Pleasure After Hours

Mataeo North had garnered money, success and adoration—sexual and scholarly. Temple, meanwhile, had dealt with the rumors, name-calling and doubts over whether she was truly qualified to hold such a weighty post.

As if she could have done anything about it had she tried. Looking the way she did, the assumption was that she’d reached such lofty heights working from the bedroom or wherever Mataeo North desired to have her. The woman was far too lovely to have made her way in the world by using her brain of all things.

Megaleen had heard it too often in the circles she ran in as a business attorney. Most of the women Mataeo employed hated her friend with a passion. Their reasons had little to do with the intellect and business savvy Temple possessed, but with the coffee-brown complexion that needed no enhancements. Meg doubted the woman owned a lick of foundation. Then there was the healthy bust and bottom size, model-quality legs and the almost nonexistent waistline which set the envy a step further.

“He’ll understand why I need to do this.” Temple’s soft voice sounded even fainter as she studied the view of Wilmington’s city streets below. “As long as we keep our friendship intact—that’s the most important thing.”

Meg smothered a sigh while flipping a lock of auburn hair between her fingers. Temple Grahame’s greatest asset was her kindness and she paid dearly for it. She truly believed that decency and treating others fairly would ensure the same treatment in return. Oh, boy, didn’t she believe that about Mataeo North, Meg mused.

Pushing out of the chair, Megaleen headed for the coffee table while praying Temple never had to find out otherwise. She took the portfolio from the table and gave it a wave.

“Should we go over this before either of us gets called away?”

Roaring laughter from the table of five men drew hardly any attention—most of the tables inside the G-Red Gallery were filled with laughing men. The place was a popular lunch destination specializing in steak, seafood and beer created in-house by the establishment’s own brewery.

Manson Yates’s happy bellow, though, could easily rival any of the other male patrons’ in the place.

“Good thinkin’, San, for suggesting this place!” Manson clapped Sanford Norman’s shoulder. “I don’t travel down to G-Red nearly as much as I used to.”

“You’re welcome, Mr. Yates.” Sanford attempted a humble nod while sending a cunning wink in Mataeo’s direction.

Unfazed, Mataeo tilted his beer mug in a mock toast. “Does business keep you away, sir?” he asked Manson Yates.

The older man chuckled. “Hell no, this place is perfect for business! No, son, my reason is far more demanding than business—it’s my wife!”

More wild laughter resumed. Even the waiter, who’d arrived to hear Manson’s explanation, submitted to his own share of grinning.

“A nag of a wife’ll do it every time!” Sanford railed after tossing back what remained of his beer. “I swear some of my best wet dreams have been ruined by the sound of Regina’s voice in my subconscious!”

The laughter following that was noticeably less boisterous, primarily because Manson Yates didn’t appear amused.

“I adore my wife, San,” the man confirmed, a stern expression sharpening his weathered features. “Her nagging me not to come here has more to do with my doctor’s instructions that I stay off red meat, and since G-Red has the best and biggest cuts around…”

“Apologies, sir.” Sanford gave a quick, phony cough while pressing a fist to his mouth. “I meant no disrespect. Your wife’s a beautiful woman.”

“Yes, she is, and you should treasure yours.” Manson tilted his beer bottle in Sanford’s direction. “A wife is a man’s most trusted supporter, but only if she’s treated properly.”

Sanford nodded, but there was no agreement dwelling in his hooded green stare.

“You don’t look convinced, San.” Mataeo decided to call him on it.

Again, Sanford cleared his throat. “That’s not it.” He waved toward the waiter for a refill.

“What is it then?” Manson inquired.

Sanford ran a finger along the inside of his collar. “Just not all of us have been as lucky as you to find a woman like the one you’ve been blessed to marry.” He tapped his index and middle finger to his forehead and offered Mataeo a mock salute. “You’re smart to hold on to your freedom, man.”

“Nonsense.” Manson was shaking his head. “Don’t listen to it, kid. There’s nothin’ like building a life with a woman you love, trust and desire,” he told Mataeo before turning back toward Sanford. “If you view your marriage as less than a blessing, perhaps you should consider improving your role as a husband.”

Manson didn’t wait for Sanford’s response but turned his focus back to Mataeo. “There anyone special, son?” he asked and shot Sanford a glare when the man chuckled over the question.

Mataeo shrugged, finding no cause to be less than honest. “There’re actually several special someones.”

“Ha!” Manson dragged a hand through a shock of white hair. “Nonsense—no such thing. There can only be one,” he declared with a wink and a smirk.

“Business can be sweet when it’s successful but it can be a cold bitch on most nights.” Manson paused to take a swig from the fresh, chilled bottle the waiter set before him. “Love, marriage and family are what keep a man sane and keep him in the game.” He downed a healthy swig and then waved at someone across the sunlit dining room. “Fellas, I see a friend I should speak to.”

“Don’t let the old man fool you,” Sanford cautioned Mataeo when they were the only two at the table. “When it comes down to passing along that client list of his, it’s gonna be about who has the better cold bitch of business—not the better wife or…special someones.”

Mataeo supplied a cool smile and barely raised a brow. He and Sanford enjoyed their drinks in silence until Manson Yates returned.

Chapter 2

“Are we still headed for Ms. Grahame’s, boss?”

“Yeah,” Mataeo mumbled raggedly as he made his way into the Maybach following his nerve-trying lunch with Manson Yates and Sanford Norman.

Feeling edgy regarding the close of a business deal wasn’t a thing he experienced regularly. In truth, it wasn’t the deal that had him on edge. He’d be damned if he could understand why marriage, or the lack thereof, would get to him when it never had and when he’d doubted it ever would.

Yet there he sat in the back of a ridiculously expensive car, bought and paid for with his own sweat and blood, and pondered his worth as a man.

Special someones were things most often taken lightly. Still, they came in quite handy on the nights when the “cold bitch” of business was kicking his butt.

So why had he done his damnedest to avoid them for the better part of the past five months? Had it been longer? Was he disillusioned? Did he need to freshen up his stock? Were Manson Yates’s words truer than he cared to admit?

“Crap,” he muttered, having whipped open the bar to discover his favorite whiskey was running dangerously low.

“Ro?”

“Yeah, boss?” Roland Sharp called from the front of the car.

“We need to restock the bar back here.”

“I’m on it, boss.”

Mataeo drained the last from the blocky bottle. He settled back against the comfortably cool leather seats while musing that his drink was one “special someone” that never disappointed. He closed his eyes and let his mind go blank for a time.

Perhaps he really did need to just freshen up his stock, he resolved upon opening his eyes. The current lineup, while beautiful and seriously eager to please, had fallen into the same mode of behavior as so many others who had come his way in the past.

Despite knowing they weren’t the only ones who warmed his bed, each fancied herself the one who would give him cause to abandon his freedom. Then what Sanford Norman referred to as “nagging” began. It never failed to intrigue Mataeo how rigorously a woman could “nag” when the possibility of commitment loomed far off into the horizon. This behavior ran the spectrum from the most freaky and promiscuous to the most intelligent and reserved.

Replenishing the stock wouldn’t be a problem at all for Mataeo. Not when his physical gifts were so dangerously appealing. Even women already schooled on his success with the opposite sex were unfailingly lured to the provocative flame he generated. His massive build was just shy of 6 foot 8 inches, which made it easy for him to command attention the second he arrived in a room. The honey-toned skin was as flawless as the taut muscles it covered. A deep-set smoky brown stare was fringed with shamefully long lashes; they even had the nerve to curl at the ends. Such was also the case for the curve of the mouth, equally as seductive and made more sensual by the striking dimple in his chin.

Yes, the assets were many and erotically powerful. Refreshing the stock wouldn’t be a difficult or boring chore. So why did he cringe at the thought of it? Roland’s voice mixed into his thoughts.

“We’ve arrived at Ms. Grahame’s, boss.”

“I got the door, Ro.” Mataeo had answered his own question before he stepped onto the sidewalk outside the condo tower. Replenishing the stock made him cringe because somewhere along the way he’d lost complete and utter interest in it.