JENNIE
I had to get the hell out of there.
Lisa was going to be naked, having a shower, and there wasn't even a door. I couldn't listen to hot water splashing against her skin, running down her curves –
Dammit. I shake my head. I'm going crazy.
Instead, I choose to go outside into the blistering heat, which is incredibly smart. My hair instantly doubling in size. I find pockets of people sipping champagne and eating ceviche in the late afternoon sun, and do a lap of the facilities.
Tennis courts, indoor/outdoor pool, sauna, gym. All impressive, but soon morbid curiosity takes hold, and I'm on autopilot back to the conference room where Lisa is due to present.
Sweat drips from my brow, and I discreetly wipe it away. I pat down my wayward hair and, with a deep breath and tiny prayer, slip in through the back entrance to a blast of arctic air-conditioning.
I take a seat next to a very tall man in chinos in the second last row. Salsa music is blaring from the speaker directly above my head, so I glare at it. Eventually, the lights dim, and a slightly hysterical event coordinator with a mousy brown perm named Helen introduces Lisa on stage.
My eyes move from her hands skimming the sides of her charcoal skirt, up over the rise of her chest to the smooth curve of her neck and those perfect red lips. Her mesmerizing ocean eyes popping from here against the light blue of her shirt.
There's an immediate reaction from my traitorous body. Clicking through the slides, Lisa gives statistics and discusses current trends in the media industry, but I'm not really listening to her words. Rather I'm focused on how charismatic and stupidly good-looking she is. And I'm not the only one. Men and women are leaning forward in their seats because there's a way she carries herself that demands attention. She is good at this, a natural speaker.
Sometimes the universe seems so unfair.
I huff internally, uncrossing and re-crossing my legs, and try to ignore whatever is happening between my thighs.
Lisa seems to sense my gaze because her eyes find mine in the crowd. The contact is brief – no more than a few seconds. But the cartwheels in my stomach last far longer.
She concludes her presentation to rapturous applause, and the press starts snapping away with their cameras. Just as I'm about to dive out of the nearest exit, Lisa finds me, and I almost smack into a waiter serving honey-glazed crab cakes. "Oh, there you are," she says.
I freeze and turn, but a young woman with short straw-blonde hair and massive hazel eyes intercepts me. "Miss Manoban," she says in a breathless whisper. "Just wanted to introduce myself. Britt Diaz from iMAD Graphics. Here's a leaflet on our company and my card if you have any questions."
"Thanks, Britt. I'll have a look at this, and we'll be in touch if we need your services. Appreciate you reaching out."
"Amazing. Thank you so much." Her face explodes into a smile, and she backs away with stars in her eyes.
No sooner has she gone than a leggy woman in an Alexander McQueen red satin playsuit places a lingering kiss on Lisa's cheek.
It appears I need to get in line.
Tall and slim, she has luminous dark eyes, sharp cheekbones, and long jet-black hair, so shiny it looks polished. I'm guessing she's in her early thirties, certainly still attractive. Her hands are also ringless.
"Hey, gorgeous. Nice talk. You walked straight past me," she pouts, but Lisa just stares at her like she is an alien, and I have to hold in a laugh.
What's going on there?
