On-Air Passion

“What? You got something against selling love? ’tis the season, my friend.”

Ahmed shrugged, not bothering to offer his opinion about romance or love in general. None of the so-called relationships he’d experienced had anything remotely like “love” attached to them. He didn’t want to seem like the Grinch or whatever the Valentine’s Day equivalent was.

“If you like it, I love it,” he said and caught the flicker of amusement on Sam’s otherwise stoic face.

Ahmed hid his hand behind his back and shot his cousin the bird. This time, Sam’s amusement came with a huff of quiet laughter.

Minutes later, Ahmed eased into the seat, once DJ Don Juan wrapped up his program. He slipped on the headphones and into his on-air persona.

“Hey, Atlanta! It’s Ahmed Clark on the air and in your ear for the next—” he looked at his watch, a gift from his father “—two hours and fifty-eight minutes. If you want to talk, call me. If you want to listen, open your ears real wide.” And he was off. Grin in place, anticipation for the next few hours bubbling under his skin.

Yeah, he could definitely do this for free.

He fell into the magic of being on air, exchanging laughter and information with his listeners until he got the signal from the sound engineer’s intern outside the glass. She flashed him five fingers. Almost time for Gabrielle Marshall to get on the microphone to hawk her goods. He gave Kiara the thumbs-up sign and started to wind down his heated discussion with a listener about citizen responsibility in the digital age. When the woman kept insisting regular people didn’t need to share everything they recorded on their cell phones, especially when it came to footage that would inflame the public, Ahmed cut her off with Rihanna’s “Desperado.”

When Kiara gave him the thirty-second warning, he was ready. The door to the sound booth opened. And it turned out he wasn’t prepared.

The Pink Lady from the hallway swept in on a cloud of crisp perfume, like she brought the spirit of autumn in with her, and Ahmed couldn’t help but inhale a deep breath of it. The pen he’d been making a note with dropped from his numb fingers and rolled across the notebook, across the desk and then to the floor. He heard Sam snickering. A signal for him to get it together. For real.

But damn, she had dimples. They bracketed her quick smile, and she sank gracefully into the chair across from him to easily fit the headphones over her high swirl of neatly pinned hair. Three diamond studs in varying sizes winked from the lobe of one ear.

“Hi, I’m Gabrielle Marshall,” she said. “Most people call me Elle.”

Her voice was pure sex. And damn if she wasn’t even sweeter looking up close. The smiling lips with just a hint of color. Big Bambi eyes and thick hair he could easily sink his hands into. He forced himself to pay attention to the now instead of the hypothetical future where he had her in his bed. He held out his hand for her to shake.

“Ahmed.”

She smiled wider, a curve of glistening and lusciously full lips that made him glad he was sitting down. After releasing her soft hand, he reached under the desk to subtly adjust himself.

Although Sam didn’t make another sound, Ahmed could feel his amusement from all the way across the room.

Ahmed cleared his throat and glanced at the timer. “I’ll introduce you after this song. You already know what to do, right?”

Why did that sound dirty?

The Pink Lady—Elle—nodded and settled her little purse on the desk. Her lips curved again. The pulse of heat in Ahmed’s slacks made him wince. A woman’s smile. Really? That was what was getting him hard these days? He must really need to get laid. He could easily picture her being the next woman sprawled, wet and panting, in his bed.

“Here we go,” he croaked.

The song ended and just about saved Ahmed’s life. Or maybe just his pride.

He switched on his mic. “All right, Atlanta. Somebody around here told me Valentine’s Day is coming up. It was a woman, so it must be true.” Across from him, Elle gave him a faint smile. “For you fellas out there who don’t know what to do for your ladies, we have some suggestions for you. I could tell you all about it, but I have somebody here who can do a much better job.” He tilted his head at Elle and lifted an eyebrow. Ready? She nodded. “So instead of killing cupid before he has a chance to show up, here’s Elle from Romance Perfected to tell you what you can do for your sweetheart on the day she’s expecting more than the usual.”

Across from him, Elle adjusted the headphones and leaned close to the mic. She licked her lips, her eyes looking with suspicion at the microphone, like she thought it was going to take a bite out of her. Then she drew in a silent breath, her features going blank for a moment. She looked nervous.

Ahmed felt an unexpected surge of protectiveness. “Tell the listeners what you have for them, Elle.”

She flicked a grateful gaze at him before taking another breath. “Good morning, everyone. I’m Elle from Romance Perfected. Your local, full-service romance concierge. I’m here to offer you a Valentine’s package of our services—a fully catered day or evening of romance for you and your date.” Nervousness ticked at the corners of her smile, but the warmth in her voice carried through to the mic.

And damn, what a voice it was.

It made Ahmed want to move closer, slide across the table separating them and put her in his lap for safekeeping. He imagined horny guys all over Atlanta wondering what honey-drenched sweetness was pouring down on them through the airwaves. He dragged himself back to the moment to pay attention to what Elle was saying. Concentration, or lack of it, had never been his problem before, no matter how beautiful the woman. Irritation at himself made his tongue sharp.

“You say ‘full-service.’” Ahmed made sure the quotes were understood in the tone of his voice. “What are you providing here? Is your dream man or woman included for the night?”

A tiny frown wrinkled Elle’s brow. “We don’t run an escort service, Mr. Clark.” Ah, the kitten has claws. “What Romance Perfected provides is a romantic experience tailored to the couple or the person being wooed. We arrange for the flowers, transportation and even the attire for the couple, if necessary. For the date itself, we prepare the perfect location, whether it’s a luxury spa, five-star restaurant or rooftop garden.”

It actually sounded like dates Ahmed’s assistants had arranged for him back when he was playing ball and too lazy to put too much thought into what he wanted to do with the women he took out between games. But Ms. Elle didn’t need to know that.

Ahmed leaned toward the mic. “So basically, you create illusions that push poor bastards into believing something like love exists.” Now, why the hell did he say that? He opened his mouth to apologize, but she didn’t give him the chance.

The confusion cleared from Elle’s face, and her eyes snapped with cool fire. “And you hide behind this microphone to talk trash about people and things you don’t know anything about. Love is as real as life gets, and romance is necessary.” Elle gripped her purse. “For people like you, I’m sure love doesn’t exist. If it did come your way, you’d destroy it just out of spite. Or just cold cynicism.”

“The world is cold and cynical, Elle.” He leaned hard on her soft name. “Haven’t you heard that the bad guys are killing decent folks every day in the streets? Or what people in the world are doing in the name of religion or whatever the excuse of the hour is? You’re the one not paying attention to the reality of this world. You can sell love all you want, but the rest of us aren’t buying.”

Beyond the glass of the sound booth, a flash of movement dragged Ahmed’s eyes from Elle. Clive stood behind his assistant frantically dragging his hand across his throat, making the universal gesture for “shut the hell up now.” But off the court, Ahmed had never been any good at following directions.

“You should see this woman, y’all,” he said into the mic. “She’s in the studio looking like some sort of fairy-tale princess in her pink dress with a bunch of flowers on it.” He dragged his eyes over her, giving in to the urge to tease her even more, although he’d give away his closet full of classic Jordans to see—and touch—under that seductive dress. Ahmed continued, riled up by the fire in her dark crystal eyes that flamed higher with each word he spoke. “Her shoes are so tall they look dangerous to walk in, and even her name sounds like something unreal and out of a storybook. Elle.”

He rolled her name over his tongue, and it felt almost obscene. He hoped the listeners didn’t hear it the way he did. Not delicate at all, but rather the low groan of sound he’d love to make while pushing into her soft and welcoming body. Ahmed’s stomach muscles clenched with arousal. What the hell was he doing?

Elle wasn’t impressed by his words either. Anger glowed in her brown eyes, and the dress shifted over her narrow shoulders and pretty breasts when she straightened in her chair. Ahmed could see the rapid pulse beat in her throat, the quickening breath that made her chest rapidly rise and fall. She looked anything but kittenish now.

“Romance and the celebration of love are an escape from the narrow and dangerous worldview of people like you, Mr. Clark. At Romance Perfected, we’re not fooling anyone—we’re assuring people of a beautiful experience despite the ugliness the world keeps throwing at us. That doesn’t mean I live in a fairy tale, Mr. Clark. It means I’m human, and I have hope. Can you say the same?”

“Hope and delusions are not the same thing, princess,” Ahmed said.

And although he was tearing the entire idea of love to shreds, there was nothing more in the world he wanted in that moment than to kiss Elle Marshall’s red mouth and the thudding pulse in her neck to show her what the raw side of romance felt like.

Chapter 2 (#ub3f5cc5a-8d47-5b83-a143-e9b22a1785bf)

Ahmed Clark was an ass.

Elle sat stiffly in the chair across from him, her face burning and spine tight, desperately wishing for the whole radio-show ordeal to be over. Sure, he was as gorgeous in person as the pictures her business partner had forced her to look at before she left for the station. But his cocky attitude and rude dismissiveness scrubbed away anything she could have found attractive about him.

They were alone in the room except for the bodyguard standing with his back to the wall, and Elle felt the sudden silence all around her like thunder. She swallowed the thick humiliation in her throat, fighting the heat blasting through her cheeks and all over her face in vain.

“All right, Atlanta. For a chance to win what the fairy-tale princess is offering this morning, call in and tell me the number of points I scored during my last game. The fifteenth caller with the right answer will get the night or afternoon of their dreams.”

Of course his question would be something about him.

Elle gritted her teeth, hating his butter-smooth voice that was stupidly perfect for radio. When her business partner, Shaye, had begged her to be the one to go to the studio to talk about Romance Perfected, Elle had initially refused. Shaye loved basketball, was a passionate activist and also happened to be a huge fan of Ahmed Clark.

“I’d make such a fool of myself over him,” she’d said to Elle, her hands doing crazy things in the air—her version of excitement. “Can you imagine it, me being on the radio to promote the business and ending up tonguing down Ahmed Clark before he even got the chance to ask me anything professional?”

Unfortunately, Elle could imagine it all very clearly. Shaye was sexually voracious, outspoken and just about always got what she wanted. So, here Elle sat. She clenched her hand around her handbag and fought for patience.

Ahmed had barely finished naming the terms for the contest before the phone lines started lighting up. Somewhere out in the office, an intern or office assistant was answering all the calls that were not number fifteen and giving the caller the disappointing news.