Blurb:
Nathan Lawford, Blaine Technologies’ chief financial
officer, is known as the Iceman. He conducts his personal and business affairs
without emotion, never allowing himself to become involved with anyone. When
Nate sees something or someone he wants, he negotiates, paying a simple, set
monetary price.
Now he wants Camille, the company’s green-haired intern.
Of course, Camille has never been good at following rules.
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Excerpt:
This is the morning I break Nathan Lawford, Blaine
Technologies’ notoriously uptight chief financial officer, the executive
employees call the Iceman.
I hum the words to an extremely vulgar hip-hop song as I
stride through the concrete-and-glass lobby, my phone in my right hand and the
straps of my backpack slung over my shoulder.
Not even Jerome, the company’s powerful high-security guard,
could dampen my enthusiasm today. He searched my black canvas bag for a record
twelve minutes, wrinkling important papers and poking his clumsy fingers into
delicate electronics. He leered and sneered at me, and I said nothing,
tolerating the harassment.
Because today Nate will touch me.
I’ve spent months defrosting the Iceman, following rules
I’ve crafted, rules he isn’t aware of. I can’t touch him unless he touches me.
I can’t see him outside of our morning elevator rides unless he approaches me.
I can e-mail him but not call him, check his agenda but not change it.
Even with these self-imposed restrictions, I’ll win, my
victory growing more certain as our daily skirmishes escalate in intensity.
Every morning Nate takes the same elevator at the same time,
his schedule as rigid and unbending as he is. Every morning I share the same
elevator car. He looks at me. I look at him. We exchange a couple of verbal
barbs, some increasingly steamy sexual innuendos, and then we part ways, going
to our different floors, our different worlds.
I’m the green-haired rebel intern. Nate is an unemotional
rule setter, a huge immovable wall I can’t stop pushing against, a challenge I
can’t back away from. He drives me absolutely wild and I will have him. On my
terms.
I glance at my phone’s screen. Sh** on a stick. I have three
minutes to trek to the elevators. Clipping my phone to my skirt’s frayed
waistband, I march faster, the heels of my shoes ringing against the gleaming
white marble tile. Video screens hang from the walls, displaying happy images
of the conforming masses. Dark-suited corporate clones linger around the
paid-to-be-perky receptionist.
Loitering isn’t an option, as there’s no flexibility in the
Iceman’s timetable. I turn the corner and my heels squeak on the floor. No one
is waiting for the elevators, the area empty. I press the up button three times
in rapid succession, pleased that I’ll have Nate’s complete attention during
our five-minute elevator ride.
Privacy is essential for my plan to work, as I’m not the
type of woman any career-minded executive would choose to acknowledge publicly.
I glance at my reflection in the elevator’s shiny metallic doors and wince.
Although I no longer wear my temporary tattoos or visible body jewelry, the
green hair and the holes in my ears, nose, and bottom lip remain, declaring my
rebel status to the world.
This is who I am, who I’ve always been. I break rules. I
push people. I don’t fit in anywhere. I tell myself I’m okay with this. In my
heart I know I’m not. But I can’t change, not even for the Iceman.
The bell rings, the doors to elevator number four open, and
my heart pounds. Nate stands in the back right corner, staring down at his
phone, appearing as unapproachably handsome as usual, his blond hair short and
neat, his broad shoulders clad in a form-fitting black suit, his crisp white
shirt accentuating his golden tan. His tie is always black, always plain.
He wears the same clothing combination every day, and I want
to peel the monochromatic fabric away from his kicking hot physique and lick
him from his head to his toes. This impulsive act, while certain to be sexually
satisfying, violates the rules of my game. He must touch me first. I keep my
hands to myself and stride into the elevator, my hips swaying and my head held
defiantly high.
Nate glances upward, our gazes lock and hold, and I forget
to breathe, to think, to move. His eyes are the palest, coldest gray, a frigid
blast of icy wind on a hot Californian day, and I want him as I’ve never wanted
anyone else, my need for him carnal and raw.
He slides his phone into his jacket pocket and the silver
Rolex on his wrist gleams. This symbol of wealth and the establishment, a
physical reminder of who Nate is, doesn’t squelch my lust. It perversely feeds
my fantasies.
In my overactive imagination Nate doesn’t stay in his
corner. He stalks toward me, hooks one of his arms around my waist, pulls my
curves into his muscle, and—
“Miss Trent.” His crisp businesslike tone returns me to
reality.
“Nate.” I mimic his curtness, breaking an unspoken company
rule by addressing a top executive by his first name. I tap the button for the
legal floor. This is the law-enforcing, super-quiet department I’ve been
sentenced to. I don’t fit in there, but then, I’ve never fit in anywhere.
Except here. I belong in this elevator car. I belong with
Nate. I claim the corner across from him and openly study the object of my
obsession. “You spent another weekend alone, I see.” The lines around his mouth
and eyes are deeply etched, attesting to his many months of celibacy. This
pleases me. I don’t want Nate to touch any other woman. He’s my iceberg to
melt.
He raises one of his eyebrows. “Have you added stalking to
your long list of crimes?”
I roll my eyes. I was found guilty of three minor
misdemeanors while I was a careless teenager and now I’ve been labeled a
criminal for life. “Don’t flatter yourself. A blind woman can tell you’re not
getting any.” I stretch the truth. His expression is as cold and as emotionless
as it normally is.
Nate frowns, glances at his reflection in the mirrored
walls, sweeps one of his hands over his perfect hair.
“What’s the matter?” I grin at him as I set my backpack on
the floor by my feet. “Are all of the hookers in LA on strike?”
He returns his gaze to me and narrows his eyes. “You’re well
informed.” Ice drips from his words, his coolness indicating I’ve scored a
direct hit. Many people subjected to Nate’s subzero demeanor assume he’s a
frigid, unfeeling bastard. I recognize it for what it is—a shield, as effective
as my sarcasm and green hair.
“You bet I’m well informed.” It didn’t take me long to
discover that every well-dressed, insanely beautiful woman appearing beside
Nate in the newspaper’s society pages was a high-end escort. His hooker fetish
doesn’t bother me. Nate is a faithful, serial-monogamous John, taking a long
time to choose the right escort and then paying for her exclusive attentions.
“You’re not hideous.” I unbutton my formerly black blazer,
the sole suit I own faded from having been hand washed every night. “Why do you
pay for sex?”
“Everyone pays for sex in one way or another.” Nate visually
tracks my movements as I shrug out of the garment, removing one more barrier
between us. “Some muddle the price with talk of love and feelings. I prefer
straightforward, honest negotiations.”
Bio:
Cynthia Sax lives in a world where demons aren’t all bad,
angels aren’t all good, and magic happens every single day. Although her heroes
may not always say, “I love you”, they will do anything for the women they
love. They live passionately. They fight fiercely. They love the same women
forever.
Cynthia has loved the same wonderful man forever. Her supportive hubby offers himself up to the joys and pains of research, while they travel the world together, meeting fascinating people and finding inspiration in exotic places such as Istanbul, Bali, and Chicago.
Cynthia has loved the same wonderful man forever. Her supportive hubby offers himself up to the joys and pains of research, while they travel the world together, meeting fascinating people and finding inspiration in exotic places such as Istanbul, Bali, and Chicago.
Author Website: http://cynthiasax.com/
Blog: http://tasteofcyn.com/
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/cynthia.sax
Twitter: @CynthiaSax
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