Forbidden Surrender(13)

I exhaled, relieved he wasn’t interested in revisiting our personal discussion. Maybe he took the hint. “I’m happy to hear that. When would you like to schedule a meeting?”

“Today.”

I laughed nervously. “We might need a little more time to make it out to South Africa.”

“I’m at my office in Manhattan. Sixty-five West Fifty-ninth Street. Eighty-second floor.” That was just a few blocks away. Of course. He had a media office in Manhattan that produced a popular extreme sports series that were broadcast on multiple cable networks.

“Could we do tomorrow? Richard is meeting with another client until late this afternoon.”

“He’s not needed. I’ll be on a flight to Lucerne tomorrow. It has to be today.” His voice betrayed no sense of urgency or need, just a statement of facts.

My mind swirled. Could I take the meeting with Vincent? I had all the paperwork ready; it was in the same folder as the proposal. Richard had let me close some smaller clients before so I knew what had to be done. But what would he say if I went to the meeting without him? I had a pretty good guess of what he’d say if I was the reason we lost Vincent’s business. I had to take this meeting, if only to avoid the four letter words Richard would have in store for me if I didn’t.

“Yes, of course. How is three p.m. for you?” I asked.

“Perfect. I’m looking forward to it, Kristen.”

After he hung up, I let out a long breath, blowing my bangs out of my face. I was going to see Vincent Sorenson again. Although I certainly hadn’t forgotten about both our meetings in South Africa, I wasn’t sure if he’d been thinking about them at all.

At two thirty, I quickly packed my bag and told the receptionist to tell Richard or anyone else who stopped by my desk that I was going to be at a client meeting.

It was only when I was on the elevator down, the paperwork neatly filed in my briefcase, that I realized what I’d gotten myself into. Vincent Sorenson and I were going to be in the same room together. Alone.



***





Well this is different.

I stood in front of the sleek black reception desk at Red Fusion, SandWork’s media arm, trying not to eye the curved adult-sized plastic slide that came from the ceiling and ended just right of where the receptionist was sitting. I smiled at the blonde woman behind the desk. She beamed back at me. Her rows of perfectly white teeth and her sultry figure made her more appropriate for a movie set than an office.

“Can I help you?” she said.

“Hi, my name is Kristen Daley. I’m here to see Mr. Sorenson.”

“Of course, he’s expecting you. Right this way.” I followed her, watching the way her hips swayed in her curve-hugging dress. Though I tried to resist, I couldn’t help inspecting my reflection in the glass door to make a quick comparison. Was she one of the pleasures Vincent mixed with his business? But so what if she was? I had no right to be upset.

The Red Fusion offices were abuzz with activity. An employee sat cross-legged on the carpet, tossing a stress ball at the wall, stopping only to peck furiously at the laptop in front of him. Others were seated around large tables, having animated discussions. It was nothing like the reverential near silence at Waterbridge-Howser.

“Here we are, you can go inside. Vincent’s ready for you.” The receptionist stopped in front of a frosted glass door. The same glass formed a wall that stretched to either side of the entry.

I nodded thanks to her before pushing open the door and walking inside. Silence greeted me. Whatever the glass was made of, it completely blocked the noise from outside. In the corner was a black leather couch with a small coffee table in front of it. A large desk was set squarely in the center of the room, a metal and glass tribute to modernity. It was a stark contrast to his desk in Cape Town.

Vincent stood by the window, one arm behind his back, looking out. He was wearing a navy suit matched with a grey tie and white shirt. His long locks were slicked neatly back. Unwillingly preoccupied with wild fantasies, I nearly tripped on the rug in front of his desk as I walked closer. My pulse danced in my veins and a flush coursed through my cheeks. If I had fallen on him twice, I would’ve died from embarrassment.

Blue skies and skyscrapers along Central Park silhouetted his figure. He looked equally comfortable in a suit as he had in shorts and flip-flops.

He turned around, his dark eyes shimmering. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

I looked at his chin, chiseled with perfect angles, as if carved from a slab of marble. My eyes moved up to his mouth, his lips full and soft.

I cleared my throat. “Yes, it is. I’ve never quite gotten used to the view. Good to see you again, Mr. Sorenson.”