Storm Damages Read online

  Storm Legacy

  Storm Damages

  Magda Alexander

  Dedication

  Dedicated to my son, Juan, and his beautiful wife, Melinda

  Table of Contents

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  About the Author

  Acknowledgments

  Excerpt from Storm Damages 2

  Chapter 1

  ______________

  Elizabeth

  Washington, D.C.

  June

  I BURST THROUGH my office building’s entrance, cursing the subway emergency which delayed my arrival at work. Spotting an elevator’s closing door, I race for it. “Hold it!” I can’t be late. Not today of all days.

  My desperation catches someone’s attention because an arm darts out to halt the door’s progress. The gold watch and white cuff hint at a man, and a large one at that, going by the size of the hand.

  Breathless, I jump in and turn to thank my Good Samaritan. And just like that, my brain shorts out.

  Gabriel Storm. The British billionaire who put the “B” in bad boy. Heir to an earldom. And COO of Storm Industries, the company on the other side of the multi million dollar deal my law firm has been retained to negotiate.

  He’s tamed his blond hair by cropping it short, but a rebellious sun-streaked strand curls over one tawny brow. Tall, broad-shouldered, with the face of an angel. A devil more like, if half the tabloid reports about him are true. Somehow, I don’t think they’re false. What living, breathing woman would pass up the chance to snack on those sensual lips for an hour or two? As if all that hotness is not tempting enough, his eyes are the color of a Caribbean ocean—aqua, clear, mesmerizing.

  He steps to the side to make room for me, but even so, his shoulders take up half my space. Not that I mind. Men are my Achilles heel, my Kryptonite. I love their smell, their taste, the sounds they make when they come inside of me. But between a full-time job, law school, hours of reading cases, and study groups, I barely have time to sleep, much less date.

  Which is why I gave them up.

  “Which floor?” His upper crust Brit accent curls around my spine, making mush out of me.

  “Uh, nine.” I reach across to press the ‘9’ button, and a whiff of his scent reaches me—expensive cologne, clean soap, and a base note I suspect is just him. My legs, already wobbly from the mad dash from the Metro, turn to Jell-O. Damn! No wonder women stuff panties in his pockets. The man is pure sex on a stick.

  If anybody could tempt me to break my no-screwing-men vow, yeah, it would be Gabriel Storm.

  The door closes and someone coughs, alerting me to the other people in the elevator. Hoping no one noticed my temporary lapse of sanity, I look behind me. Only blank expressions greet me. Thank God. It won’t do for a rumor to spread around the office that I’ve been caught drooling over the COO of the company we are negotiating against. No one would take me seriously after that.

  I do the polite thing and wish good morning all around, get back a couple of nods before the car reaches the second floor, site of my law firm’s cafeteria. As soon as the door opens, the smell of cinnamon drifts into the car. Stuffed French toast day. Knowing what’s coming, I step to the side to avoid the stampede. Not that I blame them. With a limited supply of the delicious treat, it’s every employee for himself.

  When the doors slide shut, Gabriel Storm and I are the sole occupants in the car. For seven floors, he’s all mine. I dare another glance at him only to find his gaze fastened on me.

  Lazily, as if he has all day, he devours me from head to toes. Normally, I would fuss or fidget under such an intent stare, but I splurged on a black Donna Karan jersey dress, and I know I’m looking my best.

  “Splendid morning,” he says.

  Every one of my toes curls at his sexy drawl. “It is now.”

  I smile.

  He smiles back.

  And then the blasted elevator jolts to a dead stop.

  My stomach plummets as childhood memories of being trapped in a closed space beat down on me. Hoping to keep the panic at bay, I take a deep breath. “It does that every once in a while.”

  “Does it?” He doesn’t appear too worried, which is fine, I’m terrified enough for both of us.

  Perspiration trickles down my spine and my breath grows short. I tell myself it’s not the first time this happened. That nobody’s been hurt before. “It’ll start up in a second.”

  “I’m sure it will, Miss . . .”

  “Watson. Elizabeth Watson, I’m Thomas Carrey’s assistant.” I stick out a trembling hand.

  “Elizabeth. Just like our queen. Gabriel Storm.” To my surprise, he doesn’t shake, but kisses my hand while that mesmerizing aquamarine gaze never wanders from mine.

  The elevator jerks again and I clutch him, digging my nails into his hand. “Sorry, I don’t do well in tight spaces.” With a supreme effort, I beat back the nausea churning in my stomach.

  “No need to apologize.” His eyes crinkle at the ends. “Feel free to grab anything that meets your fancy.”

  His humor tears through my crushing fear, and I bark out a laugh. Although I ease my kung fu grip, I don’t fully let go.

  After another shudder, the elevator resumes its journey. I manage a couple of shaky breaths before the doors jerk open on eight. Wrong floor. Figures. The damn thing has a mind of its own.

  Refusing to take any more chances on the death trap, I jump to safety, dragging Gabriel Storm along with me. Behind us, the doors bang shut, and the elevator takes off for parts unknown, leaving us standing in the eighth floor lobby. Alone.

  To his credit, he does not demand I release him, but simply stands there staring down at me until I free his hand. My breathing’s still hit or miss, but at least my heart no longer pounds like a big bass drum.

  “All right now?” He presses a hand against my arm, his ocean-blue gaze filled with concern.

  His warmth sinks into my skin, and I achieve a measure of calm. “Yes, thank you.”

  “Good.” Turning, he hits the ‘Up’ button.

  I can’t believe he’s even thinking about climbing aboard that rattletrap again. “Seriously? You’re braving another adventure on elevator of doom?”

  One corner of his lips curls up. If grins could kill, he’d slay me with that smile.

  “What can I say? I like to live dangerously.”

  Well, that’s an understatement. He’s wrestled alligators in Florida, climbed Mt. Kilimanjaro, heliskied in Alaska. The man loves to live on the edge.

  A car arrives, and he motions me in. Is he kidding? I shake my head. “Nuh-uh. No more rocky rides for me.”

  Something dark and dangerous flashes in his eyes. “Maybe I can change your mind. I love rocky rides.”

  An image pops into my head of Gabriel Storm in my bed, his golden skin sheened with sweat
while I ride him to paradise. Oh. My. God. Where did that come from? I’ve sworn to stay away from men.

  The elevator buzzes with impatience, jerking me back to reality. I dart a thumb upward. “Only one more floor. I’ll take the stairs.”

  The door starts to close, but he strong-arms it, stopping its momentum.

  Another elevator stops across from us, and its occupants spill out, some carrying food trays, others talking into their cells.

  To my surprise his stare remains on me, weighing, measuring. “You’ll be at the meeting?” The inquiry comes across as a demand.

  He doesn’t have to spell out what meeting he’s talking about. Having worked on the preparations, I’m infinitely familiar with it. “Yes.”

  “Until then. Elizabeth.” My name, spoken in that sexy voice of his, gives me the shakes. He boards the elevator, all business now. Except for that mesmerizing ocean-blue gaze still pinned on me that makes me want to fall in and never climb out.

  Chapter 2

  ______________

  I RACE FOR THE STAIRS and arrive at my cubicle just in time to hear my phone buzz with the special ring I've programmed for the Smith Cannon receptionist.

  "Your guests are here," she announces in the smooth, smoky voice that helped her gain a job with one of the premier law firms in Washington, D.C.

  Whew! I made it just in time. After grabbing my notebook from my tote bag, I walk into my boss's office. Thomas Carrey, a senior partner at Smith Cannon, regularly brokers transactions in the hundreds of millions of dollars. This one is no different. His client, SouthWind, is bleeding cash; and the good 'ole boy who owns it is looking to spin off some assets, specifically the right to develop a Brazilian wind farm. Storm Industries, a global investor in green energy research and production, is eager to buy. The acquisition could easily come in over half a billion dollars, representing the biggest deal of Thomas Carrey's career.

  "Everything ready?" he asks, not bothering to look up.

  "Yes, Mr. Carrey." Together with our firm's facilities department, I planned everything down to the smallest detail to ensure the Potomac Conference room more than adequately meets the needs of the negotiators—a continental breakfast from the fanciest caterer in the city; an audiovisual array of screens, microphones and flip charts; pads, pens, water, coffee, and, of course, tea since mostly Brits comprise the purchasing team. Even though I got stuck on the Metro, I kept in contact with the facilities manager who assured me everything was in place. "Should I go up and greet them?"

  "No. I'll do it." He stands, grabs his jacket from behind his chair and slips into it. As he walks out of his office, he hands me the yellow pad on which he's scribbled his notes. "Type this and come up. And notify Brian and the rest of the group that the Storm Industries team is here."

  As soon as he disappears around the corner, CeCe, the secretary who occupies the left side of the station we share, pokes her head into my space. "Honestly. Would it kill that man to say please or thank you once in a while?"

  I bite my tongue to keep from agreeing with her. His lack of verbal appreciation may hurt, but what matters is the steady paycheck and generous bonuses he makes sure I receive. And let's face it, without his help I'd never gotten into a top-notch law school. Not only that, but he's hinted at an associate position. As long as I keep up my grades and make law review, of course. No, I will not do anything to jeopardize my job, no matter what comes along.

  "Good morning, CeCe. Can't chat. We'll have to talk later. 'Kay?"

  "Fine."

  After CeCe flounces back to her side of the station, I turn to my boss's scribblings, squinting to make sense out of them.

  Done typing the notes, I dash into the ladies' room before heading for the conference room, groan when I catch sight of my frizz. Gabriel Storm saw me like this? Cursing the D.C. heat and humidity, I dig in my tote for the serum spray and smooth it on. Five minutes later, I’ve wrangled my hair into a sleek, tied-back ponytail. A swipe of luscious peach gloss, a quick touch of blush, and I head up the stairs to the tenth floor.

  I walk into the meeting room to find the twenty negotiators, ten from each side, scarfing pastries and guzzling their beverages of choice. Except for Mr. Carrey and Gabriel Storm who stand apart from everyone else next to the horseshoe-shaped conference table. Well, Mr. Carrey stands. Gabriel Storm perched his mighty fine ass on its edge.

  When I approach my boss to hand him his notes, Storm comes to his feet. His navy blue suit screams London's Savile Row. Not a wild guess on my part since I know from the dossier my firm compiled on him he orders his clothes from there. Yeah, I pretty much memorized that report. For my job, of course.

  Should I acknowledge we've met? No. Better side with caution and let him lead the way.

  "Get Mr. Storm something to drink," Mr. Carrey says, taking the pages from my hand.

  "What would you like, Mr. Storm? Coffee, tea?" A third choice, one wildly inappropriate, comes to mind.

  Before he has a chance to answer, a firm associate approaches Mr. Carrey with a question. After a quick “Excuse me,” he heads toward the Smith Cannon team, which is kibitzing in one corner of the room. In another corner, the Storm Industries group whispers madly, holding a last minute session of its own.

  Which leaves Gabriel Storm and I, for the moment, alone.

  "Coffee will be fine, Miss …" I love that he modulates his voice loud enough for anyone to hear. In case anyone’s listening in.

  "Watson. Elizabeth Watson. Just like your queen." I parrot back to him.

  His smile has a boyish quality, one I suspect he doesn't parade often. At least not in a business meeting.

  "Any particular blend? We have Colombian, Kenyan, Dunkin' Donuts."

  One corner of his lips turns up, as if he finds part of my speech amusing. Probably the Dunkin' Donuts part. "Kenyan will be fine. Black."

  "The Kenyan it is."

  He leans toward me and whispers, "Thank you. Elizabeth," before heading toward his team.

  While the coffee brews, the teams take their seats—Storm Industries across the table from Smith Cannon. The head of each group in the middle, with the members of his team arraigned to his left and right.

  After filling the coffee cup with the Kenyan, I lay the mug within Gabriel Storm’s easy reach.

  “Thank you.” To my surprise, his hand brushes mine. Not an incidental contact, for I’ve placed it far enough he wouldn’t get singed by its heat.

  "You're welcome," I murmur, not because I don't want to create a disturbance, but because all of a sudden I find it difficult to breathe.

  Rather than take my seat, I remain rooted to my spot, staring while he sips the heady brew. I've always loved big hands on a man. What would his feel like against my breasts? Touching, fondling, possessing.

  Somewhere in the room, a throat clears. I peer up and note a frown on Mr. Carrey's face as he stares at a document in his hand.

  Christ, Elizabeth! Get your head back in the game. You're here to do a job, not drool over a hunky Brit.

  In my hurry to put some distance between me and the sex god, my knees wobble. I clutch the edge of the conference table to keep from tumbling to the floor.

  Storm’s hand shoots out and grabs my arm, steadying me. "Are you all right?"

  Mortified to my core, I nod, and on less-than-sure legs, head for my seat, right behind Mr. Carrey.

  Through the morning session I remain busy, taking instruction from my boss, fetching documents, accessing information on my laptop. Because of Mr. Carrey's lack of computer expertise, I facilitate his communications with everyone in the firm. A two-edged sword, that. Although I possess intimate knowledge of every facet of the negotiations, it keeps me at his beck and call.

  I stop my gaze from straying in Gabriel Storm's direction. When he speaks, I focus on my laptop, the back of my boss's head, anywhere but the fascinating eyes of Storm Industries' COO. But when he speaks, I can't ignore his brilliant mind. His erudite discussion of the most complex financial
matters fascinates me. An argument could be made that his degrees from Oxford and the University of Pennsylvania’s Wharton School of Business have something to do with his acumen and inspired tactics, but rumor has it he's inherited his business savvy from an ancestor—an American nineteenth-century oil baron.

  At the mid-morning break, most of the negotiators make a beeline for the restrooms.

  But Gabriel Storm remains.

  While I call the facilities team to let them know the room is temporarily vacant so they can clear the detritus from the meeting—dirty cups, plates and trash—I notice his fiddling with the coffee machine. Since it's my job to make our guest feel at home, I approach him and demonstrate how the single-serve brewer works.

  "Thank you. Elizabeth." Eyes narrowed, he peers at me over the coffee mug's rim.

  His power, his intense masculinity, hit me like a semi, sucking the air out of my lungs. He doesn't help matters when he steps closer, forcing me to look up at him. My five seven is no match against his six three.

  "You're welcome." I rasp out in a breathy murmur.

  He takes a couple of sips before resting the cup on the counter, his gaze riveted on me.

  Eager to break the spell he weaves so easily around me, I spout, "I don't know how you can drink that black. Too strong for me."

  "I like the taste of potent things in my mouth—coffee, brandy, a woman’s honey.”

  A woman's honey? My pussy clenches and I flush with heat. What would his mouth feel like? Licking, tasting, ravishing me. I shake my head. I’ll never know, will I?

  As the cleaning crew drifts into the opposite side of the room, I emerge from my lust-induced reverie. I need to walk away. Now. Before I do something really stupid. I manage only half a step, before his hand circles my wrist and reels me back to him.

  An urgent heat flares in his eyes. "Are you attached, Elizabeth?" he asks in a gravelly voice, barely loud enough for me to hear.

  My legs turn to rubber. My breath hitches. "Attached?"

  His thumb scrapes the inside of my wrist, setting off a wild pulse within. "Do you have a partner, a significant other, a boyfriend?"