Read L.A. Fire for Free Online Page B

“Come,” he added, gesturing toward the elevators.
     
      When the doors finally opened at
our floor, there was no one in the elevator, which was surprising considering
it was lunch. Julian put his hand in the small of my back, and ushered me in.
Even after he removed his hand, I could still feel my skin tingling where he’d
touched me.
     
      For the whole ride to the lobby,
I couldn’t look at him. But I could feel his eyes running hungrily along my
profile, then the curve of my neck, making me feel vulnerable, aroused and
exposed. By the time we hit the main floor, I was a wreck. My insides were
coiled so tight with tension, and my breathing was uneven. The worst part is it
was so silent, I knew he could hear the change in my breathing, and probably
even sense the quickening of my pulse. He exuded such overwhelming sexual magnetism,
that if he had made one move toward me, I would have been gasping and moaning
and so eager to surrender to him right then and there. When the doors opened,
he once again placed that strong, self-assured hand in the small of my back,
and guided me toward the revolving doors leading to the street. He didn’t
remove it until we were standing out on the sidewalk, in front of a sleek,
black Porsche.  
     
      “Good afternoon, Mr. McGregor,”
said a man in a blue uniform, coming around the car and placing a set of keys
in Julian’s hand.
     
      “Thank you, Steve,” he said,
giving him a quick nod, then reaching for the passenger door and opening it.
     
      “Please get in, Sarah” he said, a
subtle demand in the slight gruffness of his otherwise smooth and polite tone.
I settled into the car, and was overwhelmed by the fresh leather smell of the
interior. I sunk into the plush, soft seat, and stretched out my legs. A moment
later, Julian slid into the driver’s seat beside me.
     
      “Quite the set of wheels,” I
said, teasingly. “Sleek and high tech. And according to the speedometer, you
can go 180 miles per hour. Are you sure you’re not some kind of superhero? I’m
mean, who else would need all that speed?”
     
      Julian chuckled softly, and
turned the ignition. “Not a superhero, but I do love going to the race track.
This is my second favorite car in my collection.”
     
      I raised an eyebrow at him.
“You’re collection? You mean you have a whole fleet of these things?” I asked,
disbelief in my voice.
     
      His eyes began to twinkle, and he
gave me a sly little smile. “There are fifteen sports cars in my collection. I
have a great appreciation for quality design and speed.”
     
      I gave him a teasing look. “No
kidding. Which car is your favorite?”
     
      “My Lamborghini Aventador. On the
race track, I can take it to 217 miles per hour.”
     
       “Wow, you must love to live
dangerously.”
     
      When he met my gaze, his eyes
were scorching hot, like two flickering blue flames. His eyes burned right
through me, and I felt my sex tighten with a pleasurable ache. Whenever he
pinned me with that gaze, I was lost, helpless, a quivering mess. “You don’t
know the half of it, Ms. Stevens.”
     
      I cleared my throat, and shifted
in my seat, desperate to regain some composure. “When did you learn how to
race?”
     
      “My father started taking me to
the track when I was sixteen,” he said, pulling into traffic. We glided
smoothly past palm trees, flaming orange blossoms hanging from iron-scrolled
black lampposts, and all the hustle and bustle of Westside Los Angeles in
noontime traffic. The sun was glaring down at us through the windshield, but
the air conditioning saved us from feeling the oppressive heat. “He loved cars.
Still does, but he’s a little too old now to race. I inherited five cars from
his original collection, and have been building my collection ever since.”
     
      “What does your dad do?”
     
      “You mean, did do. He’s
retired now. He was a famous movie producer.”
     
      Recognition dawned on