Mikalo's Grace

  Mikalo's Grace

  Mikalo's Grace

  A novel

  Syndra K. Shaw

  Copyright 2012 Syndra K. Shaw

  Smashwords Edition

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Cover photograph by OLJ Studio

  via shutterstock

  Cover design by Renae Porter

  Social Butterfly Creative

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This novel is dedicated

  to you, the Reader.

  Without you, there would be no words to write

  or stories to tell.

  Thank you.

  Chapter One

  I noticed the suit first.

  A light grey wool. Not the heavy wool of a winter coat. No, this was the supple fabric found in the finest stores and in the most powerful board rooms from here to Hong Kong. The slight sheen, the perfectly laid collar, the white of a crisp shirt peeking through, the cuffed pants spilling to the deep red of shiny oxblood shoes.

  Sipping my coffee, I let my eyes roam up the stranger's leg, quietly enjoying how the expensive cloth grazed the anonymous man's calf, traveled up the back of the thigh, the splendid cut easily accenting the strength of the leg without clinging too closely. The perfect break of the jacket as the stranger lifted his arms ...

  Oh my god.

  What an ass.

  Jesus, Ronan, rein it in. This was a coffee shop. A public coffee shop. Not an all-you-can-eat buffet. And the guy with the great ass was most certainly not on the menu.

  I quickly glanced away, feeling the blush in my cheeks as I busied myself with the pile of documents on the table before me. Must focus. Could not get distracted.

  Besides, his wife, his girlfriend, his boyfriend -- no, that didn't feel right. This man just felt super-duper straight. Not crush a beer can on his head while he yells at the game straight, but definitely straight.

  Any-hoo, no doubt wifey would not appreciate you drooling over her betrothed.

  Yet, still, the vision of the wool stretched ever so slightly over the beauty of those cheeks lingered, the image obsessing me. Whoever this stranger was, he worked out. Ran. Played tennis. Swam. Climbed fucking mountains. Who the hell cares?

  Whatever he did, the curve of his ass was amazing.

  I'd eat breakfast off that butt.

  My eyes rose, glancing again at the hapless guy in grey wool with the beautiful cheeks getting his morning coffee.

  He now stood, to-go cup in hand, watching me.

  His eyes met mine.

  And, with a wink, he smiled.

  Shit.

  Quickly I was shuffling papers, looking busy, my cheeks burning bright red as I hoped and prayed a black hole would appear and swallow me up. Fast.

  The man was a child. Well, not really. But he was younger. Younger than me. Not by much, but younger.

  And the beauty of his butt couldn't come close to how gorgeous he was from the front. The brief glimpse I caught of his eyes and that grin and the mop of curly black hair. His square jaw and large, strong nose. The broad shoulders and barrel chest and tight torso and large hands. The hint of color in his skin. A mother from the Middle East, perhaps. Or Greek. The flesh clear and lush, the eyes dark, the hair thick.

  In the end it didn't matter because he was fucking perfect.

  And he was walking my way.

  And now he stood before me.

  I lifted my head and tried not to gasp.

  Far away, he was perfect. Up close, he was an impossible dream.

  I could feel myself growing wet.

  I crossed my legs, squeezing them tight, and tried like hell to focus.

  "May I?" he asked, the voice deep.

  Although there were tables nearby, tables with empty chairs, I nodded, my ability to speak deserting me.

  His eyes were gorgeous. His smile easy. Small dimples in his cheeks and a gentle cleft delicately cleaving his square chin.

  Fuck. I was always a sucker for dimples and a cleft in the chin. And a strong nose.

  Not twenty steps away, a table of college girls, all tight tummies and firm, round tits and sexual appetites with the stamina to match, unapologetically eyed him, their hungry stares damn near desperate as they all but licked their lips.

  And here he stood talking with me.

  What in the hell would he want with an overworked attorney with dark circles under her eyes, a chipped manicure, and an age that was decidedly not twenty?

  Not that I was old. Although not twenty or even thirty, I was definitely lingering in that space where forty grew closer, but hadn't arrived. Yet.

  "Thank you," he responded as he sat, placing his coffee before him.

  The tone was polite, even deferential. His voice the pleasantly low rumble of an utterly masculine man. The English perfect, though accented.

  Clearing my throat, I finally spoke.

  "That's a beautiful suit."

  He glanced down, his hand idly fiddling with the tie. Hermès, I believe. Deep red. Like his shoes.

  "Yes?" he asked, his eyebrows arching, a grin teasing his lips.

  "Yes," I said. "You look very nice."

  He extended his hand, the warmth of his large palm at once wrapping around mine.

  "I am Mikalo," he said, introducing himself.

  "Nice to meet you, Mikalo," I said, carefully repeating the word. Mee-call-o. "That's a lovely name."

  He nodded humbly.

  "My mother," he responded with a shrug. "She, my father --" He quickly crossed himself, his full lips briefly kissing his fingertips as he continued. "..., they chose it. I had nothing to do with it. I was just ... " And he lifted his hands, spaced about a foot apart. " ... this big. I was a sleeping baby. Brand new. They did not ask me. So, my name, it is what it is."

  And then he smiled.

  He was teasing me.

  I smiled back.

  "And yours?"

  "I'm sorry," I quickly said. "Ronan. Ronan Grace."

  "And I am Delis."

  "I'm sorry?"

  "My second name. The name after my first. Delis. It is Delis. And I am Mikalo Delis. That is my name."

  Oh Jesus Christ. Even his name was fucking edible.

  Yes, Delis he most definitely was.

  "Ronan," this Delis man was saying, "But that is a man's name, yes?"

  I nodded.

  "My mother wanted a strong woman so she gave me a strong name."

  "And this woman I see before me is strong?" he asked, his eyes holding mine.

  "I think so. Yes."

  "But you are still a woman," he said with a slight smile.

  At a loss for words, I simply nodded. Again.

  A single woman, I wanted to say. A woman who hasn't been on a date in God knows how long. A woman who hasn't been intimate in ... shit, how long? A year? Two?

  Dust it off, spruce it up, and pop my cherry all over again, and, yeah, I'd be a woman.

  I guess.

  Whatever. He was being polite. And a few minutes with some delicious eye candy couldn't hurt.

  "You are with Blankfein, Reynolds?" he suddenly asked.


  Ah yes, the papers on the table in front of me. The law firm's name and address stamped big and bold at the top of each page.

  "Yes. Partner. Corporate Tax, some Trust and Estates."

  He nodded.

  "I'm meeting with them. Interviewing is the word, yes?"

  I nodded. Yes.

  "You're not from here?"

  He shook his head.

  "No, I'm from Athens. In Greece. I'm Greek."

  "I got that," I said, teasing him.

  He paused and then laughed.

  "Of course."

  He continued.

  "My English ... " he continued, pushing the thought away. "I speak Greek with my family. Always Greek. Brothers and sisters, their wives and husbands and all their children. Only Greek. And Latin, of course. Italian, a bit of Portuguese. French -- "

  "Wait, wait, wait," I interrupted. "You speak all those languages?"

  "Of course. It is not difficult, no. If one speaks Greek, you, of course, speak Latin. It's the fact of life. And if you speak Latin, well, some Italian, it happens. The languages are like cousins. It is not a far journey from one to the other. They are good friends. And Portuguese is but another small hop from Italian. The languages, they're friends too. They know one another. It is easy."

  "And French?" I asked.

  "Ah, well French is French. If one wants to be, how you say, complete, happy, you must speak French. Of course.

  "But sometimes, with English, when it has been, how you say, forever, I have to brush it. Dust it away."

  "Dust it off," I said.

  "Yes, dust it off," he said quickly. "Thank you."

  "It's not bad, no?" he then asked, suddenly worried.

  I shook my head. "No."

  What I wanted to say was it was almost unbearably hot. The charming, clumsy sentences, the sincerity in reaching for the right word. The almost little boy quality he had as he tried so hard to say just the right thing made him the most fuckable man I'd seen in a very long time.

  He was watching me again, the dark eyes and their infuriatingly long eyelashes quietly regarding me over the rim of the cup as he drank his coffee long and deep, swallow by swallow.

  "It is good to speak with you," he then said, still watching me as he put the cup back on the table. "The English, it will come back."

  "Are you nervous?" I asked. "About the interview, I mean."

  He shrugged.

  "Not so much. I speak with you, it comes back, the English."

  "But the job, it must be exciting," I said. "I'm sure it's a great opportunity."

  "Perhaps," he said quietly. "But at the end of this day, it is a job. Life is not just a job, no?"

  "You're right. There's more to life than work," I said, keenly aware that my life was nothing but right now.

  The table of college girls suddenly laughed, the taunting undercurrent of their cruelty interrupting my brief fantasy. You know, the one where I was engaging and interesting, attractive and seductive. Where I was desirable.

  The one where some Greek God like Mikalo would look twice at me even if I wasn't a Partner at a law firm he was interviewing with.

  "Ah, well," I said, gathering my papers together, "I shouldn't keep you."

  I scooped them up, clumsily holding them to my chest, the strap of the purse at my feet maddeningly out of reach as I stooped to grab it.

  His brows knitted, his eyes suddenly sad.

  "Wait, was it something I said? Please, I am sorry."

  "No, no, no. I just don't want to keep you. Or interrupt you. Or ... "

  And then my eyes glanced toward the cabal of bitchy girls, their heads now bent in conversation as their eyes remained glued to him.

  His followed mine before looking back at me.

  "Sit," he then said, his hand suddenly on me. "Please."

  I stayed in my chair.

  His hand remained still, the long fingers wrapped around mine.

  "You must listen."

  Chapter Two

  I felt like an idiot. The documents still at my chest, my purse still out of reach, my coffee now cold.

  I should have left.

  He watched me.

  "Those girls," he finally said, "they bother you?"

  And now I felt like a fool. An immature, childish fool.

  "Yes?" he asked again.

  I gave a weak shrug and a quiet nod and then immediately regretted it.

  "Why? Do you know them?"

  I shook my head. No, I didn't know them.

  "Do you think maybe I want one of them? That I would be happy to go there and sit and be with them? Talk? Make eyes and flirt?"

  Before I could stop myself,

  "You're young, you're handsome, very handsome, and, well, yes, why not?" I said, trying like hell not to look in those eyes again.

  "They are too skinny," he suddenly said.

  "What?"

  "And they have no tits," he continued.

  "Oh, stop -- "

  "No," he interrupted, "it is true. The skinny girls, they are difficult. Unhappy and hungry. Just bones and ... "

  He stopped and stretched, his hand rubbing his rib cage.

  God, even beneath the crisp white of his shirt, I could see his abs. His tight stomach. Not an ounce of fat on him. The shadow of his dark nipples through the fabric as he moved his jacket out of the way.

  Shit.

  I crossed my legs again. And squeezed them tight.

  "Ribs," I said.

  He snapped his fingers.

  "Yes! Ribs," he said quickly as he leaned forward, his elbows back on the table. "They are just bones and ribs. And who wants to make the love to bones and ribs?"

  "You like them fat?" I asked, even though I wasn't. But no one would ever mistake me for being bones and ribs.

  "I like them healthy and happy. I like them to not bruise when I lay my body on top of them. Perhaps this is too bold for you? For me to talk of this?"

  I shook my head.

  "Ah, good," he said, continuing, "I like to not feel they will be hurt if I give myself to them. To not hear their bones pop when I lay on them. You know, like the cereal. The one that's crispy and makes the pop when you pour the milk --"

  "Rice Crispies."

  "Rice Crispies. I don't want to make love to Rice Crispies. And I like them to not complain when I wrap my arms around them and squeeze and hold tight."

  Holy Christ, what stupid bitch would complain about him wrapping his arms around her? Or squeezing? Or laying on top of her?

  "I like them strong, Ronan."

  He reached across the table, both his hands now holding mine.

  "And it is important that they have lived and have loved, truly loved, with all of their heart. And hurt. Without hurt, they never know how lucky they are to have love, no?"

  I nodded. He was right.

  "Please stay. Talk. And drink another coffee. Or juice?"

  He readied himself to stand.

  "I'll get you juice, yes?"

  The papers back on the table, I reached for his hand, drawing him back, drawing him close, making him sit.

  "No, no, no. I'm fine. Thank you. And I'm sorry. I just -- "

  "No apologies, no. You showed me you cared. That even if I am a stranger, you have an interest in me and that you, like me, wear your heart. You have courage to be honest. And to hurt. And you care."

  I did. This Greek God in grey wool had captured my heart. Or at least poked it awake and grabbed its interest.

  "I do."

  He smiled a small smile of great relief.

  "When is your interview?" I asked.

  "In ten minutes."

  "Then you should go."

  He waited, his mind searching.

  "Will you eat with me?" he then asked, his voice suddenly quiet. "Tonight? Or tomorrow? Or the day after?"

  I hesitated. Not because the answer was No, but because answering the question could open the door to more complications than I cared to admit.

 
"If it is tonight, then we will have a quiet celebration over a good interview," he said.

  He waited.

  "Or I could eat a greasy hamburger all alone in my hotel. Alone. On a happy night."

  He then pouted, teasing me.

  "I would love to have dinner with you," I finally said. "Thank you."

  And then I smiled.

  "Tonight?"

  "Tonight."

  "Yes!" he said, his fist playfully punching the air.

  He stood, reaching his hand to help me rise.

  "And now we go. I will walk you, yes?"

  I nodded.

  And, his strong arm around me, his hand guiding me by the small of the back, we passed the bitchy cabal of college girls, the envy in their eyes more satisfying than anything I could imagine.

  Chapter Three

  "He'd be number two on the list, or even number one, if he didn't have that whole MacFarlane, Schaal thing a few years ago," he was saying.

  Ignoring the mountain of papers on my own desk two floors up, I sat in the office of Bill Blazen, head of Mergers & Acquisitions, sticking my nose where it really didn't belong.

  Not my department, not my decision, but the suspense was killing me.

  Besides, Bill, although most certainly not an old man, had quite easily joined the ranks of those men I considered father figures. Protective, sweet, knows me like the back of his hand.

  Difficult to hide anything from him.

  Still, I needed to know: What are the chances of Mikalo staying in New York?

  "What MacFarlane, Schaal deal?" I asked instead.

  "The boy graduated Harvard Law with a job offer in hand. Generous starting salary. Very generous, in fact. He accepted, worked for eight, nine, maybe ten months, and then bolted back to Greece, or something."

  Bolted back to Greece. Not good.

  Steady, Ronan. Stay focused.

  "He graduated Harvard with a job in hand?"

  Bill nodded.

  Not many could claim that. Impressive.

  "We touched on it earlier," Bill was saying, "during the interview, but he just doesn't seem to understand how or why leaving MacFarlane the way he did would worry a potential employer. I'm not sure if it's an English thing or --"