Her Silver Fox Page 5

He planted his hand over hers. His long, tanned fingers, like his neck, were remarkably warm and decidedly masculine. Shoshana instantly lost her composure. Refusing to look at him, lest she crumble and do something she’d regret, she pulled her hands free.

  “Would you like something cold to drink or maybe some tea?” she murmured, turning her back to him. As she walked she shook her hands as if releasing the irrepressible desire strumming through her senses.

  With each client consultations, the room was stocked with refreshments. The sideboard contained both hot and cold drinks and even her bubbe’s silver tea service and fresh baked cookies.

  “Water, tea, orange juice,” Shoshana offered, while setting aside a bottle of cold water. “We even have black and white cookies, my Grandmother Esther’s own recipe.”

  “What about bourbon? I find myself suddenly needing a drink.”

  Shoshana glanced over her shoulder. “A little early for happy hour?”

  “In a city that doesn’t sleep, every hour is happy hour.”

  Shoshana latched onto his sarcasm to stem the shiver of awareness fluttering up her spine and served up some of her own. “If you don’t like your suit, you can’t blame it on the alcohol.”

  “Clear head, clearer judgement, and clearly no refund.”

  “You’re learning.” Bottle in hand, Shoshana turned around.

  Their eyes met and for an overwrought, tremulous moment Shoshana felt vulnerable and extremely susceptible to whatever he might propose. Disquieted, she licked her bottom lip and he smiled faintly as if sensing her thoughts.

  “Last call,” she uttered her voice taut with restraint. Get a grip! After all, she wasn’t a blushing virgin, and she’d never been a wall flower.

  His eyes flicked over her before he turned his attention to the service behind her. “I’ll have a Cranapple.”

  Shoshana grabbed their drinks and ambled over. Ensuring their hands wouldn’t touch, she handled his at the top on purpose.

  “Since we’re both set, how about we get down to business?”

  “I can see why this might feel like pulling teeth,” he cocked his head at the display of mannequins before him. “They’re all exceptional.”

  Shoshana never steered a client to a suit. The final selection had to be theirs to decrease buyer’s remorse. However, she tensed every time he lingered over a suit.

  Keep moving…keep moving, she willed him down the line. Maybe she should have broken her rule just this once and put the Lawford first. Always looking for an edge in business she remembered reading somewhere that humans unconsciously chose the first in a series of two or more presented options.

  “I think it’s between these two.” He pointed at his selections.

  Shoshana beamed. “I was hoping you’d choose The Lawford.”

  His eyebrows shot skyward. “Oh, really.”

  “The slim fit was designed for men who take care of themselves.” She walked over and draped her arms over the mannequin. “It’s sharp, young, and hip, yet sophisticated. People will not only sit up and take notice they’ll want to be you.”

  “You should have said that from the beginning,” he chuckled. “It would’ve saved me some time.”

  “Doesn’t work like that. This is your suit.”

  “How many suits have you personally overseen?”

  “One hundred and twenty-three.”

  “I’ll go with the Lawford.”

  Shoshana could barely contain her excitement. Grinning, she picked up a note pad and pencil. “This is going to look fantastic on you.” She swiveled the mannequin around. “Time to put the icing on the cake.”

  She catalogued his exact likes and dislikes before moving onto fabric samples.

  “Want to look over your preferences before they’re set in stone?”

  He accepted the note pad from her. “I guess I should since I feel like I’m giving up my first born son.”

  Shoshana snorted. “You could’ve bought two of our suits for what you paid for this window dressing.” Sneering, she tweaked his suit lapel.

  “Don’t remind me,” he grumbled. “I get weak at the knees just thinking about it.”

  While he went over her notes, she pushed several fabric samples books toward him.

  “Anything jump out to you?”

  “I’m open to suggestions.” He looked intimidated, and for good reason. Each book contained one hundred distinctly different swathes.

  “I think Tyson was on to something with the Cambridge collection.” She reached out and slid the book toward him. “I’m rather partial to the royal blue—”

  Shoshana couldn’t finish. Heart wedged in the back of her throat, she suffered in silence as he edged around her, hands planted on her hips. Oblivious to her reticence, he picked up a book and sat it next to the Cambridge.

  “What do you think of this?” he asked, while his left hand lingered on the small of her back.

  Flummoxed, Shoshana wasn’t sure if he meant the book or his impropriety. On the fence with his hand burning a hole through her skirt, needing some direction, proof she hadn’t lost her mind, she looked up at him.

  His eyes were half-lidded, while his vexingly long lashes shielded his thoughts from her searching gaze.

  Maybe this was just an innocent, unintentional slip. Too bad her body jumped to an opposite conclusion. Her inner circuitry lit up like a Christmas tree. Her knees filled with champagne. Afraid she might fall or jump his bones, she gripped the edge of the conference table.

  “Do you have a preference?” he asked, still not looking at her.

  She was about to give him a pass then his thumb moved, up then down. Up then down. Each sweep liquefying her insides.

  This was so not kosher. Then why didn’t she stop him?

  “I’m trying to behave, Mr. Kelly.”

  He slowly turned his head. “I don’t want you to, Miss Haufman.”

  “H-how do you know I’m single?”

  “Wishful thinking.” A muscle twitched in his chiseled jaw. “Anyone I need to be jealous of?”

  Shoshana shook her head. His smile was nothing short of devastating.

  “I need to clarify something.”

  “Go on.”

  “I’ve never done this before.”

  “Never?”

  “I’ve never done this with a client.”

  “What are we doing?” His tone was playful but he was watching her with an unusual gravity.

  “We’re not talking about suits anymore.”

  “And…”

  His long fingers slid inside her skirt. Every muscle in her body tensed.

  “We’re going to make love?”

  “Do you really want me to make love to you?” He wrapped his free arm around her and dragged her up and into him. “Or do you want to fuck?” he murmured, taking her earlobe between his teeth.

  She had a particular fondness for a sharp dressed man. Make him a tall drink of water with a filthy mouth she was trash, utterly ruined and mindless. Making love sounded nice but that wasn’t the cause of the ache between her thighs.

  Body on the verge of melting at his feet in a puddle of DNA and hormones, she whispered, “Fuck me.”

  ***

  Just as his control was slipping, and one move away from committing a felony, she saved him by giving him the keys to the kingdom.

  “Turn around,” he commanded.

  She obeyed, and he cupped the back of her head. The swing of her shoulder-length ponytail brushed over his fingers, his erection swelled. Calm down, boy! Soon enough he’ll get the chance to grip that thick ponytail while he plowed into her.

  “Should we lock the doors?” he asked, pulling back slightly. Things were about to get serious and he didn’t want any interruptions.

  “No one usually bothers me while I’m with a client. Well, except for Tyson and he’s—”

  “In the wind.” His gaze flicked to the windows. “What about the windows?” He didn’t mind being watched, but he wanted to make
sure she was comfortable.

  “Blackout tint.”

  All bases covered, needing contact, Patrick slid his hands over her hips. He touched, stroked, and kneaded every curve he’d been panting after ever since he’d laid eyes on her. Even better, she enjoyed having his hands on her. With each caress, she groaned her ardent approval into his mouth.

  How could he let his body react like this? He was always in control, not only of his body, but also his emotions, heck, every facet of his life. And this…this was wrong on so many levels. No doubt about it, he would regret this. That was the future, this was now, and he personally didn’t give a damn. Not with her sweet taste bombarding his senses, and the heavy insistent ache building between his legs.

  Back on track, he slid his hands lower to the hem of her skirt. He repositioned it so his fingers reached the inside of her thigh, and then slowly pressed upward. Even as his fingers traced her inner thigh, noting the softness, he tried to justify his actions: They wouldn’t do more than this. There were still clothed so it was okay. He could stop at any time.

  His body was of a different mindset. With each passing minute, he grew more aggressive, more demanding. He had her practically trapped against the table with her skirt wrapped around her waist. Abandoning reason and caution, he lifted her onto it.

  “I tried to be good,” he growled. “But I can’t.”

  One hand holding her ponytail, the other inched closer to heaven. Eyes locked with hers, he slid his fingers along the seam of her panties.

  “Want me to take these off?”

  “Yes,” she whispered, her eyes shining bright with excitement.

  He hooked his fingers in the delicate fabric and tugged. The pop of each resistant thread was like a jolt to his system. Once off and damn near hard by now, he dropped her panties on the table, so he wouldn’t forget them.

  “You’re wet,” he groaned, sliding a finger against her sex. He stroked her clit then pushed home, earning himself a strangled groan. He watched her intently, every fiber of his being channeling her response and feeding off it. By degrees, he worked his hand into a steady rhythm. Mind racing forward, he wondered if he had a condom in his wallet.

  Suddenly, the door opened.

  “You can’t go in there!”

  Patrick’s hand stilled.

  “What’d you mean, I can’t go in? Last time I checked my name was on the building.”

  Name on the building? Patrick glared down at her. “Who the hell—”

  She slapped her hand over his mouth.

  “It’s my father,” she whispered, pushing against his shoulder.

  Reluctantly, Patrick let her go. But when she reached for her panties, he snatched them up and shoved the burgundy silk into his trouser pocket.

  “Please, Mr. Haufman.” Patrick finally recognized the young man’s voice from earlier. “Your daughter is in there with a client.”

  “All the more reason why I should be in there,” he huffed. “I’m the only master tailor we’ve got.”

  Confused, he glanced at Shoshana. Had he wasted a good portion of his day on an imposter?

  “I thought you were the master tailor?

  “I—”

  The door burst open and an older gentleman ambled into the room. Dressed in a red cardigan and creased khaki’s, he reminded Patrick of a black Mr. Rogers. Smile lines creased his brown skin, and patches of gray tight curls dominated his low afro.

  “I’m sorry I’m late, young man.” Hand outstretched, the other man smiled at him. “Issac Haufman, master tailor. You can call me Ike.”

  “Patrick Kelly.” When he moved to take the elder Haufman’s hand, Shoshana smacked it way.

  “Did you forget where your hands have been,” she muttered, glaring down at his left hand, reminding Patrick of where his fingers had been. To her father she asked, “Did you just wake up from your nap?”

  “And why didn’t you wake me?” Ike Haufman paused to rifle in his pocket. “Now what did I do with my measuring tape?”

  “All done, daddy.” She looped her arm through his then steered him toward the conference table. Watching their intimacy, Patrick felt a twinge of guilt.

  He had other ideas. “You are great at measuring, baby girl,” he admitted, yet digging in his heels. “But you know I like to take my own.”

  “How about we have tea first? We have bubbe Esther’s black and white cookies.”

  Her father looked conflicted for a beat and then said, “Long as this gentleman agrees to join us. After all, the refreshments are for him.”

  Shoshana looked to him for help.

  Self-serving, Patrick didn’t do anything that benefited anyone other than himself, but for some reason he decided to take one for the team. “I’m partial to orange spice,” he acquiesced. “And I’ll have one of those cookies.”

  She mouthed thank you and Patrick suddenly felt ten feet tall.

  “You sit here, dad.” She pulled a chair out. Hoping to pick up where they left off, Patrick took the seat to his left.

  “Have you had a chance to look at the samples?” Ike asked. “See anything you like?”

  Patrick’s eyes fell on his daughter while she fixed their tea. He’d found plenty he’d liked. “I believe I have. I think I’m going to go with the royal blue.”

  Hearing him, Shoshana glanced over her shoulder. For half a beat, her father, New York City’s foot traffic, and the buzz from the factory next door faded into the background. For the briefest moment it felt like they were all alone. And his body responded accordingly with a rush of blood to his dick.

  “Which one?” Ike barked, ripping them out of their self-imposed bubble.

  Patrick slid the sample book between them. He pointed at the swathe of fabric, and Ike’s face lit up.

  Ike’s face lit up. “That’s an oldie but a goody. I think we made Jay Leno a suit out of this one.”

  “Orange spice.” Shoshana set his tea cup down. “And green tea for you.”

  She hurried back over to the credenza to retrieve a silver sugar bowl. Per habit, Patrick felt his gaze following her.

  “He’s getting The Lawford,” she said, sitting down in the chair across from him. Frowning, Patrick wished she’d chosen the seat next to him. That way he could’ve felt her up beneath the table.

  “Amazing how things become new again.” Ike chuckled. “My father designed that suit for the movie star Peter Lawford. Just an FYI, many of our suits are named after our former clients.” Eyes narrowed, Ike leaned closer. “Are you famous?”

  “Not in a million years.”

  Ike looked pointed at him. “Are you good at what you do?”

  Patrick puffed up. “I like to think I am.”

  “Your tea is going to get cold.” Shoshana tapped the rim of her father’s cup. “Sugar, not honey, just like you like it.” Patrick marveled at the way she doted on him. He’d be damned if he’d lift a finger for his old man.

  “So, tell me a little about yourself, like starting with your name.”

  “Dad we have all that.” She slid him Patrick’s client card.

  “Are you a family man, Mr. Kelly? What do you do? Where do you work?”

  “Dad!” Shoshana objected.

  Patrick smiled at her. He didn’t mind the questions. He never turned down the opportunity to toot his own horn. “I’m a Managing Director of Global Securities with the Morrissey Group.”

  “How long you been with them?”

  “Almost eleven years this October.”

  “So, you’re loyal. That’ll serve you well.”

  Patrick shook his head. “Loyalty isn’t worth a hill of beans.”

  “How so?”

  “Five years running as their top producer, they passed me over for a promotion today in favor of some brown-nosing team player with less than six years with the company.”

  Patrick blinked. Did he just vomit his business? He glanced at Shoshana. Her lips twitched and for some odd reason he didn’t fail to see the humor in his
temper tantrum.

  “Wear my heart on my sleeve much?”

  “A bit,” she whispered. “But it’s cute, makes you human.”

  “What about a wife or girlfriend?” Ike asked.

  “At the moment, I’m blissfully unattached.” His gaze flicked to Shoshana. He caught the slight curve of her lips, and he was genuinely happy to be single.

  “You know my daughter isn’t married.”

  “Isaac Haufman, don’t you dare!”

  “You can’t stop me until I’m holding my grandbaby.” Chuckling, the other man paused to sip at his tea. He swirled it around his mouth, considered it a little then swallowed. Patrick braced himself for the next round of questions.

  He looked at him with a blank expression. “Speaking of grandbabies…when are you going to give Tolly some?”

  “Excuse me? Who’s Tolly?” Patrick looked to Shoshana for help.

  “Daughters shouldn’t have to carry the entire load. I want a god baby or two from you, too.”

  He watched embarrassment then fatigue color her expression and he felt an overwhelming wave of compassion sweep over him.

  “He’s not Christopher, dad.”

  “He’s not?” Her father asked, gaze ping ponging back and forth between him and his daughter.

  “I’m Patrick Kelly, sir.”

  Visibly shaken, Ike raked his hand over his mouth, ruffling the stiff hairs of his beard.

  “It’s okay,” Shoshana reassured her father. She took his hand and threaded their fingers together. Patrick picked up his tea, downed it in one gulp, hoping the hot liquid would mitigate the guilt knotting his belly. And he tried to remain indifferent as she continued to fuss over her old man until he finally had enough, and waved her off.

  “Stop treating me like a beybi,” he groused.

  “Oh, you love it,” Shoshana cooed, tweaking his chin. She glanced at him with a warm smile, and Patrick tried to ignore the bizarre burning sensation concentrated in the center of his chest. “I think we’re all done here.”

  Clueless, Ike looked affronted. Even Patrick inwardly balked. He hoped they weren’t done as well.

  “Why are you rushing him?” Ike protested. Patrick secretly hoped the old man talked some sense into her. “We don’t have the style of suit or the fabric sample.”