she could say anything else, left her in search of solitude.

Seven felt her bemused eyes on his back as he walked away, but did not turn around. As he gripped the railing to get off the yacht, Marcus swam out of his crowd of admirers to Seven’s side.

“You having a good time, man?”

“You know I am.” Seven slapped his host on the back.

“Good. I don’t want you to get too bored.” Marcus grinned as if that was an impossibility. He shoved a full glass of Scotch into Seven’s hand. “Here. To make the party even better.”

“If things get slow for me here, I can always head back down to the house. The action down there looks hot.”

Hip-hop blared from the outdoor speakers on the back lawn of the mansion, while barely dressed women leaned from the balconies or danced suggestively to the music. Some had jumped into the pool in their party clothes, while others had simply stripped, inviting anyone else to join them with come-hither looks over their wet shoulders.

“Good, good. And don’t forget you can stay here as long as you like. My place is your place. And everything in it.” He inclined his head to encompass the women he’d just been talking to, one of whom was staring at him with a flirtatious come-get-it grin. She blew Marcus a kiss and he laughed, pretending to catch it and put it on his crotch.

“Thanks. I won’t be staying too long at your place, though,” Seven said, making a sudden decision. “I’ll get my own soon. But before I get too settled here, I need to take care of a few financial things.”

Most of his money was at a bank in England. He needed to set up accounts in the U.S. and arrange for his last check from the Bank of Arab Emirates to be sent there.

“That’s the last thing you should worry about. I know a money guy who can help you with whatever you need.”

A money guy, huh? Seven thought briefly about refusing Marcus’s help. Although Seven’s finances were very much in the black, in just a few short days of knowing the American billionaire, he’d received commissions worth almost three times what the bank in Dubai had paid him for the piece in their lobby. A man who made that happen probably knew a thing or two about multiplying and sheltering a fortune.

“Okay,” he said. “I’ll meet with your guy.”

“Cool.”

“Marcus, baby!” The sloe-eyed woman from across the room had apparently gotten tired of sending her kisses long-distance. She grabbed Marcus’s arm. “It’s time for you to tuck me in.” She grinned, all tiny teeth and bountiful cleavage.

Seven held up his hands. “Go ahead. I won’t keep you from your duties.”

Marcus tossed a grin his way before walking off with the woman toward the sleeping quarters belowdecks. Seven stayed only long enough to finish his Scotch. That last drink forced him to acknowledge the tiredness tugging at his shoulders and making his lids flag over his eyes. The past few days of nonstop partying with Marcus were catching up to him. Seven placed his empty glass on the tray of a passing waiter and left the boat, heading down a stone-paved path to the small cottage at the back of Marcus’s mansion. Music throbbed faintly behind him, followed him on his escape from the mad party, the sounds of laughter, a body splashing into the pool.

Seven let himself into the relative comfort of the cottage, undressed and fell into the bed. It enfolded him like a lover, soft as dreams yet firm under his back. Soon, he drifted into sleep, the worries and annoyances of his third day in Miami fading away with the sounds of the music from the larger house.

* * *

“Hey, wake up, rock star!” Someone pounded at the cottage door and called out again, “Wake up!”

Seven jolted from his sleep, reaching automatically for his cell phone on the bedside table to check the time. He swore under his breath. It was just past noon. Monday. But his body felt as if it could still do with another five hours of sleep. With a groan, he scrubbed a hand over his face. In the large mirror across from the bed, his reflection gazed tiredly back at him, bleary-eyed and naked. His body, hardened from years of lifting and shaping his steel sculptures, looked almost too heavy for him to haul out of the bed.

Whoever it was knocked on the door again, forcing Seven to gather the top sheet around his bare hips and stumble to open the door. Marcus stood there, grinning.

“About time you got your lazy ass up,” he said.

A trio of young women stood behind him, staring over his shoulder at Seven’s bare chest and stomach. Seven was suddenly glad that he’d taken the time to cover himself, otherwise the girls would have gotten more than they’d bargained for. But, looking at the scantily dressed girls who watched him with a shark’s intensity, maybe they wouldn’t mind seeing him naked, after all.

“Damn,” one of the girls said under her breath.

Seven cleared his throat. “Morning. It’s a little early, isn’t it?”

“It’s never too early.” Marcus laughed as if he’d made some big joke.

Behind him, the girls tittered on cue.

“You remember the girls from last night, right?” Marcus gestured to the women around him by way of introduction. Kenya was the bleached-blonde with deep gold skin. Felice wore her hair in a short natural, a pretty complement to her deep chocolate complexion. And Masiel had a fountain of black hair spilling around her narrow, foxlike face. All three girls were fiercely made up, dressed as though they’d just come from the set of a rap video.

Confused, Seven looked at the foursome gathered on his borrowed doorstep and gave them a questioning look.

“I came to take you to that money guy I told you about,” Marcus said. “The girls and I are on the way to that side of town and thought you might want to tag along.”

Seven raised an eyebrow at “the girls,” who wore tight skirts and body-hugging blouses of the animal-print variety. They didn’t look ready to see anyone’s money guy. Unless he was a pimp.

Marcus read his look accurately enough. “They’re not seeing the banker, you are. Come on. Get dressed. Maybe after you’re done we can go grab the jet and go for a bite and a sail in Cape Cod.”

Seven hesitated. He was flattered by Marcus’s interest, but he had had enough of the man’s hearty company. Marcus was generous, but he seemed to expect to be entertained at all times. His investment in Seven made him think the artist was there for his entertainment. It was time to end this.

“I have to shower. I don’t like leaving the house dirty,” Seven said.

“We’ll wait.”

And they did. As he walked out of the room to go shower, Marcus and the three girls sauntered into the small living area. Marcus fell into a sprawl on the couch while his companions grabbed the video game controllers and knelt in front of the fifty-inch flat screen to start a game.

In the bedroom, Seven quickly discarded the sheet and grabbed some clothes from his suitcase, climbed into the travertine-tiled shower and turned the water on full blast. The hot water washed away the last of his tiredness, flooding over his head and face, dripping through his lashes, over his mouth and down the muscular planes of his chest, belly, the thick stalk of his sex and his corded thighs. He sighed into the water, the heaviness in his body falling away to leave him awake.

Energized, he quickly finished his shower and dressed in jeans, a plain white Armani T-shirt and a favorite pair of loafers. He walked into the living room, fastening the clasp on his watch.

There, the three girls played “Just Dance,” their breasts and hips shaking as Marcus looked on with laughter and appreciation.

“Ready,” Seven said.

“Yummy,” Masiel murmured, turning her attention from the video game. Bouncy black waves tumbled down her back as she twisted around to look at Seven.

“I liked him better without clothes,” Felice said. With her close-cropped hair and sensual mouth, she was pretty in a Meagan Good kind of way, although not as sexy.

“I’ll take you however I can get you.” Kenya gave up any pretense of paying attention to the game and strutted over to Seven, who stepped back before she could touch him.

He wasn’t into playing with another man’s toys. Marcus watched all the action with a faint smile but didn’t say a word.

Seven raised an eyebrow. “You ladies are making me blush.” Though clearly he was in no danger of doing that. He looked at Marcus. “Are we heading out or what?”

“Of course.” Marcus stood up with a set of keys in his hand. “Let’s go.”

In the detached garage that was as big as another house, he chose a black Mercedes C-Class sedan and ushered the girls into the backseat before getting behind the wheel. He looked at Seven briefly. “You want to drive?”

Seven got in the passenger seat. “Yeah, right. I’m just here to relax and go along for the ride. Drive on.”

Marcus chuckled.

They drove out of the garage, under the wide, slowly lifting door, into the bright spotlight of a Miami Monday afternoon. Diamond sunlight bounced off the reflective lenses of Seven’s sunglasses as they wove through the estate’s main drive, flanked by bright ginger plants, yellow hibiscus and a profusion of thick-stalked pink and red flamingo lilies, plants Seven was used to seeing in Jamaica. A neatly manicured dozen or so acres, the landscape was occasionally broken by a hatted gardener stooped over a bed of flowers or stretch of grass. The smell of fresh-cut grass drifted into the car despite the closed windows and arctic AC.

The chill of the car made Seven suddenly wish for a cup of a hot chocolate. Steaming from the stove, not a packet. Freshly shaved from a ball of cocoa, swirled with milk and a dash of nutmeg. Just like his father made for him whenever he was home in Jamaica. Yeah, that was what he wanted.

Seven emerged from his momentary fantasy of hot chocolate to the sound of the girls giggling in the backseat. Marcus navigated the car through the mansion’s wide double gates and out to the long bridge heading off Star Island and to the A1A for downtown.

“The firm is downtown,” he said to Seven. “I’m not sure if Bailey can do anything for you today, but I let her know you’ll be there soon.”

“Her?”

“Yeah. Bailey. She’s my money guy.”

Masiel tapped Marcus’s shoulder from the backseat. “Can we go shopping on Collins Avenue?”

Marcus glanced back at her in the rearview mirror. “What, you got Collins Avenue money, girl?”

A chorus of giggles sounded from behind Seven.

“Honey, we thought you’d treat us.” Felice pouted, cocking a thigh bared in her short skirt. “We’re always treating you,” she said.

Seven didn’t have to imagine what the girls were always treating Marcus to. In the rearview mirror, Masiel gave him a teasing, wet-lipped smile as she trailed a red fingernail along her low neckline. He wasn’t impressed.

“You can drop me off at your money guy’s office and take off,” Seven said. “I got this.”

“See, he got this,” blond-haired Kenya mocked as she offered her cleavage for Marcus’s consideration. “We have needs, Daddy.” Her declaration set off another peal of laughter from the other girls.

In his profession, the rich and bored often clung to artists as a way to relieve their boredom—a lot like Marcus was doing now. Seven had seen enough of this type of leeching to last a lifetime. These girls bartered their bodies and their time for jewels or money or trips outside their small towns, riding that tiger as long as their looks lasted while hoping for one of these men to sweep them off their feet and offer marriage. He glanced at the trio in the backseat. He didn’t see Marcus marrying any of them, but then again, he had underestimated women enough to know he could be wrong.

“Here it is.”

The car pulled up in front of a high-rise glittering with blue glass and steel. “You’re going to the top floor. Braithwaite and Fernandez Wealth Management. Ask for Bailey Hughes.”

Seven nodded his thanks, patted his back pocket to make sure he had his wallet and got out of the car. As he slammed the door shut, one of the girls clambered over the other two to claim a position in the front seat beside Marcus. The younger man saluted Seven with a tap of fingers against his brow and peeled off down the street.

Inside the building, the AC threatened to turn him into an icicle in his thin white shirt and jeans. He pressed the elevator for the twenty-second floor, and when the car arrived laden with a half dozen business types who gave him cool, dismissive gazes, he got on and rose in swift quiet toward the building’s summit.

* * *

The top floor was rarefied air indeed. Seven stepped off the elevator into the marble-paved lobby of Braithwaite and Fernandez Wealth Management and the cold smell of new money. A thick mahogany desk sat directly in front of the elevator. Behind the desk, a freckled redhead with wheat-colored skin watched as he walked through the steel doors of the elevator. The heels of his loafers rang out against the marble.

Seven shivered slightly in the chilled air, feeling goose bumps rise over his arms. The lobby was cold and massive. It stretched out in both directions with an impressive view of the Miami skyline to the left and an ocean of cream marble in a long corridor that branched off into several hidden hallways. Purple orchids stood in tall black planters at each corner of the large lobby, a complement to the long row of black leather armchairs lining the back wall on both sides of the elevator.

“Good afternoon,” the redhead greeted him with a surprising island accent. Bahamian, if he wasn’t mistaken.

“Good afternoon. I’m here to see Bailey Hughes. I was referred by Marcus Stanfield.”

“Of course. Have a seat.” She gestured to the thick armchairs as she lifted the phone to her ear. “Your walk-in is here,” she said into the receiver. After a moment, the woman nodded. “Of course,” she said then hung up the phone.

“Ms. Hughes will be with you in a moment. Would you like a beverage while you wait?”

Seven looked around the reception area at the miles of marble, at the original Rothko on the cream walls. A place of obvious wealth and influence. They’d have what he wanted. “A cup of hot chocolate if you have it,” he said.

“Of course,” the young woman said. She moved from behind her desk with a click of her impressively high heels against the marble and disappeared down the hallway.

Seven shoved his hands in his pockets and strolled to the wide windows. Miami lay spread out before him, bright and glittering with its ribbons of roads, high-rise buildings and the gilded waters of Biscayne Bay. It was no Jamaica, but he looked forward to making a home here.

The sound of shoes on the marble drew his attention from the view. Two men, both middle-aged, with gray hair at their temples, one Latin and the other white, emerged from a long hallway, talking quietly. They looked up at him as they passed, nodding in quiet acknowledgment, although the white one, taller and in a more expensive suit, gave a narrow-eyed glance at Seven’s jeans and T-shirt. Seven, used to the contempt of corporate types, at least until they realized how much money he made, let the man’s cool-eyed stare roll off his back like bathwater.

He returned his attention to the view outside the window.

“Here you are.” The pale islander returned, holding a steaming mug in both hands. She smiled, then gestured toward the long hallway the men had come from. Seven gazed longingly at the cup in her hands. “Ms. Hughes will see you now. Follow me.”

She went ahead of him, long legs beautiful and eye-catching under the black skirt. At the third frosted-glass door, she stopped and knocked briefly.

“Come.” A voice came faintly from behind the slightly open door.

The young woman opened the door for him and waved him inside, simultaneously handing him the hot cocoa and gesturing toward one of the leather seats in front of the desk. Her duty fulfilled, she left.

Only a brief view of the office registered: ceiling-high windows, a wide glass desk, a figure rising from behind the desk with a hand outstretched. The woman behind the desk wore gray slacks and a white blouse with a heavy white bow at her throat. Her hair, straightened and parted down the middle, was tucked behind her ears. The usual banker type. Boring and barely attractive. But something about her pricked Seven’s memory.

“I’m Bailey Hughes. It’s a pleasure to meet you,” the woman said.

Seven’s hand rose automatically to meet hers even as his mind registered the familiar lines of her face, her sharp blade of a body, which had drawn his attention before.

“Have we met?” he asked, shaking her hand.

Her mouthed twisted briefly in a smile. “No, we haven’t. At least not formally.” She drew her hand back. “And I still don’t know your name.” She looked up at him, challenge in the arch of her eyebrow.

He grinned. “Seven Carmichael.”

“As I said before, a pleasure.”

“Likewise,” Seven said.

He watched her carefully, the gazellelike grace of her body, the challenging toss of her head, the long neck. Suddenly, he remembered the sound of laughter around her, the splash of bodies hitting the water. Marcus’s party. Last night. The woman who had taunted him from the back lawn.

“Damn. It’s you.”

She laughed softly, dismissively, and drew back even more to stalk away from him—secretive smile, long legs, a fake banker’s demeanor—to sit once more on the other side of her desk. In that moment, he saw that it was a mask she wore, something she pulled down to hide the vicious beauty he’d seen last night. And he was intrigued.

“Marcus told me you need help with asset management,” she said with a cool smile. “What is it that I can do for you, Mr. Carmichael?”

He sat in the leather armchair across from her desk, with the warmth of the hot chocolate sinking into his palms, the drink nearly forgotten as he focused on something he wanted more. Seven grinned.