Tempting Eden (6 page)

I tried to spear an olive with my fork, but sent it off my plate and spinning across the table into his lap. He half smiled at my folly, and I knew I was in trouble. He was gorgeous, his plump lips made for kissing. Dimples showed along each of his cheeks. I knew if he ever gave me a full-on, face-brightening, glee-induced grin, I’d run the definite risk of melting.

“Nice,” he said and placed the offending fruit back on the table.

I needed to keep talking before my mind strayed back to his smile, his hands, how close he was in the elevator. “So, um, what made you change into the thoughtful, tactful person I now see before me?”

He sighed and set his fork down next to his plate. “That’s not something I feel very comfortable talking about.”

I frowned and plucked the next olive between my thumb and forefinger before popping it into my mouth. He watched me closely, and his tongue darted out to wet his lips. Maybe he kept his thoughts under wraps, maybe he managed to hide the worst parts of his nature, but I knew interest when I saw it. And he was interested. I enjoyed the attention, even if fraternization was, technically, frowned upon at Thornfield.

“Why don’t you tell me something about
you
for a change, Ms. Rochester?” He folded a piece of pita in his hands, dipped it in the hummus, and took a bite.

I smirked. I could have told him to call me Eden, but I rather enjoyed him addressing me formally all the time. He’d never once slipped and called me by my first name. I sometimes caught myself daydreaming of what could spur him to call me Eden without me first telling him to. I had a few ideas, ones that were, once again, frowned upon in the no-fraternization portion of the Thornfield handbook.

“Well, there’s not much to tell, really.”
Lie
.

He gave me a look, at once disapproving and incredulous. As if he couldn’t decide which emotion might goad me into divulging more.

“I think you can do better than that, Ms. Rochester.”

“Well, my life is pretty much an open book.”
Lie
. “I’m from Birmingham. I went to Duke for undergrad. After earning my degree in business I moved back and got involved in real estate. Eventually, by working hard, I made it to where I am.”
Lie
. I shrugged. If only my life really were that simple, that compartmentalized. While I might lie to others, lying to myself wasn’t a luxury I indulged in.

My life was, in the common parlance, a fucking mess. When I was young I’d made a series of mistakes, and kept making more and more until it all sort of snowballed. Now the mistakes ruled me, owned me. I had to keep letting them have their way with me or the entire life I’d built would come crumbling down around me.

If it were only me, I would let it collapse. I would let the relief wash over me. No more lies. No more fear. But it wasn’t only me. Others depended on me, and I’d be damned if I was going to let them down. I was caught in a web of my own design, my own making, and I would live with the consequences as long as necessary. Better that I suffered than the ones I loved.

I would have liked to share my burden with someone else. Someone stronger than I was. But there were some truths that could only be told to strangers. Jack, with his steady gaze and smooth voice that secretly thrilled me, was definitely not in the stranger category anymore. My secrets would have to stay that way—secret.

He studied my face as I ruminated on my sins. I felt a sudden fear that he could see me,
really
see me, and knew how tarnished I was. Though his eyes were narrowed, he let my subterfuge go and resumed his meal.

I changed the subject, lest he hit any landmines. The grounds of my history were littered with them. “We’ll be flying to Belle Mar next Friday, by the way.”

Surprise dashed across his face in a quick burst.

“We?” he asked.

“Yeah.” I pointed my fork at him. “My assistant and me. We’re going to have our first pre-opening sales party. Two months is no time, and we’ve already wasted two weeks on sales prep, designers; all that extra crap. At the beach is where we’ll shine. Selling is what we do. We’ll fly out Friday morning on the Thornfield plane. I want you to plan the party, make it sparkle, make it rich, luxurious, fancy—or any word that is remotely in the same realm as those ideas.”

I speared another piece of lettuce.

He rubbed his hand across his face, clearly thrown.

“What?” I asked.

“We’re flying?”

“I’m pretty sure I said that. What, you afraid of flying?”

“I wouldn’t really know.” He said it so quietly I barely heard it over the crunching of my salad.

“You’ve never flown?”

“No, not yet.”

“
Never
?” I coughed, a bit of feta caught in my throat. I sputtered. He rose to help me, but I held a hand out, the opposite of the international sign for choking. I took a sip of water and calmed. My face flushed pink.

“I, well, sorry about that.” My voice sounded strangled. I willed the cough away lest I make an even bigger fool of myself in the restaurant.

“It’s okay. I didn’t know you’d be so surprised.” His striking blue eyes seemed to be laughing at my distress.

“It’s just, I don’t know. It’s…”

“Odd?” he asked.

“Interesting,” I said at the same time.

He gave me a slight smile, just one corner of his mouth turning up in amusement.

“You’ve never wanted to go anywhere far? Just get away?” I used to love flying, loved the feeling of leaving some place and going on an adventure. Now it was old to me, boring even, just a means to an end, a long span of empty time I had to relive my mistakes over and over while the hum of the engine bored into my mind.

“I’ve never really had the opportunity.” He took a long drink of water, tilting his somehow elegant neck back a bit.

I remembered he said he hailed from Lowood, decrepit government projects on the East end of Birmingham. No, I supposed there weren’t many opportunities for air travel over on that side of town, even though the airport was less than a mile away. I frowned at the ugly irony.

He seemed to read my thoughts. “My foster family never took us anywhere. They didn’t have the money or the inclination. They weren’t exactly the nurturing sort. Once I went to college, I certainly didn’t have any money for travel. I had hoped to save some money now that I’m working and do some traveling, though.”

Jesus. He’d been in the foster system. He must have been especially tenacious to survive Lowood and turn out so well, especially with no family support at his back. I couldn’t imagine how hard his life had been. Empathy had never been my strong suit, but the thought of walking a mile in his shoes made my bum ankle ache even more.

“Well, there’s a first time for everything,” I said.

“There certainly is,” he agreed, his tone somehow even richer, deeper. His glance chanced down to my lips and back up to my eyes.

Noted
.

CHAPTER FOUR

J
ACK

M
S.
R
OCHESTER SET A
meeting with the interior designer for the Wednesday prior to our departure for Belle Mar. The Atlanta team brought room mock-ups and sample finishes intended to woo potential buyers. The designers were like a troupe of traveling salesmen who specialized solely in ostentatious bling.

Ms. Rochester was planning a huge pre-opening party to tout the luxury condominiums, and my guest list had already swelled to capacity. I had booked the bar and balcony overlooking the Gulf at a swank hotel near the Belle Mar construction site. It was sure to be a huge to-do, and I wanted to make it as perfect as I could for Ms. Rochester. She had been grooming clients, burning up the phone lines throughout the Southeast, courting both new and old money, and even up North, netting the snowbirds.

Beach real estate had come back with a vengeance after the bubble burst almost ten years ago. People were hungry for a piece of the coast, and it was our job to make them pay handsomely for water views and high-style amenities. The penthouse suite was going to list at $4.5 million, supposedly a record for real estate along the Florida Panhandle.

I had checked the Belle Mar build site on satellite, but in the images it was still just an expanse of sand and scrubby trees. I scanned the map, noting the ebb and flow of the coastline, the little inlets and large bays. I wondered what the water would look like. Did pictures do the waves justice? I’d never actually seen the ocean, never been anywhere even approaching a body of water that size. Abandoned quarries and some rivers were as close as I ever got, and even I realized those were raindrops compared to the deluge of the Gulf. I intended to take a canvas or two with me, see if I could start a rough sketch of the surf and the sky. It would be a pathetic first attempt, no doubt, but I had to begin somewhere.

Ms. Rochester burst through her glass doors, looking ready to either make or break the design meeting. I could never tell which with her.

I followed her to the large conference room. She took the chair at the head of the table and seemed almost regal with the uptilt of her chin. She wore a turquoise sweater and a short gray skirt. Something about the heels she wore that day made her ass appear even nicer, rounder. She’d flitted around my desk, getting ready for this meeting and making it hard for me to concentrate on my job. Her green gaze would light on me sometimes, as if she were trying to catch me looking. Not a chance. I was no amateur.

She drummed her fingernails on the conference table, making a resonating tapping sound. “I hope you brought me what I asked for, Bess. If not, we’re going to have a poor pre-opening party this weekend. That means you don’t get paid.”

“I think you will be pleased,” Bess, the lead designer of Xiao & Co, said with a gracious smile.

Bess Xiao was a tall, dark-haired beauty. She wore a short white dress and black high heels which accentuated her willowy figure. Her lips were painted blood red so she appeared brighter, large than life, and she’d captured her dark hair in a high ponytail. She was almost more work of art than human. Her movements were fluid, practiced, as she set the room and dimmed the lights for her slideshow.

Ms. Rochester tossed her hair over her shoulder in a definitively feminine—yet somehow forceful—move. “Then by all means, let’s get on with it.”

Bess started her presentation, displaying various concept drawings and computer-generated images of the finishes and views occupants could expect to find in Belle Mar. She narrated in a clear, low voice.

On almost every slide, Ms. Rochester would have a comment to “change this,” or “I don’t like that,” or “why would we go with gold instead of silver here?” Bess answered each question as her assistant feverishly typed notes, taking down every word and change that came from Ms. Rochester’s mouth. I didn’t envy her the job.

Where Ms. Rochester quibbled, I saw nothing but opulence. To me, the images were nothing short of amazing. They represented some sort of fairytale place where everything was made of glass, chrome, and gleaming stone. Fireplaces and chandeliers, fur rugs and leather couches…these things were expected, normal, in this world. It was fantastical.

Though I was admittedly dazzled, Ms. Rochester remained critical, finding some perceived flaw in the pocket doors, or the type of crystal in the lighting. She was attuned to every detail, every tiny piece of design. I wondered why she hired out the work in the first place when she seemed more than capable of bringing it all together on her own.

When the slideshow ended, Bess opened a large black case full of samples. Squares upon squares of fabric were neatly lined along both sides of the box. She and Ms. Rochester went back and forth on which top grain leather to put on the chairs for the model, which fabric for drapes, what to use on the accent chairs. It was serious business between them, but absurdly so, given the topics were prints or solids, paisley or damask. I wanted to laugh. I didn’t.

Both women were bent over, focusing on the tiny samples. Ms. Rochester’s auburn hair fell into her face. Her sweater gaped open a bit, showing me her nude bra underneath. I shifted in my seat to enjoy the view more. Some wardrobe malfunctions were better left unmentioned and simply enjoyed.

They went through each box just as methodically as the first. The next case had bits of stone arranged as if marching in line. Another case contained a hundred different knobs and drawer pulls. Another, sheets of wallpaper. It reminded me of all the ingredients required to bake an outrageously pricey cake. One that no doubt looked far better than it tasted.

Ms. Rochester was utterly meticulous in her choices, and once she’d made a decision, she stuck to it. Bess nodded here and there, agreeing or capitulating at times, though I often couldn’t tell which. I enjoyed being a silent spectator, watching them choose every detail right down to the size and shape of the doorstops. Ms. Rochester got to the last case, one lined with moldings in several patterns. She picked out a few, frowned, and then picked out a few more.

“Bess, should we even do coffers? I mean, don’t they seem stuffy?”

“They are making a big comeback right now, actually. I just did a piece on them for the
Journal-Constitution
living section. They are, of course, a bit more traditional than the look you’re going for, but I think they would give the condos a little more eclectic flair.”

“You say ‘eclectic,’ I hear mismatched.” Ms. Rochester wrinkled her nose.

“Well, of course it’s up to you.”

Ms. Rochester turned to me. She held up two moldings, one done with an acanthus leaf and another in a simpler, more angular style. “Jack, what do you think, between these two?”

First world problems.

I studied her proffered options. “I’d go with the more art deco piece, if it were me. You seem to be going mid-century mod a bit on the fixtures and the pulls. The kitchen is of course, full-on modern, and the rest of the rooms lack any traditional elements. Like Bess said, the coffer is traditional, but if you give it an art deco angular look, it would give a nod to older tradition with the quirk of earlier century design.”