Mikalo's Flame Page 2

  “And, honestly, knowing their business, they’re spending money like crazy, the Byzans. They’re already deep in debt and gunning for more. Mansions in LA. Apartments here in the city. All of it gaudy and flashy and way, way over-priced.

  “And this? This mess out here? This is just tens of thousands of dollars pissed down the drain to make them feel important and necessary. It’s ridiculous.

  “Though I must admit I am more than a little curious how they got the city to agree to close down 42nd.

  “Now that’s impressive ...”

  “Money talks,” Janey said with a smirk.

  “Ain’t that the damn truth.”

  The door suddenly opened.

  “Miss,” the security guard said, his pearly whites clenched in an angry grin as he pushed the door all the way back and held it open. “Please.”

  And then he left.

  “I don’t fucking believe this,” I said under my breath.

  Seriously, we’d had billionaires stroll these halls. Titans of industry. Leaders of nations. Hollywood royalty. Spoiled trust fund kids on the verge of inheriting more money than they’d ever be able to spend.

  And no one had ever upended our office and work with this much unnecessary security overkill. Or treated us like worthless pieces of shit.

  No one.

  Although I was familiar with their businesses and accounts and financial planning needs, I’d never met the Byzans. And, after all this bullshit, I didn’t think I wanted to.

  My phone rang.

  “Yes?” I answered.

  “Can you please come to the conference room, Miss Grace?”

  Abigail White, partner and perennial thorn in my side.

  “Now?” I asked.

  “Of course,” came the cool, emotionless response followed by a click as the line went dead.

  I hung up the phone.

  “They’re here,” Janey said from her perch near the door.

  “And I’m off to the conference room,” I said as I stood to go.

  A burly arm blocked my path once I stepped into the hall.

  “Excuse me,” I said, curbing my frustration.

  A finger to his earpiece, he nodded as he listened, glancing at me before silently insisting I wait, the raised finger silencing any argument.

  So, left little choice, I waited.

  The elevator doors opened.

  A small man in a loud silk shirt and wrinkled khakis stepped out and paused, confused before security immediately surrounded him and guided him down the hall toward the conference room.

  I stepped forward to go.

  The guard wouldn’t let me pass.

  “I need to go,” I quickly said. “There’s a meeting I need to be at.”

  “Wait, please,” he insisted, his eyes behind the sunglasses watching the elevators.

  “Wasn’t that Mr. Byzan?” I asked. “He’s my client. It’d be rude to not be there to greet him. I have to go. Now.

  “So ...” I finished as I tried to maneuver past his arm.

  Again, he stopped me with a shake of his head.

  “The daughter,” he said. “She always takes her own elevator. Wait.”

  I looked to Janey who simply shrugged and shook her head.

  This was beyond annoying.

  A ding as the second elevator doors opened.

  After a moment, she stepped forward, making her entrance.

  Tall, skinny, young, and very, very tan.

  Skin tight jeans pushed into bright blue thigh high boots. A glimpse of taut tummy beneath a half-buttoned green silk blouse. Her bright purple fox bolero slipping off her slender shoulders and ropes of chunky, clunky diamonds wrapped around her neck to spill into her enhanced cleavage. Large, round sunglasses covering half her face. And a bejeweled tiara -- yes, a tiara -- perched tenuously in her artfully messy beehive of bleached blonde hair.

  Mara Byzan.

  The daughter.

  She paused as she looked from left to right, hand on her hip, a thick red ruby the size of a large thumbnail glinting on her fist, her eyes taking us in from behind the designer shades, judging us, her glossy pink lips set in a sneer.

  And then she spoke, her heavily Eastern European accent chewing the words and spitting them out.

  “And this, this nothing place with stupid little nobodies, this we pay for?”

  Then, her security in tow, she strutted her way to the conference room.

  Chapter Five

  “I need a drink.”

  I laughed.

  “Bill, it’s not even Noon.”

  “Still ...” he said, “A drink would be really good right about now.”

  In all honesty, I had to agree.

  The last hour had been hell. A hell only Mara Byzan could create.

  Mara Byzan slapping the table with her open palm as she interrupted us, shouting over us, making one of her many endless points, the metal of her ring thwack, thwack, thwacking against the polished glass.

  Mara Byzan sighing. Or rolling her eyes. Bouncing her platform heeled foot as she dramatically leaned her head back and groaned. Or checking her text messages. Again and again and again.

  Yes, after what felt like an eternity with “the Byzan”, as she called herself -- often --, a drink did sound good.

  Still, it wasn’t even noon.

  “Sit,” I said, gesturing to the guest chair as I slid behind my desk.

  “Alright,” he said with a sigh as he sat. “But I’m literally counting the seconds until lunch.”

  “Fair enough,” I answered with a light laugh.

  “So, Ronan, how are things?”

  Although close, our paths hadn’t crossed in a while, him often walking one way while I walked the other, the opportunity to catch up often lost in the chaos of our respective days.

  “Good, good.”

  “And Mikalo?” he continued.

  A slight pause.

  “Good,” I finally said. “He’s good.”

  “Ah.”

  “What?” I asked.

  “I hear doubt,” he said, his eyes watching me.

  I nodded.

  “Sucks, doesn’t it?” I asked.

  “Bullshit,” Bill said quickly. “I’d be worried if there wasn’t doubt.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  “I mean, I love him --”

  “Good.”

  “But there’s this nagging ... something I can’t escape. Can’t get away from.”

  “Of course there’s going to be a nagging something, Ronan. It’s life and relationships and love and the heart. And anytime you get those mixed together, you’ll have doubt and dread and bliss and euphoria.”

  “I feel like I should know this by now,” I said, only half joking.

  “You know what I remember about my wedding day?” he quickly asked. “And this is, what, twenty-six, twenty-seven years ago?”

  “You’re asking me how many years it’s been?” I teased. “Boy, you better figure it out before your next anniversary.”

  He laughed.

  “Oh, she’ll be sure to remind me,” he said. “But, no, seriously, what I remember most about my wedding day all those years ago --”

  “Good dodge --”

  “-- Thank you --, was how terrifying it was to say those two simple words: I do. They just sat there in my throat, as if they knew they were the most important words in the world.

  “And they were, very important. Two little words, two simple syllables. ‘I do.’ Two life-changing words.

  “Man oh man,” he then said with a laugh. “I thought I was going to die. Watching her walk down the aisle. Gorgeous. The church gorgeous. My parents proud and relieved. And now in debt. Everyone there in their Sunday best. Watching. Waiting.

  “And those words sticking in my throat.

  “And it wasn’t because I didn’t love her. I did. It was just this knowing that with ‘I do’, that was it. We’d be in it for the long haul.

 
; “Hell of a time to make a mistake, you know?

  “But it’s fixable,” he added, watching me. “If that ‘I do’ should’ve been an ‘I don’t’ or, better yet, an ‘I better not’, well, you split, separate, get a divorce. Whatever. Nasty and heart-breaking and totally sucky to the extreme, but absolutely fixable, you know?”

  He nodded, his grin stretching from ear to ear.

  “Despite your doubt and questions, if this is a mistake, whatever this is with Mikalo, then it’s fixable.

  “So stop worrying and just enjoy it.”

  I didn’t answer. He made it sound so easy, but ...

  “What?” Bill asked, responding to my unspoken doubts.

  “It’s so frustrating,” I said. “I’m not usually this neurotic and insane --”

  “No, you’re not --”

  “Right. Thank you. But I can’t put my finger on it. There’s this ... something.”

  I stopped, the words for whatever this was still not on my tongue.

  “A something,” he repeated.

  “Yeah. Like, a ton of questions. You know, is this moving too fast? Is this real? Is he sincere? And what, exactly, is this? Exactly? And why me? Right? He could have anyone in the world probably. Why, out of everyone, why me?”

  “Bingo.”

  “What do you mean ‘bingo’?”

  “That’s what it comes down to in the end, doesn’t it?” he asked. “Why you?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe. Perhaps. Probably. Oh, who the hell knows?”

  He paused, listening.

  “Are you sure you want to know the answer to those questions?” he then asked.

  “I do, Bill. I do.”

  His eyes shifted away from me to look out the window over my shoulder, the skyscrapers surrounding us shrouded in misty clouds of grey and white.

  “Why did he interview for a job he didn’t want or need?” he then asked. “That’s what I find fascinating. Why would he come all this way from Athens, from Greece, to meet with all these law firms he had no intention, and I can only assume he had no intention because I frankly don’t know, of ever joining?

  “Not that I should care because god knows there’s a lot of eager talent out there to draw from, but I am curious. With his money and his responsibilities at home, why would he even entertain the possibility of uprooting everything to be a Senior Associate at a New York law firm?”

  I stopped, unsure how to respond.

  So I spoke the truth.

  “I don’t know.”

  Bill nodded, his eyes back on me.

  “Perhaps that’s a good place to start.”

  Chapter Six

  He sighed, leaning his head back as he gathered his thoughts.

  We sat near the fire, snuggled into a couch of rich, supple leather, rows of books climbing the walls behind us and all around, the night dark outside the large window.

  I waited.

  It was such a simple question, really. And to ask it shouldn’t be such a big deal. Especially in light of his insistence I ask him anything at any time. Total communication. Complete honesty. Nothing hidden.

  But for some reason, it was.

  And I was nervous.

  He dropped his head, his chin briefly ducking into his chest as he took a sip of his drink. Scotch. On the rocks.

  So he had an occasional vice. I could live with it.

  “My Grace,” he began, “Is this a thing that is important to know?”

  “Important, no,” I said. “But I am curious. And so I’m asking: why did you come to New York to meet for jobs you didn’t need and probably wouldn’t have accepted?”

  And, Mikalo being Mikalo, he answered my question with one of his own.

  “If you were my bride, and what I had was yours, everything I have is yours and there is now no need to do anything, anything at all, would you quit your job, your work, and spend all day with me?”

  “Mikalo ...”

  “Please, my Grace,” he interrupted. “I would like to know. Would you stop your life and be with me?”

  I looked past him and out the window, the bare branches of a tree holding my attention briefly as they swayed in the wind.

  Of course I had walked right into this one.

  Still ...

  “I would not,” I finally admitted. “Of course I would work. Of course I would still want to work. Of course.”

  “Why?” he asked, leaning forward.

  Yeah, I totally walked into this one.

  Damn it.

  “Well, what else would I do? I mean, just sit around all day? Sleep late? Eat three hour lunches?”

  “Of course not,” he answered. “And why would this be different for me, my Grace? Should I not want a life where I am needed? Where I have a purpose?”

  “You have that with your family’s business, right? That’s obvious, Mikalo. They need you. And, from what I understand, many of them want you to run things, right?”

  He stood angrily, pacing to the window and looking outside, his back to me.

  “I do not want them,” he said before taking the last swallow of his drink, the ice clinking against the glass in the sudden silence.

  “And they,” he then continued. “They are not what I need.

  “I will be there, of course. For them. But for my life, I want more. I need more.”

  He turned back to me.

  “I had a dream when I was a small boy. Something simple, something unimportant. But it was a dream I held in my heart and my father, when he learned of this dream, he killed it. He said no. He would not allow it.

  “My dream was to be his dream, he said. I was to do what he does. Do what he says. Always. To have this small dream was not for me.

  “But that dream, it was mine. And since it died, since it was taken from me, I do not have so many dreams.”

  “What was your dream?” I asked quietly.

  He paused, deep in thought, and then shrugged the question away, walking to the bar and pouring himself a new drink, the ice clinking angrily against the glass.

  “It died. That is enough. And there is pain in the thought of it.”

  I waited, choosing my words carefully.

  “So, your meeting with these Firms, it was, what, a way to be something your father didn’t want? Do something of your own?”

  He shook his head and shrugged, belting back another swallow of the rich amber liquid, taking a piece of ice into his mouth and slowly sucking it as he thought.

  “No,” he finally said, the ice crunched in two and swallowed. “There is more, but it is not important.”

  “You said once I could ask you anything at any time,” I said. “No secrets. Nothing hidden.”

  “My Grace, this is true. And you asked me the question. I have answered.”

  “No,” I said. “There’s still something you’re not --”

  “Yes, you are right,” he interrupted. “The time is not now for all the answers you want. Soon, but not now.”

  “Mikalo ...”

  “Not now,” he repeated, his tone almost sharp.

  Now I was really curious.

  And, with me, curiosity and patience didn’t walk hand-in-hand.

  He came close, kneeling in front of me to wrap his arms around my legs and, his eyes on mine, rest his chin on my knees.

  “We have our lives to share our secrets,” he said quietly. “The reason for why I meet with these firms or why I come to New York, that reason is not one you need to fear.

  “Please, trust me. You will know, and soon.”

  I stroked his face, moving his hair from his forehead, and cupping his chin.

  I nodded.

  Okay.

  He bent low and kissed my knees, his hands moving from my legs up my back to wrap around my shoulders.

  And like that, I could feel myself growing wet.

  Question time was over.

  I grabbed his hair in my fist as he pressed his face to my thighs.

  Inhaling deeply, he move
d his face between my legs.

  And then he groaned.

  Chapter Seven

  In the light of the fire, he watched me as he sipped his scotch, sucking a small piece of ice into his mouth.

  And then, bending low, the cold, half-melting nugget clenched between his teeth, he brought his lips to my breast.

  I gasped, my back arching as he sucked me deep, the chill of his mouth pressing against me almost unbearable, the burn of the ice melting against my sensitive flesh addictively delicious.

  Wrapping my fingers in his hair, I drew him near, brought him to me, eager to taste him, to wrap myself in his scent. My lips on his, my hands now on his hips, his waist, clawing at his belt, wrestling with the zipper of his jeans.

  He lifted me from the couch, holding me close as he gently laid me on the plush carpet covering the hardwood floor. Pausing, he lifted from me, resting on his knees, towering over me.

  One by one, the buttons of his shirt were undone, his fingers patient and teasing. And then the fabric pulled open to reveal his muscular chest and tight torso, the light from the nearby flames bouncing off the subtle ridges of his stomach, before the shirt slipped past the rounded, smooth shoulders and slid free, dropping on the floor around my legs.

  He leaned forward, crouching over me, the muscles in his shoulders and spanning the width of his chest flexing.

  I lifted up, rising to him, eager to taste, to lick.

  We kissed, deeply.

  My mouth moved from his down to his chin, his neck. I paused as I reached his chest, my lips searching for the dark circles of his sensitive nipples while breathing deep and losing myself in his masculine scent.

  Finding the familiar small peaks, I took a sensitive circle between my lips, my teeth grazing the skin, my fingers finding and then pinching the dark flesh of its twin.

  Still crouched over me, he moaned, his hand now on the back of my head guiding me as I sucked and nibbled and teased, my fingers darting below once more to work the zipper of his jeans, eager to free his hardness.

  He roughly pulled me from him, my hair clenched in his fist as he brought me away from his chest and lifted me to his face.

  His lips desperately found mine, his tongue pushing its way deep as he stretched out, forcing me back, laying on top of me, his knees parting my legs as his weight tenderly crushed me, his hardness grinding into my heat.