Heat Wave Page 19

  What? Choice’s eyes widened as she saw the temperature scroll across a building in bright white neon. Ninety-eight degrees? This time of night? No wonder I feel like I’ve wet my pants and my titties are raining. Choice could feel steady streams of sweat trickling from the crevice of her weighty breasts, over her flat stomach, and into the band of her jeans. She hadn’t watched the news before dressing for her best friend’s Fourth of July party. Had she done so, she would have chosen different apparel, and learned that this was set to become the hottest day in Manhattan, ever.

  But knowing her friend’s year-round penchant for keeping her Brooklyn brownstone’s thermostat at a cool seventy, and the New York subway system’s tendency to be even colder, Choice had dressed in slim-legged black jeans, a yellow cap-sleeved tee, and a multicolored cotton jacket that could easily be stuffed into her oversized bag. As she walked the last block to her destination, she had a strong inclination to also stuff her jeans inside it and walk down the street bare-butt and fancy-free. Choice laughed at the visual her thoughts created, just as she reached for the building’s glass door and entered the quiet, cool lobby.

  Hum. Where’s Dave? Choice scanned the lobby for the amicable, white-haired security guard who’d worked in the building for almost thirty years. He wasn’t at his usual post; in fact, the building was eerily quiet, and only partially lit. Choice bit back a slight wave of fear at being almost totally alone in this huge city landmark. Thoughts of terrorists, rapists, muggers, and such scampered across her mind like skaters across the ice rink at Rockefeller Center. “Girl, you watch too much Lifetime,” she mumbled, hurrying toward the bank of elevators and searching for the office key at the same time. She replaced the negative thoughts with a more positive one, the reason she was braving record-breaking heat and near-empty office buildings instead of partying the holiday night away with friends—her dad’s surprise birthday party. Charles McKinley was turning the big six-o tomorrow, and his only daughter wanted everything about the rest of the week, from the office celebration to the evening with family and friends to her gift to him—a trip to Vegas in a chartered jet with three of his best friends—to be perfect.

  The elevator doors opened and Choice stepped inside, smiling as she imagined her dad’s reaction when she dropped him off at Kennedy Airport to board the private jet. Not that her father hadn’t experienced such luxury before. To the contrary, for the founders and co-owners of McKinley Black Enterprises, Charles McKinley and Jeffrey Black, opulence was normal. But it was the presence of three friends Choice had worked hard to not only locate but secure their presence for the top-notch getaway, that had her showing all of her pearly whites.

  Choice watched the shiny steel doors as they slowly closed—which is why she knew the exact moment a large hand reached between the sliding metal, stopping its motion. Choice’s smile fled. Her mouth went dry and fear clutched her heart. This large, brawny hand with manicured nails did not belong to Dave, the trusty Irish security guard. This hand belonged to a stranger. And Choice was alone. The negative thoughts returned full force. Choice remembered the pepper spray in her purse, but at the moment was too terrified to move. The doors reopened, and the stranger stepped inside. Choice’s heart rate increased as the doors closed.

  And then the stranger smiled.

  Choice’s heart continued to pitter-patter at a mile a minute. But now the acceleration was hardly because of fear. It was six feet three inches and about one hundred and ninety pounds of butterscotch perfection that made her have to remember to breathe and caused moisture in places that had nothing to do with the scorching outdoor temperatures. No, there was another heat wave coming on. Choice realized that she was staring, and that the succulent-looking lips that she stared at were moving.

  “Uh, excuse me?” she asked, feeling like a fool. No one should have to repeat a one-word greeting.

  The stranger pressed a number on the floor panel and blessed Choice with another smile. “I said hello.”

  “Oh. Hello.” Choice looked down, chastising herself for behaving like an idiot. In her thirty-five years on the planet, she’d been around professional athletes, wealthy trust-fund men, and handsome celebrities. Yet she’d never had such an overwhelming physical reaction to another man, nor such instant desire. Choice Alyssa McKinley! Get ahold of yourself! “You scared me,” she finished, hoping the man would believe it was shock and not awe that caused her erratic breathing.

  The stranger appeared to not notice her angst. “Can you believe this weather? Still almost a hundred degrees, even after the sun’s gone down!”

  “No,” Choice answered, having calmed herself enough to raise her eyes as she spoke. She forced herself not to react to his curly black hair and mesmerizing green eyes set below thick brows and long lashes. “I don’t think I’ve ever been this hot.” She immediately recognized the double entendre and quickly rephrased. “I mean, the weather . . . I don’t think the weather has ever been so brutal.”

  “It hasn’t,” Mr. Wet-Your-Panties-with-a-Single-Glance responded, thankfully not reacting to Choice’s verbal faux pas. “Today broke a record that has stood for sixty-nine years.”

  “Sixty-nine, huh?” Choice said. Now there’s a thought . . .

  She smiled, and the stranger took in a set of dimples amid what appeared to be buttery smooth skin. He scanned her body quickly, surreptitiously, and liked what he saw. Not that he was looking for a woman, or even a date for that matter. Trey Scott’s focus was singular and absolute—to become a multimillionaire by his thirtieth birthday—just ten short months away. He’d just landed the job that could help make this happen, and he didn’t intend to be distracted by anything . . . even when “anything” looked good enough to eat.

  Choice adopted the standard elevator pose—body hugging the wall opposite the other lone occupant, eyes affixed to the escalating numbers over the elevator doors. Trey’s phone beeped, and he became absorbed in the task of rapidly typing his response.

  As they neared the floor Trey had pressed, Choice took one last look at the morsel of a man beside her. An unmerited yet unmistakable ache at the thought of not seeing him again rose within her. She immediately tamped down the feeling. Don’t even go there. Choice’s first boyfriend had taught her that behind every man who looked like this stranger was normally not just one good woman, but a gaggle of them. Her latest lover proved that sometimes another woman was the least of one’s worries. She frowned, thinking of the man who taught her this lesson—Remington Black. Remington was her father’s partner, Jeffrey Black’s son, heir to the Black fortune, and if her parents had their way, their future son-in-law.

  Trey noticed they had neared the floor he’d pressed, where a bank of high-end vending machines was housed, and stepped forward to exit. Without warning, the elevator made a jolting motion, and then suddenly stopped. Choice stumbled into Trey, knocking the phone from his hand. Seconds later, the lights went out. They were thrown into utter darkness.

  A loud gasp permeated the air as panic swept through Choice, full and complete. She’d never been a fan of total darkness; had slept with either a nightlight or burning candle her entire adult life. Additionally, she tended to become claustrophobic in small, enclosed spaces. Engulfed in fear, she almost didn’t notice the hardness of the arm on which she leaned, almost didn’t smell the woodsy scent emanating from the body beside her. But Choice was frightened, not dead. As she forced herself away from Adonis, she deduced that even a corpse would rise if placed near a body that exuded such raw sexuality. She thought of the Michael Jackson Thriller video and imagined a motley crew of partially limbed zombies following this guy through Times Square. The thought brought levity, forced back reality, and temporarily staved off a panic attack.

  “Are you okay?” Trey asked.

  “Not really. I’m not a fan of the dark, at least . . . not like this.”

  Trey heard the tremor in Choice’s voice. His voice dropped—becoming soft, comforting. He had the inexplicable urge to reach out
and touch her, fold her into his arms, make her feel better. “It’s probably just a temporary glitch. I’m sure we’ll get going again soon.”

  Ten seconds ticked by. Thirty. More.

  “There’s an emergency phone,” Choice began.

  “I was just thinking the same thing.” Trey moved stealthily in the darkness. “Ah, yes, here it is.”

  Choice held her breath as metal clinked against hard plastic. She hoped someone would answer quickly.

  Trey rattled the phone hinge. “There’s no dial tone.”

  “Would there be? I mean, it’s an emergency phone connected directly to the front desk. I think it rings on their end without a tone.”

  Seconds seemed like hours. The silence was deafening.

  “Still no one?” Choice felt as if she were drowning in the darkness. Her voice sounded tentative, distant to her own ears.

  “Nothing.” Trey sighed. “I’ll find my phone and dial nine-one-one.”

  “Good idea. I have mine.” Choice reached into her bag, glad to feel useful. She quickly punched in the number. No signal available. “I’m not getting a signal,” she said, after trying twice more.

  Meanwhile, Trey had been on the floor in his Sean John originals, searching for his satellite phone. “Just found mine,” he said, dialing the emergency number, sure it would work. Unfortunately, his result was the same as Choice’s—nada. “Okay, let’s just . . . stay calm,” he continued, trying to call out yet again. “All of these buildings have backup generators, emergency equipment . . . there’s no way we’ll be here for long.”

  “I feel like I’m suffocating,” Choice responded. “I . . . I can’t breathe.”

  Trey took two steps and bumped into her. Even in the seriousness of the situation, he took in the soft yet firm breasts that met his chest, begging for a rendezvous. He forced himself to simply take her hands, instead of wrapping his arms around her like he wanted to do, and he spoke in the low, calm, authoritative tone he used when under intense pressure, or about to make love.

  “Take a deep breath, no, don’t panic. Listen to me. What’s your name?”

  “Choice,” she ground out through gritted teeth.

  “Choice, that’s an interesting name.”

  She took a deep breath. “I have interesting parents.”

  Trey laughed, a deep, rumbling sound that hit Choice’s core and spread its warm tentacles throughout her body. She shivered, but nerves were only a part of it. Unfortunately, they were the most dominant part.

  “I can’t breathe!” she cried again, her voice reverberating against the thick steel walls.

  “C’mon, now. Everything is going to be all right.” Trey could no longer resist, and he pulled her curvaceous body into his arms, inhaling a combination of gardenia and something citrusy, feeling the heat that pulsed from inside her. “My name’s Trey,” he whispered against her ear.

  His breath was hot, wet against her earlobe. Choice found her arms wrapping around his waist of their own volition. Before she could acknowledge the yellow caution light flashing in her head, her hands had begun an exploration of his back, up his broad shoulders and back down to his narrow waist. Just before she lost her mind and cupped what she felt sure were hard, firm buttocks, she pulled away.

  “I’m sorry. I’m okay.” She backed into a corner, and instantly missed his touch.

  “Yeah, right. Cool.” Trey remained where he was, feeling bereft and alone without Choice in his arms. He blamed his somewhat discombobulated state on the alcohol he’d consumed at his parent’s Long Island home. He’d tried to miss the event altogether, but he knew that not showing up for his mother’s annual Fourth of July picnic would have caused an entirely different set of fireworks than those powered by TNT. He shook his head, ran a hand over his increasingly wet brow, and wished he had taken his mother up on her offer to “fix him a plate to eat while he worked.” Trey had no idea how long whatever was happening would last, but the thought of a rib soaking up leftover traces of Hennessy sounded pretty good right about now. Instead he’d decided to grab a sandwich from a vending machine, and now even that was not an option.

  “You okay?” Trey queried, after about ten minutes of silence that seemed an eternity.

  No response.

  “Choice, are you all right?”

  “Not really.” Choice felt more nauseated by the minute. “I’m burning up and about to be sick.”

  “You’re probably dehydrated and overheating. Do you have any water?”

  Trey heard rummaging around in a bag before Choice responded. “Yes.”

  “Good. Take sips and place some at your temples and the back of your neck. Then we’ll have to take steps to get you as cool as possible.”

  Choice snorted sarcastically. “How do you propose we do that? By opening a window?”

  “No,” Trey answered. “By taking off those tight, hot jeans that are probably cutting off your circulation. Strip down to your underwear.”

  “Excuse me?” Choice said, incredulity lacing her voice. Very few people talked to Charles McKinley’s daughter with anything less than the utmost respect, and this man’s suggestion bordered on insulting.

  “You heard me.” Trey’s voice was low, soft, authoritative, like the one he used when he was under intense pressure, or about to make love. “Take off your clothes.”

  Chapter 2

  Silence followed Choice’s emphatic one-word refusal to disrobe. The elevator became hotter by the minute, almost cloying. Choice swept her shoulder-length hair off her neck, fashioned it into a loose braid, and bundled it on top of her head. She wondered what Trey was doing, what he was thinking. The unmistakable sound of a belt being unbuckled was her first clue that he was taking his own advice.

  “What are you doing?” Choice knew she was asking the obvious, but she had to say something to quell the surge of excitement that coursed through her at the thought of Trey in the nude.

  “I don’t know how long we’re going to be in here,” Trey calmly replied. He unzipped his cargo shorts and soon the swooshing sound of fabric hitting marble was heard. “You can be stubborn if you want to, but I’ve seen the effects of someone whose body has overheated. I’m going to do whatever it takes to keep my body right.” The black T-shirt that Trey wore soon joined the shorts on the floor. “Ah, that feels a little better.”

  Choice heard the sound of water being poured, and then a hand being patted over a taut, muscled frame. She closed her eyes and imagined the rivulets running down his skin. Is he wearing shorts or briefs? What color are they? Wait . . . is he wearing anything at all? A wave of heat burst from Choice’s nana, shooting up to her neck and down to her toes. She reached for her bag, pulled out a flyer on the city’s cultural arts programs she’d picked up in the subway, and began to fan herself. The air that brushed her face was hot and moist, but it provided a type of relief from her misery. With her other hand, she again dialed emergency. Still no signal, and on top of that, after being out all day, her battery was on one bar. It sounded like Trey had sat on the floor. But the elevator was pitch-black. She couldn’t even see her hand in front of her.

  Two minutes passed. Three. Five.

  Choice’s tee was wet with perspiration and she never thought she’d experience sweating feet. But her leather sandals had created their own type of furnace, causing her to feel like a hot, wet mess. She slid down to the floor, took off her sandals, and found temporary nirvana when her feet touched the somewhat still cool marble floor.

  “Feels better, doesn’t it?”

  “Yes, it does.” Choice had the urge to reach out and touch Trey. He sounded close but felt far away, even though he was only on the other side of the box. She pulled up her knees, wrapped her arms around them, and rested her chin. “I’m getting scared, Trey,” she admitted, remembering a year ago and the terrorist who drove a truck of explosives into the heart of Times Square and almost succeeded in setting it off—mere blocks from where they now sat trapped. Choice had lunched in the are
a that day, and had been scared senseless. “What do you think is going on?”

  “Obviously some kind of electrical malfunction.”

  “But like you said, they have backup generators for that. Why aren’t the lights back on already, and why aren’t we moving?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, one thing’s for sure. This can’t go on forever. Tomorrow is Thursday, a work day, so at the very least we’ll only be here for a few hours. That’s not so bad, I guess.” Choice had hoped to convince herself of this possibility while making the statement, but was only partially successful.

  “Yeah,” Trey agreed. He balled up his clothing, placed it under his head and stretched out as much as he could. “Might as well get comfortable, darling, since as you say, we’re going to be here awhile.”

  Choice continued to sit on the floor, even though the flyer with which she’d fanned herself was becoming less and less effective. She raised her top enough to let air in, fanned the flyer back and forth, enjoying the air that felt cool across her sweaty skin. She raised up her top a little more. Maybe taking my bra off will help. She did, and her breasts seemed to applaud their freedom. They swayed perkily as she felt for her bag and placed the black lacy number inside it. Once again she raised her top, this time, over her breasts. The wind hit her wet orbs, bringing sudden yet temporary relief. The darkness was like crude oil, thick and solid. Still, Choice felt exposed and wanton. She was no prude by any stretch of the imagination, but neither was she given to striping naked in front of strangers and imagining the thrill of having a one-night stand. But in this moment, taking off her clothes and mounting Trey shamelessly—thus assuaging the nine months of celibacy she’d endured since ending her last relationship—took on an exciting, naughty appeal.

  Throwing caution to the wind and engaging in the forbidden, exhilarating world of raw, spontaneous sex was something she’d never ever even think about in the light of day, much less do. After all, she was the daughter of Charles McKinley, heir to the McKinley fortune—and to whom much was given, much was required. She’d been groomed since childhood to know that what she did affected not only herself, but her family and their good name. Her parents had divorced when she was twelve years old, but one thing Charles and Arnetta had done right was continue to act civil for the sake of their child. When it came to how Choice was raised, the two adults were in total agreement. Arnetta McKinley-Baron was all about appearances and had done everything humanly feasible to make sure her daughter knew only the best life. Choice had been given etiquette classes as a child and teen, attended private school, came out as a debutante, graduated from an East Coast school, and then for her graduation present had spent one year abroad. There, in Milan, Spain, she not only became fluent in Spanish, but fell in love with fashion. That was also where the hitch in the giddyup occurred—when she decided to design clothes instead of buildings, much to her father’s dismay. He’d dreamed of handing over the reins to his only child when the time was right, but Choice had the same determination to fulfill her dreams as her dad had had to fulfill his, and the same tenacity that had made McKinley Black one of the leading architectural firms in the nation. For the past ten years, Choice had anonymously built a stellar reputation and A-list following under the label Chai. This alter ego was never seen without sunglasses, long, flowing wigs, and her signature fashion statement: oversized tops, skin-tight pants, and high heels. Only a handful of people knew that the mysterious Chai and Choice McKinley were one and the same. That’s just the way she liked it.