Field of Pleasure (6 page)

 

When the clock hit four o'clock, the only thing Chyna had left to do was log out of her computer. Today had been, in a word, exhausting. As she passed the management team's offices on her way out of the Risk Assessment wing, she managed to taper the excited tingle that started in her belly. She would be one of them soon.

But as she continued down the corridor, a slight tremor of unease flitted within the walls of Chyna's chest. Not a single one of those people looked even remotely ready to head home for the day. Was this her future?

Chyna tossed the thought out of her head. She didn't want to jinx herself. If the job was meant to be hers, it would be, and she would handle it the way she'd handled everything else that had been thrown at her in life.

She exited the side door of the office building and headed up Seventh Avenue. When she turned the corner at Thirty-fourth Street, Jared was standing a few feet away, at the building's main entrance.

He spotted her, and the most delicious smile stretched across his face.

Chyna crossed her arms over her chest and shook her head. “Liani Dixon, the friendship was nice while it lasted, but I'm afraid I'll have to kill you,” she said to no one in particular.

“Don't blame Liani this time.” Jared laughed. “Blame Google. Someone posted a picture of you at some fancy banquet and it listed you as an employee at Marlowe and Brown.”

“I can't believe you searched for me on the internet,” she said.

“I can't believe you were going to stand me up tonight,” he returned.

“I'm still going to stand you up.” She made a move to walk past him, but he captured her elbow.

“Why?” he asked. “And don't feed me that stuff about you not dating football players.”

She stared into his eyes. They were the loveliest shade of brown—almost hazel. “Why do I have to give you a reason at all?” Chyna asked in a voice she hardly recognized as her own.

“Because you owe me at least that much for suggesting I just take out one of the other girls. What was that about?”

His wounded, accusatory tone stung. “I'm sorry,” Chyna said. “That was thoughtless. But I still don't owe you a reason for refusing to have dinner with you.”

“What's the harm, Chyna? You do plan to eat tonight, don't you?”

“Don't pretend it's that simple,” she reproved. “We both know my agreeing to dinner would mean more than just sharing a meal.”

“Yes, it would mean treating yourself to some down-time. Take a few hours to just kick back and enjoy yourself.” He took a step closer, a flash of heat flaring in his steady gaze. “I'm not bad company, Chyna. Why don't you give me a shot?”

She wavered slightly, tormented by the confusing emotions volleying back and forth in her head. She thought back to when she'd first met him at the Sabers compound. Despite his horrible attempts at flirting, there had been a certain charm. And the fact that he'd been
interested enough to seek her out later that day had to account for something, didn't it?

Allowing herself a couple of hours for a nice dinner wouldn't cause her entire schedule to crumble. She could spare just this one night, couldn't she?

“Okay,” Chyna finally answered. “Meet me at the Patisserie at seven-thirty.”

“Can't I pick you up at your place?”

“No,” she said. “The bakery is fine.”

A delectable smile curved up one corner of his mouth. “You promise not to stand me up?”

“Promise,” she said.

For a moment, Chyna thought he would kiss her. Instead, he trailed his finger across her jaw in a gentle caress, turned and headed the opposite way up Thirty-fourth. She wasn't sure how long she stood in the middle of the sidewalk while hundreds of New Yorkers rushed passed her. Only one thought occupied her mind.

What in the heck had she just gotten herself into?

 

Jared pulled the silk sheets from his California king-size bed and stuffed them in the hamper in his closet. Normally, he'd leave this for Maggie, his housekeeper, to deal with, but when she'd left his condo yesterday she'd mentioned having to take care of three grandkids all suffering with a stomach virus. Jared figured she'd need a break.

Besides, stripping the bedding gave him something to do. He still had two and a half hours until his date with Chyna.

Was he seriously counting down the hours?

Jared shook his head, grinning at himself. It was better than how he'd spent the past dozen Friday nights, sitting in this apartment alone, trying not to think about what
he could have been doing if things hadn't ended with Samantha. Talk about a surefire way to send him on a first-class trip to his own personal hell.

Jared's gaze drifted to the bed they'd shared. His jaw tightened as he remembered the way she would snuggle up next to him. Had it all been a lie? All those years he'd spent giving her everything she could ever ask for. Could it really have meant nothing?

He tore his eyes away from the bed. Why he hadn't pitched the damn thing to the curb was a question he didn't have the energy to explore. Maybe Torrian was right when he'd accused him of being into self-torture. Maybe he'd always been a sadomasochist and was just now figuring it out.

Jared let out a vicious curse. He was done with today's half-assed attempt at psychoanalysis. He refused to surrender another second of his life to
what might have been.
Tonight was a huge step in his mission to get over Samantha, and as far as diversions went, Chyna McCrea would definitely fit the bill.

With renewed resolve, Jared marched over to his cavernous walk-in closet. He pulled out the dark brown slacks Maggie had brought in from the dry cleaners and laid them across his valet. He hadn't settled on which jacket to pair with them. It all depended on where he took Chyna tonight.

He was waiting to hear from his friend Rena at Per Se, one of the most exclusive restaurants in Manhattan. He'd played the Sabers card, but even that wasn't a guarantee at the restaurant that was booked up months in advance. If Per Se fell through, he always had the Fire Starter Grille as a backup plan. Torrian had special tables for fellow Sabers personnel.

Jared heard movement coming from the kitchen.
Moments later, Maggie's soft knock sounded on his bedroom door.

“Mr. Dawson?”

“In here,” Jared called. “And if you don't stop calling me Mr. Dawson, you're fired.”

She waved off his threat. “Oh, Mr. Dawson.” Four years and the woman still refused to call him by his first name. “I'll have your protein shake ready in a few minutes,” she said, taking the dark brown jacket he'd been mulling over from his hands and replacing it with a bone-colored Oscar de la Renta.

“Much better choice.” Jared nodded. “Don't worry about making dinner tonight. I have a date.”

Maggie's head popped up from the laundry she'd begun sorting through. “With Ms. Miller?” she asked.

“No, not Sam,” he said.

“Thank God,” she breathed.

“Tell me how you really feel,” Jared snorted.

Maggie crumpled the sweatpants in her hands, a sad smile on her round, peach-colored face. “I know it is not my place to say anything, Mr. Dawson, but I've been worried about you ever since she left. You haven't been yourself.”

“I know, but I'm fine now. Really,” he said when Maggie raised a skeptical brow. “Besides, I don't pay you enough to worry about me,” he teased. They both knew it was a joke. He paid Maggie a generous salary, so generous that he'd become her sole client.

“You need to have someone to worry over you for a change,” Maggie said. “And now that my youngest boy has left for college, it frees up space in my worry bank. Now, out of my way so I can get these in the wash and mix up your shake.”

Having been dismissed from his bedroom, Jared
ambled around the apartment, trying to figure out what to do with himself for the next two hours. He plopped down in front of his iMac and tried catching up on what the sports bloggers were saying about the Sabers' upcoming Organized Team Activities, but there was nothing more than the usual chatter. There wouldn't be much to say until the off-season OTAs actually began in a couple of weeks.

His cell phone rang just as he was pushing away from the computer. Jared frowned at the unfamiliar number.

“Dawson,” he answered.

“Hello, Mr. Dawson, this is Jackson Phillips from Fidelity Bank and Trust. I'm calling about your business loan.”

“Dammit,” Jared cursed. He'd forgotten about signing the papers for the Red Zone, the high-end, sports-themed barbershop venture he'd entered into with one of his old college buddies. “We had a four o'clock appointment, didn't we?”

“Yes,” the man said. “Your business partner was here this morning. Your signature is the only thing that's needed to close.”

“Yeah, I know.”
Dammit.
It was just after five o'clock. Even though the bank wasn't far, getting there and back would be pushing it, especially since he still had to shower, dress and get all the way to Brooklyn before seven.

But he had to get those papers signed before the weekend. The grand opening of the Red Zone was next week. If the bank didn't sign off on the loan, the city couldn't go through with the final inspection and the building might not be ready in time. Patrick was counting on him.

Dammit!

“I can be there in a half hour,” Jared said, leaving his
office and heading for his bedroom. “Can I meet you at six?”

“The bank usually closes at six, but for you I'll make an exception.”

Jared thanked him as he declined the protein shake Maggie tried to hand him on his way to the master suite. He jumped in the shower and was out of his apartment less than twenty minutes after receiving the call from the bank. Jared walked out of the building and groaned at the bumper-to-bumper traffic clogging the street. It would be a miracle if he made it to the bank by six o'clock.

On the bright side, by the time he was done crisscrossing downtown Manhattan, he'd have only a few minutes before it was time to pick up Chyna.

“N
o.” Liani snatched the black slacks from Chyna's grasp and pivoted, staring into the open closet.

“What was wrong with those?” Chyna lamented.

Liani glared at her with annoyance usually reserved for parents chastising a recalcitrant child.

“You are going out with Jared Dawson,” her friend said. “You need to think sexy, and pants are not sexy.” Liani gestured to Chyna's lower half. “You are five foot eight with a pair of the most incredible legs I've ever seen. Show them off.”

Chyna flashed her a flirtatious smile. “You've been checking out my legs?”

Liani practically growled. “Stop playing around and pick a dress. I have to leave in a half hour, and it'll take at least that long to do your hair and makeup.”

Chyna settled on her favorite little black dress. It was sleeveless with a scooping neckline, practical but elegant. “I don't want to go over the top,” she reasoned. “I'm not
even sure where we're going. We may decide to just stay at the Patisserie and have paninis.”

“This is Jared Dawson we're talking about,” Liani stressed unnecessarily. As if Chyna needed a reminder of whom she would be meeting in just under an hour. “He is
not
going to take you to a coffee shop for sandwiches. Jared doesn't skimp. I've told you stories of how he doted on that stupid girlfriend of his.”

“Well, I'm not stupid and I'm not his girlfriend,” Chyna pointed out. She sat in front of the mirror and waited for Liani, who was retrieving makeup from a collection that would make the girls at the Sephora counter seethe with envy. “It's not as if this is anything serious,” Chyna continued. “The only reason I'm going out with him is because I knew he wouldn't stop asking until I caved.”

Liar.

Liani looked up from the cosmetic case and shot her a look that said she was wholly unconvinced.

“Okay, fine. I also think he's just a bit gorgeous, too,” Chyna conceded.

“Thank God. I was about to question your sanity. Turn toward me.” Liani caught Chyna's chin between her fingers. “Actually, I still think you're crazy,” she muttered through thinned lips as she drew a thin black line along the lower lash of Chyna's eye. “If Jared Dawson was in hot pursuit, I would be all too ready to let him catch me.”

“I don't have time to get caught,” Chyna complained.

This conversation was starting to sound like a broken record. No matter how many times she stated her case, Liani couldn't comprehend the work Chyna had to do just to survive. She didn't have parents living in a penthouse on Fifth Avenue whom she could fall back on. The only
safety net Chyna had was the few thousand dollars she'd managed to save over the past eight years.

“Even if you're not looking for anything serious, just have some fun for once,” her friend implored. “If you're not careful you're going to burn out before you reach thirty.” Holding the liquid eyeliner brush in one hand, Liani captured Chyna's chin with the other, and with a concerned plea, said, “Promise me you'll let yourself enjoy Jared.”

“Depends on what you mean by ‘enjoy,'” Chyna said with a guarded chuckle.

“Enjoy his
company,
not him as in
him.
At least not yet.” Liani winked.

Chyna sat for a few minutes more while Liani put the finishing touches on her hair. Moments later, Liani was packed up and ready to go.

“Have fun tonight,” her friend demanded. She blew Chyna an air kiss as she backed out of the door and carted her suitcase of cosmetics down the stairs.

Chyna slipped into her dress, then spent way more time than necessary trying to decide between her silver necklace or the faux pearls. She decided on the less formal, but still tasteful, silver.

She had no idea where Jared was taking her tonight, but figured simple and classy would work for ninety percent of the restaurants in New York. Twenty minutes later, Chyna walked into the Patisserie and found Jared sitting at one of the front tables.

He rose as soon as he saw her, his eyes traveling her full length.

“You look fabulous,” was his greeting.

So did he. In his slacks, jacket and shirt with no tie, he'd dressed elegantly but not overly dressy.

Simple and classy. Score one for her.

“Thank you,” Chyna answered. “Sorry, I'm late. Blame it on me being a girl. It always takes us longer to get ready.”

“That's okay. I like girls.” His mouth quirked in an infectious smile. “Are you ready to go?” he asked.

“As soon as you tell me where we're going.”

“I'd rather keep it a surprise,” he said, opening the door and gesturing for her to exit the bakery ahead of him.

“I'm not underdressed, am I?”

“You're perfect,” he said. His simple compliment affected her way more than it should have. Just like the rest of him.

As she walked alongside Jared, Chyna once again questioned the wisdom of agreeing to this date. This was
so
not like her. At any given moment she had a dozen things to do, and having dinner with a rich football player had never made the list.

She shook off the unease and concentrated on what Liani had advised. She'd enjoy the evening for what it was, but come tomorrow, she was done. No more dipping her toes into the pool of luxury and wealth. She wasn't about to get caught up in this fairy tale.

Jared guided her half a block down to a silver Mercedes Coupe. He unlocked it and held the passenger side door open while she slid onto the cool leather. It was a nice step up from the N train.

“This car is gorgeous,” she said when he sat behind the wheel.

“Thanks. I wasn't sure if you were wearing a skirt, so I didn't want to come in the SUV. Sam always hated getting into the SUV with a dress.” He thumped both hands against the wheel and expelled a sigh. “And that's
the last time I mention her name tonight. You have my permission to punch me if I say it again.”

Chyna hesitated for only a second before saying, “I'm sorry for what she did to you, and for how publicized it all was. That had to have been hard to endure.”

“It was,” he said. “But no more talk about the woman whose name I will not mention. Tonight is about getting to know you, Chyna McCrea. Are you willing to let me peek inside that pretty little head of yours?”

Chyna felt her cheeks warm, but couldn't do a single thing to stop it. Her paltry attempt to remain unaffected was no match for Jared's charm.

“Just a peek,” she returned. “You may get bored if there's no mystery.”

“You're not boring, Chyna,” he said with a seriousness she hadn't expected. “I'm guessing you just haven't had anyone to show you what it means to have fun.” He leaned over the console, his mouth hovering scant inches from her ear. “Get ready, because I'm going to teach you a thing or two about how to have a good time.”

Chyna inhaled a deep breath as she pulled the seat belt across her chest. “Lead the way.”

 

Jared rolled to a stop in front of the Time Warner Building at Columbus Circle, handed his keys to the valet and came around the car. The doorman guided Chyna over to him and Jared placed his right hand at the small of her back. His fingers tingled where he touched her. This close, the soft, flowery fragrance that had suffused every inch of his car was even stronger. Jared closed his eyes for a second to soak in her scent.

When they entered Per Se, the maître d' greeted them with a broad smile. “Mr. Dawson. Welcome. Rena said
you would be dining with us this evening. We have an excellent table reserved. Follow me, please.”

Jared started to follow but felt a hesitation in Chyna's step. He glanced at her. “Are you okay?”

“I'm fine,” she said. The overbright smile that didn't even marginally reach her eyes told a different story. She couldn't be disappointed? He'd scored a table at one of the most exclusive restaurants in Manhattan.

The maître d' led them to a table for two just to the right of the glass-fronted fireplace. It afforded a glorious view of Columbus Circle backdropped by the towering treetops of Central Park. He placed menus before each of them. “The sommelier will be with you shortly.”

Seconds later, the sommelier arrived with the wine list. Jared waved off the leather-bound portfolio and said, “Give me your best suggestions.”

The man rattled off several wines, with selections ranging from Napa Valley all the way to the northern region of Italy. “One of our most exclusive is a '49 Bordeaux. The Château La Conseillante is rich and vibrant and would go well with the
moulard foie gras
on tonight's menu.”

Jared nodded. “Sounds good to me.”

“Excuse me, but how much is a glass of that?” Chyna asked.

The sommelier's eyes snapped with surprise. He quickly recovered, answering, “It is only sold by the half bottle, madam. And that is fifteen hundred and eighty dollars.”

“No way.” Chyna shook her head. “I'm sorry, Jared, but absolutely not.”

Caught off guard by her protest, Jared glanced awkwardly at the sommelier. “Would you give us a minute?”

“Of course.” He sketched a slight bow and retreated.

Jared leaned forward, and in a hushed voice, asked, “Chyna, what's going on? You got something against red wine?”

“When a half bottle is equivalent to a month's rent, yes.”

So this was a money issue? Did she think he'd ask her to split the bill at the end of the night?

Her eyes roaming the menu, she continued, “I'm not a huge fan of restaurants that don't list the prices of the food on the menu and charge a couple of thousand dollars for a bottle of wine as if it's nothing.”

Jared sat back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest. “The à la carte menu is in the back. Prices are listed there.”

She flipped to the back and continued her diatribe. “I get that you're a big-time football player and you're used to paying fifteen dollars for a beet salad, and—oh, for God's sake—
eighty dollars
for a steak? Seriously, eighty dollars? That's outrageous.”

“It's just a steak.”

“Exactly. You could get the same steak for twenty dollars at dozens of restaurants around the city. Why would you pay four times that much?”

Jared shook his head, completely baffled. Of all the things he could have imagined to put a wrinkle in their night, a debate over the cost of dinner had never entered his mind. He'd eaten at this restaurant more times than he could count. He was used to spending several hundred dollars on a meal without batting an eye; Samantha had expected no less.

He'd set out to impress Chyna by taking her to one of New York's most elite restaurants. Instead, he was in the midst of a lecture on food cost.

“You don't have to get steak,” he reasoned, trying
to infuse a bit of humor into his voice. “The chicken is cheaper.”

“I could buy a week's worth of groceries with that amount,” she mumbled. She looked up from the menu and gave him an apologetic smile. “I'm sorry. I have a hard time controlling my practical side. This is all just so much more than I'd expected.”

“We can go someplace else,” he quickly said, seeing a way out of this awkward situation he'd managed to land himself in just by trying to order a bottle of wine.

She darted a quick, worried glance at the podium where the sommelier and maître d' stood. “But we're already here.”

“There's no rule that says we have to stay, Chyna. And if you're going to spend the entire meal thinking about what you could have bought with each bite you swallow, I doubt you'll enjoy it. Why don't we find somewhere else?”

She bit her bottom lip and said with a tentative smile, “Really?”

For the chance to see more of those smiles, he would be willing to go Dumpster diving. Jared snatched the napkin from his lap and tossed it on the table. Chyna didn't give him a chance to reach her. She pushed her own chair back and rose. The maître d' hustled to the table.

“Mr. Dawson, is there something wrong?”

“Please apologize to Rena and thank her again for holding the table, but we won't be eating here tonight.”

“I'm sorry to hear that,” the maître d' said. “Is there something I can do? Suggest a less expensive wine, perhaps? We have an extensive collection.”

“No, but thanks for the offer.” Jared reached into his pocket and snagged a hundred-dollar bill from his money
clip. He shook the maître d's hand, pressing the money into his palm.

As they waited for the valet to return with the car, Jared turned to Chyna and said, “I'm not sure where we'll find a table on such short notice on a Friday night.”

“I know a few places,” she said. “Do you eat Moroccan?”

Jared thought for a moment. “I don't think I've ever tried it.”

“Excellent.” She grinned. “I have the perfect place.”

Two hours later, they were back in Brooklyn at a tiny Moroccan restaurant two blocks away from the bakery where he'd picked her up. Although the huge pillows they sat on were comfortable, Jared had lost all feeling in his left foot, but he didn't care one bit. He'd cut the damn thing off before he gave up his spot on this floor.

He scooped up a heap of couscous with a bit of pita bread and dipped it in yet another sauce. There were at least a dozen of them on their table, along with a huge bowl of couscous in the center, a platter of chicken and several bowls of vegetables that were either steamed or smothered in succulent sauces. And the twenty-dollar bottle of wine Chyna had ordered was one of the best Jared had ever tasted.

“God, this is good,” Jared said around a mouthful of food.

“You should try mixing them up.” She gathered a helping with her fingers and dipped it in one sauce, then another. “Here.”