No Strings Attached

Chapter One

"I have a life, Dixon. I've asked you not to call me drunk."

"I'm not drunk."

"You don't think I can tell?"

"Come have dinner with me."

"Dixon—"

"I miss you."

My eyes close, my chest expanding in annoyance. "I'm not in New York."

"Where are you?"

"Los Angeles."

"Why? What's in Los Angeles?"

"A client."

"Someone big?"

I could humor him, chat with him like I used to. That would be more than he deserves. "I have a lot of work. I need to go."

"Wait, Scarlett. Wait, please."

"What?"

The phone only picks up heavy, uneven breathing. He doesn't say anymore. A betraying tear slithers from the corner of my eye the longer we're idle in silence. I quickly wipe it away with my index finger, refusing to do this to myself.

"Goodnight, Dixon."

***

"I should only be an hour," I inform my driver as he helps me from the car. My scuffed flats hit the concrete, and I turn back to the man. "If you'd like to, get lunch or something while I'm in there."

"I'll be waiting in an hour, ma'am."

My face grimaces at the ridiculously formal "ma'am," but I ignore it, feeling my phone buzzing in my purple suit jacket. I take it out, answering. "Norman, hi."

"Have you met with him yet?"

"Walking through the doors as we speak."

"Let him know I'd like him to come to my anniversary gala in a week if he has the time."

"You want this guy to celebrate your marriage? Really?"

"Monica wants to meet him."

I make a face. With Monica being twenty years younger than her husband, I do not doubt the real reason why she wants one of the most infamous Italian men of this generation in attendance at her party.

"Norm—"

"I'll make her happy," he insists, reading my mind. "I can handle her ogling him for a night."

"All right." The young woman seated behind the reception desk perks at my entrance. "I will tell him."

"Ring me when you're out."

"Sure thing."

Hanging up, I smile at the uncomfortably perfect woman awaiting me in the impressive lobby. The ground I'm walking on is genuine black marble with walls that contrast a blinding white. The color coordination is without flaws. The leather chairs and the long coffee tables are all accessorized to perfection. I make a mental note to get the name of their decorator sometime on this trip.

"Hi, Ms. Bardot?"

I take her outstretched hand. "Hello."

"I am Sasha Mobley, Mr. Martinelli's assistant. We spoke on the phone."

"Yes, it's nice to meet you."

"I informed him you'd be coming in. He's just finishing a meeting. I can walk you back."