A Nine-Month Temptation
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Joanne Rock
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14
One
Best. Job. Ever.
Sable Cordero sipped the fine champagne and toasted herself in the full-length mirror at the Zayn Designs studio in Manhattan, where she’d been working as a stylist for three months. What other line of work would give a backwoods Louisiana divorcée with more ambition than savings the opportunity to drape herself in haute couture from the most lauded new brand of the year? She didn’t own the sample-sized dress, of course. It was far beyond her financial means. But tonight she got to wear the silk work of art for the sake of a social media video she was creating after hours. The designer, Marcel Zayn, had been fully supportive of her wish to help develop content for the brand, not even blinking at the idea of her remaining late in the studio unsupervised.
And damn, but she appreciated his faith in her. At twenty-nine years old, Sable was older than anyone else employed by the fashion house, except for the designer himself. She couldn’t be more thankful for the opportunity to chase her dream of being a stylist after the brief detour of an unhappy marriage.
She’d been given a second chance at life. One she would not take for granted.
Once upon a time, she’d nabbed a fashion degree from Louisiana State, but she’d gotten sidetracked by a smooth-talking political science major who convinced her she wanted to share his dream instead of her own. In hindsight, she could hardly be surprised that he moved on when she stopped fulfilling his vision of what he wanted in a wife. She’d learned the hard way that some men just marry women as placeholders, human mirrors to reflect back what they want to see.
Sable was mostly cured of the bitterness surrounding her ex. Nevertheless, she cranked up the stereo volume as Beyoncé sang about putting middle fingers up and saying, “boy, bye.”
She couldn’t be bitter after scoring this dream job. She might be living hand-to-mouth for a while in the Brooklyn apartment she shared with three other women, but at least she had a great place to call home.
Sable danced around the hardwood floor in bare feet. Tonight, she was filming after hours, incorporating the champagne brand that had approached Zayn about some sponsored ads—a budget-friendly way to extend the fledgling design house’s marketing reach. She didn’t need to be model-gorgeous since she was filming herself from the back, where the dramatic ribbon ties of the neckline fell over mostly bare skin until they grazed the sexy-as-hell silk that wrapped her hips.
Careful not to spill her drink, Sable went around the Tribeca loft space making sure all her props were positioned for the series of short videos. She’d culled the designer’s most visually interesting furnishings, dragging them all into the open section of the loft where she’d walk among them in her dress. She’d flipped on a few spotlights and filled in the dark areas with a couple of borrowed floor lamps. It wasn’t high tech, but it would get the job done. Her video concept wasn’t super fancy, either. She planned to film the same basic movements twice—once tonight while wearing the black version of the silk dress, and again during daylight hours clad in the same dramatic dress in white. Then she’d interpose the segments in editing.
She was almost ready. She just needed a little more mojo to fuel her attempt at a catwalk swagger.
“Cheers to me.” Sable lifted the flute to her lips again, savoring the way the bubbles tickled her nose before she downed another sip.
She wanted the champagne bottle to be half-empty in her video, and she obviously couldn’t dump the contents of a ridiculously expensive vintage down the drain. The only appropriate action was drinking it herself. Besides, she needed the confidence boost those bubbles provided since the silk fit like a second skin and she was about to film her ass in unforgiving high definition. Alcohol and Queen B on the stereo were both required, considering the Zayn videos were getting over a hundred thousand views.
And yeah, maybe she’d opted to put herself out there tonight in the latest video as her final middle finger to her ex. She’d gotten a call from her mother today that he was expecting a baby with his new wife, the woman who’d taken her place even before Sable had realized she wasn’t wanted anymore.
While she no longer resented him moving on, she resented the hell out of him leaving her because of her inability to give him a baby. She’d tried. Yes, it had hurt her that she hadn’t been successful in keeping their marriage afloat. But what hurt more was the memory of her miscarriage, which had filled her with a deep sense of loss. So it was galling that her ex had replaced her with someone more fertile.
That warranted the badass babe music and all the boss-woman attitude she could bring to this dress. Sable slid on the sky-high stilettos guaranteed to make any woman’s legs look delicious. She hadn’t felt sexy in a long, long time.
Unbidden, an image of Roman Zayn came into her mind. Roman was the design house’s owner, Marcel’s older brother, and the power behind the throne. Or maybe Sable just saw him that way because Roman’s brand of tall, dark and brooding had slid past her professional reserve and done something wicked to her insides the lone time they’d met. They’d only exchanged a few words during her first week on the job before he returned to LA, where he ran Zayn Equity, a global wealth management company. Yet the man’s probing stare had stripped her bare and sent her sensual imagination off and running.
It had been silly, really. Just a fanciful turn of her thoughts that would never come to anything since Roman had little to do with the day-to-day workings of the fashion house. But that moment alone with him when he’d asked about her experience—in fashion, of course—had been the last time she’d felt a hint of feminine power.
So she let that memory wash over her as she took a deep breath, finger hovering over the record button on her phone where it rested in a cradle on the tripod.
Hell yes, she was moving on. Chasing her dream.
In three, two, one...
Roman Zayn heard the music as soon as his black Town Car pulled up outside the Vestry Street building where his brother worked. Considering the Zayn Designs loft was on the seventh floor, that struck Roman as...excessive. But definitely not out of character for Marcel, the family black sheep to everyone but Roman. Marcel lived by his own lights and Roman admired the hell out of him for it, which was why he’d agreed to be his business partner. Marcel might not have Roman’s financial know-how, but the man knew clothing.
Besides, Marcel had been there for Roman during the darkest year of his life. He’d been the only family member to show up for him with more than just platitudes during the hell he’d gone through when his wife died. Roman owed him for that.
But as much as he loved Marcel, he also understood his brother’s tendencies to overspend in order to bring his art to life. Roman had committed to putting in an appearance at the atelier as often as possible to keep the design house within budget while they found an audience that could sustain the kind of business Marcel envisioned. Roman hoped the pop anthem blaring out the seventh-floor window at 10:00 p.m. meant his brother was working overtime toward that goal. He hadn’t planned to meet with him personally tonight, thinking he’d duck into the small suite attached to the workshop and catch a few hours of sleep before intercepting his brother first thing in the morning. He’d been trying to avoid seeing anyone else at the studio.
Namely the newly hired stylist Roman had met on his last trip to New York. The Southern siren who’d ignited a flashfire of lust with just a few words spoken in her molasses-thick drawl.
He’d stayed away from Zayn Designs longer than usual to avoid her. Roman didn’t deny himself feminine companionship since his wife’s death. But he preferred to slake that thirst with women who didn’t stir quite so...much. Curvaceous, delectable Sable had “too much” stamped across her perpetually bee-stung lips.
If Roman could speak with Marcel tonight, he could leave early for his other meetings tomorrow morning before anyone else arrived at the studio.
“Have a good night,” Roman called to the driver through the open window after he got out.
Stepping into the building’s brick archway, he swiped his keycard and opened a wrought iron door to access the elevator behind it. He noticed the sound of the music was fainter here as he unearthed a second security key for the elevator.
Once inside the industrial-sized lift, Roman loosened his tie. He’d kept it on for video conferencing during the flight from LA, but his brother would only harangue him about his too-conservative clothes. No doubt, the customer base for a wealth management firm was a world away from high fashion. His shirt, at least, had been made by his brother. Sure, Marcel designed more women’s garments than men’s, but his clothes for men were fantastic, from the mother-of-pearl buttons to the French seams and custom tailoring.
Roman stuffed his tie into his briefcase as the elevator door opened onto the loft. R&B music made the floor vibrate, the horns blaring and drums thumping as loud as in any dance club. The lights shone brightly in the center of the work area, while the edges of the room remained in shadow.
But it wasn’t the light or the music that hit his senses like an assault.
That honor went to the woman strutting away from him in a black silk dress that molded to her curves like it had been poured over her. Her lustrous, dark hair was piled haphazardly on her head, a braid coiled around the mass like an afterthought to keep it in place. The dress had no back. Zero. The fabric only covered the soft swell of her ass, the silk cupping the bared dimples at the base of her spine as if to highlight that undeniably sexy feature.
Two thick ribbons cascaded from a knot at her neck to sway between her shoulder blades. As she moved, her hips rolled in a come-hither rhythm so seductive he found himself following in her wake even from ten yards away. A champagne flute dangled carelessly from her fingertips as she wove her way between stylized dress forms and the kitschy busts of composers that Marcel collected. She moved among them like they were adoring lovers, caressing a cheek here, bumping hips with a mannequin there.
She was so sexy she took his breath away, his pulse pounding in time with each step of her stilettos.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
How had the beat synced up? He wanted to catch her. Pull those teasing hips against him.
Right up until she paused to cast a sultry glance over one shoulder. And promptly screamed at seeing him.
The champagne glass shattered on the hardwood.
Damn.
It was her. Recognizing the very woman he’d been hoping to avoid, Roman regained his faculties at once.
“It’s just me,” he assured her, moving toward the stereo system on the shelf between two of the huge arched windows overlooking the street. Dialing down the volume, he turned toward Sable, the woman who’d populated far too many fantasies since his one and only meeting with her. “Roman,” he reminded her.
He couldn’t help feeling the flash of annoyance that she was staring at him like she’d seen a ghost. The thought of her forgetting him when she’d made an indelible impression on him was a definite kick to the ego. Not that it mattered.
“Of course I remember you.” She hastened to speak, possibly hearing the irritation in his voice. “I’m sorry.” She started to take a halting step, her movements jerky. Was she embarrassed? “I wasn’t expecting anyone,” she rushed to explain, color flooding her cheeks.
Seeing that she was about to step on glass, he crossed the floor to help her. Somehow, that meant lifting her off her feet to remove her from the danger. Roman realized how unwise that decision had been the moment his fingers encircled her almost-naked waist. His fingers caressed bare skin while his thumbs pressed into the black silk just above her hips. For a scant second, her breasts grazed his chest as he picked her up.
He didn’t want to let go. Not when he could feel the tight points of her nipples brush against him. Not when he heard the swift intake of her breath, felt the rush of air along the heated skin at his neck, saw the flash of awareness in her hazel eyes. Hell no, he didn’t want to release her.
Which was why he forced himself to put her down, prying his fingers free from the magnetic force that was her gorgeous body, then jamming them into his pants pockets where he balled them into fists.
She looked up at him, confusion in her gaze as if she had no idea why he’d picked her up. Or maybe she was unsure why he let her go. And didn’t that thought mess with his head? He ground his teeth together and brusquely said, “I need a broom.”
Stalking away from her, he went to find one to clean up the glass, knowing he sounded rude but needing to keep his hands busy. Definitely needing his hands off her.
“I can get it,” she called, following him into the tiny galley kitchen someone had added to the loft in a long-ago renovation. “I made the mess. I can certainly clean it up.”
From the softness of her footfall, he guessed she’d taken off her shoes. And it disturbed him how acutely attuned his senses were to her movement.
He could only brace himself and hold his breath when she leaned past him to reach for the broom and dustpan in the recess between the cabinets. The scent of her hair tickled his nose, something lemony and sweet.
Her hip bumped his and she murmured, “Excuse me.” She lifted her face to his again. “I’m just so mortified to have screamed like some ninny in a horror movie. I’m Sable, by the way, in case you don’t remember. Marcel never mentioned you were arriving tonight, so I thought I was alone.”
Roman’s pulse ticked in his temple as he stared down at her, willing himself not to touch her again. Seeing her now reawakened every hot fantasy he’d had about her since they’d met three months ago. She was still too much, the feelings she awakened stirring something that felt more ominous than simple lust. And yet...what if acting on the lust deflated things back down to a manageable level? He was so keyed up he was tempted to try, except that she worked for Marcel.
Hell, technically, she worked for him. So taking a taste of her was out of the question. He needed to shake off this spell she had him under and take control of the situation.
“I remember you.” He let that sink in for a moment before he took the broom out of her hands and charged toward the broken glass. He’d help her clean up and then he’d get a hotel. “And Marcel didn’t expect me. The fault is mine for not warning him. Tonight, it never occurred to me that anyone but him would be here at this hour. When I heard the music outside, I assumed he was working late.”
He tackled the glass shards with a vengeance, drawing the bristles over the hardwood, the bright lights making it easier to find all the pieces. She was quiet for a long moment, but she’d followed him into the work area with a towel in hand, careful to remain outside the ring of glittering shards.
“You remember me,” she repeated in a barely audible voice, almost like she was turning the thought over in her head.
Her tone was so...wistful, almost, that it made him look up from sweeping. She leaned a bare shoulder against one of the columns scattered throughout the room, her sinfully sexy dress clinging to a body any 1940s pinup would have envied. Something twisted in his gut.
He wanted to call it lust, but it sure as hell felt like something more.
“Definitely. You aren’t exactly the kind of woman a man forgets.” He wasn’t happy about it, either. He couldn’t help it if some of that frustration bled into his words.
She straightened from where she’d been slouching, her chin tipping higher as something defensive lit up her gaze. She folded her arms. “I am, actually. So excuse me if I found it momentarily flattering that someone like you would recall the meeting. But I can see I’ve disrupted your evening, Mr. Zayn.” Her Southern accent slid over his name, dragging out the vowel. “I’ll get out of your hair now.”
Spinning on her bare heel, she presented him with her back again. The same view that had tied him in knots the moment he entered the loft. Only this time, he was close enough to catch her. Without giving himself time to think about it, he slid an arm around her to halt her.
Immediately, he recognized the error. Knew he was crossing a professional line. He hung his head in defeat.
“I’m sorry.” He sounded like he’d swallowed the broken glass. Once more, he took his hands off her with an effort, cursing his impulsiveness. Cursing himself for landing in a situation where he was alone with a woman he’d thought about too often. “You didn’t ruin my evening. I should have called Marcel before barging in here tonight.”
He tried to keep his eyes off the long ribbons that trailed down her back, but even when he wasn’t looking at them, he was thinking about trailing them over her skin. Would it make her shiver? The mere thought of it made his body react.
She glanced back at him over her shoulder.
“You own the building, Mr. Zayn. I’m sure you don’t need to call when you want to visit your own company.” She scooped up a pair of jeans and a T-shirt lying over the back of an armchair. “I’ll just slip out of this dress and be on my way.”
He wasn’t sure what bothered him more: that he was responsible for her leaving, or that he wouldn’t be the one to untie those ribbons for her tonight.
Hell.
“Don’t. Go.” He articulated the words carefully, keeping his tone neutral-ish. “I’ve interrupted you, and you’re obviously doing a lot to help Marcel if you’re here at this hour. If it’s just the same to you, I’d much prefer you stay. Tell me what you’re working on.”
Slowly, she turned to face him. The anger had left her features, but she arched a skeptical brow. “You really want to know?”
She had no idea.
But now that he was here, the idea of Sable walking away from him tonight was almost painful. He knew this woman was the most talented stylist Marcel had on the payroll, so Roman couldn’t afford to scare her off. But he also couldn’t ignore the way she made him feel alive again after years of going through the motions of his day-to-day world. Now that he’d admitted as much, maybe he could figure out what to do about it.
“I really do.” His pulse spiked at the possibilities. “And please, call me Roman.”
