On the Razor's Edge of Paradise Read online

  "Believe it or not, honey, not all of us need a man to make us happy. Some of us are just as happy—maybe even happier—by ourselves."

  Sharon leaned closer to me, and I could still smell the dip—as well as tequila—on her breath, as she patted my cheek like the condescending bitch she could sometimes be. "You keep telling yourself that, cupcake. Maybe one day, you'll actually believe it."

  Before she managed to make the dramatic exit I knew she had planned in her head, I said, perhaps a bit too pointedly, enough so that it stopped her retreat, "So I'm free to go, without recriminations? Without your childish sulking for weeks on end—not returning my texts except with frowny faced or weeping emoticons or sending all of my calls to voicemail, etc., etc., etc.?"

  There was the resentful glare I was used to. "Yeah, fine. You look so damned uncomfortable that you're going to infect everyone. Go—get into your flannel jammies with a cup of hot marshmallows and a teaspoon of cocoa and watch I Love Lucy for the gazillionth time, if you think that's what's going to make you happy."

  Still amazed at how well she knew me, I leaned forward to kiss her cheek noisily. "Excruciatingly. Enjoy your party, Sharon. I'm sure everyone will rave about it. I'm sorry I can't be more of a social butterfly for you."

  "Good thing I love you anyway," she spat out, as if it was a curse as she drew me in for a hug anyway.

  "I love you, too," I said, meaning it more than she did at the moment, I think.

  It wasn't until I was finally out of that loud, hot, oppressive room and taking a deep, calming breath that I felt the very door I was leaning against moving out from under me.

  Who else would be leaving such a great party so early?

  Of course, just the person I didn't want to see as I was trying to make my escape unnoticed.

  Mr. Dan Hayden.

  "I'm so sorry," he said immediately, upon noticing that I had to try to recover from suddenly falling backwards when he opened the door, his fingers on my elbow.

  Right, like that was going to stop me from falling.

  "Are you all right?"

  "I'm fine, thank you," I threw over my shoulder as I swiftly recovered and took several steps down the hall, away from him.

  "Stop!"

  Yeah. Definitely a Dom.

  Unfortunately, I had been—somewhat—well trained, and I did exactly what he said.

  Damnit.

  But I also did my level best to hide what I'd done—or at least not give him any hint that that was why I had done it. So, I whirled around to face him, and my, "Yes?" was a tad less than welcoming.

  I saw that tiny smile he hid very quickly, though, as if he was amused at my efforts to conceal my inner self from him. He didn't seem insulted in the least by my attitude, taking only about a stride and a half to catch up to me and stuffing his hands into his pockets as he looked down at his shoes.

  I was amazed. Those unconscious actions betrayed a nervousness—a certain level of insecurity, even—for which I couldn't imagine I could be the inspiration.

  But then he looked up and right directly into my eyes—past any artifice I might try to summon to deflect him.

  And then, with a start, I realized that this man saw exactly who and what I was—and what's more, he accepted it. He more than accepted it, he appreciated it.

  I actually had to shake myself, internally, to take myself firmly in hand and coach myself to straighten the fuck up, to not indulge in flights of fancy about what this man might really be like under his suave exterior.

  "I hope you'll forgive me for my forwardness, but I saw you were leaving and I didn't want to let you go without saying how nice it was to meet you."

  I notched my chin up a bit higher and pointed out—slightly discourteously—that he'd already said that.

  Another smile, this time a little harder, less jovial. "You're right, of course. I must confess that I wish you weren't leaving so soon—we didn't really get any time to talk."

  I snorted. "No one in there is really talking."

  He nodded slowly. "Quite true. Perhaps we'll have another chance to talk soon?"

  I wasn't about to give an inch, murmuring, with just the right tinge of reluctance, "Perhaps."

  I would have sworn that the corners of his lips turned up just slightly at that, as if he was amused at my hesitance, but I could have been mistaken, I suppose.

  "Well, I mustn't keep you," he said, and I thought I was going to be released from the snare of his all too powerful gaze. But then he did something so wholly endearing—and thus, for me, unbearably intriguing—that I hated him for doing it, despite the fact that I loved that he had the impulse to do so with me—a woman he didn't know. "Are you all right to drive? You haven't had too much to drink, have you? I would be glad to drive you—" When he stopped himself, I could see him take a mental step back, as if he knew he'd been a bit overzealous. "Or I could call you a cab—"

  I didn't want to, but I smiled up at him—all that long way, since I—unlike every other woman at the party and probably some of the men—wasn't wearing heels, saying, "No, thank you, though. I've had very little to drink this evening, considering, and I'm fine to drive. If I hadn't been, I would already have called a cab for myself."

  He looked a bit uncomfortable and—was that a blush staining those acute cheekbones? "Of course." Somehow, I didn't think he felt awkward very often, which just made him feel that much more so, and it was quite obvious in his expression. "Have a pleasant rest of your evening, then."

  "You, too, Mr. Hayden," I returned, heading back towards the elevators.

  "Dan," he corrected immediately—sternly, even—having not taken a step from where we'd been.

  With nearly enough distance between us for me to relax a bit, I turned to face him, consciously refusing to repeat his name back to him, as I would have if he had been the one person in my life who was allowed to give me orders that I would make a sincere effort to obey.

  "And, if we should ever meet again, you must call me Isa."

  Unlike what usually happened in my life, the elevator dinged at the precisely right moment, and I stepped into it—knowing that he was still looking at me intently, a hunch which was confirmed the second I turned around and he was still standing there, hands in his pockets—which pulled the material of his suit pants tight over what was a truly stupendously rounded behind that my palms began to itch to touch and I wished to Heaven I hadn't noticed. Head angled down, just a bit, those all too generous lips curved into a ghost of a smile, the essence of which set me slightly on edge for some reason.

  We stood there for the interminable few seconds it took for the elevator doors to close in front of me, just staring at each other, neither of us saying or doing anything else.

  Except me.

  I was drenching my panties as he watched me silently, and only when I'd seen that I'd descended at least a floor so he wouldn't hear it, I forcibly exhaled the breath that I hadn't, until seconds ago, realized I was holding.

  CHAPTER 2

  I t couldn't have been more than a week or so later when my phone buzzed next to me on my desk.

  I frowned, knowing it wasn't anyone I knew who was texting me, because I had long since assigned individualized tones to the handful of culprits that were likely to do so.

  With absent curiosity, I picked it up, figuring it was probably just the pharmacy telling me—after they'd already emailed and called me—overkill, much—that I had a script ready.

  I couldn't have been more wrong.

  Wrong, wrong, wrong.

  I'm sorry to bother you, but this is Dan.

  I automatically straightened in my chair as I saw it, as if I was reading a message from my Dom, turning it around to give myself a modicum of privacy—however illusory, considering that I was really just another plebe in yet another cubicle—granted, a slightly bigger, slightly better cubicle than the true worker bees, but not by much. I knew better than to think I could hide anything from anyone around here.

  At least
he hadn't called. That would have been a million times worse.

  But still, I didn't answer him. I knew exactly who it was. I don't think I know any other Dans, but even if I did, I would've known it was him, somehow, anyway. I'd feel it in my bones.

  Well, not my bones, really…places that were much softer than that.

  Even then, I hung back, not sure exactly what it was that he wanted.

  Instead, I held my phone in my hand as if I was Ponce De Leon and it was the fountain of youth.

  Dan Hayden

  Yeah, no shit, Sherlock, I thought, forcing myself not to respond yet.

  We kind of, sort of, met a week or so ago at Sharon's party?

  I had to smile at the idea that he obviously thought I wouldn't remember him, when—if I admitted it to myself and I wasn't likely to do so anytime soon—I'd been thinking about him non-stop since then.

  And? I thought impatiently. Get to the point.

  I, uh, I just wanted to text you and say that I've heard from our mutual friend, Sharon, that you won't be coming to the small dinner party she's throwing Saturday night. I was quite disappointed to hear that, as I had been hoping to have an opportunity to get to know you better, and that seemed like it might be the perfect time.

  Wow. Complete sentences and actual—correct, even—punctuation. In a text. I had to give him props for that. And, as a grammar Nazi, I'll admit—I got a little wet—okay, I got a little wet-ter. And the man wasn't anywhere near me.

  But I'm rambling. If you can't come, you can't come. There'll be other times, I'm sure. I hope this finds you well. Again, sorry to bother you.

  I had declined to go to Sharon's little get together precisely because I figured—and rightly so, apparently—that her giving up on trying to find me a mate was bullshit. Of course, it was. She was obnoxiously happy with her lover, soon-to-be-husband, Carl, and she desperately wanted me to be, especially after what had happened between Gary and me.

  This was going to require a bit more sleuthing on my part, so I got up and wandered down to the cafeteria then out to one of the benches along the walking paths that had been set up by the building. There was at least slightly more privacy here. I could have emailed her, I suppose, but I didn't want to do so on company email, and I didn't want to give my boss—who had a tendency to rove around the floor looking for people who weren't working—an excuse to chew on my ass when he found me furiously typing on my phone.

  When she answered, I dispensed with the formalities completely. "You gave him my number?"

  To her credit, Sharon didn't try to play dumb. "I did."

  I growled into the phone, but she just laughed.

  "Better cut that out—I know you haven't had your shots—especially not distemper."

  "Stop giving out my phone number to any and all strange men who ask you for it—for the hundredth time!"

  "As I've told you before, Daniel Hayden is not just some schlep off the streets. He's got a great job—he's well on his way to becoming a CEO or CFO, whatever, of the company he's in. He's straight, he's unmarried—never been, that I know of—he's rich—his parents are loaded—and he's educated, which I know is one of your deal breakers. What was it, Harrow? Eton? Mummy and Daddy sent him overseas to one of those highbrow British schools."

  Distracted I asked, "Is that why I get a whiff of an accent?"

  "Fuck yes," Sharon breathed heavily. "He's American, as are his parents, but those are boarding schools, so he lived there for quite some time. Isn't it luscious? Nowhere near enough to be hard to understand, like some of them, but just enough to be really sexy and interesting."

  "Uh huh. You're giving me the hard sell, Sharon, and that makes me suspicious."

  I could hear her impatient sigh, but she didn't say anything.

  "And you told him that I'm not coming to dinner on Saturday."

  "He asked!"

  "And will that be your defense when he bludgeons me to death in my sleep—'But, Your Honor, he asked me for the sledgehammer in such a luscious accent!'"

  "Stop that. He's harmless—well, he's as harmless as someone like you—with your tastes—wants him to be, anyway."

  I pounced. "And how would vanilla you know about his tastes?"

  Sharon chuckled. "I'm friends with one of his exes—which, by the way, he is, too. He's friendly with all of the women he's slept with."

  "Not a point in his favor, as far as I'm concerned," I drawled. "If he's such good friends with them, then why aren't they still together?"

  "Sometimes, things just don't work out between two people, as you well know."

  Not wanting to remember what her words brought to mind, I said, "I do well know, which is why I'm not interested in him."

  Sharon started out at impatient. Now, she was exasperated. "So you're just going to hole yourself away in your apartment and never venture out to meet new people?"

  "I ventured out to your party."

  "It's the first party you've been to in over a year, and you left about five hours before everyone else did."

  Stubbornly, "But I was there, wasn't I?"

  "For all of five seconds—just enough to tantalize him, apparently. He was quite eager that you be at dinner. Sure you can't put off watching more exciting reruns of The Brady Bunch?"

  "Of course not—and Saturday night is Mr. Ed, not The Brady Bunch, as you well know," I huffed with feigned indignance.

  "Ugh! I give up."

  I snorted. "Liar! You said that as I was leaving the party, and less than a week later, I get a grammatically and punctuationally perfect text saying he wishes I would come from Mr. Too Tall, Sexy as Hell Hayden—did you tell him that that kind of thing turns me on?"

  "No, of course not!" I had a feeling that she was crossing her fingers as she said that—it just came out a bit too eager, but I couldn't prove it, of course.

  Yet, anyway.

  "But he texted you? That's great! So, are you going to change your mind and come?"

  "I don't want to."

  "C'mon, Isabelly. This man is perfect for you. I really think he might be the right one."

  "I hesitate to say it—"

  "Then don't," she interrupted sternly.

  Luckily, like most people's, Sharon's stern doesn't work on me. Never has, never will.

  I very carefully steered clear of thinking about how Dan's had, however.

  "—but you said the same thing about Gary."

  "Yeah, well, I was wrong, and I'll go to my grave apologizing to you for that. But Dan's the real deal. He is. You just have to open up and relax enough to let him get to know you."

  I sighed—a long, suffering, I hate it when she's right sigh.

  I didn't even have to say anything. She took my silence as consent and ran with it. "Good. That's settled. Be here at six—he won't get here till seven. You can help me cook, and you'll be so busy with that, you won't be so nervous."

  "I hate you," I whined.

  "I hate you, too," she whined back. "Buck up, sister. We're going to get you someone special, if it kills them and the both of us."

  WHEN I GOT BACK to my desk, his texts were still glaring expectantly at me from my phone, and I knew I had to answer them—at some point. But I decided to wait until tonight, when I could do so from the comfort of my home.

  It was half past seven before I got a chance to do what I'd been assiduously putting off all day, what with errands after work, making myself dinner. Although I was single and lived by myself, I usually cooked a meal for myself of some sort, often, on a Monday, making enough to carry me through most of the week, since I had originally learned quantities at my mother's elbow that would feed the six of us as I was growing up.

  Then there were the dishes, medicating then feeding—I'd learned that order very quickly—my elderly cat, who was taking more medications than I was by far. By the time I dropped down onto the comfy, pretty chaise lounge I'd treated myself to a few years ago, I was well and truly exhausted—and horrified to realize that my hand shook as I
reached for my phone. I had thought about calling him back instead of texting him, but that seemed much too intimate to me. No, texting was the way to go. Much more controllable. Much less possibility of me orgasming noisily at the sound of his voice.

  Sorry it took so long to get back to you. We're not allowed to text at work.

  That was a fib, but luckily, he wasn't my Dom so I didn't have to worry about it. Of course, you weren't supposed to text—you weren't supposed to make personal calls on the company phone, either, but people had been doing that since Watson had called home to tell his wife he'd be late the day Bell invented the phone.

  Now it was my turn to wait, although I seriously doubted the he had spent the afternoon on tenterhooks, the way I spent the next few minutes until he texted back.

  No problem.

  An inauspicious beginning—he was leaving the ball planted firmly in my court.

  I just wanted to let you know that, after I received your impassioned plea, I let Sharon know that I'd be attending her dinner party.

  Another long, nervous making pause before I got his response.

  You mean you called her and reamed her a new one for giving me your phone number without checking with you first?

  I gasped. Had he been at Sharon's place when I called or what?

  And then the two of you talked it over and she guilted you into changing your mind?

  That supposition, too, was creepily accurate!

  So, you've spoken to Sharon since you texted me? I asked.

  No. I have a much older brother, with two sisters in between. I think I have a pretty good idea how it went down.

  I didn't know whether to be relived or worried. Jesus—I was beginning to wonder if you were listening in on our contact.

  Son of a bitch!

  *Continue

  Goddammit!

  *C O N V E R S A T I O N. Jeebus! I was about apoplectic at this point, ready to throw my obscenely expensive, relatively new smartphone across the room.

  LOL. Gotta love autocorrect.

  I couldn't think of a snappy comeback to that, so I didn't say anything.

  So, I'll see you there? You won't back out?