Only One Night - Dani Rene Page 0,5
smaller area where there are two elevators that look like they’re from a 1950s movie.
I glance her way, taking in her outfit, which is immaculate. Black pencil skirt, bright red blouse, with shiny, onyx heels. Her dark hair is pinned neatly in a bun on the back of her head, and she leads me toward the silver metal doors.
Once they slide open on a soft ding, we step inside, and she pushes the button for the top floor. Fifteen. It’s not a skyscraper, but I’m sure Mr. Donovan has a lovely view. Silence follows us up to the offices, until the doors open and my guide gestures to the floor without stepping out of the elevator.
“He’s waiting,” are the only words she utters before pushing a button, and the doors whoosh close, leaving me on the landing outside two ornate wooden doors. With my hand on the gold doorknob, I twist and push. A soft whoosh beckons me inside, and I’m met with an office that’s both elegant and modern with delicate touches of grays and blues in the large rug under a glass coffee table. The black-and-white artwork that hangs on the walls compliment the faux leather furniture, along with a dark oak floor-to-ceiling bookshelf on one wall. It’s not the space I pictured when I thought of him.
Something about the playboy made me think he’d be seated in an office filled with the usual toys affluent men of his stature have surrounding them. Perhaps more glass, less wood, and for some reason, I thought he’d have his accolades hanging on the walls. But when my gaze trails over the room, it’s all monochrome, except for a lone colorful painting that hangs opposite his desk.
There’s something sad about it. The colors are a stark contrast to each other—reds, yellows, with hints of dark blue and green—almost as if the artist wanted the viewer to feel the pain of the subject. A woman with dark hair, porcelain skin, and pale blue eyes. She’s dressed in a bright red dress.
“Ms. Rossi.” His voice teases my name in a baritone, which sends a shiver skittering up my spine. I didn’t realize he was British, but the accent is familiar, from when I visited. I can’t place where exactly he’s from, which causes me to wonder how long he’s been living in America.
When I finally turn to the desk where he’s perched on, I’m met with the teal eyes of Rome Donovan. His eyes are partly light brown, and the other half a blue-green that reminds me of a lake. It’s alluring, pulling me in as if there’s an invisible cord tugging me closer.
The effect of him, of his aura, surrounds me, grips me in its feral claws, and I know why so many women fall for him or even drop their panties for him. He emanates sensuality like a cologne.
“Mr. Donovan.” I nod, offering him a smile as I step farther into his domain. This is his kingdom. He rules it. There’s no question about it. “Thank you for meeting with me today,” I say, offering my hand, but nothing could’ve prepared me for the jolt of electricity that shoots all the way down to my toes.
“Anything for a beautiful lady,” he coos in a thick British accent. His voice is husky, causing goosebumps to rise up over my whole body. His large, probably six-foot frame towers over me, and I’m tempted to hide in his warmth. His eyes shimmer with mischief, and I can’t help a small smile from playing on my lips. For a moment, I forget who I am and why I’m here. “How can I make you smile today, Ms. Rossi?” he says, breaking the spell. His boyish charm and masculine confidence hold my attention more than I care for.
Inhaling a deep breath, I respond, hoping to sound confident. It’s been far too long since a man has paid me attention the way he is, and it’s knocking me off my game.
“I’m here to purchase the building on Chestnut Street. It’s vacant at the moment, I have the money, and I’d like to have the papers drawn up as soon as possible.” When I stop for a breath, I realize I’m rambling. I’m talking too fast, and the pitch in my tone is evidence that he’s affected me.
“Easy, darling.” He chuckles, walking back to his desk, offering me a view of his ass and the way those dark slacks seem to mold to his muscular thighs. Jesus. I