“Sheesh,” I said aloud, grinning through gritted teeth as he waved to me from the midst of the meadow where he sat in the center of a checkerboard blanket lined with what appeared to be various food items. “He doesn’t have to be quite that hot, does he? I mean, really…”
Just briefly I lowered my gaze to regard my own apparel for the day; a crisp white tennis dress delivered to me just that morning via the nice folks at Dalton’s; who, I’d noticed, had gotten a heck a lot nicer since my ‘benefactor’ had started paying my tab at the store; indulging my every whim and buying me just the perfect outfit for every occasion, including this one.
My lovely white cotton tennis dress bore a V-necked pattern of pearl pink beads at the collar and flared flatteringly at the skirt; highlighting and accentuating my curvaceous form.
Sure, the outfit is cute enough, Let’s just hope that my terminal cuteness somehow makes up for the fact that I can’t play tennis. Indeed, I can assure everyone that even Oliver is not going to ‘love’ my loves out there on the court.
Pulling up to the side of the curb, I parked my car and made my way into the meadow, coming to an abrupt halt at the border of the blanket.
“So you asked me to meet you on the tennis courts,” I told Oliver, adding with arched eyebrows, “It looks like you only made it half way to the courts before collapsing exhausted in the middle of this blanket.”
Oliver laughed.
“Actually Lily,” he revealed, spreading his arms across a spread that included thick, succulent ham slices, brie with crackers, succulent chocolate bon bons and a bottle filled with sparkling champagne. “I always prefer to have a bit of lunch before I play. Care to join me?”
Soon I found myself sipping champagne and chomping on brie as Oliver proceeded to quiz me about pretty much every aspect of my earthly existence.
“So Lily,” he asked at one point. “Did you always want to be a personal assistant?”
I shook my head.
“When I was kid, Oliver, I spent all of my time writing stories,” I told him, smiling at the memory. “All through my childhood, I swore to everyone who would listen that I was going to be a world famous novelist. My parents indulged me to a point, but always suggested that I have a plan B, which quickly shifted to plan A when I turned 16. My dad was starting his own business and couldn’t afford to pay someone minimum wage to answer his phones and schedule his appointments. I became his PA and what little money I did make, I saved away for college.”
“And you did brilliantly at school, from what my father tells me,” Oliver praised, tipping a crystal champagne flute in my direction. “Still I wonder… do you still write stories?”
I shook my head.
“When it comes to fanciful, romantic stories, I’m afraid I haven’t had much inspiration throughout the course of my adult life,” I snorted.
I took in my breath as Oliver surged across the blanket, covering my hand with his as he said, “Well perhaps we could change that, my dear. Perhaps I could inspire you.”
Eager to change the subject instead, I cleared my throat and said, “So what about you, Oliver? Did you always want to take the reins of your father’s business?”
Oliver shook his head.
“Actually, much like yourself, I always had an artsy side,” he revealed, pulling his hands back as he seemed to take the hint. “I loved to draw and paint, and even had some work featured in some student art shows. My subjects basically included anything that didn’t move, from high school girlfriends to fast sport cars, usually ones I owned. Sometimes, though, I just liked to sit out in my mother’s garden and paint the roses and lilies.”
I shook my head.
“Honestly, Oliver, I never knew we had so much in common,” I declared, gracing him with a gentle nudge. “I myself used to pen poems about these very same subjects… the flowers, that is. I never had any hot girlfriends or sports cars to speak of, and since my mom never did maintain a personal myriad of plants, I usually ended up out in a field somewhere, penning verse about violets.”
Oliver nodded.
“At one time, Lily, just about anything could inspire me to draw, sketch or paint,” he admitted, tone soft and almost wistful. “My mom always encouraged and supported me, bless her heart, she came to every art show and even bought some of my work to put up in her study at home. She also encouraged her friends to check out and even buy my work. For a while I had a nice little business going, doing what I truly loved.”
I smiled.
“Your mom sounded like a wonderful woman, Oliver,” I told him.
Oliver nodded, ducking his head as he seemed to reflect on the woman he’d lost too soon.
“She was the absolute best,” he agreed finally, tone soft and sincere. “And when she died, so did my dreams. Dad basically told me to throw away my paints and get my mind on the family business. He even went so far as to throw away the paintings and drawings that Mom kept in her study. He said he wasn’t about to support some artsy type who was afraid of a hard day’s work.”
I shook my head.
“Oliver, I’m so sorry,” I told him, voice low and sincere. “I didn’t know.”
Oliver nodded.
“It explains a lot, doesn’t it?” he pressed me, adding as he raised his arms in a long, lazy stretch, “Maybe if I had been allowed to do what I really love, or at least give it a try, then I would be more committed to my work.”
I nodded.
“Perhaps. On a general basis, people are always at their best when they’re doing something they love,” I agreed, adding with a smile, “Though I must say it, Oliver. Now that you have managed to apply yourself at work, you’re doing a great job. I’m really beginning to wonder if there’s anything you can’t do. You’re a financier, an artist, a connoisseur of fine food and wine… and, from what I gather, you play a mean game of tennis. Care to demonstrate this last skill for me, out there on the courts?”
Taking this as a definite hint, Oliver stood from the grass and offered me his arm; letting loose with a slow, very flattering wolf whistle as I also rose, giving him his first good look at my fetching new tennis dress.
“You’re beautiful darling,” he praised, pressing two warm, full lips soft against my cheek as we cleared our green space.
“Thanks,” I nodded, adding with eyebrows arched, “Do I look cute enough to distract you from your game today, thus lending me a mere sliver of a chance to win one match? Or at least tie?”
Within moments I found myself standing on the green clay courts of the Remington Country Club; my plain white tennis shoes pounding the pavement as I ran back and forth; managing to strike every ball that Oliver shot in my direction—returning it clean and clear over the net, in the direction of my impressed opponent.
“Excellent!” Oliver applauded me, all the while trying to keep up with my long, strong strokes and quick moves. “You’re a natural. And compared to many of my other dates, most of whom are scared senseless of chipping a fingernail or messing up their hair while playing, you bear a dangerous resemblance to a Wimbledon champion.”
“You’re playing a real woman now, baby!” I exclaimed, delivering as I did a powerful stroke that sent our ball high into the air above us. “Watch out!”
Losing myself in the game, I started to make exaggerated sound effects as well as coordinating decidedly uncoordinated dance moves as we played. Finally surrendering the cause, Oliver dropped his racket and doubled over in a fit of hysterical laughter, thus forfeiting our first match in my favor.
“Sorry about that!” I grinned broadly, adding with a shrug, “I had to find some way to win that doesn’t involve the direct application of any skill or talent. Maybe next time, and as I improve at this game, I’ll be able to beat you fair and square.”
Oliver nodded.
“I’m sure you could,” he assured me. “Might I make just one suggestion, though? We need to shift your stance just a bit. Do you mind if I show you?”
Nodding, I wat
ched silently as he jumped the net in a single smooth flourish; approaching me with slow, sauntering steps and pinning me with an intent gaze.
Soon he stood behind me, approaching close as he wrapped his arms around mine.
“Just adjust your arms a bit, like this,” he spoke low near my ear. “And shift your legs, just like so.”
I found it almost impossible to concentrate on his words; this owing to his strong, masculine presence right behind me. My back touched his hard muscled chest as my rear grazed his rock hard thighs. And though he didn’t press himself against me in a rude or coarse manner, his very presence nearly overwhelmed me.
I felt his hot, crisp breath on my neck and inhaled his citrus-tinged scent; all the while all too aware of how beautifully and naturally my body fit against his.
“Are you all right, Lily?”
The sound of his deep, sonorous voice sent me over the edge, I turned my head to stare deep into his eyes. And I didn’t resist as, with a low but primal growl, he covered my lips with his.
His hot, soft lips massaged mine as he raised his hand to my flushed cheek; his fingers mirroring their tender motions as he continued to kiss me senseless. Our mouths merged, our tongues intertwined, and our breaths mingled as we lost ourselves in the moment and in each other.
For just a moment our public surroundings dissolved all around us; suddenly it was just Oliver and me, lost in a pleasant otherworld that threatened to consume us.
Almost, anyway.
“Somebody call 911! There’s a fire here at the Remington.”
The sound of an all too familiar voice disrupted our paradise; bringing our heads up as we jumped apart from one another on the court.
“Harry!” I cried.
“Dad!” Oliver echoed.
“The one and only!” Harry affirmed, dressed this day in his own fetching tennis outfit as he made his way across the clay court.
Pitching his head back with a robust chortle, the generally reserved, distinguished Harry Clark stunned us with a playful wink.
“Caught you!” he chuckled, pointing an accusing finger in our direction.
Oliver froze.
“Caught us doing what?” He bit his lip.
Harry laughed.
“Now, Son, you and I had ‘the talk’ quite a long time ago,” he reminded him with a smirk. “You know darned well what you were doing and for once you were doing it with a wonderful lady worthy of your time and attention.”
Stepping forward on the court, Harry surprised me with a warm, sweet kiss; one delivered straight to the surface of my cheek.
“I had heard the rumors around the office that you two had become a couple,” he beamed. “But I thought it was too good to be true. And may I say, young lady, that you have given me the greatest gift I could ever ask for; you’ve finally given me some peace of mind about my son and his future.”
I took in my breath as a beaming Oliver wrapped his arms around my body; pulling me up against him as he said, “You were right about her all along, Dad. This one is a winner and a keeper.”
“Indeed,” Harry agreed immediately, adding as he turned away, “Gotta go now. I’m meeting one of our biggest clients here for lunch and a game. I insist, though, on taking you kids out to dinner sometime next week.”
Oliver nodded.
“We’d love to,” he agreed immediately, taking his father’s hand in a warm but firm handshake. “Just name the time and day, Dad.”
We smiled and waved as Harry took leave of the court; I waited until he was well out of ear shot before I turned to a silent Oliver and said, “That’s why you kissed me, wasn’t it Oliver? You saw him coming and wanted to put on a show.”
He looked at me for a long moment before releasing my body; continuing to hold my gaze as he said, “No, Lily. That’s not why I kissed you.”
I said nothing, only watched as he once again jumped our net and turned to face me across the court.
“Game on,” he teased, with a sly smile.
***
Lily
In the wake of an afternoon that passed all too quickly, I soon found myself back at work; yet even as I answered phones and typed up reports, I couldn’t help but think about the man for whom I was doing all this work—a man that, or so I just realized, I never really knew.
Previous to our tennis date, I had no idea that Oliver was a sensitive artist type disguised as a businessman; or, for that matter, that he had such a close and loving relationship with his mother; the revered woman people spoke about in hushed tones in the hallways and offices of Clark Industries.
I had no idea of the warmth and good humor that lie beneath that cool, smooth playboy exterior. And although I’d always liked and felt an undeniable attraction to Oliver Clark, I now experienced a startling, even disturbing realization.
I actually liked the guy.
Oh no, I thought, shaking my head back and forth as I considered this downright absurd, even frightening notion. Please say it ain’t so.
Really, though, what wasn’t there to like? I’d always been reluctantly but undeniably drawn to his good looks, smooth charm, and wicked sense of humor; one so very similar to my own (well, the sense of humor, that is). In a way, though, my quiet crush on Oliver always had taken the form of a forbidden guilty pleasure. I knew all too well that his carefree, lightning-paced playboy lifestyle was no match for my quieter, more introspective existence; one that centered on my work and was enlivened only by my interest in books, film and the arts.
I previously figured that good ol’ Oliver would identify Georgia O’Keeffe and Frida Kahlo as cool chicks that he may or may not have dated at one point or another. Now, however, I recognized him as an inspired artist who was probably familiar with their works. And while he seemed to be a bit more lacking in knowledge in regards to great works of literature and their authors, plays and ballets, etc., he seemed very willing to learn. I could see his intense hunger for knowledge reflected in those gorgeous eyes and I wondered if at least a small part of that hunger could be aimed in my direction.
A scary but strangely wonderful thought. I grinned in spite of myself, finally managing to hear the phone that had rung at least 20 odd times.
Yikes! Wake up, Ashton. My eyes flew wide as I grabbed the receiver. “Hello, Clark Industries. This is Oliver Clark’s office.”
“Hi there,” cooed the lass on the other end of the line, stopping just short of charming me with a fake Southern accent. “Is Ollie around?”
I froze, biting my lip as my eyes narrowed in a fit of sudden anger.
“Why no, he’s not,” I managed through gritted teeth. “May I take a message?”
“Yes, you may,” the gal giggled, no doubt thinking me the luckiest person in the nation, if not the free world, for taking her phone message. “My name is Kelli. That’s spelled K-e-l-l-i.”
“May I have your last name?”
I tensed as a smooth, sexy chuckle met my innocent question.
“Oh, I have no doubt that he’ll remember my name,” she assured me. “Given the downright fantastic evening we enjoyed together last week.”
I nodded.
“OK,” I said, scrawling down a phone message even I couldn’t decipher as I added, “I’ll make sure he gets this message the moment he walks in this morning. Have a nice day.”
Without awaiting an answer I clicked off the call; raising my head to come face to face with the intended recipient of the message.
“Morning, babe!” Oliver beamed, leaning forward to kiss my cheek. “Hey, I wanted to tell you how much I enjoyed our picnic and tennis game on Saturday. I so enjoyed getting to know you. I never knew how sweet and funny you could be; you’re so much fun to hang out with, and I’m amazed at how much we actually have in common. I felt like I was talking to an old friend I’d known for years. An old friend that, as an added bonus, looks friggin’ fantastic in a designer tennis dress. Who’d a thought it?”
I stared at him for a long, silent moment; fold
ing my hands before me as I ventured to gauge his level of sincerity.
“Not I, that’s for sure. Just remember though that the word ‘babe’ appears nowhere on my driver’s license or social security card. My name is Lily,” I deadpanned, finally handing him his phone message across the desk in a short, brisk gesture that betrayed my irritation. “Please call Kelli with an I at your earliest convenience.”
Taking the message paper firmly in hand, Oliver pinned me with a sheepish look as color flooded his bronzed cheeks.
“Ah, Kelli, yes. Kelli is a model I met last month when she appeared in one of our corporate films,” he explained, voice wavering a bit as he continued. “We met last week to discuss further opportunities.”
I shrugged.