Главная страница | Современные любовные романы | On-Air Passion

On-Air Passion
Lindsay Evans


Game on, CupidBasketball star Ahmed Clark’s wealth made him a target for money-grabbing groupies. He’s since left sports behind to became an Atlanta radio show host- one who is famously cynical about romance. But from the moment gorgeous, upbeat Elle Marshall goes on air to promote her business of creating perfect dates for couples, it’s a whole new ballgame. And for the first time, he’s off his guard.Idealistic Elle believes in love, even if she has yet to experience it. She and Ahmed clash and sizzle over the airwaves—and even more so when the station arranges a media-friendly Valentine’s date for them in response to the irrefutable excitement from his audience. Elle’s passionate response to Ahmed’s touch spurs powerful, mutual desire, until past hurt places him on the defensive. Putting his heart in play is the riskiest move Ahmed’s ever made, but it’s the only way to earn a shot at her love…







Game on, Cupid

Basketball star Ahmed Clark’s wealth made him a target for money-grabbing groupies. He’s since left sports behind to become an Atlanta radio-show host—who is famously cynical about romance. But from the moment gorgeous, upbeat Elle Marshall goes on air to promote her business of creating perfect dates for couples, it’s a whole new ball game. And for the first time, he’s caught off guard.

Idealistic Elle believes in love, even if she has yet to experience it. She and Ahmed clash and sizzle over the airwaves—even more so when the station arranges a media-friendly Valentine’s date for them in response to irrefutable excitement from his audience. Elle’s passionate response to Ahmed’s touch spurs powerful mutual desire, until past hurt puts him on the defensive. Bringing his heart in play is the riskiest move Ahmed’s ever made, but it’s the only way to earn a shot at her love...


LINDSAY EVANS was born in Jamaica and currently lives and writes in Atlanta, Georgia, where she’s constantly on the hunt for inspiration, club in hand. She loves good food and romance and would happily travel to the ends of the earth for both. Find out more at www.lindsayevanswrites.com (http://www.lindsayevanswrites.com).


Also By Lindsay Evans (#ub3f5cc5a-8d47-5b83-a143-e9b22a1785bf)

Pleasure Under the Sun

Sultry Pleasure

Snowy Mountain Nights

Affair of Pleasure

Untamed Love

Bare Pleasures

The Pleasure of His Company

On-Air Passion

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


On-Air Passion

Lindsay Evans






www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


ISBN: 978-1-474-08074-3

ON-AIR PASSION

© 2018 Lindsay Evans

Published in Great Britain 2018

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.

® and ™ are trademarks owned and used by the trademark owner and/or its licensee. Trademarks marked with ® are registered with the United Kingdom Patent Office and/or the Office for Harmonisation in the Internal Market and in other countries.

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


“Here, let me.”

He took the keys from her and clicked open the car door, slid one of the pastry boxes into the passenger seat, and straightened back to his full and impressive height.

“Thank you for having coffee with me,” he said. “And for introducing me to something sweet I can sink my...teeth into.”

Despite her resolution not to let Ahmed rattle her in any way, Elle felt her face heat again. This was getting out of control. “I need to get in my car and go before you get me accused of public indecency.”

He chuckled, his voice low and sexy as it rumbled from deep in his chest. “I’m surprised at you, Princess Elle.” And this time, there was no twist of cynicism to his mouth when he called her that. “None of that was even close to threatening the public’s decency.” As he spoke, he moved closer until his big body was crowding her against the car and Elle was breathing in a deep lungful of his intoxicating scent. Faintly smiling, he dipped his head and showed her what a real threat to public decency felt like.


Dear Reader (#ub3f5cc5a-8d47-5b83-a143-e9b22a1785bf),

Atlanta is one of my favorite cities. It’s a place where the music is hot, everyone is beautiful, and you can easily run into a celebrity at the local health-food store. It’s the perfect setting for the Clarks, a family with new money and old-fashioned traditions, and larger-than-life men with enough heat for a slow, Southern August night. Ahmed, the first of these Clark men, came to me in a dream. I hope you find him as wonderful as I do.

With love from Atlanta,

Lindsay


For all my readers, THANK YOU!


Contents

Cover (#u5f81b020-c9e7-5a7b-9a94-464ce356ca35)

Back Cover Text (#uda9696f9-1e26-5156-8d1d-201c2f7abc6a)

About the Author (#u2ba3287f-9df7-55be-8b31-a6a70a0b4b7d)

Booklist (#uedd1deeb-794a-510e-a399-bffd10d41bde)

Title Page (#uf428a8f6-59a4-53de-8ef9-414bccf8f6c1)

Copyright (#udeddc800-26ff-590a-a8d0-51408028cdd3)

Introduction (#u6893df96-21ac-54ba-a7c3-8766e4694c4c)

Dear Reader (#u69921481-ebd0-5e97-9117-ef1556b633cc)

Dedication (#u71bb4273-03d7-5755-b40d-aaa61bc167e3)

Chapter 1 (#u9a9c67fd-3ee2-50de-bee9-ae0a7a816837)

Chapter 2 (#u22e8a95f-d7c1-51cc-8cf7-4a76b9953c70)

Chapter 3 (#uab83539f-4236-5931-8664-db98c59de183)

Chapter 4 (#u0fb33ed1-d79a-552e-9ca3-9ddbaea4bc5b)

Chapter 5 (#u5166e54b-8698-5fc2-8546-a0ce20beae94)

Chapter 6 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 7 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 8 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 9 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 12 (#litres_trial_promo)

Extract (#litres_trial_promo)

Extract (#litres_trial_promo)


Chapter 1 (#ub3f5cc5a-8d47-5b83-a143-e9b22a1785bf)

“You should just keep your mouth shut! Nobody wants to hear politics from a ballplayer.”

From behind the broad back of his bodyguard, Ahmed moved quickly through the vocal crowd of about two dozen people to get to the doors of the radio station. Some were obviously gawking simply because of who he was—rich, retired at thirty and a consistent presence in the Atlanta club scene and on gossip sites across the internet. Others were there because they smelled a scandal or something close to it. And there were some who were present, like the guy who’d just screamed at Ahmed, because they apparently didn’t have anything better to do at ten o’clock on a Wednesday morning.

“Technically you’re an ex-ballplayer, so you can have opinions on anything you damn well please.” Sam, Ahmed’s bodyguard and cousin, growled the comment as they slid past the radio station’s security guys, just low enough for Ahmed to hear, although if he’d said it at the top of his voice, nobody would have reacted. Guys over six feet tall with muscles stacked on top of muscles could get away with saying just about anything they wanted to, and to whomever.

Ahmed was built on a more modest but—he liked to think—no less impressive scale with his six and a half feet of lean but defined muscle, a strong jawline and cheekbones that had been accused a time or two of being “chiseled.” And those were just the nice things his sisters said about him.

Only the memory of the mellow breakfast he’d had with his family—his sisters, Aisha and Devyn, his mother and Sam—kept his annoyance at the heckler to a low-grade ripple. Besides, the hostility of strangers was nothing new to him, especially after twelve years playing professional basketball. He was now retired and having fun being a part-time radio show host. Even if he’d been silent about his politics, people would still find some way to throw insults his way. Plenty of his former teammates were prime examples of that. The people loved you when you were playing well, making them money, entertaining them. But once you fumbled, good luck.

“Damn, they’re rowdy out there today.” Sam settled the lines of his dark jacket more firmly on his shoulders with a shrug, the custom-made suit easily hiding his gun and somehow minimizing the size, but not the threat, of his big body. Ahmed didn’t know how he could wear it with the crazy-hot January weather currently punishing Atlanta. “What the hell did you do while I was asleep?” His deep voice rumbled in a way that let Ahmed know he was only half joking. Before going their separate ways—Sam to the military and Ahmed to basketball—Sam was forever pulling Ahmed out of the trouble his big mouth got him into. He’d learned to temper his snarkiness but once Sam got out of the army with an honorable discharge, Sam fell back into the role as bodyguard but in a more official capacity.

“You know it’s because of that tweet I sent last night,” Ahmed said.

“As if the city didn’t already know how you felt about it closing that downtown high school.” Sam took in the wide and sterile hallway and the half dozen or so people making their way through it with a skilled gaze, taking in details Ahmed took for granted.

“Just making sure they didn’t miss my opinion,” he said with a scornful twist of his lips.

Marcus Garvey High was a school Ahmed had poured a lot of money and time into to support its STEM program that worked to give city kids an equal chance at tech, engineering and science jobs once they graduated. Although Ahmed had been born into a middle-class family and hadn’t faced the challenges many of those kids at the high school did, he knew betting on an elusive sports career or going into the armed forces shouldn’t be the only options they saw in their future.

Ahmed was sick of urban kids’ education being a low priority. Something had to be done about securing their future. He may not be a politician or even a “real activist,” by some standards but he was doing what he could while he had the platform.

“Don’t forget we’re going to that town hall meeting on Monday morning,” Ahmed said.

“Good,” Sam said, nodding.

As they made their way toward the studio Ahmed would occupy for the next three hours, Sam walked just behind and to the right of Ahmed, keeping an eye out for whatever possible dangers lurked nearby. Not that Ahmed had stumbled into any hazards after being at the station for his new gig for nearly two months now. The weekly midmorning show was still enjoyable. It gave him a chance to interact with fans—and haters—in a personal way he’d never had the chance to try before. And it was something for him to do after retirement that didn’t involve groupies, the successful string of restaurant franchises he’d bought or the various “investment people” he’d had to hire once his money began multiplying even faster than he’d planned.

Sam stepped ahead to push open the door of the studio, and Ahmed moved to step through it when a flash of pink caught his eye, something unusual in his established Wednesday-morning routine. He stopped in his tracks and damn near caught his breath at the vision of femininity floating toward him from down the hallway.

High heels, a pink floral dress swirling around slender legs and hips, a narrow waist he could easily measure with both of his hands. The woman’s breasts were small, barely a handful, but like most Black men he socialized with, Ahmed had never been caught up in breast size. Big, small, barely there at all—it didn’t matter to him. The rear view was what made him decide whether or not a woman was worth a second look or even a second date.

The Pink Lady sauntered toward him, her hips swaying and high heels loudly kissing the tile floors, making his heart beat faster as she came close. She wore her hair straight and pinned up in some sort of topknot with curly wisps floating around her face.

“Don’t swallow your tongue.” Sam, still holding the door open, was making a visible effort not to roll his eyes.

Ahmed didn’t care. He was already losing himself in a daydream involving thick thighs and a plump backside made for spanking. He had no idea what his Pink Lady was packing in her trunk, but damn, he bet it was good. His fingers twitched with the phantom sensation of sinking into her sweet flesh.

Sam pretended to cough into his fist. “Okay, now you’re just being a creep.”

And he was right. Ahmed couldn’t stop himself from just...staring. He didn’t want to stop. Above her hips and waist and delicate-looking breasts, the woman’s face was pretty. Like a daisy in sunlight or a rainbow after a storm, she stunned him with her natural and easy radiance. The image came to him, effortlessly, of tumbling with her into his bed to the music of her laughter and the sweet clasp of her thighs while her thick hair fanned over his pillow.

Damn. She made him want to give up his rule about messing around at work.

But he wasn’t a kid anymore. He couldn’t afford to be that sloppy about who he took to his bed. Not again.

His—no—the Pink Lady was still walking toward Ahmed, but he forced himself to look away from her.

“Let’s get in there and do this.” He clapped his hands once, a loud gunshot of a noise to get his mind right.

“I’m not the one who needs the pep talk about sticking to business, cousin.” Despite his casual words, Sam did his usual thorough scan of the studio’s large outer office, only relaxing his stance once he was satisfied nothing lurked in the spacious room to harm Ahmed on his watch.

“Ahmed, my man!” The station’s general manager, Clive Ramirez, was a ball of energy. Probably from the four-plus espressos he usually had before lunch.

He stepped out from behind the receptionist’s desk, where he had been looking over the young woman’s shoulder at something on her computer. With a wide grin, he shook Ahmed’s hand. Firm and enthusiastic.

“What’s going on, Clive?”

“Life, just life.” Short yet muscular, with a belly just beginning to grow from middle age and lack of exercise, Clive Ramirez gave the impression of being a perennially happy man. He loved what he did for a living, fairly treated the people who worked for him, and loved drama like a teenage girl. But everyone had to have a hobby.

Clive followed Ahmed and Sam from the outer offices to the sound booth.

“Nothing wrong with that.” Ahmed took off his blazer and draped it over one of the six chairs in the room while Sam stood with his back against the wall, his legs spread, hands clasped easily in front of him as he kept an eye on the single door into the room and the glass partition separating the sound booth from the studio, where the sound engineer and his intern handled their responsibilities.

Over the airwaves, Ahmed could hear DJ Don Juan, who was in the sound booth across the hall, about to wrap up his morning show.

“What’s on tap for today?” Ahmed asked Clive. “Anything special or do I just do my thing?” His thing was usually to play music, rile up the listeners and entertain them with what his mother called his bee-sting humor. Ahmed would almost do this for free. He settled down into the ergonomic chair with a sigh of bone-deep pleasure then swiveled around to keep Clive in his sights.

The station’s GM sat in the chair on the opposite side of the oblong table and its six microphones set up in the center of the soundproof room. “More of the usual,” Clive said. “Except we have a Valentine’s Day promotion going on. A local woman is supposed to come on with you today to plug her business.” He passed Ahmed a sheet of paper. “It’s all here. Just introduce her and her business then offer the prize. If it goes well, people will be calling in to win, and she’ll get her money’s worth in new clients.”

“Cool, I can do that.” He quickly scanned the paper, noting the type of business, the name of the owner and what she offered. He smirked before he could get his face under control. “Selling romance, huh?”

“What? You got something against selling love? ’tis the season, my friend.”

Ahmed shrugged, not bothering to offer his opinion about romance or love in general. None of the so-called relationships he’d experienced had anything remotely like “love” attached to them. He didn’t want to seem like the Grinch or whatever the Valentine’s Day equivalent was.

“If you like it, I love it,” he said and caught the flicker of amusement on Sam’s otherwise stoic face.

Ahmed hid his hand behind his back and shot his cousin the bird. This time, Sam’s amusement came with a huff of quiet laughter.

Minutes later, Ahmed eased into the seat, once DJ Don Juan wrapped up his program. He slipped on the headphones and into his on-air persona.

“Hey, Atlanta! It’s Ahmed Clark on the air and in your ear for the next—” he looked at his watch, a gift from his father “—two hours and fifty-eight minutes. If you want to talk, call me. If you want to listen, open your ears real wide.” And he was off. Grin in place, anticipation for the next few hours bubbling under his skin.

Yeah, he could definitely do this for free.

He fell into the magic of being on air, exchanging laughter and information with his listeners until he got the signal from the sound engineer’s intern outside the glass. She flashed him five fingers. Almost time for Gabrielle Marshall to get on the microphone to hawk her goods. He gave Kiara the thumbs-up sign and started to wind down his heated discussion with a listener about citizen responsibility in the digital age. When the woman kept insisting regular people didn’t need to share everything they recorded on their cell phones, especially when it came to footage that would inflame the public, Ahmed cut her off with Rihanna’s “Desperado.”

When Kiara gave him the thirty-second warning, he was ready. The door to the sound booth opened. And it turned out he wasn’t prepared.

The Pink Lady from the hallway swept in on a cloud of crisp perfume, like she brought the spirit of autumn in with her, and Ahmed couldn’t help but inhale a deep breath of it. The pen he’d been making a note with dropped from his numb fingers and rolled across the notebook, across the desk and then to the floor. He heard Sam snickering. A signal for him to get it together. For real.

But damn, she had dimples. They bracketed her quick smile, and she sank gracefully into the chair across from him to easily fit the headphones over her high swirl of neatly pinned hair. Three diamond studs in varying sizes winked from the lobe of one ear.

“Hi, I’m Gabrielle Marshall,” she said. “Most people call me Elle.”

Her voice was pure sex. And damn if she wasn’t even sweeter looking up close. The smiling lips with just a hint of color. Big Bambi eyes and thick hair he could easily sink his hands into. He forced himself to pay attention to the now instead of the hypothetical future where he had her in his bed. He held out his hand for her to shake.

“Ahmed.”

She smiled wider, a curve of glistening and lusciously full lips that made him glad he was sitting down. After releasing her soft hand, he reached under the desk to subtly adjust himself.

Although Sam didn’t make another sound, Ahmed could feel his amusement from all the way across the room.

Ahmed cleared his throat and glanced at the timer. “I’ll introduce you after this song. You already know what to do, right?”

Why did that sound dirty?

The Pink Lady—Elle—nodded and settled her little purse on the desk. Her lips curved again. The pulse of heat in Ahmed’s slacks made him wince. A woman’s smile. Really? That was what was getting him hard these days? He must really need to get laid. He could easily picture her being the next woman sprawled, wet and panting, in his bed.

“Here we go,” he croaked.

The song ended and just about saved Ahmed’s life. Or maybe just his pride.

He switched on his mic. “All right, Atlanta. Somebody around here told me Valentine’s Day is coming up. It was a woman, so it must be true.” Across from him, Elle gave him a faint smile. “For you fellas out there who don’t know what to do for your ladies, we have some suggestions for you. I could tell you all about it, but I have somebody here who can do a much better job.” He tilted his head at Elle and lifted an eyebrow. Ready? She nodded. “So instead of killing cupid before he has a chance to show up, here’s Elle from Romance Perfected to tell you what you can do for your sweetheart on the day she’s expecting more than the usual.”

Across from him, Elle adjusted the headphones and leaned close to the mic. She licked her lips, her eyes looking with suspicion at the microphone, like she thought it was going to take a bite out of her. Then she drew in a silent breath, her features going blank for a moment. She looked nervous.

Ahmed felt an unexpected surge of protectiveness. “Tell the listeners what you have for them, Elle.”

She flicked a grateful gaze at him before taking another breath. “Good morning, everyone. I’m Elle from Romance Perfected. Your local, full-service romance concierge. I’m here to offer you a Valentine’s package of our services—a fully catered day or evening of romance for you and your date.” Nervousness ticked at the corners of her smile, but the warmth in her voice carried through to the mic.

And damn, what a voice it was.

It made Ahmed want to move closer, slide across the table separating them and put her in his lap for safekeeping. He imagined horny guys all over Atlanta wondering what honey-drenched sweetness was pouring down on them through the airwaves. He dragged himself back to the moment to pay attention to what Elle was saying. Concentration, or lack of it, had never been his problem before, no matter how beautiful the woman. Irritation at himself made his tongue sharp.

“You say ‘full-service.’” Ahmed made sure the quotes were understood in the tone of his voice. “What are you providing here? Is your dream man or woman included for the night?”

A tiny frown wrinkled Elle’s brow. “We don’t run an escort service, Mr. Clark.” Ah, the kitten has claws. “What Romance Perfected provides is a romantic experience tailored to the couple or the person being wooed. We arrange for the flowers, transportation and even the attire for the couple, if necessary. For the date itself, we prepare the perfect location, whether it’s a luxury spa, five-star restaurant or rooftop garden.”

It actually sounded like dates Ahmed’s assistants had arranged for him back when he was playing ball and too lazy to put too much thought into what he wanted to do with the women he took out between games. But Ms. Elle didn’t need to know that.

Ahmed leaned toward the mic. “So basically, you create illusions that push poor bastards into believing something like love exists.” Now, why the hell did he say that? He opened his mouth to apologize, but she didn’t give him the chance.

The confusion cleared from Elle’s face, and her eyes snapped with cool fire. “And you hide behind this microphone to talk trash about people and things you don’t know anything about. Love is as real as life gets, and romance is necessary.” Elle gripped her purse. “For people like you, I’m sure love doesn’t exist. If it did come your way, you’d destroy it just out of spite. Or just cold cynicism.”

“The world is cold and cynical, Elle.” He leaned hard on her soft name. “Haven’t you heard that the bad guys are killing decent folks every day in the streets? Or what people in the world are doing in the name of religion or whatever the excuse of the hour is? You’re the one not paying attention to the reality of this world. You can sell love all you want, but the rest of us aren’t buying.”

Beyond the glass of the sound booth, a flash of movement dragged Ahmed’s eyes from Elle. Clive stood behind his assistant frantically dragging his hand across his throat, making the universal gesture for “shut the hell up now.” But off the court, Ahmed had never been any good at following directions.

“You should see this woman, y’all,” he said into the mic. “She’s in the studio looking like some sort of fairy-tale princess in her pink dress with a bunch of flowers on it.” He dragged his eyes over her, giving in to the urge to tease her even more, although he’d give away his closet full of classic Jordans to see—and touch—under that seductive dress. Ahmed continued, riled up by the fire in her dark crystal eyes that flamed higher with each word he spoke. “Her shoes are so tall they look dangerous to walk in, and even her name sounds like something unreal and out of a storybook. Elle.”

He rolled her name over his tongue, and it felt almost obscene. He hoped the listeners didn’t hear it the way he did. Not delicate at all, but rather the low groan of sound he’d love to make while pushing into her soft and welcoming body. Ahmed’s stomach muscles clenched with arousal. What the hell was he doing?

Elle wasn’t impressed by his words either. Anger glowed in her brown eyes, and the dress shifted over her narrow shoulders and pretty breasts when she straightened in her chair. Ahmed could see the rapid pulse beat in her throat, the quickening breath that made her chest rapidly rise and fall. She looked anything but kittenish now.

“Romance and the celebration of love are an escape from the narrow and dangerous worldview of people like you, Mr. Clark. At Romance Perfected, we’re not fooling anyone—we’re assuring people of a beautiful experience despite the ugliness the world keeps throwing at us. That doesn’t mean I live in a fairy tale, Mr. Clark. It means I’m human, and I have hope. Can you say the same?”

“Hope and delusions are not the same thing, princess,” Ahmed said.

And although he was tearing the entire idea of love to shreds, there was nothing more in the world he wanted in that moment than to kiss Elle Marshall’s red mouth and the thudding pulse in her neck to show her what the raw side of romance felt like.


Chapter 2 (#ub3f5cc5a-8d47-5b83-a143-e9b22a1785bf)

Ahmed Clark was an ass.

Elle sat stiffly in the chair across from him, her face burning and spine tight, desperately wishing for the whole radio-show ordeal to be over. Sure, he was as gorgeous in person as the pictures her business partner had forced her to look at before she left for the station. But his cocky attitude and rude dismissiveness scrubbed away anything she could have found attractive about him.

They were alone in the room except for the bodyguard standing with his back to the wall, and Elle felt the sudden silence all around her like thunder. She swallowed the thick humiliation in her throat, fighting the heat blasting through her cheeks and all over her face in vain.

“All right, Atlanta. For a chance to win what the fairy-tale princess is offering this morning, call in and tell me the number of points I scored during my last game. The fifteenth caller with the right answer will get the night or afternoon of their dreams.”

Of course his question would be something about him.

Elle gritted her teeth, hating his butter-smooth voice that was stupidly perfect for radio. When her business partner, Shaye, had begged her to be the one to go to the studio to talk about Romance Perfected, Elle had initially refused. Shaye loved basketball, was a passionate activist and also happened to be a huge fan of Ahmed Clark.

“I’d make such a fool of myself over him,” she’d said to Elle, her hands doing crazy things in the air—her version of excitement. “Can you imagine it, me being on the radio to promote the business and ending up tonguing down Ahmed Clark before he even got the chance to ask me anything professional?”

Unfortunately, Elle could imagine it all very clearly. Shaye was sexually voracious, outspoken and just about always got what she wanted. So, here Elle sat. She clenched her hand around her handbag and fought for patience.

Ahmed had barely finished naming the terms for the contest before the phone lines started lighting up. Somewhere out in the office, an intern or office assistant was answering all the calls that were not number fifteen and giving the caller the disappointing news.

The leather of Ahmed’s chair squeaked faintly as he leaned back, headphones still on, the “on-air” light above the glass partition a bright red that matched the heat in Elle’s face.

“Do you know the answer to the question, princess?” he asked into the mic.

She gave him her most contemptuous look. “I have better things to do than worry about the balls you play with.”

Laughter burst from Ahmed’s throat, and Elle hated how charming it actually sounded. “Now, that’s something I’ve never heard before, Atlanta,” he said. “Do you believe a word of what this delicate princess says?”

The pet name grated on Elle’s nerves with all the power of the insult it no doubt was intended to be. But she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of reacting to it. Elle clasped her hands in her lap and sat back in her own chair, waiting for the moment when she could leave.

They hadn’t taken a commercial break to allow the calls to build up. In fact, it was hard to miss the station manager making the “keep going” gesture. He’d apparently changed his mind about cutting Ahmed off. The phones were blinking nonstop. Were both these men for real?

Before they’d gotten on the air, she could have sworn Ahmed Clark actually liked her. In the moments between her walking into the sound booth and starting to talk about the business, he’d looked at her with a familiar spark of attraction in his long-lashed eyes.

But now, he was practically going verbal gladiator on her, intent on hacking her to pieces with the sharp edge of his tongue. This wasn’t what she’d come here for, but she’d be damned if she backed out before Romance Perfected could get its money’s worth out of the radio spot they had paid for.

The phone in front of Ahmed beeped. He answered with the click of a button.

“Congrats on being the fifteenth caller. Talk to me.”

A laughing voice came on the air. “I don’t know the answer, but I wanted to say you two should go on a date together. I bet the fireworks would be off the chain.”

“Never,” Elle said before she could stop herself. She refused to cheapen something that was supposed to be romantic and turn it into a farce.

But outside the glass cage that kept her trapped with Ahmed, the general manager, Clive Ramirez, grinned with an alarming show of teeth, the look on his face clearly saying this was the best idea he’d heard all day.

“Thanks for the suggestion,” Ahmed said to the caller. “But I think the princess would prick the air out of all my balls if I even thought of asking her out.” Ahmed’s grin was infuriating, his tone meant to irritate her.

Elle barely stopped herself from giving him the finger. After all, it was radio not TV. But she had a business to promote. She’d show him a damn princess. She’d be the very picture of poise and graciousness until she got the chance to escape and never see his stupid face in person again.

“Very astute of you,” she said past clenched teeth. “And here I thought you were just another pretty face.” So much for being gracious.

Clive Ramirez made another motion from his side of the glass. Beside him, his assistant frantically answered call after call.

“All right, thanks for calling with your input. I’ll keep it in mind in case I don’t plan on having children in the future.” He hung up on the caller. “All right, since that number fifteen wasn’t it, let’s hear some Bruno Mars before we get to that next fifteenth call. Ring me up and tell me something good. I’m ready.”

As soon as the song started playing, Elle yanked off her headphones and stood up. She very gently put them on the chair, grabbed her purse and walked out, quietly closing the door behind her. She didn’t get two feet before Clive Ramirez was on her, grabbing her hand to shake with an enthusiasm she found more than a little unsettling.

“That was great, Elle!” When had they gotten on a first-name basis? “That spot was awesome. The phones were blazing even before we told listeners to call in. Nice work!”

Nice work? It had taken everything inside her not to cuss out Ahmed. Was that all it took to get a pat on the head from another random man these days? Elle pulled her hand back from Clive and shifted her feet to conceal her single step back from the man. “Um, thank you. I’m glad you think it went well enough.” She made a show of looking at the slender silver watch on her wrist. “I have to get to another meeting. Thank you again for inviting me on the air.” And for humiliating me six ways to Sunday in front of all of Atlanta. Or at least the half that listened to the Ahmed Clark morning show.

“It was my absolute pleasure. We’ll call you with the name of the contest winner so you can make arrangements for them with the prize.”

She tried to make it look like she wasn’t gritting her teeth. “Great. Looking forward to it.”

He tried to shake her hand again, but she shifted her purse to hold it in both hands. “Have a great day,” she said with her best fake smile.

Elle waited for Clive’s nod, a semblance of politeness remaining despite her immediate desire to walk very quickly away from the station and never return, then she turned on her heel and practically ran out the door.

* * *

By the time Elle got back to her office, she was ready to spit nails. Or kill Ahmed Clark with her bare hands. On the drive from the radio station, she’d tried to calm down, but it didn’t work. Every time she remembered the things the man had said to her on the air, for all of Atlanta to hear, she wanted to scream.

With a clenched jaw, she pushed open the door that led to a row of small ground-floor offices in a plain beige brick building in Kirkwood, not far from her house. The white door rattled as it settled in its frame, and she stood with her back against it, breathing evenly and trying to get her thoughts, anger and embarrassment to settle.

Despite their office building’s plain exterior, or maybe because of it, she and her business partner had decided to make their offices anything but. The hardwood floors were gleaming oak, while the walls shimmered from the sumptuous jade green silk wallpaper she and Shaye had picked out together. The wallpaper was as detailed as a painting. On it, a thick and leafless tree spread across all four walls. One branch held a brilliantly colored peacock hovering protectively over his peahen. A graceful and soft peach-colored sofa sat against the back wall of their reception area, and a coffee table with a few artfully scattered magazines waited for idle hands. It was meant to be a very welcoming and subtly sensual space.

Elle inhaled deeply and exhaled, her eyes tracing the plain brushstrokes on the wallpaper that made up the gray of the peahen and the contentment in her eyes while she lay beneath the wing of her beautiful mate. The sight of it, of love as Elle imagined it, usually calmed her. But not today.

“Shaye!”

She shouted her business partner’s name and pushed herself off the door, starting toward her own office then nearly colliding with Shaye when she came barreling around the corner. Thick curls spilled over her shoulders and surrounded a face that easily belonged on the cover of a fashion magazine. As usual, Shaye was gorgeous in her club-girl chic. Today’s outfit was a flesh-colored and skintight dress that showed off every voluptuous curve. She wore the royal blue Jimmy Choo heels—a lucky thrift-store find—Elle had given her for thirtieth birthday two years before.

“No need to yell,” Shaye said with a roll of her eyes. “I heard you from all the way in my office. The sound of your voice could shatter our champagne glasses. Chill, mama. That stuff was expensive.”

Shaye was the only one who could talk to Elle like that. Growing up mostly together in the foster care system with no one to care for but each other made the two of them even closer than siblings.

“Better the glasses than that damn man...” Elle made a sound of frustration. “Did you listen to the radio spot?”

Shaye snickered. “As if I’d miss it.”

When Elle kept going toward her own office, Shaye fell in step, her longer legs easily keeping up with Elle’s furious pace.

“The whole thing was pretty hilarious,” Shaye continued. “Even though you were obviously pissed.”

“He made me come off like some idiotic child, like I don’t know anything about the real world and the crappy things in it.”

Elle stepped into her office and dropped into the small love seat under the window while Shaye perched on the corner of her desk, ankles crossed and smiling. Elle wanted to shove her partner off the desk and onto her ass.

“Calm down, sweetie,” Shaye said. “Ahmed was just doing that for a laugh and to make the whole advertising give-and-take seem more interesting. He didn’t mean anything by it.”

“You weren’t there. He meant every damn word—”

The sound of her desktop phone ringing cut Elle off. “Who is that?” she asked, too irritated to bother getting up to look herself.

Shaye peeked over at the phone’s display. “It looks like the radio station.”

“Jesus... What now? They want to humiliate me some more today?” Elle clambered to her feet and answered the phone, putting it on speaker so Shaye could hear, too. She sat down behind the desk. “Romance Perfected. Elle Marshall speaking.”

“Elle, long time no chat!” Clive Ramirez’s booming voice rang through her office, and Elle exchanged a pained look with Shaye. “I wanted to tell you the latest developments myself.”

“What, nobody claimed our prize?”

“Just the opposite, my dear girl! Our phones rang off the hook even after we had a winner. They loved you and Ahmed together.”

Elle rolled her eyes. Those people must love a train wreck, because that’s all that was. “That’s good, I suppose. If the business gets some of that love, too.” She grabbed a pen and notebook. “So, who won the prize? I’ll reach out to them today.”

“Well, an interesting thing. The woman who won the prize gave it back to you.”

“What?” Elle exchanged another look with Shaye as her stomach sank. They paid all that money for the radio ad for nothing? “She doesn’t even want to use us for free?” Shaye looked just as horrified as Elle felt.

“No, no. It’s not that.” Clive’s voice rose in a way that did not put Elle’s mind at ease. “Everyone who called in loves your business idea. This woman included. But she wants you to use the service yourself. For a date with Ahmed.”

Elle blinked at the phone, sure she wasn’t hearing Clive correctly. “You’re joking.”

“Nope!” He sounded far too happy with that one word. “I think it’s a brilliant idea that has the potential to work out even better for your business and for the station, of course.” When Elle didn’t say anything, Clive made a low sound of disappointment, obviously tempering his excitement for Elle’s benefit. “Listen, I can tell you’re reluctant, so why don’t I give you the rest of the day to think about it?” Elle glanced at her watch and saw that it was only a few minutes past noon. “Keep in mind how much free publicity this will be for your business,” Clive said. “And, to sweeten the deal, I’ll even give you back half of the fee you paid for the radio spot.”

Shaye started to make frantic motions at Elle from her perch on the corner of Elle’s desk. “Tell him you’ll do it,” she whispered, waving her hands to get Elle’s attention, as if Elle could ignore her. “Just say yes.” Shaye mouthed the words over and over, looking like a fish trying to breathe fresh air.

Elle swiveled in her chair, turning her back to her business partner. “Thank you for the opportunity, Clive. I’ll think about it and get back to you.”

“I understand. Call me back before five to let me know.” He gave her his direct number before hanging up.

“Are you crazy?” Shaye practically shrieked once the call was disconnected. She jumped up from the desk, curls and breasts swaying, hands on her hips. “Call him back right now and tell him you’ll do it.”

“Are you serious right now?” Elle refused to make herself a target for Ahmed Clark’s bitterness and cynicism again. Once was enough.

“Oh, please!” Shaye paced in front of Elle’s desk, hands on her hips, high heels sinking into the plush carpeting with each step. “It’s just a date. And a date with a rich, hot guy at that. You won’t suffer by going out with Ahmed Clark, Elle. Not like how our business is suffering. You know we need this.”

Shaye was right. And Elle knew it, but...

“Did you hear how he talked to me on freakin’ live radio? He dismissed our business like it was some sleazy... I don’t know, like a hookup service or something.”

“It doesn’t matter what he thinks,” Shaye said, her voice pleading and soft. She stopped pacing and fixed a plaintive look on Elle. “Once we get Romance Perfected noticed by people who follow and maybe even socialize with Ahmed Clark, the date you went on to make this all possible will be nothing but a distant memory.”

“A bad memory,” Elle said, already feeling her resolve weakening.

She crossed her arms and dropped back into her chair, softly cursing. Romance Perfected was a dream she and Shaye had had together for years, a dream that finally materialized in the form of a small business still toddling along on trembling feet. Over a year ago, they’d had to file for Chapter 11. After a lot of hard work, she and Shaye had managed to save their four-year-old business from going under, but they still needed a boost to get fully in the black.

If this small thing was what it took to get Romance Perfected finally where it needed to be, then... Elle spat another string of curses and refused to look up at the triumphant smile she knew Shaye was already wearing.

“Fine,” she said with a sigh. “I’ll do it.”


Chapter 3 (#ub3f5cc5a-8d47-5b83-a143-e9b22a1785bf)

“What’s got your boxers all twisted this morning?” Sam’s question, delivered in his driest tone, followed Ahmed into the back of the town car as he settled into the leather seat in preparation for the ride to the airport.

After a quick glance at his watch to make sure they were going to be on time for the rally, he shrugged at his cousin. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Bull.”

Sam had a point, though. At the radio station, Ahmed had been too much. He’d mercilessly teased Elle. But it hadn’t come off as teasing. Instead, his behavior had come dangerously close to bullying. Good thing Elle could take care of herself. When she’d growled back at him, refusing to back down in the face of all the crap he threw at her, Ahmed had nearly combusted from the heady cocktail of lust and admiration.

The only thing that had saved him from completely losing his mind was a firm mental reminder that this was his job. He was at work, and this was supposed to be all business.

However, that reminder hadn’t completely stopped his eyes from gluing themselves to her backside the moment she jumped up from the chair and started to walk away from him.

Satisfied his momently lapse was at an end, he put Elle Marshall firmly out of his mind and himself back on track with the conversation with Sam. “Anyway, it was just entertainment for the folks listening to the show.”

“Since when did you give a damn what entertains the people listening to your show?” Sam asked, sprawling on the opposite seat of the town car. “The whole point when you started this gig was to be yourself and give voice to the politics and social issues that matter to you. Not become another kind of mindless clone.”

A sound of irritation rumbled from Ahmed’s throat. He could never fool Sam, not since they were kids. He didn’t even know why he tried. “She got under my skin, and that’s all I’m going to say.” He leveled a warning glance across the small space. The conversation was over.

But that wasn’t the way it worked between them.

Three hours later, Ahmed and Sam stood near the front of a crowd of hundreds in Mississippi, both of them dressed in jeans and T-shirts, while a congressman from Georgia, a nationally respected education advocate, rolled his tremendous voice through the crowd, chiding the state for letting down some of the most vulnerable members of its population.

Ahmed was doing what he could for the kids in Georgia who’d lost their schools and been consistently denied equal educational opportunities. The kids in Mississippi and many underserved parts of the US needed help, too. And he planned on doing what he could to make sure that they got it.

Ahmed shifted and brushed shoulders with a pretty woman crowding him on one side and a taller man, his arm protectively curved around the shoulders of a girl who looked enough like him to be his daughter. The crowd surged with excitement, a mixture of anger and determination, while Congressman Oliver Wilson spoke, his voice loud and moving, from the podium set up in front of City Hall.

Incredibly, reporters had followed Ahmed from the radio station, although it was in an entirely different state. The manic clicks of their cameras, the bursts of flash and their shouted questions grated on his nerves, irritating him more than usual. As always, Ahmed wanted to use his celebrity to draw attention to the things he cared about, but sometimes he wondered if his celebrity status was overshadowing the real work. Still, with the business of making money out of the way, there was nothing else that deserved his energy more than helping his community.

Nearly a thousand people flowed around them, a security nightmare for Sam, but he bore the trials Ahmed put him through with his nearly superhuman patience.

Ahmed didn’t need any security. Not really. Ever since his retirement from professional basketball nearly a year ago, the media’s interest in his life had died down. Without the team and the games, and the spotlight that came with it, the groupies had disappeared as had any danger Sam imagined. But Sam had been the only male cousin close to Ahmed’s age when they were growing up, so they’d become tight and maintained a brotherly bond. Even when Sam had gone off to fight in Afghanistan in tour after tour, they’d kept in touch through email and occasional Skype calls.

After a close encounter with an IED that left Sam with a Purple Heart and honorable discharge, it only made sense to Ahmed that he invite his cousin to live on his sprawling compound, which already housed Ahmed’s mother and two sisters. This time, Sam had come back from overseas even quieter than before, his eyes haunted by things only he could see. Offering and then insisting his cousin take the job as his head of security, and eventually solo bodyguard, gave Ahmed the chance to take care of the cousin who’d been there with him nearly his whole life.

The crowd exploded into applause, its roar of approval at the congressman’s words dragging Ahmed back to the present, and he winced. He hadn’t been paying attention at all.

Sam nudged him. “Your mind still on that Marshall woman?”

“No, but yours obviously is,” Ahmed said. Although it only took a few words to bring “that Marshall woman” squarely back to center stage in his mind.

Ahmed squirmed at how right it felt for her to be there. “She may be sexy, but that doesn’t change the fact that she’s got stars in her eyes and lives in a world that doesn’t exist outside of a storybook.” He gestured around them to the other protestors and activists. “This is what’s important, not setting people up to have unrealistic expectations of each other.”

“I doubt she’s as naive as you think.”

“If you like her so much, why don’t you ask her out?” Ahmed muttered.

While on the radio hours before, he’d taken the call from the winner of Elle’s contest and been blindsided when the woman insisted on giving up the prize of her “perfect date” to him and Elle. Once the surprise wore off, irritation settled in its place, but he’d held his tongue during the phone call, bantering with the woman until the commercial break when he’d politely asked her to reconsider the so-called donation. The woman insisted, saying her husband laughed at the thought of cynical Ahmed Clark on a date with a fairy-tale princess named Elle.

Of course, Clive loved the idea. Ever the publicity hound, he even brought up the idea of filming the date if Elle agreed to it. Ahmed kept his instinctive response—hell no!—to himself. He had the feeling Elle would cut that bad idea off at the knees all by herself. She didn’t seem the type to punish herself by hanging around somebody she didn’t like, not even for publicity, or whatever Clive promised her.

“Right,” Sam muttered in response to Ahmed’s earlier comment about asking Elle out. “If I went anywhere near that woman, you’d crush my face.” Then he snorted, the corners of his eyes crinkling briefly in amusement. “Or at least try to. Hell, Stevie Wonder could see how you were looking at her. You should’ve just asked her out instead of yanking her pigtails like a damn kid.”

Squirming where he stood, Ahmed didn’t bother to acknowledge his cousin’s truth with a response.

He looked away from Sam and focused deliberately on the reason he was away from Atlanta and his home with his comfortable bed and the kitchen where his mother and sisters were no doubt worrying about his safety. Not that there was anything to be concerned about.

Ahmed settled his hands in his pockets and planted himself more firmly in the moment. He opened his ears and paid attention.

At the end of the rally, nearly three hours later, he was emotionally exhausted and ready to drop. The walk had been longer than any of them had planned. The police showed up but, maybe because of media attention, everyone kept a peaceful presence. Ahmed and Sam made it back to Atlanta in time for a late dinner.

In the kitchen, he stood at the stove sliding an omelet out of the pan and onto a plate when his phone vibrated with a text notification.

“Sam?” He passed his cousin the omelet and pulled his phone from his pocket.

She agreed, the text said. Come into the office before the weekend to talk specifics.

“What’s up?” Sam’s voice pulled him from his frowning contemplation of the phone. “You look like someone just kicked you in the throat.”

An odd feeling swirled in Ahmed’s gut. It took him a moment to realize it was disappointment. “Elle Marshall. She just agreed to go on the publicity date.”

“Don’t pretend that’s not something you want to do.” Sam poured himself a glass of milk and sat down on the other side of the breakfast bar in the gleaming chrome and black marble kitchen, his voice a rumbling calm that somehow did the opposite of settling Ahmed down. “She’s nice enough,” Sam said. “The idea of seeing her again doesn’t exactly make you sad.”

Not sad exactly, but something. He moved restlessly around the kitchen, picking up a glass then putting it back to grab something else until what he had in his hands was the clear highball glass he’d started with in the first place. He turned the glass over and over in his hand, grateful that Sam remained quiet—as Sam was apt to do—while his thoughts swirled in too many directions at once.

It wasn’t until he was on the verge of putting the glass down again that he pinpointed the feeling. And the cause. Ahmed had been, surprisingly, working his way toward asking Elle out. On the surface of things, it was to apologize for being so aggressive with her on the radio, maybe invite her to lunch or dinner to give himself the chance to prove he wasn’t as much of a jerk as she thought. Once the apology had been issued, though, he planned for his intentions to take a more lustful turn.

But not now.

Although he didn’t know it and probably wouldn’t care if he did actually know, Clive had basically cockedblocked Ahmed.

The thought of Elle going out with him because she wanted more for her business, instead of just wanting him, turned Ahmed all the way off. And made him a little sick. No matter what he’d said about naïveté, maybe he’d had a little bit of that, too. Enough that he’d wanted her and was willing to go against his instincts in order to get her.

“None of that matters now.” Ahmed put down the phone. “I’m meeting her and Clive at the station to iron out details.”

“Maybe you can ask her out for real then. Before any of this starts.”

“Yeah, right.” Once a woman saw profit near the end of her goal, anything else was off the table.

He sat across from his cousin with his own omelet and glass of orange juice. “This is all business now,” he said. “Besides, you know she wasn’t my type anyway.”

“Yeah, you mean she’s not a random hookup you can take out for some full-contact action and never see again? You’re right about that.” Sam used his knife and fork on his omelet, his mild gaze meeting Ahmed’s.

“Have I told you how much of a pain in the ass you are?” Ahmed asked.

“Not lately.” Sam pointed his fork at Ahmed, laughter glinting in his eyes. “You’ve been slacking.”

“I need to fix that,” Ahmed said.

But his mind was already wandering back to Elle and the sway of her hips under that pink princess dress. Less than twelve hours after meeting her, the thought of her was like candy coating his tongue. Sweet and lingering.

Damn, he thought. I think I’m in trouble.


Chapter 4 (#ub3f5cc5a-8d47-5b83-a143-e9b22a1785bf)

Elle didn’t want to be anywhere near Ahmed Clark. But that didn’t matter since she was stuck with him in the already claustrophobic-feeling general manager’s office.

“Relax,” Shaye muttered under her breath from her seat next to Elle. “You look like you’d rather be getting a colonoscopy than sitting here with us.”

“Sounds accurate,” Elle said, shifting to relieve the slight ache in her feet from the lavender stilettos she’d bought weeks before but hadn’t had the chance to wear until now.

Getting dressed that morning, she’d reached into her closet for anything that could make her feel outstandingly pretty, needing something to build up her armor against the unsettled feelings Ahmed provoked. The vicious-looking high heels and cool white sheath dress did their job. She crossed her hands over the lavender purse in her lap and waited.

It didn’t take long for Ahmed and his ridiculous bodyguard to walk into the office, filling the small space with their bulk and maleness. Elle and Shaye had come early on purpose.

“Good afternoon.” Ahmed Clark settled into the leather chair across from the antique-looking wooden desk while his bodyguard took what seemed like his usual place with his back to the wall, his hands loose at his sides.

Clive walked in just behind the two men, smiling wider than Elle thought was humanly possible. Another man, wearing a three-piece suit and carrying an iPhone, trailed behind him and took a seat near Ahmed.

“Good, good! Everybody is here.” Clive would’ve probably clapped his hands if not for the massive coffee cup he carried.

Barely fifteen minutes before, he had welcomed Shaye and Elle into his office, offering them coffee and croissants that Shaye immediately accepted and Elle refused, before doing a disappearing act. Elle was too nervous to eat. Not to mention the last thing she wanted to do was eat in front of Ahmed Clark, get crumbs all over the front of her white dress and give him yet another reason to tease her. Elle straightened her back and showed the men her teeth. Clive sat behind his desk, still grinning.

“This is one of the station’s lawyers.” He waved at the suited man who only nodded once at the room in acknowledgment. “He’s here to make sure I don’t agree to anything we can get sued for. Now—” he set the coffee mug onto the desk with a solid thump “—I’m glad we could come to an agreement on this.” Then he clapped his hands in a show of barely restrained excitement. “This is going to be a big win for everybody!”

Elle was sure the actual opposite was true. This was going to be a disaster. Already, the trepidation hummed in her belly, twisting it into something like nausea. Shaye, on the other hand, looked almost as excited as Clive, her eager gaze flicking between Elle and Ahmed, dollar signs practically lighting up in her eyes.

“So, tell me, Clive.” Elle deliberately used his first name like he’d insisted on during that last phone call. “What do you have in mind?”

“Well, Elle, I’m glad you asked,” Clive said.

He flicked his gaze around the room, perhaps to make sure everybody was paying attention, then he jumped in, outlining a plan that included Ahmed and Elle, a night of romance...and cameras.

Absolutely not. Elle opened her mouth to disagree.

“No, no cameras, Clive.” Ahmed’s deep voice rumbled with finality.

He sat with his thighs sprawled in the leather chair, his pose one of careless comfort, but his eyes were sharp on Clive with a serious look that made Elle think of a high-school principal or a daddy with a belt. Although she wasn’t intimidated by Ahmed, she’d never want that particular expression turned on her.

But Clive didn’t seem to get it. “But how is the audience gonna know you actually went on the date?” He sounded like a kid being denied his favorite toy.

“They can trust us.” Ahmed’s voice was firm. “Your guys can take some pictures of us before the date, and Elle can take a couple of selfies during, if she feels like it, but no one is going to follow us around like we’re on a damn reality show.”

“Well.” The lawyer spoke up for the first time. “If you insist on some media documentation, you can have a mini press conference at the beginning of the evening and tell the audience on camera what the plans are for the date. Then you can take a few photos throughout the night, as Mr. Clark recommended.”

“Oh, like prom!” Shaye chimed in. Elle almost kicked her.

“Exactly.” Clive flashed even more teeth.

The lawyer looked pained.

When he didn’t say anything else, Clive went on. “After the date, you come back to the station for a follow-up on-air appearance to talk about the date, how the service went—the goal for this, after all, is to advertise your business, Elle—and how you would change or tailor it to other clients.” Clive paused. “A potential AhmElle relationship attached to your business and this station would bring us all to the winner’s circle.”

“AhmElle?” Elle frowned at Clive.

“You know, like Brangelina or TomKat,” he said with another flash of teeth. “A lot of celebrity couples have names like that.”

Jesus...

“That’s a great idea,” Shaye said, her eagerness on full display. She practically wiggled in her chair, attracting the now wide-eyed attention of the lawyer.

Elle’s hand twitched with the urge to throw her purse at her best friend, to hell with the delicate lavender leather of the bag. This could all go wrong so easily. For some reason, Ahmed got off on tormenting her, and while she was never one to take any kind of abuse lying down, even when she’d been an orphan growing up in the system, she hated that she had to constantly be on her guard against him. Her skin prickled with uncomfortable heat, and her teeth were on their way to being ground down to a fine powder. He just set her completely on edge.

Damn Shaye for asking her to do this.

Elle tightened her hands on top of her bag. “How long is this farce of a date supposed to last?”

“As long as you two can stand each other, is my recommendation,” the lawyer said the same time as Clive offered his own. “We don’t have to go as far as filming your walk of shame the next morning.” He flashed a smile as he spoke, but Elle didn’t get the impression he was joking.

“I told you we don’t want anything filmed,” she said and thought she caught a look of surprise on Ahmed’s face. “Let’s just do the bare minimum of what you need to get this thing off the ground.”

She prompted Shaye with a look, and her friend jumped in with her part of the plan, whipping out her iPhone and opening the app with one of her endless lists with the brisk tap of a finger.

“I’ll put together one of our best packages for you both—I won’t tell you what it is and spoil the surprise, Elle, and that way you can really talk about it on the radio from the perspective of someone being wined and dined and whisked away on a special romantic night.”

Across the room, Ahmed shifted his position in the dark leather chair in a way that immediately drew Elle’s eyes to the weight between his legs. She quickly looked away, feeling unbalanced.

“We can’t do it at night,” she said with a pulse of desperation beating in her throat.

“What was that?” Ahmed looked at her, amusement lighting up his dark eyes.

Shaye giggled then moved to Clive’s desk, her iPhone screen held out for him to see what else she had planned.

For God’s sake... “Not like that!” Elle gritted her teeth and fought in vain against the tide of heat rising in her face. “What I mean is I don’t want to do anything at night. The date. An afternoon outing should be fine.”

Ahmed had the nerve to actually laugh at her, white teeth flashing, the corners of his mouth tucked up. “Why? Do you think you won’t be able to resist me if we go out together at night?”

Elle rolled her eyes. “Resisting you won’t be a problem,” she lied. “But I’d rather not waste any of my weekend nights doing this. I’m sure you feel the same way.”

“I doubt you have any idea what I’m feeling, princess.” And something unnamed moved across his face, not annoyance exactly but something from the same family.

“I told you not to call me that.” The words flew from between her teeth, sharp and cutting, catching even her off guard. Immediately, she regretted her tone.

The hum of conversation in the room between Shaye and Clive stopped. Even the bodyguard’s attention flew toward Elle in a snap of his pale brown gaze. But she refused to backtrack.

Ahmed’s gaze was as inscrutable as his cousin’s. But where his cousin seemed only vaguely curious, Ahmed watched her with a laser-like focus that made her want to squirm in her chair. But she kept absolutely still and met him stare for stare.

He leaned forward in his chair, arms braced against his thighs, a frown between his expressive eyes. “Listen, can we talk privately for a few minutes?”

“No.” Elle didn’t want to talk with him at all. The thought of being closer to him and in a private space filled her with an anxiety she didn’t want to name. “I have nothing to say to you that you can’t address right here and now.”

If she thought the silence in the room had been disturbing before, it was just about deafening now. Shaye and everyone else in the room stared openly at them. At Elle.

A muscle worked in Ahmed’s jaw and he made an audible sound of frustration. “Do you have a problem with me?”

“No, I don’t. But you seem to have a problem with me.” Unease rippled across Elle’s shoulders, tightening her muscles painfully. Were any of the potential gains even worth this hassle? “We probably shouldn’t do this,” she said, fully expecting him to agree with her.

But he shook his head. “We already agreed, so we might as well do this. I don’t go back on my word.”

“But I do?”

His look loudly said what his mouth did not.

She jumped to her feet. “You don’t get to imply—”

But Clive stood up, too. “I think we should all calm down and keep things in perspective.” He turned to Elle, but she backed away from him, keeping her arms crossed over her chest and her eyes on Ahmed. “I’m sure Ahmed didn’t mean to insult you. He just doesn’t get to mingle with polite company very often. Right?” His pointed look in Ahmed’s direction only yielded a shrug and setting back of broad shoulders against the leather chair. “Let’s do this and get it over with. This promo is a win-win for everybody. We just have to see it through.”

“I agree.” Shaye tucked away her phone. “Everything will be great. Just smile a little for the camera, look like you don’t want to kill each other and we’ll all be better off at the end of this thing.”

It was like she and Clive had conspired to be the Ahmed and Elle—aka Team Train Wreck—cheerleaders. This wasn’t going to work the way either of them planned, Elle could feel it.

Shaye cleared her throat. “I think we’re done here. Great decisions, everyone.” She took a page from Clive’s book and clapped her hands with a sharp note of finality, of a decision made. “I’ll put the date together and we’ll go from there.” Shaye moved closer, lowering her voice. “Are you okay, Elle?” Everything about her body language pleaded with Elle to finish what they’d started with Ahmed and the radio spot.

“Fine.” She gave her friend a look that clearly said she wasn’t okay. Not by a long shot. Then she pasted a neutral expression on her face. “So, by Friday we’ll have this all sorted out?”

“Um...yes.” Shaye made a few quick notations in her phone’s notes app then went quickly around the room collecting phone numbers from everyone but the bodyguard. “I’ll contact Ahmed with the details, and we can arrange the date for this Saturday afternoon?” She made the last bit a question, looking at Elle.

“That sounds good to me. Ahmed?” Elle turned a closed smile on him and waited for him to agree.

“Yes, this Saturday afternoon is fine for me.” He glanced briefly around the room, eyes touching each person before landing once more on Elle. “Can Elle and I have the room, please?”

She blinked in surprise. Who the hell did he think he was? She’d already made it clear that she didn’t want to talk to him alone. Elle drew herself up to her full height of five foot nine and prepared to refuse his order. But before she could say anything, everyone quickly left the room.

What the...?

The door clicked shut behind them all before she could say any of the things ready to fly from her tongue.

“Elle...” Ahmed’s tone was almost conciliatory.

But she wasn’t in the mood to hear anything he had to say. When he reached out to her, she shrugged off his touch before it could even make contact. Her spine felt tight, brittle enough to snap.

“Everything is fine. We’ll do this date then never have to be alone again. As long as we all get our money’s worth, right?”

“Wrong.” He shoved his hands into the pockets of his slacks and frowned down at her from his much greater height. “Would you just let me apologize?” He barreled on before she could tell him to where to stick his too-late apology. “I know we—” he held up his hands when she opened her mouth to remind him exactly who had started this war “—I got off on the wrong foot with you, and I want to say I’m sorry for that. There’s no reason we can’t go on this so-called date being at least cordial with each other. I don’t want to suffer through a couple of hours of your company, and I’m sure you feel the same way about mine.”

Just exactly what was his game? Even in the office, he had been flippant to the point of being rude. And now he wanted to kiss and make up? It didn’t make any sense. But if he wanted to pretend, she could do it with the best of them.

“Fine,” she said. “Apology accepted. All’s right with the world. Are you happy now?” But she didn’t want for him to answer. She turned on the heel of her lavender stilettos and wrenched open the door. Clive, Shaye and the bodyguard were only a few feet away from the office door. She was surprised the bodyguard had left Ahmed alone with her.

Clive’s eyes crinkled with amusement when he saw her. He stepped away from Shaye and approached Elle. “Are you sure we can’t have a camera guy follow you and Ahmed that afternoon? He wouldn’t be in the way.”

Elle barely kept a smile on her face and the civility on her tongue. “No, Clive. Just no.”

Shaye appeared at Elle’s shoulder while brushing an invisible piece of lint from the clinging material of her blouse. “I think it’ll be much more interesting and more fun to have them talk about the date on the air,” her friend said, and Clive seemed unable to look away from the nearly caressing motion of her hand on her own chest. “That way, you won’t have all that dead air and boring meal chitchat on film. With them back on the radio, you can get to the meat of the story that much faster.” Shaye said the word meat with far too much pleasure.

But that was apparently what Clive needed to hear. He cleared his throat and lifted his eyes to Shaye’s face. “All right. But we’ll have a guy get some pics of you two that afternoon. I’ll send them over to your place about an hour before you’re supposed to leave.”

“I’ll send you the address,” Shaye said.

Elle rolled her eyes. This was turning out to be a bigger farce than she’d ever expected. And it was all Shaye’s fault. She cut her eyes at her best friend, but Shaye only smiled placidly back.

It was all right, though. They both knew Shaye owed her big-time for this one.


Chapter 5 (#ub3f5cc5a-8d47-5b83-a143-e9b22a1785bf)

“He’s on TV.” Shaye popped around the corner from the living room, her cocktail in hand, just as Elle turned off the blender.

“What are you talking about?” She poured her margarita into the extra-large glass with a sugar rim and took a sip. Yum. A little too much tequila, but the current situation excused it.

“Ahmed Clark. He’s on the news talking about the Garvey High school closing.” Shaye dumped a fresh bag of tortilla chips into a bowl and, hugging the bowl to her chest and her drink in one hand, made her way back into the living room. Her plush behind, in cutoff shorts, wiggled away from Elle’s sight.

Elle licked a trace of the margarita mixed with sugar crystals from her bottom lip and hummed again with pleasure. Against her will, she thought of Ahmed Clark. The tart and heady flavor of the margarita, potent as hell, was like the effect he had on her senses. Despite his bad manners, despite the not wanting to deal with him one-on-one, she couldn’t deny how much faster her heart beat in his presence, how the way he poked and prodded at her like a kid outside a tiger’s cage made her feel more energized than she had in years. She frowned. Really? Was his teasing really working on her outside of grade school? Apparently so.

Elle took a healthy sip of her drink, groaning out loud at how good the margarita tasted, how perfect for the hot summer day, and made her slow way to the living room and TV where Ahmed Clark dominated the screen.

She dropped down onto the sofa next to Shaye, who had already started on the chips, dipping them into the bowl of guacamole with one hand while lifting her drink to her lips with the other. Her friend was already Friday-afternoon tipsy.

After the flood of new business that had come in from Elle’s appearance on Ahmed’s show, she and Shaye decided to take the afternoon off for a little impromptu celebration.

From this side of the screen, it was easier to like Ahmed Clark. His chiseled and handsome face easily belonged on the big screen. The distance and the cameras amplified the energy that crackled around him when he was in any room while making his otherworldly handsomeness almost expected or commonplace. But that wasn’t exactly the word she wanted to use. The right words always escaped her where he was concerned.

“It’s criminal how he’s actually better looking in person. And sexier, too.”

Elle rolled her eyes. “He’s talking about some serious issues, Shaye. And all you can comment on is his body? You’re a mess.” As if she hadn’t just been thinking about how handsome he looked.

“I can care about educating our youth and how juicy that man is. I have no problems multitasking.”

After their meeting in Clive’s office, Elle had been too furious at her friend to speak to her. It took over twenty-four hours and an invitation to her newly purchased East Point house for Elle to agree to see Shaye. After meeting Elle at the door with the first margarita, Shaye had just kept the drinks coming. So now, at nearly two o’clock in the afternoon, they were both well and truly relaxed, both because of the drinks and because they’d managed to dodge every important topic. Until now, apparently.

“I wish you wouldn’t see him as the enemy, though,” Shaye said, managing to frown, drink her cocktail and scoop more guacamole toward her mouth at the same time.

“I don’t see him as an enemy.” On the TV screen, Ahmed Clark walked away from the cameras, his ever-present bodyguard at his side. “I admire what he’s doing. I think it’s great that he’s using his fame for something other than getting more women and more money. A lot of kids look up to him and the other celebrities talking about social justice issues. I think it’s amazing what he’s doing, getting the discussions about the needs of our community off Facebook and into our living rooms and our kitchens.”

Too bad he was such as an ass. She was dreading her so-called date with him.

“Yeah, he’s doing some amazing work with the community,” Shaye said. “And I like how it’s not all talk. He’s out there meeting with politicians and donating money, even discussing the creation of a fully funded private school for the neighborhoods affected by this latest round of school closures.”

Elle looked at Shaye. “Are you sure you shouldn’t have been the one going out on the date with him?” But even as she said it, her stomach clenched in automatic rejection of the idea. Shaye and Ahmed? No way. She didn’t look too closely at why.

“I already told you why.”

For a second, Elle thought Shaye was reading her mind. Then she remembered what her friend had said a few days before. “Yeah, you said you would just fangirl all over him, but you sound like you would love to go out with him.” Again, her stomach cramped and Elle winced.

It really did make sense for the two of them to be together. Ahmed Clark was an activist. He used his fame for good things. Shaye was also an activist. She had a soft heart and was tireless in her work for the community. Although she wore revealing clothes and had a bubbly attitude that might make some people dismiss her, of anyone Elle knew she was the perfect one for a guy like Ahmed Clark.

She was beautiful, knew how to stun with fashion, loved to party and, from all the stories she loved to tell, she loved sex. And all the things that Elle had read about Ahmed in the tabloids pointed to the fact that he loved sex, too. He certainly loved partying. And if all the stories and pictures were telling a little bit of the truth, he loved the groupies, too.

Shaye was better than any groupie. Prettier and loyal. Ahmed Clark could do worse than be with her best friend.

“Don’t try to pretend you wouldn’t want to beat me up if I ever looked twice in that man’s direction.” Shaye grinned around a mouthful of her margarita. “Open your lying mouth and tell me that you wouldn’t.”

“I wouldn’t!”

“Liar!”

Shaye fell back into the couch, laughing, and somehow miraculously managed not to spill her drink. After a long time, long enough that it was obvious she was a little tipsy, her face became serious.

“I know you like him, Elle. And it’s okay, even if you’re not ready to admit it to yourself yet. I would never do that to you.”

They didn’t have any kind of girl code. Everyone who knew the two of them knew Shaye was the one who had fun and had men while Elle was the one who stayed home and worked hard and sometimes dated but mostly kept to herself.

Elle blushed, thinking of how desperate she must seem to Shaye, then got over herself. They were more than just friends; they were sisters against the world. Nothing was too intimate, and nothing was off-limits for them. Even when she was mad at Shaye, she loved the damn woman. All the parts of her were open to Shaye—the desperate, the loyal, the petty, plus the good things, too. And she was slowly coming to realize that it wasn’t desperate to lust after a hot guy, even if he was anything but nice. If women only fell for nice guys, 90 percent of the male population would’ve wandered off to die in the desert by now.

Elle shook her head. “You know that’s nothing. Ahmed is nice, but nothing’s happening between us.”




Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.


Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/lindsay-evans/on-air-passion/) на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.