Martin Diaz Cole was thoroughly bored; bored with the people
gathered in a private room at a Palm Beach restaurant, bored
with the woman standing by his side and bored with her
incessant nonsensical chatter.
"Will you please be a darling and get me another glass of
white wine, Martin," the petite brunette crooned, her tiny
hand thrusting an empty wineglass at him.
Ignoring her request and the outstretched glass, Martin's
attention was momentarily diverted. His dark eyes were fixed
on a woman who appeared to float into the room.
His gaze took in everything about her in one quick
penetrating glance. This woman, this stranger, and a
stranger she was because he knew every one of the guests Jon
Grant and Brittany Alexander had invited to their engagement
party.
She was tall, at least five-eight, and incredibly slender.
The off-the-shoulder white dress ended several inches below
her long shapely legs, clinging to and outlining the curve
of her full breasts, narrow waist and slim hips.
Staring at her, Martin experienced an emotion he hadn't felt
in years: lust. No, he thought, it was more like a craving.
He saw something he wanted, and there weren't too many
things he wanted that he did not get.
"Martin," the brunette wailed, her lovely features distorted
in distress as she noted the direction of his attention.
"Excuse me, Sonia," he apologized softly, making his way
across the room, leaving a pouting Sonia to find another
fawning male to do her bidding. He watched as Brittany
hugged the woman before pulling back and showing her the
diamond ring on her finger.
His own hands were thrust into the pockets of his black
linen slacks as he waited patiently for Brittany to notice
him. Brittany glanced his way and he smiled at her.
Brittany tossed back a head of naturally waving ash-blond
hair, gesturing. "Martin, please come meet a friend of mine.
Parris and I were roommates at college. Parris Simmons,
Martin Cole. Martin's Jon's best man," she said to Parris,
not pausing to take a breath.
Stepping closer to Parris, Martin stared down at her
upturned face. Her golden-brown skin was deeply tanned from
the Florida summer sun and radiated a natural glow of good
health which did not come from makeup. Her
chemically-straightened dark shiny hair was styled in a
flattering shag-cut feathering around her face and neck.
Naturally arching eyebrows and thick long black lashes
framed a pair of eyes that were a clear brown with just a
hint of dark green in their mysterious depths. Her nose was
short and rounded at the tip and her mouth was full,
temptingly curved, and Martin found Parris to be the most
beautiful woman he'd ever met.
Extending a slender hand, Parris gave him a tight smile.
"It's nice meeting you, Martin."
It took several seconds before he reacted to her polite
greeting. The low husky timbre of her voice was not what he
had expected from her. The dulcet throaty tones were like a
fog, cloaking and enveloping in a sensual web of raw seduction.
He grasped her hand, holding it firmly before releasing her
fingers. "The pleasure is all mine," he replied, finding his
own voice.
"You'll get a chance to talk to Parris later, Martin,"
Brittany promised. "I want to introduce her to Jon."
Martin nodded, staring at Parris as she walked away with
Brittany. He spent the next twenty minutes chatting with
some of the other guests until he garnered Brittany's
attention again.
"I want you to seat me next to Parris," he said quietly.
Brittany's pale gray eyes widened with his request. "No,
Martin."
"Why not?" he countered.
"She's not like that."
"Not like what, Brittany?"
She exhaled audibly. How could she explain to her fiancΓ©'s
best friend that Parris Simmons was not like the women
Martin Cole usually dated.
"She's different," she explained, a need to protect her
friend surfacing. "She's not like the women you men pass
around whenever you tire of her."
Martin's face darkened under his deeply browned olive
complexion. Running a hand through the thick curling black
hair falling to his shoulders, he glanced down at the highly
polished toes of his imported slip-ons and smiled.
"I don't want to sleep with her Brittany," he replied
softly. "I just want you to make certain we're seated
together when we sit down to eat."
Brittany stared at the man whose devastatingly dimpled smile
was hypnotic. She was always astounded by Martin's masculine
beauty. His African-American-Cuban ancestry had afford him
exquisite dark-brown coloring, large dark eyes, sweeping
black eyebrows, high cheekbones, a thin delicate nose and a
full sensual mouth which made him almost too beautiful for a
man. He had it allβlooks and money.
"You're not lying to me, are you?" she asked him.
Twin dimples creased the lean tanned cheeks of the man with
the curly black hair and winning smile. "No."
She didn't understand him. Martin usually had women fighting
one another for his attention. At twenty-nine he was one of
the most sought-after bachelors along Florida's Gold Coast.
Women usually chased Martin Diaz Cole, not the other way around.
"Okay," she conceded. "But if you tryβ¦"
"You worry too much," Martin interrupted. "I'll take good
care of her."
He spent the remainder of the cocktail hour totally
entranced by Parris Simmons. He watched her as she smiled
and flirted with many of the single men who appeared as
equally entranced as he. He ignored all that was going on
around him, studying the woman who had cast a spell over him
without her being aware of it.
Everyone filed into an adjoining room at the restaurant as
waiters announced that seating was prearranged and directed
each guest to their assigned table.
Parris searched her table, locating her name on a place card
and a large dark-brown hand pulled out a chair for her. She
glanced up to find Martin Cole standing beside her.
"Miss Simmons," he said, his mellifluent voice soft and
caressing, as he offered to seat her.
"Thank you," she replied shyly, permitting him to seat her.
He sat down next to her and she sucked in a lungful of air.
Being in Martin's presence was like his walking into a room
and using up all of the oxygen from the other occupants. He
left her gasping and feeling lightheaded.
She had read about Martin and occasionally heard his name
mentioned by several of the interior designers she worked
with, but he had been just thatβa name. This tall man
looming over her by more than half a foot was intoxicating.
She remembered an article branding him as "the brash, young
Rupert Murdoch of the Caribbean." He had acquired large
tracts of land throughout the Caribbean the way Rupert
Murdoch acquired newspapers and television networks.
Martin's business acumen had netted his family holdings
untold wealth and power while the Cole name had become
synonymous with the importation of tropical produce, private
villas and vacation resorts throughout Central America and
the Caribbean.
Business Week, Money and
Forbes magazines
had all reported the meteoric rise of the Cole influence in
the world of Latin American finance. The articles noted that
Martin had inherited his business expertise from his
Cuban-born maternal grandfather who once owned the largest
cigar-producing plantation in pre-rev-olutionary Cuba, and
his own father. Samuel Claridge Cole was the
great-great-great-grandson of African-American slaves, who
after the Civil War went into business cultivating the crop
that their disenfranchised ancestors grew and picked:
cotton. The cotton crop gave way to peanuts and finally to
soybeans.
After taking a surreptitious glance at Parris's profile,
Martin stared at her ringless fingers. "Are you also into
art?" he asked, initiating conversation. She arched a
questioning eyebrow. "Brittany said the two of you were
college roommates," he reminded her. If she went to college
with Brittany, then that meant they were about the same
ageβtwenty-two or twenty-three, he calculated quickly.
"No, I'm an interior decorator." Both she and Brittany had
attended the Savannah College of Art and Design. Brittany
majored in art history while she studied design.
"And I know what you do," she said, watching a flush darken
his face.
He arched his sweeping black eyebrows. "And just what is it
I do, Parris?" There was a slight rolling of the double r's
in her name when he said it.
Her hazel-colored gaze was fixed on his mouth. "You'reβ¦" She
hesitated, hoping to come up with an appropriate description
of his business activities. Calling him a corporate raider
or shark was a compliment.
He leaned closer. "I'm a what?"
"An oppressor of human beings," she said instead.
He laughed softly. "I'm a businessman, Parris. Everything I
do is legal and ethical."
"You own plantations. Your companies make slaves of people
because they're only paid pennies a day."
His large eyes widened until she could see their black
depths. "The companies my family owns pay adequate wages."
"Slave wages?"
"It appears as if you've been misinformed, or perhaps you'd
like to subsidize their
pennies." A hint of a smile
touched his mobile mouth. "I think we should talk about this
later, andβ¦"
"I won't be around later," she cut in. "I'm only here for
the dinner."
Martin felt his pulse quicken. "You don't live here?"
Parris almost laughed at his startled expression and she
gave him what she called her best "kool-aid grin." It was
apparent Martin Cole was used to having women at his beck
and call.
"No." What she didn't tell him was that she didn't live in
Palm Beach, but in neighboring West Palm Beach.
She turned her attention to the man on her right, giving him
a sensual smile while Martin's dark eyes gleamed like glassy
volcanic rock.
He listened to the haunting sound of her low voice as she
conversed with the other man. He saw Brittany smile at him
from another table across the room.
Brittany was surprised when he didn't return her smile but
she did register frustration on his handsome face. It was
apparent his charm had been lost on Parris. There was no way
she could reveal to him that the last thing Parris wanted
was to become involved with a manβeven if that man was the
enviable Martin Diaz Cole.
Several courses were served before Martin solicited Parris's
attention again. He pointed to the full glass of wine at her
place setting. "You don't drink." His query sounded more
like a statement than a question.
She turned and stared at him. "Not very much."
"You should at least try it. It happens to be an excellent
vintage."
"I'll pass on the wine tonight."
Leaning closer, he pressed his shoulder to hers, the
fragrance of her scented body lingering in his nostrils.
"Are you always this charming?" he whispered.
He registered her slight intake of breath and the rapidly
beating pulse in her throat. He had gotten a response from her.
Parris bit down on her lower lip, praying the heat in her
face would subside quickly. When was she going to stop
punishing other men for her ex-husband? she thought
suddenly. Perhaps she had been too hard on Martin.
Resting her chin on her hand, she offered him a warm, open
smile. "You should see me when I really turn it on," she teased.
"Oh really?"
She nodded, lowering her lashes. "Really."
"That should be something to see." He hit his forehead with
the heel of his hand. "I forgot. I'll never get the
opportunity to see it because you're only here for the dinner."
She sobered quickly. She knew she wouldn't see Martin again
until Brittany's wedding. Brittany and Jon were to be
married on September twenty-eighth, and that was four weeks
away.
"I'll see you at the wedding," she reminded him.
He studied her face thoughtfully for a moment. "I suppose
I'll have to wait until
then, won't I?"
Parris saw an open invitation smoldering in the depths of
his eyes, and decided to ignore it. "Yes, Martin," she
whispered.
His jaw tightened noticeably. He had to find out what it was
about her that drew him to her.
Brittany was right. Parris was not like the women he usually
dated. They were older and appeared much more worldly than
the woman sitting next to him. And more likely than not they
were the sisters, cousins, nieces, and a few of them,
daughters of business associates.
"Is this your first time meeting Jon?" Martin asked.
"Yes, even though I feel as if I've known him as long as
Brittany has. Brittany and I keep in touch by phone."
"Where do you live?"
"West Palm Beach."
"That's onlyβ¦"
"I know," she cut in. "It's only a few miles away, but I
don't have much time for visiting friends. My job takes me
out of the state for at least twenty days each month."
And when she returned home it was to a furnished studio
apartment. She sold her car because it sat in her landlady's
garage for four months without her moving it. Now, whenever
she needed to go somewhere she called a car service.
"What do you decorate?"
"Corporate offices. I select everything: desks, chairs,
tables, lighting and accessories."
He registered the breathless quality of her voice and the
excitement lighting up her eyes as she spoke. Like him, she
enjoyed her career.
"Do you like the traveling?" he questioned.
"It depends on the place and the time of the year," she
replied honestly. "Hawaii is always nice, as is Puerto Rico.
Arizona and Nevada in the summer are always brutal, but
staying in the best hotels with all of the amenities makes
up for it."
Martin waited while a waiter removed their dishes before
serving the next course. He was fascinated with Parris. She
was different from the other women because she had talent to
go along with her perfect face and body. It was the first
time he discovered all three components in one woman.
"Take me, for instance," he said, resuming their
conversation. "You seem to know about my line of business.
How would you decorate an executive office for me?"
"It's not that easy." She gave him a warm smile. "Your
executive style must harmonize with the image of your
company while it lets you show your individuality. It must
set you off but not dominate you, reflect you but not
overpower you."
"How do you determine an office's personality?"
"I work from an executive's professional dossier."
"How do you feel about awards and personal photographs?"
"A profusion of family photographs may transmit too much
intimacy; however a wall full of diplomas and awards signals
insecurity to more people than it impresses."
Martin was impressed with Parris and her intelligence.
"How did you get your job?"
"I was recruited after I graduated. One of my professors
worked for the architectural and design firm, so I suppose
you can say that I had an in."
"Where do you see yourself in relation to the firm in
another ten years?" It was a question he asked the many
applicants who applied to ColeDiz for even fewer coveted
positions in his family-owned company.
Parris reached for a water goblet and took a sip of water.
She placed the goblet down beside the glass of wine. She
knew where she wanted to be in ten years, and it was not in
Florida.
"I'd like to live abroad. I want to decorate international
offices, restored chΓ’teux, villas, and castles."
"I take it the company you work for has an overseas branch?"
She nodded the affirmative, giving him the name of the firm,
and he whistled softly. Parris worked for the most
prestigious architectural and design firm in the country.
"I think you'd better eat your filet mignon before the
waiters serve the next course," she suggested in a low
throaty tone.
She spent the next three-quarters of an hour exchanging
pleasantries with both Martin and the man on her right. The
silent, efficient waiters cleared the tables once again
before coffee and dessert were offered. Cordials and
liqueurs were passed around, and again she refused their offer.
She and the other guests sighed and murmured approval as
Brittany opened boxes and cards. Most of the gifts were
purchased from Nieman Marcus where Brittany was listed with
their bridal registry.
Everyone's attention was directed to Martin after Brittany
opened an envelope and read the printed card. He had offered
to pay all of the expenses for Jon's and Brittany's
honeymoon anywhere in the world.
Parris watched as Martin's expression never changed. He
merely nodded his thanks, his dark eyes moving from
Brittany's to Jon's smiling faces.
Glancing down at her watch, Parris noted the time. She had
to leave. It was almost eight-thirty. The car service was
scheduled to pick her up in ten minutes.
Placing her napkin on the table beside her plate, she
whispered a "nice meeting you" to the dining partners
flanking her and walked out of the room.
The restaurant's lobby overflowed with elegant men and women
in formal dress. The precious stones hanging from scented
pampered necks and wrists competed with the many shimmering
lights on the massive overhead chandeliers.
Parris saw him before he saw her, but still she could not
escape. Standing by the entrance to the restaurant was Owen
Lawson, her ex-husband. There was no way she could get past
him without him seeing her.
Then without warning, he turned away and she walked quickly
through the door and out to the restaurant's parking lot.
Her heart pounded uncontrollably as she paced back and forth
in the lot, smiling nervously at the young men who wore the
short red bolero jackets of the valet parking staff.
Glancing down at her watch, Parris prayed silently for her
driver to appear. She did not want a confrontation with
Owen. Her trying to secure an annulment to their short-lived
marriage had been too stressful and their last face-to-face
confrontation too volatile to risk another encounter with him.
She felt the fingers snake around her upper arm before she
heard the voice.
"Do you need a ride?"
"Don't scream, Parris," he warned. "And please don't make a
scene."
She ignored the runaway pumping of her heart in her chest as
she faced down Owen Lawson. "What the hell do you want?" she
spat out.
"You still have a tongue that cuts like a whip." He managed
a smile but it looked more like a sneer. "Roll it up, Parris."
"Let go of me."
"Not yet. Not until we talk."
She stared up at the man she thought she had loved beyond
reason. The tall gaunt man with the most beautiful
ebony-colored skin she had ever seen. The man whose intense
dark eyes had
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