Roped Into Romance

(Short Story)

von Alison Kent

Lauren Hollister stood beside Macy Webb and followed her best friend's gaze up the exterior of the four-story, redbrick warehouse recently converted into four spacious lofts. The duo had been searching forever for the perfect place to live. But this didn't look promising. And Lauren said so.

"This doesn't look promising."

"Uh, hello? We're not going to be living in the chinks between the bricks." Macy reached up a hand to shade her eyes then walked down the sidewalk and cast a glance along the length of the building's back side. "Besides, the facade is being repaired. The scaffoldings are set up over here."

"Hmm. He did say not to judge this particular book by its cover." Hard not to, though, since Lauren's degree was in commercial art and she had a critical eye. She glanced at the face of her wristwatch. "He also said he'd meet us here at 3:30."

Her cursory building inspection complete, Macy walked back to Lauren's side, reached for her wrist and the watch. "It's 3:27. We're early. He's not late."

"Not yet," Lauren said just as a sleek black Jaguar purred around the corner and eased to a stop behind her SUV. She let out a long low whistle. "Okay. I'm impressed. On time and in style."

As the car door opened, Macy leaned closer. " I'm beginning to think you ain't seen nothin' yet, sister."

Lauren's,
"What are you talking about?"
died on her lips as Anton Neville stepped from the car.

The architect was six foot one or two at least, and had a body to die for. For some reason — his voice? his demeanor? — Lauren had assumed from their phone call that he was older. Her father's age maybe. But he wasn't. He couldn't have been more than 30 and he was absolutely gorgeous.

His long legs ate up the distance between his car and the sidewalk, lo ng legs displayed to advantage in a pair of tobacco-colored dress pants that were very Versace. His shirt was a lighter shade of camel and his tie a flashy brown print. He was head-to-toe delicious…the head part having snagged Lauren's attention first.

Anton Neville was not your average blonde. Both his build and his complexion declared him a swimmer. And then there was the way the sun had bleached his hair.

It was long, though not unconventionally so. It was just that she'd never seen curls that were so 100 percent male.

Windblown ringlets fell over his forehead, his collar, and his ears. The look was the sexiest thing she'd ever seen, especially when she added in the barely-more-than-stubble length of beard and mustache. But when he took off his Ray-Ban sunglasses…oh, God, she was a goner.

"Anton Neville." Blue eyes flashing, he held out a hand.

Macy accepted first. "Macy Webb. Thanks for meeting us."

And then it was Lauren's turn. "Lauren Hollister," she said as his large hand swallowed her palm and long artist's fingers. She swore his touch had set her belly on fire.

"I hope I haven't kept you waiting long." He slowly pulled his hand from Lauren's and, balling her fingers into a fist that she tucked into her pocket, she said, "No, not at all.

You're right on time."

"Good." He gestured for them to go ahead, flipping through his ring of keys. "Then let's go check this puppy out."

As they made their way up the length of broken pavement to the door, Macy cast a questioning glance at Lauren and mouthed, "You're right on time?" Lauren simply elbowed Macy in the rib cage.

"Our contractors have done their best to utilize as many of the original fixtures as possible," Anton was saying, now leading the way down the high-ceilinged hallway that ran the length of the building. He stopped halfway. "Including the freight elevator."

Lauren and Macy looked on as he used his security key, releasing a huge red button that protruded from the cinder-block wall. One smack from Anton's broad palm and the heavy steel door rolled up. When he gestured for them to enter, they did, taking the trip to the fourth floor along with the freight car's rattletrap creaks and groans.

This still didn't look promising. And so Lauren continued to think until the lift ground to a stop and Anton, again using his security key, shoved the door upward along its overhead tracks and yanked back on the loft's metal privacy grate.

At her first sight of the hardwood floor, Lauren changed her mind. She turned and met Macy's wide eyes, seeing the astonished reflection of her own baby blues in her best friend's whiskey-colored gaze.

"I don't believe this place." Lauren slipped off her clogs before walking on bare feet into the loft. "Talk about not judging a book by its cover. Crumbling bricks be damned. This floor is absolutely the best."

"It smells," Macy said, stepping out of her wedged sandals, "like real wood."

"It is real wood." Anton left on his Italian leather loafers. "One hundred percent maple plank. Urethane finish. Definitely shoe-proof. And the building's facade is being repaired. One brick at a time."

"I don't care," Lauren said, shaking her head. "I mean, I do care. About the bricks.

Not about the floor being shoe-proof. Well, I care about that, too. But I want to experience this with my skin."

Macy had already slapped her barefooted way into the center of the loft's main room.

"It's a hardwood floor, Lauren. It's not a grassy meadow. It's not Berber carpet.

There's no t a lot to experience with your skin."

"Maybe not with
your
skin." Lauren closed her eyes, held her shoes wrapped in her arms close to her chest, and flexed her toes against the wood. No one, her best friend included, had ever understood how her body assimilated touch.

Her sensitivity had often been a curse. Childhood immunizations? The worst.

Eyebrow tweezing? Yikes! Bikini waxes? Forget about it! But, oh, could her sensory feedback be a blessing. The right man and…

Shivering, Lauren opened her eyes — and looked straight into Anton Neville's. They gleamed with speculation. And his irises, wow. That shade of near navy was incredibly rare. She knew he wasn't wearing contacts. Just like she knew, if she had her way, he wasn't going to be wearing anything soon.

"Like I said. The best." She flexed her toes again and hoped he bought it. Then took Macy by the hand. "We're going to take a look around."

Ankles crossed, hands shoved down in his pockets, Anton leaned back against the edge of the open elevator. "Take yo ur time."

Ankles crossed, hands shoved down in his pockets, Anton leaned back against the edge of the open elevator. "Take your time."

Once she'd dragged Macy out of the main room to the far end of the building, Lauren nearly groaned. "All night wouldn't be enough time. Give me that man and give me forever."

"You are such a slut."

Lauren grinned, unoffended. She was a sensualist, not a slut. A discriminating one, and Macy knew it. Getting a rise out of each other was tough, but they both loved to try.

Having checked a far corner and claimed it as her bedroom, Macy returned to the main room and the area prepped for a kitchen build-out. "Hey. You remember those sculptures we saw in the Sixties Store?"

Lauren's eyes widened. "They would make
perfect
room dividers. You're brilliant, Mace. Five of them, at least. Right here between the kitchen and the center of the loft." Lauren's eyes widened further as she caught sight for the first time of the balcony doors.

"C'mon. Let's check out the view." Lauren headed that way. Pulling open the sliding glass door, she slipped on her clogs and stepped outside.

"This is
so
great! Can you imagine a little candlelight, a little wine? A lotta lovin' under the stars? Listening to the traffic below and trying not to get caught?" Lauren hugged her arms around her middle, whirled back to Macy, and said, "I can't wait to try it out!"

Only it wasn't Macy standing in the open doorway behind Lauren.

It was Anton Neville.

And he said, "Neither can I."

Anton Neville slumped back in his desk chair. Feet flat on the floor, he swiveled from side to side. He kept a grip on both armrests, kept his gaze on the door. It was after hours; the support staff had long since left for the night. But his partner was due any minute. And he wanted to be here to gloat.

Doug Storey, the second half of Neville and Storey, Architects, had made it his personal mission to wash the firm's hands of the loft property Anton had shown yesterday to Macy Webb and Lauren Hollister. And here, with Doug out of town, Anton had done little more than pour on the masculine charm to make the sale.

Possible sale, he reminded himself. All the women had done was inspect the property. Twice. But it was the
way
they'd done their inspection, the decorating plans they made as they walked, the looks they'd tossed back and forth, the whispers and the giggles.

Anton had been at this business long enough to know when he could sit back and let a property sell itself. But, for the loft, he'd been ready to wheel and deal his ass off.

Still, this was the first time he'd ever considered offering himself as a sales incentive.

And he was only half kidding. The other half seriously wondered what would've happened on that balcony had Macy Webb not walked into his tête-à-tête with Lauren Hollister.

He didn't think he'd ever hovered on the verge of anything so unprofessional in his entire career. Even if she'd made it more than clear she welcomed his attention, he knew better than to mix business with what he knew would be an unimaginable pleasure.

Lauren Hollister was a willowy thing, with pale baby blue eyes that promised all the tricks of the female trade. Her body was perfect, beautifully lush curves filling out a slender frame. Dark blond waves fell to the center of her back. And, yeah. He could see himself wrapping that silky mane around his wrist and holding on for the ride.

"Hey, Neville. You make us a million while I was gone?"

Anton looked up from his musings as his partner walked through the door. The grin that spread over his face felt like the wicked celebration it was. "Close enough. I sold the loft."

Doug stopped in his tracks, strands of blond hair falling into his face. He shook them back, tossed his satchel to the office sofa, slammed his hands to his hips. "The downtown loft. The fourth floor. The warehouse. Are you friggin' kidding me?"

Anton shrugged. "Maybe not."

"Ha!" Doug dropped down on the sofa. "You mean you
showed
it, not
sold
it. I'm not paying off any bet until that place goes to closing."

"They want it. You know the look."

"Hmm." Squaring an ankle on the opposite knee, Doug laced his hands behind his head and leaned back. "They had it outfitted before they even left, didn't they?

Curtains, throw pillows, area rugs."

"Not these two." Anton couldn't get the picture of Lauren Hollister out of his mind. Her low-slung blue jeans. Her black metallic sheer lace top over a skinny black tank.

"Lava lamp bubble sculptures. Hanging panels of hammered brass."

"Gay?"

"Female. Two." Anton held up two fingers.

"Gay?" Doug repeated.

"Not these two," Anton repeated, getting to his feet just as his phone rang. He glanced at the display. The number seemed vaguely familiar. He punched the speakerphone button. "Neville."

"Anton Neville? This is Lauren Hollister. From yesterday? The balcony?"

Anton jerked the receiver from the cradle, ignoring his partner's arched brow and mouthed,
"The balcony?"
He flipped Doug the finger and tur ned his attention to the call. "Ms. Hollister. How nice to hear from you."

"I wasn't sure what time your office closed. I was hoping I might still be able to catch you. Is this a bad time?"

"No. Don't worry about it. I'm usually here this late." This time when Doug rolled his eyes and mouthed, "Bullshit," Anton turned his back on the other man and leaned against the desk.

"What can I do for you?"

"It's about the loft."

He'd figured that much. And the way she said it he figured it was bad news. "Have you and Ms. Webb reached a decision?"

"Are you kidding? We love it —
ouch
!" she cried, mumbling unintelligibly from behind what Anton would guess was a hand over the mouthpiece. "What I mean is, would you have time to let me in to take a few measurements?"

"Sure." He turned back around and flipped open his Day-Timer, running a finger down his schedule. "I'm free in the morning at ten, or tomorrow afternoon around, say, two?"

"I was thinking about tonight."

Anton straightened where he stood. "Tonight?"

Doug mouthed,
"Tonight?"
before tumbling over onto the sofa and muffling his howls with a pillow pressed to his face.

"Tonight's not a problem. What time?"

"Will nine work for you?"

"Perfect. See you then." The call disconnected and Anton returned the receiver to the cradle just as Doug managed to push himself from the sofa to his feet.

He crossed the office, planted both hands on the surface of Anton's desk and leaned forward. "Let me guess. Blonde. Blue eyes. Twenty-something. Single. Not gay."