Driven By Fate(9)

That, and she’d stop at nothing to pay the loan back. Nothing. In addition to leaving behind her child, her mother had left a mountain of credit card debt and it had fallen squarely on her uncle’s head. Frankie didn’t leave debts unpaid. She made them right, with added interest. Which was where her business model proposal came into play. If she had her way, she would make every man in this room rich by the time she turned thirty.

“When is the presentation?” her Uncle Joe asked around a mouthful of bacon. “I’m taking the day off to come watch.”

“Next Friday,” she answered, hoping she sounded cool. The damn presentation was going to be nerve wracking enough without her uncle—the reason for coming up with the idea in the first place—sitting in the auditorium. Her uncle didn’t even know the specifics of her proposal. What would he think? What if she failed and he was there to witness it? “No need to take the day off. I can let you know how it goes. Besides, who would keep these jerks in line?”

“I’m taking the day off, too,” Sanchez piped up.

“Me, too.”

“Me, three.”

Frankie gulped down half a glass of orange juice. “Jesus, there won’t be any cabs left on the road. People are going to be forced to take the subway.”

Her uncle made a dismissive noise. “Ah, they’ll learn to appreciate us more.” He jerked his chin toward her outfit. “What are you dressed up for? Aren’t you taking a shift when your classes end today? Can’t drive a cab in heels.”

“They’re not heels.” She tucked a piece of hair behind her ear. “They’re boots…with, like, a thing that elevates the back a little.”

Great, now she looked and sounded like an idiot. Rooting through her closet this morning, she’d decided ripped jeans weren’t acceptable for the first day at an office job. Possibly her first and last, depending on how things went with Porter. There it was again, the hot live wire in her belly. The real reason she’d ripped the never-worn pair of black leggings out of their plastic package, pairing them with a soft, white tunic shirt. Not a dress. A shirt.

She cleared her throat. “Yeah. Been meaning to talk to you about something.” The lie felt pointy in her throat. “I can’t work today.”

Forks clattered onto plates. Eight sets of eyebrows lifted. For good reason, too. She never, ever, missed a day of work. When she’d started in the business program at Columbia, she’d merely shifted her hours. Frankie drove her cab with the flu, on Christmas. Hell, even when the President came to town, and gridlock alert had every avenue locked down, she drove. She cursed Porter for giving her just enough of a taste last night to make it essential she get another.

“There’s an internship credit I need to fulfill.” Frankie reached into the spiral notebook she’d tossed onto the counter before starting breakfast. Inside, she’d written down Porter’s address without his name or any details. She ripped it out now and handed it to her uncle. “This is where I’ll be. Might just be for the day, depending on what the guy needs done.”

“Huh.” Her uncle scrutinized the paper. “Tudor City. Nice spot. What does he do?”

Hopefully me. “Antiques,” she choked out. “I’m, uh, supposed to ask questions about his business model and write a paper on possible improvement methods.” As usual, when she started getting specific about school, her uncle’s eyes got that far-off look. She’d lost him at ‘antiques.’ Good. At least she’d gotten him the address, just in case. Porter’s behavior hadn’t set off any alarm bells—hell, he’d backed off on the street when she’d been ready to strip naked—but common sense dictated that she tell someone where she was going. And there was something dangerous about Porter. No sense denying it. Power radiated from him. It was possible she was too turned on by it to see beneath the surface.

…

Porter’s door buzzer went off at exactly eleven thirty. Damn, it was as though she knew punctuality turned him on. Although, it paled in comparison to the swift punch of arousal that assaulted him when she walked into the office. He’d expected the ripped jeans again. Rather absurdly, he’d kind of been looking forward to them. The leggings she wore instead didn’t give him a peek at the tanned flesh of her legs. Legs he would have wrapped around him by the end of the day.

Francesca took two steps into his apartment and stopped, dropping a hideous gray backpack onto his carpeted floor and crossing her arms. “This isn’t an office, monocle man.”

“It is indeed an office and you will stop calling me that.” This was getting off to a fine start. “It’s a duplex. My office is upstairs, my living space downstairs. You buzzed the wrong entrance.”

“Hmmm.” She sauntered into the living room and turned in a circle. “I thought you’d have stuffed animal heads hanging on the wall. Maybe a suit of armor. Not that I was picturing where you lived,” she rushed to add. “Just an observation.”

He watched the sexy flush darken her neck and wished he hadn’t imposed the five o’clock rule. It was going to be a long afternoon. Those leggings were already doing a bang-up job of distracting him, hugging her ass and thighs like they’d been painted on. His memory really hadn’t done her justice, had it? When she stood in the midday sun, her eyes were translucent, her skin achingly fresh. He wondered if she’d worn white to taunt him, make herself appear more like a sacrifice than a conquest. Because that’s exactly what she was to him. A conquest. Never mind that he’d never gone to these lengths before to take a woman to bed.